Chapter III: Good-Bye

She smiled: but he could see arise
Her soul from far adown her eyes,
Prepared as if for sacrifice.

She looked a queen who seemeth gay
From royal grace alone.
E. B. BROWNING.

When, after spending a winter in the sunny south, beneath clear blue skies and constant sunshine, the traveller returns to the capricious springtide of the north, the violent contrast is very often both dangerous and depressing. Rain and fog and lowering skies seem more noticeable, more unforgetable than before; east winds, which in former years we had laughed at or ignored, are now an unpleasant reality, and every breath drawn tells only too plainly that, although the heart of the north may be "dark and true and tender," its winds are sharp and keen and bitter. In that one night of suffering Gladys passed as it were from the sunny south to the northern springtide. She woke the next morning fully conscious of the change that had come, wearily, achingly conscious of it. Hitherto her life had been almost untroubled, her sunny temperament made her less susceptible than most are to the small trials and annoyances of life, and now for the very first time there came to her a longing for pause and rest. Every other morning of her life her first healthy waking thought had been a thanksgiving for the happiness of beginning a fresh day, now with a great load on her heart she only longed to shut out the light, to forget a little longer. If only the drama of life would go on without her! If only she might give up her part--her hard difficult part!

It was no use wishing, however. She got up and went straight to the looking-glass to see what sort of face she could bring to that day's work. Somehow her reflection made her angry, the wide, wearied eyes, with their dark circles, the grave lips, the unusual paleness of the whole face. "I will certainly not look like this," she determined, and though as a rule she thought scarcely at all of her appearance, this day she took great pains with herself, put on a pink print dress, which made her look much less ghostly, fastened a rose in her belt, and ran down to breakfast with an air of assumed cheerfulness little in accordance with her heavy heart.

Donovan was already seated at the table, he was to start in half an hour's time, and the doctor had arranged his rounds so as to drive him first to St. Kerrans Station. There was nothing the least unusual in his voice or manner, he talked on steadily about the Isle of Wight, geological books, fossils, all the most ordinary topics. No one could have guessed in the least that all the time he was bearing the keenest pain, doing the hardest of deeds.

It was not easy to speak quite naturally to Gladys, but silence between them would have been so marked that he was all the more anxious to overcome the difficulty.

"I am afraid the Euclid will come to a stand-still," he said, as they stood at the open door waiting for the carriage. "You are safely over the Pons Asinorum, though, which is some consolation."

He had spoken lightly and with a half smile, his tone jarred a little on Gladys. What did it all mean! Did he really care for her? If so, why did he speak like that?

Her father had answered the remark.

"She must wait till the next long vacation before she becomes a thorough 'blue stocking.' What will you attempt then? Conic sections, I suppose."

Donovan did not answer, but allowed himself to be monopolised by Jackie and Nesta, and Gladys stood leaning against the doorway, feeling sick at heart as she watched their noisy romp, while the sound of wheels grew nearer and nearer. Waif came up to her with low whines of delight and wagging tail. She bent down to pat him with a full-hearted reproach. "What, you too, Waif! Are you so glad to go?" Waif comforted her a little, however, in spite of his eagerness to start, happy Waif who had saved his master's life, who would always be his friend and companion.

A few minutes more and the end had come; she felt her hand taken in a strong, firm grasp, and, looking up, met Donovan's eyes; there was an almost hard look in them which puzzled her utterly, but his voice was pleasant and natural.

"Good-bye," he said. "And if you are seeing Trevethan, please tell him that I'll do my best to find Jack."

"I will," said Gladys, softly. "Good-bye."

"Dood-bye, Mr. Dono, dood-bye," shouted Nesta, as the carriage drove away. "Please lift me up, sissy."

Gladys took the little girl in her arms, and Nesta threw innumerable kisses after the departing guest; Donovan looked back, smiled, and waved his hand, and a turn in the road soon hid the pony-carriage from sight.

"I am very sorry he has had to go like this," said Mrs. Tremain, re-entering the house. "I think, Gladys dear, you might give the children their lessons early; I shall be glad of your help at the clothing club this morning."

"Very well, mother," said Gladys, obediently, and she went at once with her two little pupils into the school-room, giving all her attention to "Reading without tears."

It was not till night that she had time fairly to face her trouble, and when the work of the day was over she was too weary to think; she shut herself into her little room and threw herself on the bed just as she was, only conscious of relief that at last she might let her face relax, that at last she might be miserable alone. It was bad enough that Donovan should be gone, that for a whole year she should not see him, but the real sting was that he had gone in such a strange way. Could it be that she had mistaken mere friendship for love? Had she given her whole heart to one who merely wanted a good listener, a pleasant companion? Well, it was done now, and there could be no undoing; she loved him, and clung to her love perhaps all the more closely because of the pain it was bringing her.

Never once did she realise as Donovan had done the impossibility of real union between them. He, knowing all the misery of such differences as had existed between himself and Dot, taking too the darkest view of his own future, had felt his agnosticism to be an insurmountable barrier. But Gladys could not feel this. She saw in Donovan a noble, self-sacrificing character, a resolute cleaving to right at whatever cost to himself, a tenderness to children, a great capability of endurance, an untiring search and desire for truth. Surely the light would come to him, surely already he was far on the road to that knowledge he craved!

And then too she could not help knowing that she had a great influence over him; he had almost told her so in words, and by his questions, his anxiety to learn her opinion, his eagerness to gain her approval had certainly borne it out in actions. Yes, she loved him, was ready to give up everything for him, to leave home, and comfort, and prosperity, to share his poverty, to bear for his sake reproach and suspicion, to be doubted, to be evil spoken of, if only she might bring one ray of light into his gloom, if only by her love she could win him to believe in the everlastingness of love.

It might be a hard life, in some ways it must be lonely, but what was that to her? The mere possibility of bringing any real joy--joy worthy the name--into Donovan's life, outweighed to her all thought of the suffering involved. All self suffering that is. If she had known that at that very minute she was giving him the keenest suffering possible, she could not have borne it. But of this naturally she knew nothing, thought in her ignorance that the present pain was almost entirely hers, that in that possible future too the ache of loneliness would be all for her to bear, and in her unselfishness rejoiced in the thought.

Her mind, however, was too healthy to busy itself unduly over the future, the present was to be lived in, she turned back resolutely to make

"The best of 'now' and here,"

by which she meant chiefly ceaseless prayers for Donovan, while the daily round of home life went on unaltered. Her bright face was still the sunshine of the house, for gradually the self-pity, the vain regrets, and the useless puzzling over Donovan's change of manner passed away; in the constant communion with the All-Father her love was being perfected.

With Donovan himself matters went more hardly. It could not be otherwise. The parting which had tried Gladys, had been to him a frightful effort, while the future, which to her was veiled in uncertainty and lightened by hope, was to him one long blank desert of pain.

It was evening by the time he stood on the deck of the little steamer which plied between Lymington and Yarmouth, a dismal evening too, well in accordance with his own feelings. A heavy sea-fog shut out the view, a fine chilling rain fell, the passengers grumbled, two tired children wailed piteously, nurses alternately coaxed and scolded them. At length in the dreary twilight they reached the little port, Donovan rescued his portmanteau from the chaos of luggage and slowly made his way up the long wooden pier, to the old-fashioned coach, which with its patient horses and good-tempered driver stood waiting outside a cheery little inn. The wailing babies were packed away inside, Donovan mounted to the top, where he was presently joined by two or three other men, and by a forlorn little girl who could find no room inside; he held his umbrella over her, and talked to her a little; she looked tired and sad, he had a kind of fellow-feeling for her. Presently all being ready the driver cracked his whip, and the horses started off at a brisk pace; they were swinging along through narrow country lanes and under dripping trees, till at length the lights of Freshwater shone out in the distance, and gradually the passengers were set down at their various destinations. Before long Donovan's turn came.

"S---- House, sir. Here you are," said the coachman.

He tucked Waif under his arm, wished the little girl good evening and clambered down. The door of the villa was wide open, a flood of light streamed out into the dusky garden, revealing old Mr. Hayes in the doorway. Donovan had fancied himself hopelessly, irrevocably miserable, but he was nevertheless considerably cheered by the old man's hearty welcome; it was after all something to have your hand grasped by an old friend, to be questioned and fussed over, to be taken into a comfortable brightly-lighted room, to sit down to a well spread supper table, and to end the evening with the long foregone luxury of a cigar. Not so romantic perhaps as to pine away in appetiteless melancholy, but more rational and manly.

He made the most of his three weeks' visit, and though the green downs of Freshwater always had for him associations of pain and conflict, he yet managed to get some enjoyment and much bodily and mental good from his stay there.

"And have you got your castle in the air, yet?" Mr. Hayes would laughingly ask him.

His face would sadden a little, but he would always answer laughingly that Sanitary Reform was his darling project, or that his pet hobby was the Temperance Cause.