OLD FRIENDS.
Would'st thou the holy hill ascend,
And see the Father's face?
To all his children humbly bend,
And seek the lowest place.
Thus humbly doing on the earth,
What things the earthly scorn,
Thou shalt assert the lofty birth
Of all the lowly born.
_Violin Songs_. GEORGE MACDONALD.
London was shrouded in the murkiest of November fogs; Donovan groped
his way with some difficulty down York Road, opened the door of his
lodgings with a latch key, made his way into the cheerless
sitting-room, lighted the gas, and threw himself back in a chair in
hopeless dejection. The sharpness of the struggle was over, the
bitterness of the pain past, his was now the
"Stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief
Which finds no outlet or relief."
Perhaps the most real and unforgetable form of suffering.
He sat motionless, the light which had so cheered Gladys had died
from his face now, it was clouded, haggard, with dark shadows under
the eyes.
He was roused at last by hearing Waif's bark in the distance, then
came sounds of opening a door down below, a rush and a patter of feet
on the kitchen stairs, and a violent scratching and impatient whining
at his own door. He dragged himself up, opened it, and received a
frantic welcome from his dog, who had been shut into an empty cellar
during his absence.
Waif was almost crazy with delight at seeing him back again; he
dashed round and round him, bounded up in the air, whined and
snorted, licked him all over, and finally tore across the room in a
violent hurry to perform his usual act of loyal service, to drag out
the boot-jack, and, one at a time, to deposit his master's slippers
in the fender.
This evening there was no fire; Waif found that out, and seemed
perplexed; he was not quite capable of striking a match, but he
worried Donovan into doing it, and then sat contentedly watching the
yellow blaze, thudding the floor with his tail in the intensity of
his satisfaction. Donovan watched him thoughtfully.
"We must jog on together, Waif, my boy," he said, patting the
sagacious black and tan head.
Waif's eyes twinkled and shone, his tail beat a regular tattoo on the
floor.
The dog and his master understood each other, and Donovan would
certainly have chosen to spend the rest of the evening with his dumb
companion, to indulge his sad thoughts in silence, but it was not to
be so. There was a knock at the front door before many minutes had
passed; he heard a voice which seemed strangely familiar asking if he
were in; another moment, and Rouge and Noir were ushered into his
room.
"Tracked you at last," said Noir, his dark face lighting up with a
gleam of satisfaction as he wrung Donovan's hand.
"And all owing to those lucky races and my quick eyes," said the old
captain. "How's the chap that was pitched out of the dog-cart?"
"Badly hurt, but doing well now," said Donovan. "How did you find me
out?"
"Through the light-haired fellow who was holding the horse, a
fellow-student of yours. Why, Waif, old dog, you don't look a day
older!"
Waif sniffed cautiously at the old captain's clothes, recognised him
after a few minutes, and was pleased to renew the friendship. Noir
meanwhile was speaking in a lowered voice to Donovan.
"I came here on business--can I have a few words alone with you? Let
us take a turn outside."
"All right," said Donovan. "You'll stay and have some supper; we'll
be back before long, captain, there's an evening paper for you, and
as many medical books as you like."
Rouge settled himself comfortably in an armchair, and Noir and
Donovan went out into the foggy street.
"I am in a scrape," said Noir, abruptly. "I have come to ask if you
will help me. Perhaps, though, you are so respectable and virtuous
now that you have forgotten all about the old times."
"My memory isn't ruled by will," said Donovan, rather hoarsely. "Go
on."
"Well, I don't blame you for wishing to forget that year--I wish to
goodness I could, for, milord, I am decidedly up a tree. You
remember Darky Legge? Well, he has been arrested, discovered at
last, after carrying on his old game for years. After you left us, I
was thrown a good deal with him--in fact, at Paris we acted together,
and the wretch, who has no sense of honour, has betrayed me. Unless
I can leave the country at once, I'm a lost man."
"I can't offer you money," said Donovan, "for I can hardly scrape
along myself."
"It isn't that I want," said Noir, quietly; "it is this: I can't
afford to take the old captain with me to America--I haven't the cash
for one thing, and besides, he would be like a mill-stone round my
neck. He can live on quietly here for very little, and I will send
him what I can from time to time. But you know what he is with no
one to look after him; he'd kill himself in a year. I want to know
whether you'd mind keeping an eye on the poor old fellow."
Donovan had at first felt the most intense shrinking from any renewal
of their old friendship; the remembrance of those dark days was a
sort of nightmare to him. He listened to Noir's story silently and
painfully, wondering how he could ever have shared in such doings.
What a wretched misanthrope he had been, half maddened by sorrow and
injustice, hating everything in the world except his dog!
But he was touched by Noir's thought for his old father, the poor,
weak, old man whom he still, in his rough way, loved and shielded.
They walked a few paces in silence, then Donovan spoke.
"He had better put up at my place; Causton will never come back to
those rooms, and though I'm out most of the day, I shall be able to
see something of him, and will do my best to keep him straight."
"You are a trump!" exclaimed Noir, heartily. "But won't he be in
your way? I know you're a cut above us."
"You forget I am a Republican," said Donovan, quietly. "Let him come
to-morrow, and do you make the best of your way to America."
Noir was immensely struck by the change in his some-time follower; he
had always respected Donovan since their quarrel and final separation
at Paris, but he felt now at an immense distance from him. After
all, he mused, honesty did indeed seem the best policy. No words
which Donovan could have used would have impressed him half as much
as this visible change and growth, and more than all his readiness to
help the old captain roused a feeling of gratitude which lasted as
one of the few softening influences through the rest of Noir's life.
And so it was ordered that Donovan should not live alone, should not
be free to indulge his misery in silence, but should again have his
affections drawn out towards a very weak member of the human
brotherhood, should bear again the burden of another's sin, and
struggle perseveringly for his deliverance.