OAKDENE MANOR.
Oh, righteous doom, that they who make
Pleasure their only end,
Ordering the whole life for its sake,
Miss that whereto they tend.
While they who bid stern duty lead,
Content to follow, they,
Of duty only taking heed,
Find pleasure by the way.
ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.
For more than a year Ellis Farrant had reigned supreme at Oakdene
Manor, but, in spite of every effort to enjoy himself and stifle his
conscience, he had been exceedingly miserable. In the winter after
Mrs. Doery's return from nursing Donovan, he worked himself up into
such a state of nervous terror that, had he possessed a trifle more
resolution, he would probably have confessed his crime and sought
Donovan out at Monaco. But he was weak, deplorably weak, and so he
lived on at the Manor, a misery to himself and to everyone else. He
interrogated the housekeeper closely as to his step-son's means of
living, asked her endless questions about him, and received somewhat
curt answers, for Doery felt bound to take the part of her
ne'er-do-weel. Moreover she brought him back all the money which he
had given her to use for the invalid, with an assurance that Mr.
Donovan would not touch it, had been very angry with her for trying
to persuade him to pay the doctor's bill with it, and had said that
Mr. Farrant must salve his conscience in some other way.
Poor Ellis! it really had relieved him a little to send those two
ten-pound notes to his victim, and to have them thrown back in his
face seemed hard; they made him feel uncomfortable for days. At last
he put them in the church plate and was at ease again.
But his remorse having only reached the stage of desiring the
personal comfort of restitution, it was scarcely wonderful that when
a chance of honest confession was given him he rejected it. He cared
nothing for Donovan, he only wanted to enjoy the sense of innocence
again, to escape from the horrible dread of future punishment which
perpetually haunted his poor, selfish soul. Naturally enough remorse
on such a basis was like the house built upon the sand, and when, one
afternoon in July, a card was brought into the smoking-room bearing
the words--"Dr. Tremain, Trenant, Porthkerran," Ellis, half crazy
with terror, was driven to take refuge in cunning.
The doctor meanwhile waited in the drawing-room, involuntarily taking
stock of this place which by right belonged to his patient, and
struggling to keep his indignation within bounds, that he might be
cool enough for the coming interview. But he was not at all prepared
for the manner of his reception.
The door opened, the master of the house came forward with
outstretched hand, an easy-mannered country gentleman, full of genial
hospitality; this was the character which Ellis desired to assume,
and he acted his part splendidly.
"I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you before, Dr. Tremain,"
he said, in a hearty voice. "Delighted to see you, sir; I assure you
we have none of us forgotten your courtesy at the time of my poor
cousin's death. Are you staying in the neighbourhood?"
"I came solely for the purpose of seeing you," said the doctor,
gravely. "Mr. Farrant, you seem to have some remembrance of our
meeting at Porthkerran, after Colonel Farrant's death. Excuse the
seeming impertinence, but have you no remembrance of the Colonel's
will which I then placed in your hands?"
There was not a trace, not the smallest sign of guilt in Ellis's
face. He raised his eyebrows, and for a moment stared blankly at the
doctor.
"My good sir, I am quite ready to excuse all seeming impertinence,
but I am utterly at a loss to understand your meaning."
"Your memory must be capricious," said the doctor. "Do you recollect
your cousin's funeral?"
"Certainly," replied Ellis, with all due dignity.
"Do you recollect that, after the funeral, we returned to the inn,
and that I then gave you a sheet of paper, on which Colonel Farrant
had made his will, under circumstances which I described to you?"
A light as of dawning perception began to steal over Ellis's face.
"Ah! now I know to what you refer!" he exclaimed. "Forgive my
apparent forgetfulness. I assure you it was not forgetfulness of
your services, but merely of the business transaction. Yes, I
remember perfectly now. It was a codicil, which, I believe, you
yourself witnessed, and in which my cousin left a legacy to a comrade
of his out in India."
"Mr. Farrant, seeing that I wrote the will from the Colonel's
dictation, you must at once see that it is useless to evade the truth
in this way," said Dr. Tremain, controlling his temper with
difficulty: "The will directed that this property should be
bequeathed to Donovan Farrant, the Colonel's only son; and I am here
to-day to demand of you why he is not in possession of it."
"My dear sir, you are labouring under a most extraordinary delusion,"
said Ellis, with a smile. "You are most entirely mistaken. But,
putting that aside, I really may have the right to ask why you
intrude into my personal concerns. You are almost a stranger to me,
and, though I shall be delighted to show you any hospitality in my
power, yet, sir, I think you must allow that to establish an
inquisition with regard to my private affairs, is, to say the least
of it, unusual. As the proverb has it, you know, 'An Englishman's
house is his castle,' and though----"
"If it _were_ your house," interrupted the doctor, "I should not have
intruded myself upon you, but I come now as the representative of the
right owner, who lies ill at my own home."
"Oh! the mystery begins to explain itself then," said Ellis. "I am
exceedingly sorry for you, Dr. Tremain, but I see now that you have
been imposed upon by that miserable step-son of mine. I suppose
Donovan has been fabricating this tale? He is a very clever fellow,
and no doubt his story was plausible enough."
"You know perfectly well, Mr. Farrant, that Donovan was utterly
ignorant of the true facts of the case, and that it was he who learnt
them from me, not I from him. Since, however, you so wilfully refuse
to acknowledge what you must be aware I know perfectly well, may I
ask you to produce this codicil which you speak of, or to prove to me
that this legacy was ever paid."
"It never was paid," said Ellis, coolly. "I was, as you remember,
named as sole executor, and of course put myself at once in
communication with this Indian friend. I can't even recall the
fellow's name now. Perhaps you can, having written the codicil.
But, poor man, he died of cholera a week before the Colonel's death.
The codicil was of course worthless then, and was, I believe,
destroyed. So you see I cannot offer you more proof. Now, if you
will excuse me, where is the proof of your assertion? Where is your
second witness?"
"The second witness of Colonel Farrant's will--Mary Pengelly--is
dead," said the doctor; "otherwise, of course, legal proceedings
would have been taken against you."
Ellis, immensely relieved, burst out laughing.
"'Pon my word, Dr. Tremain, this really is a most ridiculous affair.
You, with no manner of proof, expect me to believe your assertion,
and I am in the unfortunate dilemma of having nothing to convince you
of my assertion. We might go on arguing till Doomsday, and be no
nearer any agreement."
"Yes, I see perfectly well that discussion is useless," said the
doctor, very gravely, "but it was my duty to let you know that your
doings were discovered. It is also my duty to tell you that Donovan
is utterly destitute, and that if something is not----"
He was interrupted by a fresh voice.
"Who is speaking of Donovan?" exclaimed Adela Farrant, suddenly
appearing at the open window. She was in her shady hat and gardening
gloves, and in passing along the terrace she had caught the name
which during the last year had passed into silence like that of
little Dot.
"This gentleman has come to see me on business, Adela; I must beg
that you do not interrupt us," said Ellis, half forgetting his
_rôle_. But Adela was not to be sent away like a child, and her
brother's words only made her the more sure that the strange
gentleman had brought news of Donovan.
"How is my cousin Donovan?" she asked, boldly, turning to Dr.
Tremain. "I am sure I heard you speaking of him."
"Yes, you are quite right," replied Dr. Tremain, rising from his
seat. "I was telling Mr. Farrant that Donovan is now staying with me
at Porthkerran, that he is utterly without means of subsistence, and
that he has had a hard struggle to live honestly; he would have got
on well enough if his health had not given way. I have been urging
Mr. Farrant to be just to him; but I fear with little success."
"Wait a minute," said Adela, with her usual prompt decision; "wait
just one minute." She hurried across the room to the window, and
called, clearly and unhesitatingly, "Nora! Nora!"
"I do wish, Adela, you would be more careful!" exclaimed Ellis. "It
will agitate Nora dreadfully to hear about Donovan."
"Let it," said Adela, scornfully. "She ought to be agitated."
"I shall not attempt to resume our discussion," said Dr. Tremain,
coldly, when Adela went out on to the terrace to meet Mrs. Farrant.
"Only I hope you understand the awful responsibility which you incur."
Ellis would have replied, but at that minute Adela returned with her
sister-in-law.
Time had dealt kindly with Mrs. Farrant, she was still pretty,
languid, gentle, and lady-like; but there was a shade of sadness in
her face now which had never been seen in past days. Considering the
unusual circumstances, her manner was marvellously composed, however,
as she gave her hand to the doctor.
"Miss Farrant tells me you have news of my son," she said, in her
calm voice. "I hope he is well?"
Dr. Tremain was so annoyed at the apparent want of feeling that he
answered, almost sharply,
"No, madam, he is anything but well; twice this year he has been at
death's door. He came to me a week ago penniless and half starving."
The next minute he almost regretted that he had spoken with such
impetuosity, for he saw that after all she had something of a
mother's heart hidden away in folds upon folds of self-love. Her
eyes dilated.
"No, no!" she cried. "You must be mistaken; it surely can't be my
son! Donovan ill--Donovan starving! Oh! Ellis, you must have pity
on him--you must help him!"
"My dear Nora, I have offered to help him before now, and he flung
the money back in my face," said Ellis.
"You must remember that in the last week his position towards you is
changed," said Dr. Tremain. "That you can leave him in his present
straits without help I simply will not believe."
Mrs. Farrant began to question the doctor about her son's illness,
allowing more and more of her real love to come to the surface, while
Adela went over to her brother and began to remonstrate with him.
"Now, Ellis, do this boy justice, and make him a proper yearly
allowance," she urged. "Give him his £300 a year, and perhaps in
time I may come to respect you again. You can't say now that you
sent him off in a sudden fit of passion, for here is a chance for you
to set all right, and, if you don't take it, you'll be the most
mean-spirited of mortals."
Ellis smiled a grey smile. How little Adela knew what setting all
right would involve! However, he would do something for his
step-son, only not too much, for he had a selfish dread lest Donovan
might possibly use the money against him, be tempted to go to law
about this will, or in some way make life uncomfortable to him. So
with pitiable meanness he scoffed at Adela's £300, and wrote instead
an agreement by which he bound himself to pay to his step-son £50
half-yearly.
He gave the promise to Dr. Tremain with as condescending a manner as
if he had been bestowing a princely favour, all the time knowing
perfectly well that the very chair he sat on belonged to Donovan.
Dr. Tremain took the paper without a word, and turned to Mrs. Farrant.
"I cannot say that this will convince Donovan that there is such a
thing as truth and justice in the world, but it will do him some good
to know that he still has your love, Mrs. Farrant. You will send him
some message, I hope."
Her tears were flowing fast, but she made an effort to check them.
"Tell him I know I failed when we were together, that it was my
fault; and oh! do be good to him, Dr. Tremain--make him understand
that I do love him."
"I think that message will help him on," said the doctor, warmly.
"It is very good of you to entrust it to me. For the rest, I can
only say that I will treat him like my own son."
With that he rose to go, but he had scarcely left the house when he
was called back. Mrs. Farrant hastened towards him.
"One moment, Dr. Tremain--will you take this to Donovan?" She drew a
ring from her finger. "Ask him if he still loves me to wear it; tell
him how I have longed to hear of him, how thankful I am for your
visit to-day."
"And as for me," exclaimed Adela, coming forward and putting her hand
in the arm of her sister-in-law. "Please tell Donovan that I, being
a free agent, shall write to him now that I know his whereabouts. I
don't see why a freak of my brother's should come between us, and I
shall expect him to answer me for the sake of old times."
And so ended Dr. Tremain's visit. He left the Manor with mingled
feelings; in one way he had received more than he expected, in
another less. But the atmosphere of the place was unspeakably
wretched, and the doctor was long in losing his keen impression of
it. A loveless home, a treacherous, scheming man for the head of the
house, his languid wife, his rather flippant sister; among such
influences as these Donovan had grown up. And yet in every one there
was some good, entirely latent good in Ellis certainly, but in Mrs.
Farrant there was a genuine touch of motherliness, in Adela a certain
desire for justice and willingness to befriend the ill-used.
There was, too, one influence which Dr. Tremain had forgotten. He
had learnt from his wife the story of little Dot; the sight of the
church tower in the valley, with its giant yew-tree and clustering
gravestones, reminded him that there had been another member of the
Manor household--that Donovan had had at least one ray of heaven's
own sunlight in his life. He made his way to the little churchyard,
and without much difficulty found Dot's grave; but as he looked down
at the marble cross, with its inscription of "I am the resurrection
and the life," his thoughts were more of the living Donovan than of
the little child who "after life's fitful fever" rested well. How
that cross and motto must have mocked him in his hopeless grief!--how
he must have dashed his heart against words to him so hollow and
meaningless! The awful realisation of what his sorrow must have been
came to the doctor overpoweringly; for the first time he fully
understood the ever-present look of pain in Donovan's eyes; it was
there when he spoke of other things, when he was at ease, even when
he was laughing--a look of hunger which could never be satisfied. If
anything could have deepened the doctor's love for his guest, it
would have been the sight of that hopeless grave. He turned away at
last, feeling no longer the oppression of his visit to the Manor, for
he was communing with that very Resurrection and Life who alone could
lighten Donovan's heart.
It was not till the afternoon of the following day that he reached
home. The house was quiet and deserted, but in the garden there were
sounds of distant voices, following which the doctor was led to the
orchard. There all the home party were gathered together, Mrs.
Tremain working, Gladys reading aloud, Donovan lying on his wheeled
couch under the shade of an old apple-tree, and in the background the
two little ones at play. They looked so comfortable that he was loth
to disturb them, but Jackie in climbing one of the trees caught sight
of him, and in a minute, with shrieks of delight, had rushed forward
announcing his advent.
Donovan's colour rose a little, but he waited patiently till all the
greetings were over; then Gladys put down her book, and by a promised
game of hide and seek drew the children away, so that her father
might be able to talk uninterruptedly.
"I have not fared well," he began, in answer to the mute inquiry on
Donovan's face. "But I have at least seen Mr. Farrant, which is
something."
Then he described the interview as well as he could, and Donovan
listened without the slightest comment until the doctor spoke of Mrs.
Farrant.
"You saw her!" he exclaimed. "I am very glad of that. Tell me more.
Was she looking well--happy?"
"Scarcely happy; but then she was naturally upset by hearing of your
illness, and of the troubles you have been through."
"You must be mistaken. She never really cared for me; she would
never show more than a well-bred interest, and that only because she
was listening to a stranger."
"I think, Donovan, you are very much mistaken," said the doctor,
quietly. "The mistake may be very natural, but I am sure that if you
had seen your mother you couldn't for one moment have doubted her
love. But stay, I have a message for you."
He repeated Mrs. Farrant's words just as they had been spoken to him.
Donovan was touched and surprised.
"Did she really say that!" he exclaimed. "Don't think me too
unnatural and hard-hearted, but I can scarcely believe it. You are
sure those were her words?"
"Quite sure," said the doctor, smiling. "And I bring you substantial
proof. I had left the house when she called me back, and begged me
to take you this ring of hers, and to ask you, if you still loved
her, to wear it. The very last thing she said was, 'Tell Donovan how
I have longed to hear from him, and how thankful I am for your
visit.'"
"Poor mother! she must be very much changed," said Donovan, taking
the ring, and turning it slowly round in his thin fingers. The stone
was a white cornelian, and on it was engraved the Farrant motto. It
was a ring which he remembered to have seen on his mother's hand
since his childhood.
The doctor watched him a little curiously, for there was some
hesitation in his manner as he twisted the ring from side to side.
At length, however, he put it on very deliberately, then looking at
the doctor he said, with a sigh,
"After all, I am half sorry she has done this. I am afraid it is a
sign that she is unhappy in the present, that Mr. Farrant is making
her miserable, as I always prophesied he would. I would rather have
been without her love, and believed her to be happy, as she was at
first after her marriage."
"But supposing the old happiness were false, and that through the
disappointment she came to realise the truth?" suggested the doctor.
"The truth--at least, if her love to me is true--can't do her much
good, can in fact only make her unhappy," said Donovan. "She will
never see me, and of what earthly use is love if you can't do
something to prove it by service? That is why I half doubted about
wearing this ring; I shall never be able to do anything for my
mother. I believe I do love her; but love without service is the
ghost of love, hardly worthy the name."
"You are right, I think, in all but one thing," said the doctor.
"You can prove your love by this: you wish to help your mother, but
circumstances prevent you. Supposing that she were left alone in the
world; you would be the first to go to her."
"Yes," said Donovan, with emphasis.
"And, besides," continued the doctor, "I don't agree that she does
nothing for you. Does she not make the world a better place to you?
Is it not something that you can say to yourself, 'I am not cheated
of this goodly birthright--I have a mother after all.' Is it not a
great thing to know there is some one thinking of you, loving
you--perhaps praying for you?"
"I can't do that for her," he replied, in a low voice.
"No, not yet," said the doctor, quietly; and then there was a long
silence.
At last Donovan spoke.
"You said that Mr. Farrant promised to make me some sort of
allowance. I suppose I'm not bound to accept it?"
"No, but I advise you to do so," said the doctor, unable to help
smiling at the very evident look of distaste which his words called
up. "You see, to begin with £100 a year is better than
nothing--that's the common-sense view; and, from a higher point, I
don't think it will do you any harm to endure the discipline of those
half-yearly cheques."
Donovan laughed outright.
"I think I see myself writing the receipts every six months in the
style of a Greyshot tradesman. 'D. F. with best thanks, and
soliciting Mr. Farrant's esteemed patronage for the future."'
The doctor was not a little relieved to hear such a hearty laugh, he
laughed himself, but waited for Donovan to go on with the discussion.
With amusement still flickering about his face he continued,
"Still the great question is unsolved, what else am I to do besides
eating these half-yearly slices of humble pie?"
"What have you a taste for?" asked Dr. Tremain.
"For nothing in the world except doctoring," said Donovan, with
decision. "It has always seemed to me the only sensible and
thoroughly satisfactory profession. I suppose it's no good thinking
of it though. The training is very long, isn't it?"
"Four years," said Dr. Tremain. "The longest of any of the
professions. But if you've a real inclination for it, you should
certainly follow your bent. In many ways I think you are well fitted
for it."
"Do you really?" exclaimed Donovan. "I was afraid Nature had fitted
me for nothing but the work of a mathematician, and I should be
afraid to try that now."
"Why?" asked the doctor, surprised at such an admission.
"Because I know I'm as hard as nails already, and don't want to get
more so."
"Proverbially, you know, the medical course hardens men, for a time
at least, but every rule has its exceptions, and I half fancy you
would make an exception to this."
"How about the entrance fees at the hospital?"
"One hundred pounds, but you can pay by instalments. There are many
other expenses, though, and you must live meanwhile. I don't quite
see how you can do it. However, we will manage it somehow between
us. A real inclination such as this ought not to be neglected."
"You have given me enough discipline, though, already," said Donovan.
"I can't become utterly dependent. Don't think me ungrateful, but
unless I can scrape through on my hundred pounds a year I won't go
up. But it must be possible--I'll do it somehow. I suppose there
are scholarships, too, at most of the hospitals?"
Upon this ensued a long discussion as to the respective merits of St.
Bartholomew's and St. Thomas's, and that evening it was arranged that
Donovan should become a student at the latter hospital. His thoughts
were successfully drawn from Ellis Farrant and the Oakdene property,
by the prospect of going up in two months' time for his preliminary.