Chapter VI: Old Friends

Would'st thou the holy hill ascend,
And see the Father's face?
To all his children humbly bend,
And seek the lowest place.

Thus humbly doing on the earth,
What things the earthly scorn,
Thou shalt assert the lofty birth
Of all the lowly born.
_Violin Songs_. GEORGE MACDONALD.

London was shrouded in the murkiest of November fogs; Donovan groped his way with some difficulty down York Road, opened the door of his lodgings with a latch key, made his way into the cheerless sitting-room, lighted the gas, and threw himself back in a chair in hopeless dejection. The sharpness of the struggle was over, the bitterness of the pain past, his was now the

"Stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief
Which finds no outlet or relief."

Perhaps the most real and unforgetable form of suffering.

He sat motionless, the light which had so cheered Gladys had died from his face now, it was clouded, haggard, with dark shadows under the eyes.

He was roused at last by hearing Waif's bark in the distance, then came sounds of opening a door down below, a rush and a patter of feet on the kitchen stairs, and a violent scratching and impatient whining at his own door. He dragged himself up, opened it, and received a frantic welcome from his dog, who had been shut into an empty cellar during his absence.

Waif was almost crazy with delight at seeing him back again; he dashed round and round him, bounded up in the air, whined and snorted, licked him all over, and finally tore across the room in a violent hurry to perform his usual act of loyal service, to drag out the boot-jack, and, one at a time, to deposit his master's slippers in the fender.

This evening there was no fire; Waif found that out, and seemed perplexed; he was not quite capable of striking a match, but he worried Donovan into doing it, and then sat contentedly watching the yellow blaze, thudding the floor with his tail in the intensity of his satisfaction. Donovan watched him thoughtfully.

"We must jog on together, Waif, my boy," he said, patting the sagacious black and tan head.

Waif's eyes twinkled and shone, his tail beat a regular tattoo on the floor.

The dog and his master understood each other, and Donovan would certainly have chosen to spend the rest of the evening with his dumb companion, to indulge his sad thoughts in silence, but it was not to be so. There was a knock at the front door before many minutes had passed; he heard a voice which seemed strangely familiar asking if he were in; another moment, and Rouge and Noir were ushered into his room.

"Tracked you at last," said Noir, his dark face lighting up with a gleam of satisfaction as he wrung Donovan's hand.

"And all owing to those lucky races and my quick eyes," said the old captain. "How's the chap that was pitched out of the dog-cart?"

"Badly hurt, but doing well now," said Donovan. "How did you find me out?"

"Through the light-haired fellow who was holding the horse, a fellow-student of yours. Why, Waif, old dog, you don't look a day older!"

Waif sniffed cautiously at the old captain's clothes, recognised him after a few minutes, and was pleased to renew the friendship. Noir meanwhile was speaking in a lowered voice to Donovan.

"I came here on business--can I have a few words alone with you? Let us take a turn outside."

"All right," said Donovan. "You'll stay and have some supper; we'll be back before long, captain, there's an evening paper for you, and as many medical books as you like."

Rouge settled himself comfortably in an armchair, and Noir and Donovan went out into the foggy street.

"I am in a scrape," said Noir, abruptly. "I have come to ask if you will help me. Perhaps, though, you are so respectable and virtuous now that you have forgotten all about the old times."

"My memory isn't ruled by will," said Donovan, rather hoarsely. "Go on."

"Well, I don't blame you for wishing to forget that year--I wish to goodness I could, for, milord, I am decidedly up a tree. You remember Darky Legge? Well, he has been arrested, discovered at last, after carrying on his old game for years. After you left us, I was thrown a good deal with him--in fact, at Paris we acted together, and the wretch, who has no sense of honour, has betrayed me. Unless I can leave the country at once, I'm a lost man."

"I can't offer you money," said Donovan, "for I can hardly scrape along myself."

"It isn't that I want," said Noir, quietly; "it is this: I can't afford to take the old captain with me to America--I haven't the cash for one thing, and besides, he would be like a mill-stone round my neck. He can live on quietly here for very little, and I will send him what I can from time to time. But you know what he is with no one to look after him; he'd kill himself in a year. I want to know whether you'd mind keeping an eye on the poor old fellow."

Donovan had at first felt the most intense shrinking from any renewal of their old friendship; the remembrance of those dark days was a sort of nightmare to him. He listened to Noir's story silently and painfully, wondering how he could ever have shared in such doings. What a wretched misanthrope he had been, half maddened by sorrow and injustice, hating everything in the world except his dog!

But he was touched by Noir's thought for his old father, the poor, weak, old man whom he still, in his rough way, loved and shielded. They walked a few paces in silence, then Donovan spoke.

"He had better put up at my place; Causton will never come back to those rooms, and though I'm out most of the day, I shall be able to see something of him, and will do my best to keep him straight."

"You are a trump!" exclaimed Noir, heartily. "But won't he be in your way? I know you're a cut above us."

"You forget I am a Republican," said Donovan, quietly. "Let him come to-morrow, and do you make the best of your way to America."

Noir was immensely struck by the change in his some-time follower; he had always respected Donovan since their quarrel and final separation at Paris, but he felt now at an immense distance from him. After all, he mused, honesty did indeed seem the best policy. No words which Donovan could have used would have impressed him half as much as this visible change and growth, and more than all his readiness to help the old captain roused a feeling of gratitude which lasted as one of the few softening influences through the rest of Noir's life.

And so it was ordered that Donovan should not live alone, should not be free to indulge his misery in silence, but should again have his affections drawn out towards a very weak member of the human brotherhood, should bear again the burden of another's sin, and struggle perseveringly for his deliverance.