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?