A BRAVE SPRITE.
Wonder it is to see in diverse mindes
How diversely love doth his pageants play,
And shewes his powre in variable kindes:
The baser wit, whose ydle thoughts alway
Are wont to cleave unto the lowly clay,
It stirreth up to sensuall desire,
But in brave sprite it kindles goodly fire,
That to all high desert and honour doth aspire.
Ne suffereth it uncomely idlenesse
In his free thought to build her sluggish nest,
Ne suffereth it thought of ungentlenesse
Ever to creep into his noble breast;
But to the highest and the worthiest,
Lifteth it up that els would lowly fall:
It lettes not fall, it lettes it not to rest;
It lettes not scarse this Prince to breath at all,
But to his first poursuit him forward still doth call.
_Faerie Queen_. SPENSER.
"Curtis sent you word that he was going by the 9.30 to-morrow," said
Donovan, coming into the sitting-room one autumn evening, and finding
Stephen for once really hard at work.
"All right," was the laconic answer.
"You're not going to the Z---- Races?" asked Donovan, abruptly.
Stephen looked up with a smile.
"In the words of the old Quaker I must answer, 'Friend, first thee
tellest a lie, and then thee askest a question.'"
"But with the examination so near and your preparation so frightfully
behindhand," urged Donovan.
"Am I not grinding like fifty niggers now to make up?" said Stephen.
"But it's such nonsense your going," continued Donovan, rather
incautiously. "Why, you hardly know a horse from a donkey; you'll
only get fleeced, and come home up to your neck in debt."
"I wish you'd let me alone," said Stephen; "I tell you I'm going, and
you won't bother me out of it, so do shut up."
"What do you imagine your mother would say to it, if she knew?"
The question was an uncomfortable one, and, moreover, Donovan had the
power of forcing Stephen to listen to him; he went on, gravely,
"However much you may kick at the word dishonourable, you can hardly
say the way you are going on is anything else; only a few weeks ago
you were going to an Exeter Hall meeting with Mrs. Causton, and now
you are going to the Z---- Meeting with a set of snobs who, as sure
as fate, will get you into some scrape."
Stephen was imperturbably good-humoured that evening; he did not take
exception even at this very plain speaking, he only swung himself
lazily back in his chair and yawned prodigiously. When Donovan had
ended, he sat musing for a minute or two, then said, abruptly,
"I tell you what, Farrant, you won't persuade me out of going, but I
don't care a rap about being with these fellows if you would go.
Come, you can spare a day well enough, and we can have no end of a
spree."
Donovan could ill afford such an unnecessary expense, but he knew
that his presence would probably keep Stephen straight, and, after
some deliberation, he consented to go.
The day proved to be exceedingly fine, one of those still autumn days
when scarcely a breath is stirring, when the limp yellow leaves float
down slowly and noiselessly from the rapidly thinning trees, and the
sun sends its softened beams through a golden misty haze. It was
most delicious to get out of smoky London; except for long walks
every Sunday, Donovan had not actually been out of town for more than
a year, and the change was thoroughly enjoyable. In spite of sundry
recollections of old times which would intrude themselves upon him,
the day really bid fair to be a pleasant one. Stephen was
companionable enough, and everything was so fresh to him that Donovan
found it easy work to keep him out of difficulties.
All went well till the races were over, then, as they were elbowing
their way through the crowd surrounding the grand stand, Donovan
suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and a well-known voice ringing
in his ear.
"Well, milord, who would have thought of seeing you here! How are
you, my dear fellow?"
He turned round to have his hand grasped by old Rouge Frewin. There
he was, as unchanged as if for all this eventful time the world had
been standing still with him, the same genial, cheery, red-faced old
captain who had watched by his sick-bed at Monaco, and cried like a
baby when they had parted at Paris. Donovan would have been both
ungrateful and unnatural if his first thought had not been one of
real pleasure at meeting again the kindly old man.
"Why, captain, this is an odd chance that has brought us together.
How natural it seems to see you again! What corner of the moon have
you dropped from?"
"Tacking between London and Paris ever since you left us," said
Rouge, with a sigh. "I've missed you, lad; it's a hard life for an
old man like me; I'm growing old, Donovan, growing old fast, and Noir
has been hard on me since you went."
"Is Noir here to-day?"
"No, he was to come back from Paris to-night; I don't know the ins
and outs of it, but Noir is very uneasy just now, he won't settle
down in England comfortably, and it's a miserable life this knocking
about among foreigners; it's killing me by inches, and poor old
Sweepstakes too."
"What, is Sweepstakes still in the land of the living?"
"Yes, he's at my rooms in town, not the old place in Drury Lane, Noir
wouldn't go there again. By-the-by, milord, what are you doing with
yourself now?"
The question first reminded Donovan that there were reasons which
made it advisable not to give his address to the Frewins. He replied
that he was at present a medical student, and then as he spoke he
recollected Stephen, and turned hastily round, but Stephen was gone.
The races were over, he might possibly have gone back to the station,
but Donovan thought that he had probably caught sight of some of his
friends and had gone to speak to them; he was a good deal vexed. It
was simply impossible, however, to find him in such a crowd, he was
obliged to give it up, and, quitting the race-course with the old
captain, made his way as quickly as might be to the train.
They had not gone far when a block in the long line of carriages
attracted their notice.
"Some accident," said Rouge. "Never was yet at any races without
seeing a spill of some sort."
Donovan pushed on quickly without speaking a word; he felt almost
certain that Stephen had somehow got into mischief.
By the time he had made his way through the throng of people a
dog-cart which had been overturned was being raised from the ground,
and Donovan at once caught sight of Stephen's friend Curtis standing
at the head of the terrified horse, whose violent kicking and
plunging had caused the accident. Many people were offering their
help, several were stooping over a prostrate figure, he pushed them
aside; it was indeed Stephen Causton who lay there perfectly
unconscious, the blood flowing slowly from his mouth.
Donovan's authoritative manner soon sent back the mere idlers, while
the really efficient helpers came to the fore. Rouge offered his
brandy-flask, and in a very short time an extemporized litter was
brought up, and Stephen was borne away to the nearest hotel.
It was all done in such a business-like way, for a time it seemed to
Donovan only like his ordinary hospital work; it was not till a
doctor had arrived, and his own responsibility was lessened, that he
realised that it was Stephen Causton, the Tremains' friend, Stephen
for whom he felt himself in a manner accountable, who was lying there
in danger of his life. In a disjointed way he gathered from Curtis
the facts of the accident. Stephen had caught sight of them, and had
gone to speak to them, Curtis had offered him a seat in the dog-cart,
and they had driven off, intending to dine together in the town;
something had startled the horse, and the dog-cart had been
overturned. The rest had escaped with bruises and a severe shaking,
but Stephen had broken a rib, the bone had pierced the lung, and he
was for some hours in a very precarious state.
The first moment that Donovan could be spared he ran down to despatch
a telegram to Dr. Tremain, and not till he had with some difficulty
worded the message did one thought of himself come to trouble him.
"D. Farrant, Royal Hotel, Z----, to Dr. Tremain, Trenant,
Porthkerran. Causton has met with a bad accident. Please tell his
mother, and come at once if possible."
What a panic poor Mrs. Causton would be in, and how strange it would
seem to them all that he--Donovan--should be with Stephen at Z----.
Of course Dr. Tremain would know that the Z---- races were on, and
would naturally arrive at the conclusion that he had led Stephen
there. It could not be supposed that the orderly mother's son, who
attended Exeter Hall meetings, would have gone to such a place
without great persuasion. In a moment there rose before Donovan the
whole situation. The decision must lie with Stephen; if he chose to
confess his long course of self-pleasing all would be well, but, if
he chose to be silent, Donovan felt that he could not betray him,
that even at the risk of being entirely misunderstood, he must hold
his tongue, an easy enough task surely--merely to keep silence--a
task in which he was already well practised!
He went back to the sick-room and forgot all his presentiments in
keeping anxious watch over Stephen. The hæmorrhage had been checked,
but all through the night the most alarming prostration continued,
and it was far on in the next day before the immediate danger was
over, and the patient fell into an exhausted sleep.
Donovan left him then for the first time, the landlord's daughter
keeping guard over him, and went himself to get much-needed food and
rest.
Gladys never forgot that autumn evening when the telegram arrived.
For some days the household at Trenant had been disturbed and
anxious, for Jackie and Nesta were both laid up with the measles, and
Nesta, always a rather delicate little child, was seriously ill. The
nurse had gone down for her supper, and Gladys had taken her place in
the night nursery. As she sat beside the sleeping children she heard
a sharp ring at the door-bell, a message for her father she supposed,
and thought no more about it, little dreaming what message it was,
and from whom. And yet, as she sat there in the dim light, her
thoughts did drift away to Donovan. What was he doing in those dull
London lodgings which he had described to them? His letters had been
fewer and shorter lately, and he never spoke of any future visit to
Porthkerran. Were their lives growing farther apart? Was it never
to be anything but waiting and trusting? Should she never learn that
he had found the truth? She covered her face and prayed silently,
hardly in thought-out words, but only, as it were, breathing out her
want of patience, her love for him, and her longing that he might
think and do that which was right.
The nurse came back, and Gladys, released from her watch, went down
to the drawing-room; she was strong to meet the news that awaited
her, and she needed all her strength. Over and over again she read
the words scrawled on that thin pink paper, hearing with painful
acuteness all her father's surmises as to what could have taken
Stephen and Donovan to those races. She hated herself for it, but it
hurt her a great deal more to hear a shadow of blame attached to
Donovan than to hear that Stephen was lying perhaps in mortal danger.
The one caused her a sharp stab of pain, the other only a shocked
awed feeling--a vague regret.
Her father went away in a few minutes to break the news as well as he
could to poor Mrs. Causton. Mrs. Tremain was called away to little
Nesta, and Gladys sat crouched up alone by the fire, feeling
supremely wretched. It could not be that Donovan had led Stephen
astray--and yet her father had evidently thought it must be so! Her
tears flowed fast, but still not one was shed at the thought of
Stephen's accident; it was a tall manly figure that rose before her,
excluding everything else, a strong face with dark sad eyes and
resolute month. It could not be that Donovan had forgotten his high
aims, had thrown aside his search after truth, and sunk so low--it
could not be! His face rose before her in vivid memory; she felt
certain that he had not done this thing. She dashed away her tears,
choked them back angrily, resolutely.
"It can't be, it _isn't_ so; I will never, never believe it!" she
cried, passionately. "Though all the world accuse him, I will never
believe it! I will trust you, Donovan--always!"
She was calm again now, invincible in her woman's stronghold of
absolute trust. The arrows of logic, the force of argument, the
stern array of steely facts spend their force in vain on that
stronghold.
Her rhapsody over, there came almost directly the call to work, to
return to common life. Her father came back from his sad errand; she
went to meet him in the hall to ask after Mrs. Causton.
"Oh! there you are, dear," he exclaimed. "I came back to fetch you.
Aunt Margaret is terribly upset, and I promised that you should go to
her."
Gladys trembled a little, but she could make no objection, and ran up
to fetch her things.
"You must try to induce her to go to bed," said the doctor, as he
walked back with Gladys to Mrs. Causton's house. "We shall start
quite early to-morrow morning, but she will be fit for nothing if she
does not sleep first."
Mrs. Causton was exceedingly fond of Gladys, and, in spite of the
real want of sympathy between them, this evening she clung to her
more than ever, probably, in the depth of her misery, not noticing
that there was a little shadow of restraint in her manner. For,
though Gladys had the sweetest and most delicate tact and sympathy,
she often let herself become absorbed in sympathising with one
person. She was one of those characters who love the few ardently,
but are a little wanting in breadth, and now every doubt or reproach
cast on Donovan pushed her further away from Mrs. Causton.
However, she did her best, listened in silence to Mrs. Causton's
sorrows, helped her to make all the necessary arrangements for her
journey, soothed her by mute caresses, and at last persuaded her to
go to bed. Then she lay down beside her, and tried to sleep, but
long after Mrs. Causton had forgotten her troubles in restful
unconsciousness, Gladys lay with wide-open eyes, keeping rigidly
still for fear of disturbing her companion, and in spirit sharing
Donovan's watch beside Stephen's sick-bed.
In the morning Mrs. Causton awoke little refreshed. She was almost
disabled by a terrible headache. Gladys had to do everything for
her. As she brought her a cup of coffee, it seemed to dawn on the
poor lady that very soon she should have to part with her.
"Oh! Gladys," she said, pleadingly, "could you not come with me? I
don't know what I shall do without you."
"I would willingly come," said Gladys, trembling violently,
"only--I'm not sure whether mother could spare me----"
She broke off abruptly, as her father drove up in the pony-carriage.
The thought of meeting Donovan once more had set all her pulses
throbbing painfully, but she could not make up her mind to ask her
father whether she might go, she could not even repeat Mrs. Causton's
words to him.
The idea had, however, taken a strong hold on Mrs. Causton. She
greeted the doctor with an urgent entreaty that he would allow Gladys
to go with them.
"I am so poorly, and she has been such a comfort to me. I don't know
how I can do without her."
"Very well, Gladys dear," said Dr. Tremain, putting his hand on her
shoulder. "If you will come with us, and can do without any more
preparation, it shall be so. Nesta is better to-day, and we will
send a note back to explain to the mother."
It was all settled in a few minutes. Gladys hurried away to put on
her walking things. The maid hastily packed her little night-bag for
her, and before long she was driving with her father and Mrs. Causton
to St. Kerrans.
The journey seemed endless; though they had started very early, it
was four o'clock in the afternoon by the time they reached Z----.
Gladys was very stiff and weary, but she had hardly time to think of
herself, she was so taken up with the effort of sympathising with and
helping Mrs. Causton, while, as they drove through the busy streets
of Z----, the consciousness that every moment was bringing her nearer
to Donovan made her heart beat quickly, and the bright colour rise in
her cheeks.
At length they reached the Royal Hotel, learnt at once from one of
the waiters that Stephen was doing well, and were ushered upstairs.
Mrs. Causton leant on the doctor's arm, Gladys followed tremblingly,
glad enough to cling to the banisters. They were shown into a
private sitting-room. Already the afternoon light was failing, but a
fire blazed in the grate, and by its ruddy glow Gladys saw Donovan.
He was stretched at full length on the hearthrug fast asleep. The
waiter hesitated.
"Poor young gent! He was up all the night. Perhaps you'll wake him,
sir, if you see fit," and then, with a curious glance at the three
visitors, the man withdrew, mentally ejaculating that he "wasn't
going to disturb the poor fellow, not if it was to see the queen
herself." But as the door closed, Donovan started up.
"Is he awake?" he cried, fancying that Stephen's nurse bad come;
then, catching sight of Dr. Tremain, he sprang to his feet. "I am so
glad you've come. He is really doing well now. The immediate danger
is over."
As he spoke he shook hands with the doctor and Mrs. Causton, then,
for the first time catching sight of Gladys, he was all at once
speechless. For one moment their eyes met, that strange meeting
which seems like the blending of soul with soul. That was their real
greeting. The conventional handshake was nothing, and in another
moment Donovan had turned hastily away, and plunged abruptly into
details of Stephen's accident.
Mrs. Causton was painfully agitated, and was indignant when Donovan
insisted on the extreme rashness of going at once to see the patient.
To wake up and to find his mother unexpectedly there, would be the
very worst thing for him, and though Dr. Tremain quite agreed, and in
fact took the law into his own hands, Mrs. Causton regarded Donovan
entirely in the light of an enemy.
Dr. Tremain went himself to the sick-room, and it was arranged that
he should relieve guard, and, when Stephen awoke, tell him of his
mother's arrival. Donovan left him there, and steeling himself for
the encounter, went slowly back to the sitting-room, where Mrs.
Causton was lying in an easy-chair, and Gladys was trying to persuade
her to take a cup of tea.
"You will have some tea, too, will you not?" she said, looking up at
Donovan. "They told us you had been up all night; you must be very
tired."
"Thank you, yes, I should like some," said Donovan, allowing himself
to watch the little white hands as they lifted the big plated tea-pot
and poured out the tea. And as she handed him his cup, he noticed,
in that strange way in which the minutest trifles are noticed when
there seems least time to waste on them, that the china was thick,
white, with a pink rim, and bore the stamp of the Royal Hotel.
He was startled when Mrs. Causton first spoke to him; the waiting
seemed to embitter her, and she made him feel that his presence was
very distasteful.
"Have you any other particulars to tell me of my son's accident?" she
asked, very coldly.
"I think you have heard all now," he replied, "all that I myself
know, for I did not actually see the carriage upset."
"Having brought Stephen to such a place, I should have thought the
least you could have done was to stay with him," said Mrs. Causton,
with a quiver of indignation in her voice. "It has been a miserable
mistake from the very beginning. I hoped he might have had a good
influence over you, but you have abused my trust cruelly. If I had
ever dreamt that you would be the stronger of the two, he should
never have shared your rooms."
Donovan did not speak; but Gladys, glancing up at him, saw that he
was passing through some great struggle. Her heart ached as she
heard Mrs. Causton's unjust words. One effort she must make to check
the conversation.
"Will you not come to your room and lie down, auntie?" she suggested.
"You will be fitter to go to Stephen when he wakes, if you rest
first."
"I shall rest quite as well here, thank you," said Mrs. Causton. "We
need not trespass further on your time, Mr. Farrant. I am sure you
can ill afford to waste two days in the middle of term."
"I should be sorry to annoy you by staying," said Donovan, quietly.
"Good-bye."
He held out his hand gravely.
"I only hope you may take warning yourself by my poor Stephen's
fate," said Mrs. Causton, relapsing into tears. "It is one of those
mysterious dispensations so hard to resign oneself to, the innocent
suffering and the guilty escaping. I am sure I hope and pray that
you may repent while there is yet time."
He wished Gladys good-bye and left the room.
For one moment Gladys sat quite still; then a sudden impulse seized
her; she could not let him go like this, it was too cruel, too
heartless! She opened the door and ran down the passage, catching
sight of him far in front. Would he never stop! Would nothing make
him look round! By the time she reached the head of the stairs he
was half way down them; it seemed to her as if miles of grey and
crimson carpeting stretched between them.
Half timidly, and yet with a ring of despair in her voice, she called
to him.
"Donovan!"
For a moment his heart stood still; he caught at the rail, turned,
and saw her standing far above him. He did not speak, but
waited--waited till she came to him in complete silence. His lips
were firmly pressed together, his face rigid. Was it hard of
him--was it cruel to her to meet her thus?
The very sound of his own name from her lips had re-awakened the
wildest longing for all that he knew must never be. He waited for
her to speak, but her words only made the tumult within him wilder,
the struggle more intolerable.
"Do not go like this," she said, pleadingly; "please wait and see
papa. Aunt Margaret doesn't know what she is saying. I know you
could explain it all to papa. Please, please wait!"
She had not the faintest idea that she was putting the most terrible
temptation before Donovan; but she was almost frightened by the spasm
of pain which passed over his face; his voice too was strange and
hollow, as he answered, sadly,
"You are mistaken, I can't explain anything."
His words caused such a sudden downfall of all her hopes that the
tears rose to her eyes, fight against them as she would it was of no
use, and nothing but a sort of despairing womanly pride kept them
from overflowing.
Poor Donovan saw all, and turned away. That moment was as the
bitterness of death to him. He was giving her pain, making her think
badly of him,--for what? Was it indeed for her good? It could not
surely be--it was so unnatural--so hard--so merciless! He would
speak to her, tell her of his love, tell her that he would do
anything--everything--for her sake!
And yet was that really true, when he could not keep silence? Oh,
weakness! here he was fighting the old battle which he had fought in
the orchard at Trenant, on the Porthkerran cliffs, on Westminster
Bridge! Each time he thought he had conquered, yet now this deadly
temptation had risen again, as strong--far stronger--than ever.
Should those bitter efforts be wasted? Should his longing for
present relief--for happiness even for her--lead him to speak words
which he had no right to speak? But this silence, this silence as to
Stephen, it was anguish. He must right himself to her! Had not his
own character some claim upon him? Had he not his own rights as well
as Stephen's to bear in mind? That was the great question, it was
clearly Self versus Stephen, a just claim for himself, certainly, yet
a claim for self _only_. Yes, he would be truthful in his
self-arguing, even though it brought keenest pain,--to right himself
would not be to serve Gladys, would not even make her really happier,
he had resolved long ago that she must learn not to care for him. He
would be silent now for her sake as well as for Stephen's--the proof
of his love should be his silence!
All this passed through his mind in a very few moments. He turned
back to Gladys, she was leaning against the banisters, her head
drooped low, the light from a coloured lamp hanging over the stairs
threw a golden glow over her sunny hair; her face was partly in
shadow, but in the half light her bright colouring looked all the
more lovely.
He knew it was the last time he should see her, but he would not let
his eyes soften, would not let one trace of his love show itself.
"It is better that I should go at once," he said, taking her hand,
"believe me, it is much better. Good-bye."
Gladys looked steadily up at him, her blue eyes were quite clear now,
there was a sort of triumphant trust in her look.
"Good-bye," she said, softly, not one other word.
She watched him as he went down the stairs, watched very quietly, but
very intently, noticed his firm, almost sharp step, heard him call
for his bill, and ask the time of the London train, lastly heard the
silence, the aching silence of the quiet hotel when he was really
gone.
But in spite of her heartache there was the dawning of a rapturous
joy for her even now. For when Donovan had turned to say good-bye to
her, there had been that in his face which had raised her out of
herself. He had looked utterly noble, the very light of Christ had
shone in his face. She thought it was indeed probable that he did
not care for her as he had once cared, but what did that matter? in
the intensity of her joy for him she could not think of her own pain.
For she loved Donovan with her whole heart and soul, and she felt,
nay, she knew, that he was "not far from the kingdom of Heaven."