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.