Chapter I: Cast Adrift

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The wide world is all before us,
But a world without a friend.
BURNS.

Two dry sticks will set on fire one green.
He that takes the raven for a guide shall light upon carrion.
_Eastern Proverbs._

How long were things to go on in their present state? That was the question which, as the spring advanced, Ellis Farrant continually asked himself. One afternoon, towards the end of May, the thought pressed itself upon him more pertinaciously than ever. He was in the smoking-room, leaning back meditatively in his chair, from time to time reading a few lines in the _Sporting News_, but more often looking discontentedly and perplexedly at his step-son, who had drawn up his chair to the other side of the hearth, and whose fine profile was clearly marked out against the light as he bent over his newspaper. Two days ago Donovan had come of age, yet Ellis had not carried out his preconceived plan of revenge; in the past he had always intended to have the final breach with his step-son on the very day that his guardianship ended, but when the time actually came his heart failed him--no fitting opportunity presented itself. Instead of quarrelling with him, he drank his health at dinner, played billiards with him most of the evening, and was as good-natured and friendly as possible. But, although the few months which had elapsed since Dot's death had been singularly peaceable ones at the Manor, Ellis had not lost his strong dislike to Donovan. He had at first felt sorry for him, and had left him unmolested; but it is one thing to sympathise with a person in the first poignancy of his grief, and quite another to understand or feel for his prolonged sorrow.

As the months passed on, and Donovan's grave stern face still remained unaltered, Ellis began to feel aggravated; he saw little enough of his step-son, but what he did see was quite sufficient to annoy him. Donovan would perhaps come down to breakfast, then he would disappear for the rest of the day, for long solitary rides or walks seemed to be his only relief; at dinner he would be in his place again, but would rarely utter a single word, and in the evening, though he was decidedly Ellis's superior at every game, he was too gloomy and taciturn to be a pleasant companion. The elder man's dislike and impatience began to grow uncontrollable; he found himself looking out eagerly for an opportunity of picking a quarrel.

As he sat looking thoughtfully across the room at his companion, his doubts were suddenly resolved by an unexpected turn of affairs. Donovan threw down his paper, and, turning round to his step-father, asked abruptly,

"When do you go up to town?"

"Next week, I believe," said Ellis, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and re-filling it.

There was a pause. Then Donovan continued,

"I have been thinking over things for the last few days, and I've made up my mind that this sort of life won't do for me any longer. I must begin to work at something."

"A most commendable decision," said Ellis. "And that's the longest sentence I've heard from you for many a month."

Donovan knew from the tone of this speech that his step-father was in a quarrelsome humour. He frowned, but continued, with some additional constraint in his manner,

"Since we are agreed, then, perhaps it would be as well if we arranged matters before leaving Oakdene. I am thinking of going into chambers and studying for the Bar; if you and my mother will settle my allowance, there is nothing that need keep me here longer."

"Gently, my good fellow," said Ellis, getting up from his chair with the feeling that he could carry things through with a high hand if he were standing above his step-son. "You are in rather too great a hurry; you rattle off in a few words what involves a great deal. I too have been thinking matters over, not only for the last two or three days, but for some time; by all means set to work if you like, only do not expect me to support you any longer. Live in chambers, if you will, and be a law-student for as many years as you please, only don't think that I shall keep you during the interval or pay your premium."

Donovan started to his feet.

"I don't understand you," he said, with repressed indignation. "What do you mean by this?"

"Simply what I say," said Ellis, provokingly.

"You mean me to understand that I am not to have any proper allowance made me?"

"Exactly so, though I don't admit the adjective."

The two men stood facing each other. For a few minutes neither spoke; Donovan's eyes dilated, and his face glowed with indignation. Ellis met his look with a cool bold effrontery.

At length the silence was broken by Donovan's voice.

"And _this_ is what you have waited and plotted for! this is the part of the honourable English gentleman, to steal into a house, and win your way craftily, and mislead wilfully and shamefully those who never suspected your wickedness! Yes, you have fulfilled your duties as a guardian nobly, and now you would oust the 'insufferable cub,' whom you longed to kick out months ago, only you couldn't; instead you hoodwinked him, flattered, lured him on with false hopes. You _scoundrel_!"

"The step-son waxes hot," said Ellis, with a sneer, "as, naturally, we part this day, I will allow a few last shots."

"Wretch! Do you dare to turn me out of my own father's house?--you an interloper, a defrauder!"

"I have tolerated your presence in the house for ten months," said Ellis; "I knew that the time remaining was short, I let you stay on in peace; you have aggravated me at times beyond bearing, and now, with the greatest pleasure in life, I show you the door. You surmised quite truly, I have often longed to 'kick you out,' as you express it; take care that you do not force me to interpret the words literally."

"Do you think," said Donovan, angrily, "that my mother is so utterly unnatural that she will allow me to be treated in this way? I tell you you are mistaken, sir."

"You forget that your mother is my wife," said Ellis, watching his victim's writhing lip with a sort of enjoyment. "But, come now, I'll overlook what you've said, and we will part amicably; do not cut your own throat by refusing the pardon I offer."

"_Pardon_! And from you!" cried Donovan, passionately. "Am I to accept forgiveness for words which are a hundred times too mild for your conduct? I'll let the world know of the injustice, I'll publish your scandalous behaviour everywhere in the neighbourhood!"

"The only drawback to that scheme of revenge is the unfortunate character you yourself bear in the place," said Ellis, maliciously. "The neighbourhood will not very readily sympathise with any stories which the far-famed Donovan Farrant, the professed atheist, thinks fit to fabricate."

The statement was so true that Donovan could not deny it, but the consciousness of his utter isolation and the sense of injustice drove him almost to madness.

"That may be true!" he stormed, "anything may be true in a cruel, self-seeking, unjust world, but though everyone is against me, though I've not a creature on earth to hold out a hand to me, I will at least speak my mind to you. You are a traitor, sir, and a villain!"

"Take care," said Ellis, his colour mounting, "I give you fair warning that those words are actionable; use them again at your peril."

"You dare me to use them!" said Donovan, furiously. "I will repeat them a thousand times--you are a treacherous, despicable villain! Were a hundred witnesses present, a hundred lawsuits possible, I would repeat it! What! am I to submit to be ruined without a word?--am I to sink down meekly into beggary because a plotting, scheming traitor like you dares to condemn me?"

Ellis was trembling with mingled fear and rage.

"You had better go while I can keep my hands off you," he said, fiercely. "Stay longer and I'll have you sent to Bedlam."

Donovan's brain seemed to reel; it was almost impossible to believe that he was actually being turned out of his father's house.

"I will see my mother," he said, with angry resolution in his voice. "She will not suffer it, she cannot."

He strode out of the room fiercely, and hurried across the hall to the dining-room. Waif, hearing his step, sprang up from the door-mat and pattered after him, Ellis, following quickly, blocked the doorway before the door closed. Donovan turned back wildly.

"I tell you I insist on seeing my mother alone," he said, with a look so full of anger and hatred that Ellis shrank beneath it, but still he was able to answer with cold decision,

"And I tell you that I refuse to leave my wife with a maniac."

"Be it so," cried Donovan, "but, though you deny me everything, you cannot alter the instincts of nature. Mother, you will not--you cannot agree to this wickedness. You will not turn me away from this house penniless. You will not listen to what he says?"

Mrs. Farrant had been lying on the sofa; she started up from a doze to find the room in an uproar--Donovan and her husband storming at each other in a fashion without parallel. They had often before disagreed, even quarrelled in her presence, but in a quiet gentlemanly way, to which she did not object. This angry vociferation terrified her beyond measure. Donovan's rare and almost tropical outbursts of passion had always alarmed her. She turned now from his wild looks and impetuous words to her husband, who stood by in cold silence.

"What is the matter? What has happened, Ellis?" she asked, helplessly. "Pray stop this terrible noise. It is quite impossible for me to understand anything, Donovan, if you agitate me so."

"I will be quiet," he gasped, softening his voice with an effort. "I will not worry you for a moment. Only trust me, mother; listen to me fairly, and promise that you will not side against me. He--your husband insults me, drives me out of the house--this house which never ought to have been his--he turns me away penniless--say, only say that it is against your wish!"

Mrs. Farrant's tears began to flow, and she turned to her husband imploringly.

"Oh! Ellis, what has he done? Do not be hard upon him. He is the only child I have left. What has he done?"

Even in that moment of tumult, Donovan felt a thrill of joy at his mother's words. Was it possible that at last they might understand each other--that Nature would assert herself above the thick clouds of selfishness and uncongeniality which had so long divided them?

"Honora," said Ellis, in his coldest voice, "you must be content to trust me with this. I cannot allow Donovan's presence in my house any longer. For your sake I will let him go without calling him to account for the disgraceful language he has used to me, but go he must. He has been supported in idleness quite long enough; let him win his way in the world now as he can."

Donovan stood with his back against the window frame, and with arms folded, listening in silence to his step-father's words, listening, too, with painful intensity, for his mother's answer. Would she again plead for him, or would she be over-ruled by Ellis's cold speech?

"There has been nothing but trouble about him," sobbed Mrs. Farrant. "There seems to be a fate against me; nothing goes well. I have trouble after trouble. Oh! Donovan, why did you bring about this quarrel? For my sake you might have respected your step-father."

"At least believe that it was not my doing," cried Donovan, bitterly disappointed by her tone. "If you would only have believed what I told you last summer, we could not have been in this position; but who can stand against the coils of a serpent!"

"Go, sir," said Ellis, angrily, "go at once, and do not try my patience by upbraiding me before my wife."

"Did I not tell you that he would bring nothing but wretchedness to us?" said Donovan, desperately. "The time may come when you will see it more clearly. I can only hope that one victim may satisfy him, and that you may never suffer."

Mrs. Farrant sobbed convulsively, Donovan stooped down and kissed her, but, as he felt her tears wet on his cheek, he thought bitterly how one brave decided word from her would have been worth all this passionate sorrow.

With a dazzled bewildered feeling he crossed the hall and went up to his room; in a few minutes his bell was rung, and a message sent down to the housekeeper's room for Mrs. Doery to come upstairs. She came to him at once, looking so unchanged, with her nut-cracker features, sharp eyes, and respectable black dress and apron, that he felt almost as if time had been standing still with her, while it had brought such changes to him.

"Well, Mr. Donovan, what do you please to require?" she asked, severely:

He roused himself, and said in his natural voice--a rich mellow voice, but with a great ring of sadness in it--

"I am going away, Doery. Mr. Farrant has, in fact, turned me out of the house. I want you to put up my things for me."

Then, with that strange contradictoriness whereby the very last persons in the world whom we expect to love us, suddenly reveal depths of unsuspected tenderness under the stress of some unusual event, Mrs. Doery broke into indignant sobs. She had never heard the like in her life! Turn her lad out of the house when he ought to have been made his father's heir! It was impossible, intolerable, she never would believe the law of England would allow it! Her indignation rather softened Donovan, it was such a relief to feel that anyone, even this cross-grained old woman, would take his part! It seemed a strange reversal of the old order of things--Doery, stimulated by the cruelty of others, to allow some merit in him, or at least to bestow her pity on her ne'er-do-weel. He left her with a substantial souvenir, both for herself and for Dot's maid, Phœbe, generosity which in the precarious state of his finances was more natural than wise. Then he took a last look at Dot's room, put her little carriage clock with his own hands into his portmanteau, and leaving directions with Doery for his things to be sent to the Greyshot Station in time for an evening train, he went downstairs. Ellis was in the hall, waiting half nervously for the full accomplishment of his plans, for the crowning moment of his triumph. Donovan passed by him without speaking, deliberately took down his stick and riding-whip from the rack, and then, facing round upon his step-father, said with a depth of concentrated hatred and contempt,

"We part here, then. Remember always how admirably you have goaded me on to ruin!"

Then the door was closed behind him, and Donovan left the house which should have been his, and walked away alone.

It was a beautiful spring afternoon, the dark fir-trees and the early crimson of the copper beech stood out against the blue of the sky, the oaks were beginning to show their green leaves, the pink and white thorns were in full bloom. The beauty of the place seemed never to have been so great before, and though very often Donovan had thought the Manor dull and prison-like, yet now that he was exiled from it he found how large a place it had in his heart. And he was to leave it for ever! his home was to remain in the hands of his greatest enemy! At the first bend in the carriage drive he involuntarily turned back for a last look at the house. It stood there in the afternoon sunshine, with just the same air of sleepy luxurious comfort which it had always worn; there, above the creeper-laden porch, was the window of his old room, and close by it Dot's window. He remembered the day when he had decided to give up his foreign tour for the sake of being with her, and heard in fancy the childish voice which could never again call him; how strange now seemed the struggle of the past to give up his longing for a change of scene! how he grudged every hour that he had spent away from Dot! It was hard, very hard, to turn away from the place so full of her memory; no thought of future difficulties had as yet forced itself upon him, indignation and bitter sorrow drove out everything else--everything but a vague feeling of more complete desolation, more utter loneliness. He had thought that he had drained the full bitterness of the cup of life in the agony of bereavement, but here was a fresh draught which in its humiliating injustice was gall and wormwood to him.

All this time he was not however so friendless as he imagined; Waif followed him closely. His devotion to his master, which had always been very great, had become more marked since Dot's death; in Donovan's lonely rides and long walks Waif had always accompanied him, he had learnt to understand his master's moods and knew perfectly when to keep to heel in silent unobtrusiveness, and when to frisk and gambol about him; he had watched the stormy scene in the drawing-room, had followed Donovan noiselessly up and downstairs, now he trotted demurely behind him, well aware that this was not the right time to draw attention to his presence.

The gates were passed at length, and Donovan stood without in the white dusty road; he did not pause or hesitate or look back now, but strode along with fierce rapid steps, down the hill, through the little village, past old Mr. Hayes' deserted house, to the tiny grey church in the valley. Everything looked cruelly peaceful, on the hillside a herd of cows were browsing, a column of blue smoke curled up from the chimney of a little farmhouse close by, a country woman passed him singing to the brown-eyed baby in her arms. Contrasted with all this were Ellis's cruel words ringing in his ears, and the recollection of the hateful look of vindictive triumph which he had seen in his step-father's face. The frenzied passionate indignation surged up in his heart with redoubled force, he threw open the churchyard gate, and hurried up the flagged path, pausing however beside the little porch to look at a notice which had met his eye, as trifling things do sometimes force themselves upon us in moments of great agitation. He read with growing bitterness the words:--

"NEW ORGAN FUND.--Ellis Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor, having generously promised £200 to the above fund, it is earnestly hoped that the additional £100 still required may be obtained. A special collection will be made, &c., &c." Charity, church-organs, generosity to win a good name with the world! behind the outward show, injustice, tyranny, and hatred!

Donovan turned aside past the great yew tree to the place where little Dot had been laid. The stone had just been put up, a recumbent cross, the sharp outlines of the white marble standing out clearly against the green grass; he threw himself down upon it in one of his terrible paroxysms of grief, in pain so unalleviated that it seemed like strong physical torture added to the mental suffering. How long he lay there with his face pressed down to the cold marble, and his hands grasping strainedly at the turf he never knew; it must have been for a long long time, for when he staggered to his feet again the sun was setting, and he found that only by walking briskly could he reach Greyshot in time for the evening train to London. With a still white cold face, which seemed to have absorbed something of the hard rigidity of the marble cross, he looked his last at the little grave, then hastily recrossed the churchyard. Waif, who had been watching him all the time with considerable anxiety, trotted on in front of him, but at the gate turned back to meet him and began to draw attention to himself by a series of whines and barks and bounds in the air; he could not have chosen a better moment for making his presence known, Donovan felt at once the relieved re-action from hard bitter despair to a half-amused gratitude; this dumb creature loved him, there could be no doubt of that, and there are times in the lives of most of us, when the love even of dumb things wins a tenfold preciousness because of its unquestioning faithfulness, its fearless devotion, its contrast to the changeful doubting unreliable affection of men, who can judge and speak their judgment. He stooped down and let the dog spring up to his knee, while he patted the sagacious white and tan head; then, remembering that his time was short, he started up again with a sudden return of energy.

"Come along, old fellow," he said, in his usual voice, "you and I will go through the world together."

Waif wagged his tail, pricked up his black ear, drooped the white one, and bounded along as if he enjoyed the thought of the companionship.

It was growing dusk when the dog and his master reached Greyshot; the station lamps were lighted; somehow Donovan's choking indignation began to diminish under the influence of the excitement. He had been unjustly used, certainly, but the world was before him, and the world began to seem more attractive than he had thought; the cool evening wind blew through the station, the platform was rather crowded, for the first time a boyish sense of the pleasure of freedom stole across him; here he was accountable to no one, free to do exactly as he pleased, with his portmanteau and his dog he could roam where he liked. He took a ticket for himself and Waif to Paddington without any very distinct idea why he chose London as his first resort, turning to it perhaps only as the sort of natural home which the great city seems to most Englishmen. Then he sauntered up and down, waiting for the train, looked at the brightly lighted book-stall, scanned the faces of the crowd, while all the time his thoughts were running pretty much in this way:

"I must make the best of life; hateful and worthless as it is, I may as well enjoy myself as much as I can. The world is full of injustice, I will pay it back in its own coin."

Presently the train was heard in the distance, in another minute his golden-eyed destiny flashed into sight, there was haste and confusion on the platform. Waif, with his ticket tied to his collar, kept close to his master's heels, till Donovan, opening the door of a carriage, prepared to lift him in; the occupants, however, objected, a nervous middle aged lady started up from her corner, she could not endure dogs, she really must beg that he did not get into that carriage. Donovan retreated, and hurried on to the next vacant place, taking care this time to put the question,

"Do you mind the dog?"

"Oh, dear no," said a pleasant bland voice, and he sprang in just as the train started.

When he had put up his bag and walking-stick, he threw himself back in a corner seat, and began to scrutinize his fellow-passengers. They were three in number, and they were beguiling the time with a game of euchre. The individual with the pleasant voice, who had consented to Waif's admittance, sat next to Donovan, so that he could only see his profile; he seemed to be a short, heavily-made man between fifty and sixty, with an unnaturally red face, thick neck, and scanty red hair sprinkled with grey; he was singularly ugly, but his expression was more weak than unpleasant, especially when he turned round with some trifling remark to Donovan, and showed his little twinkling watery eyes, good-natured mouth, and round face. His two companions were much younger men, the one furthest from Donovan was faring badly in the game, he was a sleek-looking, bearded man, dressed rather extravagantly, and wearing a heavy watch-chain and bunch of charms; there was an air of vulgar prosperity about him, and Donovan instantly surmised that he was some wealthy manufacturer or tradesman. The remaining traveller was a much more perplexing study. After watching him for some time, Donovan had not in the least arrived at any decision about him, he might have been a sporting gentleman, or a superior commercial traveller, or a newspaper correspondent, or possibly a card-sharper. Donovan tried to fit every one of these "callings" upon him; each succeeded for a time, and then fell to the ground. He was, however, peculiarly attractive. His companions were very soon forgotten altogether in the absorbing interest of watching this man's exceedingly clever play and curious face. He had a square massive forehead, black hair receding from the temples, and just beginning to turn grey, a dark oily complexion, very small black eyes, with a dissatisfied look in them, and heavy dark eyebrows, level towards the bridge of the nose, but arched at the other end, and raised still higher when he became interested.

Before very long the manufacturer was beaten, and the dark-browed man turned to Donovan, shuffling the cards as he spoke.

"Will you make a fourth at whist?"

The question was asked so casually, as if the speaker cared little whether he complied or not, that Donovan, who had rather inclined to the opinion that he was a professional gambler, was completely deceived by it. He only hesitated a moment, then the red-haired elder man turned round with his good-humoured smile, and said, in his pleasant voice,

"We should be delighted, if you would join us. One needs something of the sort on a long journey, to while away the time."

Without further preamble the game began. The stakes were high; Donovan grew excited, and forgot for the time his anger and the bitter treatment to which he had been subjected. He was partner with the rich manufacturer; the strange-looking, dark-browed man was playing with the elder with the red hair. He was a daring opponent, and Donovan, who was accustomed to carry everything before him, was roused and interested to a most unwonted degree. It was a close and exciting game, eventually won by the two strangers, but Donovan's skilful play had evidently surprised his dark-looking opponent, who scrutinized him curiously, while the red-haired traveller began to compliment him.

Presently they stopped at Swindon, and Donovan, beginning to be conscious that he had eaten nothing for many hours, hurried away with the others towards the refreshment-room. As he waited for an instant among the crowd of passengers, he heard a sharp voice, low, and yet singularly distinct, not far from him.

"Now mind, your work's not done yet, so be careful."

Glancing round, Donovan saw that the speaker was his late opponent; the good-humoured face of his red-haired companion clouded a little, and there was something of the expression of a spoilt child about his mouth as he replied.

"Plague upon it! You never can let a fellow enjoy himself, Noir. I'm sure I've been as temperate as old Oliver himself----"

The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, but apparently Noir enforced his advice, for, some minutes before Donovan left the refreshment-room, his two fellow-travellers repassed him on their way to the carriage.

Waif sat guarding his master's property. The two men did not notice him; the younger one, who had been addressed as Noir, flung himself back in his place, the elder fidgeted about restlessly, talking in his hearty voice the while.

"What do you think of our two friends?"

"The manufacturer is a fool," said Noir, decidedly. "The young one's as sharp as a needle."

"Ha! I thought as much. He'd have beaten us hollow, wouldn't he, if it hadn't been for certain----"

"Be quiet!" said the younger man, sharply. "You'll undo us some day by your want of caution."

"Shall you try any more this evening?"

"I don't know. I think not. I wish I could get that young fellow for a second instead of you. He'd be the making of us."

"A cut above our sort of thing, isn't he?"

"Can't say, but he looks discontented enough. We'll sound him, get the manufacturer to draw him out."

Then, as the other traveller returned, Noir suddenly changed his tone, and very skilfully drew the conversation round to the desired subject. They had just been talking of his partner. He seemed a clever fellow. They were wondering what he was. For his part, he would bet ten to one that he was in the Army. The manufacturer thought he was an undergraduate. There was some laughter over the dispute. It was agreed that, by hook or by crook, they would find out which was in the right by the end of the journey. Then the bell sounded. There was hurrying to and fro on the platform, and at the very last moment Donovan stalked back to his place, perfectly unconscious of the small plot which his companions had been making.

He had brought back a biscuit for Waif, and the dog made a good opening for conversation. Then the manufacturer mentioned by chance that he came _from Bristol_, and Donovan, to the satisfaction of the three conspirators, began to ask questions as to the likelihood of finding any suitable employment there.

"Oh! with capital, you can always get on," said the rich man, easily. "Nothing can be done in this world without money, but there are plenty of openings there for any young men wanting employment."

"Provided they are capitalists," said Donovan, with bitterness, which did not escape Noir's keen observance.

"Oh! well, of course you might meet with a clerkship," said the manufacturer, "but it's a difficulty to get them very often, there's such a run on them; and besides, that would hardly be in your line, would it?"

"No," said Donovan, haughtily; then, with a touch of humour, he added, "Though, to be sure, I've not much right to talk of 'my line.'"

The talk drifted on by degrees to the recent strikes in Lancashire, and the manufacturer and Donovan had a hot argument on the subject of wages, in which the latter's keen sense of injustice and oppression was fully brought to light; he talked so fiercely of the tyranny of the rich, the grinding down of the poor, the dishonest grasping of the capitalists, that Noir felt sure there was some personal feeling involved in the dispute, certain that in some way this young fellow's life had been embittered by the tyranny and injustice which he inveighed against. The dark brows were raised higher and higher as the argument went on; evidently Donovan's words had touched some kindred feeling in the man's heart. At last he could contain himself no longer, but joined in the dispute, linking his vehement words with Donovan's, till between them they fairly overwhelmed the rich Bristol man. Then at once there was established between them that strange sympathy which comes like a lightning flash, when two minds are entirely one upon a subject not usually agreed upon. They had been united in argument, and in an argument very nearly touching their own lives; instinctively Donovan held out his hand when they parted at Paddington, and the dark-browed man grasped it with a warmth and heartiness curiously contradictory to his disposition. He was in reality a hardened cheat, but his one vulnerable spot had been touched, and he at once conceived a strong liking for his young ally.

Perhaps few places are so dependent on the frame of mind one is in as London. No place seems so pleasant to a sociable person in a happy humour, no place so cold and uncongenial to anyone in trouble. Then with what heartless indifference the busy crowd passes by, how the careless talk, the hearty laugh, the cool stare of one's kind wound and sting; with what envy does one look at the smiling faces, and how (foolishly and morbidly, of course) one compares them with the priest and the Levite in the parable; though how they can help "passing by on the other side," when one is only stripped and wounded and robbed by the unseen foes of life which prey on the inner man, a troubled mind, is generally too illogical to consider. The forlornness of his position did not come upon Donovan all at once. During the months which had passed since little Dot's death, in his sorrow "without hope," worthier and more manly thoughts had grown up in his heart; he had made up his mind to work at something, and, though his chief object had been merely to divert his thoughts by the work, the resolve was still in the right direction. The rude repulse which he had met with from Ellis when he suggested his new idea, and the hardness of his expulsion from Oakdene, crushed down for the time all these better thoughts; but in a little while, from sheer necessity, they sprang up again. It was evidently impossible that he could live for any length of time on the remains of his last allowance; he must gain his living in some way, and now, for the first time, he felt fully how fatal to his interests Ellis's guardianship had been. Had he been forced to enter some profession, or had he even received a better education after his school career was ended, he would not now have been so helpless; yet, after all, he would scarcely have consented to leave Dot, even had he known beforehand of Ellis's malignant intention; only now it added bitterness to his indignation to think how coolly and systematically his step-father had planned his ruin. Why was it?--what had he done to earn such hatred? He asked himself those questions over and over again, knowing nothing of the first great wrong which Ellis had done him--the wrong which was at the root of all the subsequent evil.

The morning after his arrival he hurried off at once to Bedford Row to consult his father's solicitor, the same who had come down to his grandfather's funeral, and had initiated him into the mysteries of _vingt-et-un_. He was by this time an elderly man; but though he listened to Donovan kindly, and refused to take any fee for the consultation, he showed him at once that he had no legal claim whatever on Ellis Farrant or his mother now that he was of age. His case was no doubt a very hard one; he should think that by continued applications he might reasonably expect to extort some allowance, if only a small one, from his step-father. As to his mother, she had no power at all apart from her husband; he could take counsel's opinion if he liked, but it would be simply throwing away his two guineas--it was a matter quite out of the province of law, a family matter which must be arranged, by family feeling and natural affection. As to employment, he should advise him to apply to any influential men he knew in town; it was possible he might get some post in one of the Government offices. The lawyer hoped that Mr. Farrant would dine with him some evening--he had just moved to a new house at Brompton; if he could ever be of any service to Mr. Farrant, he should be most happy.

Donovan went away several degrees more depressed than before. His prospects did indeed seem dreary; "continued applications" to Ellis Farrant, or, in plain English, "begging letters," could not for a moment be thought of, and the lawyer's kindness failed to impress him. It was easy enough to ask a fellow to dinner, and to hold out vague offers of service; but Donovan had seen too hollow a corner of the world to put any faith in this sort of friendship. He resolved, however, to call on two or three great men whom in the old times he and his mother had visited; his name at least would be known to them. He would at any rate follow the lawyer's advice, and try for work. But each effort was doomed to fail. The first of the old acquaintance was kind indeed, but not encouraging; he knew of nothing in the least suitable, regretted extremely his inability to help his young friend. The second flattered him, assured him that with such advantages he could not fail to get on in the world, and promised that if ever he heard of any appointment likely to suit him he would let him know at once. The third, an overwrought man, always oppressed by twice as much work as he could properly manage, received him with scant courtesy, listened to his story coldly, and dismissed him with a curt refusal; it was no use coming to him, he had a thousand applications of the kind--they were, in fact, the bane of his existence. He could offer no help at all--he wished Mr. Farrant good day.

It was not till the close of this third interview that Donovan altogether realised his position. With hot cheeks, for he was still young enough to flush easily at any discourtesy, he turned his back on the chambers of the harassed and churlish man of the world, made his way along the crowded pavements of Parliament Street, and without any distinct purpose bent his steps towards the river. It was a hot afternoon in early June, but what little air there was reached him as he leant on the parapet of Westminster Bridge, his face propped between both hands, his eyes bent down on the sparkling sunlit water. What was the use of his life? he asked himself dejectedly. How indeed was he to live? His acquaintances one and all refused or were not able to help him, his home ties were all broken, there was not a single being in the world who would help him or care for him. Under such circumstances, would it not be well to seek that "refuge in the cavern of cold death" which he had taught himself to consider as the goal, the end of all things? What harm could it do to anyone? There was no one to miss him except Waif, and not to be would be ineffable peace! No more craving for Dot's presence, no more gnawing disappointment and weariness of life, no more suffering from injustice, no more misery of loneliness. And yet---- What would his father have said? And then, too, was there not some natural physical shrinking from such an end? After all, he was very young, and the boy-life within him began to assert itself above the morbid overgrowth. Life as it was, was certainly not worth having, but surely there must be some brightness in store for him! The sun shone down in golden splendour on the river, the pleasure-steamers and the smaller boats were borne past him rapidly; the mere animal joy of existence overcame for the time his darker thoughts.

Yet what was he to do? He did not know the Bible well, but he had of course heard it read in his school days and before he gave up church-going, now from some odd recess of memory there floated back the words--"Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness that when ye fail they may receive you into everlasting habitations." He smiled a little to himself as he thought of the solution of this perplexing passage which his life was bringing to light. He had certainly taken no pains in the old days to make friends; where he could have wished friendship there had always been a shrinking back on the other side; his bad name had kept back good companions; his natural nobility had guarded him from making real friends of bad people, although he had been in the way of evil companionship very often. But a real friend he had never known. Certainly his circumstances were sufficiently dreary to have brought to despair a far better regulated mind than his; the misery and hopelessness surged in upon him afresh, the healthy pleasure in existence died away, the brightness of the summer day only increased his sick longing for something to fill the emptiness of his life.

Just as he had slowly raised himself and was about to move on from the place where he had been leaning, he heard himself addressed in a voice which, though not exactly familiar to him, he yet seemed to have heard somewhere.

"Good day, I think we've had the pleasure of meeting before."

Turning round hastily, he at once recognized the dark-browed man with whom he had travelled up from Greyshot, his antagonist in the game, his ally in the argument.

"I've been watching you for some minutes," said the stranger, "only you seemed so deep in meditation that I wouldn't disturb you. I've often thought of you since that day we met on the Great Western."

"Have you?" said Donovan, brightening a little, for the man's manner had a certain attractiveness in it; then, after a moment's pause, he added, "Why, I wonder?"

"Why?" repeated the stranger, "because I like you, and it is so seldom I do like anyone that naturally, from the very oddity of the thing, I thought of you."

They had moved on while talking, and now, leaving the bridge, walked along the embankment. Donovan liked the man, and yet was too reserved and too prudent to care to make any advances to him. The stranger began to see that he must take the initiative.

"Have you found the work you were looking out for?" he asked, turning his dark restless eyes on his companion.

Donovan shook his head, all his despondency returning at this allusion.

"I thought as much from your look," said the stranger. "You haven't found it such an easy matter as you expected. If you are hard up though, it is just possible that I may know of employment which would suit you."

"You! Do you indeed?" cried Donovan, eagerly. "But perhaps I shan't be up to it; I don't mind telling you that, up to a very little time ago, I never dreamed that I should have to work for my living; now, through a great injustice, I am on my own hook, with only a five-pound note between me and beggary."

"So bad as that," said the stranger, thoughtfully, "then perhaps you will not be too scrupulous for the work I was thinking of; you are certainly well cut out for it. Look! If I treat you with entire confidence and openness, may I take it for granted that you will not abuse my trust?"

"Of course," said Donovan, growing interested.

"If you will come with me, then, to my rooms, I will explain the sort of work which I mean, you will not of course be bound to accept it if you don't like it. My name is Frewin; the old man you met with me the other night is my father; we are generally called _Rouge et Noir_."

Donovan smiled at the singular appropriateness of the nickname. The stranger continued,

"That you may believe me, I will tell you that it is not all from disinterested motives that I seek you out and try to help you, no one in the world goes upon such motives, self-interest is the great ruling principle; you are admirably suited to help me in my work, that is my first reason; I like you and am sorry for you, that is my second. Now I have made a clean breast of it all, will you come?"

"Of course I will," said Donovan, without an instant's hesitation. He committed himself to nothing by this, why should he not go? And besides, these were the first helpful friendly words which he had heard for so long.