Chapter VII: "o'er Moor and Fen."

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,
These three alone lead life to sovereign power,
Yet not for power (power of herself
Would come uncall'd for), but to live by law,
Acting the law we live by without fear;
And, because right is right, to follow right
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.
TENNYSON.

And after all the struggle seemed utterly useless, for the Exeter ---- Institute would not accept him as secretary. He was in every way suited for their purpose, and by far the most promising of the candidates; but in a close cross-examination the insuperable barrier was brought to light.

"And your religious views, sir?" asked the president. "As this is a charitable institution, we always make a point of knowing the views of our staff. It is well to be united. Do you belong to the High or Low party?"

"To neither," said Donovan, stiffly. "I am an atheist."

And in those four words lay his doom; because the institute was a _charitable_ one it could not help such a hardened sinner, could not let its accounts and letters be contaminated by his touch.

"I have come from a great distance in the hope of getting this post," said Donovan, swallowing his pride. "I am very much in need of work. Surely in the mechanical work of a secretary such a matter as one's private creed might be passed over. What difference can it make to anyone else?"

"My dear sir," said the head of the charitable institution, "I can only refer you to the Bible, where you will find the injunction: 'Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers,' and 'What part hath he that believeth with an infidel?'"

"Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun."

With the indifference of his kind, however, the frigid adherence to the letter, and the disregard of the spirit, a sort of bitter resolution awoke in Donovan's heart. He would not be doomed by a "charitable" institution, he would not sink down quietly into starvation. Life in itself was not worth a straw, but just from opposition, from a manly love of breasting "the blows of circumstance," he would struggle on, fight down all obstacles, live to be of use too, in spite of the president's specimen of Christian generosity and brotherliness. Fiercely through his teeth he quoted Shylock's passionate words, "Hath not a Jew eyes? ... fed with the same food ... warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is?"

He had been two days at Exeter; now returning to his lodgings, he sat down and resolutely went over all possible plans for his future. Should he go back to Greyshot? Mr. Alleyne, the man with whom he used to read, might possibly put him in the way of employment. It was not very likely, though, and there were many objections to a return to the old neighbourhood. Should he write to old Mr. Hayes? He might be at home again by this time, though in the winter Doery had said he was still abroad. But Mr. Hayes was poor, and would unquestionably think only of monetary help. No, that would not do. Should he go home and throw himself on his mother's mercy? But that thought was too wildly impracticable as well as too painful to be allowed for a moment. What connections had he in this part of the world? What had his father's business in Plymouth been, when four years ago they had gone there together? Searching back in his memory he at length recalled the name of his father's acquaintance, and remembered that he had described him as a pleasant elderly man. He was a banker--there would be no difficulty in finding his address.

He began a letter to him at once, a brief, business-like, stiff letter, not at all like that of a starving man asking for help. But then he had no intention of starving. He was young and strong-willed, undaunted still, notwithstanding his repulses.

Having despatched the letter, he made up his mind to follow it; there was no hope of finding work in this quiet old city; at Plymouth he would have more chance. He might just as well spend his time in getting there as in loafing about the Exeter streets. Getting there meant walking, for the proceeds of the clock were nearly exhausted, and would barely suffice to get him some sort of food and shelter, but he rather enjoyed the thought of the exercise, and even the prospect of "roughing it" a little.

So the next morning, with his few belongings stowed away in a small bag--the portmanteau had been discarded in Liverpool,--he set out on his walk. The natural energy of his character shone out strangely every now and then, in spite of the disastrous education which had so cramped it. No one meeting him that day, as he walked briskly along the Devonshire lanes, would have imagined that he was as poor as the veriest tramp, and had infinitely fewer resources than most beggars. His stern face was lighted up with resolute perseverance, there was a sparkle, not exactly of enjoyment, but of keen determination, in his eye; he held his head just as proudly as in the days when he had been Donovan Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor.

It was a lovely July day, a little hot for walking certainly, especially in the deep lanes where every breath of air seemed to be shut out; but there was something satisfactory about the whole excursion, and Donovan walked on steadily. The high hedges were in their full beauty--beautiful as only Devonshire hedges can be, with their broad green fringes of harts-tongues, their drooping lady ferns and sturdy bracken, their glorious wild roses and bramble bushes, with here and there a bit of mossy grey stone cropping out, or a miniature waterfall thrusting its silvery white head through the grasses, and tumbling with splash and splutter into the tiny wayside brook below. The smell of the new-mown hay gave a country fragrance to the air, and in most of the fields the men and women were hard at work, while wisps of sun-dried grass caught here and there on each side of the road proved that loaded waggons had already passed that way, leaving their trophies on the hedges.

Donovan had made up his mind to sleep at Chagford, and it was already late when he crossed Fingle Bridge. The view there was so exquisite, however, that he was obliged to stop for a few minutes; resting on the grey stone parapet, he looked down at the transparently clear river, along the green meadows and wooded valleys to the hills which, encircling all, stood out clearly defined against the soft evening sky. All was quiet and peaceful; in this country stillness and exquisite beauty, it seemed possible almost to realise that once all the world had been pronounced "very good." Donovan thought only, however, of the contrast of this peace with the world of competition, the overcrowded market of labourers in which he was trying to push his way. It was with a sigh that he turned away and walked on to the little grey town of Chagford, where the lights were beginning to shine out from the cottage windows, and the square tower of the church stood darkly above the lower roofs, a grim silent guardian.

Very early the next day he was on his way again, exulting in the fresh morning air, and greatly looking forward to the crossing of the moor. Waif scampered on in front, enjoying the exercise as much as his master, and Donovan found himself whistling as he walked. At length, leaving the cultivated region behind him, he struck across the wild waste of Dartmoor, and then the full delights of his walk came to him. The freshest, purest, strongest air in England was blowing in his face, his feet were treading a springy elastic soil, and all around him was a scene of the wildest beauty. The heather was not yet out, but the gorse blossoms still lingered, and made a golden glow over the great undulating expanse, while all round the tors raised their rugged, granite heads, now in full sunshine silvery white, now with a passing cloud shadow darkest purple--grotesque, fancifully shaped, irregular, and yet exactly harmonizing with the barren waste surrounding them.

On sped the dog and his master, now through marshy ground, springing from one tuft of heather to another, now up across the scattered granite blocks of a tor, and down again into a fresh featured waste on the other side, now startling a troop of the wild Dartmoor ponies which galloped away, their manes flying in the wind, and Waif barking at their heels, now stepping across one of the old British encampments with their imperishable "hut circles."

It was not till about five in the afternoon that he reached Prince Town, and then for the time his pleasure was clouded, for the first sight that greeted him was the great grey block of buildings where poor Noir Frewin had been unjustly immured. Passing some wretched little black cottages which are familiarly known as New London, he went down the hill to the town itself, on the way encountering a gang of convicts dragging a cart, and guarded by two warders, rifle in hand. The sight was a painful one, the men half patient, half sullen, looked at him curiously and envyingly; the warders urged them on.

Donovan had half thought of sleeping at Prince Town. He had been walking since seven o'clock that morning, and was rather tired, but the gloom of the place so oppressed him that he could not endure the thought of staying in it. He selected instead the cheapest-looking public house from the large number which the little place offered, had his dinner, and after a short rest prepared to go on again. The people of the house in vain tried to induce him to stay. He was not to be turned from his purpose, however, and having learnt that he could put up for the night at the "Dousland Barn Inn," if he went by the road, or at Sheepstor, if he went by the moor, he resolved to take the latter course.

By this time it was between six and seven in the evening, but he calculated that in even ordinary walking he should reach his destination before dusk, and with the bold outline of Sheepstor before him as a landmark, he steered his way across the waste. There was something awe-inspiring in the entire loneliness as he passed on further from Prince Town. Far and near not a creature, not a house was to be seen. Beauty, grandeur, even a faint shadow of the Infinite, who can fail to trace these in that glorious moor, unique in its wildness and expanse?

Involuntarily Donovan fell into a deep reverie. The purer nobler view of the world forced itself upon him; he had seen hitherto so little but the evil. And then naturally his thoughts went back to Dot, as they invariably did in his best moments, and he comforted himself in that terribly insufficient and yet pathetic way which Byron has expressed in one of his saddest poems.

"The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers
Shall never more be thine."

He had been walking on abstractedly; looking up at last, he was dismayed to find that a sudden mist had arisen, completely veiling the surrounding tors, and, what was worse, evidently spreading every minute. Here was a hindrance which he had never for a moment contemplated. The evening had seemed perfectly fine when he started; he had no compass, and had trusted implicitly to his eye in choosing the most direct route to Sheepstor. Now all traces of the tors were entirely obliterated.

It was not a very pleasant prospect. All manner of stories he had heard of travellers lost in the mist recurred to his memory; dismal tales of people who had wandered round and round in a circle for hours, never many yards distant from their starting-point, or of unfortunate pedestrians overcome by fatigue and cold. He stood still for a minute or two, called Waif to heel, and steadily faced the facts of the case. The mist was rolling nearer and nearer, hemming him in on every side; even now he could hardly see a yard in front of him! Although it was a July evening, the cold was enough to make him shiver; the mist pressed down on him impenetrably, every breath he drew brought him into closer contact with the heavy, damp, chill fog. Standing still was out of the question; he resolved to go on. Sheepstor lay, he thought, rather to his left, and as he had heard that the natural instinct in walking was to tend towards the right, he took a very decided course in the opposite direction.

On and on he went, ceaselessly but almost hopelessly on. He was growing very tired, too; the mist hung heavily upon him, he could not see an inch before his feet. Fearing that Waif might possibly stray, he had taken him up under his arm, and was plodding heavily along when he suddenly came to marshy ground. For three or four steps he floundered on, trying to regain the firm land, but what might have been done with sight, was simply impossible in the blinding mist. Another step, and he felt himself sinking deeper; a fierce struggle to free himself, and in a moment he was up to his knees in one of the treacherous Dartmoor bogs.

He uttered no invectives, but, when perfectly convinced of the hopelessness of struggling out, he drew Waif's head up so that he could look into the clear brown eyes.

"Waif, old boy," he said, "mother earth means to settle the question for us. Do you feel inclined to have done with your master, your bones, and biscuits, and wanderings?"

The dog, evidently understanding the danger, set up a howl so wildly piteous that Donovan's heart was touched.

"Poor old fellow, you'd rather go on, would you?"

And for a moment they looked full into each other's eyes with the strange comprehension that comes between some dogs and some men. Then Waif licked his master's face, and Donovan, all the time feeling that he was gradually sinking deeper, patted the white and tan head.

"Very well, Waif, as you say we'll have a try, take my hat, old boy," and he put his soft cloth hat into the dog's mouth, "scrunch it up, never mind! a hundred to one I shall never want it again! find a man if you can and bring him back here, do you understand? now go. There!" and with some effort he threw the dog as far from him as possible, and Waif, alighting where his trifling weight might be borne, tore off like the wind with the hat between his teeth.

In throwing the dog Donovan felt the soft ground beneath him sink considerably, an irresistible force sucked him down lower and lower, very soon he was up to his waist in the cold wet mud. Then he spread out both his arms and waited quietly for the end--whichever end it was to be.

He felt strangely indifferent. If death did come to him, why, then it would be well; if he was rescued, there would be the satisfaction of not being conquered by the affection of good mother earth, who, having dealt rather coldly with him all the days of his life, now seemed determined to hold him in a clinging embrace.

His jacket was not fastened, he could see three buttons of his waistcoat. With a sort of grim sense of the ludicrous he resolved to use them as a measuring gauge, by which he could judge how fast he was sinking. It was bitterly cold down in this wet slush, on the whole he rather looked forward to the end. What was that odd recollection that came to him? He was a little child again, and Doery's prim face rose before him.

"Asleep in church, Master Donovan! oh! for shame! I wonder you wasn't afraid you'd never open your eyes in this world again."

And in spite of his strange position, even now, he could not help laughing as he recalled his childish sense of discomfort, and how for several Sundays after that he had not been able to let his eyelids drop in peace.

The first button disappeared.

Then he wandered on to recollections of his life with the Frewins, how they would wonder what had become of him! He was back in Drury Lane with Sweepstakes abusing him. He was in a railway carriage, and Noir was waving the cards before his eyes in the three card trick. He was sitting in the park and a bright-faced girl near him was talking of home, the sort of home which he had never been able to realise.

The second button disappeared.

Then he felt a strange impression of having been through this scene before, of having felt the cold wall of mist hemming him in, and after a time he remembered it had been in his nightmare about Dot. And over and over the words rang in his ears;

"The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine."

"You are safe, Dot, my darling. ''Tis nothing that I loved so well,' I would not have you back even to the days that were ours. And the worst may be over for me, Dot, ended here out on Dartmoor!"

The third button disappeared.

"I wish I had not gone to that billiard-room," he mused, "I wish I could have died satisfied at least that my will was as strong as I used to think it. To fail! how hateful it is to fail! If I thought that I could get on, and not come to grief again so weakly, I should almost wish to get out of this bog and have another try."

The mist had now rolled away, but it was almost dark and the stars were shining above him. The night wind blew through his hair, waved the cotton grass growing around him, sighed and moaned over the desolate country. Nature sang him her dreariest death-song. Ah, well! death could not be more dreary than his life had been!

By this time he was up to his shoulders, and was obliged to raise his arms, the grass and rushes blew against his face. It was exceedingly unlikely that Waif would find help. In a very short time he must inevitably die. What a strange ending to his stormy life! strange and yet perhaps not inappropriate, to die here alone in the darkness, as he had lived, the grandeur and beauty and majesty of the great moor close to him, all around, but shrouded in the black night; faint imperfect images of the beautiful tors presented to him now and then, but never a true idea of their form.

By-and-by came a light, flickering wavering far in the distance. Was it a Will o' the wisp? Could he hold out any longer? Could he keep rigidly motionless till this possible help should reach him? A sort of dogged endurance and hatred of yielding came to renew his failing powers, his voice clear and strong rang out into the night. Yet why did he call? why did he not yield, and sink down quietly into nothingness? For an instant life and death, the chances of each, hung in a perfectly even balance, and his indifference turned to a decided wish for the end of the struggle. Should he call again? he thought not. But just as he was making his final resolution to keep the silence which would inevitably lead to death, he heard Waif's sharp anxious bark from afar.

"My dog, I won't be such a selfish brute," he exclaimed, realising Waif's faithful devotion, and thinking of his despair if the search should be of no use. "Ho! here! help!" and then, with his usual whistle, he tried to attract the dog's notice.

In a few minutes Waif was close to him, whining with delight, snorting with impatience, and tearing madly backwards and forwards between the approaching lantern and his submerged master. Then the bearer of the lantern came into view, a sturdy Devonshire farmer, and his almost equally sturdy son. Donovan hailed them eagerly.

"Veth!" exclaimed the farmer, "stogg'd in Foxtor Mire that ye are!"

"Set fast here for hours," said Donovan.

"No tauny bye! (_don't tell me!_)" exclaimed the good man, much shocked. "But we'd best talk when the deed's dune. The missus she says to me, 'maister, you take the laistest bit o' rope with ye, likely it's a bog accident.' So lay ye hold, my man, fast hold o' the end, and veth! we'll sune have ye safe and dry. Hold on, my man, and sure as my name's John Peek we'll have ye safe."

Then, with a tremendous effort, the sturdy Devonshire men pulled at the rope till Donovan's shoulders were free once more. After that they hastily threw a noose round him, and with infinite difficulty succeeded at length in dragging him from his slimy grave.

In a few minutes Donovan, encrusted in black mud, and so stiff and weary that he could hardly drag himself along, was safely on terra firma once more, and Waif, proud and happy, was springing about his feet.

Partly from physical causes, and partly from his sudden removal from the near contemplation of death, he fell into a half dreamy state, was not sure whether the sturdy farmer and his son were not after all shadows, even doubted whether Waif was not an illusion, while every weary step he took seemed to add to his strange indifference as to what was to become of him. If left to himself he would have plodded on and on till he dropped.

But John Peek was at his elbow--he was too muddy to be touched--piloting him across the moor in the direction of the farm, talking in his half unintelligible Devonshire dialect, and at length leading him through the yard gate, across the roughly-paved granite road to the little white farm house where he lived. At the sound of their footsteps the wife hastened out, a comely Devonshire woman, her short skirt, crossed neckerchief, smooth hair, and healthy-looking face, all as fresh and neat as could be. The husband explained matters, and Donovan was hurried into the kitchen, where, what with the warmth of the peat fire, the contrast between his horrible state of filth and the exquisite cleanliness of the place, added to the extreme difficulty of understanding the dialect of the farmer and his wife, he gradually came to himself, realised that he was actually alive, that his surroundings were no shadowy phantoms of the imagination, that he was still Donovan Farrant, possessed of little but a dog and a will which had failed, and with a blank future beyond, in which his primary object must be--not to starve.

In the immediate present, however, his only wish was to be clean once more, and with some difficulty he made himself understood. Evidently the farmer's wife thought cleanliness next to godliness, and fully sympathised with the desire.

"Zich a jakes (_such a mess_) as never was seen, fit to make my flesh crip, ess fay it is! Come ye up, zur, come ye up over the stairs," and the good woman led the way up the spotless staircase to a room above, where, with much ado, she brought a huge wooden washing tub, hot water, an enormous piece of soap, even a scrubbing-brush, crowning all her favours by fetching him an entire set of her husband's clothes!

Cincinnatus handled the plough, and doubtless wore the equivalent for fustian. History does not relate how he looked in rustic guise, but Donovan, with his "Roman" face and unmistakeable air of refinement, presented a very comical appearance in Farmer Peek's marketing costume. But the comfort of being dry and clean again was great, and he joined the farmer and his family in the kitchen, feeling able to speak the thanks for his rescue which till now had remained unsaid.

"And now zet down, zur, zet down, for ye hike mortal vagg'd," said the farmer, drawing up one of the Windsor chairs to the hearth. "Likely ye had a gude walk before ye got stogg'd i' the mire?"

"Yes, from Chagford," said Donovan, stretching his feet out to the smouldering peats.

"No, tanny bye! on the trat the whole blessed day!" exclaimed the wife, "and ye hike crewel tender."

He laughed and disclaimed any "tenderness."

"Zich walks isn't for the likes of ye," said the farmer, with a shrewd look at the wearer of his market-day suit; "ye should lave it to us pewer folk--it's not for gintry and passons."

Donovan could not help smiling at finding himself classed with parsons.

"I am poor," he said--"a tramp."

"Aw!" exclaimed the farmer, shaking his head with a knowing smile, "ye won't make us belave that, zur--no, no, us knows the gintry when we zee 'em."

"In spite of which, I am poor and a tramp," said Donovan; "and what few things I had left went down into Foxtor Mire."

"Ah, gude heaven!" exclaimed the wife, "it was a mercy ye didn't go yurself; but what will ye plase to take for zupper, zur? there's cream i' the dairy, and----"

"Whatever you would have for yourselves, nothing else," said Donovan.

The woman hesitated; he spoke as if he meant to be obeyed, but her hospitable soul longed to set the best things in the house before the hero of the evening.

"Veth, zur, it's not fitty for zich as ye," she began, but Donovan interrupted her.

"Nothing else, thank you," and his tone, more than the actual words, convinced the good woman that nothing but the usual supper must be prepared.

So Donovan sat down with the farmer and his wife to broth and "kettle-bread," and then, at his own request, was allowed to establish himself for the night before the fire; for, in spite of the summer evening, he had been so thoroughly chilled that he was glad of the warmth.

Before long all was quiet in the house; Donovan, with Waif at his feet, lay very still but very much awake in the little kitchen. By this time all might have been over for him--how strange was the thought! He might have entered on the "peace of nothingness;" life might have been over, perplexities solved by the great silence, no trace of him left even, to carry sorrow to his mother or remorse to Ellis; and instead of this, he was still in the world, lying on his back moralising by the light of a peat fire!

It was a curious accident which had brought him like this under a hospitable roof; he had been in many odd places, but never in quite such a homely place as this. Half dreamily he let his eyes wander round the white-washed walls; opposite him was the tall eight-day clock, and a large copper warming-pan reflecting the dull red glow of the fire; above the high mantelshelf two rather ancient-looking guns, and a great array of tin pots and platters; below, a spotless white dimity frill hanging over the wide hearth; overhead, in the black rafters, hung sundry hams.

His own clothes were hanging up to dry as near the peats as the farmer's wife would allow, and glancing from them to the borrowed garments he wore, and for the first time realising that Farmer Peek was at least six inches shorter and immeasurably stouter than himself, that the fustian clothes hung about him in folds, and that his whole appearance was most utterly grotesque, he burst out laughing--laughed till the wooden rafters rang, till Waif started up and began to wag his tail sympathetically, till inevitably he would have roused the farmer and his wife, had they not slept as soundly as the Seven Sleepers. Certainly the personal danger he had been in had not awed him as a moralist might have desired; he went to sleep with nothing more sober in his thoughts than a verse out of Dot's "Nonsense Book"--

"There was an old man of the West
Who wore a pale plum-coloured vest;
When they asked--does it fit?
He replied, not a bit,
That funny old man of the West."

The next morning came the rather humiliating necessity of explaining to the farmer his utter inability to reward him for his rescue and his hospitality. He was received, however, with all the delightful warm-heartedness and real courtesy so general in the west country.

"Aw! zur, ye didn't think a wanted money! It's treu us a given ye the laistest bit of a help, but God bless ye, zur, us has been plased to du it."

"When I get on in the world, I shall not forget you, Mr. Peek," said Donovan, with firm confidence in the "when." "All I can do now is to thank you very much for your hospitality."

"Veth, zur, you're welcome. Us wull be plased to zee ye again, and I wish ye weel in zaking zarvice."

"Seeking service!" Donovan smiled, but the expression was true enough. He wished his worthy host good-bye, managed to leave his last coin--half-a-crown--in the market-day coat, and set off briskly on his fourteen mile walk to Plymouth.

Skirting round the foot of Sheepstor, he was soon on the road, with the bold outlines of Sharpitor and Leathertor on one hand, and far in the distance a line of silvery brightness where the sunlight fell on the sea. Life felt good. On the whole, he felt really glad that the blue vault was above him, not the black mud of the bog. Towards the afternoon, however, when he had been walking some hours, his spirits sank. The heat tried him a good deal; he began to feel very stiff and tired, as well he might after his adventure of the previous evening. And with the physical exhaustion came a degree less of confidence in the future. What if his father's acquaintance, Mr. X----, refused to help him? What if he could find no employment now? He walked on heavily, but still with resolution--come ill or well, he was ready to face it manfully, but his cheerfulness disappeared, and it was a stern-faced and very oddly-dressed candidate who presented himself at the door of the bank, and asked to see Mr. X----, the manager.

The bank was closed, but one of the clerks appeared in answer to his ring, and directed him to the manager's private house. He went there, and, with the bearing of a proud man forced to ask a favour, was shown into Mr. X----'s library.

A handsome keen-faced gentleman of about five and thirty was sitting at the table writing. He glanced up as Donovan was announced, scanned him from head to foot without rising, then bowed stiffly. This was Donovan's view.

Mr. X----, on the other hand, saw before him a tall, gaunt, handsome fellow, apparently about five and twenty, in clothes which were stained and shrunk to such a degree that a tramp would scarcely have said "thank you" for them, holding a ragged cloth hat in his band, and in spite of his beggarly array, carrying his head very high. Such a shabby-looking fellow as this could hardly be asked to sit down on one of Mr. X----'s new red-morocco chairs. The good farmer's wife had carefully dusted the Windsor chair for him the night before, the banker was not so courteous or so well-bred. Throughout the interview Donovan stood.

The banker briefly asked his business. It appeared that the elder Mr. X---- had died two years before; the present one had never heard of Colonel Farrant. And then, after a few mutual explanations, Mr. X----'s rather quick peremptory manner became a little more suave as he said,

"You must, I think, see, Mr. Farrant, that your claims upon me are of the very slightest. Our respective fathers knew each other--at least, you tell me so. Even should I take you at your word without seeking to prove this to be the fact, however, it is hardly sufficient ground for--in short, you understand me, I am sure. I need not explain myself further."

"I understand perfectly," said Donovan, coldly. "You think I am come to beg. I am quite aware that I look like a beggar, thanks to one of your Devonshire bogs; but nothing is further from my thoughts. You were the only person I knew in the neighbourhood. I want work, and thought you might be able to advise me where to try for it."

"I am afraid, Mr. Farrant, you are a novice in these matters," said the banker. "One cannot at a moment's notice cause situations to spring up ready to hand; besides, in the letter I received from you from Exeter, you gave me no particulars and no references."

"I have none to give," said Donovan, shortly.

"You can at least tell me what your previous employment has been."

"I have only just returned from the Continent."

The banker looked at him a little curiously.

"And before that?"

Donovan coloured slightly, but answered, firmly,

"Before that I was a card-sharper."

The banker started.

"Bless me! and after this you expect me to patronise you, Mr. Farrant?"

"On the contrary," said Donovan, quietly, "I see plainly that that is the last thing you will do."

There was irony in the tone; the banker smiled a little, looked again at his strange visitor, and saw that, in spite of the beggarly array, he was evidently a clever fellow. He liked clever fellows, and his next remark sounded much more cordial; but Donovan's sensitive pride at once recoiled from the slight touch of vulgarity.

"I see you're sharp enough, Mr. Farrant, no lack of brains; but even if I knew of any situation likely to suit you, what guarantee should I have that you might not prove a little too sharp again?"

"No guarantee," said Donovan, wincing. "But I should hardly have answered your question with such perfect openness, if I had been the knave you take me for. I can give you no guarantee but my honour."

"And in business that would hardly answer," said Mr. X----, with a sharp-edged smile; "besides, the honour of an ex----"

"Good afternoon," said Donovan, moving to the door.

"Stay, stay," said the banker; "that was rather hard lines. I can't help you to a situation, Mr. Farrant, but you seem in a very bad way, and as I see you're a clever fellow I will break through my ordinary rule. Day and Martin made their fortunes by giving away a stray sovereign, and, though I can hardly hope to do that, I have still great pleasure in giving you some small assistance."

He fumbled in his pocket, produced a gold coin, and pressed it into his visitor's hand.

There are some deeds of so-called "charity" which wound more deeply than actual unkindness, some favours which are more hard to endure than blows, some ways of giving so utterly intolerable to the recipient that even in need they must be rejected.

Donovan was actually penniless, he felt stiff, weary, ill, and already very hungry, but no power on earth could have brought him to accept the banker's tactless, ill-bred offer. He put down the sovereign, bowed, and hurried out of the house.

For a time indignation and those heart-stirrings which follow after an insult has been received kept him up; he tramped up and down the Hoe physically strong again because of the inward tumult of feeling. Then he wandered into the town, lounged wearily about the streets,

"Homeless near a thousand homes,"

and worse than homeless, utterly destitute in every way, sick at heart, ashamed of his past, miserable in the present, and hopeless as to the future.

When St. Andrew's clock struck nine, he was standing at the corner of the churchyard idly watching the passers-by, wishing that night d come that he might hide himself in the darkness and forget his weariness in sleep. But as time passed he grew more and more uneasy, and the dread of illness began to haunt him painfully; he had certainly eaten nothing since early morning, but that was not sufficient to account for the growing faintness which was stealing over him. He had had a dim idea of enlisting, but that faded away now, he was too wretched to wish for anything but shelter for the night, precisely the thing he had not.

There were only three alternatives, either he must break his resolution again and trust to his customary skill and good fortune, or he must try to sell Waif, or he must adopt the beggar's shelter--an arch or a doorway.

A sharp struggle was needed to dismiss the first idea, the merest glance at the dog to prove the second impossible; then in pain and great weariness he wandered on once more. Only a month or two before he had had more money than he knew what to do with--it was strange to look back to the old life, with its excitement and success, and self-indulgence--and now, through his own doing, he was utterly cut off from it all. But he knew that it was well, and in a larger sense than before the words which had haunted him on Dartmoor came to him now,

"The worst can be but mine."

Failure, pain, ruin, starvation, all these were apparently his destiny; he felt that they were endurable because they involved no harm to others; it had been a choice of life and pleasure at the expense of his honour and his fellow-men, and death and suffering affecting himself alone. His contact with the world had changed his views greatly; a year ago he had been a misanthrope, now he saw the position of self and others inverted.

More than four years had gone by since the grave-looking Indian colonel and his son had passed up the steps of the Royal Hotel. Donovan, fresh from his school disgrace, full of hurt pride and bitter resentment of the injustice, had spent no very comfortable night there. Unlikely as it may seem, he slept a great deal better beneath the porch of one of the neighbouring houses than he had done before in the luxurious room. With Waif crouched up as near him as possible for the sake of warmth, with the cold night wind blowing on him, he slept well; in the old times he had been his own slave, now he was "lord of himself." Disheartened, humbled, with widened sympathies and self thrust low, he was now, in spite of the verdict of the president, a truer follower of Christ than some professing Christians, the only difference being that he followed bravely and painfully in the darkness, not even knowing his goal, while many of them in their full light follow sleepily and lazily, attaining to little of the broad-hearted love and self-abnegation to which they have pledged themselves.

Donovan did not dream, he was too completely worn out; his sleep was heavy and unbroken; but he woke early the next morning with a name in his mind--Porthkerran. What brought it there he could not tell. In thinking over his acquaintance in the West at Exeter, he had naturally remembered the Tremains; but it seemed utterly improbable that a doctor in a remote Cornish village would be able to help him to work, and he had never thought even of applying to him. But now, in the freshness of the July day, as he dragged himself up from his resting-place, and felt the utter impossibility of seeking work in his present state, the thought of Porthkerran, of the kindly doctor, of Mrs. Tremain, came to him as a light in his darkness. He was at that stage of illness when pride--even the pride of independence--is brought low, and though he had rejected the banker's sovereign but a few hours before, the idea of going to the Tremains and asking their help did not seem hard to him.

The only question was, should he ever get there? To loiter about in Plymouth in search of work would be both useless and impossible; but with an actual goal, a definite thing to be done, it was different. He made up his mind to go, and set off on the long walk patiently and deliberately, though anyone with a degree less of courage and resolution would have succumbed at once.

When he had walked about five or six miles the full difficulties of his undertaking came to him. On first waking he had felt ill indeed, but the sleep had to some extent refreshed him, and it was not till later in the morning that the unknown pains of hunger beset him. Still he toiled on, always on, with aching head and failing limbs, while above the summer sun blazed down on him in fullest power. What if the Tremains were no longer at Porthkerran? What if they turned him away because of his previous life, or his religious views? These were his only thoughts as he struggled on. By-and-by came faintness, and he was obliged to stagger to the side of the road and lie down on the grass, and then he lost count of time, and was very dimly aware that the intolerable heat and glare changed to cloudy coolness; it was not till a heavy shower of rain began that he came fully to himself, staggered to his feet once more, and resumed his walk.

For more than an hour the rain fell ceaselessly; when it stopped, he was soaked to the skin and very cold; even when the sun came out once more he was shivering from head to foot. How much farther could he manage? A sign-post, with "Porthkerran three miles," rather comforted him; he must and would get there, and once more be forced himself to go forward.

The road lay now along the cliffs overlooking the deep blue sea. Donovan scarcely noticed anything, however, and it was not till the ringing clang of metal fell upon his ear that he looked up. By the side of the road was a blacksmith's forge; the blazing fire looked tempting; he entered the shed, and asked leave to warm himself.

The smith, a fine-looking man, with thick black hair tinged with grey, and eyes of deep blue like the Cornish seas, turned round quickly on hearing himself addressed.

"Come in, friend, and welcome."

The voice was a hearty one, but the smith was busy, and turned to his hammer and anvil once more, while Donovan drew near to the fire, and felt a little temporary relief from the warmth.

Presently wheels were heard, and a carriage stopped at the door; the smith put down his hammer and stepped briskly forward.

"Well, doctor--gude day to you--cast his shue, has he?"

Donovan heard the words distinctly, but they conveyed no meaning to his mind; he stared down vacantly into the glowing furnace, not even turning his head to see either the horse or the driver. A man's voice was explaining.

"Half a mile back, Trevethan. How long will you take to put him on a fresh one? I'm in a hurry to be at Mr. Penruddock's."

"Slow and sure, doctor--not less nor a quarter hour, and maybe more."

"Why don't you walk to the Penruddocks', papa? I can hold Star, and Ajax is so quiet there'll be no fear of his doing any harm."

It was a girl's mellow voice speaking--a voice in which there lurked laughter, tenderness, and yet a quaint sort of dignity. Donovan recognised it in a moment, and with a sudden return of strength and energy hurried to the door.