Chapter VIII: One and All

Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide
The lowliest brother straying from thy side;
If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own,
If wrong, the verdict is for God alone.
* * * * * * * * *
Strive with the wanderer from the better path,
Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath;
Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall,
Have thine own faith, but hope and pray for all.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

One glance at the little group without told him everything. There was the smith scrutinizing Star's shoeless foot; standing beside the other pony was Dr. Tremain himself, a little greyer than he had been four years ago, but not much altered; and in the pony-carriage sat Donovan's ideal, whom he knew now to be Miss Tremain--Gladys Tremain--for the unusual name recurred to his memory with the thought of the evening when he had first seen her in her own home, had heard her singing words which had moved him strangely.

With this sudden revelation, all thought of his present state of need passed from his mind; he only felt that he must do something for her, and with a word to the smith he went to Star's head.

"Ah! that'll du, doctor; now ye can go up to Squire Penruddock's; here's a chap as'll hold the pony steady."

Instinctively Donovan kept his face turned from Dr. Tremain; he could not bear to risk being recognised just then. The doctor saw only a tall figure in very shabby clothes--some friend of Trevethan's, he supposed; he merely glanced at him, told Gladys to drive on to meet him when the pony was shod, and walked away in the direction from which Donovan had just come.

The wind had risen, a west wind, and it blew strongly, though not coldly. Donovan could see the ribbons on Gladys' hat fluttering, though, after the first, he did not directly look at her, but kept his face half hidden. He could hear her talking to Trevethan, and once or twice some antic of Star's made her laugh. She was evidently a favourite with the blacksmith; Donovan could see how the man's blue eyes lit up when she spoke to him.

Gladys, meanwhile, looked curiously at the motionless figure at Star's head. She had seen him as he came out of the shed, but for such a moment that she had only caught a sort of vision of a very pale, worn face. Who could he be? Some one whom Trevethan knew, or merely a tramp? Yet his attire was scarcely like a tramp's; shrunk, and stained, and dirty as it was, it had a look of better days about it. Who was he? She wished he had not been quite so near, for it was impossible to ask the blacksmith any questions about him. Ought she to give him something for holding the pony? Looking at him again, she was sure that he was visibly shivering, and that decided her. She opened her purse, and took out a sixpence. He looked ill, and cold, and very poor. He had been very good in holding Star; assuredly he ought to have something.

All this time she had only seen his back. When the shoeing was finished, and Trevethan had been paid, she drew up the reins, and rather shyly said, "Thank you for your help," holding out the coin to him as she spoke.

Oddly, though she had been rather curious to see his face, in putting the sixpence into his hand she looked at that; then, startled to find a smooth white palm instead of a hand roughened by hard work, she looked up quickly and saw a face which seemed partly familiar to her, a face with chiselled features, and dark cavernous eyes with a look of pain in them. But even as she first glanced at him his lips smiled slightly; he raised his hat.

"Oh! I beg your pardon. I did not see," she stammered, looking at the slender fingers which had closed over her sixpence, and colouring crimson.

"Thank you," he replied, in a tone which she could not mistake for sarcasm. "I am very much obliged to you."

Then he raised his hat again, and turned away; and Gladys drove off with hot cheeks. Where had she seen him before?

Donovan went back to the forge, partly for the sake of warming himself, partly in the hope of learning something about the Tremains. The blacksmith was busy, however, and he could only elicit the information that "that was their doctor up to Porthkerran, and a rale gude one he was;" that "Miss Gladys did gude to everyone she spoke to, and was like a bit of God's sunshine, and no mistake," with a few other most patent and obvious facts. Then, all the time swinging his great hammer, Trevethan began singing one of Wesley's hymns, and before he had come to the end, the pony-carriage passed the door once more.

"Will the doctor be going home now?" asked Donovan, as soon as he could make himself heard.

"Yes, belike," said the blacksmith, pausing in his work, and looking at his companion. "You'd du weel, friend, to go and see him, for you look mortal vagg'd. If you're passin' this way again, come and take your tae with me. You shall have a gude welcome."

"Thank you," said Donovan, touched by the off-hand yet real hospitality.

Then Trevethan having directed him to the doctor's house, which he already knew well enough, he set off once more.

Before he had gone far, a turn in the road brought him in sight of the Tremains' pony-carriage. It was standing still. Drawing nearer, he saw Gladys standing, bare-headed, on the verge of the cliff, her sunny hair blowing about in the wind. She seemed to be searching for something. Dr. Tremain, holding the reins at arm's length, was also peering down.

"Better give it up, my dear," Donovan heard him say. "We couldn't reach it, even if we could see it."

"Can I be of any use?" asked Donovan, coming towards the two. "Is anything lost?"

"My hat," said Gladys, turning round, but colouring as she saw who the speaker was.

Donovan's quick eyes were soon scanning every nook and cranny of the rugged cliff, and, after a minute's steady progress up and down, he detected far below a tiny moving speck, which he pronounced to be an end of ribbon.

"Will you allow me to fetch it for you?" he asked, forgetting his weakness and weariness in his desire to serve her.

"Oh! no, it is so far down," she said, quickly. "It is not the least worth while."

But Donovan was not to be deterred from the errand by its difficulty, and disregarding Dr. Tremain's remonstrances, he began to clamber down the cliff in a way which showed that he was either well used to the Cornish coast, or else an expert gymnast.

"He held Star just now at the forge," said Gladys to her father. "And I am sure I have seen him before, papa. Who can he be?"

The doctor was too intent on watching the descent, however, to answer, and when he did speak it was only to exclaim,

"Well done! he's got it." And then to criticise his way of setting about the ascent. "Quite right, he means to keep to the left, and skirt round that great boulder; bravo! that was cleverly managed. Come, Gladys, after this you'll have to make a speech. It's really very good of this young fellow. Hullo! though, he's slipped."

For Donovan had trusted to an insecure foothold, and had slipped down about six feet. Gladys gave a little cry, but happily a projecting boulder prevented any danger of a serious fall, and the two watchers saw that at least their helper was in no immediate peril. He was quite still, though; that began to frighten them.

"Are you hurt?" shouted the doctor.

But no answer came, and the figure still remained crouched up in the same position. Dr. Tremain felt very uneasy, but in two or three minutes Gladys gave a relieved exclamation.

"See, papa, he moves, he is getting up again."

They could see the tall figure struggling up, indeed, but the doctor saw at once that something was wrong.

"Are you hurt?" he shouted once more.

"Yes," came back the answer, "but I'll manage it in a minute."

He had fallen with his ankle twisted under him, and had given it a sprain; it was indeed a very awkward situation, for the cliff was steep and hard to climb, and now, with the acute pain he was suffering, it seemed almost impossible; he looked at the little white hat hanging on his arm, and he looked up the grey cliff to Gladys. After all it only needed patience and a resolute disregard of the pain--he would try it. But it was infinitely harder than he expected, over and over again he turned dizzy, and was obliged to pause, and at last each step became a perfect battle. He could not attempt to answer the questions which reached him from above, every power was strained to its utmost in the physical struggle, in the conflict between the resolutely persevering "I will," and the overwhelming pain and weakness and difficulty.

At length, with an almost superhuman effort, he dragged himself up to the top, grasped the doctor's outstretched hands, crawled on to the smooth grassy plateau bordering the cliff, and, without a word, sank down prone, while Waif, with low whines, walked round and round him in great distress. Large drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, yet his face expressed little but hard fixed resoluteness, the iron will leaving its tokens even in semi-consciousness. The doctor looked at him intently fora moment, then he raised him so that his head rested on Gladys' knee, and prepared to examine his ankle. The merest touch caused a sharp thrill of pain, and Donovan opened his eyes.

"Oh! I am so very, very sorry," said poor Gladys. "I am afraid you have hurt yourself dreadfully."

"Only a sprain, I think," he answered, faintly, and then his eyes closed again.

"We must get him home as soon as possible," said the doctor. "I will bring up the pony-carriage as near as may be, and I think, Gladys, you had better run back to the forge and ask Trevethan to come and help. We shall be less likely to pain him if there are two of us to lift him in."

The doctor went to see to the pony-chaise, and Gladys was just going to obey him, when she was startled by a peremptory, "No, don't go," from the prostrate figure she was supporting. Then, to her dismay, he slowly raised himself and staggered towards the carriage.

"You should not have tried it," remonstrated the doctor, helping him in, and making him put up his foot at once on the opposite seat. "Now, Gladys, jump in quickly and drive us home. I shall sit here," and he established himself beside the injured ankle, holding it in a way which lessened the jar of the wheels.

The last exertion had proved too much even for Donovan's strength, however; he was only dimly conscious now, just realising from the pain that he was being driven somewhere, where he neither knew nor cared, or whether this half dream of incessant motion and incessant pain went on for ever and ever. All seemed a matter of supreme indifference. When the carriage at last stopped he felt no curiosity as to what was to follow, and, after a few minutes' pause, submitted without a word to being lifted out and borne somewhere, never once raising his eyelids to see what they were doing with him. Presently he became aware that his boot was being cut, and then came an instant's sharp pain, and he fainted.

Everyone who has experienced it knows the extreme discomfort of a return to consciousness. Donovan came to quickly, however, partly aided by an odd association. The very first thing he distinguished was the smell of brandy, then he felt a glass held to his lips. From sheer annoyance he gained strength to push it away, and in weak, but decidedly cross tones, said quickly,

"Get away with your abomination, Rouge; I tell you I won't touch it!"

"Don't trouble him, he's coming to," said the doctor, and then Donovan, fully roused by the words, half raised himself and looked round.

"I beg your pardon," he said to the doctor, "I thought I was with some one else."

"I am afraid I hurt you a good deal just now; I ought to have seen you were getting faint and given you a restorative first," said Dr. Tremain.

"Faint!" cried Donovan, with all a man's dislike of making a scene. "You don't mean that I fainted."

"Certainly, the moment I touched your foot," said the doctor, smiling; "and, what is more, you will be fainting again before long if you don't take something. Try this," and he poured some milk into a tumbler and held it to his lips.

Donovan drank it and revived a little.

"It was not the pain," he said, abruptly, "I was half starved." Then glancing round the room, he continued in an odd, forced voice, "You shouldn't have brought me to your house; is there no workhouse or hospital at Porthkerran?"

"You shall consider this your hospital; I can promise you at least one resident doctor and several nurses," said Dr. Tremain, smiling.

"Don't laugh," said Donovan, "it is no laughing matter; I haven't a farthing in the world, I'm worse off than most beggars; couldn't you have seen by these that I wasn't fit for you to take in," and he touched his clothes.

"My dear fellow, do you think that makes any difference, or that we show our hospitality in Cornwall by shipping off our helpers to the workhouse? Come, don't talk nonsense, but tell me when you had your last meal."

"Yesterday morning between eight and nine."

"Whew!" the doctor gave a slight whistle, felt his patient's pulse again, and, turning to the servant, gave orders for some gruel to be made at once. When that had been administered, Donovan sank into a sort of doze. Presently he knew that a fresh voice was speaking, a low, pleasant voice. He came to that borderland of sleep when words begin to convey some meaning, the quiet mist-wreathed entrance to full consciousness.

"Has he got everything he wants?"

"Everything just now; he is simply worn out. Gladys has told you how we met him, I suppose."

"Yes, everything. I wish I had been at home when you came back. Is it a very bad sprain?"

"I daresay it wasn't at first, but imagine climbing up the cliff near the forge after he'd done it! There's good in that fellow, depend upon it; it was a spirited thing to do, especially in the state he was in. He owned he was half starved."

"Poor boy! I wonder how he happened to be in such straits."

Donovan began to show signs of waking; the voices ceased, but he felt a soft hand putting back the hair from his forehead; it reminded him of the feel of little Dot's tiny fingers, and then, with a rush of shame, he felt how unfit he was for such tenderness.

Suddenly opening his eyes, and half sitting up, he said, quickly,

"Look, you must get me moved in some way, I'm not fit to stay here."

Mrs. Tremain thought him feverish; but the doctor partly understood him.

"He is afraid of giving trouble; you must tell him there is nothing you like better than nursing."

"No," interrupted Donovan, "that is not it; listen to me, and then, if you will--turn me out; you won't be the first who has done so. I was once a card-sharper. I haven't a penny in the world. I am an atheist. Was I wrong in saying you would be wiser if you turned me out of doors?"

"Quite wrong," said the doctor, in an odd, quiet voice.

Then there was silence for a few minutes, and Donovan felt the soft woman's hand on his hair once more. For a moment he breathed hard, and there was a quiver in his voice when he said at last,

"I had given up expecting to be tolerated after that confession. I don't know why you are so different from other people. I might have guessed, though, that you would be. Mrs. Tremain," he looked steadily up at her, "do you remember me?"

She gazed at him in perplexity, half remembering the face, and yet utterly unable to say where she had seen it. He raised his hand and pushed back the dark waves of hair from his forehead, revealing a long, white seam, the ineffaceable mark of his old wound. And with the sight there flashed back into Mrs. Tremain's mind a vision of the past.

"Mr. Farrant!" she exclaimed.

"Donovan Farrant--yes."

The doctor stood with an expression of surprise and great uneasiness on his face. If this were Donovan Farrant, how came it that he was a penniless adventurer? How came it that little more than a year after reaching majority he had come to Porthkerran in a state of semi-starvation? There must have been foul play somewhere. That will he had witnessed could not have been properly executed, or such a state of things could not have been. This evening, though, he must ask no questions, his patient was not fit for it. So he put away the uncomfortable thoughts as well as he could, and, coming forward, took Donovan's hand in his.

"I remember you very well now. I wonder I did not at first; but you are a good deal changed. We have often thought of you, and wondered whether you would ever come down to see Porthkerran again. I was glad to have you before I knew your name, and, knowing it, I am doubly glad. But now, as your doctor, I must forbid any more talking. Some more food first, and then you'd better settle in for the night."

"One thing more," said Donovan, "do you realise that there are two of us?" and he pointed to Waif. "He's all I have in the world. I can't part with him."

"Not even last night when you were starving?"

Donovan shook his head.

"Perhaps, though, I ought not to ask you to take him in, beggars can't be choosers."

"My dear fellow," said the doctor, laughing, and patting the dog's head, "will you never learn to believe that we are not utter brutes. Of course, the dog is welcome to spend the rest of his life here. I must quote the Cornish motto to you--'One and all.'"

With these words echoing in his ears, Donovan lay watching the busy preparations for the night which were being made by Mrs. Tremain and the servant. The room he had been carried to was on the ground floor, a schoolroom, he fancied, but now busy hands were converting it into a bed-room, and busy feet without were hurrying up and down the stairs, and along the passages, fetching and carrying. "One and all"--they were certainly carrying out their motto! And Donovan, who would have been sorely chafed by having to submit to a grudging service, watched his present nurses almost with pleasure. The comfort, too, of being in a home-like room again was very great. He ran through in his mind all the wretched places he had slept in, from the room in Drury Lane to his last night's shelter under a porch. Philosophically as he had endured them, it was, nevertheless, an unspeakable comfort to be again where all was fresh and clean, a relief, too, to be not in a mere living place, but a home. He read the titles of the books in the bookshelf, then glanced round the walls, half fearing to see once more his old enemy, the dingy oil-painting of the shipwreck. Instead, however, he found Wilkie's "Blind Man's Buff," next to that an elaborate chart of the kings of England, with illuminated shields and devices, which, no doubt, had been painted by Gladys; then a print of a "Holy Family," by Raphael, and lastly, just opposite him, Ary Scheffer's "Christ the Consoler."

He looked at this long and earnestly, struck by the great beauty of the idea it embodied, and, through the wakeful feverish night which followed, the vision of the face of Christ and the thought of the Cornish motto haunted him incessantly.

The next day, the doctor not being at all satisfied with his patient's state, and being besides anxious to learn the reasons of his poverty, induced him to speak of his past life.

"You are not nearly so strong-looking as when I saw you last," he began, drawing a chair up to the bedside. "Tell me what you have been doing with yourself, and then perhaps I shall understand your case better."

"It was four years ago that I saw you," replied Donovan. "It's likely enough I should be changed since then. Do you want the whole story?"

"As much as you feel inclined to tell," said Dr. Tremain. "Both as your friend and as your doctor I shall be glad to hear. After you left Porthkerran, you went to your home in Mountshire, I believe?"

"Yes," said Donovan, twisting a corner of the sheet as he spoke. "We went back to Oakdene, and after about two years my mother married again--she married the man who was my guardian, Ellis Farrant. He came to my father's funeral. I daresay you remember him."

Dr. Tremain tried not to show his dismay at this piece of news, and Donovan continued.

"He had always hated me, and there were constant quarrels between us; the final one would have come sooner if it had not been for my little sister. Partly for her sake I tried to behave decently to him. She died the winter before last. For a little while my step-father left me in peace, but directly I proposed entering some profession he told me I must expect nothing from him. That of course led to a quarrel, and in the end I was turned out upon the world to get on as best I could."

"But your father's will?" questioned Dr. Tremain, trying to speak quietly.

"He left all to my mother, unconditionally, and of course she could do nothing for me, even if she wished to."

The doctor sighed deeply, and there was a very troubled look on his face as he glanced at his patient.

"Poor fellow! you have been hardly used. Where did you go?"

"To London; but not one of our old friends would have a word to say to me, and I could get nothing to do. At last I fell in with a man named--well, never mind his name; he has been a good friend to me, even though he is a professional gambler. I went into partnership with him; it was impossible to live honestly, and I thought the other way would be bearable enough, for I was crazy at the injustice I had suffered, and hated everyone. But it didn't do. I found after a time I couldn't stand it. And then I went in for congestion of the lungs, that was last January. As soon as might be, I went abroad, but at Monaco had a relapse, which kept me back for another month. A little later, I found that I must break with my old friends and give up the sort of life I'd been living. I came back to England, and tried hard to find work, and by living cheaply, managed to spin out my money for a little while. I very nearly got a place as secretary at Exeter, but the man asked me point-blank what religious views I held, and that settled the question. I'd scarcely anything left then, but I made up my mind to come to Plymouth, and walked across Dartmoor. There I almost came to grief in a bog--it's a thousand pities I didn't quite--but Waif and a good Devonshire man hauled me out. The next day I came on to Plymouth, without a farthing, as I told you, and yesterday morning, being ill, either from the hours I spent in the bog, or from the unusual bed of stones, I felt only fit to crawl on to Porthkerran, hoping that you might help me."

It was evidently a relief to him when he had finished his story, and the doctor, who had been pleased with his brief straightforward confession on the previous night, was glad that he still kept to the mere outline of his life. He never alluded to those personal thoughts and details which go to make up the interest of any life-story, never attempted to excuse himself in any way, but, with some effort, just stated the main facts.

Dr. Tremain sat in silence for a few minutes. That Donovan had been cruelly wronged, he knew, and the mere fact of that would have given him a special claim upon his love and sympathy. But the thought of his life, his rebuffs, his temptations, his fall, his efforts to do right, appealed even more strongly to the doctor's heart. "I found I must give up the life I'd been living." What struggles, what absolute sacrifice lay within that one sentence!

While he was musing over what he had heard, Donovan watched him silently. Already the very deepest love for this man had sprung up in his heart--a strange, dependent love, which he had never before known--the love which, latent in all hearts, is usually awakened by the first true thought of God. A God-like deed, and the love shining in a man, had now touched into life this natural instinct, and Donovan, in his pain and humiliation, was yet all aglow with the strange new joy of devotion, enthusiasm, reverent admiration, the echo of the love first given.

The prolonged silence would have been hard to bear, if he had not had the most entire yet inexplicable faith in his new friend; but as it was he waited in perfect content. Presently the doctor looked up with great gladness in his face.

"Do you know I'm very glad you told me you were coming to us."

"Why?" asked Donovan, a little surprised that this should be the only comment on his story.

"Because it shows that you've pluck enough to do what I fancy was very disagreeable to your pride."

"I don't know," said Donovan. "I suppose it was partly being so done up, but I didn't think about minding the asking a favour. I only felt need of you, and dread that I should never be able to get to Porthkerran."

"I can't imagine how you ever did get here," said the doctor, who knew that the walk would have been simply impossible to most people under the same circumstances. "I'm afraid you've been very rash in your self-management for some time past, and that is the reason you are suffering so much from your exposure. After two such illnesses as you described to me, a man needs some care for the next few months, at least. Did you take any care of yourself, or--mind, I only ask as a doctor--did you stay on at Monaco, ruining your health by excitement at the casino?"

"I only went to Monte Carlo once," replied Donovan, "and that before the relapse. Don't think it was any self-denial on my part; it was simply because I lost the first time, and because I hated the other evils of a gambling place. For the rest I was quiet enough. Since I came to England, of course, I have lost ground."

"You have taken no care of yourself," said the doctor.

"Life isn't worth much extra fuss," said Donovan; "and besides, I was too poor. Short commons, no work, and intolerable dulness do pull a fellow down."

"Ah, yes; you must have felt dull when you gave up gaming," said the doctor, rather wishing to draw him out.

"Very," was the laconic answer. Then, as if remembering that he had no ordinary listener, he added--"It's only since then that I've had the least idea how weak one's will is. It certainly is humbling to find that after you've resolved to do a thing it needs a constant struggle not to give in after all."

"What made you first think of giving it up?" asked the doctor.

And Donovan then gave him an account of the miserable day in Paris, when M. Berrogain disappeared, and gradually Dr. Tremain realised how matters stood with his guest.

He came out of Donovan's room understanding him far better, yet feeling much more than he had yet done the great anxiety of his own position. This comparative stranger had peculiar claims upon him; he had been aware of that directly he had heard his name, but now, having heard the story of his life, he could not but feel what care and tenderness and wisdom were needed in dealing with such a character. Undoubtedly this great self-renunciation was a turning-point in Donovan's life, this awakening thought for others a sure sign of growth; what if by any ill-judged word or deed of his he should be thrown back or discouraged? The doctor was the most humble of men; greatly as he longed to help his guest, he trembled at the immense responsibility and difficulty, and grieved over his own unfitness for the task. For what was not required of him? Donovan was friendless--he must be his friend; cheated of his inheritance--he must, if possible, right him; burning with the sense of injustice--he must try to influence and soften him; and--most terrible thought of all--he believed in no God; some one must---- The doctor paused--nay, what? teach him--impossible! Argue with him?--probably useless; love him, pray, agonise for him--that he must and would do. The rest?

He was standing by the open door which led from the house into the garden; he saw the grand old cedar at the end of the lawn, standing up darkly against the clear sky, the acacia and the beech-trees waving in the wind, the standard roses laden with flowers, the glorious sunshine flooding all with warmth and brightness. He heard the singing of birds, the low hum of insects, the soft breathing of the summer wind among the branches. A sense of breadth and fulness stole over him, it was a healthful morning, and gradually Dr. Tremain felt its real influence, it drew him away from the thought of weakness and soul-disease to the true health-giver. Could he doubt that through all the changes and chances of Donovan's life He had been leading him? Then that strange and sudden impulse to walk to Porthkerran must have been part of the leading. The doctor accepted the responsibility gladly now, as a care doubtless, but as an honour and a joy. And as the free air and light and warmth influenced him from without, feeling that he lacked wisdom, he turned to Him who "giveth to all men liberally."

While he still stood in the doorway Gladys came to him, her usually bright face a little clouded.

"Oh! I thought you had started on your rounds, papa," she exclaimed, brightening at once as she slipped her hand within his arm. "I've come to you in a very bad temper, for Aunt Margaret is here, and she is so much surprised at your taking in Mr. Farrant."

"Why is she surprised?" asked the doctor.

"Because you know so little of him. She thinks it most quixotic of you. I came away at last, she made me so cross."

"You and I believe in something better than chance, don't we, Gladys?" said the doctor. "And if Donovan Farrant was sent to us, as I do not doubt he was, our duty is to take care that we are fit to keep him with us."

"Fit?" asked Gladys, looking puzzled.

"Gentle and patient and considerate enough to draw him quite in amongst us, to make him part of the home. I will tell you a little about him, and then you'll understand me better. He has had a very sad life, he doesn't believe in God, partly, I can't help thinking, because he has never come across real Christianity. He has had great temptations, and no friends to help him, only companions whom at last he felt obliged to leave, that he might try to keep out of evil, and now he is here, ill and poor and I'm afraid very miserable. I know quite well that people will say, as Mrs. Causton has just been saying, that it is rash and quixotic to take him into one's own home, but, Gladys, I trust all of you too well not to look upon you as helps instead of hindrances."

"Do you know, papa, I have seen Mr. Farrant before," said Gladys, when her father paused. "I was sure I knew his face, and last night I remembered it was when I was staying with Aunt Margaret a year ago; don't you recollect that journey which auntie is always talking about, when we were in a carriage with some men playing cards?"

"I remember. There was only room for you, and one of them got out and gave his place to Mrs. Causton."

"Yes, that was Mr. Farrant."

The doctor mused. In his worst times, then, Donovan had kept a touch of chivalry, he had left his favourite pastime to save a stranger from a slight annoyance.

"We knew directly he was a gentleman," continued Gladys. "You can't think how different he looked from the men he was with. I couldn't think why he belonged to them, and one specially spoke so horridly to him at London Bridge, when we all got out, I fancy because he had helped us. Why was he ever with such people, papa?"

"Because no one else would have anything to do with him, and because he was a great card-player; he has given it all up now."

"Oh! I am so glad!" exclaimed Gladys, "for it was dreadful to watch him playing that day, he looked so wonderfully taken up with it, as if it were the only thing he cared for. It must have been very hard to him to give it up, though."

"Harder, most likely, than you or I have any idea of," said the doctor, musingly. Then, rousing himself, "And all this time we are leaving the mother to Mrs. Causton's tender mercies. I must go, little girl, good-bye. That story has smoothed your temper, I hope."

Gladys laughed, and ran away to give Jackie his morning lessons, while Dr. Tremain made his way to the breakfast-room.

He was not sorry to find Mrs. Causton on the point of leaving, but unfortunately his appearance on the scene caused a repetition of all her arguments.

"And do you really think it wise to take him in and let him mix with your own children--a perfect stranger, a man of whom you know nothing but evil?"

"On the contrary," replied the doctor, half inclined to lose his temper, "I know a great deal of good about him."

"But it seems so unnecessary," urged Mrs. Causton; "no one in his circumstances could object to being taken to a hospital; and when he comes out, there are plenty of societies which would gladly take him in hand. There are so many societies for young men, you know."

"My dear Mrs. Causton"--the doctor spoke almost fiercely--"what the poor fellow wants is a _home_, not a society; he wants to be treated as a son, not as a case. I don't mean that societies are not useful enough sometimes, but I do think we are too ready to shunt on to them all that is not easy, self-indulgent, conventional charity. Look at the good Samaritan now--himself, by the way, an infidel and outcast--_he_ did things all round; no passing on to committees and societies there, no holding at arm's length lest the poor fellow should stain his garments. He put himself to some inconvenience--perhaps to some risk, and gave the wounded man his own beast."

"Of course no one disputes that the parable is a great example," said Mrs. Causton, "an example that we should all copy; but still in this case----"

"You would have me enact the priest and Levite," interposed the doctor, "or pass on to some blundering committee for probing and examining and questioning a man who can scarcely bear to be touched. I know quite well that you would have most of the world on your side, for the good Samaritan style of giving is out of fashion now; we like to ride on in state and fling subscriptions here and there. We don't like the trouble or risk of actually dismounting and walking on foot; it isn't political economy."

"You may be right," said Mrs. Causton, half convinced; "and yet, for the sake of Gladys specially, is it wise and prudent? I don't want to seem intrusive, but one cannot help seeing that there are very grave objections to such an intimacy for her."

No one spoke for some minutes. This view of the matter had certainly not occurred to Dr. Tremain, and he was bound to own that there was some truth in it. Was he putting his child into a wrong position? And yet could he, for the sake of a distant and merely possible contingency, give up his guest? His perplexity did not last long; he was not worldly-wise, he was not prudent, and, in defiance of the possible ill, he held closely to the present good, trusting to God, and feeling perfect confidence in Gladys. He had, moreover, with the strange insight of humility, learnt enough of Donovan's real self to trust in him too; the banker had exclaimed at the honour of an ex-card-sharper, the doctor felt inexplicable yet entire confidence in the truth of his patient.

"Some risk and trouble and difficulty I owned to in the Samaritan's giving," he said at last. "I do not think it a risk which one ought to shrink from. Were you ever in the Cluny Museum, Mrs. Causton?"

"Never."

"I remember two very striking representations there of Prudence with her hands tied, and Charity with open arms."

Mrs. Causton, not caring to discuss the question any more, soon took leave. The doctor was glad to be alone with his wife.

"You have not changed your mind?" he asked. "You are willing to be the open-armed Charity?"

"Yes," she replied, quietly, "I am willing." But there was some effort in her voice, for she thought of the possible sorrow which this charity might bring to Gladys.

"Then, having made up our minds, let us live in the present, and put away from us this idea, which I am half sorry has been suggested at all," said the doctor. "No one will put any nonsense into Gladys' head, and the friendship of a good sensible girl will be a capital thing for Donovan."

Mrs. Tremain looked up at her husband and smiled.

"How soon you have taken that poor boy into your heart of hearts! Oh! Tom, how far I am behind you; a dozen selfish considerations have come into my head in the last five minutes. I'm afraid I've little but pity for him."

"Then, dear, go and spend an hour in his room, and I'll undertake to say that he will stand second only to Dick and Jackie in your heart when you come out again."