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Title: Donovan, Volume I (of 3)
        A novel

Author: Edna Lyall


        
Release date: April 15, 2026 [eBook #78456]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hurst and Blackett, 1882

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78456

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DONOVAN, VOLUME I (OF 3) ***






  DONOVAN

  A Novel


  BY

  EDNA LYALL

  AUTHOR OF
  "WON BY WAITING."


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


  IN THREE VOLUMES.
  VOL. I.


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

  _All rights reserved._




  TO ONE
  WHOSE LOVING HELP
  I LOVINGLY ACKNOWLEDGE.




  Contents

  I. Running the Gauntlet
  II. A Retrospect
  III. The Tremains of Porthkerran
  IV. "My Only Son, Donovan"
  V. Repulsed and Attracted
  VI. Autumn Manœuvres
  VII. The Black Sheep of Oakdene
  VIII. "Tied to his Mother's Apron-strings"
  IX. Dot versus the World
  X. Looking Two Ways
  XI. "Let Nothing You Dismay"
  XII. Desolate
  XIII. Wishes and Chestnut Roasting




DONOVAN.



CHAPTER I.

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET.

  Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
    Will be the final goal of ill,
    To pangs of nature, sins of will,
  Defects of doubt, and taints of blood.

  That nothing walks with aimless feet;
    That not one life shall be destroyed,
    Or cast as rubbish to the void,
  When God hath made the pile complete.
                                  _In Memoriam._


"So Farrant is really to be expelled?  Tell me all about it, for I've
heard next to nothing these last few days up in the infirmary."

The speaker was a boy of about seventeen, who was walking arm-in-arm
with a companion of his own age in the quietest part of a large
playground.

"Well, on the whole, I think you were well out of it.  There was no
end of a row on Saturday evening when it all came to light.  Little
Harrison turned rusty, and told the Doctor that some of the sixth had
taken to gambling, and then there was a solemn convention, and we
were all called upon to reveal anything we knew, and, before I could
have thanked my stars for ten seconds that I knew nothing, up sprang
Donovan Farrant, looking like a second Curtius, only with a bad
cause, poor fellow, to confess that he had been the first to
introduce card-playing.  I fancy the Doctor thought him rather too
brazen-faced about it, for he was awfully severe; but Farrant, you
know, is one of those fellows who look like marble when they feel
most, and, instead of being the picture of shame, he stood there,
with his head thrown back, looking as if he'd knock all our heads off
for sixpence."

"I can just fancy him.  He's certainly a touch of the Roman in him;
but what in the blessed world did he do it for?"

"Don't know.  He's a queer fellow.  Such crazy ideas of honour too!
Enough to make him spring up in that way to answer to a general
accusation, and yet so little that he could go on for weeks as the
ringleader in this affair."

"But what's on the wire now?  They're never going to make him run the
gauntlet?"

"They are, though.  The lower school's up in arms because
Harrison--who's his fag, you know--says Farrant forced him against
his will to give his pocket-money for the gaming, whereupon you can
fancy the Doctor was furious, exaggerated things, and told Farrant he
was found guilty of disobedience, stealing, and bullying, though
everyone knows he's no more a bully than you are."

"Bully!  I should think not!  Why, the little weakly chaps make a
regular hero of him, and he was always hanging about after poor
little Somerton, who died last term.  That Harrison is a rascally
young cub.  I don't believe Farrant took his money."

"Asked him to lend it, I daresay, and gave the young beggar a look
from those extraordinary eyes of his.  Anyhow, the lower school have
taken up the Doctor's words, and Farrant will feel their scorn on his
shoulders before he's an hour older."

"Poor fellow, there he is!" said the first speaker.  "Why didn't they
send him off by the early train?  He must have had enough of this
sort of thing yesterday."

"Yes, in all conscience!  He won't soon forget that Sunday.  By Jove!
it was a slashing sermon the Doctor gave us, preached straight at
Farrant--hurled at his head.  But there must be some reason for
keeping him here.  I wish you'd go and speak to him, Reynolds."

After some little discussion, Reynolds gave a reluctant consent, and,
crossing the playground in the direction of the school-house, made
his way to the place where the culprit was standing.

Donovan Farrant looked somewhat unapproachable, it must be confessed.
He was a tall slight fellow of nearly eighteen, with dark hair and
complexion, a curiously-formed forehead bespeaking rare mathematical
talent, a faultless profile, a firm but bitter-looking mouth, and
strange eyes--black in some lights, hazel in others, but always
curiously contradictory to the hard resoluteness that characterised
the rest of the face, for they were hungry-looking and unsatisfied.

He was leaning against the wall, but there was no rest in his
attitude.  With an expression of cold scorn, he was watching the
gradually increasing group of boys in the centre of the playground.
His face softened a little as a friendly greeting attracted his
notice.

"I am very sorry you are going, Farrant," said Reynolds, who had been
racking his brain for words which would be at once kind and yet bear
no reference to his disgrace.  This was the best he could think of.

The strange eyes met his unflinchingly, Reynolds felt they were not
the eyes of a thief or a bully; yet there was something defiantly
hard and scornful in the tone of the answer.

"Why should you be sorry?  Why make yourself the exception to prove
the contrary rule?  If you could step into my shoes and watch this
Christian gathering with my eyes, you would see a lovely specimen of
ill-will to men."

"Gauntleting is a barbarous custom," said Reynolds, uneasily.  "It is
fast dying out; I only wish we could stop this to-day."

"Never mind," said Donovan, still very bitterly, "it's only on a
piece with the rest of the world, the people who brag most about the
universal brotherhood are the very first to throw stones at their
neighbours."

Reynolds was about to question this when some one approached Donovan
with a message--Colonel Farrant had arrived, and was waiting for him.
A sort of spasm passed over the cold face, but, recovering his
self-control in an instant, Donovan replied, icily,

"Tell him I will come, but that I have other work before me first."
Then, as the messenger turned away, he folded his arms and leant this
time really for support against the wall.  A glow of shame had
mounted to his forehead, Reynolds could see that he was in terrible
distress.

"Did you not know that your father was coming?" he ventured to ask,
after a few minutes.

Donovan signed a negative.

"He was only to come back from India on Saturday, and--and _this_ is
what he is met with!"

There was something in the tone of this sentence which made Reynolds
feel that here the real Donovan Farrant was showing himself, the
sudden boyish shame and grief were so perfectly natural, so strangely
contrasted with the tone of bitter scorn which he had at first
assumed.  But the words called up a sad enough picture even to the
schoolboy's mind, and his throat felt choked, and he was shy of
offering any consolation.

"You will begin over again in some new place," he said at last.  "You
have been left to yourself so much, surely your father will
understand, and be lenient."

"Do you think I care for his anger?--it's not that!--but to have
brought this disgrace to him, to have----" he broke off abruptly,
with a stifled sob.

Reynolds was amazed, for no one credited Donovan Farrant with
over-much feeling.  But even as he wondered his companion regained
his composure, and wrapped himself once more in that impenetrable
mantle of cold scorn.

"The Christian brotherhood are nearly ready for me," he observed,
looking towards the long double line which was being formed at a
little distance, and the knotted scarves, or towels, or straps with
which every boy was armed.

"For heaven's sake don't talk like that!" exclaimed Reynolds.  "Don't
let the spite of a few schoolboys turn you from----"

"My dear fellow, I was turned long ago," interrupted Donovan.  "I'm
sorry if my words hurt you, for I believe you are sincere, but you're
an exception, one of the few exceptions There, good-bye, thank you."

He turned away, and Reynolds watched him with a sort of fascination
as, with long, imperturbable strides, he made his way across the
playground.  What was there in this strange fellow that moved him so?
There had been a look of pain certainly in his eyes, but then a
satirical smile had played about his lips as he turned away.  He had
no particular liking for him; what made him feel that he would give
anything for power to stop this gauntleting?

To do so was, of course, out of the question.  Reynolds, however,
hurried to the front, anxious to see how his strange companion would
conduct himself.  Would he rush through the ranks quickly, or would
he turn sulky?

Apparently Donovan meant to strike out in a new line.  As he
approached the ranks his step was even more dignified, his bearing
more erect than ever.  His face was set like a flint, but expressed
as plainly as if he had spoken--"I don't deserve this, you
contemptible curs; but do your worst, it amuses you and will not kill
me."

Blow after blow fell on his unbent shoulders, hisses greeted him on
every side, but still there was no faintest token that he felt pain,
still the lofty indifference was unbroken.  But lower down the ranks,
waiting for his approach with feverish impatience, was Harrison, one
of his fags.  Harrison was vindictive, and he thought himself deeply
injured.  Some of the boys had made him into a little hero, some
regarded him as a sneak; between the two he had grown exasperated,
and to revenge himself he had concealed a sharp stone in the end of
his scarf.  His foe drew near; Harrison, disregarding all rules, and
too angry to think of the serious harm he might do, aimed a blow
directly at his forehead.

Donovan staggered back a pace, but recovered himself in an instant.
The blow had fallen barely half an inch above his left temple, the
blood was streaming down the side of his face.  He saw it on his
clothes--his own blood shed by the veriest little rascal.  The sight
maddened him.  A great cry of "Shame! shame!  Unfair!" came to him.
Unfair! of course it was unfair! the whole world was unfair!  He
would crush this one bit of unfairness, though; and he gathered
himself together, evidently with the intention of dealing Harrison a
fearful blow.  No one interfered, everyone was disgusted with the
fag's meanness; there was a breathless silence.  The unlucky Harrison
felt the air vibrate around him as that strong arm descended.  The
blow would have silenced him very effectually, but it was suddenly
checked.  The littleness of his foe seemed to strike Donovan; with a
tremendous effort of will he drew back all quivering with repressed
indignation.

"You young blackguard!" he exclaimed, not loudly, but with an
emphasis which made the words heard by all present--with a force
which made Harrison turn sick and giddy.

Then, moving away, he would have gone on his course, but the boys who
a few minutes before had been delighting in his humiliation were now
ready to make a hero of him; Harrison's breach of rules had been
abominable.  Farrant's splendid self-control had been apparent to
everyone; the schoolboy sense of honour was touched.  They cheered
him now as vehemently as they had hissed him before; they gathered
round him with offers of help with vociferous admiration, they would
have borne him in triumph on their shoulders, but he waved them back,
and walked steadily on towards the school-house.  What was their
admiration to him?  His blood unjustly shed was streaming down his
face, a lifelong sense of injustice was rankling in his heart; those
ringing cheers were utterly powerless to affect him in any way.

And all this time Colonel Farrant waited within the house.  He had
seen the head-master, had heard the particulars of his son's
disgrace, and now he was waiting alone at his own request, trying to
face this sorrow, trying to endure this terrible new shame.  He was a
middle-aged man, tall and soldierly; his features were almost exactly
similar to those of his son, but his expression was so much more
gentle that at first sight the likeness did not seem at all striking.
Grief and disappointment were expressed in his very attitude as he
sat waiting wearily with his head resting on his hand; and the
disappointment had not been caused by Donovan only.  He had returned
from India only two days before to re-join the wife and children whom
he had not seen for years, and somehow the home was not quite what he
had expected, and the long separation seemed either to have altered
his wife or to have raised a sort of barrier between them.  He had
been absorbed in his work, had been leading a singularly self-denying
active life; she had been absorbed in herself, and had allowed
circumstances to drift her along unresistingly.  No wonder that
Colonel Farrant had already found how few interests he and his wife
had in common, no wonder that, even in the brief time since his
return, he had realised that his two children were growing up in a
home which could not possibly influence them for good.  Bitterly did
he now regret that love of his work and dislike of the quiet life of
a country gentleman had kept him so long in India.  Mrs. Farrant's
reception of the news of Donovan's disgrace had perhaps more than
anything revealed the true state of matters to her husband.  What to
him was a terrible grief was to her merely "very tiresome;" she hoped
people would not hear about it, lamented the inconvenience of having
the boy home just as they were going up to town for the season, spoke
in soft languid tones of his wilfulness, but evidently was quite
incapable of feeling keenly about anything so far removed from her
own personal concerns.

Donovan must not come home to that, the Colonel felt that it would be
ruination to him.  He must go himself to the school, find out the
whole truth, learn something of his son's real character, and, if
possible, win his love before taking him back to the doubtful
influence of that strangely disappointing home.

Waiting now in the quiet room, with the slow monotonous ticking of
the clock, with the May sunshine streaming in upon him, the Colonel
tried to recall Donovan as he was at their last parting years and
years ago at Malta.  How well he remembered the little bright-eyed
merry child of three years old!  what a wrench it had been to leave
him when his regiment had been ordered out to India, and the little
boy--their only child then--had been sent back alone to England.  And
this was the same boy whom he came to-day to find disgraced and
expelled!  How was it possible that his little high-spirited, loving
child should have become a thief, a bully, a breaker of rules?  He
could not believe it.  And yet the head-master told him that Donovan
had with his own lips confessed that he was guilty!

A sound of footsteps without, some one speaking in a tone of
remonstrance, roused him, and then another voice, indignant and
vehement, made him start to his feet.

"Leave me alone!  I will see him now, at once, as I am!"

And the door was thrown open, and the vision of the merry
three-year-old child faded suddenly, and in its place stood the son
of to-day, haggard, bloodstained, miserable, only upheld by a
desperate resolve to face the worst.

Donovan looked at once straight into his father's eyes to read there
what he had to prepare himself for, and the very first expression he
read was neither anger, nor shame, nor disappointment, but only love
and pity.  His father's hand was on his shoulder, his right hand
clasped his, and, when he spoke, there was not the slightest sound of
upbraiding in his tone.

"Dono--my poor boy!"

That was too much even for Donovan's hardihood.  He had braced
himself to endure anger or reproach, or cold displeasure--but to be
met in this way!  For the first time an agony of remorse surged up in
his heart.  If only he could live his school days over again how
different they should be!

Presently the father and son left the school, and, as they made their
way to the station, Colonel Farrant spoke of the plan he had made.
He had some business to transact at Plymouth; he thought they would
go down there together, and perhaps spend a week in South Devon or
Cornwall before going back to Oakdene.  Donovan evidently liked this
idea, but in another minute his face suddenly changed.

"I had forgotten Dot.  What a brute I am!" he exclaimed.  "She will
be expecting me, I mustn't disappoint her."

Somehow that sentence cheered Colonel Farrant wonderfully.

Dot, his little invalid girl, had in a measure comforted him the day
before by her evident devotion to Donovan; he had hardly dared to
hope, however, that the love was mutual, or that, in his disgrace and
sorrow, Donovan would yet have a thought to spare for his sister.

"Dot will not expect us," he said in reply.  "I told her that we
should not come home for a few days.  She sent you this."

They were in the train now.  Donovan took the little three-cornered
note from his father.  It was written faintly in pencil, but in spite
of the straggling letters and wild spelling it brought the tears to
his eyes.


"DARLING DON," it began, "I am so sory.  Papa has told me all abowt
it, and he has been verry kind.  I don't think he bileves all the
horid things they say off you, and I never, never will, Don dear.

  "Your loving
      "DOT."


The long, strange journey ended at last, but by that time Donovan's
physical weariness was so intense that it overpowered everything
else.  As he threw himself on his bed that night, he could feel
nothing but relief that at length this longest and most painful day
of his life was over.  The future was a yawning blackness, the past a
horrid confusion, but he would face neither past nor future, the
present was all he needed; in utter exhaustion of both mind and body
he fell asleep.




CHAPTER II.

A RETROSPECT.

  The canker galls the infants of the spring,
  Too oft before their buttons be disclosed,
  And in the morn and liquid dew of youth
  Contagious blastments are most imminent.
                                            _Hamlet._

  God's possible is taught by His world's loving,
  And the children doubt of each.
                                  E. B. BROWNING.


How was it that his son was so different from what he had expected?
That was the question which continually recurred to Colonel Farrant,
as, with all the chilliness of an old Indian, he sat beside the fire
that May evening in one of the private sitting-rooms of the Royal
Hotel.  How was it that the child, whom he remembered as
high-spirited, loving, and demonstrative, had become proud, and cold,
and repressed?  It could not all be owing to the sense of his present
disgrace, though that no doubt accounted for it in part; but there
was a restless unsatisfied expression, for which the disgrace did not
account, and which appeared to be habitual to him.  Perhaps, had
Colonel Farrant known all the details of his boy's life during the
years in which he had been separated from him, he might not have felt
so much perplexed.

Donovan had a wonderfully good memory, and, though he had only been
three years old when he parted with his father and mother at Malta,
he carried away a certain kind of remembrance of them--a dim vision
of a mother who always wore pretty dresses, and of a father who was
always ready to play with him, and could roar like a bear.  With
these recollections he set sail for England, and was handed over by
the acquaintance who had taken care of him during the voyage to the
charge of an elderly woman in black, who was waiting for him when he
landed at Southampton.  The elderly woman's name was Mrs. Doery, and,
as they made their way to the station, she informed Donovan that she
was his grandfather's housekeeper, and that he must always do what
she told him.  Upon this, Donovan looked up at once to scrutinize her
face, to judge what sort of things she was likely to tell him to do,
and, child though he was, he could see that Mrs. Doery would be no
easy mistress.  Her long hooked nose and prominent chin were of the
nut-cracker order, the corners of her mouth were turned down, her
eyes were clear but disagreeably piercing, and her whole aspect,
though irreproachably respectable, was, to say the least of it,
forbidding.  Donovan tried to find some reason for her name, but she
was singularly unlike the soft-eyed doe in the animal picture-book;
in time, however, he discovered that there was another kind of dough,
and thought he quite understood the reason of Mrs. Doery's name then,
for her face was exactly of that whitish yellow colour, and, in spite
of all remonstrances, he would call her nothing else from that day
forth but "Doughy."

Mrs. Doery asserted her authority at once; it was a hot summer's day,
and Donovan, as he walked down the platform, complained of thirst,
and begged for something to drink.  He had caught a glimpse of some
of his little acquaintance on board ship standing within the
refreshment-room with tumblers of delicious-looking milk in their
hands, and this made him feel an uncomfortable craving for some.  But
Mrs. Doery gave a decided negative--they would be home at his
grandfather's in good time for tea; if he was hot, that was the very
reason why he should not drink; she was not going to allow bits and
snacks between meals, and he had better put such fancies out of his
head directly.

Old Mr. Farrant had two houses--Oakdene Manor, a country house which
he had built for himself in one of the western counties, and an old
family house, standing in the main street of a little country town at
no great distance from London.  It was to the latter place that Mrs.
Doery conducted her little charge on the day of his arrival, for her
master had lately had a paralytic stroke, and had given up all
thoughts of re-visiting his newly-built house, which, after standing
empty for some time, was eventually let to strangers.  It was in the
old red-brick house, with its narrow windows, and dark rooms, and
stately solid old furniture, that Donovan's childhood was to be
passed.

And somehow his childhood was not a happy one.  He was very lonely,
to begin with; there were no children of his own age whom Mrs. Doery
thought fit to associate with him; his grandfather, though very fond
of him, was too ill and helpless to be his companion; there was no
father at hand to play at "bear" with him, and Mrs. Doery, though she
was often excessively cross, could not in any other respect imitate
that favourite animal of the nursery.  Then he had so little to do.
Mrs. Doery had at first instructed him daily in the three R's, and he
proved very slow with the reading, only tolerable with the writing,
but alarmingly quick with the arithmetic.  He took to the
multiplication-table, as Mrs. Doery expressed it, "like ducks to
water;" he answered the questions in the book of mental arithmetic
with a lightning speed which fairly baffled the housekeeper, and
before he was five years old the longest sum in any of the first four
rules would not keep him quiet for more than two minutes.  But then
certainly by this time he had taken to working problems in his sleep,
and would awaken Mrs. Doery in the middle of the night by proclaiming
in excited tones that if sheep were 39_s._  each, a flock of
forty-five sheep would be worth £87, 15_s._, or some equally abstruse
calculation.  Mrs. Doery naturally liked to have her nights
undisturbed; moreover, she had sense enough to be rather alarmed at
this precocity, so she asked the doctor to look at Master Donovan,
and the doctor, seeing at once that he was a clever, delicate,
excitable child, strongly recommended that all lessons should be
stopped till he was seven years old.  Mrs. Doery obeyed this
injunction strictly, and a time of woe to poor Donovan ensued; "don't
do that" seemed to follow everything he attempted.  He was not
allowed to run about in the nursery, because Mrs. Doery "couldn't
abide a noise," or in old Mr. Farrant's room, because "it was
unfeeling to his poor grandfather;" if he ventured to make such a
thing as a figure everything in the shape of a pencil was at once
confiscated, and when he rebelled he was whipped.

For a little while he amused himself by turning the letters in his
picture-book into figures and calculating with them, but Mrs. Doery
soon found that he was up to no good, and forbade him to open a book
without her leave.  He was naturally bright and energetic, but he
fell now into listless lounging habits, his high spirits breaking
forth now and then, and carrying him into all kinds of mischief.  He
was very self-willed, and his battles with the housekeeper were
numerous, but, though his will was quite as strong as hers, he was
generally forced into a sort of grudging, resentful submission, for
Mrs. Doery had what seemed to him a very unfair advantage in the
shape of a stinging lithe cane, and though, when Donovan kicked or
struck her, he felt miserable the next moment, she never seemed to
feel the least compunction in hurting him, but on the contrary
appeared to find a grim satisfaction in his chastisement.

It was all very puzzling, Donovan could not understand it, but then
there were so few things he could understand, except the problems
about the sheep and such like.  Mrs. Doery found him difficult to
manage, and therefore told him that he was the worst boy she had ever
known, and the more she impressed his badness upon him, the more he
felt that for such a bad boy nothing mattered, and the less pains did
he take to obey her.

And so the years passed slowly by, and at last in the spring, before
Donovan's seventh birthday, old Mr. Farrant had another paralytic
stroke and died.  Donovan cried a good deal, for though his
grandfather had never been able to speak to him, yet he had always
looked kindly at him and had seemed pleased that he should come into
his room, and the little lonely boy had been thankful for that silent
love, and was the truest--perhaps the only true mourner at his
grandfather's funeral.

The old house seemed in a sort of dreary excitement all through the
week preceding the funeral, and Donovan saw several people whom he
had never seen before, among others his father's cousin, Mr. Ellis
Farrant, a dark handsome man of eight and twenty, who patronised the
little boy considerably, and held his hand while the Burial Service
was being read, an indignity which Donovan resented keenly, trying
hard to wriggle away from him.  In the evening, however, he began to
like his new cousin better; the doctor and most of the other guests
left early in the afternoon, but Cousin Ellis and the lawyer from
London were to stay the night, as they had to look over old Mr.
Farrant's papers, a work which did not seem to occupy them very long,
for when Donovan went shyly into the library with a message from Mrs.
Doery, to know when it would be convenient to them to dine, Ellis
Farrant declared that they had looked through everything and would
have dinner at once, and then, with the bland, patronising smile
which Donovan disliked so much, added that the little boy must
certainly stay and dine with them too.

Patronage was unpleasant, but then late dinner downstairs presented
great attractions to seven-year-old Donovan, and quite turned the
scale in Cousin Ellis's favour.  He sat bolt upright in one of the
great, slippery leather chairs, so as to make the most of his height,
and, though his grief was perfectly sincere, he nevertheless felt a
certain melancholy pride in his new black suit, and a delightful
sense of dignity and importance in dining with the two gentlemen.
The conversation did not interest him at all, excepting once, when he
heard his father's name mentioned, and then he listened attentively.

"Captain Farrant appointed you as one of his trustees, I believe,"
said the lawyer.

"Yes, in the will he made at the time of his marriage, which was the
most terse will ever heard of; very little more than, 'All to my
wife!'"

"Well, well," said the lawyer, laughing, "though it's against my own
interests to say so, it's the concise wills which answer best; and no
doubt this little man will be no real loser for receiving his
property through his mother."

Donovan grew very sleepy at dessert, and found it difficult to
maintain his upright position.  The gentlemen sat long over their
wine, and he was beginning to wonder drowsily why people eat and
drink so much more in the dining-room than in the nursery, when he
was roused by hearing his own name.

"Look here, little man"--it was Cousin Ellis who was speaking--"are
there any cards in the house?"

"Cards?  Oh! yes, lots!" said Donovan, rubbing his eyes.  "They came
after grandpapa's last stroke, with 'kind inquiries' on them, Mrs.
Doery said."

Cousin Ellis and the lawyer laughed heartily.

"Not those cards, but playing-cards, Dono.  Didn't I see a card-table
in the library?"

But Donovan only looked completely puzzled, and his surprise was
great when, on adjourning to the nest room, Ellis Farrant cleared one
of the tables of the books and papers which had accumulated on it,
and, with the slightest push, turned the top, disclosing in its
centre two or three packs of cards.  In another minute the whole
thing was transformed into a square of green baize, and Cousin Ellis
and the lawyer were shuffling the cards for their game.  Donovan was
not at all sleepy now.  He felt all a child's delighted curiosity in
something which was new and mysterious, and then, too, what splendid
things these would be to calculate with; he wished he had found their
hiding-place before.

"Do tell me their names.  Do let me watch you," he begged.

And Ellis Farrant, who was in good humour at having found something
to while away his dull evening, took the little boy on his knee, and
while he played taught him his cards.

To hear once was to remember with Donovan.  He not only learnt the
names of the cards, but began to understand the principles of the
game, and pleaded hard to be allowed to play too.  But neither Cousin
Ellis nor the lawyer would believe in his capabilities for _écarté_.
The lawyer was good-natured, however, and, seeing the grievous
disappointment in the little boy's face, suggested that they should
let him have a game of _vingt-et-un_, and Cousin Ellis complied,
limiting the stakes to threepence, and supplying the penniless
Donovan from his own pocket.

Here was excitement indeed! calculation, judgment, memory, all called
into action at once!  And the little pile of coins before him was
growing with magic speed, and _vingt-et-un_ fell to him twice
running, and the gentlemen told him laughingly that he was certainly
born to win.  It ended long before he wished, and Cousin Ellis
changed his winnings for him into great bright half-crowns, and he
went off to bed proud, and excited, and victorious, to play
_vingt-et-un_ in his dreams, only being disturbed now and then by a
frightful nightmare of the queen of spades, grown to gigantic
proportions, sitting on his chest and stifling him.  And so ended
Donovan's first introduction to the "_tapis vert_."

The next morning Cousin Ellis and the lawyer left for London, and the
child was once more alone.  The terrible flatness and depression
which he felt that day might have been a lesson to him in after-life,
and he never did forget it, although his experience had to be bought
more dearly.  He wandered drearily over the deserted house, and stole
half timidly into the library, and looked again at the magical table,
and felt the half-crowns in his pocket.  But the fascination and
excitement of the previous evening were gone, and, now that the
sensation of triumph and victory had died away, he did not greatly
care for the money; his head ached, too; the dreary emptiness of the
house oppressed him; he began to feel that his grandfather's absence
made a great difference to him, and that there was something very
forlorn in the idea of being left alone with Mrs. Doery.

As time passed, however, he began to grow accustomed to things, and
slipped back into much the same routine as before; meals, walks, and
pretty frequent fights with Mrs. Doery, solitary games, fits of wild
mischief, whippings, imprisonments, and vague wonder at the
perplexities of life.  His greatest enjoyment was to steal down into
the library, softly to draw aside one of the shutters, and, when
quite secure that Mrs. Doery was not likely to interrupt him, to take
those wonderful cards from their hiding-place, and, with a dummy
adversary, to play the two games of which he had mastered the rules,
and various others of his own invention, always playing his
adversary's cards with the strictest impartiality.

Another occupation there was too which helped to relieve the tedium
of the long days, and this was carpentering.  He was very clever with
his fingers, and, luckily, the housekeeper did not object much to
this pursuit, so long, as she expressed it, "he didn't do no hurt to
the carpets or hisself."  And Donovan obediently cleared up all his
shavings and chips, and bravely endured his cuts and mishaps in
silence.  He became very expert, and one unfortunate day, when Mrs.
Doery had gone out to see a friend, his ambition rose to such a
height that he resolved to take the nursery clock to pieces in order
to see how it was made, intending, after he had thoroughly mastered
the details, to put it together again.  So to work he went as soon as
the housekeeper was well out of sight, and, with the aid of pincers,
screw-drivers, and his dexterous little fingers, succeeded in
dissecting the clock.  It was wonderfully interesting work, so
interesting that, although he was studying the anatomy of the
recorder of time, he forgot that there was such a thing as time at
all, and that, although the hands of the clock were detached from its
face, and the pendulum was lying motionless in his tool-box, the
inexorable old gentleman with the scythe was travelling at his usual
pace, and bringing tea-time and Mrs. Doery in his train.  He had just
settled everything entirely to his own mind, and arranged which
wheels to re-adjust first, when the door opened; he looked up--and
there stood Mrs. Doery with a face of mingled astonishment and wrath
which baffles description.  It was in vain that Donovan pleaded to be
allowed to set it right, and showed how neatly he had arranged the
pieces; Mrs. Doery would not listen to a word, but taking the culprit
to his room, gave him the severest whipping be had ever had, and
Donovan cried piteously, not at all on account of the pain, for he
bore that like a little Trojan, but because he was quite sure he
could put the clock together again if "Doughy" would only let him.

It was not only by fits of mischief and wilfulness that Donovan gave
the housekeeper trouble.  Soon after his grandfather's death, he
began, as she said, "to plague the very life out of her with
questions."  What was this? and why was that? and what was the reason
of the other? pursued poor Mrs. Doery from morning till night.
Taking the doctor's general directions into every detail, she had
brought up her little charge in utter ignorance; he knew no more of
religion than the veriest little heathen, and, though Mrs. Doery had
taught him a short, doggerel prayer to say as he went to sleep, he
was much too matter of fact and logical to care to say a charm
addressed, as far as he knew, to no one in particular, and for which
he could not understand the reason.  It did not make him any happier
to say

  "Three in One, and One in Three,
  One in Three, save me."

It only puzzled him completely, so he left off saying it.

But the service at his grandfather's funeral had awakened his
curiosity; he could not understand it, and he could not bear not
being able to understand.  Mrs. Doery found herself obliged to give
an answer now and then in order to quiet him, and Donovan learnt that
people knelt down to "ask God for things," that "God was a Being who
loved good people and hated bad people," and that "grandpapa had gone
to heaven."

"Why, that's what you always say when you're surprised!" he
exclaimed, when this last piece of information had been received.
"'Good heaven'! you know.  Is heaven a great surprise?  What is
heaven?"

"It's a nice place where good folk go," said Mrs. Doery, as if she
grudged the admission.

"Is it in India?"

"Dear heart!  The ignorance of the child!  No, it's up in the sky."

"What do they do up there?"

"Sit and sing hymns and say prayers."

"What, like they did at the funeral?"

"Bless the child, I don't know; but you needn't trouble so about it,
for it's only good boys as goes there."

"I don't want to, I'm sure," said Donovan, defiantly.  "I hate
sitting still."

But his mind was not satisfied, and Mrs. Doery was questioned still
further.

"Doughy, what did they mean when they said grandpapa would never be
ill again?"

"Why, folks never are ill in heaven."

"What, never?  Oh! that is another reason, then, why I don't want to
go there, for the nicest time I ever had was when I'd the measles;
you never were so little cross in your life, Doughy."  Mrs. Doery
made no comment on this, and the little boy continued, rather
anxiously, "I suppose, Doughy, you are very good, aren't you?"

"Well, Master Donovan, I try to do my duty by the house, and by you,"
said Doery, gloomily.

"That's a good thing!" said Donovan, relieved, "for you see, Doughy,
I don't think we'd better go to the same place, we should be happier
away from each other."

Mrs. Doery was wonderfully uncommunicative, but still the little boy
occasionally plied her with fresh questions.  One day he came to her
with a perplexity which had long been troubling him.

"Doughy, who gives us homes?"

"Your papa, of course, Master Donovan."

"And who gave papa his home?"

"Why, your poor grandpapa."

"But who gave the first papa there ever was his home?"

"Bless the child! how should I know'?  I don't suppose Adam had no
home, so to speak."

"Why are some people's homes so much happier than other people's?
It's very unfair."

"The good little boys are happy," said Mrs. Doery, "and the bad ones
aren't."

"Then, if I was never naughty, should I have a nice home like little
Tom Harris, with a mother to take me out with her."

"That's impossible to say," replied Mrs. Doery, gravely; "let alone
the unlikeliness that you ever would be good, you see there's all
them past times you was naughty; so you've not much of a chance."

Poor Donovan went away sadly, and yet with a great sense of injustice
in his childish mind.  That was almost the last question he troubled
Mrs. Doery with.

But, though he was represented as so incurably bad, he would not
entirely bow to Mrs. Doery's opinion.  In his heart of hearts he
cherished an ideal mother, who was to come back from India, make him
good, and fill his life with happiness; she was to be just like Mrs.
Harris, the grocer's wife, who took her little boy out walking, only
her dresses were to be prettier, for the one thing he remembered
about his mother was that she always wore pretty clothes.  The events
of his life were the arrival of the Indian letters, in which "papa
and mamma sent their love to Dono;" but these were few and far
between, for, although Mrs. Doery wrote each mail to give an account
of Master Donovan's well-being, neither Colonel Farrant nor his wife
understood the importance of keeping their memory green in the
remembrance of their child by writing to him.  The Colonel was
absorbed in his work, Mrs. Farrant was absorbed in herself.  Donovan
had his ideal mother, nevertheless, and would rehearse her return,
and talk to her by the hour; and, when Mrs. Doery took him for his
walk, he would put his hand a little out on the side away from the
housekeeper, making believe that his mother held it, and would turn
his face up, as if he were talking to her, just as he had seen little
Torn Harris do.

At last one never-to-be-forgotten day Donovan heard that he had a
little baby sister, and before the novelty and delight of this news
had had time to fade came a second letter with yet more wonderful
tidings, a large letter for Mrs. Doery, and a little one enclosed for
Donovan from his father--"Mamma and baby were coming to England to
live with Dono, and he must take great care of them, and try to make
them happy."

Never had the little boy known such intense happiness, his dream was
actually coming true, mother was coming, mother who would not mind
answering his questions, who would make him good, who would rescue
him from Mrs. Doery's whippings; he could watch the grocer's little
boy now when he passed by without the least shade of envy, for in a
few weeks would not he too be walking out with his mother?

He watched the preparations which were being made in the house with a
sense of exultant happiness, his grave quiet step changed to the
bounding skipping pace of a merry child, and he was so good that even
Mrs. Doery had no complaint to make of him.  Then at length came the
real day of arrival, and Donovan's feverish impatience was at length
rewarded; a carriage stopped at the door, Mrs. Doery, smoothing her
black apron, bustled out into the hall, and Donovan rushed headlong
down the white steps to throw his arms round his mother's neck.  But
a sudden chill of disappointment fell on his heart, it was so
different from everything he had planned.  The tall pretty-looking
lady stooped to kiss him, indeed, and her voice was soft and refined,
if somewhat languid, as she exclaimed, "Dear me! what a great boy you
have grown!" but it was not his ideal at all, not the mother to whom
he could tell everything, or who would care to know.  All this
Donovan read in almost the first glance, as clearly as he had read
Mrs. Doery's character on Southampton Pier.

He followed everyone else into the house and shut the door, Mrs.
Farrant was already on the way to her room, and did not notice him
any further, and he was too bewildered and disappointed to care to
bestow more than a glance on the ayah and the little baby in long
clothes.

By-and-by, he saw his mother again, but by this time he had grown
shy, and only made the briefest responses to her questions, and
before long she had disposed herself on the drawing-room sofa with a
book, and he was left standing at a little distance with a Calcutta
costume doll which she had just given him, and a very heavy heart.
The doll only added to his disappointment.  Surely the ideal mother
would have understood how little he, a boy of eight years old, would
care for a doll?  He did not want presents at all, he wanted the
dream-mother back again, and the conviction that she never could come
back again was terrible indeed.  It got worse and worse as the
evening advanced, and at last he could bear it no longer, but,
wishing his mother good night, crept upstairs though it was not yet
his bed time, and shutting himself into the cupboard among Mrs.
Doery's dresses gave vent to his misery.  He did not often cry, even
at the severest whipping, but that night he sobbed as though his
heart would break; life had seemed hard and perplexing already, and
now his ideal was gone!

But the loving hand which was guiding Donovan, though he so little
knew it, was not going to leave him desolate.  The perfectly loving
sympathetic mother had indeed been denied him, but another treasure
had been provided for him, which though it could not fill entirely
the place of the dethroned ideal--the place which was to be always
empty, always longing to be filled--was yet to call out his best and
strongest feelings.

When at last he checked his sobs and crept out of the cupboard once
more, the first thing his eyes rested on was the new baby sister
lying asleep in her cradle.  He was so miserable that he would even
have thrown himself on Mrs. Doery's mercy if she had been there, and
in another minute his tears broke forth again, as he pressed his face
close to the baby's and told her all his trouble.  Of course she woke
directly, but he still sobbed out his story.

"Oh! baby, I'm so miserable--so miserable--mother isn't a bit what I
expected."

The baby began to cry feebly, and Donovan, penitent at having
disturbed her, took her with great care and difficulty from her
cradle, and began to rock her in his arms, and as she slept once
more, and as her weight became more and more difficult to bear, a new
sense of love and protecting care sprang up in the little boy's
heart, and he was comforted.  Before long Mrs. Doery's step was heard
without, and Donovan knew that if he were found he would certainly be
whipped, but to try to put the baby back in the cradle would be sure
to wake her, and she was worth suffering for.

Mrs. Doery was of course wrathful, and poor Donovan went to bed
supperless and sore both inwardly and outwardly; but, as his wistful
eyes closed on that day of disappointment, he clung to his one
comforting thought, the little sister, his new possession.

As time passed on, the bond between these two grew stronger and
stronger.  Donovan centred all the love of his heart on the frail
little life of the baby.  The element of protection was his most
pronounced characteristic; he was strong, and liked above all things
to have something to take care of.  And Dot, as they called the tiny
delicate little girl, needed any amount of attention.  From the very
first everything seemed against her; her Indian birth, the trying
voyage, the want of any real care from her mother, the miserable
mismanagement of an incompetent doctor, all told grievously on the
delicate little child.  She had only just learnt to walk, or rather
to trust herself to be piloted along by Donovan, when she began to
pine and dwindle, and before long the hesitating footsteps were
hushed for ever, and Dot lay down upon the couch on which her little
life-drama was to be acted.  A fall from her ayah's arms had, it was
supposed, been the cause of the hip-disease which now declared
itself.  For a time everyone was sorry and disturbed, but soon they
became resigned, and talked about "the dispensations of Providence."
Only Donovan nursed his sorrow and indignation apart, conscious, in
spite of his youth, that it was human carelessness, human
misunderstanding, which had ruined the only life he cared for.

In the meantime, the lease of Oakdene Manor came to an end, and Mrs.
Farrant and her children left the house where Donovan's childhood had
been passed, to make their home in that place which old Mr. Farrant
had planned so carefully, but had never seen.

The change was in some respects good for Donovan; he was just old
enough to take an interest in the property which would, he supposed,
be his own some day, and he liked the free country life.  But in that
comfortable English home, the apparent model of refinement and
propriety, he grew up somehow into a very unsatisfactory mortal,
unsatisfactory to himself as well as to others.  He was scarcely to
be blamed perhaps, for, with the exception of little Dot, there was
not one good influence in the Manor household.

His mother's intense selfishness was perfectly apparent to him; he
accepted it now with a sort of cold indifference when it only
affected himself.  It was so, and there was an end of the matter; he
just put up with it.  But, when Mrs. Farrant's entire absorption in
self affected Dot, Donovan's indignation was always roused; there was
an almost fierce gleam in his eyes when he found Dot suffering from
the unmotherliness which had chilled and cramped his own life.

What, however, told most fatally on him was his mother's conventional
religion.  Mrs. Farrant went to church because it was proper, and
insisted on her son's accompanying her.  He obeyed, but went with a
sort of stubborn disgust, hating to share in this act of hypocrisy.
He was naturally acute, and at a very early age he found out that the
lives of all the professing Christians around him were diametrically
opposed to the principles of Christianity.  It was all a hideous
mockery, a hollow profession; even as a child he came to the sweeping
conclusion, "They are all shams, these Christian people," and
naturally went on to the resolution, "I at least will profess
nothing."

His views received a sort of amused encouragement from his tutor, a
man whom Mrs. Farrant had been delighted to secure for her son,
because he was "so highly connected, such a very gentlemanly man."
Mr. Alleyne was, however, in spite of his high connections, entirely
unfit to be the tutor of a boy like Donovan.  He was clever, but
shallow, and he had dabbled in science, and rather prided himself on
being able to appreciate the difficulties which great minds found in
reconciling the new discoveries of science and the old faiths.  He
quoted Tyndall and Huxley with great aptness, and, though on occasion
he was quite capable of appearing to be exceedingly orthodox, yet he
was rather fond of styling himself an Agnostic when quite sure of his
audience.  He was not a sincere man; he liked talking of his
"intellectual difficulties," and regarded scepticism as "not bad form
now-a-days."  When Mr. Alleyne found that his pupil was, as he termed
it, "a thorough-going young atheist," he was a little amused and a
good deal interested.  He was not at all unwilling to forsake the
more ordinary routine, and, throwing aside the classics, he allowed
Donovan to devote most of his time to scientific subjects, which were
far more interesting to both teacher and pupil.

Donovan had no respect for his tutor, but he was a good deal
influenced by him.  When by his father's desire he was sent at last
to a public school, he was just in the state to derive all the evil
and none of the good from school life.  He had grown up in isolation,
and he was naturally reserved, so that he did not easily make
friends, and he was too wilful and incomprehensible to be a favourite
with the masters.  In mathematics, indeed, he could beat every
opponent with ease, and carried off several prizes, but his success
was merely that of natural talent, and never of industry, so that
even to himself it brought little satisfaction.

And all the time slowly strengthening and developing was the intense
love of play which had shown itself in his earliest childhood.  Ellis
Farrant had crossed his path several times since their first meeting,
and Donovan, though he did not like his cousin, always enjoyed his
visits, for then his passion could be gratified, and his monotonous
and already unsatisfying life could be broken by the most delicious
of all excitements.

Later on came the temptation at school; the suggestion made by a
weaker and more timid boy was carried out unscrupulously by Donovan,
his conscience completely overmastered by the thirst for
self-gratification.  Then followed exposure, disgrace, some
injustice, and a most bitter humiliation.

His school-days were abruptly ended.  What was now to become of him?




CHAPTER III.

THE TREMAINS OF PORTHKERRAN.

  "But faith beyond our sight may go,"
  He said; "the gracious Fatherhood
  Can only know above, below,
  Eternal purposes of good.
  From our free heritage of will
  The bitter springs of pain and ill
  Flow only in all worlds.  The perfect day
  Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway."
                                            WHITTIER.


Golden sunshine, clear blue sky, the fresh green of spring, and a
light delicious sea breeze--all this outward beauty and gladness
there was on the morning after Colonel Farrant and his son had
arrived at Plymouth.  And yet surely never had heart felt more heavy,
never had existence felt more unbearable, than Donovan's as he walked
slowly and dejectedly on the Hoe.  Colonel Farrant had left the hotel
early in order to get his business settled, and Donovan, with a
restless craving for something to divert his mind from his disgrace,
had wandered out alone.  He was not very successful in his search for
peace, for the more he struggled to find interest or diversion in all
around, the more he felt the bitter pangs of remorse and angry
resentment.  Groups of happy noisy children were playing on the
grass, and he thought of his own lonely repressed childhood, and felt
that the lots of men were unjustly and unequally arranged.  His head
ached miserably from the effects of yesterday's blow, and the
gauntleting had left him so stiff and bruised that every movement was
painful; the mere physical discomfort made it impossible for him to
forget himself or his troubles for a minute.

He stood on the highest point of the Hoe, and looked at the exquisite
view before him--the stately ships at anchor in the Sound, Drake's
Island, with its miniature citadel, Mount Edgcumbe, with its
beautifully wooded banks, and its foliage fringing the water, the
clear sharply-defined line of the breakwater, and, far out over the
sparkling dancing waves, the distant Eddystone.  And yet, though he
could not be altogether insensible to the beauty of the scene, the
brightness and rejoicing, even the industry and success which he saw,
made him more angry and resentful, more hopeless and despairing.  Was
not he disgraced, humiliated? and, at the same time, had not his
faults been unjustly exaggerated, his punishment unjustly given?
Life seemed one long perplexity, and now he felt utterly hopeless,
utterly purposeless, for success and pleasure had been his chief
objects hitherto, and now he felt that he had failed shamefully, and
that the failure was so great that all pleasure in life was over.

Yet, in spite of his remorse and misery, he was neither repentant nor
humble, for Mrs. Doery's early training had ruined him in this
respect.  The soft, pliable years of his childhood had been left in
utter ignorance, and when his powers of reason and calculation had
been well roused and brought into action, he was presented with the
image of a God always watching to detect sin, always in readiness to
punish, a hard, stern, inexorable Judge, who admitted fortunate
people to heaven, and dismissed unfortunate people to hell, with
strict impartiality and entire absence of feeling.  No wonder that an
angry sense of injustice grew up in Donovan's heart, no wonder that
he turned from the cruelly false representation which was offered
him, and steadily refused to believe in it.  And when, in course of
time, he heard other and truer views than these, his heart had grown
hard, and he had become so accustomed to rely on himself and his
natural strength of will that he felt no need of higher help.
Moreover, religion required that he should own himself to be utterly
weak and God all-powerful, and he would own neither the one nor the
other.  Even now, with his sense of failure and misery, he would not
yield; fate had been against him, he was sorry to have brought
disgrace on his father, he was angry and indignant with the world,
and dissatisfied with himself, but that was all.

Two vessels in the Sound had just weighed anchor.  He watched them
with a listless interest, wondering whither they were bound, and what
would become of them; whether they would safely reach their
destination, or whether a cruel fate would cast them on rocks or
quicksands, to be hopelessly, irretrievably wrecked.  A fate to be
struggled against!  It was his notion of life; and, as the stately
ships left the harbour and sailed out into the immeasurable expanse
beyond, he turned away with a firmer, more decided step, and a less
dejected heart; fate had been against him all his life, but he would
not despair.  He would conquer fate by the power of his will, he
would live yet to be an honour to his father!

Colonel Farrant's business did not detain him very long, and, as soon
as lunch was over, he suggested that they might as well at least
begin their tour that afternoon.  Donovan was relieved at the
proposal, and assisted in the choice of a horse and dog-cart with
resolute if somewhat forced cheerfulness.  His father was further
than ever from understanding him now, and began to doubt whether the
driving tour would be a success; but, with all his perplexing
contradictions, Donovan was very loveable, and his eager questions as
to the Colonel's Indian life could not but be gratifying to the
father's heart.  He, for his part, however, was a much less
successful questioner, and could elicit very little as to his son's
past life, for Donovan was reserved by nature, and had been made
still more so by his education.  He drew an impenetrable veil over
his childhood, and answered all allusions to his mother with quick
abrupt monosyllables; for he was far too proud to be a grumbler, and
indeed his grievances were too deep to bear speaking of.  Little Dot
was the only subject upon which he talked naturally and unreservedly,
and Colonel Farrant was glad to make the most of this.

Once, inadvertently, they touched on the subject of his school
disgrace.

"How is your forehead to-day?" asked the Colonel, after they had
driven some little way in silence.

"Painful; but not worse than might be expected," replied Donovan.
"It's hard lines to have to suffer from a rascally dishonourable
breach of rules."

"I'm afraid, Dono, you are hardly in a position to talk about
breaches of honour," said his father, gravely and sadly.

It was his only word of reproach, if reproach it could be called, but
its gentleness made Donovan feel more than ever what a man his father
was, and the thought of the trouble he had brought upon him
overwhelmed him anew with shame and sorrow.

Colonel Farrant, noticing the sudden change of expression, was
touched, and hastily changed the subject.  Before long, too, the
weather claimed their attention, the sky, which had been bright and
clear when they left Plymouth, was now black and threatening, while
the light breeze of the morning was growing stronger and keener.
Everything betokened a storm, and before long the rain descended in
torrents, drenching the occupants of the dog-cart to the skin, while
the western wind blew so strongly and gustily that to hold an
umbrella was out of the question.  For himself Donovan rather enjoyed
it.  There was a sort of pleasure in being buffeted by wind and rain,
but he was anxious for his father, as he knew he was subject to
severe attacks of rheumatism, consequent on rheumatic fever.  They
resolved to stop at the first place they came to, and at last, to
their relief, they reached a quaint little fishing town, which
boasted a very fair inn.

But, in spite of warm rooms, a good dinner, and a change of clothes,
Donovan's fears were realized.  The next day his father was entirely
incapacitated by rheumatism, and to proceed was an impossibility; the
rain, too, continued without intermission, and everything seemed to
augur some little stay at Porthkerran.

The day passed slowly and wearily.  Donovan wrote letters at his
father's dictation, read the _Western Morning News_ from beginning to
end, and finally set out, notwithstanding the rain, to reconnoitre
the place.  On coming in again, he found his father so much worse,
and suffering such pain from his heart, that he tried hard to get
leave to go for the doctor, but Colonel Farrant did not take to the
idea.

"There is nothing to be done.  I've had these attacks dozens of
times," he replied, reassuringly.  "Besides, ten to one we should
only find a quack in this outlandish place."

"The landlord says there's a first-rate doctor named Tremain, do let
me send a line to him," said Donovan, anxiously.

"Well, well, perhaps if I'm not better to-morrow we'll have him.  I'm
sorry to keep you in this dull place, my boy, but to-morrow if it's
fine we will try to push on."

Colonel Farrant spoke cheerfully, and as if he really hoped to be
well again before long, and yet Donovan could not shake off an uneasy
dissatisfied feeling, which returned to him more and more strongly
after each visit to his father's room.  They had a great deal of talk
that evening, and Donovan began to feel that home would be very
different now that his father had returned, more like the ideal home
he used to fancy.  Colonel Farrant, too, was immensely relieved and
cheered, for his sickness and helplessness had brought to light many
of Donovan's best qualities, his strength, his tenderness, and his
ready observance, while his evident anxiety seemed to speak well for
his awakening love.

It would be hard to say which was the more disappointed when, on the
Thursday morning, Colonel Farrant proved to be rather worse than
better.  He was suffering so much, when Donovan went into his room in
the early morning, that he could no longer say anything against the
plan for calling Dr. Tremain, and Donovan dispatched a messenger at
once with a note to the doctor, and before half an hour had passed
was called down into the little sitting-room to receive him.

Dr. Tremain was standing by the window when he entered, and Donovan,
glancing at him rather curiously, was at once prepossessed in his
favour.  He was a middle-aged man, but looked younger than he really
was, in spite of evident signs of ill-health; his brown eyes were
clear and shining, and there was a kindly light in them which was
very attractive, his forehead was high and very finely developed, his
features were regular and good, while a long light brown beard
concealed the one defect of the face, a slightly receding chin.

Donovan was a rather good judge of character; his first sensation was
one of relief that he had found a man whom he could trust, and who
would probably understand his father's case; his next was one of
surprise that anyone so refined, and evidently so clever, should
remain buried in a Cornish village.  He led the way at once to
Colonel Farrant's room, and then waited anxiously below for the
report.  The doctor's visit was a long one, and when at length he
came downstairs Donovan was alarmed to find that he spoke very
seriously of Colonel Farrant's illness.  The rheumatic fever had left
his heart weak, of that Donovan was aware, but Dr. Tremain spoke of
really grave symptoms of further mischief, aggravated, no doubt, by
the fatigue of his return from India, and by the chill which he had
taken during the drive to Porthkerran.

"And any mental shock, any trouble, would that be likely to affect
him?" asked Donovan, speaking calmly though his heart began to beat
very uncomfortably:

"It might, yes, it probably would," replied the doctor, "but he told
me of nothing of the sort."

"No, I didn't think he would," said Donovan, controlling his voice
with difficulty, "but he has had great and unexpected trouble; I have
given him trouble."

The confession, coming from one evidently so reserved, had a strange
pathos; Dr. Tremain held out his hand warmly.

"That must make the anxiety doubly trying to you; but do not be
despondent, this afternoon I may be able to give a better account; in
the meantime only see that your father is kept perfectly quiet."

Donovan had been miserable enough before, but this news added tenfold
to his misery.  At Colonel Farrant's request, he wrote at once to his
mother, giving her full particulars of his father's state, and
describing the kind of accommodation which was to be had at
Porthkerran, if she thought of coming down to nurse him; he added
these details because his father told him to, but he himself did not
think for a moment that she would come, she always shrank from
witnessing pain, and even disliked being in little Dot's room for any
length of time.

As Donovan wrote, Colonel Farrant lay perfectly still, thinking
deeply, and when in the afternoon Dr. Tremain made his second visit,
and could still give no more favourable report, the subject of his
anxiety was revealed.

"Doctor, have you any lawyer in the place who would draw up a will
for me?"

"There is one ordinarily," said Dr. Tremain.  "But Mr. Turner is away
now; I am afraid there is no one nearer than Plymouth."

"I have been thinking things over," said the Colonel.  "It is many
years since my former will was made, and, owing to many changes, I
feel that it will be better to make an alteration.  I feel fidgety
and anxious to get things settled, it is provoking that there is no
lawyer here."

"I do not know that you need feel any immediate anxiety," said the
doctor; "what I have told you need not necessarily affect your life
for many years."

"No, but it may affect it at any moment," said the Colonel, gravely.
"I want to be prepared, I want to have everything in order for my
boy."

Dr. Tremain, aware that worry or anxiety was very bad for his
patient, thought of the best means of re-assuring his mind, and,
after a moment's consideration, suggested that he should write both
briefly and clearly his own wishes until a formal will could be drawn
up.  Colonel Farrant was much relieved by the idea, and directed the
doctor to ask Donovan for a sheet of paper, upon which Dr. Tremain
wrote at his dictation a clear and properly worded form, expressing
his desire to devise and bequeath the bulk of his property to his
son, Donovan Farrant, and providing an ample allowance for his widow
during her life.  Then one of the servants and the doctor himself
witnessed the will, and the Colonel lay back again relieved and
satisfied.

They were still talking on the subject when Donovan's voice was heard
without; it was just post time, and he knew his father had a letter
to send.

"I do not wish my son to see this, I wish him to know nothing of the
transaction," said the Colonel, quickly.

Dr. Tremain had, however, already given the word of admittance, and
Colonel Farrant.  starting up hurriedly, took the will from the table
and put it into the doctor's hand.

"Take it, take it, and not a word."

There was a sudden pause; Donovan came towards the bed just in time
to see his father fall forward, and to hear a slight sound in his
throat, of which he did not know the meaning.  Dr. Tremain gave an
inarticulate exclamation, raised the inanimate form and bent down
close to it; then he glanced to the other side of the bed, to that
other form almost as still and inanimate, to that other face, white,
rigid, and agonized, and saw there was no need of words; Donovan
understood that his father was dead.

All that a thoroughly good, thoroughly unselfish man can do at such a
time Dr. Tremain did.  He felt the most intense pity for Donovan left
thus utterly alone, with a burden of remorse on his conscience, and
this overwhelming grief at his heart; but it was difficult to be of
much use to one so completely stunned and paralysed, and the doctor
could only persuade him to leave the room.

Donovan moved away mechanically, and went down below to the little
sitting-room.  He felt scarcely anything but a dim, vague, undefined
horror, a consciousness of a sudden blank in his life.  The shock had
been so great that, for the time, all his faculties were numbed, and
he scarcely heard the doctor's words; he stood by the mantelpiece
perfectly silent, perfectly motionless, with his eyes fixed on the
centre ornament, a little tawdry shell house mounted on a board
strewn with dried seaweeds.  How many times he had dreamily
calculated the number of Cornish cowries which would be needed to
adorn fifty houses he did not know, but he was roused at length by
the doctor's hand on his shoulder.

"If I can be of any use in sending off any telegrams for you, or
helping you in any other way, pray tell me."

The words seemed to rouse Donovan, the rigid stillness of his face
changed suddenly, the look of suffering deepened.

"My mother, I must let her know."

He sat down by the table and hid his face in his hands, battling with
his emotion.  The doctor had brought paper and pen; he offered to
write the telegram, but at the proposal Donovan raised his head once
more, and, with perfect control and calmness, took the pen in his
hand and wrote, without a moment's pause or hesitation, the brief
words which were to convey the news of Colonel Farrant's death to the
rector of the church near Oakdene.  He was the only person fit to
break the news to Mrs. Farrant, the only person Donovan could think
of at all, except Mrs. Doery or Ellis Farrant, and from them he
instinctively shrank.

Dr. Tremain promised to see that the message was sent, and then very
reluctantly took leave, trying, as he walked along the wet muddy
road, to think of any means by which he could help the poor boy who
seemed left in such a miserable friendless state.  But it was a
difficult question, and the doctor had arrived at no satisfactory
solution by the time he had passed through the village and reached
the gabled ivy-covered house where he lived.

Trenant was a delightfully comfortable house, prettily furnished,
exquisitely neat, and in every way thoroughly well ordered.  Some one
was singing on the staircase as Dr. Tremain opened the front door,
and as he took off his wet coat there was a sound of hurrying
footsteps, and a pretty bright-looking girl of about sixteen ran to
meet him.

"Papa, how long you have been out, and how shockingly wet you are!"

"Yes, it is raining heavily," said the doctor, taking one of the soft
little hands in his as he crossed the hall.  "Is your mother in,
Gladys?"

"Yes, she's with the children in the drawing-room, and we've kept
some tea for you.  I'll go and see to it," and she ran off, finishing
the song which had been interrupted, while her father went into the
drawing-room.

Gladys was the eldest daughter of the house, and when her parents had
chosen her name--a name which they considered as emblematic of
happiness, in spite of certain questionings which had arisen among
name fanciers on the subject--it would seem that some unseen fairy
godmother had really bestowed that best of all gifts on their child,
for Gladys was the happiest, most contented, sunshiny little person
imaginable.  Everything about her looked happy, her sunny
golden-brown hair, her bright, well-opened, grey eyes, her laughing
mouth, her little unformed nose, her dimpled chin, and fresh glowing
complexion.  She had, of course, her ups and downs like most people,
but she was too unselfish to be depressed for any length of time, and
too easy and accommodating to make much of such troubles and
difficulties as she had.

In a few minutes the tea was ready, and Gladys, with a dainty little
hand-tray filled with a plate of crisp home-made biscuits, and the
cup and saucer, crossed the hall once more, passed the little
conservatory where two canaries were singing with all their might,
and entered the drawing-room, in which she found her father and
mother talking together.

"They are strangers.  The father had just returned from India," Dr.
Tremain was saying.  "And they were taking a driving tour in
Cornwall; it's the saddest thing I've heard for a long time.  Without
the slightest preparation the poor fellow is left in this way,
without a friend near him."

"He is quite alone then at the inn?" asked Mrs. Tremain.

"Perfectly alone, and I don't see how we are to help him.  I thought
of asking him here, but I feel sure he wouldn't come."

"Poor boy!  How old is he?"

"About eighteen, I believe; but he's decidedly old for his age, he is
a man compared with Dick."

"Oh!  Dick never will grow old," said the mother, with a little sigh,
as she remembered how far away was the sailor son.  "But we cannot
leave this poor Mr. Farrant without any sympathy.  Would it be any
use if I went to see him!"

"It would be the very best thing possible," said the doctor, "if you
do not shrink from it too much.  I am afraid you will find it very
difficult to make any way with him, but I can't think of any other
plan for helping him."

"I will try to see him, then, after dinner," said Mrs. Tremain.

"Is Mr. Farrant's father dead?" asked Gladys, as her father left the
room.

"Yes, dear, quite suddenly.  The shock must have been terrible to the
poor boy."

"Oh! mother, how will you comfort him?  How dreadful it must be to
have such sorrow all alone!"

"Yes, terrible indeed," said Mrs. Tremain.  "I am afraid we cannot do
very much to comfort him, dear Gladys, but God can comfort him, and
perhaps He may use us as His messengers of comfort; at any rate we
can all pray for him."

"Yes, we can do that.  But, mother,"--and a shade crossed Gladys'
bright face--"it does seem so strange that some people should have so
much more trouble than others.  Dick and I, for instance, we have had
scarcely anything but happiness all our lives.  Of course Dick's
going away is always sad, but I mean we've had no great sorrows.
Doesn't it seem almost unfair, unjust, that lives should be so
unequal?"

"It must seem so, until we can realize that we are all the children
of a loving Father, who gives to everyone just what is best for them.
If we remember that God's will is to draw us all nearer Him, to fit
us for the greatest happiness of all, we shall surely trust Him to
choose our joys and sorrows, and those of everyone else too."

"And yet, mother, it seems very often as if the troubles were just
the very worst things for us, the things that made us go wrong.
Think of poor Ben Trevethan at the forge; his wife died, and directly
afterwards his son grew so wild, and took to drinking, and then just
when Ben hoped to steady him again he was laid up for months and
months, and the son grew worse, and at last ran away; it seems as if
it would have been so much better if all those troubles hadn't
happened together, as if the son would have had so much more chance
of getting right."

"Yes, it seems so to us, dear," said Mrs. Tremain; "but you must
remember that we cannot see the pattern which our lives are weaving,
we can only go on bit by bit, remembering that there is a pattern,
and that one day we shall understand why the dark shades, and the
long plain pieces, and the bright glad colours were sent us.  Ben
Trevethan's life, and his son's too, will not be wasted, you may be
sure; they will help to influence, to guide, or to warn other lives,
all the time that they are weaving their pattern."

"Our pattern is very bright just now," said Gladys, raising her happy
contented face for a kiss.  "And baby Nesta is the very brightest
sunniest part of it all!" and she sprang up to receive from the nurse
the little white-robed baby, the new delight and treasure of the
whole house.

Her song was taken up once more as she walked to and fro with her
little charge, and the voices of the other children at their play
came from the further end of the room, while Mrs. Tremain's thoughts
reverted to the sad story she had heard, and to the work which lay
before her that evening.

Her task was no easy one; she trembled a little when she was actually
standing in the passage of the inn, having sent a messenger to ask if
Mr. Farrant would see her.  Dr. Tremain had been called out, and she
had been obliged to come alone; this made the interview seem all the
more formidable, but she was too unselfish to shrink from the
difficulty.  The messenger returned quickly, and she was ushered into
the little sitting-room, speedily forgetting all thought of herself
as she saw what utter misery was written on Donovan's face.  He came
forward to meet her, and bowed gravely; then, as she held out her
hand with a few words of explanation and sympathy, he took it in his,
answered briefly but courteously, and drew a chair towards the fire
for her.  She sat down, and he fell back into his former position,
with his elbows resting on the mantelpiece and his face half hidden,
as if he had done all that courtesy required of him, and intended to
return to his own thoughts.

Mrs. Tremain's voice roused him; it was a very low gentle voice, and
fell pleasantly on his ear.

"I cannot bear to think of your being all alone here," she began.
"This inn seems so forlorn and comfortless for you.  I wish we could
persuade you to come to our house, you should be perfectly quiet and
undisturbed."

She hardly thought that he would consent to this plan, but it made an
opening for conversation, and it roused Donovan at once; his tone, as
he replied, was more than merely courteous, and his sad eyes met hers
fully.

"You are very kind and good to think of it, but I don't think I can
come, thank you; to-morrow my mother will be here, and to-night I
can't leave--I would rather----" he broke off hastily, unable to
control his distress.

"You must do just what you like best," said Mrs. Tremain; "I can
quite understand your feeling."

"It would be of no use," continued Donovan, recovering himself, but
speaking in a low constrained voice.  "Can I escape from my thoughts
at your house any more than here?  Nothing can make misery and
remorse bearable."

"I suppose we all see the full beauty and goodness of those we love
only when we lose them," said Mrs. Tremain, not quite understanding
him, "and then we wish we had often acted differently to them; those
bitter regrets are very hard to bear."

"Ah! you don't know, you can't understand what reason for remorse I
have!" cried Donovan; and then he looked steadily at Mrs. Tremain for
a minute, to decide whether he should tell her of his disgrace or not.

He saw a sweet, gentle, motherly face, a calm serene forehead, smooth
bands of dark hair beginning to turn grey, delicately-arched and
pencilled eyebrows, and dark grey eyes, which seemed to shine right
into his, eyes which were clear, and unswerving, and truthful, yet
full of tender sympathy.

His voice trembled a little, but yet it was a relief to him when he
said, with lowered eyelids, and a burning flush on his cheek, "I have
disgraced my father."

Before long Mrs. Tremain had heard all the particulars of his trouble
at school, and had listened sadly to his account of the journey, and
of his father's illness.  She was sure that it was good for him to
talk; if she had known that he had never in his whole life had such a
disburdening, she might have encouraged him still more.  She gave him
all her sympathy, and when at length he relapsed into silence it was
with a look of less hopeless misery on his face.  Mrs. Tremain
glanced round the room then, and saw that the meal prepared on the
table was untouched.

"I have been keeping you from dinner!" she exclaimed, regretfully.

"No, indeed.  I want nothing.  I could not eat," said Donovan,
decidedly.

Mrs. Tremain hardly felt surprised as she looked at the tough steak
and greasy gravy, now perfectly cold.

"You must eat something," she said, assuming a gentle authority over
him, which he was not at all inclined to resist.  "Give me _carte
blanche_ with the landlady, and you shall have something you can eat
directly.  This must have been waiting."

"Yes, it has been up an hour or two," said Donovan, wearily, and he
threw himself back in an arm-chair, while Mrs. Tremain left the room,
returning before long with some hot coffee and a far more appetizing
repast.  She sat down with him, taking some coffee herself, and
inducing him both to eat and to talk; and when at last she was
obliged to go he was really cheered and refreshed.

"Mrs. Farrant will be here to-morrow," she said, at parting.  "That
will be a comfort to you."

Donovan did not answer.  He would not show what his real feeling on
the subject was, but only hardened his face, and, thanking Mrs.
Tremain for her kindness, wished her good-bye.




CHAPTER IV.

"MY ONLY SON, DONOVAN."

  So drives self-love through just, and through unjust,
  To one man's pow'r, ambition, lucre, lust.
                                                POPE.


On the following evening the little inn-parlour witnessed a very
different scene.  Donovan, who had known perfectly well what to
expect, had, after a night and day of misery, settled down into a
stony speechless sorrow, largely mingled now with bitterness, for the
meeting with his mother had been most painful.

The trouble had sharpened Mrs. Farrant, and in the selfishness of her
grief she made not the slightest allowance for the feelings of other
people.  Without intentional cruelty, without indeed thinking at all,
she was absolutely merciless.  Donovan had tried hard to meet her
affectionately.  Even his stiff reserve had melted in the greatness
and honesty of his desire to comfort her.  Anyone not entirely
absorbed in self, must have seen and accepted such very real
sympathy, but Mrs. Farrant saw nothing, thought of nothing, but
wearied with her journey, unnerved by the sudden shock, vented her
petulant grief on the only victim at hand.

It was a very grievous scene.  On the sofa lay the widow, a beautiful
and still young-looking woman, her face distorted now, however, by
passionate sorrow, and wet with tears--that violent stormy grief
which is soon spent, and which even already was mixed with angry
reproaches.  Standing by the window, in an attitude expressing rigid
endurance, was the son, his face very still and quiet in contrast to
his mother's, but with an indescribable bitterness about it which
almost overpowered the sadness.  He had learnt quickly that his
presence was irritating instead of comforting to his mother.  In a
sort of proud hopelessness he moved away from her, and stood looking
out across the dreary street to the grey sea beyond, while, as if in
a sort of dream, he heard all that was going on: the ceaseless drip
of the rain, the distant breaking of the waves upon the shore, the
weary reiteration of sobs and reproaches from within.  Harder and
harder grew his face as he listened, just because his heart was
anything but hard, and ached and smarted under that "continual
dropping."  How long it went on he had not the faintest idea, but it
seemed to him that he had heard many times of his "disgrace," had
often winced at the mention of his father's name, had silently
listened to many unjust accusations, had long felt the grating
incongruity of this stormy passion with the silent room of death
above.  It was a relief when at length, exhausted with her sorrow,
Mrs. Farrant fell asleep.  He drew nearer then, and stood silently
watching her, looked at her soft brown hair, her faultless features,
her singularly delicate complexion.  It seemed incredible that one so
beautiful and gentle-looking could have uttered such cruel
reproaches, but it was by no means surprising to Donovan.  He had
been quite prepared for it, had learnt many years ago that his mother
was a mother only in name, that the outgoing love of true motherhood
was not in her, that the most he could ever expect for himself or Dot
was a ghastly shadow in place of a reality.  He had been a fool to
think of comforting her!  He would waste no more hopes on anything so
hopeless.  He flung back to the window, yet returned to spread a
shawl over her feet.

The wretched evening wore on, Mrs. Farrant awoke, and with scarcely a
word went upstairs to bed.  Once more the room was lonely and
still--infinitely more lonely even than it had been on the previous
evening, for now Donovan's whole being was crying out at the
injustice of its loneliness.  Why, when he would willingly have shown
tenderness and love, was he coldly repulsed?  Why was he cut off from
all sympathy?  What was the meaning of the pain which had
relentlessly pursued him from his very childhood?  To these questions
what answer could he make?--all seemed to him hopeless confusion and
injustice.  If for a moment his mind did revert to the thought of a
Providence ruling over all, it was only to be as quickly repelled by
the vision of the God presented to him in his childhood, for it was
always to this teaching that he recurred when he allowed the subject
to enter his thoughts at all.  Mrs. Doery's misrepresentation had
left its impress on his mind, while in later years the truths he had
heard had always been so resolutely and speedily rejected that they
had failed to leave their mark.

The room began to grow intolerable to him; he rushed out into the
open air, and breathed more freely as the cold night wind blew upon
him.  The rain was still falling fast, but he scarcely noticed it as
he strode on recklessly.  The mere mechanical exercise was in itself
soothing, and he might have trudged along the muddy road for an
indefinite time, had not his attention been attracted by a distant
sound of music.  Drawing nearer, he found that the house from which
it proceeded was Dr. Tremain's, and instinctively he approached one
of the windows, and looked through the half-opened Venetian blind at
the scene within.

Not a detail of that picture escaped him.  A soft light falling
through the opal lamp globe illumined the room, the pale French grey
walls, the running oak-leaf patterned carpet, the deep crimson
curtains, all harmonized to perfection.  Seated at the piano was
Gladys Tremain, her bright hair gathered back from her face, and her
complexion, which was at times almost too highly coloured, looking
absolutely perfect in the mellow lamp-light.  She wore a very simple
white dress, and her small soft hands seemed to touch the keys almost
caressingly.

Donovan forgot his sorrow for a moment, and felt vexed when, as she
stopped playing, the spell which had bound him was for the time
broken by a voice which came from within the room.

"Sing something, Gladys; I'm tired of those old 'songs without
words,'" and the speaker crossed the room, and came close to the
piano, so that Donovan could see he was a boy of about his own age,
of slight build and fair complexion, but not sufficiently like Gladys
to be any relation, he fancied.

"You dare to grow tired of Mendelssohn!" said Gladys, with a fine
show of indignation.  "You boys have no taste whatever; one might as
well play to--to----"  She paused for a comparison.

"To the heathen Chinee," suggested her companion.  "'What a lot of
chop-sticks, bombs, and gongs!'--you remember the song, of course.
That's Chinese art, you know."

Gladys laughed, and there was a merry little squabble carried on, as
the two tried to play the air of the old nursery rhyme.

"Well, now will you sing after all?" said the boy at last; "we will
allow, if you like, that it's a case of pearls before swine."

"Don't, Stephen," and Gladys really looked vexed.

"Why, isn't even that allowable?  I didn't know you were such a
little Puritan."

"You know I can't bear that kind of thing; it is such a pity to
use----"

"A fellow can't be always picking his words--I'm sure it's as good as
a proverb now," interrupted Stephen.  "If you only knew what it was
to have such a strait-laced mother as I have, you----"

"Find me a song," said Gladys, handing him a portfolio, and, though
she spoke sweetly, there was a certain grave dignity in her tone.

The choice was soon made, but Donovan was so absorbed in watching
Gladys that he scarcely noticed the first verse of the song, until a
mournful refrain of "Strangers yet" recalled him painfully to
himself.  With strained attention he listened to the remaining
verses:--

  "After childhood's winning ways,
  After care and blame and praise,
  Counsel asked and wisdom given,
  After mutual prayers to heaven,
  Child and parent scarce regret
  When they part are strangers yet.

  "Will it evermore be thus,
  Spirits still impervious?
  Shall we never fairly stand
  Soul to soul and hand to hand?
  Are the bonds eternal set
  To retain us strangers yet?"


"Absurdly impossible," was Stephen's comment at the end.  "I had no
idea it meant that kind of strangers--very dull too."

"The song or the parents?" asked Gladys, laughing.  "In either case
your answer will be equally rude.  Here is papa," she continued, as
Dr. Tremain came into the room.  "I shall tell him what a teaze you
are, Stephen; you're really getting worse than Dick."

"What is that doleful song?" asked the doctor, putting his hand on
her shoulder as he bent down to look at the piece of music.
"'Strangers yet!' Who were the strangers?"

"A parent and child, papa, and Stephen declares that it's absurdly
impossible."

"Of course it is!" said Stephen, hotly.  "Why, do you think when my
father returns from his voyages that he feels a stranger to me, or
that my mother doesn't know everything about me--rather too much,
perhaps, sometimes."

The doctor could not help smiling at the rueful tone of the last
sentence.

"Well, Stephen, I think in your case it would be 'absurdly
impossible,'" he said, laughingly, "but I am afraid perfect
comprehension between parents and children is not so universal as it
ought to be, or as you seem to think it.  Here comes the mother to
give her opinion.  But how is this?" for Mrs. Tremain had in her arms
a clinging, four-year-old boy in the tiniest of white night-shirts.

"Jackie had a very bad dream, and the only thing that would set him
right was just to come downstairs and see all the world again," she
explained, smiling at the general exclamation.

In a moment the suffering Jackie became the hero of the evening, and
was allowed to confide all his terrors to "papa," how a great tiger
from the "Shosical Dardens" had come close to his bed to eat him up,
till just at the supreme moment "mother" had heard his screams and
had rescued him.  A little re-assuring talk on the safety of tiger's
cages, and a laughing affirmative to the question "And 'oo is very
strong, isn't 'oo?" soon set Jackie's mind at rest, his sleepy
eyelids began to close, and, having kissed everyone with drowsy
solemnity, he cuddled up again to his mother and was carried off to
bed.

"There is no doubt that those two understand each other," said the
doctor, smiling thoughtfully.

"No, indeed!" said Gladys and Stephen, emphatically.

"No, indeed!" echoed Donovan, under his breath, and he turned quickly
away with burning tears in his eyes, unable to bear the sight of the
little home drama any longer.

Mr. Ellis Farrant happened to be in town when the news of his
cousin's death reached him.  It was the time of year when he found
that it answered best to be in town, a time when he was sure of
plenty of amusement, and could reckon on getting most of his dinners
out.  He was a man without any settled profession, of moderate
income, but expensive habits, and, in order to reconcile these
conflicting elements, he found it necessary to live as much as
possible on his friends.  It was not until late on Saturday afternoon
that, on returning from his usual saunter in the park, he found
Donovan's letter, with its brief formal intimation of his father's
death.  Ellis Farrant was startled, awed; he did not like being
confronted with anything so gloomy yet so inevitable as death, it was
a subject he invariably dismissed from his mind as quickly as
possible, and now his cousin had died with an awful suddenness, and
Ellis, whether he would or not, found his thoughts turning to his own
death, that dismal goal which awaited him in the future.  Where
should he die, and how, and--and _when_?

His hand trembled a little as he again took up Donovan's letter, and
strove to banish the uneasy reflections which were troubling him by a
fresh perusal of the startling news; he found himself, however,
gazing vacantly at the handwriting, rather than reading the sense
conveyed by the firm, clear, somewhat cramped letters.  Then his mind
wandered off to Donovan himself, perhaps something in the writing
reminded him of the clever, strong-willed, self-reliant boy who had
so often been his companion.  He had been expelled from school, the
letter stated, the very absence of further comment or explanation
showing how deeply the disgrace had galled the proud nature.  Well,
he would pass from disgrace to ease and pleasure, for was not he his
father's heir?  Ellis Farrant reflected for a few minutes on his good
luck.  Then with a sudden and vehement exclamation, he started to his
feet.  No, it was not so--he recollected now his cousin's simple will
at the time of his marriage,--Donovan was not his father's heir,
everything had been left to Mrs. Farrant.  It had been little more
than "All to my wife."  He had laughed over the story of the shortest
will long ago, he could not recall where or with whom, but he
remembered clearly that Colonel Farrant's will had been to that
effect, and the remembrance seemed to excite him strangely.

"In another year I shall be forty," he mused to himself, "what the
world will call a middle-aged man.  I hate that term middle-aged; but
anyhow, I shall not look it, and I am tolerably--yes, really
decidedly handsome."

He rested his elbows on the mantel-piece and surveyed himself
critically in the mirror.  In colouring and general outline of face
he was sufficiently like Colonel Farrant and Donovan to show near
relationship, but his features and expression were entirely
different.  The eyes of very dark steel-grey lacked the peculiar
admixture of brown in the iris, which was so noticeable in Donovan's;
they were hard, bold-looking eyes, unpleasant to meet.  The firm
well-shaped chin was contradicted by a weak mouth, which was only
partially concealed by a bristling black moustache.  But, in spite of
these defects, he was, as he had said, a handsome man, or, at any
rate, he was possessed of a certain brilliancy which generally passed
for good looks.

Satisfied apparently with his own reflection, he turned at length
from the mirror, and, sitting down to the table, dispatched first a
telegram to Donovan announcing his intention of coming to Porthkerran
the following day, and, secondly, the advertisement of Colonel
Farrant's death to the _Times_, with an elaborately-worded eulogy and
feeling description of the grief of the family.  After that he
relapsed into a profound reverie, from which he only roused himself
to calculate what was the probable value of the Oakdene estate.

Donovan's Sunday at Porthkerran was almost as trying a day as the
previous one at school had been.  Possibly his grief and wretchedness
might have induced him to enter the church, had not his recollections
of the last Sunday deterred him.  Never could he forget the slow
torture to which he had then been subjected!  The intolerable length
of the day, the two services, the sermons with their direct reference
to the sin which he had promoted, their unsparing condemnation of the
ringleader, the sudden turning of all eyes to his place, the struggle
between his sense of shame and his pride, the angry resentment of the
injustice and exaggeration.  He lived it all over again as he walked
gloomily along the Porthkerran cliffs, and the silent repressed
indignation did him no good.

It was with his very worst expression that he went to meet Ellis
Farrant; his face was dark and proud and cold, yet even then the
contrast between the cousins was very marked.  Donovan's, though the
more hopeless face of the two, had a certain nobility nowhere
traceable in Ellis's bold, self-satisfied mien; the one face
expressed a restless craving for something beyond self, restrained
only by a powerful will, the other expressed little but
self-satisfaction, and a sort of defiance and bravado.

Yet the sympathy which Ellis expressed so readily and fluently both
to Donovan and to his mother was not altogether artificial; he was by
no means heartless, although undoubtedly he was a selfish scheming
man, bent upon furthering his own interests.  In the pursuance of his
own aims, however, he occasionally felt kindly disposed towards
others, and he admired, even liked, Donovan.

On the Monday all was changed, however.  The simple and beautiful
burial service had fallen with little effect on the ears of the two
chief mourners; all that remained of Colonel Farrant had been laid in
the little churchyard of Porthkerran.  The two cousins and the doctor
had returned in silence to the inn, and then, as soon as Donovan was
out of earshot, Dr. Tremain took Ellis Farrant aside.

"There is but one more duty, Mr. Farrant, which I have to discharge,
and that is to put you in possession of the will which Colonel
Farrant executed just before his death.  I should have given it you
earlier in the day, only there has been no opportunity, for I
promised the Colonel that his son should know nothing of the
transaction."

"A will--a codicil, I suppose," said Ellis Farrant, hurriedly taking
the sheet of paper from Dr. Tremain and unfolding it.  Though he was
weak and impulsive, he was too thorough a man of the world not to
have his facial expression in very fair command; he betrayed little
but surprise as he read his cousin's most unwelcome change of
purpose, and his voice was cool and steady as he again folded the
paper and turned to Dr. Tremain.  "I am named as my cousin's sole
executor, I see; this must be referred to his lawyer in London.  Many
thanks to you, doctor, for your considerate help."

Dr. Tremain rose to take leave, and Ellis, accompanying him to the
door, found Donovan in the passage outside, and left him to see the
last of the guest.

"We leave early to-morrow," he began, hurriedly, "so I must wish you
good-bye now, Dr. Tremain--thank you for your kindness."

"I hope we may meet again," said the doctor, shaking his hand warmly,
and looking with grave compassion at the miserably hopeless face
before him.

"Will you thank Mrs. Tremain for her kindness to me," continued
Donovan, still with the air of one wearily discharging a duty of
courtesy, "and for the flowers she kindly sent this morning?"

"Certainly, I will give her your message, and when next you come
westward I hope we shall see you at Porthkerran.  Good-bye!"  And the
doctor turned away rather sadly, and set out homewards.

Before he had gone far, however, he heard hurrying steps behind, and
his late companion once more stood beside him.

"Forgive me," he said, hoarsely, "I was cold and ungrateful, I shall
not forget your kindness, only now I'm too wretched to feel it.
Don't think too hardly of me."  And before Dr. Tremain could do more
than show his answer by look and gesture, Donovan was half way back
again to the inn.

During this time Ellis Farrant had been giving vent to his rage and
disappointment within the house.  That all his schemes should be
frustrated by a paltry piece of note-paper, witnessed by a doctor and
a servant, was inexpressibly galling.  Had the will been elaborately
drawn up, and duly besprinkled with meaningless legal phrases, it
would not have caused him half the annoyance.  It was the absurd
littleness, the perfect simplicity of the thing which chafed him so.
Was there no flaw to be detected?--no, not the very slightest even to
his longing eye.  Would it be possible to call his cousin's sanity
into question?  No, utterly impossible, there could be no doubt of
that.  There was a moment's pause in Ellis Farrant's thoughts, a
pause in which he fully realised the defeat of his purpose; he heard
Donovan return to the inn, and at the sound of his footsteps he
hastily shuffled the will into his pocket, but the precaution was
needless, for the footsteps passed by, and presently the door of
Donovan's room was closed and locked.  Again Ellis drew out the will
and looked at it fixedly; it was a little crumpled now, he noticed
the impression of his Indian-grass cigar-case upon it; what a frail,
trumpery, perishable thing it was--he began to dwell on this thought
with satisfaction instead of bitterness.  Then he looked again at the
signatures of the witnesses: "Thomas Tremain, Surgeon, Trenant,
Porthkerran."  "Mary Pengelly, Servant, Penruddock Arms Inn,
Porthkerran."

A maid-servant and a doctor living in an obscure Cornish village,
what had he to fear from them?  And the boy upstairs?  Why, he knew
nothing, and never need know--never _should_ know, and with sudden
resolution Ellis tore the sheet of paper in half, and in half again.
Then a great horror seized upon him, he turned very cold, and fell
back in his chair, shuddering violently.  It was done, and there was
no retrieving the deed!  He mechanically fingered and counted the six
fragments, looking at each with a vacant terror.  By and by the
terror began to take definite shape.  What if the boy were to come
down?  He must completely destroy all remains of this detestable
will, of this little heap of paper which had been the will.  He was
very cold, he would order a fire, and he crossed the room with
unsteady steps to ring the bell, but paused with the caution of guilt
when his hand was on the bell-rope.  Supposing Mary Pengelly should
come, supposing she caught sight of these fragments!  he felt as if
she would instantly perceive them in the securest hiding-place.  No,
he must light the fire himself, and with nervous haste he drew a box
of fusees from his pocket, and with considerable difficulty succeeded
in kindling the damp wood into a blaze.  Then he carefully placed the
little heap of paper in the very centre of the grate, and watched
anxiously while gradually the edges curled upwards, the whiteness was
scorched to brown, then to black, fringed with sparks of red, finally
to a swift yellow blaze, while the last black shreds of Colonel
Farrant's will were borne up the chimney by the sudden draught.  Not
quite the last, however, for one fragment had fallen to the side of
the fireplace, and floated down on to the fender just as Ellis
thought all was over.  He snatched it up, and would once more have
thrown it to the flames had not something forced him to look at it;
scorched and half charred as were its edges, he could plainly read
the words--"My only son Donovan."  A swift pang of regret thrilled
him for a moment; then a sound in the passage outside renewed his
guilty terror, and, stooping down, he held the fragment to the blaze
with his own fingers, scarcely feeling the near approach of the hot
flames, in his relief that the last vestige of the will was finally
disposed of.




CHAPTER V.

REPULSED AND ATTRACTED.

  DUCHESS OF YORK.
    "Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy,
    Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild and furious.
    *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
    What comfortable hour cans't thou name
    That ever graced me in thy company?"
  KING RICHARD.
    "If I be so disgracious in your eyes
    Let me march on, and not offend you, madam."
                      _King Richard III_.--Act iv, Sc. 4.

In this country the power of the man in and out of society is all but
supreme.  Wherever he is he overpowers and rules, and shadowy crowds
yield to his spell.  At his beck they join a crusade, or forswear
their own existence.  As he dictates they are protoplasms and
sporules, or divinities.  They throb with his affections, they pant
with his desires, and rise to his aspirations.  They see as he sees,
hear as he hears, and believe as he believes.  This is the power for
evil or for good.

                        _The Times_.  Christmas Day, 1880.


Oakdene Manor was a comfortable though somewhat prosaic modern house,
built by Colonel Farrant's father on the site of the old Manor House
farm, which had belonged to the Farrants from time immemorial.  It
stood on the very verge of a beautifully-wooded hill overlooking one
of the simple yet lovely valleys which abound in Mountshire, with
distant glimpses of blue-grey downs, a view of which it was
impossible to tire.  The shrubs, which had been planted nearly
eighteen years, were now in their full perfection; a long approach,
bordered on each side by pines and laurels, led to the pretty
creeper-laden porch, while beyond and to the front of the house lay a
somewhat curiously-planned garden, formed into four terraces cut one
below the other on the side of the hill.  At the foot of the lowest
terrace there was a somewhat overgrown pond, and beyond this a thick
wild wood, sloping down to the valley.  It was rather a late season,
and, though the first week in June was nearly over, the trees were
only just beginning to look really green.  It seemed a wonderfully
slow process this re-clothing of Nature, at least to little Dot
Farrant it seemed so; but she lay watching the trees so continuously
from day to day that, although Mrs. Doery affirmed that she must see
them grow, the long expectancy of spring was really more protracted
to her than to those who watched the growth and progress less
carefully.

Her couch was, as usual, drawn close up to the window on a showery
afternoon of early June, and she had contrived to while away the time
very pleasantly by watching the sudden changes of storm and sun on
the wood below, for Dot had something of an artist's eye, and was
quick to mark the effects of light and shade.  Happy little
observations of this kind were indeed but too often all she was fit
for; grievously fragile and delicate, she was, as Mrs. Doery
expressed it in broad terms, "diseased through and through."  And yet
it was on the whole a happy and singularly child-like face.  Her
complexion was pale but very fair, the delicate contour of her
features was still so far unharmed by suffering as to show her
childish years; her hair was strained back from the forehead and just
fell to the shoulder in soft, dark-brown masses, and her eyes were
almost exactly like Donovan's, dark hazel, full of pathos, but
expressing less painfully the sad unsatisfied craving so noticeable
in his.

This was perhaps to be accounted for; to Dot everything she needed,
so it seemed to her, was summed up in her brother.  Donovan was her
friend, her comforter, her teacher, her playfellow; when he was with
her, her days were almost uniformly happy.  She would bear her pain
in patient silence for the sake of pleasing and sparing him; and when
he was absent the thought of what he would have liked, and the
remembrance of his own patience and control nerved her still to
endure and to copy her ideal.  Her love really amounted to worship.

But, deeply as he loved her, Dot could not at all fill this position
to Donovan.  She was indeed to him both friend and comforter, and, in
a sense, also teacher and playfellow, but he was of course the strong
one, she leant on him utterly, and he--he had nothing to lean on but
himself, or rather would accept nothing.  The strong craving was
there, only his pride of will held it in iron fetters.

  "'If the ash before the oak,
  Then you may expect a soak;
  If the oak before the ash,
  Then 'twill only be a splash,'"

quoted Dot, merrily, as she lay watching the dripping trees
glistening in the sunlight.  "Doery, do you hear?  We are going to
have a fine summer, for the oaks are twice as forward as the other
trees."

Mrs. Doery was sitting before a large work-basket, darning stockings;
by the gloom and sourness expressed on her features, it might have
been supposed that she was the constant sufferer, and bright-faced
Dot the able-bodied person.

"Well, Miss Dot," she answered, in a depressed voice, "I'm not much
of a believer in such signs as them.  The weather is as contrairy as
most other things and folks; reckon that it'll do one thing, it's
sure to go and do another."

"I suppose things do go rather contrairily," said Dot, coining a word
upon Mrs. Doery's model.  "Certainly just now everything seems gone
wrong," and she thought with a sigh of the loss of the father whom
she had never learnt to know, and of Donovan's school disgrace.

"I've lived sixty-eight years come Michaelmas," replied Mrs. Doery,
"and I never knew it otherwise; folks generally get just what they
don't want, and when they don't want.  There was your poor grandpapa,
just as he'd built this house, he was laid up with paralysis, and
never so much as saw it finished.  There was me myself" (Mrs. Doery
was very fond of dilating on her past life), "just as I'd got used to
doing for my poor master, comes Master Donovan to plague the life out
of me; and then, as if I hadn't had enough of trouble and worriting,
you, who I thought would have been a good baby, turns out sickly and
invalidated." (Mrs. Doery rather confused long words at times.)
"This last month, too, has been a regular chapter of misfortunes; I
counted on it that at least Mr. Donovan would have done us some
credit at school, seeing that all the folk say he's so clever--too
clever, Dr. Simpkins used to say when he was little; and now here he
is home again, with nothing but disgrace to bring us."

"Doery, how can you!" interrupted Dot, with burning cheeks.  "You
know how sorry he is--how dreadfully unhappy."

"Miss Dot," said Doery, a little severely, "I've known Mr. Donovan a
sight longer than you, and, mark my words, he's no more sorry
than--than--you are," she ended, not very conclusively.  "It always
was the way; the more I punished him for his faults, the less sorrow
he'd show; he'd only get angry, and that's what he is now.  I know
well enough that look on his face, and it's never sorrow that brought
it there.  If you think he's a-grieving over his fault you're
mistaken, Miss Dot; he's thinking of them fellows who gave him the
mark on his forehead."

Doery had a good deal of shrewd common-sense, and she was not far
wrong here; the only pity was that her penetration did not go a
little further, and convince her how very much at fault her early
system of training had been.

"Oh! but, Doery, that was such a cruel, mean, unjust thing to do,"
pleaded Dot, with tears in her eyes.  "How can you wonder that he
felt angry?  Oh!  I can't think how anyone could have hurt my dear,
dear Dono!  They must have been wretches!"

"Those who do wrong suffer for it," said Mrs. Doery.  "Mr. Donovan
had done harm to the school, and the school was bound to show what it
felt.  Not but what I'm sorry enough that they've made that scar on
his forehead, for he's a fine handsome lad, no one can't deny," and
for a moment the old woman's face was softened, for she was not
without a certain pride in her troublesome, ill-starred ne'er-do-weel.

"Will the mark always stay, do you think?" questioned Dot, with
feminine anxiety.

"Always," said Mrs. Doery, with a sigh; "he'll always be known by it,
like Cain, to his dying day."

"Who is Cain?" asked Dot, whose bringing up equalled Donovan's in
ignorance.

"Cain was a bad man, who murdered his brother, and had a mark put on
his forehead," said Mrs. Doery.

"How horrid!" shuddered Dot.  "But I thought you said the other day
that it wasn't proper for little girls to hear about murders, when I
wanted to hear what cook had shown you about one in the newspaper."

"There are murders and murders," said Mrs. Doery, sagely.  "Cain is
different from the ones now-a-days; he's--he's--instructive as well
as destructive."

Dot smiled a little, but did not ask for the story; her thoughts had
wandered back to Donovan.

"I am sorry, you know, Doery, that the scar will show always, because
it will help to remind people of Dono's trouble, and I want them to
forget very soon."

"You won't find that folks will forget, Miss Dot, so don't expect it;
a bad beginning is a bad beginning, nobody can't deny, and I've
always found that, if people once get a bad name, they keep it.  I
can't say, either, that I see any signs of Mr. Donovan's turning over
a new leaf; he's as obstinate and as headstrong as ever.  I've told
him many a time since he wasn't higher than that table how 'Don't
care' came to the gallows, but he was always one for tossing back his
head in that haughty way, minding no one in the world but himself.
He'll come to no good."

"Don't say such dreadful things, Doery," said Dot, between laughing
and crying.  "Dono will be 'contrairy,' as you say the weather is.
He will turn out exactly the opposite to what you expect, he will, I
am sure.  People can't help loving him, and then, you know, he will
get happy again.  Oh!  I am so glad he comes back from London to-day.
How long it seems since Cousin Ellis took him away!  What is the
time, Doery?  Do look before you begin that new row.  He was to be at
the station at four o'clock."

Mrs. Doery's respectable silver time-keeper pronounced it to be four
already, and, though the station was three miles off, Dot insisted on
having her couch wheeled to the window facing the carriage-drive,
that she might watch for him.

In the drawing-room below, Mrs. Farrant was roused by the sound to a
remembrance that her son was returning that afternoon.

"Doery really should oil the wheels of Dot's couch," she reflected,
drowsily, with the discomforted feeling of one disturbed in the
middle of a siesta.  But somehow she could not compose herself to
sleep again, though she still lay comfortably on the sofa, allowing
her thoughts to roam idly where they pleased.

It was now three weeks since Colonel Farrant's funeral.  His widow
had returned to Oakdene, and had resumed her former habits of life,
not exactly with the courageous "re-beginning" of submission--for it
was no very great effort to her--but rather with the acquiescence of
an inert mind.  The passionate vehemence of her grief had exhausted
itself at Porthkerran.  It had been an unusual effort to her, for she
was not by nature passionate.  Her reproachful anger with Donovan,
and her long fits of weeping, had completely worn her out; all bodily
exertion was distasteful to her, and this excessive agitation, so
very foreign to her nature, had told greatly on her physical health.
It was therefore perhaps well for all parties that her inactive mind
and dormant affections allowed her so soon to return to her ordinary
life, though Donovan, with what seemed like inconsistency, maintained
that he would rather have gone through endless repetitions of the
stormy scenes at Porthkerran than have witnessed this calm, placid
forgetfulness.  To his strong and positive nature his mother's
character was a complete enigma.  The bitter anger was something he
could comprehend, though it had wounded him to the quick, but the
speedy return to quiet indifference could not possibly be understood
by him, or sympathised with, and for that reason it wounded him still
more.

And yet it would be hard to blame poor Mrs. Farrant altogether, for
her natural temperament and her circumstances had a great deal to do
with her failings.  The only daughter of a widowed cavalry officer,
she had never known anything of home-life.  She had married Colonel
Farrant almost as soon as she left school, and had passed at once
into all the cares and responsibilities of a household, and the
pleasures and trials of a military life abroad.  At Malta she had
been the gayest of the gay, and, though feeling some natural pride in
her child, had very little time to notice him at all.  In India her
health had suffered, and, naturally indolent, she had fallen into the
luxurious, semi-invalid ways so hard to break loose from.  Then came
the return to England, which had been agreed upon on account of her
health, and for the last ten years she had led a quiet, indulgent,
easy life, enjoying the society to be had near Oakdene in a subdued
lazy way of her own, and making one yearly effort, namely the removal
to the London house for the months of May and June.  So far as
circumstances and natural character can be put forward as an excuse,
Mrs. Farrant might reasonably claim a lenient judgment, but no one
need be the "slave of circumstance," and no nature can be so
hopelessly inert, or weak, or bad, that rightly directed and resolute
efforts will not reform it.  But Mrs. Farrant had never made a
resolute effort of this kind.  She was one of those people who let
themselves drift along the stream of life.  She never tried to row,
never hoisted a sail, never even touched a steering rope.  She had
had a sharp, sudden shock; for a moment her quiet course had been
interrupted, but now she had resumed it, and allowed herself to drift
along placidly as before.

This was the head of the Oakdene household, the influence for good or
for evil of the inmates of the Manor; a woman who could best be
described by negatives--not good, and yet not exactly bad, not evil
intentioned, and yet without a single good motive, not unkind to her
children, yet never loving, not in the world's opinion irreligious,
yet never penetrating beyond the outer shell of religion.  There was
only one thing in which she was positive--love of herself.  Her
dreamy, unregulated thoughts generally hovered round this point of
interest; her health, her comfort or discomfort, her dress, her
employments, her amusements, and curiously, one exception outside
herself, her lap-dog.  Upon a handsome, bad-tempered, snowy
Pomeranian named Fido, she lavished the time and caresses which her
children had failed to obtain from her.

On the afternoon in question she lay calmly meditating on the sofa in
her usual fashion, meandering on from subject to subject.

"Doery should really oil those wheels.  I wonder what nerve is
affected so strangely by any sound like that?  Perhaps it is the
sympathetic nerve.  If so my sympathetic nerve must be very
susceptible--very.  But all my nerves are susceptible, as Dr. Maclean
used to say at Calcutta, 'You are all nerves, my dear madam.'  He was
a handsome man, Dr. Maclean, only a little too grey.  How pleasant
those years in Calcutta were, if it hadn't been for the heat and for
my health suffering so, I could really wish to go back there.
Charming society it used to be, only one paid for the exertion of
going out; the balls were delightful, but I was a martyr to headaches
the next day."  An interlude of vacancy, terminated by a series of
sharp barks from Fido.  "Down, Fido, down!  What is it, poor little
dog?  Ah! he heard wheels.  Good little Fido, quite right, little
doggie, bark away, only not too near my ears, please!  It cannot be a
visitor, for I've not sent out my 'return thanks.'  It must be
Donovan.  I do hope he has come back in better spirits, it is so
wearing to me to see him with a gloomy face.  Is my cap straight, I
wonder," and she glanced at her reflection in the looking-glass.
"This new cap really suits me very well, only the lappets are so in
the way on a sofa.  What a quick, sharp step Donovan has, quite a
military tread like his poor father's.  Ah! he has gone upstairs to
Dot's room, so I may as well have my afternoon tea before seeing
him."  Another thoughtless interval, this time broken by the entrance
of the servant with a little solitaire tea-service, and a plate of
broken biscuit for Fido.  Mrs. Farrant roused herself.

"I forgot to tell Charlotte this morning that Mr. Donovan was
expected.  Just tell her to get his room ready."

The page received the message, and retired noiselessly, while Mrs.
Farrant stirred her tea, and lamented over the cares and troubles of
housekeeping.

In the room above, the "quick, sharp step" had been listened to with
very different feelings.  Dot wriggled about on her couch impatiently.

"Oh!  Doery, do open the door," she cried.  "I'm so afraid he will go
into the drawing-room.  I want so to hear.  Yes--no--he is coming
upstairs!" and she half raised herself in her excitement.

"Lie still, Miss Dot, and be patient," said Doery, scrutinizing the
heel of a fresh stocking.  "Dear me! one would think you were
expecting the Prince of Wales and all the royal family!"

"Here he is! here he is!" cried Dot, ecstatically.  "Oh!  Dono!" and
her little weak arms were round his neck in a minute, with all the
clinging warmth of a childish, half worshipping love.

"Well, little woman," he exclaimed, after she had released him, "how
have you been getting on?  You have actually a little colour in your
cheeks for once."

"Oh! it is so beautiful to have you back again," said Dot, happily.
"It has seemed such a long fortnight; and how tall and old you look,
Dono.  And, oh! you're letting your moustache grow again.  Look at
him, Doery."

Thus reminded of Mrs. Doery's presence, Donovan turned round hastily
to greet his old enemy.

"How are you, Doery?  And how do you think Miss Dot is?"

"Thank you, Mr. Donovan, my health is very well," answered Doery,
precisely.  "And as to Miss Dot, her face is flushed just from
excitement, and nobody can't deny that she's been very poorly this
last week."

He listened with the wistfulness of one obliged to obtain the news
nearest his heart from a detailer not greatly interested in the
matter.  A shade of disappointment and anxiety stole over his face as
he turned to look at Dot, but she soon made him smile again.

"I am as well as possible now you are come.  Last week it got hot so
quickly.  Was it hot in London?  And what did you and Cousin Ellis
do?"

Donovan gave as bright a description as he could of what had been in
reality an unhappy and unsatisfactory time, but he was not sorry to
be interrupted before long by a sound of scratching at the door.

"It cannot be Fido, because he always barks so at you," said Dot,
wonderingly.

"No, I expect it is my present for you, who has had the impudence to
run upstairs before he was called."

"Your present!  Oh, Dono! and a live one!"

Donovan opened the door, and admitted a fox-terrier puppy, whose
whines of delight at finding his friend were drowned in Dot's
delighted exclamations.

"Is he for my very own?  Oh!  Dono, what a dear old boy you are!
What made you think of it!"

"The fellow tacked himself on to me one day in the Strand, and
absolutely refused to go.  That's ten days ago now, and, as he's not
been advertised for, I thought I'd bring him home to you.  Come here,
old fellow, and see your new mistress."

The dog pattered up obediently, and Donovan lifted him on to the
couch that Dot might stroke him.

"He's a darling," said the little girl, rapturously; "such nice eyes
he has, and half his face black and half white, and a white and
yellow coat."

"White and tan," corrected Donovan.  "He'll be a capital dog when
he's full-grown; he's quite young now.  What shall we call him?
Harlequin?"

"No, that's too long, and it must mean something that's lost and all
alone," said Dot, meditatively.  "Rover would do, only it's so
common."

"Vagabond, Tramp, Waif, or Stray," suggested Donovan.

"Oh!  Waif--that's beautiful, and so nice to say.  Does that mean
something that's all alone, with nobody to take care of it?"

"Yes, a thing tossed up by chance; it'll just suit the beggar.  We
must teach him--" he broke off hastily as the door opened, and rose
to meet his mother; but their greeting was brief, for a sudden
barking, yelling, and howling filled the room, and caused both mother
and son to turn hastily.

There stood the handsome Pomeranian in a perfect fury, his tail
absolutely bristling with wrath, and there, from his vantage-ground
on the couch, stood the plucky little Waif, barking vigorously in
self-defence.  Before Donovan could re-cross the room, Fido had
sprung on to the couch and had seized the smaller dog by the ear,
while poor little Dot shrank back in terror, adding her cries to the
general hubbub.  Donovan's first care was to put one of his arms
between her and the combatants, and then, seizing his opportunity, to
sweep both dogs on to the floor with the other.

"Fido, Fido! my poor dog!  Save him, Donovan, take him from that
savage creature!" cried Mrs. Farrant, fairly roused and frightened.

"He's twice the size of the other," said Donovan; "he'll maul Dot's
poor little puppy to pieces.  Leave off, you wretch!" and, with a
well-directed blow, he drew Fido's attention from the fox-terrier's
ear to his own hand, and, after a sharp tussle with the angry animal,
succeeded in kicking him out of the room.

"Where did this dreadful new dog come from?" asked Mrs. Farrant.  "I
never saw a more hideous creature.  You surely don't intend to keep
it in the house?"

"He shall not be in your way, and Fido will not attack him again, I
should think.  He certainly isn't a beauty, but he's of a very good
breed," and Donovan called the dog to him, and began to examine his
ear.

"It is all bleeding," said Dot, piteously; "and oh!  Dono, look at
your hand."

"A souvenir of Fido's teeth," said Donovan, smiling rather bitterly;
for, though as a rule he was exceedingly fond of animals, he had a
strange dislike to the Pomeranian--perhaps because it usurped so much
of his mother's time and thoughts, perhaps because of the dog's
marked aversion to himself.

"Dear me!  I hope it won't bring on hydrophobia; I have such a horror
of hydrophobia," said Mrs. Farrant, nervously contemplating the wound
from a distance.

"I'll put a hot iron to it, if it will relieve you," said Donovan,
half scornfully, adding, with a touch of malice, "And, if Fido is
mad, a bullet will soon settle him."

It was an uncalled-for and foolish speech; it touched Mrs. Farrant in
her most sensitive part, and widened the gulf between her and her
son.  He felt it the next minute, and was vexed to have put himself
in the wrong.

"You are very inconsiderate," said Mrs. Farrant, plaintively.  "You
know what a companion Fido is to me, and yet you can speak so
unfeelingly about his death.  And the poor dog may be hurt and
suffering now.  I must find him at once."

Donovan opened the door for her, just pausing to see Fido run to meet
her, safe and unharmed; then he turned again into Dot's room,
muttering under his breath, "Managed to put my foot into it, as
usual!"

Mrs. Doery offered to bind up his hand, while Dot, with all the
colour flown from her cheeks, watched sympathetically, observing at
last, after a long silence,

"It is very odd, Dono, but you and mamma never do like the same
things."

It had been an unfortunate meeting, there was no doubt of that, the
feud between the dogs seemed likely to destroy what little peace
there ordinarily was in the household.  Everything was as usual
against him, so Donovan bitterly complained, he never got a fair
start in anything.  It was with a very clouded brow that he went down
to dinner--the _tête-à-tête_ dinner with Mrs. Farrant.  It was not
that he had expected great things, he knew the return would be
painful; but half unconsciously when away from his mother she always
slipped back into a sort of faint resemblance to his childish ideal;
with him it was the very reverse of the proverb--"_Les absens ont
toujours tort_."  Absence invariably toned down his mother's
failings, magnified her good points.  Thus at every fresh meeting the
terrible sense of loss and insatiety was borne in upon him with new
force, and he was invariably sore-hearted, restless, and ill at ease.
This evening, too, he was vexed with himself, and, with the
perverseness of a proud nature, he showed his vexation not by trying
to make amends for his unguarded speech by extra courtesy, but by
becoming silent, and grave, and constrained.  Perhaps it was scarcely
to be wondered at that, on returning to the drawing-room after this
singularly dull and spiritless meal, Mrs. Farrant should at once sink
into an easy-chair and become engrossed in a new novel.  Donovan
stayed only a few minutes, his mother never looked up, Fido growled
at him; he resolved to go up at once to Dot.  But even this was
denied him.  Mrs. Doery met him at the head of the stairs like a
dragon--he could not see Miss Dot, it was impossible; she had been
very much upset indeed with all the excitement and noise, and Mrs.
Doery had just managed to get her to sleep.

Donovan slowly walked downstairs again.  Alone, with nothing to fall
back upon, with a miserable sense of present injustice, and a past
which he was always trying to escape from, the quietness of the house
seemed unbearable to him.  He must go somewhere, do something to
drown these miserable thoughts, to fill this wretched emptiness.  The
servant was in the dining-room clearing the table; he suddenly made
up his mind.

"Tell Jones to saddle the cob at once."

The order was given briefly and decidedly; he turned on his heel,
hesitated one moment, then crossed the hall to the drawing-room.

"I am going to ride over to Greyshot, mother--can I do anything for
you?"

"Nothing, thank you," said Mrs. Farrant, drowsily; then, half rousing
herself, "You'll not be late, Donovan, because the servants don't
like sitting up."

"I shall not be late," he repeated, mechanically, as he glanced round
the prettily-furnished room, comparing it with that other
brightly-lighted room which he had looked into not very long before.
Such contrasts were dangerous in his present state of mind; he closed
the door, and paced up and down the hall, fiercely flicking at his
boots with the end of his whip.  Then his horse was brought round,
and, mounting hastily, he rode off in the direction of the
neighbouring town.

The cool evening air and the peaceful summer twilight were in
themselves soothing.  Donovan was neither artistic nor imaginative,
but yet such things had a certain influence over him, and the beauty,
perhaps still more the peacefulness of the scene, quieted for a time
the bitter inward cry.  But it could be only for a time; his restless
misery was far too great to be subdued by any outward agency; he soon
fell back into his habitual reverie of gloomy dissatisfaction.  How
perplexing and useless life seemed to him!--the past how full of pain
and failure, the present how unjustly empty of all that could be
called happiness, the future how dreary and hopeless!  He put his
horse into a hand-gallop, and tried to stifle his thoughts--tried to
think of anything in the world but his own wretchedness, but without
success; his mind was self-centred, his thoughts naturally turned to
that centre.  He could force himself for a time to think of other
things, but there was always an under-current of morbid discontent
colouring his views of everything.

It was in this state of unavailing mental struggle that he reached
Greyshot.  It was now between eight and nine in the evening, and the
traffic of the day was nearly over, the shops were closed, or in the
act of closing, and the pavements were crowded with people belonging
to the poorer classes, tired hard-worked men and women, either
returning from their employment, or lounging about in the cool of the
evening for the sake of change and refreshment.

Greyshot was rather a gay place, and, though the season fell later in
the year, the streets had been fairly full that afternoon, when
Donovan had passed through them on his way from the station to
Oakdene.  He was struck with the contrast between the afternoon and
evening crowd.  Fashionable, well-dressed, smiling idlers at the one
time; tired, hard-featured, shabby toilers at the other.  Here was
fresh injustice, he said, with his usual hasty judgment and strong
conviction.  He almost hated himself for riding at ease through the
throng of tired pedestrians; could only reconcile himself to it by
remembering his many grievances, and surmising that the poorer street
passengers were better off than he in many ways.  He did not bring
the same argument to bear on the question of the afternoon
promenaders, or remember that the evening throng at least had the
satisfaction of using their life, while the idlers--perhaps he
himself--were simply abusing it.

Still brooding over this injustice in the different lots of men, he
reached the town-hall, and reined in his horse for a minute that he
might look at the various placards.  He saw with relief that
something unusual must be going on that night, for the hall was
lighted, and a pretty continuous stream of people, chiefly men, were
passing up the broad flight of steps.  "Grand Concert, on Wednesday
Evening!" no, that was the Wednesday in the following week; a "Rose
Show!" the next day; ah! here it was.  "This evening, at 8.30, Mr.
Raeburn will deliver a Lecture, in the Town Hall, on 'The Existence
of a God--Science versus Superstition.'"  Donovan looked at his
watch; it was exactly the half-hour.  He hastily rode on to the
nearest inn, put up his horse, and, returning, passed swiftly up the
steps and into the hall.

The place was crowded with men, chiefly artisans and mechanics,
though with a sprinkling of the more highly educated.  Donovan
glanced first at the eager, listening throng, and then instinctively
his eyes followed theirs to the platform at the further end of the
room, and were riveted as by a magic attraction on the speaker.  The
fascination was instantaneous and complete.  He saw before him a
tall, powerful-looking man, with masses of tawny hair overshadowing a
very striking face--a face which, in spite of its rather austere
lines, still allowed play to a variety of expressions: to burning
zeal, to infinite sadness, occasionally to withering sarcasm.

Luke Raeburn was, before all things, a strong man, and in looking at
him specialities sank away into insignificance.  His deep-set earnest
eyes, his firm uncompromising mouth attracted little notice, because
the whole man was pervaded by a marvellous force, a concentration of
energy which carried all before it.  His voice was at once deep and
powerful, aided by no theatrical gestures, but made particularly
winning by its mellowness, its perfect modulations, its thrill of
intense earnestness.  All these were powerful accessories to the
lecture itself.  They influenced Donovan undoubtedly, but it was not
the voice or the "presence" of the man which stirred his soul so
strangely.  The very first sentence which fell on his ear forced him
to listen as though his whole life depended on it.  "I can find, and
you can give me, no proof of God's existence."  The words caused an
electric thrill of sympathy in his heart.  He stood motionless, quite
unconscious of all around; his whole being absorbed in the argument
of the lecturer--this man, who, through the firmness of his
convictions, was spending his life in trying to overthrow what he
termed the "mischievous delusion of popular Christianity."

To Donovan, with his miserable sense of injustice, every word seemed
a relief, although it was only a more vigorous repetition of his own.
cry.  But in this lay the secret of its influence.  The lecturer was
putting into words, and clothing with marvellously able arguments all
his own thoughts and opinions.  To some of the listeners the force
and fascination of the lecture lay in the novelty of the ideas it
conveyed, but with Donovan it was otherwise.  The lecturer's beliefs
exactly coincided with all his own ready-formed notions, and perhaps
no idea is more powerfully attractive than that which, being at the
same time higher and more subtly argued than your own crude
previously-formed judgment, yet in the main corresponds with it.  A
speedy sympathy is established; the pride of the less gifted mind is
gratified; the great powerful intellect agrees with it, has
experienced its doubts, has felt its miseries.  Donovan felt himself
one with the speaker, and he was so very, very rarely agreed with
anyone that the sudden consciousness of unity and sympathy was almost
intoxicating in its novel delight.  He listened breathlessly to the
clear, satisfying arguments, and when, at the end of an hour, the
lecturer brought his address to a close, and invited answers and
objections to what he had said, Donovan felt giddy and exhausted,
half inclined to leave the hall, and yet unable to go while the man
who had fascinated him so strangely remained.  During the brief pause
that ensued a middle-aged mechanic, who was seated at the end of one
of the benches not far from the place where Donovan stood, rose to
go.  Donovan moved forward to take his place, and for a minute, owing
to a fresh influx of people, the two were kept facing each other.  A
shade of pity crossed the rough features of the mechanic as he looked
at the flushed, excited face of the boy, so young and yet so full of
unrest.

"My lad," he said, in a low tone, "I see you're sore moved, but take
my advice and come away.  Yonder man speaks grand words, but it's not
the truth."

Donovan was too much of a Republican to be the least offended by this
speech, but he was little accustomed to receive good advice, still
less accustomed to put it in practice.  He hardly gave it an
instant's consideration, so firmly was his mind set upon hearing
Raeburn speak once more.

"One doesn't get this chance every day," he answered.  "I must hear
the end of it."

And so the warning friend passed by, and Donovan, having rejected the
guidance sent, took the vacant seat, and waited with some impatience
for the reply of the first objector.

The speeches of the opponents were limited to ten minutes, too ample
an allowance, Donovan thought, for the first speaker was insufferably
dull and wordy.  After the clear, terse, powerful sentences of the
lecturer, anything so verbose was at once irritating and bewildering,
and the minds of the audience, which had been strained to the very
highest tension during Raeburn's address, now began to wander.
Donovan again found his gaze riveted on the lecturer's face, and gave
a sigh of relief when the ten minutes' bell was struck in the middle
of one of the meandering sentences, before the speaker had made a
single point.  After another brief pause, a tall, nervous-looking
clergyman mounted the platform, and with evident reluctance,
conquered only by a sense of duty, began to speak.  His voice was
weak, but he was very much in earnest, almost painfully so, and real
earnestness felt and expressed cannot fail to arouse interest.  He
prospered well at first, yet his argument was not in the least
conclusive to Donovan's mind, and he was not surprised when, at the
close of the ten minutes, Luke Raeburn drew attention to an utterly
illogical statement which had escaped the speaker.  An earnest
parting protest and attempted explanation were not of much use, for
Raeburn responded with perfect courtesy but crushing logic, and the
clergyman went back to his place with a terribly grieved look.
Donovan saw it all, was sorry for the man, and half won over by his
humility, his evident sorrow, and by sympathy with his sense of
failure.  For a moment he wavered, or rather allowed the arguments of
the other side to recur to him, but it was only for a moment.  The
third speaker mounted the platform with no diffidence; he was a
large, solid, self-satisfied man, with a voice which made the hall
echo again.  Evidently he thought noise would make up for want of
matter, for he scarcely tried any steady line of argument.  He was
vehement, positive, illogical, and, after a violent tirade against
the wickedness of atheism, finally turned round upon the lecturer,
and hurled the most insolent questions at him.  Donovan was disgusted
alike at his vulgarity and the worthlessness of his speech.  Raeburn
was at once invested with the dignity of a martyr, or, at any rate,
of an unjustly-used man, and his sharp and marvellously powerful
retort delighted Donovan as much as it irritated the vehement
objector.  The contest ended grievously, for in a parting protest the
speaker hopelessly lost his temper, became violent and abusive, and
quitted the platform and the hall in a towering rage.  It was a sad
display for one who professed to be an ardent supporter of
Christianity.  Luke Raeburn felt that nothing could have weakened the
cause more successfully, and naturally he did not hesitate to use the
argument in favour of his own views.

There was a prolonged pause after the exit of the angry man; no other
objectors cared to come forward, however, and at length Raeburn stood
up for his final speech.  The clear, quiet, impressive tones fell
like rain after a thunderstorm upon the rapt listening men.  Donovan
scarcely breathed; he had never in his whole life heard anything so
marvellously attractive.  The cool penetrating words, the sarcastic
yet dignified allusions to the last speech, the wonderfully able
arguments, were irresistible to him.  This man was in earnest,
terribly in earnest, and he had the grave calmness of perfect
conviction.

What was he upholding, too?  Self-restraint, self-sacrifice,
temperance, truth at whatever cost.  There was indeed much that was
noble and elevating in his speech--only the one great blank, which to
Donovan was no blank at all.

It was over at last, the assembly broke up, and Donovan groped his
way down the street, and mounting his horse, rode back to Oakdene in
the starlight.  He felt wonderfully stimulated by what he had heard,
roused to enthusiasm for the man, for the views he held, for the life
of toil for the general good which he not only recommended, but
himself lived.  Luke Raeburn had influenced him greatly, but it was
the speech of the self-satisfied opponent which sent him home that
night a confirmed atheist, a bitter-hearted despiser of Christianity.




CHAPTER VI.

AUTUMN MANŒUVRES.

  Love seeketh not itself to please,
  Nor for itself hath any care,
  But for another gives its ease,
  And builds a heaven in hell's despair.
                                WILLIAM BLAKE.

  Give a dog a bad name, and hang him.
                                      _Proverb._


Ellis Farrant had taken Donovan up to town on the pretext of
arranging various matters of business, but he had been careful to
leave many things unattended to, as he was anxious to have an excuse
for a speedy visit to Oakdene.  His guardianship was likely to prove
a very convenient aid in the furtherance of his scheme, for what
could be more natural than that he should frequently go down to
inspect his young wards, and what could offer more convenient
opportunities for winning his way with Mrs. Farrant than such visits.
A little time, however, must be allowed to pass first.  Ellis made
arrangement for staying in town till the middle of July, and resolved
to go down to Oakdene then, for as long a visit as seemed advisable.

His arrival really pleased and roused Mrs. Farrant, for it must be
owned that Oakdene had not been the liveliest of homes during the
summer.  Visitors of course had not been received, Donovan had been
unusually taciturn and moody, and though the favourite Fido, and the
unfailing succession of new books, and the comfortable sofa by the
open window, rendered life bearable, any interruption to such quiet
monotony was a relief even to one so indolent as Mrs. Farrant.

To Donovan the arrival of his cousin brought a strange mixture of
annoyance and satisfaction.  He too was glad of an interruption to
the dreary quiet of the house, but nevertheless Ellis managed to
irritate him not a little.  The nominal business matters which had
formed the excuse for the visit were put forward from time to time,
but neither mother nor son was business-like, and Ellis used to let
the conversation float on quietly into other channels, so that very
little was really arrived at.  He was a clever, shrewd man, and his
visit was a long series of manœuvres.  He never lost sight of his
two great aims, the first was to win the regard and confidence of
Mrs. Farrant, and to secure this he studied most carefully her
character and tastes; the second was to induce Donovan to lead as
inexpensive a life as might be, during the time of his guardianship.
What became of him after he was of age he neither cared nor thought
of, for before that time he hoped to have won Mrs. Farrant's hand.

It was about two or three days from the beginning of his visit that
he first began to question Donovan cautiously as to the future.  They
were out riding when he resolved to risk the attempt.

"Beautiful country about here," he remarked, carelessly.

"Yes," replied Donovan, laconically; he did not care to show any
interest in such a remark from one who evidently cared nothing in
reality for scenery.

"Much hunting in the neighbourhood?"

"No; it's not a hunting county."

"But you have good shooting, I hear."

"Oh! yes, we can have any amount of that.  Won't you come down for it
this autumn?"

"Thanks.  If I have time I should like nothing better.  You will be
here of course?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Donovan, rather hesitatingly.

Ellis Farrant felt a little uneasy.  Had the boy made up his mind to
go to the university?  Would he want to enter any expensive
profession?  He must find out, and, if so, try to put some reasonable
obstacle in the way.

"You have found these months a little dull, I expect, but next year
you'll be up in town for the season--it'll be very different."

"Life's disgusting everywhere," said Donovan, gloomily.

"No, no," replied the man of the world, lightly.  "There's plenty of
enjoyment if you look out for it.  Cheer up, my boy, you let yourself
brood over things too much.  'Let bygones be bygones,' and face the
future, and let your guardian know plainly what you want."

The speech sounded frank and kindly.  Donovan involuntarily came a
little out of his shell.

"I don't know that there's anything I want," he said, slowly, "and
yet I want everything.  Did you ever feel as if nothing in the whole
world were worth a fig, as if nothing could ever satisfy you?"

A perplexing question!  Why did the perverse fellow begin to moralize
on abstract subjects, just when he wanted to arrive at plain facts?

"I know quite well what you mean," he replied, glibly.  "You will
soon live it down.  I think you should mix more with companions of
your own age."

He felt that this was a hazardous suggestion, but ventured it with
his customary boldness.

"I hate fellows of my own age," said Donovan, shortly.

"You are a misanthrope, I'm afraid," said Ellis, breathing more
freely.  "You would not like to go to Oxford or Cambridge, I suppose."

"No, certainly not."

"And you are not exactly--not passionately--fond of work?"

Donovan smiled a little.

"Well, no, I can't say I am."

"You would not like to be a barrister or a--parson?"

"I?" cried Donovan, in amaze.  "In all conscience--no!"

"There is no need, not the slightest," said Ellis.  "In fact, I don't
think you're in the least suited for any profession.  You can live on
here very comfortably.  No doubt your mother will make you a handsome
allowance when you're of age; for, though you are not exactly your
father's heir, it will come to much the same thing in the end."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the unconscious Donovan.

"I should rather like you to do a little reading, however," continued
Ellis.  "I must not forget that you are my ward, you know.  What do
you say to going in to some tutor at Greyshot two or three times a
week?"

"I don't mind.  I will do so, if you wish.  How would a travelling
tutor be?  I must say I should like to spend a few months abroad."

An inconvenient and expensive project!  If Donovan were away, he
could not come down to Oakdene so easily.  But Ellis was too
far-sighted to give a definite refusal to the request.

"Well, we will think of it," he said, quite in his pleasantest
manner.  "I'm glad you told me what was in your mind.  We can talk it
over with your mother."

The two relapsed into silence after this, Ellis trying to think of
reasonable objections to this new idea, Donovan sketching out in his
mind the plan of his tour on the continent.  He longed inexpressibly
for change of scene, and travelling offered very strong attractions
to his restless mind.

But a sudden revulsion of feeling came before long.  As they rode
down the long, shady drive, and dismounted at the door of the Manor,
he heard a childish voice calling him, and looking up, he saw Dot's
little pale face eagerly watching him from her window.

He mounted the stairs very slowly, struggling hard with himself.  Dot
would certainly miss him very much, would be much happier if he did
not go, and yet the craving within him for change was almost
irresistible.  Oakdene began to feel like a prison to him.
Selfishness, or, as he called it, common sense, whispered that it was
mere folly to think he could always be tied down to one place.  It
would be narrowing, cramping, bad for his health.  The absurdity of
thinking of this, however, struck him with sudden force as he entered
Dot's room.  How could he think of himself so much, when she lay on
the same weary couch day after day, and yet contrived to be so
patient!

"I'm so glad you've come back, Dono," she exclaimed.  "Doery's been
down in the housekeeper's room for hours, and Waif and I have been so
dull."

The loneliness rose up before him vividly--months and months of it.
At the same time a glorious vision of life abroad--Italy,
Switzerland, mountains, freedom!  He was quite silent, but Dot was
accustomed to his taciturn moods, and chattered on contentedly.

"And poor Waif, you forgot to take him with you, and he was so
miserable when he heard you ride off, he scratched at the door and
whined dreadfully, and I couldn't of course get up to let him out, so
at last he came back very sadly with his tail between his legs, and
cuddled up to me for comfort.  Do you know, Dono, I believe he begins
to love you as I do, almost."

"And you don't cry when I go out riding," said Donovan, smiling.

"No, only when you go quite away; when you used to go back to school,
and when Cousin Ellis took you away last time."

"What a silly little Dot!  What makes you cry?"

"Why, because I love you so," said Dot, wistfully.  "And everything
seems so horrid when you're away.  Will you have to go away again, do
you think?  Will Cousin Ellis and the lawyers want you any more?"

"Oh! no, I shall not be going away again," he said, in rather a
forced voice.  Then, after a pause: "I say, Dot, this room is
stifling.  Shall I open the other window?"

She assented, and he crossed the room quickly, threw up the sash,
gulped down a mouthful of fresh air, and registered a silent vow that
he would never leave her.

"I wonder what makes your forehead look so battered to-day," resumed
Dot, as he sat down beside her again.  "It always reminds me of a
bent penny I had for a long time.  And some days the bend in the
middle seems to show more.  I think it's on the days when you don't
talk much."

Donovan laughed heartily, shook off his taciturnity, and did his best
according to Dot's principles to straighten his brow.

"A phrenologist once told me that my forehead meant all sorts of
things: mathematical ability, reasoning, and music, but he was sadly
out, poor man, in that last, for I haven't a grain of music in me."

"I wish you had," said Dot, "because I like it so much, and the
hand-organs so very seldom come."

"Shall I get one, and grind away in the passage?"

"That would be always the same one.  We should get so tired of the
tunes."

"Yes," said Donovan, laughing again.  "Don't you remember the story
of the organ-grinder who somehow came into some money, and the first
thing he did was to rush frantically at his organ with, 'Bother! you
shall never go round again,' and smash it to pieces."

Dot laughed long and merrily.

"I wish you could play the piano as Cousin Adela used to.  It sounded
so nice coming up from the drawing-room."

"Would you really like it?" said Donovan.  "I will try to learn then.
We'll have a piano over from Greyshot, and it can be put up here."

"Oh!  Dono, how delightful!  But won't it be dull for you, as you
don't like music?  And do you think you'll be able to learn?"

"We'll have no end of fun over it," he replied, cheerfully.  "And as
to being able--I believe we're able to do anything we've a will for."

That evening, after Mrs. Farrant had left the dinner-table, Donovan
relieved his guardian's mind by one of his quick abrupt speeches.

"On thinking it over, I find I had better not go abroad."

"Oh! just as you like, my dear fellow," said Ellis, trying to conceal
his satisfaction.  "Most happy to advance you the necessary funds,
you know.  I should think though that, as you say, it would be better
to stay here.  Your mother will be glad to have you."

Donovan bit his lip, and did not reply, and Ellis, perfectly well
aware that he had touched on a sore subject, changed the
conversation.  His ward's decision was convenient.  For once he must
be careful to please and humour him a little, so he renounced for a
time the pleasure of irritating his victim, and they spent a very
amicable evening over the billiard-table.

It is an undisputed fact that one piece of villainy invariably leads
to others.  When Ellis Farrant, in a moment of anger and
disappointment, had destroyed his cousin's will, he never once
thought of all it would lead to, but little by little he began to
realise that a good deal of plotting and scheming would be necessary,
and perhaps a few trifling deceptions and injustices, before he could
profit by his crime.  He was relieved to find that the coldness
between the mother and son still existed, for it was, of course, all
in his favour.  He had rather dreaded the effects of those months of
quiet intercourse; but all had gone as he wished.  Mrs. Farrant did
not in the least understand Donovan, he was not in any sense a
comfort to her, therefore there was all the more hope that she might
be led to confide in Ellis, that he might become a necessary part of
her existence.  During this visit he was obliged to be kind and
conciliatory to his ward, and was too prudent to show any marked
attentions to Mrs. Farrant, but he succeeded in enlivening the house
wonderfully, and received a pressing invitation to come down in the
autumn, bringing his sister Adela with him.  He remained till the
12th of August, and then went up to the North for grouse-shooting,
well satisfied with his success at Oakdene.

The Manor was not a little dull after he left.  Mrs. Farrant, to
relieve the monotony, sent out her cards, and found some slight
occupation in receiving the visits of her neighbours and
acquaintance.  Donovan rode in to Greyshot three times a week to his
tutor's, studied "Mill's Logic," and worked hard at his music.
Strangely, although he was really no lover of the art, he found a
peculiar satisfaction in working even at the mechanical exercises;
his master scarcely knew what to make of a pupil who, with very
little actual talent, surmounted difficulties so quickly, and showed
such untiring perseverance.  Indolent as he seemed, he could yet show
the most indefatigable zeal when he had a sufficient motive, and,
with a view to pleasing Dot, he bent his whole will to the work.

With the exception of this satisfactory effort, the autumn was a very
painful one to him.  As soon as his mother began to receive visitors
again, he could not fail to become aware of the marked coldness with
which almost everyone treated him.  He had never had any special
friends in the neighbourhood, but now he noticed that old
acquaintances who had formerly been civil and friendly looked askance
at him; he was under a cloud, he had lost his good name.  It was not
much to be wondered at, perhaps, and yet it seemed cruelly hard that
he should be thus cut off from all intercourse with those better than
himself.  The cautious world said, with its usual prudence, that it
would never do not to show marked disapproval of disgrace and
wrong-doing.  Donovan Farrant had been expelled from school for most
dishonourable behaviour (his crimes were by this time absurdly
exaggerated by report), it was quite impossible that he could be
allowed to mix with the immaculate sons of the neighbouring homes.
Intercourse must be as much as possible discouraged; the acquaintance
was most undesirable.  A young man who never went to church, who had
been seen at one of Raeburn's lectures, who was dangerously handsome,
and unmitigatedly bad, could not be visited.  The neighbours all
tried to ignore his existence; he was either entirely cut, or treated
with the coldest and most distant civility.

Misanthrope as he was, Donovan felt this treatment keenly, and
resented it.  It was hard, and cruel, and unjust; he used it, as he
used everything else at that time, as an argument against
Christianity.  Nor did his mother make matters pleasanter to him.
She, too, found out the coldness with which he was treated, and it
vexed her; one or two of the more kind-hearted neighbours referred
delicately to the subject, and, though Mrs. Farrant paid little
attention to her son's doings as a rule, this roused her to
remonstrate with him.

"Donovan," she said, in her complaining tone, one evening, "I really
wish you would be more careful how you go on.  Mrs. Ward was here
to-day, and she said she was extremely sorry to hear that you had
attended some shocking infidel lecture at Greyshot.  Is it true that
you went?"

"Perfectly, barring the adjectives," replied Donovan, crossing the
room, and resting his elbow on the mantel-piece.

"But really you should not do such things," said Mrs. Farrant,
plaintively.  "What made you think of going?"

"I wished to hear Luke Raeburn's views," said Donovan, still keeping
his face steadily turned towards her.

"It is absurd for a boy of your age to think of such things.  What
can you understand about his views?"

"More than I can of any other views.  But I'm no Raeburnite--I don't
care enough for the human race."

Mrs. Farrant wandered off to another grievance.

"Well, I really wish you wouldn't get yourself so talked about; it's
very unpleasant for me.  Why won't you come to church on Sunday, and
be like other young men?"

"Because, whatever I am, I'll not be a hypocrite," said Donovan, with
some sharpness.

There was silence for some minutes after this.  Mrs. Farrant fanned
herself, and Donovan tormented the feathers of an Indian hand-screen.
At last, with a rather softened expression, he continued--

"I'm sorry, mother, if I spoke rudely, but that is a thing I cannot
do to please anyone.  If you dislike my going to hear Raeburn so
much, I will not do it again."

"I only wish you not to make yourself a byword to the neighbourhood,"
said Mrs. Farrant, rather peevishly.  "I do not care what you do as
long as you behave respectably."

"No, you care for nothing, I see, as long as people hold their
tongues," said Donovan, with one of his rare and curiously sudden
bursts of passion.  "Is it wonderful that I should be going to the
dogs, when this is all you give me?  What else can you expect?"

She did not in the least understand him, but his vehemence terrified
her; she burst into tears.

"It is very unkind of you to speak so angrily; you know how anything
of this sort upsets me," she sobbed.  "I did think that the only son
of a widow was expected to show some feeling for his mother, and
you--you are only a grief and a disgrace to me."

He was softened in an instant, tried to take her hand in his, and
spoke as gently and tenderly as he would have spoken to Dot.

"Forgive me, mother--I am a wretch; but indeed, if you would let me,
I would try to be more to you."

He would have said more, but words never came easily to him, and he
felt half choked now with emotion.

"You are so inconsiderate," said Mrs. Farrant, drying her eyes.  "I'm
sure I wish your guardian were here; he at least would have some
sympathy with me.  I wish you would try to copy him a little more."

The reference to one whom Donovan so little-liked or respected was
very trying; he drew back.

"It is just as I told you at Porthkerran," continued Mrs. Farrant.
"You never think of anyone but yourself, you are always bringing
trouble and sorrow to others."  Then, looking up, and seeing that
Donovan, in his agitation, was breaking the feathers of the
hand-screen, she sharpened her voice, "Cannot you even help
destroying the things your poor father brought back?"

He did not attempt to answer.  What was the use of speaking?  What
was the use of trying to bridge over the hopeless gulf between them?
It was more in despair than in passion that he flung down the screen
and strode out of the room.

After this there was peace for some little time, if such dreary
aimless existence could be called peace.  There was, at any rate, no
open disagreement.  Mrs. Farrant was too inert and Donovan too
self-restrained to admit of frequent quarrels between them; they
lived on in quiet coldness, meeting at meal times, talking on
indifferent subjects, then parting again, each to resume his or her
separate life.  There were faults perhaps on both sides, a resolute
and continuous effort from either must have broken down such an
unnatural state of things.  But neither of them made such an effort,
Mrs. Farrant, even had she thought of it, would have been too
indolent to persevere; Donovan had tried twice, and thrown up the
attempt, at once too proud and too hopeless to resume it.

In October Ellis Farrant came according to his promise, bringing his
sister Adela with him.  She was some years his junior, and as she had
the same class of good looks and general brilliancy as her brother,
and dressed fashionably, she still passed for a "young" lady,
although she was considerably over thirty.  Ellis had not introduced
her to Oakdene without a special reason.  She of course knew nothing
of the depth of his schemes, but he trusted her with enough to make
her a valuable ally.

"Now this is how matters stand," he had said to her, as they were
driving from Greyshot to Oakdene.  "Mrs. Farrant is as dull as she
well can be in this hole of a place, and I want to have plenty of
opportunities for letting her feel that I can enliven it.  Do you
understand me, or must I speak more plainly."

His sister laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

"Do not trouble yourself, I understand perfectly.  You wish to be
beforehand with the army of suitors who are sure to attend upon a
pretty, rich widow, by no means past her youth."

"Exactly," said Ellis, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.  "Last
time I was here I could do but little, it was too early days, for one
thing, and then there was the boy to be looked after; but now I want
you to engross him a little, and set me at liberty--do you see?"

Adela Farrant laughed again.

"You cunning Ellis!  You have entrapped me into a dull country house
just to further your own ends, and then you set me down to amuse a
schoolboy."

"Pardon me, but he is by no means a boy," said Ellis.  "He is, or
considers himself, all sorts of things, a philosopher, a radical, an
atheist, and, joking apart, he really is old for his years.  You may
find him a little stiff and haughty at first, but you'll soon get to
know him, and he'll give you some amusement; besides, he's
handsome--very--an Apollo--an Adonis."

"And in his nineteenth year!" concluded Adela, with a gesture of
contempt.  "However, I'll try to amuse him, out of regard for you.
Why, here we are at the Manor, and there is your Apollo of the
clustering curls at the door.  What a grave saturnine face! but
you're quite right, he's very good-looking; Roman, not Greek, though.
Augustus Cæsar come to life again."

The first evening was, according to Ellis Farrant's views, a perfect
success.  He had free scope for conversation with Mrs. Farrant, and
she grew quite merry and talkative under the combined influence of
his attentions and his sister's animation and gaiety.

"It is so pleasant to hear fresh voices," she said at dinner time.
"I grow very tired of _tête-à-tête_ dinners with Donovan."

This was exactly what Ellis wished, it was quite an effort to conceal
his satisfaction.  He looked at the young host at the head of the
table, and wondered how he would enjoy being ousted from his position.

Adela's work was not quite so easy.  She found Donovan very grave,
almost repellent, not at all inclined to be more than coldly
courteous.  She persevered, however, and, being clever and really
good-natured, she gradually won her way.  Nor was she so dull as she
had fancied would be the case.  The haughty _nil admirari_ spirit of
her special charge rather attracted her.  She found herself really
anxious to win his good opinion, and set herself to find out his
likes and dislikes.  And Donovan really liked her in a manner, was
grateful for her kindness, and felt a sort of relief in having a
bright, talkative, pleasant woman in the house.  When Ellis did not
care to go out shooting, Adela generally proposed a ride, and so
managed to engross her young cousin for two or three hours; in the
evening, too, she would keep him turning over the leaves of her music
in the back drawing-room, leaving her brother to amuse Mrs. Farrant,
and her light, meaningless talk generally sufficed to prevent the
chance of their being interrupted by Donovan.

Sometimes, however, her conversation jarred on his mind.  One
afternoon when Adela in her light fawn-coloured dress was sauntering
round the garden, gathering a few late roses, with her usual cavalier
in attendance, their talk turned upon rather graver matters than was
ordinarily the case.

"What a pretty view that is of the church tower," she exclaimed.  "I
should like to sketch it, such a tiny grey little place it is! but
really I was quite surprised last Sunday to find it a regular resort
of fashion, the toilettes were amazing, quite a study; your mother
says that the people come to it from Greyshot, that they are
attracted by the surpliced choir and the chanting.  It seems so odd
to think of things of that sort being novelties; you are dreadfully
behind the world here in Mountshire."

"No great loss perhaps in those matters," said Donovan.

"What a prosaic mind you have!" said his cousin, lightly.  "And,
by-the-by, that reminds me, I meant to take you to task before.  Last
Sunday I looked round expecting to find you ready to carry my
prayer-book, and behold! you were nowhere to be seen.  Your mother
says you never do go to church.  How is that? it is really very
shocking, you know."

"One can't profess what one does not believe," said Donovan, gravely.

Adela passed on into the greenhouse and cut the last rose there
before replying; then, joining him again, she said, in her light half
laughing tone,

"You men are really dreadful now-a-days, the whole race seems to have
grown sceptical.  Now, why don't you come to church, and be good and
orthodox?"

As she spoke she handed him the rose to put into the basket.  It was
an exquisite blush rose, and he held it in his hand abstractedly, not
exactly seeing its beauty, and yet feeling some subtle influence from
its purity and fragrance.  He did not answer, and Adela continued:

"Don't think I shall be hard on you, there never was a more lenient
person--besides, scepticism is always interesting.  Not, you know,
that I am not all that is proper and orthodox, you mustn't think that
for a moment.  I like to be _comme il faut_ in everything--that is
not quite a right expression, is it? more suited to matters of
etiquette than religion,--however, it does not signify, turn it into
Latin in your mind.  I am very orthodox, but I can quite sympathise
with sceptics--is that sense?  Now do tell me why you don't believe
the things that I believe; they say it is always well to hear all
sides of a question, and on this subject I have scarcely heard
anything."

She had rattled on in her usual fashion without looking up; had she
noticed the change in Donovan's face, her womanly tact would have
warned her to be more careful, for he looked as nearly contemptuous
as good manners would allow.  His voice, was grave and displeased as
he replied, and had a strange ring of pain in it.

"It is not a subject I care to discuss, thank you."

They walked on in silence, Donovan trying uneasily to understand his
own feelings.  _Why_ did he not care to discuss this subject?  Was it
that his cousin's lightness jarred on him? was there some latent
sense of reverence in him--some yet slumbering faith faintly touched
by her flippant tones?  Or was it--could it be--that he, Donovan
Farrant, was ashamed of the views he held? ashamed of not being like
the rest of the world?

Adela knew, from the tone of the answer which her question received,
that she had made a mistake; flippant, conventional, semi-religious
talk evidently grated somehow on her cousin's mind; she made haste to
recover her place in his estimation by referring to the subject
nearest his heart.

"Shall we take these flowers to Dot?  She likes flowers in her room,
doesn't she?"

His brow cleared instantly.

"Yes, let us go.  Dot is very fond of you, Cousin Adela; you have
cheered her up wonderfully."

Adela smiled; her kindness to little Dot was the one fair bright spot
in her life just then; it was pleasant to dwell on one thing in which
her motive was really good, and she was too really kind to like to
remember that she was acting as a sort of decoy towards Donovan.

Dot held out her hands eagerly for the flowers.

"What beauties!" she cried.  "I was afraid they were all over."

Donovan took the blush rose and arranged it in her dress, where its
soft colours helped to relieve the blackness.

"You and Cousin Adela have had such a long talk," said Dot, watching
with interest while the flowers were arranged in her vase.  "I saw
you from my window.  What were you talking about?"

"Oh!" said Adela, with a little pause, as she adjusted a leaf, "we
were talking about the church."

"There's many changes there, miss," said Mrs. Doery, looking up from
her work.  "Seems to be the way with these new-fangled ministers.
Still they say the boys in their whites is very attractive, and
nobody can't deny that the church is fuller than it used to be."

"I have been telling Mr. Donovan that Mountshire is very much behind
the world," said Adela.  "In our parts we should be quite surprised
not to find a choir."

"Well, miss, I suppose it's very right and proper, but for myself I
liked the old days when we had just the parson and the clerk.  Now
they sing-song all the things so, and I can't seem to pick myself up."

Adela tried not to laugh, and asked the name of the clergyman.

"Mr. Golding, he's the white-haired one.  You'd 'ave thought he was
too old to like such new ways, but I make no doubt he's led on by the
curate, who is but young; and as to him, miss, he gets through the
service so quick you wouldn't believe, but I never can hear a word
when he reads off the old fowl's back."

Adela and Donovan burst out laughing, and no sense of the respect due
to Mrs. Doery could stop them.  Dot, not understanding, looked
perplexed till Adela explained.

"The reading-desk in church, dear, the lectern, is like an eagle.
Oh!  Mrs. Doery, you mustn't mind our laughing, but really that is
worthy of _Punch_."

Doery was, luckily, not at all offended.  She could not pretend to
learn all the new names they gave the things, and probably she
thought of the lectern as the "old fowl" till the day of her death.

After a certain fashion, Adela's visit really did Donovan some good.
It roused him from his moody silence, made a change in his monotonous
life, and shielded him to some extent from Ellis Farrant's
annoyances.  For, during this visit, Ellis was not all careful to
keep himself in the boy's good graces, and, in the brief time that
they were necessarily thrown together, managed to annoy him
considerably.  Donovan had always the ruffled, uncomfortable
consciousness that his guardian was making a good thing out of his
office.  He was naturally very careless about money matters, scarcely
giving them a thought; but even easy and generous natures are often
roused by feeling that they are being traded upon.  The length and
frequency of his cousin's visits might be overlooked perhaps, but
when, in the course of the month, he went with Donovan to some races
at a neighbouring town, and coolly put down all the expenses to Mrs.
Farrant, his ward was naturally indignant; and this happened not once
only, but several times.  The loss of the money was nothing, but the
injustice was very irritating.  Injustice was Donovan's watchword,
and this slight but aggravating specimen of it was a constant thorn
in his side.

Another vexing thing was Ellis Farrant's behaviour to his mother.  He
used to perform all kinds of little services for her; waiting on her
sedulously on every possible occasion, with a marked ostentation
which seemed always trying to indicate to Donovan, "This is what you
ought to do."  Even had such attentions been possible to him, he
would have been for too proud to take such a broad hint, and Ellis
was probably aware of this, or he would not have risked giving the
advice: it was everything to him that Mrs. Farrant should feel the
great difference between his conduct and her son's.  On the whole,
there was some reason in Donovan's complaint that autumn--life had
always seemed to him hard and perplexing, and it grew more so.




CHAPTER VII.

THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE.

  O, ye wha are sae guid yoursel',
    Sae pious, and sae holy,
  Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
    Your neebour's faults and folly.
  Ye see your state with theirs compar'd,
    And shudder at the niffer,
  But cast a moment's fair regard
    What maks the mighty differ?

  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

  Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
    Right on ye scud your sea-way,
  But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
    It makes an unco lee way.

  _Address to the Unco Guid, or Rigidly Righteous_.  BURNS.


"I may be wrong, Mr. Ward.  I can't pretend to much wisdom.  I'm an
old, unlettered man, but it seems to me that folks are rather hard on
the poor boy; but I may be wrong, I quite allow I may be wrong."

The speaker was a grey-haired, elderly man, with a thin, worn face,
kind eyes, and rather bent shoulders.  His companion, Mr. Ward, was
the Squire of Oakdene, a short, broad, grey-whiskered country
gentleman, somewhat bluff, but still good-natured enough in his way.
The two were returning from a meeting of the church-wardens on an
afternoon in January, and happening to see Donovan Farrant sauntering
along the road in front of them, with his dog at his heels, they had
begun to talk of him.

"I'm sure I wish to be hard on no one," said the squire, swinging his
stick rather vigorously.  "But you know, Hayes, the fellow has a very
bad reputation.  No one has a good word to say for him."

"Poor boy," said old Mr. Hayes, compassionately.  "I suppose it's all
true; but you know one must remember that he's never had a father to
look after him."

"Yes, I know that," said the squire, reflectively; he had sons of his
own, and had very strong ideas about paternal influence.  "That's
quite true, and may excuse him to a certain extent.  But then it's
impossible to take up with him.  I couldn't have him mixing with
Harry and Ned.  It isn't that I wish to be uncivil to the boy, but
really it would be most unwise.  I don't know what Mrs. Ward would
say if I proposed it.  Now you, Hayes, it's different with you;
you're a bachelor, and could easily be a little friendly with him."

"Yes," hesitated Mr. Hayes; "but you know I'm afraid he'd find me a
very dull companion.  I'm only a stupid old man, and he is young, and
very clever, they say."

"Bosh!" said the squire, contemptuously--"he ought to be proud to
shake hands with you.  You're a great deal too humble-minded, Hayes.
I've no idea of being so deferential to the young generation.
There's a great deal too little of the Fifth Commandment now-a-days;
it wasn't so when I was a boy."

"I felt very sorry for them this Christmas," resumed Mr. Hayes,
gently; "the Manor must have been a sad house; but it's very hard to
know how to help people when you can't send them blankets, or coals,
or Christmas dinners."

"And young Farrant is a precious deal too proud to be helped in any
way," said Mr. Ward, with a laugh.  "But, after all, I am sorry for
the boy; it's a sad start in life to have lost one's good name.
What's he after now, stooping down in the snow?  We shall catch him
up, and, if so, I must speak to him."

A miserable-looking cat, drenched with water, and with a tin pot tied
to its tail, had been lying half dead by the roadside.  Donovan, who
was a great lover of animals, had of course hastened to the rescue;
he had just released the poor terrified creature from its instrument
of torture, and was holding it in his arms, rubbing its wet draggled
fur, when, hearing steps, he glanced round, and found himself face to
face with Mr. Ward and Mr. Hayes.  The colour rushed to his cheeks;
he had not time to assume the look of cold haughty indifference with
which he usually confronted his neighbours.  He looked so handsome
and boyish, and so unlike a reprobate, that Mr. Ward felt his
compassion rising and his scruples diminishing; besides, the
conversation had rather softened him, and he held out his hand
cordially.

"Well, Farrant, how are you?  Mrs. Farrant is quite well, I hope?
You know Mr. Hayes, don't you?  Why, what's that?--a drowned cat?"

"Some brute of a boy has nearly killed it," said Donovan, indignation
making him speak naturally.  "I think it will come round, though, as
soon as I can get it to a fire."

That an atheist should bestow his attention on a stray cat was very
surprising to the squire.  He began to like the fellow.  After all,
there was some good in him.

"Had any skating yet?" he asked, in his kindly voice.

"No; our pond is half overgrown with mares-tail; besides, it's too
small to be worth anything."

"Oh! you must come over to our place," said the squire, with
good-humour, which astonished Mr. Hayes.  "Our young people have been
on the small lake to-day, and I daresay the large one will bear
to-morrow.  You used to be rather a swell at skating, if I remember
right."

"I am very fond of it," said Donovan, and his eyes danced.

"Then come over to-morrow, and whenever you like; it isn't often we
get a frost like this."

"Thank you--I will be sure to come," said Donovan; and as they parted
he lifted his eyes to the squire's with a long searching look, at
once wistful and surprised; then, whistling to Waif, he walked away
with the cat under his arm.

"Now what on earth did I do that for?" said the squire, as he and Mr.
Hayes turned down the lane leading to the Hall gates.  "I don't know
what my wife will say, but really, Hayes, I don't dislike the boy;
and how his face lighted up at the thought of the skating!  He's not
a bad fellow, after all."

Mr. Ward was quite right in surmising that his wife would be vexed
when she heard of the invitation he had given; he tried hard to
mention it casually when he got home, but there was an undisguisable
anxiety in his voice as he observed,

"Oh! by-the-by, my dear, I met young Farrant just now, and asked him
to come over for skating to-morrow."

Mrs. Ward looked up with as much annoyance as it was possible for a
good, kind-hearted woman to show.

"You asked Donovan Farrant to come _here_?"

"Not to the house, my dear, only to skate on the lake.  I really
don't see how I could avoid it; he is a first-rate skater, and this
is the only ice for miles round."

"But only the other day, Edward, you said you wouldn't have him about
with the boys on any account.  I really think you might be more
careful.  It will be beginning an intimacy, and then, with such near
neighbours, we shall find it impossible to break it off.  It is just
the most dangerous time, too, with Harry back from Oxford, ready to
make friends with anyone, and Ned fresh from school."

"My dear, surely they needn't become friends because they skate on
the same lake; besides, I assure you young Farrant is not so bad as
people make out."

"Well, Edward, he is not at all the kind of companion I like for the
boys, and I've heard you say the same thing yourself.  No one visits
him, he reads with that Mr. Alleyne at Greyshot, a most unprincipled
man, and you yourself heard that he attended Raeburn's lectures."

"I heard that he had been seen at one," said the squire, rather
testily.

"And that is quite enough, I am sure, to prove him an unfit companion
for our children," replied Mrs. Ward.  "Only the other day, too, I
met him at the library and heard him asking for books on Positivism;
besides, no one invented the account of his school life, I suppose."

"Well, he's not likely to talk either of Raeburn or of Positivism on
the ice, I should think," said Mr. Ward, with a smile.  "Come, my
dear, it is not like you to be inhospitable, let the poor fellow be
here just this once."

"Of course he must come now you have asked him," said Mrs. Ward, with
a sigh.  "But I am vexed about it.  I do think one should be careful
with boys like Harry and Ned, and with three girls only just out.
Donovan Farrant is so good-looking."

She sighed again.  The squire laughed heartily.

"Now about the boys I don't feel so positive, I own, but you may set
your mind quite at rest about the girls, for this dangerous young
fellow whom you dread so much is a professed woman-hater.  And you
know, my dear, even the author of evil is not so black as he's
painted."

Mrs. Ward sighed, but she said no more, only secretly in her heart
she hoped the frost would not continue.

Donovan was on the ice before anyone else the next morning, and for
some time had the lake to himself.  By-and-by two or three carriages
drove up with people from the neighbourhood whom he knew slightly,
and towards the middle of the day the squire and his two sons came
down, but, beyond an ordinary greeting, very little passed between
them.  The squire was too good-natured a man not to feel glad that,
in spite of his wife's scruples, he had invited the objectionable
neighbour to come; his intense enjoyment and his first-rate skating
were pleasant to watch, too.  Mr. Ward really felt sorry when, early
in the afternoon, he saw him taking off his skates."

"You are leaving very soon," he said, kindly.  "I hope it is not on
account of luncheon.  Won't you come up to the house and have
something?"

The invitation slipped out naturally, the squire found it hard not to
be hospitable.  But luckily Donovan declined.  He never left Dot now
for a whole day, and, giving the ordinary excuse of "an engagement,"
he left the lake, the squire of course inviting him to come again the
next day, and as long as the frost lasted.

Mrs. Ward was much relieved when, on coming down from the house with
her daughters and her niece, she found that the object of her alarms
was really gone.  Everyone was singing his praises--that was a little
annoying, certainly--but she learnt from her husband that he had been
far too much taken up with his figure-cutting to trouble the boys
with his company, and with that she was satisfied, and dismissed the
subject from her thoughts.

The next day, however, was not nearly so propitious.  To begin with,
the girls would go on the ice in the morning, and, though Mrs. Ward
hurried over her housekeeping and followed them as quickly as
possible, she found that already the intimacy which she so much
dreaded had begun.  The first sight that met her eyes as she emerged
from the shrubbery was a little knot of people gathered together on
the bank.  Her husband leaning on his stick and talking jocosely, her
younger daughter, and her niece, Maggie White, just preparing for
their first start, and Donovan Farrant kneeling in the snow, putting
on her elder daughter's skates.  It was very provoking!  Why had not
the girls been more careful?  Why had she not sent down the servant
to help them?  Why did her husband stand there so carelessly,
laughing and talking?  Her greeting to Donovan was stiff and chill,
but he was much too happy to care, the day was gloriously fine, the
frosty air invigorating, Mr. Ward and his daughters had been kind and
friendly, Maggie White was bewitching, for once in his life Donovan
was perfectly and healthily happy.  He had been on the ice for some
time, his usually pale, dark face was all aglow with the exercise,
and his eyes were sparkling with excitement, he certainly looked most
provokingly handsome, and perhaps there was some cause for Mrs.
Ward's anxiety,

"How could you let him help the girls like that?" she said,
reproachfully, as the skaters glided swiftly away.  "I thought,
Edward, you told me he was a regular misanthrope."

"Well, I don't see that he has done much harm, my dear,"' said the
squire.  "Common courtesy would require him to help the ladies, and
I'm glad to see him lose that cold proud look; he was more of a boy
to-day."

"I have warned the girls to be careful, but there's no knowing what
Maggie will do.  She's a dreadful little flirt!" and Mrs. Ward looked
anxiously across the lake to the place where Donovan was giving her
niece a lesson in the figure eight.

"Well," said the squire, consolingly, "Maggie's a very nice girl, at
any rate, and if she is, as you say, a flirt, then you may be pretty
sure that she won't get her heart broken.  Ah! here come the
Fortescues.  We have quite a nice number here to-day;" and the
hospitable old gentleman hastened forward to receive his friends.

"You are the only good skater here," said Maggie, looking up
admiringly at her instructor.  "Where did you learn?  And how can you
manage to do all those wonderful figures?"

"They are only learnt by practice," said Donovan.  "I learnt at
school, and at my old home near London.  You can do anything well, if
you give your whole will to it."

"Can you?" said Maggie.  "I can't.  I expect I've had as many weeks
of skating as you have had days.  I come from Canada, you know; but I
shall never be able to do these figures as you do."

It was pleasant to be made much of and flattered; an entirely new
experience to Donovan.  He thought Maggie White the prettiest and
pleasantest girl he had ever seen.  They talked on naturally and
easily, and it was not surprising perhaps that Donovan was in no
hurry to part with his new companion, or that he enjoyed skating
rapidly up and down the lake hand in hand with her more than cutting
figures by himself.  Nor did it occur to Maggie that she was guilty
of any great enormity in enjoying herself too.  Once she said, in her
pretty way,

"I am keeping you from doing what you like, please go away and leave
me.  I am taking up all your time, and spoiling your skating."

And Donovan, though he was no "lady's man," could answer very
truthfully,

"You are making me enjoy it perfectly."

Then they began to talk again of Canada, and she described all its
delights to him.

"Such fun we used to have in the skating season.  Sometimes we had
regular balls on the ice.  It was so delightful!  Oh!  Mr.
Farrant"--as a sudden thought struck her--"could we dance now?  I'm
sure you, who skate so beautifully, would waltz to perfection."

It was very innocently proposed.  In a minute Maggie had proclaimed
the news to her cousins as they passed.

"We are going to dance.  Why don't you?"  And then in a minute the
deed was done, and Mrs. Ward saw with dismay that Donovan Farrant and
her niece were actually dancing together.

Ice-waltzing was a novelty at Oakdene, and everyone turned to watch
the graceful movements of the little Canadian girl and her partner.
Twice they made the circuit of the lake, then, as they passed near
the bank where Mrs. Ward and one of her daughters were standing,
Donovan overheard the words:

"I must stop this.  With Donovan Farrant, too.  The last person in
the world----"

Maggie felt a quick movement in the arm that was round her waist, and
suddenly her partner stopped, saying, in an odd changed voice,

"I think Mrs. Ward wishes to speak to you."

"To me?  All right, auntie, I'm coming.  I won't be a minute, Mr.
Farrant."

She skated swiftly to the bank, and listened, with downcast eyes, to
her aunt's words.

"My dear, I don't quite approve of this.  I'm sorry to interrupt your
pleasure, but you must allow me to judge in this instance."  Then, as
Donovan drew near, she turned to him, trying to convey her meaning as
civilly as she could.  "I have been telling my niece that I think
perhaps ice-dancing is a little out of place here.  You will
understand, I am sure, Mr. Farrant."

Yes, he understood perfectly.  The face which had so lately been
boyishly happy and bright was suddenly overcast, the eyes saddened,
the mouth re-assumed its bitter look, and, without a single word,
Donovan raised his hat, turned away, and skated rapidly to the other
end of the lake.

The brightness of the day was gone for him after that.  He went on
skating, but with no animation.  Once young Ned Ward came up and
asked him to do the figure of double eight, with which he had been
astonishing the quiet Oakdene skaters early in the morning, but be
complied so moodily that the boy soon left him to seek more genial
companions.  Then Donovan resolved to go home.  He had been repulsed,
and, just as it was in his home life, so too, in this instance, one
repulse was enough.  He had neither enough love nor enough humility
to lay himself open again to the chance of a fresh rebuff.  After the
first, he invariably shrank into himself, becoming a little harder,
and colder, and more severe in manner.

He skated to a deserted corner of the lake, climbed the bank, and
took off his skates; then involuntarily he looked back on the
animated scene with a sore-hearted regret.  The sun was already
getting low, though it was not three o'clock; its level rays cast a
red glow over the wide white expanse, dotted here and there by the
dark gliding figures of the skaters.  The shore was fringed with tall
trees, their black stems serving as a relief to the general
whiteness, and their branches drooping gracefully under the heavy yet
feathery-looking rime.  There was an intense stillness in the sharp
frosty air, the voices of the merry crowd rang out clearly; once
Donovan felt sure he heard Maggie White's girlish laugh, and it
grated on him.  But in another minute all his morbid and selfish
thoughts were suddenly scattered to the winds, for while he was still
looking across the lake he saw the ice in the centre bend, then, with
one vast booming crack, it parted asunder.  In an instant all was
confusion.  Donovan sprang from the bank, and ran at full speed to
the scene of the disaster, all petty and personal feelings driven out
by the absorbing general interest and alarm.  Several people were in
the water, struggling, sinking, rising, vainly clutching at the
slippery edges of the broken ice.  Those who were safe bent forward
helplessly on their skates, trying to reach a hand to their friends
in distress, or calling loudly for help, for ropes, for every sort of
aid which was not at hand.  Two ladies were submerged; Donovan coolly
selected one of them while he drew off his coat, then, without an
instant's hesitation, he plunged into the icy water.  His example was
speedily followed by Harry Ward, ropes were hastily brought on to the
ice, the rescue began to seem hopeful.  Donovan was an expert
swimmer; a few strokes brought him up to the sinking girl, who,
dragged down by the weight of her skates, was being drawn in under
the ice.  From this he freed her without much difficulty, but she was
insensible, and he found that to get her out of the water was quite
another matter; he tried several times, but without success; each
time the edges of the ice broke away with the weight, and all he
could do was to keep her head above water, while with increasing
difficulty he struck out with his free arm.  The others had been
rescued, or were being helped, and at length a rope was brought to
his aid, a noose was thrown round him and his burden, and, after a
short fierce struggle, he found himself safely on the ice.

With a masculine dislike of being helped, he sprang quickly to his
feet, left his insensible burden to the care of other hands, and
looked round for his coat.  Perhaps those who had seen him helped out
with the rope did not know he was a rescuer--perhaps, in the
excitement and hurry of the moment, he was overlooked; at any rate,
no one spoke to him, and all at once his sore morose feeling returned
with double force.  The people were beginning to leave the ice
quickly, the girl whom Donovan had rescued began to revive and was
carried up to the house; he turned away in the opposite direction,
picked up his skates from the bank where he had left them, and strode
fiercely away in the direction of the Manor.  He had done his best;
one word of praise, or even of recognition, would have sent him home
happy, but by some odd chance, even when he deserved commendation, he
failed to get it.  Probably he would have disliked being thanked
above all things, and yet the absence of gratitude irritated him; it
was unjust, no one ever gave him his due, the world was full of
injustice.  Over and over in his mind went the weary, bitter,
discontented cry; perhaps his outward condition affected him a
little, adding fuel to the flame, for, although he considered himself
too philosophic to be troubled by mere bodily inconveniences, the
truth was that he felt them more than most men, though he had great
powers of endurance.  The icy cold bath which he had just had, and
the discomfort of his cold, clinging, dripping clothes, at any rate
served to remind him continually of his grievance, just as the wound
he had received in the school gauntleting had reminded him for days
of that injustice.  He had scarcely passed the Hall gates, when he
was roused from his dismal thoughts by an unexpected greeting.

"Nice bright afternoon," said old Mr. Hayes, shaking his hand.  "Have
you been on the ice?  Ah, yes, I see you have your skates."

"Yes; there's been an accident," said Donovan, "so I am going home.
The ice on the large lake gave way."

"Bless me!--no one hurt, I hope?  Did anyone go in?  Why, now I
notice you are all wet.  Dear, dear! what a terrible thing!  How many
people fell in?"

"I should think about half a dozen," replied Donovan, swinging his
skates and trying to look unconcerned.

"And all were rescued? that's a comfort.  And you were helped out
quickly, I hope?"

"Oh! yes," said Donovan, too proud to explain, "I was hauled out."

"Poor fellow! but what a shock it must have been!  You'll be taking a
chill.  You must come in with me and have something hot, yes, indeed
you must, I'll take no denial.  Here we are, you see, at my door.
Come in quickly and have something, and then walk home briskly and
change.  Now what shall it be, whisky-punch or negus!  I'm an
abstemious man generally, but this is the real time for such things,
wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, dear, dear!  Now come in,
come in."

Mr. Hayes had not been disabused of the old ideas about alcohol, but,
whether he was right or wrong, Donovan's brow gradually relaxed under
the influence of the old man's kindness and hospitality; he followed
him obediently into the little villa, which, though only inhabited by
the bachelor Mr. Hayes, was as scrupulously neat as any old maid's
dwelling.

Mr. Hayes rang the bell in the little parlour, all the time making
much of his guest.  Could he not accommodate him with a change of
clothes?  Should he send up to the Manor, &c.

A grave staid housekeeper appeared to answer the bell, and Mr. Hayes
perhaps thought it would be well to quicken her movements by telling
her the news of the village.

"Some hot water and a lemon and some sugar, please, Mrs. Brown.
There has been an accident on the ice in the Hall grounds, and this
gentleman has been in the water and is very wet."

Then the old man went to the cellaret, and, the housekeeper having
returned with the other ingredients, he began with infinite pleasure
and fussiness to make the punch.  He would not let Donovan stay for
long, but as soon as he had done justice to the steaming beverage,
started him on his walk home, with paternal injunctions not to stay
about in his wet things, and to be sure to come in again soon and
cheer up a solitary old bachelor.

Donovan smiled to himself at the last speech.  Was it not rather the
"solitary old bachelor;" who had cheered him?  The kindness and
hospitality drove away for the time his gloomy thoughts, but they
returned to him as he entered his own home and threw down his skates.

"Good-bye to you, at any rate," he murmured.  "I shall never go there
again."

Dot, with her quick all-observing eyes, saw at once that something
was wrong when Donovan came into her room.  Yesterday he had returned
in the highest spirits, that very morning he had started with the
look of bright expectation on his face which the little sister liked
to see, but; now he was grave and sad, with the expression which he
always wore when any allusion was made to his school disgrace--the
expression which Dot never cared to put into words--a hard, bad look.

"You are back earlier than you said," she began.  "Have you not had
good skating?"

"Yes--no," he moved away from her to the fireplace, and kicked the
coals in the grate with his heel.

"He never stirs the fire with his foot except when something is
wrong," soliloquized Dot; then aloud,

"Have you seen mamma, Dono?"

"No."

It could not be any quarrel, then, in that quarter.  What could have
happened?  He was so disinclined to talk, however, that she did not
venture to ask any more questions, and in a minute or two he walked
across the room, opened the piano, and began to practise.  He had
chosen something of Sebastian Bach's, and laboured away at it, at
first mechanically and doggedly enough, but by degrees with immense
satisfaction and relief to himself.  A stately, measured, dignified
strain it was, with one little fidgety, fugue-like passage; he played
five bars of it over and over till the disappointment, and anger, and
moodiness gradually died out of his heart, and poor Dot began to beg
for mercy.

"You must have played it a thousand times," she said, laughing, and
Donovan laughed too, left the piano, and came to sit beside her.

"Bach is as good as a tonic," he said, cheerfully.  "That old fellow
always sets me right,"

She saw now that she might talk to him, and began to question him
about his day.  He always told her his troubles, but this afternoon
he tried to make light of them.

"We had a glorious time in the morning, the ice was perfect.  About
the middle of the time the Miss Wards came down, and their cousin,
Miss White, a very pretty girl from Canada.  She skated nicely, was
much more up to things than anyone else, and for a little while we
danced together.  Mrs. Ward did not approve of that, though.  I
overheard her say something not too complimentary, and then she
managed somehow to stop it, at which, you know, Dot, I was just a
little cross.  But, just as I was coming away, guess what happened."

"An accident!  Oh! was it an accident?" cried Dot, excitedly.  "And
you were brave and helped the others, and Mrs. Ward was obliged to
like you very much?"

He laughed a little, but rather sadly.

"No, Dot.  You are running on too fast.  I was born under an unlucky
star, and shall never be able to win honour or respect."

He gave her a detailed account of the whole affair, and was rewarded
by her delighted pride in his attempted rescue.

"Dono dear, you ought to have a medal for it, a medal, you know, from
the Society for Promoting--what is it?"

"Cruelty to animals," suggested Donovan, wickedly.

"No, no, you bad boy.  Something about being 'humane' and they give
medals to people who save people's lives.  Just fancy, Dono, you
could wear it on your watch-chain.  It would be so nice."

"Too nice for the like of me," he said, lightly, but with a stifled
sigh.  "They keep things of that sort for the good boys."

"And no one even thanked you?  That was a shame," said the little
sister, indignantly.  "Never mind, Dono, you are my hero, my very
own, and you're the dearest old boy in the world."

Perhaps it was as well that the frost only lasted three days longer.
The skaters grumbled sadly, but two people at Oakdene were
considerably relieved.  The one was Mrs. Ward, who rejoiced that
"that dangerous young man" could not again imperil her children, the
other was the "dangerous young man" himself.  But if Donovan did not
easily forget injustice, neither did he forget even the most trifling
piece of kindness.  After his next day's shooting, he left a brace of
pheasants at old Mr. Hayes' door, and this made an opening for a
further acquaintance.  Mr. Hayes wrote to ask him to dinner, and, as
such invitations were rare, Donovan was pleased enough to go.  It was
a _tête-à-tête_ dinner.  Old Mr. Hayes was past sixty, and Donovan
not yet nineteen, but, in spite of this disparity in age, the evening
was a very pleasant one, and did him good.  It was a fresh interest,
an insight into a new home, and also into a life whose simplicity,
kindliness, and content could not fail to strike the most casual
observer.

Mr. Hayes lived very frugally as a rule.  The game was an unwonted
luxury, and his evident appreciation of it was very pleasant to
Donovan.  He himself had a hearty but philosophic appetite, to which
nothing came amiss, dainty discrimination was not at all in his line,
but he enjoyed watching old Mr. Hayes discuss his present, glad that
what had been pleasure to him in the shooting should be real pleasure
to some one else in the eating.

"You are like Squire Thornhill in 'The Vicar of Wakefield,'" said Mr.
Hayes, when the house-keeper had removed the game, "who brought his
own venison with him when he dined at the vicarage.  What!  You don't
know the book?  Is it possible?  Well, I suppose it's old and behind
the times now; but, my word! how I have laughed over it, and cried,
too, for the matter of that.  'Moses at the Fair,' and then 'Olivia!'
Ah! he was a grand fellow, old Goldsmith.  There are no such writers
now-a-days."

Then by-and-by some question of Donovan's drew out an account of Mr.
Hayes' former life, the rough discipline of the old boarding-schools,
the early drudgery in a merchant's office, his gradual advance till
he had become a partner in the firm, the losses they had had in the
time of the Crimean War, finally his ill-health, and his retirement,
with a modest income, to the little country villa.  A life of toil,
and care, and hardship, with what seemed a very slight reward to
Donovan, but which the old man himself evidently considered quite
sufficient.

"And now, you see," he concluded, "when my health is uncertain, and I
can't do what I once could, why, here I have a cosy little berth to
myself, with no cares or anxieties.  It was always my castle in the
air, this, a little house in a country village, with a bit of garden,
and a place to keep fowls in.  The thought of this helped me through
years of care and labour.  Always remember to have your castle in the
air.  That's my advice to you."

"What is the use, sir, if it never comes to anything?  Except at
cards, the luck is against me always.  And is there not a proverb,
'Blessed is he that expecteth nothing'?"

"Well, well," said Mr. Hayes, "perhaps you're the wiser and more
rational.  I don't know exactly about _expecting_--you must expect
very patiently, at any rate.  But a 'castle' is a great blessing; I
should miss mine sadly."

"You have a new one, then?" said Donovan, amused.

"Oh, yes; since I came here, I have fixed upon a visit to Switzerland
as my 'castle.'  I've been saving up for it this long time, and I've
mapped out my route, and chosen what hotels to go to, and calculated
just what it will cost; and then, you know, when I meet with
travellers, I get hints from them, and put them down in my note-book.
Now this is what I intend to do, starting, you know, from Newhaven to
Dieppe," &c., &c.

The whole tour was detailed with enthusiastic delight, and Donovan
listened, unable to help admiring the child-like, contented old man.

"And when do you think your 'castle' will come off, sir?" he asked,
when the whole plan had been related.

"Oh! that I can't tell at all," said Mr. Hayes, rubbing his hands.
"I have not saved enough yet; but won't it be a _grand_ tour!  Come,
own that it's a 'castle' worth having."




CHAPTER VIII.

"TIED TO HIS MOTHER'S APRON-STRINGS."

Now a boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to
manage.--PLATO.


"You see, dear Mrs. Tremain, one must be so careful with boys; there
are so many temptations into which they are likely to fall, and,
humanly speaking, there is no such careful and saving influence as a
mother's."

The speaker, Mrs. Causton, was a middle-aged lady, with no-coloured
hair brought low on each side of her brow, and a rather care-worn
face, which expressed kindly intentions, but yet at the same time
seemed a little formal.  An old friend of Dr. Tremain's, and the wife
of a naval officer, she had lately settled down at Porthkerran in
order to be with her son Stephen, a boy of nineteen, who was to spend
a year in Dr. Tremain's surgery before going up to London to "walk
the hospitals."  Mrs. Causton was such a near neighbour that she was
an almost daily visitor at the doctor's house, and her easy informal
comings and goings never interfered with anything that was going on.
The two ladies were sitting by the open window of the breakfast-room
one warm summer morning, when Mrs. Causton made the remark about a
"mother's influence;" Mrs. Tremain, with the daintiest and most
exquisitely neat workbox before her, was busy with some folds of blue
cambric, out of which her skilful, and therefore graceful-looking
hands, were devising one of little Nesta's frocks; and Gladys, at the
far end of the room, was giving Jackie a reading-lesson.

"And yet," began Mrs. Tremain, in answer, "I can't help thinking that
a certain amount of independence is almost necessary; a boy must
learn sooner or later to stand alone."

"Yes, yes, sooner or later, of course.  Stephen must be alone in
London next year.  I wish it could be otherwise; but you know I never
could be in London, unfortunately; the air is like poison to me.  He
must be alone then, but I can't help dreading it very much; he has
scarcely ever been away from me, not for more than a few days at a
time in his whole life.  I could never make up my mind to send him to
school; there are so many temptations in school life; I always
dreaded it for Stephen."

"One wants a great deal of faith with children," said Mrs. Tremain;
and as she spoke, though the words were by no means lightly meant,
there was a little smile of amusement about her lips, for she knew
she was poaching on Mrs. Causton's manor.

"Ah! dear Mrs. Tremain, no one knows that better than I do; it is
faith from the beginning to the end, how else could one bear the
anxieties, the----  Well, Jackie dear," as the sturdy little
four-year-old boy, released from his lessons, sprang towards her with
the affectionate rough demonstration of arms and legs common to most
children of his age.  "It was only last Sunday that I was trying to
tell dear little Jackie something of the nature of faith; one cannot
too early impress it on a child.  Do you remember, darling, what I
said in Sunday-school?"

"This is Fliday," said the matter-of-fact Jackie.

"Yes, but can't you remember such a few days ago as that?  What did I
say faith was?"

"Oh!  I lemember," said Jackie, looking up brightly.  "An apple-pie
in a boat."

Mrs. Tremain and Gladys could not help laughing, Mrs. Causton looked
perplexed for a minute, but Jackie ran off contentedly to his play,
and never waited for the explanation.

"Poor little man, I see how it was.  I just gave them an
illustration, you know, told them that if they went down to the beach
with me one day, and I was to say, 'Look at that boat in the
distance, it has an apple-pie in it,' and they were to believe there
was an apple-pie in it, that would be faith.  It is always well to
choose attractive illustrations for children, but dear little Jackie
of course was rather confused just now."

"Aunt Margaret," said Gladys, for, though Mrs. Causton was no real
relation, the children had known her all their lives, and had
christened her "auntie," in American fashion.  "Aunt Margaret, what
would you have done if Stephen had had to go to sea like Dick?"

"My dear, I could never have allowed it," said Mrs. Causton, quickly.
"Of course, naturally enough, at one time Stephen did wish to go with
his father, but it could never have been allowed.  From the very
first I determined that he should be a clergyman or a doctor, the
only thoroughly good and Christian professions, to my mind."

"Oh! but, auntie, think of the number of good men there are in other
professions," said Gladys, with girlish vehemence, provoked by the
narrowness of the remark.

"I like a consistent calling," said Mrs. Causton, "and you know,
Gladys, humanly speaking, it is often difficult to lead a consistent
life in a more secular profession."

Gladys was silenced but not satisfied.  When Mrs. Causton had gone
she returned to the subject.

"Mother, Aunt Margaret seems to think that very few people are
Christians.  She talks as if all the world, except just a few people
like herself, were wicked."

"Your aunt has very strong opinions.  I do not agree with her
always," said Mrs. Tremain.  "Nor need you, Gladys."

"But, mother, it's so tiresome to have to hear people say things like
that, it's so--so narrow!  What would she do if there were only two
professions in the world, if every man was a clergyman or a doctor?
And if the other things must be done and seen to, why, it must be
right for some one to do them."

"Do you know," said Mrs. Tremain, smiling, "that you are a very hot
little arguer, Gladys?  I fancy, like most women, that you have just
a little personal feeling mixed with your views.  Were you not
thinking of Dick when the other professions were being decried?"

"You always know everything," said Gladys, resting her arm on Mrs.
Tremain's knee, and shading her brow with her hand.  "Yes, I was
thinking of Dick.  I believe he's the best middy in all the navy.
You know, mother, what Captain Smith said about his influence on
board.  I'm sure his life is as consistent as Stephen's will ever be."

"We are getting rather little and personal," said Mrs. Tremain.
"Don't let us take to crying up our own belongings, and comparing
them with other people's.  Of course you are proud of Dick, dear, and
so am I, but he is not a paragon of virtue."

"Oh I no, I can't bear paragons," said Gladys, laughing, "they are
always prigs.  Dick is a regular boy still, that's why he's so nice.
I wonder whether Aunt Margaret thinks it very risky for him to be
left to himself so much.  I believe Stephen wants to be let alone a
little, he always looks so bored when auntie begins to talk at him.
You know, mother, she really does talk rather much, she always tries
to drag in religion, and sometimes it does come in so oddly.  And
then she is always saying 'humanly speaking.'  I can't bear those
little phrases.  I think auntie must be descended from some of the
old Puritans.  I'm sure she'd have liked those funny, made-up names.
She chose Stephen's name because it was in the Bible, and she thinks
Gladys sounds so like a heathen.  She wonders you and papa chose it
for me."

Mrs. Tremain laughed.

"Well, Gladys dear, live up to the best meaning of your name, and I
shall be quite satisfied.  Now let us have our reading together.  The
weather looks promising for our picnic this afternoon, does it not?"

Later in the day the whole family, including Stephen and Mrs.
Causton, were to meet for an out-of-doors tea-drinking.  It was a
half-holiday, and the two younger boys, intervening between Dick and
little Jackie, were to come over from their school at Plymouth.  The
doctor had promised to get his rounds done quickly, and Stephen was
released from his duties for an hour or two.  To children, and to
child-like minds, it is seldom that a great expedition or an
expensive picnic gives the pleasure which a more simple and homely
one does.  It is not the great, formal, country excursion, with its
grand toilettes and champagne lunch which dwells in the memory, and
is looked back upon with pleasure, it is rather the simple "day in
the country," when there were no liveried servants to carry the
provisions, when our own arms ached with the burden, when, with a
sense of delicious novelty, we ourselves spread the cloth on the
turf, or boiled the kettle over a gipsy-like fire of sticks, or
roamed in delightful freedom in what seemed a paradise of rest and
greenness, away from the "haunts of men."

About two miles west of Porthkerran the cliffs were broken into a
sort of cleft or narrow valley, and here a beautiful wood had sprung
up, which in spring was carpeted with primroses and anemones, and
where in summer forget-me-nots were to be found by the side of the
little streams which trickled through the wood to the sea.  It was in
this place that the Tremains were to spend their afternoon.

"It was very good of you to spare Stephen," said Mrs. Causton to the
doctor, as he helped her out of the little pony-carriage, in which
the elder ladies and the two younger children had come.  "I sometimes
fancy that he does not get out enough.  I hope he deserves his
holiday?"

"Yes, a little country air will freshen him up," said the doctor,
without replying directly to the question.

The mother's instinct was quick to note this.

"I hope you are really satisfied with Stephen?" she said, anxiously.
"I hope he isn't idle?"

"Oh!" said the doctor, re-assuringly, "I don't think he's more idle
than many boys of his age.  I daresay he told you that I was down
upon him rather sharply yesterday.  He forgot an important message,
and I was obliged to lecture him a little."

"He never told me," said Mrs. Causton, with some vexation in her
tone.  "I would always so much rather know things of that kind.  I
cannot get him to be open with me."

"You can hardly expect that he will tell you of every trifling scrape
he gets into," said Dr. Tremain.  "That was all very well while he
was in petticoats, and the more spontaneous telling there is still
the better, but perhaps one can hardly expect it in such a matter as
that."

"I like _perfect_ confidence between a mother and son," said Mrs.
Causton.  "Who should help him and advise him, if I do not?"

"Quite so.  It is everything to have strong sympathy and
understanding, but confidence cannot be forced, or it is utterly
worthless, and a boy of nineteen is generally rather a tough customer
to deal with."

"You think so?" questioned Mrs. Causton.

"Yes, I think undoubtedly that from eighteen to one and twenty is one
of the most difficult periods of life.  Boys, and in many instances
girls, too, begin then to have a good deal of liberty.  The old
discipline is cast off, they have to rule their own actions to a
great extent, they have to face the problems of life, and forming
their own opinion strongly on every point, whether it is beyond their
comprehension or not, they battle along not unfrequently a misery to
themselves and to their friends, till, after dearly-bought
experience, they at last settle down, more or less contentedly, with
some of their conceit knocked out of them."

"Stephen is not conceited," broke in Mrs. Causton.  "I don't think
anyone could call him conceited; and as to his opinions, why he holds
everything that I do.  He has never been any trouble to me in that
way, and in these days, when young men so often hold such dreadfully
unorthodox views, that is saying a great deal."

"I don't think Stephen is in any danger of being unorthodox," said
the doctor, rather drily.  Then after a little pause he added, "I
meant that I don't think he ever thinks enough to have any
difficulties.  But in one way, Mrs. Causton, I do think he might be
in danger, he is far too easily led."

"He is naturally gentle and pliable," said Mrs. Causton.  She would
not say, "weak."

"And there is, I think, his danger," said the doctor.  "Old John
Bunyan showed a wonderful knowledge of life when he made Pliable the
one to go half-way into the Slough of Despond, and never win through
it.  I don't want to make you anxious about Stephen, but of course,
since the lad's been with me, he's been in my mind a good deal, and I
can't help thinking that he wants more of a backbone; he has not
enough steadiness; he is too loose in his management of himself.  I
do not think he knows how to steer his own course."

"But I am still with him; he cannot go wrong now very well," said
Mrs. Causton.

"But you cannot always be with him," replied the doctor.  "Depend
upon it, the best thing you can do is to teach him _self_-management.
There is an old saying, which of course you know, about the child who
is 'tied to his mother's apron-strings;' perhaps it seems cruel of me
to quote such a rough simile to you, but, you see, there is danger in
it--it makes a boy weak and helpless, instead of bracing him for his
part in life, as I know you and all good mothers would wish to do."

"Well, what shall I tell him?--what is his chief fault in his work?"
said Mrs. Causton, with the rather fretted manner of one taking
uncongenial advice.

"Don't bother him--let him alone a little," said the doctor,
cheerfully.  "Some day I mean to give him a good blowing up; he must
learn to keep the surgery more tidy."

Mrs. Causton was a little annoyed at this sudden descent to what
seemed to her such a trifling and mundane matter, but Dr. Tremain's
next sentence cleared her brow once more.

"You must not mind my talking so plainly to you about the boy; you
see, I've been his father's friend ever since we were lads together,
and so I can't help taking a special interest in Stephen.  But don't
let us spoil our afternoon's pleasuring with educational bothers.
Where will you and the mother sit?  Here is a nice tree ready
felled--what do you say to that?  I shall leave you to gossip while I
go mothing."

So the doctor, taking his butterfly-net, walked off into the wood,
tapping the tree-trunks every now and then in search of spoil, and
closely followed by Jackie, who promised to be as keen a naturalist
as his father.

Mrs. Tremain took out her knitting, and, while talking with her
companion, kept an eye on little Nesta, who was now more than a year
old, and just beginning to run alone.  From their place the two
ladies could catch glimpses of the deep blue of the Porthkerran Bay
through the overhanging trees, while occasionally merry voices in the
distance told of the presence of the children.  The quiet country
"stillness" was very refreshing, but Mrs. Causton could not quite
free herself from the uncomfortable impression which the doctor's
words had left on her mind; had she been able to see into her son's
heart at that moment, her anxiety would have been still greater.

"How jolly this is!" said Stephen, as, leaving the dusty highway,
they entered the cool green shade of the wood.  "I used to think it
must be so dull down here at Porthkerran; it seemed like the ends of
the earth when we were living in Sussex."

"Cornwall is the best place in the world," said Gladys, with pride.
"I can't think how people can live in places where they have to wear
gloves always, and walk about in their best clothes."

"I thought girls always liked dress," said Stephen.

"Oh! yes, of course, in a way; it is nice to have pretty things, but
not to be always bothered with them," said Gladys, stooping down to
gather some forget-me-nots.

The younger boys had wandered on in front.  Stephen was not sorry to
be left behind, for he was rapidly gliding into love with Gladys.  He
gave to her now the confidence which his mother had so much wished
for.

"Sometimes I think, Gladys, that I shall be obliged to go away from
here," he began--"before my year is over, I mean."

"Oh, will you?" said Gladys.

"Would you--would you be sorry if I went?" questioned Stephen,
anxiously.

"Of course," said Gladys, with almost more frankness than he
desired--"dreadfully sorry.  We should all miss you; and besides,
Aunt Margaret has taken the house now."

It was too general and prosaic a view to please Stephen; however, he
continued--

"I fancy your father is not pleased with me; he was awfully vexed
yesterday."

"Was he?  Why was that?" asked Gladys, looking up with innocent
sympathy.

"Why, they sent up word from the inn that Mary Pengelly was much
worse, and I forgot to tell him."

"Oh, Stephen! and did it matter much?"

"I don't know.  I don't think it could have made much difference.
She died this morning."

There was a little silence after this, then Gladys said,

"I've often noticed that papa is more vexed by carelessness than by
great big faults, and you see, Stephen, this might have been so
dreadful, if he could have saved her by going earlier."

"Oh!  I don't think he could.  She's been supposed to be dying for a
week.  Don't look so awfully grave, Gladys, I shall be very careful,
of course, after this.  I mean to turn over a new leaf.  You don't
know how I should hate to leave this place.  You don't know how I
care for--for you all."

The colour had risen to the roots of his hair, and Gladys for the
first time caught his meaning.  Half pleased, half frightened, her
strongest impulse was to run away, to put a stop somehow to the
_tête-à-tête_; for the first time she felt that there was a
difference between walking alone with Dick and walking alone with
Stephen, and, with a sudden shyness which she had never known before,
she looked about for some way of escape.

A brilliant butterfly fluttered past her, and, with relief in her
voice, she said, quickly,

"Oh!  I do believe there is that rare 'blue' which Jackie wanted.  I
must catch him."

And, while Stephen wished all the rare "blues" at the other side of
the world, Gladys sprang across the little brook, running in swift
pursuit of her victim.  Stephen sauntered on rather discontentedly,
but taking care not to lose sight of the brown holland and blue
ribbons, which flashed rapidly hither and thither in the chase,
threading the woody labyrinth.  When at last he came up with her, the
butterfly was secured, and the rest of the party were in sight.

Then came the merry preparations for tea; the boys gathered sticks
and nursed the flickering blaze, Gladys began to spread bread and
honey, like the queen in the nursery rhyme, and Dr. Tremain,
returning with his prey in a dozen little boxes, devoted himself to
making jokes for Mrs. Causton's benefit, and good-naturedly entered
into all the children's arrangements, though, like most middle-aged
men, he hated the discomforts of an out-door meal.  The most
noteworthy incident in the day to Stephen was that afterwards, as
they were still resting in the shade, from time to time singing
rounds and catches, Gladys began to make her forget-me-nots into tiny
nosegays.  There was one for everybody, but the greater number of
them were destined to "bloom their hour and fade," only one was
carefully preserved among Stephen's untidy haunts.  There was this
much of good in him, that he was capable of recognizing Gladys'
beauty and goodness, but unfortunately she did not greatly influence
him.




CHAPTER IX.

DOT VERSUS THE WORLD.

        She was sent forth
  To bring that light which never wintry blast
  Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes--
  The light that shines from loving eyes upon
  Eyes that love back, till they can see no more.
                                            LANDON.

  A little child shall lead them.
                  _Book of the Prophet Isaiah._


It is an old saying, and perhaps a truism, that self-sacrifice always
brings its reward; not exactly the substantial reward promised in a
certain moral song which is put into the lips of children, in which a
charitable loaf-giver is represented as receiving "As much and ten
times more," but a reward in some form perhaps hardly understood now,
but no less real because we cannot grasp or fathom it.  In one sense
great gain is consistent with loss, perhaps follows upon it almost as
constantly as joy follows upon pain.

It was not a tangible reward which Donovan's self-sacrifice met with.
Our highest and best gifts are never tangible, but it was a reward
which was one of the best and most lasting influences of his life.
When he resolved to devote himself entirely to Dot, instinctively his
thoughts grew less morbid and selfish.  His life, which seemed so
purposeless and useless, twined itself round her life, and found the
object it needed.  His creed indeed remained unaltered; the angry
sense of injustice still lurked in his heart, but everything was now
subservient to the one ruling interest, and, through all the bad
influences which were besetting him continually during the two years
which elapsed after his father's death, the unconscious loving
influence of the little child kept its hold upon him.

His was a nature formed either for great good or for great evil.
Whatever he did he did thoroughly; whether it was the reading of a
fairy-tale to Dot, or the mastery of some difficult passage of music,
or his nightly card-playing at the Greyshot club, he bent his whole
will to the work, intent upon making whatever he was engaged upon a
masterpiece of its kind.  In spite, then, of all the evil at work
within him and without, Donovan had really improved.  At twenty, he
was far more manly, more tender and considerate, and, though his
self-reliance was still unshaken, he was no longer the self-absorbed,
gloomy, taciturn fellow he had been.  To make himself companionable
to Dot, he had been forced to rouse himself; abstract speculations,
long, dismal reveries were incompatible with the line of life which
he had marked out for himself.  What might have done very well among
the Alps must be entirely avoided in the little invalid's room, and
he exerted himself with such firmness of purpose that in spite of his
natural tendency to melancholy, and the bitter spirit which his early
education had produced, he became bright and cheerful, sometimes even
merry.  This was, of course, when he was with her; at other times he
was often sadly moody, and the coldness with his mother increased
rather than diminished; indeed, he saw very little of her, for, when
Dot did not need him, he could always find amusement at Greyshot,
though his passion for cards did not lead him among the very best
companions.

And all the time Mrs. Farrant allowed herself to drift down the
stream of life placidly.  The world seemed to her a little dull, but
no doubt other people found it so.  She had many comforts; she would
not complain.  In what she considered peaceful and virtuous content,
she stroked Fido, received visitors, drove out in her victoria, and
read light literature.  Twice a day she visited Dot's room; a sort of
duty call, which both mother and child took as a matter of course,
but did not in the least care for; and occasionally Donovan occupied
her thoughts for a few minutes.  She would feel a sort of pride and
pleasure as she noticed what a fine-looking fellow he was, or would
be vexed and annoyed that the neighbours shunned him, but it never
occurred to her that she was at all responsible for him, that it was
through her neglect and unmotherliness that he was driven away from
home to spend his evenings at a disreputable club.

In the second spring after Colonel Farrant's death, it was arranged
that the Oakdene family should go up to town for the season.  Mrs.
Farrant had left off her weeds.  Ellis and Adela urged them to come
up for at least a few weeks, and as the house in Connaught Square,
which had been let for the last two years, was now at liberty, there
seemed no reason against it.  Donovan was glad enough to go.  He had
begun to crave for a change of scene, and, though he was too
unsociable and silent to care for the sort of gaieties which his
mother enjoyed, London offered many other attractions to him.

Dot's room was in the front of the house, that she might have the
benefit of the square garden, and, when she had recovered from the
fatigue of the journey, she was able thoroughly to enjoy the change.
Donovan had not noticed how very thin and weak she had grown lately.
He was never away from her, and so did not see the change, as a
fresh-comer would have done.  It was a chance word of Adela Farrant's
which first drew his attention to the fact.

"Why, my poor little Dot," she exclaimed, coming into the room a few
days after their arrival, "how thin and white you have grown; you're
just like a little shadow.  What have you been doing to her, Donovan?"

The light tones and the smiling face of the speaker were a strange
contrast to the startled abrupt interrogative which escaped Donovan,
and the look of pain which came over his face.

"You think her changed?"

"Yes, very much; I believe, dear, they've kept you mewed up in the
country a great deal too long.  You wanted a little change and
amusement.  You wanted me to look after you, now didn't you?"

Conscious that she had made rather an unfortunate remark, Adela
talked on good-naturedly to the little girl, and once or twice tried
to draw Donovan into the conversation; he did not seem to hear her,
but stood leaning against the wall at the foot of Dot's couch,
looking at her with a sad, anxious, pained scrutiny.  Adela's words
had sent a cold chill to his heart.  Was it true?  Was Dot really
changed?  Was she more fragile and delicate-looking than usual?  He
tried to look at her as if he were a stranger, tried to find the
bare, undisguised truth.

Dot was now twelve years old, though her little helpless form was so
tiny that she looked more like a child of eight; he seemed never to
have really looked at her before, and, though he knew every line of
her face by heart, its beauty had never before struck him.  She had
always been to him just Dot herself, it had never entered his head to
think whether she was pretty or not.  She wore a loose white dress,
and over her feet was spread a many-coloured Indian shawl, the same
shawl which he remembered seeing in the ayah's arms on that day of
wretchedness and disappointment in his childhood.  The window was
open and the summer wind played with her soft brown hair as it lay on
the pillow; he noticed a strange waxen look about the little childish
face, and the beauty of the rounded serene forehead, with its too
apparent network of blue veins, the soft grey-brown eyes, the tender
little smiling mouth, struck him as it had never struck him before.
It could never be, oh! surely it could never be, that she would be
taken from him!  Fate had been so cruel to him, it would surely leave
him the one thing he cared for still!  The mere thought caused him
such agony that he could hardly contain himself; it was only from his
habitual self-control, and from his love to Dot, that he could force
a smile to his lips as she looked up at him appealingly.

"Dono, do you hear what we are saying?  We are saying you must go out
more while you are here.  Cousin Adela says you are very unsociable."

"Yes, you are a regular bear," said Adela.  "I'm quite ashamed of
you, sir, you've no excuse whatever.  With your advantages you might
turn the heads of half the girls in town."

"A desirable employment," said Donovan, veiling far deeper feelings
with a sarcastic smile.

"There, I told you he was a bear!  See how he speaks to me!" said
Adela, with mock anger.

"I beg your pardon," he said, laughing.  "But if that is the 'whole
duty of man,' it's beyond me; I can't turn neat compliments to pretty
women, it's not in me.  Some fellows are born to it, it comes as
naturally to them as card-playing comes to me.  One can't go against
mature."

"You ought to do your duty," said Adela, with playful severity.

"And if I were to ask, like Froude's cat, 'What _is_ my duty?' you
would answer, I suppose, like the sagacious animals in the parable,
'Get your own dinner,' and add, perhaps, 'at some grand house
belonging to one of the "upper ten."'  That is my duty, I suppose."

"He is talking riddles to me, Dot," said Adela.  smiling.  "What cat
does he mean?"

"Oh! the cat in 'Short Studies on Great Subjects,'" said Dot,
readily.  "Such a jolly story it is!  The cat wanted to know what was
the good of life, and everyone gave her such funny answers.  The owl
said 'Meditate, oh! cat,' and so she tried to think which could have
come first, the fowl or the egg.  Dono laughed over that story more
than I ever saw him laugh before."

"But, to return to the charge," said Adela, "why were you not at Lady
Temple's last night?"

"Because I've forsworn such vanities," said Donovan, contentedly.
"The night before I dutifully attended my mother to three fashionable
crowds--'perpendiculars' is the best name for them, for there is
generally barely room for standing--and, as we elbowed our way
through the third set of rooms, I made up my mind that society wasn't
in my line."

"People never know when they're well off," said Adela.  "Many men
would be thankful enough to be in your shoes, and to be introduced to
such a good circle, and, instead of making the most of your
advantages, you think of nothing but those wicked cards."

"Of course it is very wicked indeed to think of such things as whist,
or loo, or euchre; instead of that my cousin would wish me to spend
my evenings in the virtuous employment of talking nonsense in
aristocratic drawing-rooms, or flirting in ball-rooms," said Donovan,
with a satirical smile.

"Your cousin would wish you to be a great deal more polite," said
Adela, laughing, "and she does not like to be snapped up in that way,
for all the world as if you were a machine for cutting people's words
up--a chaff-cutter!"

"At any rate, I was not chaffing," said Donovan, relapsing into good
humour.

"Did you ever know anything like him?" said Adela, with another
laugh.  "He can make as many bad puns as ordinary men when he tries,
but let him be in society, and he's a bear--a gloomy Spanish
don--more morose and formal and stupid than anyone I have met in my
whole life."

"You mustn't scold him," said Dot, not quite understanding the
banter, and hurt that anyone should think Donovan otherwise than
perfect; "you don't know a bit how good he is if you say that.  When
I was so ill six months ago, he was with me almost always, and often
he used to sit up all night with me."

"I didn't know you had been ill--worse, at least," said Adela.

"Yes; it was in the autumn, when Cousin Ellis had come down for the
shooting, and Dono missed ever so many days because he wouldn't leave
me.  Dono is the best nurse in the world; his hands are so clever,
they never hurt like Doery's, and, do you know, once our old doctor
wondered how it was he was so quick and clever and steady-handed, and
Dono told him it was because he played billiards so much."

"Some advantages, you see, Cousin Adela, in being a born gamester,"
said Donovan, with rather a sad smile, as he looked down at Dot's
little weak fingers wreathing themselves in and out of his.

"Well, I'm glad you can turn into a sick-nurse," said Adela.  "You
have brought out a new side of his character, Dot, and deserve a vote
of thanks."

"Oh! and Waif brought it out too," said Dot, eagerly.  "Waif had the
distemper dreadfully last year--he nearly died.  The vetchi--what do
you call the animal-doctor?--said that he would have died if Dono
hadn't taken such care of him; he sat up with him two nights, and
that saved his life.  Isn't Waif a dear dog, cousin?"

"Well, I don't think he's a beauty," said Adela, looking down at the
fox-terrier, who was licking his master's hand.

"He can do lots of tricks, though," said Dot; "he's wonderfully
clever, and he loves Dono so!"

"Have you seen Ellis's new dog?" asked Adela, who rather wanted to
bring the conversation round to her brother.  "He has a new
retriever.  I suppose you have seen Ellis himself, have you not?"

"Well, yes, seeing that he's been in here every day," said Donovan,
not in his pleasantest tone.

"Oh! but you're such an unsociable fellow," said Adela.  "One might
be in the house for hours and not see you.  Ellis said something
about meeting me here at five o'clock.  I think I had better go
downstairs and see if he has come."

"Oh! stay with Dot a little longer," said Donovan.  "I daresay he has
not come yet; I'll go and see."

Adela consented to stay on, and Donovan, with Waif at his heels, went
downstairs.  Opening the drawing-room door unconcernedly, and hastily
glancing round to see if his cousin were there, he was suddenly
confronted by a sight so unexpected, so disagreeably startling, that
for a moment he stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak or move.
His mother, half smiling, half tearful, had both her hands clasped in
Ellis Farrant's; he was kneeling beside her in such a theatrical
attitude that, if Donovan had not been altogether dismayed and
astounded, he must have been amused.

Mrs. Farrant, looking up, saw her son, and, with a sudden blush,
began nervously, "Oh, Donovan!" then, turning to Ellis, faltered,
"You must tell him."

It was not a pleasant task, but Ellis, in the triumph of his victory,
could afford to meet a trifling annoyance of this sort.  With much
real trepidation carefully hidden beneath his most jaunty manner, he
crossed the room to the mute statue-like form, which would not move a
hair's-breadth to meet him.

"Well, my boy, I see there is little need to tell you; I'm the
happiest man in London, Donovan.  Your mother has consented to be my
wife.  You must not be angry with me; come, now, I am not going to
steal her away from you--of course we shall all live on at Oakdene
together.  It is not every boy of your age whom I should look forward
to having as a son; but you, Donovan, it is very different with you;
we have always been friends, have we not?  I remember him," he
continued, turning to Mrs. Farrant, "when he was quite a little
fellow, and as sharp as a needle, though he couldn't have been more
than seven."

All this time Donovan's face had only grown more hard and flint-like.
Ellis, with his usual tact, saw that his best policy would be to
retreat at once, ignoring his ward's anger, and taking his
congratulations for granted.  He pressed Mrs. Farrant's hand in his.

"I must leave you now, dearest.  You must talk this over with your
son."  Then turning to Donovan, "Stay, and hear all from your mother.
No, leave me to let myself out.  Adela said I should meet her in
Dot's room.  I'll just run up."

Already he seemed to behave as if the house were his own.  He held
out his hand cordially, but Donovan would not see it, still in
perfect silence he turned hastily to open the door for his cousin,
moving for the first time during the interview.  Ellis went out
smilingly, pretending not to notice the absence of all response, but
as the door closed, and he went slowly upstairs alone, his brow
clouded even in this his moment of victory, and between his teeth he
hissed out the words, "Young viper!  I'll teach him to find his
tongue!  We'll have a rather different interview, my friend, when you
come of age!"

Donovan had been half paralyzed while Ellis remained in the room, but
no sooner had he left it than, with sudden reaction, the frozen blood
seemed to boil in his veins.  The stony look on his face changed to
passionate earnestness, and crossing the room in hurried strides, he
stood close to Mrs. Farrant.

"_Mother!_" he gasped.  Only that one word, but there was such
intensity, such pleading, such misery in the tone, that the most
eloquent entreaties could not have been so stirring.

"Don't agitate me, Donovan.  I have been so excited already," cried
Mrs. Farrant, shrinking from him, really alarmed by his looks.
"Don't, pray don't look so wild.  I am very sorry if you have been
taken by surprise.  I thought, of course, you saw last autumn how it
was."

"Last autumn!" said Donovan.  "Last autumn I could think of nothing
but Dot.  I was blind--hoodwinked by his devices.  Oh! mother, do
not, do not let it be.  I see now how it has all been--one long piece
of manœuvering from the very first.  He has been trading on us.
He brought his sister down to dazzle me, to draw off my attention.
Mother, do not trust him, he is false, and treacherous, and mean.  He
will make you miserable!"

"It is not your place to speak like this," said Mrs. Farrant, with
some resentment in her tone.  "You forget that Mr. Farrant is my
future husband; you forget that you are speaking to your mother."

"I do not forget," cried Donovan, vehemently.  "It is because I
cannot forget you are my mother that I must speak.  I am your son,
and you must and shall hear me.  I know Ellis Farrant better than you
do.  You only see the sleek, bland, polite side of him; but I have
seen him with other men.  He is false, and grasping, and selfish.  If
it had not been for him I might not have been what I am now.  Mother,
do not throw yourself away on such a man as that.  It will bring
nothing but wretchedness on us all.  For Dot's sake, for your own
sake, do not let this be!"

"I wish you wouldn't talk so wildly," said Mrs. Farrant, half crying.
"I don't know what you mean by saying such dreadful things about
your--your guardian.  It is very hard that directly some one else
begins to love me you should suddenly wake up from your usual
indifference.  You never loved me yourself, and you will not let
anyone else love me."

"It is not true," said Donovan, greatly agitated.  "I could have
loved you dearly, mother, if you would only have let me.  I do love
you--far, far more than that other man, who only wants your money.
Send him away; do not listen to him.  Let us be what nature meant us
to be to each other!"

"You are mad!  You frighten me.  You make my head ache," said Mrs.
Farrant, petulantly.  "You have never shown me any particular
attention.  I scarcely see you, except at mealtimes.  It is
unreasonable of you to be vexed because I accept an offer of
marriage."

"Have _I_ driven you to it?" cried poor Donovan.  "Would I not
willingly have been more to you!  Did I not tell you so long ago?
And you turned from me.  You told me to be more like that knave!"

"If I told you so before, I certainly repeat it now," said Mrs.
Farrant.  "Your guardian is a gentleman.  He would never speak in
such a way to a defenceless woman.  When my only son can attack me so
fiercely, I think it is time I accepted a husband to protect me."

"Fiercely!  Protect you!" echoed Donovan, in a voice which, though
less vehement, was full of pain.  Could she have thought his passion
of re-awakening love, his eager longing to save her from certain
misery was fierceness?  Bitterly wounded, he turned away with one
despairing sentence.  "We shall never understand each other."

"Perhaps not," she replied, "but, at any rate, we must not again
discuss this subject.  It would not be right for me to listen to you,
or for you to say such things again.  Do you understand?"

"Yes," he murmured, "I have said my say."  Then, looking down at her
again, he added, in a strangely repressed voice, "When will it be?"

"I do not know," she faltered.  "Perhaps--perhaps at the end of the
season."

There was a moment's pause, then in silence Donovan crossed the room,
and would have gone out, but, by some sudden unknown impulse, Mrs.
Farrant stopped him.

"Dono!" it was the old childish name, and it checked him at once.
"Dono, come back, come back and kiss me."

For years and years the formal salute had passed between them every
day, now for the first time it was spontaneous, or rather Mrs.
Farrant felt for the first time a mother's natural craving for
affection, and Donovan was allowed to give expression to the love
which had never really been quenched, only shut down and restrained.

The unwonted piece of demonstration helped in part to take the sting
from the unwelcome news.  Donovan's face as he returned to Dot's room
was sad indeed, but no longer bitter.

"Oh!  Dono," she cried, eagerly, "have you heard?  Has Cousin Ellis
told you?"

"Yes, I have heard all," said Donovan, much more quietly than she had
expected.

"And you do not mind so very much?  I was so afraid you would be
vexed, because last time Cousin Ellis was with us you kept on wishing
he would go."

"I shall wish it pretty often again," said Donovan, with a half
smile, "but there is no good in crying out now, the deed is done, and
we must make the best of it.  I have said all I can say, and it is no
good."

"You have been with mamma?"

"Yes, we had a strange talk and a strange ending to it; we must not
forget she is our mother, Dot."

"Oh! but what shall I say when she comes?" said Dot, anxiously.  "I
can't say I'm glad.  What am I to do?"

"Show her that you love her," said Donovan.

Dot looked doubtful and troubled, but, as Donovan sat down to the
piano, and began to play one of her favourite airs by Mozart, she
reasoned with herself till her resolution was made.

"It is far worse for him than for me, he will have to give up all
sorts of things when Cousin Ellis marries mamma, and I know that he
does not like him at all.  Doery said last autumn that Cousin Ellis
spoke shamefully to him sometimes, and Doery doesn't often make
excuses for Dono.  I am very selfish to mind about it myself, when I
don't even know why I mind.  I'll try to be nice when mamma comes up."

While the mournful sweetness of "Vedrai Carino" was still filling the
room, Mrs. Farrant entered.  Donovan went on playing, knowing that
Dot would be less shy if her words were sheltered by the music; but
there were no words at all, Dot only looked her love and put both
arms round her mother's neck.

Donovan had not known his father sufficiently well to feel his death
very acutely.  The shock at the time had been great, and his grief
then had been very real, but he had soon recovered from the blow, and
now regarded it rather as a loss which was to be deplored than as a
life-long sorrow.  But with the prospect of his mother's second
marriage his thoughts naturally reverted to his father; he lived over
again the sad meeting after his school disgrace, the day at Plymouth,
the brief time at Porthkerran, and lastly the awful scene, when in an
instant, without a farewell word or look, his father had been
snatched from him.  Slowly and carefully he retraced the past,
recalled all the conversations between them, remembered his father's
courtesy, his sympathy, his gentle yet deeply-pained allusion to the
"breach of honour."  What a contrast he was to Ellis Farrant!  The
one refined, dignified, upright; the other ostentatious, false, and
grasping!  Donovan could not judge people by the highest standard,
but he had a standard of his own, and Ellis fell immeasurably below
it.  His mother had once accused him of being self-satisfied, but his
self-reliance was not self-satisfaction, he was in reality often
bitterly out of heart with himself, only the sweeping condemnation of
all his acquaintances forced him to assert himself.  They considered
him a black sheep, and yet he felt he was not all that they
represented him.  Still there had been truth and sadness in his words
to his mother, when he said that Ellis had made him what he was; even
with his scanty light he knew perfectly that his life was not what it
ought to have been; goodness and honour were to be respected, and he
struggled on in a blind endeavour to reach his own standard.  The
remembrance of his father helped him to a certain extent, but it
could not exercise a really strong influence over him, for it was
merely the remembrance of what had once existed, and had now passed
away utterly and for ever.

When not occupied with Dot, or engrossed with his favourite pastime,
life seemed to him very hollow and unsatisfactory.  When Mrs. Farrant
desired it, he went out with her; when Adela particularly asked him,
he would consent to escort the two ladies to whatever place of
amusement they wished to go to, but it was all very uncongenial to
him.  At concerts, not being really musical, he soon grew weary and
bored; at the theatre he laughed bitterly at what seemed to him a
mere travesty of real life, in which virtue was rewarded and vice
punished in an ideal way, very unlike the injustice of real
existence.  At balls, or at fashionable receptions, he saw merely the
falseness of society, the low motives, the heartless frivolity, the
absurd vanity of the individuals composing it.  He was certainly free
from the annoyances he met with at Oakdene; no one looked askance at
him here, no one had time to think of such trifles; but, after the
first novelty had worn off, the change ceased to satisfy or relieve
him.  He was really unhappy, too, about his mother's second marriage.
Little by little, as he felt sure of his ground, Ellis Farrant had
withdrawn the mask of friendliness, and had allowed Donovan to see
what he really was; it had at present been done only in part, and
with great judgment and tact, but it was just sufficient to rouse his
dislike, and to make him inclined in arguments with his mother to
speak against his guardian, while Mrs. Farrant was of course
stimulated to defend him.

Matters were thus with the son; with the accepted lover--the
successful schemer--they were not much more happy.  A great writer of
the present day has said that, if we do injustice to any
fellow-creature, we come in time to hate him.  It was thus with Ellis
Farrant; he had gone down to Porthkerran at the time of his cousin's
death, feeling a sort of admiration and fondness for Donovan; the boy
had always been pleasant and companionable; he liked him as well as
he liked anyone outside himself.  But then followed the sudden act of
glaring injustice, and as time passed he began to dislike his
unconscious victim more and more.  The sight of him was a continual
reproach; he was uneasy and restless in his presence, even at times
afraid of him.  In the moment of his triumph and success, his hatred
increased tenfold, and though, when he went up to Dot's room after
his interview with Mrs. Farrant and Donovan, his manner was bland and
smiling, Adela knew him too well not to detect the latent irritation.
Anxious to know all the particulars which could not be mentioned
before the little girl, she took leave rather hastily, tripped
lightly down the stairs, and, as soon as the hall door had closed
behind them, turned round eagerly to her brother.

"I congratulate you, Ellis!"

Ellis had overheard Donovan's eager tones of expostulation as he
passed the drawing-room door, and the scowl on his face did not at
all befit an accepted lover.

"Where do you want to go to?" he said, crossly, not attending to her
words.

"Back to Eaton Place," said Adela, who was staying with some friends.
"What is the matter with you?  I thought all had gone so well."

"Well!--yes, so it has in the main, only that young cub came in and
spoilt it all; he's really insufferable."

"Now don't speak against my Augustus Cæsar," said Adela; "he's not a
bad boy at all.  What did he do?"

"Do!" said Ellis, smiling a little--"he did nothing; he stood and
looked at me with a stony face, very much like an old Roman, as you
are always saying."

"I can just fancy it," said Adela, laughing, "and my noble brother
didn't quite enjoy the lofty scorn.  What did he say to it all?--was
he not surprised?  He went down so casually and unsuspectingly to see
if you had come that I had hardly the heart not to give him warning.
However, I kept my promise to you, didn't I?  It was well past five
when I let him go down."

"You managed very well, and I'm much obliged to you," said Ellis,
recovering his good humour; "he came in the very nick of time, and
saw it all at a glance."

"Poor boy!--what did he say?"

"Nothing; he looked thunderstruck, and never said a single word--was
as mum as a dummy, in fact."

"Or as dumb as a mummy," said Adela, with a light laugh.  "And you, I
suppose, talked glibly, and promised to be a devoted step-father?"

"Something of the sort," said Ellis, smiling.

"Well, I don't wonder he doesn't like it," said Adela.  "Of course,
he is practically master at Oakdene; he won't enjoy making way for
you."

"I don't suppose he will," replied Ellis, thinking of far more
serious matters than his sister.  "But you know, my dear, we can't
all win in the game."

"The winner can afford to moralise," said Adela, rather
contemptuously; "but I must not scold you, for you have managed your
work very neatly, and of course I'm glad of your success.  When is it
to be?"

"The wedding?  I don't know.  Perhaps the end of July.  Anyhow, I'm
afraid I shall miss the grouse this year."

"You horrid, matter-of-fact creature, to think of it even," said
Adela.  "Middle-aged lovers are no fun.  They have lost the romance
of their youth."

"We will leave that kind of thing for you and your Cæsar," said
Ellis, laughingly, as they took leave of each other.

"A thousand thanks," said Adela, with a mocking bow, "but I have done
with my 'beardless youth,' now that your affairs are settled.  It was
the dullest flirtation I ever had; for, quite between ourselves, that
sort of thing is not in Cæsar's line."

"I daresay not.  Mum as a dummy, you know!" and Ellis turned away
with a laugh in which there was much spite and little merriment.




CHAPTER X.

LOOKING TWO WAYS.

  Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear
    Too calm and sad a face in front of thine;
    For we two look two ways, and cannot shine
  With the same sunlight on our brow and hair.
  On me thou lookest with no doubting care,
  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
  ... But I look on thee--on thee--
    Beholding, besides love, the end of love,
  Hearing oblivion beyond memory;
    As one who sits and gazes from above,
  Over the rivers to the bitter sea."
                                      E. B. BROWNING.


"On the 29th inst., at St. George's, Hanover Square, Ellis Farrant,
only son of the late J. E. Farrant, Esq., and nephew of the late
Thomas Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor, Mountshire, and Rippingham,
Surrey, to Honora, widow of Colonel Ralph Farrant, R.A., and daughter
of the late General Patrick Donovan.  No cards."

Two old maiden ladies, who were spending their summer holiday at a
watering-place in the south of England, and were partaking of a
rather late breakfast in the coffee-room of the best hotel, wondered
what there could be in the first sheet of the _Times_ to cause such a
sudden change in the face of their neighbour at the next table.  The
kind old souls had made a little romance about the handsome,
grave-looking young fellow, who had come to the hotel a few days
before, and used to sit down to his solitary table in the
coffee-room, never seeming to care to talk with anyone.  Miss Brown,
the elder, had made up her mind that he was an Italian.  He was dark
and melancholy-looking; Italians were dark and melancholy-looking,
therefore the young man was doubtless Italian.  Possibly he was an
exile, and probably he was married, the Italians, she believed, did
marry young, and no doubt his wife was a heartless, worldly person,
and caused her husband endless trouble.  Miss Brown the younger was
inclined to think the young man a Spaniard, there was something very
Spanish in his grave, dignified deportment.  (N.B.--Miss Brown had
never seen a Spaniard in her life.)  She had met him on the stairs
one day as he was going out, and he had taken off his hat as he
passed her.  Very few Englishmen would have done that; he was
certainly a foreigner of some sort.  She, however, scouted the idea
that he was married, and made up her mind that he was crossed in love.

"There is the young foreigner," Miss Brown had said to her sister as
Donovan came into the coffee-room that morning.  They had agreed to
call him the _foreigner_, as a sort of general term which suited the
opinions of each.

"He is coming to this side of the room," said Miss Marianne, looking
up from her egg, but hastily and decorously turning to the window,
and making a vague remark about the weather when she found the dark,
flashing eyes of the stranger glancing across at her from the other
table.

"He looks rather happier this morning," said Miss Brown, in a low
tone.

Miss Marianne of course wished him to look gloomy, and tried to see
something melancholy in the way in which he sipped his coffee,
stroked his moustache, and cut his roll in half, gently insinuating
to her sister that men in good spirits would have broken a roll; that
to be so methodical in trifles was, she thought, rather a sign of--in
fact quite supported her theory.  Both ladies were a little startled
when the hero of their romance called a waiter, and without the
slightest foreign accent asked if the morning papers had come.

"Strange that he should care to see English papers," said Miss Brown,
musingly.

"I believe I have heard that Spaniards are very good linguists," said
Miss Marianne, timidly.

"Not half so clever as Italians, my dear," said the elder sister.
"Think of Dante, and--and Garibaldi."

Miss Marianne was rather overwhelmed by the mention of these great
men, and did not for a moment question that they had been renowned
linguists; she did indeed try to think of some Spanish celebrity of
equal renown, and racked her brains for the name of the author of
"Don Quixote," but it had escaped her memory, and before she could
recall it the waiter returned with the newspapers.  The "foreigner"
took the _Times_ and glanced rapidly down the first column; Miss
Brown would have liked to think that he looked at the agony column,
but his eye travelled too far down the page for that, he would have
passed the space allotted to sentimental messages, and have reached
the uninteresting notices of lost and found dogs, &c.; Miss Marianne
had the best of it now--he was evidently looking at the marriages.
The two sisters almost gave a sympathetic start, when suddenly their
neighbour's forehead was sharply contracted, and a quick flush rose
to his cheek.  What could it be?  The marriage of the girl whom he
loved?  There was real and undoubted romance here, not a question of
it.  How interesting hotel life was, it must be something like
watching a play, though Miss Brown had never been to the play--she
would have thought it exceedingly wrong.  Poor boy! how impatiently
he throws down the paper, it falls on to the floor, and Miss
Marianne, leaning back in her chair and trying to see below the cloth
of the adjoining table, maintains that he has put his foot on it,
actually "crushed it under foot," that is very romantic!  Then he
hastily drains his coffee cup, and when he puts it down, the flush
has died away from his face, and has left it very pale, and cold, and
still.  The arrival of the paper seems to have taken away his
appetite, for he abruptly pushes back his chair, leaves his
half-finished breakfast, and stalks out of the room.

The sisters were much excited.  As they walked on the beach that
morning they agreed that East Codrington was a charming place.  Some
people called it dull, but for their part they thought it a most
amusing little town.  It was very pleasant to meet fresh faces, very
interesting to watch other people's lives.  Miss Brown said that the
sea air or something made her feel quite young again.  Scarcely were
the words out of her mouth when Miss Marianne suddenly caught her
arm, exclaiming,

"Sister, look, there is the 'foreigner' again!"

Miss Brown looked along the esplanade for the solitary figure with
the grave dark face, but could not see it.

"There! there! not nearly so far off," said Miss Marianne.  "Don't
you see him reading to that little girl in the invalid chair?"

"Impossible!" said Miss Brown, quickly.  "He is far too young to have
a child of that age; but it is the 'foreigner' I see, she must be his
sister.  Suppose, Marianne, we sit down a little."

Miss Marianne owned that she was tired, and the two ladies
established themselves on the beach, about a stone's throw from Dot
and Donovan, taking care to choose a side posture, so that on one
hand they could watch the sea, and on the other the hero of their
romance.  Every now and then the breeze wafted a sentence of the
reading to the two sisters.  They exchanged glances with each other,
and Miss Marianne whispered, "English!"  Then something in the book
made both the reader and the listener laugh heartily, and the name of
"Ali Baba" was caught by Miss Brown, who nodded to her sister, and
whispered, "The Arabian Nights."  Then came a fresh mystery, the
reader's face suddenly became dark and overcast, and there was quite
a different tone in his voice as he read the words, "You plainly see
that Cogia Houssain only sought your acquaintance in order to insure
success in his diabolical treachery."

Now why should Cogia Houssain bring such a strange bitter look into
anyone's face?  Presently the story of the "Forty Thieves" was
finished, and the hero's face was good-tempered again, he moved the
little invalid's chair quite to the edge of the esplanade, as near as
possible to the shingle, so that without wilful listening the two old
ladies could hear all that passed perfectly; whatever their hero was
when alone, there could be no doubt that he was merry enough now.

There was a laughing discussion about the dog's swimming powers.

"You only tried him once in the Serpentine, you know," said the
little invalid.  "I don't believe you dare try him here."

"See if I don't!" said Donovan, laughing, and whistling to the
fox-terrier.  "I'll throw him a stone."

"No, no, that's no test," said Dot.  "Throw him your new stick.  Ah!
I believe you're afraid to!  You don't think he'll get it back!"

"You dare me to?" asked Donovan.  "Come along, Waif, and show your
mistress how clever you are."

The dog followed his master obediently across the shingle to the
water's edge, and plunged in valiantly as soon as the stick was
thrown.  Donovan had sent it far out, and the receding tide was
bearing it further still, but Waif swam on indefatigably, and, after
some minutes, clenched it successfully in his teeth, and turned back
again.  Dot waved her handkerchief from the esplanade in
congratulation, and both dog and master hurried up the beach towards
her; on the way, however, Waif paused to shake the water from his
coat, and, unluckily, the two old ladies were within the radius of
the drops, and received a sort of shower bath.  Donovan hastened up
to apologise.

"I am afraid my dog has been troubling you.  I hope he has done no
damage?"

"Oh! none, thank you," said the sisters, smiling.  "Salt water never
gives cold.  We were much amused by watching him in the sea."

"He's a capital swimmer.  My little sister wouldn't believe he was a
water-dog," and then, raising his hat, Donovan passed on with a
triumphant greeting to the little invalid.

"Well, Dot! own now that you're beaten."

"Quite beaten.  He was splendid," said Dot, enthusiastically.

Presently, as the old ladies rose to move on, and passed close to the
brother and sister, Dot looked up in her sweet shy way, and said,

"I hope Waif did not hurt your dress just now?"

Miss Marianne, with a beaming face, hastened to re-assure her.

"Not in the least, my dear, thank you," and then, touched by the
fragile little face, the old lady began to search in a Mentone basket
that she carried for some of the beach treasures which she had been
picking up.  "Would you like some shells, my dear?  We have found
some rather pretty ones this morning."

Dot's shy gratitude was very charming, and Donovan, always pleased by
any attention shown to her, began to talk to the old ladies, quite
forgetting his usual haughty reserve.

The Miss Browns' romance certainly died out in the light of truth,
but they were much interested in the brother and sister, though their
hero had proved to be neither a Spaniard nor an Italian.  Donovan,
however, was rather a puzzle to them.  In a few days' time, Miss
Marianne learnt to her regret, from some other people at the hotel,
that her hero, though so devoted to his little invalid sister, was
the most noted billiard-player in the place, and the gentle old
ladies regretted it, for, as Miss Brown the elder said, "it was a
dangerous taste for such a young man, particularly as he seemed to be
his own master."  They talked the matter over together, but agreed
that they could not presume to offer advice; however, an occasion
soon came when their consciences would not allow them to keep silence.

It was Sunday morning; Miss Marianne timidly suggested that, if it
would not be wrong, she would very much like a little turn on the
esplanade before going to church.  Her sister was rather puritanical;
however, she thought there could be no harm in "taking the air," so,
armed with their large church services and hymn-books, the two old
ladies set out.  The day was intensely hot and sultry, the sea was as
calm as a mill-pond, the tiny waves lazily lapping the shore as if
they, too, felt the heat, and could not dance briskly as usual.
There was a quiet Sunday feeling all around; no stir of business or
traffic; the church bells ringing for service, and the passers-by
walking quietly, with none of the hurry and bustle of the ordinary
every day passengers.  The old ladies enjoyed their walk, but just as
they had turned for the last time before going in the direction of
the bells they caught sight of their friends in the distance; there
was the invalid chair, with the little pale-faced child, and on a
bench beside her was Donovan, in a most unsabbatical light-brown
shooting-jacket, and cloth travelling-hat; to add to it all, he was
smoking, and to the Miss Browns the sight of a cigar was always a
sight to be deplored, but on Sunday smoking seemed to them little
better than sacrilege.  Miss Marianne was almost disarmed by the
courtesy of the greeting, but her sister would not allow her face to
soften; good looks and pleasant manners were all very well, but
"Sabbath breaking" was a sin which could not be passed by, so she
tried not to see the fascinating dark eyes, and said, gravely,

"Are you not coming to church to-day, Mr. Farrant?"

"No, Miss Brown," replied Donovan, not at all offended by the
question, to which indeed he was pretty well accustomed, "Dot and I
mean to sit here and enjoy the view.  A beautiful day, is it not?"

"It is very pleasant to see you so attentive to your sister," said
Miss Brown, severely, "but religion ought to stand first, young man.
The soul ought to be considered before the body."

"There is a very good preacher at St. Oswald's," suggested Miss
Marianne, timidly.

Donovan looked at her half sadly and half amusedly, but shook his
head, and the two ladies passed on, Miss Brown gathering up her
skirts as though she would really be sorry to touch such a hardened
and misguided sinner.

He resumed his cigar, but with rather a clouded brow, wishing that
people would leave him unmolested.  Dot was the first to break the
silence.

"What does 'soul' really mean, Dono?" she began, in her childish
voice.  "Doery calls old Betty, the charwoman, 'poor soul,' but I
fancy that is because her husband drinks.  Are we all poor souls?"

"Most of us," said Donovan, shortly.

"But what is a soul?" persisted Dot.

"A name given by some people to the mind," he replied.  "Though I
daresay those old ladies would not agree to that, and would tell you
it was quite a different part of you."

Now Dot had lived on contentedly for many years in entire ignorance,
but she was just beginning to be roused, and the words of the two old
ladies had perplexed her.

"What part of us is it?" she questioned.

He hesitated for a moment.

"The part you love me with, I suppose."

"Then do you think it would be really good for the part you love me
with to go to church?"

"No, you sweet little arguer, I don't," he replied, smiling; "and, if
it would, I shouldn't go and leave you in your pain, but don't
trouble your head about the matter, darling.  If religion makes sour,
selfish, soul-preservers like that, it stands to reason it's false.
I'll have none of it!  Fancy listening to a sermon with the idea that
it was virtuous, and leaving you to Doery's tender mercies, or all
alone with the sun blazing in your eyes!"

He held the umbrella more protectingly over her as he spoke, and was
rather vexed to see that her usually smooth serene forehead was
knitted in anxious thought.

"What is the matter?" he asked, jealous of anything which she kept
back from him.

"I am so puzzled," said Dot, wearily.  "I don't know what people mean
by religion; my head aches so.  Do you think I ought to make myself
think what it is?"

"Of course not, you dear little goose," he said, stroking back the
hair from her hot face.  "Who put such morbid ideas into your head?"

"No one," said Dot, wistfully, "only it seems as if we ought to find
out which is right, you or the other people."

"It will not make much difference, perhaps," said Donovan, throwing
away the end of his cigar.  "We shall all come to an end, I
suppose--be smoked out and thrown away, so to speak."

Dot looked troubled, and he hastily bent down and kissed her.

"We are talking of things we know nothing about, dear.  You and I
must love each other, that is all I know.  Don't let us talk of this
any more, it only worries you."

"But, Dono, just one thing more.  When it is all done, when we die,
shall I have to leave off loving you?"

A black shadow passed over his face, but he did not answer.  Dot
understood what he meant, and clasped her tiny fingers round his
tightly.

"Oh!  Dono," she said, mournfully, "I couldn't bear to stop loving
you--I had never thought about that.  Oh!  I hope I shall live to be
very, very old, even if I'm always ill.  Why is your face so white
and stiff, Dono?  Are you thinking what you would do if I didn't live
to be old?"

"_Don't!_" he cried, passionately, and there was such anguish in his
tone that Dot looked half frightened, and faltered,

"I didn't mean--I'm very sorry."

He kissed her, and she noticed that his lips were very cold, and his
voice, though quieter when he next spoke, sounded odd and unnatural.

"It is all right, darling--I didn't mean to frighten you--it is
nothing.  I must be alone--I must think."

He moved her chair into the shade, and then walked along the shore
battling with the terrible thoughts which filled his mind.  What if
Dot should be taken away from him?  It was the same agonizing idea
which Adela's words had suggested to him not long before.  Now he was
alone and could allow himself to face it, could relax for the time
the control which in her presence he was obliged to keep up.
Throwing himself down on the shingle, he allowed the shadowy foes one
after another to throng up into his mind, wrestling with each in a
vain, hopeless endeavour to crush them.  Sooner or later the end must
come, he knew it perfectly well, and yet, like a hunted creature, he
tried for some possible means of escape, or at any rate of delay.
Could he force himself, for the sake of peace, to believe what
popular religion taught?  No, he told himself that it would be as
impossible as to believe in the old Norse legends of the happy
hunting fields.  There was no escape for him, the separation must be
faced.

He lay stretched out on the pebbles with his face turned from the
light, more wretched and forlorn than the poorest beggar in East
Codrington.  His miserable struggle and dumb despair were at last
broken in upon by the sound of a voice in the distance, a
high-pitched man's voice, which beat uncomfortably on his ear, and
sounded melancholy and depressing, as open-air speaking generally
does sound.  He started up impatiently, and saw that a street
preacher had gathered together a little knot of men and women on the
beach, at no great distance from him.  He disliked the interruption,
and yet, with a sort of curiosity, sauntered towards the little
group, and listened for a few minutes, but unfortunately the preacher
happened at the minute to be denouncing "modern ritualism" with much
bitterness, and he soon turned away contemptuously.  Did not these
professing Christians "bite and devour" one another?  Did they not
unsparingly condemn all with whom they did not agree?  And, holding
the views they did about the future state, did they not still live
easy, quiet, indulgent lives, though they believed that more than
half mankind would finally be "lost"?

By-and-by there was singing; with great gusto the preacher started
the hymn "There is a fountain."  Donovan's misery had been keen
enough before, this just made it complete.  The old melody--powerful
though it is when sung by a great multitude--has something extremely
aggravating about it.

  "I _will_ believe--I _do_ believe!"

Over and over again with emphatic untunefulness the motley crowd
roared and shouted the refrain.

Donovan's dark face grew darker, he set his teeth, listened for a
time, then walked away with a look of intense scorn, resolving in his
own mind that, miserable though he was, he would at least be honest,
no cupboard faith for him!

Dot did not allude to the conversation again.  She could not bear to
risk recalling the look of pain to Donovan's face, and if she puzzled
over the difference of opinion which had attracted her notice, she
kept her difficulties to herself; but she fancied she understood why
it was that, not long after that Sunday, Donovan made arrangements
with an artist staying in the hotel to paint a miniature of her.  A
sweet, wistful, and yet childlike face it was, but the artist
idealised it, and gave to the beautiful eyes more fulness of
satisfaction than just at that time they really expressed, leaving it
to the lips to show whatever latent sadness or desire there remained.

In September the visit to Codrington was ended; Mrs. Doery was
obliged to be at Oakdene to superintend the preparations for the
return of her master and mistress, and Donovan wished to be at home
when his mother arrived, chiefly from a dislike to coming back when
his step-father was actually installed in his new position as head of
the household; he chose to be there beforehand, and awaited the
return in a sort of proud silence, never even to Dot breathing a
single word which could tell how much he dreaded it.

On the whole the event proved to be not half so disagreeable as he
had expected.  Ellis was kind and conciliatory at first, and, though
his patronage was hard to bear, Donovan had sense enough to be
thankful for whatever would avert an open quarrel.  He felt
instinctively that sooner or later there would be disagreement
between them, and for Dot's sake he was glad to keep the peace.

What he really suffered from chiefly that autumn was an utterly
different thing.  Under the new _régime_, Doery had been constituted
housekeeper; Ellis was hospitable, and constantly had the Manor full
of his friends, so that Mrs. Farrant did not care for the burden and
anxiety of household management; it was quite another thing to the
quiet routine which she had been able to superintend with little
trouble before her second marriage.  Mrs. Doery therefore ascended in
the domestic scale from nurse to housekeeper, and a new attendant
waited on Dot in her place.  It seemed a very trifling change in the
house, only a new servant, only one insignificant addition, hardly
worth thinking of, but to Dot the change meant the opening of a new
life.  Now, at last, she began to understand the meaning of things.
Phœbe, who had been blessed with better teaching than poor old
Mrs. Doery, and was more loving and kind-hearted, opened an entirely
new world to her little helpless charge, and Dot, in her simple,
childlike happiness in the new revelation, wondered why people had
not told her before, but never thought of blaming them for the
ignorance in which they had let her grow up.

Her simple, unquestioning acceptance of the most incomprehensible
doctrines was a marvel to Donovan; he could not the least understand
it.  Dot once or twice spoke with him on the subject, but he always
silenced her gently, for, though he could not understand or
sympathise with her new happiness, he was unwilling to interfere with
it, or to trouble the child's mind with his own views.  He thought it
all a delusion, and it pained him that she should believe it; but,
seeing how much it must soften both life and death to her, he was
willing that she should believe in the delusion.  Still the trial to
himself was very hard to bear, for though to Dot the change seemed
only to intensify her love, and in no way to interfere with Donovan's
place in her heart, he necessarily felt that there was a barrier
between them; what to him did not exist was everything to her; till
lately she had depended entirely on him, now he was
superseded--dearly loved still, but yet superseded.  This was a
greater trouble than all the annoyance of his mother's second
marriage.  Donovan loved Dot so blindly and solely that the idea of
not reigning alone in her heart was terrible to him.  Ever since his
childhood he had been her protector; to yield her to any other love
in which he believed would have been very hard, but to allow his
place to be usurped by that which he could not comprehend or believe
to be, was bitter beyond all thought.  It was, perhaps, the most
severe test of his love that there could have been; he passed through
it without faltering, tried to find comfort in the sight of her
serene happiness, and bore his pain in silence; the fact that it was
a strange, unnatural, morbid pain did not make it any easier to
endure, but quite the contrary.

Ellis Farrant, not having too tender a conscience, managed to enjoy
his new position thoroughly for the first few months.  He was in many
ways a good-natured man, and it was very pleasant to him, after his
bachelor life and small income, to find himself at the head of a
comfortable and even luxurious home; his wife was pretty and placid,
his means were ample, he was able to ask his friends down to Oakdene
for the shooting, and altogether he thoroughly appreciated his change
of fortune.  For a little while he even felt kindly disposed to
Donovan, for, as he said to himself, the poor wretch would have a
hard enough life next year, when he came of age, and might as well
enjoy the present.  He even at times began to regret the part he had
set himself to play, wavered a little, and half contemplated starting
his ward in some profession fairly and honourably.  If Donovan had
behaved sensibly, this really might have come about, but he was not
sensible.  In a very short time he began to grow weary of making
polite responses to his step-father's patronage; he never openly
disputed his authority or actually quarrelled with him, but he
allowed his dislike to show itself, and took no pains to be pleasant
and companionable.  Ellis was not a man to be trifled with; his
kindness was a mere impulse, and directly he found that Donovan did
not respond to it, he took offence, and disliked him a great deal
more than he had previously done.

It was a most unsatisfactory household.  An outsider, locking into
the luxurious dining-room of the Manor, might not have discovered
anything amiss, certainly; Mrs. Farrant, at the head of the table,
looked young and pretty and languid; Ellis, at the opposite end,
seemed hospitable and good-natured; Donovan had apparently everything
that could be wished in circumstances, health, and personal
advantages.  But beneath all this outward appearance was a miserable
reality of injustice, jealousy, and hatred.

One evening in December, after Mrs. Farrant had left the
dinner-table, the storm broke at last.  Donovan had been more than
usually gloomy and depressed.  Dot had just had one of her bad
attacks; he was worn out with attending to her; he was morbidly
unhappy at the change in her views, and her supposed change towards
himself, and his manner towards his step-father had been so short and
sullen that the elder man's patience at length gave way.

As the door closed behind Mrs. Farrant, her husband refilled his
glass, drained it, and then suddenly confronted his step-son with the
fierceness of a weak, impulsive man who is thoroughly exasperated.

"I tell you what, Donovan, if you go on any longer in this way, you
can't expect me to be civil to you.  Do you think I shall stand
having a mute morose idiot of a boy always at my table, a skeleton at
the feast?  If you don't mend your manners pretty quickly, you won't
find this house comfortable."

Donovan did not reply, but cracked three walnuts in succession
without even looking up.  The absence of retort only made Ellis more
angry, however.

"Do you not hear me, sir?" he continued, still more vehemently.

"Yes," said Donovan, looking up at last, and speaking in a singularly
controlled voice, which contrasted strangely with his step-father's
violence.

Ellis raged on, doubly irritated by the mono-syllable.

"Do you think it is pleasant to me to have your gloomy face always
haunting me?  I tell you I'd rather sit opposite a skull and
cross-bones!  I'm not going to have my new home spoilt by an
insufferable cub of your age."

Now, with all his faults, Donovan had one good quality which often
stood him in good stead.  Old Mrs. Doery had at least taught him one
useful lesson in his childhood.  She had taught him to restrain
himself, a lesson which, in these days of universal license to the
young, is too often neglected.  Many people would have fired up at
once, if they had been spoken to in such a way.  It would have been
hard under any circumstances, but when the words were addressed to
him in the house which had been his own father's, and by the man who
had ousted him from his proper place, it must be owned that they were
most intolerable.  He flushed deeply and bit his lip.

"I am glad to see you have the grace to be ashamed," said Ellis,
provokingly, impatient of this continued silence.

By this time Donovan had himself well in hand.  His face was calm and
rigid, and he could trust himself to reply without losing his temper,
though his cold pride was not likely to choose wise words.

"I am sorry to have annoyed you, but naturally 'as you have brewed so
you will drink.'  I have not changed particularly in the last few
months, and I suppose last summer you foresaw that there would be two
incumbrances in your new home."

Of course this only angered Ellis still more.

"You young puppy!" he exclaimed, angrily, "do you remember whom you
are speaking to?  Do you know that I can turn you out of the house,
if I like?  Do you recollect who I am?"

"Yes," said Donovan, ironically, "I remember that you are my father's
trustee and my guardian."

Ellis suddenly changed colour, pushed back his chair, and began to
pace up and down the room.  His step-son's words had stung him far
more deeply than the speaker intended.  "His father's trustee!" yes,
and what a trustee!  The name itself was a reproach and a mockery!
He felt afraid of Donovan, ashamed to look at him; his recent anger
and hatred suddenly died away into a trembling shrinking dread.  This
boy, whom he had cheated and robbed and fatally injured, was able at
times to influence him greatly.  He felt that he must be pacified and
kept at bay during the few months which remained of his minority.

On the whole, Ellis did not look very much like a happy bridegroom
and head of the household as he came back to the table.  He was ashy
pale, and his hand shook as he poured out his next glass of wine.
Donovan, as he waited, with his cold impassive face, expecting a
fresh burst of anger, was surprised when his step-father next broke
the silence, to find that the storm had been as brief as it had been
severe.  There was an almost pitiable struggle for really frank
reconciliation in Ellis's tone as he said,

"Come, old fellow, don't let us quarrel; we have always been friends.
I spoke hastily just now, but, you know, you really cut your own
throat by looking so glum.  Everyone would like you twice as well if
you had a little more go in you.  Probyn was saying only the other
night what a clever fellow you were.  He said he hadn't met a better
whist-player for years.  You think everyone's against you, and so
you're morose and reserved, but I don't know a fellow who has more
advantages than you, if only you'd condescend to use them a little
more.  There! you see I'm giving you quite a paternal lecture.  Put
that in your pipe, and smoke it.  What do you say to some cribbage,
now?"

"I'll come down at ten," said Donovan, allowing his face to relax;
then, sweeping up a handful of walnut shells, he left the table, and
spent the rest of the evening with Dot, making a miniature fleet of
boats, to her great content.




CHAPTER XI.

"LET NOTHING YOU DISMAY."

  Heart's brother hast thou ever known
    What meaneth that No more?
  Hast thou the bitterness outdrawn,
    Close hidden at its core?

  Oh! no--draw from it worlds of pain,
    And thou shalt surely find,
  That in that word there doth remain
    A bitterer drop behind.
                          ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.


"Phœbe says she doesn't think I shall be really frightened when
the time comes, and there isn't anything really to be afraid of, you
know--it is so different now; when we talked about it at Codrington
it all seemed so dark and dreadful I couldn't bear ever to let it
come up to be thought over.  How long one can put away things when
they are not nice to think about?"

"Then why do you talk like this, what good does it do?" questioned
Donovan.  It was a December afternoon, and they were talking in the
twilight.

"I'm sorry, I had forgotten.  It was very selfish," said Dot,
penitently.  It was so hard for her to remember that Donovan did not
share in her new sense of relief, that she more than once made little
allusions of this sort; had she been less simple and childish, his
want of participation would have made her unhappy, as it was,
however, she was content to leave it, sure that in time it would come
to him.

Donovan was very irritable that day, not, of course, with Dot, he was
always gentle with her even when in his worst moods, but he was in
one of his querulous, carping humours, and quarrelled with everything
he read.  The oft quoted line of Pope's,

  "One truth is clear, whatever is is right,"

was quite sufficient to call forth an angry tirade.

It was a lie, it could not possibly be proved!  Were murder, and
fraud, and oppression, and injustice right?  People had no business
to make great, false, sweeping assertions of that kind.  The anger
soon came down to more personal matters.

"Was it right, do you think, that you and I should have been left to
old Doery, and bullied and tormented as we were?  Was it right that
you should be mismanaged and half killed by an owl of a country
doctor?  Is it right that you should be suffering as you are now?"

"Some things do seem hard," said Dot, "but we have not got to
understand why everything is, and I think it's best to be still and
take what comes.  Do you know, Dono, sometimes when I'm very cross
with the pain for coming back so often, I think of what we saw at
Codrington.  Do you remember the little bay where the rocks were, and
how we used to watch the waves dashing so angrily against the very
tall upright rock, and passing so quietly over the little ones?  I
think if we are patient, and don't set ourselves up to fight against
the pain and grumble at it, it is not half so hard to bear."

Now Donovan had always felt a sort of sympathy with the tall solitary
rock, with its hard jagged outline, braving in its own strength the
power of the waves.  Dot's idea did not please him; patience,
lowliness, and submission were virtues far beyond his comprehension,
and he felt very strongly that painful sense of separation which had
sprung up so strangely between them during the last few months.  He
felt far away from Dot, and he hated the feeling and quickly changed
the subject.

"Shall I read something else to you?" he asked.

"I should like some music," said Dot, knowing that this would lead to
no discussion which could displease Donovan, and then ensued what
some people would have thought a rather incongruous selection,
ranging from Sebastian Bach to the latest popular song, and from
"Vedrai Carino" to "The Green Hill far away."  There was no
distinction in music to Donovan, he played all Dot's favourites one
after the other.  In the middle of the last hymn Mrs. Farrant came
in.  It was the time of her second daily visit.

"Pray stop that tune, Donovan," she said, plaintively.  "We are
always having it in church, and I am so tired of it, the boys sing it
frightfully out of time, and always get flat in the last line.  How
do you feel this afternoon, Dot?"

"Better, thank you, mamma," said Dot, looking wistfully across the
room at Donovan, as he tossed aside the hymn-book impatiently.

"Really better?" questioned Mrs. Farrant, with anxiety, for Dot had
been suffering so much more lately, that even her calm phlegmatic
nature had been stirred to uneasiness and apprehension.

"Yes, I think so," said the little girl.  "Dono and I have been
settling our Christmas presents, and what do you think he is going to
give me, mamma?  A clock--a dear little clock of my very own."

She had gained the end she wanted; Donovan, who had been at the other
side of the room, turned round, met her eyes, and came to her.

"Dono spoils you, I think," said Mrs. Farrant, smiling; and somehow
the words, trifling as they were, drew the three together.  Donovan
recovered his temper, and for once talked naturally before his
mother, teased Dot merrily, and quite surprised Mrs. Farrant by his
high spirits.  "I never saw you so talkative before," she remarked,
as the dressing-bell rang, and she rose to go.

"It is Dot who teaches us how to laugh," said Donovan.  "You are a
little witch, and sweep away bad humours instead of cobwebs."

Christmas to Donovan only meant a full house, an incomprehensible
gaiety and good humour, a conventional old-fashioned dinner, which he
did not like, and a certain amount of holly and ivy.  In his
different way he was quite as far from understanding it as poor old
Scrooge in the "Christmas Carol."  The year before old Mr. Hayes had
dined with them, but he was now far away, for, not many weeks before,
his "castle in the air" had become a reality; an old friend of his
had returned from the United States, having made his fortune; he had
come to Oakdene to see Mr. Hayes, had discovered the great wish of
his old school-fellow, and had suggested a six months' tour on the
Continent, in which he was to bear the greater part of the expense.
So the old man in childlike glee had let his cottage and started for
Italy, taking a cordial farewell of Donovan, and recommending him to
follow his plan, which was now coming to such a successful issue.

The guests, therefore, this year only consisted of Adela Farrant and
two friends of Ellis's; nor was the misanthropical Donovan very sorry
that such should be the case.  There was something almost ghastly to
him in the merriment which everyone seemed to think it right to force
up.  The real happiness of the season was of course utterly unknown
to him, and he had not even any recollections of the "merry
Christmas" of childhood to fall back upon.

Adela tried to tease him into a little conversation as she sat beside
him at dinner, but it was hard work.

"Do you know, Donovan, I was staying at a country house in Sussex
last September, and the first night I got there I saw some one who
reminded me so much of you."

"Indeed!" replied her taciturn companion.

"He was not so much like you in face as in manner; I thought to
myself, no one but my cousin Donovan sits through an evening in such
complete silence, and afterwards--what do you think?--I found out
that your double was dumb."

Donovan laughed a little.

"I can't make small talk," he said--"I told you so long ago."

"Oh! of course your great intellect can't stoop to frivolities," said
Adela, with pretended sarcasm in her tone, but laughter in her bright
eyes.  "Perhaps you would kindly give me a little instruction,
though, on some of the weighty subjects that fill your brain."

He laughed again, but then, thinking of his misery at Codrington,
added, quite gravely,

"My brain is anxious just now to forget certain weighty subjects, not
to rake them up.  Dot came out with one of her quaint remarks the
other day, which mix in so strangely with her childishness; she
noticed how wonderful it was that you can put any subject out of your
head, when it is not pleasant to think of it, for an almost unlimited
time."

"My dear cousin," said Adela, "do you mean you always keep skeletons
in your cupboard?"

"The world is full of grim things--I try to forget them," said
Donovan.

"You're the most extraordinary person," said Adela.  "You actually
never mean to face these things?"

"Not till I'm obliged to," said Donovan.

"Perhaps that accounts for your stupidity," said Adela, with a daring
flash of her dark eyes.  "A thousand pardons--I mean the brevity of
your remarks."

"There you have the worst of it, cousin, for 'Brevity is the soul of
wit,'" said Donovan.

"Ah! well, I think you are improved; you shall not be scolded,"
replied Adela, good-humouredly; then, resuming her playful
maliciousness, she continued--"It was such a pity you weren't at
church this morning; the decorations were beautiful, really quite
worth seeing--a cross and two triangles of white azaleas sent by the
Wards, any amount of wreathing round the pillars, and some charming
devices in Epsom salts on a red background."

Donovan naturally scoffed at this.

"I can't think how you can like that sort of thing--if you despise
and condemn pagans, why do you borrow their customs?"

"You hard, matter-of-fact creature!  Why, of course we must have a
little beauty.  Can't you understand what a help it is?"

"No, I can't," said Donovan, shortly.  Then, as the blazing Christmas
pudding was brought in, he continued his grumble.  "This, too, is an
absurd, senseless old custom.  What good does it do us all to sit
round the table and watch blue flames, and then eat a horrible,
black, burnt, compound, like hot wedding-cake?"

"You are a wretch," said Adela.  "You would like to sweep away all
the dear old manners and customs, and start us all in a new order of
things, where men would be machines, and everything would be done by
rule and measure.  You would like us all to be as rational and
comprehensible as vulgar fractious, now would you not?"

"It would simplify life," said Donovan, smiling.

"I knew you'd say so," said Adela, triumphantly.  "It's really quite
dreadful to talk to such a flint.  Have you no associations with the
dear old things?  Were you never young?"

"No, I don't think I ever was," said Donovan, with a touch of sadness
in his voice.

The conversation somehow paused here, until an uncontrolled yawn on
Donovan's part stimulated Adela to a fresh effort.

"You are horribly uninteresting," she said.

"Yes, I'm most abominably sleepy.  I was up last night."

"Ah! so Dot told me," replied Adela.  "You tell her stories, she
says, just like the wonderful story-teller in the 'Arabian Nights,'
one after the other."

"It amuses her," said Donovan, "and sometimes I have sent her to
sleep in that way, but we couldn't manage it last night.  She is
dreadfully worn out to-day after all the pain."

"These attacks seem much more frequent than they used to be," said
Adela.

"Yes," he replied, and there was something in his voice which made
Adela suddenly grave, but in a minute he recovered himself, and with
his ordinary manner asked if he should peel an orange for her.

Just then some carol-singers began a hymn outside, but the rest of
the party were not quite in the humour for hymns.

"Oh! those boys sing so badly," said Mrs. Farrant.  "Do send them
away, Ellis."

"Yes, I think we had about enough of them this morning at church,"
said Ellis, and he would have sent word to them to go had not Donovan
risen.

"I'll take them round to the other side of the house," he said.  "Dot
likes music."

"What!" exclaimed Adela, "you mean to countenance a heathenish old
custom, after all you have said?"

"Dot will like it," he replied, as if this were a sufficient reason
for countenancing anything.

The little invalid's room seemed very quiet and dim after the merry
voices and bright lights down below, and yet it was an unspeakable
relief to Donovan to be there with her once more, away from the
hollow merriment of his step-father and the other guests, away from
Adela's good-humoured banter.  Dot was in bed, and there was about
her that terrible stillness of utter exhaustion which makes illness,
and especially a child's illness, so very sad to see.  She was quite
worn out with sleeplessness, and, though the pain was less severe
than it had been, her face still bore marks of suffering.  She did
not move as Donovan entered, but welcomed him with her eyes.

"You have done dinner quickly to-night," she said.  "You have not
been hurrying to get back to me?"

"No; but some carol-singers have come," said Donovan, "and I thought
you would like to hear them."

"Oh, I am so glad!" she said, with child-like pleasure.  "I did so
want to hear the carols that Phœbe has been telling me about.
Please draw up the blind, Phœbe, so that they may know we are
listening.  Oh! there is my clock striking.  Hark!"

Donovan's present, an exquisite little travelling clock, stood on the
mantelpiece, and as Dot spoke it chimed the hour, then struck eight
o'clock in sweet, low, muffled tones, like the sound of a distant
cathedral bell.

"It is so beautiful," she said, happily.  "It will make the night go
so much more quickly.  Now put your arm round me, Don dear."

Then the choir-boys outside began their carol, the voices sounding
sweet and subdued as they floated up into the silence of the
sick-room.  At first the words seemed almost incongruous, the dear
old Christmas hymn had surely not been meant for such sadness, and
suffering, and anxiety?  But the shrill fearless trebles went on, and
Donovan and Dot listened.

  "God rest you, merry gentlemen,
  Let nothing you dismay,
  Remember Christ our Saviour
  Was born on Christmas Day;
  To save us all from Satan's power.
  When we were gone astray;
  O tidings of comfort and joy,
              Comfort and joy,
  O tidings of comfort and joy!"


Dot caught the refrain which came at the end of every verse, and was
delighted with it.  By-and-by the singers went away, and Dot asked to
have some reading.  Some one had sent her a leaflet hymn; it was a
description of the "City with streets of gold," and Donovan read it
through patiently, though it seemed to him sensational and
unsatisfying, and he was grieved to think that she could care for
such material delights as were described.  It was a positive relief
to him that she did not like it.  To sing and rest in a luxurious
city could not be her ideal of a future life.

"And besides," she said, in her quaint way, "there isn't time to
think about the houses, and the streets, and the gardens, they don't
make the home; it is something like the home here, I think; you know,
though Oakdene is so pretty, it is only because you are here that I
love it, it is you that I think of, not the house."

There was a pause in which the candle flared for a moment in its
socket, and then died out, leaving the room in darkness.  The maid
had gone away.  Donovan would have rung, but Dot stopped him.

"We won't have another," she said.  "I like to be in the dark when
you hold me near you; and, look, we can see the stars, there is dear
old Orion, he's my very favourite of all, I always look for him.
And, Dono dear, while we are all alone like this I want to tell you
something, you won't like it now, but some day I am sure you will.
When Phœbe first told me everything it was only through you that I
could at all understand.  I had to think first what love was, and
what giving up was, and then I thought of you, and how you loved me
and gave up all your life to me; no, I know you will say you didn't
give up anything, but you have, Don, you have given up pleasure, and
rest, and change, and all sorts of things."

"But do you think I could have been happy, do you think life would
have been tolerable if I had gone away to enjoy myself and left you
alone?" said Donovan, hoarsely.

"No, Don," she replied, nestling closer to him, "I was quite sure you
never could, and then you see I could believe how the greatest love
of all could not leave us."

He gave a mental ejaculation of thankfulness that Doery had never
grieved the tender little soul with her cold-blooded Calvinism.  Dear
little girl! she was happy enough in her new convictions, he would
not for the world have disturbed her; in the dark he even smiled a
little to think that he had actually helped towards establishing the
"delusion" in her mind, had helped to set up his rival.

The next few days passed hopefully, Dot seemed to grow a little
stronger again, and, as she had rallied from so many attacks, they
all began to feel relieved, and to fancy that anxiety was over for
the present.  There was to be a dance at the Manor on the 31st, and
when, at Christmas, Dot had been so seriously ill, Mrs. Farrant had
almost decided to postpone it; however, she seemed to recover
quickly, so the arrangement was not altered, and the house was soon
in that state of excitement and turmoil which invariably precedes any
unusual event of the kind.  Adela Farrant was quite in her element,
and even succeeded in stirring up Donovan to such an extent that he
came down, from what she called his "high horse," and condescended to
show some interest in the arrangements.  She was therefore doubly
astonished when, about eight o'clock on the evening of the dance, she
met him on the stairs, to find that all his interest had suddenly
abated.

"Try to get this affair over as quickly as you can," he said, as they
passed each other.

"What do you mean?" said Adela, standing still.  "You are coming
down, are you not?"

"No, I can't, it's quite impossible.  Dot is so restless and poorly,
I'm afraid she is in for another of her bad attacks; I want you to
get the people away as soon as may be, the noise is sure to worry
her."

"Oh! she'll be asleep before it begins," said Adela.  "No one will be
here till nine o'clock, I should think."

"Well, I hope it will be so.  It's an abominable nuisance, though,
that the house should be all upset to-night."

As he spoke, he opened the door of the little invalid's room, and
shut himself in, while Adela passed down the stairs to the
drawing-room, a little annoyed at what she called "Cæsar's
desertion," and vaguely uneasy at his account of Dot.  One of the
guests was, however, greatly relieved at his absence; Mrs. Ward
really began to enjoy the evening when she found that the "dangerous
young man" did not appear; she was quite content that her daughters
should dance with Major Mackinnon and Mr. Probyn, two friends of
Ellis Farrant's who were staying at the Manor.  They were quite
distinguished-looking men; Mrs. Ward was glad that her girls should
have such nice partners, and remained in happy ignorance that they
were in reality characters beside whom the poor black sheep of
Oakdene would have become almost white in contrast.

Meanwhile, in the room above, Dot was in that state of strange,
restless misery which always preceded her attacks--A sort of
anticipation of the pain.  This was the time when her courage was
most apt to fail; she could not bear the thought of the suffering
beforehand, though, when it actually came, she was always brave and
patient.  In vain did Donovan try every possible means of sending her
to sleep.  Every preventative which the doctors had ordered to be
tried at such times had of course been brought to bear upon the poor
little girl, but to-night nothing seemed to have any effect.  Donovan
read to her, played to her, told her story after story, but she grew
rapidly worse, and they at length realised that some fresh form of
illness must have set in; much as she had suffered, she had never
been in such terrible pain before.  Old Mrs. Doery, who had nursed
her through so many illnesses, was summoned at once, and the younger
nurse went downstairs to find a messenger who could be sent for the
doctor.  The house, however, was all in confusion, and in a few
minutes Phœbe returned in despair; the other servants were too
busy to go; she could not even persuade any of the servants of the
guests to ride over to Greyshot with the message.

"This miserable dance!" exclaimed Donovan, angrily.  "Well, I must go
myself, then; I shall be quicker than any of those lazy knaves."

But Dot clung to him.

"It is so hard to bear without you.  I will be good if it's really
best, but--but----"

It cost him a hard struggle to decide, but, knowing that an unwilling
messenger would be slow, he felt that the only sure way was to go
himself; there was no time to be lost.  He bent down to kiss the poor
little quivering lips, and said, very gently and firmly,

"It _is_ best, darling.  Be brave; I shall not be long."

She tried to smile, and he hurried away, sick at heart.  Rushing
headlong downstairs, snatching up his hat from the stand, brushing
past some astonished visitors, he ran at full speed to the stables,
saddled the cob with his own hands, and in five minutes was on the
road to Greyshot.  He had dashed out from the heated room just as he
was; the night was piercingly cold, the snow was falling fast, and
the north wind blew the flakes into his eyes, so that he was almost
blinded by them; he shivered from head to foot, but did not know that
he shivered--all that he felt was an overwhelming anxiety and dread.
What if he should never see Dot again?  The extraordinary severity
and suddenness of this illness had alarmed them all--what if she sank
under it?  And he had refused her last entreaty!  Oh! bitter agony,
what if he reached home too late!  "Too late! too late!"  The very
sound of the horse's hoofs echoed his fears, the muffled footfall as
they galloped on over the snowy road.  And yet it was the only sure
way of getting the doctor; he knew he had been right to come; it
might--it was just possible that it might save Dot some minutes of
pain--it might save her life.  But again his heart sank down like
lead under the oppression of the one horrible fear.  That ride was
ever after a sort of nightmare recollection to him.

At last he thought it was ended; he sprang down at the door of the
doctor's house and rang furiously.  The footman appeared in answer.

"Dr. L---- was dining at Monklands."

Monklands was about two miles on the other side of Greyshot.

Poor Donovan rode on almost despairingly, cursing his cruel fate.  It
was half-past ten by the time he reached the house; then, to his
relief, he saw that Dr. L----'s carriage was standing at the door.
He would not dismount; the doctor came out to him at once, and, on
hearing his account of Dot, prepared to come to her directly, left a
hurried message of farewell to his host, and springing into his
carriage, drove home, promising to come on to the Manor as quickly as
possible.

Donovan had neither whip nor spurs, but he had what is far more
efficacious--the power of communicating his thoughts to animals; the
cob seemed to gather from the feeling of his hand on her neck, from
his occasional ejaculations, all the anxiety of this ride.  In spite
of the deep snow, he galloped on bravely; on through the open
country, through the silent Greyshot streets, along the white
deserted road, till at length the lights of the Manor shone out
through the branches of the ghostly-looking oak-trees, the bright
lights in the lower windows, and the dim light in the upper room.
Donovan's heart gave a great bound when he heard in the distance the
music of the string quartette and the sound of dancing.  It was well
with Dot then!  In common decency the house would have been in
silence if his fears had been realised.  Forgetful of everything but
the one absorbing interest, he dashed into the house, through the
hall and up the broad staircase; Miss Ward and her partner, who were
pacing up and down in the cool, stared at the sudden apparition with
its snowy garments and strained expectant face; he never even saw
them, but, hurrying on, threw aside his wet clothes, and in five
minutes had reached Dot's room.  As he opened the door two sounds
mingled for an instant in his ear.  From below came the sound of the
"grand chain" in the "Lancers," and from the sick-bed came a low
sobbing moan.  Phœbe was saying something to the little girl; he
caught the words of one of her favourite hymns--

  "We may not know, we cannot tell,
  What pains He had to bear."

Dot saw him in a minute and gave a relieved exclamation.

"Oh!  Dono, I'm so glad you are back; I've wanted you so dreadfully.
Let me hold your hands."

His face, which had been rigid during the time of his anxiety, was
changed now to the look of tenderness and even cheerfulness, which he
had learnt to wear when with the little girl.

"Dr. L---- will be here almost directly, and then he will make you
more comfortable," he said, taking his place at the bedside.

"Oh!  Dono," she gasped, "sometimes I think I shall never be
comfortable any more."

"You thought so last time you were ill," said Donovan, soothingly,
"and then after all you had some quiet days."

"Yes, but this is worse.  Oh, Dono, Dono!" and again she broke into
that wail of pain which pierced the hearts of the watchers.  Donovan
was the only one who never lost his control; he was always ready with
quiet, tender words; sometimes when the pain was lulled for a few
minutes he would even make the little girl smile.

At last the doctor came, and Donovan waited in fearful suspense for
his opinion; he waited outside the room in the gallery, pacing up and
down miserably, feeling chafed and annoyed by the laughter and noise
which reached his ears from below.  After some time Dr. L---- came
out, with a face which only too fully confirmed his fears.

"Cannot this noise be stopped?" he asked, a little impatiently.

"It _shall_ be," said Donovan, with bitter earnestness.  "She is in
danger, as I thought?"

"Yes," said Dr. L----.  "Mrs. Farrant ought to be told at once."

"You mean that--that the end is near?" questioned Donovan, startled,
in spite of his forebodings.

"It is an acute attack of inflammation; I am afraid she must sink
under it," replied the doctor, gravely.

Without a word Donovan went slowly down the stairs to the room where
the dancing was going on.  A Highland reel had just begun; the tune
"Tullochgorum" rang in his head for weeks after.  The greater number
of the guests were looking on at the dancers.  Donovan saw that his
mother was quite at the other end of the room, and, as he was
arranging how best to reach her, Ellis caught sight of him and
hurried towards the place where he was standing.

"How now, Donovan, come to dance after all, and in that old
shooting-coat?"

"You must stop this; Dot is ill," said Donovan, in a hollow voice.

"My dear fellow, you ask impossibilities; one can't turn away seventy
guests at a moment's notice."

"She is dying," said Donovan, and the words sounded strangely out of
place in the midst of all the gaiety and merriment.

"_Dying!_" echoed Ellis, startled and shocked.  At an ordinary time
he would have enjoyed the opportunity of thwarting and annoying his
step-son; only a moment ago and something of this sort had been in
his intentions, but that one word scattered all mean and unkind
thoughts; before the angel of death even this selfish and dishonest
man became softened and awed.

"I will arrange it; the music shall of course be stopped," he said,
in really kind tones.

Donovan thanked him, and asked him to tell Mrs. Farrant, and Ellis at
once complied, crossing the room to the place where his wife was
talking with the squire, and telling her that she must speak to
Donovan for a moment outside.

She was so completely overcome by the unexpected news that Donovan
was almost in despair.  To be kept away from Dot was terrible, and
yet he could not leave his mother in her distress.  Speaking with the
perfect gentleness and control which seemed specially given to him
that night, he at last persuaded her to come and see the little girl,
overruling the sobbing, shrinking appeal, "that it was so terrible,
so sad--and she couldn't bear to go in that dress."

But a very few minutes beside the poor little child's bed proved too
much for Mrs. Farrant's powers of endurance.  The sight of her
suffering was indeed terribly painful, and with a mother's
instinctive love awakening in her heart, but without a mother's long
training in self-denial and devotion, Mrs. Farrant naturally could
not control herself in the least; she burst into tears, agitated Dot,
and had at last to be taken from the room.

"I love her so," she said, piteously, to Donovan, as he half carried
her along the gallery, and helped her on to her sofa.

He bent down and kissed her.

"You will come in again when you can?" he said.  "We will tell you
when there is any change."

Adela came in while he was speaking, and he left her with Mrs.
Farrant, and hastily returned to the sick-room.  Dot was now growing
delirious with the pain, but, though she could not bear anyone else
even to touch the bed-clothes, she liked him to hold her hand, and
her unconscious words were always spoken to him.  The solemn midnight
was undisturbed by music or merriment; instead of dancing the old
year out and the new year in, the guests were driving sadly from the
Manor.  Dot was moaning in the last sharp struggle of her little
life, and Donovan was watching beside her in anguish which could only
have been suppressed by the purest and truest love.

There was not the smallest hope now.  The long night hours dragged
slowly on, the death-agony grew more and more intense, and the doctor
could do absolutely nothing to lessen the pain.  Poor old Mrs. Doery
quite broke down, and sat rocking herself to and fro with her face
buried in her apron.  Phœbe, with a white face, stood ready to do
whatever she was told.  Donovan, never once faltering, bore up with
what the doctor described afterwards as "really extraordinary
fortitude, almost as if the poor little girl's death would not be
such a dreadful blow to him."  In reality, he was so absorbed in her
that he had not a thought to spare for the future, and while he was
near her it was absolutely necessary that he should be perfectly
quiet and controlled.

Once, for a few minutes, however, the doctor asked him to leave the
room, and then his strong will gave way.  Ellis had left Adela with
his wife, and, unable to go to bed, had stretched himself on a sofa
which, in the general disarrangement of the house, had been placed at
the end of the gallery; he was beginning to get drowsy when the
opening of a door roused him.  Was it all over, he wondered!  He sat
up and listened.  A terrible cry of anguish in a wailing, child's
voice told him that Dot still lived.  Then for the first time he
noticed that, in the dim light, a few paces from him stood Donovan.
He, too, must have been listening, for he made a half-choked
exclamation as the sound reached him, and staggering forward, not
noticing his step-father, sat down on a chair near him, and with his
arms stretched across the table, and his head buried, gave way to an
overwhelming burst of grief.  Ellis was really touched, and almost
infected too.  Instinctively he tried to show his sympathy.

"Donovan, my poor fellow, don't give way.  While there's life there's
hope, you know."

"I wish she were dead," he groaned; "out of the pain."

"But she may get better," suggested Ellis.

"No," he answered, with a great sob which shook his whole frame,
"it's only a question of hours--hours of torture!"

Then springing up in a sort of frenzy, and dashing the tears from his
eyes, he seized hold of Ellis's arm.

"Here! you who believe in a God--get down on your knees and pray for
her--pray that she may die!"

Without waiting for an answer from the astonished Ellis, he turned to
the window, tore back the curtain, threw open the casement, and leant
out into the black night.  Somewhere, somewhere in that yawning space
there surely must be a Power who could help him in his fearful need!
His whole heart went out in a passionate cry to the vast unknown.

"God!  God!  Exist!  Be!  Stop this agony!  Let her die!  What good
can it possibly do?  Let her die!"

It was the first prayer he had ever prayed.

There was a touch upon his arm, he turned and saw Phœbe standing
beside him.

"Miss Dot is asking for you, sir, but won't you take something before
you go back?"

He shook his head, but, as he passed Ellis, asked him to give
Phœbe and Mrs. Doery some wine.  Then he went back to the
sick-room, composed his face with an effort, and resumed his place
beside Dot.

"Dono, talk to me," was the very first request, and he did talk
bravely and soothingly, in the continuous way which Dot always liked.
Taciturn and unimaginative as he really was, he had long ago learnt
to overcome all his natural difficulties, and utterly to disregard
his own tastes and inclinations when Dot was in any way concerned.

At last the pain grew less severe, the poor exhausted little life
began to ebb away fast.  When the longed-for relief came, Donovan
knew that the end was very near.  He breathed more freely.

"The pain is all gone," whispered Dot, after a long quiet interval,
"will it never come again?  Is it gone for always, Dono?"

"Yes, darling, I think quite gone," he replied; his dreary creed did
not allow him to say more.

"It is so comfortable," she murmured, drowsily.

Before long Mrs. Farrant and Adela were summoned, and Ellis too came
in, and kissed the little worn face, and poor Waif crept after them
all, Donovan lifting him up that Dot's hand might stroke his head for
the last time.

By-and-by the room was quiet again, only Donovan, the two nurses, and
the doctor stayed to watch the end.  The perfect silence was at last
interrupted, a sudden shiver passed through the little wasted form.

"I am so cold, Dono," she murmured, moving her hands nervously about
the coverlet, "put your arm round me again; oh! it is getting so
dark, hold me, Dono, hold me!  Is it wrong to be so frightened?"

"I am holding you, darling," he replied, "there is nothing to fear."

But the words died from his cold lips as he uttered them, he felt
that he could not comfort her, that she was beyond his help; and her
next words seemed to pierce his heart.

"I can't feel your arms, Dono, I can't see you."

A stifled moan escaped him, he bent low over her, and again and again
kissed her cold damp brow.

"I did not mean to vex you, darling," she gasped, "it will be better
soon, perhaps.  Say me the hymn about the light."

He repeated Newman's "Lead, kindly Light," which, for some unknown
reason, had always been a great favourite with Dot, he knew it
perfectly well, and would, of course, have said anything to please
her, nor did he feel what a hideous mockery the words were to him, he
was too completely absorbed in thinking of her.  After he had
finished the hymn, there was a long pause during which her breathing
became more and more difficult.  Donovan's whole being seemed to live
with each effort, he too drew each breath slowly and painfully.  But
there came a respite before long, the light did shine through the
gloom, and a look of almost baby-like peace stole over Dot's troubled
face.  She did not speak a word, it never had been her way to say
very much, but by-and-by Donovan overheard faint half-dreamy
whispers, and knew that she was speaking with a little child's
confidence to God.

"You will comfort Dono, won't you, and we will be all quite happy
together."

The words died away into indistinct murmurs, she sank into a
painless, half unconscious state.

It was not till this time that one thought of himself came to trouble
Donovan, but as he knelt by the bedside, with Dot's head resting on
his arm, as he listened to--almost counted--the sighing breaths, his
desolation broke upon him.  In a few minutes all that to him made
life worth living would have passed away for ever!  Death, to him
truly the king of terrors, was here at the bedside, and he was
powerless, helpless, he could only wait for the grim unknown to
snatch little Dot away--away into a forever of nothingness!  His
brain reeled at the thought, he could not control the shuddering
agony which made his limbs almost powerless and brought to his strong
firm face a pallor almost as deathly as that of the little dying
child.

"You had better rest a minute," said the doctor.  "It is too much for
you."

But the thought of losing even one of those precious last minutes--of
resigning his place to another--seemed intolerable.  He signed a
negative with some impatience, raised Dot a little higher, smoothed
back the hair from her cold forehead, and waited, trying to control
the trembling which might disturb her, to regulate the half-choked
gasping breaths which would agitate his whole frame.

Then came an unconquerable longing for one more word from her, one
more recognizing look.  The struggle between this desire and his
unwillingness to break in upon the comparative peace of her last
moments grew to anguish; passionate entreaties rose to his lips, and
were only checked by the fiercest effort of will, wild impossible
longings surged up in his heart, and above all was a fearful
realisation that the time was short, that minutes, perhaps seconds,
were all that was left to him.

But the spiritual current of sympathy which had united the two in
life was as strong as ever, they had been all in all to each other,
and even now, in the very moment of death, little Dot felt
instinctively that Donovan wanted her.

Half rousing herself from the state of dreamy peace she had fallen
into, she felt for his face, drew it nearer to hers, and, with long
pauses between the words, whispered,

"I've asked to be quite near you still.  I think God will let me.  He
is so very good, you know--you will know."

That perfect confidence of hers made death a happy thing.  In her
untroubled child-like faith she had no manner of doubt that the
Father who loved them both so dearly would one day teach Donovan what
His love was.

A minute after came a scarcely audible request.

"Kiss me, Dono."

He folded his arms round her, and pressed his cold lips to hers; in
another moment a shudder passing through the little frame told him
that he was alone in the world.




CHAPTER XII.

DESOLATE.

          Then black despair,
  The shadow of a starless night was thrown
  Over the world in which I moved alone.
                                    SHELLEY.

  Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it.
                                  E. BROWNING.


Great sorrows affect people so differently that it is often hard to
know how to sympathise with those in trouble, the spoken words of
comfort which may soothe one person may simply torture another, the
reverential silence congenial to some seems cruelly cold to others.
Grief, too, falls in so many different ways; to some it comes like a
heavy physical blow, the bitterness of the pain, the shock to the
whole system is so great, that for a time the senses fail, and a
merciful unconsciousness and a faint, gradual return to life lessen
to some extent the first anguish of suffering.  To some sorrow comes
piercingly, their imagination--all their faculties--seem for the time
quickened by the pain, memories of the past crowd around them,
visions of a barren future stretch out before their aching eyes, and
this in the very first moments of their sorrow; grief is to them a
sharp-edged sword, laying bare in an instant the very fibres of their
being.

But there are others to whom sorrow comes in a more awful form, the
blow falls on them, but no momentary unconsciousness comes to their
relief, they do not sink under their load of pain, but stagger on in
dull hopelessness; they may be spared the sharp realisation of the
grief which pierces the heart, but their case seems more pitiable;
for, instead of struggling from the depths of woe to calmness and
peace, they labour on with a terrible weight on their hearts, a
weight which numbs the faculties, and crushes the bearer into "dull
despair."  And then, as nature re-asserts herself, and the
perceptions regain their vividness, a fearful re-action sets in, the
despair deepens, the weight of woe becomes each day heavier to bear;
this is the stony sorrow which human sympathy seems utterly powerless
to reach, and which finds no outlet.

And yet the "All ye that labour and are heavy laden," has for
hundreds of years brought to the world's Consoler those who are most
borne down--most crushed by their grief.

Donovan knew the invitation well enough, but these things were to him
as "idle tales;" to his suffering there was no relief because he
would not stretch out his hand to take: he was as much alone as it is
possible for any of us to be alone.  A child may utterly refuse
obedience to its father, may reject all love, in its ignorance may
even refuse to believe in the love.  Strong in its rebellion, it may
shut itself away, bolting and barring the door upon the love that
would seek it out; but, though it may refuse to remove the barrier,
the father is still the father, and though the child cannot see how
true and real his love is, because of the obstacle it has with its
own hand raised between them, the strong love will surely never rest
until it has conquered the child, and shown it its mistake; nor is it
ever really alone--the barrier is only a barrier.

Donovan had thus shut himself into himself; with the dead calm of a
worn-out body and an utterly despairing heart, he closed the door of
Dot's room behind him, and with slow, dull, spiritless steps walked
along the gallery.  Ellis was standing in the doorway of his
dressing-room; he came forward as his step-son passed, but the
question he would have put died on his lips as he looked at Donovan's
rigid face.  He shuddered as the hollow, unnatural voice uttered the
words he had expected, but had not dared to ask for--"She is dead!"

Ellis had not very often visited his little step-daughter's room;
every now and then he had bought some trifling present for her, or
had sent her a message by Donovan, and occasionally he had spent a
few minutes beside her sofa, partly because he was anxious to keep up
appearances, and wished the household to think him a worthy successor
to Colonel Farrant, partly because of the real good nature which
still to some extent guided his actions.  His sorrow at her death was
more genuine than might have been expected, and he had enough
sympathy with Donovan not to torment him with common-place
condolences, but to let him pass by in silence, feeling rightly
enough that he was the last person who could venture to approach his
grief.  He waited until the door of his step-son's room had closed
behind him, spoke a few words to the doctor, and then with rather
hesitating steps went to Adela's room to tell her the news.  At his
knock she came to the door; she was wrapped in her dressing-gown, and
her hair was loose and disordered.  Ellis thought she had never
looked so old before; her greyness and wrinkles, which he had never
noticed, showed plainly enough now that she was _en déshabillé_; she
looked what in truth she was, a middle-aged woman, and Ellis, who
could not bear to face the fact that both he and his sister were no
longer young, shivered a little.  Did not each advancing year bring
them nearer to the dreariness of old age, and, what was worse, nearer
to the terrors of death!  Death was an awful thing, and death was in
the house at that very moment.

"What is it?" asked Adela--"is it all over?"

"Yes, it is over," he replied, gravely.  "I must tell poor Honora.
Come with me, Adela; she is so exhausted, I am half afraid how she
will bear it."

"Other people may be exhausted too," said Adela, rather sharply.
"What has become of Donovan?  He has been in there all night."

"He has gone to his room.  I was afraid to speak to him, he looked--I
can't tell you how he looked.  Yes, go to him, if you like, but you
won't do him any good, poor fellow.  It must have been an awful
night."

Adela was thoroughly kind-hearted; she hurried at once towards
Donovan's room, not allowing her natural shrinking from the sight of
pain to hinder her an instant.  It was certainly a relief, when she
had received the word of admittance, to find that no spectacle of
overpowering grief was to meet her gaze.  The room was very cold and
almost dark; a faint glimmer of light from the window, and the
outline of a figure with the head drooped low, showed her where her
cousin was.  She groped her way towards him, her misgivings returning
when he still did not speak or stir.

"Donovan," she said, with quick anxiety in her tone, "is anything the
matter with you?  Are you faint?"

Her words surprised him; he mused over them half curiously before
replying.  How strange it was to be asked if anything were the matter
when he was simply crushed!  And yet perhaps, in a sense, nothing was
the matter--nothing mattered at all now that Dot was dead.  And Dot
was dead, she had passed away for ever.

"Donovan," pleaded Adela, "do speak to me--do break this dreadful
silence!"

"She is dead," he replied, slowly, and then again his head drooped,
and there was another long pause.

The window was wide open.  The icy night air made Adela shiver; she
looked from the faint grey sky to the snowy earth, and then in
despair she looked back to her cousin's face, which, though
indistinctly seen in the dim light, was evidently as cold and still
as marble.  The tears rose to her eyes and overflowed as she felt her
utter powerlessness to relieve that stony sorrow.  A half-stifled
shivering sob roused Donovan at last.

"You are cold," he said, still in the same terribly hollow voice, and
then he moved forward and shut the window.

She was now so thoroughly frightened by the strangeness of his manner
that she lost all control over herself, and it was, after all,
Donovan who had to quiet her grief.

"Why do you cry?" he said.  "The pain is over for her, all is over;
after all, it is only ourselves who suffer.  One can endure a great
deal, and sooner or later we too shall die think of the peace of that
nothingness!"

"Oh, don't say such terrible things!" said Adela, shuddering and
sobbing still more violently.

"It is my one comfort," he said; "but you, with the belief you
profess, can need no comfort from such as I--your beautiful legends
should comfort you."

"Yes, yes," she answered; "only it is so hard to be resigned.  But,
Donovan, I did not mean to be so weak; I wanted to be of use to you,
indeed I did, and I have worried instead of comforted you."

"You have been very kind," he said, in a more natural tone; "but
there is only one comfort, and I have told you what that is."  Then,
as she started with a sudden new terror, he put his cold hand on hers
and added, "No, you need not be afraid; death is the comfort, but I
shall not seek death in the way you fear--that is a cowardly thing to
do.  You need not think I shall try that way to rest."

"But is there nothing I can do for you?" asked Adela, awed and
quieted by his strange manner.

"I should like you to go to my mother," he replied, without any
hesitation.

Adela looked again at the white, stony face, but it was perfectly
resolute, and she had no choice but to obey.  With a heavy heart she
went to see the other mourner, and tried to soothe the passionate
weeping and bitter remorse of the mother.

The interview with his cousin had in some degree roused Donovan; he
could not sink back to the state of lethargy in which she had found
him.  His power of realisation had to some extent returned, and the
dead calm gave place to restlessness.  He paced up and down the room
with unsteady steps, then, chafed by the narrowness of the space, he
opened his door and wandered along the gallery, down the stairs, and
through the deserted rooms below.  Everything had an utterly desolate
look; the faint morning light revealed the drooping wreaths and
decorations, the remains of the candles, which had guttered down into
shapeless masses of wax, looked grotesquely forlorn, while the
supper-room, with its disordered table and its profusion of fruit and
flowers, was perhaps the most dreary-looking of all.  The effect of
the whole to Donovan seemed simply ghastly; "The Reel of
Tullochgorum" rang in his ears, recalling all its miserable adjuncts,
the noise of the gay crowd, the scraping and twanging of the
instruments, above all, Dot's cries of anguish--those heart-piercing
cries which were to haunt him for months.

By-and-by, as the daylight increased, the household began to stir; a
maid-servant came into the drawing-room and re-arranged and dusted
the furniture, from time to time casting half timid half
compassionate glances at the restless figure pacing to and fro; doors
were opened and shut, a general sound of sweeping and moving
furniture made itself heard, a clatter of cups and saucers; bells
were rung, footsteps hurried to and fro; Major Mackinnon's voice was
heard asking for his boots.  There was something awful in this
business-like rebeginning of life.  Dot was dead, yet for him life
must go on in the old grooves,

  "Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
  Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow."


The common-place bustle, the vision which had crossed his mind of the
long barren years became at last intolerable.  He hastened up the
stairs once more, and from the force of long habit found himself on
the way to Dot's room.  The blinds were down; the cool green light
quieted his restless impatient movements.  He closed the door, and
stole with hushed steps to the bedside.  Then the forlornness of his
grief broke upon him fully.  No eager welcome from the soft, childish
voice, no loving look from the dark eyes, no arms stretched out to
cling round his neck, but only a motionless silent outline beneath
the white sheet.  He could not look at the veiled face, he turned
away and threw himself on the ground in a terrible, silent agony.

After a time, the quietness of the room began to influence him.  Only
a few hours before it had been the scene of such weary suffering that
the peacefulness of the present could not but seem doubly striking.
The peace of non-existence!  He hugged the thought to his heart, and
in thinking of it forgot for the time his own pain.  Then he slowly
dragged himself up, and kneeling by the bed, drew aside the sheet.
Nothing could have softened his suffering so completely as the sight
which met his gaze.  The beautiful little face seemed only a degree
more pale and waxen than in life; the forehead, no longer contracted
with pain, gleamed white and serene and starlike; the brown hair lay
lightly on the pillow, the pale still lips smiled, the tiny thin
hands were folded in solemn repose.  How long he knelt silently
beside her he never knew.  He was roused at last by old Mrs. Doery.
She came in, wiping her eyes with her apron, and for a minute stood
at the foot of the bed, watching the two children whom she had
brought up--the dead and the living.  Perhaps the sight of the living
one touched her heart the more keenly, for there was an unwonted
tenderness in her manner as she addressed him.

"I was looking for you, Mr. Donovan," she said, putting her hand on
his shoulder.  "It's time you took some rest.  You must be worn out."

Worn out!  Ah! no.  How he wished he had been!  But he did not resist
her when she urged him to go to his room.  The quiet, passive,
painless state he was in led him to acquiesce in anything.  Later on,
Ellis came to him, offering to see to all the necessary arrangements;
he thanked him quietly, and consented.  Then Adela came and begged
him to see his mother, and he went for a little while to his mother's
room, and described everything which had happened on the previous
night, tranquilly, almost coldly.  So the day passed on, and night
came.  The household was still once more, all were sleeping quietly;
only Donovan lay with wide-open eyes, staring out at the black night,
counting the hours mechanically as they passed, wondering now and
then if he still lived, if this strange, numb passiveness were life
at all.

The next two days went on in much the same way.  The funeral was to
be on the Saturday; on the Friday morning Donovan's unnatural calm
began to give way.  He had now been four nights without sleep, and
the dull weight, the numbness of stifled pain was beginning to tell
on him.  When, on that day, he went as usual to Dot's room to gaze on
the one sight which had served to comfort him, he received a sudden
shock.  The first great beauty of death had faded gradually, but, as
that morning he gazed down on the tranquil face, he saw for the first
time the faint evidences of mortality.  The sight seemed to pierce
his heart; he rushed away wildly, as though to escape from his grief;
he paced with desperate steps up and down his room, trying in vain to
forget what he had seen, trying to assure himself that it would not,
could not be.  "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."  The
bitterness of the verdict was almost unbearable, for to him the
perishable body was all that was left; unspeakably dear as it must be
to all, it had to him a tenfold preciousness.  His grief bordered so
nearly on madness that everyone began to shrink from him in terror,
and all that terrible day he was alone, now battling with his
anguish, trying in vain to govern himself--now allowing his crazy
sorrow to drive him as it pleased.  At length, when night was
come--the last night before Dot was to be borne away from him to the
churchyard--he went once more to the death-chamber.  The little white
coffin was closed--he did not regret it; he would not look on her
again, only his frantic pacings to and fro seemed more bearable in
that room than in his own.  Dot's little clock chimed the hours
softly in muffled tones, and each stroke seemed to fall with
knife-like sharpness on his heart.  Time had ceased for her, but for
him it went on, wearily, ceaselessly.  That was the only distinct
thought which continually surged in upon him.  "My days go on.  My
days go on."

At last with a feverish craving for air he threw open the window, and
leaned out into the cold still winter night.  A winding sheet of snow
on the earth, purple black heavens, and stars shining out gloriously
in the frosty atmosphere met his gaze.  All was grand and peaceful,
all contrasted strangely with his mad, fevered agony.  He grew more
quiet.  Orion gleamed down on him pityingly, a child's voice
whispered from the past, "He is my very favourite of all."  Were the
soft dark eyes watching him perhaps in his anguish? was the happy
free spirit near him?  Would all--every comfort be denied him because
in his ignorance and self-reliance he refused to believe?

He shut the window once more, stood quietly for a minute beside the
coffin, then stretched himself out on the hearthrug, and, before the
little clock chimed again, was sleeping profoundly.  The only comfort
he was capable of receiving was given him--a night of unbroken rest,
a short lull from his despair.

That sleep saved him; the terrible strain of his attendance on Dot,
his hopeless sorrow and long wakeful nights, had brought him to the
very verge of serious illness; when he awoke late on the following
morning, his mind had recovered its balance, he was sufficiently
strengthened to take up his heavy load of sorrow and bear it
manfully.  Ellis and Adela were unspeakably relieved, when they met
him, to find bow great a change the night had wrought, the stony want
of realisation, the frenzy of overpowering grief, had given place to
a more natural sorrow, he looked indeed very much as usual only that
all his former characteristics seemed deepened, the mouth looked a
little more bitter, the eyes more despairing and contradictory to the
rest of the face, the curious brow had more of what Dot had called
its "battered" look, the whole expression was sterner and older.

For the first time he came down to breakfast and took his usual place
at the table, perhaps anxious to face the rest of the party before
the funeral, or with a sort of desire to go through with everything
properly.  They were all very kind to him, there is enough of good in
most people to make them compassionate to great grief--for a time.
As they left the breakfast-room a servant met them carrying some
beautiful hot-house flowers.

"From Mrs. Ward, sir," she said, putting into Donovan's hands a card
with, "kind enquiries and sympathy."

He looked at it for a moment, then threw it aside with bitterness
which astonished Adela, and said in his most chilling tone,

"It is too late now."

"No, I think there will be room," said Adela, misunderstanding him,
"we have a great number of wreaths, but I think I can arrange these
flowers."

"The world's sympathy!" he replied, bitterly, clenching and
unclenching his hands rapidly, as was his habit when strongly
agitated, "never to come near her in all those years of suffering,
but to send a showy wreath for her coffin."

"Would you rather they were not used?" asked Adela, doubtfully.

"Oh! let us take what we can get from the sympathising world," he
answered, "rate it at what it's worth, only don't ask me to be
grateful."  And then with a fierce sigh he turned away.

The day was clear, bright, and frosty, the little churchyard at
Oakdene was crowded with people, for poor little Dot's death had
awakened sympathy which her life had failed to win; rumours had got
about that the funeral was to be a choral one, and all the
acquaintances of the Farrants who had been at the interrupted dance
drove to the little country church to "show their respect" to the
dead and the living, while many of the Greyshot townspeople walked
over either from curiosity, or from that love of a pathetic sight
which is latent in not a few hearts.

The sun shone brightly down on the snow-covered graves, on the throng
of spectators, on the clergyman and the choristers, the rays fell too
on the white pall laden with wreaths, on the black dresses of the
mourners, and on Donovan's stern hopeless face.  He would willingly
have dispensed with the service, which was to him only a mockery, but
the arrangement of all had helped to cheer Mrs. Farrant, and as long
as he could see the last of the little coffin he was willing that the
others should gratify their taste, and gather round Dot's grave with
prayers and hymns and flowers.  Gravely he followed the choir into
the church, gravely sat in the pew while the last strains of the hymn
were sung; the other mourners knelt for a minute, he was too honest
to do that, but the consistency of an atheist rarely receives
anything but hard words, and all the spectators were inexpressibly
shocked.

He was far too miserable to notice the looks of shrinking aversion or
righteous indignation which some of the congregation turned on him as
the procession passed out to the grave, but just outside the porch,
in a momentary pause, one whispered sentence fell on his ear.

"Oh, no; atheists are always hard and unfeeling!"

He could not help knowing that the words bore reference to him; their
injustice stung him a little, and he became conscious that the eyes
turned on him were hostile and unsympathising--became indeed aware
for the first time that the churchyard was crowded.  Well, it would
soon be over.  He heard nothing more till the sound of the earth
falling on the coffin roused him from his own thoughts; then with a
sudden pang and shudder he caught the words--"Earth to earth, ashes
to ashes, dust to dust"--and he was one of the "men without hope."

The people bowed their heads as the clergyman read the closing
prayers, but Donovan, with a wild look in his eyes, stood erect and
motionless; his one longing was for solitude, and when, after the
benediction, another hymn was given out, he felt that he could bear
up no longer.  Turning rapidly away he strode through the staring
crowd.  What did it matter if his action were misinterpreted?  What
did he care if the general sense of decorum was offended?  It
mattered little, for whatever he did was sure to be considered the
wrong thing!  "Dust to dust."  How the words haunted him!  Oh, to get
away somewhere from his anguish--away from the cruel world with its
harsh judgments, to lose himself in darkness!  He rushed on wildly
through the churchyard, past the long line of carriages, along the
snowy road to the Manor.  He was mad enough and miserable enough for
any desperate deed, but whatever his intentions had been they were
frustrated, for his physical strength gave way; he sank down
exhausted on the floor of a little arbour in the Manor grounds.

He was roused at length by a soft stir in the place; then came a low
whine, and looking up, he saw Waif beside him, his round brown eyes
full of tears.

"Ah! you understand, do you, old fellow?" he exclaimed, faintly.

He allowed the dog to lick his face and hands for a minute or two,
then, as the carriages were heard in the drive, he started up; he
knew that Dr. L---- and one or two other visitors would return to
lunch, and, though he shrank painfully from seeing them, he felt that
he ought to go in.  Waif's loving devotion had soothed him.  Ashamed
of the cowardly longing to end his life which had almost overmastered
him, he struggled to his feet, patted the dog, and made his way to
the drawing-room, there to do what he felt to be his duty in the way
of talking to the visitors.  Well for the world that it is not all
made up of logically consistent men and women, well at any rate for
the Donovans of the world that there are children and dumb animals
who love and sympathise without question, without reservation.

Blessed little Waif!  You have done a better day's work than all the
throng of people in the church and churchyard, you have been the
saving of your master.  There is indeed One

  "Who by low creatures leads to heights of love."

So, Waif, take courage and keep your eyes open, this is your day; men
have for the present little to say to Donovan, they shrink from him:
it is clearly intended that you should see to him, and in doing so
you will be following in the steps of those other dogs who tended the
deserted beggar as he lay at the rich man's gate.




CHAPTER XIII.

WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING.

  The possible stands by us ever fresh,
  Fairer than aught which any life hath owned.
  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
  A healthful hunger for the great idea,
  The beauty and the blessedness of life.
              _Gladys and her Island._  J. INGELOW.


The school-room at Trenant was quite the favourite room in the whole
house.  In summer time its two French windows, opening on to the
lawn, gave a cool out of door feeling, and, if you are obliged to
spend a lovely June morning in the house, it is some consolation to
have Nature brought as near to you as possible; in winter its
coziness was admitted by all, its fireplace was large and burnt
better than any other, its half high brass fender made an enchanting
footstool, its old-fashioned sofa was exactly the shape which tempts
you to curl yourself up with a story-book and forget the cold, and
its bookshelves contained such a heterogeneous assortment of volumes
that almost everyone could find something to his or her special
taste.  But the time most favourable of all to the school-room, was
the time known as "blind man's holiday" in the winter; it had long
been the favourite family gathering place, and on the afternoon of
New Year's day--the same New Year which had brought sorrow and
bereavement to Oakdene Manor--a very merry party had congregated
round the hearth.  In the centre of the group knelt Gladys with one
arm round Jackie to ward off all danger of fire accidents, and with
the other spare hand distributing smooth, brown, hard-skinned
chestnuts from a bag; the school-boys, home for their Christmas
holidays, sat on the fender punching holes in the nuts before they
were put down to roast, and Stephen Causton stood, poker in hand,
ready to rake out the lowest bar of the grate at the last moment.  It
was what Gladys called a "toasty" fire, not a blazing one, but a deep
still red one which sent out as much heat as could possibly be
desired, and cast a rich glow over wall and ceiling, making the holly
wreaths on the picture frames shine out in bold contrast to the
blackness of the shadows, and adding such lustre to the old green
curtains and furniture, that their faded shabbiness was no longer
noticeable.  The faces, too, of the little group were ruddy in the
firelight, and the golden threads in Gladys' brown hair shone out
brightly as she bent down over the wriggling struggling Jackie, whose
patience was sorely tried by the slowness with which the chestnuts
roasted.

"We must take some to mother and Aunt Margaret in the drawing-room,"
said Gladys; "how soon will they be ready, Stephen?"

"Not yet; besides, I'm certain my mother wouldn't touch one," said
Stephen, a little sulkily, "she doesn't understand that sort of
thing."

"My stars!  What, not like chestnuts!" ejaculated Bertie, with raised
eyebrows.

Gladys and Stephen laughed a little, it was not exactly the want of
appreciation of chestnuts which had given the sullen tone to the
assertion; Mrs. Causton's utter contempt for the things of this world
was not a little trying to her son, and Gladys understood that it was
this in general to which he referred.  Certainly it did seem a pity,
she thought, that Aunt Margaret should speak so very unreservedly,
and often so very inopportunely, about religious details, and it
seemed strange that she did not notice how it repelled and annoyed
her son.

Stephen had left Porthkerran in the previous October, and was now
"walking the hospitals."  The few months of London life seemed
already to have altered him a good deal, he was older, more decided
and opinionated, even--Gladys fancied--a little less refined than
when he left.  But the change which she noticed chiefly in him was an
increased dislike to Mrs. Causton's peculiar little phrases and her
untimely allusions.  His mother worried him, and he allowed this to
appear far too plainly.

"Let us wish over them," said Jackie, meditatively, "cos you know
it's quite the first time this year we've eaten them."

"I know what the Jackal would wish for," said Bertie, teazingly,
"he'd wish for jam at tea; wishing's awful bosh, Jackie, you mustn't
be such a baby."

The corners of Jackie's mouth were turned down ominously, and nothing
but Gladys' promptitude averted a storm.

"Nonsense, Bert, he wouldn't do anything of the kind; we shall all
wish over them, and Jackie shall have the first that's done, because
he's the youngest; now, Jack, a very wise wish; what is it to be?"

Jackie thought for the space of thirty seconds, while he tore open
the hot chestnut.  Then with the conscious importance of one who
looks far into the dim future, he announced,

"I wish to be a tiger-hunter in Africa, I shall not go now, I shall
wait till I'm sixteen, then I shall be a man, and I shall shoot all
the animals, escept a few which I shall catch with nets, and bling
home to keep in the nursely."

This wish excited a good deal of laughter, for the heroic
tiger-hunter of the future had been known to run away from a
good-sized dog, and the unkind brothers were sceptical as to the
bravery his sixteen years would bring him; but Jackie gnawed his
chestnut contentedly, and joined in the laughter.

Nor did the wishes of the other boys rival his in enterprise.  Bertie
wished to be a sailor like Dick, with a "jolly lot" of climbing to
do.  Harold aspired to an archbishopric, because it would be "such a
lark to be cock of the walk, and to have a big palace to live in."
Stephen expressed a modest wish to discover something like the
"circulation of the blood," as Harvey had done, and make himself a
name to be remembered.

Last of all came Gladys' wish, and all eyes turned upon her as she
tossed a chestnut to and fro in her hands, and thought.  At last
raising her face, she said,

"I wish to be like the people in 'Real Folks,' who got a lot of
little children together on Saturday afternoons, in some great, bad
town, and gave them a 'good time.'"

"Dirty little children--ugh!" exclaimed Bertie, in disgust.

"Beastly!" said the archbishop of the future, laconically.

"Oh! if you want dirty children," said Stephen, "come to Lambeth.
You'll see a goodish few there."

As he spoke the door was opened by Mrs. Tremain.

"All in the gloaming," she said, brightly.  "I told Aunt Margaret we
should most likely find you here; what a delicious smell of roasting!"

"It's chestnuts, mammy," shouted Jackie, at the top of his voice, as
he dragged his mother to a chair, and took up the position on her
knee to which, in Nesta's absence, his right was indisputable.
"Mammy, do eat this one, it's such a beauty."

"Aunt Margaret, do you like this low chair?" said Gladys, as Mrs.
Causton joined the group gathered round the fireplace.

"Thank you, my dear, no, I think I will sit at a little distance, as
I must face the cold outside in a minute, it is well not to enjoy too
much of the warmth.  You have a very large fire."

This last sentence had something of reproach in it, and it stimulated
Stephen to a quick rejoinder.

"Prime, isn't it."

"Still," continued Mrs. Causton, "in such a severe winter it seems
almost incumbent on one not to be too lavish in the coals which are
so much needed by the poor."

"It doesn't make the poor people any warmer for us to be cold," said
Stephen, with a suppressed growl.

"Nurse always makes up big fires," said Gladys.  "She says it's more
economical than always feeding a little one.  Won't you have a
chestnut, auntie?"

"No, thank you, my dear.  It is not more than two hours till dinner
time, and I do not think it well to eat between meals."

The chestnut-eaters, conscious of a wicked enjoyment, munched on in
silence, the idea of a possible abolition of all promiscuous and
informal "feedings" between meal times was not to be tolerated for an
instant.

Mrs. Tremain changed the subject.

"And you really go back to London to-morrow, Stephen?  You have had a
very short holiday."

"Yes; still a few days is better than nothing," he answered, tilting
his chair backwards and forwards.

"I only hope, Stephen, that you'll work well," said his mother,
anxiously.  "These long winter evenings are excellent for reading."

Stephen yawned.

"Do you like your lodgings?" asked Mrs. Tremain.

"Oh! they're awfully dull," said Stephen.  "Still they're near the
hospital, and that's a great thing."

"And your landlady seems a thoroughly nice woman," said Mrs. Causton,
who had taken the rooms herself, and had been favourably impressed by
the four large family Bibles placed as ornaments on the conventional
lodging-house drawing-room table, as well as by the conversation of
the landlady.

"She's well enough," said Stephen, "when she's sober."

Mrs. Causton lamented the deceitfulness of appearances, and said she
would look out a tract which Stephen could give to the poor woman.
The younger boys, wearying of this talk, began to grow noisy, and it
was a relief to everyone, including Stephen, when Mrs. Causton said
it was time for them to go home.

When Gladys came back to the school-room, after seeing the last of
the two visitors, she found her mother alone; the children had
dispersed to their play, and Mrs. Tremain sat silently by the fire,
which had now sunk rather low.

"A few more coals, I think, dear," she said, as Gladys closed the
door and hurried towards the hearth, "and then, as the room is quiet,
I want to have a little talk with you."

Gladys put on the coals quickly; her mother's tone had made her feel
a little anxious, for though their "talks" together were many, they
were not generally spoken of beforehand in this way.  Was there some
new arrangement to be made, some difficulty to be discussed?  Could
there be bad news from Dick?  Gladys tormented herself with a variety
of suppositions, and lifted up such an anxious face to her mother
that Mrs. Tremain could not help smiling.

"Did my voice sound so very serious," she said, "that you conjure up
all sorts of evils in a minute?"

"Oh! mother, how did you know I had?"

Mrs. Tremain smoothed the anxious, questioning forehead by way of
reply, then she began, without further delay, to relieve her child's
mind.

"Nothing is wrong at all, dear; but your Aunt Margaret has been
talking this afternoon to your father and me.  You know that she has
taken a little villa at Richmond for the next six months; she wants
to be nearer Stephen, and, though she cannot live in London, she
thinks that, if she were there, Stephen could spend his Sundays with
her.  But she dreads the loneliness very much, and cannot bear the
thought of settling down by herself in a strange place.  She is very
anxious, dear, that you should go with her for a time."

Poor Gladys' heart sank; that indefinite expression, "a time," rang
unpleasantly in her ears, and the thought of being weeks, or perhaps
months, away from home, was terrible to her.  Then, too, though she
was fond of Mrs. Causton, she was often a good deal annoyed by her
peculiarities; and if these were noticeable in the sort of
intercourse which they had had at Porthkerran, what would they not be
in the close intercourse of daily companionship?  It was in rather a
choked voice that she asked, after a pause,

"_Must_ I go, mother?"

"It is, of course, dear, for you to decide," said Mrs. Tremain.  "If
you feel very strongly against it, we should not think of sending
you."

"But you wish me to go," said Gladys, a little resentfully, feeling,
too, that the very fact of having the matter left in her own hands
hardly gave her the choice of doing as she wished; she could not
deliberately choose for herself the easy, comfortable, home-keeping
path which she longed to take.

"That is hardly a fair way of putting it," said Mrs. Tremain.  "For
ourselves, darling, of course we want to keep you; for Mrs. Causton's
sake and your own, I should like you to go."

"For my own!" exclaimed Gladys, greatly surprised.

"Yes, quite for your own, dear; you have scarcely ever been away from
home, and it is time that you should see a little more of life; the
change will be good for you in every way.  I think it will help to
widen you."

"You think me narrow-minded?" said Gladys, pouting.

"Yes, dear, I do--a little," said Mrs. Tremain, laughing.  "I don't
think you have much sympathy with people you don't agree with, and
the best cure for that will be to get out of the old grooves for a
little time."

"But you surely don't want me to learn to think differently, and to
come home again not agreeing with you and papa?" questioned Gladys.

"No, certainly not; that would not be growing wider, only shifting
your narrowness in a new direction."

"But Aunt Margaret is the narrowest person imaginable," said Gladys,
perversely.  "I shall only grow like her."

"I think not," said Mrs. Tremain; "you would more likely be driven to
the opposite extreme.  But that is not exactly what I want; I want
you to learn to see her real goodness, and to sympathise with that,
trying to pass over the little things which annoy you.  Besides, you
will see other people; the world of Richmond is larger than the world
of Porthkerran."

Gladys was not convinced all at once, but before many days had passed
her decision was made.  Home was to be renounced for six long months,
and a new phase--not the least arduous--of her education was to be
begun under Mrs. Causton's guidance.

Her stay at Richmond was certainly productive of some good results.
Stephen found his home visits attractive, and never failed to appear
on Saturday afternoons.  Mrs. Causton thoroughly enjoyed her bright
cheerful companion, and Gladys herself, in spite of unconquerable
home-sickness, found much that was pleasant in her new life, and for
many reasons never in after-years regretted the decision she had made.

She saw then, with the strange thrill of joy and wonder which such
realisations bring, that on this decision and on this visit to London
hinged almost all that was most dear to her in the future, and that,
unconsciously, she had then taken the first step towards the
attainment of her wish over the chestnut-roasting.



END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.



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