Chapter IX: Dot Versus the World

She was sent forth
To bring that light which never wintry blast
Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes--
The light that shines from loving eyes upon
Eyes that love back, till they can see no more.
LANDON.

A little child shall lead them.
_Book of the Prophet Isaiah._

It is an old saying, and perhaps a truism, that self-sacrifice always brings its reward; not exactly the substantial reward promised in a certain moral song which is put into the lips of children, in which a charitable loaf-giver is represented as receiving "As much and ten times more," but a reward in some form perhaps hardly understood now, but no less real because we cannot grasp or fathom it. In one sense great gain is consistent with loss, perhaps follows upon it almost as constantly as joy follows upon pain.

It was not a tangible reward which Donovan's self-sacrifice met with. Our highest and best gifts are never tangible, but it was a reward which was one of the best and most lasting influences of his life. When he resolved to devote himself entirely to Dot, instinctively his thoughts grew less morbid and selfish. His life, which seemed so purposeless and useless, twined itself round her life, and found the object it needed. His creed indeed remained unaltered; the angry sense of injustice still lurked in his heart, but everything was now subservient to the one ruling interest, and, through all the bad influences which were besetting him continually during the two years which elapsed after his father's death, the unconscious loving influence of the little child kept its hold upon him.

His was a nature formed either for great good or for great evil. Whatever he did he did thoroughly; whether it was the reading of a fairy-tale to Dot, or the mastery of some difficult passage of music, or his nightly card-playing at the Greyshot club, he bent his whole will to the work, intent upon making whatever he was engaged upon a masterpiece of its kind. In spite, then, of all the evil at work within him and without, Donovan had really improved. At twenty, he was far more manly, more tender and considerate, and, though his self-reliance was still unshaken, he was no longer the self-absorbed, gloomy, taciturn fellow he had been. To make himself companionable to Dot, he had been forced to rouse himself; abstract speculations, long, dismal reveries were incompatible with the line of life which he had marked out for himself. What might have done very well among the Alps must be entirely avoided in the little invalid's room, and he exerted himself with such firmness of purpose that in spite of his natural tendency to melancholy, and the bitter spirit which his early education had produced, he became bright and cheerful, sometimes even merry. This was, of course, when he was with her; at other times he was often sadly moody, and the coldness with his mother increased rather than diminished; indeed, he saw very little of her, for, when Dot did not need him, he could always find amusement at Greyshot, though his passion for cards did not lead him among the very best companions.

And all the time Mrs. Farrant allowed herself to drift down the stream of life placidly. The world seemed to her a little dull, but no doubt other people found it so. She had many comforts; she would not complain. In what she considered peaceful and virtuous content, she stroked Fido, received visitors, drove out in her victoria, and read light literature. Twice a day she visited Dot's room; a sort of duty call, which both mother and child took as a matter of course, but did not in the least care for; and occasionally Donovan occupied her thoughts for a few minutes. She would feel a sort of pride and pleasure as she noticed what a fine-looking fellow he was, or would be vexed and annoyed that the neighbours shunned him, but it never occurred to her that she was at all responsible for him, that it was through her neglect and unmotherliness that he was driven away from home to spend his evenings at a disreputable club.

In the second spring after Colonel Farrant's death, it was arranged that the Oakdene family should go up to town for the season. Mrs. Farrant had left off her weeds. Ellis and Adela urged them to come up for at least a few weeks, and as the house in Connaught Square, which had been let for the last two years, was now at liberty, there seemed no reason against it. Donovan was glad enough to go. He had begun to crave for a change of scene, and, though he was too unsociable and silent to care for the sort of gaieties which his mother enjoyed, London offered many other attractions to him.

Dot's room was in the front of the house, that she might have the benefit of the square garden, and, when she had recovered from the fatigue of the journey, she was able thoroughly to enjoy the change. Donovan had not noticed how very thin and weak she had grown lately. He was never away from her, and so did not see the change, as a fresh-comer would have done. It was a chance word of Adela Farrant's which first drew his attention to the fact.

"Why, my poor little Dot," she exclaimed, coming into the room a few days after their arrival, "how thin and white you have grown; you're just like a little shadow. What have you been doing to her, Donovan?"

The light tones and the smiling face of the speaker were a strange contrast to the startled abrupt interrogative which escaped Donovan, and the look of pain which came over his face.

"You think her changed?"

"Yes, very much; I believe, dear, they've kept you mewed up in the country a great deal too long. You wanted a little change and amusement. You wanted me to look after you, now didn't you?"

Conscious that she had made rather an unfortunate remark, Adela talked on good-naturedly to the little girl, and once or twice tried to draw Donovan into the conversation; he did not seem to hear her, but stood leaning against the wall at the foot of Dot's couch, looking at her with a sad, anxious, pained scrutiny. Adela's words had sent a cold chill to his heart. Was it true? Was Dot really changed? Was she more fragile and delicate-looking than usual? He tried to look at her as if he were a stranger, tried to find the bare, undisguised truth.

Dot was now twelve years old, though her little helpless form was so tiny that she looked more like a child of eight; he seemed never to have really looked at her before, and, though he knew every line of her face by heart, its beauty had never before struck him. She had always been to him just Dot herself, it had never entered his head to think whether she was pretty or not. She wore a loose white dress, and over her feet was spread a many-coloured Indian shawl, the same shawl which he remembered seeing in the ayah's arms on that day of wretchedness and disappointment in his childhood. The window was open and the summer wind played with her soft brown hair as it lay on the pillow; he noticed a strange waxen look about the little childish face, and the beauty of the rounded serene forehead, with its too apparent network of blue veins, the soft grey-brown eyes, the tender little smiling mouth, struck him as it had never struck him before. It could never be, oh! surely it could never be, that she would be taken from him! Fate had been so cruel to him, it would surely leave him the one thing he cared for still! The mere thought caused him such agony that he could hardly contain himself; it was only from his habitual self-control, and from his love to Dot, that he could force a smile to his lips as she looked up at him appealingly.

"Dono, do you hear what we are saying? We are saying you must go out more while you are here. Cousin Adela says you are very unsociable."

"Yes, you are a regular bear," said Adela. "I'm quite ashamed of you, sir, you've no excuse whatever. With your advantages you might turn the heads of half the girls in town."

"A desirable employment," said Donovan, veiling far deeper feelings with a sarcastic smile.

"There, I told you he was a bear! See how he speaks to me!" said Adela, with mock anger.

"I beg your pardon," he said, laughing. "But if that is the 'whole duty of man,' it's beyond me; I can't turn neat compliments to pretty women, it's not in me. Some fellows are born to it, it comes as naturally to them as card-playing comes to me. One can't go against mature."

"You ought to do your duty," said Adela, with playful severity.

"And if I were to ask, like Froude's cat, 'What _is_ my duty?' you would answer, I suppose, like the sagacious animals in the parable, 'Get your own dinner,' and add, perhaps, 'at some grand house belonging to one of the "upper ten."' That is my duty, I suppose."

"He is talking riddles to me, Dot," said Adela. smiling. "What cat does he mean?"

"Oh! the cat in 'Short Studies on Great Subjects,'" said Dot, readily. "Such a jolly story it is! The cat wanted to know what was the good of life, and everyone gave her such funny answers. The owl said 'Meditate, oh! cat,' and so she tried to think which could have come first, the fowl or the egg. Dono laughed over that story more than I ever saw him laugh before."

"But, to return to the charge," said Adela, "why were you not at Lady Temple's last night?"

"Because I've forsworn such vanities," said Donovan, contentedly. "The night before I dutifully attended my mother to three fashionable crowds--'perpendiculars' is the best name for them, for there is generally barely room for standing--and, as we elbowed our way through the third set of rooms, I made up my mind that society wasn't in my line."

"People never know when they're well off," said Adela. "Many men would be thankful enough to be in your shoes, and to be introduced to such a good circle, and, instead of making the most of your advantages, you think of nothing but those wicked cards."

"Of course it is very wicked indeed to think of such things as whist, or loo, or euchre; instead of that my cousin would wish me to spend my evenings in the virtuous employment of talking nonsense in aristocratic drawing-rooms, or flirting in ball-rooms," said Donovan, with a satirical smile.

"Your cousin would wish you to be a great deal more polite," said Adela, laughing, "and she does not like to be snapped up in that way, for all the world as if you were a machine for cutting people's words up--a chaff-cutter!"

"At any rate, I was not chaffing," said Donovan, relapsing into good humour.

"Did you ever know anything like him?" said Adela, with another laugh. "He can make as many bad puns as ordinary men when he tries, but let him be in society, and he's a bear--a gloomy Spanish don--more morose and formal and stupid than anyone I have met in my whole life."

"You mustn't scold him," said Dot, not quite understanding the banter, and hurt that anyone should think Donovan otherwise than perfect; "you don't know a bit how good he is if you say that. When I was so ill six months ago, he was with me almost always, and often he used to sit up all night with me."

"I didn't know you had been ill--worse, at least," said Adela.

"Yes; it was in the autumn, when Cousin Ellis had come down for the shooting, and Dono missed ever so many days because he wouldn't leave me. Dono is the best nurse in the world; his hands are so clever, they never hurt like Doery's, and, do you know, once our old doctor wondered how it was he was so quick and clever and steady-handed, and Dono told him it was because he played billiards so much."

"Some advantages, you see, Cousin Adela, in being a born gamester," said Donovan, with rather a sad smile, as he looked down at Dot's little weak fingers wreathing themselves in and out of his.

"Well, I'm glad you can turn into a sick-nurse," said Adela. "You have brought out a new side of his character, Dot, and deserve a vote of thanks."

"Oh! and Waif brought it out too," said Dot, eagerly. "Waif had the distemper dreadfully last year--he nearly died. The vetchi--what do you call the animal-doctor?--said that he would have died if Dono hadn't taken such care of him; he sat up with him two nights, and that saved his life. Isn't Waif a dear dog, cousin?"

"Well, I don't think he's a beauty," said Adela, looking down at the fox-terrier, who was licking his master's hand.

"He can do lots of tricks, though," said Dot; "he's wonderfully clever, and he loves Dono so!"

"Have you seen Ellis's new dog?" asked Adela, who rather wanted to bring the conversation round to her brother. "He has a new retriever. I suppose you have seen Ellis himself, have you not?"

"Well, yes, seeing that he's been in here every day," said Donovan, not in his pleasantest tone.

"Oh! but you're such an unsociable fellow," said Adela. "One might be in the house for hours and not see you. Ellis said something about meeting me here at five o'clock. I think I had better go downstairs and see if he has come."

"Oh! stay with Dot a little longer," said Donovan. "I daresay he has not come yet; I'll go and see."

Adela consented to stay on, and Donovan, with Waif at his heels, went downstairs. Opening the drawing-room door unconcernedly, and hastily glancing round to see if his cousin were there, he was suddenly confronted by a sight so unexpected, so disagreeably startling, that for a moment he stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak or move. His mother, half smiling, half tearful, had both her hands clasped in Ellis Farrant's; he was kneeling beside her in such a theatrical attitude that, if Donovan had not been altogether dismayed and astounded, he must have been amused.

Mrs. Farrant, looking up, saw her son, and, with a sudden blush, began nervously, "Oh, Donovan!" then, turning to Ellis, faltered, "You must tell him."

It was not a pleasant task, but Ellis, in the triumph of his victory, could afford to meet a trifling annoyance of this sort. With much real trepidation carefully hidden beneath his most jaunty manner, he crossed the room to the mute statue-like form, which would not move a hair's-breadth to meet him.

"Well, my boy, I see there is little need to tell you; I'm the happiest man in London, Donovan. Your mother has consented to be my wife. You must not be angry with me; come, now, I am not going to steal her away from you--of course we shall all live on at Oakdene together. It is not every boy of your age whom I should look forward to having as a son; but you, Donovan, it is very different with you; we have always been friends, have we not? I remember him," he continued, turning to Mrs. Farrant, "when he was quite a little fellow, and as sharp as a needle, though he couldn't have been more than seven."

All this time Donovan's face had only grown more hard and flint-like. Ellis, with his usual tact, saw that his best policy would be to retreat at once, ignoring his ward's anger, and taking his congratulations for granted. He pressed Mrs. Farrant's hand in his.

"I must leave you now, dearest. You must talk this over with your son." Then turning to Donovan, "Stay, and hear all from your mother. No, leave me to let myself out. Adela said I should meet her in Dot's room. I'll just run up."

Already he seemed to behave as if the house were his own. He held out his hand cordially, but Donovan would not see it, still in perfect silence he turned hastily to open the door for his cousin, moving for the first time during the interview. Ellis went out smilingly, pretending not to notice the absence of all response, but as the door closed, and he went slowly upstairs alone, his brow clouded even in this his moment of victory, and between his teeth he hissed out the words, "Young viper! I'll teach him to find his tongue! We'll have a rather different interview, my friend, when you come of age!"

Donovan had been half paralyzed while Ellis remained in the room, but no sooner had he left it than, with sudden reaction, the frozen blood seemed to boil in his veins. The stony look on his face changed to passionate earnestness, and crossing the room in hurried strides, he stood close to Mrs. Farrant.

"_Mother!_" he gasped. Only that one word, but there was such intensity, such pleading, such misery in the tone, that the most eloquent entreaties could not have been so stirring.

"Don't agitate me, Donovan. I have been so excited already," cried Mrs. Farrant, shrinking from him, really alarmed by his looks. "Don't, pray don't look so wild. I am very sorry if you have been taken by surprise. I thought, of course, you saw last autumn how it was."

"Last autumn!" said Donovan. "Last autumn I could think of nothing but Dot. I was blind--hoodwinked by his devices. Oh! mother, do not, do not let it be. I see now how it has all been--one long piece of manœuvering from the very first. He has been trading on us. He brought his sister down to dazzle me, to draw off my attention. Mother, do not trust him, he is false, and treacherous, and mean. He will make you miserable!"

"It is not your place to speak like this," said Mrs. Farrant, with some resentment in her tone. "You forget that Mr. Farrant is my future husband; you forget that you are speaking to your mother."

"I do not forget," cried Donovan, vehemently. "It is because I cannot forget you are my mother that I must speak. I am your son, and you must and shall hear me. I know Ellis Farrant better than you do. You only see the sleek, bland, polite side of him; but I have seen him with other men. He is false, and grasping, and selfish. If it had not been for him I might not have been what I am now. Mother, do not throw yourself away on such a man as that. It will bring nothing but wretchedness on us all. For Dot's sake, for your own sake, do not let this be!"

"I wish you wouldn't talk so wildly," said Mrs. Farrant, half crying. "I don't know what you mean by saying such dreadful things about your--your guardian. It is very hard that directly some one else begins to love me you should suddenly wake up from your usual indifference. You never loved me yourself, and you will not let anyone else love me."

"It is not true," said Donovan, greatly agitated. "I could have loved you dearly, mother, if you would only have let me. I do love you--far, far more than that other man, who only wants your money. Send him away; do not listen to him. Let us be what nature meant us to be to each other!"

"You are mad! You frighten me. You make my head ache," said Mrs. Farrant, petulantly. "You have never shown me any particular attention. I scarcely see you, except at mealtimes. It is unreasonable of you to be vexed because I accept an offer of marriage."

"Have _I_ driven you to it?" cried poor Donovan. "Would I not willingly have been more to you! Did I not tell you so long ago? And you turned from me. You told me to be more like that knave!"

"If I told you so before, I certainly repeat it now," said Mrs. Farrant. "Your guardian is a gentleman. He would never speak in such a way to a defenceless woman. When my only son can attack me so fiercely, I think it is time I accepted a husband to protect me."

"Fiercely! Protect you!" echoed Donovan, in a voice which, though less vehement, was full of pain. Could she have thought his passion of re-awakening love, his eager longing to save her from certain misery was fierceness? Bitterly wounded, he turned away with one despairing sentence. "We shall never understand each other."

"Perhaps not," she replied, "but, at any rate, we must not again discuss this subject. It would not be right for me to listen to you, or for you to say such things again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he murmured, "I have said my say." Then, looking down at her again, he added, in a strangely repressed voice, "When will it be?"

"I do not know," she faltered. "Perhaps--perhaps at the end of the season."

There was a moment's pause, then in silence Donovan crossed the room, and would have gone out, but, by some sudden unknown impulse, Mrs. Farrant stopped him.

"Dono!" it was the old childish name, and it checked him at once. "Dono, come back, come back and kiss me."

For years and years the formal salute had passed between them every day, now for the first time it was spontaneous, or rather Mrs. Farrant felt for the first time a mother's natural craving for affection, and Donovan was allowed to give expression to the love which had never really been quenched, only shut down and restrained.

The unwonted piece of demonstration helped in part to take the sting from the unwelcome news. Donovan's face as he returned to Dot's room was sad indeed, but no longer bitter.

"Oh! Dono," she cried, eagerly, "have you heard? Has Cousin Ellis told you?"

"Yes, I have heard all," said Donovan, much more quietly than she had expected.

"And you do not mind so very much? I was so afraid you would be vexed, because last time Cousin Ellis was with us you kept on wishing he would go."

"I shall wish it pretty often again," said Donovan, with a half smile, "but there is no good in crying out now, the deed is done, and we must make the best of it. I have said all I can say, and it is no good."

"You have been with mamma?"

"Yes, we had a strange talk and a strange ending to it; we must not forget she is our mother, Dot."

"Oh! but what shall I say when she comes?" said Dot, anxiously. "I can't say I'm glad. What am I to do?"

"Show her that you love her," said Donovan.

Dot looked doubtful and troubled, but, as Donovan sat down to the piano, and began to play one of her favourite airs by Mozart, she reasoned with herself till her resolution was made.

"It is far worse for him than for me, he will have to give up all sorts of things when Cousin Ellis marries mamma, and I know that he does not like him at all. Doery said last autumn that Cousin Ellis spoke shamefully to him sometimes, and Doery doesn't often make excuses for Dono. I am very selfish to mind about it myself, when I don't even know why I mind. I'll try to be nice when mamma comes up."

While the mournful sweetness of "Vedrai Carino" was still filling the room, Mrs. Farrant entered. Donovan went on playing, knowing that Dot would be less shy if her words were sheltered by the music; but there were no words at all, Dot only looked her love and put both arms round her mother's neck.

Donovan had not known his father sufficiently well to feel his death very acutely. The shock at the time had been great, and his grief then had been very real, but he had soon recovered from the blow, and now regarded it rather as a loss which was to be deplored than as a life-long sorrow. But with the prospect of his mother's second marriage his thoughts naturally reverted to his father; he lived over again the sad meeting after his school disgrace, the day at Plymouth, the brief time at Porthkerran, and lastly the awful scene, when in an instant, without a farewell word or look, his father had been snatched from him. Slowly and carefully he retraced the past, recalled all the conversations between them, remembered his father's courtesy, his sympathy, his gentle yet deeply-pained allusion to the "breach of honour." What a contrast he was to Ellis Farrant! The one refined, dignified, upright; the other ostentatious, false, and grasping! Donovan could not judge people by the highest standard, but he had a standard of his own, and Ellis fell immeasurably below it. His mother had once accused him of being self-satisfied, but his self-reliance was not self-satisfaction, he was in reality often bitterly out of heart with himself, only the sweeping condemnation of all his acquaintances forced him to assert himself. They considered him a black sheep, and yet he felt he was not all that they represented him. Still there had been truth and sadness in his words to his mother, when he said that Ellis had made him what he was; even with his scanty light he knew perfectly that his life was not what it ought to have been; goodness and honour were to be respected, and he struggled on in a blind endeavour to reach his own standard. The remembrance of his father helped him to a certain extent, but it could not exercise a really strong influence over him, for it was merely the remembrance of what had once existed, and had now passed away utterly and for ever.

When not occupied with Dot, or engrossed with his favourite pastime, life seemed to him very hollow and unsatisfactory. When Mrs. Farrant desired it, he went out with her; when Adela particularly asked him, he would consent to escort the two ladies to whatever place of amusement they wished to go to, but it was all very uncongenial to him. At concerts, not being really musical, he soon grew weary and bored; at the theatre he laughed bitterly at what seemed to him a mere travesty of real life, in which virtue was rewarded and vice punished in an ideal way, very unlike the injustice of real existence. At balls, or at fashionable receptions, he saw merely the falseness of society, the low motives, the heartless frivolity, the absurd vanity of the individuals composing it. He was certainly free from the annoyances he met with at Oakdene; no one looked askance at him here, no one had time to think of such trifles; but, after the first novelty had worn off, the change ceased to satisfy or relieve him. He was really unhappy, too, about his mother's second marriage. Little by little, as he felt sure of his ground, Ellis Farrant had withdrawn the mask of friendliness, and had allowed Donovan to see what he really was; it had at present been done only in part, and with great judgment and tact, but it was just sufficient to rouse his dislike, and to make him inclined in arguments with his mother to speak against his guardian, while Mrs. Farrant was of course stimulated to defend him.

Matters were thus with the son; with the accepted lover--the successful schemer--they were not much more happy. A great writer of the present day has said that, if we do injustice to any fellow-creature, we come in time to hate him. It was thus with Ellis Farrant; he had gone down to Porthkerran at the time of his cousin's death, feeling a sort of admiration and fondness for Donovan; the boy had always been pleasant and companionable; he liked him as well as he liked anyone outside himself. But then followed the sudden act of glaring injustice, and as time passed he began to dislike his unconscious victim more and more. The sight of him was a continual reproach; he was uneasy and restless in his presence, even at times afraid of him. In the moment of his triumph and success, his hatred increased tenfold, and though, when he went up to Dot's room after his interview with Mrs. Farrant and Donovan, his manner was bland and smiling, Adela knew him too well not to detect the latent irritation. Anxious to know all the particulars which could not be mentioned before the little girl, she took leave rather hastily, tripped lightly down the stairs, and, as soon as the hall door had closed behind them, turned round eagerly to her brother.

"I congratulate you, Ellis!"

Ellis had overheard Donovan's eager tones of expostulation as he passed the drawing-room door, and the scowl on his face did not at all befit an accepted lover.

"Where do you want to go to?" he said, crossly, not attending to her words.

"Back to Eaton Place," said Adela, who was staying with some friends. "What is the matter with you? I thought all had gone so well."

"Well!--yes, so it has in the main, only that young cub came in and spoilt it all; he's really insufferable."

"Now don't speak against my Augustus Cæsar," said Adela; "he's not a bad boy at all. What did he do?"

"Do!" said Ellis, smiling a little--"he did nothing; he stood and looked at me with a stony face, very much like an old Roman, as you are always saying."

"I can just fancy it," said Adela, laughing, "and my noble brother didn't quite enjoy the lofty scorn. What did he say to it all?--was he not surprised? He went down so casually and unsuspectingly to see if you had come that I had hardly the heart not to give him warning. However, I kept my promise to you, didn't I? It was well past five when I let him go down."

"You managed very well, and I'm much obliged to you," said Ellis, recovering his good humour; "he came in the very nick of time, and saw it all at a glance."

"Poor boy!--what did he say?"

"Nothing; he looked thunderstruck, and never said a single word--was as mum as a dummy, in fact."

"Or as dumb as a mummy," said Adela, with a light laugh. "And you, I suppose, talked glibly, and promised to be a devoted step-father?"

"Something of the sort," said Ellis, smiling.

"Well, I don't wonder he doesn't like it," said Adela. "Of course, he is practically master at Oakdene; he won't enjoy making way for you."

"I don't suppose he will," replied Ellis, thinking of far more serious matters than his sister. "But you know, my dear, we can't all win in the game."

"The winner can afford to moralise," said Adela, rather contemptuously; "but I must not scold you, for you have managed your work very neatly, and of course I'm glad of your success. When is it to be?"

"The wedding? I don't know. Perhaps the end of July. Anyhow, I'm afraid I shall miss the grouse this year."

"You horrid, matter-of-fact creature, to think of it even," said Adela. "Middle-aged lovers are no fun. They have lost the romance of their youth."

"We will leave that kind of thing for you and your Cæsar," said Ellis, laughingly, as they took leave of each other.

"A thousand thanks," said Adela, with a mocking bow, "but I have done with my 'beardless youth,' now that your affairs are settled. It was the dullest flirtation I ever had; for, quite between ourselves, that sort of thing is not in Cæsar's line."

"I daresay not. Mum as a dummy, you know!" and Ellis turned away with a laugh in which there was much spite and little merriment.