Chapter XI: The Ideal Woman

"But am I not the nobler through thy love?
O three times less unworthy! likewise thou
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years.
The sun will run his orbit, and the moon
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit
Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end."
TENNYSON.

"You look very hot and very much bored. Don't you think those great books are too dull for a summer morning?" exclaimed Gladys, coming into the breakfast-room, where Donovan was working, one sunny day in August.

The table was dragged up to his couch, and, to all appearance, he was very busy with his examination work.

"It is not the big books that bore me," he said in reply.

"But something has certainly happened to you since breakfast time," said Gladys, laughing. "Can Aunt Margaret have been here?"

There was such _naïveté_ in her tone that Donovan could not help laughing.

"Yes," he replied, "Mrs. Causton has been here for the last hour. She is very--kind-hearted."

Gladys smiled.

"Yes, very, but she rubs people the wrong way. Papa says it is because she thinks there is only one way. As if, you know, we were all made alike!"

"I told you it wasn't the big books that bored me," said Donovan. "What do you think of this?" He handed her a little brown volume, and turning to the title-page Gladys read--"An Inquiry into the Nature, Symptoms, and Effects of Religious Declension, with the Means of Recovery."

The colour rose in her cheeks.

"Oh! I am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "I hope--I hope you haven't minded it very much?"

"I've no business to mind it, for she was very kind; but there are some subjects which I had rather have touched reverently. Do you think that kind of spiritual hay-making does much good? that raking up of feelings, that tossing of texts? It's the first time I've come across it."

"Except when you met us in the train that day and auntie gave you the tracts."

Donovan laughed a little at the remembrance.

"Do you know though meeting you that day made me feel very much ashamed of myself; I never can think of those tracts without laughing. The first of mine was 'Are you a drunkard?' and the second 'Are you a swearer?' We had a parrot at our rooms, a capital talker, but like almost all parrots, it did swear most dreadfully; some one fastened these tracts to its cage, and taught it to ask the questions--a very wicked thing, wasn't it? but irresistibly comic."

"Poor Aunt Margaret! what would she say!" exclaimed Gladys.

"It is not tracts that are wanted," continued Donovan; "beautiful lives are the best arguments, the only ones which will ever influence me."

"Lives like your little sister's," said Gladys, gently.

"Yes," he replied; then, after a pause, "Not that her life was what some people would have approved; she never thought much of what is called the soul, she was a little Undine till she was nearly thirteen."

"Was she thirteen when she died? I had fancied her younger somehow."

"So she was really in mind and ways," he said, quietly. "She was a thorough child; your little Nesta reminds me of her, though I don't suppose you would see any likeness."

He took the little miniature out and placed it in her hands. Gladys looked at it in silence; it was a most beautiful child's face, with delicate features, clear, pale complexion, arched and pencilled eyebrows, and glorious hazel eyes--eyes which she thought very much like Donovan's, only they were entirely without the sadness which lurked in his.

"Thank you so much for letting me see it," she said, giving it back to him. "She must have been far lovelier than little Nesta; but I think I do see the likeness you mean. Was this taken long before she died?"

"No, only a few months before," replied Donovan. "It was taken when we were staying at Codrington, and she was just beginning to puzzle herself over all the unanswerable questions; we talked one day about death, and of course I had no comforting things to tell her about it, I couldn't tell her what I believed to be untrue. Then for a time the thought of it haunted us both; there was an artist staying in the hotel, and I got him to do this miniature for me, knowing that the separation must come some day, but not dreaming that it would be so soon."

"And did she ever learn that death is not an endless separation?" asked Gladys, the tears welling up into her eyes.

"Yes," he answered, quietly; "she learnt all that could make her happy, how I don't know. Isn't it strange how easily belief comes to some? I would give worlds to be able now to believe what you believe, to feel certain that I'd got hold of the real truth, but I cannot, it's an impossibility."

"Oh! don't say that," said Gladys, quickly, "leave yourself at least a hope, or how will you ever have the heart to go on searching for the truth? It may not always seem impossible to you."

Her sweet, eager face, with its entire absence of self-consciousness, took Donovan's heart by storm; hitherto she had influenced him, fascinated him, but now for the first time he knew that he loved her.

"Life is full of strange surprises," he answered; "you may be right, I'll unsay that 'impossible.'"

Then with the strange new sense of love in his heart, and the craving for her sympathy, he told her all about Dot's death, and Gladys' tears fell fast as she heard the details of that last night, and realised how terribly Donovan must have suffered.

From that time there was a great difference in their intercourse; they talked much more freely, gliding into a sort of brotherly and sisterly intimacy; at least, so it seemed. Donovan, though conscious of his love, was not in the frame of mind to think of the future, it was quite enough for him to live in the present, knowing and loving Gladys; and she, beginning with the wish to give him a little of the sister's love which he missed so much, drifted imperceptibly, unconsciously into a love altogether different.

Very happy to both of them were those summer weeks; in the long mornings Donovan worked hard for his examinations, in the afternoon there were merry gatherings in the shady old orchard, games with the children, reading aloud, or attempts at sketching.

One afternoon, when they were all sitting in the shade of the great mulberry-tree, engrossed in their own various books, Gladys looked up laughing.

"Just listen to this. How would you have liked it? 'He was constantly annoyed by being asked to write his likes and dislikes in ladies' albums.'"

"I know the horrid inventions," said Donovan. "A cousin of mine used to be always boring people to write in hers--their ideas of pleasure, pain, beauty, and so on."

"Rather fun too, I think," said Gladys. "Only that one's ideas would be always changing."

"I should have no difficulty in writing some of my ideas now," said Donovan. "The idea of happiness would certainly be 'a sprained ankle at Trenant,' and the idea of beauty, 'the long grass and daisies in this orchard with the sunshine on them.'" He added, in his thoughts, "And Gladys sitting with her book among the daisies."

Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, they used to drive out in the pony-chaise, along by the sea, or through the narrow lanes with their high, mossy banks, pausing now and then at some cottage to leave a message, or to visit some of Mrs. Tremain's innumerable friends among the poor. There was very little society round Porthkerran. In the winter Gladys sometimes went to one or two dances at some distant country house. In the summer there was an occasional picnic or garden-party, but the neighbourhood was thinly populated, and the distances were too great for very much visiting. So Porthkerran formed a little clan of its own; and as by good chance the squire and the rector were both fond of natural history, Dr. Tremain was able to gather round him a small scientific society; this, with the exception of the constant visits of Mrs. Causton, and of their nearest neighbour, a jocose old man, Admiral Smith, constituted the clan proper. But the Tremains knew almost everyone in the little fishing-town, and though Gladys never undertook formal district-visiting, she was welcomed in any house, and there was scarcely a child in the place whom she did not know at least by name.

She was therefore never idle and never dull. There were always plenty of tragedies and comedies going on among her large circle of friends, in both of which she was interested. Or there were orphans to be sent to school, or blind people to be read to, or twin babies who must be worked for, or sick children to be amused. Donovan liked to watch her busy life; she evidently enjoyed it so thoroughly.

There was one event, too, which was constantly being talked of, namely, Dick's return from sea. He was expected in September, and Donovan used to listen half sadly to the daily hopes and wonders as to his progress. When the papers came, there was always a rush to find the latest "Shipping Intelligence," and delighted exclamations when H.M.S. _Cerberus_ was mentioned as having left some port on her homeward journey. How strange it must be to be loved, and watched, and waited for so eagerly!

By this time the first cheque from Ellis had been received and acknowledged, and immediately Donovan made use of the money to recover Dot's clock from the Liverpool pawnbroker's. He also sent a ten-pound note to the hospitable Devonshire man who had helped him out of the Foxtor mire. This last piece of gratitude was perhaps slightly rash, considering his very narrow means, but he could not rest till he had sent it.

His ankle was now quite recovered, and in September he was able to go up for his examination, but not before he had promised to spend his last few days at Porthkerran. The doctor had proposed that he should share Stephen Causton's rooms in town. Stephen was still at St. Thomas's, and as his mother made no objection, and Donovan liked the thought of being with any connection of the Tremains, the arrangement was made; but unfortunately Stephen, who had been spending the vacation abroad, returned with his eyes in a very delicate state, and a bad attack of ophthalmia ensuing, obliged him to give up all thoughts of work for many months.

After his long stay at Trenant, Donovan felt rather at sea when he went up to town to begin his solitary life again. However, he had no time to be dull, for he was very anxious about his examination. Besides, before many days he hoped to be with the Tremains again. He passed his preliminary successfully. The scholarship examination was not till after the beginning of term, so there was nothing to detain him longer, and another week at Gladys' home was not to be missed on any consideration. He went back to Porthkerran in excellent spirits. It was about half-past five on a bright September afternoon when he reached St. Renans, the nearest station. He had only just set out for the five-mile walk along the dusty road, when he was overtaken by a fellow pedestrian, who, on seeing the direction he took, hurried after him.

"Are you going beyond Porthkerran?" he inquired.

"No, to Porthkerran itself," replied Donovan, looking at the speaker with some curiosity. He was apparently about his own age, a lithe, active-looking fellow, with a very sunburnt but good-looking face, and merry, blue-grey eyes.

"Let me send your bag with my traps, then; the carrier leaves in an hour's time."

There was a very evident "Who are you?" in Donovan's eyes; but the stranger, nothing daunted, took the bag from him and ran back to the little inn; then, returning in a moment, he said, apologetically,

"You must excuse this 'hail fellow well met' business, but I am Dick Tremain, and, if I am not very much mistaken, you are Mr. Farrant."

They shook hands.

"You are a very clever guesser," said Donovan. "I ought to have known you; but I had no idea you were expected to-day."

"I'm not, that's just the fun of it," returned Dick, accommodating his seaman's gait to Donovan's long strides. "They don't the least expect me; we got into Plymouth Sound this morning, and I made up my mind to come straight on and surprise them. They're all right at home, I suppose?"

"Yes, when I left they were all very well."

"And your ankle is mended again, to judge by the pace you're going at. I heard all about that cliff adventure."

"It brought me the pleasantest two months of my life," said Donovan. "I'm coming down now to say good-bye before starting at St. Thomas's, in October. I'm sorry, though, that I just chanced to come back on the same day you did."

Dick laughed.

"I might take that as a bad compliment, and you know we have still four miles to walk. But in all seriousness you really must take back your words, for I have been particularly hoping to see you, and at Trenant it is always 'the more the merrier.' So you are going to St. Thomas's? Is Stephen Causton still there?"

"Yes; we were to have shared rooms, but his eyes have given out, so he won't go up this term."

"Better luck for you, I should say. Perhaps you've seen him, though?"

"No, he's only just home. What sort of a fellow is he?"

"A regular sawney--good-humoured enough, but weak as water. He's never been allowed to shift for himself; he's a regular mother's son."

This was a genus utterly unknown to Donovan; he asked several questions about the Caustons, and, as Dick possessed the genial manner and the ready speech of his family, the five mile walk was quite sufficient to make the two pretty well acquainted. At last they reached the turn in the road which brought them into sight of the little fishing-town.

Porthkerran was a very picturesque place; it stood at the head of a tidal inlet, which in olden times had been one of the most frequented harbours of the west. The building of the breakwater had, however, caused it to be superseded by Plymouth Sound, and Porthkerran was now obliged to content itself with seeing from afar the passing ships. It had been a noted resort of smugglers, and the irregularly-built streets, with their narrow twistings and windings, the innumerable passages and mysterious flights of steps, the houses with their second doors and secure hiding-places, all bore witness to the bygone times when the one interest, excitement, and object in life of the inhabitants had been to smuggle, and to escape from the coastguardsmen. Many curious stories were still handed down in the village of great-grandmothers who had concealed fabulous numbers of silk dresses under their own ample skirts; of perilous escapes down dark alleys; of kegs of brandy which some daring sexton had once concealed for several days in the church itself. The rising generation listened with interest to these tales of the evil deeds of their forefathers; sometimes they even went so far as to wish that their own lot had been cast in those more exciting days, and were so depraved as not to

"Thank the goodness and the grace
Which on their birth had smiled."

But to wish that they had not been taught so very often in Sunday-school that the boys who stole apples invariably came to a bad end, or that living in those benighted days they might have enjoyed in peace a little of the excitement of smuggling.

But Porthkerran was now an eminently respectable fishing village, and if it did break the Ten Commandments, broke them in a less flagrant and open manner than in former times. Adulteration of food and false weights were certainly not quite unknown in the place, but on the whole Porthkerran had decidedly improved, and the inhabitants were, as a rule, hospitable, kindly, and staunch.

The little place looked especially pretty in the sunset glow of the September evening; the quaint, compact little town, with its curling columns of blue smoke, telling of the supper in preparation for the fishermen, the narrow strip of beach, dotted here and there with brown nets spread out to dry, the calm bay, with its orange-sailed boats, and aslant from the west a broad pathway of tawny gold, ever, as the sun sank lower, deepening to crimson.

And this was Gladys' home! Donovan's heart gave a great bound when he realised how near he was to her. It was a beautiful little place certainly, but he would have thought the Black Country beautiful if Gladys had lived there. How he had pictured it all to himself up in those dull London lodgings!--how he had paced in imagination that very road, had reached that ivy-covered house! Well, here he was in sober reality, and even as they drew near the door was thrown open, and Gladys' own fresh voice was ringing in his ears.

"Dick--oh! Dick, you dear, delightful boy to come so unexpectedly! How exactly like you to walk in so quietly! And Donovan, too! How clever of you to find each other out!"

Donovan felt the real welcome of her voice and hand; it was, moreover, the first time she had directly spoken to him by his Christian name, for, though he had long ceased to be "Mr. Farrant" to any of them, these two had as yet kept instinctively to that most indefinite of all personal pronouns, "you."

In a minute all the household came flocking out into the hall to welcome the sailor after his long absence. Donovan watched the greetings with a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, his new nature sharing in the general happiness, his old nature viewing all with silent, deep-seated envy. His usual helper, however, came to his aid; a delighted cry of "Dono! Dono!" made him look up, and there, slowly coming down the broad oak staircase, her right foot solemnly stumping in front, her left foot following with less dignity in its wake, was little Nesta.

"Dear Dono to tum back!" she cried, gleefully. "Lift me over the ban'sters, Mr. Dono, up on to you shoulder."

He lifted her across, received a half-strangling hug, and was not a little flattered that only from her perch on his shoulder would she be induced to kiss the strange brother.

After the seven o'clock dinner was over, Donovan made his escape from the rest of the family, strolled down the garden, and gave himself up to a rather sombre reverie. The last words he had heard spoken by Dick to Gladys rang rather painfully in his ears--"Oh, and don't you remember----" There was no one in all the world to whom he could now say, "Don't you remember." He had to an almost morbid extent, too, the dread of intruding himself where he was not wanted, and, this evening he argued to himself logically enough that it was impossible they should not prefer his absence. And it certainly was true that for a time no one missed him, that the father and mother were entirely engrossed in their boy, that even Gladys did not at first understand his non-appearance. But, delighted as she was at Dick's return, and interested as she was in his stories, she was nevertheless conscious of an undefined sense of trouble, which grew and grew, until at length it flashed upon her suddenly that Donovan must be purposely keeping aloof, afraid of spoiling the freedom of the family talk. She remembered now that she had been talking to Dick as they left the dining-room; how inconsiderate she had been! how absorbed in her own happiness! It was just like Donovan to take himself off alone. He must be found and taken to task. She would not disturb her father or mother, but putting down her work, she slipped quietly out of the room, looked into the study, but he was not there, into the dining-room, but it was empty and deserted, finally snatching up an old wide-awake of her father's as protection from the dew, she instituted a search in the garden.

At last in the twilight she caught sight of a dark figure pacing to and fro by the strawberry beds. He did not notice her till she was almost close to him, then suddenly turning round he found himself face to face with a white-robed apparition, and started a little.

"I'm not a ghost, though I have a white frock," she exclaimed; "and I'm not papa, though I have his hat. Why are you wandering up and down the very froggiest and toadiest path in the garden?"

"Birds of a feather flock together," he said, lightly. "I've a good deal in common with the frogs, a love of croaking and a coldness of heart--or absence of heart altogether, is it?"

"I came to scold you," said Gladys, "not to laugh. Why have you not been listening to Dick? You've no idea what adventures he has had this voyage."

"Why are you not with him?" returned Donovan. "I hoped--I thought you would all forget that I was here, and enjoy him to yourselves."

"Why to _ourselves_?"

"Is not that the only way really to enjoy him?"

"Not when you won't be one of the selves. I thought you did really take this as a home."

"So I do. Never doubt that, in whatever way I act."

"Then why not act as a part of the home, taking it for granted that we like you to be interested in all our interests. Can't you understand that of course we do?"

He did not answer for a moment, but even in the dim, shady garden-walk Gladys could see how his face lighted up--what a strange new look of rest dawned in his eyes!

"I have believed in neither God nor man," he said at last, "but you have forced me to believe in the latter. Ever since I came here you have been teaching me. If ever I doubt human goodness again, I shall only have to remember that there is such a place as Trenant in the world."

"Then if that is so," said Gladys, smiling, "I shall thank my hat for blowing over the cliffs that day, even though it did give you so much trouble and pain. However, we've wandered from the point. You will come in, won't you? It was so stupid of me not to remember sooner that you would be sure to take yourself off."

He laughed a little.

"You own, then, that it was natural?"

"Not at all; most people would never have dreamt of doing such a thing."

"But you knew that I should," said Donovan, triumphantly gaining the assurance that she understood his character.

"Well, yes," she owned, "I thought it would be very like you to feel in the way and not wanted."

"Don't be too hard on me for that; you've no idea how I've been shut out of things all my life. No one has ever loved me but a few children and a dog or two."

"Oh, you must not say that!" she exclaimed, in a voice so pained, so unlike itself that it even startled her. "You know--you know that is not true!"

As the words passed her lips, she knew for the first time that her own love for Donovan was no sisterly love, no friendly liking; that brief sentence of his and her own impulsive reply revealed to her the wholly unsuspected depth of her feelings. Had she been aware of this sooner, it would have been utterly impossible for her to run out into the garden to find him, as she had done only a few minutes before in perfect simplicity. It was twilight, that was one comfort; he could not see that her cheeks were glowing with maidenly shame, that she was trembling in every limb. Strange as it may seem, though he loved her, he did not notice her sudden change--that is, it did not at all convey to him the faintest idea that her own love caused that pained tone in her voice. They walked on for a minute or two in silence.

Donovan was the first to speak; she knew by his manner that she had not betrayed herself.

"I was wrong to speak bitterly; this evening's welcome to Porthkerran ought to have reminded me of the love I have found here. One of your father's hand-shakes is worth travelling three hundred miles for."

Gladys turned in the direction of the house.

"And Nesta was so delighted to have you back again. You can't think how fond she is of you; we used to hear her telling Waif long stories about you while you were in London. Nesta's stories are such fun. I think she has a good deal of imagination."

They reached the house as she finished speaking, and finding the drawing-room window open, she went in that way and soon had the satisfaction of seeing Donovan really join the family group.

The mantle of his taciturnity seemed to have fallen instead upon her; before long she slipped out of the room and slowly and dreamily wandered away, she hardly knew whither. This strange new conviction, this consciousness of love, seemed to have transported her into a new world. Presently, finding herself by the night nursery door, she stole softly in, and sat down by Nesta's little bed. The curly brown head nestled down on the pillow, the rosy face half hidden seemed the very picture of peace. And Gladys too, though her face glowed and her eyes shone with the love which had just dawned in her heart, was not otherwise than peaceful; there was a great deal of the child about her still, not a thought of the future had crossed her mind.

"You love him too, little Nesta," she whispered, bending over the sleeping child, "but not as I do. Oh! Nesta darling, can you ever be so happy as I am to-night! Can there possibly be such another for you to love!"

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.