THE BLACK SHEEP OF OAKDENE.
O, ye wha are sae guid yoursel',
Sae pious, and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebour's faults and folly.
Ye see your state with theirs compar'd,
And shudder at the niffer,
But cast a moment's fair regard
What maks the mighty differ?
* * * * * * *
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way,
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee way.
_Address to the Unco Guid, or Rigidly Righteous_. BURNS.
"I may be wrong, Mr. Ward. I can't pretend to much wisdom. I'm an
old, unlettered man, but it seems to me that folks are rather hard on
the poor boy; but I may be wrong, I quite allow I may be wrong."
The speaker was a grey-haired, elderly man, with a thin, worn face,
kind eyes, and rather bent shoulders. His companion, Mr. Ward, was
the Squire of Oakdene, a short, broad, grey-whiskered country
gentleman, somewhat bluff, but still good-natured enough in his way.
The two were returning from a meeting of the church-wardens on an
afternoon in January, and happening to see Donovan Farrant sauntering
along the road in front of them, with his dog at his heels, they had
begun to talk of him.
"I'm sure I wish to be hard on no one," said the squire, swinging his
stick rather vigorously. "But you know, Hayes, the fellow has a very
bad reputation. No one has a good word to say for him."
"Poor boy," said old Mr. Hayes, compassionately. "I suppose it's all
true; but you know one must remember that he's never had a father to
look after him."
"Yes, I know that," said the squire, reflectively; he had sons of his
own, and had very strong ideas about paternal influence. "That's
quite true, and may excuse him to a certain extent. But then it's
impossible to take up with him. I couldn't have him mixing with
Harry and Ned. It isn't that I wish to be uncivil to the boy, but
really it would be most unwise. I don't know what Mrs. Ward would
say if I proposed it. Now you, Hayes, it's different with you;
you're a bachelor, and could easily be a little friendly with him."
"Yes," hesitated Mr. Hayes; "but you know I'm afraid he'd find me a
very dull companion. I'm only a stupid old man, and he is young, and
very clever, they say."
"Bosh!" said the squire, contemptuously--"he ought to be proud to
shake hands with you. You're a great deal too humble-minded, Hayes.
I've no idea of being so deferential to the young generation.
There's a great deal too little of the Fifth Commandment now-a-days;
it wasn't so when I was a boy."
"I felt very sorry for them this Christmas," resumed Mr. Hayes,
gently; "the Manor must have been a sad house; but it's very hard to
know how to help people when you can't send them blankets, or coals,
or Christmas dinners."
"And young Farrant is a precious deal too proud to be helped in any
way," said Mr. Ward, with a laugh. "But, after all, I am sorry for
the boy; it's a sad start in life to have lost one's good name.
What's he after now, stooping down in the snow? We shall catch him
up, and, if so, I must speak to him."
A miserable-looking cat, drenched with water, and with a tin pot tied
to its tail, had been lying half dead by the roadside. Donovan, who
was a great lover of animals, had of course hastened to the rescue;
he had just released the poor terrified creature from its instrument
of torture, and was holding it in his arms, rubbing its wet draggled
fur, when, hearing steps, he glanced round, and found himself face to
face with Mr. Ward and Mr. Hayes. The colour rushed to his cheeks;
he had not time to assume the look of cold haughty indifference with
which he usually confronted his neighbours. He looked so handsome
and boyish, and so unlike a reprobate, that Mr. Ward felt his
compassion rising and his scruples diminishing; besides, the
conversation had rather softened him, and he held out his hand
cordially.
"Well, Farrant, how are you? Mrs. Farrant is quite well, I hope?
You know Mr. Hayes, don't you? Why, what's that?--a drowned cat?"
"Some brute of a boy has nearly killed it," said Donovan, indignation
making him speak naturally. "I think it will come round, though, as
soon as I can get it to a fire."
That an atheist should bestow his attention on a stray cat was very
surprising to the squire. He began to like the fellow. After all,
there was some good in him.
"Had any skating yet?" he asked, in his kindly voice.
"No; our pond is half overgrown with mares-tail; besides, it's too
small to be worth anything."
"Oh! you must come over to our place," said the squire, with
good-humour, which astonished Mr. Hayes. "Our young people have been
on the small lake to-day, and I daresay the large one will bear
to-morrow. You used to be rather a swell at skating, if I remember
right."
"I am very fond of it," said Donovan, and his eyes danced.
"Then come over to-morrow, and whenever you like; it isn't often we
get a frost like this."
"Thank you--I will be sure to come," said Donovan; and as they parted
he lifted his eyes to the squire's with a long searching look, at
once wistful and surprised; then, whistling to Waif, he walked away
with the cat under his arm.
"Now what on earth did I do that for?" said the squire, as he and Mr.
Hayes turned down the lane leading to the Hall gates. "I don't know
what my wife will say, but really, Hayes, I don't dislike the boy;
and how his face lighted up at the thought of the skating! He's not
a bad fellow, after all."
Mr. Ward was quite right in surmising that his wife would be vexed
when she heard of the invitation he had given; he tried hard to
mention it casually when he got home, but there was an undisguisable
anxiety in his voice as he observed,
"Oh! by-the-by, my dear, I met young Farrant just now, and asked him
to come over for skating to-morrow."
Mrs. Ward looked up with as much annoyance as it was possible for a
good, kind-hearted woman to show.
"You asked Donovan Farrant to come _here_?"
"Not to the house, my dear, only to skate on the lake. I really
don't see how I could avoid it; he is a first-rate skater, and this
is the only ice for miles round."
"But only the other day, Edward, you said you wouldn't have him about
with the boys on any account. I really think you might be more
careful. It will be beginning an intimacy, and then, with such near
neighbours, we shall find it impossible to break it off. It is just
the most dangerous time, too, with Harry back from Oxford, ready to
make friends with anyone, and Ned fresh from school."
"My dear, surely they needn't become friends because they skate on
the same lake; besides, I assure you young Farrant is not so bad as
people make out."
"Well, Edward, he is not at all the kind of companion I like for the
boys, and I've heard you say the same thing yourself. No one visits
him, he reads with that Mr. Alleyne at Greyshot, a most unprincipled
man, and you yourself heard that he attended Raeburn's lectures."
"I heard that he had been seen at one," said the squire, rather
testily.
"And that is quite enough, I am sure, to prove him an unfit companion
for our children," replied Mrs. Ward. "Only the other day, too, I
met him at the library and heard him asking for books on Positivism;
besides, no one invented the account of his school life, I suppose."
"Well, he's not likely to talk either of Raeburn or of Positivism on
the ice, I should think," said Mr. Ward, with a smile. "Come, my
dear, it is not like you to be inhospitable, let the poor fellow be
here just this once."
"Of course he must come now you have asked him," said Mrs. Ward, with
a sigh. "But I am vexed about it. I do think one should be careful
with boys like Harry and Ned, and with three girls only just out.
Donovan Farrant is so good-looking."
She sighed again. The squire laughed heartily.
"Now about the boys I don't feel so positive, I own, but you may set
your mind quite at rest about the girls, for this dangerous young
fellow whom you dread so much is a professed woman-hater. And you
know, my dear, even the author of evil is not so black as he's
painted."
Mrs. Ward sighed, but she said no more, only secretly in her heart
she hoped the frost would not continue.
Donovan was on the ice before anyone else the next morning, and for
some time had the lake to himself. By-and-by two or three carriages
drove up with people from the neighbourhood whom he knew slightly,
and towards the middle of the day the squire and his two sons came
down, but, beyond an ordinary greeting, very little passed between
them. The squire was too good-natured a man not to feel glad that,
in spite of his wife's scruples, he had invited the objectionable
neighbour to come; his intense enjoyment and his first-rate skating
were pleasant to watch, too. Mr. Ward really felt sorry when, early
in the afternoon, he saw him taking off his skates."
"You are leaving very soon," he said, kindly. "I hope it is not on
account of luncheon. Won't you come up to the house and have
something?"
The invitation slipped out naturally, the squire found it hard not to
be hospitable. But luckily Donovan declined. He never left Dot now
for a whole day, and, giving the ordinary excuse of "an engagement,"
he left the lake, the squire of course inviting him to come again the
next day, and as long as the frost lasted.
Mrs. Ward was much relieved when, on coming down from the house with
her daughters and her niece, she found that the object of her alarms
was really gone. Everyone was singing his praises--that was a little
annoying, certainly--but she learnt from her husband that he had been
far too much taken up with his figure-cutting to trouble the boys
with his company, and with that she was satisfied, and dismissed the
subject from her thoughts.
The next day, however, was not nearly so propitious. To begin with,
the girls would go on the ice in the morning, and, though Mrs. Ward
hurried over her housekeeping and followed them as quickly as
possible, she found that already the intimacy which she so much
dreaded had begun. The first sight that met her eyes as she emerged
from the shrubbery was a little knot of people gathered together on
the bank. Her husband leaning on his stick and talking jocosely, her
younger daughter, and her niece, Maggie White, just preparing for
their first start, and Donovan Farrant kneeling in the snow, putting
on her elder daughter's skates. It was very provoking! Why had not
the girls been more careful? Why had she not sent down the servant
to help them? Why did her husband stand there so carelessly,
laughing and talking? Her greeting to Donovan was stiff and chill,
but he was much too happy to care, the day was gloriously fine, the
frosty air invigorating, Mr. Ward and his daughters had been kind and
friendly, Maggie White was bewitching, for once in his life Donovan
was perfectly and healthily happy. He had been on the ice for some
time, his usually pale, dark face was all aglow with the exercise,
and his eyes were sparkling with excitement, he certainly looked most
provokingly handsome, and perhaps there was some cause for Mrs.
Ward's anxiety,
"How could you let him help the girls like that?" she said,
reproachfully, as the skaters glided swiftly away. "I thought,
Edward, you told me he was a regular misanthrope."
"Well, I don't see that he has done much harm, my dear,"' said the
squire. "Common courtesy would require him to help the ladies, and
I'm glad to see him lose that cold proud look; he was more of a boy
to-day."
"I have warned the girls to be careful, but there's no knowing what
Maggie will do. She's a dreadful little flirt!" and Mrs. Ward looked
anxiously across the lake to the place where Donovan was giving her
niece a lesson in the figure eight.
"Well," said the squire, consolingly, "Maggie's a very nice girl, at
any rate, and if she is, as you say, a flirt, then you may be pretty
sure that she won't get her heart broken. Ah! here come the
Fortescues. We have quite a nice number here to-day;" and the
hospitable old gentleman hastened forward to receive his friends.
"You are the only good skater here," said Maggie, looking up
admiringly at her instructor. "Where did you learn? And how can you
manage to do all those wonderful figures?"
"They are only learnt by practice," said Donovan. "I learnt at
school, and at my old home near London. You can do anything well, if
you give your whole will to it."
"Can you?" said Maggie. "I can't. I expect I've had as many weeks
of skating as you have had days. I come from Canada, you know; but I
shall never be able to do these figures as you do."
It was pleasant to be made much of and flattered; an entirely new
experience to Donovan. He thought Maggie White the prettiest and
pleasantest girl he had ever seen. They talked on naturally and
easily, and it was not surprising perhaps that Donovan was in no
hurry to part with his new companion, or that he enjoyed skating
rapidly up and down the lake hand in hand with her more than cutting
figures by himself. Nor did it occur to Maggie that she was guilty
of any great enormity in enjoying herself too. Once she said, in her
pretty way,
"I am keeping you from doing what you like, please go away and leave
me. I am taking up all your time, and spoiling your skating."
And Donovan, though he was no "lady's man," could answer very
truthfully,
"You are making me enjoy it perfectly."
Then they began to talk again of Canada, and she described all its
delights to him.
"Such fun we used to have in the skating season. Sometimes we had
regular balls on the ice. It was so delightful! Oh! Mr.
Farrant"--as a sudden thought struck her--"could we dance now? I'm
sure you, who skate so beautifully, would waltz to perfection."
It was very innocently proposed. In a minute Maggie had proclaimed
the news to her cousins as they passed.
"We are going to dance. Why don't you?" And then in a minute the
deed was done, and Mrs. Ward saw with dismay that Donovan Farrant and
her niece were actually dancing together.
Ice-waltzing was a novelty at Oakdene, and everyone turned to watch
the graceful movements of the little Canadian girl and her partner.
Twice they made the circuit of the lake, then, as they passed near
the bank where Mrs. Ward and one of her daughters were standing,
Donovan overheard the words:
"I must stop this. With Donovan Farrant, too. The last person in
the world----"
Maggie felt a quick movement in the arm that was round her waist, and
suddenly her partner stopped, saying, in an odd changed voice,
"I think Mrs. Ward wishes to speak to you."
"To me? All right, auntie, I'm coming. I won't be a minute, Mr.
Farrant."
She skated swiftly to the bank, and listened, with downcast eyes, to
her aunt's words.
"My dear, I don't quite approve of this. I'm sorry to interrupt your
pleasure, but you must allow me to judge in this instance." Then, as
Donovan drew near, she turned to him, trying to convey her meaning as
civilly as she could. "I have been telling my niece that I think
perhaps ice-dancing is a little out of place here. You will
understand, I am sure, Mr. Farrant."
Yes, he understood perfectly. The face which had so lately been
boyishly happy and bright was suddenly overcast, the eyes saddened,
the mouth re-assumed its bitter look, and, without a single word,
Donovan raised his hat, turned away, and skated rapidly to the other
end of the lake.
The brightness of the day was gone for him after that. He went on
skating, but with no animation. Once young Ned Ward came up and
asked him to do the figure of double eight, with which he had been
astonishing the quiet Oakdene skaters early in the morning, but be
complied so moodily that the boy soon left him to seek more genial
companions. Then Donovan resolved to go home. He had been repulsed,
and, just as it was in his home life, so too, in this instance, one
repulse was enough. He had neither enough love nor enough humility
to lay himself open again to the chance of a fresh rebuff. After the
first, he invariably shrank into himself, becoming a little harder,
and colder, and more severe in manner.
He skated to a deserted corner of the lake, climbed the bank, and
took off his skates; then involuntarily he looked back on the
animated scene with a sore-hearted regret. The sun was already
getting low, though it was not three o'clock; its level rays cast a
red glow over the wide white expanse, dotted here and there by the
dark gliding figures of the skaters. The shore was fringed with tall
trees, their black stems serving as a relief to the general
whiteness, and their branches drooping gracefully under the heavy yet
feathery-looking rime. There was an intense stillness in the sharp
frosty air, the voices of the merry crowd rang out clearly; once
Donovan felt sure he heard Maggie White's girlish laugh, and it
grated on him. But in another minute all his morbid and selfish
thoughts were suddenly scattered to the winds, for while he was still
looking across the lake he saw the ice in the centre bend, then, with
one vast booming crack, it parted asunder. In an instant all was
confusion. Donovan sprang from the bank, and ran at full speed to
the scene of the disaster, all petty and personal feelings driven out
by the absorbing general interest and alarm. Several people were in
the water, struggling, sinking, rising, vainly clutching at the
slippery edges of the broken ice. Those who were safe bent forward
helplessly on their skates, trying to reach a hand to their friends
in distress, or calling loudly for help, for ropes, for every sort of
aid which was not at hand. Two ladies were submerged; Donovan coolly
selected one of them while he drew off his coat, then, without an
instant's hesitation, he plunged into the icy water. His example was
speedily followed by Harry Ward, ropes were hastily brought on to the
ice, the rescue began to seem hopeful. Donovan was an expert
swimmer; a few strokes brought him up to the sinking girl, who,
dragged down by the weight of her skates, was being drawn in under
the ice. From this he freed her without much difficulty, but she was
insensible, and he found that to get her out of the water was quite
another matter; he tried several times, but without success; each
time the edges of the ice broke away with the weight, and all he
could do was to keep her head above water, while with increasing
difficulty he struck out with his free arm. The others had been
rescued, or were being helped, and at length a rope was brought to
his aid, a noose was thrown round him and his burden, and, after a
short fierce struggle, he found himself safely on the ice.
With a masculine dislike of being helped, he sprang quickly to his
feet, left his insensible burden to the care of other hands, and
looked round for his coat. Perhaps those who had seen him helped out
with the rope did not know he was a rescuer--perhaps, in the
excitement and hurry of the moment, he was overlooked; at any rate,
no one spoke to him, and all at once his sore morose feeling returned
with double force. The people were beginning to leave the ice
quickly, the girl whom Donovan had rescued began to revive and was
carried up to the house; he turned away in the opposite direction,
picked up his skates from the bank where he had left them, and strode
fiercely away in the direction of the Manor. He had done his best;
one word of praise, or even of recognition, would have sent him home
happy, but by some odd chance, even when he deserved commendation, he
failed to get it. Probably he would have disliked being thanked
above all things, and yet the absence of gratitude irritated him; it
was unjust, no one ever gave him his due, the world was full of
injustice. Over and over in his mind went the weary, bitter,
discontented cry; perhaps his outward condition affected him a
little, adding fuel to the flame, for, although he considered himself
too philosophic to be troubled by mere bodily inconveniences, the
truth was that he felt them more than most men, though he had great
powers of endurance. The icy cold bath which he had just had, and
the discomfort of his cold, clinging, dripping clothes, at any rate
served to remind him continually of his grievance, just as the wound
he had received in the school gauntleting had reminded him for days
of that injustice. He had scarcely passed the Hall gates, when he
was roused from his dismal thoughts by an unexpected greeting.
"Nice bright afternoon," said old Mr. Hayes, shaking his hand. "Have
you been on the ice? Ah, yes, I see you have your skates."
"Yes; there's been an accident," said Donovan, "so I am going home.
The ice on the large lake gave way."
"Bless me!--no one hurt, I hope? Did anyone go in? Why, now I
notice you are all wet. Dear, dear! what a terrible thing! How many
people fell in?"
"I should think about half a dozen," replied Donovan, swinging his
skates and trying to look unconcerned.
"And all were rescued? that's a comfort. And you were helped out
quickly, I hope?"
"Oh! yes," said Donovan, too proud to explain, "I was hauled out."
"Poor fellow! but what a shock it must have been! You'll be taking a
chill. You must come in with me and have something hot, yes, indeed
you must, I'll take no denial. Here we are, you see, at my door.
Come in quickly and have something, and then walk home briskly and
change. Now what shall it be, whisky-punch or negus! I'm an
abstemious man generally, but this is the real time for such things,
wet to the skin and chilled to the bone, dear, dear! Now come in,
come in."
Mr. Hayes had not been disabused of the old ideas about alcohol, but,
whether he was right or wrong, Donovan's brow gradually relaxed under
the influence of the old man's kindness and hospitality; he followed
him obediently into the little villa, which, though only inhabited by
the bachelor Mr. Hayes, was as scrupulously neat as any old maid's
dwelling.
Mr. Hayes rang the bell in the little parlour, all the time making
much of his guest. Could he not accommodate him with a change of
clothes? Should he send up to the Manor, &c.
A grave staid housekeeper appeared to answer the bell, and Mr. Hayes
perhaps thought it would be well to quicken her movements by telling
her the news of the village.
"Some hot water and a lemon and some sugar, please, Mrs. Brown.
There has been an accident on the ice in the Hall grounds, and this
gentleman has been in the water and is very wet."
Then the old man went to the cellaret, and, the housekeeper having
returned with the other ingredients, he began with infinite pleasure
and fussiness to make the punch. He would not let Donovan stay for
long, but as soon as he had done justice to the steaming beverage,
started him on his walk home, with paternal injunctions not to stay
about in his wet things, and to be sure to come in again soon and
cheer up a solitary old bachelor.
Donovan smiled to himself at the last speech. Was it not rather the
"solitary old bachelor;" who had cheered him? The kindness and
hospitality drove away for the time his gloomy thoughts, but they
returned to him as he entered his own home and threw down his skates.
"Good-bye to you, at any rate," he murmured. "I shall never go there
again."
Dot, with her quick all-observing eyes, saw at once that something
was wrong when Donovan came into her room. Yesterday he had returned
in the highest spirits, that very morning he had started with the
look of bright expectation on his face which the little sister liked
to see, but; now he was grave and sad, with the expression which he
always wore when any allusion was made to his school disgrace--the
expression which Dot never cared to put into words--a hard, bad look.
"You are back earlier than you said," she began. "Have you not had
good skating?"
"Yes--no," he moved away from her to the fireplace, and kicked the
coals in the grate with his heel.
"He never stirs the fire with his foot except when something is
wrong," soliloquized Dot; then aloud,
"Have you seen mamma, Dono?"
"No."
It could not be any quarrel, then, in that quarter. What could have
happened? He was so disinclined to talk, however, that she did not
venture to ask any more questions, and in a minute or two he walked
across the room, opened the piano, and began to practise. He had
chosen something of Sebastian Bach's, and laboured away at it, at
first mechanically and doggedly enough, but by degrees with immense
satisfaction and relief to himself. A stately, measured, dignified
strain it was, with one little fidgety, fugue-like passage; he played
five bars of it over and over till the disappointment, and anger, and
moodiness gradually died out of his heart, and poor Dot began to beg
for mercy.
"You must have played it a thousand times," she said, laughing, and
Donovan laughed too, left the piano, and came to sit beside her.
"Bach is as good as a tonic," he said, cheerfully. "That old fellow
always sets me right,"
She saw now that she might talk to him, and began to question him
about his day. He always told her his troubles, but this afternoon
he tried to make light of them.
"We had a glorious time in the morning, the ice was perfect. About
the middle of the time the Miss Wards came down, and their cousin,
Miss White, a very pretty girl from Canada. She skated nicely, was
much more up to things than anyone else, and for a little while we
danced together. Mrs. Ward did not approve of that, though. I
overheard her say something not too complimentary, and then she
managed somehow to stop it, at which, you know, Dot, I was just a
little cross. But, just as I was coming away, guess what happened."
"An accident! Oh! was it an accident?" cried Dot, excitedly. "And
you were brave and helped the others, and Mrs. Ward was obliged to
like you very much?"
He laughed a little, but rather sadly.
"No, Dot. You are running on too fast. I was born under an unlucky
star, and shall never be able to win honour or respect."
He gave her a detailed account of the whole affair, and was rewarded
by her delighted pride in his attempted rescue.
"Dono dear, you ought to have a medal for it, a medal, you know, from
the Society for Promoting--what is it?"
"Cruelty to animals," suggested Donovan, wickedly.
"No, no, you bad boy. Something about being 'humane' and they give
medals to people who save people's lives. Just fancy, Dono, you
could wear it on your watch-chain. It would be so nice."
"Too nice for the like of me," he said, lightly, but with a stifled
sigh. "They keep things of that sort for the good boys."
"And no one even thanked you? That was a shame," said the little
sister, indignantly. "Never mind, Dono, you are my hero, my very
own, and you're the dearest old boy in the world."
Perhaps it was as well that the frost only lasted three days longer.
The skaters grumbled sadly, but two people at Oakdene were
considerably relieved. The one was Mrs. Ward, who rejoiced that
"that dangerous young man" could not again imperil her children, the
other was the "dangerous young man" himself. But if Donovan did not
easily forget injustice, neither did he forget even the most trifling
piece of kindness. After his next day's shooting, he left a brace of
pheasants at old Mr. Hayes' door, and this made an opening for a
further acquaintance. Mr. Hayes wrote to ask him to dinner, and, as
such invitations were rare, Donovan was pleased enough to go. It was
a _tête-à-tête_ dinner. Old Mr. Hayes was past sixty, and Donovan
not yet nineteen, but, in spite of this disparity in age, the evening
was a very pleasant one, and did him good. It was a fresh interest,
an insight into a new home, and also into a life whose simplicity,
kindliness, and content could not fail to strike the most casual
observer.
Mr. Hayes lived very frugally as a rule. The game was an unwonted
luxury, and his evident appreciation of it was very pleasant to
Donovan. He himself had a hearty but philosophic appetite, to which
nothing came amiss, dainty discrimination was not at all in his line,
but he enjoyed watching old Mr. Hayes discuss his present, glad that
what had been pleasure to him in the shooting should be real pleasure
to some one else in the eating.
"You are like Squire Thornhill in 'The Vicar of Wakefield,'" said Mr.
Hayes, when the house-keeper had removed the game, "who brought his
own venison with him when he dined at the vicarage. What! You don't
know the book? Is it possible? Well, I suppose it's old and behind
the times now; but, my word! how I have laughed over it, and cried,
too, for the matter of that. 'Moses at the Fair,' and then 'Olivia!'
Ah! he was a grand fellow, old Goldsmith. There are no such writers
now-a-days."
Then by-and-by some question of Donovan's drew out an account of Mr.
Hayes' former life, the rough discipline of the old boarding-schools,
the early drudgery in a merchant's office, his gradual advance till
he had become a partner in the firm, the losses they had had in the
time of the Crimean War, finally his ill-health, and his retirement,
with a modest income, to the little country villa. A life of toil,
and care, and hardship, with what seemed a very slight reward to
Donovan, but which the old man himself evidently considered quite
sufficient.
"And now, you see," he concluded, "when my health is uncertain, and I
can't do what I once could, why, here I have a cosy little berth to
myself, with no cares or anxieties. It was always my castle in the
air, this, a little house in a country village, with a bit of garden,
and a place to keep fowls in. The thought of this helped me through
years of care and labour. Always remember to have your castle in the
air. That's my advice to you."
"What is the use, sir, if it never comes to anything? Except at
cards, the luck is against me always. And is there not a proverb,
'Blessed is he that expecteth nothing'?"
"Well, well," said Mr. Hayes, "perhaps you're the wiser and more
rational. I don't know exactly about _expecting_--you must expect
very patiently, at any rate. But a 'castle' is a great blessing; I
should miss mine sadly."
"You have a new one, then?" said Donovan, amused.
"Oh, yes; since I came here, I have fixed upon a visit to Switzerland
as my 'castle.' I've been saving up for it this long time, and I've
mapped out my route, and chosen what hotels to go to, and calculated
just what it will cost; and then, you know, when I meet with
travellers, I get hints from them, and put them down in my note-book.
Now this is what I intend to do, starting, you know, from Newhaven to
Dieppe," &c., &c.
The whole tour was detailed with enthusiastic delight, and Donovan
listened, unable to help admiring the child-like, contented old man.
"And when do you think your 'castle' will come off, sir?" he asked,
when the whole plan had been related.
"Oh! that I can't tell at all," said Mr. Hayes, rubbing his hands.
"I have not saved enough yet; but won't it be a _grand_ tour! Come,
own that it's a 'castle' worth having."