CONTRASTED LOVERS.
What we love perfectly, for its own sake
We love, and not our own, being ready thus
Whate'er self-sacrifice is ask'd to make;
That which is best for it is best for us.
R. SOUTHEY.
Stephen Causton did not return to the hospital till March. Coming
home one afternoon, Donovan found the sitting-room in some confusion,
scraps of newspaper and dilapidated note-books scattered about here
and there, and a yawning space in the book-shelves which Stephen's
books had hitherto occupied.
"Hullo! has Causton been in?" he asked old Rouge, who, with a
somewhat disturbed air, was sitting over the fire with his long clay
pipe.
"I don't know if that's his name," replied the old captain, in an
offended tone, "but a tallow-faced, bumptious lad has been here
making no end of dust and noise, carrying off your books, too, for
aught I know."
"No, no, they were his own," said Donovan, laughing. "But tell me
about him, captain. Did he ask for me? did he leave no message?"
"Not he," said Rouge, angrily. "He walked in as coolly as if the
place belonged to him, rowed the landlady for not having his things
ready packed, and pitched the books into a carpet bag as if they were
so many pebbles. Then, facing round on me without so much as lifting
his hat, he said, 'I suppose you are a friend of Farrant's?' There
was a sneer in his voice, and my blood got up as I said I had the
honour to be your friend, and that it was an honour the best in the
land might covet."
Donovan laughed prodigiously. Rouge continued,
"At that he sneered again, and said, 'You needn't preach about his
virtues; I know a little more about him than you do.' 'Indeed!' said
I, hotly; 'then I wonder the knowledge hasn't improved your manners.'
'I might return the compliment,' he said. 'But of course living with
a knave like Farrant is enough to contaminate anyone.' At that,
milord, I sprang up and thundered at him. I wasn't going to sit
still and hear you libelled, and, if you'll believe it, the coward
turned as white as a sheet when I challenged him."
"By Jove!" said Donovan. "You don't mean you really did? His mother
will never get over it."
"He won't come poking his nose in here again in a hurry," said Rouge,
with satisfaction. "He skulked off at double quick time, muttering
that duelling days were over."
"Well, I agree with him there," said Donovan, "though it was good of
you all the same, captain, to stand up for me as you did."
"As if I could help it," said old Rouge, with tears in his eyes.
"It's not likely I should let that scamp have his say out without
putting in my word. I flatter myself he has heard more home truths
to-day than in all his priggish young life before. How does he come
to hate you so, milord?"
"He has done a shabby thing by me," said Donovan, "and that's the
surest way in the world to make him hate me. But we won't rake it
all up again; he can't do us any good, and he's already done me all
the harm he can."
But, though he would not speak any more of Stephen, the thought of
him would not be banished. He had come straight from Porthkerran,
might have told him something of Gladys, might possibly have brought
him one of the unanswerable letters from Mrs. Tremain or the doctor,
or at least a message. And then he could not help wondering at the
extraordinary malice of his gratuitous insults. Had his weak and
distorted mind really worked itself into the belief that he was the
wronged one? What account would reach Porthkerran of his stormy
interview with the old captain? Something tremendous might, without
much difficulty, be twisted and squeezed out of the truth. Here was
another case demanding Charles Osmond's ideal forgiveness. But he
was nearer forgiving Stephen than Ellis, because he had a great deal
of pity for him; besides, the consciousness that he might have
cleared himself by exposing Stephen was in itself of a more softening
nature than the terribly irritating sense that Ellis had him very
unjustly in his power.
Brian Osmond did not fail to notice that Causton, who had been
formerly Donovan's companion, now cut him entirely. When he had
heard the true explanation, his righteous indignation was pleasant to
see. He came constantly to York Road for the sake of reading with
Donovan, and before long had become really fond of the poor old
captain, while Waif and Sweepstakes, with their touching devotion to
their respective masters, added a sort of picturesqueness to that
curiously-assorted group. In the summer vacation Brian persuaded
Donovan to take a real holiday. The two years of unbroken work added
to his private troubles were beginning to tell on him; he looked worn
and fagged, but brightened up at the suggestion of taking a
walking-tour with his friend. They set off together in August, had a
glorious tramp through Derbyshire and the West Riding of Yorkshire,
roughing it to an enjoyable extent, and both coming back to town all
the better for their outing, and as inseparable in their friendship
as David and Jonathan.
It was not, however, until late in the autumn that Brian learnt even
the existence of Gladys.
One November evening his well-known knock at the house in York Road
roused old Rouge from his after-dinner nap. Donovan, who was
stretched at full length on the hearthrug, was so entirely absorbed
in some of the abstruse speculations which now very often occupied
him that he heard nothing, and did not stir till Brian was fairly in
the room.
"Hullo! doing the _dolce far niente_ for once," he said, laughing.
"Who would have thought of catching you away from the books?"
"Comes from the effects of Yorkshire air," said Donovan, getting up
and stretching himself. But the real fact was that he was beginning
now to dare to allow himself brief intervals of rest, his thoughts
did not wander so hopelessly to Porthkerran, his work instinctively
slackened a little, he worked as well--perhaps better--but less
furiously, and without the sense that relaxation was, above all
things, to be distrusted and avoided.
"I've got a spare ticket for Gale's lecture at St. James's Hall,"
said Brian, "will you come with me?"
"Who's Gale? I never heard of him."
"What, you a teetotaler and never heard of Gale! why, he's the great
champion of temperance, and a first-rate speaker!"
"Better take the captain," said Donovan, half in earnest as he
glanced round at the sofa; but Rouge had already fallen asleep again.
"It would be no good, I'm afraid."
"Poor old fellow," said Brian, "has he had another outbreak?"
"Yes," replied Donovan, "and his brain is too fuddled now to take in
anything; it would be no use taking him, he'd only be asleep in two
minutes. I somehow make an awful failure of keeping other folk in
order."
"Rather an unmanageable couple, yours," said Brian, "I wonder what
Gale would say to a case like the captain's."
"Incurable," said Donovan. "He means well, but his power of will has
gone. I used to think he might conquer it, but the more I see of him
the more I doubt it. I can do nothing for him except help to make
his remorse keener each time, for he thinks his outbreaks are a
personal injury to me; and then we have any amount of maudlin tears
and good resolutions never to do it again--till the next time."
He sighed.
"Poor old fellow," said Brian, "you were never meant to have such an
old man of the sea tacked on to you. I like to fancy the different
mortal you'll be by-and-by when you settle down with your ideal wife,
home, and practice."
"Ideal humbug!" exclaimed Donovan, with a short laugh, in which there
lurked more pain than merriment. "Come on, what time does the Gale
begin?"
They walked off arm-in-arm, and were early enough to secure front
seats in the balcony close to the platform. Donovan seemed in good
spirits, he leant forward with his arms on the crimson velvet rail
making comments on the audience below, classifying them into rabid
teetotalers, sensible supporters of the cause, and merely fashionable
adherents. A sudden exclamation of surprise from Brian put a stop,
however, to his ease.
"Why, who would have thought it! there's Causton in one of the
stalls. What could have brought him here? Don't you see him? To
the left there, talking to that pretty girl."
Donovan, looked and saw only too plainly Stephen and Mrs Causton, and
between them Gladys.
Yes, she was there, not a hundred yards from him, her pure, fresh,
child-like face not in the least altered! he remembered an old fancy
of his that she was like a blush rose; she looked very flower-like
now in that crowd of London faces. For a minute he watched her quite
calmly, then, strong man as he was, a deathly pallor stole over his
face, he drew back with an uncontrollable shudder.
"Look here, I must go," he said to Brian, and without further
explanation he made his way along the balcony. In another moment he
felt sure his eyes must draw hers, there always had been a strange
magnetism between them without any conscious willing on his part. It
would never do for her to see him, he must leave at once.
Brian, not liking his looks, followed him out of the hall; he seemed
as if he were walking in his sleep, never pausing for an instant,
noting nothing, and yet passing all obstacles. At the head of the
staircase Brian linked his arm within his, they went down silently
into the street. There Donovan seemed to come to himself again, his
rigid face relaxed, the strange glassy look left his eyes, and for
the first time he realised that he was not alone.
"What, you here, old fellow!" he exclaimed. "Don't let me lose you
your lecture."
"All right," said Brian. "I don't care about it. You're in some
trouble, Donovan--don't pretend, now, that you're not. Was it that
you saw Causton with that girl?"
"In a way, yes--I mean it was the seeing her at all," said Donovan,
incoherently. "Come on quick, only let us get out into the open,
away from these houses."
"You don't imagine he's in love with her?" said Brian. "Causton's an
awfully cold-blooded creature; it's not at all in his line, I should
think."
"I don't know," gasped Donovan; "it--it won't make much difference to
me."
"Why?" asked Brian, boldly. They were both by nature reserved men,
but their friendship was real and strong, and Brian knew intuitively
that he had touched the secret spring of Donovan's trouble, and that,
unless he could get him to speak of it now, a barrier would always be
between them; so he spoke out boldly that monosyllable--"Why?"
"Because," answered Donovan, in a quick, agitated way--"because,
years ago, I made up my mind not to see her again. It's
impossible--it can't be--I'm a fool to be so shaken just by the sight
of her."
"Has she refused you?"
He turned his strangely powerful eyes full on Brian's face at the
question, and answered, with a sort of indignation,
"Do you think I am fit to ask Gladys Tremain to be my wife?"
There was something grand in his humility. Brian could only mentally
ejaculate, "You splendid fellow! you're fit to ask a queen among
women." But he was carried away by his enthusiasm, and he could not
but own that there was truth in Donovan's next speech.
"It could never be--there could be no real union between us. It's
all very well in the way of friendship; you and I can rub up against
each other's differences without any hurt, but when it comes to
anything nearer, it doesn't do. I've tried, and it's
torture--torture that I'll never bring to her."
"Is Causton her cousin?"
"No, but a two generations' friend."
"I should dearly like to give him a piece of my mind," said Brian.
"However, of course she'll have nothing to say to such a fellow."
"There are times when I could wish she would," said Donovan,
hoarsely. "Not now, though--not just now."
"My dear fellow, that's rather too strong," said Brian. "Even I, a
mere stranger, can see that she's miles above him."
"Of course," said Donovan; "but it might save her from worse pain."
"Well, if Miss Tremain knows you, and has any idea that you care for
her, her face must belie her strangely if she could turn to a fellow
like Causton."
"She does not know I love her--at least, I hope not."
"You old brick of a Roman! I can quite fancy how you would hide it
all."
There was a silence after that. They had reached the Embankment, and
Donovan seemed to lose the sense of oppression, and to breathe freely
again. Presently he turned to Brian, speaking quite in his natural
voice.
"Well, I'm sorry to have lost you your lecture, but I'm not sorry
that you know about this, which is more than I could say to anyone
else in the world. I must get to work quickly, or the blue devils
will get the better of me. Come back too, won't you, and we'll have
a grind at Niemeyer."
So they went back to the York Road lodgings together. The old
captain was too stupid to notice them, but Waif was unusually
demonstrative, and even as he read Brian noticed that Donovan kept
his arm round the dog, while Waif tried to put all his devotion into
the soft warm tongue with which he licked his master's hand. Trouble
had an odd way of drawing those two together.
Brian went home that night with much questioning going on in his
mind. He honoured Donovan for his conduct, and yet regretted very
much that he should be thus cut off from one who must have had so
much influence over him. He could not help seeing the matter from
his friend's side, whereas Donovan thought only how it would affect
Gladys.
Little indeed did Gladys think, as she sat in the crowded hall, that
she was so near Donovan. Though she was actually thinking of him, it
never occurred to her that he might be there. Instead she was
recollecting some of their discussions at Porthkerran on this
temperance question, and recalling his stories of the old captain who
had nursed him in his illness, and had with great devotedness managed
to keep really sober at Monaco, in case "the Frenchmen" should poison
his patient!
She was not very happy just now, poor child. They had fancied that
she needed change of air, and Mrs. Causton had been charmed to have
her at Richmond for a few weeks, in the same little villa which they
had rented four years ago. But the change did her more harm than
good, for the Causton atmosphere was oppressive, and the
consciousness that Stephen was in the way of seeing Donovan every
day, added to the impossibility of hearing anything about him, was
almost more than she could endure. She found herself losing
self-control, and drifting into more constant thoughts of Donovan
than she considered right; nor were her feminine occupations so
helpful in the difficult mental battle as his mind-engrossing studies.
As they went home that night from John Gale's lecture, it chanced
that for the first time since her arrival Donovan's name was
mentioned.
"What a pity you could not have done good for evil," sighed Mrs.
Causton, "and induced that poor drunkard who challenged you in the
spring to come to this lecture. I fear there is no chance that
Donovan Farrant would take him to hear such a man."
"I should rather think not," said Stephen, unpleasantly.
"Oh! but he is a great temperance advocate," said Gladys, thankful
that in the darkness her burning cheeks could not be noticed.
"He was, my dear," said Mrs. Causton, markedly, "but you must
remember he is greatly changed since you knew him, and he is living
with a most disreputable companion."
Her heart beat so indignantly at this that she felt almost choked,
but seeing that she was losing her opportunity she quieted herself
with an effort, and asked gravely, but quite naturally,
"Donovan is still at the hospital, I suppose? Do you see anything of
him now?"
"I see him," said Stephen, "but of course we're not on speaking
terms."
"It is much better that you should have nothing more to do with him,"
said Mrs. Causton solemnly, and she added a text which seemed to her
appropriate, but which drove Gladys into a white hot passion--dumb
perforce.
All this time she was far too much absorbed to notice an impending
danger. The days dragged on slowly, she cared for the visits,
picture-galleries, and concerts only in so far as they brought her
into closer proximity with St. Thomas's. However angry she might be
with herself at night for having allowed her thoughts too much
liberty, the following day always found her with the same unexpressed
but unquenchable longing. Nothing but the heart-sickness brought by
that long-deferred hope could have blinded her to the fact that
Stephen's half boyish admiration was re-awaking, that his attentions
were disagreeable and obtrusive, that he was as much in love with her
as it was possible for such a man to be. But, as it was, she noticed
nothing, she only wearied intensely of the long evenings, when
Stephen tried to enliven them, and of the long mornings when she was
alone with Mrs. Causton; of the two she disliked the evenings least,
but merely because there was a chance of hearing the one name she
cared to hear.
It came upon her like a thunderclap at last. One Saturday morning
she was sitting in the little drawing-room, writing to her mother,
when Stephen, who had no lectures that day, sauntered into the room.
He began an aimless conversation, she was a little cross, for it
seemed as if he might go on for ever, and she wanted to write. After
enduring half an hour of it she grew impatient.
"Let me finish this, Stephen, or it will be too late for the post,"
she said. "We are to go out after lunch, you know."
"You grudge me the one free morning I have," said Stephen,
reproachfully, "but listen to me a minute longer, Gladys, for days I
have been waiting to find an opportunity of speaking to you. I think
you must have seen that I love you, that all I care for is to please
you, will you say that you will try to love me?--won't you try, dear?"
In spite of Gladys' surprise and dismay she had hard work to suppress
a smile, a wicked sprite seemed to chant in her ear the refrain of
the song in "Alice in Wonderland,"
"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the
dance."
She found herself going on with the parody in a sort of dream,
instead of giving Stephen his answer.
He was far on in a second and more vehement statement of his case
before she fully recovered her senses; then at once the true womanly
unselfish Gladys hastened to check him.
"Hush, Stephen," she said, quietly, but with a touch of dignity in
her tone. "Please do not say any more of this. I am very, very
sorry if you have misunderstood me in any way, we are such old
friends, you see; but indeed it could never be as you wish--never."
"You don't know what you are saying," he cried. "You are ruining all
my life, all my happiness. Surely you won't be so utterly cruel? I
will wait any length of time, if only you will think it over--if only
you will try to love me."
"If I waited fifty years, it would make no difference," said Gladys.
"I can never love you, never, never. Don't think me unkind to speak
so plainly. It is better to be true than to let you have false
hopes."
"Then you love some one else," said Stephen, in a voice in which
despair and malice were strangely mingled, "That is what makes you so
positive, so merciless."
Gladys' eyes flashed.
"I might well be angry with you, Stephen, for daring to say that, but
since you wish it I will tell you quite plainly why I cannot love you
in the way you wish. The man I love must be true and strong,
faithful to his friends, and merciful to his enemies, he must be so
noble and self-denying that I shall be able to look up to him as my
head--my lord--as naturally in the lesser degree as I look to Christ
in the greater."
"If you set up an ideal character like that, of course I've no
chance," said Stephen, with a very crestfallen air.
"It is not I who set it up," said Gladys, a little impatiently.
"Have you forgotten what St. Paul said? Oh! Stephen, I don't want
to vex you more than I need, but indeed, indeed you must not speak of
this again."
"It is all very well to talk about not vexing me, but you are taking
away every hope I have," said Stephen, petulantly. "You girls will
never learn how much you have in your power. With you to help me, I
might perhaps grow better, become the paragon of perfection you wish,
but if you turn away from me----"
He paused. It did not strike Gladys just at that minute what a
strange manner of making love it was, but her clear common sense
showed her that to yield to such an argument--even had it been
possible--would have been exceedingly foolish.
"You may be right, Stephen," she answered. "Perhaps we have more in
our power than we know, but I don't think it ever can be right for a
woman to marry one whom she cannot look up to. You and I have been
friends--old playfellows--for years, but, though of course I wish
still to be your friend, I can't say that I very much respect you.
Don't think I want you to be a paragon of perfection, but after last
autumn I don't think you can expect----"
He interrupted her.
"It is cruel to bring up past mistakes against me."
"I don't wish to, but I am afraid, till you can think of them as
something deeper than mistakes, you will yourself often remind us of
them. How can you really forsake them till you are really sorry?"
"You are very hard on me," said Stephen. "You forget what excuse I
had; you forget that I was left alone with Donovan Farrant, that he
led me into temptation."
He hardly knew what he was saying, for he was very desperate in his
intense selfishness, but he had just enough shame left to flush a
little as the untruth passed his lips.
Gladys' eyes seemed to search him through and through. There was a
moment's silence. Then, with a little quiver of indignation in her
voice, she said, gravely,
"You are telling a lie, Stephen, and you know it."
He did not attempt to exculpate himself, he was too thoroughly
abashed. When he looked up again in a minute or two he found that
she had left the room.
Mrs. Causton was too genuinely good a woman to resent Gladys' refusal
of her son, but at the same time it was such a bitter disappointment
to her that it was impossible she should be quite just and kind to
her visitor.
"You see, my dear," she kept urging, as she sat beside the sofa in
Gladys' bed-room, "though you may be quite right to refuse dear
Stephen, yet, humanly speaking, you did seem so exactly fitted to
make the real helpmeet for him."
Gladys was by no means selfish, but she did not think it either right
or necessary to sacrifice herself so entirely on the altar of the
well-being of Mrs. Causton's only son, she could only repeat that she
was very sorry, but it was quite impossible, and entreat Mrs. Causton
to let her go home at once. However, it was too late to think of
going down to Cornwall that day, and the next day was Sunday, so she
had time enough to be exceedingly miserable, and to long unspeakably
for her mother before the happy moment of her departure arrived. She
was so much relieved to be away from the Caustons that she could have
sung from mere lightness of heart when her train had actually
started, but Mrs. Causton had put her in charge of an elderly lady,
so she had to discuss the weather, and make herself agreeable instead.
That night in her mother's room she forgot all her trouble, however,
in the delicious peacefulness which seemed always to come in those
evening talks. And as they sat hand in hand in their own particular
nook on the old-fashioned sofa, Mrs. Tremain gradually won from
Gladys not only the history of her visit to the Caustons, but much
that had never passed her lips before. Her mother had long ago
guessed what was the secret of her trouble; she had said nothing
because she thought silence the best cure; but now--being her
mother--she knew that the time for speaking had come, and very wisely
and tenderly she met Gladys' shy confidence half way. Then, when all
was told, she sat thinking for a minute or two in silence, while
Gladys nestled more closely to her, too tired to think at all, but
tracing in an aimless sort of way the ivy-pattern chintz of the
well-known sofa cover.
"I think, little girl, that the truth of it is this," said Mrs.
Tremain at last, "I think you had a good deal of influence with
Donovan, you were almost the first woman he had known well, and you
were a good deal thrown together. For the present he has passed away
out of our lives, you know how sorry I am for it, it is quite his own
doing; but whether the separation is for ever or not, I think you may
have this comfort, that whatever in your love was true and unselfish
will not be wasted, but will always last. I do not think it very
likely that he will come here again, and even if he did you would
perhaps find it all quite different and have a cold waking from your
dream."
"Then ought I not to think of him?"
"I think you should not allow yourself to believe that he is in love
with you. No woman has a right to think that till a man has actually
asked her to be his wife. Put away the selfish side of the question
altogether, but don't make yourself miserable by trying to kill the
spiritual part of it. However much you have been mistaken there was
most likely a bit of the real truth in your love; don't be afraid of
keeping that, no one need be ashamed of the pure, spiritual, endless
side of love, and I should be sorry to think that Donovan should be
defrauded of it; you may do more for him even now, Gladys, than you
think."
"If we could only find out the truth," sighed Gladys. "I am sure
Stephen has somehow misled us."
"I would not worry about that," replied Mrs. Tremain. "You can't
sift that matter to the bottom, and I don't think it is very good for
you to dwell upon it. Only be quite sure of this, that the more pure
and unselfish and trustful you try to become the better you will be
able to help him, even if you never see him again. The side of love
you must cultivate does not depend upon sight, or time, or place.
Have I been too hard on you, little one? Does it seem very
difficult?"
"It is always hard to be good," said Gladys, with the child-like look
in her face which had first awakened Donovan's love; "but I will try,
and you will help me, mother. I'm so glad you know."
In another hour she was sleeping as peacefully as little Nesta; but
her mother had a very wakeful night, thinking over the future of her
child, and grieving over Donovan's defection.