Chapter III: The Tremains of Porthkerran

"But faith beyond our sight may go,"
He said; "the gracious Fatherhood
Can only know above, below,
Eternal purposes of good.
From our free heritage of will
The bitter springs of pain and ill
Flow only in all worlds. The perfect day
Of God is shadowless, and love is love alway."
WHITTIER.

Golden sunshine, clear blue sky, the fresh green of spring, and a light delicious sea breeze--all this outward beauty and gladness there was on the morning after Colonel Farrant and his son had arrived at Plymouth. And yet surely never had heart felt more heavy, never had existence felt more unbearable, than Donovan's as he walked slowly and dejectedly on the Hoe. Colonel Farrant had left the hotel early in order to get his business settled, and Donovan, with a restless craving for something to divert his mind from his disgrace, had wandered out alone. He was not very successful in his search for peace, for the more he struggled to find interest or diversion in all around, the more he felt the bitter pangs of remorse and angry resentment. Groups of happy noisy children were playing on the grass, and he thought of his own lonely repressed childhood, and felt that the lots of men were unjustly and unequally arranged. His head ached miserably from the effects of yesterday's blow, and the gauntleting had left him so stiff and bruised that every movement was painful; the mere physical discomfort made it impossible for him to forget himself or his troubles for a minute.

He stood on the highest point of the Hoe, and looked at the exquisite view before him--the stately ships at anchor in the Sound, Drake's Island, with its miniature citadel, Mount Edgcumbe, with its beautifully wooded banks, and its foliage fringing the water, the clear sharply-defined line of the breakwater, and, far out over the sparkling dancing waves, the distant Eddystone. And yet, though he could not be altogether insensible to the beauty of the scene, the brightness and rejoicing, even the industry and success which he saw, made him more angry and resentful, more hopeless and despairing. Was not he disgraced, humiliated? and, at the same time, had not his faults been unjustly exaggerated, his punishment unjustly given? Life seemed one long perplexity, and now he felt utterly hopeless, utterly purposeless, for success and pleasure had been his chief objects hitherto, and now he felt that he had failed shamefully, and that the failure was so great that all pleasure in life was over.

Yet, in spite of his remorse and misery, he was neither repentant nor humble, for Mrs. Doery's early training had ruined him in this respect. The soft, pliable years of his childhood had been left in utter ignorance, and when his powers of reason and calculation had been well roused and brought into action, he was presented with the image of a God always watching to detect sin, always in readiness to punish, a hard, stern, inexorable Judge, who admitted fortunate people to heaven, and dismissed unfortunate people to hell, with strict impartiality and entire absence of feeling. No wonder that an angry sense of injustice grew up in Donovan's heart, no wonder that he turned from the cruelly false representation which was offered him, and steadily refused to believe in it. And when, in course of time, he heard other and truer views than these, his heart had grown hard, and he had become so accustomed to rely on himself and his natural strength of will that he felt no need of higher help. Moreover, religion required that he should own himself to be utterly weak and God all-powerful, and he would own neither the one nor the other. Even now, with his sense of failure and misery, he would not yield; fate had been against him, he was sorry to have brought disgrace on his father, he was angry and indignant with the world, and dissatisfied with himself, but that was all.

Two vessels in the Sound had just weighed anchor. He watched them with a listless interest, wondering whither they were bound, and what would become of them; whether they would safely reach their destination, or whether a cruel fate would cast them on rocks or quicksands, to be hopelessly, irretrievably wrecked. A fate to be struggled against! It was his notion of life; and, as the stately ships left the harbour and sailed out into the immeasurable expanse beyond, he turned away with a firmer, more decided step, and a less dejected heart; fate had been against him all his life, but he would not despair. He would conquer fate by the power of his will, he would live yet to be an honour to his father!

Colonel Farrant's business did not detain him very long, and, as soon as lunch was over, he suggested that they might as well at least begin their tour that afternoon. Donovan was relieved at the proposal, and assisted in the choice of a horse and dog-cart with resolute if somewhat forced cheerfulness. His father was further than ever from understanding him now, and began to doubt whether the driving tour would be a success; but, with all his perplexing contradictions, Donovan was very loveable, and his eager questions as to the Colonel's Indian life could not but be gratifying to the father's heart. He, for his part, however, was a much less successful questioner, and could elicit very little as to his son's past life, for Donovan was reserved by nature, and had been made still more so by his education. He drew an impenetrable veil over his childhood, and answered all allusions to his mother with quick abrupt monosyllables; for he was far too proud to be a grumbler, and indeed his grievances were too deep to bear speaking of. Little Dot was the only subject upon which he talked naturally and unreservedly, and Colonel Farrant was glad to make the most of this.

Once, inadvertently, they touched on the subject of his school disgrace.

"How is your forehead to-day?" asked the Colonel, after they had driven some little way in silence.

"Painful; but not worse than might be expected," replied Donovan. "It's hard lines to have to suffer from a rascally dishonourable breach of rules."

"I'm afraid, Dono, you are hardly in a position to talk about breaches of honour," said his father, gravely and sadly.

It was his only word of reproach, if reproach it could be called, but its gentleness made Donovan feel more than ever what a man his father was, and the thought of the trouble he had brought upon him overwhelmed him anew with shame and sorrow.

Colonel Farrant, noticing the sudden change of expression, was touched, and hastily changed the subject. Before long, too, the weather claimed their attention, the sky, which had been bright and clear when they left Plymouth, was now black and threatening, while the light breeze of the morning was growing stronger and keener. Everything betokened a storm, and before long the rain descended in torrents, drenching the occupants of the dog-cart to the skin, while the western wind blew so strongly and gustily that to hold an umbrella was out of the question. For himself Donovan rather enjoyed it. There was a sort of pleasure in being buffeted by wind and rain, but he was anxious for his father, as he knew he was subject to severe attacks of rheumatism, consequent on rheumatic fever. They resolved to stop at the first place they came to, and at last, to their relief, they reached a quaint little fishing town, which boasted a very fair inn.

But, in spite of warm rooms, a good dinner, and a change of clothes, Donovan's fears were realized. The next day his father was entirely incapacitated by rheumatism, and to proceed was an impossibility; the rain, too, continued without intermission, and everything seemed to augur some little stay at Porthkerran.

The day passed slowly and wearily. Donovan wrote letters at his father's dictation, read the _Western Morning News_ from beginning to end, and finally set out, notwithstanding the rain, to reconnoitre the place. On coming in again, he found his father so much worse, and suffering such pain from his heart, that he tried hard to get leave to go for the doctor, but Colonel Farrant did not take to the idea.

"There is nothing to be done. I've had these attacks dozens of times," he replied, reassuringly. "Besides, ten to one we should only find a quack in this outlandish place."

"The landlord says there's a first-rate doctor named Tremain, do let me send a line to him," said Donovan, anxiously.

"Well, well, perhaps if I'm not better to-morrow we'll have him. I'm sorry to keep you in this dull place, my boy, but to-morrow if it's fine we will try to push on."

Colonel Farrant spoke cheerfully, and as if he really hoped to be well again before long, and yet Donovan could not shake off an uneasy dissatisfied feeling, which returned to him more and more strongly after each visit to his father's room. They had a great deal of talk that evening, and Donovan began to feel that home would be very different now that his father had returned, more like the ideal home he used to fancy. Colonel Farrant, too, was immensely relieved and cheered, for his sickness and helplessness had brought to light many of Donovan's best qualities, his strength, his tenderness, and his ready observance, while his evident anxiety seemed to speak well for his awakening love.

It would be hard to say which was the more disappointed when, on the Thursday morning, Colonel Farrant proved to be rather worse than better. He was suffering so much, when Donovan went into his room in the early morning, that he could no longer say anything against the plan for calling Dr. Tremain, and Donovan dispatched a messenger at once with a note to the doctor, and before half an hour had passed was called down into the little sitting-room to receive him.

Dr. Tremain was standing by the window when he entered, and Donovan, glancing at him rather curiously, was at once prepossessed in his favour. He was a middle-aged man, but looked younger than he really was, in spite of evident signs of ill-health; his brown eyes were clear and shining, and there was a kindly light in them which was very attractive, his forehead was high and very finely developed, his features were regular and good, while a long light brown beard concealed the one defect of the face, a slightly receding chin.

Donovan was a rather good judge of character; his first sensation was one of relief that he had found a man whom he could trust, and who would probably understand his father's case; his next was one of surprise that anyone so refined, and evidently so clever, should remain buried in a Cornish village. He led the way at once to Colonel Farrant's room, and then waited anxiously below for the report. The doctor's visit was a long one, and when at length he came downstairs Donovan was alarmed to find that he spoke very seriously of Colonel Farrant's illness. The rheumatic fever had left his heart weak, of that Donovan was aware, but Dr. Tremain spoke of really grave symptoms of further mischief, aggravated, no doubt, by the fatigue of his return from India, and by the chill which he had taken during the drive to Porthkerran.

"And any mental shock, any trouble, would that be likely to affect him?" asked Donovan, speaking calmly though his heart began to beat very uncomfortably:

"It might, yes, it probably would," replied the doctor, "but he told me of nothing of the sort."

"No, I didn't think he would," said Donovan, controlling his voice with difficulty, "but he has had great and unexpected trouble; I have given him trouble."

The confession, coming from one evidently so reserved, had a strange pathos; Dr. Tremain held out his hand warmly.

"That must make the anxiety doubly trying to you; but do not be despondent, this afternoon I may be able to give a better account; in the meantime only see that your father is kept perfectly quiet."

Donovan had been miserable enough before, but this news added tenfold to his misery. At Colonel Farrant's request, he wrote at once to his mother, giving her full particulars of his father's state, and describing the kind of accommodation which was to be had at Porthkerran, if she thought of coming down to nurse him; he added these details because his father told him to, but he himself did not think for a moment that she would come, she always shrank from witnessing pain, and even disliked being in little Dot's room for any length of time.

As Donovan wrote, Colonel Farrant lay perfectly still, thinking deeply, and when in the afternoon Dr. Tremain made his second visit, and could still give no more favourable report, the subject of his anxiety was revealed.

"Doctor, have you any lawyer in the place who would draw up a will for me?"

"There is one ordinarily," said Dr. Tremain. "But Mr. Turner is away now; I am afraid there is no one nearer than Plymouth."

"I have been thinking things over," said the Colonel. "It is many years since my former will was made, and, owing to many changes, I feel that it will be better to make an alteration. I feel fidgety and anxious to get things settled, it is provoking that there is no lawyer here."

"I do not know that you need feel any immediate anxiety," said the doctor; "what I have told you need not necessarily affect your life for many years."

"No, but it may affect it at any moment," said the Colonel, gravely. "I want to be prepared, I want to have everything in order for my boy."

Dr. Tremain, aware that worry or anxiety was very bad for his patient, thought of the best means of re-assuring his mind, and, after a moment's consideration, suggested that he should write both briefly and clearly his own wishes until a formal will could be drawn up. Colonel Farrant was much relieved by the idea, and directed the doctor to ask Donovan for a sheet of paper, upon which Dr. Tremain wrote at his dictation a clear and properly worded form, expressing his desire to devise and bequeath the bulk of his property to his son, Donovan Farrant, and providing an ample allowance for his widow during her life. Then one of the servants and the doctor himself witnessed the will, and the Colonel lay back again relieved and satisfied.

They were still talking on the subject when Donovan's voice was heard without; it was just post time, and he knew his father had a letter to send.

"I do not wish my son to see this, I wish him to know nothing of the transaction," said the Colonel, quickly.

Dr. Tremain had, however, already given the word of admittance, and Colonel Farrant. starting up hurriedly, took the will from the table and put it into the doctor's hand.

"Take it, take it, and not a word."

There was a sudden pause; Donovan came towards the bed just in time to see his father fall forward, and to hear a slight sound in his throat, of which he did not know the meaning. Dr. Tremain gave an inarticulate exclamation, raised the inanimate form and bent down close to it; then he glanced to the other side of the bed, to that other form almost as still and inanimate, to that other face, white, rigid, and agonized, and saw there was no need of words; Donovan understood that his father was dead.

All that a thoroughly good, thoroughly unselfish man can do at such a time Dr. Tremain did. He felt the most intense pity for Donovan left thus utterly alone, with a burden of remorse on his conscience, and this overwhelming grief at his heart; but it was difficult to be of much use to one so completely stunned and paralysed, and the doctor could only persuade him to leave the room.

Donovan moved away mechanically, and went down below to the little sitting-room. He felt scarcely anything but a dim, vague, undefined horror, a consciousness of a sudden blank in his life. The shock had been so great that, for the time, all his faculties were numbed, and he scarcely heard the doctor's words; he stood by the mantelpiece perfectly silent, perfectly motionless, with his eyes fixed on the centre ornament, a little tawdry shell house mounted on a board strewn with dried seaweeds. How many times he had dreamily calculated the number of Cornish cowries which would be needed to adorn fifty houses he did not know, but he was roused at length by the doctor's hand on his shoulder.

"If I can be of any use in sending off any telegrams for you, or helping you in any other way, pray tell me."

The words seemed to rouse Donovan, the rigid stillness of his face changed suddenly, the look of suffering deepened.

"My mother, I must let her know."

He sat down by the table and hid his face in his hands, battling with his emotion. The doctor had brought paper and pen; he offered to write the telegram, but at the proposal Donovan raised his head once more, and, with perfect control and calmness, took the pen in his hand and wrote, without a moment's pause or hesitation, the brief words which were to convey the news of Colonel Farrant's death to the rector of the church near Oakdene. He was the only person fit to break the news to Mrs. Farrant, the only person Donovan could think of at all, except Mrs. Doery or Ellis Farrant, and from them he instinctively shrank.

Dr. Tremain promised to see that the message was sent, and then very reluctantly took leave, trying, as he walked along the wet muddy road, to think of any means by which he could help the poor boy who seemed left in such a miserable friendless state. But it was a difficult question, and the doctor had arrived at no satisfactory solution by the time he had passed through the village and reached the gabled ivy-covered house where he lived.

Trenant was a delightfully comfortable house, prettily furnished, exquisitely neat, and in every way thoroughly well ordered. Some one was singing on the staircase as Dr. Tremain opened the front door, and as he took off his wet coat there was a sound of hurrying footsteps, and a pretty bright-looking girl of about sixteen ran to meet him.

"Papa, how long you have been out, and how shockingly wet you are!"

"Yes, it is raining heavily," said the doctor, taking one of the soft little hands in his as he crossed the hall. "Is your mother in, Gladys?"

"Yes, she's with the children in the drawing-room, and we've kept some tea for you. I'll go and see to it," and she ran off, finishing the song which had been interrupted, while her father went into the drawing-room.

Gladys was the eldest daughter of the house, and when her parents had chosen her name--a name which they considered as emblematic of happiness, in spite of certain questionings which had arisen among name fanciers on the subject--it would seem that some unseen fairy godmother had really bestowed that best of all gifts on their child, for Gladys was the happiest, most contented, sunshiny little person imaginable. Everything about her looked happy, her sunny golden-brown hair, her bright, well-opened, grey eyes, her laughing mouth, her little unformed nose, her dimpled chin, and fresh glowing complexion. She had, of course, her ups and downs like most people, but she was too unselfish to be depressed for any length of time, and too easy and accommodating to make much of such troubles and difficulties as she had.

In a few minutes the tea was ready, and Gladys, with a dainty little hand-tray filled with a plate of crisp home-made biscuits, and the cup and saucer, crossed the hall once more, passed the little conservatory where two canaries were singing with all their might, and entered the drawing-room, in which she found her father and mother talking together.

"They are strangers. The father had just returned from India," Dr. Tremain was saying. "And they were taking a driving tour in Cornwall; it's the saddest thing I've heard for a long time. Without the slightest preparation the poor fellow is left in this way, without a friend near him."

"He is quite alone then at the inn?" asked Mrs. Tremain.

"Perfectly alone, and I don't see how we are to help him. I thought of asking him here, but I feel sure he wouldn't come."

"Poor boy! How old is he?"

"About eighteen, I believe; but he's decidedly old for his age, he is a man compared with Dick."

"Oh! Dick never will grow old," said the mother, with a little sigh, as she remembered how far away was the sailor son. "But we cannot leave this poor Mr. Farrant without any sympathy. Would it be any use if I went to see him!"

"It would be the very best thing possible," said the doctor, "if you do not shrink from it too much. I am afraid you will find it very difficult to make any way with him, but I can't think of any other plan for helping him."

"I will try to see him, then, after dinner," said Mrs. Tremain.

"Is Mr. Farrant's father dead?" asked Gladys, as her father left the room.

"Yes, dear, quite suddenly. The shock must have been terrible to the poor boy."

"Oh! mother, how will you comfort him? How dreadful it must be to have such sorrow all alone!"

"Yes, terrible indeed," said Mrs. Tremain. "I am afraid we cannot do very much to comfort him, dear Gladys, but God can comfort him, and perhaps He may use us as His messengers of comfort; at any rate we can all pray for him."

"Yes, we can do that. But, mother,"--and a shade crossed Gladys' bright face--"it does seem so strange that some people should have so much more trouble than others. Dick and I, for instance, we have had scarcely anything but happiness all our lives. Of course Dick's going away is always sad, but I mean we've had no great sorrows. Doesn't it seem almost unfair, unjust, that lives should be so unequal?"

"It must seem so, until we can realize that we are all the children of a loving Father, who gives to everyone just what is best for them. If we remember that God's will is to draw us all nearer Him, to fit us for the greatest happiness of all, we shall surely trust Him to choose our joys and sorrows, and those of everyone else too."

"And yet, mother, it seems very often as if the troubles were just the very worst things for us, the things that made us go wrong. Think of poor Ben Trevethan at the forge; his wife died, and directly afterwards his son grew so wild, and took to drinking, and then just when Ben hoped to steady him again he was laid up for months and months, and the son grew worse, and at last ran away; it seems as if it would have been so much better if all those troubles hadn't happened together, as if the son would have had so much more chance of getting right."

"Yes, it seems so to us, dear," said Mrs. Tremain; "but you must remember that we cannot see the pattern which our lives are weaving, we can only go on bit by bit, remembering that there is a pattern, and that one day we shall understand why the dark shades, and the long plain pieces, and the bright glad colours were sent us. Ben Trevethan's life, and his son's too, will not be wasted, you may be sure; they will help to influence, to guide, or to warn other lives, all the time that they are weaving their pattern."

"Our pattern is very bright just now," said Gladys, raising her happy contented face for a kiss. "And baby Nesta is the very brightest sunniest part of it all!" and she sprang up to receive from the nurse the little white-robed baby, the new delight and treasure of the whole house.

Her song was taken up once more as she walked to and fro with her little charge, and the voices of the other children at their play came from the further end of the room, while Mrs. Tremain's thoughts reverted to the sad story she had heard, and to the work which lay before her that evening.

Her task was no easy one; she trembled a little when she was actually standing in the passage of the inn, having sent a messenger to ask if Mr. Farrant would see her. Dr. Tremain had been called out, and she had been obliged to come alone; this made the interview seem all the more formidable, but she was too unselfish to shrink from the difficulty. The messenger returned quickly, and she was ushered into the little sitting-room, speedily forgetting all thought of herself as she saw what utter misery was written on Donovan's face. He came forward to meet her, and bowed gravely; then, as she held out her hand with a few words of explanation and sympathy, he took it in his, answered briefly but courteously, and drew a chair towards the fire for her. She sat down, and he fell back into his former position, with his elbows resting on the mantelpiece and his face half hidden, as if he had done all that courtesy required of him, and intended to return to his own thoughts.

Mrs. Tremain's voice roused him; it was a very low gentle voice, and fell pleasantly on his ear.

"I cannot bear to think of your being all alone here," she began. "This inn seems so forlorn and comfortless for you. I wish we could persuade you to come to our house, you should be perfectly quiet and undisturbed."

She hardly thought that he would consent to this plan, but it made an opening for conversation, and it roused Donovan at once; his tone, as he replied, was more than merely courteous, and his sad eyes met hers fully.

"You are very kind and good to think of it, but I don't think I can come, thank you; to-morrow my mother will be here, and to-night I can't leave--I would rather----" he broke off hastily, unable to control his distress.

"You must do just what you like best," said Mrs. Tremain; "I can quite understand your feeling."

"It would be of no use," continued Donovan, recovering himself, but speaking in a low constrained voice. "Can I escape from my thoughts at your house any more than here? Nothing can make misery and remorse bearable."

"I suppose we all see the full beauty and goodness of those we love only when we lose them," said Mrs. Tremain, not quite understanding him, "and then we wish we had often acted differently to them; those bitter regrets are very hard to bear."

"Ah! you don't know, you can't understand what reason for remorse I have!" cried Donovan; and then he looked steadily at Mrs. Tremain for a minute, to decide whether he should tell her of his disgrace or not.

He saw a sweet, gentle, motherly face, a calm serene forehead, smooth bands of dark hair beginning to turn grey, delicately-arched and pencilled eyebrows, and dark grey eyes, which seemed to shine right into his, eyes which were clear, and unswerving, and truthful, yet full of tender sympathy.

His voice trembled a little, but yet it was a relief to him when he said, with lowered eyelids, and a burning flush on his cheek, "I have disgraced my father."

Before long Mrs. Tremain had heard all the particulars of his trouble at school, and had listened sadly to his account of the journey, and of his father's illness. She was sure that it was good for him to talk; if she had known that he had never in his whole life had such a disburdening, she might have encouraged him still more. She gave him all her sympathy, and when at length he relapsed into silence it was with a look of less hopeless misery on his face. Mrs. Tremain glanced round the room then, and saw that the meal prepared on the table was untouched.

"I have been keeping you from dinner!" she exclaimed, regretfully.

"No, indeed. I want nothing. I could not eat," said Donovan, decidedly.

Mrs. Tremain hardly felt surprised as she looked at the tough steak and greasy gravy, now perfectly cold.

"You must eat something," she said, assuming a gentle authority over him, which he was not at all inclined to resist. "Give me _carte blanche_ with the landlady, and you shall have something you can eat directly. This must have been waiting."

"Yes, it has been up an hour or two," said Donovan, wearily, and he threw himself back in an arm-chair, while Mrs. Tremain left the room, returning before long with some hot coffee and a far more appetizing repast. She sat down with him, taking some coffee herself, and inducing him both to eat and to talk; and when at last she was obliged to go he was really cheered and refreshed.

"Mrs. Farrant will be here to-morrow," she said, at parting. "That will be a comfort to you."

Donovan did not answer. He would not show what his real feeling on the subject was, but only hardened his face, and, thanking Mrs. Tremain for her kindness, wished her good-bye.