LOSING SELF TO FIND.
Man-like is it to fall into sin,
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein,
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve,
God-like is it all sin to leave.
_From the German_. LONGFELLOW.
Eleven o'clock on a May morning, the bright sunshine peeping in
obliquely through the _persiennes_, and lighting up the conventional
French bed-room, with its wardrobe, mirror, writing-table, and gilt
clock, also a well-worn, brown portmanteau, and a white and tan
fox-terrier stretched at full length on the hearth-rug. Down below
in the street there was the rumbling of wheels, the busy, morning
traffic, occasionally the cheerful voices of busy Parisians as they
passed by, occupied, no doubt, but not pressed and hurried as
Londoners are.
These were the sights and sounds which first greeted Donovan on a day
which he was never to forget, a day every detail of which was burnt
in upon his brain with the ineffaceable brand of suffering. He woke
late, rang the bell for his coffee, and then lay musing. He was a
rich man; the sensation was strange. A year ago he had been cast
adrift, friendless, almost penniless; he had started with hardly any
possession in the world, except the brown portmanteau and the
fox-terrier which met his gaze from the other side of the room; now
he was rich, a well-to-do man, for not many hours ago, when the faint
dawn was just beginning to break, he had won a fortune at baccarat.
In spite of Ellis's wickedness, in spite of life-long injustice, he
had done well for himself.
And yet, after all, did it make so very much difference? Was this
great success, this unparalleled good fortune, so really worth
having? His heart did not feel any lighter, life did not look more
inviting when he got up that day. At the actual time of his triumph
his bliss had been complete, his one passion rode rampant over
everything. A splendid game, a fortune at stake, a fortune which he
by his marvellous play had won! Everything else was forgotten, care
for the time cast aside, weariness lost, insatiety filled, the hollow
unsatisfactory world became a temporary paradise!
But now it had passed, and the dull weight of existence pressed on
him once more. Was he so much better off than poor M. Berrogain
even, the man by whose losses he had been enriched? Was the loser
many degrees more depressed than the winner?
He was just about to leave his room, when, with a hasty knock, Noir
Frewin entered.
"Milord," he said, quickly, "you're wanted in the next room; there's
no end of a scene going on--Berrogain's wife in floods of tears; her
husband has made off no one knows where, and, from a few written
words he left, seems to intend suicide."
Donovan gave a dismayed start, made a gesture of horror.
"What!" he gasped, in a voice which contrasted oddly with Noir's
off-hand manner.
"Simply what I say," said Noir. "Don't look as if you'd already seen
his ghost; of course it's a bad business, but come in and see the
wife, and don't put her down as a widow till we've found all the
facts."
With an impatient movement, Donovan pushed past the speaker, and in a
dazed bewildered way found himself in the room where the old captain
was trying to say something cheering to a little dark-eyed woman,
whose piquant face was wet with tears and pale with anxiety.
"Here is M. Donovan," said Rouge, paternally; "he has a good heart,
madame--he will help you."
"Ah! monsieur," she cried, turning to him with streaming eyes,
"listen, at least listen, to my trouble. In the night my husband
returns, he tells me he is ruined--he, the fortunate, has been
ruined--all the fortune he made at Monaco lost--gone. I ask him how,
and he tells me it is the young Englishman, the M. Donovan, of whom
so much was said at the club--he it is who has caused the ruin. Oh!
monsieur," and here the poor little woman's voice was broken with
sobs, "you, who are so good, so prudent, you whom they called the
young Bayard, _sans peur et sans reproche_--oh! monsieur, is it
possible that you did it? They said you were too good for Monaco,
but oh! monsieur, it is worse to ruin others than to ruin yourself.
Think, monsieur--think what it means; you have driven my husband away
in despair--he may even now be no more. Oh! _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_
Think if the Seine be flowing over him! Monsieur, speak to me, help
me; it is you who have brought us this evil--speak, monsieur!"
Throughout the impassioned address Donovan had stood rigidly still;
he felt sick with horror, the strength went out of his arms, for the
time he really was paralysed by the appalling consciousness of the
responsibility resting on him. He had, perhaps--nay,
probably--driven a man to suicide, ruined and widowed the poor woman
before him. Was he much better than a murderer?
"Speak, monsieur!" reiterated Madame Berrogain through her tears.
He turned at last to Rouge appealingly.
"I can't speak to her; you must----"
"M. Donovan is much moved," said the old captain; "he tells me to
speak for him; be assured, madame, that he will do all in his power;
he is good and----"
"_Do!_" interrupted Donovan, with a sudden return of strength and
vehemence--"is there anything to do? Only tell me of any hope that
all this is not true, that your fears are groundless----"
"Alas! monsieur, but who can say?" sobbed Madame Berrogain. "He is
gone--gone--see his last words!" and she held out to him a sheet of
paper, on which was written in French:
"_My wife,--I cannot bear this intolerable misery. I must fly from
all most dear, and seek a refuge in darkness; life is ended for me.
Farewell! Thy unhappy one,_--BERROGAIN."
To Donovan the words conveyed little hope; still he clung to the idea
that there might possibly be time to hinder this rash act, and with
the hope all the man within him re-asserted itself.
"Madame," he said, earnestly, "all that can be done I will do. We
will advertise in all the papers; I will seek your husband in every
place in Paris where we know of any chance of finding him. I will
find him if I die in doing it."
In spite of his bad French and limited means of expression, in spite
too of his grave stern face, Madame Berrogain understood the depth of
the promise, and knew that the man who had ruined her husband was yet
a man to be trusted.
"And you think there is hope," she cried. "Oh! monsieur, you think
there is really hope?"
He struggled hard to speak, and, with his habitual control, forced
himself at last to say,
"Be comforted, madame, I will do everything that is possible; hope
for the best, and to-night we will bring you word. You shall know
all that has been done."
"Monsieur is good," said the poor wife, wiping her eyes. "He will
work, and I--I will pray to our Lady."
In a few minutes more she rose to leave, and, with her _bonne_ beside
her, went back to her desolate rooms.
Donovan, as soon as she had left, drew paper and ink to him, and
sitting down began to write rapidly. Rouge watched the forcible
characters as they were traced with a sort of vague wonder and
bewilderment. A few moments before his companion had seemed utterly
unnerved, now his iron face and the swift precision of his movements
made him seem like a machine.
"What are you doing?" asked the captain, curiously.
"Advertisements," was the laconic reply, spoken in the voice which
more than anything tells of a mind strained to the highest tension,
half sharp, half weary.
Five minutes of writing, and then Donovan rose, snatched up his hat
and opened the door. The captain stopped him.
"Let me come with you, lad," he said, in his good-humoured voice.
"Yes, come," said Donovan, with a shade of relief in his tone; and
then the two hurried down the stairs and out into the sunny street.
Just outside the door they found Noir sauntering up and down with his
pipe; he stopped them to ask their errand, gave his advice as to
putting the matter into the hands of the police, and then turned away
with his usual cool nonchalance, under which was, nevertheless,
hidden more sympathy than might have been expected.
"Milord is the very worst person for such a thing to come to," he
mused; "a man without a conscience wouldn't have troubled himself to
think twice of the matter. Now Donovan's as likely as not to go
raving mad if this Berrogain isn't found."
At present there were no signs of the anticipated "madness;" Donovan
was perfectly quiet and clear-headed, he walked on swiftly with Rouge
beside him, setting about his disagreeable work in the most
business-like way. In spite of his English pronunciation too, there
was that about him which obliged the various officials to receive his
orders with civility and obedience.
Not to think--that was his one great effort, but the horror of the
overhanging dread would obtrude itself,--or if by his strong will he
banished it for a time, it was only to be conscious, through the hard
matter-of-fact absence of feeling which he forced himself into, of
the dull nameless weight at his heart.
It was about four in the afternoon when they reached the Pont
d'Arcole, and the old captain was beginning to feel both hungry and
tired. He looked at his companion then questioningly, and saw a
little additional sternness about his face. Groups of men were
leaning over the parapet watching the river; Donovan too paused for a
moment and looked down at the sparkling water; Rouge fancied he saw
him shudder, but he did not speak, and walked on again more rapidly
than before.
"Where next?" asked the captain, anxiously.
"To the Morgue," said Donovan, in a firm but very low voice.
They went on in silence, and before long found themselves in the
little crowd which was continually passing up and down the steps and
through the doors of the small insignificant building which is
dedicated to so painful a purpose.
"I will wait here for you," said Rouge, for he rather shrank from
going inside, and Donovan, without a word, left him and pushed his
way in with the eager crowd.
The waiting seemed long to the old captain; he began to wonder
whether his companion had found poor Monsieur Berrogain in that dread
room within, and anxiously scanned the faces of those who came out.
Soldiers in shabby uniforms, women in their snowy white caps, men of
all ranks and ages, sometimes even little children in arms.
At length, in this motley but cheerful and unconcerned crowd, came
the face which Rouge was waiting for, a curious contrast to every
other, stern, and sad, and white to the very lips.
The captain was startled.
"Good heavens! milord," he cried, "you have not found him, have you?"
Donovan shook his head, and clutched at his companion's arm to steady
himself.
"Why, you're ill," said the captain. "Within an ace of fainting."
"Nonsense, nothing of the kind," panted Donovan. "Only let us get
away from this place," and with Rouge's assistance he crossed the
road, but there, finding his strength failing, was obliged to lean up
against the railings, even to cling to them for support. The
horrible sight, the dread of what he might possibly find, had
completely unnerved him, for one dreadful moment, too, he had fancied
that he recognized M. Berrogain, and, in spite of the subsequent
relief at his mistake, he could not recover from the shock.
"Only don't let's have a scene," was his answer to all Rouge's
suggestions, and at last, with the old captain's help, he managed to
get as far as the entrance to the garden east of Notre Dame, and to
rest on a bench under the trees.
Everything there was bright and peaceful, the grey old church, with
its pinnacles and flying buttresses, the fresh green of the spring
leaves, the sunshine streaming down with that gaiety and brightness
which seem specially to characterise Paris, and here and there a
little child at play with its _bonne_ in attendance. Once a tiny,
fairy-like little thing, whose white dress showed that she was
"dedicated to the Virgin," stole up to Donovan--she had watched him
with a sort of fascination ever since he had thrown himself down on
the bench. Was it merely compassion for one who seemed ill, or was
it that peculiar attraction which Donovan possessed for children?
The tiny maid, prompted by some unknown influence, at any rate
resolved to do her best for him, and, with her little quick fingers,
began gathering marguerites, then, grasping the bunch with her two
fat little hands, she toddled up to the silent figure, and, with a
premonitory pat to arouse him, laid her offering on his knees.
"See then, monsieur, the pretty flowers, they are all for you."
He put his hand for a moment on the dimpled one of his tiny friend,
and, as well as he could, thanked her, but the daring little mite was
soon pursued by an indignant nurse.
"Mademoiselle Gabrielle, come away this moment. Ah! little wicked
one! I dare not take my eyes off thee for a single instant!"
So Mademoiselle Gabrielle was led away in disgrace, but looked round
nevertheless to kiss her hand, and to nod her pretty little head in
farewell, and Donovan followed her with his eyes, with a great pain
at his heart. The little child's gift touched him strangely, it had
come in such a moment of tumult and horror, when self was feeling so
utterly hateful, the weight of dread responsibility so heavy, and
this fairy-like creature had pitied him, liked him, he was grateful
with the almost passionate gratitude of humility.
For it was a very terrible thing this that had come to him, this woe
that he had unthinkingly brought about. He was very young still,
only just two and twenty, and in spite of his wretched roving life,
in spite of the bitter misanthropy he professed, there was still in
him the chivalry of all strong natures, the nobleness which must
protect what is weak; little children and women he looked upon with a
sort of devotion; from his very childhood it had been so, the ideal
of motherhood, the passionate love for Dot, had been the ruling
motives of his life. The ideal of the wife was still unformed, he
had never loved, or even fancied that he loved any woman. Only when
the thought of home-life came to him, as now and then it would, when
he saw the outer side of the lives of others, the vision of the
grey-eyed stranger whom he had met in Hyde Park would rise up before
him, the tender, bright, womanly woman, whose purity and sweetness
had had such a powerful influence over him--had even helped to keep
him straight when he had been exposed to the countless snares of
Monaco.
Because of this strong reverence for women, the scene of the morning
had been specially painful to him. The poor wife's misery, which
must have haunted anyone with a heart, haunted him with a pain and
shame almost intolerable. But fortunately he was--notwithstanding
all his failings--brave and manly, he struggled now with his
weakness, and began to make his plans for further searching--that
"doing" which was such a relief to his burdened mind.
"We will come to one of Duval's places and have some dinner," was his
first voluntary remark to the old captain, about as sensible and
matter-of-fact a proposal as could have been made.
So they went to the nearest of the restaurants, and Rouge's devoted
attendance was rewarded by the privilege of ordering whatever he
liked, while Donovan gulped down enough food to support him in his
work, conquering his utter disinclination till he had satisfied his
conscience, and then calling Waif to devour the plentiful leavings.
After that came another deliberate plunge into the crowded streets,
another long continued but utterly vain search for the lost man.
Ceaseless inquiries, endless hurryings to and fro, once or twice a
supposed clue to M. Berrogain's whereabouts, to be followed by
temporary hope and bitter disappointment.
Once, as the evening wore on, Donovan stopped at a _café_ on one of
the boulevards and made the old captain have a cup of _café noir_,
even permitted the _petit verre_ without a remonstrance; but this
time he was too sick at heart to force himself to take anything, hope
had almost died out since his last disappointment, and the numbing
paralysing horror was beginning to overwhelm him again.
Rouge, as he sipped his coffee contentedly, happened to look across
the little marble table at his silent companion, and then for the
first time realised that the day's anxiety had been something far
severer than he could comprehend. For Donovan's face was worn and
haggard, grey with that strange ghastliness which only comes on such
young faces in times of great exhaustion; the firm mouth betrayed
suffering, the eyes, though feverishly alive to all that was passing,
had a painfully despairing look in them.
"Donovan, lad," said Rouge, anxiously, "you will come home now, won't
you?"
"You go home, captain," he answered, "you've had a long day, I? no, I
can't come yet. I must see whether the police have found anything,
and I must see _her_--Madame Berrogain."
"Milord, you'll only be ill again," remonstrated the old man, "you'll
do for yourself one of these days."
"That means I shall do the best thing that could be done," said
Donovan, with an odd sudden smile, followed by a quick sigh. "But
you see, captain, this coil of flesh is terribly tough. Good night,
go home and rest."
He pushed back his chair suddenly, threw down a franc beside the
captain's cup, and before his companion could remonstrate had walked
away rapidly alone.
At length, wearily and quite hopelessly, he went to see if any of the
agencies he had set to work had been successful in tracing M.
Berrogain. He had some minutes to wait in the _bureau_ of the chief
official, but at last a small sharp-faced man appeared with a paper
in his hand, and an all-pervading odour of garlic, which was quite
beneath the dignity of his position.
"You are come to inquire for Théodore Berrogain, disappeared
mysteriously since the hour of 4 a.m. Good! I think we have traced
him."
Donovan did not speak, only breathed more quickly and clenched and
unclenched his hands, his usual sign of strong feeling.
"Inquiries have been made, and this is the result,--at the _Gare
d'Orléans_ the _chef_ states that a man answering to your
description, much above the usual height, pale, with thick light hair
and moustaches, and a cast in one eye, was seen early this morning at
the station; the official at the ticket office also remembers him,
and will undertake to swear that he issued a ticket to him for
Bordeaux, third class. Acting upon this, monsieur, we have
telegraphed to the officials at Bordeaux; the train by which it is
supposed M. Berrogain left Paris reaches Bordeaux this evening at
10.30, it will be met by our agents there, and they will telegraph to
us the movements of your friend."
Doubtless the man thought the "friendship" was a remarkable one--one
must love a companion much to be so particularly anxious about him,
and Donovan's intense relief, though so thoroughly undemonstrative,
was nevertheless apparent even to the sleepy official. He arranged
to call early the next morning for further tidings, and then hurried
away to relieve poor Madame Berrogain's anxiety.
Anyone who knows the sensation of a sudden respite, the removal of an
intolerable load, the relief from oppressing fear, will understand
with what feelings Donovan hastened along the gas-lit streets. He
was treading on air; new life was coursing through his veins; the
very consciousness of free unburdened existence was in itself
exquisite. And then came the satisfaction of imparting his hopeful
news to the poor wife, amid a torrent of fervent thanks, tears,
incoherent blessings, and exclamations of relief.
He tried to cut the scene short, and it was not till he was standing
at the open door that he placed in Madame Berrogain's hands a small
piece of paper.
"I give this to you, madame, because I think it is better so.
To-morrow I shall go to your husband, and I will tell him what you
hold for him."
He would have moved to the staircase, but Madame Berrogain laid her
hand on his arm. She had glanced rapidly at the paper, and now the
tears were streaming down her cheeks.
"No, no, monsieur, this is too good! This must not be! Take it
back, monsieur, I implore."
"Madame asks what is impossible," he replied, with his rare and
beautiful smile. "One day's possession is sufficient for me; only,
if I might be allowed one suggestion, I would say that it were better
used for madame's own needs, not risked again at baccarat."
"Ah! God bless you! God guard you!" exclaimed the little wife,
clasping her hands together. "Monsieur, I shall remember you always.
On my knees I shall remember you, believe it. Ah! heaven, if all
were but like you!"
He submitted to having his hand pressed in both hers for a moment,
then, bowing low, he hastened away.
After that, naturally enough came the reaction. He was dreadfully
worn out, and apart from his relief, everything that faced him in the
future was most painful. For this great shock had shown him what a
hateful life he was leading, and he knew that it must be forsaken.
He found the old captain in his room smoking, told him of Monsieur
Berrogain's probable whereabouts, and then, with a sigh of great
weariness, stretched himself at full length on the hearthrug. Before
very long Noir came in, and having heard the news in his cool,
uninterested way, remarked, carelessly,
"Well, I'm glad for your sake that the fellow's in the land of the
living still. I suppose he's off to America?"
"He will be watched and arrested, if he attempts it," said Donovan.
"To-morrow morning I shall start for Bordeaux. It is the only sure
way of making all right to see him myself."
"Folly!" said Noir, crossly. "Why, the best thing he can do is to
leave the country."
"Madame Berrogain might not agree with you."
"But the fellow's ruined. You know he can't live here."
"You are mistaken," said Donovan, quietly. "He is not ruined."
"What!" cried Noir, in a startled voice. "You mean that you have let
him off, that you've been such an utter fool as to let those
thousands slip through your fingers again?"
"Exactly--yes--such an utter fool," said Donovan, with a touch of
satire.
"Well, milord, you're a softer fellow then than I thought. A woman's
tears and an absurd scare lest a weak-minded wretch should have
drowned himself, and you melt directly, become the generous hero of
the piece, fling _largesse_ to right and left, and walk off amid
cheers and applause. I'd no idea you were so weak-minded! Besides,
you know well enough you'll repent your bargain in a few days. As
your favourite Monsieur Renan says, 'Most beautiful actions are done
in a state of fever.' You'll recover and repent it."
"Do I seem feverishly excited?" asked Donovan, quietly. "And do I
generally fail in deliberation?"
"Don't bother him now," interposed the old captain. "We've had an
awful day of it."
"What in the world you did it for I can't conceive," said Noir,
unheeding. "You who profess to rail at the injustice of life! you
who call yourself a misanthrope! What induced you to spend your time
on such a search? What does it matter to you if all the world is
ruined?"
"I suppose, after all, I didn't hate the whole world," said Donovan,
slowly, "or else the hatred was all needed in another direction."
Noir caught his meaning, and, because he could just recognise its
humility and sad honesty, it roused all the evil in him; he knew that
his companion was slipping away from him.
"And how does your moral highness propose to live if you refund the
money you won?" The question was put with a contemptuous sneer.
"How I shall live, Noir," answered Donovan, gravely, "I cannot tell,
but by gambling I shall not live."
"We shall see," said Noir, "when you recover from this state of
fever. Why, do you think that in a moment like this you can end the
strongest incentive of your life? You know perfectly well that you
don't care a rush for anything except the cards."
"You've about hit it," said Donovan, "but," with a firmness which
seemed to give treble force to each separate word, "_I will not play
again._"
For a minute both the Frewins were silent; both involuntarily looked
at their companion as he lay, his thin skilful hands clasped over his
dark hair, his face resolute and full of noble purpose; he was
quietly renouncing all he had as yet cared for in life, all by which
he could win admiration, success, pleasure, and these two men knew
it. Rouge was the first to speak.
"Well, lad, we will do the best we can for you; you will stay on with
us."
And then the look of struggle came back to Donovan's face; he rose
hurriedly, and began to pace up and down the room, scarcely hearing
what his companions said to him.
At last he stopped abruptly in his walk, and said, hoarsely,
"No, I can't stay, captain."
"Can't!--nonsense!" said Noir. "We don't part after a whole year
together in this way."
"I must go," he repeated. "I dare not stay."
"Dare not!--what, we are so bad that we shall corrupt your moral
highness! Oh! go then, by all means, and may you find friends more
faithful and better suited to your lofty standard!"
"Frewin," said Donovan, very sadly, "you know well enough that it is
myself I dare not trust. If you think that I could stay with you and
all our own set, and yet keep to my word, well and good. But I could
not do it; it will be hard any way, impossible like that."
"A few months ago you would have scorned to say anything was
impossible."
"Well, I've been taken down a few pegs since then, and now I do say
it and mean it. Good night, Noir."
"When do you leave!"
"To-morrow by the 9.20. Good night and good-bye."
Noir took his hand for a moment, looked him full in the face, as
though to read what was written there, then, with an impatient
gesture, he turned away.
"Good-bye. I see we have done with each other."
Sweepstakes, waking up, screamed out his habitual greetings.
"Such a talkin', such a talkin', what a parcel of fools! Ain't you a
fool!--ain't you a fool, milord!"
The old captain, with maudlin tears coursing down his cheeks, hurried
after the retreating figure, and it was long before Donovan could
quiet the piteous entreaties that he would change his mind, would
stay at least a few days longer, or would promise to come back when
he had seen M. Berrogain. Parting with his companions was a greater
wrench than he had feared even; they had been very good to him, had
nursed him through his illness with rough but very real care, and
they were the only friends he had in the whole world. And yet he
knew that he must leave them; they were inseparably bound up with the
evil he was trying to free himself from--both must be renounced.
He took leave of Rouge that night, and early next day started on his
solitary journey--solitary with the exception of Waif. The address
he needed had been telegraphed to the official when he went to
inquire on his way to the station, and it was a substantial relief to
his anxiety to be able to repeat to himself the assurance of M.
Berrogain's safety--"Hôtel Montré, Rue Montesquieu, Bordeaux." There
was, however, just a little flatness and depression now that all was
ended; he took his ticket, and then went into the _salle d'attente_,
the "durance vile" which generally gives an Englishman a chafed caged
feeling. As he paced up and down, too, there was a touch of far-off
dread in his face--the dread of the unknown future, which of all
expressions is one of the most painful to see.
Noir Frewin, suddenly entering the room in search of his late
companion, caught the look and understood it; unprincipled as he was
he could not help respecting a resolution which could so steadily
persevere in direct opposition to personal wishes, and there was none
of the malice of the previous night in his tone when he spoke.
Donovan turned hastily at the sound of his own name; he was
ill-prepared just then for a repetition of the scornful upbraidings
which he had borne silently a few hours ago. Noir saw that his
arrival was not very welcome.
"I'm only come to see you off," he explained. "You're quite right,
milord, after all; go and save yourself while you can."
"Saving is not the question," said Donovan, "even if I believed in
such a thing; but at any rate one needn't do others harm."
"A change in your views, lad, since we first went into partnership,"
said Noir. "Your anger with whoever it was who had ruined you has
cooled with time."
"His offence looks small now that I am the bigger brute," replied
Donovan. Then, as the doors were thrown open, he put his arm within
Noir's once more, and they went out together to the train.
"Good-bye, old fellow," he said, rather hoarsely, just before the
final start; "let us hope my lungs won't give out again, or I shall
be crying out for you."
"Till then we are best away from each other," said Noir, giving his
hand a farewell grip. "Good-bye, Farrant. We part as we met, you
see, in a railway-carriage."
The train moved off; Frewin, with a fierce sigh, turned away, and
Donovan was whirled through the vast plains of central France,
marvelling not a little how his companion had learnt his real name,
the name which he had taken such pains to conceal.
Thirteen hours later and he was standing in the crowded _salle_ at
the Bordeaux Station; he was very tired, a trifle desolate too, alone
among foreigners, alone with such a "howling wilderness" of a future
as he fancied before him, the future of restraint which he had
chosen. Waiting rather impatiently till the doors of the
luggage-room should be opened, he scanned the faces of the crowd, the
usual busy cheerful crowd of a French railway-station; a group of men
whiling away the waiting-time with laughter and occasional snatches
of song, two lovers sitting on a bench in the corner, whispering
contentedly together, regardless of their surroundings, a fat
rough-featured priest, with his shovel hat and starched bands, a
respectable _bourgeois_ and his wife, followed by a toddling
bare-headed child.
Instinctively Donovan watched the little one. The mother turned
round, saying playfully, "Adieu! adieu!" pretending to leave it; the
child let them walk on a few steps, and then, with sudden dread of
being left, ran at full speed after them with an eager "_Non, non,
non,_" and grasped its mother's skirts; then both father and mother
laughed, each took one of the tiny hands, and the three walked away
together.
Home dramas all around him, love in all its forms and degrees--the
friend's, the lover's, the mother's, the wife's! He sighed, and
stooped down to pat Waif. Then followed the general rush into the
adjoining room, he went to claim his portmanteau, and in a few
minutes was out in the starlight, on his way to M. Berrogain.
His desolateness made him think of Dot, of the times when he too had
had some one to love and protect. They were sad, but on the whole
peaceful thoughts which came to him as he crossed the bridge, pausing
for a moment to look at the long chain of lights marking out the
crescent-shaped quays. She, the holy child of his memory, was at
peace; it was perhaps well that she had passed away from him, he had
not been fit to be near such purity and loveliness, and as she had
grown older it was possible that he might have pained her--pained her
by his unworthiness. That thought was intolerable. And so,
unconsciously, he repeated to himself Noir Frewin's words--"We were
better parted." Neither of them knew that the unselfishness and
humility prompting the thought was drawing them to the Source of all
love.
The walk was a long one, through broad well-built streets, past the
theatre, on again into narrower and darker thoroughfares, till
Donovan began to wonder whether the porter whom he had hired to carry
his portmanteau, were not perhaps taking him by some roundabout way
in the hope of extorting a larger pourboire. At last, turning to the
left, they passed through a circular market-place, and down a narrow
street with high dingy-looking houses.
"There, monsieur," said the porter, with a wave of the hand, "that is
the Hôtel Montré."
Donovan saw at the corner the inevitable _Café Billard_, and upon the
upper storeys the name of the hotel inscribed. The porter went on to
the entrance, and Donovan, following, found himself in a paved
courtyard with two mouldy-looking orange-trees growing in tubs, and a
dim light proceeding from the room of the _concierge_. He inquired
at once for M. Berrogain, and was relieved to find that he was known
still by his real name. He was within too, had taken his key not
five minutes before, would monsieur see him at once or be shown to
his own room?
Donovan desired to see M. Berrogain at once, and, having dismissed
his guide, was ushered by a pretty, little, white-capped servant up a
dirty stone staircase, along a labyrinth of passages, then up again
and through a corresponding labyrinth darker and dirtier than that
below.
"Perhaps monsieur sleeps," suggested the little servant, glancing
round as she paused at a door to the right. "It is very late," and
she pretended to yawn.
"Knock and see," said Donovan, impatient of the delay.
A quick _entrez!_ relieved his fears, and, taking the candle from his
conductress, he opened the door and found himself in a fairly
comfortable room, where, extended on a shabby green velvet sofa, lay
M. Berrogain, the _Figaro_ in his hand, the _Gironde_ lying at his
feet. For a moment the thought would come, "He is unconcerned and
comfortable enough; you need not have troubled about him." But while
Donovan paused, the unconscious Frenchman glanced round; he had been
absorbed in his paper, and had half forgotten that some one had
knocked and been admitted; now catching sight so unexpectedly of the
man who had ruined him, he sprang to his feet with a cry half of
fear, half of passion.
"Ah! evil one, why do you pursue me?" he said, in trembling tones.
"Would you remember a petty debt of two hundred francs when you have
won a fortune from me? Stony-hearted wretch! would you pelt a fallen
man? You have tracked me--you the rich the successful will hunt down
the unfortunate for a miserable trifle such as that!"
"I am not rich," said Donovan, "nor are you unfortunate."
"Miserable Englishman!" cried out M. Berrogain. "Why do you mock me?
You are come to drive me to despair, to death! Why could you not let
me leave the country in peace? Why do you come with your grasping
avarice to----"
"Listen, Berrogain," interrupted Donovan, in his firm sad voice. "I
could not let you leave the country, because there is no need for you
to go; I am not mocking you; be quiet and listen. To-morrow morning
you can go back to your wife at Paris; she holds the fortune which
you lost at baccarat."
They were standing by the draped mantel-piece; Donovan turned away as
he spoke, and putting aside the muslin curtains looked down into the
dimly-lighted street. He was not sorry to feel the fresh air upon
his face.
There was a moment's silence, then M. Berrogain came forward and took
his hand.
"My friend," he said, falteringly, "forgive what I have said; I was
in despair. But this generosity--no--no, it cannot be, it cannot be."
"It _must_ be," said Donovan, quietly.
"No, no; leave me enough to go on upon, or allow me six months'
respite, I should be more than content with that."
"But I should not," said Donovan, decidedly. "No, Berrogain,
everything is settled, so do not let us waste words on the subject."
"But it is unheard of!" said M. Berrogain. "It is noble, generous,
kind; but, my good friend, before you commit yourself, think how will
you get on in the world if you act in such a way?"
"That," said Donovan, with a half smile, "is a question yet to be
solved, but I do not mean to live by other men's losses. Enough has
been said though about it all. Can one get anything to eat in this
place? I'm furiously hungry!"
"Ah! but you are an Englishman!" said M. Berrogain, amused by the
request. "There is a restaurant just opposite, let me come with you."
"To watch the voracious islander!" said Donovan, laughing. "To-night
I shall keep up the national character. I could eat half a roast
beef if there was a chance of getting it!"
"Ah! is it possible?" said the Frenchman. "And at this time of
night, too!"
He did not think that the anxiety which he had caused could possibly
have affected his companion's appetite on the previous day, and sat
amusedly at the table, watching the absolute demolition of the
largest piece of _Ros-bif rôti_ which the restaurant could produce.
Then somewhere in the small hours Donovan found his way to the rather
dingy wainscoted room which had been allotted him, and, in spite of
the noisy orgies being carried on in the room below, was soon
sleeping profoundly.
M. Berrogain left for Paris the next day, and Donovan went to the
station with him, submitted to his demonstrative gratitude, and then
turned away rather disconsolately to make the best of his new life.
He wandered about the place for some little time, found his way into
the beautiful Church of St. Michel, looked wonderingly and half
pityingly at the groups of worshippers drawing their _prie-Dieu_ up
to the side altars, then sauntered out again, along the quays, among
the tramways and trucks, the coils of rope and the chains, idly
scrutinizing the closely-moored vessels and the busy work of lading
or unlading, or coaling, which was going on. Everywhere work and
business. And he too must work, he had been leading a wretched
self-indulgent life, he would work now, indeed he must work to live.
The question was what should he do, and where should he go?
He had rather a hankering after America, but that idea had to be
given up, for he had not enough to pay his passage; it seemed to be a
choice of trying for some situation in Bordeaux itself, or of going
back to England, the chances of finding immediate employment being
about equally small in either case. He decided at last to let fate
choose his destination, and tossed up a _petit sou_--heads he was to
go to England, and thus it fell.
With a half sigh he pocketed the coin, looked at his watch, and then
hurried away to find out when the next steamer left for Liverpool.
There was one that evening to his relief, and he hastened back to the
Hôtel Montré, glad that his hours in its dingy rooms were numbered.
The passage was being swept by the little white-capped maid-servant
as he passed down it, and as he put his things together the refrain
of the song she was singing floated in to him:
"Oui, malgré ta philosophie
L'amour seul peut charmer la vie."
Over and over it went, a tuneless little chant, and with strange
persistency it rang in his ears long after, "L'amour seul!--l'amour
seul!" Was it indeed that which could alone make life supportable?
He was not quite the misanthrope he had considered himself, but had
he any love for his kind? Many times he asked himself that question,
as he stood on the deck of the steamer while it ploughed its way
through the Bay of Biscay, or lay with Waif at his feet, like a
recumbent crusader, looking up at the starry skies. Did he only not
hate?--was there anything more active than that in his feeling
towards the rest of the world?
All this time he had hardly realised the hardness of the task he had
set himself. He had willed never to play again, and was quite at
rest now that the resolution was made, for never in his whole life
had he failed to do a thing which he had deliberately undertaken.
His confidence in his own strength was boundless, and though he had
reasonably enough seen the impossibility of still living with the
Frewins, now that he had once broken with the old set he did not give
a thought to other possible temptations.
And thus, perfectly satisfied with the strength of his will, and full
of his new and good purposes, he was set down at Liverpool. Then
followed a time of bitter disappointment; though he had just
renounced a fortune, the world gave him the cold shoulder again, and
his money began to evaporate, to disappear with the horrid rapidity
which becomes so noticeable when we are counting by units instead of
tens. And very soon came the temptation. He had been out all day in
the weary useless search after work, the evening set in wet and
chilly, as he passed down the gaslit streets to his cheerless lodging
a familiar sound made him pause, he was passing a billiard-room--the
sharp click of the balls, the eager voices, how natural it all
sounded! He had taken no resolution against playing billiards. Why
should he not relieve this intolerable dulness by an hour or two of
amusement? A momentary struggle followed, then he pushed open the
door and went in. How long he was there he could never clearly
remember, but it was not until a substantial token of his wonted
success lay before him that he realised the failure of his will. He,
the strong and self-reliant, had yielded to the very first
temptation, had failed most miserably. He dropped the cue, pushed
away the money, and amid a chorus of surprise and inquiry strode out
of the room.
Too completely dismayed and bewildered to find any relief in his
usual custom of rapid walking, he went back to his wretched lodging,
and there sat motionless in the summer twilight in blank silent
despair. Everything was lost--friends, money, pleasure, worst of
all, his confidence in himself. What was there left? Nothing, he
said, but a wretched life that was far better ended, a despicable
"I," that must struggle to find itself bread, because--only because
of a dim, inexplicable, unreasonable idea that self-destruction was
wrong. What possible good was there in his life to himself or to
anyone else? He did not think then of his influence with the
Frewins, he could only feel that he had cheated himself, failed in
his purpose, sunk irrevocably in his own opinion; what guarantee was
there, too, that his will would not fail again?
Two paws on his knee and a soft warm tongue licking his hand roused
him at length.
"Oh! Waif," he exclaimed, with a great sigh, "if only I'd a tenth of
your goodness, old dog!"
By-and-by he lit the gas, dragged out the tin of dog biscuits, and
gave Waif his supper, glancing in between the mouthfuls at the
advertisement columns of an open, newspaper which lay on the table.
Once the dog was kept begging for quite a minute, for his master had
become absorbed in what he was reading.
"Wanted, as secretary to the ---- Institute, a young man of good
abilities, knowledge of book-keeping and a clear handwriting
indispensable; salary £100. Apply in person, on the 15th or 16th,
the President, ---- Institute, Exeter."
Secretary!--surely he was well fitted for the post. Possibly, too,
there would be less competition down in the quiet west-country; here
in Liverpool his chance of success seemed infinitesimally small.
"Well, my dog," he said, almost cheerfully, as he threw down the next
mouthful, "shall we set off together and try our luck? £100 a year
would keep you in biscuits, so there's some reason in it, after all."
The necessary inquiry, however, into his resources showed him only
too plainly that he had not enough money for the journey; after his
present expenses had been paid, his worldly possessions would have
dwindled down to a sum below the price of a third-class ticket to
Exeter. His watch and chain had been in pawn ever since the day
after his arrival; he had no other valuables, nothing by which he
could raise money, nothing except---- His eye fell on Dot's little
travelling-clock, and he started painfully. The idea of selling that
had never occurred to him before. In all his wanderings it had been
with him--it was almost the only thing he still had which had
belonged to her; to part with it seemed unbearable, and especially so
in this particular way. To take it deliberately with his own hands
and bargain about it, to leave it--the very thing which she had
touched, and fondled, and admired--in a pawnbroker's shop, to let the
silvery cathedral chime which she had loved fall on the ears of
strangers, it seemed like desecration! And only an hour ago the
money he had so much needed had been his. If he had but taken it,
all this difficulty would have been avoided. But then his better
self made its voice heard.
"No, my little Dot, no," he said aloud; "better a thousand times that
this should go than that I should have been doubly false to myself."
He did then what he very seldom ventured to do--drew his little
miniature of Dot from its place and looked at it steadfastly.
Sweet, child-like little face, clear, satisfied eyes, can you not
speak to him, and tell him that love cannot die, that he is compassed
about with a cloud of witnesses, that his struggles to live honestly,
his despair at the revelation of his weakness, even his present
sacrifice to a shadowy instinct rather than to a principle--all is
helping to draw him towards you?
No, comfort cannot be his yet. He cannot see that the pain and loss
are necessary to the great gain; he can only go on bravely and
painfully in the darkness, holding to the faint track of right and
duty which he begins faintly to perceive.
Presently the little cathedral clock was standing on a shelf among
other clocks, large and small, in a Liverpool pawnbroker's shop, and
Donovan was walking back to his room through the driving rain with
head bent low, and thirty shillings in his pocket.