Chapter VI: Autumn Manœuvres

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair.
WILLIAM BLAKE.

Give a dog a bad name, and hang him.
_Proverb._

Ellis Farrant had taken Donovan up to town on the pretext of arranging various matters of business, but he had been careful to leave many things unattended to, as he was anxious to have an excuse for a speedy visit to Oakdene. His guardianship was likely to prove a very convenient aid in the furtherance of his scheme, for what could be more natural than that he should frequently go down to inspect his young wards, and what could offer more convenient opportunities for winning his way with Mrs. Farrant than such visits. A little time, however, must be allowed to pass first. Ellis made arrangement for staying in town till the middle of July, and resolved to go down to Oakdene then, for as long a visit as seemed advisable.

His arrival really pleased and roused Mrs. Farrant, for it must be owned that Oakdene had not been the liveliest of homes during the summer. Visitors of course had not been received, Donovan had been unusually taciturn and moody, and though the favourite Fido, and the unfailing succession of new books, and the comfortable sofa by the open window, rendered life bearable, any interruption to such quiet monotony was a relief even to one so indolent as Mrs. Farrant.

To Donovan the arrival of his cousin brought a strange mixture of annoyance and satisfaction. He too was glad of an interruption to the dreary quiet of the house, but nevertheless Ellis managed to irritate him not a little. The nominal business matters which had formed the excuse for the visit were put forward from time to time, but neither mother nor son was business-like, and Ellis used to let the conversation float on quietly into other channels, so that very little was really arrived at. He was a clever, shrewd man, and his visit was a long series of manœuvres. He never lost sight of his two great aims, the first was to win the regard and confidence of Mrs. Farrant, and to secure this he studied most carefully her character and tastes; the second was to induce Donovan to lead as inexpensive a life as might be, during the time of his guardianship. What became of him after he was of age he neither cared nor thought of, for before that time he hoped to have won Mrs. Farrant's hand.

It was about two or three days from the beginning of his visit that he first began to question Donovan cautiously as to the future. They were out riding when he resolved to risk the attempt.

"Beautiful country about here," he remarked, carelessly.

"Yes," replied Donovan, laconically; he did not care to show any interest in such a remark from one who evidently cared nothing in reality for scenery.

"Much hunting in the neighbourhood?"

"No; it's not a hunting county."

"But you have good shooting, I hear."

"Oh! yes, we can have any amount of that. Won't you come down for it this autumn?"

"Thanks. If I have time I should like nothing better. You will be here of course?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Donovan, rather hesitatingly.

Ellis Farrant felt a little uneasy. Had the boy made up his mind to go to the university? Would he want to enter any expensive profession? He must find out, and, if so, try to put some reasonable obstacle in the way.

"You have found these months a little dull, I expect, but next year you'll be up in town for the season--it'll be very different."

"Life's disgusting everywhere," said Donovan, gloomily.

"No, no," replied the man of the world, lightly. "There's plenty of enjoyment if you look out for it. Cheer up, my boy, you let yourself brood over things too much. 'Let bygones be bygones,' and face the future, and let your guardian know plainly what you want."

The speech sounded frank and kindly. Donovan involuntarily came a little out of his shell.

"I don't know that there's anything I want," he said, slowly, "and yet I want everything. Did you ever feel as if nothing in the whole world were worth a fig, as if nothing could ever satisfy you?"

A perplexing question! Why did the perverse fellow begin to moralize on abstract subjects, just when he wanted to arrive at plain facts?

"I know quite well what you mean," he replied, glibly. "You will soon live it down. I think you should mix more with companions of your own age."

He felt that this was a hazardous suggestion, but ventured it with his customary boldness.

"I hate fellows of my own age," said Donovan, shortly.

"You are a misanthrope, I'm afraid," said Ellis, breathing more freely. "You would not like to go to Oxford or Cambridge, I suppose."

"No, certainly not."

"And you are not exactly--not passionately--fond of work?"

Donovan smiled a little.

"Well, no, I can't say I am."

"You would not like to be a barrister or a--parson?"

"I?" cried Donovan, in amaze. "In all conscience--no!"

"There is no need, not the slightest," said Ellis. "In fact, I don't think you're in the least suited for any profession. You can live on here very comfortably. No doubt your mother will make you a handsome allowance when you're of age; for, though you are not exactly your father's heir, it will come to much the same thing in the end."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the unconscious Donovan.

"I should rather like you to do a little reading, however," continued Ellis. "I must not forget that you are my ward, you know. What do you say to going in to some tutor at Greyshot two or three times a week?"

"I don't mind. I will do so, if you wish. How would a travelling tutor be? I must say I should like to spend a few months abroad."

An inconvenient and expensive project! If Donovan were away, he could not come down to Oakdene so easily. But Ellis was too far-sighted to give a definite refusal to the request.

"Well, we will think of it," he said, quite in his pleasantest manner. "I'm glad you told me what was in your mind. We can talk it over with your mother."

The two relapsed into silence after this, Ellis trying to think of reasonable objections to this new idea, Donovan sketching out in his mind the plan of his tour on the continent. He longed inexpressibly for change of scene, and travelling offered very strong attractions to his restless mind.

But a sudden revulsion of feeling came before long. As they rode down the long, shady drive, and dismounted at the door of the Manor, he heard a childish voice calling him, and looking up, he saw Dot's little pale face eagerly watching him from her window.

He mounted the stairs very slowly, struggling hard with himself. Dot would certainly miss him very much, would be much happier if he did not go, and yet the craving within him for change was almost irresistible. Oakdene began to feel like a prison to him. Selfishness, or, as he called it, common sense, whispered that it was mere folly to think he could always be tied down to one place. It would be narrowing, cramping, bad for his health. The absurdity of thinking of this, however, struck him with sudden force as he entered Dot's room. How could he think of himself so much, when she lay on the same weary couch day after day, and yet contrived to be so patient!

"I'm so glad you've come back, Dono," she exclaimed. "Doery's been down in the housekeeper's room for hours, and Waif and I have been so dull."

The loneliness rose up before him vividly--months and months of it. At the same time a glorious vision of life abroad--Italy, Switzerland, mountains, freedom! He was quite silent, but Dot was accustomed to his taciturn moods, and chattered on contentedly.

"And poor Waif, you forgot to take him with you, and he was so miserable when he heard you ride off, he scratched at the door and whined dreadfully, and I couldn't of course get up to let him out, so at last he came back very sadly with his tail between his legs, and cuddled up to me for comfort. Do you know, Dono, I believe he begins to love you as I do, almost."

"And you don't cry when I go out riding," said Donovan, smiling.

"No, only when you go quite away; when you used to go back to school, and when Cousin Ellis took you away last time."

"What a silly little Dot! What makes you cry?"

"Why, because I love you so," said Dot, wistfully. "And everything seems so horrid when you're away. Will you have to go away again, do you think? Will Cousin Ellis and the lawyers want you any more?"

"Oh! no, I shall not be going away again," he said, in rather a forced voice. Then, after a pause: "I say, Dot, this room is stifling. Shall I open the other window?"

She assented, and he crossed the room quickly, threw up the sash, gulped down a mouthful of fresh air, and registered a silent vow that he would never leave her.

"I wonder what makes your forehead look so battered to-day," resumed Dot, as he sat down beside her again. "It always reminds me of a bent penny I had for a long time. And some days the bend in the middle seems to show more. I think it's on the days when you don't talk much."

Donovan laughed heartily, shook off his taciturnity, and did his best according to Dot's principles to straighten his brow.

"A phrenologist once told me that my forehead meant all sorts of things: mathematical ability, reasoning, and music, but he was sadly out, poor man, in that last, for I haven't a grain of music in me."

"I wish you had," said Dot, "because I like it so much, and the hand-organs so very seldom come."

"Shall I get one, and grind away in the passage?"

"That would be always the same one. We should get so tired of the tunes."

"Yes," said Donovan, laughing again. "Don't you remember the story of the organ-grinder who somehow came into some money, and the first thing he did was to rush frantically at his organ with, 'Bother! you shall never go round again,' and smash it to pieces."

Dot laughed long and merrily.

"I wish you could play the piano as Cousin Adela used to. It sounded so nice coming up from the drawing-room."

"Would you really like it?" said Donovan. "I will try to learn then. We'll have a piano over from Greyshot, and it can be put up here."

"Oh! Dono, how delightful! But won't it be dull for you, as you don't like music? And do you think you'll be able to learn?"

"We'll have no end of fun over it," he replied, cheerfully. "And as to being able--I believe we're able to do anything we've a will for."

That evening, after Mrs. Farrant had left the dinner-table, Donovan relieved his guardian's mind by one of his quick abrupt speeches.

"On thinking it over, I find I had better not go abroad."

"Oh! just as you like, my dear fellow," said Ellis, trying to conceal his satisfaction. "Most happy to advance you the necessary funds, you know. I should think though that, as you say, it would be better to stay here. Your mother will be glad to have you."

Donovan bit his lip, and did not reply, and Ellis, perfectly well aware that he had touched on a sore subject, changed the conversation. His ward's decision was convenient. For once he must be careful to please and humour him a little, so he renounced for a time the pleasure of irritating his victim, and they spent a very amicable evening over the billiard-table.

It is an undisputed fact that one piece of villainy invariably leads to others. When Ellis Farrant, in a moment of anger and disappointment, had destroyed his cousin's will, he never once thought of all it would lead to, but little by little he began to realise that a good deal of plotting and scheming would be necessary, and perhaps a few trifling deceptions and injustices, before he could profit by his crime. He was relieved to find that the coldness between the mother and son still existed, for it was, of course, all in his favour. He had rather dreaded the effects of those months of quiet intercourse; but all had gone as he wished. Mrs. Farrant did not in the least understand Donovan, he was not in any sense a comfort to her, therefore there was all the more hope that she might be led to confide in Ellis, that he might become a necessary part of her existence. During this visit he was obliged to be kind and conciliatory to his ward, and was too prudent to show any marked attentions to Mrs. Farrant, but he succeeded in enlivening the house wonderfully, and received a pressing invitation to come down in the autumn, bringing his sister Adela with him. He remained till the 12th of August, and then went up to the North for grouse-shooting, well satisfied with his success at Oakdene.

The Manor was not a little dull after he left. Mrs. Farrant, to relieve the monotony, sent out her cards, and found some slight occupation in receiving the visits of her neighbours and acquaintance. Donovan rode in to Greyshot three times a week to his tutor's, studied "Mill's Logic," and worked hard at his music. Strangely, although he was really no lover of the art, he found a peculiar satisfaction in working even at the mechanical exercises; his master scarcely knew what to make of a pupil who, with very little actual talent, surmounted difficulties so quickly, and showed such untiring perseverance. Indolent as he seemed, he could yet show the most indefatigable zeal when he had a sufficient motive, and, with a view to pleasing Dot, he bent his whole will to the work.

With the exception of this satisfactory effort, the autumn was a very painful one to him. As soon as his mother began to receive visitors again, he could not fail to become aware of the marked coldness with which almost everyone treated him. He had never had any special friends in the neighbourhood, but now he noticed that old acquaintances who had formerly been civil and friendly looked askance at him; he was under a cloud, he had lost his good name. It was not much to be wondered at, perhaps, and yet it seemed cruelly hard that he should be thus cut off from all intercourse with those better than himself. The cautious world said, with its usual prudence, that it would never do not to show marked disapproval of disgrace and wrong-doing. Donovan Farrant had been expelled from school for most dishonourable behaviour (his crimes were by this time absurdly exaggerated by report), it was quite impossible that he could be allowed to mix with the immaculate sons of the neighbouring homes. Intercourse must be as much as possible discouraged; the acquaintance was most undesirable. A young man who never went to church, who had been seen at one of Raeburn's lectures, who was dangerously handsome, and unmitigatedly bad, could not be visited. The neighbours all tried to ignore his existence; he was either entirely cut, or treated with the coldest and most distant civility.

Misanthrope as he was, Donovan felt this treatment keenly, and resented it. It was hard, and cruel, and unjust; he used it, as he used everything else at that time, as an argument against Christianity. Nor did his mother make matters pleasanter to him. She, too, found out the coldness with which he was treated, and it vexed her; one or two of the more kind-hearted neighbours referred delicately to the subject, and, though Mrs. Farrant paid little attention to her son's doings as a rule, this roused her to remonstrate with him.

"Donovan," she said, in her complaining tone, one evening, "I really wish you would be more careful how you go on. Mrs. Ward was here to-day, and she said she was extremely sorry to hear that you had attended some shocking infidel lecture at Greyshot. Is it true that you went?"

"Perfectly, barring the adjectives," replied Donovan, crossing the room, and resting his elbow on the mantel-piece.

"But really you should not do such things," said Mrs. Farrant, plaintively. "What made you think of going?"

"I wished to hear Luke Raeburn's views," said Donovan, still keeping his face steadily turned towards her.

"It is absurd for a boy of your age to think of such things. What can you understand about his views?"

"More than I can of any other views. But I'm no Raeburnite--I don't care enough for the human race."

Mrs. Farrant wandered off to another grievance.

"Well, I really wish you wouldn't get yourself so talked about; it's very unpleasant for me. Why won't you come to church on Sunday, and be like other young men?"

"Because, whatever I am, I'll not be a hypocrite," said Donovan, with some sharpness.

There was silence for some minutes after this. Mrs. Farrant fanned herself, and Donovan tormented the feathers of an Indian hand-screen. At last, with a rather softened expression, he continued--

"I'm sorry, mother, if I spoke rudely, but that is a thing I cannot do to please anyone. If you dislike my going to hear Raeburn so much, I will not do it again."

"I only wish you not to make yourself a byword to the neighbourhood," said Mrs. Farrant, rather peevishly. "I do not care what you do as long as you behave respectably."

"No, you care for nothing, I see, as long as people hold their tongues," said Donovan, with one of his rare and curiously sudden bursts of passion. "Is it wonderful that I should be going to the dogs, when this is all you give me? What else can you expect?"

She did not in the least understand him, but his vehemence terrified her; she burst into tears.

"It is very unkind of you to speak so angrily; you know how anything of this sort upsets me," she sobbed. "I did think that the only son of a widow was expected to show some feeling for his mother, and you--you are only a grief and a disgrace to me."

He was softened in an instant, tried to take her hand in his, and spoke as gently and tenderly as he would have spoken to Dot.

"Forgive me, mother--I am a wretch; but indeed, if you would let me, I would try to be more to you."

He would have said more, but words never came easily to him, and he felt half choked now with emotion.

"You are so inconsiderate," said Mrs. Farrant, drying her eyes. "I'm sure I wish your guardian were here; he at least would have some sympathy with me. I wish you would try to copy him a little more."

The reference to one whom Donovan so little-liked or respected was very trying; he drew back.

"It is just as I told you at Porthkerran," continued Mrs. Farrant. "You never think of anyone but yourself, you are always bringing trouble and sorrow to others." Then, looking up, and seeing that Donovan, in his agitation, was breaking the feathers of the hand-screen, she sharpened her voice, "Cannot you even help destroying the things your poor father brought back?"

He did not attempt to answer. What was the use of speaking? What was the use of trying to bridge over the hopeless gulf between them? It was more in despair than in passion that he flung down the screen and strode out of the room.

After this there was peace for some little time, if such dreary aimless existence could be called peace. There was, at any rate, no open disagreement. Mrs. Farrant was too inert and Donovan too self-restrained to admit of frequent quarrels between them; they lived on in quiet coldness, meeting at meal times, talking on indifferent subjects, then parting again, each to resume his or her separate life. There were faults perhaps on both sides, a resolute and continuous effort from either must have broken down such an unnatural state of things. But neither of them made such an effort, Mrs. Farrant, even had she thought of it, would have been too indolent to persevere; Donovan had tried twice, and thrown up the attempt, at once too proud and too hopeless to resume it.

In October Ellis Farrant came according to his promise, bringing his sister Adela with him. She was some years his junior, and as she had the same class of good looks and general brilliancy as her brother, and dressed fashionably, she still passed for a "young" lady, although she was considerably over thirty. Ellis had not introduced her to Oakdene without a special reason. She of course knew nothing of the depth of his schemes, but he trusted her with enough to make her a valuable ally.

"Now this is how matters stand," he had said to her, as they were driving from Greyshot to Oakdene. "Mrs. Farrant is as dull as she well can be in this hole of a place, and I want to have plenty of opportunities for letting her feel that I can enliven it. Do you understand me, or must I speak more plainly."

His sister laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

"Do not trouble yourself, I understand perfectly. You wish to be beforehand with the army of suitors who are sure to attend upon a pretty, rich widow, by no means past her youth."

"Exactly," said Ellis, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "Last time I was here I could do but little, it was too early days, for one thing, and then there was the boy to be looked after; but now I want you to engross him a little, and set me at liberty--do you see?"

Adela Farrant laughed again.

"You cunning Ellis! You have entrapped me into a dull country house just to further your own ends, and then you set me down to amuse a schoolboy."

"Pardon me, but he is by no means a boy," said Ellis. "He is, or considers himself, all sorts of things, a philosopher, a radical, an atheist, and, joking apart, he really is old for his years. You may find him a little stiff and haughty at first, but you'll soon get to know him, and he'll give you some amusement; besides, he's handsome--very--an Apollo--an Adonis."

"And in his nineteenth year!" concluded Adela, with a gesture of contempt. "However, I'll try to amuse him, out of regard for you. Why, here we are at the Manor, and there is your Apollo of the clustering curls at the door. What a grave saturnine face! but you're quite right, he's very good-looking; Roman, not Greek, though. Augustus Cæsar come to life again."

The first evening was, according to Ellis Farrant's views, a perfect success. He had free scope for conversation with Mrs. Farrant, and she grew quite merry and talkative under the combined influence of his attentions and his sister's animation and gaiety.

"It is so pleasant to hear fresh voices," she said at dinner time. "I grow very tired of _tête-à-tête_ dinners with Donovan."

This was exactly what Ellis wished, it was quite an effort to conceal his satisfaction. He looked at the young host at the head of the table, and wondered how he would enjoy being ousted from his position.

Adela's work was not quite so easy. She found Donovan very grave, almost repellent, not at all inclined to be more than coldly courteous. She persevered, however, and, being clever and really good-natured, she gradually won her way. Nor was she so dull as she had fancied would be the case. The haughty _nil admirari_ spirit of her special charge rather attracted her. She found herself really anxious to win his good opinion, and set herself to find out his likes and dislikes. And Donovan really liked her in a manner, was grateful for her kindness, and felt a sort of relief in having a bright, talkative, pleasant woman in the house. When Ellis did not care to go out shooting, Adela generally proposed a ride, and so managed to engross her young cousin for two or three hours; in the evening, too, she would keep him turning over the leaves of her music in the back drawing-room, leaving her brother to amuse Mrs. Farrant, and her light, meaningless talk generally sufficed to prevent the chance of their being interrupted by Donovan.

Sometimes, however, her conversation jarred on his mind. One afternoon when Adela in her light fawn-coloured dress was sauntering round the garden, gathering a few late roses, with her usual cavalier in attendance, their talk turned upon rather graver matters than was ordinarily the case.

"What a pretty view that is of the church tower," she exclaimed. "I should like to sketch it, such a tiny grey little place it is! but really I was quite surprised last Sunday to find it a regular resort of fashion, the toilettes were amazing, quite a study; your mother says that the people come to it from Greyshot, that they are attracted by the surpliced choir and the chanting. It seems so odd to think of things of that sort being novelties; you are dreadfully behind the world here in Mountshire."

"No great loss perhaps in those matters," said Donovan.

"What a prosaic mind you have!" said his cousin, lightly. "And, by-the-by, that reminds me, I meant to take you to task before. Last Sunday I looked round expecting to find you ready to carry my prayer-book, and behold! you were nowhere to be seen. Your mother says you never do go to church. How is that? it is really very shocking, you know."

"One can't profess what one does not believe," said Donovan, gravely.

Adela passed on into the greenhouse and cut the last rose there before replying; then, joining him again, she said, in her light half laughing tone,

"You men are really dreadful now-a-days, the whole race seems to have grown sceptical. Now, why don't you come to church, and be good and orthodox?"

As she spoke she handed him the rose to put into the basket. It was an exquisite blush rose, and he held it in his hand abstractedly, not exactly seeing its beauty, and yet feeling some subtle influence from its purity and fragrance. He did not answer, and Adela continued:

"Don't think I shall be hard on you, there never was a more lenient person--besides, scepticism is always interesting. Not, you know, that I am not all that is proper and orthodox, you mustn't think that for a moment. I like to be _comme il faut_ in everything--that is not quite a right expression, is it? more suited to matters of etiquette than religion,--however, it does not signify, turn it into Latin in your mind. I am very orthodox, but I can quite sympathise with sceptics--is that sense? Now do tell me why you don't believe the things that I believe; they say it is always well to hear all sides of a question, and on this subject I have scarcely heard anything."

She had rattled on in her usual fashion without looking up; had she noticed the change in Donovan's face, her womanly tact would have warned her to be more careful, for he looked as nearly contemptuous as good manners would allow. His voice, was grave and displeased as he replied, and had a strange ring of pain in it.

"It is not a subject I care to discuss, thank you."

They walked on in silence, Donovan trying uneasily to understand his own feelings. _Why_ did he not care to discuss this subject? Was it that his cousin's lightness jarred on him? was there some latent sense of reverence in him--some yet slumbering faith faintly touched by her flippant tones? Or was it--could it be--that he, Donovan Farrant, was ashamed of the views he held? ashamed of not being like the rest of the world?

Adela knew, from the tone of the answer which her question received, that she had made a mistake; flippant, conventional, semi-religious talk evidently grated somehow on her cousin's mind; she made haste to recover her place in his estimation by referring to the subject nearest his heart.

"Shall we take these flowers to Dot? She likes flowers in her room, doesn't she?"

His brow cleared instantly.

"Yes, let us go. Dot is very fond of you, Cousin Adela; you have cheered her up wonderfully."

Adela smiled; her kindness to little Dot was the one fair bright spot in her life just then; it was pleasant to dwell on one thing in which her motive was really good, and she was too really kind to like to remember that she was acting as a sort of decoy towards Donovan.

Dot held out her hands eagerly for the flowers.

"What beauties!" she cried. "I was afraid they were all over."

Donovan took the blush rose and arranged it in her dress, where its soft colours helped to relieve the blackness.

"You and Cousin Adela have had such a long talk," said Dot, watching with interest while the flowers were arranged in her vase. "I saw you from my window. What were you talking about?"

"Oh!" said Adela, with a little pause, as she adjusted a leaf, "we were talking about the church."

"There's many changes there, miss," said Mrs. Doery, looking up from her work. "Seems to be the way with these new-fangled ministers. Still they say the boys in their whites is very attractive, and nobody can't deny that the church is fuller than it used to be."

"I have been telling Mr. Donovan that Mountshire is very much behind the world," said Adela. "In our parts we should be quite surprised not to find a choir."

"Well, miss, I suppose it's very right and proper, but for myself I liked the old days when we had just the parson and the clerk. Now they sing-song all the things so, and I can't seem to pick myself up."

Adela tried not to laugh, and asked the name of the clergyman.

"Mr. Golding, he's the white-haired one. You'd 'ave thought he was too old to like such new ways, but I make no doubt he's led on by the curate, who is but young; and as to him, miss, he gets through the service so quick you wouldn't believe, but I never can hear a word when he reads off the old fowl's back."

Adela and Donovan burst out laughing, and no sense of the respect due to Mrs. Doery could stop them. Dot, not understanding, looked perplexed till Adela explained.

"The reading-desk in church, dear, the lectern, is like an eagle. Oh! Mrs. Doery, you mustn't mind our laughing, but really that is worthy of _Punch_."

Doery was, luckily, not at all offended. She could not pretend to learn all the new names they gave the things, and probably she thought of the lectern as the "old fowl" till the day of her death.

After a certain fashion, Adela's visit really did Donovan some good. It roused him from his moody silence, made a change in his monotonous life, and shielded him to some extent from Ellis Farrant's annoyances. For, during this visit, Ellis was not all careful to keep himself in the boy's good graces, and, in the brief time that they were necessarily thrown together, managed to annoy him considerably. Donovan had always the ruffled, uncomfortable consciousness that his guardian was making a good thing out of his office. He was naturally very careless about money matters, scarcely giving them a thought; but even easy and generous natures are often roused by feeling that they are being traded upon. The length and frequency of his cousin's visits might be overlooked perhaps, but when, in the course of the month, he went with Donovan to some races at a neighbouring town, and coolly put down all the expenses to Mrs. Farrant, his ward was naturally indignant; and this happened not once only, but several times. The loss of the money was nothing, but the injustice was very irritating. Injustice was Donovan's watchword, and this slight but aggravating specimen of it was a constant thorn in his side.

Another vexing thing was Ellis Farrant's behaviour to his mother. He used to perform all kinds of little services for her; waiting on her sedulously on every possible occasion, with a marked ostentation which seemed always trying to indicate to Donovan, "This is what you ought to do." Even had such attentions been possible to him, he would have been for too proud to take such a broad hint, and Ellis was probably aware of this, or he would not have risked giving the advice: it was everything to him that Mrs. Farrant should feel the great difference between his conduct and her son's. On the whole, there was some reason in Donovan's complaint that autumn--life had always seemed to him hard and perplexing, and it grew more so.