A MAN AND A BROTHER.
Charity is greater than justice? Yes, it is greater, it is the
summit of justice--it is the temple of which justice is the
foundation. But you cannot have the top without the bottom; you
cannot build upon charity. You must build upon justice, for this
main reason, that you have not at first charity to build with. It is
the last reward of good work. Do justice to your brother (you can do
that whether you love him or not), and you will come to love him.
_Wreath of Wild Olive_. RUSKIN.
The 30th of September was a cold, blowy day, the wind seemed to take
a special pleasure in howling and whistling about the dismal lodgings
where Donovan was working. It was evening, the table was covered
with bulky volumes, with papers of notes and manuscript books; he had
always had the faculty of doing with a will whatever he undertook,
and he was so absorbed in his work that he scarcely noticed a violent
peal at the door-bell; it was not till the howling wind was eddying
through the passage and the infirm fastening of his sitting-room door
had succumbed to the blast and burst open, that he became alive to
the fact that Stephen Causton was to come up to town that evening,
and that this gust of wind probably announced his advent.
It was a blustering arrival altogether, the landlady's welcome was
almost lost in the general hubbub. Donovan heard a loud and rather
rough voice replying.
"Well, Mrs. Green, how are you? Here, you boy, put down the
portmanteau."
Then came a slow counting out of coin.
"Please, sir, it were awful 'eavy," pleaded a shrill voice, "it were
fit to break a chap's arm."
"Nonsense," came the loud voice again, "it's not more than three
hundred yards from----"
"Good evening," interrupted Donovan, suddenly emerging from the
sitting-room, and finding himself in the presence of a light-haired,
bushy-whiskered double of Mrs. Causton.
"Oh! good evening," said Stephen, holding out his hand, and hastily
glancing at his new companion. "I've all sorts of messages for you
from Porthkerran."
Donovan's hands clenched and unclenched themselves. It was a little
hard to hear messages from Porthkerran spoken of in such a careless
tone.
The little street boy who had carried the portmanteau began to plead
again for "another copper or two."
"Nonsense, be off, you beggar!" was Stephen's lordly reply, and he
passed into the sitting-room, giving a chagrined exclamation at
finding no supper ready for him.
Donovan left the landlady to pacify him, and partly from dislike to
the tone which his companion had used, partly from his horror of
under-paying labour, made the little street boy happy with a
sixpence. Then he pushed the front-door to with a vigorous slam, and
slowly returned to the sitting-room.
Stephen, feeling that he had a somewhat taciturn companion, talked
more than usual, and pleasantly enough. However much he resembled
his mother in face, he was evidently singularly unlike her in every
other way, and Donovan was surprised that Mrs. Causton should
tolerate such very free and easy manners, or that anyone brought up
so strictly should sprinkle his conversation so plentifully with
slang and mild oaths. Was this Dick Tremain's specimen of a
"mother's son"? Surely he must have broken loose from his
leading-strings!
The fact was that Stephen at Porthkerran and Stephen in London were
two very different beings; he did not at first intentionally deceive
his mother, but inevitably he had struck out into a line of his own
widely different from hers. Too weak to care to set up his
principles in open defiance he lived a sort of double life, taking
his fling when alone, and meekly deferring to his mother's opinion
when at Porthkerran. The result of this falseness was most unhappy.
Donovan scrutinized his companion's face keenly that first evening,
but after all, in spite of the narrow forehead, and the eyes which
rarely looked straight into other eyes, he took rather a liking to
Stephen--was he not a friend of the Tremains? the one link which
might still exist between them.
It was not for some days that he found out the truth about his new
companion. He knew that his bringing up had been of the narrowest,
and guessed from the very first that he had shaken off the old
traditions, and was taking his own way, but it was not all at once
that he realised what that way was.
One October evening when the day's lectures were over, and the two
had just finished dinner, the conversation drifted somehow to
Porthkerran. It was a very chilly night, Stephen had insisted on
having a fire, and dragging up an arm-chair to the hearth, sat
crouched up like any old man; Donovan, with his feet on the
mantelpiece, American fashion, listened silently to the continuous
flow of talk, not taking great note of it until the name of Tremain
fell on his ear.
"Johnson's a good enough fellow," Stephen was saying. "Not, perhaps,
what Dr. Tremain would approve of, but one can't be so strait-laced
as he is."
"The doctor strait-laced!" exclaimed Donovan. "That's the last word
you can apply to him. Strait-laced! why, he's the very soul of
liberality."
"In some ways," replied Stephen, coolly, "but not all round. I was a
year in his surgery, and I can tell you he's not the easiest master
to serve. I wouldn't have him know that Johnson and Curtis were my
friends for--'a wilderness of monkeys,' as old Shylock has it. Not
that they're either of them bad fellows, but they're the sort that
the doctor can't abide."
Donovan only knew the two students by sight, but he was able to guess
pretty well to what set they belonged, and he knew that they were
probably the very worst friends for anyone so weak-minded as Stephen.
The reference to the Tremains, however, brought too many painful
thoughts to his mind to admit of his dwelling on his companion's
words. He did not speak, and Stephen, thrusting his feet almost
under the grate, continued,
"One can't be a slave to another man's opinion, but of course I do
try to keep in the doctor's good books, not altogether to please him
either. I suppose you saw a good deal of Gladys, didn't you."
"A good deal," replied Donovan, steadily; but as he spoke he swung
down his feet from the mantelpiece, and pushing back his chair began
to pace up and down the room.
"She's an awfully jolly little thing, isn't she," continued Stephen.
"And she's grown uncommonly pretty too."
Donovan longed to kick him; Stephen talked on in easy unconsciousness.
"Her colouring's rather too high, certainly, but she's a very fine
girl. I lost my heart to her years ago, and though of course I've
had half a dozen flames since, not one of them was fit to be compared
with her. I'd a fortnight at Porthkerran before coming up here, you
know, and jolly enough it was too. Between ourselves my mother is
quite ready to help me to see plenty of Gladys Tremain, nothing would
please her so well as to have Gladys for a daughter-in-law, and, by
Jove, she'd make a stunning good wife. I don't believe she dislikes
me either, she was much more ready to be talked to than usual. We
shouldn't be half badly matched. What do you think?"
"Discuss your love affairs with anyone you please, but not with me,"
said Donovan, reining in his voice with difficulty. "You ought to
have found out before now that I'm made of cast iron, and chosen your
confidant better."
"Well, all right, I won't bore you," replied Stephen; "where are you
off to? don't go."
"I can't read yet, I'm going out."
"Johnson said he'd look in this evening, we'll have a round of 'Nap,'
that'll be better than turning out on such a night as this."
"You won't play while I'm in the house," said Donovan, decidedly.
"Look here, Causton, just understand once for all that if you bring
those fellows here we dissolve partnership at once. I can get rooms
elsewhere, but get into that set I will not."
"All right, my dear fellow, don't get into such a fume," said
Stephen, trying to yawn carelessly. "They shan't come here if you
feel so strongly about it, though after all you don't know that we
shouldn't play for three-penny points."
"I wasn't born yesterday," said Donovan, shortly, and with that he
went out, snatched up his hat, and, slamming the front door after
him, hurried out into the street.
His brain was in a whirl of confusion, he strode on recklessly down
the dingy street, out into the broad road, past the brilliant lights
of Sanger's Circus, past the hospital to Westminster Bridge. Then he
paused, and leaning on the southern parapet, in the very place where
Noir Frewin had met him years ago, he let the wild confusion work
itself out into distinct realities.
This fellow loved, or professed to love Gladys; the thought was
simply intolerable to him. He loved her, but spoke of her as Donovan
would hardly have spoken of Waif, loved her, and, sanctioned by his
mother, evidently meant to woo her! And--worst misery of all!--what
was there to prevent it? he was absolutely helpless, he could only
look on in dumb despair. Never more could he go to that Cornish
home, never more see the face of the woman he loved, but he should
hear of Stephen Causton's visits, _he_ might go there with impunity,
he might spend long hours with Gladys, might woo her and win her! It
was maddening! the thought of it roused all the stormiest passions in
Donovan's heart. He absolutely hated Stephen, hated and despised
him, dwelt with bitterest scorn on his weakness, his many failings.
The fiend of jealousy rode rampant over every better feeling,
quenched for the time all that was noble in him. Only for a time,
however; before long he was taxing himself--not Stephen--with
cowardly weakness.
Yes, after all, with him lay the fault. What right had he to be
angry because another man ventured to admire Gladys? What concern
was it of his? Had he not resolved on absolute sacrifice of
self?--yet here was the wily self coming to the fore again, firing up
indignantly because another man desired what he had renounced.
And Stephen was not so entirely despicable as in his rage he had
imagined him to be. At any rate he had far more right to think of
marrying Gladys than Donovan himself had. What business had he, of
all people, to fly into a passion because one worthier than himself
had stepped forward? Enjoyment, happiness, was not for him; a line
of plodding duty--of entire sacrifice--was the course marked out
instead. The "steep of honour" was before him, his reward must be in
the "deeds of duteous service" themselves.
It should be so. The fire of indignation died down, leaving him
quiet, passive, horribly depressed, but still resolutely determined
to keep on in this dreary round of duty.
The cold night wind blowing up from the river helped to brace him for
the struggle; air and wide open space had always a very strange
influence over him, this evening he felt their influence more than
ever. The river flowed darkly onward, the lights on its margin threw
their yellow reflection in a second golden chain, to the left stood
up the sombre towers of the Abbey, and the huge mass of the Houses of
Parliament loomed grandly out of the darkness. Sounds of life and
traffic rose, too, out of the night. Trains flashed like fiery
serpents over Charing Cross Bridge, with shriek of whistle and snort
of engine; carriages, horses, passengers of every description hurried
on. After all it was a grand old world, no world of units, there was
a national life to be lived as well as a private life, there were
national grievances which would outweigh and eclipse all private
grievances, there was--even to a sometime misanthrope--the enthusiasm
of humanity, a wonderful panacea for self pain.
He was conscious of that widening influence, but more conscious of a
sudden contraction caused by the sound of a voice he knew. Glancing
round he saw Stephen and two other men within a few yards of him.
"No, I've never played there," Stephen was saying.
"Time you were initiated, then," replied one of his companions.
"Smithson will be there by nine; he's better at billiards than anyone
I know, a regular----"
The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, there was a
general laugh, and then Donovan heard no more.
He watched the three as they crossed the bridge, and saw them turn to
the right; he guessed well enough where they were going. It was
quite evident that Stephen was getting completely under the influence
of Johnson and the set to which he belonged. In an instant all the
thoughts of brotherhood, freedom, and self-sacrifice were banished
from Donovan's mind, and a very devilish idea took possession of him.
Stephen was deplorably weak-minded, he would get completely under
Johnson's thumb, would very likely go to the bad altogether, and, if
so, he would unfit himself for Gladys. In one moment there rose
before him a picture of the future, Stephen the orthodox dragged down
into disgrace and rejection; himself, an agnostic indeed, but the
model of virtue and morality, rewarded by success.
It was a fiendish imagination, lasting only for a minute; he dashed
it down, and stood shamefaced and full of self-loathing in the world
of realities again.
The Westminster chimes rang out into the night. Big Ben boomed the
hour--nine of those deep, reverberating strokes fell on Donovan's
ear. Before the last echo had died into silence he had made up his
mind what to do. With the natural instinct of a generous character,
he, having wronged Stephen in thought, was anxious now to redress the
wrong by some kind of service. Thoughts of the Tremains, too, came
crowding into his mind; Stephen was their friend, the doctor's
godson; if he went wrong the Tremains would be infinitely sorry. He
must at any rate try to get him away from that set into which he had
fallen, make some effort to dissuade him from a course which would so
thoroughly shock his mother.
He hurried along with rapid strides, trying not to think how much he
disliked the task before him, racking his brain for some excuse by
which to draw Stephen away, at any rate for this evening. He had
only a few minutes in which to form his plans; before long he had
passed under the dark railway bridge, and had turned up Villiers
Street. He had not been in this particular place since the miserable
New Year's Eve just before his illness, when his one longing had been
to stifle his remorse, and to still those awful recollections of
Dot's death-bed; an extraordinary change had passed over him since
then, but he did not think of that himself, or contrast the present
Donovan with the past, only as he went through the swing doors into
the brightly-lighted saloon, a vague association of pain and misery
came to him, a sort of ghost of the past seemed to hover about the
place.
His quick eye had soon taken a survey of the tables, and had descried
Stephen Causton cue in hand; the place was crowded; he made his way
towards him and stood for some time watching him in silence; he was
betting on his own play with despicable rashness, and he was playing
exceedingly ill. Donovan had an insane desire to snatch the cue from
him and play himself, it was most irritating to watch the game.
Presently he became conscious that some one's eyes were riveted upon
him, he glanced round in involuntary reply to that strange magnetic
influence. It was only the marker, a dark-haired man, with a face
which somehow seemed familiar to him. As Donovan's eyes met his he
turned away, however, apparently that fixed scrutiny had been quite
purposeless. Curious deep blue eyes, a somewhat broad face, and
black hair--why, the fellow had a Cornish look! And then it suddenly
flashed into Donovan's mind that the likeness which had struck him
was a likeness to Trevethan the blacksmith. Surely this must be Jack
Trevethan for whom he had promised to search. He went round to the
marker's seat, there was no time for beating about the bush, he just
bent forward and said in a low voice,
"Is your name John Trevethan?"
The billiard-marker started violently, and his dark face flushed.
Donovan felt at once that his guess had been correct, even though the
man gave an angry denial.
"My name's Smith. What do you want with me?"
"Nothing. But I have a message for a man named Trevethan from his
father," said Donovan, carelessly. "I see I was mistaken, but you
are like the description given me."
He moved away then, and made his way to Stephen. A fresh game had
just been begun, this time Stephen was only looking on; he had lost a
good deal, and was not in the best of tempers.
"What, you here, Farrant!" he exclaimed, with surprise, for he had
been too much engrossed to notice Donovan before he actually spoke to
him.
"You passed me just now on Westminster Bridge, I came in here to try
to get hold of you. Haven't you had enough of this? Come with me
and hear the 'Cloches de Corneville,' we've not had so much as
sixpenny worth of music since you came up."
"I can't come now, I'm with these other fellows," said Stephen,
irresolutely.
"Can't!" ejaculated Donovan, scornfully. "You've not sold yourself
to them, I suppose. Come along, you've had your game, and we shall
just be in time for the half price."
Stephen was always easily led, a little more persuasion and the
stronger will triumphed, Donovan gained the day.
As they passed out of the saloon he glanced once more at the
billiard-marker; he was so convinced of his identity with Trevethan's
son that he could not make up his mind to go without one more effort.
Hastily scrawling his name and address on a card he once more crossed
over towards the Cornishman, and said, with apparent carelessness,
"If you happen to know anything of this Trevethan, he will be able to
get news of his father at this address."
The man did not speak, but he took the card, and as Donovan turned
away he neglected his duties to look after him as he passed down the
long saloon.
"The light one was young Causton, but who can he be?" mused the
billiard-marker. "Farrant! there was no such name at Porthkerran.
He's a knowing hand, wanted to get the other out of this, and hooked
him neat enough, but I was up to him, I wasn't going to be fooled out
of my name."
With which reflections he put Donovan's card into his waistcoat
pocket, and with a sigh returned to his neglected duties. But in
spite of his satisfaction at not having been "fooled" into a
confession, the thought of his old father at Porthkerran haunted him
uncomfortably.
Stephen meantime was listening with great delight to the music at the
Opera Comique, Donovan fancied some resemblance to Porthkerran in the
little fishing town represented on the stage, and therewith heard and
saw little else, but in a sort of dream lived again the months he had
spent with the Tremains, returning every now and then to the prosaic
realisation that he was in a hot theatre with his rival beside him,
this Stephen Causton to whom he must before all things be perfectly
just. The orchestra twanged and scraped, the songs and choruses
succeeded one another, the audience applauded, and Donovan forced
himself away from the thoughts of the little Cornish village, and
made himself face the present and think out his plans with regard to
Stephen.
The result of this was that as they walked home he told him a little
about his former life, and Stephen was for the time impressed, liked
Donovan better than he had ever liked him before, and perhaps for the
first time thoroughly respected him. But though he made many
resolutions not to be led away by Johnson and Curtis, daylight and
some disagreeable chaffing from his former companions about his
capture by Donovan Farrant, undid all the good that had been done.
Donovan saw that something was amiss when they met at dinner-time.
He had made up his mind to do all possible justice to Stephen, to
ignore his failings, and to be perfectly friendly with him, but his
patience was severely tried by the resolute sulkiness of his
companion's manner.
Hardly a word was spoken during the meal; as soon as might be,
Donovan turned his chair round to the fire and took up the _Daily
News_; Stephen too got up from the table, and stood with his back
against the mantelpiece. Presently he broke the silence.
"I say, Farrant, just understand at once, please, that I won't have
you dogging me again to-night."
"I thought you were due at the hospital," said Donovan, carelessly.
"So I am; but you know well enough what I mean. You know that you
dogged me last night."
"If by knowing where you were and following you, you mean dogging, I
certainly did," said Donovan, throwing aside his paper. "I suppose
Curtis and Co. have been chaffing you?"
"That's no concern of yours, and I'm not going to be interfered with,
so just understand."
"I've not the least wish to interfere," said Donovan. "I told you
last night why I tried to get you away; I believed that you didn't
know what that sort of thing leads to. Now you do know, and if you
choose to run into danger with your eyes open, the more fool you."
"You're the last fellow in the world who has a right to dictate to
me," said Stephen, with offended dignity.
"I don't dictate, I only warn you that you'll come to grief unless
you break with that set."
"And what concern is that of yours, pray?"
"More than you fancy," said Donovan, quietly. "You are a friend of
the Tremains, and so am I."
"But I'm not going to bow down to Dr. Tremain in everything, and I
told you so before; he's a good enough old fellow, but----"
"Take care how you speak of him," said Donovan, his eyes flashing.
"Don't look so furious; what did I say? You seem to consider the
Tremains your special property. I've known them more years than you
have months."
"Then I wonder that you care to take up with fellows whom the doctor
would disapprove of. And besides, Causton, if what you told me last
night is true, if you really care for--for Miss Tremain, I should
have thought you wouldn't have been able to go about with such cads."
"Of course I care for Gladys; but what on earth has that to do with
the chums I have here?"
"A great deal," said Donovan, vehemently. "Do you think you'll ever
be worthy of her if you go on making such a fool of yourself? You
know you're hardly fit to look at her now, and what do you think
you'll be like if you let such fellows as Johnson and Curtis lead you
by the nose? You'll be a weak-minded, despicable fool. I tell you,
if you mean to dream of marrying Miss Tremain, you must fit yourself
for her."
"You're wonderfully exercised about it; I believe you want to have
her for yourself," said Stephen, tauntingly.
The hot blood rushed to Donovan's face, his eyes fairly blazed with
anger; in ungovernable fury he snatched up a boot-jack and hurled it
at his companion's head.
The next instant, however, the threatened tragedy became utterly
comic; Stephen, to save his head, warded off the blow with his arm,
and the boot-jack hit him with considerable force on the elbow.
Numb, and tingling to the very finger-tips, he simply danced with
pain. Waif's tail got trodden on, and he howled dismally; the
fire-irons were knocked down, and went clattering into the fender,
and Donovan, overcome by the absurdity of the scene, forgot his
anger, and fell into a perfect paroxysm of laughter. Stephen laughed
too.
"You wretch! it was my funny-bone. By Jove! I believe you've broken
it."
"A medical riddle for you," said Donovan, as soon as he could speak
for laughing. "Why is the funny-bone so named?"
Stephen gave it up, and, as the clock struck, remembered that it was
time he went back to the hospital. He went off laughing at the
answer, "Because it borders on the humerus," and apparently the
incident of the boot-jack had really dispelled his sulkiness.
Donovan picked up the fire-irons, patted Waif, and then, taking an
armful of books from the sideboard, settled down to his evening's
work. The boot-jack was ever after a theme for laughter, but they
neither of them alluded again to the conversation which had led to
the quarrel, nor did Stephen ever think there was the smallest truth
in his taunt. He could not imagine anyone so matter-of-fact as
Donovan actually falling in love, and the stony silence with which
all his remarks about Gladys were met only confirmed him in the
opinion that his companion was indeed of the "cast iron" philosopher
type.
To Donovan that year was a hard struggle. The continual worry about
Stephen, and the friction of his presence, were perhaps good for him;
they certainly prevented him from becoming self-engrossed; but there
were times when he felt unbearably jaded and harassed, as if he could
not much longer keep up the weary fight. He grew curiously fond of
Stephen, and Stephen returned the liking in his own odd way,
vacillating between Donovan and his old companions, and proving his
miserable weakness of will; but, though Donovan saved him from much,
he could not prevent the steady downhill course into which he had
fallen.
The approach of the long vacation brought another struggle, and
another hardly-won victory. There was a very urgent invitation to
Porthkerran. Of course it must be refused, but Donovan had to go
through the old battle once more before the letter was written. He
made it a question of economy this time; his finances were low, and
he had made up his mind to stay in town through the summer months,
having obtained temporary employment in working up the book-keeping
of some small tradesman. The Tremains were sorry, but could say
nothing against such a plan; and Donovan saw Stephen go westward for
his three months' holiday close to Gladys' home, and felt a bitter
pang of envy.
He worked almost fiercely through those stifling summer months, and
in every spare moment read hungrily on all sides of the great
question which was gradually filling his mind more and more. There
was temporary satisfaction in the actual reading, but he seemed to
gain little from it. Arguments for, repulsed him; arguments against,
pained him. He felt no nearer the knowledge of the truth.
October brought a return to his hospital work, and fresh difficulties
with Stephen, who came back from Porthkerran inclined to break out
into violent re-action after the subdued atmosphere of his mother's
house.
Mrs. Causton herself had not been altogether satisfied with her son
during the vacation. She wondered whether Donovan's influence could
be bad for him, and after he had left she worried herself so much
about him that she at length resolved to go up to town for a week,
visit him in his rooms, and satisfy herself that the doctor's
_protégé_ was not corrupting him.
One morning when Donovan was sitting at breakfast, discussing a tough
essay on "Spontaneous Generation," over weak coffee and leathery
toast, there came a knock at the door, the landlady announced "Mrs.
Causton," and much surprised, he found himself face to face with
Stephen's mother.
"I have taken you by surprise, Mr. Farrant," she began, in her rather
demure voice. "I came up unexpectedly to town on business, and was
anxious to find Stephen before his lectures began. I arrived too
late last night to come and see him then, as I had intended doing.
Stephen is not unwell, I hope? I see you are breakfasting alone."
"He will be down directly," said Donovan. "Let me give you some
coffee, Mrs. Causton; and then I'll go and call Stephen."
"Yes, pray tell him I am here," replied Mrs. Causton. "No coffee,
thank you. I breakfasted at my hotel. Pray call Stephen. I hope he
is not often so late as this?"
Donovan judiciously ignored that question, and went to summon the
hope of the Caustons, whom he found sleeping the sleep of the just,
and in the meantime the anxious mother took a rapid survey of the
sitting-room. It was redolent of tobacco, but no doubt that was due
to Donovan Farrant; for the rest she could see nothing to find fault
with, unless indeed the evil lurked in those books piled up on the
sideboard. She crossed the room, and put up her double gold-rimmed
eye-glasses to read the titles. There were several works on medicine
and surgery, and some bulky volumes of science, then came an untidy
pile of a strangely heterogeneous character. She read the titles
with great dissatisfaction. Maurice, Renan, Haeckel, Kingsley,
Strauss, Erskine, and at the top an open volume, Draper's "Conflict
between Religion and Science." She turned to the fly-leaf. It was a
much worn, second-hand book, but under two half erased names was
written "D. Farrant." Of course all these books belonged to him, but
how could she tell that Stephen did not read them too?
Her manner when Donovan came down again was decidedly stiff. He felt
it at once, and it hurt him a little, for the recollection that she
had left Porthkerran only the day before, had raised a great hunger
in his heart for news of Gladys.
"I hope they are all well at Trenant?" he asked, hoping that her
answer might go a little into details; but he only extracted a
general reply that everyone was well, that Porthkerran was very
little altered, and that old Admiral Smith had been suffering very
much from rheumatic gout.
Before long Stephen appeared, having evidently performed a very hasty
toilette, and Donovan, thinking it well to leave the mother and son
alone, whistled to Waif and went out.
"How do you like Mr. Farrant? is he a pleasant companion?" asked Mrs.
Causton, as the front door closed.
"Oh! he's a very good sort of fellow," said Stephen, ringing the bell
for his breakfast, "he's very clever, and works like a nigger."
"Then I wonder he has time to waste on such a paper as this," said
Mrs. Causton, laying her black gloved hand on the _Sporting News_.
The _Sporting News_, as it happened, was Stephen's paper, but he
could not allow his mother to know that; with a slight pricking of
conscience he merely turned the conversation.
"Oh! of course even the hardest working fellows must have a little
relaxation. Farrant reads on every subject under the sun."
"I hope you never open those dreadful books of his which I see over
there?" asked Mrs. Causton, apprehensively.
"Oh! dear no," replied Stephen, this time with perfect truth.
"They're a great deal too stiff for me."
Mrs. Causton gave a relieved sigh and the conversation drifted away
from Donovan to the examination which Stephen was going in for that
term. He had lost much valuable time when his eyes had been bad, but
was nevertheless very sanguine.
"I must own," said Mrs. Causton, as she walked back to her hotel with
Stephen, "that it will be rather a relief to me when your course is
over. I don't altogether like this arrangement of sharing rooms with
Mr. Farrant, I hope he never speaks to you about religious matters."
"Never; he's a very taciturn fellow, and as to theology, we should
never dream of discussing it, so you may be quite happy, mother."
His manner re-assured Mrs. Causton, and he spared no pains to please
her during her week's stay, escorting her to the National Gallery,
and the British Museum, and one night even submitting to the very
dullest of meetings at Exeter Hall.
"If that poor Donovan Farrant would have come with us," sighed good
Mrs. Causton, at the close of a speech which had roused her to
enthusiasm.
"Not much in his line, I'm afraid," said Stephen, heartily applauding
the speaker with hands and feet in a way which delighted his mother.
"Dear Stephen was so much impressed by Mr. ----," she told one of her
friends afterwards. And the poor lady went back to Cornwall quite
satisfied that her son was doing well, that even Dr. Tremain's
suggestion that he should lodge with Donovan Farrant had not proved
really dangerous. It was, she still thought, a somewhat rash
experiment, but certainly dear Stephen was not the least contaminated.