ROUGE ET NOIR.
The fall thou darest to despise--
May be the angel's slackened hand
Has suffered it that he may rise
And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.
And judge none lost, but wait and see
With hopeful pity, not disdain,
The depth of the abyss may be
The measure of the height of pain,
And love and glory that may raise
This soul to God in after-days.
A. A. PROCTER.
Noir Frewin took his companion up one of the narrow streets leading
from the river, along the Strand as far as St. Mary's Church, and
through the dingy foot-passage opening into Drury Lane.
"This is not what you have been accustomed to, I expect," he said,
taking a quick glance at Donovan's face. "I suppose you've been
putting up at some tip-top hotel by way of economising."
Donovan coloured a little, for the surmise was true enough, but there
was nothing impertinent in the man's tone, and he added,
"You'll learn differently as you see more of life. I've lived in
Drury Lane on and off now for five years, and am in no hurry to leave
the old place, dirty as it is. Here we are!" and he stopped at the
private door of a dingy picture-dealer's shop, admitted himself and
Donovan, and led the way up a dark staircase to the first floor.
Expecting a room of corresponding dinginess and dirtiness, Donovan
was not a little surprised to find himself in a snug neatly-arranged
room, where an odd combination of a variety of the brightest colours
lent an almost Eastern look to the whole. Curious shells and corals
were ranged on shelves along the walls, maps and nautical charts hung
in conspicuous places, a case of gorgeous foreign birds occupied the
entire length of the room, and a live parrot, in a brass cage, hung
in one of the windows, looking at the new-comers with his shrewd,
questioning, round eyes. Leaning back in a smoking-chair, absorbed
in a newspaper, and with a long clay pipe between his lips, was old
Rouge Frewin, no longer in the irreproachable suit which Donovan had
first seen him in, but wearing a rough blue serge jacket and
red-tasselled cap. He hurried forward at a word from Noir with more
than his former heartiness and good humour.
"Delighted to see you, sir. How has the world gone with you since we
parted? I must introduce myself to you as Captain Frewin, unless,
perhaps, my son has already done so, Captain Frewin, formerly of the
steamer _Astick_, Bright Star Line, carrying between Liverpool and
New York, latterly of the _Metora_--first-rate little steamer she
was, too--carrying between Southampton and West Africa."
Donovan could hardly keep his countenance, the whole scene was so
irresistibly comic, the funny old sea-captain, in his red
smoking-cap, gesticulating with his long clay pipe, the odd room, and
the sudden burst of confidence which had revealed the history of its
owner. But his face clouded again as Rouge asked him the same
question as to his success in finding work which Noir had put to him
on the embankment. He had only just begun his dispirited answer,
however, when he was interrupted by a loud nasal voice, which
screamed out, "Keep up your pecker! keep up your pecker!" and
glancing round he met the goggle eyes of the parrot. It was too much
for the gravity even of depressed, ruined, ill-used Donovan, he burst
out laughing, a natural, hearty, boyish laugh, such as he had not
enjoyed for many months.
"You see Sweepstakes encourages you," said Noir, tormenting the bird
by thrusting a piece of string through the wires of its cage.
"What's its name?" asked Donovan, still laughing.
"Sweepstakes, we call him," said old Rouge, coming to the rescue of
his pet. "I've had him for seven years, we're great friends, aren't
we, Sweepstakes?"
"Poor Sweepstakes!" said the bird, with its head on one side. "Poor
Sweepstakes! 'Weep, 'weep, 'weep," and he broke off into an exact
imitation of the street cry.
"We have a little business to talk over," said Noir, when the parrot
subsided at last. "Suppose," turning to Rouge, "you were to go to
Olliver's and order dinner for three in half an hour, and we'll meet
you there. You won't refuse to dine with us, I hope," he added,
glancing at Donovan.
"Oh! no," said Rouge, heartily. "You mustn't do that. Besides, I've
not half shown you round our little cabin. I'm very proud of my
curiosities, I can assure you. The bird has evidently taken to you
already. You must make yourself quite at home."
As soon as the door had closed behind the old man, Noir Frewin drew
up a chair for his guest, and seating himself opposite, with his
elbows planted on the table, and his chin between his hands, said,
"And now, if you've the patience to listen, I will tell you a story.
I shall trouble you with some account of my own life, because only by
that can I show you why it is I take an interest in you. I hate most
of the world. I should hate you, if you weren't unfortunate, but I
see you are in some way the victim of injustice, and, as I told you
before, I like you. Bear with me a little. This will all help to
explain the work I propose for you.
"My father, as he told you, was once the captain of a mail-steamer.
He was, of course, absent most of the year. I lived with my mother,
and as soon as I left school got a clerkship in a bank at a town--no
matter in what county. Things went very smoothly with us for a long
time, and at last my father, who is a very warm-hearted man and hated
being away from his home, thought he had saved enough to retire and
settle down in England. He resigned his ship, and for a few months
we lived on happily enough. I was as contented a fellow then as
you'd often meet with. I liked my work, and received a good salary;
moreover I was engaged to be married, and the future looked--well, no
matter. I lived in the usual fool's paradise of a lover." He paused
a moment, as if reviewing from the distance the old happiness, then,
with a bitter sneer, he continued: "Of course I paid dearly for all
this foolishness. I don't think I was a bad fellow in those days;
goodness knows I'd no excuse for being so, for my mother was the best
woman in the world. However, though I did well enough then, I
couldn't stand the hard times that followed. There was a grand row
one day at the bank, for it was found that by some forgery a cheque
for one hundred pounds had been unlawfully abstracted. Suspicion
fell on all those connected with the bank, and it narrowed down, as
such things do, till it was clearly proved that either I myself or
the son of the manager had done the deed. Of course I had not done
it--the truth came to light later on--but at the time everything
seemed against me, and since the manager was not a second Brutus he
was naturally inclined to believe his son in the right. I don't care
to go into all the misery of that time. There was, of course, a
mockery of a trial. I was found guilty, and the real perpetrator of
the forgery sat in court, and heard me condemned. I saw him turn
pale when he heard me sentenced to seven years penal
servitude--perhaps, though, he was only thinking of the danger he had
escaped."
"But did he make no effort to save you?" questioned Donovan. "I
shouldn't have thought a man could have been such an utter brute."
"You have yet to learn the world, then?" said Noir, with a fierce
laugh. "Oh! yes, of course he was kind enough to do all in his power
to get me recommended to mercy. I think he hoped for a lighter
sentence. However, what difference did it make to me? I was sent to
Pentonville, and there I ate my heart for a year. Then I was sent to
Dartmoor, and I think the change just saved me from madness. That
year my mother died. We had been everything to each other. She
couldn't stand the disgrace which had come to us, or the separation.
I was young, and had to stand it, but I think from that day I wasn't
the same fellow. The next thing which happened made me ten degrees
worse. In one of my father's letters--letters are very few and far
between in convict life--I learnt that the girl I had been engaged to
was married to another. I told you I paid dearly for my fool's
paradise. After that I didn't care what happened. Of course I had
lost my character, and I knew that it would be next to impossible for
me to get any situation when my term was over. I made a friend at
Dartmoor, a fellow of the name of Legge, a clever man, too, and
good-natured. We came out at the same time, and he helped me on a
little. But things were worse even than I had fancied. My father,
in his trouble and loneliness, had fallen into bad ways. I found
that in my seven years' absence he had become a confirmed drunkard.
You can fancy what a return that was! I could get no employment, and
at last, with Legge's help, I began to practise my present
profession."
"You mean the profession you practised in the train the other night?"
said Donovan.
"Precisely," rejoined Noir, "and I've made it answer. People may say
what they like, but the world's one great cheat, and I delight in
taking it in unexpectedly. It has ruined me, why may not I get a
little out of it in return! I told you though that the truth would
come to light, and my innocence came to light in time, though I
didn't care a straw about it then. A year after I was released from
Dartmoor I was traced out with some difficulty by the manager of the
bank, his son had just died and confessed to the forgery. The
manager tried to express his great shame and sorrow, hoped he could
make some reparation for the injury, offered me money--think of that!
Money to make up for the ruin of a whole life! I told him there
could be no reparation--that if he would bring back my mother from
the grave, if he would reclaim my father, if he would restore me my
betrothed, if he would give me back those wasted seven years, and
give me again the faith in God and man which had been beaten out of
me by the maddening injustice, then, and only then, could he repair
the injury."
"I'm glad you've told me all," said Donovan, when the narrator
paused; "yours is a hard story certainly, bitterly hard. How long is
it since you were released?"
"Five years," said Noir, relapsing into his ordinary tone, a quiet
cold tone, very different from the one in which he had recounted his
wrongs. "I have lived here with my father chiefly, trying to keep
him in order, but it's a hopeless task, where the taste is once
acquired it's almost impossible for a weak-minded person to cure
himself. I have lived on, making money in the way I told you, and
the other day when you got in at the Greyshot Station, there was
something in the look of you that attracted me. Then you played
uncommonly well, and for the first time in my life I felt sorry that
I was cheating a fellow. Afterwards when you talked to that
capitalist, I took to you still more; my father had so often been
more of a hindrance than a help, and I couldn't help thinking what a
capital second you would make. That is the work I propose for you.
You should of course have a certain percentage of the profits, and if
you live with us, all the better; there's a room at the back which
you could have, and though I suppose it's a very different life from
what you've been used to, still you might do worse, and I can promise
you what I couldn't promise to another fellow in the world--real
honest liking. Perhaps you will say the friendship of a professional
gambler isn't worth having; however, such as it is I offer it to you,
sometimes anything is better than nothing. No, don't give me an
answer yet. We'll have dinner now, and you can think things over for
a day or two, and let me know."
Had Donovan given his answer then, it would probably have been a
refusal, but he went to the Frewins' club, listened to the captain's
long yarns, grew doubly interested in Noir, and had a series of
brilliant successes at the card-table. Then he went home--that is to
his hotel, to think over the offer that had been made to him. All
that night he struggled with his perplexities. On the one hand were
his rich acquaintances coolly, if civilly, refusing to help him, on
the other was the open hospitality and friendliness of the Frewins;
midway between the two his conscience put in a plea for a further
search after honest work. In his heart of course he disapproved of
the proposed scheme, but his principles of right and wrong were
somewhat elastic, and just now in his anger and misery, the good
within him was at a very low ebb. Moreover, it was true enough, that
these Frewins were the only people who had shown him any kindness,
and naturally he caught at the sympathy and liking of even a bad man,
when it was the only thing to be had; it was like the old familiar
saying of a drowning man catching at a straw; he may know well enough
that the straw is frail and hollow, but it is something to lay hold
of, if only for a moment, and in the absence of a better support it
seems worth clinging to.
To say that he made the choice while he was unconscious of its evil
would not be true; some people are so ready to admit excuses, there
are always so many extenuating circumstances, or states of mind or
body which account for the fall, that very few sins are put under the
head of "Wilful." But in after years Donovan never allowed that he
had taken the step unconsciously. Of course sin, taken in its usual
sense, did not now exist for him, but he was perfectly aware that he
was entering upon a wrong and immoral course; he made the false step
desperately perhaps, but deliberately. The very last words he had
had with Noir Frewin were sufficient to prove this.
"I may ask your name now?" the man had said, as they parted. And
Donovan, for the first time in his life, had shrunk from giving it;
how could he let his father's name become the name of a--but there he
checked even his thoughts, and hastily gave only his Christian name.
For a little while he thought things over, as Noir had suggested; it
was true there were ways and means of raising money, but, even if he
had had good security to offer, he would not have cared to put
himself into the hands of a money-lender. Or there was another
alternative; he had heard Mr. Probyn, Ellis Farrant's friend, relate
proudly the length of time he had lived "on tick," as he called
it--this was most likely the course which would have been chosen by
nine persons out of ten, had they been placed in his
predicament,--but there was nothing to commend this expedient to him,
living in debt was simply robbing tradespeople, there could be no
doubt of that; if he must live by chicanery, he might as well do so
in a more amusing way than by a skilful eluding of duns, and it was
better to cheat fools who chose to risk their money in a game than
honest shopkeepers. Thus he argued with himself, what his
school-fellows had called "his crazy ideas of honour" coming out
strongly; but he held fast to his theory, and never had a single
debt. The true and honest course never once entered into his head;
if he had had sufficient humility to visit his father's solicitor
again and beg his assistance, in all probability he would have been
helped, for in such an extreme case people are often kind-hearted
enough; but absolutely to throw himself on anyone's mercy was simply
impossible to Donovan--he was at once too proud and too distrustful
of human nature.
The consideration ended, as might have been expected, in an
acceptance of the Frewins' offer; in a few days Donovan was
established in Drury Lane, and with all the natural force of his
character, and the retaliatory spirit produced by Ellis's injustice,
and fostered by Noir's sympathy, had plunged into the lowest and most
painful phase of his life.
Poor old Rouge Frewin was the only gainer by the new arrangement. He
had always disliked the part his son had made him play, and to be
left at home in peace with his parrot and his pipe, and as much
cognac as he could manage to get hold of, seemed to him all that
heart could wish. He took the most vehement liking to Donovan, and,
in his odd way, was very kind to him; the secret of his affection
probably lay in this: the new-comer treated him with respect, and the
poor old captain was now so little used to such treatment, that it
was doubly delightful to him.
"I am a better fellow since you came," he would often say, looking up
with real affection in his little watery eyes at the dark handsome
face of his boy-friend--the face which seemed to grow harder, yet
more hopelessly sad every day.
It was a world of nicknames into which Donovan had fallen; in the
club to which he and the Frewins belonged--a club which was a
gaming-house in everything but the prohibited name--every member had
been dubbed with some sobriquet, often of singular appropriateness.
Noir's Dartmoor friend for instance was familiarly known as Darky
Legge. The two Frewins had received their names of Rouge et Noir,
and before very long Donovan, whether he liked it or not, was
invariably addressed as "Milord." The parrot was the first to draw
his attention to it, but certainly old Rouge must have taught him,
for when ever Donovan came into the room, or attracted the bird's
notice in any way, Sweepstakes would scream out "Well, milord! Well,
milord!" in his harsh voice, often adding remarks which were quite
the reverse of complimentary.
One morning, while Donovan was sitting in the little parlour with a
cigar and a newspaper, circumstances combined together in such a way
as to make him for the first time ashamed of himself. They had been
out very late on the previous night, or rather that morning, and Noir
was lying half asleep on the sofa; as the clock struck twelve,
however, he roused himself, and with many yawns and stretches
prepared to go out.
"Look here, milord," he said, turning at the door, "I've an
appointment in the City, and must be off. You'll remember that we've
arranged to go down to Manchester by the evening express; be in the
way about that time, and I'll join you here on the way to Euston."
"All right," said Donovan, not looking up.
"Yes, but be sure you remember, for I've reason to believe we shall
make a good thing of it. Do you hear!"
"Yes," replied Donovan, shortly.
"What on earth makes you such a sulky brute to-day? One would have
thought the luck had been against you instead of all on your side
last night," said Noir, glancing at him rather curiously. His
question met with no reply, however, and with a shrug of the
shoulders he turned away.
When the door had closed behind him, Donovan threw down his paper,
and sat silently thinking over the words which had stirred long
dormant feelings in his heart. How he disliked this arranging and
scheming!--what paltry work he was engaged in!--how low and base and
despicable it all was! There was much to dislike, too, in Noir
Frewin; in spite of his misfortunes, and the consequent sympathy
which had arisen between them, there was necessarily a great deal in
him which was most repulsive to Donovan. Old Rouge, moreover, had
managed to escape his son's vigilance, and had made a disgraceful
scene on the previous evening. Altogether, Donovan felt disappointed
with his companions and disgusted with his work--not yet,
unfortunately, with himself.
He could not help feeling sorry, however, for Rouge when the old man
came slowly and wearily into the room; remembering how his
intemperance had begun, and what a good-hearted old fellow he was,
his contempt and utter disgust, which had been strongly roused the
previous night, died away into pity.
"Good morning, captain," he said, in his usual voice, and using the
title which he knew the old man liked better than anything.
"Eh, Donovan, my lad, it's anything but a good morning," sighed poor
Rouge, stretching himself out on the sofa. "How one does pay for a
little extra enjoyment!" Then, catching a look of contempt on his
companion's face, he added, piteously, "Don't you turn against me,
lad; I know I'm not what I should be, but don't you give me up too;
everyone despises me now, everyone looks down on me, and thinks
anything good enough for such a poor old fool. Don't you take to it
too, lad, for you've been good to the old captain till now."
"I don't wish to change," said Donovan, "but I hope you won't repeat
last night's amusement. How can you expect anyone to respect you,
when--well, after all, it's no business of mine."
Rouge sighed heavily.
"Such is life!" screamed the parrot, mimicking the sigh.
Then there was silence in the room for a few minutes, till the old
man broke forth again, this time with the tears running down his
cheeks.
"I'm a miserable old sinner, there's no doubt of that, but I was
driven to it. It's easy for other people to talk who don't know what
temptation is, but I tell you, lad, I was driven to it. I was lonely
and miserable, and there was more money than I knew what to do
with--how could I help it?"
Donovan did not answer; he crossed the room, and leant with his back
against the mantelpiece, thinking--thinking more worthy thoughts than
usual, too, for his face had something of the old bright look upon
it, which nothing had been able to awake since Dot's death. He liked
this poor old man genuinely; he liked very few people in the world,
but where his love was once given it was very true and sterling--no
mere idle pretence, not a selfish taking of what can be got, but a
real outgoing from self. Given an object to spend his love upon, he
was capable of immense self-sacrifice; it was his bitter misanthropy,
and his resolute shutting out of the source of love, which had so
cramped and narrowed his life. In spite of all his shortcomings,
there was much that was noble in his character; his face was fall of
eager desire as he turned to the old man--the lofty, almost
passionate desire which must come at times to those who have, if it
be but one spark of the Divine fire, the longing to turn from evil
those who are overwhelmed by it, to save the weak from temptation.
"Captain," he began, dropping the severe, yet half contemptuous tone
which he had at first adopted towards the poor old drunkard.
"Captain, I know you had hard times, and have a great deal of excuse;
but things are different now, and it's your turn to drive back along
the road you were driven. Look, we'll have a try together; you give
up the drink, for a time at any rate, and so will I."
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the old captain, starting up. "Why, my
dear fellow, I should be dead in a month. Do you think, after all
these years, I could give it up in a moment? Why, it's meat and
drink to me; I couldn't live without it, I tell you."
"More die by drinking than by abstaining," said Donovan. "I daresay
you'd miss it at first, but you'd soon get over it. You couldn't be
more miserable than you are this morning after your last night's
carouse."
"But to turn teetotaler!" exclaimed Rouge. "Why, milord, you'd never
hear the last of it at the club; we should be the laughing-stock of
the place."
"And do you think that you were not their laughing-stock last night?"
said Donovan. "Better be laughed at as a teetotaler than as a
drunkard. Plain-speaking, you will say, captain; but you and I don't
generally mince matters. Come, agree to my bargain, and my respect
for you will rise ten degrees."
"You don't think it would kill me, then?" hesitated Rouge.
"Stuff! more likely to add ten years to your life," said Donovan.
"Come, now, we'll each sign an agreement to give it up for--say three
months."
"So long," groaned poor Rouge. "Think of the dulness! Why, what
will life be worth?"
"Not much, indeed," said Donovan, "but more than your present life,
at any rate."
And then, after a little more discussion and hesitation, the papers
were signed.
By-and-by the old captain fell asleep on the sofa, and Donovan went
out to get his lunch, and to test the desirability of water-drinking.
In the afternoon he for the first time made his way to the park, with
a sort of desire to see the side of the world from which he had been
ejected, the gay fashionable world in which only a year before he had
moved. Lighting a cigar, he sat down on one of the benches, and
scanned the faces of the passing crowd, wondering whether he should
see any of his old acquaintance, longing, though he would hardly
admit it to himself, for a sight of his mother. Before he had been
seated many minutes, a rather prim-looking lady and a bright-faced
girl passed by, hesitated a moment, and then took the vacant places
on the bench beside him.
"We have still half an hour before the appointment; do let us sit
here--it is such fun to watch the people." It was a clear girlish
voice which said this, and Donovan involuntarily looked round at the
speaker, a little curious to see who it was who could find pleasure
in what to him was so full of bitterness.
A fair, rounded face, sunny hair, and well-opened blue-grey eyes.
Where had he seen her before? Somewhere, surely, for he remembered
the face distinctly now. It was one he had watched and admired--and
he admired very few women. He must have heard her speak too, for he
recognised her rather unusual voice--a voice in every way suited to
the face, mellow and full of tone, with a great gaiety and happiness
ringing in it, softening off tenderly now and then into earnestness.
He had met dozens of girls last season, but somehow she did not seem
like a London girl; she was too fresh and simple. Where could he
have seen her?
He listened with a good deal of interest to all she said, though it
was nothing in the least remarkable, merely comments on the
passers-by, and a laughing defence of fashionable people, when her
companion complained of the frivolity and uselessness of their lives.
"Now, auntie, I shall think it is because you and I are on foot and
the grand people are driving that you find fault with them; don't you
remember the French proverb about the pedestrians commenting on the
carriage people?"
"My dear, I should be very sorry to change places with them,"
answered the prim-looking lady.
"Yes, auntie, you would, I daresay, but really some people just
complain of rich people because they envy them, I'm quite sure they
do."
This was rather a home-thrust to Donovan, he threw away his cigar,
and listened more attentively, but the conversation drifted away to
other things, home matters evidently, details and allusions which
came very strangely to him in his semi-vagrant life--the last letters
there had been from Dick--Nesta's quickness in reading--how father
and mother meant to come up to town before they left. He listened to
it all half sadly, half amusedly, it was a glimpse of such a
different life from his own, such a simple, innocent, pure life, with
such strangely different interests! An unaffected girl, sweet, and
bright, and pure-minded, how black his life seemed in contrast with
hers! Musing on this he lost the thread of their conversation, and
as they rose to go he only caught the words, "Yes, I know he doesn't
profess much, but he's such a good man, the sort of man one can
trust."
A man one can trust! how she leant on that last word! and with what a
sharp thrill it pierced Donovan's ear. What would she have said of
him had she known the sort of work he was engaged upon? He was quite
glad she had moved away, for he did not feel fit to be near her. He
had disliked Noir Frewin's plan in the morning, now he shrank from it
doubly, in the brief revelation of purity, something of his own true
character had been brought to the light, he began to see very faintly
indeed, but still to see in some degree his own falseness and
blackness.
He would not go with Noir that evening; it would involve some
trouble, no doubt, if he did not keep his appointment, Noir would be
exceedingly vexed, there would inevitably be a quarrel when he
returned from Manchester, and of course he would lose the opportunity
of enriching himself, but he would not go, with the light of those
clear grey eyes fresh in his memory he felt that he really could not.
Scarcely had he made this resolution when he caught sight of his
mother's victoria; there was Ellis Farrant looking just as usual, and
beside him was Mrs. Farrant. She was leaning back in the carriage so
that Donovan only saw her face for an instant, but he fancied that
she looked a little paler than usual, a little sad and worried. The
sight moved him not a little, he felt a great longing to see her
again, and in the evening, not caring to return to Drury Lane, or to
go to the club he was in the habit of frequenting, for fear of
meeting the Frewins, he turned instead in the direction of Connaught
Square. There was the house he knew so well, the house which ought
to have been his, with its balconies gay with flowers, and a brougham
standing before the door. His mother was probably going out, he
would wait and see her an she came down the steps, but he would not
himself be seen, that would be too humiliating, he would wait a
little way off, and crossing the road, he leant with his back against
the square railings. It was a strange watch; bitter feelings mingled
with the returning family love as he stood there in the summer
twilight; it was hard, even his most stern condemner would have been
forced to allow that! He was standing alone in the street, cast off
by those who should have helped him, watching their comfort and
luxury from his state of misery and conscious sin. Instinctively he
took up poor Rouge's cry, "He has driven me to it--how can I help
going to the dogs, it is his fault!"
And then the house door opened, and one of the footmen came out to
the carriage. Donovan watched eagerly, and his breath came fast and
hard. There was his mother, quite placid and happy-looking now, with
a white Chuddah over her shoulders, and a diamond star in her hair,
and there was Ellis, with his opera hat, and his false smiling face,
and his shallow politeness.
Certainly, judging by the outward appearance, there could have been
no question which was the more to be pitied, the rich man stepping
into his carriage, or the unjustly used outcast who looked on in
writhing bitterness of soul; but in reality Donovan's misery was as
nothing compared with his step-father's. Years of plotting and
scheming, years of growing deterioration, harassing anxiety, and
patient waiting, all this had Ellis gone through, and for what? For
a rich wife, a town house, and a country house, accompanied by an
ever-present remorse, a nameless terror of discovery, a wretched
sense of shame, and a haunting dread of his victim Donovan. The good
was striving within him, it would not abandon him, would not for a
moment let him enjoy his unjust gains; he fought against it with all
his strength, and tried to be careless and comfortable, but he fought
in vain.
They went to the opera that evening and heard "Faust"; it stung him
as no sermon would have done. How like his part had been to that of
Mephistopheles! how deliberately he had planned his step-son's harm!
And above the voices of singers and chorus, above the grand
orchestral accompaniment, there rang in his ears one sharp despairing
sentence, "Remember how you have goaded me on to ruin!"
Faust and Margherita were nothing to him. He hardly noticed the
beautiful little _prima donna_. It was the grim basso, with his red
livery, his stealthy yet rapid movements, his satanic look of
triumphant cunning, who preached to him that night, as no clergyman
in surplice and stole, or gown and Geneva bands, had ever preached to
him. In the "serenata," where Mephistopheles sings his mocking song
of triumph to the guitar, and augurs further successes for himself,
Ellis sat actually shuddering at the horrible sense of likeness. The
song was encored. He could bear it no longer, but shrank back into
the very furthest corner of the box, trying not to see or hear.
By-and-by it was all over, and Ellis, with a grey face, forced up a
smile, and tried to talk in his ordinary way, as he led his wife to
the carriage. But the effort was intolerable; he was, in truth, a
miserable man that night, but happier had he known it for that very
misery. It was the sign of that other Presence within him which will
not leave us to an unequal struggle with evil.
Donovan, seeing only the prosperous, outward show, knowing nothing of
all the real remorse, watched the carriage drive off with feelings
which in their vehemence are quite indescribable. He was almost
terrified himself at the storm of hatred, and anger, and wild longing
for revenge that took possession of his heart, as well he might be,
owning nothing to quell it but the power of his own will. He stood
quite still, his face pale and rigid with that terrible white-hot
passion, the overmastering passion in which great crimes are often
committed. In his madness nothing was too dark for him to
contemplate, no revenge too sharp to be resolved upon. He had
grasped hold of the iron railing of the garden, involuntarily turning
away his face from the houses. A voice close to his ear made him
start. If the good still strove with Ellis Farrant, still more did
it lead Donovan, who was more sinned against than sinning, and to him
no fiend like Mephistopheles came to scare and terrify, but a little
child was sent to lead him.
"Do you want to come in? I thought I saw you tugging so at the gate,
and I came to ask you."
A little girl of nine or ten was addressing him, looking shyly
through the iron bars of the gate. No child had spoken to him since
Dot had died. This seemed to him like a voice from the grave, and
instinctively, even at the remembrance of the love which he deemed
all a thing of the past, lost to him for ever, the evil thoughts and
the revengeful anger died out of his heart.
"I should like to come in," he said, in reply to the question, "but I
have no key."
"I will ask the Fräulein to open the gate," said the little girl, and
she ran across the garden, returning in a few minutes with a German
lady, who looked up from her knitting rather curiously to see this
gentleman who was waiting for admittance. It was easily explained.
He had not a key, but he pointed to his mother's house in the square.
The Fräulein, without any demur, unlocked the gate and admitted him.
He had not often been into the garden before, but two or three times
he had brought Dot there in her invalid chair, and the place was
therefore sacred to him. He went at once to her favourite seat, and
there, in the cool of the summer evening, better thoughts returned to
him. It had been a hot day. The children were all enjoying the
change; they had the garden almost to themselves, and, as they
played, their laughter and chatter floated to him. It was what he
wanted; something innocent, and pure, and merry. A faint, very faint
return of little Dot's influence came back to him, and when he left
the garden again he was a better man.
Drury Lane had never seemed to him so dingy as when he returned to it
that evening. A street-organ was playing a popular air in one part,
and a crowd of wretched-looking bare-headed girls were dancing on the
pavement. Every now and then he passed one of those appalling courts
or alleys which open into the lane, and, pausing once or twice, he
caught a glimpse of the seething human crowd, the filth and misery
which they lived in; then on again past the shabby gaslit shops, the
disreputable-looking passengers, until he almost fell over a little
child who ought to have been in bed long before, but who was sitting
on the curb-stone, grubbing with both hands in a heap of mud in the
gutter. Donovan was very tender over little children. He stooped
down at once to see whether he had hurt the small elf. A pair of
dancing blue eyes looked up at him from a dirty little face, and
something very unsavoury was held towards him, while, with the
confidence of a great discoverer, the elf shouted, gleefully,
"See what I've got! A real old duck's foot! A real old duck's foot!"
It was a very pitiful sight, but it touched Donovan; he dropped a
penny into the hand which was not occupied with the new treasure and
went away moralizing, till, reaching the print-shop, he drew out his
key and went up the stairs to the deserted rooms, for even Rouge was
gone, and, for the next three days, Donovan was left to the tender
mercies of Waif and Sweepstakes.
He lit the gas and took up a book, but the bird awaking caught sight
of him, and instantly began in his most scolding tones,
"Well, milord, aint you a fool! Oh, lor, aint you a fool!"
Evidently the Frewins had not made any complimentary remarks upon his
absence, and doubtless poor Rouge had hardly been fit for the
journey. But he could not help it; if he had not seen that
bright-faced girl, and been so shamed by her unconscious words, it
would have been different. What a strange glimpse of another kind of
life she had given him!
Sweepstakes sat with his shrewd grey head on one side, and his
crimson tail feathers drooped; before long, with a wicked look in his
round eyes, he began to say plaintively,
"Be yit fever so wumble,
There's no place li k'ome."
"Be quiet," said Donovan, sharply, for the words did not at all suit
his present frame of mind.
But Sweepstakes only reiterated,
"Be yit t'ever so wumble,
There's no place like--"
Donovan made a dash at the cage with a cloth and interrupted the
song, a proceeding which enraged the parrot.
"You go to Tophet!" he screamed, angrily, and then, being out of
temper, he swore for five minutes on end, till, for the sake of
peace, Donovan had to make up the quarrel.
But there was a good deal of obstinacy about Sweepstakes, and, though
he allowed his anger to be appeased by a Brazil nut, he treated
Donovan for the rest of the evening to a mild muttered refrain of "Be
yit ever so wumble, umble, umble----" _ad infinitum_.
For the first time since he had been in London, Donovan that night
went to his room early; he had got into the habit of turning night
into day. But he was dull that evening and tired, and it was not
much after half-past eleven when he left Sweepstakes for the night
and turned into his own shabby little room at the back. A dreary
lodging-house bed-room it was, with a strip or two of carpet thrown
down over the dirty unscrubbed floor, a mouldering green wall-paper,
and over the fireplace one solitary picture in a gilt frame black
with age, a dingy sea-piece in oils, a ship being dashed to pieces on
rocks. A room is said to show in a certain fashion the character of
its occupant; there were only four things here which could in any way
bear traces of Donovan's individuality. On the mantelpiece was Dot's
cathedral clock, in one corner a great bath, on the chest of drawers
one or two anti-theological books by Luke Raeburn, and at the foot of
the bed a woolly rug for Waif.
The window was open; it looked out on to that fearful net-work of
byeways and alleys which Donovan had seen as he came home. He had
often seen them before, but one can see many times and yet never
observe. He had generally gone to his room between three and four in
the morning when all was quiet enough; this evening it was just after
closing time; the public-houses had let loose their wretched throng,
and the cry of the city went up to heaven. People talk of the noise
of London, and think generally of the street traffic, the crowded
pavements, and the ceaseless wheels, but let them once hear the
appalling noise of human life in a poor quarter, and they will not
complain of anything else. Wild, drunken singing, fierce quarrels,
blows, cursing, a Babel of tongues, a wailing of children, angry
disputes between men and women, in which too often the woman's voice
in its awful harshness seems unlike that of a human creature. These
are the sounds one may hear, the fearful realities which make up the
dark side of the world's metropolis.
Donovan stood beside the open window and let all this tide of human
wretchedness beat upon his ear. He was shocked and awed, struck with
a great pity and indignation, for he was not hard-hearted, only
narrow-hearted, and though this crampedness kept him from action it
did not prevent the great suffering of humanity from touching him
with a sense of pity. The incomprehensible suffering! what a mystery
it was! it made him wretched and pitiful, and yet angry, though where
the fault of all lay he could not have said. Christianity, or rather
the horribly false notions of Christianity which he had received,
would have said that all these drunkards and degraded beings were
forging the chains which should bind them for ever and ever in hell;
according to Mrs. Doery's ideas the West End must have seemed the
region of the elect, and Drury Lane the abode of that other numerous
band who were foredoomed to everlasting torture. Perhaps almost
naturally Donovan had a fellow feeling for sinners, for in his very
young days, when he had for a short time believed in what he was
taught, he had fully made up his mind that Doery was one of the
elect, and that he had better go to the other place; now from his
atheism, with which he persuaded himself he was quite contented, he
looked back with pity, and yet with a little amusement, on the
picture of his sturdy defiant childhood, which preferred even the
awfully described fiery furnaces to companionship with Doery in an
unjust and partial favour.
He turned away from the window at last, but not till he had closed it
and drawn down the blind; he shut out the misery of his fellows as he
shut out many other things, for at present he was one of those who as
Coleridge puts it--
"Sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched."
It was not to be expected that the passing words of a stranger would
be sufficient to alter the whole current of Donovan's life, nor did
Gladys Tremain exercise such an unheard of influence. The Frewins
returned, and after sundry upbraidings from Rouge and a sharp quarrel
with Noir, things fell back again to their former state.
Once, quite unexpectedly, he met the grey-eyed stranger again, two or
three weeks after their encounter in the park. It was a July
evening, the Frewins, Legge, Donovan, and two or three other men were
travelling up together from Goodwood. The train was crowded; Mrs.
Causton and Gladys, who had been spending the day with some friends,
were waiting on the platform of a station not far from Chichester,
but they found it almost impossible to get places.
"Such a dreadful crowd, and such disagreeable-looking people," said
poor Mrs. Causton, nervously, "what is the reason of it?"
"Goodwood races, mum," said the porter, wondering at her ignorance,
"there's room for one in here, and one next door; come, miss, the
train's just starting."
"My dear! you can't go alone in there," said Mrs. Causton,
distractedly, looking at the not too reputable travellers, but the
next carriage was every bit as bad, the train began to move, there
was really no help for it, whether she liked it or not, Gladys was
shut in alone among this strange-looking crew. She knew there was
nothing to fear, but at the same time it was a very uncomfortable
predicament, a fast girl would have been amused by such a novel
adventure, but Gladys was not fast, she was a pure womanly woman, and
though she could not have explained why, she had a peculiar shrinking
from these people. The little conversation at the door too had
attracted the notice of a coarse-looking man who was sitting next
her; he turned round upon her with a cool inquisitive stare, and then
made some remark to his neighbour on the other side which caused a
general laugh, and Gladys, though she would not have understood a
word even had. she heard, felt the colour flame up in her cheeks.
"Why can't you behave decently?" said a voice from the other side of
the carriage.
"Rouge, it's your deal."
Then Gladys, who had instinctively lowered her eyes, looked up, for
the attention of the passengers was diverted from her; with an
overcoat spread over their knees, by way of a table, they were soon
absorbed in a game of "Nap." She looked round at their faces with a
sort of longing to find one from which she need not shrink; all
seemed bad, or coarse, or in some way repulsive; exactly opposite her
was an elderly man fast asleep, next to him was the one who had
called his companions to order. Gladys looked at his face half
hopefully, the voice had at least been refined, and the words--well,
the best she had heard in this company. The face too was not
otherwise than refined, the features were strikingly handsome, there
were no tokens of excess about the clear dark complexion, but oh!
what a hard bitter saturnine look there was about the whole; he was
evidently much younger than any of his companions, yet not one of
them looked so reckless and hardened, still she felt that he was a
gentleman, and was at once less uncomfortable and forlorn; apparently
he took not the slightest notice of her, and that was pleasant after
the uncomfortable rude staring and comments.
It was a very strange and very sad revelation to her--a side of life
which she had heard of indeed, but had never in the least realised;
the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil had never
shaped themselves in her thoughts into anything half so terrible as
this. She had felt impatient when Mrs. Causton had lamented the
temptations of London life for Stephen, yet the danger was no
imaginary one, for here was one who could not be older than Stephen
or Dick surrounded by evil companions, gambling with a recklessness
and _sang froid_ which bespoke long habit. There was a sort of
horrible fascination in it all, she could not help watching the eager
faces; on all of them was written the strong desire of gain, on all,
except that one dark saturnine face opposite her, which, though
apparently caring for little else but the game, never seemed to
unbend, in spite of repeated successes. Gladys watched him as he
pocketed his winnings, watched pityingly his unmoved face, and once
he looked up and their eyes met. It was not a look from which she
need shrink; the eyes were not bad eyes--they were very strange,
hungry-looking, sad ones. She understood then why he was so
different from his companions--evidently in his heart he disliked the
life he was leading. By-and-by a dispute arose, a fierce, loud
altercation between her disagreeable neighbour and one of the other
men; language such as she had never heard was shouted across the
carriage, the lookers-on laughed. Poor Gladys glanced across in
despair to the one passenger in whom she had any faith; he was
leaning back with a look of ineffable disgust and weariness on his
handsome face, but, as the angry Babel grew louder, he turned to
Gladys; she hardly knew whether she were relieved or only more
frightened when he bent forward to speak to her.
"This must be very unpleasant for you," he said, and she knew at once
from his manner that she had found a protector. "We shall be at a
station in a minute or two, and then, if you like, I will offer to
change places with the lady you are with."
"Oh! thank you so much," said Gladys, her frightened eyes
brightening with gratitude and relief. "My aunt is in the next
carriage, if you really wouldn't mind----"
"Not in the least; I wish I had thought of it before, that you might
have been saved this unpleasantness."
Then, without another word, he returned to his former position, but
with a less hard and contemptuous expression than before. The others
appealed to him for his opinion in the matter of the dispute, and he
spoke coldly and quietly, but evidently what he said was to the
point; the disputants quieted down, and agreed to some sort of
compromise. At last, to Gladys' intense relief, they reached the
station. Donovan got up and let down the window, then, looking back,
said carelessly,
"You can leave me out in the next deal; I'm going to change
carriages."
The announcement caused a chorus of inquiry.
"What's up with milord now?" asked Gladys' neighbour.
"Oh! some craze, I suppose," said a dark-browed man on the other side
of the carriage; "he took a moral fit the other night, and rushed
away no one knew where. There's no reckoning on him--'a wilful man
must have his'---- Why, what's this?" as Donovan returned to help
Mrs. Causton in. "We didn't reckon on this, at any rate. Donovan,
what _are_ you thinking of?"
"A cigar in peace next door," he replied readily; and then he
retreated, leaving Gladys greatly relieved, and the card-players not
a little embarrassed by the large bundle of tracts which Mrs. Causton
began to distribute among them. At London Bridge they saw him again
for a minute, and Mrs. Causton pressed two tracts into his hand and
thanked him for his courtesy. Gladys looked up at him shyly and
gratefully, but did not speak again, except, as he raised his hat and
turned away, to utter one earnest-toned "good-bye." He heard it, and
treasured it up in his heart--a wish, he knew it was, no mere formal
parting, but the wish of a pure-minded woman that good might be with
him.
Gladys watched sadly as Noir Frewin rejoined her protector; he was
thoroughly out of temper, as she had seen on the journey, and greeted
his companion with a torrent of angry reproaches. Gladys caught only
a word or two here and there--"Confounded folly!--playing fast and
loose with the agreement!"--and one bitter taunt--"A pretty
knight-errant to help distressed ladies, such as you, a
professional----"
But the word gambler did not reach Gladys. She did not then learn
what a life Donovan was leading, but she had seen and heard quite
enough to know that he was in great need of help, and from that night
he always had a place in her prayers. Without that how could she
have borne the revelation of evil and wretchedness, the contrast
between the shielded life of those she knew, and the life of constant
temptation of these her fellow-creatures. Painful as the evening's
experience had been, she could not altogether regret it. In
after-life she thanked God for that brief journey, upon which had
hinged so much.