Chapter XI: Contrasted Lovers

What we love perfectly, for its own sake
We love, and not our own, being ready thus
Whate'er self-sacrifice is ask'd to make;
That which is best for it is best for us.
R. SOUTHEY.

Stephen Causton did not return to the hospital till March. Coming home one afternoon, Donovan found the sitting-room in some confusion, scraps of newspaper and dilapidated note-books scattered about here and there, and a yawning space in the book-shelves which Stephen's books had hitherto occupied.

"Hullo! has Causton been in?" he asked old Rouge, who, with a somewhat disturbed air, was sitting over the fire with his long clay pipe.

"I don't know if that's his name," replied the old captain, in an offended tone, "but a tallow-faced, bumptious lad has been here making no end of dust and noise, carrying off your books, too, for aught I know."

"No, no, they were his own," said Donovan, laughing. "But tell me about him, captain. Did he ask for me? did he leave no message?"

"Not he," said Rouge, angrily. "He walked in as coolly as if the place belonged to him, rowed the landlady for not having his things ready packed, and pitched the books into a carpet bag as if they were so many pebbles. Then, facing round on me without so much as lifting his hat, he said, 'I suppose you are a friend of Farrant's?' There was a sneer in his voice, and my blood got up as I said I had the honour to be your friend, and that it was an honour the best in the land might covet."

Donovan laughed prodigiously. Rouge continued,

"At that he sneered again, and said, 'You needn't preach about his virtues; I know a little more about him than you do.' 'Indeed!' said I, hotly; 'then I wonder the knowledge hasn't improved your manners.' 'I might return the compliment,' he said. 'But of course living with a knave like Farrant is enough to contaminate anyone.' At that, milord, I sprang up and thundered at him. I wasn't going to sit still and hear you libelled, and, if you'll believe it, the coward turned as white as a sheet when I challenged him."

"By Jove!" said Donovan. "You don't mean you really did? His mother will never get over it."

"He won't come poking his nose in here again in a hurry," said Rouge, with satisfaction. "He skulked off at double quick time, muttering that duelling days were over."

"Well, I agree with him there," said Donovan, "though it was good of you all the same, captain, to stand up for me as you did."

"As if I could help it," said old Rouge, with tears in his eyes. "It's not likely I should let that scamp have his say out without putting in my word. I flatter myself he has heard more home truths to-day than in all his priggish young life before. How does he come to hate you so, milord?"

"He has done a shabby thing by me," said Donovan, "and that's the surest way in the world to make him hate me. But we won't rake it all up again; he can't do us any good, and he's already done me all the harm he can."

But, though he would not speak any more of Stephen, the thought of him would not be banished. He had come straight from Porthkerran, might have told him something of Gladys, might possibly have brought him one of the unanswerable letters from Mrs. Tremain or the doctor, or at least a message. And then he could not help wondering at the extraordinary malice of his gratuitous insults. Had his weak and distorted mind really worked itself into the belief that he was the wronged one? What account would reach Porthkerran of his stormy interview with the old captain? Something tremendous might, without much difficulty, be twisted and squeezed out of the truth. Here was another case demanding Charles Osmond's ideal forgiveness. But he was nearer forgiving Stephen than Ellis, because he had a great deal of pity for him; besides, the consciousness that he might have cleared himself by exposing Stephen was in itself of a more softening nature than the terribly irritating sense that Ellis had him very unjustly in his power.

Brian Osmond did not fail to notice that Causton, who had been formerly Donovan's companion, now cut him entirely. When he had heard the true explanation, his righteous indignation was pleasant to see. He came constantly to York Road for the sake of reading with Donovan, and before long had become really fond of the poor old captain, while Waif and Sweepstakes, with their touching devotion to their respective masters, added a sort of picturesqueness to that curiously-assorted group. In the summer vacation Brian persuaded Donovan to take a real holiday. The two years of unbroken work added to his private troubles were beginning to tell on him; he looked worn and fagged, but brightened up at the suggestion of taking a walking-tour with his friend. They set off together in August, had a glorious tramp through Derbyshire and the West Riding of Yorkshire, roughing it to an enjoyable extent, and both coming back to town all the better for their outing, and as inseparable in their friendship as David and Jonathan.

It was not, however, until late in the autumn that Brian learnt even the existence of Gladys.

One November evening his well-known knock at the house in York Road roused old Rouge from his after-dinner nap. Donovan, who was stretched at full length on the hearthrug, was so entirely absorbed in some of the abstruse speculations which now very often occupied him that he heard nothing, and did not stir till Brian was fairly in the room.

"Hullo! doing the _dolce far niente_ for once," he said, laughing. "Who would have thought of catching you away from the books?"

"Comes from the effects of Yorkshire air," said Donovan, getting up and stretching himself. But the real fact was that he was beginning now to dare to allow himself brief intervals of rest, his thoughts did not wander so hopelessly to Porthkerran, his work instinctively slackened a little, he worked as well--perhaps better--but less furiously, and without the sense that relaxation was, above all things, to be distrusted and avoided.

"I've got a spare ticket for Gale's lecture at St. James's Hall," said Brian, "will you come with me?"

"Who's Gale? I never heard of him."

"What, you a teetotaler and never heard of Gale! why, he's the great champion of temperance, and a first-rate speaker!"

"Better take the captain," said Donovan, half in earnest as he glanced round at the sofa; but Rouge had already fallen asleep again. "It would be no good, I'm afraid."

"Poor old fellow," said Brian, "has he had another outbreak?"

"Yes," replied Donovan, "and his brain is too fuddled now to take in anything; it would be no use taking him, he'd only be asleep in two minutes. I somehow make an awful failure of keeping other folk in order."

"Rather an unmanageable couple, yours," said Brian, "I wonder what Gale would say to a case like the captain's."

"Incurable," said Donovan. "He means well, but his power of will has gone. I used to think he might conquer it, but the more I see of him the more I doubt it. I can do nothing for him except help to make his remorse keener each time, for he thinks his outbreaks are a personal injury to me; and then we have any amount of maudlin tears and good resolutions never to do it again--till the next time."

He sighed.

"Poor old fellow," said Brian, "you were never meant to have such an old man of the sea tacked on to you. I like to fancy the different mortal you'll be by-and-by when you settle down with your ideal wife, home, and practice."

"Ideal humbug!" exclaimed Donovan, with a short laugh, in which there lurked more pain than merriment. "Come on, what time does the Gale begin?"

They walked off arm-in-arm, and were early enough to secure front seats in the balcony close to the platform. Donovan seemed in good spirits, he leant forward with his arms on the crimson velvet rail making comments on the audience below, classifying them into rabid teetotalers, sensible supporters of the cause, and merely fashionable adherents. A sudden exclamation of surprise from Brian put a stop, however, to his ease.

"Why, who would have thought it! there's Causton in one of the stalls. What could have brought him here? Don't you see him? To the left there, talking to that pretty girl."

Donovan, looked and saw only too plainly Stephen and Mrs Causton, and between them Gladys.

Yes, she was there, not a hundred yards from him, her pure, fresh, child-like face not in the least altered! he remembered an old fancy of his that she was like a blush rose; she looked very flower-like now in that crowd of London faces. For a minute he watched her quite calmly, then, strong man as he was, a deathly pallor stole over his face, he drew back with an uncontrollable shudder.

"Look here, I must go," he said to Brian, and without further explanation he made his way along the balcony. In another moment he felt sure his eyes must draw hers, there always had been a strange magnetism between them without any conscious willing on his part. It would never do for her to see him, he must leave at once.

Brian, not liking his looks, followed him out of the hall; he seemed as if he were walking in his sleep, never pausing for an instant, noting nothing, and yet passing all obstacles. At the head of the staircase Brian linked his arm within his, they went down silently into the street. There Donovan seemed to come to himself again, his rigid face relaxed, the strange glassy look left his eyes, and for the first time he realised that he was not alone.

"What, you here, old fellow!" he exclaimed. "Don't let me lose you your lecture."

"All right," said Brian. "I don't care about it. You're in some trouble, Donovan--don't pretend, now, that you're not. Was it that you saw Causton with that girl?"

"In a way, yes--I mean it was the seeing her at all," said Donovan, incoherently. "Come on quick, only let us get out into the open, away from these houses."

"You don't imagine he's in love with her?" said Brian. "Causton's an awfully cold-blooded creature; it's not at all in his line, I should think."

"I don't know," gasped Donovan; "it--it won't make much difference to me."

"Why?" asked Brian, boldly. They were both by nature reserved men, but their friendship was real and strong, and Brian knew intuitively that he had touched the secret spring of Donovan's trouble, and that, unless he could get him to speak of it now, a barrier would always be between them; so he spoke out boldly that monosyllable--"Why?"

"Because," answered Donovan, in a quick, agitated way--"because, years ago, I made up my mind not to see her again. It's impossible--it can't be--I'm a fool to be so shaken just by the sight of her."

"Has she refused you?"

He turned his strangely powerful eyes full on Brian's face at the question, and answered, with a sort of indignation,

"Do you think I am fit to ask Gladys Tremain to be my wife?"

There was something grand in his humility. Brian could only mentally ejaculate, "You splendid fellow! you're fit to ask a queen among women." But he was carried away by his enthusiasm, and he could not but own that there was truth in Donovan's next speech.

"It could never be--there could be no real union between us. It's all very well in the way of friendship; you and I can rub up against each other's differences without any hurt, but when it comes to anything nearer, it doesn't do. I've tried, and it's torture--torture that I'll never bring to her."

"Is Causton her cousin?"

"No, but a two generations' friend."

"I should dearly like to give him a piece of my mind," said Brian. "However, of course she'll have nothing to say to such a fellow."

"There are times when I could wish she would," said Donovan, hoarsely. "Not now, though--not just now."

"My dear fellow, that's rather too strong," said Brian. "Even I, a mere stranger, can see that she's miles above him."

"Of course," said Donovan; "but it might save her from worse pain."

"Well, if Miss Tremain knows you, and has any idea that you care for her, her face must belie her strangely if she could turn to a fellow like Causton."

"She does not know I love her--at least, I hope not."

"You old brick of a Roman! I can quite fancy how you would hide it all."

There was a silence after that. They had reached the Embankment, and Donovan seemed to lose the sense of oppression, and to breathe freely again. Presently he turned to Brian, speaking quite in his natural voice.

"Well, I'm sorry to have lost you your lecture, but I'm not sorry that you know about this, which is more than I could say to anyone else in the world. I must get to work quickly, or the blue devils will get the better of me. Come back too, won't you, and we'll have a grind at Niemeyer."

So they went back to the York Road lodgings together. The old captain was too stupid to notice them, but Waif was unusually demonstrative, and even as he read Brian noticed that Donovan kept his arm round the dog, while Waif tried to put all his devotion into the soft warm tongue with which he licked his master's hand. Trouble had an odd way of drawing those two together.

Brian went home that night with much questioning going on in his mind. He honoured Donovan for his conduct, and yet regretted very much that he should be thus cut off from one who must have had so much influence over him. He could not help seeing the matter from his friend's side, whereas Donovan thought only how it would affect Gladys.

Little indeed did Gladys think, as she sat in the crowded hall, that she was so near Donovan. Though she was actually thinking of him, it never occurred to her that he might be there. Instead she was recollecting some of their discussions at Porthkerran on this temperance question, and recalling his stories of the old captain who had nursed him in his illness, and had with great devotedness managed to keep really sober at Monaco, in case "the Frenchmen" should poison his patient!

She was not very happy just now, poor child. They had fancied that she needed change of air, and Mrs. Causton had been charmed to have her at Richmond for a few weeks, in the same little villa which they had rented four years ago. But the change did her more harm than good, for the Causton atmosphere was oppressive, and the consciousness that Stephen was in the way of seeing Donovan every day, added to the impossibility of hearing anything about him, was almost more than she could endure. She found herself losing self-control, and drifting into more constant thoughts of Donovan than she considered right; nor were her feminine occupations so helpful in the difficult mental battle as his mind-engrossing studies.

As they went home that night from John Gale's lecture, it chanced that for the first time since her arrival Donovan's name was mentioned.

"What a pity you could not have done good for evil," sighed Mrs. Causton, "and induced that poor drunkard who challenged you in the spring to come to this lecture. I fear there is no chance that Donovan Farrant would take him to hear such a man."

"I should rather think not," said Stephen, unpleasantly.

"Oh! but he is a great temperance advocate," said Gladys, thankful that in the darkness her burning cheeks could not be noticed.

"He was, my dear," said Mrs. Causton, markedly, "but you must remember he is greatly changed since you knew him, and he is living with a most disreputable companion."

Her heart beat so indignantly at this that she felt almost choked, but seeing that she was losing her opportunity she quieted herself with an effort, and asked gravely, but quite naturally,

"Donovan is still at the hospital, I suppose? Do you see anything of him now?"

"I see him," said Stephen, "but of course we're not on speaking terms."

"It is much better that you should have nothing more to do with him," said Mrs. Causton solemnly, and she added a text which seemed to her appropriate, but which drove Gladys into a white hot passion--dumb perforce.

All this time she was far too much absorbed to notice an impending danger. The days dragged on slowly, she cared for the visits, picture-galleries, and concerts only in so far as they brought her into closer proximity with St. Thomas's. However angry she might be with herself at night for having allowed her thoughts too much liberty, the following day always found her with the same unexpressed but unquenchable longing. Nothing but the heart-sickness brought by that long-deferred hope could have blinded her to the fact that Stephen's half boyish admiration was re-awaking, that his attentions were disagreeable and obtrusive, that he was as much in love with her as it was possible for such a man to be. But, as it was, she noticed nothing, she only wearied intensely of the long evenings, when Stephen tried to enliven them, and of the long mornings when she was alone with Mrs. Causton; of the two she disliked the evenings least, but merely because there was a chance of hearing the one name she cared to hear.

It came upon her like a thunderclap at last. One Saturday morning she was sitting in the little drawing-room, writing to her mother, when Stephen, who had no lectures that day, sauntered into the room. He began an aimless conversation, she was a little cross, for it seemed as if he might go on for ever, and she wanted to write. After enduring half an hour of it she grew impatient.

"Let me finish this, Stephen, or it will be too late for the post," she said. "We are to go out after lunch, you know."

"You grudge me the one free morning I have," said Stephen, reproachfully, "but listen to me a minute longer, Gladys, for days I have been waiting to find an opportunity of speaking to you. I think you must have seen that I love you, that all I care for is to please you, will you say that you will try to love me?--won't you try, dear?"

In spite of Gladys' surprise and dismay she had hard work to suppress a smile, a wicked sprite seemed to chant in her ear the refrain of the song in "Alice in Wonderland,"

"Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the
dance."

She found herself going on with the parody in a sort of dream, instead of giving Stephen his answer.

He was far on in a second and more vehement statement of his case before she fully recovered her senses; then at once the true womanly unselfish Gladys hastened to check him.

"Hush, Stephen," she said, quietly, but with a touch of dignity in her tone. "Please do not say any more of this. I am very, very sorry if you have misunderstood me in any way, we are such old friends, you see; but indeed it could never be as you wish--never."

"You don't know what you are saying," he cried. "You are ruining all my life, all my happiness. Surely you won't be so utterly cruel? I will wait any length of time, if only you will think it over--if only you will try to love me."

"If I waited fifty years, it would make no difference," said Gladys. "I can never love you, never, never. Don't think me unkind to speak so plainly. It is better to be true than to let you have false hopes."

"Then you love some one else," said Stephen, in a voice in which despair and malice were strangely mingled, "That is what makes you so positive, so merciless."

Gladys' eyes flashed.

"I might well be angry with you, Stephen, for daring to say that, but since you wish it I will tell you quite plainly why I cannot love you in the way you wish. The man I love must be true and strong, faithful to his friends, and merciful to his enemies, he must be so noble and self-denying that I shall be able to look up to him as my head--my lord--as naturally in the lesser degree as I look to Christ in the greater."

"If you set up an ideal character like that, of course I've no chance," said Stephen, with a very crestfallen air.

"It is not I who set it up," said Gladys, a little impatiently. "Have you forgotten what St. Paul said? Oh! Stephen, I don't want to vex you more than I need, but indeed, indeed you must not speak of this again."

"It is all very well to talk about not vexing me, but you are taking away every hope I have," said Stephen, petulantly. "You girls will never learn how much you have in your power. With you to help me, I might perhaps grow better, become the paragon of perfection you wish, but if you turn away from me----"

He paused. It did not strike Gladys just at that minute what a strange manner of making love it was, but her clear common sense showed her that to yield to such an argument--even had it been possible--would have been exceedingly foolish.

"You may be right, Stephen," she answered. "Perhaps we have more in our power than we know, but I don't think it ever can be right for a woman to marry one whom she cannot look up to. You and I have been friends--old playfellows--for years, but, though of course I wish still to be your friend, I can't say that I very much respect you. Don't think I want you to be a paragon of perfection, but after last autumn I don't think you can expect----"

He interrupted her.

"It is cruel to bring up past mistakes against me."

"I don't wish to, but I am afraid, till you can think of them as something deeper than mistakes, you will yourself often remind us of them. How can you really forsake them till you are really sorry?"

"You are very hard on me," said Stephen. "You forget what excuse I had; you forget that I was left alone with Donovan Farrant, that he led me into temptation."

He hardly knew what he was saying, for he was very desperate in his intense selfishness, but he had just enough shame left to flush a little as the untruth passed his lips.

Gladys' eyes seemed to search him through and through. There was a moment's silence. Then, with a little quiver of indignation in her voice, she said, gravely,

"You are telling a lie, Stephen, and you know it."

He did not attempt to exculpate himself, he was too thoroughly abashed. When he looked up again in a minute or two he found that she had left the room.

Mrs. Causton was too genuinely good a woman to resent Gladys' refusal of her son, but at the same time it was such a bitter disappointment to her that it was impossible she should be quite just and kind to her visitor.

"You see, my dear," she kept urging, as she sat beside the sofa in Gladys' bed-room, "though you may be quite right to refuse dear Stephen, yet, humanly speaking, you did seem so exactly fitted to make the real helpmeet for him."

Gladys was by no means selfish, but she did not think it either right or necessary to sacrifice herself so entirely on the altar of the well-being of Mrs. Causton's only son, she could only repeat that she was very sorry, but it was quite impossible, and entreat Mrs. Causton to let her go home at once. However, it was too late to think of going down to Cornwall that day, and the next day was Sunday, so she had time enough to be exceedingly miserable, and to long unspeakably for her mother before the happy moment of her departure arrived. She was so much relieved to be away from the Caustons that she could have sung from mere lightness of heart when her train had actually started, but Mrs. Causton had put her in charge of an elderly lady, so she had to discuss the weather, and make herself agreeable instead.

That night in her mother's room she forgot all her trouble, however, in the delicious peacefulness which seemed always to come in those evening talks. And as they sat hand in hand in their own particular nook on the old-fashioned sofa, Mrs. Tremain gradually won from Gladys not only the history of her visit to the Caustons, but much that had never passed her lips before. Her mother had long ago guessed what was the secret of her trouble; she had said nothing because she thought silence the best cure; but now--being her mother--she knew that the time for speaking had come, and very wisely and tenderly she met Gladys' shy confidence half way. Then, when all was told, she sat thinking for a minute or two in silence, while Gladys nestled more closely to her, too tired to think at all, but tracing in an aimless sort of way the ivy-pattern chintz of the well-known sofa cover.

"I think, little girl, that the truth of it is this," said Mrs. Tremain at last, "I think you had a good deal of influence with Donovan, you were almost the first woman he had known well, and you were a good deal thrown together. For the present he has passed away out of our lives, you know how sorry I am for it, it is quite his own doing; but whether the separation is for ever or not, I think you may have this comfort, that whatever in your love was true and unselfish will not be wasted, but will always last. I do not think it very likely that he will come here again, and even if he did you would perhaps find it all quite different and have a cold waking from your dream."

"Then ought I not to think of him?"

"I think you should not allow yourself to believe that he is in love with you. No woman has a right to think that till a man has actually asked her to be his wife. Put away the selfish side of the question altogether, but don't make yourself miserable by trying to kill the spiritual part of it. However much you have been mistaken there was most likely a bit of the real truth in your love; don't be afraid of keeping that, no one need be ashamed of the pure, spiritual, endless side of love, and I should be sorry to think that Donovan should be defrauded of it; you may do more for him even now, Gladys, than you think."

"If we could only find out the truth," sighed Gladys. "I am sure Stephen has somehow misled us."

"I would not worry about that," replied Mrs. Tremain. "You can't sift that matter to the bottom, and I don't think it is very good for you to dwell upon it. Only be quite sure of this, that the more pure and unselfish and trustful you try to become the better you will be able to help him, even if you never see him again. The side of love you must cultivate does not depend upon sight, or time, or place. Have I been too hard on you, little one? Does it seem very difficult?"

"It is always hard to be good," said Gladys, with the child-like look in her face which had first awakened Donovan's love; "but I will try, and you will help me, mother. I'm so glad you know."

In another hour she was sleeping as peacefully as little Nesta; but her mother had a very wakeful night, thinking over the future of her child, and grieving over Donovan's defection.