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.