AUTUMN MANŒUVRES.
Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair.
WILLIAM BLAKE.
Give a dog a bad name, and hang him.
_Proverb._
Ellis Farrant had taken Donovan up to town on the pretext of
arranging various matters of business, but he had been careful to
leave many things unattended to, as he was anxious to have an excuse
for a speedy visit to Oakdene. His guardianship was likely to prove
a very convenient aid in the furtherance of his scheme, for what
could be more natural than that he should frequently go down to
inspect his young wards, and what could offer more convenient
opportunities for winning his way with Mrs. Farrant than such visits.
A little time, however, must be allowed to pass first. Ellis made
arrangement for staying in town till the middle of July, and resolved
to go down to Oakdene then, for as long a visit as seemed advisable.
His arrival really pleased and roused Mrs. Farrant, for it must be
owned that Oakdene had not been the liveliest of homes during the
summer. Visitors of course had not been received, Donovan had been
unusually taciturn and moody, and though the favourite Fido, and the
unfailing succession of new books, and the comfortable sofa by the
open window, rendered life bearable, any interruption to such quiet
monotony was a relief even to one so indolent as Mrs. Farrant.
To Donovan the arrival of his cousin brought a strange mixture of
annoyance and satisfaction. He too was glad of an interruption to
the dreary quiet of the house, but nevertheless Ellis managed to
irritate him not a little. The nominal business matters which had
formed the excuse for the visit were put forward from time to time,
but neither mother nor son was business-like, and Ellis used to let
the conversation float on quietly into other channels, so that very
little was really arrived at. He was a clever, shrewd man, and his
visit was a long series of manœuvres. He never lost sight of his
two great aims, the first was to win the regard and confidence of
Mrs. Farrant, and to secure this he studied most carefully her
character and tastes; the second was to induce Donovan to lead as
inexpensive a life as might be, during the time of his guardianship.
What became of him after he was of age he neither cared nor thought
of, for before that time he hoped to have won Mrs. Farrant's hand.
It was about two or three days from the beginning of his visit that
he first began to question Donovan cautiously as to the future. They
were out riding when he resolved to risk the attempt.
"Beautiful country about here," he remarked, carelessly.
"Yes," replied Donovan, laconically; he did not care to show any
interest in such a remark from one who evidently cared nothing in
reality for scenery.
"Much hunting in the neighbourhood?"
"No; it's not a hunting county."
"But you have good shooting, I hear."
"Oh! yes, we can have any amount of that. Won't you come down for it
this autumn?"
"Thanks. If I have time I should like nothing better. You will be
here of course?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Donovan, rather hesitatingly.
Ellis Farrant felt a little uneasy. Had the boy made up his mind to
go to the university? Would he want to enter any expensive
profession? He must find out, and, if so, try to put some reasonable
obstacle in the way.
"You have found these months a little dull, I expect, but next year
you'll be up in town for the season--it'll be very different."
"Life's disgusting everywhere," said Donovan, gloomily.
"No, no," replied the man of the world, lightly. "There's plenty of
enjoyment if you look out for it. Cheer up, my boy, you let yourself
brood over things too much. 'Let bygones be bygones,' and face the
future, and let your guardian know plainly what you want."
The speech sounded frank and kindly. Donovan involuntarily came a
little out of his shell.
"I don't know that there's anything I want," he said, slowly, "and
yet I want everything. Did you ever feel as if nothing in the whole
world were worth a fig, as if nothing could ever satisfy you?"
A perplexing question! Why did the perverse fellow begin to moralize
on abstract subjects, just when he wanted to arrive at plain facts?
"I know quite well what you mean," he replied, glibly. "You will
soon live it down. I think you should mix more with companions of
your own age."
He felt that this was a hazardous suggestion, but ventured it with
his customary boldness.
"I hate fellows of my own age," said Donovan, shortly.
"You are a misanthrope, I'm afraid," said Ellis, breathing more
freely. "You would not like to go to Oxford or Cambridge, I suppose."
"No, certainly not."
"And you are not exactly--not passionately--fond of work?"
Donovan smiled a little.
"Well, no, I can't say I am."
"You would not like to be a barrister or a--parson?"
"I?" cried Donovan, in amaze. "In all conscience--no!"
"There is no need, not the slightest," said Ellis. "In fact, I don't
think you're in the least suited for any profession. You can live on
here very comfortably. No doubt your mother will make you a handsome
allowance when you're of age; for, though you are not exactly your
father's heir, it will come to much the same thing in the end."
"Yes, I suppose so," said the unconscious Donovan.
"I should rather like you to do a little reading, however," continued
Ellis. "I must not forget that you are my ward, you know. What do
you say to going in to some tutor at Greyshot two or three times a
week?"
"I don't mind. I will do so, if you wish. How would a travelling
tutor be? I must say I should like to spend a few months abroad."
An inconvenient and expensive project! If Donovan were away, he
could not come down to Oakdene so easily. But Ellis was too
far-sighted to give a definite refusal to the request.
"Well, we will think of it," he said, quite in his pleasantest
manner. "I'm glad you told me what was in your mind. We can talk it
over with your mother."
The two relapsed into silence after this, Ellis trying to think of
reasonable objections to this new idea, Donovan sketching out in his
mind the plan of his tour on the continent. He longed inexpressibly
for change of scene, and travelling offered very strong attractions
to his restless mind.
But a sudden revulsion of feeling came before long. As they rode
down the long, shady drive, and dismounted at the door of the Manor,
he heard a childish voice calling him, and looking up, he saw Dot's
little pale face eagerly watching him from her window.
He mounted the stairs very slowly, struggling hard with himself. Dot
would certainly miss him very much, would be much happier if he did
not go, and yet the craving within him for change was almost
irresistible. Oakdene began to feel like a prison to him.
Selfishness, or, as he called it, common sense, whispered that it was
mere folly to think he could always be tied down to one place. It
would be narrowing, cramping, bad for his health. The absurdity of
thinking of this, however, struck him with sudden force as he entered
Dot's room. How could he think of himself so much, when she lay on
the same weary couch day after day, and yet contrived to be so
patient!
"I'm so glad you've come back, Dono," she exclaimed. "Doery's been
down in the housekeeper's room for hours, and Waif and I have been so
dull."
The loneliness rose up before him vividly--months and months of it.
At the same time a glorious vision of life abroad--Italy,
Switzerland, mountains, freedom! He was quite silent, but Dot was
accustomed to his taciturn moods, and chattered on contentedly.
"And poor Waif, you forgot to take him with you, and he was so
miserable when he heard you ride off, he scratched at the door and
whined dreadfully, and I couldn't of course get up to let him out, so
at last he came back very sadly with his tail between his legs, and
cuddled up to me for comfort. Do you know, Dono, I believe he begins
to love you as I do, almost."
"And you don't cry when I go out riding," said Donovan, smiling.
"No, only when you go quite away; when you used to go back to school,
and when Cousin Ellis took you away last time."
"What a silly little Dot! What makes you cry?"
"Why, because I love you so," said Dot, wistfully. "And everything
seems so horrid when you're away. Will you have to go away again, do
you think? Will Cousin Ellis and the lawyers want you any more?"
"Oh! no, I shall not be going away again," he said, in rather a
forced voice. Then, after a pause: "I say, Dot, this room is
stifling. Shall I open the other window?"
She assented, and he crossed the room quickly, threw up the sash,
gulped down a mouthful of fresh air, and registered a silent vow that
he would never leave her.
"I wonder what makes your forehead look so battered to-day," resumed
Dot, as he sat down beside her again. "It always reminds me of a
bent penny I had for a long time. And some days the bend in the
middle seems to show more. I think it's on the days when you don't
talk much."
Donovan laughed heartily, shook off his taciturnity, and did his best
according to Dot's principles to straighten his brow.
"A phrenologist once told me that my forehead meant all sorts of
things: mathematical ability, reasoning, and music, but he was sadly
out, poor man, in that last, for I haven't a grain of music in me."
"I wish you had," said Dot, "because I like it so much, and the
hand-organs so very seldom come."
"Shall I get one, and grind away in the passage?"
"That would be always the same one. We should get so tired of the
tunes."
"Yes," said Donovan, laughing again. "Don't you remember the story
of the organ-grinder who somehow came into some money, and the first
thing he did was to rush frantically at his organ with, 'Bother! you
shall never go round again,' and smash it to pieces."
Dot laughed long and merrily.
"I wish you could play the piano as Cousin Adela used to. It sounded
so nice coming up from the drawing-room."
"Would you really like it?" said Donovan. "I will try to learn then.
We'll have a piano over from Greyshot, and it can be put up here."
"Oh! Dono, how delightful! But won't it be dull for you, as you
don't like music? And do you think you'll be able to learn?"
"We'll have no end of fun over it," he replied, cheerfully. "And as
to being able--I believe we're able to do anything we've a will for."
That evening, after Mrs. Farrant had left the dinner-table, Donovan
relieved his guardian's mind by one of his quick abrupt speeches.
"On thinking it over, I find I had better not go abroad."
"Oh! just as you like, my dear fellow," said Ellis, trying to conceal
his satisfaction. "Most happy to advance you the necessary funds,
you know. I should think though that, as you say, it would be better
to stay here. Your mother will be glad to have you."
Donovan bit his lip, and did not reply, and Ellis, perfectly well
aware that he had touched on a sore subject, changed the
conversation. His ward's decision was convenient. For once he must
be careful to please and humour him a little, so he renounced for a
time the pleasure of irritating his victim, and they spent a very
amicable evening over the billiard-table.
It is an undisputed fact that one piece of villainy invariably leads
to others. When Ellis Farrant, in a moment of anger and
disappointment, had destroyed his cousin's will, he never once
thought of all it would lead to, but little by little he began to
realise that a good deal of plotting and scheming would be necessary,
and perhaps a few trifling deceptions and injustices, before he could
profit by his crime. He was relieved to find that the coldness
between the mother and son still existed, for it was, of course, all
in his favour. He had rather dreaded the effects of those months of
quiet intercourse; but all had gone as he wished. Mrs. Farrant did
not in the least understand Donovan, he was not in any sense a
comfort to her, therefore there was all the more hope that she might
be led to confide in Ellis, that he might become a necessary part of
her existence. During this visit he was obliged to be kind and
conciliatory to his ward, and was too prudent to show any marked
attentions to Mrs. Farrant, but he succeeded in enlivening the house
wonderfully, and received a pressing invitation to come down in the
autumn, bringing his sister Adela with him. He remained till the
12th of August, and then went up to the North for grouse-shooting,
well satisfied with his success at Oakdene.
The Manor was not a little dull after he left. Mrs. Farrant, to
relieve the monotony, sent out her cards, and found some slight
occupation in receiving the visits of her neighbours and
acquaintance. Donovan rode in to Greyshot three times a week to his
tutor's, studied "Mill's Logic," and worked hard at his music.
Strangely, although he was really no lover of the art, he found a
peculiar satisfaction in working even at the mechanical exercises;
his master scarcely knew what to make of a pupil who, with very
little actual talent, surmounted difficulties so quickly, and showed
such untiring perseverance. Indolent as he seemed, he could yet show
the most indefatigable zeal when he had a sufficient motive, and,
with a view to pleasing Dot, he bent his whole will to the work.
With the exception of this satisfactory effort, the autumn was a very
painful one to him. As soon as his mother began to receive visitors
again, he could not fail to become aware of the marked coldness with
which almost everyone treated him. He had never had any special
friends in the neighbourhood, but now he noticed that old
acquaintances who had formerly been civil and friendly looked askance
at him; he was under a cloud, he had lost his good name. It was not
much to be wondered at, perhaps, and yet it seemed cruelly hard that
he should be thus cut off from all intercourse with those better than
himself. The cautious world said, with its usual prudence, that it
would never do not to show marked disapproval of disgrace and
wrong-doing. Donovan Farrant had been expelled from school for most
dishonourable behaviour (his crimes were by this time absurdly
exaggerated by report), it was quite impossible that he could be
allowed to mix with the immaculate sons of the neighbouring homes.
Intercourse must be as much as possible discouraged; the acquaintance
was most undesirable. A young man who never went to church, who had
been seen at one of Raeburn's lectures, who was dangerously handsome,
and unmitigatedly bad, could not be visited. The neighbours all
tried to ignore his existence; he was either entirely cut, or treated
with the coldest and most distant civility.
Misanthrope as he was, Donovan felt this treatment keenly, and
resented it. It was hard, and cruel, and unjust; he used it, as he
used everything else at that time, as an argument against
Christianity. Nor did his mother make matters pleasanter to him.
She, too, found out the coldness with which he was treated, and it
vexed her; one or two of the more kind-hearted neighbours referred
delicately to the subject, and, though Mrs. Farrant paid little
attention to her son's doings as a rule, this roused her to
remonstrate with him.
"Donovan," she said, in her complaining tone, one evening, "I really
wish you would be more careful how you go on. Mrs. Ward was here
to-day, and she said she was extremely sorry to hear that you had
attended some shocking infidel lecture at Greyshot. Is it true that
you went?"
"Perfectly, barring the adjectives," replied Donovan, crossing the
room, and resting his elbow on the mantel-piece.
"But really you should not do such things," said Mrs. Farrant,
plaintively. "What made you think of going?"
"I wished to hear Luke Raeburn's views," said Donovan, still keeping
his face steadily turned towards her.
"It is absurd for a boy of your age to think of such things. What
can you understand about his views?"
"More than I can of any other views. But I'm no Raeburnite--I don't
care enough for the human race."
Mrs. Farrant wandered off to another grievance.
"Well, I really wish you wouldn't get yourself so talked about; it's
very unpleasant for me. Why won't you come to church on Sunday, and
be like other young men?"
"Because, whatever I am, I'll not be a hypocrite," said Donovan, with
some sharpness.
There was silence for some minutes after this. Mrs. Farrant fanned
herself, and Donovan tormented the feathers of an Indian hand-screen.
At last, with a rather softened expression, he continued--
"I'm sorry, mother, if I spoke rudely, but that is a thing I cannot
do to please anyone. If you dislike my going to hear Raeburn so
much, I will not do it again."
"I only wish you not to make yourself a byword to the neighbourhood,"
said Mrs. Farrant, rather peevishly. "I do not care what you do as
long as you behave respectably."
"No, you care for nothing, I see, as long as people hold their
tongues," said Donovan, with one of his rare and curiously sudden
bursts of passion. "Is it wonderful that I should be going to the
dogs, when this is all you give me? What else can you expect?"
She did not in the least understand him, but his vehemence terrified
her; she burst into tears.
"It is very unkind of you to speak so angrily; you know how anything
of this sort upsets me," she sobbed. "I did think that the only son
of a widow was expected to show some feeling for his mother, and
you--you are only a grief and a disgrace to me."
He was softened in an instant, tried to take her hand in his, and
spoke as gently and tenderly as he would have spoken to Dot.
"Forgive me, mother--I am a wretch; but indeed, if you would let me,
I would try to be more to you."
He would have said more, but words never came easily to him, and he
felt half choked now with emotion.
"You are so inconsiderate," said Mrs. Farrant, drying her eyes. "I'm
sure I wish your guardian were here; he at least would have some
sympathy with me. I wish you would try to copy him a little more."
The reference to one whom Donovan so little-liked or respected was
very trying; he drew back.
"It is just as I told you at Porthkerran," continued Mrs. Farrant.
"You never think of anyone but yourself, you are always bringing
trouble and sorrow to others." Then, looking up, and seeing that
Donovan, in his agitation, was breaking the feathers of the
hand-screen, she sharpened her voice, "Cannot you even help
destroying the things your poor father brought back?"
He did not attempt to answer. What was the use of speaking? What
was the use of trying to bridge over the hopeless gulf between them?
It was more in despair than in passion that he flung down the screen
and strode out of the room.
After this there was peace for some little time, if such dreary
aimless existence could be called peace. There was, at any rate, no
open disagreement. Mrs. Farrant was too inert and Donovan too
self-restrained to admit of frequent quarrels between them; they
lived on in quiet coldness, meeting at meal times, talking on
indifferent subjects, then parting again, each to resume his or her
separate life. There were faults perhaps on both sides, a resolute
and continuous effort from either must have broken down such an
unnatural state of things. But neither of them made such an effort,
Mrs. Farrant, even had she thought of it, would have been too
indolent to persevere; Donovan had tried twice, and thrown up the
attempt, at once too proud and too hopeless to resume it.
In October Ellis Farrant came according to his promise, bringing his
sister Adela with him. She was some years his junior, and as she had
the same class of good looks and general brilliancy as her brother,
and dressed fashionably, she still passed for a "young" lady,
although she was considerably over thirty. Ellis had not introduced
her to Oakdene without a special reason. She of course knew nothing
of the depth of his schemes, but he trusted her with enough to make
her a valuable ally.
"Now this is how matters stand," he had said to her, as they were
driving from Greyshot to Oakdene. "Mrs. Farrant is as dull as she
well can be in this hole of a place, and I want to have plenty of
opportunities for letting her feel that I can enliven it. Do you
understand me, or must I speak more plainly."
His sister laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
"Do not trouble yourself, I understand perfectly. You wish to be
beforehand with the army of suitors who are sure to attend upon a
pretty, rich widow, by no means past her youth."
"Exactly," said Ellis, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "Last
time I was here I could do but little, it was too early days, for one
thing, and then there was the boy to be looked after; but now I want
you to engross him a little, and set me at liberty--do you see?"
Adela Farrant laughed again.
"You cunning Ellis! You have entrapped me into a dull country house
just to further your own ends, and then you set me down to amuse a
schoolboy."
"Pardon me, but he is by no means a boy," said Ellis. "He is, or
considers himself, all sorts of things, a philosopher, a radical, an
atheist, and, joking apart, he really is old for his years. You may
find him a little stiff and haughty at first, but you'll soon get to
know him, and he'll give you some amusement; besides, he's
handsome--very--an Apollo--an Adonis."
"And in his nineteenth year!" concluded Adela, with a gesture of
contempt. "However, I'll try to amuse him, out of regard for you.
Why, here we are at the Manor, and there is your Apollo of the
clustering curls at the door. What a grave saturnine face! but
you're quite right, he's very good-looking; Roman, not Greek, though.
Augustus Cæsar come to life again."
The first evening was, according to Ellis Farrant's views, a perfect
success. He had free scope for conversation with Mrs. Farrant, and
she grew quite merry and talkative under the combined influence of
his attentions and his sister's animation and gaiety.
"It is so pleasant to hear fresh voices," she said at dinner time.
"I grow very tired of _tête-à-tête_ dinners with Donovan."
This was exactly what Ellis wished, it was quite an effort to conceal
his satisfaction. He looked at the young host at the head of the
table, and wondered how he would enjoy being ousted from his position.
Adela's work was not quite so easy. She found Donovan very grave,
almost repellent, not at all inclined to be more than coldly
courteous. She persevered, however, and, being clever and really
good-natured, she gradually won her way. Nor was she so dull as she
had fancied would be the case. The haughty _nil admirari_ spirit of
her special charge rather attracted her. She found herself really
anxious to win his good opinion, and set herself to find out his
likes and dislikes. And Donovan really liked her in a manner, was
grateful for her kindness, and felt a sort of relief in having a
bright, talkative, pleasant woman in the house. When Ellis did not
care to go out shooting, Adela generally proposed a ride, and so
managed to engross her young cousin for two or three hours; in the
evening, too, she would keep him turning over the leaves of her music
in the back drawing-room, leaving her brother to amuse Mrs. Farrant,
and her light, meaningless talk generally sufficed to prevent the
chance of their being interrupted by Donovan.
Sometimes, however, her conversation jarred on his mind. One
afternoon when Adela in her light fawn-coloured dress was sauntering
round the garden, gathering a few late roses, with her usual cavalier
in attendance, their talk turned upon rather graver matters than was
ordinarily the case.
"What a pretty view that is of the church tower," she exclaimed. "I
should like to sketch it, such a tiny grey little place it is! but
really I was quite surprised last Sunday to find it a regular resort
of fashion, the toilettes were amazing, quite a study; your mother
says that the people come to it from Greyshot, that they are
attracted by the surpliced choir and the chanting. It seems so odd
to think of things of that sort being novelties; you are dreadfully
behind the world here in Mountshire."
"No great loss perhaps in those matters," said Donovan.
"What a prosaic mind you have!" said his cousin, lightly. "And,
by-the-by, that reminds me, I meant to take you to task before. Last
Sunday I looked round expecting to find you ready to carry my
prayer-book, and behold! you were nowhere to be seen. Your mother
says you never do go to church. How is that? it is really very
shocking, you know."
"One can't profess what one does not believe," said Donovan, gravely.
Adela passed on into the greenhouse and cut the last rose there
before replying; then, joining him again, she said, in her light half
laughing tone,
"You men are really dreadful now-a-days, the whole race seems to have
grown sceptical. Now, why don't you come to church, and be good and
orthodox?"
As she spoke she handed him the rose to put into the basket. It was
an exquisite blush rose, and he held it in his hand abstractedly, not
exactly seeing its beauty, and yet feeling some subtle influence from
its purity and fragrance. He did not answer, and Adela continued:
"Don't think I shall be hard on you, there never was a more lenient
person--besides, scepticism is always interesting. Not, you know,
that I am not all that is proper and orthodox, you mustn't think that
for a moment. I like to be _comme il faut_ in everything--that is
not quite a right expression, is it? more suited to matters of
etiquette than religion,--however, it does not signify, turn it into
Latin in your mind. I am very orthodox, but I can quite sympathise
with sceptics--is that sense? Now do tell me why you don't believe
the things that I believe; they say it is always well to hear all
sides of a question, and on this subject I have scarcely heard
anything."
She had rattled on in her usual fashion without looking up; had she
noticed the change in Donovan's face, her womanly tact would have
warned her to be more careful, for he looked as nearly contemptuous
as good manners would allow. His voice, was grave and displeased as
he replied, and had a strange ring of pain in it.
"It is not a subject I care to discuss, thank you."
They walked on in silence, Donovan trying uneasily to understand his
own feelings. _Why_ did he not care to discuss this subject? Was it
that his cousin's lightness jarred on him? was there some latent
sense of reverence in him--some yet slumbering faith faintly touched
by her flippant tones? Or was it--could it be--that he, Donovan
Farrant, was ashamed of the views he held? ashamed of not being like
the rest of the world?
Adela knew, from the tone of the answer which her question received,
that she had made a mistake; flippant, conventional, semi-religious
talk evidently grated somehow on her cousin's mind; she made haste to
recover her place in his estimation by referring to the subject
nearest his heart.
"Shall we take these flowers to Dot? She likes flowers in her room,
doesn't she?"
His brow cleared instantly.
"Yes, let us go. Dot is very fond of you, Cousin Adela; you have
cheered her up wonderfully."
Adela smiled; her kindness to little Dot was the one fair bright spot
in her life just then; it was pleasant to dwell on one thing in which
her motive was really good, and she was too really kind to like to
remember that she was acting as a sort of decoy towards Donovan.
Dot held out her hands eagerly for the flowers.
"What beauties!" she cried. "I was afraid they were all over."
Donovan took the blush rose and arranged it in her dress, where its
soft colours helped to relieve the blackness.
"You and Cousin Adela have had such a long talk," said Dot, watching
with interest while the flowers were arranged in her vase. "I saw
you from my window. What were you talking about?"
"Oh!" said Adela, with a little pause, as she adjusted a leaf, "we
were talking about the church."
"There's many changes there, miss," said Mrs. Doery, looking up from
her work. "Seems to be the way with these new-fangled ministers.
Still they say the boys in their whites is very attractive, and
nobody can't deny that the church is fuller than it used to be."
"I have been telling Mr. Donovan that Mountshire is very much behind
the world," said Adela. "In our parts we should be quite surprised
not to find a choir."
"Well, miss, I suppose it's very right and proper, but for myself I
liked the old days when we had just the parson and the clerk. Now
they sing-song all the things so, and I can't seem to pick myself up."
Adela tried not to laugh, and asked the name of the clergyman.
"Mr. Golding, he's the white-haired one. You'd 'ave thought he was
too old to like such new ways, but I make no doubt he's led on by the
curate, who is but young; and as to him, miss, he gets through the
service so quick you wouldn't believe, but I never can hear a word
when he reads off the old fowl's back."
Adela and Donovan burst out laughing, and no sense of the respect due
to Mrs. Doery could stop them. Dot, not understanding, looked
perplexed till Adela explained.
"The reading-desk in church, dear, the lectern, is like an eagle.
Oh! Mrs. Doery, you mustn't mind our laughing, but really that is
worthy of _Punch_."
Doery was, luckily, not at all offended. She could not pretend to
learn all the new names they gave the things, and probably she
thought of the lectern as the "old fowl" till the day of her death.
After a certain fashion, Adela's visit really did Donovan some good.
It roused him from his moody silence, made a change in his monotonous
life, and shielded him to some extent from Ellis Farrant's
annoyances. For, during this visit, Ellis was not all careful to
keep himself in the boy's good graces, and, in the brief time that
they were necessarily thrown together, managed to annoy him
considerably. Donovan had always the ruffled, uncomfortable
consciousness that his guardian was making a good thing out of his
office. He was naturally very careless about money matters, scarcely
giving them a thought; but even easy and generous natures are often
roused by feeling that they are being traded upon. The length and
frequency of his cousin's visits might be overlooked perhaps, but
when, in the course of the month, he went with Donovan to some races
at a neighbouring town, and coolly put down all the expenses to Mrs.
Farrant, his ward was naturally indignant; and this happened not once
only, but several times. The loss of the money was nothing, but the
injustice was very irritating. Injustice was Donovan's watchword,
and this slight but aggravating specimen of it was a constant thorn
in his side.
Another vexing thing was Ellis Farrant's behaviour to his mother. He
used to perform all kinds of little services for her; waiting on her
sedulously on every possible occasion, with a marked ostentation
which seemed always trying to indicate to Donovan, "This is what you
ought to do." Even had such attentions been possible to him, he
would have been for too proud to take such a broad hint, and Ellis
was probably aware of this, or he would not have risked giving the
advice: it was everything to him that Mrs. Farrant should feel the
great difference between his conduct and her son's. On the whole,
there was some reason in Donovan's complaint that autumn--life had
always seemed to him hard and perplexing, and it grew more so.