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.