Chapter XVII: Trevethan Speaks

But Thou wilt sin and grief destroy;
That so the broken bones may joy,
And tune together in a well-set song,
Full of His praises,
Who dead men raises.
Fractures well cured make us more strong.
GEORGE HERBERT.

The years had wrought very little visible change in Gladys. Outwardly her life had been very quiet and uneventful since her last meeting with Donovan, and whatever anxiety or inward trouble she had had was not registered on her fair, open brow, or in her clear, quiet, blue-grey eyes. That time was passing quickly, and that years had elapsed since Donovan had been at Porthkerran, was shown much more clearly by the change in Nesta, who, from a remarkably small child, had shot up into a slim little girl of eight years. The two sisters were walking together along the Porthkerran cliffs one winter afternoon, Nesta telling an endless fairy tale for the joint benefit of her doll and her sister, Gladys listening every now and then for a few minutes, but a good deal engrossed with her own thoughts.

The Caustons were spending a few days with them, and Stephen's presence was rather tiresome and embarrassing. She had really come out chiefly to escape his company, for the afternoon was not at all tempting. A strong west wind was blowing, the sky was dull and leaden, the sea grey, and restless, and stormy. Gladys was not easily affected by weather, but to-day the dulness seemed to tell on her. There was something depressing in the great, grey expanse of sea heaving and tossing restlessly, in the long white fringe of foam along the coastline, in the heavy, gloomy sky. Only one boat was in sight, a little pilot-boat which had just left Porthkerran Bay. It was tossing fearfully; every now and then a great gust of wind threatened to blow it quite over. She watched it bending and swaying beneath the blast, but still making way, until at length it disappeared in the grey mist which shrouded the distance.

Gladys sighed as it passed away out of sight. It reminded her--why she scarcely knew--of a life which for a little while had touched her life very nearly, of a strong, determined, resolute man struggling hard with adverse circumstances under a leaden sky of doubt. He, too, had passed away into a grey mist. For years she had heard absolutely nothing of him; their lives were quite severed. Was he still under the leaden sky? she wondered. Was all still so fearfully against him? Was he still toiling on against wind and tide? A little rift in the clouds made way for a gleam of sunlight, and it so happened that the gleam fell, on the horizon-line in one golden little spot of brightness. Right in the centre of it she could clearly make out the dark sail of the pilot-boat. It brought to her mind a line of George Herbert--

"The sun still shineth there or here."

And she walked on more hopefully, strangely inspirited by that momentary glimpse of sunlight. What right had she to doubt that the sun would shine for him sooner or later! Might not he, too, have even now reached the brightness? lived out his bit of grey?

"We will go and see Trevethan," she said to little Nesta. "It is quite a long time since we've heard anything about him."

They passed the place where Donovan had climbed down after the lost hat, and before many minutes reached the forge, where Trevethan was hammering away at his anvil, the sparks springing up from the red-hot metal like fireflies. Standing beside the blazing fire was a little pale-faced girl.

"Good day, miss," said the blacksmith, glancing round and laying aside his hammer. "I'm right glad to see ye, miss. I was a-coming up to the house this very night to tell ye our good news."

"News of your son?" asked Gladys, feeling certain that nothing less could have called out such radiant satisfaction in Trevethan's face.

"Not news of him, Miss Gladys, but himself; he's come, he's here now, and this is his little one, miss, called after you. Jack was determined she should have a good Cornish name; He be out now, more's the pity, but we be both a-coming to-night to see the doctor, to tell him of Mr. Farrant, and how it's all his doing."

"Mr. Farrant?" questioned Gladys, her colour deepening.

"Yes, miss, Mr. Donovan as was here three years gone by. He promised to look out for Jack, and you'd never think, miss, what he's been to my poor lad, a-nursing of him his own self, and a-persuading of him to come home when Jack was frightened whether I'd give him a welcome or not."

"Was your son at St. Thomas's?" asked Gladys.

"Yes, miss, but Mr. Farrant he found him out in his own place. You tell, little one, how you fetched him to see father."

So little Gladys told shyly, yet graphically, too, how she had gone one rainy evening to fetch Donovan, how he had made her sit by his fire, how he had held his umbrella over her on the way back, and had done all he could to help them. The tears would come into Gladys' eyes for very happiness. Had she not known that the truth would come out at last! Had she not been right to believe in him without the slightest proof!

"Will Mr. Dono come to stay with us again?" asked Nesta, as they walked home.

"I don't know, darling," she replied. "Some day perhaps."

But her heart was dancing with happiness, that "perhaps" had a good deal of assurance in it.

The two Trevethans had a long interview with the doctor that evening. Such an unexpected opportunity of hearing about Donovan was not to be neglected, and Dr. Tremain made the most minute inquiries. Jack Trevethan was a very shrewd fellow; from the most trifling indications he had long ago guessed all the facts of the case. He had seen Donovan flush quickly at the mention of Miss Tremain, had found that he was no longer on speaking terms with Stephen Causton, had put two and two together in the quick way common to observant people, especially when they are watching life in a circle above them. He was thoroughly devoted to Donovan, and very eager to do him service. Very carefully and minutely he told Dr. Tremain of their first meeting in the billiard saloon. Then for the first time Donovan's true relation to Stephen transpired. The doctor could hardly believe that he heard rightly. It was such an entire reversing of all that he had feared, all that he had unwillingly believed. Could it indeed be that Donovan had only tried to keep Stephen out of evil? Could he possibly have gone with him to the Z---- races merely to prevent his going with the set which Trevethan very graphically described? The ex-billiard-marker disclosed several very damaging facts; Stephen had often visited the saloon with the same set of students, but Donovan had never again entered the place.

Gladys could not understand why her father looked so worried and perplexed when he came back to the drawing-room that evening. Did he not believe the good news? Must he not be infinitely relieved? A sudden light was thrown on her perplexity, however, when her father spoke.

"I want a word with you, Stephen, will you come into the study?"

Of course whatever proved Donovan's innocence must at the same time convict Stephen! She had not thought of that!

Stephen had a sort of presentiment that his time was come. He followed the doctor into the next room.

"I have nothing pleasant to tell you," began Dr. Tremain, speaking rather quickly, and in the tone of one who fears he may lose his temper. "I have just had an interview with a man who was present at a certain billiard saloon in Villiers Street at the time you were in the habit of frequenting it. The man was one of the markers, he has described to me the one evening when Donovan met you there and persuaded you to leave. Is that what you call being led into temptation by him?"

Stephen turned pale.

"It is exceedingly hard that you take the word of a mere stranger before mine," he said. "This man, whoever he may be, has no doubt been instigated by Farrant? Why should you believe him?"

"Because he has truth written on his face," said Dr. Tremain, "and you have not. Stephen, I do not wish to be hard on you, I will try not to prejudge you, but I implore you to tell me the whole truth."

To tell the whole truth was unfortunately not at all in Stephen's line; he began to excuse himself.

"Farrant is as hard as nails, he judges everyone by himself; because he had once been a regular gambler was no reason that I should follow his example. He'd no business to spy on me."

"Take care," said the doctor, quickly, "your own words are condemning you."

"It is you who force me to condemn myself," said Stephen, sullenly. Then after a pause he all at once broke down and buried his face in his hands. "If Gladys could have loved me," he sobbed, "it would all have been different; it's been my love for her that has undone me, made me want to seem better than I was."

The doctor, at once sorrowful and angry, paced the room in silence, but there was something so selfish in Stephen's confessions that, in spite of himself, the anger would predominate.

"You call by the name of love what was nothing more than mere selfish desire," he said, sternly. "How could you dare to ask any woman to be your wife when to gain her you had acted one continual lie! Do you realise that all these years an innocent man has been suffering for your guilt? Do you realise that one word from Donovan, the word he was too generous to speak, would have brought all your falseness to the light! What do you expect him to think of Christianity if that is the way you behave. You have brought shame to your religion! You have disgraced your name! And not only that, but you have utterly misled me, caused me entirely to misjudge the man of all others I would have treated with greatest delicacy--greatest justice. How could you tell me such lies? Had you no generosity--no sense of gratitude?"

Stephen cowered under the storm, but kept silence.

Presently, in the saddening consciousness of his own grievous mistake, the doctor's anger died away.

"I will say no more, it is scarcely fair to reproach you with my own hastiness of judgment, my own want of insight," he said, in a voice full of sorrow, which reproached Stephen far more than his anger; "but when I think of what Donovan has borne in silence, from the very people too who should have been his best friends, it is almost more than I can endure."

Stephen's better nature began to show itself at last, his heart smote him as he realised all the pain his deceit had caused. He left off excusing himself, and somewhat falteringly told the story from the very beginning, revealing the sort of double life he had led for so many years, wild and self-indulgent when alone, falsely religious and proper when with his mother. The doctor was very good to him, promised to help him as far as he could by speaking to Mrs. Causton, and perhaps for the first time thoroughly awakened Stephen's love and respect. Before they parted that night they had discussed the future as well as the past, and Stephen had made up his mind to go abroad, to try with all his might to redeem his name.

Trevethan had after all been detained at St. Thomas's later than Donovan had expected. He had learnt at the hospital that his friend had not gone out to the war, that instead he was nursing some relation. This was all he could tell Dr. Tremain, but of course the impulsive doctor, even with such slight information, prepared to go up to London at once. Letters had failed so signally before that he would no longer trust them, he must see Donovan to explain matters fully, to apologise as he wished.

Some cruel fate seemed to have ordained that he should always have to endure a most irksome time of waiting in the York Road lodging-house. Donovan was of course not at home; the old captain was out, but was expected in an hour's time, he was the only person who knew Mr. Farrant's address. The landlady invited the doctor to come in and wait. The room seemed very dull and quiet, the only trace of Donovan which it bore was in a sheet of writing-paper pinned up in a conspicuous place over the mantelpiece, whereon was inscribed a high-flown but affectionate declaration that John Frewin, late captain of the _Metora_, bound himself hereby to touch no alcoholic drink until the return of his friend Donovan Farrant.

Apparently the old man had kept his pledge, for he came in before long looking exceedingly respectable and sober. Dr. Tremain had to listen to the whole account of the drawing up of the paper, the surprise it was to be to the captain's "dear friend and benefactor," and the dreariness of the place without him before he could elicit Donovan's address from the talkative old gentleman. Even then Rouge tried to scare him with terrific accounts of the small-pox.

At length, however, he was really on his way to Connaught Square; by this time it was evening, and when he reached the house it seemed dark and deserted. He rang, and after a long delay, was admitted. Phœbe eyed him with some suspicion, but hearing that he was a doctor, she let him come in and showed him into the dining-room, lighting the gas for his benefit. Then for the first time they discovered that Donovan was stretched on the sofa fast asleep.

"Don't wake him," said the doctor, "I am in no hurry and will wait. I suppose he has had very hard work. Is Mr. Farrant any better?"

"You have not heard, sir? He died early this morning," replied Phœbe, gravely. "Mr. Donovan should have rested before, but we couldn't persuade him; there has been many things to see to to-day, for they say the funeral must be to-morrow."

Neither the lights nor the voices roused the sleeper; by-and-by Phœbe went away, and the doctor waited with eagerness not unmixed with anxiety for the awaking, remembering with a pang their last parting at the station, recalling painfully the last words which even then had touched him, "All I ask is that you will just forget me."

At last a noise in the square roused Donovan, he started up, rubbed his eyes, caught sight of Dr. Tremain, and sprang to his feet.

"You here!" he exclaimed, in astonishment, and then a sudden shade passed over his face, and the same peculiar expression of doubt, almost of annoyance, showed itself, which had so grievously hurt the doctor at their last meeting. He understood it well enough now, however.

"Yes, I am here at last," he said, grasping Donovan's hand. "Here to ask your forgiveness, to tell you that we all know now how much we have been misled."

Donovan's eyes lighted up, but he waited in questioning silence, careful still not to compromise Stephen in the slightest degree.

"I learnt all from Trevethan's son," continued the doctor. "And then a very few questions brought out the whole truth from Stephen. Can you forgive us, Donovan, for misjudging you so abominably?"

"It was my own fault--my own doing, at any rate," said Donovan, smiling. "You were very slow to judge me at all, and it seemed best all round that you should believe me to be in the wrong."

"It shielded Stephen, of course," said the doctor, "but he did not deserve shielding, and it gave the rest of us a great deal of pain. It was very generous of you, but surely mistaken."

"I asked you to forget me," said Donovan. "I hoped and believed you would do so. It was not only or chiefly for Stephen's sake. I believed that it would be better in every way."

"You said so when we last saw each other," said the doctor, "but even now I cannot see why it was necessary. And why did you refuse to come to us that summer, and then tell me you invented an excuse? Was that in any way connected with Stephen? Can you not tell me now why you could not come?"

"Yes," replied Donovan, with a strange thrill in his voice, "I can tell you even that now. I could not come because I loved your daughter. I was not sure that I could help showing it; I thought--it may have been presumptuous to think so--that she might possibly care for me. It was right, I think, to go away, and I hoped that she--that you all--would forget me."

"And little Gladys was the one who told me from the very first that I must be mistaken, that I had judged you wrongly," said the doctor, rather huskily. "We have all been very poor hands at forgetting you, Donovan; do you want us to go on with the dreary farce any longer? Will you not come back to us?"

"You must yourself give me the power of saying 'Yes' to that question," said Donovan, his colour rising a little. "A few days ago I must still have refused; but if you could trust Gladys to me, if she can possibly love one who has lived the life I have lived--who has but seen, as it were, one ray of the light in which she has lived all her life--then I will come to you."

The two men wrung each other's hands.

"Gladys must speak for herself," said the doctor. "For my part, I would trust my little girl to you unreservedly. I will not thank you for the way in which you have acted, but"--he struggled with his emotion--"it has made you very dear to me, Donovan. No man in the world would I so gladly call my son."

Then being Englishmen, and not caring to trust themselves to talk more on a subject which moved them so much, they plunged rather abruptly into other topics, discussed Ellis Farrant's illness, the legality of his duly-witnessed confession, the great increase of small-pox in London.

It was not until after the funeral, late in the following day, that Donovan had time to go to the Osmonds, and then it was only to take a hurried farewell, for Dr. Tremain had made light of all fear of infection, and had insisted on his returning with him to Trenant.

"So you see," he added, after briefly alluding to all that had passed since the night he and Charles Osmond had last met, "life is beginning to open out for me in all sorts of unexpected ways. I can hardly realise yet--I have hardly tried to think--that Oakdene is really mine. How am I ever to turn myself into the respectable country gentleman?"

Charles Osmond laughed.

"I am not much afraid for you," he replied, quietly. "It will be a more difficult life than the hard-working surgeon-life you had planned for yourself; but I fancy you can make a great deal of it."

"It would be hard to face," said Donovan, "if I had not a hope that the truest of helpers, the sweetest and best woman in the world, may possibly begin the new life at Oakdene with me. It is nothing but a hope--to-morrow I shall know; but I could not help telling you of it--you who have helped me through these black years."

"I wish you good speed," said Charles Osmond, conveying somehow in tone and look and touch a great deal more than the mere words.

Then the two parted.