Chapter II: A Crown of Fire

You well might fear, if love's sole claim
Were to be happy; but true love
Takes joy as solace, not as aim,
And looks beyond, and looks above;
And sometimes through the bitterest strife first learns to
live her highest life.

If then your future life should need
A strength my life can only gain
Through suffering, or my heart be freed
Only by sorrow from some stain,
Then you shall give, and I will take, this crown of fire for
love's dear sake.
A. A. PROCTER.

York Road, Lambeth, is not the most cheerful of thoroughfares; its chief enlivenment consists of the never-ending succession of cabs bound for the Waterloo Station, and its sombre, narrow-windowed houses are eminently dull. Here, however, Donovan took up his abode, and with the advantages of all Stephen Causton's unused books spent the first year of his course. Here he worked early and late; here he practised plain living and high thinking; here he struggled, fought, and doubted.

In spite of many drawbacks, however, this first year of real work was one of the most contented years he had ever spent; he had great powers of application, in spite of his desultory education, and he worked now with a will--worked with no let or hindrance, for duty was plainly marked out for him, and he had comparatively few temptations or distractions. After the excitement of the successful competition for a scholarship was over, the days and weeks passed by in uneventful monotony, broken occasionally by an unaccountable craving for his old pastime, to be fought with and conquered, or by one of those darker times in his inner life, when the sense of incompleteness, the oppression of the impenetrable veil which shrouded him in ignorance, outweighed his hope, and left him a prey to blank despondency. From such interruptions he would free himself by an effort of will, and resuming his work, became after each struggle more absorbed and interested in it.

Then, too, the thought of Gladys was never far from him; her memory filled his solitude, and made it no longer solitary; her sunshiny face haunted his dull rooms, and made their unloveliness lovely. Had Donovan been at all given to self-scrutiny, had he ever analysed his feelings or followed out the dim glory of the present into a possible future, he would have realised at once the insuperable barrier which lay between him and his love; but he lived in the present--lived, and worked, and loved, and lacking the dangerous habit of self-inspection, he drifted on, happily unconscious that he was nearing the rapids.

But that brief happiness, heralding as it did a sharp awaking and a terrible void, did a great deal for him; it gave him a momentary insight into the "Beauty and the blessedness of life," and it made his ideal of womanhood a lofty ideal. The truest of truths is, that in nature there is no waste, and in regretting what seems like prodigality, we sometimes forget those hidden results which are none the less real and vital because they lie deep down beneath the surface.

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways."

At length, when the summer days were growing long, and London was becoming intolerably hot, when even congenial work became a species of drudgery, and "much study a weariness of the flesh," the hospital term ended, and Donovan, who had promised to spend the long vacation with the Tremains, set off for Porthkerran.

Very natural and home-like did the little Cornish village seem, and, after his long months of solitude, the bright, merry family life was delightful. Nesta had grown, but was still the household baby, and not yet able to say her g's; the two schoolboys were at home for the holidays, and made the house unusually noisy; the doctor had added photography to his many hobbies, and Mrs. Tremain, with the cares of half the village on her mind, seemed still as ready as ever to sympathise with everyone.

And Gladys?

Gladys was changed. Donovan felt that at once. Her eyes seemed to have deepened, she was less talkative, she was even a little shy with him. The last time he had returned to Porthkerran she had greeted him with delighted warmth, had called him by his Christian name. This time she was very quiet and wholly undemonstrative, and when her face was in repose there lurked about it a shade of wistfulness--almost of sadness. She had not lost her characteristic sunshine of manner, but the sunshine was no longer constant, and often grave shadows of thought stole over her fair face. No one but a very close observer would have noticed the change in her, but Donovan, who was always very much alive to the traces of character revealed in manner and expression, felt at once that the Gladys he met at the beginning of that long vacation was not the Gladys he had left in October. Her mind had grown and expanded, but what had brought that shade of sadness to her face? Her life was apparently so cloudless, what unknown source of anxiety could there be to trouble her?

From the very first evening that question lay in his mind, but only as a wonder, not as an anxiety. It was all so peaceful and satisfying here at Porthkerran, he could not brood over anything as he might have done had he been alone. The happiness of being near Gladys blinded him for the time to everything else, the very doubts and questionings which beset him at every turn in his ordinary life seemed left behind; for one delicious month he was supremely happy. He drove out with the doctor, played lawn tennis, romped with the children, gave Gladys lessons in Euclid, read, walked, boated with her, for it invariably happened that, although they went out a large party, the boys and the younger children kept pretty much to themselves, leaving Donovan and Gladys to almost daily _tête-à-têtes_.

If Gladys had been an ordinary girl, Donovan would probably have seen far sooner all the dangers of their present intercourse; but she was so simple-minded and maidenly, so entirely void of all desire to draw attention to herself, that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to make her his confidante. Who was so quick to sympathise with him as his ideal? Was it not right that he should tell her of his difficulties, his interests, his schemes for the future? If their conversation had ever even bordered on sentiment he might have realised that he was putting her in a false position, but it never did. They talked on subjects grave and gay, discussed religion and politics, argued earnestly or merrily on every imaginable topic, each with a hardly confessed interest in the other's opinion. But Donovan was still at times conscious of a certain reticence in Gladys which he had not before noticed; in their most interesting talks he was often checked by an unexpressed yet very real barrier--a "hitherto thou shalt come, but no further"--which baffled him, and generally produced an unsatisfied silence, always broken by a somewhat irrelevant speech or suggestion from Gladys.

Mrs. Causton was away from home. Stephen, who, after months of suffering, had just recovered from his attack of ophthalmia, had gone for a voyage with his father, and would not return till the beginning of the October term; and his mother, being a good deal worn out with her constant attendance on him, had gone abroad with some friends for a thorough rest and change of scene. Donovan's stay at Trenant was therefore free from all interruptions, and there was, moreover, no worldly-wise or prudent on-looker who could hint to Dr. Tremain the exceeding likelihood that his little daughter might think too much of that "dangerously handsome guest," who, in former years, had been the terror of all the careful mothers in the neighbourhood of Oakdene.

But no unreal state of things can last, and even in the absence of prudence and Mrs. Causton, the awakening from that summer dream came at length.

It seemed as if a glamour had been cast over the whole household in those sunny August days, never even at Trenant had there been such thorough enjoyment of life; meals _al fresco_, music, moonlight walks by the sea, and boundless home mirth and good humour.

One sunny afternoon the whole family were gathered together in the orchard. There among the daisies, and buttercups, and the grass--the children's favourite playground--Dr. Tremain had planted his photographic apparatus, and, with a leafy background, was preparing to take a group. It was the first attempt he had made at anything of the kind. His victims had hitherto been single, but this afternoon he had induced the whole "kit," as he expressed it, to be immortalised, and with much fun and laughter they all tried to arrange themselves, an attempt fraught with the direst failure.

"Not an idea as to artistic grouping among you!" exclaimed the doctor, emerging from his black-velvet shroud, "You must be much nearer together, too. You boys in the background. Ah! now that is much better. Now you do look like living beings instead of mummies. Look, mother, if you can without disturbing yourself."

Mrs. Tremain turned round to see the group behind her, who, in disarranging themselves, had fallen into natural attitudes. Donovan had taken Nesta on to his shoulder, Gladys was holding up a rose which the little girl had dropped, and for which she now stretched out one fat, dimpled hand, while Donovan by sudden and unexpected movements always prevented her from reaching it.

"There! that will do!" said the doctor. "Stand exactly as you are. Keep still, and don't laugh, Nesta. Now then!"

Half a minute's breathless silence followed, Nesta relieving herself by holding on with desperate firmness to Donovan's hair, and nearly upsetting Gladys' gravity by the resolute way in which she pressed her lips together to prevent the laughter from escaping.

The moment they were released there was a chorus of inquiry--who had moved? who had kept still? who had smiled? While Donovan, Gladys, and Nesta relieved themselves by a hearty laugh over the difficulty and absurdity of their positions.

"If I come out with a right eyebrow drawn up like a Chinese, and an expression of Byronic gloom, you'll understand that it is all Nesta's fault," said Donovan. "Remember from henceforth, Nesta, that hair should be lightly handled."

"And now I shall det my rose," shouted Nesta, triumphantly, making a sudden raid downwards. She succeeded this time, captured the rose, and after much teazing on Donovan's part and baby coquetting on hers, ended by fastening it in his button-hole.

The doctor returned in a few minutes in a state of great excitement. The negative was excellent. He would not trouble them to sit again, but he wanted Donovan to help him in some of the mysterious processes in the little black den he had consecrated to his new hobby.

By the time this work was over, it was nearly four o'clock. The doctor was called out, and Donovan, finding there were visitors in the drawing-room, sauntered out again with a book under his arm. In the orchard, however, he unexpectedly found Gladys. She was sitting at the little rustic table under the old apple-tree, her sleeves tucked up, and her white hands busily occupied in stoning some peaches which were piled up on a great blue willow-pattern dish in front of her.

She made a very pretty picture sitting there in her cool, creamy-white dress, a stray sunbeam glancing every now and then through the flickering leaves above, and making gold of her brown hair.

"You should have been photographed with your dish of peaches," said Donovan, drawing up a garden-chair to the other side of the table.

"Cook is in despair about the preserving, so I'm getting these ready for her," explained Gladys. "Have some, won't you?"

"No, thank you, I'm no fruit-eater; but let me help you."

"Read to me, and then I shall work faster. Mother and I were reading George Eliot's 'Spanish Gypsy;' do you know it? Oh! but you have a book, I see; read me that instead."

Donovan laughed.

"I'm afraid you would scarcely thank me for reading you Heath's 'Minor Surgery.' Let us have the 'Spanish Gypsy.' You are near the end, I see; just give me an idea about the characters. Who is Don Silva?"

"He is a Spanish nobleman in love with Fedalma, the daughter of a Moorish chief. Silva renounces Christianity, and promises to serve and obey the Moor, so that he may not be separated from Fedalma. This is the place--" she handed the book to him, and Donovan, taking it, began the scene in which Don Silva, tortured by seeing the martyrdom of Father Isidor, breaks his promise of fealty to the Moor.

He was not exactly a good reader; he was sometimes abrupt, sometimes hurried, but he had a beautiful voice, which went far towards making up for any other defects. As he read the wonderful parting scene between Silva and Fedalma, when in obedience to the will of the dead chief, and for the good of the Moorish people, they agree to part for ever, Gladys felt that his whole soul was being thrown into what he read. Involuntarily her hands ceased their mechanical work; though she could hardly have explained the reason even to herself, this reading was becoming a slow agony to her. Donovan's face was kindling with enthusiasm, there was an almost terrible ring in his voice as he read the closing scene; she knew that while her heart was crying out against the bitterness of such a renunciation, he was feeling only its intense beauty and worth.

Neither of them spoke when the poem was finished; Donovan, as if entirely engrossed with it still, and forgetful that he was not alone, turned the pages over again, reading half to himself passages which had struck him. Gladys, troubled by her own agitation, heard as in a dream, till a sudden deepening of tone recalled her fully to the present. Donovan was reading the parting words of Don Silva.

"Each deed
That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting
That drives me higher up the steep of honour
In deeds of duteous service."

He closed the book after that and sat musing. Then, looking up with the light of enthusiasm still in his face, he said,

"That is a wonderful scene; it is like a bit of Sebastian Bach, a sort of mental tonic."

Gladys' eyes were full of tears, but for that reason she was the more anxious to speak unconcernedly; she hurried out the first trite sentence which came into her head.

"It is so terribly sad."

"Yes, sad but grand."

Somehow, as he spoke, Gladys was constrained to look at him, and; as she met his grave, deep eyes, there rose in her an inexplicable longing to make him express at least pity for the suffering involved by this sacrifice he so much admired.

"But surely, surely it was a cruel thing to sacrifice their very lives to an only possible good?" she said, pleadingly.

"I don't think you put it quite truly," he replied; "they renounced their own happiness for the general good of that generation certainly, probably of many generations."

"You speak of happiness as if it were such a little thing to give up," said Gladys; "I suppose it is selfish to think of it, but--but--oh! I hope there are not many Fedalmas in the world."

She was entirely unconscious of the pain which lurked in the tone of this almost passionate utterance, she scarcely knew that it was an aching dread in her own heart which prompted her words, she only felt constrained by some unknown power to plead with Donovan. But it was at that very moment, when she herself was least conscious in the present of her love to him, that he realised the truth.

He had hitherto loved her as an ideal, loved her with little thought of the future, never even framed to himself the idea that she could possibly love him. Now there surged over him a very flood of bliss--joy such as he had never imagined possible. In one instant countless visions of dazzling happiness rose before him. She, his ideal, his queen, loved him! How he knew it he could not have explained, but he did know it! Had his unspoken love drawn her heart to his? How came it that she loved him? Oh! unspeakable rapture! one day she might be all his own!

But the moment that thought of the future came to him, it was as if an icy hand had suddenly clutched his heart.

The dazzling visions faded, and in their place was only a horror of great darkness, out of which, like a death-knell, his own conscience spoke.

"There is no possible union for you. You would bring her the worst of miseries, perhaps even drag her down to your own hopeless creed."

He was too much stunned to think, but for some time now he had been clinging blindly to duty, had said to conscience, "Call, and I follow," and even in the confusion and anguish of that moment it was made clear to him what he ought to do.

With an effort of will he banished every trace of his real feelings from his face and tone, and answered as quietly as he could Gladys' last remark.

"I didn't mean to underrate happiness, though it certainly is not meant for everyone in the world, unless we find that sacrifice itself is the most real happiness; but I have not found that yet." Then, pushing back his chair, he added, "I think I shall go over to St. Kerrans. I want a good long walk. Can I do anything for you?"

"Nothing, thank you," said Gladys, mechanically taking up and putting down one of the peaches.

Donovan whistled to Waif and walked away in the direction of the house. Gladys sat motionless till the sound of his footsteps died away into silence; then, pushing aside the willow-pattern dish and the fruit, she laid down her head on the table and burst into tears.

Although he had spoken of walking to St. Kerrans, Donovan was too much stunned to know or care in what direction he went. He closed the front door behind him and strode rapidly through the village, up the steep hill, and along the road leading to the forge. Trevethan, the blacksmith, had become a great friend of his; to-day, however, he had not the slightest intention of going to see him, and, in fact, did not even know that he was passing the forge till the blacksmith's voice fell on his ear.

"Mr. Farrant, I was wanting to speak to ye, sir. Can ye step in a moment?"

"Yes," said Donovan, though he had never felt less inclined to speak to any human being.

"Well, sir, you see it's this way," began Trevethan, putting down his hammer and folding his arms as if in preparation for a lengthy speech. "I've told ye all about my son Jack as left home six years ago, and as I haven't heard from. Well, the Lord be praised, I've heard from 'm now, he's wrote me a fine letter, and sent a Bank o' England note along with it. But, sir, he's not said where he is, except there being 'London' marked on the front of the letter. Knowin' ye knew the place, I thought I'd ask ye how I could best find the lad. London's a big place, ain't it?--a sight bigger than Porthkerran?"

Donovan smiled a little.

"Yes, Trevethan, I'm afraid it'll be very hard to find him. I'll do my best to help you, though. Tell me what he is like."

The blacksmith's powers of description were not great; he knew that Jack was "fine and big," but could not tell the colour of his eyes, or any single peculiarity in his manners or appearance.

"You mustn't be too hopeful," said Donovan; "but I'll keep my eyes and ears open, and do all I can for you; I'm afraid, though, the only chance of your finding him will be his own voluntary return."

"Thank ye, sir, I'm obliged to ye for your help," said the blacksmith. "And as to hoping, as long as we're sure our hopes is runnin' the same way as the Lord's, I reckon we can't be too hopeful."

Donovan did not speak. He had had many a talk with the old Cornishman, had sometimes laughed at the quaint phrases of his Methodism, but had always admired and reverenced the man's unswerving faith--faith which had stood fast through countless troubles and losses. He could not help shrewdly surmising that this hope as to finding his son would never be fulfilled, and yet, as he watched the blacksmith's contented face, he felt that his intensely real faith in the inevitable Right which ruled all things was a very enviable possession.

After a little further conversation as to the search for Jack, the smith took up his hammer again, and Donovan took leave of him, and set out once more on his solitary walk. The interruption had quieted him for the time, but, as the consciousness of his pain returned to him, the contrast between his own state of conflict and Trevethan's quiet trust forced itself on him. This unlettered, ignorant old man had the knowledge which he was hungering and thirsting for, the faith which he would have given the world to possess.

But then with a sudden sharp pang came the full recollection of all that had happened, and his mind became capable of only two ideas--Gladys and pain. He threw himself down on the grassy slope bordering the cliff, and for a time allowed those two presences to work their will on him. Gladys, with her appealing blue eyes, her wistful plea for happiness, and an agonizing consciousness that sorrow and separation must come. As he grew quieter, or, rather, as his thoughts became more clear, he saw as distinctly as he had done when speaking to her in the orchard that union between them was impossible. He remembered the sense of separation that had come to him when Dot had first drifted away into those regions of thought into which he could not follow her. She had not suffered much from their difference of thought, it was true, but then she had been a little child, and there had been only a very few months of that divided thought and interest. If she had been older, his atheism must have been both a sorrow and a perplexity to her. Should he bring such a sorrow into Gladys' life?--should he lay upon her pure heart such a burden as he had to bear? Never! All the man in him rose at such a thought. It should never be! He got up and began to pace rapidly to and fro, his hands locked tightly together. It was no use idly to wish that he had never seen her; he must go away now, at once--that much was clear. She must learn to forget him. "Oh! I hope there are not many Fedalmas in the world!" her pleading tones rang in his ears, and his hands were clenched more tightly as he realised the pain he must in any case give her.

He must go, but it was hard--bitterly hard. His love was strong and true, no mere weak sentimentality; but it is a cruel tax on love to choose the very plan that will inflict pain on the loved one. The pain may be salutary, wise, necessary for future happiness, but the infliction is keenest suffering.

He knew that he should always love her, but his love must be kept in, restrained; a poor, cramped kind of love it would be, for he could never serve her. Deliberately, of his own accord, he must cut himself off from all but the pain of love. Unless, indeed, this bitter pain proved to be service. There might come a time when she would bless him for what he had done. Some day, when with a husband one with her in every way, and children of her own, learning from their father's lips the first lessons of the faith, might she not then bless him for the pain of the present? Might not this be his "duteous service"? this the "steep of honour"?

But Donovan was very human; the thought of his own suffering began to appeal to him. The thought of life without Gladys _would_ come before him; it hung round him like a heavy pall, shutting out all brightness, all hope of future happiness, all hope--so he thought--of ennobling himself. For was not she the light he had looked to, the goal he had set before him? Now everything was shut out. Blank and black, dreary and hopeless, life stretched out before him.

As he paced up and down battling with himself, his attention was drawn to the little strip of beach at the foot of the cliff; two children were there, laughing, shouting, waving their hands to a fisherman who was just nearing the shore in his boat. The keel grated on the pebbles, the man sprang out. He had not had good luck, his lobster-pots had been empty; but, in spite of it, his voice was hearty and cheerful as he hailed the little ones. Donovan saw them run to meet him, heard their cry of "Father! father!" Another sore regret surged in upon him then. He could never have a child of his own, no child would ever call him "father." He might love and be beloved by other people's children, but the fatherhood which this honest fisherman could enjoy might never be his. And then the terribly tempting thought of what might be, the haunting happiness of the home, the wife that might be his, came again to him with double force.

It is not so hard to bear what the force of circumstance brings; the Christian, the Fatalist, the Agnostic, all from a variety of reasons learn the sort of endurance which life can hardly fail to teach, and endure joyfully, abjectly, or doggedly; but deliberately to choose the pain, that is not easy, not easy because it is God-like. Only by slow painful degrees can we fight our way upward and break loose from the clinging hold of self-love.

Donovan had now fully faced all sides of this great question of his life; again he came to the decision which must be made at once and for ever. And now for the second time out of the depths he sent up a cry to the Unknown. No "sense of sin" had prompted either of those hardly conscious appeals; his first prayer had been that Dot might be taken from him into peace; his second that he might have strength of will to leave Gladys. That will of his which had failed--he distrusted it now!

The battle ended at last. Slowly and firmly he pronounced the "I will" which must banish him for ever from all that he loved.

The sun was just setting when he reached St. Kerrans; he had struck inland from the Porthkerran Cliff road, and had gone across country, Waif following him through stubble-fields and over hedges and West-country walls with untiring perseverance. The shops in the little town were still open, for it was market-day. Donovan went as usual to the post-office, and there to his surprise found a letter for himself--an exceedingly rare event. He opened it and read the contents with as much curiosity as he was capable of feeling about anything just then.

"S---- House, Freshwater, I. W., August 27.

"MY DEAR DONOVAN,

"You may very possibly have forgotten an old friend of yours, who, however, has often thought of you in the long interval which has passed since we met. I saw your cousin, Miss Adela Farrant, a few weeks ago, and she told me of your whereabouts. I am very glad you are thinking of entering the medical profession. Has your vacation begun yet? If so, will you not come and spend a week or two with me? Plenty of boating and fishing for you, and as much or as little as you like of an old man's society.

"Yours very truly,
"H. G. HAYES.

"P.S.--I am only here for three weeks, so come at once if you can."

Here was a real help to his resolution, an invitation which would blind the Tremains to the strangeness of his abrupt departure. He looked at his watch; it only wanted two or three minutes to the time when the telegraph-office closed. Should he go back and send the message which would fix his fate? He wavered a minute, but finally returned to the office, snatched up pencil and paper, and, feeling much as if he were signing his own death-warrant, wrote the following words--"Your letter forwarded to me from London. Many thanks for invitation. I will come to-morrow evening." The telegram dispatched, he set off at a sharp pace for Porthkerran, along the familiar road which had so many associations for him--the first meeting with Dick, his last return to Trenant only a month ago, and--most vivid recollection of all--that drive with the doctor one Sunday evening in September, when they had spoken of his doubts and difficulties, when Dr. Tremain had spoken so hopefully, so confidently of the light which would come to him. Poor Donovan! he did not feel any such confidence now. Black darkness seemed gathering round him. In renouncing Gladys, he felt that all which had hitherto been most helpful to him would be swept away, that he should be left entirely alone to face "the spectres of the mind." Happily he saw the danger of dwelling on this thought, however, and, putting it from him, he strode rapidly along, wondering how he could best veil his feelings from Gladys, or arouse least suspicion in the minds of her parents.

At last, in the twilight evening, he reached Trenant. How little he had dreamed that the sight of the gabled house, with its mantling ivy and cheerful lighted windows, would ever give his heart such a stab of pain! Well, he must think as little as he could, and just do. It was rather a relief to him on entering the drawing-room to find old Admiral Smith there. The doctor had his microscope out, Mrs. Tremain was working, Gladys was playing chess with Bertie.

"Here you are at last!" was the general exclamation. "Where have you been? And how tired you look!"

"It was very rude of me to cut dinner," said Donovan, shaking hands with the admiral, "but I felt so inclined for a good long walk."

"After your cramping position in the photograph, I suppose," said the doctor, laughing. "You are in great disgrace with Nesta though, for having gone without wishing her good night."

"You will have some supper now?" said Mrs. Tremain, with her hand on the bell.

"No, thank you," said Donovan. "I really want nothing. Let me have the rest of the evening with you all, for I'm afraid this will be my last."

"Your last evening!" exclaimed the doctor, greatly astonished.

"Well, at St. Kerrans I found a letter from a very old friend of mine, Mr. Hayes, a neighbour of ours at Oakdene. He is staying in the Isle of Wight, and wrote to ask if I would come down and see him. His time is limited, so I was obliged to answer him at once, and promise to go.

"How beastly!" exclaimed the two schoolboys.

"Must you really go to-morrow?" said Mrs. Tremain, regretfully. "It is very hard on us to be robbed of so much of your visit, but I suppose we must not grudge you to an older friend."

"Mr. Hayes was very kind to me in the old time. I think it is right that I should go to see him, though of course I----"

He broke off abruptly, unable to speak any trite common-place regret.

He had carefully avoided looking at Gladys, but as the doctor and Mrs. Tremain were still discussing this sudden change of plan with him, Bertie's voice forced itself upon his notice.

"Well, Glad, you are a muff! You've let me take your queen, when you might have moved it as easily as possible."

"I'm very sorry, Bertie. I wasn't thinking," was the answer.

"It's very dismal indeed," said the doctor. "However, I suppose we must grin and bear it. You'll come down for the next long vacation anyhow. And we won't allow Mr. Hayes to cheat us a second time. You can go to him for Christmas Day. He is more accessible than we are for a short holiday."

Gladys sat moving her chessmen mechanically, feeling as if she were in some dreadful dream. What did it all mean? Why was he going away? Had he guessed her secret? had she betrayed herself? No, she thought not, for he looked so perfectly natural, and even as she finished her game, he crossed the room and took the vacant chair beside her, asking in the most ordinary way,

"Did you finish stoning your peaches?"

And then he told her about his talk with Trevethan, and made her describe Jack to him, so that in a very little while her cheeks cooled, and her relief would have been almost happiness, if there had not been the haunting consciousness that this was the last talk she should have with Donovan for a year. Her heart was very heavy. They made her sing, too, which seemed hard, but Admiral Smith was fond of music; she could not refuse. Donovan lit the candles for her, and opened the piano. She turned over her portfolio, but every song seemed to bear some reference to the subject that was filling her heart. However, Admiral Smith decided the question for her.

"Now, Miss Gladys, let us have the 'Flowers of the Forest.' That's the prettiest song ever written, to my mind."

She got through it somehow, but there was more pathos than she wished in the mournful refrain--

"The flowers of the forest are a' wede away!"

Donovan never heard that song in after-years without a _serrement de cœur_. As he held the portfolio open for her to put it away, her hand touched his for a minute, he felt that it was icy cold, and a sudden longing to take it in his almost overmastered him. The old admiral was disappearing with the doctor into the adjoining room, the boys had gone to bed, Mrs. Tremain had just gone into the dining-room to ring the first bell for prayers, these two were quite alone. Why might he not take that poor little cold hand into his and tell her the truth, tell her that he loved her with his whole heart. After all, it was a mere shadow which stood between them! why should he sacrifice his own happiness and hers, because what to her was a conviction was to him a vague uncertainty? He loved her so dearly, why must he be so cruel? It was a moment of terrible temptation. But it was only a moment. With lips firmly pressed together he bent down over her music, turned over the pieces, and not in the least knowing what he had taken up, said rather hurriedly,

"Will you not play something? There will be time for this, I think."

She sat down again at the piano, and he moved away to the fireplace, waiting there with his head propped between his hands, and steeling himself to endure. Quite unknowingly he had given her a transcription of "O rest in the Lord." He scarcely heard it, but to her the beautiful air brought infinite comfort. When she had ended it she was quite herself again, and could speak naturally and composedly, and before many minutes the prayer-bell rang, and she went away, leaving Donovan alone.

That wretched evening ended at length, the last good nights were said, the house had settled down into quiet. But lights burnt long in two of the rooms; in one Donovan, with a rigid face, bent over his dryest medical book, in a vain endeavour to banish thought, in the other Gladys knelt and prayed.