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DONOVAN 
 
 % SoM 
 
 BY 
 
 EDNA LYALL 
 
 AUTHOE OF 
 " WON BY WAITING." 
 
 ■ And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around 
 Our incompleteness, — 
 Round our restlessness, His rest." 
 
 E. B. Beowning. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1882. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 

 DOlSfOYAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
 Not a hope that dare attend, 
 The "wide world is all before us, 
 But a world without a friend. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Two dry sticks will set on fire one green. 
 He that takes the raven for a guide shall light upon carrion. 
 
 Eastern Proverls. 
 
 V 
 
 ^ '■'"''OW long were things to go on in their 
 
 E 
 
 present state ? That was the question 
 which, as the spring advanced, ElHs Farrant 
 continually asked himself. One afternoon, to- 
 wards the end of May, the thought pressed 
 itself upon him more pertinaciously than ever. 
 He was in the smoking-room, leaning back 
 VOL. II. B 
 
2 DONOVAN. 
 
 meditatively in his chair, from time to time 
 reading a few lines in the Sporting Neios, but 
 more often looking discontentedly and per- 
 plexedly at his step-son, who had drawn up his 
 chair to the other side of the hearth, and whose 
 fine profile was clearly marked out against the 
 light as he bent over his newspaper. Two days 
 ago Donovan had come of age, yet Ellis had 
 not carrredout his preconceived plau of re- 
 venge ; in the past he had always intended to 
 have the final breach with his step-son on the 
 very day that his guardianship ended, but when 
 the time actually came'his heart failed him — no 
 fitting opportunity presented itself. Instead of 
 quarrelling with him, he drank his health at 
 dinner, played billiards with him most of the 
 evening, and was as good-natured and friendly 
 as possible. But, although the few months 
 which had elapsed since Dot's death had been 
 singularly peaceable ones at the Manor, Ellis 
 had not lost his strong dislike to Donovan. He 
 had at first felt sorry for him, and had left him 
 unmolested; but it is one thing , to sympathise 
 with a person in the first poignancy of his 
 grief, and quite another to understand or feel 
 for his prolonged sorrow. 
 
 As the mouths passed on, and Donovan's 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 3 
 
 grave stern face still remained nnaltered, Ellis 
 began to feel aggravated ; he saw little enough 
 of his step-son, but what he did see was quite 
 sufficient to annoy him. Donovan would per- 
 haps come down to breakfast, then he would 
 disappear for the rest of the day,, for long soli- 
 tary rides or walks seemed to be his only relief ; 
 at dinner he would be in his place again, but 
 would rarely utter a single word, and in the 
 evening, though he was decidedly Ellis's 
 superior at every game, he was too gloomy 
 and taciturn to be a pleasant companion. The 
 elder man's dislike and impatience began to 
 grow uncontrollable ; he found himself looking 
 out eagerly for an opportunity of picking a 
 quarrel. 
 
 As he sat looking thoughtfully across the 
 room at his companion, his doubts were sud- 
 denly resolved by an unexpected turn of affairs. 
 Donovan threw down his paper, and, turning 
 round to his step-father, asked abruptly, 
 
 " When do you go up to town ?" 
 
 " Next week, I believe," said ElHs, knocking 
 the ashes out of his pipe and re-filling it. 
 
 There was a pause. Then Donovan continued, 
 
 " I have been thinking over things for the 
 last few days, and I've made up my mind that 
 
 b2 
 
4 DONOVAN. 
 
 this sort of life won't do for me any longer. I 
 must begin to work at something." 
 
 " A most commendable decision," said Ellis. 
 " And that's the longest sentence I've heard 
 from you for many a month." 
 
 Donovan knew from the tone of this speech 
 that his step-father was in a quarrelsome 
 humour. He frowned, but continued, with 
 some additional constraint in his manner, 
 
 " Since we are agreed, then_, perhaps it would 
 be as well if we arranged matters before leaving 
 Oakdene. I am thinking of going into cham- 
 bers and studying for the Bar ; if you and my 
 mother will settle ray allowance, there is nothing 
 that need keep me here longer." 
 
 " Gently^ my good fellow," said Ellis, getting 
 up from his chair with the feeling that he could 
 carry things through with a high hand if he 
 were standing above his step-sou. " You are 
 in rather too great a hurry ; you rattle oif in a 
 few words what involves a great deal. I too 
 have been thinking matters over, not only for 
 the last two or three days, but for some time ; 
 by all means set to work if you like, only do 
 not expect me to support you any longer. Live 
 in chambers, if you will, and be a law-student 
 for as many years as you please, only don't 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 5 
 
 tliink that I shall keep you during the interval 
 or pay your premium." 
 
 Donovan started to his feet. 
 
 "I don't understand you," he said, with re- 
 pressed indignation. " What do you mean by 
 this?" 
 
 " Simply what I say, " said Ellis, provok- 
 ingly. 
 
 " You mean me to understand that I am not 
 to have any proper allowance made me?" 
 
 " Exactly so, though I don't admit the 
 adjective." 
 
 The two men stood facing each other. For 
 a few minutes neither spoke ; Donovan's eyes 
 dilated, and his face glowed with indignation. 
 Ellis met his look with a cool bold effrontery. 
 
 At length the silence was broken by Dono- 
 van's voice. 
 
 "And this is what you have waited and 
 plotted for! this is the part of the honourable 
 English gentleman, to steal into a house, and 
 win your way craftily, and mislead wilfully and 
 shamefully those who never suspected your wick- 
 edness ! Yes, you have fulfilled your duties as 
 a guardian nobly, and now you would oust the 
 'insufferable cub,' whom you longed to kick 
 out months ago, only you couldn't ; instead you 
 
6 DONOVAN. 
 
 hoodwinked him, flattered^ lured him on with 
 false hopes. You scoundrel T 
 
 " The step-son waxes hot," said Ellis, with a 
 sneer, " as, naturally, we part this day, I will 
 allow a few last shots." 
 
 " Wretch ! Do you dare to turn me out of 
 my own father's house? — you an interloper, a 
 defrauder I" 
 
 " I have tolerated your presence in the house 
 for ten months," said Ellis ; " 1 knew that the 
 time remaining was short, I let you stay on in 
 peace ; you have aggravated me at times be- 
 yond bearing, and now, with the greatest 
 pleasure in life, I show you the door. You sur- 
 mised quite truly, I have often longed to ' kick 
 you out,' as you express it ; take care that you 
 do not force me to interpret the words literally." 
 
 " Do you think," said Donovan, angrily, 
 " that ray mother is so utterly unnatural that 
 she will allow me to be treated in this way ? I 
 tell you you are mistaken, sir." 
 
 "■ You forget that your mother is my wife," 
 said Ellis, watching his victim's writhing lip 
 with a sort of enjoyment. "But, come now, I'll 
 overlook what you've said, and we will part 
 amicably; do not cut your own throat by 
 refusing the pardon I offer." 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 7 
 
 " Pardon ! And from you !" cried Donovan, 
 passionately. "Am I to accept forgiveness for 
 words which are a hundred times too mild for 
 your conduct ? I'll let the world know of the 
 injustice, I'll publish your scandalous behaviour 
 everywhere in the neighbourhood !" 
 
 " The only drawback to that scheme of 
 revenge is the unfortunate character you your- 
 self bear in the place," said Ellis, maliciously. 
 " The neighbourhood will not very readily 
 sympathise with any stories which the far-famed 
 Donovan Farraut, the professed atheist, thinks 
 fit to fabricate." 
 
 The statement was so true that Donovan 
 could not deny it, but the consciousness of his 
 utter isolation and the sense of injustice drove 
 him almost to madness. 
 
 " That may be true !" he stormed, " anything 
 may be true in a cruel, self-seeking, unjust 
 world, but though everyone is against me, 
 though I've not a creature on earth to hold out 
 a hand to me, I Avill at least speak my mind to 
 you. You are a traitor, sir, and a villain !" 
 
 " Take care," said Ellis, his colour mounting, 
 " I give you fair warning that those words are 
 actionable; use them again at your peril." 
 
 "You dare me to use theml" said Donovan, 
 
8 DONOVAN. 
 
 furiously. "I will repeat them a thousand 
 times — you are a treacherous, despicable vil- 
 lain ! Were a hundred witnesses present, a 
 hundred lawsuits possible, I would repeat it ! 
 AVhat I am I to submit to be ruined without a 
 word? — am I to sink down meekly into beg- 
 gary because a plotting, scheming traitor like 
 you dares to condemn me ?" 
 
 Ellis was trembling with mingled fear and 
 rage. 
 
 " You had better go while I can keep my 
 hands off you," he said, fiercely. " Stay longer 
 and I'll have you sent to 'Bedlam." 
 
 Donovan's brain seemed to reel ; it was 
 almost impossible to believe that he was actu- 
 ally being turned out of his father's house. 
 
 " I will see my mother/' he said, with angry 
 resolution in his voice. " She will not suffer it, 
 she cannot." 
 
 He strode out of the room fiercely, and 
 hurried across the hall to the dining-room. 
 Waif, hearing his step, sprang up from the door- 
 mat and pattered after him, Ellis, following 
 quickly, blocked the doorway before the door 
 closed. Donovan turned back wildly. 
 
 "I tell you I insist on seeing my mother 
 alone," he said, with a look so full of anger and 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 9 
 
 hatred that Ellis shrank beneath it, but still he 
 Avas able to answer with cold decision, 
 
 "And I tell you that I refuse to leave my 
 wife with a maniac." 
 
 "Be it so/' cried Donovan, "but, though you 
 deny me everything, you cannot alter the in- 
 stincts of nature. Mother, you will not — you 
 cannot agree to this wickedness. You will not 
 turn me away from this house penniless. You 
 will not listen to what he says V 
 
 Mrs. Farrant had been lying on the sofa ; she 
 started up from a doze to find the room in an 
 uproar — Donovan and her husband storming at 
 each other in a fashion without parallel. They 
 had often before disagreed, even quarrelled in 
 her presence, but in a quiet gentlemanly way, 
 to which she did not object. This angry voci- 
 feration terrified her beyond measure. Dono- 
 van's rare and almost tropical outbursts of 
 passion had always alarmed her. She turned 
 now from his wild looks and impetuous words 
 to her husband, who stood by in cold silence. 
 
 " What is the matter? What has happened, 
 Ellis ?" she asked, helplessly. " Pray stop this 
 terrible noise. It is quite impossible for me to 
 understand anything, Donovan, if you agitate 
 me so." 
 
10 DONOVAN. 
 
 " I will be quiet," he gasped, softenicg his 
 voice with au effort. "I will not worry you 
 for a moment. Only trust me, mother; listen 
 to me fairly, and promise that you will not side 
 against me. He — your husband insults me, 
 drives me out of the house — this house which 
 never ought to have been his — he turns me 
 away penniless— say, only say that it is against 
 your wish !" 
 
 Mrs. Warrant's tears began to flow, and she 
 turned to her husband imploringly. 
 
 " Oh ! Ellis, what has he done ? Do not be 
 hard upon him. He is the only child 1 have 
 left. What has he done?" 
 
 Even in that moment of tumult, Donovan 
 felt a thrill of joy at his mother's words. Was 
 it possible that at last they might understand 
 each other — that Nature would assert herself 
 above the thick clouds of selfishness and un- 
 congeniality which had so long divided them V 
 
 " Honora," said Ellis, in his coldest voice, 
 "you must be content to trust me with this. 
 I cannot allow Donovan's presen'ce in my house 
 any longer. For your sake I will let him go 
 without calling him to account for the disgrace- 
 ful language he has used to me, but go he must. 
 He has been supported in idleness quite long 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 11 
 
 enough ; let him win his way in the world now 
 as he can." 
 
 Donovan stood with his back against the 
 window frame, and with arms folded, listening 
 in silence to his step-father's words, listening, 
 too, with painful intensity, for his mother's 
 answer. Would she again plead for him, or 
 would she be over-ruled by Ellis's cold speech ? 
 
 " There has been nothing but trouble about 
 him," sobbed Mrs. Farrant. " There seems to 
 be a fate against me ; nothing goes well. I 
 have trouble after trouble. Oh ! Donovan, why 
 did you bring about this quarrel ? For my 
 sake you might have respected your step- 
 father." 
 
 " At least believe that it was not my doing," 
 cried Donovan, bitterly disappointed by her 
 tone. " If you would only have believed what 
 I told you last summer, we could not have been 
 in this position ; but who can stand against the 
 coils of a serpent !" 
 
 " Go, sir," said Ellis, angrily, " go at once, 
 and do not try my patience by upbraiding me 
 before my wife." 
 
 "Did I not tell you that he would bring 
 nothing but wretchedness to usf said Dono- 
 van, desperately. " The time may come when 
 
12 DONOVAN. 
 
 you will see it more clearlj. I can only hope 
 that one victim may satisfy him, and that you 
 may never suffer." 
 
 Mrs. Farrant sobbed convulsively, Donovan 
 stooped down and kissed her, but, as he felt her 
 tears wet on his cheek, he thought bitterly how 
 one brave decided word from her would have 
 been worth all this passionate sorrow. 
 
 With a dazzled bewildered feeling he crossed 
 the hall and went up to his room ; in a few 
 minutes his bell was rung, and a message sent 
 down to the housekeeper's room for Mrs. Doery 
 to come upstairs. She came to him at once, 
 looking so unchanged, with her nut-cracker 
 features, sharp eyes, and respectable black dress 
 and apron, that he felt almost as if time had 
 been standing still with her, while it had 
 brought such changes to him. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Donovan, what do you please to 
 require?" she asked, severely.- 
 
 He roused himself, and said in his natural 
 voice — a rich mellow voice, but with a great 
 ring of sadness in it — 
 
 " I am going away, Doery. Mr. Farrant has, 
 in fact, turned me out of the house. I want 
 you to put up my things for me." 
 
 Then, with that strange contradictoriness 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 13- 
 
 ■whereby the very last persons in the world 
 whom we expect to love us, suddenly reveal 
 depths of unsuspected tenderness under the 
 stress of some unusual event, Mrs. Doery broke 
 into indignant sobs. She had never heard the 
 like in her life ! Turn her lad out of the house 
 when he ought to have been made his father's 
 heir! It was impossible, intolerable, she never 
 would believe the law of England would allow it! 
 Her indignation rather softened Donovan, it 
 was such a relief to feel that anyone, even this 
 cross-grained old woman, would take his part ! 
 It seemed a strange reversal of the old order of 
 things — Doery, stimulated by the cruelty of 
 others, to allow some merit in him, or at least 
 to bestow her pity on her ne'er-do-weel. He 
 left her with a substantial souvenir, both for 
 herself and for Dot's maid, Phoebe, generosity 
 which in the precarious state of his finances was 
 more natural than wise. Then he took a last 
 look at Dot's room, put her little carriage clock 
 with his own hands into his portmanteau, and 
 leaving directions with Doery for his things to 
 be sent to the Greyshot Station in time for an 
 evening train, he went downstairs. Ellis was 
 in the hall, waiting half nervously for the full 
 accomplishment of his plans, for the crowning 
 
14 DONOVAN. 
 
 moment of liis triumph. Donovan passed by 
 him without speaking, deliberately took down 
 his stick and riding-whip from the rack, and 
 then, facing round upon his step-father, said 
 with a depth of concentrated hatred and con- 
 tempt, 
 
 " We part here, then. Remember always how 
 admirably you have goaded me on to ruin !" 
 
 Then the door was closed behind him, and 
 Donovan left the house which should have been 
 his, and walked away alone. 
 
 It was a beautiful spring afternoon, the dark 
 fir-trees and the early crimson of the copper 
 beech stood out against the blue of the sky, the 
 oaks were beginning to show their green leaves, 
 the pink and white thorns were in full bloom. 
 The beauty of the place seemed never to have 
 been so great before, and though very often 
 Donovan had thought the Manor dull and 
 prison-like, yet now that he was exiled from it 
 he found how large a place it had in his heart. 
 And he was to leave it for ever ! his home was 
 to remain in the hands of his greatest enemy ! 
 At the first bend in the carriage drive he in- 
 voluntarily turned back for a last look at the 
 house. It stood there in the afternoon sunshine, 
 with just the same air of sleepy luxurious com- 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 15 
 
 fort which it had always worn ; there, above 
 the creeper-laden porch, was the window of his 
 old room, and close by it Dot's Avindow. He 
 remembered the day when he had decided to 
 give up his foreign tour for the sake of being 
 with her, and heard in fancy the childish voice 
 which could never again call him ; how strange 
 now seemed the struggle of the past to give 
 up his longing for a change of scene ! how he 
 grudged every hour that he had spent away 
 from Dot ! It was hard, very hard, to turn 
 away from the place so full of her memory; no 
 thought of future difficulties had as yet forced 
 itself upon him, indignation and bitter sorrow 
 drove out everything else — everything but a 
 vague feeling of more complete desolation, more 
 utter loneliness. He had thought that he had 
 drained the full bitterness of the cup of life in 
 the agony of bereavement, but here was a fresh 
 draught which in its humiliating injustice was 
 gall and wormwood to him. 
 
 All this time he was not however so friendless 
 as he imagined ; Waif followed him closely. His 
 devotion to his master, which had always been 
 very great, had become more marked since 
 Dot's death ; in Donovan's lonely rides and long 
 walks Waif had always accompanied him, he 
 
16 DONOVAN. 
 
 had learnt to understand bis master's moods and 
 knew perfectly when to keep to heel in silent 
 nnobtrusiveness, and when to frisk and gambol • 
 about him ; he had watched the stormy scene 
 in the drawing-room, had followed Donovan 
 noiselessly up and downstairs, now he trotted 
 demurely behind him, well aware that this was 
 not the right time to draw attention to his 
 presence. 
 
 The gates were passed at length, and Dono- 
 van stood without in the white dusty road ; he 
 did not X3ause or hesitate or look back now, but 
 strode along with fierce rapid steps, down the 
 hill, through the little village, past old Mr. 
 Hayes' deserted house, to the tiny grey church 
 in the valley. Everything looked cruelly peace- 
 ful, on the hillside a herd of cows were browsing, 
 a column of blue smoke curled up from the 
 chimney of a little farmhouse close by, a country 
 woman passed him singing to the brown-eyed 
 baby in her arms. Contrasted with all this 
 were Ellis's cruel words ringing in his ears, and 
 the recollection of the hateful look of vindictive 
 triumph which he had seen in his step-father's 
 face. The frenzied passionate indignation 
 surged up in his heart with redoubled force, 
 he threw open the churchyard gate, and hur- 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 17 
 
 ried up the flagged path, pausing however 
 beside the little porch to look at a notice which 
 had met his eye, as trifling things do sometimes 
 force themselves npon us in moments of great 
 agitation. He read with growing bitterness 
 the words : — 
 
 "New Organ Fund. — Ellis Farrant, Esq., of 
 Oakdene Manor, having generously promised 
 £200 to the above fund, it is earnestly hoped 
 that the additional £100 still required may be 
 obtained. A special collection will be made, 
 &c., &c." Charity, church-organs, generosity to 
 win a good name with the world ! behind the 
 outward show, injustice, tyranny, and hatred I 
 
 Donovan turned aside past the great yew 
 tree to the place where little Dot had been laid. 
 The stone had just been put up, a recumbent 
 cross, the sharp outlines of the white marble 
 standing out clearly against the green grass ; 
 he threw himself down upon it in one of his 
 terrible paroxysms of grief, in pain so unalle- 
 viated that it seemed like strong physical tor- 
 ture added to the mental suffering. How long 
 he lay there with his face pressed down to the 
 cold marble, and his hands grasping strainedly 
 at the turf he never knew ; it must have been 
 for a long long time, for when he staggered to 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
18 DONOVAN. 
 
 his feet again the sun was setting, and he found 
 that only by walking briskly could he reach 
 Greyshot in time for the evening train to Lon- 
 don. With a still white cold face, which seemed 
 to have absorbed something of the hard rigidity 
 of the marble cross, he looked his last at the 
 little grave, then hastily recrossed the church- 
 yard. Waif, who had been watching him all 
 the time with considerable anxiety, trotted on 
 in front of him, but at the gate turned back to 
 meet him and began to draw attention to him- 
 self by a series of whines and barks and bounds 
 in the air ; he could not have chosen a better 
 moment for making his presence known, Dono- 
 van felt at once the relieved re-action from hard 
 bitter despair to a half-amused gratitude ; this 
 dumb creature loved him, there could be no 
 doubt of that, and there are times in the lives 
 of most of us, when the love even of dumb 
 things wins a tenfold preciousness because of 
 its unquestioning faithfulness, its fearless devo- 
 tion, its contrast to the changeful doubting 
 unreliable aifection of men, who -can judge and 
 speak their judgment. He stooped down and 
 let the dog spring up to his knee, while he 
 patted the sagacious white and tan head ; then, 
 remembering that his time was short, he started 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 10 
 
 np again with a sudden return of energy. 
 
 " Come along, old fellow," he said, in his 
 usual voice, "you and. I will go through the 
 world together." 
 
 Waif wagged his tail, pricked up his black 
 ear, drooped the white one, and bounded along 
 as if he enjoyed the thought of the companion- 
 ship. 
 
 It was growing dusk when the dog and his 
 master reached Greyshot ; the station lamps 
 were lighted ; somehow Donovan's choking in- 
 dignation began to diminish under the influ- 
 -ence of the excitement. He had been unjustly 
 used, certainly, but the world was before him, 
 and the world began to seem more attractive 
 than he had thought ; the cool evening wind 
 blew through the station, the platform was 
 rather crowded, for the first time a boyish sense 
 of the pleasure of freedom stole across him ; 
 here he was accountable to no one, free to do 
 exactly as he pleased, with his portmanteau and 
 his dog he could roam where he liked. He 
 took a ticket for himself and Waif to Padding- 
 ton without any very distinct idea why he 
 chose London as his first resort, turning to it 
 perhaps only as the sort of natural home which 
 the great city seems to most Englishmen. 
 
 c2 
 
20 DONOVAN. 
 
 Then he sauntered up and down, waiting for 
 the train, looked at the brightly lighted book- 
 stall, scanned the faces of the crowed, while all 
 the time his thoughts were running pretty much 
 in this way : 
 
 " I miist make the best of life ; hateful and 
 worthless as it is, I may as well enjoy myself 
 as much as I can. The world is full of injus- 
 tice, I will pay it back in its own coin." 
 
 Presently the train was beard in the distance, 
 in another minute his golden-eyed destiny 
 flashed into sight, there was haste and confusion 
 on the platform. Waif,'with his ticket tied to 
 his collar, kept close to his master's heels, till 
 Donovan, opening the door of a carriage, pre- 
 pared to lift him in ; the occupants, however, 
 objected, a nervous middle aged lady started 
 up from her corner^ she could not endure dogs, 
 she really must beg that he did not get into that 
 carriage. Donovan retreated, and hurried on 
 to the next vacant place, taking care this time 
 to put the question, 
 
 " Do you mind the dog ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear no," said a pleasant bland voice, 
 and he sprang in just as the train stai'ted. 
 
 When he had put up his bag and walking- 
 stick, he threw himself back in a corner seat, 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 21 
 
 and began to scrutinize bis fellow-passengers. 
 They were three in number, and they were be- 
 guiling the time with a game of euchre. The 
 individual with the pleasant voice, who had 
 consented to Waif's admittance, sat next to 
 Donovan, so that he could only see his profile ; 
 be seemed to be a short, beavily-made man 
 between fifty and sixty, with an unnaturally 
 red face, thick neck, and scanty red hair sprin- 
 kled witb grey ; be was singularly ugly, but his 
 expression was more weak than unpleasant, 
 especially when he turned round with some 
 trifling remark to Donovan, and showed bis 
 littletwiukling watery eyes, good-natured mouth, 
 and round face. His two companions were 
 much younger men, the one furthest from Dono- 
 van was faring badly in the game, be was a 
 sleek-looking, bearded man, dressed rather 
 extravagantly, and wearing a heavy watch- 
 chain and bunch of charms ; there was an air of 
 vulgar prosperity about him, and Donovan in- 
 stantly surmised that be was some wealthy 
 manufacturer or tradesman. The remaining 
 traveller was a much more perplexing study. 
 After watching him for some time, Donovan 
 bad not in the least arrived at any decision, 
 about him, be might have been a sporting gen- 
 
22 DONOVAN. 
 
 tleman, or a superior commercial traveller, or a 
 newspaper correspondent, or possibly a card- 
 sharper. Donovan tried to fit every one of 
 these " callings " upon him ; each succeeded for 
 a time, and then fell to the ground. He was, 
 however, peculiarly attractive. His companions 
 were very soon forgotten altogether in the ab- 
 sorbing interest of watching this man's exceed- 
 ingly clever play and curious face. He had a 
 square massive forehead, black hair receding 
 from the temples^ and just beginning to turn 
 grey, a dark oily complexion, very small black 
 
 4 
 
 eyes, with a dissatisfied look in them, and 
 heavy dark eyebrows, level towards the bridge 
 of the nose, but arched at the other end, and 
 raised still higher when he became interested. 
 
 Before very long the manufacturer was beaten, 
 and the dark-browed man turned to Donovan, 
 shuffling the cards as he spoke. 
 
 " Will you make a fourth at whist ?" 
 The question was asked so casually, as if the 
 speaker cared little whether he complied or 
 not, that Donovan, who had rather inclined to 
 the opinion that he loas a professional gambler, 
 was completely deceived by it. He only hesi- 
 tated a moment, then the red-haired elder man 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 23 
 
 turned round with his good-humoured smile, 
 and said, in his pleasant voice, 
 
 " We should be delighted, if you would join 
 us. One needs something of the sort on a long 
 journey, to while away the time." 
 
 Without further preamble the game began. 
 The stakes were high ; Donovan grew excited, 
 and forgot for the time his anger and the bitter 
 treatment to which he had been subjected. He 
 was partner with the rich manufacturer ; the 
 strange-looking, dark-browed man was playing 
 with the elder with the red hair. He was a 
 daring opponent, and Donovan, who was ac- 
 customed to carry everything before him, was 
 roused and interested to a most unwonted 
 degree. It was a close and exciting game, 
 eventually won by the two strangers, but Dono- 
 van's skilful play had evidently surprised his 
 dark-looking opponent, who scrutinized him 
 curiously, while the red-haired traveller began 
 to compliment him. 
 
 Presently they stopped at Swindon, and 
 Donovan, beginning to be conscious that he 
 had eaten nothing for many hours, hurried 
 away with the others towards the refreshment- 
 room. As he waited for an instant among the 
 
24 DONOVAN. 
 
 crowd of passengers, he heard a sharp voice, 
 low, and yet singularly distinct, not far from him. 
 
 " Now mind, your work's not done yet, so be 
 careful." 
 
 Glancing round, Donovan saw that the speaker 
 was his late opponent ; the good-humoured face 
 of his red-haired companion clouded a little, 
 and there was something of the expression of a 
 spoilt child about his mouth as he replied. 
 
 " Plague upon it ! You never can let a fellow 
 enjoy himself, Noir. I'm sure I've been as tem- 
 perate as old Oliver himself " 
 
 The rest of the sentence died away in the 
 distance, but apparently Noir enforced his ad- 
 vice, for, some minutes before Donovan left the 
 refreshment-room, his two fellow-travellers re- 
 passed him on their way to the carriage. 
 
 Waif sat guarding his master's property. 
 The two men did not notice him ; the younger 
 one, who had been addressed as Noir, flung 
 himself back in his place, the elder fidgeted 
 about restlessly, talking in his hearty voice the 
 while. 
 
 '' What do you think of our two friends V" 
 
 " The manufacturer is a fool," said Noir, 
 decidedly. " The young one's as sharp as a 
 needle." 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 25 
 
 "Ha ! I thought as much. He'd have beateu 
 us hollow, wouldn't he, if it hadn't been for 
 certain " 
 
 " Be quiet !" said the younger man, sharply. 
 " You'll undo us some day by your want of 
 caution." 
 
 " Shall you try any more this evening T' 
 
 " I don't know. I think not. I wish I could 
 get that young fellow for a second instead of 
 you. He'd be the making of us." 
 
 "A cut above our sort of thing, isn't he ?" 
 
 " Can't say, but he looks discontented enough. 
 We'll sound him, get the manufacturer to draw 
 him out." 
 
 Then, as the other traveller returned, Noir 
 suddenly changed his tone, and very skilfully 
 drew the conversation round to the desired 
 subject. They had just been talking of his 
 partner. He seemed a clever fellow. They 
 were wondering what he was. For his part, he 
 would bet ten to one that he was in the Army. 
 The manufacturer thought he was an under- 
 graduate. There was some laughter over the 
 dispute. It was agreed that, by hook or by 
 crook, they would find out which was in the 
 right by the end of the journey. Then the bell 
 sounded. There was hurrying to and fro on 
 
26 DONOVAN. 
 
 the platform, and at the very last moment 
 Donovan stalked back to bis place, perfectly 
 imconscious of tbe small plot wbicb bis com- 
 panions bad been making. 
 
 He bad brougbt back a biscuit for Waif, and 
 tbe dog made a good opening for conversation. 
 Then tbe manufacturer mentioned by chance 
 that he csixnefiwn Bristol, and Donovan, to the 
 satisfaction of the three conspirators, began to 
 ask questions as to the likelihood of finding any 
 suitable employment there. 
 
 "Oh! with capital, you can always get on," 
 said the rich man, eaaily. " Nothing can be 
 done in this world without money, but there are 
 plenty of openings there for any young men 
 wanting employment." 
 
 " Provided they are capitalists," said Dono- 
 van, with bitterness, which did not escape Noir's 
 keen observance. 
 
 " Oh ! well, of course you might meet with a 
 clerkship," said the manufacturer, " but it's a 
 difficulty to get them very often, there's such a 
 run on them ; and besides, that would hardly 
 be in your line, would it ?" 
 
 " No," said Donovan, haughtily ; then, with 
 a touch of humour, he added, "Though, to be 
 sure, I've not much right to talk of ' my line.' " 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 27 
 
 The talk drifted on by degrees to the recent 
 strikes in Lancashire, and the manufacturer and 
 Donovan had a hot argument on the subject of 
 wages, in which the latter's keen sense of in- 
 justice and oppression was fully brought to 
 light ; he talked so fiercely of the tyranny of 
 the rich, the grinding down of the poor, the 
 dishonest grasping of the capitalists, that Noir 
 felt sure there was some personal feeling in- 
 volved in the dispute, certain that in some way 
 this young fellow's life had been embittered by 
 the tyranny and injustice which he inveighed 
 against. The dark brows were raised higher 
 and higher as the argument went on ; evidently 
 Donovan's words had touched some kindred 
 feeling in the man's heart. At last he could 
 contain himself no longer, but joined in the 
 dispute, linking his vehement words with Dono- 
 van's, till between them they fairly overwhelmed 
 the rich Bristol man. Then at once there was 
 established between them that strange sympa- 
 thy which comes like a lightning flash, when 
 two minds are entirely one upon a subject not 
 usually agreed upon. They had been united 
 in argument^ and in an argument very nearly 
 touching their own lives ; instinctively Donovan 
 held out his hand when they parted at Pad- 
 
:28 DONOVAN. 
 
 diugtoD, and the dark-browed man grasped it 
 with a warmth and heartiness curiously contra- 
 dictory to his disposition. He was in reality a 
 hardened cheat, but his one vulnerable spot had 
 been touched, and he at once conceived a strong 
 liking for his young ally. 
 
 Perhaps few places are so dependent on the 
 frame of mind one is in as London. No place 
 seems so pleasant to a sociable person in a 
 happy humour, no place so cold and uncon- 
 genial to anyone in trouble. Then with what 
 heartless indifference the busy crowd passes by, 
 how the careless talk, the hearty laugh, the 
 cool stare of one's kind wound and sting ; 
 with what envy does one look at the smiling 
 faces, and how (foolishly and morbidly, of 
 course) one compares them with the priest and 
 the Levite in the parable ; though how they can 
 help " passing by on the other side," when one 
 is only stripped and wounded and robbed by 
 the unseen foes of life which prey on the inner 
 man, a troubled mind, is generally too illogical 
 to consider. The forlornness of his position did 
 not come upon Donovan all at once. During 
 the months which had passed since little Dot's 
 death, in his sorrow " without hope/' worthier 
 and more manly thoughts had grown up in his 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 2&' 
 
 heart ; he had made up his mind to Avork at 
 something, and, though his chief object had 
 been merely to divert his thoughts by the 
 work, the resolve was still in the right direc- 
 tion. The rude repulse which he had met with 
 from Ellis when he suggested his new idea, 
 and the hardness of his expulsion from Oakdene, 
 crushed down for the time all these better 
 thoughts ; but in a little while, from sheer 
 necessity, they sprang up again. It was evi- 
 dently impossible that he could live for any 
 length of time on the remains of his last allow- 
 ance ; he must gain his living in some way, and 
 now, for the first time, he felt fully how fatal 
 to his interests Ellis's guardianship had been. 
 Had he been forced to enter some profession, or 
 had he even received a better education after 
 his school career was ended, he would not now 
 have been so helpless ; yet, after all, he would 
 scarcely have consented to leave Dot, even had 
 he known beforehand of Ellis's malignant in- 
 tention ; only now it added bitterness to his 
 indignation to think how coolly and systema- 
 tically his step-father had planned his ruin. 
 "Why was it ? — what had he done to earn such 
 hatred ? He asked himself those questions over 
 and over again, knowing nothing of the first 
 
30 DONOVAN. 
 
 great wrong which Ellis had done him — the 
 wrong which was at the root of all the subse- 
 quent evil. 
 
 The morning after his arrival he hurried off 
 at once to Bedford Row to consult his father's 
 solicitor, the same who had come down to his 
 grandfather's funeral, and had initiated him in- 
 to the mysteries of vingt-et-un. He was by this 
 time an elderly man ; but though he listened to 
 Donovan kindly, and refused to take any fee 
 for the consultation, he showed him at once 
 that he had no legal claim whatever on Ellis 
 Farrant or his mother Aow that he was of age. 
 His case was no doubt a very hard one ; he 
 should think that by continued applications he 
 might reasonably expect to extort some allow- 
 ance, if only a small one, from his step-father. 
 As to his mother, she had no power at all apart 
 from her husband ; he could take counsel's 
 opinion if he liked, but it would be simply 
 throwing away his two guineas — it was a 
 matter quite out of the province of law, a family 
 matter which must be arranged- by family feel- 
 ing and natural affection. As to employment, 
 he should advise him to apply to any influential 
 men he knew in town ; it was possible he might 
 get some post in one of the Government offices. 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 31 
 
 The lawyer hoped that Mr. Farrant would dine 
 with him some evening — he had just moved to 
 a new house at Brompton ; if he could ever be 
 of any service to Mr. Farrant, he should be 
 most happy. 
 
 Donovan went away several degrees more 
 depressed than before. His prospects did 
 indeed seem dreai-y ; " continued applications " 
 to Ellis Farrant, or, in plain English, " begging 
 letters," could not for a moment be thought of, 
 and the la w^-er's kindness failed to impress him. 
 It was easy enough to ask a fellow to dinner, 
 and to hold out vague offers of service ; but 
 Donovan had seen too hollow a corner of the 
 world to put any faith in this sort of friendship. 
 He resolved, however, to call on two or three 
 great men whom in the old times he and his 
 mother had visited ; his name at least would be 
 known to them. He would at any rate follow 
 the lawyer's advice, and try for work. But each 
 effort was doomed to fail. The first of the old 
 acquaintance was kind indeed, but not en- 
 couraging; he knew of nothing in the least 
 suitable, regretted extremely his inability to 
 help his young friend. The second flattered 
 him, assured him that with such advantages he 
 could not fail to get on in the world, and pro- 
 
32 DONOVAN. 
 
 mised that if ever he heard of any appoiatment 
 likely to suit him he would let him know at 
 once. The third, an overwrought man, always" 
 oppressed by twice as much work as he could 
 properly manage, received him with scant cour- 
 tesy, listened to his story coldly, and dismissed 
 him with a curt refusal ; it was no use coming 
 to him, he had a thousand applications of the 
 kind — they were, in fact, the bane of his exist- 
 ence. He could offer no help at all — he wished 
 Mr. Farrant good day. 
 
 It was not till the close of this third interview 
 that Donovan altogether realised his position. 
 With hot cheeks, for he was still young enough 
 to flush easily at any discourtesy, he turned his 
 back on the chambers of the harassed and 
 churlish man of the world, made his way along 
 the crowded pavements of Parliament Street, 
 and without any distinct purpose bent his 
 steps towards the river. It was a hot after- 
 noon in early June, but what little air there 
 was reached him as he leant on the parapet of 
 Westminster Bridge, his face propped between 
 both hands, his eyes bent down on the spark- 
 ling sunlit water. What was the use of his 
 life ? he asked himself dejectedly. How indeed 
 was he to live ? His acquaintances one and all 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 33 
 
 refused or were not able to help him, his home 
 ties were all broken, there was not a .single 
 being in the world who would help him or care 
 for him. Under such circumstances, would it 
 not be well to seek that " refuge in the cavern 
 of cold death " which he had taught himself to 
 consider as the goal, the end of all things ? 
 What harm could it do to anyone? There was 
 no one to miss him except Waif, and not to be 
 would be ineffable peace ! No more craving for 
 Dot's presence, no more gnawing disappoint- 
 ment and weariness of life, no more suffering 
 from iujusticCj no more misery of loneliness. 
 
 And yet What would his father have said ? 
 
 And then, too, was there not some natural 
 physical shrinking from such an end'' After 
 all, he was very young, and the boy-life within 
 him began to assert itself above the morbid 
 overgrowth. Life as it was^ was certainly not 
 worth having, but surely there must be some 
 brightness in store for him ! The sun shone 
 down in golden splendour on the river, the 
 pleasure-steamers and the smaller boats were 
 borne past him x-apidly ; the mere animal joy of 
 existence overcame for the time his darker 
 thoughts. 
 
 Yet what was he to do ? He did not know 
 VOL. II. D 
 
34 DONOVAN. 
 
 the Bible well, but. he had of course heard it 
 read in his school days and before he gave up 
 chui'ch-going, now from some odd recess of 
 memory there floated back the words — " Make 
 to yourselves friends of the mammon of unright- 
 eousness that when ye fail they may receive 
 you into everlasting habitations." He smiled a 
 little to himself as he thought of the solution of 
 this perplexing passage which his life was 
 bringing to light. He had certainly taken no 
 pains in the old days to make friends ; where 
 he could have wished friendship there had 
 always been a shrinkfng back on the other 
 side; his bad name had kept back good com- 
 panions; his natural nobility had guarded him 
 from making real friends of bad people, al- 
 though he had been in the way of evil compan- 
 ionship very often. But a real friend he had 
 never known. Certainly his circumstances were 
 sufficiently dreary to have brought to despair a 
 far better regulated mind than his ; the misery 
 and hopelessness surged in upon him afresh, 
 the healthy pleasure in existemce died away, 
 the brightness of the summer day only increased 
 his sick longing for something to fill the empti- 
 ness of his life. 
 
 Just as he had slowly raised himself and was 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 35 
 
 about to move on from the place where he had 
 beeD leaning, he heard himself addressed in a 
 voice which, though not exactly familiar to him, 
 he yet seemed to have heard somewhere. 
 
 " Good day, I think we've had the pleasure 
 of meeting before." 
 
 Turning round hastily, he at once recognized 
 the dark-browed man with whom he had trav- 
 elled up from Greyshot, his antagonist in the 
 game, his ally in the argument. 
 
 " I've been watching you for some minutes," 
 said the stranger, " only you seemed so deep in 
 meditation that I wouldn't disturb j^ou. I've 
 often thought of you since that day we met on 
 the Great Western." 
 
 " Have you V said Donovan, brightening a 
 little, for the man's manner had a certain 
 attractiveness in it; then, after a moment's 
 pause, he added, " Why, I wonder?" 
 
 "Why"?" repeated the stranger, "because I 
 like you, and it is so seldom I do like anyone 
 that naturally, from the very oddity of the 
 thing, I thought of you." 
 
 They had moved on while talking, and now, 
 leaving the bridge, walked along the embank- 
 ment. Donovan liked the man, and yet was 
 too reserved and too prudent to care to make 
 
 d2 
 
36 DONOVAN. 
 
 any advances to him. The stranger began to 
 see that he must take the initiative. 
 
 " Have you found the work you were looking 
 out for"?" he asked, turning his dark restless 
 eyes on his companion. 
 
 Donovan shook his head, all his despondency 
 returning at this allusion. 
 
 "I thought as much from your look," said 
 the stranger. "You haven't found it such an 
 easy matter as you expected. If you are hard 
 up though, it is just possible that I may know 
 of employment which would suit you." 
 
 "You! Do you indeed?" cried Donovan, 
 eagerly. " But perhaps I shan't be up to it ; I 
 don't mind telling you that, up to a very little 
 time ago, I never dreamed that I should have 
 to work for my living; now, through a great 
 injustice, I am on my own hook, with only a 
 five-pound note between me and beggary." 
 
 " So bad as that," said the stranger, thought- 
 fully, " then perhaps you will not be too scru- 
 pulous for the work I was thinking of ; you are 
 certainly well cut out for it. Look ! If I treat 
 you with entire confidence and openness, may I 
 take it for granted that you will not abuse my 
 trust ?" 
 
 "Of course," said Donovan, growing interested. 
 
CAST ADRIFT. 37 
 
 " If you will come with me, then, to my rooms, 
 I will explain the sort of work which I mean, 
 you will not of course be bound to accept it if 
 you don't like it. My name is Frewin ; the old 
 man you met with me the other night is my 
 fiither ; we are generally called Roiuje et Noir." 
 
 Donovan smiled at the singular appropriate- 
 ness of the nickname. The stranger continued, 
 
 " That you may believe me, I will tell you 
 that it is not all from disinterested motives that 
 I seek you out and try to help you, no one in 
 the world goes upon such motives, self-interest 
 is the great ruling principle ; you are admirably 
 suited to help me in my work, that is my first 
 reason ; I like you and am sorry for yoUj that is 
 my second. Now I have made a clean breast 
 of it all, will you come ?" 
 
 " Of course I will," said Donovan, without an 
 instant's hesitation. He committed himself to 
 nothing by this, why should he not go ? And 
 besides, these were the first helpful friendly 
 words which he had heard for so long. 
 
3"8 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 ROUGE p:t noir. 
 
 The fall thou darest to despise — 
 May be the angel's slackened hand 
 Has suffered it that he may rise 
 And take a firmer, surer stand ; 
 Or, trusting less to earthly things. 
 May henceforth learn to use his wings. 
 
 And judge none lost, but wait and see 
 With hopeful pity, not disdain, 
 The depth of the abyss may be 
 The measure of the height of pain, 
 And love and glory that may raise 
 This soul to God in after-days. 
 
 A. A. Procter. 
 
 ATOIR FREWIN took his companion up one 
 j_l of the narrow streets leading from the 
 river, along the Strand as far as St. Mary's 
 Church, and through the dingy foot-passage 
 opening into Drury Lane. 
 
 " This is not what you have been accustomed 
 to, I expect," he said, taking a quick glance at 
 
EOUGE ET NOIR. 39 
 
 Donovan's face. " I suppose you've been put- 
 ting up at some tip-top hotel by way of 
 economising." 
 
 Donovan coloured a little, for the surmise 
 was true enough, but there was nothing im- 
 pertinent in the man's tone, and he added, 
 
 " You'll learn differently as you see more of 
 life. I've lived in Drury Lane on and off now 
 for five years, and am in no hurry to leave the 
 old place, dirty as it is. Here we are I" and he 
 stopped at the private door of a dingy picture- 
 dealer's shop, admitted himself and Donovan, 
 and led the way up a dark staircase to the first 
 floor. 
 
 Expecting a room of corresponding dinginess 
 and dirtiness, Donovan was not a little sur- 
 prised to find himself in a snug neatly-arranged 
 room, where an odd combination of a variety of 
 the brightest colours lent an almost Eastern 
 look to the whole. Curious shells and corals 
 were ranged on shelves along the walls, maps 
 and nautical charts hung in conspicuous places, 
 a case of gorgeous foreign birds occupied the 
 entire length of the room, and a live parrot, in 
 a brass cage, hung in one of the windows, look- 
 ing at the new-comers with his shrewd, ques- 
 tioning, round eyes. Leaning back in a smok- 
 
40 DONOVAN. 
 
 ing-chair^ absorbed iii a newspaper, and with a 
 long clay pipe between his hps, was old Rouge 
 Frewin, no longer in the irreproachable suit 
 which Donovan had first seen him iu, but wear- 
 ing a rough blue serge jacket and red-tasselled 
 cap. He hurried forward at a word from Noir 
 with more than his former heartiness and good 
 liumour. 
 
 "Delighted to see you, sir. How has the 
 world gone with you since we parted ? 1 must 
 introduce myself to you as Captain Frewin, 
 unless, perhaps, my son has already done so, 
 Captain Frewin, formerly of the steamer Astick, 
 Bright Star Line, carrying between Liverpool 
 and New York, latterly of the Metora — first- 
 rate little steamer she was, too — carrying 
 between Southampton and West Africa." 
 
 Donovan could hardly keep his countenance, 
 the whole scene was so irresistibly comic, the 
 funny old sea-captain^ in his red smokiug-cap, 
 gesticulating with his long clay pipe, the odd 
 room, and the sudden burst of confidence which 
 had revealed the history of its owner. But his 
 face clouded again as Rouge asked him the 
 same question as to his success in finding work 
 which Noir had put to him on the embankment. 
 He had only just begun his dispirited answer, 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 41 
 
 however, when he was interrupted by a loud 
 nasal voice, which screamed out, "Keep up 
 your pecker ! keep up your pecker !" and glanc- 
 ing round he met the goggle eyes of the 
 parrot. It was too much for the gravity 
 even of depressed, ruined,, ill-used Donovan, 
 he burst out laughing, a natural, hearty, boy- 
 ish laugh, such as he had not enjoyed for mauy 
 months. 
 
 " You see Sweepstakes encourages you," said 
 Noir, tormenting the bird by thrusting a piece 
 of string through the wires of its cage. 
 
 " What's its name V asked Donovan, still 
 laughing. 
 
 " Sweepstakes, we call him," said old Rouge, 
 comiug to the rescue of his pet. " I've had him 
 for seven years, we^re great friends, aren't we. 
 Sweepstakes ?" 
 
 "Poor Sweepstakes!" said the bird, with its 
 head on one side. "Poor Sweepstakes ! 'Weep, 
 'weep, 'weep," and he broke off into an exact 
 imitation of the street cry. 
 
 " We have a little business to talk over," 
 said Noir, when the parrot subsided at last. 
 " Suppose," turning to Rouge, " you were to go 
 to Olliver's and order dinner for three in half an 
 hour, and we'll meet you there. You won't re- 
 
42 DONOVAN. 
 
 fuse to dine with us, I hope," he added, glancing 
 at Donovan. 
 
 " Oh ! no," said Rouge, heartily. " You 
 mustn't do that. Besides, I've not half shown 
 you round our little cabin. I'm very proud of 
 ray curiosities, I can assure you. The bird has 
 evidently taken to you already. You must 
 make yourself quite at home." 
 
 As soon as the door had closed behind the 
 old man, Noir Frewin drew up a chair for his 
 guest, and seating himself opposite, with his 
 elbows planted on the table, and his chin 
 between his hands, said*, 
 
 "And now, if you've the patience to listen,. 
 I will tell you a story. I shall trouble you with 
 some account of ray own life, because only by 
 that can I show you why it is I take an interest 
 in you. I hate most of the world. I should 
 hate you, if you weren't unfortunate^ but I see 
 you are in some way the victim of injustice, 
 and, as I told you before, I like you. Bear 
 with me a little. This will all help to explain 
 the work I propose for you. 
 
 "My father, as he told you, was once the 
 captain of a mail-steamer. He was, of course, 
 absent most of the year. I lived with my 
 mother, and as soon as I left school got a clerk- 
 
ROUGE ET NOTR. 43 
 
 sliip in a bank at a town — no matter in what 
 county. Things went very smoothly with us 
 for a long time, and at last my father, who is a 
 very warm-hearted man and hated being away 
 from his home, thought he had saved enough to 
 retire and settle down in England. He re- 
 signed his ship, and for a few months we lived 
 on happily enough. I was as contented a 
 fellow then as you'd often meet with. I liked 
 my work, and received a good salary ; moreover 
 I was engaged to be married^ and the future 
 looked — well, no matter. I lived in the usual 
 fool's paradise of a lover." He paused a mo- 
 ment, as if reviewing from the distance the old 
 happiness, then, with a bitter sneer, he con- 
 tinued : " Of course I paid dearly for all this 
 foolishness. I don't think I was a bad fellow 
 in those days ; goodness knows I'd no excuse 
 for being so, for my mother was the best wo- 
 xuan in the world. However, though I did well 
 enough then, 1 couldn't stand the hard times 
 that followed. There was a grand row one 
 day at the bank, for it was found that by some 
 forgery a cheque for one hundred pounds had 
 been unlawfully abstracted. Suspicion fell on 
 all those connected with the bank^ and it nar- 
 rowed down, as such things do, till it was 
 
44 DONOVAN. 
 
 clearly proved that either I myself or the son 
 of the manager had done the deed. Of course 
 I had not done it — the truth came to light later' 
 on — but at the time everything seemed against 
 me, and since the manager was not a second 
 Brutus he was naturally inclined to believe his 
 son in the right. I don't care to go into all the 
 misery of that time. There was, of course, a 
 mockery of a trial. I was found guilty, and 
 the real perpetrator of the forgery sat in court, 
 and heard me condemned. I saw him turn 
 pale when he heard me sentenced to seven 
 years penal servitude^^perhaps, though, he was 
 only thinking of the danger he had escaped." 
 
 "But did he make no effort to save you?" 
 questioned Donovan. " I shouldn't have thought 
 a man could have been such an utter brute." 
 
 "You have yet to learn the world, then'^' 
 said Noir, with a fierce laugh. " Oh ! yes, of 
 course he was kind enough to do all in his 
 power to get me recommended to mercy. I 
 think he hoped for a lighter sentence. How- 
 ever, what difference did it make to me? I 
 was sent to Pentonville, and there I ate my 
 heart for a year. Then I was sent to Dart- 
 moor, and I think the change just saved me 
 from madness. That year my mother died. 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 45 
 
 We bad been eveiytbing to eacb otber. Sbe 
 couldn't stand tbe disgrace wbicb bad come to 
 ns, or tbe separation. I was young, and bad to 
 stand it, but I tbink from that day I wasn't tbe 
 same fellow. Tbe next tbing wbicb happened 
 made me ten degrees worse. In one of my 
 father's letters — letters are very few and far 
 between in convict life — I learnt that tbe girl I 
 bad been engaged to was married to another. 
 I told you I paid dearly for my fool's paradise. 
 After that I didn't care what happened. Of 
 course I bad lost my character, and I knew that 
 it would be next to impossible for me to get 
 any situation when my terra was over. I made 
 a friend at Dartmoor, a fellow of the name of 
 Legge, a clever man, too, and good-natured. 
 We came out at the same time, and be helped 
 me on a little; But things were worse even 
 than I had fancied. My father, in bis trouble 
 and loneliness, bad fallen into bad ways. I 
 found that in my seven years' absence he bad 
 become a confirmed drunkard. You can fancy 
 what a return that was ! I could get no em- 
 ployment, and at last, with Legge's help, 1 
 began to practise my present profession." 
 
 " You mean the profession you practised in 
 the train tbe other night ?" said Donovan. 
 
46 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Precisely," rejoined Noir, "and I've made 
 it answer. People may say what they like, but 
 the world's one great cheat, and I delight in 
 taking it in unexpectedly. It has ruined me, 
 why may not I get a little out of it in return ! 
 I told you though that the truth would come to 
 light, and my innocence came to light in time, 
 though I didn't care a straw about it then. A year 
 after I was released from Dartmoor I was trac- 
 ed out with some difficulty by the manager of 
 the bank, his son had just died and confessed 
 to the forgery. The manager tried to express 
 his great shame and sorrow, hoped he could 
 make some reparation for the injury, offered me 
 money — think of that ! Money to make up for 
 the ruin of a whole life ! I told him there could 
 be no reparation — that if he would bring back 
 my mother from the grave, if he would reclaim 
 my father, if he would restore me my betrothed, 
 if he would give me back those wasted seven 
 years, and give me again the faith in God and 
 man which had been beaten out of me by the 
 maddening injustice, then, and only then, 
 could he repair the injury." 
 
 " I'm glad you've told me all," said Donovan, 
 •when the narrator paused ; " yours is a hard 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 47 
 
 story cei'taiuly, bittei'ly hai'cl. How lou^ is it 
 since you were released ?" 
 
 " Five years," said Noir, relapsing into his or- 
 dinary tone, a quiet cold tone, very different from 
 the one in which he had recounted his wrongs. 
 "■ I have lived here with my father chiefly, try- 
 ing to keep him in order, but it's a hopeless 
 task, where the taste is once acquired it's al- 
 most impossible for a weak-minded person to 
 cure himself. I have lived on, making money 
 in the way I told you, and the other day when 
 you got in at the Greyshot Station, there was 
 something in the look of you that attracted me. 
 Then you played uncommonly well, and for the 
 first time in my life 1 felt sorry that 1 was 
 cheating a fellow. Afterwards when you talk- 
 ed to that capitalist, I took to you still more ; 
 my father had so often been more of a hindrance 
 than a help, and I couldn't help thinking what 
 a capital second you would make. That is the 
 work I propose for you. You should of course 
 have a certain percentage of the profits, and if 
 you live with us, all the better ; there's a room 
 at the back which you could have, and though I 
 suppose it's a very different life from what you've 
 been used to, still you might do worse, and 
 
48 DONOVAN. 
 
 I can promise you what I couldn't promise to 
 another fellow in the world — real honest liking. 
 Perhaps you will say the friendship of a profes- 
 sional gambler isn't worth having ; however, 
 such as it is I offer it to you, sometimes any- 
 thing is better than nothing. No, don't give 
 mean answer yet. We'll have dinner now, and 
 you can think things over for a day or two, and 
 let me know." 
 
 Had Donovan given his answer then, it 
 would probably have been a refusal, but he 
 went to the Frewins' club, listened to the cap- 
 tain's long yarns, grew doubly interested in 
 Noir, and had a series of brilliant successes at 
 the card-table. Then he went home — that 
 is to his hotel, to think over the offer that had 
 been made to him. All that night he struggled 
 with his perplexities. On the one hand were 
 his rich acquaintances coolly, if civilly, refusing 
 to help him, on the other was the open hospi- 
 tality and friendliness of the Frewins ; midway 
 between the two his conscience put in a plea for 
 a further search after honest -work. In his 
 heart of course he disapproved of the proposed 
 scheme, but his principles of right and wrong- 
 were somewhat elastic, and just now in his 
 anger and misery, the good within him was at 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 49 
 
 a very low ebb. Moreover^ it was true enough, 
 that these Frewins were the only people who 
 had shown him any kindness, and naturally he 
 caught at the sympathy and liking of even a bad 
 man, when it was the only thing to be had ; it 
 was like the old familiar saying of a drowning 
 man catching at a straw ; he may know well 
 enough that the straw is frail and hollow, but it 
 is something to lay hold of, if only for a mo- 
 ment, and in the absence of a better support it 
 seems worth clinging to. 
 
 To say that he made the choice while he was 
 unconscious of its evil would not be true ; some 
 people are so ready to admit excuses, there are 
 always so many extenuating circumstances, or 
 states of mind or body which account for the 
 fall, that very few sins are put under the head 
 of " Wilful." But in after years Donovan never 
 allowed that he had taken the step uncon- 
 sciously. Of course sin, taken in its usual sense, 
 did not now exist for him, but he was perfectly 
 aware that he was entering upon a wrong and 
 immoral course ; he made the false step desper- 
 ately perhaps, but deliberately. The very last 
 words he had had with Noir Frewin were 
 sufficient to prove this. 
 
 "I may ask your name now?" the man had 
 VOL. II. E 
 
50 DONOVAN. 
 
 said, as they parted. And Donovan, for the 
 first time in his life, had shrunk from giving it ; 
 how could he let his father's name become the 
 liame of a — but there he checked even his 
 thoughts, and hastil}^ gave only his Christian 
 name. 
 
 For a little while he thought things over, as 
 Noir had suggested ; it was true there were 
 ways and means of raising money, but, even if 
 he had had good security to offer, he would not 
 have cared to put himself into the hands of a 
 money-lender. Or there was another alterna- 
 tive ; he had heard Mr. Probyu^ Ellis Farrant's 
 friend, relate proudly the length of time he 
 had lived " on tick," as he called it — this was 
 most likely the course which would have been 
 chosen by nine persons out of ten, had they 
 been placed in his predicament, — but there was 
 nothing to commend this expedient to him, 
 living in debt was simply robbing tradespeople, 
 there could be no doubt of that ; if he must 
 live by chicanery, he might as well do so in a 
 more amusing way than by a skilful eluding of 
 duns, and it was better to cheat fools who 
 chose to risk their money in a game than 
 honest shopkeepers. Thus he argued with him- 
 self, what his school-fellows had called " his 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 51 
 
 crazy ideas of honour" coming out strongly; 
 but be held fast to bis theory, and never had a 
 single debt. The true and honest course never 
 once entered into his head ; if be had had suffi- 
 cient humility to visit his father's solicitor 
 again and beg bis assistance, in all probability 
 be would have been helped, for in such an 
 extreme case people are often kind-hearted 
 enough ; but absolutely to throw himself on 
 anyone's mercy was simply impossible to Dono- 
 van — he was at once too proud and too dis- 
 trustful of human nature. 
 
 The consideration ended, as might have been 
 expected, in an acceptance of the Frewins' 
 offer ; in a few days Donovan was established 
 in Drury Lane, and with all the natural force 
 of his character, and the retaliatory spirit pro- 
 duced by Ellis's injustice, and fostered by Noir's 
 sympathy, had plunged into the lowest and 
 most painful phase of his life. 
 
 Poor old Rouge Frewin was the only gainer 
 by the new arrangement. He had always dis- 
 liked the part his son had made him play, and 
 to be left at home in peace with his parrot and 
 his pipe, and as much cognac as he could man- 
 age to get hold of, seemed to him all that heart 
 
 E 2 
 
52 DONOVAN. 
 
 could wish. He took the most vehement liking 
 to Donovan, and, in his odd way, was very kind 
 to him ; the secret of his affection probably lay 
 in this : the new-comer treated him with respect, 
 and the poor old captain was now so little used 
 to such treatment, that it was doubly delightful 
 to him. 
 
 " I am a better fellow since you came," he 
 would often say, looking up with real affection 
 in his little watery eyes at the dark handsome 
 face of his boy-friend — the face which seemed 
 to grow harder_, yet more hopelessly sad every 
 day. 
 
 It was a world of nicknames into which Dono- 
 van had fallen ; in the club to which he and the 
 Frewins belonged — a club which was a gaming- 
 house in everything but the prohibited name — 
 every member had been dubbed with some so- 
 hriquet, often of singular appropriateness. Noir's 
 Dartmoor friend for instance was familiarly 
 known as Darky he^^e. The two Frewins had 
 received their names of Rouge et Noir, and before 
 very long Donovan, whether he liked 'it or not, 
 was invariably addressed as "Milord." The 
 parrot was the first to draw his attention to it, 
 but certainly old Rouge must have taught him^ 
 for when ever Donovan came into the room, or 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 53 
 
 attracted the bird's notice iu any way, Sweep- 
 stakes would scream out " Well, milord ! Well, 
 milord !" in his harsh voice, often adding 
 remarks which were quite the reverse of com- 
 plimentary. 
 
 One morning, while Donovan was sitting in 
 the little parlour with a cigar and a newspaper, 
 circumstances combined together in such a way 
 as to make him for the first time ashamed of 
 himself. They had been out very late on the 
 previous night, or rather that morning, and 
 Noir was lying half asleep on the sofa ; as the 
 clock struck twelve, however, he roused him- 
 self, and with many yawns and stretches pre- 
 pared to go out. 
 
 " Look here, milord," he said, turning at the 
 door, " I've an appointment in the City, and 
 must be off. You'll remember that we've arrang- 
 ed to go down to Manchester by the evening 
 express ; be in the way about that time, and 
 I'll join you here on the way to Euston." 
 " All right," said Donovan, not looking up. 
 " Yes, but be sure you remember, for I've 
 reason to believe we shall make a good thing 
 of it. Do you hear r' 
 
 " Yes," replied Donovan, shortly. 
 
 " What on earth makes you such a sulky 
 
54 DONOVAN. 
 
 brute to-day? One would have thought the 
 luck had been against you instead of all on 
 your side last night," said Noir, glancing at 
 him rather curiously. His question met with 
 no reply, however, and with a shrug of the 
 shoulders he turned away. 
 
 When the door had closed behind him, Dono- 
 van threw down his paper, and sat silently 
 thinking over the words which had stirred long 
 dormant feelings in his heart, flow he disliked 
 this arranging and scheming ! — what paltry 
 work he was engaged in ! — how low and base 
 and despicable it all was ! There was much to 
 dislike, too, in Noir Frewin ; in spite of his 
 misfortunes, and the consequent sympathy 
 which had arisen between them, there was 
 necessarily a great deal in him which was most 
 repulsive to Donovan. Old Eouge, moreover, 
 had managed to escape his son's vigilance, and 
 had made a disgraceful scene on the previous 
 evening. Altogether, Donovan felt disappoint- 
 ed with his companions and disgusted with his 
 work — not yet, unfortunately, with himself. 
 
 He could not help feeling sorry, however, for 
 Rouge when the old man came slowly and 
 wearily into the room ; remembering how his 
 intemperance had begun, and what a good- 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 55 
 
 hearted old fellow he was, his contempt and 
 utter disgust, which had been strongly roused 
 the prcA'^ious night, died away into pity. 
 
 " Good morning, captain/' he said, in his 
 usual voice, and using the title which he knew 
 the old man liked better than anything. 
 
 "Eh, Donovan, my lad, it's anything but a 
 good morning," sighed poor Rouge, stretching 
 himself out on the sofa. " How one does pay 
 for a little extra enjoyment!" Then, catching 
 a look of contempt on his companion's face, he 
 added, piteously, " Don't you turn against me, 
 lad ; I know I'm not what I should be, but don't 
 you give me up too ; everyone despises me 
 now, everyone looks down on me, and thinks 
 anything good enough for such a poor old fool. 
 Don't you take to it too, lad, for youVe been 
 good to the old captain till now." 
 
 " 1 don't wish to change," said Donovan, 
 " but I hope you won't repeat last night's 
 amusement. How can you expect anyone to 
 respect you^ when — well, after all, it's no busi- 
 ness of mine." 
 
 Rouge sighed heavily. 
 
 " Such is life !" screamed the parrot, mimick- 
 ing the sigh. 
 
 Then there was silence in the room for a few 
 
5G DONOVAN. 
 
 minutes, till the old man broke forth again, this 
 time with the tears running down his cheeks. 
 
 " I'm a miserable old sinner^ there's no doubt 
 of that, but I was driven to it. It's easy for 
 other people to talk who don't know what 
 temptation is, but I telt you, lad, I was driven 
 to it. I was lonely and miserable, and there 
 was more monej'^ than I knew what to do with 
 — how could I help it ?" 
 
 Donovan did not answer ; he crossed the 
 room, and leant with his back against the 
 mantelpiece^ thinking — thinking more worthy 
 thoughts than usual, too, for his faoe had some- 
 thing of the old bright look upon it, which 
 nothing had been able to awake since Dot's 
 death. He liked this poor old man genuinely ; 
 he liked very few people in the world, but 
 where his love was once given it was very true 
 and sterling — no mere idle pretence, not a 
 selfish taking of what can be got_, but a real 
 outgoing from self. Given an object to spend 
 his love upon, he was capable of immense self- 
 sacrifice ; it Avas his bitter misanthropy^ and his 
 resolute shutting out of the source of love, 
 which had so cramped and narrowed his life. 
 In spite of all his shortcomings, there was much 
 that was noble in his character ; his face was 
 
ROUGE ET XOIR. 57 
 
 full of eager desire as he turned to the old 
 man — the lofty, almost passionate desire which 
 must come at times to those who have, if it be 
 but one spark of the Divine fire, the longing to 
 turn from evil those who are overwhelmed by 
 it, to save the weak from temptation. 
 
 " Captain," he began, dropping the severe, 
 yet half contemptuous tone which he had at 
 first adopted towards the poor old drunkard. 
 " Captain, I know you had hard times, and 
 have a great deal of excuse ; but things are 
 different now, and it's your turn to drive back 
 along the road you were driven. Look, we'll 
 have a try together ; you give up the drink, for 
 a time at any rate, and so will I." 
 
 "Bless my heart !" exclaimed the old captain, 
 starting up. " Why, my dear fellow, I should 
 be dead in a month. Do you think, after all 
 these years, I could give it up in a moment ? 
 Why, it^s meat and drink to me ; I couldn't live 
 without it, I tell you." 
 
 " More die by drinking than by abstaining," 
 said Donovan. " I daresay you'd miss it at 
 first, but you'd soon get over it. You couldn't 
 be more miserable than you are this morning 
 after your last night's carouse." 
 
 " But to turn teetotaler !" exclaimed Rouge. 
 
58 DONOVAN. 
 
 " Why, milord, you'd Dever hear the last of it 
 at the club ; we should be the laughing-stock of 
 the place." 
 
 " And do you think that you were not their 
 laughing-stock last night V said Donovan. 
 " Better be laughed at as a teetotaler than as 
 a drunkard. Plain-speaking, you will say, 
 captain ; but you and I don't generally mince 
 matters. Come, agree to my bargain, and my 
 respect for you will rise ten degrees." 
 
 " You don't think it would kill me, then V 
 hesitated Rouge. 
 
 " Stuff! more likely to add ten years to your 
 life," said Donovan. "Come, now, we'll each 
 sign an agreement to give it up for — say three 
 mouths." 
 
 " So long/' groaned poor Rouge. " Think 
 of the dulness ! Why, what will life be worth 1" 
 
 " Not much, indeed," said Donovan, " but 
 more than your present life, at any rate." 
 
 And then, after a little more discussion and 
 hesitation, the papers were signed. 
 
 By-and-by the old captain fell asleep On the 
 sofa, and Donovan went out to get his lunch, 
 and to test the desirability of water-drinking. 
 In the afternoon he for the first time made his 
 way to the park, with a sort of desire to see the 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 59 
 
 side of the world from which he had been ejected, 
 the gay fashionable world in which only a year 
 before he had moved. Lighting a cigar_, he sat 
 down on one of the benches, and scanned the 
 faces of the passing crowd, wondering whether 
 he should see any of his old acquaintance, long- 
 ing, though he would hardly admit it to himself, 
 for a sight of his mother. Before he had been 
 seated many minutes, a rather prim-looking 
 lady and a bright-faced girl passed by, hesi- 
 tated a moment, and then took the vacant 
 places on the bench beside him. 
 
 "We have still half an hour before the ap- 
 pointment ; do let us sit here — it is such fun to 
 watch the people." It was a clear girlish voice 
 which said this, and Donovan involuntarily 
 looked round at the speaker, a little curious to 
 see who it was who could find pleasure in what 
 to him was so full of bitterness. 
 
 A fair, rounded face, sunny hair^ and well- 
 opened blue-grey eyes. Where had he seen 
 her before ? Somewhere, surely, for he remem- 
 bered the face distinctly now. It was one he 
 had watched and admired — and he admired 
 very few women. He must have heard her 
 speak too, for he recognised her rather unusual 
 voice — a voice in every way suited to the face. 
 
€0 DONOVAN. 
 
 mellow and full of tone, with a great gaietj^ 
 and happiness ringing in it, softening off ten- 
 derly now and then into earnestness. He had 
 met dozens of girls last season, but somehow 
 she did not seein like a London girl ; she was 
 too fresh and simple. Where could he have 
 seen her ? 
 
 He listened with a good deal of interest to all 
 she said, though it was nothing in the least 
 remarkable, merely comments on the passers- 
 by, and a laughing defence of fashionable people, 
 when her companion complained of the frivolity 
 and uselessness of their lives. 
 
 " Now, auntie, I shall think it is because you 
 and I are on foot and the grand people are 
 driving that you find fault with them ; don't 
 you remember the French proverb about the pe- 
 destrians commenting on the carriage people?" 
 
 "My dear, I should be very sorry to change 
 places with them," answered the prim-looking 
 lady. 
 
 " Yes, auntie, you would, I daresay, but really 
 some people just complain of rich people be- 
 cause they envy them, I'm quite sure they do." 
 
 This was rather a home-thrust to Donovan, 
 he threw away his cigar, and listened more 
 attentively, but the conversation drifted away to 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR, 61 
 
 other thinc^Sj home matters evidently, details 
 and allusions which came very strangely to 
 him in his semi-vagrant life — the last letters 
 there had been from Dick — Nesta's quickness 
 in reading — how father and mother meant to 
 come up to town before they left. He listened to 
 it all half sadly, half amusedly, it was a glimpse 
 ofsuch a different life from his own, such a simple, 
 innocent, pure life, with such strangely different 
 interests ! An unaffected girl, sweet, and bright, 
 and pure-minded, how black his life seemed in 
 contrast with hers ! Musing on this he lost the 
 thread of their conversation, and as the}' rose 
 to go he only caught the words, " Yes, I know 
 he doesn't profess much, but he's such a good 
 man, the sort of man one can trust." 
 
 A man one can trust ! how she leant on that 
 last word ! and with what a sharp thrill it 
 pierced Donovan's ear. What would she have 
 said of him had she known the sort of work he 
 was engaged upon ? He was quite glad she 
 bad moved away, for he did not feel fit to be 
 near her. He had disliked Noir Frewin's plan 
 in the morning, now he shrank from it doubly, 
 in the brief revelation of purity, something of 
 his own true character had been brought to the 
 light, he began to see very faintly indeed, but 
 
62 BONOVAN. 
 
 still to see in some degree his own falseness and 
 blackness. 
 
 He would not go with Noir that evening ; it 
 would involve some trouble^ no doubt, if he did 
 not keep his appointment, Noir would be ex- 
 ceedingly vexed, there would inevitably be a 
 quarrel when he returned from Manchester, and 
 of course he would lose the opportunity of 
 enriching himself, but he would not go, with the 
 light of those clear grey eyes fresh in his 
 memory he felt that he really could not. 
 
 Scarcely had he made this resolution when 
 he caught sight of his mother's victoria ; there 
 was Ellis Farrant looking just as usual, and 
 beside him was Mrs. Farrant. She was lean- 
 ing back in the carriage so that Donovan only 
 saw her face for an instant, but he fancied that 
 she looked a little paler than usual, a little sad 
 and worried. The sight moved him not a 
 little, he felt a great longing to see her again, 
 and in the evening, not caring to return to 
 Drury Lane, or to go to the club he was in the 
 habit of frequenting, for fear of meetin'g the 
 Frewins, he turned instead in the direction of 
 Counaught Square. There was the house he 
 knew so well, the house which ought to have 
 been his, with its balconies gay with tlowers, 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 63 
 
 and a brougham standing before the door. His 
 mother was probably going out, he would wait 
 and see her as she came down the steps, but he 
 would not himself be seen, that would be too 
 humiliating, he would wait a little way off, and 
 crossing the road, he leant with his back against 
 the square railings. It was a strange watch ; 
 bitter feelings mingled with the returning 
 family love as he stood there in the summer 
 twilight ; it was hard, even his most stern con- 
 temner would have been forced to allow that ! 
 He was standing alone in the street, cast off by 
 those who should have helped him, watching 
 their comfort and luxury from his state of 
 misery and conscious sin. Instinctively he took 
 up poor Rouge's cry, '^He has driven me to it — 
 how can I help going to the dogs, it is his 
 fault!" 
 
 And then the house door opened, and one of 
 the footmen came out to the carriage. Donovan 
 watched eagerly, and his breath came fast and 
 hard. There was his mother, quite placid and 
 happy-looking now, with a white Chuddah over 
 her shoulders, and a diamond star in her hair, 
 and there was Ellis, with his opera hat, and his 
 false smiling face, and his shallow politeness. 
 Certainly, judging by the outward appear- 
 
64 DONOVAN. 
 
 ance, there could have been no question which 
 was the more to be pitied, the rich man stepping 
 into his carriage, or the unjustly used outcast 
 who looked on in writhing bitterness of soul ; 
 but in reality Donovan's misery was as nothing- 
 compared with his step-father's. Years of plotting 
 and scheming, years of growing deterioration, 
 harassing anxiety, and patient waiting, all 
 this had Ellis gone through, and for what ? 
 For a rich wife, a town house, and a country 
 house, accompanied by an ever-present re- 
 morse, a nameless terror of discovery, a 
 wretched sense of shame, and a haunting di^ead 
 of his victim Donovan. The good was striving 
 within him, it would not abandon him, would 
 not for a moment let him enjoy his unjust gains; 
 he fought against it with all his strength, and 
 tried to be careless and comfortable, but he 
 fought in vain. 
 
 They went to the opera that evening and 
 heard "Faust'"; it stung him as no sermon 
 would have done. How like his part had been 
 to that of Mephistopheles ! how deliberately he 
 had planned his step-son's harm ! And above 
 the voices of singers and chorus, above the 
 grand orchestral accompaniment, there rang in 
 his ears one sharp despairing sentence, " Re- 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. bi) 
 
 member how you have goaded me on to ruin !" 
 Faust and Margberita were nothing to him. 
 He hardly noticed the beautiful little i^rima 
 donna. It was the grim basso, with his red 
 livery, his stealthy yet rapid movements, his 
 Satanic look of triumphant cunning, who preach- 
 ed to him that night, as no clergyman in sur- 
 plice and stole, or gown and Geneva bands, had 
 ever preached to him. In the " serenata," 
 where Mephistopheles sings his mocking song 
 of triumph to the guitar, and augurs further 
 successes for himself, Ellis sat actually shudder- 
 ing at the horrible sense of likeness. The song 
 was encored. He could bear it no longer, but 
 shrank back into the very furthest corner of 
 the box, trying not to see or hear. By-and-by 
 it was all over, and Ellis, with a grey face, 
 forced up a smile, and tried to talk in his 
 ordinary way, as he led his wife to the carriage. 
 But the effort was intolerable ; he was, in truth, 
 a miserable man that night, but happier had he 
 known it for that very misery. It was the 
 sign of that other Presence within him which will 
 not leave us to an unequal struggle with evil. 
 
 Donovan, seeing only the prosperous, out- 
 ward show, knowing nothing of all the real 
 remorse, watched the carriage drive off with 
 VOL. II. F 
 
66 . DONOVAN. 
 
 feelings which in their vehemence are quite 
 indescribable. He was almost terrified himself, 
 at the storm of hatred^ and anger_, and wild 
 longing for revenge that took possession of his 
 heart, as well he might be, owning nothing to 
 quell it but the power of his own will. He 
 stood quite still, his face pale and rigid with 
 that terrible white-hot passion, the overmaster- 
 ing passion in which great crimes are often 
 committed. In his madness nothing was too 
 dark for him to contemplate, no revenge too 
 sharp to be resolved upon. He had grasped 
 hold of the iron railing of the garden, involun- 
 tarily turning away his face from the houses. 
 A voice close to his ear made him start. If the 
 good still strove with Ellis Farraut, still more 
 did it lead Donovan, who was more sinned 
 against than sinning, and to him no fiend like 
 Mephistopheles came to scare and terrify, but a 
 little child was sent to lead him. 
 
 " Do you want to come in ? I thought I saw 
 you tugging so at the gate, and I came to ask 
 you." 
 
 A little girl of nine or ten was addressing 
 him, looking shyly through the iron bars of the 
 gate. No child had spoken to him since Dot 
 
ROUGE ET NOm. 67 
 
 had died. This seemed to him like a voice 
 from the grave, and instinctively, even at the 
 remembrance of the love which he deemed all a 
 "thing of the past, lost to him for ever, the evil 
 thoughts and the revengeful anger died out of 
 his heart. 
 
 " I should like to come in," he said, in reply- 
 to the question, " but I have no key." 
 
 " I -will ask the Friiulein to open the gate," 
 said the little girl, and she ran across the gar- 
 den, returning in a few minutes with a German 
 lady, who looked up from her knitting rather 
 curiously to see this gentleman who was wait- 
 ing for admittance. It was easily explained. 
 He had not a key, but he pointed to his mother's 
 house in the square. The Friiulein, without any 
 demur, unlocked the gate and admitted him. 
 
 He had not often been into the garden before, 
 but two or three times he had brought Dot 
 there in her invalid chair, and the place was 
 therefore sacred to him. He went at once to 
 her favourite seat, and there, in the cool of the 
 ■summer evening, better thoughts returned to 
 him. It had been a hot day. The children 
 were all enjoying the change ; they had the 
 garden almost to themselves, and, as they 
 
 f2 
 
68 DONOVAN. 
 
 played, their laughter and chatter floated to 
 him. It was what he wanted ; something inno- 
 cent, and pure, and merry. A faint, very faint 
 return of little Dot's influence came back to 
 him, and when he left the garden again he 
 was a better man. 
 
 Drury Lane had never seemed to him so 
 dingy as when he returned to it that evening. 
 A street-organ Avas playing a popular air in one 
 part, and a crowd of wretched-looking bare- 
 headed girls were dancing on the pavement. 
 Every now and then he passed one of those 
 appalling courts or alleys which open into the 
 lane, and, pausing once or twice^ he caught a 
 glimpse of the seething human crowd, the filth 
 and misery which they lived in ; then on again 
 past the shabby gaslit shops, the disreputable- 
 looking passengers, until he almost fell over a 
 little child who ought to have been in bed long 
 before, but who was sitting on the curb-stone, 
 grubbing with both hands in a heap of mud in 
 the gutter. Donovan was very tender over 
 little children. He stooped down at once to 
 see whether he had hurt the small elf. A pair 
 of dancing blue eyes looked up at him from a 
 dirty little face, and something very unsavoury 
 was held towards him, while, with the confidence 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 69 
 
 of a great discoverer, the elf shouted, gleefully, 
 
 " See what I've got ! A real old duck's foot ! 
 A real old duck's foot !" 
 
 It was a very pitiful sight, but it touched 
 Donovan ; he dropped a penny into the hand 
 which was not occupied with the new treasure 
 and went away moralizing, till, reaching the 
 print-shop, he drew out his key and went 
 up the stairs to the deserted rooms, for even 
 Rouge was gone, and, for the next three days, 
 Donovan was left to the tender mercies of Waif 
 and Sweepstakes. 
 
 He lit the gas and took up a book, but the 
 bird awaking caught sight of him, and instantly 
 began in his most scolding tones, 
 
 " Well, milord, aint you a fool ! Oh, lor, aint 
 you a fool!" 
 
 Evidently the Frewins had not made any 
 complimentaiy remarks upon his absence, and 
 doubtless poor Rouge had hardly been fit for 
 the journey. But he could not help it ; if he 
 had not seen that bright-faced girl, and been so 
 shamed by her unconscious words, it would 
 have been different. What a strange glimpse 
 of another kind of life she had given him ! 
 
 Sweepstakes sat with his shrewd grey head 
 on one side, and his crimson tail feathers 
 
70 . DONOVAN. 
 
 drooped ; before long, with a wicked look in iiis 
 round eyes, he began to say plaintively, 
 
 " Be yit fever so wumble, 
 There's no place li k'ome." 
 
 "Be quiet," said Donovan, sharply, for the 
 words did not at all suit his present frame of 
 mind. 
 
 But Sweepstakes only reiterated, 
 
 " Be yit fever so wumble, 
 There's no place like — " 
 
 Donovan made a dash at the cage with a 
 cloth and interrupted the song, a proceeding 
 which enraged the parrot. 
 
 "You go toTophet!"he screamed, angrily, 
 and then, being out of temper, he swore for 
 five minutes on end, till, for the sake of peace, 
 Donovan had to make up the quarrel. 
 
 But there was a good deal of obstinacy about 
 Sweepstakes, and, though he allowed his anger 
 to be appeased by a Brazil nut, he treated 
 Donovan for the rest of the evening to a mild 
 muttered refrain of "Be yit ever so wumble, 
 umble, umble " ad infinitum. 
 
 For the first time since he had been in Lon- 
 don, Donovan that night went to his room 
 early ; he had got into the habit of turning 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 71 
 
 night into day. But he was dull that evening 
 and tired, and it was not much after half-past 
 eleven when he left Sweepstakes for the night 
 and turned into his own shabby little room at 
 the back. A dreary lodging-house bed-room it 
 was, with a strip or two of carpet thrown down 
 over the dirty imscrubbed floor, a mouldering 
 green wall-paper, and over the fireplace one 
 solitary picture iu a gilt frame black with age, 
 a dingy sea-piece iu oils, a ship being dashed to 
 pieces on rocks. A room is said to show in a 
 certain fashion the character of its occupant ; 
 there were only four things here which could 
 iu any way bear traces of Donovan's individu- 
 ality. On the mantelpiece was Dot's cathedral 
 clock, in one corner a great bath, on the chest 
 of drawers one or two anti-theological books 
 by Luke RaeburUj and at the foot of the bed a 
 woolly rug for Waif. 
 
 The window was open ; it looked out on to 
 that fearful net-work of byeways and alleys 
 which Donovan had seen as he came home. He 
 had often seen them before, but one can see 
 many times and yet never observe. He had 
 generally gone to his room between three and 
 four in the morning when all was quiet 
 enough ; this evening it w^as just after closing 
 
72 DONOVAN. 
 
 time; the public-houses had let loose their 
 wretched throng, and the cry of the city went 
 up to heaven. People talk of the noise of 
 
 / London, and think generally of the street 
 traffic, the crowded pavements, and the cease- 
 less wheels, but let them once hear the appal- 
 ling noise of human life in a poor quarter, and 
 they will not complain of anything else. Wild, 
 drunken singing, fierce quarrels, blows, cursing, 
 7 a Babel of tongues, a wailing of children, angry 
 disputes between men and women, in which too 
 often the woman's voice in its awful harshness 
 seems unlike that of a human creature. These 
 are the sounds one may hear, the fearful realities 
 
 "■ which make up the dark side of the world's 
 ■^ metropolis. 
 
 Donovan stood beside the open window and 
 let all this tide of human wretchedness beat 
 upon his ear. He was shocked and awed, 
 struck with a great pity and indignation, for 
 he was not hard-hearted, only narrow-hearted, 
 and though this cramped ness kepjt him from 
 action it did not prevent the great suffering of 
 humanity from touching him with a sense of 
 pity. The incomprehensible suffering ! what a 
 mystery it was ! it made him wretched and 
 pitiful, and yet angry, though where the fault 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 73 
 
 of all lay he could not have said. Christianity, 
 or rather the horribly false notions of Christian- 
 ity which he had received, would have said 
 that all these drunkards and degraded beings 
 were forging the chains which should bind 
 them for ever and ever in hell ; according to 
 Mrs. Doery's ideas the West End must have 
 seemed the region of the elect, and Drury Lane 
 the abode of that other numerous band who 
 were foredoomed to everlasting torture. Per- 
 haps almost naturally Donovan had a fellow 
 feeling for sinners, for in his very young days, 
 when he had for a short time believed in what 
 he was taught, he had fully made up his mind 
 that Doery was one of the elect, and that he 
 had better go to the other place ; now from his 
 atheism, with which he persuaded himself he 
 was quite contented, he looked back with pity, 
 and yet with a little amusement, on the picture 
 of his sturd}' defiant childhood, which preferred 
 even the awfully described fiery furnaces to 
 companionship with Doery in an unjust and 
 partial favour. 
 
 He turned away from the window at last, 
 but not till he had closed it and drawn down 
 the blind ; he shut out the misery of his fellows 
 as he shut out many other things, for at present 
 
74 DONOVAN. 
 
 be was one of those who as Coleridge puts 
 it— 
 
 "Sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched." 
 
 It was not to be expected that the passing- 
 words of a stranger would be sufficient to alter 
 the whole current of Donovan's life, nor did 
 Gladys Tremain exercise such an unheard of 
 influence. The Frewins returned, and after 
 sundry upbraidings from Rouge and a sharp 
 quarrel with Noir, things fell back again to 
 their former state. 
 
 Once, quite unexpectedly, he met the grey- 
 eyed stranger again, two or three weeks after 
 their encounter in the park. It was a July 
 evening, the Frewins, Legge, Donovan, and 
 two or three other men were travelling up to- 
 gether from Goodwood. The train was crowd- 
 ed ; Mrs. Causton and Gladys, who had been 
 spending the day with some friends, were wait- 
 ing on the platform of a station not far from 
 Chichester, but they found it almost impossible 
 to get places. 
 
 '•Such a dreadful crowd, and such disagree- 
 able-looking people/' said poor Mrs. Causton, 
 nervously, " what is the reason of it '?" 
 
 " Goodwood races, mum," said the porter, 
 wondering at her ignorance, " there's room for 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 75 
 
 one in here, and one next door ; come, miss, the 
 train's just starting." 
 
 " My dear ! you can't go alone in there," said 
 Mrs. Caustou, distractedly, looking at the not 
 too reputable travellers, but the next carriage 
 ■was every bit as bad, the train began to move, 
 there was really no help for it, whether she liked 
 it or not, Gladys was shut in alone among 
 this strange-looking crew. She knew there 
 was nothing to fear, but at the same time it was 
 a very uncomfortable predicament, a fast girl 
 would have been amused by such a novel ad- 
 venture, but Gladys was not fast, she was a 
 pure womanly woman, and though she could 
 not have explained why, she had a peculiar 
 shrinking from these people. The little con- 
 versation at the door too had attracted the 
 notice of a coarse-looking man who was sitting 
 next her; he turned round upon her with a 
 cool inquisitive stare, and then made some re- 
 mark to his neighbour on the other side which 
 caused a general laugh, and Gladys, though she 
 would not have understood a word even had. 
 she heard, felt the colour flame up in her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " Why can't you behave decently ?" said a 
 voice from the other side of the carriage. 
 
76 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Rouge, it's your deal." 
 
 Then Gladys, who bad instinctively lowered 
 her eyes, looked up, for the attention of the 
 passengers was diverted from her; with an 
 overcoat spread over their knees, by way of a 
 table, they were soon absorbed in a game of 
 " Nap." She looked round at their faces with 
 a sort of longing to find one from which she 
 need not shrink ; all seemed bad, or coarse, or 
 in some way repulsive ; exactly opposite her 
 was an elderly man fast asleep, next to him 
 was the one who had called his companions to 
 order. Gladys looked at his face half hopefully, 
 the voice had at least been refined, and the 
 words — well, the best she had heard in this 
 company. The face too was not otherwise than 
 refined, the features were strikingly handsome^ 
 there were no tokens of excess about the clear 
 dark complexion, but oh ! what a hard bitter 
 saturnine look there was about the whole ; he 
 was evidently much younger than any of his 
 companions, yet not one of them looked so 
 reckless and hardened, still she felt that he 
 was a gentleman, and was at once less un- 
 comfortable and forlorn ; apparently he took not 
 the slightest notice of her, and that was pleas- 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 77 
 
 ant after the uncomfortable rude staring and 
 comments. 
 
 It was a very strange and very sad revela- 
 tion to her — a side of life which she had heard 
 of indeed, but had never in the least realised ; 
 the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the 
 devil had never shaped themselves in her 
 thoughts into anything half so terrible as this. 
 She had felt impatient when Mrs. Causton had 
 lamented the temptations of London life for 
 Stephen, yet the danger was no imaginary one, 
 for here was one who could not be older than 
 Stephen or Uick surrounded by evil compan- 
 ions, gambling with a recklessness and sang 
 froid which bespoke long habit. There was a 
 sort of horrible fascination in it. all, she could 
 not help watching the eager faces ; on all of 
 them was written the strong desire of gain, on 
 all, except that one dark saturnine face oppo- 
 site her, which, though apparently caring for 
 little else but the game, never seemed to un- 
 bend, in spite of repeated successes. Gladys 
 watched him as he pocketed his winnings, 
 watched pityingly his unmoved face, and once 
 he looked up and their eyes met. It was not a 
 look from which she need shrink ; the eyes were 
 
78 DONOVAN. 
 
 not bad eyes — they were very strange, hungry- 
 looking, sad ones. She understood then why 
 he was so different from his companions — evi- 
 dently in his heart he disliked the life he was 
 leading. By-and-by a dispute arose, a fierce, 
 loud altercation between her disagreeable 
 neighbour and one of the other men ; language 
 such as she had never heard was shouted across 
 the carriage^ the lookers-on laughed. Poor 
 Gladys glanced across in despair to the one 
 passenger in whom she had any faith ; he was 
 leaning back with a look of ineffable disgust 
 and weariness on his handsome face, but, as 
 the angry Babel grew louder, he turned to 
 Gladys ; she hardly knew whether she were 
 relieved or only more frightened when he bent 
 forward to speak to her. 
 
 " This must be very unpleasant for you," he 
 said, and she knew at once from his manner 
 that she had found a protector. " We shall be 
 at a station in a minute or two, and then, if 
 you like, I will offer to change places with the 
 lady you are with." 
 
 " Oh I thank you so much," said Gladys, her 
 frightened eyes brightening with gratitude and 
 relief. " My aunt is in the next carriage, if you 
 really wouldn't mind " 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 79 
 
 " Not in the least ; I wish I had thought of it 
 before, that you might have been saved this 
 unpleasantness." 
 
 Then, without another word, he returned to 
 his former position, but with a less hard and 
 contemptuous expression than before. The 
 others appealed to him for his opinion in the 
 matter of the dispute, and he spolce coldly and 
 quietly, but evidently what he said was to the 
 point; the disputants quieted down, and agreed 
 to some sort of compromise. At last, to Gladys' 
 intense relief, they reached the station. Dono- 
 van got up and let down the window, then, 
 looking back, said carelessly", 
 
 " You can leave me out in the next deal ; I'm 
 going to change carriages." 
 
 The announcement caused a chorus of inquiry. 
 
 " What's up with milord now ?" asked Gladys' 
 neighbour. 
 
 " Oh ! some craze, I suppose," said a dark- 
 browed man on the other side of the carriage ; 
 " he took a moral fit the other night, and rushed 
 away no one knew where. There's no reckon- 
 ing on him — ' a wilful man must have his ' 
 
 Why, what's this ?" as Donovan returned to 
 help Mrs. Causton in. "We didn't reckon on 
 
80 DONOVAN. 
 
 this, at any rate. Donovan, wliat are you 
 thinking of?" 
 
 "A cigar in peace next door/' he replied 
 readily ; and then he retreated^ leaving Gladys 
 greatly relieved, and the card-players not a 
 little embarrassed by the large bundle of tracts 
 which Mrs. Causton began to distribute among 
 them. At London Bridge they saw him again 
 for a minute, and Mrs. Causton pressed two 
 tracts into his hand and thanked him for his 
 courtesy. Gladys looked up at him shyly and 
 gratefully, but did not speak again, except, as 
 he raised his hat and turned away, to utter one 
 earnest-toned " good-bye." He heard it, and 
 treasured it up in his heart — a wish, he knew 
 it was, no mere formal parting, but the wish of 
 a pure-minded woman that good might be with 
 him. 
 
 Gladys watched sadly as Noir Frewin rejoined 
 her protector ; he was thoroughly out of temper, 
 as she had seen on the journey, and greeted his 
 companion with a torrent of angry reproaches. 
 Gladys caught only a word or two here a'nd 
 there — " Confounded folly ! — playing fast and 
 loose with the agreement !" — and one bitter 
 taunt — "A pretty knight-errant to help dis- 
 tressed ladies, such as you, a professional " 
 
ROUGE ET NOIR. 81 
 
 But the word gambler did not reach Gladys. 
 She did not then learu what a life Douovau was 
 leading, but she had seen and heard quite 
 enough to know that he was in great need of 
 help, and from that night he always had a 
 place in her prayers. Without that how could 
 she have borne the revelation of evil and 
 wretchedness, the contrast between the shielded 
 life of those she knew, and the life of constant 
 temptation of these her fellow-creatures. Pain- 
 ful as the evening's experience had been, she 
 could not altogether regret it. In after-life she 
 thanked God for that brief journey, upon which 
 had hinged so much. 
 
 VOL. II. G 
 
82 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE." 
 
 What thou woulclst highly 
 
 That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst uot play false, 
 
 Aucl yet wouldst wrongly win. 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 Till life is coming back, our death we do not feel, 
 Light must be entering in, our darkness to reveal. 
 
 Archbishop Trench. 
 
 AS the autumn wove on, both the dog and his 
 master began to show traces of the life 
 they were Kving. Poor Waif pined for the 
 country. He had always been his master's 
 companion in his long rides and walks, and 
 town life was of course a great and very un- 
 desirable change for him. Donovan, too, lost 
 his strength considerably. It was an unhealthy 
 life he was leading, full of the worst kind of 
 excitement ; at times idle and unoccupied, at 
 times full of fatigue. Naturally, too, his state 
 
THE RAYEN FOR A GUIDE. 83 
 
 of mind told on his physical strength. The 
 year beginning with the terrible strain of little 
 Dot's death, had brought him overwhelming 
 grief; the long spring months had been spent 
 in a fierce inward struggle, a vain search for 
 peace ; then had followed his quarrel with Ellis 
 and his expulsion from Oakdene, and ever since 
 that he had been in the poisoned atmosphere of 
 the society into which Noir Frewin had led him. 
 No wonder that as the winter advanced he 
 began to fail ; even the Frewins, who were not 
 more observant of such trivial matters than 
 selfish people usually are, noticed at last that 
 something was wrong. 
 
 " There's no getting a rise out of the boy 
 now," observed Rouge, one December afternoon. 
 *' I don't know what's come to him, unless, as I 
 expect, it's this absurd fad he's taken into his 
 head about water-drinking. I told him it was 
 enough to kill a fellow to give it up all at once 
 like that. I should have died that very week, 
 if I'd kept my agreement." 
 
 Noir gave a contemptuous sneer. 
 
 " No fear of your dying in that way, at any 
 rate. I wonder Donovan was ever such a fool 
 as to think you'd give it up. He is an odd fish. 
 There's no making him out." 
 
 g2 
 
84 DONOVAJf. 
 
 Rouge glanced at the subject of all this talk, 
 who was lying asleep on the sofa, and then for 
 the first time he noticed how worn and thin he 
 was. All the boyishness had gone from his 
 face now. 
 
 " I say, Noir, he looks to me uncommonly 
 queer," said the old captain. "I've seen one or 
 two fellows look like that before now. There 
 was one, I remember, on the Metora.'" 
 
 " Pooh ! I daresay many of them looked 
 badly enough before they'd found their sea- 
 legs,"' said Noir^ coolly. 
 
 " Well, the fellow 1 mean died," said the 
 captain, impressivel3\ " And I must say milord 
 does look to me awfully out of health." 
 
 " Oh ! nonsense. He's only seedy — a cold, or 
 something of that sort. We got drenched the 
 other night coming from Legge's place. It's 
 time we were starting. Just wake him up." 
 
 Rouge complied, and Donovan started up at 
 once, and looked sleepily at his watch. 
 
 " Time to go ? Oh ! I'd forgotten. It's this 
 Brighton scheme." 
 
 He looked wretchedly ill and tired, not at all 
 fit to turn out of the warm room into the cold 
 drizzle of the December twilight, but he was 
 not one to shirk an engagement for the sake of 
 
THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE. 85 
 
 mere bodily disinclination, and there was no 
 one to tell him what madness it was to trifle 
 with such a severe chill as he had taken. He 
 drew on his great-coat, and without a word 
 stood waiting for Noir, who was sorting his 
 cards on a side-table. 
 
 "Take my advice," said Rouge, paternally, 
 *' and have something just to hearten you up 
 before you go. With such a cold you want 
 something to warm the cockles of your heart." 
 
 For the moment Donovan was strongly tempt- 
 ed. He did feel very much in need of some such 
 comfort, but his hesitation was but momentary. 
 He knew that his only hope of influencing the 
 old captain lay in the steadiest adherence to his 
 plan of abstinence. The, three months of the 
 agreement were over, but, though Rouge had 
 long ago broken his pledge, his companion's 
 example had often kept him from excess, and 
 Donovan knew well enough that even for his 
 own sake the safe-guard was a very good 
 thing. 
 
 " Oh ! as to the cockles of one's heart," he 
 said, laughing, " that^s all bosh ; one only takes 
 cold the easier, as any doctor would tell you. 
 Present loss, future gain, is our motto to-day ; 
 we ought to bag a good many head of game to 
 
86 DONOVAN. 
 
 make up for turning out in this wet mist. 
 Good-bje, captain ; look after Waif." 
 
 And then Noir and his young accomplice set 
 out on their expedition. As they passed the 
 window of the print-shop, Donovan involun- 
 tarily paused. 
 
 *' Why, there's your very double," he said, 
 laughing ; and, in spite of the rain, Noir stopped 
 to see what he meant. 
 
 It was an old print of Brunei the engineer. 
 The curious forehead and eyebrows, and the 
 general cast of countenance, certainly bore a 
 strong resemblance to Noir, though the ex- 
 pression was very different. Underneath, in 
 copper-plate, was written the couplet — 
 
 " Whose public works will best attest bis fame, 
 Wliilst private worth adds value to his name." 
 
 It was rather a curious contrast to Noir Frewin's 
 life, and the words stung him. 
 
 " Well, well !" he said, with his bitter laugh, 
 " my ' public works ' are not of the first water, 
 perhaps; you needn't give me that epitaph." 
 
 The Brighton expedition proved a gre'at 
 success. Noir and Donovan returned in two 
 or three days' time well content. They had 
 chosen an evening train to come back by. 
 Noir went on as usual to select a favourable 
 
THE EAVEX FOR A GUIDE. 87 
 
 carriage ; Donovan followed him more leisurely, 
 for it answered their purpose best not to appear 
 to be companions. Donovan's part was usually 
 that of a decoy, a well-to-do, gentlemanly- 
 looking fellow who consented to play, and thus 
 induced others to try their hand. Noir had 
 this evening chosen a most auspicious-looking 
 carriage full of young men returning to town, 
 for it was the week after Christmas, and, the 
 brief holiday being over, many had chosen this 
 late train to take them back to the busy Lon- 
 don life again. Scarcely had they left the 
 station, however, when Noir's countenance sud- 
 denly fell; two or three of the passengers were 
 commenting on a placard which, printed in 
 large letters, was put up on the side of the car- 
 riage. He was vexed and disconcerted, for it 
 effectually put an end to his schemes for the 
 journey. With a slight warning pressure on 
 his companion's foot, he drew his attention to 
 the placard which was above his head. Not in 
 the least knowing what to expect, Donovan 
 took off his hat and put it in the netting, thus 
 getting an opportunity of turning round, and 
 there, staring at him in large type, were words 
 which he never forgot, words which seemed to 
 burn themselves in upon his brain at the very 
 
88 DONOVAN. 
 
 first reading. "Caution. Passengers are ear- 
 nestly recommended to beware of pickpockets 
 and card-sharpers dressed as gentlemen/' &c, &c. 
 He could read no further ; he fell back into his 
 place like one stunned, then the hot colour 
 rushed to his cheeks, mounted higher and 
 higher till his whole face seemed to burn and 
 tingle. Had he actually come to this ? Was 
 he, Donovan Farrant, a cheat against whom the 
 public must be warned, classed with pick- 
 pockets ? He, his father's only son, had sunk 
 so low then, that this description would apply 
 to him — a " card-sharper dressed as a gentle- 
 man !" That moment's sharp realisation was 
 terrible. Noir, anxious to veil his sudden con- 
 fusion, held out a newspaper to him ; but he 
 only shook his head, and the elder man, who 
 was merely annoyed by the occurrence, began 
 to feel alarmed at the strange effect the caution 
 had had on his accomplice. Such misery, such 
 shame, were written on his face that Noir began 
 to fear he should lose his able assistance. 
 
 They got out at London Bridge, and he linked 
 his arm within Donovan's with an anxious 
 attempt at raillery. 
 
 " Why, milord, what made you play such a 
 false card just now, colouring up like a girl at 
 
THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE. 89 
 
 a mere piece of paper ? I gave you credit for 
 more self-control." 
 
 Donovan bit his lip ; the last words vexed 
 him, and changed the current of his thoughts, 
 for he rather prided himself on his powers of 
 self-control, which were indeed considerable. 
 
 " It startled me/' he confessed, after a brief 
 silence. Then again, with a slight hesitation, 
 " Noir, do you consider yourself a card-sharper?" 
 
 The question was asked with a kind of inno- 
 cence which made Noir shudder ; he forced up a 
 mocking laugh, however. 
 
 " Ask a thief if he considers himself a thief, 
 and he will tell you ' no,' but a professional 
 adept, with a gift for acquiring other people's 
 property." 
 
 Donovan winced. 
 
 " If that's the definition of a thief, you and I 
 belong pretty much to the same class." 
 
 Noir wrenched away his arm. 
 
 " And what do I care if we do ?" he cried, 
 angrily ; " I don't know what makes you so can- 
 tankerous to-night. Have you forgotten your 
 favourite maxim, that the world is a mass of 
 injustice, and that a little more or less evil 
 makes no difference? You stand by that, and 
 I'll undertake to stand by you, for the world is 
 
90 DONOVAN. 
 
 unjust, and I delight ia cheating it when I've 
 the opportunit3\ If you're going to turn 
 moral, milord, we'll dissolve partnership at once, 
 and you can go back to those fine friends you 
 know, who were so ready to help you before 
 you came to us." 
 
 Donovan did not reply to this taunt, he only 
 shivered and drew his comforter over his mouth, 
 fie felt worn out and giddy, his steps began to 
 falter, and Noir, who in his strange rough fash- 
 ion loved him, forgot his anger, and taking his 
 arm again, half dragged him home. 
 
 -' The fact is, you're seedy and down in the 
 mouth, Donovan," he said, as they reached their 
 rooms, " you'll see things very differently to- 
 morrow.^' 
 
 Donovan did not answer, he stumbled up the 
 dark staircase after Noir, and followed him into 
 the parlour. There, with the gas flaring, a huge 
 fire blazing up the chimney, and supper wait- 
 ing on the table, was the old captaia ; his hearty 
 welcome was generally pleasant enough, but 
 this evening Donovan felt he could not stand it. 
 He was half perished with cold and involuntari- 
 ly made for the fire, but it was only for a min- 
 ute, the warm comfortable room was not in 
 keeping with his doubt and misery. 
 
THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE. 91 
 
 " Double, double, 
 Toil and trouble," 
 
 sang Sweepstakes, followiug the tall dark 
 figure with his shrewd eye, " Double — double — 
 dou-ble dou — ble." 
 
 "First-rate luck all three days," Noir was 
 saying. "To-night our little game was stopped, 
 and milord's down in the depths. Here, Dono- 
 van, come to supper, we didn^t get much of a 
 feed at Brighton." 
 
 But Donovan shook his head. 
 
 '•■ Good night, captain," he said, and, disre- 
 garding Rouge's remonstrances, left the room. 
 fle opened his own door, and Waif, with whines 
 of delight, sprang to greet him. 
 
 " Waif — poor old fellow !" he exclaimed, 
 stooping for a minute over the dog, but hastily 
 raising himself again. " No, no, down, get 
 down, I say, I'm not fit to touch you." 
 
 Poor Waif was utterly bewildered, his mas- 
 ter had never spoken to him in that way before, 
 something must be wrong, very much wrong. 
 It was dark, but the faintest glimmer of light 
 from the uncurtained window served to show 
 him that his master had thrown himself on the 
 ground, it was a sure sign that he was in trou- 
 ble, Waif knew that perfectly well, and did not 
 
92 DONOYAN. 
 
 just at first dare to interrupt him ; be walked 
 disconsolately round and round him, stopping . 
 every minute or two to sniff at him, listen, 
 Avhine in a subdued way. 
 
 Donovan was beyond dog help just then, in 
 the depth of his self-abasement he could not 
 sink low enough, in his abject self-loathing to 
 be touched by a being whom he loved would 
 have been unbearable. He had known well 
 enough that he was doing wrong before. 
 Something of his blackness had been borne in 
 upon him when Gladys Tremain had spoken 
 those words in the Park, but now it was all 
 before him, in hideous array, the very vision of 
 sin itself. How could he have delighted in 
 anything so ghastly ? it was not even a great 
 revenge he had taken on the unjust world, but 
 the pettiest, meanest, most despicable revenge. 
 "What had he not fallen to in these months ? why, 
 these hands of his — the hands that had waited 
 on Dot — had stooped to pick up paltry half- 
 crowns won by cheating foolish wretches in a 
 railway-carriage. And then came the remem- 
 brance of his father. " You are hardly in a 
 position, Dono, to speak of breaches of honour." 
 Not even then ! oh ! what would his father have 
 said to him now ! Yet little as he had known of 
 
THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE. 93 
 
 him, that little was enough to tell him that hig 
 father would always think more of the future 
 than of the past. There was a future for him 
 even now, he must no longer wage war upon the 
 unjust world, he must — he loould alter his way of 
 living if only for the sake of redeeming his 
 father's name. But for the first time in his life 
 he felt a want in himself, that agony of re- 
 morse, despair, utter self-abhorrence had done its 
 work, he was no longer blindly confident in his 
 own strength. 
 
 Presently from sheer exhaustion he fell asleep. 
 Waif was happier when he heard the deep 
 regular breaths ; a strange process of thinking 
 began in the dog mind. He went back to his 
 woolly rug and lay down^ but in a minute 
 jumped up again, ran to his master, licked his 
 hand, and then returned to his rug. Still he 
 could not settle himself to sleep, a second and a 
 third time he got up, making an uneasy circuit 
 round the prostrate figure on the ground. At 
 last, as if unable to He on his rug while Dono- 
 van was on the floor, he curled himself up at 
 his feet, and there slept peacefully. 
 
 In the adjoining room Noir, having made a 
 hearty meal, drew up his chair to the fire and 
 lighted his evening pipe. The old captain was- 
 
'94 • DONOVAN. 
 
 evidently uneasy. Noir was uneasy, too, in 
 reality, but he kept it to himself. 
 
 " He's a very queer customer that lad," said 
 Houge, meditatively. " You think it really is 
 this piece of paper which frightened him ?" 
 
 '• Yes, he's young," said Noir, in an excusing 
 tone. " It gave him a turn, I daresay it will 
 soon pass off. If not we must get a little 
 change somehow. It wouldn't be a bad plan 
 to go abroad for a month or two, plenty to be 
 done there, and he'd be sure to like it. After 
 all, of course we do run some risk here ; a 
 month or two of absence wouldn't be a bad 
 notion." 
 
 "'He who prigs what isn't his'n/" quoted 
 Eouge. '^ Well, don't carry it too far, and don't 
 drive the boy away, whatever you do." 
 
 " No, no, I'd sacrifice a good deal to keep 
 him," said Noir, "but he's thoroughly upset to- 
 night about it." 
 
 Presently the old captain lighted his candle 
 and went up to bed, but Noir sat on long after 
 his pipe was finished, long after the fire had 
 sunk down in the grate to a handful of dying 
 embers; he was thinking, brooding painfully 
 over the comparative innocence of his boy ac- 
 complice, and his own villainy. How despair- 
 
THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE. 95 
 
 ing and wild the fellow bad looked, too, as he 
 left the room ; he quite started when the door 
 opened, and Rouge, with his nightcap on, 
 appeared again upon the scene. 
 
 " I say, Noir, I don't feel happy about that 
 boy. It was very strange of him to go off like 
 that with no supper." 
 
 " Pooh !" said Noir, contemptuously, though 
 his father was speaking his own thoughts. 
 " He's ashamed of himself and vexed about that 
 caution." 
 
 " Yes ; but to go off ill as he is, cold and 
 supperless. If he was a Catholic he might do 
 it as penance, but he's nothing, you know." 
 
 It did not strike them that in very deep in- 
 ward trouble it is at times impossible to enjoy 
 or permit bodily ease ; indeed, if the poor old 
 captain had been guilty of the most heinous 
 crime, he would probably have eaten his supper 
 after its committal, and found a solace in the 
 eating to his pangs of remorse. He could not 
 understand anything which went deeper than 
 this, and his good heart had been stirred with 
 pity as he lay down warmed and satisfied in 
 his comfortable feather-bed. 
 
 Noir's thoughts went at once to darker sus- 
 picions ; he had seen something of that same 
 
96 • DONOVA.N. 
 
 despairing look on Donovan's face when, on 
 that bright June afternoon, he had watched" 
 him unknown on Westminster Bridge. He had 
 read his intentions then^ was it possible tliat 
 misery and shame had driven him again to the 
 same longing? 
 
 " Well just give him a look on our way up," 
 be said, carelessly. And then he turned the 
 door-handle noiselessly, and with well-disguised 
 anxiety stole in ; the room was very quiet, the 
 bed empty. Noir's heart stood still, and, with 
 an exclamation of dismay, he hurried to the 
 dark form which was stretched out on the floor. 
 
 " Bring the candle quick," he said to his 
 father, and Rouge, trembling with fear, held the 
 light nearer, while Waif growled a little at the 
 unusual disturbance. 
 
 Noir bent down for a moment close to the 
 half-hidden face, then he started up again with 
 an expression of relief, which came rather oddly 
 from his lips — 
 
 - Thank God !" 
 
 " Well, it did give me a turn," said the old 
 captain, stooping to pat the dog. 
 
 " Hush !" said Noir, " you'll wake him." 
 
 And then for a minute the shabby little room 
 witnessed -a strange scene.- Donovan stirred 
 
THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE. 97 
 
 Tiueasil}^, half turned round, but sank again into 
 profound sleep, and the two Frewins bent over 
 him, why, they could scarcely have said, but iu 
 their relief it seemed almost a necessity. They 
 watched the face of the sleeper — flushed as if 
 even now the shame Avere making itself felt — 
 the sad face which seemed all the more despair- 
 ing because of its stillness, the fixedness of its 
 misery. And Noir's heart smote him, his con- 
 science cried out loudly, " You have brought 
 him to this, you have dragged this boy down 
 into shame and dishonesty." 
 
 Rouge thought only of the discomforts of a 
 night on the floor. 
 
 " Wake him up," he urged. " It's frightfully 
 cold, he oughtn't to be there." 
 
 But Noir would not wake him, he knew that 
 it would be cruel to bring him back to his 
 anguish of remorse. Rouge could never under- 
 stand anything higher than bodily comfort, it 
 was what he lived for ; his son, though a far 
 worse man, had nevertheless a capability of 
 entering into greater things, he had himself 
 sinned and suffered, and though it was years 
 since he had known real remorse, he had once 
 known it, and to a certain extent he understood 
 Donovan's feelings. 
 
 VOL. II. H 
 
n 
 
 98 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 "Better leave him," be said; but, with the 
 words upon his Hps, he nevertheless turned to 
 the bed, and, dragging off a railway-rug which 
 covered it, threw it over the prostrate form on 
 the floor. Strangely indeed in life do the lights 
 and shades intermix, faint flickeringe of the 
 
 . light divine stealing in, in spite of the vast 
 
 * black shades of sin. 
 
 The next day — the last of the year — was a 
 dreary one in the Frewins' rooms. Noir kept out 
 of the way, not caring to face his accomplice ; 
 old Rouge, in great depression, dusted his 
 curiosities as usual, and put things tid}^ and 
 ship-shape; and Donovan sat coughing and 
 shivering over the fire, with an expression of 
 such despondency, often of such terrible suffer- 
 ing, that the old captain scarcely dared to speak 
 to him. The sharpness of his remorse had for 
 the time died away, it was swallowed up in the 
 misery of his recollections, for this was the 
 anniversary of Dot's last day of life, and re- 
 membrances strange, tender, pitiful, but always 
 full of pain, thronged up in his mind. Brood- 
 ing over it all, his brain excited with the events 
 of the past night, his body worn out with pain, 
 it was no wonder that the overtaxed nature at 
 last gave way. 
 
THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE. 99 
 
 His mood seemed to change ; Rouge, who 
 had not been able to extract a word from him 
 all day, was astounded as the evening drew on 
 to find him suddenly in the wildest spirits. 
 
 " Come," he said, " we'll go to Olliver's ; it's 
 time we had dinner. Come along, captain." 
 
 And poor old Rouge found himself dragged 
 off, in spite of his remonstrances. 
 
 " You'd better not go out, milord ; you're 
 really not fit." 
 
 " Not fit I" said Donovan, with a mad laugh, 
 cut short by a cough. " I'm fit for anything. 
 Come along, old fellow ; we'll drown care, stifle 
 it, kill it, what you like !" 
 
 Rouge, really frightened, panted along after 
 his crazy companion, with difiiculty keeping 
 pace with his fevered steps ; and then ensued 
 an evening of mad merriment. A year ago, 
 only a year ago, and Donovan had been watch- 
 ing Dot's last agony ; with the strong manly 
 tenderness of great love he had held the little 
 quivering hands in his, now in a crowded 
 billiard-room he grasped the cue instead, and 
 betted wildly, losing, winning, winning again 
 considerably, then with the Frewins, andLegge, 
 and two or three other companions returning 
 
 h2 
 
100 • DONOVAN. 
 
 to Druiy Lane and gambling the old year out 
 and the new year in. 
 
 " I back the winner, I back the winner !" 
 screamed Sweepstakes from his cage. 
 
 And above the sounds of dispute, and mer- 
 riment, and eager play, the clock of St. Mary's 
 Church struck twelve, and in the distance Big 
 Ben's deep notes echoed over the city, and, just 
 because an agony of remembrance rushed back 
 into Donovan's mind, he staked higher and 
 higher. The room rang with his wild laughter. 
 
 Noir broke up the gathering much earlier 
 than usual, and with flushed cheeks and wild 
 glittering eyes Donovan staggered to his feet ; 
 but he could hardly stand, his head seemed 
 weighted, his limbs powerless. 
 
 "I've done for myself now," he said, catch- 
 ing at Noir to keep himself up. Noir did not 
 answer ; with his father's assistance he helped 
 him into the next room, and with some pangs 
 of conscience kept guard over him through the 
 night of mad excitement and misery which 
 followed. 
 
 The next morning the bright new year broke 
 over the great city, there were fetes, and rejoic- 
 ings, and merry family parties, but in the 
 lodging-house in Drury Lane all was silent. 
 
THE RAVEN FOR A GUIDE. 101 
 
 even at night no gamblers' wild revelry broke 
 the stillness, for Donovan was prostrated by an 
 attack of congestion of the lungs in its acutest 
 form. 
 
102 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 STRUGGLING ON. 
 
 Men are led by strange ways. One should have toler- 
 ance for a man, hope of him ; leave him to try yet what he 
 will do. 
 
 On Heroes and Hero-ioorsliip. 
 
 May we not again say, that in the huge mass of evil, 
 as it rolls and swells, there is ever some good working im- 
 prisoned ; working towards deliverance and triumph ? 
 
 French Revolution. Carlyle. 
 
 HE had known for a long time that he was 
 out of health, and at times the dread of 
 being ill had haunted him painfully, as it will 
 at times haunt those who are practically home- 
 less. For it is indeed very terrible to face the 
 thought of illness with no mother at hand to 
 nurse you, no sister to whom the duties of 
 tending will be a pleasure rather than a tire- 
 some duty, no house in which you have a right 
 to be ill, where you need not feel burdened 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 103 
 
 "vvitb the sense of the trouble yon are causing. 
 To Donovan, with his utter want of belief in. 
 human nature, or in the very existence of any- 
 thing above human nature, the sense of helpless- 
 ness came with double power; only, fortunately 
 for him, things were not really as he believed. 
 Close beside him, though unknown, the love of 
 the All-Father watched and shielded from evil 
 the son who, by such wretched wanderings, 
 was being led on. And the pity which springs 
 up very readily in most of our hearts, when we 
 are brought face to face with pain, brought 
 human help and comfort to his sick-bed. The 
 landlady, careworn and harassed with many 
 children and a good-for-nothing husband, yet 
 found time to do the few absolutely necessary 
 things in the sick-room; she could not help 
 being sorry for her apparently friendless lodger. 
 Once or twice she pained him terribly by 
 asking, 
 
 " Haven't you no mother who could come 
 and see to you?" 
 
 And Donovan would sign a negative, and, 
 when she had left him to himself, would feel 
 the loneliness and suffering with double keen- 
 ness. 
 
 Noir Frewin would come in two or three 
 
104 DONOVAN. 
 
 times a day and ask how he was ; the old 
 captain would hang about the room with anxiety 
 written on his kind old face, but he missed his 
 companion's vigilance and example, the drink- 
 ing mania seized him strongly, and he was 
 seldom quite sober. There was one other ama- 
 teur nurse, the poor little over-driven servant. 
 She used to shuffle into the room every now 
 and then, and with infinite care and chunsiness 
 would drag the pillow from under his head, 
 shake it up violently and turn it_, or hold a 
 glass to his burning lips and spill half its con- 
 tents down his night-shirt, but he learnt to be 
 grateful even for such rough attentions, for 
 there is nothing like weakness and suffering 
 for teaching patience. The loneliness Avas so 
 terrible, too, that he would detain anyone who 
 came to him as long as possible. Old Rouge, 
 with his unsteady gait and half incoherent talk, 
 was better than no one, and even the little 
 slipshod servant, with her rough head and dirty 
 hands, was worth the exertion of talking, just 
 for the sake of having a human creature within 
 reach. 
 
 " I allays liked you, sir," she said to him once. 
 *' You ain't allays a-calling for your boots, like 
 Mr, Frewiu, or in drink, like the captain, and 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 105 
 
 you never shouted out ' slavey ' down the stairs 
 for me, as though I was one of the poor blacks. 
 I allays liked you, Mr. Donovan." 
 
 Donovan was amused, and in spite of bis 
 burning head and aching misery, threw out 
 some question or response to detain her. 
 
 *' And I've done things for you as I've not 
 done for no other lodger," the girl continued. 
 "I've blacked your boots a sight better than 
 any of the others, and though you did want 
 such a terrible lot of bath water hevery day, I 
 allays brought it up reg'lar. If the lodgers h' is 
 civil and kind-spoken, I do my best for 'em, but 
 most of 'em — why, they treat us poor girls like 
 dogs, that they do. And talkin' of dogs, I've 
 done that un of yours many a good turn ; times 
 and times I've stolen bits o' meat and things 
 for 'im." 
 
 " Oh ! but you shouldn't do that," said Dono- 
 van, quickly. " Don't do it again. It's wrong- 
 to steal, you know." 
 
 But then he paused. What was he saying ? 
 How trivial were this poor ignorant girl's dis- 
 honesties compared with his own ! 
 
 Bitter were the regrets which thronged up in 
 his mind as he lay wearily on his bed of pain. 
 He could not escape from his secret foes now ; 
 
106 DONOVAN. 
 
 he could not banish thought by violent bodily- 
 exercise, or by wild excitement. All his an- 
 guish of last year returned with terrible force, 
 all the agony of self-loathing weighed upon him 
 with cruel ceaselessness. This, combined with 
 the want of good nursing, aggravated his ill- 
 ness. The doctor began to look grave, and one 
 day Anne, the little servant, fairly burst into 
 tears when she came up to tidy his room. 
 
 " What's the matter?" asked Donovan, feebly. 
 " Have they been scolding you V 
 
 "No, no, it ain't that/' said the girl, holding 
 her apron to her eyes. " But missus she says 
 you'll die, sure as a gun ; she did say so, I 
 beared her, sir, not a minute since." 
 
 Donovan did not speak for some time. He 
 lay thinking silently over the girl's words, 
 " You'll die, sure as a gun." He smiled a little, 
 thinking that few had been told of their danger 
 in a more open and undisguised way, but it 
 ought to have been good news to him, and for 
 a time he tried to think he was glad. And yet ? 
 He did not go straight to the root of the matter, 
 and own that the " peace of nothingness " 
 looked less attractive when viewed nearly; he 
 said instead what a wretched life he had had, 
 how little enjoyment, how much suffering, and 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 107 
 
 now be Avas to die forlorn and unattended in a 
 miserable London lodging. Then came a great 
 longing to see his mother. 
 
 He called the girl to him, made her find 
 writing materials, and, raising himself on his 
 elbow, wrote with great difficulty a few pencil 
 words. 
 
 " I am very ill ; my death will perhaps ease 
 more consciences than one. Will you not come 
 to me, mother ? — it may be our last meeting." 
 
 He was growing faint ; the effort had been 
 very great, but, still exerting all his strength of 
 will, he controlled his weakness sufficiently to 
 scrawl the address on the envelope. Then he 
 sank back again utterly exhausted. 
 
 " You'll have to see the clergyman if you get 
 worse," said Anne, sympathetically. " There's 
 one as come next door to an old chap as was 
 dying last summer, and they say he do make 
 the folks quake and sweat." 
 
 Donovan was past smiling. 
 
 After that he did not remember much ; there 
 was only an ever-present consciousness of end- 
 less pain, the raging, burning, aching misery of 
 fever. Till then the hours had dragged on with 
 the terrible slowness of which only those who 
 have been alone in illness can form any idea ; 
 
108 . DONOVAN. 
 
 but now he lost all thought of time, and was 
 only dimly aware of the visitors who came to- 
 him. Now and then he had a sort of vision 
 of Rouge's round red face anxiously peer- 
 ing down at hira. Once he fancied himself 
 chained down in one of Doery's red-hot fur- 
 naces, where Dives-like he had cried for water, 
 and then he had looked up, and Noir was beside 
 him with the cooling draught he had thirsted 
 for, and he had fallen back again refreshed, 
 wondering greatl}' that his request had been 
 granted. The Christian's God was, after all 
 then, merciful ! Wild thoughts they were which 
 haunted him in his delirium ; and yet Noir 
 Frewin, as he watched beside him, was struck 
 by the tone of his fevered utterances. He was 
 prepared for ravings against injustice, but, 
 instead, Donovan's most vehement words were 
 of self-reproach. At times he would take a 
 theological turn, and would argue for and 
 against every conceivable doctrine, and then 
 again he would fancy himself back among his 
 late companions, gambling or indulging in wild 
 revelry; but throughout there was nevel* one 
 impure word, and Noir marvelled at it. A 
 strange wild life was revealed, with an under- 
 current of .anxious questioning, one predomi- 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 109 
 
 nant vice, but behind it much that was noble, 
 a familiarity with every kind of evil, but, in 
 spite of it, a strange retaining of pm-ity. 
 
 One name, too, was constantly on his lips — a 
 name which Noir had never heard him mention 
 before. He wondered much to whom it re- 
 ferred, what gave rise to the agonised longing 
 for this one presence. 
 
 Perhaps in this was Donovan's keenest suffer- 
 ing. He dreamt continually of Dot ; she was 
 beside him, no longer ill and helpless, but happy, 
 and strong, and bright. As yet, remembrance 
 was such terrible pain to him — it was so entirely 
 his object not to remember the past — that the 
 vision which kept recurring to him was almost 
 more than he could bear, and the extraordinary 
 reality of it deluded him at times. It must be 
 realj she had come back to him, and he would 
 stretch out his arms to keep her ; then, coming 
 to himself, would find that it was only a dream. 
 One night the dream was more vivid than ever. 
 He fancied himself on a wide-open down ; he 
 was ill and faint, and the sun was beating down 
 upon him pitilessly. He closed his eyes to shut 
 out the intolerable brightness, and then sud- 
 denly became aware of a shade between him 
 and the sun, and, looking up, saw Dot standing 
 
110 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 beside him. Such a rapturous meeting it was ! 
 Her face seemed changed, and yet the same, 
 and her bright eyes shone down upon him with 
 just the old loving light. He could feel her 
 fingers ruffling up his hair as she used to do in 
 the old times, and her voice, merry and child- 
 like as ever, seemed to give him new strength. 
 " It is my turn to nurse you now," she said. 
 And then, just as he was feeling the full bliss 
 of her presence, a thick white mist rose from 
 the ground and rolled between them. He 
 stretched out his hands, tried to struggle up, 
 helplessly beating against the cold white wall. 
 Dot was there just beyond. He must reach her ! 
 this sudden meeting, only to part, was too 
 cruel ! But the more he dashed himself against 
 the impenetrable barrier, the harder it became, 
 and maddened by hearing her voice in the dis- 
 tance, he grew more and more reckless, till at 
 last his own cry of despair woke him. Trem- 
 bling, exhausted, panting for breath, he stared 
 round the little room. The scene was changed. 
 Fight as he would, there was no chance of his 
 seeing Dot again ; even the white barrier was 
 gone. The gas was turned low, and close 
 beside it sat Noir, nodding over his newspaper. 
 The blank of realisation was so terrible that he 
 
STRUGGLING ON. Ill 
 
 felt be must call on some oue or something out 
 side himself, and bis companion was roused by 
 a call so wild, so despairing, that he started up 
 at once and hurried to the bedside. 
 
 " What is it f be questioned, anxiously ; but 
 Donovan could not answer; bis breath would 
 only come in gasps, his whole frame was con- 
 vulsed. By the strange freemasonry of suffer- 
 ing, Noir Frewin understood him ; be did not 
 say a word, but just took the two burning 
 hands in his, and Donovan, with a sense of re- 
 lief, tightened his hold till the grip was abso- 
 lutely painful. Anything human would have 
 served to support him ; be clung to the hands 
 of this hardened cheat with helpless gratitude. 
 
 And Noir, as he looked down at the strug- 
 gling agon}^ understood it all far better than 
 many would have done. A well-regulated mind 
 accustomed to view things quietly, or a Chris- 
 tian who has never known what it is to be any- 
 thing else, would probably not have known so 
 exactly what to do ; they would have offered 
 words to a state utterly beyond the compre- 
 hension of speech, or would have advised self- 
 control when the very fact of the convulsed 
 frame and sealed lips showed that no control 
 was needed. But Noir had been through just the 
 
112 DONOVAN. 
 
 same fierce conflicts in his cell at Dartmoor ; he 
 knew that no words would avail, no thought 
 comfort, that what nature cried out for was a 
 presence stronger than self — something or some 
 one who would not preach, but would under- 
 stand. He gave, poor fellow, all he could give 
 — himself; and after a time Donovan's convuls- 
 ed limbs relaxed, the hands loosened their hold, 
 the face settled into its usual stern sad ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " Thanks, old fellow," he said, faintly. 
 
 Noir, with an odd choking in his throat, 
 
 , turned away and made ready some gruel which 
 
 had been heating. By the time he had brought 
 
 it, Donovan had recovered a little more, and 
 
 there was a sort of smile on his worn face. 
 
 " I can't get over you turning nurse, Noir," 
 he said, in rather trembling tones ; " you've 
 been — awfully good to me." 
 
 "Only make haste and get well," said Noir, 
 roughly, but kindly. 
 
 " Am I not doing my best by swallowing this 
 abomination ?" said Donovan, trying to form 
 his lips into a smile, but failing piteously. 
 
 " You'd better be quiet, or you won't get off 
 to sleep again/' said Noir, peremptorily, the 
 fact being that he could not stand the effort at 
 
STRUGGLING OX. 113 
 
 cheerfulness which his patient was making, foi' 
 there are few things more painful than to see 
 a thin veil of assumed cheerfulness drawn over 
 great suffering. But the effort was a brave 
 one, he could not help knowing it, and as he 
 returned to his place beneath the gas, instead 
 of taking up his newspaper, he mused over the 
 hidden trouble which had been half revealed to 
 him, from time to time casting a glance towards 
 the bed. Nothing, however, was to be seen 
 there except a mass of rough brown hair ; 
 Donovan had turned his face away from the 
 light, and Noir only knew that he was not 
 asleep by the absolute stillness of his form, and 
 by the long-drawn but half-restrained sighs 
 which reached him every few minutes. 
 
 The next morning the old captain^ with his 
 feather-brush, was as usual dusting his shells 
 and corals, when he was interrupted by the 
 little maid-of- all-work. 
 
 " If you please, sir," she said, with unusual 
 animation, "'ere's a lady as will ■'ave it that 
 Mr. Farrant lives ^ere, and I can't get 'er away 
 no ow. 
 
 Rouge, removing his smoking-cap, hurried 
 forward, and found himself face to face with an 
 elderly woman with a rather thin severe face. 
 
 VOL. II. I 
 
114 . • DONOVAN. 
 
 " There must be some mistake, madam," he 
 said, in his pleasant voice. "No one of the 
 name of Farraut lives here. We are the only 
 lodgers, except one poor fellow named Donovan, 
 who is ver}^ ill." 
 
 " There !" exclaimed Mrs. Doerj, with relief. 
 " Now why didn't you tell me that before, 
 though I was certain he must be here some- 
 where, he'd never make a fault in the address. 
 Take me to him at once, please, sir — I've come 
 to nurse him." 
 
 " Bless me !" exclaimed the old captain, 
 " now that's really a wonderful piece of luck, 
 for he's in need of better nursing than we can 
 give him. You are a relation of his ?" 
 
 " Relation, indeed !" said Mrs. Doery, with 
 virtuous indignation — " relation, sir ! A pretty 
 pass he must have come to if you take me for 
 a relation. I am the housekeeper." 
 
 "Your pardon, madam," said the captain. 
 " May I not offer you some refreshment after 
 your journey," and he put his hand on the in- 
 evitable black bottle w^hich was always within 
 convenient reach. 
 
 " I'll thank you, sir, to take me to Mr. Dono- 
 van," said Doery, severely, " and not go offer- 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 115 
 
 iug a respectable party spirits at this time of 
 day." 
 
 Rouge, feeling snubbed, hastily led the way 
 to the sick-room, muttering under his breath, 
 "A very dragon !" But nevertheless he rather 
 enjoyed the new arrival, and there was a ring 
 of amusement in his hearty voice as he went up 
 to the disordered uncomfortable-looking bed 
 where Donovan lay. 
 
 " Well, milord, I've brought you a nev/ 
 nurse." 
 
 If anyone had told Donovan in his childhood 
 that he would ever welcome the sight of his 
 grim tyrant he would not have believed it, but 
 nevertheless .there was an unspeakable comfort 
 and relief in the advent of poor old Doery. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Donovan, what have they been a- 
 doin' to you ?" she exclaimed, horror-struck at 
 his looks_, for he was evidently quite clear- 
 headed, but utterly weak and helpless, and with 
 a face so thin and worn that she hardly recog- 
 nized it. 
 
 "Did my mother send youf he asked, as 
 soon as the captain had left the room. 
 
 " No, sir, master sent me, with orders to say 
 nothing about it to mistress. It was the only way 
 
 I 2 
 
116 . DONOVAN. 
 
 he'd let me come, Mr. Donovan, so you mustn't 
 mind. Mistress is to be told I'm gone to nurse 
 my sister. I promised I wouldn't say a word 
 to her, otherwise master wouldn't have told me 
 where you was." 
 
 " He opened the letter, then ?" asked Donovan. 
 
 " He had your letter, sir. I made no doubt 
 it was sent to him, for the mistress hadn't seen 
 it." 
 
 Evidently, then, it would be quite useless to 
 attempt writing to his mother; after the lapse 
 of all these months of silence, Ellis still kept 
 guard over her correspondence. A sort of dim 
 idea which had crossed his mind of appealing 
 to his mother for money to start him in some 
 honest calling, died away. He must continue 
 to support himself by his precarious winnings, 
 only — and here all his strength of will asserted 
 itself — he would never be a party to Noir's de- 
 ceptions again. It was not a very cheering 
 prospect, he sa,w that it must involve an entire 
 break with the Ere wins, and they had been so 
 good to him that he shrank very much from the 
 thought. After all, as he often said to hitnself, 
 his death would solve m.any difficulties. 
 
 But he was not to die — that was evident. 
 Thanks to Mrs. Doery's good nursing he began 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 117 
 
 to recover steadily, and, as his strength return- 
 ed, a certain enjoyment of life returned to him 
 too, at times. He began to wish very much to 
 be out and about again, even though so many 
 difficulties would have then to be faced. 
 
 His intercourse with old Mrs. Doery was a 
 good deal hampered by various causes. He 
 never mentioned Dot's name, he never mention- 
 ed his present way of life, so that their range of 
 conversation was rather limited. He asked a 
 thousand questions, indeed, about his mother, 
 and the whole Manor household, but except 
 with regard to this subject he was very silent 
 and utterly uncommunicative. From day to 
 day he would lie with a sort of rigid patience, 
 abstractedly watching Doery as she sat mend- 
 'ing his linen, or with his eyes fixed on the hate- 
 ful little oil-painting of the " Shipwreck," which 
 stared down at him from the dingy green wall 
 paper with black spots. It used to remind 
 him a good deal of his own life, that forlorn- 
 looking vessel with broken mast and battered 
 hull. 
 
 One night when he was almost recovered he 
 was roused from his first sleep by uoisy merri- 
 ment in the adjoining room, and found poor 
 Mrs. Doery fairly frightened out of her wits. 
 
118 DONOVAN. 
 
 " Such a calling aud a shouting aucl a quarvel- 
 liug as she'd never heard in her life!" 
 
 " They are only enjoying themselves," said 
 Donovan, with weary sarcasm. 
 
 •' Well, Mr. Donovan, it's more like animals 
 than like men, that I will say/' replied Doer}^ 
 with her customary shrewd severity. 
 
 " May be," said Donovan, turning from side 
 to side with the restless discomfort of one 
 disturbed. 
 
 " And nobod}^ can't deny that it's a dreadful 
 place that you're in," continued the housekeeper. 
 " Such a shocking goings on in them courts out 
 at the back, and then all this noise in the very 
 next room when honest folks ought to be a-bed 
 and asleep. It's a dreadful place, I call it." 
 
 " London isn't made up of Connaught 
 Squares," said Donovan, bitterly ; and then he 
 drew the bed-clothes over his face, and would 
 not say another word. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and by dint of 
 many assurances of his perfect recovery, Mrs. 
 Doery was at length persuaded to leave him for 
 a little while and go to church, Donovan having 
 over-ruled her dread of losing her way by assur- 
 ing her that the old captain went every now 
 and then to salve his conscience, and would be 
 
STRUGGLING ON. Ill) 
 
 delighted to escort her. Wheu she had left 
 him he lay for a few minutes listening to the 
 church bellB, but his thoughts were very trou- 
 blesome that day, and just to stifle them he 
 reached out his hand and took Mrs. Doery's 
 Bible from the table. It was nearly four years 
 since he had opened one^ and then it had only 
 been under compulsion at school, and though he 
 bad read many books written against it, he had 
 never had the slightest inclination to study the 
 book itself. Beyond a few chapters which he 
 had been made to learn in his childhood as a 
 punishment, he remembered little but the sort 
 of general outline of the history, and a few of 
 the more striking parables. 
 
 He took it up now rather curiously, opened 
 at St. Matthew's Gospel, and, skipping the 
 Table of Genealogy, began to read in a care- 
 less, cursory way. By-and-by, however, in spite 
 of himself, he greAv interested. From the few 
 isolated chapters which he had heard occasion- 
 ally in church and during his school life, he had 
 never gained any idea of the character of Christ. 
 Now reading straight on, with a great craving 
 after some fresh interest, he was naturally very 
 much struck. A life of poverty, and suffering, 
 and self-denial, a career of apparent failure, 
 
120 DONOVAN. 
 
 surroundings low and incapable of understand- 
 ing, a trial of glaring injustice, and an un- 
 merited death of the deepest pain I It was a 
 story which could not fail to touch him ; a 
 character which filled him with great admira- 
 tion. There were two things which especially ap- 
 pealed to his sympathy — the injustice suffered, 
 and the strong endurance manifested. He put 
 down the book reluctantly when he was too 
 tired to hold it any longer, not even thinking 
 of any possible change in his fixed beliefs, but 
 simply very much struck by a noble life, which, 
 it seemed probable, had been lived thousands of 
 years ago — with something of the same sort of 
 interest which he had felt for one or two of the 
 old Romans, and for a few of Shakspere's 
 characters. Modern Christianity — or the so- 
 called Christianity which had been brought 
 under his notice — offered no attractions to him. 
 The whole system seemed to him hollow and 
 false, a great profession and a niggardly per- 
 formance, a mixture of selfishness, hypocris}^, 
 and superstition. But the life of Christ was 
 grand ! Such an unexampled career of -noble 
 self-devotion filled him with wonder and rever- 
 ence. However much the misguided followers 
 had fallen off, there could be no doubt that the 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 121 
 
 miud of Christ had beeu — he Datuvally used 
 the past tense — one ot" dazzling purity and 
 beauty. 
 
 In the enforced stillness of convalescence the 
 story haunted him strangely, and undoubtedly 
 he was influenced by it — his admiration of a 
 noble mind ennobled him. At present that 
 Avas all ; but it was much. 
 
 As soon as he was about again, he took an 
 early opportunity of telling Noir the decision 
 which he had made before his illness. Noir, 
 who had already shrewdly surmised that he 
 should lose his young accomplice, made no 
 attempt to turn him from his purpose. 
 
 •' Turned good, I suppose, as most fellows do 
 when they have been within an ace of dying," 
 he remarked, sneeringly. 
 
 "Glad to hear you think so," said Donovan, > 
 with coolness. " I own you've a proverb to fall 
 back on. ' The Devil he fell sick ; the Devil a 
 monk would be.' However, I've no monkish 
 tendencies, only 1 don't mean to be your decoy 
 any longer." 
 
 '' Well," said Noir, good-humouredly, " I my- 
 self shan't be sorry to leave the old trade for a 
 bit. We've been talking of going abroad. 
 Come with us. It would set you up in no 
 
122 . DONOVAN. 
 
 time. What do you say to Monaco? A try at 
 the red and black f 
 
 " Anything for a change/' said Donovan ; but 
 there was relief in his tone, for the break with 
 the Frewins, which he had dreaded a good deal, 
 would be no longer necessary. " Honest " 
 gambling of course he had not renounced, in 
 fact by means of it he must live, and this pro- 
 posal to go to Monaco exactly fell in with his 
 present frame of mind. His spirits began to 
 rise. 
 
 The old captain coming into the room was 
 surprised at the change in his look and voice. 
 
 " Well, captain !"' he exclaimed. " Has Noir 
 told you ? It's all settled, we leave this hole 
 next week, and go to try our luck at Monte 
 Carlo." 
 
 " So I hear," said Rouge. " It'll be first rate 
 for yoUj for myself I like Old England best. 
 None of your froggy Frenchmen for me. I'm 
 going out, milord, d'you want anything ? 
 papers ? books f 
 
 A change came over Donovan's face. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, that reminds me. Here !"-^he 
 threw down eighteen pence on the table, 
 scrawled something on a piece of paper and 
 
STRUGGLING ON. 123 
 
 handed it to Rouge, — " Just get me that if 
 you're passing a book-shop." 
 
 The captain looked at the paper, lifted his 
 eyebrows, but did not venture any comment. 
 On it was written, "Kenan's 'Life of Jesus.'" 
 
124 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MONACO. 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes 
 While in a grove I sat reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad ones to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man had made of man. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Spots of blackness in creation to make its colours felt. 
 
 Modern Painters. 
 
 " MOW this is first rate," 
 -Ll taiu, as , he steppec 
 
 said the old cap- 
 3pped oflf the pier at 
 Folkestone ou to the steamer. •' Ah, Donovan, 
 my lad, if we were going for a good cruise it 
 would do you all the good in the world, better 
 than a dozen Monacos, eh? Not so profitable, 
 you say ? Well^ perhaps not, but I wish I was 
 captain of the Metora again, a prime little 
 
MONACO. 125 
 
 Steamer she was, you wouldn't think much of 
 such a tub as this if you'd been aboard the 
 Metorar 
 
 Donovan, with the delicious sense of returning 
 strength, rolled himself up in his railway-rug, 
 and with his elbow resting on the deck railing 
 looked out seawards. The captain was in 
 great spirits, the breath of sea air seemed to 
 awake his better self, and he was besides very 
 happy in having his favourite companion with 
 him again. 
 
 "Now that you're about again, milord, I 
 shall be a different man," he said, cheerily; " I've 
 been dreadfully down in the mouth since you 
 were ill, I missed you frightfully ; and there 
 was Noir as grim as death, and even Sweep- 
 stakes as cross as could be. You wouldn't 
 believe what a bother we had with that bird, 
 milord ; just after you were laid up he caught, 
 somehow or other, one of his old couplets which 
 always enrages Noir. I suppose I'd said it, and 
 he'd remembered it, for day and night that 
 creature said nothing but, 
 
 "He who prigs what isn't his'n;" 
 
 you know the old rhyme !" 
 
 " There's something uncanny about Sweep- 
 
126 . DONOVAN. 
 
 stakes," said Donovau, laughing, " he has a 
 good deal of the wizard about him. It's to be 
 hoped he'll be quiet on the journey, or Noirwill 
 threaten to wring his neck." 
 
 " Yes, he doesn't approve of our menagerie," 
 said Rouge, adjusting the covering of the 
 parrot's cage, " though I will say that the dog 
 is a marvel of obedience." 
 
 " I back the winner !" screamed Sweepstakes, 
 as the bell sounded and the steamer began to 
 move. " Now be gentle, be gentle." 
 
 " Hullo ! the creature is beginning to talk," 
 said Donovan, " you'll have a crowd round 
 him." 
 
 And true enough before long they found 
 themselves the centre of an amused group, 
 to whom the parrot held forth in his choicest 
 language. But presently Noir came up, and 
 directly the bird caught sight of him he put 
 his head on one side and began with his most 
 sanctimonious manner to say, 
 
 ' ' He who prigs what isn't his'n 
 When he's cotched shall go to pris'u." 
 
 " You must keep the parrot quiet," said Noir, 
 crossly, " he's disturbing the whole deck," 
 
 The passengers at once disclaimed this, and 
 expressed their admiration of the bird's clever- 
 
MONACO. 127 
 
 ness, but Noir was not to be baffled, he drew 
 the black coveriug over the cage, and Donovan 
 saw by the frown on his brow that he was 
 vexed by this particular sentence of the 
 malicious parrot. He sat down on the other 
 side of the cage, ready to check any further 
 talking, but he could not prevent the mild re- 
 frain which Sweepstakes invariably resorted 
 to when he was snubbed, and all through the 
 crossing he gently murmured to himself, 
 " When he's cotched — cotch — cotch — cotched!'^ 
 
 It was a grey day at the end of February, 
 and the English shore was enveloped in mist, 
 but there was, nevertheless, a strong breeze 
 blowing. " East-nor'-east," Rouge declared it 
 to be, " and a heavy swell which would prove 
 fatal to the land-lubbers." 
 
 Donovan, though making no pretensions as 
 to his sailing powers, enjoyed the change and 
 novelty most thoroughly, and, indeed, after 
 seven or eight weeks of the unwholesome atmo- 
 sphere of Drury Lane, the fresh sea-breeze was 
 almost intoxicating. In spite of adverse cir- 
 cumstances and a naturally melancholy tem- 
 perament, the young life within him sprang up 
 to greet the novelty of all around, his eyes 
 brightened, his taciturnity disappeared, and he 
 
128 DONOVAN. 
 
 and the old captain sat talking together as 
 happily as two school-boys. 
 
 Then came the landing at the sunny little 
 French town, with the chatter of bad English 
 and broken French, the hurry and bustle of the 
 passengers, Rouge's anxiety over his precious 
 parrot, and Donovan's difficulty in steering him 
 safely past the door of the hiiffet, with all its 
 temptations. After a few minutes' delay, they 
 Avere off once more, fairly started now on their 
 route to the south, and Donovan, in the first 
 exuberance of his new strength, really thought 
 he had found something to satisfy his restless- 
 ness, and to fill the emptiness of his life. Fair 
 France, with her sunny plains and genial atmo- 
 sphere, looked very tempting, Monaco offered 
 plenty of excitement — why should he not be 
 happy now ? 
 
 They were to travel straight on to Nice, a 
 rash project for a semi-invalid, but naturally 
 the Frewins consulted their own wishes, and 
 Donovan, though tired enough when they 
 reached Paris, preferred going on with them to 
 staying for the night alone, for he was stilh not 
 at all fit to be left qnite to himself; old Mrs. 
 Doery had only resigned her post a few days 
 before, and he shrank from entire self-depend- 
 
MONACO. 129 
 
 ence. So the night journey was undertaken, 
 and he sat back in his corner watching his 
 sleeping companions, sometimes dozing himself 
 for a few minutes, but ofteuer wide awake, and 
 fully conscious of his weary misery, bearing it 
 Avith a sort of philosophic endurance, and think- 
 ing a good deal of the life he had left behind 
 him, of his parting conversation with Mrs. 
 Doery, of the interview which by this time she 
 had probably had with his step-father, of the 
 luck which he had ha,d at the club a few nights 
 ago, which had enabled him to pay his doctor's 
 bill and start comfortably on his foreign trip, 
 and of sundry passages which had impressed 
 him in Kenan's book. An odd medley, truly, in 
 an utterly unregulated but well-disposed mind 
 — well-disposed, that is, as far as it was capable 
 of seeing the light. 
 
 At last the long night wore away ; as they 
 passed Lyons, with its gleaming lights and its 
 broad river ; the first faint grey of dawn Avas 
 quivering on the horizon, and gradually the 
 pale morning twilight began to steal into the 
 j-ailway carriage, falling with a most ghastly 
 effect on the faces of the sleepers — Noir, with 
 his hard, grim features. Rouge serenely com- 
 fortable and animal-like, a priest with a heavy 
 VOL. II. K 
 
130 DONOVAN. 
 
 face, which nevertheless looked quite spiritual 
 compared with the old captain's^ and four average 
 Frenchmen in every variety of night deshabille 
 and posture. Donovan glanced at them curi- 
 ously, then, with that shivering misery which 
 invariably accompanies the dawn, he once more 
 looked out over the grey landscape. His cough 
 began to be troublesome, nor did his discom- 
 fort end till the sun had risen ; in the early 
 moroing, when they stopped for a minute at 
 Orange, he dashed out of the carriage, held 
 face and hands under the pump on the plat- 
 form, and, somewhat refreshed by the cold 
 water, got in again, to endure as w^ell as he 
 could the long day of travelling. 
 
 A night's rest at Nice set him up again, how- 
 ever, and he was as eager as either of his com- 
 panions to go on to Monaco the next morning. 
 The day, too, was so gloriously bright, and the 
 air so exhilarating, that he fancied himself 
 stronger than, he really was. Nor was the ex- 
 quisite sceuer}'- altogether wasted on him ; it is 
 to be doubted whether it has any effect on the 
 habitues of Monte Carlo who daily pass through 
 it, but Donovan was a stranger, not yet seized 
 with the gaming mania, which seems to destroy 
 all the nobler faculties. 
 
MONACO. 131 
 
 Leaving Nice behind them, with its green hills 
 and clustering white villas, they sped on 
 through a very paradise of beauty. To the 
 right lay the Mediterranean, with its wonder- 
 fully deep blue, broken here and there by the 
 tiniest foam-wreathed breakers, gleaming whiter 
 than snow ; to the left rose the Maritime Alps 
 with their softly mantling olive groves, while 
 in the distance every now and then a snowy 
 peak stood out clearly against the blue sky. 
 
 The three Englishmen certainly took their 
 own fashion of enjoying it all, there was no 
 studying of Murray or Baedeker, not a single 
 exclamation of wonder or admiration. Rouge 
 looked sleepily at the sea, and thought of his 
 voyages in the Metora ; Noir, who for the last day 
 or two had been engrossed with his "system," 
 and had done nothing but cover sheets of 
 paper with dots, barely looked up from his 
 employment ; Donovan looked at all the beauty 
 silently, with no lack of admiration, but with a 
 certain sadness, his one definite thought being 
 how much Dot would have enjoyed it. In a 
 very short time they reached their destination ; 
 old Monaco on its rocky promontory, new Mon- 
 aco, with its gay white houses and red-tiled 
 roofs, Monte Carlo, with its gorgeous casino — 
 
 k2 
 
132 DONOVAN. 
 
 all lay as it were in a nutshell. StraD.ge little 
 Principality ! one of the most ancient in Europe, 
 originally a sort of garden of Eden, but now 
 a perfect hot-bed of vice ! Noir, who knew 
 the place well, had his own reasons for 
 avoiding the fashionable Condamine. He took 
 his companions to an out-of-the-way hotel in 
 old Monaco, where at the expense of a stiff 
 climb they would be free from some of the ob- 
 jections of the more frequented quarter. 
 
 Before long they had set off for an afternoon 
 at Monte Carlo, all three in good spirits ; Noir 
 with implicit faith in the system of play which 
 he was about to tiy ; Donovan exulting in the 
 sense of novelty and excitement ; Rouge ready 
 to be amused by anything, and eager to try his 
 luck so far as the restricted allowance which 
 his son made him would permit. Driving up 
 the long hill they were set down at last at the 
 entrance to the casino. This, then, was the 
 goal they had been making for, this the place 
 where fortunes were won — or lost, this the 
 refuge for all who craved excitement, for all 
 who would fain banish thought. It felt half 
 dream-like to Donovan, a palace of the genii, 
 transported straight from one of the "Arabian 
 Nights." 'Passing into the beautiful vestibule, 
 
MONACO. 133 
 
 with its great marble columns, gorgeously 
 decorated roof and walls, and handsome mosaic 
 floor, the impression grew upon him, but was 
 speedily dashed into the world of cold realities 
 by a word from Noir. 
 
 "Come, we won't waste time. You'll have 
 to give your name at the bureau, and get your 
 ticket. Of course, by-the- way, i you're twenty- 
 one ? Else they won't admit you." 
 
 " All right," replied Donovan. " I was of age 
 last spring," and therewith came memories 
 which brought a look of hard resentment to his 
 face. 
 
 Having given the name which he used, he 
 picked up his pink admission-card, and fol- 
 lowed his companions through the double swing- 
 doors into the Salle de Jeu. After all, even in 
 this enchanted palace, thoughts would intrude 
 themselves. Would this journey to Monte Carlo 
 prove less satisfactory than he had expected ? 
 
 It is a strange sight that Salle de Jeu. Its 
 richly decorated w^alls, its heavy square pillars, 
 coloured and begilt in the Alhambra style, form 
 the setting to a dark picture. How many 
 wretched faces, pale with despair, are reflected 
 each day in those mirrors ! how many victims 
 pace restlessly up and down the slippei'y par- 
 
134 DONOVAN. 
 
 quet floor, never satisfied with gaiu, half crazed 
 with loss ; and yet with what persistency all 
 throng round the tables, a curiously mixed mul- 
 titude, when one pauses to study them — people 
 of all ranks and ages : florid-looking Germans, 
 sharp-faced Frenchmen, dark, vindictive Italians, 
 handsome Russians, hard-featured Englishmen ; 
 women, too, in almost as large a proportion as 
 men, and staking with quite as much sang-froid. 
 Round every table sit the favoured few who 
 have secured chairs, behind these stand the 
 eager crowd absorbed in watching the whirling 
 roulette-wheel, or the dealing of the cards, and 
 on the outskirts of all linger the mere lookers- 
 on ; Americans "doing Europe," and including 
 Monte Carlo in their list of things to be seen, 
 pale-faced invalids from Mentone, Engliah tour- 
 ists of every description, who come to see this 
 sight which happily is not to be met with in 
 many places. A questionable proceeding though 
 in some ways is this looking on, and yet to 
 those who really study the gamblers the sight 
 can hardly fail to teach a very grave lesson. 
 Only, to anyone who expects pleasure in, the 
 mere sight, the disappointment would be great. 
 Monte Carlo merely heard of is one thing, 
 Monte Carlo seen is a revelation of sin, of in- 
 
MONACO. 135 
 
 fatuation, of all that is most sad and pitiable ; a 
 black spot in creation which does indeed make 
 the on-looker thankful for all existing pm-ity 
 and goodness, but which, at the same time, 
 cannot fail to sober and sadden. 
 
 The three companions quickly separated, 
 Rouge remaining at one of the roulette-tables 
 in the outer room, Noir steadily settling himself 
 at the first trente-et-quarante table, and in 
 course of time securing a chair, Donovan wan- 
 dering restlessly from place to place. He had 
 no faith in any system, though Noir had tried 
 hard to convert him to his, but, although he 
 was usually as successful by luck in games of 
 chance as he was by cleverness in games of skill, 
 his customary good fortune seemed now to 
 have deserted him. Before long he had not 
 only lost a great deal more than was at all 
 convenient, but had conceived a strong dislike 
 to the whole thing. Dispirited by his unbroken 
 losses, he felt at once that there was nothing 
 here to satisfy him, nothing to call out his 
 faculties ; for he was more than a mere gambler, 
 he was a first-rate card-player, and to him half 
 the pleasure of gaming lay in the sense of 
 power, the exultation in his own skill. In 
 spite of all the talk about "systems," he saw 
 
136 DONOVAN. 
 
 that the ruling goddess at Monte Carlo was 
 blind chance; she had not dealt kindly with 
 him, he would waste no more time or money in 
 her gorgeous shrine. 
 
 But now that all excitement was over he 
 began to feel unbearably weary, he threw him- 
 self down on the crimson velvet ottoman in the 
 middle of the gaming-room, idly scanning the 
 passers-by, men old and young ; croupiers just 
 released from their wearisome duties, and leav- 
 ing the room with tired faces from which all 
 other expression had died ; the servants of the 
 casino in their blue and red livery ; the ever- 
 shifting throng of gamblers ; the extravagantly- 
 dressed women. Realising at length that his 
 peace was in danger of molestation, he rose to 
 go, and found his way across the vestibule to 
 the beautiful music-hall, where the finest 
 orchestra in Europe is made a bait to draw 
 great crowds to the casino. Wearily he leant 
 back in one of the luxurious arm-chairs and 
 listened to the closing strains of a grand sym- 
 phony. The concert was nearly over ; he was 
 so weary that he almost fell asleep, but in. the 
 last piece suddenly ■ came to himself with a 
 thrill of pain. With exquisite expression, with 
 unrivalled delicacy of light and shade, the 
 
MONACO. . 187 
 
 orchestra was playing a selection from " Don 
 Giovanni," and now through the great hall there 
 rang Dot's favourite air " Vedrai Carino." 
 
 It did him good in spite of the pain. When 
 the audience dispersed, and he strolled out into 
 the gardens, a child's pure gentle face haunted 
 him ; there among the palms, and aloes, and 
 flowering cactus two visions of the past were 
 with him, Dot's radiant beauty, and the quiet 
 maidenly grace of a stranger whom he had 
 involuntarily taken as his standard of what a 
 woman should be. From what evil these two 
 guardian angels shielded bim who can say ? 
 
 Before long he wisely went in search of the 
 old captain, whom he found in low spirits, 
 having lost every five-franc piece in his posses- 
 sion. 
 
 "We've both had enough of this," said Dono- 
 van, not sorry to have the old man's arm to 
 lean on. "I'm about cleared out too, and, 
 what's worse, I feel awfully seedy." 
 
 " Humph !" ejaculated the captain. " In for 
 a second go of inflammation, I'll be bound." 
 
 " W^ell, Rouge, if I am," said Donovan, slowly, 
 " you'll just have to bolt and bar the door and 
 nurse me yourself. Do you understand?" 
 
 The captain nodded assent, and little more 
 
138 DONOVAN. 
 
 was said as they made their way back to the 
 hotel. 
 
 The surmise proved perfectly true, however, 
 and that night Donovan was again tossing to 
 and fro in weary misery, haunted by whirling 
 roulette wheels and stony-faced croupierSj rav- 
 ing about the endless losses and the tantalizing 
 gains which always eluded his grasp. The 
 relapse was the natural consequence of all the 
 fatigue he had gone through, and had it not 
 been for the old captain's devoted though 
 rough nursing, and for the care of an exceed- 
 ingly clever French doctor, he would most 
 likely have sunk under it. 
 
 However, he struggled through, and woke 
 one morning, after a long sleep, to realise for the 
 first time his position. There he was lying as 
 weak as any baby, surrounded by mosquito net 
 curtains^ in an odd-looking foreign room ; there 
 was poor Waif lying at the foot of the bed, 
 keeping anxious guard over him ; there was 
 Rouge sitting by the open window smoking. 
 Where was he? W^hat was this new place? 
 Not Drury Lane, for the dingy green paper was 
 changed to a gorgeous blue one, and the ceiling 
 was decorated, or defaced, with bluewash stud- 
 ded with glaring white stars, in the middle of 
 
MONACO. 139 
 
 ■which grew by some strange auomaly a great 
 clump of red and yellow roses. Donovan, 
 though not artistic, was strangely irritated by 
 looking at the horrid daub. He called the old 
 captain to him. 
 
 " So I've been ill again," he said, interroga- 
 tively. 
 
 " Very," replied Rouge, " In fact, milord, 
 we as good as gave you up at one time, you 
 wouldn't believe what an anxious time I've had 
 of it, with Noir all day long up at that casino, 
 and no one here who could speak a word of 
 English." 
 
 " You have been nursing me ?" 
 
 " Well, of course, what else could I do ?" said 
 Rouge. 
 
 "Thank you, captain," said Donovan, adding 
 resolutely, after a minute's pause, " I shall get 
 well now." 
 
 He was as good as his word, and from that 
 day recovered rapidly ; not that he cared much 
 to get well, but he was anxious to free himself 
 from the state of .dependence he was now in, for 
 dependence was uncongenial to his nature, and 
 to submit to rough and ready attendance is 
 never pleasant. Before many days had passed 
 he was up and dressed, just able to drag him- 
 
140 DONOVAN. 
 
 self across the room, and to relieve the monotony 
 of the long hours by such amusement as he 
 could find at either of the windows. One of 
 these faced the Place du Palais. There just 
 opposite to him he could see the Prince's Palace, 
 could count the slow minutes by the clock in 
 the tower^ speculate when the cannon and the 
 great pile of cannon-balls would be used, study 
 the two sentries who, in their red and blue 
 uaiforms, kept guard over the entrance gate, 
 and watch the few passers-by. From the other 
 window a much wider view was obtained. 
 Here he could see the whole of the beautiful 
 bay, and the exquisite loveliness of the place 
 made him long to quit his room. 
 
 And so the days dragged on, and little by 
 little he regained his strength, would crawl out 
 to the almost deserted Promenade St. Barbe, 
 and sit on one of the green benches under the 
 plane-trees, or, passing through the curious old 
 archway which leads by a footpath from old to 
 new Monaco, he would stretch himself out on 
 the low stone wall, and rest among a sort of 
 jungle of flowering cactus and pink geranium, 
 while before him stretched a glorious panorama; 
 the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean, Monaco 
 with its gay-looking houses, the mountains 
 
MONACO. 141 
 
 sldrting the water here clothed with olive 
 groves, there craggy, bare, and brown, or glis- 
 tening pearly grey in the sunlight. Then just 
 facing him, half way up the mountain side, the 
 pretty little town of Roccabruna, till — the 
 slope of the mountain hiding Mentone and its 
 bay — the chain gradually lessened, and ended 
 in the long low promontory of Bordighera. 
 Only one conspicuous object stood out always 
 as a blot on the fair landscape — the casino, 
 with its gilded roof and its two minai'ets. 
 
 Donovan had wisely resolved to keep clear of 
 modern Monaco^ but he began rather to weary 
 of the naiTow bounds of the old town. True 
 he had, as usual, made friends among the chil- 
 dren; his favourite resting-place on the wall 
 happened to be on the way to the school, and 
 troops of little brown-eyed, bare-headed girls 
 and boys passed him every day, and soon learnt 
 to crowd round the strange English gentleman 
 and his wonderful dog, and to bring him 
 presents of flowers or unripe uespoli. But, as 
 he grew stronger, he began to hate the feeling 
 of imprisonment, until, happening one morning 
 to notice a little boat on the sea with its white 
 lateen sail, he conceived the happy idea of 
 taking a daily cruise. The old captain was 
 
142 DONOVAN. 
 
 always ready to accompany him, and the hours 
 which they spent in the Ste. Devote, as their boat 
 was named, did each of them untold good. 
 
 Meanwhile each evening Noir, returning 
 about eleven o'clock, when the casino closed, 
 would bring in one or two acquaintances who, 
 not satisfied with the day's gambling, were 
 anxious for play. In this manner Donovan 
 made an easy livnng. 
 
 Noir tried in vain to induce him to go once 
 more to Monte Carlo ; he himself had been re- 
 markably lucky, and he rarely let a day pass 
 without remonstrating with Donovan on what 
 he alternately called his " cowardice," his " lazi- 
 ness," and his " puritanical fanaticism." 
 
 This last accusation was so novel that it 
 called forth one of Donovan's rare laughs. 
 
 " Come, this is quite a new line," he said, 
 when Noir's tirade was ended. " You are the 
 first person in the world who ever gave me 
 such an honourable name. Zealous folks have 
 addressed me as ' infidel dog,' and ' blind athe- 
 ist/ and 'miserable agnostic,' but 'fanatic Puri- 
 tan ' is a title to which I never dreamt of 
 aspiring ! In the strength of it you must allow 
 me to gang my ain gait !" 
 
 " Please yourself," said Noir, crossly. " Do 
 
MONACO. 143 
 
 you know Berrogain's last name for you — for 
 the youDg man who is too virtuous to be en- 
 snared ? You are the young Bayard, the " 
 
 " He's welcome to call me what he pleases," 
 interrupted Donovan, sharply. " All I know or 
 care for is that he loses hundreds of francs to me 
 every evening we play. It's not the least good 
 talking. You'll never see me in that Salle de 
 Jeu again. Y^ou with your system, and Berro- 
 gain with his luck, may do very well. Fortune 
 wasn't so kind to me, and I'd rather depend on 
 my own brains." 
 
 Sweepstakes ended the discussion by reiter- 
 ated injunctions to " be gentle," and the words, 
 coming in after a hot dispute, amused both 
 speakers, and really did put a stop to the 
 quarrel. 
 
 Noir finished his lunch, and set off for his 
 afternoon at Monte Carlo, leaving his father 
 and Donovan to such amusement as they 
 could find in a long sail in the Ste. Devote. 
 Strangely enough, however, it so happened 
 that the infallible " system " failed dismally on 
 that very afternoon. Noir was singularly un- 
 fortunate, lost almost all that he had previously 
 won, and returned to the hotel at night crest- 
 fallen and dispirited. He had burnt his fingers, 
 
144 • DONOVAN. 
 
 and for the time had lost all desire to risk a 
 fresh effort. 
 
 Rather sulkily he consented the next morning 
 to go for a walk with Donovan, and, dejeuner 
 over, the two set out towards the quaint little 
 tov/n of Roccabruna. As they passed through 
 old Monaco and down the sunny road, a furious 
 rattling attracted their notice. All the small 
 boys of the place had armed themselves with 
 impromptu policemen's rattles made of odd bits 
 of wood and iron, and were swinging them 
 round with frightful energy. 
 
 " What is all this infernal row about f 
 grumbled Noir. 
 
 Donovan, rather amused by the comical effect 
 of the energetic gamins and their clumsy rattles, 
 accosted a brown-eyed boy, and asked him the 
 meaning of it all. 
 
 " It is the Holy Thursday, monsieur," was 
 the answer. " We crush the bones of the wick- 
 ed Judas, the betrayer. This evening, in the 
 church, it will be very beautiful. The priests 
 will wash our feet, the lights will be extinguish- 
 ed, and all the people will crush the bones of 
 Judas. A great noise it will be, monsieur. It 
 will resemble the thunder !" 
 
 Donovan, rejoined Noir with a bitter smile on 
 
MONACO. 145 
 
 his face. This then was Christianity ! They 
 walked on in perfect silence. 
 
 The day was gloriously fine and bright, the 
 April air soft and balmy, the atmosphere in 
 that state of almost intoxicating clearness only 
 to be met with in the South. Certainly the 
 two men Avere a strange contrast to their sur- 
 roundings ; the elder grim, clouded, dissatisfied, 
 the younger Avorn with suffering, weary with 
 the weariness of a life-long unrest, and bearing 
 on his handsome features that peculiar expres- 
 sion of constant inward struggle which often 
 gives pathos to the hardest face. 
 
 Around them were the thick olive groves, 
 above the clear deep blue of the cloudless sky. 
 It was a paradise of peace and loveliness that 
 these two were treading together. How far it 
 influenced them it would be hard to sa}', but 
 probably both owed more to it than they knew. 
 Roccabruna, with its cavernous houses and 
 quaint archways, did not greatly interest them. 
 They had come for exercise rather than for 
 lionising and, contented with a very brief sur- 
 vey of the little antique place, they struck off 
 to the left, along a somewhat rough and rugged 
 mule-path, and walked on silently in the direc- 
 tion of Mentone, each bend bringing them to 
 
 VOL. II. L 
 
Id 6 DONOVAN. 
 
 fresh loveliness, to glimpses of new rocky 
 heights, to little silvery impetuous waterfalls, 
 to different views of the exquisite coast and of 
 the Mediterranean, which at its very bluest 
 spread out before them in calm beauty. At last 
 Donovan spoke. 
 
 " Have you had enough of Monaco yet ? 
 Shall we go ?" 
 
 " Certainly, I'll go to-morrow, if you'll come 
 back on the old footing to London," said Noir, 
 with a quick glance at his companion. 
 
 " To that you've had your answer already," 
 he replied, coldly. " I shall never go back to 
 the old life. I told you so." 
 
 " Saint !" said Noir, with his most disagree- 
 able sneer. 
 
 " Saint or devil, I'm not going to do it," said 
 Donovan, his voice rising. "Call me what 
 names you like, but understand once for all 
 that when I say a thing I mean it." 
 
 Noir knew that this was true enough, knew, 
 as he looked at the firm resolute face, that he 
 might more easily move the rocks at Monaco 
 than turn this fellow from his purpose. 
 
 " A month at Paris might not be amiss," he 
 suggested, after a pause. " Berrogain is going 
 
MONACO. 147 
 
 back next week ; lie's made his fortune now — 
 broke the bank yesterday." 
 
 " I am ready to go, then," said Donovan. 
 " The sooner we're out of this place the better." 
 
 " Paris would not be bad/' mused Noir, half 
 to himself ; '^ we shall come in for the meeting 
 at Chantilly ; perhaps induce Darky Legge to 
 come over. Yes, that'll do ; are you agreed ?" 
 
 "Agreed? Oh, yes," replied Donovan, short- 
 ly ; and then, as they passed a little wayside 
 chapel in the midst of an olive grove, he said, 
 with an abrupt change of tone, '' Let us rest 
 here; one doesn't often get shade like this." 
 
 And throwing himself down under one of 
 the gnarled old trees, with arms crossed pillow- 
 wise beneath his head, he lay watching the 
 glimpses of blue through the graceful network 
 of branches above him, and the still bluer depth 
 of sea down below, against which the dark 
 outlines of an iron cross stood out distinctly. 
 Noir filled his pipe, and sat with his back 
 against the trunk of the olive, not caring to 
 attempt any further conversation. 
 
 *' Life," thought the elder man, depressed by 
 his losses, " was particularly worthless and un- 
 interesting just at that time." " Life," thought 
 
 l2 
 
148 . DONOVAN. 
 
 the younger, perplexed by bis increasing diffi- 
 culties, troubled within and without^ " life was 
 more than a man could well stand ; it was 
 weary, and profitless, and utterly hateful." 
 
 Thus they mused, each following his natural 
 bent, each calling that " life " which was in 
 reality death, each wondering that they found 
 it so barren and worthless. Neither could 
 understand that the very sense of insatiety 
 which came to them in their selfish lives was 
 the token of those higher affinities within them, 
 those faint needings and longings for the 
 Omnipresent Fire Divine, which lie can — nay, 
 surely does, everywhere kindle. 
 
 By-and-by, the one with a shrug, the other 
 with a sigh, the reveries were ended, the burden 
 of the so-called "life*' was taken up once more ; 
 the two walked on slowly, past the beautiful 
 villas and the fragrant orange groves, to 
 Mentoue. 
 
149 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LOSING SELF TO FIND. 
 
 Mau-like is it to fall into sin, 
 Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
 Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
 God -like is it all sin to leave. 
 
 From the German. Longfellow. 
 
 ELEVEN o'clock on a May morning, the 
 bright sunshine peeping in obliquely 
 through the persiennes, and lighting up the con- 
 ventional French bed-room, with its wardrobe, 
 mirror, writing-table, and gilt clock, also a well- 
 worn, brown portmanteau, and a white and 
 tan fox-terrier stretched at full length on the 
 hearth-rug. Down below in the street there 
 was the rumbling of wheels, the busy, morning 
 traffic, occasionally the cheerful voices of busy 
 Parisians as they passed by, occupied, no doubt, 
 but not pressed and hurried as Londoners are. 
 These were the sights and sounds which first 
 
150 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 greeted Donovan on a day which he was never 
 to forget, a day every detail of which was 
 burnt in upon his brain with the ineffaceable 
 brand of suffering. He woke late^ rang the bell 
 for his coffee, and then lay musing. He was a 
 rich man ; the sensation was strange. A year 
 ago he had been cast adrift, friendless, almost 
 penniless ; he had started with hardly any 
 possession in the world, except the brown port- 
 manteau and the fox-terrier which met his gaze 
 from the other side of the room ; now he was 
 rich, a well-to-do man, for not many hours ago, 
 when the faint dawn was just beginning to 
 break, he had won a fortune at baccarat. In 
 spite of Ellis's wickedness, in spite of life-long 
 injustice, he had done well for himself. 
 
 And yet, after all, did it make so very much 
 difference ? Was this great success, this un- 
 paralleled good fortune, so really worth having? 
 His heart did not feel any lighter, life did not 
 look more inviting when he got up that day. 
 At the actual time of his triumph his bliss had 
 been complete, his one passion rode rampant 
 over everything. A splendid game, a fortune 
 at stake, a fortune which he by his marvellous 
 play had won ! Everything else was forgotten, 
 care for the time cast aside, weariness lost, in- 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 151 
 
 satiety jBlled, the hollow unsatisfactory world 
 became a temporary paradise ! 
 
 But now it had passed^ and the dull weight 
 of existence pressed on him once more. Was 
 he so much better off than poor M. Berrogain 
 ■ even, the man by whose losses he had been 
 enriched ? Was the loser many degi'ees more 
 depressed than the winner ? 
 
 He was just about to leave his room, when, 
 with a hasty knock, Noir Frewin entered. 
 
 " Milord," he said, quickly, " you're wanted 
 in the next room ; there's no end of a scene 
 going on — Berrogain's wife in floods of tears ; 
 her husband has made off no one knows where, 
 and, from a few written words he left, seems to 
 intend suicide." 
 
 Donovan gave a dismayed start, made a ges- 
 ture of horror. 
 
 " What !" he gasped, in a voice which con- 
 trasted oddly with Noir's off-hand manner. 
 
 " Simply what 1 say," said Noir. " Don't 
 look as if you'd already seen his ghost ; of course 
 it's a bad business, but come in and see the 
 wife, and don't put her down as a widow till 
 we've found all the facts." 
 
 With an impatient movement, Donovan 
 pushed past the speaker, and in a dazed bewil- 
 
152 DONOVAN. 
 
 dered way found himself in the room where the 
 old captain was trying to say something cheer- 
 ing to a little dark-eyed woman, whose piquant 
 face was wet with tears and pale with anxiety. 
 
 " Here is M. Donovan," said Rouge^ pater- 
 nally ; " he has a good heart, madame — he will 
 help you." 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur," she cried, turning to him 
 with streaming eyes, " listen, at least listen, to 
 my trouble. In the night my husband returns, 
 he tells me he is ruined — he, the fortunate, has 
 been ruined — all the fortune he made at Monaco 
 lost — gone. I ask him how, and he tells me it 
 is the young Englishman, the M. Donovan, of 
 whom so much was said at the club — he it is 
 who has caused the ruin. Oh ! monsieur," and 
 here the poor little woman's voice was broken 
 with sobs, " you, who are so good, so prudent, 
 you whom they called the young Bayard, sans 
 peur et sans reproche — oh ! monsieur, is it possi- 
 ble that you did it ? They said you were too 
 good for Monaco, but oh ! monsieur, it is worse 
 to ruin others than to ruin yourself. Think, 
 monsieur — think what it means ; you have 
 driven my husband away in despair — he may 
 even now be no more. Oh I mon Dieu ! mon 
 JDieu! Think if the Seine be flowing over him I 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 153 
 
 Monsieur, speak to me, help me ; it is you who 
 have brought us this evil — speak, monsieur !" 
 
 Throughout the impassioned address Dono- 
 van had stood rigidly still ; he felt sick with 
 horror, the strength went out of his arms, for 
 the time he really was paralysed by the appal- 
 ling consciousness of the responsibility resting 
 on him. He had, perhaps — nay, probably — 
 driven a man to suicide, ruined and widowed 
 the poor woman before him. Was he much 
 better than a murderer ? 
 
 " Speak, monsieur !" reiterated Madame Ber- 
 rogain through her tears. 
 
 He turned at last to Rouge appealingly. 
 
 " I can't speak to her ; you must " 
 
 " M. Donovan is much moved," said the old 
 captain ; " he tells me to speak for him ; be 
 assured, madame, that he will do all in his 
 power ; he is good and " 
 
 "-Do.'" interrupted Donovan, with a sudden 
 return of strength and vehemence — " is there 
 anything to do ? Only tell me of any hope 
 that all this is not true, that your fears are 
 groundless " 
 
 "Alas ! monsieur,, but who can say?" sobbed 
 Madame Berrogain. " He is gone — gone — see 
 his last words !" and she held out to him a 
 
154 DONOVAN. 
 
 sheet of paper, on which was written in French : 
 
 "■My wife, — 1 cannot becw this intolerable misery. 
 I must fly from all most dear, and seek a refuge in 
 darkness ; life is ended for me. Farewell ! Thy 
 unhappy one, — Berrogain." 
 
 To Donovan the words conveyed httle hope ; 
 still he clung to the idea that there might pos-. 
 sibly be time to hinder this rash act, and with 
 the hope all the man within him re-asserted 
 itself. 
 
 " Madame/' he said, earnestly, " all that can 
 be done I will do. AVe will advertise in all the 
 p^ers ; I will seek your husband in every place 
 in Paris where we know of any chance of find- 
 ing him. 1 will fiud him if I die in doing it." 
 
 In spite of his bad French and limited means 
 of expression, in spite too of his grave stern 
 face, Madame Berrogain understood the depth 
 of the promise, and knew that the man who had 
 ruined her husband was yet a man to be 
 trusted. 
 
 " And you think there is hope," she cried. 
 "Oh! monsieur, you think there is really hopef 
 
 He struggled hard to speak, and, with his 
 habitual control, forced himself at last to say, 
 
 " Be comforted, madame, I will do everything 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 155 
 
 that is possible ; hope for the best, and to-night 
 we will bring you word. You shall know all 
 that has been done." 
 
 " Monsieur is good," said the poor wife, 
 wiping her eyes. " He will work, and I — I will 
 pray to our Lady." 
 
 In a few minutes more she rose to leave, and, 
 with her bonne beside her, went back to her 
 desolate rooms. 
 
 Donovan, as soon as she had left^ drew paper 
 and ink to him, and sitting down began to 
 write rapidly. Rouge watched the forcible 
 characters as they were traced with a sort of 
 vague wonder and bewilderment. A few mo- 
 ments before his companion had seemed utterly 
 unnerved, now his iron face and the swift pre- 
 cision of his movements made him seem like a 
 machine." 
 
 "What are you doing?" asked the captain, 
 curiously. 
 
 "Advertisements," was the laconic reply, 
 spoken in the voice which more than anything 
 tells of a mind strained to the highest tension, 
 half sharp, half weary. 
 
 Five minutes of writing, and then Donovan 
 rose, snatched up his hat and opened the door. 
 The captain stopped him. 
 
156 • DONOVAN. 
 
 "Let me come with you, lad," he said, in his 
 good-humoured voice. 
 
 " Yes, come," said Donovan, with a shade of 
 relief in his tone ; and then the two hurried 
 down the stairs and out into the sunny street. 
 Just outside the door they found Noir sauDter- 
 iug up and down with his pipe ; he stopped 
 them to ask their errand, gave his advice as to 
 putting the matter into the hands of the police, 
 and then turned away with his usual cool non- 
 chalance, under which was, nevertheless, hidden 
 more sympathy than might have been expected. 
 
 " Milord is the very worst person for such a 
 thing to come to," he mused ; " a man without 
 a conscience wouldn't have troubled himself to 
 think twice of the matter. Now Donovan's as 
 likely as not to go raving mad if this Berrogain 
 isn't found." 
 
 At present there were no signs of the antici- 
 pated " madness ;" Donovan was perfectly quiet 
 and clear-headed, he walked on swiftly with 
 JRouge beside him, setting about his disagreea- 
 ble work in the most business-like way. In 
 spite of his English pronunciation too, there 
 was that about him which obliged the various 
 officials to receive his orders with civility and 
 obedience. • 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 157 
 
 Not to think — that was his one great effort, 
 but the horror of the overhanging dread would 
 obtrude itself, — or if by his strong will he ban- 
 ished it for a time, it was only to be conscious, 
 through the hard matter-of-fact absence of 
 feeling which he forced himself into, of the dull 
 nameless weight at his heart. 
 
 It was about four in the afternoon v;hen they 
 reached the Pont d'Arcole, and the old captain 
 was beginning to feel both hungry and tired. 
 He looked at his companion then questioning!}-, 
 and saw a little additional sternness about his 
 face. Groups of men were leaning over the 
 parapet watching the river ; Donovan too 
 paused for a moment and looked down at the 
 sparkling water; Rouge fancied he saw him 
 shudder, but he did not speak, and walked on 
 again moi-e rapidly than before. 
 
 " Where next?" asked the captain, anxiously. 
 
 " To the Morgue," said Donovan, in a firm 
 but very low voice. 
 
 They went on in silence, and before long- 
 found themselves in the little crowd which was 
 continually passing up and down the steps and 
 through the doors of the small insignificant 
 building which is dedicated to so painful a 
 purpose. 
 
158 • DONOVAN. 
 
 " I will wait here for you," said Rouge, for he 
 rather shrank from going inside, and Donovan, 
 without a word, left him and pushed his way in 
 with the eager crowd. 
 
 The waiting seemed long to the old captain ; 
 he began to wonder whether his companion had 
 found poor Monsieur Berrogain in that dread 
 room within, and anxiously scanned the faces of 
 those who came out. Soldiers in shabby uni- 
 forms, women in their snowy white caps, men 
 of all ranks and ages, sometimes even little 
 children in arms. 
 
 At length, in this motley but cheerful and 
 unconcerned crowd, came the face which Kouge 
 was waiting for, a curious contrast to every 
 other, stern, and sad, and white to the very lips. 
 
 The captain was startled. 
 
 " Good heavens ! milord," he cried, " you 
 have not found him, have you?" 
 
 Donovan shook his head, and clutched at his 
 companion's arm to steady himself. 
 
 " Why, you're ill," said the captain. " Within 
 an ace of fainting." 
 
 "Nonsense, nothing of the kind," panted 
 Donovan. " Only let us get away from this 
 place," and with Rouge's assistance he crossed 
 the road, but there, finding his strength failing, 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 159 
 
 ■was obliged to lean up against the railings, 
 even to cling to them for support. The hor- 
 rible sight, the dread of what he might 
 possibly find, had completely unnerved him, 
 for one dreadful moment, too, he had fancied 
 that he recognized M. Bevrogain, and, in spite 
 of the subsequent relief at his mistake, he could 
 not recover from the shock. 
 
 " Only don't let's have a scene," was his 
 answer to all Rouge's suggestions, and at last, 
 with the old captain's help, he managed to get 
 as far as the entrance to the garden east of 
 Notre Dame, and to rest on a bench under the 
 trees. 
 
 Everything there was bright and peaceful, 
 the grey old church, with its pinnacles and 
 flying buttresses, the fresh green of the spring 
 leaves, the sunshine streaming down with that 
 gaiety and brightness which seem specially to 
 characterise Paris, and here and there a little 
 child at play with its tonne in attendance. 
 Once a tiny, fairy-like little thing, whose white 
 dress showed that she was " dedicated to the 
 Virgin,"' stole up to Donovan — she had watched 
 him with a sort of fascination ever since he had 
 thrown himself down on the bench. Was it 
 merely compassion for one who seemed ill, or 
 
160 • DONOVAN. 
 
 was it that peculiar attraction which Donovan 
 possessed for children ? The tiny maid, prompt- 
 ed by some unknown influence, at any rate 
 resolved to do her best for him, and, with her 
 little quick fingers, began gathering marguerites, 
 then, grasping the bunch with her two fat little 
 hands, she toddled up to the silent figure, and, 
 with a premonitory pat to arouse him, laid her 
 ofi'ering on his knees. 
 
 " See then, monsieur, the pretty flowers, 
 they are all for you." 
 
 He put his hand for a moment on the dimpled 
 one of his tiny friend, and, as well as he could, 
 thanked her, but the daring little mite was soon 
 pursued by an indignant nurse. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Gabrielle, come away this 
 moment. Ah! little wicked one! I dare not 
 take my eyes off thee for a single instant !" 
 
 So Mademoiselle Gabrielle was led away in 
 disgrace, but looked round nevertheless to kiss 
 her hand, and to nod her pretty little head in 
 farewell, and Donovan followed her with his 
 eyes, with a great pain at his heart. The little 
 child's gift touched him strangely, it had come 
 in such a moment of tumult and horror, when 
 self was feeling so utterly hateful, the weight 
 of dread responsibility so heavy, and this fairy- 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. Wl 
 
 like creature had pitied hiin, liked him, he was 
 grateful with the almost passionate gratitude of 
 humility. 
 
 For it was a very terrible thing this that had 
 come to him, this woe that he had unthinkingly 
 brought about. He was very young stilly only 
 just two and twenty, and in spite of his 
 wretched roving life, in spite of the bitter mi- 
 santhropy he professed, there was still in him 
 the chivalry of all strong natures, the nobleness 
 which must protect what is weak ; little chil- 
 dren and women he looked upon with a sort of 
 devotion ; from his very childhood it had been 
 so, the ideal of motherhood, the passionate love 
 for Dot, had been the ruling motives of his life. 
 The ideal of the wife was still unformed, he had 
 never loved, or even fancied that he loved any 
 woman. Only when the thought of home-life 
 came to him, as now and then it would, when 
 he saw the outer side of the lives of others, the 
 vision of the grey-eyed stranger whom he had 
 met in Hyde Park would rise up before him, 
 the tender, bright, womanly woman, whose 
 purity and sweetness had had such a powerful 
 influence over him — had even helped to keep 
 him straight when he had been exposed to the 
 countless snares of Monaco. 
 
 VOL. II. M 
 
162 DONOVAN. 
 
 Because of this strong reverence for women, 
 the scene of the morning had been specially 
 painful to him. The poor wife's misery, which 
 must have haunted anyone with a heart, haunt- 
 ed him with a pain and shame almost intolerable. 
 But fortunately he was — notwithstanding all 
 his failings — brave and manly, he struggled 
 now with his weakness, and began to make his 
 plans for further searching — that " doing " 
 which was such a relief to his burdened mind. 
 
 " We will come to one of Duval's places and 
 have some dinner," was his first voluntary 
 remark to the old captain, about as sensible and 
 matter-of-fact a proposal as could have been 
 made. 
 
 So they went to the nearest of the restaur- 
 ants, and Rouge's devoted attendance was re- 
 warded by the privilege of ordering whatever 
 he liked, while Donovan gulped down enough 
 food to support him in his work, conquering 
 his utter disinclination till he had satisfied his 
 conscience, and then calling Waif to devour the 
 plentiful leavings. 
 
 After that came another deliberate plunge 
 into the crowded streets, another long con- 
 tinued but utterly vain search for the lost man. 
 Ceaseless inquiries, endless hurryings to and 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 103 
 
 fro, once or twice a supposed clue to M. Berro- 
 gain's whereabouts, to be followed by tempo- 
 rary hope and bitter disappointment. 
 
 Once, as the evening wore on, Donovan 
 stopped at a cafe on one of the boulevards and 
 made the old captain have a cup of cafe noir, 
 even permitted the petit verve without a remon- 
 strance ; but this time he was too sick at heart 
 to force himself to take anything, hope had 
 almost died out since his last disappointment, 
 and the numbing paralysing horror was begin- 
 ning to overwhelm him again. 
 
 Rouge, as he sipped his coffee contentedly, 
 happened to look across the little marble table 
 at his silent companion, and then for the first 
 time realised that the day's anxiety had been 
 something far severer than he could compre- 
 hend. Yov Donovan's face was worn and 
 haggard, grey with that strange ghastliness 
 which only comes on such young faces in times 
 of great exhaustion ; the firm mouth betrayed 
 suffering, the eyes, though feverishly alive to 
 all that was passing, had a painfully despairing 
 look in them. 
 
 " Donovan, lad," said Rouge, anxiously, " you 
 will come home now, won't you ?" 
 
 "You go home, captain," he answered, 
 
 M 2 
 
164 DONOVA.N. 
 
 " you've had a long day, I ? no, I can!t come 
 yet. I must see whether the police have found 
 anything, and I must see her — Madame Berro- 
 gain." 
 
 " Milord, you'll only be ill again," remon- 
 strated the old man, " you'll do for yourself one 
 of these days.'^ 
 
 " That means I shall do the best thing that 
 could be done," said Donovan, with an odd 
 sudden smile, followed by a quick sigh. " But 
 you see^ captain, this coil of flesh is terribly 
 tough. Good night, go home and rest.^' 
 
 He pushed back his chair suddenly, threw 
 down a franc beside the captain's cup, and 
 before his companion could remonstrate had 
 walked away rapidly alone. 
 
 At length, wearily and quite hopelessly, he 
 went to see if any of the agencies he had set 
 to work had been successful in tracing M. 
 Berrogain. He had some minutes to wait in 
 the bureau of the chief oflScial, but at last a 
 small sharp-faced man appeared with a paper 
 in his hand, and an all-pervading odour of 
 garlic, which was quite beneath the dignity of 
 his position. 
 
 " You are come to inquire for Theodore 
 Berrogain, disappeared mysteriously since the 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 165 
 
 hour of 4 a.m. Good ! I think we have 
 traced him." 
 
 Donovau did not speak, only breathed more 
 quickly and clenched and unclenched his hands, 
 his usual sign of strong feeling. 
 
 " Inquiries have been made, and this is the 
 result, — at the Gave cC Orleans the chef states 
 that a man answering to your description, much 
 above the usual height, pale, with thick light 
 hair and moustaches, and a cast in one eye, 
 was seen early this morning at the station ; the 
 official at the ticket office also remembers him, 
 and will undertake to swear that he issued a 
 ticket to him for Bordeaux, third class. Acting 
 upon this, monsieur, we have telegraphed to 
 the officials at Bordeaux ; the train by which 
 it is supposed M. Berrogain left Paris reaches 
 Bordeaux this evening at 10.30, it will be met 
 by our agents there, and they will telegraph to 
 us the movements of your friend." 
 
 Doubtless the man thought the "friendship " 
 was a remarkable one — one must love a com- 
 panion much to be so particularly anxious 
 about him, and Donovan's intense relief, though 
 so thoroughly undemonstrative, was neverthe- 
 less apparent even to the sleepy official. He 
 arranged to call early the next morning for 
 
166 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 further tidings, and then hurried away to re- 
 lieve poor Madame Berrogaiu's anxiety. 
 
 Anyone who knows the sensation of a sud- 
 den respite, the removal of an intolerable load, 
 the relief from oppressing fear, will understand 
 "with what feelings Donovan hastened along 
 the gas-lit streets. He was treading on air ; 
 new life was coursing through his veins ; the 
 very consciousness of free unburdened exist- 
 ence was in itself exquisite. And then came 
 the satisfaction of imparting his hopeful news 
 to the poor wife, amid a torrent of fervent 
 thanksj tears, incoherent blessings, and exclama- 
 tions of relief. 
 
 He tried to cut the scene short, and it was 
 not till he was standing at the open door that 
 he placed in Madame Berrogain's hands a small 
 piece of paper. 
 
 " I give this to you, madame, because I think 
 it is better so. To-morrow I shall go to your 
 husband, and I will tell him what you hold for 
 him." 
 
 He would have moved to the staircase, but 
 Madame Berrogain laid her hand on his arm. 
 She had glanced rapidly at the paper_, and now 
 the tears were streaming down her cheeks. 
 
 "No, no, monsieur, this is too good! This 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 167 
 
 must not be ! Take it back, monsieur, I 
 implore." 
 
 " Madame asks what is impossible," be re- 
 ])lied, with his rare and beautiful smile. " One 
 day's possession is sufficient for me ; only, if I 
 might be allowed one suggestion, I would say 
 that it were better used for madame's own 
 needs, not risked again at baccarat." 
 
 " Ah ! God bless you I God guard you !" 
 exclaimed the little wife, clasping her hands 
 together. "Monsieur, I shall remember you 
 always. On my knees I shall remember you, 
 believe it. Ah ! heaven, if all were but like 
 
 you!" 
 
 He submitted to having his hand pressed in 
 both hers for a moment, then, bowing low, he 
 hastened away. 
 
 After that, naturally enough came the re- 
 action. He was dreadfully worn out, and apart 
 from his relief, everything that faced him in the 
 future was most painful. For this great shock 
 had shown him what a hateful life he was lead- 
 ing, and he knew that it must be forsaken. 
 
 He found the old captain in his room smok- 
 ing, told him of Monsieur Berrogain's probable 
 whereabouts, and then, with a sigh of great 
 weariness, stretched himself at full length on 
 
168 . DONOVAN. 
 
 the hearthrug. Before very long Noir came in, 
 and having heard the news in his cool, un- 
 interested way, remarked, carelessly, 
 
 " Well, I'm glad for your sake that the fel- 
 low's in the land of the living still. I suppose 
 he's off to America?" 
 
 " He will be watched and arrested, if he 
 attempts it," said Donovan. " To-morrow 
 morning I shall start for Bordeaux. It is the 
 only sure way of making all right to see him 
 myself." 
 
 " Folly !" said Noir, crossly. " Why, the best 
 thing he can do is to leave the country." 
 
 " Madame Berrogain might not agree with 
 you." 
 
 " But the fellow's ruined. You know he can't 
 live here." 
 
 " You are mistaken," said Donovan, quietly. 
 *' He is not ruined." 
 
 " What !" cried Noir, in a startled voice. 
 " You mean that you have let him off, that 
 you've been such an utter fool as to let those 
 thousands slip through your fingers again ?" 
 
 " Exactly — yes — such an utter fool," said 
 Donovan, with a touch of satire. 
 
 " Well, milord, you're a softer fellow then 
 than I thought. A woman's tears and an absurd 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 169 
 
 scare lest a weak-minded wretch should have 
 drowned himself, and you melt directly, become 
 the generous hero of the piece, fling largesse to 
 right and left, and walk off amid cheers and 
 applause. I'd no idea you were so weak-mind- 
 ed! Besides, you know well enough you'll 
 repent your bargain in a few days. As your 
 favourite Monsieur Reuan says, ' Most beauti- 
 ful actions are done in a state of fever.' You'll 
 recover and repent it." 
 
 " Do I seem feverishly excited ?" asked Dono- 
 van, quietly. " And do I generally fail in 
 deliberation T 
 
 " Don't bother him now," interposed the old 
 captain. " We've had an awful day of it." 
 
 " What in the world you did it for I can't 
 conceive," said Noir, unheeding. " You who pro- 
 fess to rail at the injustice of life ! you who call 
 yourself a misanthrope I What induced you to 
 spend your time on such a search ? What does 
 it matter to you if all the world is ruined ?" 
 
 " I suppose, after all, I didn't hate the whole 
 world," said Donovan, slowly, " or else the 
 hatred was all needed in another direction." 
 
 Noir caught his meaning, and, because he 
 could just recognise its humility and sad hon- 
 esty, it roused all the evil in him ; he knew 
 
170 DONOVAN. 
 
 that his compauion was slipping away from 
 him. 
 
 " And how does your moral highness propose 
 to live if you refund the money you won?" The 
 question was put with a contemptuous sneer. 
 
 " How I shall live, Noir," answered Donovan, 
 gravely, "I cannot tell, but by gambling I shall 
 not live." 
 
 " We shall see," said Noir, " when you re- 
 cover from this state of fever. Why, do you 
 thiulp that in a moment like this you can end 
 the strongest incentive of your life? You know 
 perfectly well that you don't care a rush for 
 anything except the cards." 
 
 " You've about hit it," said Donovan, " but/' 
 with a firmness which seemed to give treble 
 force to each separate word, " 1 loill not play 
 again" 
 
 For a minute both the Frewins were silent ; 
 both involuntarily looked at their companion 
 as he lay, his thin skilful hands clasped over his 
 dark hair, his face resolute and full of noble 
 purpose ; he was quietly renouncing all he had 
 as yet cared for in life, all by which he could 
 win admiration, success, pleasure, and these 
 two men knew it. Rouge was the first to 
 speak. 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 171 
 
 " Well, lad, we will do tlie best we cau for 
 you ; you will stay on with us." 
 
 And then the look of struggle came back to 
 Donovan's face ; he rose hurriedly, and began 
 to pace up and down the room, scarcely hearing 
 what his companions said to him. 
 
 At last he stopped abruptly in his walk, and 
 said, hoarsely, 
 
 " No, I can't stay, captain." 
 
 " Can't ! — nonsense I" said Noir. " We don't 
 part after a whole year together in this way." 
 
 " I must go," he repeated. " 1 dare not 
 stay." 
 
 '* Dare not! — what, we are so bad that we 
 shall corrupt your moral highness 1 Oh ! go 
 then, b}' all raeans^ and may you find friends 
 more faithful and better suited to your lofty 
 standard !" 
 
 " Frewin," said Donovan, very sadly, " you 
 know well enough that it is myself I dare not 
 trust. If you think that I could stay with you 
 and all our own set, and yet keep to my word, 
 well and good. But I could not do it ; it will 
 be hard any way, impossible like that." 
 
 " A few months ago you would have scorned 
 to sav anything was impossible." 
 
 ''Well, I've been taken down a few pegs 
 
172 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 since then, and now I do say it and raean it. 
 Good night, Noir." 
 
 " When do you leave f 
 
 " To-morrow by the 9.20. Good night and 
 good-bye." 
 
 Noir took his hand for a monaent, looked him 
 full in the face, as though to read what was 
 written there, then, with an impatient gesture, 
 he turned away. 
 
 " Good-bye. I see we have done with each 
 other." 
 
 Sweepstakes, waking up, screamed out his 
 habitual greetings, 
 
 " Such a talkiu', such a talkin', what a parcel 
 of fools ! Ain't you a fool ! — ain't you a fool, 
 milord !" 
 
 The old captain, with maudlin tears coursing 
 down his cheeks, hurried after the retreating 
 figure, and it was long before Donovan could 
 quiet the piteous entreaties that he would 
 change his mind, would stay at least a few 
 days longer, or would promise to come back 
 when he had seen M. Berrogaiu. Parting with 
 his companions was a greater wrench than he 
 had feared even ; they had been very good to 
 him, had nursed him through his illness with 
 rough but 'very real care, and they were the 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 173 
 
 only fi'iends he had in the whole world. And 
 yet he knew that he mnst leave them ; they 
 were inseparably bound up with the evil he 
 was trying to free himself from — both must be 
 renounced. 
 
 He took leave of Rouge that night, and early 
 next day started on his solitary journey — soli- 
 tary with the exception of Waif. The address 
 he needed had been telegraphed to the official 
 when he went to inquire on his way to the 
 station, and it was a substantial relief to his 
 anxiety to be able to repeat to himself the 
 assurance of M. Berrogain's safety — " Hotel 
 Montre, Rue Montesquieu, Bordeaux." There 
 was, however^ just a little flatness and depres- 
 sion now that all was ended ; he took his ticket, 
 and then went into the salle d^attente, the " du- 
 rance vile" which generally gives an English- 
 man a chafed caged feeling. As he paced up 
 and down, too, there was a touch of far-off" 
 dread in his face — the dread of the unknown 
 future, which of all expressions is one of the 
 most painful to see. 
 
 Noir Frewin, suddenly entering the room in 
 search of his late companion, caught the look 
 and understood it ; unprincipled as he was he 
 could not help respecting a resolution which 
 
174 DONOVAN. 
 
 could so steadily persevere in direct opposition 
 to personal wishes, and there was none of the 
 malice of the previous night in his tone when he 
 spoke. 
 
 Donovan turned hastily at the sound of his 
 own name ; he was ill-prepared just then for a 
 repetition of the scornful upbraidings which he 
 had borne silently a few hours ago. Noir saw 
 that his arrival was not very welcome. 
 
 " I'm only come to see you off," he explained. 
 "You're quite right, milord, after all; go and 
 save yourself while you can." 
 
 " Saving is not the question," said Donovan, 
 *' even if I believed in such a thing ; but at any 
 rate one needn't do others harm." 
 
 " A change in your views, lad, since we first 
 went into partnership," said Noir. " Your anger 
 with whoever it was v/ho had ruined you has 
 cooled w^ith time.'^ 
 
 " His oifence looks small now that I am the 
 bigger brute,^^ replied Donovan. Then, as the 
 doors were thrown open, he put his arm within 
 Noir's once more, and they went out together 
 to the train. 
 
 " Good-bye, old fellow," he said, rather 
 hoarsely, just before the final start ; " let us 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 175 
 
 hope my lungs won't give out again, or I shall 
 be crying out for you." 
 
 " Till then we are best away from each 
 other," said Noir, giving his hand a farewell 
 grip. " Good-bye, Farrant. We part as we 
 met, you see, in a railway-carriage." 
 
 The train moved off; Frewin, with a fierce 
 sigh, turned away, and Donovan was whirled 
 through the vast plains of central France, mar- 
 velling not a little how his companion had 
 learnt his real name, the name which he had 
 taken such pains to conceal. 
 
 Thirteen hours later and he was standing in 
 the crowded salle at the Bordeaux Station ; he 
 was very tired^ a trifle desolate too, alone 
 among foreigners, alone with such a " howling 
 wilderness " of a future as he fancied before 
 him, the future of restraint which he had 
 chosen. Waiting rather impatiently till the 
 doors of the luggage-room should be opened, he 
 scanned the faces of the crowd, the usual busy 
 cheerful crowd of a French railway-station ; a 
 group of men whiling away the waiting-time 
 with laughter and occasional snatches of song, 
 two lovers sitting on a bench in the corner, 
 whispering contentedly together, regardless of 
 
17(> DONOVAN. 
 
 their surroundings, a fat rough-featured priest, 
 with his shovel hat and starched bands, a 
 respectable bourgeois and his wife, followed by 
 a toddhng bare-headed child. 
 
 Instinctively Donovan watched the little one. 
 The mother turned round, saying playfully, 
 ^^ Adieu! adieu T pretending to leave it; the 
 child let them walk on a few steps, and then, 
 with sudden dread of being left, ran at full 
 speed after them with an eager " Non, non, non" 
 and grasped its mother's skirts ; then both 
 father and mother laughed, each took one of 
 the tiny hands, and the three walked away to- 
 gether. 
 
 Home dramas all around him, love in all its 
 forms and degrees — the friend's, the lover's, the 
 mother's, the wife's ! He sighed, and stooped 
 down to pat Waif. Then followed the general 
 rush into the adjoining room, he went to 
 claim his portmanteau, and in a few minutes 
 was out in the starlight, on his way to M. 
 Berrogaiu. 
 
 His desolateness made him think of Dot, of 
 the times when he too had had some one to love 
 and protect. They were sad, but on the whole 
 peaceful thoughts which came to him as he 
 crossed the bridge, pausing for a moment to 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 177 
 
 look at the loug chain of lights marking out 
 the crescent-shaped quays. She, the holy 
 child of his memory, was at peace ; it was per- 
 haps well that she had passed away from him, 
 he had not been fit to be near such purity and 
 loveliness, and as she had grown older it was 
 possible that he might have pained her — pained 
 her by his unworthiness. That thought was 
 intolerable. And so, unconsciously, he repeat- 
 ed to himself Noir Frewin's words — " We 
 were better parted." Neither of them knew 
 that the unselfishness and humility prompting 
 the thought was drawing them to the Source 
 of all love. 
 
 The walk was a long one, through broad 
 well-built streets, past the theatre, on again 
 into narrower and darker thoroughfares, till 
 Donovan began to wonder whether the porter 
 whom he had hired to carry his portmanteau, 
 were not perhaps taking him by some round- 
 about way in the hope of extorting a larger 
 pourhoire. At last^ turning to the left, they 
 passed through a circular market-place, and 
 down a narrow street with high diugy-lookiug 
 houses. 
 
 " There, monsieur," said the porter, with a 
 wave of the hand, " that is the Hotel Montre." 
 
 VOL. II. N 
 
178 DONOVAN. 
 
 Donovan saw at the corner the inevitable 
 Cafe Billard, and upon the upper storeys the 
 name of the hotel inscribed. The porter went 
 on to the entrance, and Donovan, following, 
 found himself in a paved courtyard with two 
 mouldy-looking orange-trees growing in tubs, 
 and a dim light proceeding from the room of 
 the concierge. He inquired at once for M. 
 Berrogain, and was relieved to find that he was 
 known still by his real name. He was within 
 too, had taken his key not five minutes before, 
 would monsieur see him at once or be shown to 
 his own room ? 
 
 Donovan desired to see M. Berrogain at 
 once, and, having dismissed his guide, was 
 ushered by a pretty, little, white-capped ser- 
 vant up a dirty stone staircase, along a labyrinth 
 of passages, then up again and through a cor- 
 responding labyrinth darker and dirtier than 
 that below. 
 
 " Perhaps monsieur sleeps," suggested the 
 little servant, glancing round as she paused at 
 a door to the right. " It is very late," and she 
 pretended to yawn. 
 
 " Knock and see," said Donovan, impatient of 
 the delay. 
 
 A quick entrez! relieved his fears, and, taking 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 179 
 
 the candle from his conductress, he opened the 
 door and found himself in a fairly comfortable 
 room, where, extended on a shabby green vel- 
 vet sofa, lay M. Berrogain, the Figaro in his 
 hand, the Gironde lying at his feet. For a mo- 
 ment the thought would come, " He is uncon- 
 cerned and comfortable enough ; you need not 
 have troubled about him." But while Donovan 
 paused, the unconscious Frenchman glanced 
 round ; he had been absorbed in his paper, and 
 had half forgotten that some one had knocked 
 and been admitted ; now catching sight so un- 
 expectedly of the man who had ruined him, he 
 sprang to his feet with a cry half of fear, half of 
 passion. 
 
 " Ah ! evil one, why do you pursue me ?" he 
 said, in trembling tones. " Would you remem- 
 ber a petty debt of two hundred francs when 
 you have won a fortune from me ? Stony- 
 hearted wretch ! would you pelt a fallen man ? 
 You have tracked me — you the rich the suc- 
 cessful will hunt down the unfortunate for a 
 miserable trifle such as that !" 
 
 "I am not rich," said Donovan, "nor are you 
 unfortunate." 
 
 '^ Miserable Englishman !" cried out M. Ber- 
 rogain. "Why do you mock me? You are 
 
 n2 
 
laO DONOVAN. 
 
 come to drive me to despair, to death! Why 
 could you not let me leave the country in 
 peace? Why do you come with your grasping 
 avarice to " 
 
 "Listen, Berrogain," interrupted Donovan, in 
 his firm sad voice. " I could not let you leave 
 the country, because there is no need for you to 
 go ; I am not mocking you ; be quiet and listen. 
 To-morrow morning you can go back to your 
 wife at Paris ; she holds the fortune which you 
 lost at baccarat." 
 
 They were standing by the draped mantel- 
 piece ; Donovan turned away as he spoke, and 
 putting aside the muslin curtains looked down 
 into the dimly-lighted street. He was not sorry 
 to feel the fresh air upon his face. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, then M. Berro- 
 gain came forward and took his hand. 
 
 " My friend," he said, falteriugly, " forgive 
 what I have said ; I was in despair. But this 
 generosity — no — no, it cannot be, it cannot 
 be." 
 
 " It must be," said Donovan, quietly. 
 
 " No, no ; leave me enough to go on upon, or 
 allow me six months' respite, I should be more 
 "than content with that." 
 
 " But I should not," said Donovan, decidedly. 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 181 
 
 "No, Berrogaiu, everything is settled, so do not 
 let us waste words on the subject." 
 
 "But it is unheard of!" said M. Berrogain. 
 *' It is noble, generous, kind ; but, my good 
 friend, before you commit yourself, think how 
 will you get on in the world if you act in such 
 a way ?" 
 
 " That," said Donovan, with a half smile, " is 
 a question yet to be solved, but I do not mean 
 to live by other men's losses. Enough has 
 been said though about it all. Can one get 
 anything to eat in this place ? I'm furiously 
 hungry !" 
 
 " Ah ! but you are an Englishman !" said M. 
 Berrogain, amused by the request. " There is a 
 restaurant just opposite, let me come with you." 
 
 " To watch the voracious islander !" said 
 Donovan, laughing. " To-night I shall keep 
 up the national character. I could eat half a 
 roast beef if there was a chance of getting 
 it!" 
 
 "Ah! is it possible?" said the Frenchman. 
 " And at this time of night, too !" 
 
 He did not think that the anxiety which he 
 had caused could possibly have affected his 
 companion's appetite on the previous day, and 
 sat amusedly at the table, watching the abso- 
 
182 • DONOVAN. 
 
 lute demolition of the largest piece of Ros-hif 
 Toti which the restaurant could produce. 
 
 Then somewhei'e in the small hours Donovan 
 found his way to the rather dingy waiuscoted 
 room which had been allotted him, and, in spite 
 of the noisy orgies being carried on in the room 
 below, was soon sleeping profoundly. 
 
 M. Berrogain left for Paris the next day, and 
 Donovan went to the station with him, sub- 
 mitted to his demonstrative gratitude, and then 
 turned away rather disconsolately to make the 
 best of his new life. He wandered about the 
 place for some little time, found his way into 
 the beautiful Church of St. Michel, looked won- 
 deriugly and half pityingly at the groups of 
 worshippers drawing their prie-Dieu up to the 
 side altars, then sauntered out again, along the 
 quays, among the tramways and trucks, the 
 coils of rope and the chains, idly scrutinizing 
 the closely-moored vessels and the bus}'' work 
 of lading or unlading, or coaling, which was 
 going on. Everywhere work and business. 
 And he too must work, he had been leading a 
 wretched self-indulgent life, he would work 
 now, indeed he must work to live. The ques- 
 tion was what should he do, and where should 
 he go ? 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 183 
 
 He had rather a hankering after America, 
 but that idea had to be given up, for he had 
 not enough to pay his passage ; it seemed to be 
 a choice of trying for some situation in Bor- 
 deaux itself, or of going back to England, the 
 chances of finding immediate employment being 
 about equally small in either case. He decided 
 at last to let fate choose his destination, and 
 tossed up a petit sou — heads he was to go to 
 England, and thus it fell. 
 
 With a half sigh he pocketed the coin, looked 
 at his watch, and then hurried away to find out 
 when the next steamer left for Liverpool. There 
 was one that evening to his relief, and he 
 hastened back to the Hotel Montre, glad that 
 his hours in its dingy rooms were numbered. 
 The passage was being swept by the little 
 white-capped maid-servant as he passed down 
 it, and as he put his things together the refrain 
 of the song she was singing floated in to him : 
 
 " Oui, malgre ta philosophie 
 L'amour seul peut charmer la vie." 
 
 Over and over it went, a tuneless little 
 chant, and with strange persistency it rang in 
 his ears long after, " L'amour seul ! — l'amour 
 seul !" Was it indeed that which could alone 
 make life supportable ? He was not quite 
 
184 DONOVAN. 
 
 the misanthrope he had considered himself, but 
 had he any love for his kind? Many times he 
 asked himself that question, as he stood on the 
 deck of the steamer while it ploughed its way 
 through the Bay of Biscay, or lay with Waif 
 at his feet, like a recumbent crusader, looking 
 up at the starry skies. Did he oul}^ not hate? 
 — was there anything more active than that in 
 his feeling towards the rest of the world '? 
 
 All this time he had hardly realised the hard- 
 ness of the task he had set himself. He had 
 willed never to play again, and was quite at 
 rest now that the resolution was made, for 
 never in his whole life had he failed to do a 
 thing which he had deliberately undertaken. 
 His confidence in his own strength was bound- 
 less, and though he had reasonably enough 
 seen the impossibility of still living with the 
 Frewins, now that he had once broken with 
 the old set he did not give a thought to other 
 possible temptations. 
 
 And thus, perfectly satisfied with the strength 
 of his will, and full of his new and good pur- 
 poses, he was set down at Liverpool. Then 
 followed a time of bitter disappointment; though 
 he had just renounced a fortune, the world gave 
 him the cold shoulder again, and his money 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 185 
 
 began to evaporate, to disappear with the horrid 
 rapidity which becomes so noticeable when we 
 are counting by nnits instead of tens. And very 
 soon came the temptation. He had been out 
 all day in the weary useless search after work, 
 the evening set in wet and chilly, as he passed 
 down the gaslit streets to his cheerless lodging 
 a familiar sound made him pause, he was pass- 
 ing a billiard-room — the sharp click of the balls, 
 the eager voices, how natural it all sounded ! 
 He had taken no resolution against playing 
 billiards. Why should he not reheve this in- 
 tolerable dulness by an hour or two of amuse- 
 ment ? A momentary struggle followed, then 
 he pushed open the door and went in. How 
 long he was there he could never clearly re- 
 member, but it was not until a substantial token 
 of his wonted success lay before him that he 
 realised the failure of his will. He, the strong 
 and self-reliant, had yielded to the very first 
 temptation, had failed most miserably. He 
 dropped the cue, pushed away the money, and 
 amid a chorus of surprise and inquiry strode 
 out of the room. 
 
 Too completely dismayed and bewildered to 
 find any relief in his usual custom of rapid 
 walking, he went back to his wretched lodging, 
 
186 DONOVAN. 
 
 and there sat motionless in the summer twi- 
 light in blank silent despair. Everything was 
 lost — friends, mouej^ pleasure, worst of all, his 
 confidence in himself. What was there left? 
 Nothing, he said, but a wretched life that was 
 far better ended, a despicable " I," that must 
 struggle to find itself bread, because — only be- 
 cause of a dim, inexplicable, unreasonable idea 
 that self-destruction was wrong. What possi- 
 ble good was there in his life to himself or to 
 anyone else ? He did not think then of his 
 influence with the Frewins, he could onl}' feel 
 that he had cheated himself, failed in his pur- 
 pose, sunk irrevocably in his own opinion ; what 
 guarantee was there, too, that his will would 
 not fail again ? ^ 
 
 Two paws on his knee and a soft warm 
 tongue licking his hand roused him at length. 
 
 " Oh ! Waif," he exclaimed, with a great sigh, 
 " if only I'd a tenth of your goodness, old dog !"' 
 
 By-and-by he lit the gas, dragged out the 
 tin of dog biscuits, and gave Waif his supper, 
 glancing in between the raouthfuls at the ad- 
 vertisement columns of an open newspaper 
 which lay on the table. Once the dog was 
 kept begging for quite a minute, for his master 
 had become absorbed in what he was reading. 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 18T 
 
 " Wanted, as secretary to the Institute, 
 
 a young man of good abilities, knowledge of 
 book-keeping and a clear handwriting indis- 
 pensable ; salary £100. Apply in person, on 
 
 the 15th or IGth, the President, Institute, 
 
 Exeter." 
 
 Secretary ! — surely he was well fitted for the 
 post. Possibly, too, there would be less com- 
 petition down in the quiet west-country; here 
 in Liverpool his chance of success seemed infin- 
 itesimally small. 
 
 " Well, my dog," he said, almost cheerfully, 
 as he threw down the next mouthful, " shall 
 we set off together and try our luck ? £100 a 
 year would keep you in biscuits, so there's 
 some reason in it, after all." 
 
 The necessary inquiry, however, into his re- 
 sources showed him only too plainly that he 
 had not enough money for the journey ; after 
 his present expenses had been paid, his worldlj- 
 possessions would have dwindled down to a 
 sum below the price of a third-class ticket to 
 Exeter. His watch and chain had been in pawn 
 ever since the day after his arrival ; he had no 
 other valuables, nothing by which he could 
 
 raise money, nothing except His eye fell 
 
 on Dot's little travelling-clock, and he started 
 
188 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 painfully. The idea of selling that had never 
 occurred to him before. In all his wanderings 
 it had been with him — it was almost the only 
 thing he still had which had belonged to her ; 
 to part with it seemed unbearable, and espe- 
 cially so in this particular way. To take it 
 deliberately with his own hands and bargain 
 about it, to leave it — the very thing which she 
 had touched, and fondled, and admired — in a 
 pawnbroker's shop, to let the silvery cathedral 
 chime which she had loved fall on the ears of 
 strangers, it seemed like desecration I And 
 only an hour ago the money he had so much 
 needed had been his. If he had but taken it, 
 all this difficulty would have been avoided. But 
 then his better self made its voice heard. 
 
 " No, my little Dot, no," he said aloud ; 
 " better a thousand times that this should go 
 than that I should have been doubly false to 
 myself." 
 
 He did then what he very seldom ventured 
 to do — drew his little miniature of Dot from its 
 place and looked at it steadfastly. 
 
 Sweet, child-like little face, clear, satisfied 
 eyes, can you not speak to him, and tell him 
 that love cannot die, that he is compassed 
 about with a cloud of witnesses, that his strug- 
 
LOSING SELF TO FIND. 189 
 
 gles to live honestly, his despair at the revela- 
 tion of his weakness, even his present sacrijBce 
 to a shadowy instinct rather than to a principle 
 — all is helping to draw him towards you ? 
 
 No, comfort cannot be his yet. He cannot 
 see that the pain and loss are necessary to the 
 great gain ; he can only go on bravely and 
 painfully in the darkness, holding to the faint 
 track of right and duty which he begins faintly 
 to perceive. 
 
 Presently the little cathedral clock was 
 standing on a shelf among other clocks, large 
 and small, in a Liverpool pawnbroker's shop, 
 and Donovan was walking back to his room 
 through the driving rain with head bent low, 
 and thirty shillings in his pocket. 
 
190 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 " o'er moor and fen." 
 
 Self -reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
 These three alone lead life to sovereign power, 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 Would come uncall'd for), but to live by law, 
 Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
 And, because right is right, to follow right 
 Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 AND after all the struggle seemed uttei'ly 
 useless, for the Exeter Institute 
 
 'would not accept him as secretary. He was ia 
 every way suited for their purpose, and by far 
 the most promising of the candidates ; but in a 
 close cross-examination the insuperable barrier 
 was brought to light. 
 
 " And your religious views, sir?" asked the 
 president. "As this is a charitable institution, 
 we always make a point of knowing the views 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 191 
 
 of our staff. It is well to be united. Do you 
 belong' to the High or Low party?" 
 
 " To neither," said Donovan, stiffly. " I am 
 an atheist." 
 
 And in those four words lay his doom ; because 
 the institute was a charitable one it could not 
 help such a hardened sinner, could not let its 
 accounts and letters be contaminated by his 
 touch. 
 
 " I have come from a great distance in the 
 hope of getting this post," said Donovan, swal- 
 lowing his pride. " I am very much in need of 
 work. Surely in the mechanical work of a 
 secretary such a matter as one's private creed 
 might be passed over. What difference can it 
 make to anyone else V 
 
 " My dear sir," said the head of the charitable 
 institution, " I can only refer you to the Bible, 
 where you will find the injunction : ' Be not un- 
 equally yoked together with unbelievers,' and 
 ' What part hath he that believeth with an 
 infidelf" 
 
 " Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun." 
 
 With the indifference of his kind, however, 
 the frigid adherence to the letter, and the dis- 
 
192 DONOVAN. 
 
 regard of the spirit, a sort of bitter resolution 
 awoke in Donovan's heart. He would not be 
 doomed by a " charitable " institution, he would 
 not sink down quietly into starvation. Life in 
 itself was not worth a straw, but just from 
 opposition, from a manly love of breasting " the 
 blows of circumstance," lie would struggle on, 
 fight down all obstacles, live to be of use too, 
 in spite of the president's specimen of Christian 
 generosity and brotherliness. Fiercely through 
 his teeth he quoted Shylock's passionate words, 
 '^Hath not a Jew eyes ? . . . fed with the same 
 food . . . warmed and cooled by the same winter 
 and summer as a Christian is ?" 
 
 He had been two days at Exeter ; now return- 
 ing to his lodgings, he sat down and resolutely 
 went over all possible plans for his future. 
 Should he go back to Greyshot ? Mr. Alleyne, 
 the man with whom he used to read, might 
 possibly put him in the way of employment. It 
 was not very likely, though, and there were 
 many objections to a return to the old neigh- 
 bourhood. Should he write to old Mr. Hayes ? 
 He might be at home again by this time, though 
 in the winter Doery had said he was still 
 abroad. But Mr. Hayes was poor, and would 
 unquestionably think only of monetary help. 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 193 
 
 No, that would not do. Should he go homo 
 and throw himself on his mother's mercy ? But 
 that thought was too wildly impracticable as 
 well as too painful to be allowed for a moment. 
 What connections had he in this part of the 
 world ? What had his father's business in Ply- 
 mouth been, when four years ago they had gone 
 there together? Searching back in his memory 
 be at length recalled the name of his father's 
 acquaintance, and remembered that he had 
 described him as a pleasant elderly man. He 
 was a banker — there would be no difficulty in 
 finding his address. 
 
 He began a letter to him at once, a brief, 
 business-like, stiff letter, not at all like that of a 
 starving man asking for help. But then he 
 had no intention of starving. He was young 
 and strong-willed, undaunted still, notwithstand- 
 ing his repulses. 
 
 Having despatched the letter, he made up his 
 mind to follow it ; there was no hope of finding 
 work in this quiet old city; at Plymouth he 
 would have more chance. He might just as 
 well spend his time in getting there as in loaf- 
 ing about the Exeter streets. Getting there 
 meant walking, for the proceeds of the clock 
 were nearly exhausted, and would barely 
 
 VOL. II. O 
 
194 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 suffice to get him some sort of food aud shelter, 
 but he rather enjoyed the thought of the 
 exercise, and even the prospect of " roughing 
 it " a little. 
 
 So the next morning, with his few belong- 
 ings stowed away in a small bag — the port- 
 manteau had been discarded in Liverpool, — he 
 set out on his walk. The natural energy of 
 his character shone out strangely every now 
 and theUj in spite of the disastrous education 
 which had so cramped it. No one meeting him 
 that day, as he walked briskly along the Devon- 
 shire lanes, would have imagined that he was 
 as poor as the veriest tramp, and had infinitely 
 fewer resources than most beggars. His stern 
 face was lighted up with resolute perseverance, 
 there was a sparkle, not exactly of enjoyment, 
 but of keen determination, in his eye; he held 
 his head just as proudly as in the days when he 
 had been Donovan Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene 
 Manor. 
 
 It was a lovely July day, a little hot for 
 walking certainly, especially in the deep lanes 
 where every breath of air seemed to be shut 
 out ; but there was something satisfactory about 
 the whole excursion, and Donovan walked on 
 steadily. The high hedges were iu their full 
 
"o'er MOOR AND FEN." 195 
 
 beauty — beautiful as only Devonshire hedges 
 can be^ with their broad green fringes of harts- 
 tongues, their drooping lady ferns and sturdy 
 bracken, their glorious wild roses and bramble 
 bushes, with here and there a bit of mossy 
 grey stone cropping out, or a miniature water- 
 fall thrusting its silvery white head through 
 the grasses, and tumbling with splash and 
 splutter into the tiny wayside brook below. 
 The smell of the new-mown hay gave a country 
 fragrance to the air^ and in most of the fields 
 the men and women were hard at work, while 
 wisps of sun-dried grass caught here and there 
 on each side of the road proved that loaded 
 waggons had already passed that way, leaving 
 their trophies on the hedges. 
 
 Donovan had made up his mind to sleep at 
 Ohagford, and it was already late when he 
 crossed Fingle Bridge. The view there was so 
 exquisite, however, that he was obliged to stop 
 for a few minutes ; resting on the grey stone 
 parapet, he looked down at the transparently 
 clear river, along the green meadows and 
 wooded valleys to the hills which, encircling 
 all, stood out clearly defined against the soft 
 evening sky. All was quiet and peaceful; in 
 this country stillness and exquisite beauty, it 
 
 o2 
 
196 ' DONOVAN. 
 
 seemed possible almost to realise that qnce all 
 the world had been prouounced "very good." 
 Donovan thought only, however, of the contrast 
 of this peace with the world of competition, the 
 overcrowded market of labourers in which he 
 was trying to push his way. It was with a 
 sigh that he turned away and walked on to 
 the little grey town of Chagford, where the 
 lights were beginning to shine out from the 
 cottage windows, and the square tower of the 
 church stood darkly above the lower roofs, a 
 grim silent guardian. 
 
 Very early the next day he was on his way 
 again, exulting in the fresh morning air, and 
 greatly looking forward to the crossing of the 
 moor. Waif scampered on in front, enjoying 
 the exercise as much as his master, and Dono- 
 van found himself whistling as he walked. At 
 length, leaving the cultivated region behind 
 him, he struck across the wild waste of Dart- 
 moor, and then the full delights of his walk 
 came to him. The freshest, purest, strongest 
 air in England was blowing in his face, his feet 
 were treading a springy elastic soil, and all 
 around him was a scene of the wildest beauty. 
 The heather was not yet out, but the gorse 
 blossoms still lingered, and made a golden 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 197 
 
 glow over the great undulating expanse, while 
 all round the tors raised their rugged, granite 
 heads, now in full sunshine silvery white, now 
 with a passing cloud shadow darkest purple — 
 grotesque, fancifully shaped, irregular, and yet 
 exactly harmonizing with the barren waste 
 surrounding them. 
 
 On sped the dog and his master, now through 
 marshy ground, springing from one tuft of 
 heather to another, now up across the scattered 
 granite blocks of a tor, and down again into a 
 fresh featured waste on the other side, now 
 startling a troop of the wild Dartmoor ponies 
 which galloped away, their manes flying in the 
 wind, and Waif barking at their heels, now 
 stepping across one of the old British encamp- 
 ments with their imperishable " hut circles." 
 
 It was not till about five in the afternoon 
 that he reached Prince Town, and then for the 
 time his pleasure was clouded, for the first sight 
 that greeted him was the great grey block of 
 buildings where poor Noir Frewin had been 
 unjustly immured. Passing some wretched 
 little black cottages which are familiarly known 
 as New London, he went down the hill to the 
 town itself, on the way encountering a gang of 
 convicts dragging a cart, and guarded by two 
 
198 DONOVAN. 
 
 warders^ rifle in hand. The sight was a painful 
 one, the men half patient, half sullen, looked at 
 him curiously and envyingly ; the warders 
 urged them on. 
 
 Donovan had half thought of sleeping at 
 Prince Town. He had been walking since 
 seven o'clock that morning, and was rather 
 tired, but the gloom of the place so oppressed 
 him that he could not endure the thought of 
 staying in it. He selected instead the cheapest- 
 looking public house from the large number 
 which the little place offered, had his dinner, 
 and after a short rest prepared to go on again. 
 The people of the house in vain tried to induce 
 him to stay. He was not to be turned from his 
 purpose, however, and having learnt that he 
 could put up for the night at the " Dousland 
 Barn Inn," if he went by the road, or at Sheep- 
 stor, if he went by the moor, he resolved to take 
 the latter course. 
 
 By this time it was between six and seven in 
 the evening, but he calculated that in even 
 ordinary walking he should reach his destina- 
 tion before dusk, and with the bold outline of 
 Sheepstor before him as a landmark, he steered 
 his way across the waste. There was some- 
 thing awe-inspiring in the entire loneliness as 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 199 
 
 be passed on further from Prince Town. Far 
 and near not a creature, not a bouse was to be 
 seen. Beauty, grandeur, even a faint shadow 
 of the Infinite, who can fail to trace these ia 
 that glorious moor, unique in its wildness and 
 expanse ? 
 
 Involuntarily Donovan fell into a deep reverie. 
 The purer nobler view of the world forced 
 itself upon him ; he bad seen hitherto so little 
 but the evil. And then naturally his thoughts 
 went back to Dot, as they invariably did in his 
 best moments, and he comforted himself in that 
 terribly insufiicient and yet pathetic way which 
 Byron has expressed in one of his saddest poems. 
 
 " The better days of life were ours ; 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers 
 Shall never more be thine." 
 
 He had been walking on abstractedly ; look- 
 ing up at last, he was dismayed to find that a 
 sudden mist had arisen, completely veiling the 
 surrounding tors, and, what was woi'se, evident- 
 ly spreading eveiy minute. Here was a hin- 
 drance which he had never for a moment con- 
 templated. The evening had seemed perfectl}^ 
 fine when he started ; he had no compass, and 
 had trusted implicitly to his eye in choosing 
 
200 DONOVAN. 
 
 the most direct route to Sheepstor. Now all 
 traces of the tors were entirel}'' obliterated. 
 
 It was not a very pleasant prospect. All 
 manner of stories he had heard of travellers 
 lost in the mist recurred to his memory ; dismal 
 tales of people who had wandered round and 
 round in a circle for hours, never many yards 
 distant from their starting-point, or of unfortu- 
 nate pedestrians overcome by fatigue and cold. 
 He stood still for a minute or two, called Waif 
 to heel, and steadily faced the facts of the case. 
 The mist was rolhng nearer and nearer, hem- 
 ming him in on every side ; even now he could 
 hardly see a yard in front of him ! Although 
 it was a July evening, the cold was enough to 
 make him shiver ; the mist pressed down on 
 him impenetrably, every breath he drew brought 
 him into closer contact with the heavy, damp, 
 chill fog. Standing still was out of the ques- 
 tion ; he resolved to go on. Sheepstor lay, he 
 thought, rather to his left, and as he had heard 
 that the natural instinct in walking was to tend 
 towards the right, he took a very decided 
 course in the opposite direction. 
 
 On and on he went, ceaselessly but almost 
 hopelessly on. He was growing very tired, 
 too ; the mist hung heavily upon him, he 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 201 
 
 could not see an inch before his feet. Fearing 
 that Waif might possibly stray, he had taken 
 him up under his arm, and was plodding heavi- 
 ly along when he suddenly came to marshy 
 ground. For three or four steps he floundered 
 on, trying to regain the firm land, but what 
 might have been done with sight, was simply 
 impossible in the blinding mist. Another step, 
 and he felt himself sinking deeper; a fierce 
 struggle to free himself, and in a moment he 
 was up to his knees in one of the treacherous 
 Dartmoor bogs. 
 
 He uttered no invectives, but_, when perfectly 
 convinced of the hopelessness of struggling out, 
 he drew Waif's head up so that he could look 
 into the clear brown eyes. 
 
 " Waif, old boy," he said, " mother earth 
 means to settle the question for us. Do you 
 feel inclined to have done with your master, 
 your bones, and biscuits, and wanderings ?" 
 
 The dog, evidently understanding the danger, 
 set up a howl so wildly piteous that Donovan's 
 heart was touched. 
 
 " Poor old fellow, you'd rather go on, would 
 you ?" 
 
 And for a moment they looked full into each 
 other's eyes with the strange comprehension 
 
202 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 that comes between some dogs ancj some 
 men. Then Waif licked his master's face, and 
 Donovan, all the time feeling that he was 
 gradually sinking deeper, patted the white and 
 tan head. 
 
 "Very well. Waif, as you say we'll have a 
 try, take my hat, old boy," and he put his soft 
 cloth hat into the dog's mouth, " scrunch it up, 
 never mind ! a hundred to one I shall never 
 Avant it again ! find a man if you can and 
 bring him back here, do you understand ? now 
 go. There !" and with some effort he threw 
 the dog as far from him as possible, and Waif, 
 alighting where his trifling weight might be 
 borne, tore off like the wind with the hat be- 
 tween his teeth. 
 
 In throwing the dog Donovan felt the soft 
 ground beneath him sink considerably, an 
 irresistible force sucked him down lower and 
 lower, very soon he was up to his waist in the 
 cold wet mud. Then he spread out both his 
 arras and waited quietly for the end — which- 
 ever end it was to be. 
 
 He felt strangely indifferent. If death did 
 come to him, why, then it would be well ; if he 
 was rescued, there would be the satisfaction of 
 not being conquered by the affection of good 
 
"o'er moor and fen. ' 203 
 
 mother earth, who, having dealt rather coldly 
 with him all the days of his life, now seemed 
 determined to hold him in a clinging embrace. 
 
 His jacket was not fastened, he could see 
 three buttons of his waistcoat. With a sort of 
 grim sense of the ludicrous he resolved to use 
 them as a measuring gauge, by which he could 
 judge how fast he was sinking. It was bitterly 
 cold down in this wet slush, on the whole he 
 rather looked forward to the end. What was 
 that odd recollection that came to him? He 
 was a little child again, and Doery's prim face 
 rose before him. 
 
 ■' Asleep in church, Master Donovan ! oh ! for 
 shame ! I wonder you wasn't afraid you'd 
 never open your eyes in this world again." 
 
 And in spite of his strange position, even 
 now, he could not help laughing as he recalled 
 his childish sense of discomfort, and how for 
 several Sundays after that he had not been 
 able to let his eyelids drop in peace. 
 
 The first button disappeared. 
 
 Then he wandered on to recollections of his 
 life with the Frewins, how they would wonder 
 what had become of him ! He was back in 
 Drui-y Lane with Sweepstakes abusing him. 
 He was in a railway carriage, and Noir was- 
 
204 DONOVAN. 
 
 waving the cards before his eyes in the three 
 card trick. He was sitting in the park and a 
 bright-faced girl near him was talking of home, 
 the sort of home which he had never been able 
 to realise. 
 
 The second button disappeared. 
 
 Then he felt a strange impression of having 
 been through this scene before, of having felt 
 the cold wall of mist hemming him in, and 
 after a time he remembered it had been in his 
 nightmare about Dot. And over and over the 
 words rang in his ears ; 
 
 " The better days of life were ours ; 
 The worst can be but mine." 
 
 " You are safe, Dot, my darling. ' 'Tis nothing 
 that I loved so well,' I would not have you 
 back CA^en to the days that were ours. And 
 the worst may be over for me, Dot, ended here 
 out on Dartmoor !" 
 
 The third button disappeared. 
 
 " I wish I had not gone to that billiard- 
 room," he mused, " I wish I could have died 
 satisfied at least that my will was as strong as 
 I used to think it. To fail ! how hateful it is 
 to fail ! If I thought that I could get on, and 
 not come to grief again so weakly, I should 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 205 
 
 almost wish to get out of this bog and have 
 another try." 
 
 The mist had now rolled away, but it was 
 almost dark and the stars were shining above 
 him. The night wind blew through his hair, 
 waved the cotton grass growing around him, 
 sighed and moaned over the desolate country. 
 Nature sang him her dreariest death-song. Ah, 
 well ! death could not be more dreary than his 
 life had been ! 
 
 By this time he was up to his shoulders, and 
 was obhged to raise his arms, the grass and 
 rushes blew against his face. It was exceed- 
 ingly unlikely that Waif would find help. In 
 a very short time he must inevitably die. What 
 a strange ending to his stormy life ! strange 
 and yet perhaps not inappropriate, to die here 
 alone in the darkness, as he had lived, the 
 grandeur and beauty and majesty of the 
 great moor close to him, all around, but shrouded 
 in the black night ; faint imperfect images of 
 the beautiful tors presented to him now and 
 then, but never a true idea of their form. 
 
 By-and-by came a light, flickering wavering 
 far in the distance. Was it a Will o' the wisp 1 
 Could he hold out any longer ? Could he keep 
 rigidly motionless till this possible help should 
 
:206 DONOVAN. 
 
 reach him? A sort of dogged endurance and 
 hati'ed of yielding came to renew his failing 
 powers, his voice clear and strong rang out 
 into the night. Yet why did he call ? why did 
 he not yield, and sink down quietly into no- 
 thingness 1 For an instant life and death, the 
 chances of each, hung in a perfectly even bal- 
 ance, and his indifference turned to a decided 
 wish for the end of the struggle. Should he 
 ■call again ? he thought not. But just as he 
 was making his final resolution to keep the 
 silence which would inevitably lead to death, 
 he heard Waif's sharp anxious bark from afar. 
 
 " My dog, I won't be such a selfish brute," he 
 exclaimed, realising Waif's faithful devotion, 
 and thinking of his despair if the search should 
 be of no use. " Ho ! here ! help !" and then, 
 with his usual whistle, he tried to attract the 
 dog's notice. 
 
 In a few minutes Waif was close to him, 
 whining with delight, snorting with impatience, 
 and tearing madly backwards and forwards be- 
 tween the approaching lantern and his sub- 
 merged master. Then the bearer of the lantern 
 came into view, a sturdy Devonshire farmer, 
 and his almost equally sturdy son. Donovan 
 hailed them eagerly. 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 207 
 
 " Veth !" exclaimed the farmer, " stogg'd in 
 Foxtor Mire that ye are I" 
 
 " Set fast here for hours," said Donovan. 
 
 "No tanny bye! (don't tell ?7ze//' exclaimed 
 the good man, much shocked. " But we'd best 
 talk when the deed's dune. The missus she 
 says to me, ' maister, you take the laistest bit 
 o' rope with ye, likely it's a bog accident.' So 
 lay ye hold, my man, fast hold o' the end, and 
 veth ! we'll sune have ye safe and dry. Hold 
 on, my man, and sure as my name's John Peek 
 we'll have ye safe." 
 
 Then, with a tremendous effort, the sturdy 
 Devonshire men pulled at the rope till Donovan's 
 shoulders were free once more. After that they 
 hastily threw a noose round him, and with 
 infinite difBculty succeeded at length in drag- 
 ging him from his slimy grave. 
 
 In a few minutes Donovan, encrusted in black 
 mud, and so stiff and weary that he could 
 hardly drag himself along, was safely on terra 
 firma once more, and Waif, proud and happj', 
 was springing about his feet. 
 
 Partly from physical causes, and partly from 
 his sudden removal from the near contemplation 
 of death, he fell into a half dreamy state, was 
 not sure whether the sturdy farmer and his son 
 
208 DONOVAN. 
 
 were not after all shadows, even doubted 
 ■whether Waif was not an illusion, while every 
 weary step he took seemed to add to his 
 strange indifference as to what was to become 
 of him. If left to himself he would have plod- 
 ded on and on till he dropped. 
 
 But John Peek was at his elbow — he was too 
 muddy to be touched — piloting him across the 
 moor in the direction of the farm, talking in his 
 half unintelligible Devonshire dialect, and at 
 length leading him through the yard gate^ 
 across the roughly-paved granite road to the 
 little white farm house where he lived. At the 
 sound of their footsteps the wife hastened out, 
 a comely Devonshire woman, her short skirt, 
 crossed neckerchief, smooth hair, and healthy- 
 looking face, all as fresh and neat as could be. 
 The husband explained matters, and Donovan 
 was hurried into the kitchen, where, what with 
 the warmth of the peat fire, the contrast be- 
 tween his horrible state of filth and the ex- 
 quisite cleanliness of the place, added to the 
 extreme difficulty of understanding the dialect 
 of the farmer and his wife, he gradually came 
 to himself, realised that he was actually alive, 
 that his surroundings were no shadowy phan- 
 toms of the imagination, that he was still Dono- 
 
" o'er moor and fen." 209 
 
 van Farrant, possessed of little but a dog and 
 a will which had failed, and with a blank future 
 beyond, in which his primary object must be — 
 not to starve. 
 
 In the immediate present, however, his only 
 wish was to be clean once more, and with some 
 difficulty he made himself understood. Evi- 
 dently the farmer's wife thought cleanliness 
 next to godliness, and fully sympathised with 
 the desire. 
 
 " Zich a Jakes (such a mess) as never was seen, 
 fit to make my flesh crip, ess fay it is ! Come ye 
 up, zur, come ye up over the stairs," and the 
 good woman led the way up the spotless stair- 
 case to a room above, where, with much ado, 
 she brought a huge wooden washing tub, hot 
 water, an enormous piece of soap_, even a scrub- 
 bing-brush, crowning all her favours by fetch- 
 ing him an entire set of her husband's clothes ! 
 
 Cincinnatus handled the plough, and doubtless 
 wore the equivalent for fustian. History does not 
 relate how he looked in rustic guise, butDonovan, 
 with his " Roman " face and unmistakeable air 
 of refinement, presented a very comical appear- 
 ance in Farmer Peek's marketing costume. But 
 the comfort of being dry and clean again was 
 great, and he joined the farmer and his family 
 
 VOL. II. P 
 
210 DONOVAN. 
 
 in the kitchen, feeling able to speak the' thanks 
 for his rescue which till now had remained 
 unsaid. 
 
 "And now zet down, zur, zet down, for ye 
 hike mortal vagg'd," said the farmer, drawing 
 up one of the Windsor chairs to the hearth. 
 " Likely ye had a gude walk before ye got 
 stogg'd i' the mire V 
 
 " Yes, from Chagford," said Donovan, stretch- 
 ing his feet out to the smouldering peats. 
 
 " No, tanny bye ! on the trat the whole blessed 
 day !" exclaimed the wife, " and ye luke crewel 
 tender." 
 
 He laughed and disclaimed any " tenderness." 
 
 " Zich walks isn't for the likes of ye," said 
 the farmer, with a shrewd look at the wearer of 
 his market-day suit ; " ye should lave it to us 
 power folk — it's not for gintry and passons." 
 
 Donovan could not help smiling at finding 
 himself classed with parsons. 
 
 " 1 am poor," he said — " a tramp." 
 
 "Aw!" exclaimed the farmer, shaking his 
 head with a knowing smile, '' ye won't make 
 us belave that, zur — no, no, us knows the gintry 
 when we zee 'em." 
 
 " In spite of which, I am poor and a tramp," 
 
"o'er moor and fen." f 11 
 
 said Donovan ; "and what few things I had 
 left went down into Foxtor Mire." 
 
 " Ah, gude heaven I" exclaimed the wife, " it 
 was a mercy ye didn't go yurself ; but what will 
 ye plase to take for zuppei', zur? there's cream 
 i' the dairy, and " 
 
 " Whatever you would have for yourselves, 
 nothing else," said Donovan. 
 
 The woman hesitated ; he spoke as if he 
 meant to be obeyed, but her hospitable soul 
 longed, to set the best things in the house 
 before the hero of the evening. 
 
 " Veth, zur, it's not fitty for zich as ye," she 
 began, but Donovan interrupted her. 
 
 " Nothing else, thank you," and his tone, 
 more than the actual words, convinced the good 
 woman that nothing but the usual supper must 
 be prepared. 
 
 So Donovan sat down with the farmer and 
 his wife to broth and " kettle-bread," and then, 
 at his own request, was allowed to establish 
 himself for the night before the fire ; for, in 
 spite of the summer evening, he had been so 
 thoroughly chilled that he was glad of the 
 warmth. 
 
 Before long all was quiet in the house ; 
 
 p2 
 
212 DONOVAN. 
 
 Donovan, with Waif at his feet, lay very still 
 but very much awake in the little kitchen. 
 By this time all might have been over for him 
 — how strange was the thought ! He might 
 have entered on the " peace of nothingness ;" 
 life might have been over, perplexities solved 
 by the great silence, no trace of him left even, 
 to carry sorrow to his mother or remorse to 
 Ellis ; and instead of this, he was still in the 
 world, lying on his back moralising by the light 
 of a peat fire 1 
 
 It was a curious accident which had brought 
 him like this under a hospitable roof; he had 
 been in many odd places, but never in quite 
 such a homely place as this. Half dreamily he 
 let his eyes wander round the white-washed 
 walls ; opposite him was the tall eight-day 
 clock, and a large copper warming-pan reflect- 
 ing the dull red glow of the fire ; above the 
 high mantelshelf two rather ancient-looking 
 gunSj and a great array of tin pots and plat- 
 ters ; below, a spotless white dimity frill hang- 
 ing over the wide hearth ; overhead, in the 
 black rafters, hung sundry hams. 
 
 His own clothes were hanging up to dry as 
 near the peats as the farmer's wife would allow, 
 and glancing from them to the borrowed gar- 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 213 
 
 ments he wore, and for the first time reahsing 
 that Farmer Peek was at least six inches shorter 
 and immeasurably stouter than himself, that 
 the fustian clothes hung about him in folds, and 
 that his whole appearance was most utterly 
 grotesque, he burst out laughing — laughed till 
 the wooden rafters rang, till Waif started up 
 and began to wag his tail sympathetically, till 
 inevitably he would have roused the farmer and 
 his wife, had they not slept as soundly as the 
 Seven Sleepers. Certainly the personal danger 
 he had been in had not awed him as a moralist 
 might have desired ; he went to sleep with 
 nothing more sober in his thoughts than a 
 verse out of Dot's " Nonsense Book " — 
 
 " There was an old man of the West 
 Who wore a pale plum-coloured vest ; 
 When they asked — does it fit ? 
 He replied, not a bit, 
 That funny old man of the West." 
 
 The next morning came the rather humiliat- 
 ing necessity of explaining to the farmer his 
 utter inability to reward him for his rescue and 
 his hospitality. He was received, however, 
 with all the delightful warm-heartedness and 
 real courtesy so general in the west country. 
 
 " Aw ! zur, ye didn't think a wanted money ! 
 
214 DONOVAN. 
 
 It's treu us a given ye the laistest bit of a help, 
 but God bless ye, zui-, us has been plased to 
 du it." 
 
 " When I get on in the world, I shall not 
 forget you, Mr. Peek," said Donovan, with firm 
 confidence in the " when." " All 1 can do now 
 is to thank you ver}^ much for your hospitality." 
 
 " Veth, zur, you're welcome. Us wull be plased 
 to zee ye again, and I wish ye weel in zaking 
 zarvice." 
 
 " Seeking service !" Donovan smiled, but 
 the expression was true enough. He wished 
 his worthy host good-bye, managed to leave 
 his last coin — half-a-crown — in the market-day 
 coat, and set off" briskly on his fourteen mile 
 walk to Plymouth. 
 
 Skirting round the foot of Sheepstor, he was 
 soon on the road, with the bold outlines of 
 Sharpitor and Leathertor on one hand, and far 
 in the distance a line of silvery brightness 
 where the sunlight fell on the sea. Life felt 
 good. On the whole, he felt really glad that 
 the blue vault was above him, not the black 
 mud of the bog. Towards the afternoon, how- 
 ever, when he had been walking some hours, 
 his spirits sank. The heat tried him a good 
 deal ; he began to feel very stifi" and tired, as 
 
"o'er MOOR AND FEN." 215 
 
 ■well he mi^bt after his adventure of the previ- 
 ous evening. Aud with the physical exhaus- 
 tion came a degree less of coufidence in the 
 future. What if his father's acquaintance, Mr. 
 
 X , refused to help him 1 What if he could 
 
 find uo employment now i? He walked on 
 heavily, but still with resolution — come ill or 
 well, be was ready to face it manfully, but his 
 cheerfulness disappeared, and it was a stern- 
 faced and very oddly-dressed candidate who 
 presented himself at the door of the bank, and 
 asked to see Mr. X , the manager. 
 
 The bank was closed, but one of the clerks 
 appeared in answer to his ring, and directed 
 him to the manager's private house. He went 
 there, and, with the bearing of a proud man 
 forced to ask a favour, was shown into Mr. 
 X 's library. 
 
 A handsome keen-faced gentleman of about 
 five aud thirty was sitting at the table writing. 
 He glanced up as Donovan was announced, 
 scanned him from head to foot without rising, 
 then bowed stiffly. This was Donovan's view. 
 
 Mr. X , on the other hand, saw before 
 
 him a tall, gaunt, handsome fellow, apparently 
 about five and twenty, in clothes which were 
 stained and shrunk to such a degree that a 
 
216 . DONOVAN. 
 
 tramp would scarcely have said " tliauk you " 
 for them, holding a ragged cloth hat in his 
 hand, aud in spite of his beggarly array, carry- 
 ing his head very high. Such a shabby-looking 
 fellow as this could hardly be asked to sit 
 
 down on one of Mr. X 's new red-morocco 
 
 chairs. The good farmer's wife had carefully 
 dusted the Windsor chair for him the night 
 before, the banker was not so courteous or so 
 well-bred. Throughout the interview Donovan 
 stood. 
 
 The banker briefly asked his business. It 
 
 appeared that the elder Mr. X had died two 
 
 years before ; the present one had never heard of 
 Colonel Farrant. And then, after a few mutual 
 explanations, Mr. X 's rather quick peremp- 
 tory manner became a little more suave as he 
 said, 
 
 "You must, I think, see, Mr, Farrant, that 
 your claims upon me are of the very slightest. 
 Our respective fathers knew each other— at 
 least, you tell me so. Even should I take you 
 at your word without seeking to prove this to 
 be the fact, however, it is hardly sufiicient 
 ground for — in short, you understand me, I am 
 sure. 1 need not explain myself further." 
 
 " I understand perfectly," said Donovan, cold- 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 217 
 
 ly. " You think I am come to beg. I am quite 
 aware that I look like a beggar, thanks to one 
 of your Devonshire bogs ; but nothing is further 
 from my thoughts. You were the only person 
 I knew in the neighbourhood. I want work, 
 and thought you might be able to advise me 
 where to try for it." 
 
 " I am afraid, Mr. Farrant, you are a novice 
 in these matters," said the banker. " One can- 
 not at a moment's notice cause situations to 
 spring up ready to hand; besides, in the letter 
 I received from you from Exeter, you gave me 
 no particulars and no references." 
 
 "I have none to give," said Donovan, 
 shortly. 
 
 " You can at least tell me what your previous 
 employment has been." 
 
 "I have only just returned from the Conti- 
 nent." 
 
 The banker looked at him a little curiously. 
 
 " And before that ?" 
 
 Donovan coloured slightly, but answered, 
 firmly, 
 
 " Before that I was a card-sharper." 
 
 The banker started. 
 
 " Bless me! and after this you expect me to 
 patronise you, Mr. Farrant V 
 
218 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 " On the contrary," said Donovan, quietly, 
 "I see plainly that that is the last thing you 
 will do." 
 
 There was irony in the tone ; the banker 
 smiled a little, looked again at his strange 
 visitor, and saw that, in spite of the beggarly, 
 array, he was evidently a clever fellow. He 
 liked clever fellows, and his next remark 
 sounded much more cordial ; but Donovan's 
 sensitive pride at once recoiled from the slight 
 touch of vulgarity. 
 
 "I see you're sharp enough, Mr. Farrant, no 
 lack of brains ; but even if I knew of any situa- 
 tion likely to suit you, what guarantee should I 
 have that you might not prove a little too sharp 
 again ?" 
 
 "No guarantee," said Donovan, wincing. 
 "But I should hardly have answered your 
 question with such perfect openness, if I had 
 been the knave you take me for. I can give 
 you no guarantee but my honour." 
 
 " And in business that would hardly answer," 
 
 said Mr. X , with a sharp-edged smile ; 
 
 " besides, the honour of an ex " 
 
 "Good afternoon," said Donovan, moving to 
 the door. 
 
 " Stay, stay," said the banker ; " that was 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 219 
 
 rather hard lines. I can't help you to a situa- 
 tion, Mr. Farrant, but you seem in a very bad 
 way, and as I see you're a clever fellow I will 
 break through my ordinary rule. Day and 
 Martin made their fortunes by giving away a 
 stray sovereign, and, though I can hardly hope 
 to do that, I have still great pleasure in giving 
 you some small assistance." 
 
 He fumbled in his pockety produced a gold 
 coin, and pressed it into his visitor's hand. 
 
 There are some deeds of so-called "charity" 
 which wound more deeply than actual unkind- 
 uess, some favours which are more hard to 
 endure than blows, some ways of giving so 
 utterly intolerable to the recipient that even in 
 need they must be rejected. 
 
 Donovan was actually penniless, he felt stiff, 
 weary, ill, and already very hungiy, but no 
 power on earth could have brought him to 
 accept the banker's tactless, ill-bred offer. He 
 put down the sovereign, bowed, and hurried 
 out of the house. 
 
 For a time indignation and those heart- 
 stirrings which follow after an insult has been 
 received kept him up ; he tramped up and down 
 the Hoe physically strong again because of the 
 inward tumult of feeling. Then he wandered 
 
220 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 into the town, lounged wearily about the 
 streets, 
 
 " Homeless near a thousand homes," 
 
 and worse than homeless, utterly destitute in 
 every way, sick at heart, ashamed of his past, 
 miserable in the present, and hopeless as to the 
 future. 
 
 When St. Andrew's clock struck nine, be was 
 standing at the corner of the churchyard idly 
 watching the passers-by, wishing that night 
 would come that he might hide himself in the 
 darkness and forget his weariness in sleep. 
 But as time passed he grew more and more 
 uneasy, and the dread of illness began to haunt 
 him painfully ; he had certainly eaten nothing 
 since early morning, but that was not sufficient 
 to account for the growing faintness which was 
 stealing over him. He had had a dim idea of 
 enlisting, but that faded away now, he was too 
 wretched to wish for anything but shelter for 
 the night, precisely the thing he had not. 
 
 There were only three alternatives, either he 
 must break his resolution again and trust to his 
 customary skill and good fortune, or he must 
 try to sell Waif, or he must adopt the beggar's 
 shelter — an arch or a doorway. 
 
 A sharp struggle was needed to dismiss the 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 221 
 
 first idea, the merest glance at the dog to prove 
 the second impossible ; then in pain and great 
 •weariness he wandered on once more. Only a 
 month or two before he had had more money 
 than he knew what to do with — it was strange 
 to look back to the old life, with its excitement 
 and success, and self-indulgence — and now, 
 through his own doing, he was utterly cut off 
 from it all. But he knew that it was well, and 
 in a larger sense than before the words which 
 had haunted him on Dartmoor came to him now, 
 
 " The worst can be but mine." 
 
 Failure, pain, ruin, starvation, all these were 
 apparently his destiny ; he felt that they were 
 endurable because they involved no harm to 
 others ; it had been a choice of life and pleasure 
 at the expense of his honour and his fellow- 
 men, and death and suffering affecting himself 
 alone. His contact with the world had changed 
 his views greatly ; a year ago he had been a 
 misanthrope, now he saw the position of self 
 and others inverted. 
 
 More than four years had gone by since the 
 grave-looking Indian colonel and his son had 
 passed up the steps of the Royal Hotel. Dono- 
 van, fresh from his school disgrace, full of hurt 
 
222 DONOVAN. 
 
 pride and bitter resentment of the injustice, had 
 spent no very comfortable night there. Un- 
 likely as it may seem, he slept a great deal 
 better beneath the porch of one of the neigh- 
 bouring houses than he had done before in the 
 luxurious room. With Waif crouched up as 
 near him as possible for the sake of warmth, 
 with the cold night wind blowing on him, he 
 slept well ; in the old times he had been his own 
 slave, now he was " lord of himself." Dis- 
 heartened, humbled, with widened sympathies 
 and self thrust low, he was now, in spite of the 
 verdict of the president, a truer follower of 
 Christ than some professing Christians, the 
 only difference being that he followed bravely 
 and painfully in the darkness, not even knowing 
 his goal, while many of them in their full light 
 follow sleepily and lazily, attaining to little of 
 the broad-hearted love and self-abnegation to 
 which they have pledged themselves. 
 
 Donovan did not dream, he was too com- 
 pletely worn out ; his sleep was heavy and un- 
 broken ; but he woke early the next morning 
 with a name in his mind — Porthkerran. What 
 brought it there he could not tell. In thinking 
 over his acquaintance in the West at Exeter, he 
 had naturally remembered the Tremains ; but it 
 
"o'er moor and fen." 223 
 
 seemed utterly improbable that a doctor in a 
 remote Cornish village would be able to help 
 him to work, and he had never thought even of 
 applying to him. But now, in the freshness of 
 the July day, as he dragged himself up from 
 his resting-place, and felt the utter impossibility 
 of seeking work in his present state, the 
 thought of Porthkerran, of the kindly doctor, 
 of Mrs. Tremain, came to him as a light in his 
 darkness. He was at that stage of illness 
 when pride — even the pride of independence — 
 is brought low, and though he had rejected the 
 banker's sovereign but a few hours before, the 
 idea of going to the Tremains and asking their 
 help did not seem hard to him. 
 
 The only question was, should he ever get 
 there? To loiter about in Plymouth in search 
 of work would be both useless and impossible ; 
 but with an actual goal, a definite thing to be 
 done, it was different. He made up his mind 
 to go, and set off on the long walk patiently 
 and deliberately, though anyone with a degree 
 less of corn-age and resolution would have suc- 
 cumbed at once. 
 
 When he had walked about five or six miles 
 the full difficulties of his undertaking came to 
 him. On first waking he had felt ill indeed. 
 
224 DONOVAN. 
 
 but the sleep had to some extent refreshed him, 
 and it was not till later in the morning that the 
 unknown pains of hunger beset him. Still he 
 toiled on, always on, with aching head and 
 failing limbs, while above the summer sun 
 blazed down on him in fullest power. What if 
 the Tremains were no longer at Porthkerran ? 
 What if they turned him away because of his 
 previous life, or his I'eligious views ? These 
 were his only thoughts as he struggled on. 
 By-and-by came faintuess, and he was obliged 
 to stagger to the side of the road and lie 
 down on the grass, and then he lost count of 
 time, and was very dimly aware that the 
 intolerable heat and glare changed to cloudy 
 coolness ; it was not till a heavy shower of rain 
 began that he came fully to himself, staggered 
 to his feet once more, and resumed his walk. 
 
 For more than an hour the rain fell cease- 
 lessly ; when it stopped, he was soaked to the 
 skin and very cold ; even when the sun came 
 out once more he was shivering from head to 
 foot. How much farther could he manage t A 
 sign-post, with " Porthkerran three miles," rather 
 comforted him ; he must and would get there, 
 and once more be forced himself to go forward. 
 
 The road lay now along the cliffs overlooking 
 
"o'er moor and fen/^ 225 
 
 the deep blue sea. Donovan scarcely noticed 
 anything, however, and it was not till the 
 ringing clang of metal fell upon his ear that he 
 looked up. By the side of the road was a 
 blacksmith's forge ; the blazing fire looked 
 tempting; he entered the shed, and asked leave 
 to warm himself. 
 
 The smith, a fine-looking man, with thick 
 black hair tinged with grey, and eyes of deep 
 blue like the Cornish seas, turned round quickly 
 on hearing himself addressed. 
 
 " Come in, friend, and welcome." 
 
 The voice was a hearty one, but the smith 
 was busy, and turned to his hammer and anvil 
 once more, while Donovan drew near to the 
 fire, and felt a little temporary relief from the 
 warmth. 
 
 Presently wheels were heard, and a carriage 
 stopped at the door ; the smith put down his 
 hammer and stepped briskly forward. 
 
 " Well, doctor — gude day to you — cast his 
 shue, has he ?" 
 
 Donovan heard the words distinctly, but they 
 conveyed no meaning to his mind ; he stared 
 down vacantly into the glowing furnace, not 
 even turning his head to see either the horse or 
 the driver. A man's voice was explaining. 
 
 VOL. II. Q 
 
226 DONOVAN. 
 
 " Half a mile back, Trevethan. How long 
 will you take to put him on a fresh one ? I'm 
 in a hurry to be at Mr. Penruddock's." 
 
 " Slow and sure, doctor — not less nor a quar- 
 ter hour, and maybe more." 
 
 "Why don't you walk to the Penruddocks', 
 papa? I can hold Star, and Ajax is so quiet 
 there'll be no fear of his doing any harm." 
 
 It was a girl's mellow voice speaking — a 
 voice in which there lurked laughter, tender- 
 ness, and yet a quaint sort of dignity. Dono- 
 van recognised it in a moment, and with a 
 sudden return of strength and energy hurried 
 to the door. 
 
227 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ONE AND ALL. 
 
 Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide 
 The lowliest brother straying from thy side ; 
 If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own. 
 If wrong, the verdict is for God alone. 
 
 Strive with the wanderer from the better path, 
 Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath ; 
 Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall, 
 Have thine own faith, but hope and pray for all. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
 
 ONE glauce at the little group without told 
 him everything. There was the smith 
 scrutinizing Star's shoeless foot; standing 
 beside the other pony was Dr. Tremain himself, 
 a little greyer than he had been four years ago, 
 but not much altered ; and in the pony-carriage 
 sat Donovan's ideal, whom he knew now to be 
 Miss Tremain — Gladys Tremain — for the un- 
 usual name recurred to his memory with the 
 
 q2 
 
228 DONOVAN. 
 
 thought of the evening when he had first seen 
 her in her own home, had heard her singing 
 words which had moved him strangely. 
 
 With this sudden revelation, all thought of 
 his present state of need passed from his mind ; 
 he only felt that he must do something for her, 
 and with a word to the smith he went to 
 Star's head. 
 
 "Ah! that'll du, doctor; now ye can go up 
 to Squire Penruddock's ; here's a chapas'll hold 
 the pony steady." 
 
 Instinctively Donovan kept his face turned 
 from Dr. Tremain ; he could not bear to risk 
 being recognised just then. The doctor saw 
 only a tall figure in very shabb}' clothes — some 
 friend of Trevethan's, he supposed ; he merely 
 glanced at him, told Gladys to drive on to meet 
 him when the pony was shod, and walked away 
 in the direction from which Donovan had just 
 come. 
 
 The wind had risen, a west wind, and it blew 
 strongly, though not coldly. Donovan could 
 see the ribbons on Gladys' hat fluttering, 
 though, after the first, he did not directly look 
 at her, but kept his face half hidden. He could 
 hear her talking to Trevethan, and once or 
 twice some antic of Star's made her laugh. 
 
ONE AND ALL. 229 
 
 She was evidently a favourite with the black- 
 smith ; Donovan could see how the man's blue 
 eyes lit up when she spoke to him. 
 
 Gladys, meanwhile, looked curiously at the 
 motionless figure at Star's head. She had seen 
 him as he came out of the shed, but for such a 
 moment that she had only caught a sort of 
 vision of a very pale, worn face. Who could 
 he be ? Some one whom Trevethan knew, or 
 merely a tramp ? Yet his attire was scarcely 
 like a tramp's ; shrunk, and stained, and dirty 
 as it was, it had a look of better days about it. 
 Who was he ? She wished he had not been 
 quite so near, for it was impossible to ask the 
 blacksmith any questions about him. Ought 
 she to give him something for holding the 
 pony? Looking at him again, she was sure 
 tliat he was visibly shivering, and that decided 
 her. She opened her purse, and took out a 
 sixpence. He looked ill, and cold, and very 
 poor. He had been vei-y good in holding Star ; 
 assuredly he ought to have something. 
 
 All this time she had only seen his back. 
 When the shoeing was finished, and Trevethan 
 had been paid, she drew up the reins, and rather 
 shyly said, " Thank you for your help," holding 
 out the coin to him as she spoke. 
 
230 DONOVAN. 
 
 Oddly, though she had been rather curious 
 to see his face, in putting the sixpence into his 
 hand she looked at that ; then, startled to find 
 a smooth white palm instead of a hand rough- 
 ened by hard work, she looked up quickly and 
 saw a face which seemed partly familiar to her, 
 a face with chiselled features, and dark caver- 
 nous eyes with a look of pain in them. But 
 even as she first glanced at him his lips smiled 
 slightly ; he raised his hat. 
 
 " Oh I I beg your pardon. I did not see," 
 she stammered, looking at the slender fingers 
 which had closed over her sixpence, and col- 
 ouring crimson. 
 
 *' Thank you," he replied, in a tone which she 
 could not mistake for sarcasm. " I am very 
 much obliged to you." 
 
 Then he raised his hat again, and turned 
 away ; and Gladys drove off with hot cheeks. 
 Where had she seen him before ? 
 
 Donovan went back to the forge, partly for 
 the sake of warming himself, partly in the hope 
 of learning something about the Tremains. The 
 blacksmith was busy, however, and he could 
 only elicit the information that " that was their 
 doctor up. to Porthkerran, and a rale gude one 
 he was ;" that " Miss Gladys did gude to every- 
 
ONE AND ALL. 231 
 
 one she spoke to, and was like a bit of God's 
 sunshine, and no mistake," with a few other 
 most patent and obvious facts. Then, all the 
 time swinging his great hammer, Trevethan 
 began singing one of Wesley's hymns, and before 
 he had come to the end^ the pony-carriage 
 passed the door once more. 
 
 " Will the doctor be going home now f asked 
 Donovan, as soon as he could make himself 
 heard. 
 
 " Yes, belike," said the blacksmith, pausing in 
 his work, and looking at his companion. " You'd 
 du weel, friend, to go and see him, for you look 
 mortal vagg'd. If you're passin' this way again, 
 come and take your tae with me. You shall 
 have a gude welcome." 
 
 " Thank you," said Donovan, touched by the 
 off-hand yet real hospitality. 
 
 Then Trevethan having directed him to the 
 doctor's house, which he already knew well 
 enough, he set off once more. 
 
 Before he had gone far, a turn in the road 
 brought him in sight of the Tremains' pony- 
 carriage. It was standing still. Drawing nearer, 
 he saw Gladys standing, bai'e-headed, on the 
 verge of the cliff, her sunny hair blowing about 
 in the wind. She seemed to be searching for 
 
232 DONOVAN. 
 
 something. Dr. Tremain, holding the reins at 
 arm's length, was also peering down. 
 
 "Better give it up, my dear," Donovan heard 
 him say. "We couldn't reach it, even if we 
 could see it." 
 
 "Can I be of any use?" asked Donovan, 
 coming towards the two. " Is anything lost ?" 
 
 "My hat," said Gladys, turning round, but 
 colouring as she saw who the speaker was. 
 
 Donovan's quick eyes were soon scanning 
 every nook and cranny of the rugged cliff, and, 
 after a minute's steady progress up and down, 
 he detected far below a tiny moving speck, 
 which he pronounced to be an end of ribbon. 
 
 " Will you allow me to fetch it for you ?" he 
 asked, forgetting his weakness and weariness 
 in his desire to serve her. 
 
 "Oh I no, it is so far down," she said, quickly. 
 " It is not the least worth while." 
 
 But Donovan was not to be deterred from 
 the errand by its difficulty, and disregarding 
 Dr. Tremain's remonstrances, he began to 
 clamber down the cliff in a way which showed 
 that he was either well used to the Cornish 
 coast, or else an expert gymnast. 
 
 " He held Star just now at the forge," said 
 Gladys to her father. " And 1 am sure I have 
 
ONE AND ALL. 233 
 
 seen him before, papa. Who can he be ? " 
 
 The doctor was too intent on watching the 
 descent, however, to answer, and when he did 
 speak it was only to exclaim, 
 
 "Well done! he's got it." And then to 
 criticise his way of setting about the ascent. 
 " Quite right, he means to keep to the left, and 
 skirt round that great boulder ; bravo I that 
 was cleverly managed. Come, Gladys, after 
 this you'll have to make a speech. It's really 
 very good of this young fellow. Hullo ! though, 
 he's slipped." 
 
 For Donovan had trusted to an insecure foot- 
 hold, and had slipped down about six feet. 
 Gladys gave a little cry, but happily a project- 
 ing boulder prevented any danger of a serious 
 fall, and the two watchers saw that at least 
 their helper was in no immediate peril. He 
 was quite still, though ; that began to frighten 
 them. 
 
 " Are you hurt 1" shouted the doctor. 
 
 But no answer came, and the figure still re- 
 mained crouched up in the same position. Dr. 
 Tremain felt very uneasy, but in two or three 
 minutes Gladys gave a relieved exclamation. 
 
 " See, papa, he moves, he is getting up again." 
 
 They could see the tall figure struggling up. 
 
234 DONOVAN. 
 
 indeed, but the doctor saw at once that some- 
 thing was wrong. 
 
 " Are you hurt f he shouted once more. 
 
 "Yes," came back the answer, "but I'll 
 manage it in a minute." 
 
 He had fallen with his ankle twisted under 
 him, and had given it a sprain ; it was indeed 
 a very awkward situation, for the cliff was steep 
 and hard to climb^ and now, with the acute 
 pain he was suffering, it seemed almost impos- 
 sible ; he looked at the little white hat hanging 
 on his arm, and he looked up the grey cliff to 
 Gladys. After all it only needed patience and 
 a resolute disregard of the pain — he would try 
 it. But it was infinitely harder than he ex- 
 pected, over and over again he turned dizzy, 
 and was obliged to pause, and at last each step 
 became a perfect battle. He could not attempt 
 to answer the questions which reached him 
 from above, avery power was strained to its 
 utmost in the physical struggle, in the conflict 
 between the resolutely persevering " I will," 
 and the overwhelming pain and weakness and 
 difficulty. 
 
 At length, with an almost superhuman effort, 
 he dragged himself up to the top, grasped the 
 doctor's outstretched hands, crawled on to the 
 
ONE AND ALL. 235 
 
 smooth grassy plateau bordering the cliff, aud, 
 Avithout a word, sank down prone, while Waif, 
 with low whines, walked round and round him 
 in great distress. Large drops of perspiration 
 stood on his forehead, yet his face expressed 
 little but hard fixed resoluteness, the iron will 
 leaving its tokens even in semi-consciousness. 
 The doctor looked at him intently for a moment, 
 then he raised him so that his head rested on 
 Gladys' knee, and prepared to examine his 
 ankle. The merest touch caused a sharp thrill 
 of pain, and Donovan opened his eyes. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so very, very sorry," said poor 
 Gladys. " I am afraid you have hurt yourself 
 dreadfully." 
 
 " Only a sprain, I think," he answered, faintly, 
 and then his eyes closed again. 
 
 " We must get him home as soon as possible," 
 said the doctor. "I will bring up the pony- 
 carriage as near as may be, and I think, Gladys, 
 you had better ran back to the forge and ask 
 Trevethan to come aud help. We shall be less 
 likely to pain him if there are two of us to lift 
 him in." 
 
 The doctor went to see to the pony-chaise, 
 and Gladys was just going to obey him, when 
 she was startled by a peremptory, "No, don't 
 
236 DONOVAN. 
 
 go," from the prostrate figure she was support- 
 ing. Then, to her dismay, he slowly raised 
 himself and staggered towards the carriage. 
 
 " You should not have tried it," remonstrated 
 the doctor, helping him in, and making him put 
 up his foot at once on the opposite seat. " Now, 
 Gladys, jump in quickly and drive us home. I 
 shall sit here," and he established himself beside 
 the injured ankle, holding it in a way which 
 lessened the jar of the wheels. 
 
 The last exertion had proved too much even 
 for Donovan's strength, however ; he was only 
 dimly conscious now, just realising from the 
 pain that he was being driven somewhere, 
 where he neither knew nor cared, or whether 
 this half dream of incessant motion and inces- 
 sant pain went on for ever and ever. All 
 seemed a matter of supreme indifference. When 
 the carriage at last stopped he felt no curiosity 
 as to what was to follow, and, after a few 
 minutes' pause, submitted without a word to 
 being lifted out and borne somewhere, never 
 once raising his eyelids to see what they were 
 doing with him. Presently he became aware 
 that his boot was being cut, and then came an 
 instant's sharp pain, and he fainted. 
 
 Everyone who has experienced it knows the 
 
ONE AND ALL. 237 
 
 extreme discomfort of a return to conscious- 
 ness. Donovan came to quickly, however, 
 partly aided by an odd association. The very 
 first thing he distinguished was the smell of 
 brandy, then he felt a glass held to his lips. 
 From sheer annoyance he gained strength to 
 push it away, and in weak, but decidedly cross 
 tones, said quickly, 
 
 " Get away with your abomination, Rouge ; I 
 tell you I won't touch it !" 
 
 "Don't trouble him, he's coming to," said 
 the doctor, and then Donovan, fully roused 
 by the words, half raised himself and looked 
 round. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said to the doctor, 
 " I thought I was with some one else." 
 
 " I am afraid I hurt you a good deal just 
 now ; I ought to have seen you were getting 
 faint and given you a restorative first," said 
 Dr. Tremain. 
 
 " Faint !" cried Donovan, with all a man's 
 dislike of making a scene. " You don't mean 
 that I fainted." 
 
 "Certainly, the moment I touched your 
 foot," said the doctor, smiling; "and, what is 
 more, you will be fainting again before long if 
 you don't take something. Try this," and he 
 
238 DONOVAN. 
 
 poured some milk into a tumbler and held it to 
 his lips. 
 
 Donovan drank it and revived a little. 
 
 " It was not the pain," he said, abruptly, " I 
 was half starved." Then glancing round the 
 room, he continued in an odd, forced voice, 
 " You shouldn't have brought me to your house ; 
 is there no workhouse or hospital at Porth- 
 kerrau V 
 
 " You shall consider this your hospital ; I can 
 promise you at least one resident doctor and 
 several nurses," said Dr. Tremain, smiling. 
 
 '• Don't laugh," said Donovan, " it is no 
 laughing matter ; I haven't a farthing in the 
 world, I'm worse off than most beggars ; couldn't 
 you have seen by these that I wasn't fit for you 
 to take in," and he touched his clothes. 
 
 " My dear fellow, do you think that makes 
 any difference, or that we show our hospitality 
 in Cornwall by shipping off our helpers to the 
 workhouse? Come, don't talk nonsense, but 
 tell me when you had your last meal." 
 
 " Yesterday morning between eight ~ and 
 nine." 
 
 " Whew !" the doctor gave a slight whistle, 
 felt his patient's pulse again, and, turning to 
 the servant, gave orders for some gruel to be 
 
ONE AND ALL. 239 
 
 made at ouce. When that had been admin- 
 istered, Donovan sank into a sort of doze. 
 Presently he knew that a fresh voice was 
 speaking, a low, pleasant voice. He came to 
 that borderland of sleep when words begin to 
 convey some meaning, the quiet mist-wreathed 
 entrance to full consciousness. 
 
 " Has he got everything he wants ?" 
 
 "Everything just now; he is simply worn 
 out. Gladys has told you how we met him, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Yes, everything. I wish I had been at home 
 when you came back. Is it a very bad sprain 'f 
 
 "I daresay it wasn't at first, but imagine 
 climbing up the cliff near the forge after he'd 
 done it! There's good in that fell ow, depend 
 upon it ; it was a spirited thing to do, especi- 
 ally in the state he was in. He owned he was 
 half starved." 
 
 "Poor boy! I wonder how he happened to 
 be in such straits." 
 
 Donovan began to show signs of waking ; 
 the voices ceased, but he felt a soft hand put- 
 ting back the hair from his forehead ; it remind- 
 ed him of the feel of little Dot's tiny fingers^ 
 and then, with a rush of shame, he felt how 
 unfit he was for such tenderness. 
 
240 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 Suddenly opening his eyes, and half sitting 
 up, he said, quickly, 
 
 " Look, you must get me moved in some way, 
 I'm not fit to stay here." 
 
 Mrs. Tremain thought him feverish ; but the 
 doctor partly understood him. 
 
 " He is afraid of giving trouble ; you must 
 tell him there is nothing you like better than 
 nursing." 
 
 " No," interrupted Donovan, " that is not it ; 
 listen to me, and then, if you will — turn me 
 out ; you won't be the first who has done so. I 
 was once a card-sharper. I haven't a penny in 
 the world. I am an atheist. Was I wrong 
 in saying you would be wiser if you turned me 
 out of doors V 
 
 " Quite wrong," said the doctor, in an odd, 
 quiet voice. 
 
 Then there was silence for a few minutes, and 
 Donovan felt the soft woman's hand on his 
 hair once more. For a moment he breathed 
 hard, and there was a quiver in his voice when 
 he said at last, 
 
 " I had given up expecting to be tolerated 
 after that confession. I don't know why you 
 are so different from other people. I might have 
 guessed, though, that you . would be. Mrs. 
 
ONE AND ALL. 241 
 
 Tremain," he looked steadily up at her, " do 
 you remember me ?" 
 
 She gazed at him in perplexity, half re- 
 membering the face, and yet utterly unable to 
 say where she had seen it. He raised his hand 
 and pushed back the dark waves of hair from 
 his forehead, revealing a long^ white seam, the 
 ineffaceable mark of his old wound. And with 
 the sight there flashed back into Mrs. Tremain's 
 mind a vision of the past. 
 
 "Mr. Farrant !" she exclaimed. 
 " Donovan Farrant — yes." 
 The doctor stood with an expression of sur- 
 prise and great uneasiness on his face. If this 
 were Donovan Farrant, how came it that he 
 was a penniless adventurer? How came it 
 that little more than a year after reaching 
 majority he had come to Porthkerran in a state 
 of semi-starvation ? There must have been 
 foul play somewhere. That will he had wit- 
 nessed could not have been properly executed, 
 or such a state of things could not have been. 
 This evening, though, he must ask no ques- 
 tionSj his patient was not fit for it. So he put 
 away the uncomfortable thoughts as well as he 
 could, and, coming forward, took Donovan's 
 hand in his. 
 
 VOL. ir. R 
 
242 DONOVAN. 
 
 " I remember you very well now. I wonder 
 I did not at first ; but you are a good deal 
 changed. We have often thought of you, and 
 wondered whether you would ever come down 
 to see Porthkerrau again. I was glad to have 
 you before I knew your name, and, knowing 
 it, I am doubly glad. But now, as your 
 doctor, I must forbid any more talking. Some 
 more food first, and then you'd better settle in 
 for the night." 
 
 '^ One thing more," said Donovan, " do you 
 realise that there are two of us ?" and he point- 
 ed to Waif. " He's all I have in the world. I 
 can't part with him." 
 
 ''Not even last night when you were 
 starving ?" 
 
 Donovan shook his head. 
 
 " Perhaps, though, I ought not to ask you 
 to take him in, beggars can't be choosers.'^ 
 
 " My dear fellow," said the doctor, laughing, 
 and patting the dog's head, "will you never 
 learn to believe that we are not utter brutes. 
 Of course, the dog is welcome to spend the rest 
 of his life here. I must quote the Cornish 
 motto to you — ' One and all.' " 
 
 With these words echoing in his ears, Dono- 
 van lay watching the busy preparations for the 
 
ONE AND ALL. 243 
 
 night which were being made by Mrs. Tremain 
 and the servant. The room he had been car- 
 ried to was on the ground floor, a school- 
 room, he fancied, but now busy hands were 
 converting it into a bed-room, and busy feet 
 without were hurrying up and down the stairs, 
 and along the passages, fetching and carrying. 
 " One and all" — they were certainly cariying 
 out their motto ! And Donovan, who would 
 have been sorely chafed by having to submit to 
 a grudging service, watched his present nurses 
 almost with pleasure. The comfort, too, of 
 being in a home-like room again was very 
 great. He ran through in his mind all the 
 wretched places he had slept in, from the room 
 in Drury Lane to his last night's shelter under 
 a porch. Philosophically as he had endured^ 
 them, it was, nevertheless, an unspeakable 
 comfort to be again where all was fresh and 
 clean, a relief, too, to be not in a mere living 
 place, but a home. He read the titles of the 
 books in the bookshelf, then glanced round the 
 walls, half fearing to see once more his old 
 enemy, the dingy oil-painting of the shipwreck. 
 Instead, however, he found Wilkie's "Blind 
 Man's Buff," next to that an elaborate chart of 
 the kings of England, with illuminated shields 
 
 R 2 
 
244 DONOVAN. 
 
 and devices, which, no doubt, had been painted 
 by Gladys ; then a print of a " Holy Family," by 
 Raphael, and lastly, just opposite him, Ary 
 SchefFer's " Christ the Consoler." 
 
 He looked at this long and earnestly, struck 
 by the great beauty of the idea it embodied, 
 and, through the wakeful feverish night which 
 followed, the vision of the fJice of Christ and 
 the thought of the Cornish motto haunted him 
 incessantly. 
 
 The next day, the doctor not being at all 
 satisfied with his patient's state, and being 
 besides anxious to learn the reasons of his 
 poverty, induced him to speak of his past 
 life. 
 
 "You are not nearly so strong-looking as 
 when I saw you last," he began, drawing a 
 chair up to the bedside. " Tell me what you 
 have been doing with yourself, and then per- 
 haps I shall understand your case better." 
 
 " It was four years ago that I saw you," re- 
 plied Donovan. " It's likely enough I should 
 be changed since then. Do you want the whole 
 story 1" 
 
 "As much as you feel inclined to tell," said 
 Dr. Tremaiu. " Both as your friend and as 
 your doctor I shall be glad to hear. After you 
 
ONE AND ALL. 245 
 
 left Porthkerran, you went to your home ia 
 Mountshire, I believe f 
 
 " Yes," said Donovan, twisting a corner of 
 the sheet as he spoke. " We went back 
 to Oakdeue, and after about two years my 
 mother married again — she married the man 
 who was my guardian, Ellis Farrant. He came 
 to my father's funeral. I daresay you remember 
 him." 
 
 Dr. Tremain tried not to show his dismay at 
 this piece of news, and Donovan continued. 
 
 " He had always hated me, and there were 
 constant quarrels between us ; the final one 
 would have come sooner if it had not been for 
 my little sister. Partly for her sake I tried to 
 behave decently to him. She died the winter 
 before last. For a little while my step-father 
 left me in peace, but directly I proposed enter- 
 ing some profession he told me I must expect 
 nothing from him. That of course led to a 
 quarrel, and in the end I was turned out upon 
 the world to get on as best I could." 
 
 " But your father's will ?" questioned Dr. 
 Tremain, trying to speak quietly. 
 
 " He left all to my mother, unconditionally, 
 and of course she could do nothing for me, even 
 if she wished to." 
 
24<) " DONOVAN. 
 
 The doctor sighed deeply, and there was a 
 very troubled look on his face as he glanced at 
 his patient. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! you have been hardly used. 
 Where did you go ?" 
 
 '' To London ; but not one of our old friends 
 would have a word to say to me, and I could 
 get nothing to do. At last I fell in Avith a man 
 named — well, never mind his name ; he has 
 been a good friend to me, even though he is a 
 professional gambler. I went into partnership 
 with him ; it was impossible to live honestly, 
 and I thought the other way would be bearable 
 enough, for I was crazy at the injustice I had 
 suffered, and hated everyone. But it didn't do. 
 I found after a time I couldn't stand it. And 
 then I went in for congestion of the lungs, that 
 was last January. As soon as might be, I went 
 abroad, but at Monaco had a relapse, which 
 kept me back for another month. A little later, 
 I found that I must break with my old friends 
 and give up the sort of life I'd been living. I 
 came back to England, and tried hard to fiLjd 
 work, and by living cheaply, managed to spin 
 out my money for a little while. I veiy nearly 
 got a place as secretary at Exeter, but the man 
 asked me point-blank what rehgious views I 
 
ONE AND ALL. 247 
 
 held, and that settled the question. I'd scarcely 
 anything left then, but I made up my mind to 
 come to Plymouth, and walked across Dart- 
 moor. There T almost came to grief in a bog 
 — it's a thousand pities I didn't quite — but Waif 
 and a good Devonshire man hauled me out. 
 The next day I came on to Plymouth, without 
 a farthing, as I told you^ and yesterday morn- 
 ing, being ill, either from the hours I spent in 
 the bog, or from the unusual bed of stones, I 
 felt only fit to crawl on to Porthkerran, hoping 
 that you might help me." 
 
 It was evidently a relief to him when he had 
 finished his story, and the doctor, who had been 
 pleased with his brief straightforward con- 
 fession on the previous night, was glad that he 
 still kept to the mere outline of his life. He 
 never alluded to those personal thoughts and 
 details which go to make up the interest of any 
 life-story, never attempted to excuse himself in 
 any way, but, with some effort, just stated the 
 main facts. 
 
 Dr. Tremain sat in silence for a few minutes. 
 That Donovan had been cruelly wronged, he 
 knew, and the mere fact of that would have 
 given him a special claim upon his love and 
 sympathy. But the thought of his life, his 
 
248 ' DONOVAN. 
 
 rebuffs, his temptations, his fall, his efforts to do 
 right, appealed even more stronglj- to the doc- 
 tor's heart. " I found I must give up the life 
 I'd been living." What struggles, what abso- 
 lute sacrifice lay within that one sentence I 
 
 While he was musing over what he had 
 heard, Donovan watched him silently. Already 
 the very deepest love for this man had sprung 
 up in his heart — a strange, dependent love, 
 which he had never before known — the love 
 which, latent in all hearts, is usually awakened 
 by the first true thought of God. A God-like 
 deed, and the love shining in a man, had now 
 touched into life this natural instinct, and Don- 
 ovan, in his pain and humiliation, was yet all 
 aglow with the strange new joy of devotion, 
 enthusiasm, reverent admiration, the echo of 
 the love first given. 
 
 The prolonged silence would have been hard 
 to bear, if he had not had the most entire yet 
 inexplicable faith in his new friend ; but as it 
 was he waited in perfect content. Presently 
 the doctor looked up with great gladness in his 
 face. 
 
 " Do you know I'm very glad you told me 
 you were coming to us." 
 
 "Why?" 'asked Donovan, a little surprised 
 
ONE AND ALL. 249 
 
 that this should be the onlj comment on his 
 story. 
 
 " Because it shows that you've pluck enough 
 to do what I fancy was very disagreeable to 
 your pride." 
 
 " I don't know," said Donovan. " I suppose 
 it was partly being so done up, but I didn't 
 think about minding the asking a favour. I 
 only felt need of you, and dread thai I should 
 never be able to get to Porthkerran." 
 
 " I can't imagine how you ever did get here," 
 said the doctor, who knew that the walk would 
 have been simply impossible to most people 
 under the same circumstances. " I'm afraid 
 you've been very rash in your self-management 
 for some time past, and that is the reason you 
 are suffering so much from your exposure. 
 After two such illnesses as you described to 
 me, a man needs some care for the next few 
 months, at least. Did you take any care of 
 yourself, or — mind, I only ask as a doctor — did 
 you stay on at Monaco, ruining your health by 
 excitement at the casino?" 
 
 " I only went to Monte Carlo once," replied 
 Donovan, " and that before the relapse. Don't 
 think it was any self-denial on my part ; it was 
 simply because I lost the first time, and because 
 
250 DONOVAN. 
 
 I hated the other evils of a gambling place. 
 For the rest I was qniet enough. Since I came 
 to England, of course, I have lost ground." 
 
 " You have taken no care of yourself," said 
 the doctor. 
 
 "Life isn't worth much extra fuss," said Don- 
 ovan ; " and besides, I was too poor. Short 
 commons, no work, and intolerable dulness do 
 pull a fellow down." 
 
 "Ah, yes ; you must have felt dull when you 
 gave up gaming," said the doctor, rather wish- 
 ing to draw him out, 
 
 " Very," was the laconic answer. Then, as if 
 remembering that he had no ordinary listener, 
 he added — " It's only since then that I've had 
 the least idea how weak one's will is. It cer- 
 tainly is humbling to find that after you've re- 
 solved to do a thing it lieeds a constant struggle 
 not to give in after all." 
 
 '• What made you first think of giving it up?" 
 asked the doctor. 
 
 And Donovan then gave him an account of 
 the miserable day in Paris, when M. Berrogain 
 disappeared, and gradually Dr. Tremain realised 
 how matters stood with his guest. 
 
 He came out of Donovan's room understand- 
 ing him far better, yet feeling much more than 
 
ONE AND ALL. 251 
 
 he bad yet done the great anxiety of his own 
 position. This comparative stranger had pecu- 
 h"ar claims upon him ; he had been aware of 
 that directly he had heard his name, but now, 
 having heard the stoiy of his life, he could not 
 but feel what care and tenderness and wisdom 
 were needed in dealing with such a character. 
 Undoubtedly this great self-renunciation was a 
 turning-point in Donovan's life, this awakening 
 thought for others a sure sign of growth ; what 
 if by any ill-judged word or deed of his he 
 should be thrown back or discouraged? The 
 doctor was the most humble of men ; greatly 
 as he longed to help his guest, he trembled at 
 the immense responsibility and diflficulty, and 
 grieved over his own unfitness for the task. 
 For what was not required of him ? Donovan 
 was friendless — he must be his friend ; cheated 
 of his inheritance — he must, if possible, right 
 him ; burning with the sense of injustice — he 
 must try to influence and soften him ; and — 
 most terrible thought of all — he believed in no 
 
 God ; some one must The doctor paused 
 
 — nay, what? teach him — impossible! Argue 
 with him ? — probably useless ; love him, pray, 
 agonise for him — that he must and would do.. 
 The rest ? 
 
252 DONOVAN. 
 
 He was standing by the open door which led 
 from the house into the garden; he saw the 
 grand old cedar at the end of the lawn, stand- 
 ing up darkly against the clear sky, the acacia 
 and the beech-trees waving in the wind, the 
 standard roses laden with flowers, the glorious 
 sunshine flooding all with warmth and bright- 
 ness. He heard the singing of birds, the low 
 hum of insects, the soft breathing of the summer 
 wind among the branches. A sense of breadth 
 and fulness stole over him, it was a healthful 
 morning, and gradually Dr. Tremain felt its 
 real influence, it drew him away from the 
 thought of weakness and soul-disease to the 
 trlie health-giver. Could he doubt that through 
 all the changes and chances of Donovan's life 
 He had been leading him ? Then that strange 
 and sudden impulse to walk to Porthkerran 
 must have been part of the leading. The doctor 
 accepted the responsibility gladly now, as a 
 care doubtless, but as an honour and a joy. 
 And as the free air and light and warmth in- 
 fluenced him from without, feeling that he 
 lacked wisdom, he turned to Him who " giveth 
 to all men liberally." 
 
 While he still stood in the doorway Gladys 
 
ONE AND ALL. 255 
 
 came to him, her usually bright face a little 
 clouded. 
 
 " Oh ! I thought you had started on your 
 rounds, papa," she exclaimed, brightening at 
 once as she slipped her hand within his arm. 
 " I've come to you in a very bad temper, for 
 Aunt Margaret is here, and she is so much sur- 
 prised at your taking in Mr. Farrant." 
 
 " Why is she surprised V asked the doctor. 
 
 "Because you know so little of him. She 
 thinks it most quixotic of you. I came away 
 at last, she made me so cross." 
 
 " You and 1 believe in something better than 
 chance, don't we, Gladys*?" said the doctor. 
 "And if Donovan Farrant was sent to us, as I 
 do not doubt he was, our duty is to take care 
 that we are fit to keep him with us." 
 
 "Fit?" asked Gladys, looking puzzled. 
 
 " Gentle and patient and considerate enough 
 to draw him quite in amongst us, to make him 
 part of the home. 1 will tell you a little about 
 him, and then you'll understand me better. 
 He has had a ver}^ sad life, he doesn't believe 
 in God, partly, I can't help thinking, because he 
 has never come across real Christianity. He 
 has had great temptations, and no friends to 
 
254 DONOVAN. 
 
 help him, only companions whom at last he 
 felt obliged to leave, that he might try to keep 
 out of evil, and now he is here, ill and poor 
 and I'm afraid very miserable. I know quite 
 well that people will say, as Mrs. Causton has 
 just been saying, that it is rash and quixotic to 
 take him into one's own home, but, Gladys, I 
 trust all of you too well not to look upon you 
 as helps instead of hindrances." 
 
 " Do you know, papa, I have seen Mr, Farrant 
 before," said Gladys, when her father paused. 
 "I was sure I knew his face, and last night I 
 remembered it was when I was staying with 
 Aunt Margaret a year ago ; don't you recollect 
 that journey which auntie is always talking 
 about, when we were in a carriage with some 
 men playing cards?" 
 
 " I remember. There was only room for you, 
 and one of them got out and gave his place to 
 Mrs. Causton." - 
 
 " Yes, that was Mr. Farrant." 
 
 The doctor mused. In his worst times, then, 
 Donovan had kept a touch of chivalry, he had 
 left his favourite pastime to save a stranger 
 from a slight annoyance. 
 
 " We knew directly he was a gentleman," 
 
ONE AND ALL. 255 
 
 continued Gladys. " Yon can't think how dif- 
 ferent he looked from the men he was with. I 
 couldn't think why he belonged to them, and 
 one specially spoke so horridly to him at Loudon 
 Bridge, when we all got out, I fancy because 
 he had helped us. Why was he ever with such 
 people, papa?" 
 
 " Because no one else would have anything 
 to do with him, and because he was a great 
 card-player ; he has given it all up now." 
 
 *' Oh ! 1 am so glad !" exclaimed Gladys, 
 " for it was dreadful to watch him playing that 
 day, he looked so wonderfully taken up with it, 
 as if it were the only thing he cared for. It 
 must have been very hard to him to give it up, 
 though." 
 
 " Harder, most likely, than you or I have 
 any idea of," said the doctor, musingly. Then, 
 rousing himself, " And all this time we are 
 leaving the mother to Mrs. Causton's tender 
 mercies. I|nnst go, little girl, good-bye. That 
 story has smoothed your temper, I hope." 
 
 Gladys laughed, and ran away to give Jackie 
 his morning lessons, while Dr. Treraain made 
 his way to the breakfast-room. 
 
 He was not sorry to find Mrs. Causton on the 
 
256 DONOVAN. 
 
 point of leaving, but unfortunately his appear- 
 ance on the scene caused a repetition of all her 
 arguments. 
 
 " And do you really think it wise to take him 
 in and let him mix with your own children — a 
 perfect stranger, a man of whom you know 
 nothing but evil ?" 
 
 " On the contrary," replied the doctor, half 
 inclined to lose his temper, " I know a great 
 deal of good about him." 
 
 "But it seems so unnecessary," urged Mrs. 
 Caustou ; " no one in his circumstances could 
 object to being taken to a hospital ; and when 
 he comes out, there are plenty of societies which 
 would gladly take him in hand. There are so 
 many societies for young men, you know." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Causton " — the doctor spoke 
 almost fiercely — " what the poor fellow wants 
 is a liome, not a society ; he wants to be treated 
 as a son, not as a case. I don't mean that 
 societies are not useful enough sometimes, but 
 I do think we are too ready to shunt on to them 
 all that is not easy, self-indulgent, conventional 
 charity. Look at the good Samaritan now — 
 himself, by the way, an infidel and outcast — he 
 did things all round ; no passing on to com- 
 mittees and societies there, no holding at arm's 
 
ONE AND ALL. 257 
 
 length lest the poor fellow should stain his 
 garments. He put himself to some inconveni- 
 ence — pei'haps to some risk, and gave the 
 wounded man his own beast.*' 
 
 " Of course no one disputes that the parable 
 is a great example," said Mrs. Causton, " an 
 example that we should all copy ; but still in 
 this case " 
 
 "You would have me enact the priest and 
 Levite," interposed the doctor, " or pass on to 
 some blundering committee for probing and 
 examining and questioning a man who can 
 scarcely bear to be touched. I know quite well 
 that you would have most of the world on your 
 side, for the good Samaritan style of giving is 
 out of fashion now; we like to ride on in state 
 and fling subscriptions here and there. We 
 don't like the trouble or risk of actually dis- 
 mounting and walking on foot ; it isn't political 
 economy." 
 
 " You may be right," said Mrs. Causton, half 
 convinced; "and yet, for the sake of Gladys 
 specially, is it wise and prudent ? I don't want 
 to seem intrusive, but one cannot help seeing 
 that there are very grave objections to such an 
 intimacy for her." 
 
 No one spoke for some minutes. This view 
 
 VOL. II. S 
 
258 DONOVAN. 
 
 of the matter bad ceitaiuly not occurred to Dr. 
 Tremain, and be was bound to own that there 
 was some truth in it. Was be putting bis child 
 into a wrong position? And yet could be, for 
 the sake of a distant and merely possible con- 
 tingency, give up bis guest? .His perplexity 
 did not last long ; he was not worldly-wise, be 
 was not prudent, and, in defiance of the possible 
 ill, be held closely to the present good, trusting 
 to God, and feeling perfect confidence in Gladys. 
 He bad, moreover, with the strange insight of 
 humility, learnt enough of Donovan's real self 
 to trust in him too ; the banker had exclaimed 
 at the honour of an ex-card-sharper, the doctor 
 felt inexplicable yet entire confidence in the 
 truth of bis patient. 
 
 " Some risk and trouble and difficulty I ownc .. 
 to in the Samaritan's giving," be said at last. 
 " I do not think it a risk which one ought to 
 shrink from. ' Were you ever in the Cluny 
 Museum, Mrs. Caustou ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " I remember two very striking representa- 
 tions there of Prudence with her hands tied, 
 and Charity with open arms." 
 
 Mrs. Causton, not caring to discuss the ques- 
 
OXE AND ALL. 259 
 
 tiou any more, soon took leave. The doctor 
 was glad to be aloue with his wife. 
 
 " You have not changed your mind ?" he 
 asked. " You are willing to be the open-armed 
 Charity?" 
 
 " Yes," she replied, quietly, " I am willing." 
 But there was some effort in her voice, for she 
 thought of the possible sorrow which this charity 
 might bring to Gladys. 
 
 "Then, having made up our minds^ let us 
 live in the present, and put away from us this 
 idea, which I am half sorry has been suggested 
 at all," said the doctor. " No one will put any 
 nonsense into Gladys' head, and the friendship 
 of a good sensible girl will be a capital thing 
 for Donovan." 
 
 Mrs. Tremain looked up at her husband and 
 smiled. 
 
 "How soon you have taken that poor boy 
 into your heart of hearts ! ' Oh ! Tom, how far I 
 am behind you ; a dozen selfish considerations 
 have come into my head in the last five minutes. 
 I'm afraid I've little but pity for him." 
 
 " Then, dear, go and spend an hour in his 
 room, and I'll undertake to say that he will 
 stand second only to Dick and Jackie in your 
 heart when you come out again." 
 
 s2 
 
260 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN A HOME. 
 
 It is human character or developed humanity . . . that 
 conducts us to our notion of the Character Divine ... In 
 proportion as the mysteries of man's goodness unfold them- 
 selves to us, in that proportion do we obtain an insight into 
 God's. 
 
 Essay on Blanco White. J. D. Mozley. 
 
 But the love slid into my soul like light. 
 
 Olrig Grange. Walter C. Smith. 
 
 DONOVAN looked up with a smile of wel- 
 come as Mrs. Tremain came into the room. 
 He had been in too much pain to notice her 
 much when she had visited him earlier in the 
 mornings but now he was comparatively at 
 ease, and was lying in listless quiet with Waif 
 on the bed beside him licking his hand. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain was not fond of dogs ; she was 
 even a little afraid of them, and she had a very 
 natural feminine dislike to seeing a fox terrier 
 
IN A HOME. 261 
 
 lyiug on a clean counterpane. Donovan divined 
 this at once. 
 
 " He oughtn't to be up here, I know," he 
 began, deprecatingly, "but I can't keep him 
 down, poor fellow ! he's always miserable when 
 I'm ill, and the worst of it is he won't obey 
 orders, but thinks it his turn to be master." 
 
 "Poor dog!" said Mrs. Tremain, softening 
 towards the offender and venturing to pat him. 
 '' He does seem very unhappy about you ; it's 
 really wonderful the amount of expression 
 which a dog can put into his face." 
 
 "Yes, Waif and I can talk together quite 
 easily ; I don't know what I should have done 
 without him, specially when I was laid up ; he 
 was often the only nurse I had." 
 
 Then a question of Mrs. Tremain's led to an 
 account of his wretched winter, to a discussion 
 of illness in general, to an amusing, though to 
 Mrs. Tremain a somewhat sad description of his 
 various nurses, including poor old Mrs. Doery, 
 both in her character of guardian of the sick 
 and instructor of youth. 
 
 " I have not been used to your kind of nurs- 
 ing," he added, after a pause ; " you must 
 remember that, and not let me take up your 
 time ; I am afraid this dependence will unjQt me 
 
262 DONOVAN. 
 
 for the tussle with the world which I must go 
 back to as soon as my ankle is all right." 
 
 "You can hardly help being dependent when 
 you can't move," said Mrs. Tremain, smiling. 
 
 " No, but it's a training in patience to be 
 helpless and to submit to being muddled, 
 whereas to lie still and be spoilt, humoured, 
 waited on, and amused must surely be demoral- 
 ising, too pleasant and unusual to fit one for 
 another plunge into the prickles of life." 
 
 " Only that life, however hard, canH be all 
 prickles," said Mrs. Tremain. " Don't you think 
 a little spoiling, as you call it, is everyone's due 
 at one time or another? From your own 
 account you have had to ' rough it ' a good 
 deal, and this perhaps is your time for trying 
 dependence without all the discomforts you 
 now associate with it. Besides, I daresay you 
 have had your share of waiting on other people, 
 and know that -it is the pleasantest work in the 
 world." 
 
 Donovan's face changed, and for some minutes 
 he did not speak. Mrs. Tremain saw that her 
 words must have called up some painful remem- 
 brance, and Waif too understood perfectly, for 
 he sprang ap with his peculiar low whine and 
 began to lick his master's face. What could it 
 
IN A HOME. 263 
 
 beV What painful chord had she unknowingly- 
 touched ? 
 
 A violent start from Donovan caused Waif to 
 jump down from the pillow, and Mrs. Tremain 
 to return from her musing. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 "I fancied I heard a little child's voice," he 
 said, rather faintly. 
 
 " I expect it is Nesta ; she is playing in the 
 garden," said Mrs. Tremain. 
 
 He did not answer for some minutes, but lay 
 with closed eyes and a strangely rigid face, the 
 only movement being in the hand Waif was 
 licking, which was clenched and unclenched 
 convulsively. At last, shifting his position a 
 little, he looked up again and said, hurriedly, 
 
 " Will you let me see her 1 I am very fond 
 of children." 
 
 His voice more than anything told of the 
 severe struggle he had passed through, but, 
 though Mrs. Tremain doubted whether he were 
 fit for it, she did not like to refuse his request. 
 She went to the French window and called the 
 little girl from the lawn. 
 
 Four-year-old Nesta came trotting in glee- 
 fully, her little rosy face shaded by a white 
 sun hat, her pinafore full of daisies. 
 
264 ■ DONOVAN. 
 
 " This is your youngest nurse," said Mrs. 
 Tremain, leading her up to the bed. 
 
 Nesta loolved half timidly at the invalid 
 visitor whom she had heard of; but the moment 
 she caught sight of Waif, all her shyness 
 vanished, and she fairly clapped her hands. 
 
 " Oh ! mother, mother, what a dear little dog ! 
 Is he doin' to stay ?" 
 
 " Yes, he has come for a long visit," said Mrs. 
 Tremain, lifting her up to the pillow beside 
 Donovan at his special request. Waif allowed 
 himself to be patted and caressed, and played 
 at " trust and paid for " obediently, but he was 
 too low-spirited about his master to show him- 
 self off well, and soon crept away from the little 
 girl to the other side of the bed, where he lay 
 with his sad brown eyes fixed on the invalid. 
 
 Then Nesta turned her attention to the new 
 visitor, her shyness speedily passing off. 
 
 " How drave you look !" she exclaimed, after 
 scrutinizing his face for a minute or two. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain and Donovan both laughed, 
 and then the daisies tumbled out of the pina- 
 fore, and Nesta, being reminded by the sight of 
 them of daisy-chains which were to have been 
 made, set to work busily, chattering in her 
 quaint unrestrained way meanwhile. 
 
IN A HOME. 265 
 
 Donovan had won her heart — as he invariably 
 did win the hearts of little children — and the 
 daisy-chain which was to have been for the 
 favourite doll was now destined for him. 
 
 " It will look very pretty, you know, on your 
 white night-down," she said, with her irresistible 
 baby laugh. 
 
 Presently, with a puzzled face, came one of 
 her abrupt questions. 
 
 "What's 'on name?" 
 
 But Donovan did not hear, for he was look- 
 ing abstractedly at her bright eyes, trying to 
 see in them some likeness to Dot. And they 
 w^ere a little like, for, although grey, they were 
 in a transition state, and there was a peculiar 
 shade of brown in the iris which somehow made 
 them like Dot's clear hazel. Moreover, they 
 had in them the same innocence, and even in a 
 slight degree the same look of heaven-taught 
 love. 
 
 She repeated her question imperatively. 
 
 " What's 'ou name f ' 
 
 He came back to the present with an effort, 
 and answered, gravely, but gently, 
 
 " You must call me Dono." 
 
 Nesta softly repeated the unusual name, 
 lingering over it half doubtfully. 
 
266 DONOVAN. 
 
 " Don — 0, Mr. Douo." 
 
 It was the first time he had heard his child- 
 name since little Dot's death. He caught Nesta 
 in his arms and kissed her passionately. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh !" shrieked Nesta, thinking it 
 the beginning of a game. "■ The drate bear's 
 dot me ; he's doin' to eat me." 
 
 "Not too noisy, mj^ little girl," said Mrs. 
 Tremain, lifting her away. Then, noticing the 
 deathly paleness of Donovan's face, she hasten- 
 ed to add, " I think Mr. Dono has had enough 
 of you to-day. Mother will take you into the 
 garden." 
 
 '" Dood-bye, Mr, Dono, dood-bye," said Nesta, 
 as she was carried off: but he did not answer. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain was a few minutes out of the 
 room ; when she came back she found Waif in 
 great distress, for what had come to his master 
 he did not know. Donovan had buried his 
 face in the pillow, and, almost for the first time 
 in his life, was crying like a child. 
 
 Four years ago Mrs. Tremain had had all her 
 sympathy called out for the reserved wn- 
 demonstrative stranger whom she had visited 
 in his bereavement ; love and tact had given 
 her power then, they gave her power now. She 
 listened as only a mother could have listened to 
 
IN A HOME. 267 
 
 the story of little Dot, gently drawing Donovan 
 on by her perfect sympathy, until there was 
 little that she did not know of those past times. 
 How it all began, how it was possible for her to 
 win him to speak the name that for months had 
 not passed his lips, cannot be written or ex- 
 plained here. But those who have known a 
 real mother will understand at once, and those 
 who deem it impossible must be " Donovans " 
 themselves, to whom sooner or later like sym- 
 pathy will be given if it is needed. 
 
 And yet, in spite of Mrs. Tremaiu's present 
 feelings, she had at first not been without a 
 certain shrinking from Donovan — from close 
 knowledge of a professed atheist. Away from 
 him this shrinking had increased. It was not 
 ■until she was brought face to face with his 
 individuality, till he was essentially Donovan to 
 her, not merely a strange visitor, that it was 
 possible for love to take its right place. But 
 her husband's prophecy was true, and before 
 the day was over she had quite taken the 
 invalid guest into her mother's heart, and only 
 loved him better for his poverty of soul and 
 body. 
 
 Class judgment, sweeping condemnation, are 
 for the world, — its ways of dealing with its out- 
 
268 DONOVAN. 
 
 casts ; and though the ways are neither good 
 for condemners nor condemned, they will pro- 
 bably last through this age. But there are a 
 few people who are bold enough to defy the 
 world's opinion, and to set at naught the world's 
 ways, because they have the way of Christ 
 ever before them, because they love the ignor- 
 ant and sinning first, and by reason of that 
 love hate only the ignorance and sin that have 
 led them astray. 
 
 Even gentle and loving Mrs. Tremain had 
 hitherto gone with the world in thinking of 
 atheists as a class to be shunned and avoided, 
 rather than as so many members of the great 
 human brotherhood who had fallen into a griev- 
 ous mistake, and to whom all possible justice, 
 and love, and brotherliness must be shown. 
 Mrs. Causton, good as she was, still failed to 
 see the need of this. 
 
 " If a man voluntarily cuts himself off from 
 religion, how is it possible to treat him as a 
 brother ?" she argued. 
 
 Mrs. Tremain, being but newly persuaded 
 herself of the possibility, did not answer, but 
 looked to her husband. 
 
 And the doctor answered in his quiet way : 
 
 " I never could see the diflSculty of that ; for 
 
IN A HOME. 269 
 
 the Fatherhood of God seems to me to answer 
 it all. Universal fatherhood causes universal 
 brotherhood, and the one is as really unalter- 
 able as the other. That we do not see it to be 
 so is surely our own fault. As a rule, though, ' 
 it is only those who believe that God ever ' gives 
 up ' souls, who treat men as outcasts. They 
 are quite logical in doing so. But, once believe 
 that ' lost ' means ' not found yet,' that the 
 Good Shepherd seeks the sheep ' until He finds 
 it/ that the Fatherhood is for ever and ever — 
 and then the fact that your brother is mistaken 
 will only make you love him^ and try to show 
 your love to him the more." 
 
 Mrs. Causton was silent, for Dr. Tremaiu had 
 touched on a subject upon which they had long 
 ago agreed to differ. She knew she was one of 
 the " logical " people, and yet, in her heart, she 
 half inclined to the doctor's loving breadth. She 
 also began to revolve in her mind schemes for 
 "converting" the stranger. 
 
 Meanwhile, apart from all discussions, and 
 shielded from Mrs. Causton's well-meaning but 
 somewhat mistaken schemes by his continued 
 imprisonment, Donovan spent the most peace- 
 ful week of his life. There was something in- 
 describably restful in the atmosphere of Tre- 
 
270 DOXOVAN. 
 
 nant, a refinement about the daily small-talk, 
 an entire absence of that perpetual sitting in 
 judgment on neighbours and acquaintances, 
 which goes far to make the conversation in 
 many families, a peculiar quickness and readi- 
 ness to perceive humour, and a perfect under- 
 standing of that delicious family teazing which 
 is certainly the salt of home life. Though pre- 
 vented by his invalidism from coming into the 
 very centre of all this, Donovan yet felt much 
 of it in his sick-room. Of Gladys he saw little, 
 but Mrs. Tremain was constantly with him. 
 Jackie and Nesta were always ready to enliven 
 him when he grew dull, and the doctor gave 
 him all his spare time, bringing his microscope, 
 or his fossils for arranging and sorting, or any 
 of his hundred and one naturalist hobbies, and 
 turning the sick-room into something between 
 a museum and an untidy workshop. 
 
 Donovan's love deepened day by day, he 
 could have lain in contented silence for hours, just 
 watching the doctor at his work, and though 
 they generally had plenty of animated talk 
 together, it was no necessity to him. The 
 delight of knowing any man whom he could 
 absolutely and unreservedly trust was in itself 
 absorbing, and there was much besides. Mrs. 
 
IN A HOME. 271 
 
 Tremaiu, whom he admired and loved scarcely 
 less, aud to whom he talked more, influenced 
 him in a way quite as much as her husband. 
 Having once spoken to her of Dot, he now 
 continually returned to the subject, for he felt 
 there was not the danger in thinking of the 
 past that there had once been, and daring to 
 let it all come back to him, he was able to re- 
 alise that memory is indeed a priceless pos- 
 session. Then, too, in this week there came to 
 him, almost for the first time, a flickering shadow 
 of doubt in one of his most positive convictions. 
 He had looked on Christianity as a creed which 
 could not be connected with any practical kind- 
 liness of life; it had seemed to him merely a 
 sort of sauve qui pent. Now at Trenant there 
 was none of the conventional religion to which 
 he was only too well accustomed, but he found 
 himself constantly reminded, in the small con- 
 cerns of daily life, of that historical Christ for 
 whose character he had conceived the greatest 
 admiration. Little or nothing was said, but 
 Donovan felt that he was in a perfectly new 
 atmosphere. Whether these Tremains were 
 living under a delusion, of course he could not 
 say ; he did not wish even to think just now. 
 Strange, dreamy, delicious days ! often after- 
 
272 DONOVAN. 
 
 wards in the heat and struggle of life he looked 
 back to them, and always associated with them 
 in his mind were snatches of "In Memoriam," 
 which, in spite of his assurances of an utterly 
 unpoetical temperament, Mrs. Tremain read to 
 him. He had spoken quite truly, there were 
 very few poems which could touch him, but 
 the " living poem " of childhood, and this one 
 great song of immortality, took possession of 
 his very being. The thin green volume was 
 always near his bed — he soon knew most of it 
 by heart. 
 
 Meanwhile, Dr. Tremain, seeing that his 
 patient grew stronger in body and evidently 
 happier in mind, began to dread more and 
 more the broaching of that distasteful subject 
 which was constantly in his thoughts. He 
 was of course, however, too wise and too true a 
 friend to put it off long ; and at the end of the 
 week, when his patient was well enough to be 
 moved to a sofa and be wheeled into the break- 
 fast-room, he made an opportunity for the 
 private talk which must reveal to Donovan all. 
 his step-father's treachery. 
 
 The sofa had been placed by the open win- 
 dow, and Donovan was enjoying, as only an 
 invalid can enjoy, the delights of a thorough 
 
IX A HOME. 273 
 
 change ; his face was particularly bright and 
 contented when Dr. Tremain came in from his 
 afternoon visits in Porthkerran, with his mind 
 made up to his disagreeable task ; it was 
 therefore all the harder to speak, but the doc- 
 tor knew he had no right to dehij any longer, 
 and sitting down near his guest he began with 
 but little preamble. 
 
 "Are you up to a business talk this after- 
 noon ? If so, I want to speak to you about a 
 matter which has been troubling me very much 
 for the last week — since the night you came, 
 in fact." 
 
 " A talk about your business, I suppose/' said 
 Donovan, " for I, as I told you, am simply 
 penniless, so my affairs don't admit of much 
 discussion." 
 
 " You are mistaken," said the doctor. "You 
 ought not to be penniless, and it is solely with 
 regard to your affairs that I have been so trou- 
 bled. I should have spoken to you before, but 
 I waited till you were stronger." 
 
 Donovan looked perplexed ; the doctor con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "You told me the other day that your 
 father's will left everything, unconditionally, 
 to your mother, did you not?" 
 
 VOL. II. T 
 
274 DONOVAN. 
 
 "Certainly, or else I could not be in ray- 
 present straits." 
 
 " And you ought not to be/' said the doctor, 
 unable to speak as quietly as he wished. 
 " Donovan, before Colonel Farrant's death he 
 made and I witnessed another will, by which 
 the property was left to you, your mother of 
 
 course being ■" 
 
 His sentence was never finished, for Donovan 
 started up, his face white and set, but with a 
 sort of fierce light about it. 
 
 " Whati" he gasped, "that villain destroyed 
 it, then! Tell me more — quickly — who wit- 
 nessed it ? when was it made ? — I recollect 
 nothing. Are you sure — sure ?" 
 
 " That it was legally correct, I am certain," 
 said the doctor ; " but do try to quiet yourself 
 or I shall never be able to explain it to you." 
 
 " I am quiet/' said Donovan, lying back again 
 with a marble face. " Go on, please ; only let 
 me hear all — and I'll not interrupt.'" 
 
 " The afternoon your father died," resumed 
 the doctor, " I came, as you know, about three 
 o'clock to visit him. He was very much wor- 
 ried, for Mr. Turner the lawyer, whom he 
 specially wished to see, was away, and he told 
 me that knowing his danger, that he might 
 
IN A HOME. 275 
 
 really die at any minute, he was anxious to 
 make his will at once, so that all might be left 
 straight for you. He explained to me that his 
 former will had been made just after his mar- 
 riage, and that he thought it wiser to make a 
 fresh one. Of course worry was the Yerj worst 
 thing for him, and, in order that he might be 
 at rest about it, I suggested that he should 
 make his own will temporarily, till a lawyer 
 was at hand, and that seemed to relieve him at 
 once. Do you remember that I came to the 
 head of the stairs and called you ?" 
 
 " Perfectly," replied Donovan, speaking with 
 diflSculty. " You asked for a sheet of writing- 
 paper. I brought it to you." 
 
 " Yes, and on that paper, at Colonel Farrant's 
 direction, I wrote words to the effect that he 
 desired to bequeath all his property to you. 
 That an ample allowance — I cannot recall the 
 exact amount — was to be made to Mrs. Farraut, 
 and that Mr. Ellis Farrant was to be the sole 
 executor. I remember he hesitated some time 
 about that, and tried to think of some one else 
 who could also be executor ; he said that the 
 second named in his former will had lately died. 
 Thinking it, however, only a temporary thing, 
 he left Mr. Ellis Farrant's name alone." 
 
 t2 
 
276 DONOVAN. 
 
 " The witnesses ?" asked Donovan. 
 
 "Myself and a servant, Mary Pengelly, who 
 is dead " 
 
 " Dead !" he exclaimed, a dark shade passing 
 over his face. " Then it's all up with me ; the 
 will can't be proved." 
 
 " I half fear not," said the doctor, " though it 
 seems not so impossible as I at first thought. 
 Directly I learnt your name and saw what must 
 have happened I wrote to a solicitor I know in 
 town, and gave him all the circumstances — of 
 course, without names. He allowed that a case 
 might be made for you — such a thing has been 
 done before now. Your recollection of having 
 fetched the sheet of paper might go for some- 
 thing, but the cost of a lawsuit would be enor- 
 mous, and the result, of course, doubtful. I 
 blame myself very much now for not having 
 taken steps to see that the will was proved. A 
 year or two afterwards, when we were in town, 
 1 did half think of it when I happened to pass 
 Somerset House ; but some chance meeting 
 prevented me. If I had only had more insight,! 
 But I never dreamt of suspecting treachery in 
 Mr. Farrant." 
 
 "No, he is too bland, too clever, too consum- 
 
IN A HOME. 277 
 
 mate a hypocrite !" replied Donovan, bitterly. 
 " No one suspects him. He took the will from 
 yon^ I suppose, and showed all proper feeling, 
 and none of his blackguardism." 
 
 " I gave him the will directly after your 
 father's funeral. He took it quite unconcerned- 
 ly ; I noticed nothing the least remarkable in 
 his manner. If only some one else had been 
 present ! If only I'd had the sense to be more 
 cautious !" 
 
 "Don't blame yourself," said Donovan, his 
 face softening at once. " That would be just 
 the one thing I couldn't bear. It was no 
 manner of fault of yours ; if it had been, it 
 would be easy to put up with — I could endure 
 anything from you. But that traitor, that 
 villain, who all the time is looking as smug 
 and proper as can be, who gives my money to 
 charities, who makes merry in my house, who 
 goes to church and calls himself a " miserable 
 sinner," and asks for mercy that he may go on 
 comfortably ! How can you expect me to 
 think religion anything but a miserable sham, 
 the vei'iest farce ?" 
 
 There was a minute's silence when he paused, 
 and, before the doctor had ventured any answer 
 
278 DONOVAN. 
 
 to this very natural outburst, the door opened^ 
 and Gladys came in, her hands full of blush- 
 roses and seringa. 
 
 " I have brought you some flowers," she said, 
 crossing the room to the sofa. " You must not 
 be cheated of your daily nosegay because you 
 are getting better." 
 
 Nothing could have quieted Donovan so effec- 
 tually as this interruption ; he watched in silence 
 while Gladys arranged the flowers. "Very pure 
 and fresh and flower-like she looked herself; 
 she fascinated him utterly. 
 
 When she left the room again he was the 
 first to speak. 
 
 "Forgive me for what I said just now," he 
 began, looking at the doctor with the light of 
 indignation in his eyes softened down to sad- 
 ness. " I was very wrong to mock at the re- 
 ligion you believe in. This last week you have 
 almost made me think there may, after all, be 
 such a thing as Christianity, I believe for you, 
 at any rate, there is such a thing. But the 
 thought of Ellis Farrant made me mad ! You 
 must remember it is only that kind of religion I 
 have met with till now — that injustice and 
 loathing and discourtesy are, with scarcely an 
 
IN A HOME. 279 
 
 exception, all that I've received from religious 
 people." 
 
 " God forgive them !" exclaimed the doctor. 
 Then, after a pause, " But what I can't under- 
 stand is the systematic way in which Mr. 
 Farrant must have managed everything. A 
 sudden act of passion I can understand, but 
 deliberately to plan and calculate another's 
 ruin " 
 
 Donovan's face suddenly crimsoned. 
 
 " Stop !" he cried " Don't say you can't 
 have pity on such meanness. Remember what 
 I used to be !" 
 
 " Your circumstances go far to excuse you," 
 were the words which trembled on the doctor's 
 lips, but he wisely kept them back, and did not 
 break in upon the perfectly natural and right 
 shame by any speech. Instead he just put his 
 strong, firm hand on Donovan's. 
 
 After a long silence Donovan looked up once 
 more. He seemed to have mastered the situa- 
 tion now, all indignation and agitation of 
 manner had left him^ and Dr. Tremain was 
 struck by the sense and coolness with which he 
 spoke. 
 
 " The next thing to be thought of is, what 
 
280 DONOVAN. 
 
 can we do ? A lawsuit seems out of the ques- 
 tion, but I don't think that for that reason I 
 need sit still and do nothint^ to right myself. 
 Shall I send a letter to Ellis Farrant, and just 
 tell him that I have learnt all from you'?" 
 
 " I think, if you don't object/' said the doctor, 
 " it would be much better for me to go to Oak- 
 dene Manor and see Mr. Farrant. A letter can 
 be simply ignored, but if I can once see him I 
 shall at least get some definite answer from 
 him. Will you consent to that ?" 
 
 " It would of course be the best chance for 
 me," said Donovan. "Only I can't endure that 
 you should have the trouble and annoyance." 
 
 " You think it is all like a game of ' neigh- 
 bour, I'm come to torment you,' " replied the 
 doctor, laughing. " You having come to me, 
 and I being on my way to Mr. Ellis Farrant!" 
 
 " Well, I've given you nothing but trouble 
 yet/' said Donovan. "And this horrid business 
 will hinder you and take you away from home." 
 
 ''My dear Donovan," said the doctor, still 
 laughing, "you are so exceedingly unlikely 
 ever to be a busybody that I'll venture to give 
 you f^ls /'maxim', ' Thy business is mine, and 
 mine thinej-4f there's the ghost of a chance that 
 we can either of us help the other.' Besides, 
 
IN A HOME. 281 
 
 Lave I not told you that we don't allow units 
 in Cornwall ? We're a joint-stock company, 
 and as long as you are here 3'ou must put up 
 with all the seeming eccentricities of the ' one 
 and all ' system." 
 
 The doctor being pretty free that week, it 
 was arranged that he should go to Greyshot 
 the following day, in the hope of getting an 
 interview with Ellis Farrant. As soon as all 
 was settled he left the room to speak to his 
 wife, and to make arrangements for his absence, 
 while Donovan lay in what seemed almost 
 strange calmness. 
 
 He had learnt that the Manor was his by 
 right, that there was but a small chance of his 
 getting it; he had also learnt that his step- 
 father's injustice had been far greater than he 
 had hitherto imagined ; but then the repentance 
 for his own past was growing more real and 
 strong each day, and his belief in goodness and 
 purity and love was struggling into life — his 
 patience was perhaps, after all, not so strange ! 
 
 In the midst of this home, with its love, and 
 peace, and breadth of sympathy, his frozen 
 heart was expanding. That very afternoon he 
 had taken the first step towards forgiveness, he 
 had placed himself on a level with his step- 
 
282 DONOVAN. 
 
 father, bad not sbruuk from admitting that 
 he too had offended in much the same way. 
 And strong in his possession of love — this new 
 strange family love — he waited for what the 
 future should bring, while in the present all 
 went on quietly, the very sounds of life seeming 
 full of peace. The gardener mowing the lawn, 
 the birds singing iu the shrubbery, the children 
 laughing at their play, and from the next room 
 Gladys' voice singing as she worked; he did 
 not know her song, but the refrain reached him 
 through the open window. 
 
 "And truth tlieo shall deliver, 
 It is no drede !" 
 
283 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OAKDENE MANOR, 
 
 Oh, righteous doom, that they who make 
 
 Pleasure their only end, 
 Ordering the whole life for its sake, 
 
 Miss that whereto they tend. 
 
 While they who bid stern duty lead, 
 
 Content to follow, they. 
 Of duty only taking heed. 
 
 Find pleasure by the way. 
 
 Archbishop Teench. 
 
 FOR. more than a year Ellis Farrant had 
 reigned supreme at Oakdene Manor^ but, 
 ia spite of every effort to enjoy himself and 
 stifle his conscience, he had been exceedingly 
 miserable. In the winter after Mrs. Doery's 
 return from nursing Donovan, he worked him- 
 self lip into such a state of nervous terror that, 
 had he possessed a trifle more resolution, he 
 would probably have confessed his crime and 
 sought Donovan out at Monaco. But he was 
 
284 DONOVAN. 
 
 weak, deplorably weak, and so be lived on at 
 the Manor, a misery to himself and to everyone 
 else. He interrogated the housekeeper closely 
 as to his step-son's means of living, asked her 
 endless questions about him, and received 
 somewhat curt answers, for Doery felt bound 
 to take the part of her ue'er-do-weel. More- 
 over she brought him back all the money which 
 he had given her to use for the invalid, with an 
 assurance that Mr. Donovan would not touch it, 
 had been very angry with her for trying to 
 persuade him to pay the doctor's bill with it, 
 and had said that Mr. Farrant must salve his 
 conscience in some other way. 
 
 Poor Ellis ! it really had relieved liim a little 
 to send those two ten-pound notes to his 
 victim, and to have them thrown back in his 
 face seemed hard ; they made him feel uncom- 
 fortable for days. At last he put them in the 
 church plate and. was at ease again. 
 
 But his remorse having only reached the 
 stage of desiring the personal comfort of resti- 
 tution, it was scarcely wonderful that when a 
 chance of honest confession was given him he 
 rejected it. He cared nothing for Donovan, he 
 only wanted. to enjoy the sense of innocence 
 again, to escape from the horrible dread of 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 285 
 
 future punishment which perpetually haunted 
 his poor, selfish soul. Naturally enough remorse 
 on such a basis was like the house built upon 
 the sand, and when, one afternoon in July, a 
 card was brought into the smoking-room bear- 
 ing the words — "Dr. Tremain, Trenant, Porth- 
 kerran," Ellis, half crazy with terror, was driven 
 to take refuge in cunning. 
 
 The doctor meanwhile waited in the drawing- 
 room, involuntarily taking stock of this place 
 which by right belonged to his patient, and 
 struggling to keep his indignation within 
 bounds, that he might be cool enough for the 
 coming interview. But he was not at all pre- 
 pared for the manner of his reception. 
 
 The door opened, the master of the house 
 came forward with outstretched hand, an easy- 
 mannered country gentleman, full of genial 
 hospitality ; this was the character which Ellis 
 desired to assume, and he acted his part splen- 
 didly. 
 
 " I think I have had the pleasure of meeting 
 you before, Dr. Tremain," he said, in a hearty 
 voice. " Delighted to see you, sir ; I assure 
 you we have none of us forgotten your courtesy 
 at the time of my poor cousin's death. Are you 
 staying in the neighbourhood?" 
 
286 BONO VAX. 
 
 "I came solely for the purpose of seeing' you," 
 said the doctor, gravely. "Mr. Farrant, you 
 seem to have some remembrance of our meet- 
 ing at Porthkerran, after Colonel Farrant's 
 death. Excuse the seeming impertinence, but 
 have you no remembrance of the Colonel's will 
 which I then placed in your hands 1" 
 
 There was not a trace, not the smallest sign 
 of guilt in Ellis's face. He raised his eyebrows, 
 and for a moment stared blankly at the doctor. 
 
 'f My good sir, I am quite ready to excuse all 
 seeming impertinence, but I am utterly at a 
 loss to understand your meaning." 
 
 "Your memory must be capricious," said the 
 doctor. " Do you recollect your cousin's 
 funeral?" 
 
 "Certainly," replied Ellis, with all due dignity. 
 
 " Do you recollect that, after the funeral, we 
 returned to the inn, and that I then gave you a 
 sheet of paper, on which Colonel Farrant had 
 made his will, under circumstances which I 
 described to you V 
 
 A light as of dawning perception began to 
 steal over Ellis's face. 
 
 "Ah! now I know to what you refer!" he 
 exclaimed. " Forgive my apparent forgetful- 
 ness. I assure you it was not forgetfulness of 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 287 
 
 your services, but merely of the business trans- 
 action. Yes, I remember perfectly now. It 
 was a codicil, which, I believe, you yourself 
 witnessed, and in which my cousin left a legacy 
 to a comrade of his out in India." 
 
 '■Mr. Farrant, seeing that I wrote the will 
 from the (Colonel's dictation, you must at once 
 see that it is useless to evade the truth in this 
 way," said Dr. Tremain, controlling his temper 
 with difSculty; " The will directed that this 
 property should be bequeathed to Donovan Far- 
 rant, the Colonel's only son ; and I am here to- 
 day to demand of you why he is not in posses- 
 sion of it." 
 
 "My dear sir, you are labouring under a 
 most extraordinary delusion," said EUis, with a 
 smile. " You are most entirely mistaken. But,_ 
 putting that aside, I really may have the right 
 to ask why you intrude into my personal con- 
 cerns. You are almost a stranger to me, and, 
 though I shall be delighted to show you any 
 hospitality in my power, yet, sir, I think you 
 must allow that to establish an inquisition with 
 regard to my private affairs, is, to say the least 
 of it, unusual. As the proverb has it, you 
 know, 'An Englishman's house is his castle,' 
 and though " 
 
288 DONOVAN. 
 
 "If it were your house," interrupted the doc- 
 tor, "I should not have intruded myself upon 
 you, but I come now as the representative of 
 the right owner, who lies ill at my own home." 
 
 " Oh I the mystery begins to explain itself 
 then," said Ellis. "I am exceedingly sorry for 
 you, Dr. Tremain, but I see now that you have 
 been imposed upon by that miserable step-sou 
 of mine. I suppose Donovan has been fabricat- 
 ing this tale ? He is a very clever fellow, and 
 no doubt his story was plausible enough." 
 
 "You know perfectly well, Mr. Fai*rant, that 
 Donovan was utterly ignorant of the true facts 
 of the case, and that it was he who learnt them 
 from me. not 1 from him. Since, however, you 
 so wilfully refuse to acknowledge what you 
 must be aware 1 know perfectly well, may I 
 ask you to produce this codicil which you speak 
 of, or to prove to me that this legacy was ever 
 paid." 
 
 '• It never was paid," said Ellis, coolly. " I 
 was, as you remember, named as sole executor, 
 and of course put myself at once in communica- 
 tion with this Indian friend. I can't even recall 
 the fellow's name now. Perhaps you can, hav- 
 ing written the codicil. But, poor man, he died 
 of cholera a week before the Colonel's death. 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 289 
 
 The codicil was of course worthless theu, aud 
 was, 1 believe, destroyed. So you see I cannot 
 offer you more proof. Now, if you will excuse 
 me, where is the proof of your assertion? 
 Where is your second witness ?" 
 
 " Tlie second witness of Colonel Farrant's 
 will — Mary Peugelly — is dead," said the doctor ; 
 " otherwise, of course, legal proceedings would 
 have been taken against you." 
 
 Ellis, immensely relieved, burst out laughing. 
 
 "Ton my word, Dr. Tremain, this really is a 
 most ridiculous affair. You, with no manner of 
 proof, expect me to believe your assertion, and 
 I am in the unfortuiiate dilemma of having no- 
 thing to convince you of my assertion. We 
 might go on arguing till Doomsday, and be no 
 nearer any agreement." 
 
 " Yes, I see perfectly well that discussion is 
 useless," said the doctor, very gravely, "^ but it 
 was my duty to let you know that your doings 
 were discovered. It is also my duty to tell you 
 that Donovan is utterly destitute, and that if 
 something is not " 
 
 He was interrupted by a fresh voice. 
 
 " Who is speaking of Donovan?" exclaimed 
 Adela Farrant, suddenly appearing at the open 
 window. She was in her shady hat and 
 
 VOL. II. U 
 
290 DONOVAN. 
 
 gardening gloves, and in passing along the 
 terrace she had caught the name which during 
 the last year had passed into silence like that 
 of little Dot. 
 
 " This gentleman has come to see me on 
 business, Adela; I must beg that you do not 
 interrupt us," said Ellis, half forgetting his role. 
 But Adela was not to be sent away like a child, 
 and her brother's words only made her the 
 more sure that the strange gentleman had 
 brought news of Donovan. 
 
 " How is ni}'- cousin Donovan ?" she asked, 
 boldly, turning to Dr. Tremain. "I am sure I 
 heai'd you speaking of him." 
 
 " Yes, you are quite right," replied Dr. 
 Tremain, rising from his seat. " I was telling 
 Mr. Farrant that Donovan is now staying with 
 me at Porthkerran, that he is utterly without 
 means of subsistence, and that he has had a 
 hard struggle -to live honestly; he would have 
 got on well enough if his health had not given 
 way. I have been urging Mr. Farrant to be 
 just to him ; but I fear with little success," 
 
 " Wait a minute," said Adela, with her usual 
 prompt decision ; " wait just one minute." She 
 hurried aci'oss the room to the window, and 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 291 
 
 called, clearly and iinhesitatiugly, "Nora I 
 Nora !" 
 
 " I do wish, Adela, you would be more care- 
 ful 1" exclaimed Ellis. " It will agitate Nora 
 dreadfully to hear about Donovan." 
 
 " Let it," said Adela, scornfully. " She ought 
 to be agitated," 
 
 " I shall not attempt to resume our dis- 
 cussion," said Dr. Treraain, coldly, when Adela 
 went out on to the terrace to meet Mrs. 
 Farrant. " Only I hope you understand the 
 awful responsibility which you incur." 
 
 Ellis would have replied, but at that minute 
 Adela returned with her sister-in-law. 
 
 Time had dealt kindly with Mrs. Farrant, 
 she was still pretty, languid, gentle, and lady- 
 like ; but there was a shade of sadness in her 
 face now which had never been seen in past 
 days. Considering the unusual circumstances, 
 her manner was marvellously composed, how- 
 ever, as she gave her hand to the doctor. 
 
 "Miss Farrant tells me you have news of my 
 son," she said, in her calm voice. " I hope he is 
 well f 
 
 Dr. Tremain was so annoyed at the apparent 
 want of feeling that he answered, almost 
 sharply, 
 
292 DONOVAN. 
 
 " No, madam, he is anything but well ; twice 
 this year he has been at death's door. He came 
 to me a week ago penniless and half starving." 
 
 The next minute he almost regretted that he 
 had spoken with such impetuosity, for he saw 
 that after all she had something of a mother's 
 heart hidden away in folds upon folds of self- 
 love. Her eyes dilated. 
 
 " No, no !" she cried. " You must be mis- 
 taken ; it surely can't be my son ! Donovan ill 
 — Donovan starving ! Oh ! Ellis, you must have 
 pity on him — you must help him !" 
 
 " My dear Nora, I have offered to help him 
 before now, and he flung the money back in my 
 face," said Ellis. 
 
 " You must remember that in the last week 
 his position towards you is changed^" said Dr» 
 Tremain. " That you can leave him in his 
 present straits without help I simply will not 
 believe." 
 
 Mrs. Farrant began to question the doctor 
 about her son^ss illness, allowing more and more 
 of her real love to come to the surface, while 
 Adela went over to her brother and began to 
 remonstrate with him. 
 
 " Now, Ellis, do this boy justice, and make 
 him a proper yearly allowance/' she urged. 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 293 
 
 *' Give bim bis £300 a j^ear, aud perbaps in 
 time I may come to respect you again. You 
 can't say now tbat you sent bim ofi in a sudden 
 fit of passion, for bere is a cbance for you to 
 set all rigbt, and, if you don't take it, you'll be 
 tbe most mean-spirited of mortals." 
 
 Ellis smiled a grey smile. How little Adela 
 knew wbat setting all rigbt would involve ! 
 However, be would do sometbing for bis step- 
 son, only^not too mucb, for be bad a selfisb 
 dread lest Donovan migbt possibly use tbe 
 money against bim, be tempted to go to law 
 about tbis will, or in some way make life un- 
 comfortable to bim. So witb pitiable meanness 
 be scoffed at Adela's £300, and wrote instead 
 an agreement by wbicb be bound bimself to pay 
 to bis step-son £50 balf-yearly. 
 
 He gave tbe promise to Dr. Tremain witb as 
 condescending a manner as if be bad been be- 
 stowing a princely favour, all tbe time knowing 
 perfectly well tbat tbe very cbair be sat on 
 belonged to Donovan. Dr. Tremain took tbe 
 paper witbout a word, and turned to Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 " I cannot say tbat tbis will convince Dono- 
 van tbat tbere is sucb a tbing as trutb and jus- 
 tice in tbe world, but it will do bim some good 
 to know tbat be still bas your love, Mrs. Farrant. 
 
294 DONOVAN. 
 
 You Avill send liim some message, I bope."^ 
 
 Her tears were flowing fast, but sbe made an 
 effort to cbeck tbem. 
 
 "Tell bim I know I failed wben we were 
 together^ tbat it was my fault ; and ob ! do be 
 good to bim, Dr. Tremain — make bim under- 
 stand tbat I do love bim." 
 
 " I tbink tbat message will belp bim on," 
 said tbe doctor, warmly. " It is very good of 
 you to entrust it to me. For tbe rest, I can 
 only say tbat I will treat bim like my own son." 
 
 Witb tbat be rose to go, but be bad scarcely 
 left tbe bouse wben be was called back- Mrs. 
 Farrant bastened towards bim. 
 
 " One moment, Dr. Tremain— 7 will you take 
 tbis to Donovan ?" Sbe drew a ring from ber 
 finger. "Ask bim if be still loves me to wear 
 it ; tell bim bow I bave longed to bear of bim, 
 bow tbankful I am for your visit to-day." 
 
 " And as for me," exclaimed Adela, coming 
 forward and putting ber band in tbe arm of ber 
 sister-in-law. " Please tell Donovan tbat I, 
 being a free agent, sball write to bim now tbat 
 I know bis wbereabouts. I don't see wby a 
 freak of m}^ brotber's sbould come between us, 
 and I sball expect bim to answer me for tbe 
 sake of old times." 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 295 
 
 And so ended Dr. Tremaiu's visit. He left 
 the Manor with mingled feelings ; in one way 
 he had received more than he expected, in an- 
 other less. But the atmosphere of the place, 
 was unspeakably wretched^ and the doctor was 
 long in losing his keen impression of it. A 
 loveless home^ a treacherous, scheming man for 
 the head of the house, his languid wife, his 
 rather flippant sister ; among such influences 
 as these Donovan had grown up. And yet in 
 every one there was some good^ entirely latent 
 good in Ellis certainly, but in Mrs. Farrant 
 there was a genuine touch of motherlinesSj in 
 Adela a certain desire for justice and willing- 
 ness to befriend the ill-used. 
 
 There w^as, too, one influence which Dr. Tre- 
 raain had forgotten. He had learnt from his 
 wife the story of little Dot; the sight of the 
 church tower in the valley, with its giant yew- 
 tree and clustering gravestones, reminded him 
 that there had been another member of the 
 Manor household — that Donovan had had at 
 least one ray of heaven's own sunlight in his 
 life. He made his way to the little churchyard, 
 and without much difliculty found Dot's grave ; 
 but as he looked down at the marble cross, 
 with its inscription of " I am the resurrection 
 
296 DONOVAN. 
 
 and the life," bis thoughts were more of the 
 living Donovan than of the little child who 
 "after life's fitful fever" rested well. How 
 that cross and motto must have mocked him in 
 his hopeless grief! — how he must have dashed 
 his heart against words to him so hollow and 
 meaningless ! The awful realisation of what 
 his sorrow must have been came to the doctor 
 overpoweringly ; for the first time he fully un- 
 derstood the ever-present look of pain in Dono- 
 van's eyes ; it was there when he spoke of 
 other things, when he was at ease, even when 
 he was laughing — a look of hunger which could 
 never be satisfied. If anything could have 
 deepened the doctor's love for his guest, it 
 would have been the sight of that hopeless 
 grave. He turned away at last, feeling no 
 longer the oppression of his visit to the Manor, 
 for he was communing with that very Resurrec- 
 tion and Life who alone could lighten Donovan's 
 heart. 
 
 It was not till the afternoon of the following 
 day that he reached home. The house was 
 quiet and deserted, but in the garden there 
 were sounds of distant voices, following which 
 the doctor was led to the orchard. There all 
 the home party were gathered together, Mrs. 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 297 
 
 Tremaiu- working, Gladys reading aloud, Dono- 
 van Ijing on his wheeled couch under the shade 
 of au old apple-tree, and in the background the 
 two little ones at play. They looked so com- 
 fortable that he was loth to disturb them, but 
 Jackie in climbing one of the trees caught sight 
 of him^ and in a minute, with shrieks of delight, 
 had rushed forward announcing his advent. 
 
 Donovan's colour rose a little, but he waited 
 patiently till all the greetings were over ; then 
 Gladys put down her book, and by a promised 
 game of hide and seek drew the children away, 
 so that her father might be able to talk unin- 
 terruptedly. 
 
 " I have not fared well," he began, in answer 
 to the mute inquiry on Donovan's face. " But 
 I have at least seen Mr. Fari'ant, which is 
 something." 
 
 Then he described the interview as well as 
 he could, and Donovan listened without the 
 slightest comment until the doctor spoke of 
 Mrs. Farrant. 
 
 " You saw her I" he exclaimed. " I am very 
 glad of that. Tell me more. Was she looking 
 well — happy f 
 
 " Scarcely happy ; but then she was natur- 
 ally upset by hearing of your illness, and 
 
298 DONOVAN. 
 
 of the troubles you have been through." 
 
 "You must be mistaken. She never really 
 cared for me ; she would never show more than 
 a well-bred interest, and that only because she 
 was listening to a stranger." 
 
 '' I think, Donovan, you are very much mis- 
 taken," said the doctor, quietly. " The mistake 
 may be very natural, but I am sure that if you 
 had seen your mother you couldn't for one 
 moment have doubted her love. But stay, I 
 have a message for you." 
 
 He repeated Mrs. Farrant's words just as 
 they had been spoken to him. Donovan was 
 touched and surprised. 
 
 " Did she really say that !" he exclaimed. 
 "Don't think me too unnatural and hard- 
 hearted, but I can scarcely believe it. You are 
 sure those were her words ?" 
 
 " Quite sure," said the doctor, smiling. " And 
 I bring you substantial proof. I had left the 
 house when she called me back, and begged me 
 to take you this ring of hers, and to ask you, if 
 you still loved her, to wear it. The very last 
 thing she said was, ' Tell Donovan how I have 
 longed to hear from him, and how thankful I 
 am for your visit.' " 
 
 " Poor mother ! she must be very much 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 299 
 
 chaijged/' said Donovan, taking the ring, and 
 turning it slowly round in bis thin fingers. The 
 stone was a white cornelian, and on it was 
 engraved the Farrant motto. It was a ring 
 which he remembered to have seen on his 
 mother's hand since his childhood. 
 
 The doctor watched him a little curiously, 
 for there was some hesitation in his manner as 
 he twisted the ring from side to side. x\t 
 length, however, he put it on very deliberately, 
 then looking at the doctor he said, with a sigh, 
 
 "After all, I am half sorry she has done this. 
 I am afraid it is a sign that she is unhappy in 
 the present, that Mr. Farrant is making her 
 miserable, as I always prophesied he would. I 
 would rather have been without her love, and 
 believed her to be happy, as she was at first 
 after her marriage." 
 
 " But supposing the old happiness were false, 
 and that through the disappointment she came 
 to realise the truth "?" suggested the doctor. 
 
 " The truth — at least, if her love to me is 
 true — canH do her much good, can in fact 
 only make her unhappy," said Donovan. " She 
 will never see me, and of what earthly use is 
 love if you can't do something to prove it by 
 service? That is why I half doubted about 
 
300 DONOVAN. 
 
 wearing this ring ; I shall never be able to do 
 anything for my mother. I believe I do love 
 her ; but love without service is the ghost of 
 love, hardly worthy the name." 
 
 '^ You are right, I think, in all but one thing," 
 said the doctor. " You can prove your love by 
 this : you loish to help your mother, but circum- 
 stances prevent you. Supposing that she were 
 left alone in the world ; you would be the first 
 to go to her." 
 
 "Yes," said Donovan, with emphasis. 
 
 " And, besides," continued the doctor, " I 
 don't agree that she does nothing for you. 
 Does she not make the world a better place to 
 you ? Is it not something that you can say to 
 yourself, ' I am not cheated of this goodly birth- 
 right — I have a mother after all.' Is it not a 
 great thing to know there is some one thinking 
 of 3^ou, loving you — perhaps praying for you V 
 
 "I can^t do that for her," he replied, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " No, not yet," said the doctor, quietly ; and 
 then there was a long silence. 
 
 At last Donovan spoke. 
 
 " You said that Mr. Farrant promised to make 
 me some sort of allowance. I suppose I'm not 
 bound to accept it?" 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 301 
 
 " No, but I advise you to do so/' said the 
 doctor, unable to help smiling at the very evi- 
 dent look of distaste which his words called up. 
 " You see, to begin with £100 a year is better 
 than nothing — that's the common-sense view; 
 and, from a higher point, I don't think it will 
 do you any harm to endure the discipline of 
 those half-yearly cheques." 
 
 Donovan laughed outright. 
 
 " I think I see myself writing the receipts 
 every six months in the style of a Greyshot 
 tradesman. 'D. F. with best thanks_, and so- 
 liciting Mr. Farrant's esteemed patronage for 
 the future.'" 
 
 The doctor Avas not a little relieved to hear 
 such a hearty laugh, he laughed himself, but 
 waited for Donovan to go on with the discus- 
 sion. With amusement still flickering about 
 his face he continued, 
 
 " Still the great question is unsolved, what 
 else am I to do besides eating these half-yearly 
 slices of humble pie?" 
 
 " What have you a taste for?" asked Dr. 
 Tremain. 
 
 "For nothing in the world except doctoring," 
 said Donovan, with decision. " It has always 
 seemed to me the only sensible and thoroughly 
 
302 DONOVAN. 
 
 satisfactory profession. I suppose it's no' good 
 thinking of it though. The training is very- 
 long, isn't itf 
 
 "Four years," said Dr. Tremain. "The 
 longest of any of the professions. But if you've 
 a real inclination for it, you should certainly fol- 
 low your bent. In many ways I think you are 
 well fitted for it." 
 
 "Do you really?" exclaimed Donovan. "I 
 was afraid Nature had fitted me for nothing but 
 the work of a mathematician, and I should be 
 afraid to try that now." 
 
 " Why ?" asked the doctor, surprised at such 
 an admission. 
 
 " Because I know I'm as hard as nails already, 
 and don't want to get more so." 
 
 "Proverbially, you know, the medical course 
 hardens men, for a time at least, but ever}^ rule 
 has its exceptions, and I half fancy you would 
 make an exception to this." 
 
 " How about the entrance fees at the hospital ?" 
 
 " One hundred pounds, but you can pay by in- 
 stalments. There are many other expenses, 
 though, and you must live meanwhile. I don't 
 quite see how you can do it. However, we will 
 manage it somehow between us. A real incli- 
 nation such as this ought not to be neglected." 
 
OAKDENE MANOR. 303 
 
 "You have given me enough discipline, 
 though, ah-eady," said Donovan. " I can't be- 
 come utterly dependent. Don't think me un- 
 grateful, but unless I can scrape through on my 
 hundred pounds a year I won't go up. But it 
 must be possible — I'll do it somehow. I sup- 
 pose there are scholarships, too, at most of the 
 hospitals ?" 
 
 Upon this ensued a long discussion as to the 
 respective merits of St. Bartholomew's and St. 
 Thomas's, and that evening it was arranged that 
 Donov^an should become a student at the latter 
 hospital. His thoughts were successfully drawn 
 from Ellis Farrant and the Oakdeue property, 
 by the prospect of going up in two months' time 
 for his preliminary. 
 
804 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
 
 But am I not the nobler through thy love V 
 
 O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou 
 
 Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. 
 
 The sun will run his orbit, and the moon 
 
 Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
 
 The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit 
 
 Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, 
 
 And that which shapes it to some perfect end." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 ""VrOU look very hot and very much bored. 
 
 A. Don't you think those great books are 
 too dull for a summer morning?" exclaimed 
 Gladys, coming into the breakfast-room, where 
 Donovan was working, one sunny day in 
 August. 
 
 The table was dragged up to his couch, and, 
 to all appearance, he was very busy with his 
 examination work. 
 
 " It is not the big books that bore me," he 
 said in reply. 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 305 
 
 "But something has certainly happened to 
 you since breakfast time," said Gladys, laughing. 
 "Can Aunt Margaret have been here ?" 
 
 There was such naivete in her tone that 
 Donovan could not help laughing. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " Mrs. Causton has been 
 here for the last hour. She is very — kind- 
 hearted." 
 
 Gladys smiled. 
 
 "Yes, very, but she rubs people the wrong 
 way. Papa says it is because she thinks there 
 is only one way. As if, you know, we were all 
 made alike !" 
 
 " I told you it wasn't the big books that bored 
 me," said Donovan. ''What do you think of 
 this?" He handed her a little browa volume, 
 and turning to the title-page Gladys read — 
 " An Inquiry into the Nature, Symptoms, and 
 Effects of Religious Declension, with the Means 
 of Recovery." 
 
 The colour rose in her cheeks. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so sorry !" she exclaimed. " I 
 hope — I hope you haven't minded it very 
 much 1" 
 
 " I've no business to mind it, for she was 
 very kind ; but there are some subjects which I 
 had rather have touched reverently. Do you 
 
 VOL. II. X 
 
306 DONOVAN. 
 
 think that kind of spiritual hay-making does 
 much good? that raking up of feeh'ugs, that 
 tossing of texts? It's the first time I've come 
 across it." 
 
 '* Except when you met us in the train that 
 day and auntie gave you the tracts." 
 
 Donovan laughed a little at the remembrance. 
 
 " Do you know though meeting you that day 
 made me feel very much ashamed of myself; I 
 never can think of those tracts without laugh- 
 ing. The first of mine was ' Are you a drunk- 
 ard?' and the second 'Are you a swearer?' We 
 had a parrot at our rooms, a capital talker, but 
 like almost all parrots, it did swear most dread- 
 fully ; some one fastened these tracts to its 
 cage, and taught it to ask the questions — a 
 very wicked thing, wasn't it? but irresistibly 
 comic." 
 
 " Poor Aunt Margaret ! what would she say !" 
 exclaimed Gladys. 
 
 " It is not tracts that are wanted," continued 
 Donovan ; " beautiful lives are the best argu- 
 ments, the only ones which will ever influence 
 me." 
 
 " Lives like your little sister's," said Gladys, 
 
 gently. 
 
 '• Yes," he replied ; then, after a pause, " Not 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 307 
 
 that her life was -what some people would have 
 approved ; she never thought much of what 
 is called the soul, she was a little Undine till 
 she was nearly thirteen." 
 
 " Was she thirteen when she died ? I had 
 fancied her younger somehow." 
 
 " So she was really in mind and ways," he 
 said, quietly. " She was a thorough child ; your 
 little Nesta reminds me of her, though I don't 
 suppose you would see any likeness." 
 
 He took the little miniature out and placed it 
 in her hands. Gladys looked at it in silence ; it 
 was a most beautiful child's face, with delicate 
 features, clear, pale complexion, arched and 
 pencilled eyebrows, and glorious hazel eyes — 
 eyes which she thought very much like Dono- 
 van's, only they were entirely without the sad- 
 ness which lurked in his. 
 
 " Thank you so much for letting me see it," 
 she said, giving it back to him. '' She must 
 have been far lovelier than little Nesta ; but I 
 think I do see the likeness you mean. Was 
 this taken long before she died ?" 
 
 "No, only a few months before," replied 
 Donovan. " It was taken when we were stay- 
 ing at Codrington, and she was just beginning to 
 puzzle herself over all the unanswerable ques- 
 
 x2 
 
308 DONOVAN. 
 
 tions ; we talked one day about death, and of 
 course I had no comforting things to tell her 
 about it, I couldn't tell her what I believed to 
 be untrue. Then for a time the thought of it 
 haunted us both ; there was an artist staying in 
 the hotel, and I got him to do this rairnature for 
 me, knowing that the separation must come 
 some day, but not dreaming that it would be 
 so soon." 
 
 "And did she ever learn that death is not an 
 endless separation?" asked Gladys, the tears 
 Avelling up into her eyes. 
 
 "Yes," he answered^ quietly; "she learnt all 
 that could make her happy, how I don't know. 
 Isn't it strange how easily belief comes to 
 some ? I would give worlds to be able now to 
 believe what you believe, to feel certain that 
 I'd got hold of the real truth, but I cannot, it's 
 an impossibility." 
 
 " Oh ! don't say that," said Gladys, quickly, 
 " leave yourself at least a hope, or how will 
 you ever have the heart to go on searching for 
 the truth 1 It may not always seem impossible 
 to you." 
 
 Her sweet, eager face, with its entire absence 
 of self-consciousness, took Donovan's heart by 
 storm ; hitherto she had influenced him, fascin- 
 
THE IDEAL WOJIAX. 309 
 
 ated him, but now for the first time be knew 
 that be loved her. 
 
 " Life is full of strange surprises," be an- 
 swered ; " you may be right, Fll unsay that 
 'impossible.' " 
 
 Then with the strange new sense of love in 
 bis heart, and the craving for her sympathy, he 
 told her all about Dot's death, and Gladys' 
 tears fell fast as she beard the details of that 
 last night, and realised bow terribly Donovan 
 must have suffered. 
 
 From that time there was a great difference 
 in their intercourse ; they talked much more 
 freely, gliding into a sort of brotherly and sis- 
 terly intimacy ; at least, so it seemed. Donovan, 
 though conscious of bis love, was not in the 
 frame of mind to think of the future, it was 
 quite enough for him to live in the present, 
 knowing and loving Gladys ; and she, begin- 
 ning with the wish to give him a little of the 
 sister's love which he missed so much, drifted 
 imperceptibly, unconsciously into a love alto- 
 gether different. 
 
 Very happy to both of them were those 
 summer weeks ; in the long mornings Donovan 
 worked bard for his examinations, in the after- 
 noon there were merry gatherings in the shady 
 
310 DONOVAN. 
 
 old orchard, games with the children, reading 
 aloud, or attempts at sketching. 
 
 One afternoon, when they were all sitting in 
 the shade of the great mulberry-tree, engrossed 
 in their own various books, Gladys looked up 
 laughing. 
 
 " Just listen to this. How would you have 
 liked it ? ' He was constantly annoyed by being 
 asked to write his likes and dislikes in ladies' 
 albums.' " 
 
 " I know the horrid inventions," said Dono- 
 van. "A cousin of mine used to be always 
 boring people to write in hers— their ideas of 
 pleasure, pain, beauty, and so on." 
 
 " Rather fun too, I think," said Gladys. " Only 
 that one's ideas would be always changing." 
 
 " I should have no difficulty in writing some 
 of my ideas now," said Donovan. "The idea 
 of happiness would certainly be ' a sprained 
 ankle at Trenant,' and the idea of beauty, 
 ' the long grass and daisies in this orchard with 
 the sunshine on them.'" He added, in his 
 thoughts, "And Gladys sitting with her book 
 among the daisies.'' 
 
 Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, they 
 used to drive out in the pony-chaise, along by 
 the sea, or through the narrow lanes with their 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 311 
 
 high, mossy banks, pausing now and then at 
 some cottage to leave a message, or to visit 
 some of Mrs. Tremain's innumerable friends 
 among the poor. There was very little society 
 round Porthkerran. In the winter Gladys some- 
 times went to one or two dances at some dis- 
 tant country house. In the summer there was 
 an occasional picnic or garden-party, but the 
 neighbourhood was thinly populated, and the 
 distances were too great for very much visiting. 
 So Porthkerran formed a little clan of its own ; 
 and as by good chance the squire and the rector 
 were both fond of natural history, Dr. Tremain 
 Avas able to gather round him a small scientific 
 society ; this, with the exception of the constant 
 visits of Mrs. Causton, and of their nearest 
 neighbour, a jocose old man, Admiral Smith, 
 constituted the clan proper. But the Tremains 
 knew almost everyone in the little fishing-town, 
 and though Gladys never undertook formal dis- 
 trict-visiting, she was welcomed in any house, 
 and there was scarcely a child in the place 
 whom she did not know at least by name. 
 
 She was therefore never idle and never dull. 
 There were always plenty of tragedies and 
 comedies going on among her large circle of 
 friends, in both of which she was interested. 
 
312 DONOVAN. 
 
 Or there were orphans to be sent to school, or 
 blind people to be read to, or twin babies who 
 must be worked for, or sick children to be 
 amused, Donovan liked to watch her busy 
 life ; she evidently enjoyed it so thoroughl3\ 
 
 There was one event, too, which was con- 
 stantly being talked of, namely, Dick's return 
 from sea. He was expected in September, and 
 Donovan used to listen half sadly to the daily 
 hopes and wonders as to his progress. When 
 the papers came, there was always a rush to 
 find the latest " Shipping Intelligence," and 
 delighted exclamations when H.M.S. Cei-herus 
 was mentioned as having left some port on her 
 homeward journey. How strange it must be to 
 be loved, and watched, and waited for so eagerly ! 
 
 By this time the first cheque from Ellis had 
 been received and acknowledged, and imme- 
 diately Donovan made use of the money to 
 recover Dot's clock from the Liverpool pawn- 
 broker's. He also sent a ten-pound note to the 
 hospitable Devonshire man who had helped 
 him out of the Foxtor mire. This last piece of 
 gratitude was perhaps slightly rash, consider- 
 ing his very narrow means, but he could not 
 rest till he had sent it. 
 
 His ankle was now quite recovered, and in 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. ?13 
 
 September he Avas able to go up for his ex- 
 amination, but not before he had promised to 
 spend his last few days at Porthkerrau. The 
 doctor had proposed that he should share Ste- 
 phen Causton's rooms in town. Stephen was 
 still at St. Thomas's, and as his mother made 
 no objection, and Donovan liked the thought of 
 being with any connection of the Tremains, the 
 arrangement was made ; but unfortunately 
 Stephen, who had been spending the vacation 
 abroad, returned with his eyes in a very delicate 
 statCj and a bad attack of ophthalmia ensuing, 
 obliged him to give up all thoughts of work 
 for many mouths. 
 
 After his long stay at Trenant, Donovan felt 
 rather at sea when he went up to town to begin 
 his solitary life again. However, he had no 
 time to be dull, for he was very anxious about 
 his examination. Besides, before many days 
 he hoped to be with the Tremains again. He 
 passed his preliminary successfully. The scholar- 
 ship examination was not till after the begin- 
 ning of term, so there was nothing to detain 
 him longer, and another week at Gladys' home 
 was not to be missed on any consideration. He 
 went back to Porthkerrau in excellent spirits. 
 It was about half-past five on a bright Septem- 
 
314 DONOVAN. 
 
 ber afternoon when be reacbed St. Kerraus, tbe 
 nearest station. He bad only just set out for 
 tbe five-mile walk along tbe dusty road, wben 
 be was overtaken by a fellow pedestrian, wbo^ 
 on seeing tbe direction be took, burried after 
 bim. 
 
 " Are you going beyond Portbkerran ?" be 
 inquired. 
 
 " No, to Portbkerran itself," replied Donovan, 
 looking at tbe speaker witb some curiosity. He 
 was apparently about bis own age, a litbe, 
 active-looking fellow, witb a very sunburnt but 
 good-looking face, and merry, blue-grey eyes. 
 
 '^ Let me send your bag witb my traps, tben ; 
 tbe carrier leaves in an bour's time." 
 
 Tbere was a very evident " Wbo are you ?" 
 in Donovan's eyes ; but tbe stranger, notbing 
 daunted, took tbe bag from bim and ran back to 
 tbe little inn ; tben, returning in a moment, be 
 said, apologetically, 
 
 " You must excuse tbis ' bail fellow well met ' 
 business, but I am Dick Tremain, and, if I am 
 not very mucb mistaken, you are Mr. Farraut." 
 
 Tbey sbook bands. 
 
 '■' You are a very clever guesser," said Dono- 
 van. " I ougbt to bave known you ; but I bad 
 no idea you were expected to-day." 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 315 
 
 " I'm not, that's just the fun of it/' returned 
 Dick, accommodating his seaman's gait to 
 Donovan's long strides. " They don't the least 
 expect me; we got into Plymouth Soimd this 
 morning, and I made np my mind to come 
 straight on and surprise them. They^re all 
 right at home, I suppose?" 
 
 " Yes, when 1 left they were all very well." 
 
 " And your ankle is mended again, to judgf^ 
 by the pace yon're going at. I heard all abont 
 that cliff adventure." 
 
 " It brought me the pleasantest two months 
 of my life," said Donovan. 'Tm coming down 
 now to say good-bye before starting at St. 
 Thomas's, in October. Fm sorry, though, that I 
 just chanced to come back on the same day you 
 did." 
 
 Dick laughed. 
 
 " I might take that as a bad compliment, and 
 you know we have still four miles to walk. But 
 in all seriousness you really must take back 
 your words, for I have been particularly hop- 
 ing to see you, and at Trenant it is always 
 ' the more the merrier.' So you are going, 
 to St.. Thomas's ? Is Stephen Causton still 
 there?" 
 
 "Yes; we were to have shared rooms, but 
 
316 DONOVAN. 
 
 bis eyes have given out, so he wou't go up this 
 term." 
 
 " Better luck for you, I should say. Perhaps 
 you've seen him, though ?" 
 
 "No, he's only just home. What sort of a 
 fellow is he?" 
 
 " A regular sawney — good-humoured enough, 
 but weak as water. He's never been allowed 
 to shift for himself; he's a regular mother's 
 son." 
 
 This was a genus utterly unknown to Dono- 
 vau ; he asked several questions about the 
 Caustons, and, as Dick possessed the genial 
 manner and the ready speech of his family, the 
 five mile walk was quite sufficient to make the 
 two pretty well acquainted. At last they 
 reached the turn in the road which brought 
 them into sight of the little fishing-town. 
 
 Porthkerran was a very picturesque place ; it 
 stood at the head of a tidal inlet, which in 
 olden times had been one of the most frequent- 
 ed harbours of the west. The building of the 
 breakwater had, however, caused it to be super- 
 seded by Plymouth Sound, and Porthkerran was- 
 now obliged to content itself with seeing from 
 afar the passing ships. It had been a noted 
 resort of smugglers, and the irregularly-built 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 317 
 
 streets, with their narrow twistiugs and windings^ 
 the innumerable passages and mysterious flights 
 of steps, the houses with their second doors and 
 secure hiding-places, all bore ^witness to the 
 bygone times when the one interest, excitement, 
 and object in life of the inhabitants had been to 
 smuggle, and to escape from the coastgnards- 
 men. Many curious stories were still handed 
 down in the village of great-grandmothers who 
 had concealed fabulous numbers of silk dresses 
 under their own ample skirts ; of perilous 
 escapes down dark alleys ; of kegs of brandy 
 which some daring sexton had once concealed 
 for several days in the church itself. The 
 rising generation listened with interest to these 
 tales of the evil deeds of their forefathers; some- 
 times they even went so far as to wish that 
 their own lot had been cast in those more- 
 exciting days, and were so depraved as not to 
 
 " Thank the goodness and the grace 
 Which on their birth had smiled." 
 
 But to wish that they had not been taught so 
 very often in Sunday-school that the boys who 
 stole apples invariably came to a bad end, or 
 that living in those benighted days they might 
 have enjoyed in peace a little of the excitement 
 of smuggling. 
 
318 DONOVAN. 
 
 But Porthkerran was now an eminently re- 
 spectable fishing village, and if it did break the 
 Ten Commandments, broke them in a less fla- 
 grant and open manner than in former times. 
 Adulteration of food and false weights were 
 certainly not quite unknown in the place, but 
 on the whole Porthkerran had decidedly im- 
 provedj and the inhabitants were, as a rule, 
 hospitable, kindly, and staunch. 
 
 The little place looked especially pretty in 
 the sunset glow of the September evening ; the 
 quaint, compact little town, with its curling 
 columns of blue smoke, telling of the supper in 
 preparation for the fishermen, the narrow strip 
 of beach, dotted here and therewith brown nets 
 spread out to dry, the calm bay, with its orange- 
 sailed boats, and aslant from the west a broad 
 pathway of tawny gold, ever, as the sun sank 
 lower, deepening to crimson. 
 
 And this was Gladys' home ! Donovan's heart 
 gave a great bound when he realised how near 
 he was to her. It was a beautiful little place 
 certainly, but he would have thought the Black 
 Country beautiful if Gladys had lived there. 
 How he had pictured it all to himself up in 
 those dull London lodgings ! — how he had 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 319 
 
 paced in imagination that very road, had 
 reached that ivy-covered house ! Wellj here 
 he was in sober reality, and even as they drew 
 near the door was thrown open, and Gladys' 
 own fresh voice was ringing in his ears. 
 
 " Dick — oh I Dick, you dear, delightful boy 
 to come so unexpectedly ! How exactly like 
 you to walk in so quietly ! And Donovan, too ! 
 How clever of you to find each other out!" 
 
 Donovan felt the real welcome of her voice 
 and hand ; it was, moreover, the first time she 
 had directly spoken to him by his Christian 
 name, for, though he had long ceased to be 
 *' Mr. Farrant " to any of them, these two had 
 as yet kept instinctively to that most indefinite 
 of all personal pronouns, " you." 
 
 In a minute all the household came flocking 
 out into the hall to welcome the sailor after his 
 long absence. Donovan watched the greetings 
 with a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, 
 his new natyre sharing in the general happi- 
 ness, his old nature viewing all with silent, 
 deep-seated envy. His usual helper, however, 
 came to his aid ; a delighted cry of " Douo ! 
 Dono !" made him look up, and there, slowly 
 coming down the broad oak staircase, her right 
 
320 DONOVAN. 
 
 foot solemnly stumping in front, her left' foot 
 following with less dignity in its wake, was 
 little Nesta. 
 
 " Dear Dono to turn back !" she cried, glee- 
 fully. " Lift me over the ban'sters, Mr. Dono, 
 up on to yon shoulder." 
 
 He lifted her across, received a half-strangling 
 hug, and was not a little flattered that only 
 from her perch on his shoulder would she be 
 induced to kiss the strange brother. 
 
 After the seven o'clock dinner Avas over, 
 Donovan made his escape from the rest of the 
 family, strolled down the garden, and gave 
 himself up to a rather sombre reverie. The 
 last words he had heard spoken by Dick to 
 Gladys rang rather painfully in his ears — " Oh, 
 
 and don't you remember " There was no 
 
 one in all the world to whom he could now say, 
 " Don't you i-emember." He had to an almost 
 morbid extent, too, the dread of intruding him- 
 self where he was not wanted^ and this evening 
 he argued to himself logically enough that it 
 was impossible they should not prefer his ab- 
 sence. And it certainly was true that for a 
 time no one missed him, that the father and 
 mother were entirely engrossed in their boy, 
 that even Gladys did not at first understand 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 321 
 
 his uoa-appearance. But, delighted as she was 
 at Dick's return, and interested as she was in 
 his stories, she was nevertheless conscious of 
 an undefined sense of trouble, which grew and 
 grew, until at length it flashed upon her sud- 
 denly that Donovan must be purposely keep- 
 ing aloof, afraid of spoiling the freedom of the 
 family talk. She remembered now that she had 
 been talking to Dick as they left the dining- 
 room ; how inconsiderate she had been ! how 
 absorbed in her own happiness ! It was just 
 like Donovan to take himself off alone. He 
 must be found and taken to task. She would 
 not disturb her father or mother, but putting 
 down her work, she slipped quietly out of the 
 room, looked into the study, but he was not 
 there, into the dining-room, but it was empty 
 and deserted, finally snatching up an old wide- 
 awake of her father's as protection from the 
 dew, she instituted a search in the garden. 
 
 At last in the twilight she caught sight of a 
 dark figure pacing to and fro by the strawberry 
 beds. He did not notice her till she was almost 
 close to him, then suddenly turning round he 
 found himself face to face with a white-robed 
 apparition, and started a little. 
 
 " I'm not a ghost, though I have a white 
 VOL. ir. Y 
 
322 DONOVAX. 
 
 frock," she exclaimed ; " and I'm not papa, 
 though I have his hat. Why are you wander- 
 ing up and down the very froggiest and toadiest 
 path in the garden ?" 
 
 " Birds of a feather flock together," he said, 
 b'ghtly. " I've a good deal in common with 
 the frogs, a love of croaking and a coldness of 
 heart — or absence of heart altogether, is it 1" 
 
 " I came to scold you," said Gladys, " not to 
 laugh. Why have you not been listening to 
 Dick? You've no idea what adventures he has 
 had this voyage." 
 
 " Why are you not with him ?" returned 
 Donovan. " I hoped — I thought you would all 
 forget that I was here, and enjoy him to your- 
 selves." 
 
 " Why to ourselves ?" 
 
 "Is not that the only way really to enjoy 
 himr 
 
 " Not when you won't be one of the selves. 
 I thought you did really take this as a home." 
 
 "So I do. Never doubt that, in whatever 
 way I act." 
 
 " Then why not act as a part of the home,- 
 taking it for granted that we like you to be 
 interested in all our interests. Can't you 
 understand that of course we do ?" 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 323 
 
 He did not answer for a moment, but even in 
 the dim, shady garden-walk Gladys could see 
 how his face lighted up — what a strange new 
 look of rest dawned in his eyes I 
 
 " I have believed in neither God nor man," 
 he said at last, " but you have forced me to 
 believe in the latter. Ever since I came here 
 you have been teaching me. If ever I doubt 
 human goodness again, I shall only have to 
 remember that there is such a place as Trenant 
 in the world." 
 
 " Then if that is so," said Gladys, smiling, 
 "I shall thank my hat for blowing over the 
 cliffs that day, even though it did give you so 
 much trouble and pain. However, we've wan- 
 dered from the point. You will come in, won't 
 you? It was so stupid of me not to remember 
 sooner that you would be sure to take yourself 
 off." 
 
 He laughed a little. 
 
 " You own, then, that it was natural ?" 
 
 "Not at all; most people would never have 
 dreamt of doing such a thing." 
 
 " But you knew that I should," said Donovan, 
 triumphantlj'- gaining the assurance that she 
 understood his character. 
 
 " Well, yes," she owned, " I thought it would 
 
 y2 
 
324 DONOVAN. 
 
 be very like you to feel ia the way and not 
 wanted." 
 
 " Don't be too hard on me for that ; you've 
 no idea how I've been shut out of things all ray 
 life. No one has ev^er loved me but a few 
 children and a dog or two." 
 
 " Oh, you must not say that !" she exclaimed,, 
 in a voice so pained, so unlike itself that it even 
 startled her. "You know — you know that is 
 not true !" 
 
 As the words passed her lips, she knew for 
 the first time that her own love for Donovan 
 was no sisterly love, no friendly liking ; that 
 brief sentence of his and her own impulsive 
 reply revealed to her the wholly unsuspected 
 depth of her feelings. Had she been aware of 
 this sooner, it would have been utterly impossi- 
 ble for her to run out into the garden to find 
 him, as she had done only a few minutes before 
 in perfect simplicity. It was twilight, that was 
 one comfort ; he could not see that her cheeks 
 were glowing with maidenly shame, that she 
 was trembling in every limb. Strange as it 
 may seem, though he loved her, he did not 
 notice her sudden change — that is, it did not at 
 all convey to .him the faintest idea that her own 
 love caused that pained tone in her voice. They 
 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 325 
 
 walked on for a minute or two in silence. 
 
 Donovan was the first to speak ; she knew by 
 his manner that she had not betrayed herself. 
 
 " I was wrong to speak bitterly ; this even- 
 ing's welcome to Porthkerran ought to have 
 reminded me of the love I have found here. 
 One of your father's hand-shakes is worth 
 travelling three hundred miles for." 
 
 Gladys turned in the direction of the house. 
 
 " And Nesta was so delighted to have you 
 back again. You can't think how fond she is 
 of you ; we used to hear her telling Waif long 
 stones about you while you were in London. 
 Nesta's stories are such fun. I think she has a 
 good deal of imagination." 
 
 They reached the house as she finished 
 speaking, and finding the drawing-room window 
 open, she went in that way and soon had the 
 satisfaction of seeing Donovan really join the 
 family group. 
 
 The mantle of his taciturnity seemed to have 
 fallen instead upon her ; before long she slipped 
 out of the room and slowly and dreamily 
 wandered away, she hardl}'' knew whither. 
 This strange new conviction, this conscious- 
 ness of love, seemed to have transported her 
 into a new world. Presently, finding herself 
 
32 G DONOVAN. 
 
 by the night nursery door, she stole softly in, 
 and sat down by Nesta's little bed. The curly 
 brown head nestled down on the pillow, the 
 rosy face half hidden seemed the very picture 
 of peace. And Gladys too, though her face 
 glowed and her eyes shone with the love which 
 had just dawned in her heart, was not other- 
 wise than peaceful ; there was a great deal of 
 the child about her still, not a thought of the 
 future had crossed her mind. 
 
 " You love him too, little Nesta," she whis- 
 pered, bending over the sleeping child, " but not 
 as I do. Oh ! Nesta darling, can you ever be 
 so happy as I am to-night ! Can there possibly 
 be such another for you to love !" 
 
 END OP THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BT DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSKo 
 

 
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