Chapter IV: A Man and a Brother

Charity is greater than justice? Yes, it is greater, it is the summit of justice--it is the temple of which justice is the foundation. But you cannot have the top without the bottom; you cannot build upon charity. You must build upon justice, for this main reason, that you have not at first charity to build with. It is the last reward of good work. Do justice to your brother (you can do that whether you love him or not), and you will come to love him.

_Wreath of Wild Olive_. RUSKIN.

The 30th of September was a cold, blowy day, the wind seemed to take a special pleasure in howling and whistling about the dismal lodgings where Donovan was working. It was evening, the table was covered with bulky volumes, with papers of notes and manuscript books; he had always had the faculty of doing with a will whatever he undertook, and he was so absorbed in his work that he scarcely noticed a violent peal at the door-bell; it was not till the howling wind was eddying through the passage and the infirm fastening of his sitting-room door had succumbed to the blast and burst open, that he became alive to the fact that Stephen Causton was to come up to town that evening, and that this gust of wind probably announced his advent.

It was a blustering arrival altogether, the landlady's welcome was almost lost in the general hubbub. Donovan heard a loud and rather rough voice replying.

"Well, Mrs. Green, how are you? Here, you boy, put down the portmanteau."

Then came a slow counting out of coin.

"Please, sir, it were awful 'eavy," pleaded a shrill voice, "it were fit to break a chap's arm."

"Nonsense," came the loud voice again, "it's not more than three hundred yards from----"

"Good evening," interrupted Donovan, suddenly emerging from the sitting-room, and finding himself in the presence of a light-haired, bushy-whiskered double of Mrs. Causton.

"Oh! good evening," said Stephen, holding out his hand, and hastily glancing at his new companion. "I've all sorts of messages for you from Porthkerran."

Donovan's hands clenched and unclenched themselves. It was a little hard to hear messages from Porthkerran spoken of in such a careless tone.

The little street boy who had carried the portmanteau began to plead again for "another copper or two."

"Nonsense, be off, you beggar!" was Stephen's lordly reply, and he passed into the sitting-room, giving a chagrined exclamation at finding no supper ready for him.

Donovan left the landlady to pacify him, and partly from dislike to the tone which his companion had used, partly from his horror of under-paying labour, made the little street boy happy with a sixpence. Then he pushed the front-door to with a vigorous slam, and slowly returned to the sitting-room.

Stephen, feeling that he had a somewhat taciturn companion, talked more than usual, and pleasantly enough. However much he resembled his mother in face, he was evidently singularly unlike her in every other way, and Donovan was surprised that Mrs. Causton should tolerate such very free and easy manners, or that anyone brought up so strictly should sprinkle his conversation so plentifully with slang and mild oaths. Was this Dick Tremain's specimen of a "mother's son"? Surely he must have broken loose from his leading-strings!

The fact was that Stephen at Porthkerran and Stephen in London were two very different beings; he did not at first intentionally deceive his mother, but inevitably he had struck out into a line of his own widely different from hers. Too weak to care to set up his principles in open defiance he lived a sort of double life, taking his fling when alone, and meekly deferring to his mother's opinion when at Porthkerran. The result of this falseness was most unhappy. Donovan scrutinized his companion's face keenly that first evening, but after all, in spite of the narrow forehead, and the eyes which rarely looked straight into other eyes, he took rather a liking to Stephen--was he not a friend of the Tremains? the one link which might still exist between them.

It was not for some days that he found out the truth about his new companion. He knew that his bringing up had been of the narrowest, and guessed from the very first that he had shaken off the old traditions, and was taking his own way, but it was not all at once that he realised what that way was.

One October evening when the day's lectures were over, and the two had just finished dinner, the conversation drifted somehow to Porthkerran. It was a very chilly night, Stephen had insisted on having a fire, and dragging up an arm-chair to the hearth, sat crouched up like any old man; Donovan, with his feet on the mantelpiece, American fashion, listened silently to the continuous flow of talk, not taking great note of it until the name of Tremain fell on his ear.

"Johnson's a good enough fellow," Stephen was saying. "Not, perhaps, what Dr. Tremain would approve of, but one can't be so strait-laced as he is."

"The doctor strait-laced!" exclaimed Donovan. "That's the last word you can apply to him. Strait-laced! why, he's the very soul of liberality."

"In some ways," replied Stephen, coolly, "but not all round. I was a year in his surgery, and I can tell you he's not the easiest master to serve. I wouldn't have him know that Johnson and Curtis were my friends for--'a wilderness of monkeys,' as old Shylock has it. Not that they're either of them bad fellows, but they're the sort that the doctor can't abide."

Donovan only knew the two students by sight, but he was able to guess pretty well to what set they belonged, and he knew that they were probably the very worst friends for anyone so weak-minded as Stephen. The reference to the Tremains, however, brought too many painful thoughts to his mind to admit of his dwelling on his companion's words. He did not speak, and Stephen, thrusting his feet almost under the grate, continued,

"One can't be a slave to another man's opinion, but of course I do try to keep in the doctor's good books, not altogether to please him either. I suppose you saw a good deal of Gladys, didn't you."

"A good deal," replied Donovan, steadily; but as he spoke he swung down his feet from the mantelpiece, and pushing back his chair began to pace up and down the room.

"She's an awfully jolly little thing, isn't she," continued Stephen. "And she's grown uncommonly pretty too."

Donovan longed to kick him; Stephen talked on in easy unconsciousness.

"Her colouring's rather too high, certainly, but she's a very fine girl. I lost my heart to her years ago, and though of course I've had half a dozen flames since, not one of them was fit to be compared with her. I'd a fortnight at Porthkerran before coming up here, you know, and jolly enough it was too. Between ourselves my mother is quite ready to help me to see plenty of Gladys Tremain, nothing would please her so well as to have Gladys for a daughter-in-law, and, by Jove, she'd make a stunning good wife. I don't believe she dislikes me either, she was much more ready to be talked to than usual. We shouldn't be half badly matched. What do you think?"

"Discuss your love affairs with anyone you please, but not with me," said Donovan, reining in his voice with difficulty. "You ought to have found out before now that I'm made of cast iron, and chosen your confidant better."

"Well, all right, I won't bore you," replied Stephen; "where are you off to? don't go."

"I can't read yet, I'm going out."

"Johnson said he'd look in this evening, we'll have a round of 'Nap,' that'll be better than turning out on such a night as this."

"You won't play while I'm in the house," said Donovan, decidedly. "Look here, Causton, just understand once for all that if you bring those fellows here we dissolve partnership at once. I can get rooms elsewhere, but get into that set I will not."

"All right, my dear fellow, don't get into such a fume," said Stephen, trying to yawn carelessly. "They shan't come here if you feel so strongly about it, though after all you don't know that we shouldn't play for three-penny points."

"I wasn't born yesterday," said Donovan, shortly, and with that he went out, snatched up his hat, and, slamming the front door after him, hurried out into the street.

His brain was in a whirl of confusion, he strode on recklessly down the dingy street, out into the broad road, past the brilliant lights of Sanger's Circus, past the hospital to Westminster Bridge. Then he paused, and leaning on the southern parapet, in the very place where Noir Frewin had met him years ago, he let the wild confusion work itself out into distinct realities.

This fellow loved, or professed to love Gladys; the thought was simply intolerable to him. He loved her, but spoke of her as Donovan would hardly have spoken of Waif, loved her, and, sanctioned by his mother, evidently meant to woo her! And--worst misery of all!--what was there to prevent it? he was absolutely helpless, he could only look on in dumb despair. Never more could he go to that Cornish home, never more see the face of the woman he loved, but he should hear of Stephen Causton's visits, _he_ might go there with impunity, he might spend long hours with Gladys, might woo her and win her! It was maddening! the thought of it roused all the stormiest passions in Donovan's heart. He absolutely hated Stephen, hated and despised him, dwelt with bitterest scorn on his weakness, his many failings. The fiend of jealousy rode rampant over every better feeling, quenched for the time all that was noble in him. Only for a time, however; before long he was taxing himself--not Stephen--with cowardly weakness.

Yes, after all, with him lay the fault. What right had he to be angry because another man ventured to admire Gladys? What concern was it of his? Had he not resolved on absolute sacrifice of self?--yet here was the wily self coming to the fore again, firing up indignantly because another man desired what he had renounced.

And Stephen was not so entirely despicable as in his rage he had imagined him to be. At any rate he had far more right to think of marrying Gladys than Donovan himself had. What business had he, of all people, to fly into a passion because one worthier than himself had stepped forward? Enjoyment, happiness, was not for him; a line of plodding duty--of entire sacrifice--was the course marked out instead. The "steep of honour" was before him, his reward must be in the "deeds of duteous service" themselves.

It should be so. The fire of indignation died down, leaving him quiet, passive, horribly depressed, but still resolutely determined to keep on in this dreary round of duty.

The cold night wind blowing up from the river helped to brace him for the struggle; air and wide open space had always a very strange influence over him, this evening he felt their influence more than ever. The river flowed darkly onward, the lights on its margin threw their yellow reflection in a second golden chain, to the left stood up the sombre towers of the Abbey, and the huge mass of the Houses of Parliament loomed grandly out of the darkness. Sounds of life and traffic rose, too, out of the night. Trains flashed like fiery serpents over Charing Cross Bridge, with shriek of whistle and snort of engine; carriages, horses, passengers of every description hurried on. After all it was a grand old world, no world of units, there was a national life to be lived as well as a private life, there were national grievances which would outweigh and eclipse all private grievances, there was--even to a sometime misanthrope--the enthusiasm of humanity, a wonderful panacea for self pain.

He was conscious of that widening influence, but more conscious of a sudden contraction caused by the sound of a voice he knew. Glancing round he saw Stephen and two other men within a few yards of him.

"No, I've never played there," Stephen was saying.

"Time you were initiated, then," replied one of his companions. "Smithson will be there by nine; he's better at billiards than anyone I know, a regular----"

The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, there was a general laugh, and then Donovan heard no more.

He watched the three as they crossed the bridge, and saw them turn to the right; he guessed well enough where they were going. It was quite evident that Stephen was getting completely under the influence of Johnson and the set to which he belonged. In an instant all the thoughts of brotherhood, freedom, and self-sacrifice were banished from Donovan's mind, and a very devilish idea took possession of him.

Stephen was deplorably weak-minded, he would get completely under Johnson's thumb, would very likely go to the bad altogether, and, if so, he would unfit himself for Gladys. In one moment there rose before him a picture of the future, Stephen the orthodox dragged down into disgrace and rejection; himself, an agnostic indeed, but the model of virtue and morality, rewarded by success.

It was a fiendish imagination, lasting only for a minute; he dashed it down, and stood shamefaced and full of self-loathing in the world of realities again.

The Westminster chimes rang out into the night. Big Ben boomed the hour--nine of those deep, reverberating strokes fell on Donovan's ear. Before the last echo had died into silence he had made up his mind what to do. With the natural instinct of a generous character, he, having wronged Stephen in thought, was anxious now to redress the wrong by some kind of service. Thoughts of the Tremains, too, came crowding into his mind; Stephen was their friend, the doctor's godson; if he went wrong the Tremains would be infinitely sorry. He must at any rate try to get him away from that set into which he had fallen, make some effort to dissuade him from a course which would so thoroughly shock his mother.

He hurried along with rapid strides, trying not to think how much he disliked the task before him, racking his brain for some excuse by which to draw Stephen away, at any rate for this evening. He had only a few minutes in which to form his plans; before long he had passed under the dark railway bridge, and had turned up Villiers Street. He had not been in this particular place since the miserable New Year's Eve just before his illness, when his one longing had been to stifle his remorse, and to still those awful recollections of Dot's death-bed; an extraordinary change had passed over him since then, but he did not think of that himself, or contrast the present Donovan with the past, only as he went through the swing doors into the brightly-lighted saloon, a vague association of pain and misery came to him, a sort of ghost of the past seemed to hover about the place.

His quick eye had soon taken a survey of the tables, and had descried Stephen Causton cue in hand; the place was crowded; he made his way towards him and stood for some time watching him in silence; he was betting on his own play with despicable rashness, and he was playing exceedingly ill. Donovan had an insane desire to snatch the cue from him and play himself, it was most irritating to watch the game.

Presently he became conscious that some one's eyes were riveted upon him, he glanced round in involuntary reply to that strange magnetic influence. It was only the marker, a dark-haired man, with a face which somehow seemed familiar to him. As Donovan's eyes met his he turned away, however, apparently that fixed scrutiny had been quite purposeless. Curious deep blue eyes, a somewhat broad face, and black hair--why, the fellow had a Cornish look! And then it suddenly flashed into Donovan's mind that the likeness which had struck him was a likeness to Trevethan the blacksmith. Surely this must be Jack Trevethan for whom he had promised to search. He went round to the marker's seat, there was no time for beating about the bush, he just bent forward and said in a low voice,

"Is your name John Trevethan?"

The billiard-marker started violently, and his dark face flushed. Donovan felt at once that his guess had been correct, even though the man gave an angry denial.

"My name's Smith. What do you want with me?"

"Nothing. But I have a message for a man named Trevethan from his father," said Donovan, carelessly. "I see I was mistaken, but you are like the description given me."

He moved away then, and made his way to Stephen. A fresh game had just been begun, this time Stephen was only looking on; he had lost a good deal, and was not in the best of tempers.

"What, you here, Farrant!" he exclaimed, with surprise, for he had been too much engrossed to notice Donovan before he actually spoke to him.

"You passed me just now on Westminster Bridge, I came in here to try to get hold of you. Haven't you had enough of this? Come with me and hear the 'Cloches de Corneville,' we've not had so much as sixpenny worth of music since you came up."

"I can't come now, I'm with these other fellows," said Stephen, irresolutely.

"Can't!" ejaculated Donovan, scornfully. "You've not sold yourself to them, I suppose. Come along, you've had your game, and we shall just be in time for the half price."

Stephen was always easily led, a little more persuasion and the stronger will triumphed, Donovan gained the day.

As they passed out of the saloon he glanced once more at the billiard-marker; he was so convinced of his identity with Trevethan's son that he could not make up his mind to go without one more effort. Hastily scrawling his name and address on a card he once more crossed over towards the Cornishman, and said, with apparent carelessness,

"If you happen to know anything of this Trevethan, he will be able to get news of his father at this address."

The man did not speak, but he took the card, and as Donovan turned away he neglected his duties to look after him as he passed down the long saloon.

"The light one was young Causton, but who can he be?" mused the billiard-marker. "Farrant! there was no such name at Porthkerran. He's a knowing hand, wanted to get the other out of this, and hooked him neat enough, but I was up to him, I wasn't going to be fooled out of my name."

With which reflections he put Donovan's card into his waistcoat pocket, and with a sigh returned to his neglected duties. But in spite of his satisfaction at not having been "fooled" into a confession, the thought of his old father at Porthkerran haunted him uncomfortably.

Stephen meantime was listening with great delight to the music at the Opera Comique, Donovan fancied some resemblance to Porthkerran in the little fishing town represented on the stage, and therewith heard and saw little else, but in a sort of dream lived again the months he had spent with the Tremains, returning every now and then to the prosaic realisation that he was in a hot theatre with his rival beside him, this Stephen Causton to whom he must before all things be perfectly just. The orchestra twanged and scraped, the songs and choruses succeeded one another, the audience applauded, and Donovan forced himself away from the thoughts of the little Cornish village, and made himself face the present and think out his plans with regard to Stephen.

The result of this was that as they walked home he told him a little about his former life, and Stephen was for the time impressed, liked Donovan better than he had ever liked him before, and perhaps for the first time thoroughly respected him. But though he made many resolutions not to be led away by Johnson and Curtis, daylight and some disagreeable chaffing from his former companions about his capture by Donovan Farrant, undid all the good that had been done.

Donovan saw that something was amiss when they met at dinner-time. He had made up his mind to do all possible justice to Stephen, to ignore his failings, and to be perfectly friendly with him, but his patience was severely tried by the resolute sulkiness of his companion's manner.

Hardly a word was spoken during the meal; as soon as might be, Donovan turned his chair round to the fire and took up the _Daily News_; Stephen too got up from the table, and stood with his back against the mantelpiece. Presently he broke the silence.

"I say, Farrant, just understand at once, please, that I won't have you dogging me again to-night."

"I thought you were due at the hospital," said Donovan, carelessly.

"So I am; but you know well enough what I mean. You know that you dogged me last night."

"If by knowing where you were and following you, you mean dogging, I certainly did," said Donovan, throwing aside his paper. "I suppose Curtis and Co. have been chaffing you?"

"That's no concern of yours, and I'm not going to be interfered with, so just understand."

"I've not the least wish to interfere," said Donovan. "I told you last night why I tried to get you away; I believed that you didn't know what that sort of thing leads to. Now you do know, and if you choose to run into danger with your eyes open, the more fool you."

"You're the last fellow in the world who has a right to dictate to me," said Stephen, with offended dignity.

"I don't dictate, I only warn you that you'll come to grief unless you break with that set."

"And what concern is that of yours, pray?"

"More than you fancy," said Donovan, quietly. "You are a friend of the Tremains, and so am I."

"But I'm not going to bow down to Dr. Tremain in everything, and I told you so before; he's a good enough old fellow, but----"

"Take care how you speak of him," said Donovan, his eyes flashing.

"Don't look so furious; what did I say? You seem to consider the Tremains your special property. I've known them more years than you have months."

"Then I wonder that you care to take up with fellows whom the doctor would disapprove of. And besides, Causton, if what you told me last night is true, if you really care for--for Miss Tremain, I should have thought you wouldn't have been able to go about with such cads."

"Of course I care for Gladys; but what on earth has that to do with the chums I have here?"

"A great deal," said Donovan, vehemently. "Do you think you'll ever be worthy of her if you go on making such a fool of yourself? You know you're hardly fit to look at her now, and what do you think you'll be like if you let such fellows as Johnson and Curtis lead you by the nose? You'll be a weak-minded, despicable fool. I tell you, if you mean to dream of marrying Miss Tremain, you must fit yourself for her."

"You're wonderfully exercised about it; I believe you want to have her for yourself," said Stephen, tauntingly.

The hot blood rushed to Donovan's face, his eyes fairly blazed with anger; in ungovernable fury he snatched up a boot-jack and hurled it at his companion's head.

The next instant, however, the threatened tragedy became utterly comic; Stephen, to save his head, warded off the blow with his arm, and the boot-jack hit him with considerable force on the elbow. Numb, and tingling to the very finger-tips, he simply danced with pain. Waif's tail got trodden on, and he howled dismally; the fire-irons were knocked down, and went clattering into the fender, and Donovan, overcome by the absurdity of the scene, forgot his anger, and fell into a perfect paroxysm of laughter. Stephen laughed too.

"You wretch! it was my funny-bone. By Jove! I believe you've broken it."

"A medical riddle for you," said Donovan, as soon as he could speak for laughing. "Why is the funny-bone so named?"

Stephen gave it up, and, as the clock struck, remembered that it was time he went back to the hospital. He went off laughing at the answer, "Because it borders on the humerus," and apparently the incident of the boot-jack had really dispelled his sulkiness. Donovan picked up the fire-irons, patted Waif, and then, taking an armful of books from the sideboard, settled down to his evening's work. The boot-jack was ever after a theme for laughter, but they neither of them alluded again to the conversation which had led to the quarrel, nor did Stephen ever think there was the smallest truth in his taunt. He could not imagine anyone so matter-of-fact as Donovan actually falling in love, and the stony silence with which all his remarks about Gladys were met only confirmed him in the opinion that his companion was indeed of the "cast iron" philosopher type.

To Donovan that year was a hard struggle. The continual worry about Stephen, and the friction of his presence, were perhaps good for him; they certainly prevented him from becoming self-engrossed; but there were times when he felt unbearably jaded and harassed, as if he could not much longer keep up the weary fight. He grew curiously fond of Stephen, and Stephen returned the liking in his own odd way, vacillating between Donovan and his old companions, and proving his miserable weakness of will; but, though Donovan saved him from much, he could not prevent the steady downhill course into which he had fallen.

The approach of the long vacation brought another struggle, and another hardly-won victory. There was a very urgent invitation to Porthkerran. Of course it must be refused, but Donovan had to go through the old battle once more before the letter was written. He made it a question of economy this time; his finances were low, and he had made up his mind to stay in town through the summer months, having obtained temporary employment in working up the book-keeping of some small tradesman. The Tremains were sorry, but could say nothing against such a plan; and Donovan saw Stephen go westward for his three months' holiday close to Gladys' home, and felt a bitter pang of envy.

He worked almost fiercely through those stifling summer months, and in every spare moment read hungrily on all sides of the great question which was gradually filling his mind more and more. There was temporary satisfaction in the actual reading, but he seemed to gain little from it. Arguments for, repulsed him; arguments against, pained him. He felt no nearer the knowledge of the truth.

October brought a return to his hospital work, and fresh difficulties with Stephen, who came back from Porthkerran inclined to break out into violent re-action after the subdued atmosphere of his mother's house.

Mrs. Causton herself had not been altogether satisfied with her son during the vacation. She wondered whether Donovan's influence could be bad for him, and after he had left she worried herself so much about him that she at length resolved to go up to town for a week, visit him in his rooms, and satisfy herself that the doctor's _protégé_ was not corrupting him.

One morning when Donovan was sitting at breakfast, discussing a tough essay on "Spontaneous Generation," over weak coffee and leathery toast, there came a knock at the door, the landlady announced "Mrs. Causton," and much surprised, he found himself face to face with Stephen's mother.

"I have taken you by surprise, Mr. Farrant," she began, in her rather demure voice. "I came up unexpectedly to town on business, and was anxious to find Stephen before his lectures began. I arrived too late last night to come and see him then, as I had intended doing. Stephen is not unwell, I hope? I see you are breakfasting alone."

"He will be down directly," said Donovan. "Let me give you some coffee, Mrs. Causton; and then I'll go and call Stephen."

"Yes, pray tell him I am here," replied Mrs. Causton. "No coffee, thank you. I breakfasted at my hotel. Pray call Stephen. I hope he is not often so late as this?"

Donovan judiciously ignored that question, and went to summon the hope of the Caustons, whom he found sleeping the sleep of the just, and in the meantime the anxious mother took a rapid survey of the sitting-room. It was redolent of tobacco, but no doubt that was due to Donovan Farrant; for the rest she could see nothing to find fault with, unless indeed the evil lurked in those books piled up on the sideboard. She crossed the room, and put up her double gold-rimmed eye-glasses to read the titles. There were several works on medicine and surgery, and some bulky volumes of science, then came an untidy pile of a strangely heterogeneous character. She read the titles with great dissatisfaction. Maurice, Renan, Haeckel, Kingsley, Strauss, Erskine, and at the top an open volume, Draper's "Conflict between Religion and Science." She turned to the fly-leaf. It was a much worn, second-hand book, but under two half erased names was written "D. Farrant." Of course all these books belonged to him, but how could she tell that Stephen did not read them too?

Her manner when Donovan came down again was decidedly stiff. He felt it at once, and it hurt him a little, for the recollection that she had left Porthkerran only the day before, had raised a great hunger in his heart for news of Gladys.

"I hope they are all well at Trenant?" he asked, hoping that her answer might go a little into details; but he only extracted a general reply that everyone was well, that Porthkerran was very little altered, and that old Admiral Smith had been suffering very much from rheumatic gout.

Before long Stephen appeared, having evidently performed a very hasty toilette, and Donovan, thinking it well to leave the mother and son alone, whistled to Waif and went out.

"How do you like Mr. Farrant? is he a pleasant companion?" asked Mrs. Causton, as the front door closed.

"Oh! he's a very good sort of fellow," said Stephen, ringing the bell for his breakfast, "he's very clever, and works like a nigger."

"Then I wonder he has time to waste on such a paper as this," said Mrs. Causton, laying her black gloved hand on the _Sporting News_.

The _Sporting News_, as it happened, was Stephen's paper, but he could not allow his mother to know that; with a slight pricking of conscience he merely turned the conversation.

"Oh! of course even the hardest working fellows must have a little relaxation. Farrant reads on every subject under the sun."

"I hope you never open those dreadful books of his which I see over there?" asked Mrs. Causton, apprehensively.

"Oh! dear no," replied Stephen, this time with perfect truth. "They're a great deal too stiff for me."

Mrs. Causton gave a relieved sigh and the conversation drifted away from Donovan to the examination which Stephen was going in for that term. He had lost much valuable time when his eyes had been bad, but was nevertheless very sanguine.

"I must own," said Mrs. Causton, as she walked back to her hotel with Stephen, "that it will be rather a relief to me when your course is over. I don't altogether like this arrangement of sharing rooms with Mr. Farrant, I hope he never speaks to you about religious matters."

"Never; he's a very taciturn fellow, and as to theology, we should never dream of discussing it, so you may be quite happy, mother."

His manner re-assured Mrs. Causton, and he spared no pains to please her during her week's stay, escorting her to the National Gallery, and the British Museum, and one night even submitting to the very dullest of meetings at Exeter Hall.

"If that poor Donovan Farrant would have come with us," sighed good Mrs. Causton, at the close of a speech which had roused her to enthusiasm.

"Not much in his line, I'm afraid," said Stephen, heartily applauding the speaker with hands and feet in a way which delighted his mother.

"Dear Stephen was so much impressed by Mr. ----," she told one of her friends afterwards. And the poor lady went back to Cornwall quite satisfied that her son was doing well, that even Dr. Tremain's suggestion that he should lodge with Donovan Farrant had not proved really dangerous. It was, she still thought, a somewhat rash experiment, but certainly dear Stephen was not the least contaminated.