Chapter II: Rouge Et Noir

The fall thou darest to despise--
May be the angel's slackened hand
Has suffered it that he may rise
And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none lost, but wait and see
With hopeful pity, not disdain,
The depth of the abyss may be
The measure of the height of pain,
And love and glory that may raise
This soul to God in after-days.
A. A. PROCTER.

Noir Frewin took his companion up one of the narrow streets leading from the river, along the Strand as far as St. Mary's Church, and through the dingy foot-passage opening into Drury Lane.

"This is not what you have been accustomed to, I expect," he said, taking a quick glance at Donovan's face. "I suppose you've been putting up at some tip-top hotel by way of economising."

Donovan coloured a little, for the surmise was true enough, but there was nothing impertinent in the man's tone, and he added,

"You'll learn differently as you see more of life. I've lived in Drury Lane on and off now for five years, and am in no hurry to leave the old place, dirty as it is. Here we are!" and he stopped at the private door of a dingy picture-dealer's shop, admitted himself and Donovan, and led the way up a dark staircase to the first floor.

Expecting a room of corresponding dinginess and dirtiness, Donovan was not a little surprised to find himself in a snug neatly-arranged room, where an odd combination of a variety of the brightest colours lent an almost Eastern look to the whole. Curious shells and corals were ranged on shelves along the walls, maps and nautical charts hung in conspicuous places, a case of gorgeous foreign birds occupied the entire length of the room, and a live parrot, in a brass cage, hung in one of the windows, looking at the new-comers with his shrewd, questioning, round eyes. Leaning back in a smoking-chair, absorbed in a newspaper, and with a long clay pipe between his lips, was old Rouge Frewin, no longer in the irreproachable suit which Donovan had first seen him in, but wearing a rough blue serge jacket and red-tasselled cap. He hurried forward at a word from Noir with more than his former heartiness and good humour.

"Delighted to see you, sir. How has the world gone with you since we parted? I must introduce myself to you as Captain Frewin, unless, perhaps, my son has already done so, Captain Frewin, formerly of the steamer _Astick_, Bright Star Line, carrying between Liverpool and New York, latterly of the _Metora_--first-rate little steamer she was, too--carrying between Southampton and West Africa."

Donovan could hardly keep his countenance, the whole scene was so irresistibly comic, the funny old sea-captain, in his red smoking-cap, gesticulating with his long clay pipe, the odd room, and the sudden burst of confidence which had revealed the history of its owner. But his face clouded again as Rouge asked him the same question as to his success in finding work which Noir had put to him on the embankment. He had only just begun his dispirited answer, however, when he was interrupted by a loud nasal voice, which screamed out, "Keep up your pecker! keep up your pecker!" and glancing round he met the goggle eyes of the parrot. It was too much for the gravity even of depressed, ruined, ill-used Donovan, he burst out laughing, a natural, hearty, boyish laugh, such as he had not enjoyed for many months.

"You see Sweepstakes encourages you," said Noir, tormenting the bird by thrusting a piece of string through the wires of its cage.

"What's its name?" asked Donovan, still laughing.

"Sweepstakes, we call him," said old Rouge, coming to the rescue of his pet. "I've had him for seven years, we're great friends, aren't we, Sweepstakes?"

"Poor Sweepstakes!" said the bird, with its head on one side. "Poor Sweepstakes! 'Weep, 'weep, 'weep," and he broke off into an exact imitation of the street cry.

"We have a little business to talk over," said Noir, when the parrot subsided at last. "Suppose," turning to Rouge, "you were to go to Olliver's and order dinner for three in half an hour, and we'll meet you there. You won't refuse to dine with us, I hope," he added, glancing at Donovan.

"Oh! no," said Rouge, heartily. "You mustn't do that. Besides, I've not half shown you round our little cabin. I'm very proud of my curiosities, I can assure you. The bird has evidently taken to you already. You must make yourself quite at home."

As soon as the door had closed behind the old man, Noir Frewin drew up a chair for his guest, and seating himself opposite, with his elbows planted on the table, and his chin between his hands, said,

"And now, if you've the patience to listen, I will tell you a story. I shall trouble you with some account of my own life, because only by that can I show you why it is I take an interest in you. I hate most of the world. I should hate you, if you weren't unfortunate, but I see you are in some way the victim of injustice, and, as I told you before, I like you. Bear with me a little. This will all help to explain the work I propose for you.

"My father, as he told you, was once the captain of a mail-steamer. He was, of course, absent most of the year. I lived with my mother, and as soon as I left school got a clerkship in a bank at a town--no matter in what county. Things went very smoothly with us for a long time, and at last my father, who is a very warm-hearted man and hated being away from his home, thought he had saved enough to retire and settle down in England. He resigned his ship, and for a few months we lived on happily enough. I was as contented a fellow then as you'd often meet with. I liked my work, and received a good salary; moreover I was engaged to be married, and the future looked--well, no matter. I lived in the usual fool's paradise of a lover." He paused a moment, as if reviewing from the distance the old happiness, then, with a bitter sneer, he continued: "Of course I paid dearly for all this foolishness. I don't think I was a bad fellow in those days; goodness knows I'd no excuse for being so, for my mother was the best woman in the world. However, though I did well enough then, I couldn't stand the hard times that followed. There was a grand row one day at the bank, for it was found that by some forgery a cheque for one hundred pounds had been unlawfully abstracted. Suspicion fell on all those connected with the bank, and it narrowed down, as such things do, till it was clearly proved that either I myself or the son of the manager had done the deed. Of course I had not done it--the truth came to light later on--but at the time everything seemed against me, and since the manager was not a second Brutus he was naturally inclined to believe his son in the right. I don't care to go into all the misery of that time. There was, of course, a mockery of a trial. I was found guilty, and the real perpetrator of the forgery sat in court, and heard me condemned. I saw him turn pale when he heard me sentenced to seven years penal servitude--perhaps, though, he was only thinking of the danger he had escaped."

"But did he make no effort to save you?" questioned Donovan. "I shouldn't have thought a man could have been such an utter brute."

"You have yet to learn the world, then?" said Noir, with a fierce laugh. "Oh! yes, of course he was kind enough to do all in his power to get me recommended to mercy. I think he hoped for a lighter sentence. However, what difference did it make to me? I was sent to Pentonville, and there I ate my heart for a year. Then I was sent to Dartmoor, and I think the change just saved me from madness. That year my mother died. We had been everything to each other. She couldn't stand the disgrace which had come to us, or the separation. I was young, and had to stand it, but I think from that day I wasn't the same fellow. The next thing which happened made me ten degrees worse. In one of my father's letters--letters are very few and far between in convict life--I learnt that the girl I had been engaged to was married to another. I told you I paid dearly for my fool's paradise. After that I didn't care what happened. Of course I had lost my character, and I knew that it would be next to impossible for me to get any situation when my term was over. I made a friend at Dartmoor, a fellow of the name of Legge, a clever man, too, and good-natured. We came out at the same time, and he helped me on a little. But things were worse even than I had fancied. My father, in his trouble and loneliness, had fallen into bad ways. I found that in my seven years' absence he had become a confirmed drunkard. You can fancy what a return that was! I could get no employment, and at last, with Legge's help, I began to practise my present profession."

"You mean the profession you practised in the train the other night?" said Donovan.

"Precisely," rejoined Noir, "and I've made it answer. People may say what they like, but the world's one great cheat, and I delight in taking it in unexpectedly. It has ruined me, why may not I get a little out of it in return! I told you though that the truth would come to light, and my innocence came to light in time, though I didn't care a straw about it then. A year after I was released from Dartmoor I was traced out with some difficulty by the manager of the bank, his son had just died and confessed to the forgery. The manager tried to express his great shame and sorrow, hoped he could make some reparation for the injury, offered me money--think of that! Money to make up for the ruin of a whole life! I told him there could be no reparation--that if he would bring back my mother from the grave, if he would reclaim my father, if he would restore me my betrothed, if he would give me back those wasted seven years, and give me again the faith in God and man which had been beaten out of me by the maddening injustice, then, and only then, could he repair the injury."

"I'm glad you've told me all," said Donovan, when the narrator paused; "yours is a hard story certainly, bitterly hard. How long is it since you were released?"

"Five years," said Noir, relapsing into his ordinary tone, a quiet cold tone, very different from the one in which he had recounted his wrongs. "I have lived here with my father chiefly, trying to keep him in order, but it's a hopeless task, where the taste is once acquired it's almost impossible for a weak-minded person to cure himself. I have lived on, making money in the way I told you, and the other day when you got in at the Greyshot Station, there was something in the look of you that attracted me. Then you played uncommonly well, and for the first time in my life I felt sorry that I was cheating a fellow. Afterwards when you talked to that capitalist, I took to you still more; my father had so often been more of a hindrance than a help, and I couldn't help thinking what a capital second you would make. That is the work I propose for you. You should of course have a certain percentage of the profits, and if you live with us, all the better; there's a room at the back which you could have, and though I suppose it's a very different life from what you've been used to, still you might do worse, and I can promise you what I couldn't promise to another fellow in the world--real honest liking. Perhaps you will say the friendship of a professional gambler isn't worth having; however, such as it is I offer it to you, sometimes anything is better than nothing. No, don't give me an answer yet. We'll have dinner now, and you can think things over for a day or two, and let me know."

Had Donovan given his answer then, it would probably have been a refusal, but he went to the Frewins' club, listened to the captain's long yarns, grew doubly interested in Noir, and had a series of brilliant successes at the card-table. Then he went home--that is to his hotel, to think over the offer that had been made to him. All that night he struggled with his perplexities. On the one hand were his rich acquaintances coolly, if civilly, refusing to help him, on the other was the open hospitality and friendliness of the Frewins; midway between the two his conscience put in a plea for a further search after honest work. In his heart of course he disapproved of the proposed scheme, but his principles of right and wrong were somewhat elastic, and just now in his anger and misery, the good within him was at a very low ebb. Moreover, it was true enough, that these Frewins were the only people who had shown him any kindness, and naturally he caught at the sympathy and liking of even a bad man, when it was the only thing to be had; it was like the old familiar saying of a drowning man catching at a straw; he may know well enough that the straw is frail and hollow, but it is something to lay hold of, if only for a moment, and in the absence of a better support it seems worth clinging to.

To say that he made the choice while he was unconscious of its evil would not be true; some people are so ready to admit excuses, there are always so many extenuating circumstances, or states of mind or body which account for the fall, that very few sins are put under the head of "Wilful." But in after years Donovan never allowed that he had taken the step unconsciously. Of course sin, taken in its usual sense, did not now exist for him, but he was perfectly aware that he was entering upon a wrong and immoral course; he made the false step desperately perhaps, but deliberately. The very last words he had had with Noir Frewin were sufficient to prove this.

"I may ask your name now?" the man had said, as they parted. And Donovan, for the first time in his life, had shrunk from giving it; how could he let his father's name become the name of a--but there he checked even his thoughts, and hastily gave only his Christian name.

For a little while he thought things over, as Noir had suggested; it was true there were ways and means of raising money, but, even if he had had good security to offer, he would not have cared to put himself into the hands of a money-lender. Or there was another alternative; he had heard Mr. Probyn, Ellis Farrant's friend, relate proudly the length of time he had lived "on tick," as he called it--this was most likely the course which would have been chosen by nine persons out of ten, had they been placed in his predicament,--but there was nothing to commend this expedient to him, living in debt was simply robbing tradespeople, there could be no doubt of that; if he must live by chicanery, he might as well do so in a more amusing way than by a skilful eluding of duns, and it was better to cheat fools who chose to risk their money in a game than honest shopkeepers. Thus he argued with himself, what his school-fellows had called "his crazy ideas of honour" coming out strongly; but he held fast to his theory, and never had a single debt. The true and honest course never once entered into his head; if he had had sufficient humility to visit his father's solicitor again and beg his assistance, in all probability he would have been helped, for in such an extreme case people are often kind-hearted enough; but absolutely to throw himself on anyone's mercy was simply impossible to Donovan--he was at once too proud and too distrustful of human nature.

The consideration ended, as might have been expected, in an acceptance of the Frewins' offer; in a few days Donovan was established in Drury Lane, and with all the natural force of his character, and the retaliatory spirit produced by Ellis's injustice, and fostered by Noir's sympathy, had plunged into the lowest and most painful phase of his life.

Poor old Rouge Frewin was the only gainer by the new arrangement. He had always disliked the part his son had made him play, and to be left at home in peace with his parrot and his pipe, and as much cognac as he could manage to get hold of, seemed to him all that heart could wish. He took the most vehement liking to Donovan, and, in his odd way, was very kind to him; the secret of his affection probably lay in this: the new-comer treated him with respect, and the poor old captain was now so little used to such treatment, that it was doubly delightful to him.

"I am a better fellow since you came," he would often say, looking up with real affection in his little watery eyes at the dark handsome face of his boy-friend--the face which seemed to grow harder, yet more hopelessly sad every day.

It was a world of nicknames into which Donovan had fallen; in the club to which he and the Frewins belonged--a club which was a gaming-house in everything but the prohibited name--every member had been dubbed with some sobriquet, often of singular appropriateness. Noir's Dartmoor friend for instance was familiarly known as Darky Legge. The two Frewins had received their names of Rouge et Noir, and before very long Donovan, whether he liked it or not, was invariably addressed as "Milord." The parrot was the first to draw his attention to it, but certainly old Rouge must have taught him, for when ever Donovan came into the room, or attracted the bird's notice in any way, Sweepstakes would scream out "Well, milord! Well, milord!" in his harsh voice, often adding remarks which were quite the reverse of complimentary.

One morning, while Donovan was sitting in the little parlour with a cigar and a newspaper, circumstances combined together in such a way as to make him for the first time ashamed of himself. They had been out very late on the previous night, or rather that morning, and Noir was lying half asleep on the sofa; as the clock struck twelve, however, he roused himself, and with many yawns and stretches prepared to go out.

"Look here, milord," he said, turning at the door, "I've an appointment in the City, and must be off. You'll remember that we've arranged to go down to Manchester by the evening express; be in the way about that time, and I'll join you here on the way to Euston."

"All right," said Donovan, not looking up.

"Yes, but be sure you remember, for I've reason to believe we shall make a good thing of it. Do you hear!"

"Yes," replied Donovan, shortly.

"What on earth makes you such a sulky brute to-day? One would have thought the luck had been against you instead of all on your side last night," said Noir, glancing at him rather curiously. His question met with no reply, however, and with a shrug of the shoulders he turned away.

When the door had closed behind him, Donovan threw down his paper, and sat silently thinking over the words which had stirred long dormant feelings in his heart. How he disliked this arranging and scheming!--what paltry work he was engaged in!--how low and base and despicable it all was! There was much to dislike, too, in Noir Frewin; in spite of his misfortunes, and the consequent sympathy which had arisen between them, there was necessarily a great deal in him which was most repulsive to Donovan. Old Rouge, moreover, had managed to escape his son's vigilance, and had made a disgraceful scene on the previous evening. Altogether, Donovan felt disappointed with his companions and disgusted with his work--not yet, unfortunately, with himself.

He could not help feeling sorry, however, for Rouge when the old man came slowly and wearily into the room; remembering how his intemperance had begun, and what a good-hearted old fellow he was, his contempt and utter disgust, which had been strongly roused the previous night, died away into pity.

"Good morning, captain," he said, in his usual voice, and using the title which he knew the old man liked better than anything.

"Eh, Donovan, my lad, it's anything but a good morning," sighed poor Rouge, stretching himself out on the sofa. "How one does pay for a little extra enjoyment!" Then, catching a look of contempt on his companion's face, he added, piteously, "Don't you turn against me, lad; I know I'm not what I should be, but don't you give me up too; everyone despises me now, everyone looks down on me, and thinks anything good enough for such a poor old fool. Don't you take to it too, lad, for you've been good to the old captain till now."

"I don't wish to change," said Donovan, "but I hope you won't repeat last night's amusement. How can you expect anyone to respect you, when--well, after all, it's no business of mine."

Rouge sighed heavily.

"Such is life!" screamed the parrot, mimicking the sigh.

Then there was silence in the room for a few minutes, till the old man broke forth again, this time with the tears running down his cheeks.

"I'm a miserable old sinner, there's no doubt of that, but I was driven to it. It's easy for other people to talk who don't know what temptation is, but I tell you, lad, I was driven to it. I was lonely and miserable, and there was more money than I knew what to do with--how could I help it?"

Donovan did not answer; he crossed the room, and leant with his back against the mantelpiece, thinking--thinking more worthy thoughts than usual, too, for his face had something of the old bright look upon it, which nothing had been able to awake since Dot's death. He liked this poor old man genuinely; he liked very few people in the world, but where his love was once given it was very true and sterling--no mere idle pretence, not a selfish taking of what can be got, but a real outgoing from self. Given an object to spend his love upon, he was capable of immense self-sacrifice; it was his bitter misanthropy, and his resolute shutting out of the source of love, which had so cramped and narrowed his life. In spite of all his shortcomings, there was much that was noble in his character; his face was fall of eager desire as he turned to the old man--the lofty, almost passionate desire which must come at times to those who have, if it be but one spark of the Divine fire, the longing to turn from evil those who are overwhelmed by it, to save the weak from temptation.

"Captain," he began, dropping the severe, yet half contemptuous tone which he had at first adopted towards the poor old drunkard. "Captain, I know you had hard times, and have a great deal of excuse; but things are different now, and it's your turn to drive back along the road you were driven. Look, we'll have a try together; you give up the drink, for a time at any rate, and so will I."

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the old captain, starting up. "Why, my dear fellow, I should be dead in a month. Do you think, after all these years, I could give it up in a moment? Why, it's meat and drink to me; I couldn't live without it, I tell you."

"More die by drinking than by abstaining," said Donovan. "I daresay you'd miss it at first, but you'd soon get over it. You couldn't be more miserable than you are this morning after your last night's carouse."

"But to turn teetotaler!" exclaimed Rouge. "Why, milord, you'd never hear the last of it at the club; we should be the laughing-stock of the place."

"And do you think that you were not their laughing-stock last night?" said Donovan. "Better be laughed at as a teetotaler than as a drunkard. Plain-speaking, you will say, captain; but you and I don't generally mince matters. Come, agree to my bargain, and my respect for you will rise ten degrees."

"You don't think it would kill me, then?" hesitated Rouge.

"Stuff! more likely to add ten years to your life," said Donovan. "Come, now, we'll each sign an agreement to give it up for--say three months."

"So long," groaned poor Rouge. "Think of the dulness! Why, what will life be worth?"

"Not much, indeed," said Donovan, "but more than your present life, at any rate."

And then, after a little more discussion and hesitation, the papers were signed.

By-and-by the old captain fell asleep on the sofa, and Donovan went out to get his lunch, and to test the desirability of water-drinking. In the afternoon he for the first time made his way to the park, with a sort of desire to see the side of the world from which he had been ejected, the gay fashionable world in which only a year before he had moved. Lighting a cigar, he sat down on one of the benches, and scanned the faces of the passing crowd, wondering whether he should see any of his old acquaintance, longing, though he would hardly admit it to himself, for a sight of his mother. Before he had been seated many minutes, a rather prim-looking lady and a bright-faced girl passed by, hesitated a moment, and then took the vacant places on the bench beside him.

"We have still half an hour before the appointment; do let us sit here--it is such fun to watch the people." It was a clear girlish voice which said this, and Donovan involuntarily looked round at the speaker, a little curious to see who it was who could find pleasure in what to him was so full of bitterness.

A fair, rounded face, sunny hair, and well-opened blue-grey eyes. Where had he seen her before? Somewhere, surely, for he remembered the face distinctly now. It was one he had watched and admired--and he admired very few women. He must have heard her speak too, for he recognised her rather unusual voice--a voice in every way suited to the face, mellow and full of tone, with a great gaiety and happiness ringing in it, softening off tenderly now and then into earnestness. He had met dozens of girls last season, but somehow she did not seem like a London girl; she was too fresh and simple. Where could he have seen her?

He listened with a good deal of interest to all she said, though it was nothing in the least remarkable, merely comments on the passers-by, and a laughing defence of fashionable people, when her companion complained of the frivolity and uselessness of their lives.

"Now, auntie, I shall think it is because you and I are on foot and the grand people are driving that you find fault with them; don't you remember the French proverb about the pedestrians commenting on the carriage people?"

"My dear, I should be very sorry to change places with them," answered the prim-looking lady.

"Yes, auntie, you would, I daresay, but really some people just complain of rich people because they envy them, I'm quite sure they do."

This was rather a home-thrust to Donovan, he threw away his cigar, and listened more attentively, but the conversation drifted away to other things, home matters evidently, details and allusions which came very strangely to him in his semi-vagrant life--the last letters there had been from Dick--Nesta's quickness in reading--how father and mother meant to come up to town before they left. He listened to it all half sadly, half amusedly, it was a glimpse of such a different life from his own, such a simple, innocent, pure life, with such strangely different interests! An unaffected girl, sweet, and bright, and pure-minded, how black his life seemed in contrast with hers! Musing on this he lost the thread of their conversation, and as they rose to go he only caught the words, "Yes, I know he doesn't profess much, but he's such a good man, the sort of man one can trust."

A man one can trust! how she leant on that last word! and with what a sharp thrill it pierced Donovan's ear. What would she have said of him had she known the sort of work he was engaged upon? He was quite glad she had moved away, for he did not feel fit to be near her. He had disliked Noir Frewin's plan in the morning, now he shrank from it doubly, in the brief revelation of purity, something of his own true character had been brought to the light, he began to see very faintly indeed, but still to see in some degree his own falseness and blackness.

He would not go with Noir that evening; it would involve some trouble, no doubt, if he did not keep his appointment, Noir would be exceedingly vexed, there would inevitably be a quarrel when he returned from Manchester, and of course he would lose the opportunity of enriching himself, but he would not go, with the light of those clear grey eyes fresh in his memory he felt that he really could not.

Scarcely had he made this resolution when he caught sight of his mother's victoria; there was Ellis Farrant looking just as usual, and beside him was Mrs. Farrant. She was leaning back in the carriage so that Donovan only saw her face for an instant, but he fancied that she looked a little paler than usual, a little sad and worried. The sight moved him not a little, he felt a great longing to see her again, and in the evening, not caring to return to Drury Lane, or to go to the club he was in the habit of frequenting, for fear of meeting the Frewins, he turned instead in the direction of Connaught Square. There was the house he knew so well, the house which ought to have been his, with its balconies gay with flowers, and a brougham standing before the door. His mother was probably going out, he would wait and see her an she came down the steps, but he would not himself be seen, that would be too humiliating, he would wait a little way off, and crossing the road, he leant with his back against the square railings. It was a strange watch; bitter feelings mingled with the returning family love as he stood there in the summer twilight; it was hard, even his most stern condemner would have been forced to allow that! He was standing alone in the street, cast off by those who should have helped him, watching their comfort and luxury from his state of misery and conscious sin. Instinctively he took up poor Rouge's cry, "He has driven me to it--how can I help going to the dogs, it is his fault!"

And then the house door opened, and one of the footmen came out to the carriage. Donovan watched eagerly, and his breath came fast and hard. There was his mother, quite placid and happy-looking now, with a white Chuddah over her shoulders, and a diamond star in her hair, and there was Ellis, with his opera hat, and his false smiling face, and his shallow politeness.

Certainly, judging by the outward appearance, there could have been no question which was the more to be pitied, the rich man stepping into his carriage, or the unjustly used outcast who looked on in writhing bitterness of soul; but in reality Donovan's misery was as nothing compared with his step-father's. Years of plotting and scheming, years of growing deterioration, harassing anxiety, and patient waiting, all this had Ellis gone through, and for what? For a rich wife, a town house, and a country house, accompanied by an ever-present remorse, a nameless terror of discovery, a wretched sense of shame, and a haunting dread of his victim Donovan. The good was striving within him, it would not abandon him, would not for a moment let him enjoy his unjust gains; he fought against it with all his strength, and tried to be careless and comfortable, but he fought in vain.

They went to the opera that evening and heard "Faust"; it stung him as no sermon would have done. How like his part had been to that of Mephistopheles! how deliberately he had planned his step-son's harm! And above the voices of singers and chorus, above the grand orchestral accompaniment, there rang in his ears one sharp despairing sentence, "Remember how you have goaded me on to ruin!"

Faust and Margherita were nothing to him. He hardly noticed the beautiful little _prima donna_. It was the grim basso, with his red livery, his stealthy yet rapid movements, his satanic look of triumphant cunning, who preached to him that night, as no clergyman in surplice and stole, or gown and Geneva bands, had ever preached to him. In the "serenata," where Mephistopheles sings his mocking song of triumph to the guitar, and augurs further successes for himself, Ellis sat actually shuddering at the horrible sense of likeness. The song was encored. He could bear it no longer, but shrank back into the very furthest corner of the box, trying not to see or hear. By-and-by it was all over, and Ellis, with a grey face, forced up a smile, and tried to talk in his ordinary way, as he led his wife to the carriage. But the effort was intolerable; he was, in truth, a miserable man that night, but happier had he known it for that very misery. It was the sign of that other Presence within him which will not leave us to an unequal struggle with evil.

Donovan, seeing only the prosperous, outward show, knowing nothing of all the real remorse, watched the carriage drive off with feelings which in their vehemence are quite indescribable. He was almost terrified himself at the storm of hatred, and anger, and wild longing for revenge that took possession of his heart, as well he might be, owning nothing to quell it but the power of his own will. He stood quite still, his face pale and rigid with that terrible white-hot passion, the overmastering passion in which great crimes are often committed. In his madness nothing was too dark for him to contemplate, no revenge too sharp to be resolved upon. He had grasped hold of the iron railing of the garden, involuntarily turning away his face from the houses. A voice close to his ear made him start. If the good still strove with Ellis Farrant, still more did it lead Donovan, who was more sinned against than sinning, and to him no fiend like Mephistopheles came to scare and terrify, but a little child was sent to lead him.

"Do you want to come in? I thought I saw you tugging so at the gate, and I came to ask you."

A little girl of nine or ten was addressing him, looking shyly through the iron bars of the gate. No child had spoken to him since Dot had died. This seemed to him like a voice from the grave, and instinctively, even at the remembrance of the love which he deemed all a thing of the past, lost to him for ever, the evil thoughts and the revengeful anger died out of his heart.

"I should like to come in," he said, in reply to the question, "but I have no key."

"I will ask the Fräulein to open the gate," said the little girl, and she ran across the garden, returning in a few minutes with a German lady, who looked up from her knitting rather curiously to see this gentleman who was waiting for admittance. It was easily explained. He had not a key, but he pointed to his mother's house in the square. The Fräulein, without any demur, unlocked the gate and admitted him.

He had not often been into the garden before, but two or three times he had brought Dot there in her invalid chair, and the place was therefore sacred to him. He went at once to her favourite seat, and there, in the cool of the summer evening, better thoughts returned to him. It had been a hot day. The children were all enjoying the change; they had the garden almost to themselves, and, as they played, their laughter and chatter floated to him. It was what he wanted; something innocent, and pure, and merry. A faint, very faint return of little Dot's influence came back to him, and when he left the garden again he was a better man.

Drury Lane had never seemed to him so dingy as when he returned to it that evening. A street-organ was playing a popular air in one part, and a crowd of wretched-looking bare-headed girls were dancing on the pavement. Every now and then he passed one of those appalling courts or alleys which open into the lane, and, pausing once or twice, he caught a glimpse of the seething human crowd, the filth and misery which they lived in; then on again past the shabby gaslit shops, the disreputable-looking passengers, until he almost fell over a little child who ought to have been in bed long before, but who was sitting on the curb-stone, grubbing with both hands in a heap of mud in the gutter. Donovan was very tender over little children. He stooped down at once to see whether he had hurt the small elf. A pair of dancing blue eyes looked up at him from a dirty little face, and something very unsavoury was held towards him, while, with the confidence of a great discoverer, the elf shouted, gleefully,

"See what I've got! A real old duck's foot! A real old duck's foot!"

It was a very pitiful sight, but it touched Donovan; he dropped a penny into the hand which was not occupied with the new treasure and went away moralizing, till, reaching the print-shop, he drew out his key and went up the stairs to the deserted rooms, for even Rouge was gone, and, for the next three days, Donovan was left to the tender mercies of Waif and Sweepstakes.

He lit the gas and took up a book, but the bird awaking caught sight of him, and instantly began in his most scolding tones,

"Well, milord, aint you a fool! Oh, lor, aint you a fool!"

Evidently the Frewins had not made any complimentary remarks upon his absence, and doubtless poor Rouge had hardly been fit for the journey. But he could not help it; if he had not seen that bright-faced girl, and been so shamed by her unconscious words, it would have been different. What a strange glimpse of another kind of life she had given him!

Sweepstakes sat with his shrewd grey head on one side, and his crimson tail feathers drooped; before long, with a wicked look in his round eyes, he began to say plaintively,

"Be yit fever so wumble,
There's no place li k'ome."

"Be quiet," said Donovan, sharply, for the words did not at all suit his present frame of mind.

But Sweepstakes only reiterated,

"Be yit t'ever so wumble,
There's no place like--"

Donovan made a dash at the cage with a cloth and interrupted the song, a proceeding which enraged the parrot.

"You go to Tophet!" he screamed, angrily, and then, being out of temper, he swore for five minutes on end, till, for the sake of peace, Donovan had to make up the quarrel.

But there was a good deal of obstinacy about Sweepstakes, and, though he allowed his anger to be appeased by a Brazil nut, he treated Donovan for the rest of the evening to a mild muttered refrain of "Be yit ever so wumble, umble, umble----" _ad infinitum_.

For the first time since he had been in London, Donovan that night went to his room early; he had got into the habit of turning night into day. But he was dull that evening and tired, and it was not much after half-past eleven when he left Sweepstakes for the night and turned into his own shabby little room at the back. A dreary lodging-house bed-room it was, with a strip or two of carpet thrown down over the dirty unscrubbed floor, a mouldering green wall-paper, and over the fireplace one solitary picture in a gilt frame black with age, a dingy sea-piece in oils, a ship being dashed to pieces on rocks. A room is said to show in a certain fashion the character of its occupant; there were only four things here which could in any way bear traces of Donovan's individuality. On the mantelpiece was Dot's cathedral clock, in one corner a great bath, on the chest of drawers one or two anti-theological books by Luke Raeburn, and at the foot of the bed a woolly rug for Waif.

The window was open; it looked out on to that fearful net-work of byeways and alleys which Donovan had seen as he came home. He had often seen them before, but one can see many times and yet never observe. He had generally gone to his room between three and four in the morning when all was quiet enough; this evening it was just after closing time; the public-houses had let loose their wretched throng, and the cry of the city went up to heaven. People talk of the noise of London, and think generally of the street traffic, the crowded pavements, and the ceaseless wheels, but let them once hear the appalling noise of human life in a poor quarter, and they will not complain of anything else. Wild, drunken singing, fierce quarrels, blows, cursing, a Babel of tongues, a wailing of children, angry disputes between men and women, in which too often the woman's voice in its awful harshness seems unlike that of a human creature. These are the sounds one may hear, the fearful realities which make up the dark side of the world's metropolis.

Donovan stood beside the open window and let all this tide of human wretchedness beat upon his ear. He was shocked and awed, struck with a great pity and indignation, for he was not hard-hearted, only narrow-hearted, and though this crampedness kept him from action it did not prevent the great suffering of humanity from touching him with a sense of pity. The incomprehensible suffering! what a mystery it was! it made him wretched and pitiful, and yet angry, though where the fault of all lay he could not have said. Christianity, or rather the horribly false notions of Christianity which he had received, would have said that all these drunkards and degraded beings were forging the chains which should bind them for ever and ever in hell; according to Mrs. Doery's ideas the West End must have seemed the region of the elect, and Drury Lane the abode of that other numerous band who were foredoomed to everlasting torture. Perhaps almost naturally Donovan had a fellow feeling for sinners, for in his very young days, when he had for a short time believed in what he was taught, he had fully made up his mind that Doery was one of the elect, and that he had better go to the other place; now from his atheism, with which he persuaded himself he was quite contented, he looked back with pity, and yet with a little amusement, on the picture of his sturdy defiant childhood, which preferred even the awfully described fiery furnaces to companionship with Doery in an unjust and partial favour.

He turned away from the window at last, but not till he had closed it and drawn down the blind; he shut out the misery of his fellows as he shut out many other things, for at present he was one of those who as Coleridge puts it--

"Sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched."

It was not to be expected that the passing words of a stranger would be sufficient to alter the whole current of Donovan's life, nor did Gladys Tremain exercise such an unheard of influence. The Frewins returned, and after sundry upbraidings from Rouge and a sharp quarrel with Noir, things fell back again to their former state.

Once, quite unexpectedly, he met the grey-eyed stranger again, two or three weeks after their encounter in the park. It was a July evening, the Frewins, Legge, Donovan, and two or three other men were travelling up together from Goodwood. The train was crowded; Mrs. Causton and Gladys, who had been spending the day with some friends, were waiting on the platform of a station not far from Chichester, but they found it almost impossible to get places.

"Such a dreadful crowd, and such disagreeable-looking people," said poor Mrs. Causton, nervously, "what is the reason of it?"

"Goodwood races, mum," said the porter, wondering at her ignorance, "there's room for one in here, and one next door; come, miss, the train's just starting."

"My dear! you can't go alone in there," said Mrs. Causton, distractedly, looking at the not too reputable travellers, but the next carriage was every bit as bad, the train began to move, there was really no help for it, whether she liked it or not, Gladys was shut in alone among this strange-looking crew. She knew there was nothing to fear, but at the same time it was a very uncomfortable predicament, a fast girl would have been amused by such a novel adventure, but Gladys was not fast, she was a pure womanly woman, and though she could not have explained why, she had a peculiar shrinking from these people. The little conversation at the door too had attracted the notice of a coarse-looking man who was sitting next her; he turned round upon her with a cool inquisitive stare, and then made some remark to his neighbour on the other side which caused a general laugh, and Gladys, though she would not have understood a word even had. she heard, felt the colour flame up in her cheeks.

"Why can't you behave decently?" said a voice from the other side of the carriage.

"Rouge, it's your deal."

Then Gladys, who had instinctively lowered her eyes, looked up, for the attention of the passengers was diverted from her; with an overcoat spread over their knees, by way of a table, they were soon absorbed in a game of "Nap." She looked round at their faces with a sort of longing to find one from which she need not shrink; all seemed bad, or coarse, or in some way repulsive; exactly opposite her was an elderly man fast asleep, next to him was the one who had called his companions to order. Gladys looked at his face half hopefully, the voice had at least been refined, and the words--well, the best she had heard in this company. The face too was not otherwise than refined, the features were strikingly handsome, there were no tokens of excess about the clear dark complexion, but oh! what a hard bitter saturnine look there was about the whole; he was evidently much younger than any of his companions, yet not one of them looked so reckless and hardened, still she felt that he was a gentleman, and was at once less uncomfortable and forlorn; apparently he took not the slightest notice of her, and that was pleasant after the uncomfortable rude staring and comments.

It was a very strange and very sad revelation to her--a side of life which she had heard of indeed, but had never in the least realised; the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil had never shaped themselves in her thoughts into anything half so terrible as this. She had felt impatient when Mrs. Causton had lamented the temptations of London life for Stephen, yet the danger was no imaginary one, for here was one who could not be older than Stephen or Dick surrounded by evil companions, gambling with a recklessness and _sang froid_ which bespoke long habit. There was a sort of horrible fascination in it all, she could not help watching the eager faces; on all of them was written the strong desire of gain, on all, except that one dark saturnine face opposite her, which, though apparently caring for little else but the game, never seemed to unbend, in spite of repeated successes. Gladys watched him as he pocketed his winnings, watched pityingly his unmoved face, and once he looked up and their eyes met. It was not a look from which she need shrink; the eyes were not bad eyes--they were very strange, hungry-looking, sad ones. She understood then why he was so different from his companions--evidently in his heart he disliked the life he was leading. By-and-by a dispute arose, a fierce, loud altercation between her disagreeable neighbour and one of the other men; language such as she had never heard was shouted across the carriage, the lookers-on laughed. Poor Gladys glanced across in despair to the one passenger in whom she had any faith; he was leaning back with a look of ineffable disgust and weariness on his handsome face, but, as the angry Babel grew louder, he turned to Gladys; she hardly knew whether she were relieved or only more frightened when he bent forward to speak to her.

"This must be very unpleasant for you," he said, and she knew at once from his manner that she had found a protector. "We shall be at a station in a minute or two, and then, if you like, I will offer to change places with the lady you are with."

"Oh! thank you so much," said Gladys, her frightened eyes brightening with gratitude and relief. "My aunt is in the next carriage, if you really wouldn't mind----"

"Not in the least; I wish I had thought of it before, that you might have been saved this unpleasantness."

Then, without another word, he returned to his former position, but with a less hard and contemptuous expression than before. The others appealed to him for his opinion in the matter of the dispute, and he spoke coldly and quietly, but evidently what he said was to the point; the disputants quieted down, and agreed to some sort of compromise. At last, to Gladys' intense relief, they reached the station. Donovan got up and let down the window, then, looking back, said carelessly,

"You can leave me out in the next deal; I'm going to change carriages."

The announcement caused a chorus of inquiry.

"What's up with milord now?" asked Gladys' neighbour.

"Oh! some craze, I suppose," said a dark-browed man on the other side of the carriage; "he took a moral fit the other night, and rushed away no one knew where. There's no reckoning on him--'a wilful man must have his'---- Why, what's this?" as Donovan returned to help Mrs. Causton in. "We didn't reckon on this, at any rate. Donovan, what _are_ you thinking of?"

"A cigar in peace next door," he replied readily; and then he retreated, leaving Gladys greatly relieved, and the card-players not a little embarrassed by the large bundle of tracts which Mrs. Causton began to distribute among them. At London Bridge they saw him again for a minute, and Mrs. Causton pressed two tracts into his hand and thanked him for his courtesy. Gladys looked up at him shyly and gratefully, but did not speak again, except, as he raised his hat and turned away, to utter one earnest-toned "good-bye." He heard it, and treasured it up in his heart--a wish, he knew it was, no mere formal parting, but the wish of a pure-minded woman that good might be with him.

Gladys watched sadly as Noir Frewin rejoined her protector; he was thoroughly out of temper, as she had seen on the journey, and greeted his companion with a torrent of angry reproaches. Gladys caught only a word or two here and there--"Confounded folly!--playing fast and loose with the agreement!"--and one bitter taunt--"A pretty knight-errant to help distressed ladies, such as you, a professional----"

But the word gambler did not reach Gladys. She did not then learn what a life Donovan was leading, but she had seen and heard quite enough to know that he was in great need of help, and from that night he always had a place in her prayers. Without that how could she have borne the revelation of evil and wretchedness, the contrast between the shielded life of those she knew, and the life of constant temptation of these her fellow-creatures. Painful as the evening's experience had been, she could not altogether regret it. In after-life she thanked God for that brief journey, upon which had hinged so much.