“Dear Friend in Need: I am, so to speak, breathing my native air; but, although there is a popular belief to the effect that one’s native air is beneficial, I find it iswholly insufficient to support existence. I am treated here with respect, not to say reverence; my fame (such as it is) has preceded me, even to this benighted spot, and the old place slaps itself upon the back approvingly because it gave me birth; at the present moment I wish it would give me something to eat. Providence, however, watches over the weakest of its creatures, and I hear, by accident, that you are staying within a hundred yards of me. Imagine my ridiculous position: I am spoken of with bated breath as a wonder, shedding lustre on all to whom I will deign to nod, yet I have not the wherewithal to pay my bill, and, moreover, I am burdened. Come and smile upon me—and see the Burden.“Yours in distress,“Brian.”
“Dear Friend in Need: I am, so to speak, breathing my native air; but, although there is a popular belief to the effect that one’s native air is beneficial, I find it iswholly insufficient to support existence. I am treated here with respect, not to say reverence; my fame (such as it is) has preceded me, even to this benighted spot, and the old place slaps itself upon the back approvingly because it gave me birth; at the present moment I wish it would give me something to eat. Providence, however, watches over the weakest of its creatures, and I hear, by accident, that you are staying within a hundred yards of me. Imagine my ridiculous position: I am spoken of with bated breath as a wonder, shedding lustre on all to whom I will deign to nod, yet I have not the wherewithal to pay my bill, and, moreover, I am burdened. Come and smile upon me—and see the Burden.
“Yours in distress,“Brian.”
Comethup gave a little sigh as he folded up the note and thrust it in his pocket. “It’s from my cousin,” he said. “He’s staying at the Bell; he wants me to go over and see him.”
“Is he ill?” asked the captain, shortly.
“No, I don’t think he is ill; he doesn’t say so.”
“Well, I should have thought he might have troubled himself to walk over here,” said the captain, “without sending for you.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t quite sure of finding me in,” said Comethup. “I think I’d better run over and see him; he wants to see me. I’m sorry to rush out again, sir, in this unceremonious fashion, but I won’t be long.”
“That’s all right, my boy,” replied the captain. “Only you know my prejudice against your cousin, and I’m not particularly glad to find that he’s down here.”
Comethup deemed it wiser to make no answer; he put on his hat and went off to the inn to find Brian. The little old-fashioned bar of the place seemed unusually full that night, and much animated talk was going on. As Comethup inquired for his cousin, a hush fell upon those in the place, and curious looks were directed toward him.It was evident that Brian’s appearance had created something of the stir he had suggested.
Brian was in the most jovial humour, and came forward to greet him with a cry of delight. There stepped forward another figure also—Mr. Robert Carlaw—who grasped his hand warmly, and allowed a smile of relief to break over features which had before worn a look of anxiety. Comethup concluded that this must be the Burden referred to in the letter.
“My dear chap,” began Brian boisterously, “I know you’ll laugh when you hear everything; you’ll split yourself with laughter at our expense. You know, another man in my position would see the grim side of it, the sordid side; I only see the humorous one. Look at my respected dad; saw you ever such a figure of melancholy? You must know that I made up my mind to come down to my native place—I think I hinted something of the sort when I saw you in London. I pined for old sights, and old sounds, and familiar faces; I heard again the babble of the brooks of my youth, the songs of the birds whose nests I robbed in boyhood’s hour. Well, I was just preparing to start when my wonderful parent put in an appearance; we hadn’t seen each other for a considerable period. ‘Where are you going?’ says he. ‘To the home of my birth,’ says I. Then, like the historic milkmaid, ‘I’ll go with you,’ says he. And here we are.”
“But, my son,” interrupted Mr. Robert Carlaw gravely, “the worst has yet to be told.”
“The worst? The best, you mean; quite the best.—You know, my dear Comethup, our preposterous fashion of taking life—a sort of childlike belief that the ravens, or some other well-disposed persons, will feed us. Well, you don’t need to be told that my disgraceful parent and myself discovered, when we arrived here, that we hadn’t a sovereign between us; and this, too, after we had, in the lightness of our hearts, secured the best rooms that the place could afford.”
“You forget, my dear Brian,” interrupted his father,“that that wasmysuggestion. I considered it necessary, for the sake of your reputation here.”
“Yes, that’s all very well,” laughed Brian; “but we quite forgot, in the innocence of our hearts, that these people knew that you had met with disaster in the shape of bankruptcy. The consequence is that I see that most terrible thing—the greed of gold—beginning to glitter in their eyes. However, we’re here, and we’ve got to make the best of it. I suppose we must be fed, and I suppose these good people must be paid. Therefore, as I say, Providence has been good to us and has sent us”—he bowed with charming frankness toward his cousin—“Comethup.”
The humour of the thing began to appeal to Comethup also. Perhaps it was better that that side of the matter should strike him most clearly, for the rest had become so much a matter of course, that Brian should send to him when the slightest difficulty arose, that he had long since ceased to wonder at it or to be surprised. It was evident that both father and son regarded the thing not as a charity, but as their right; whatever might have been their first feelings, custom had blunted them. Comethup, for his part, could never quite divest his mind of the idea that he was giving an alms, and he tried, therefore, always to carry the business through as delicately. It was evident here that, in a place where Brian’s reputation must at all hazards be first considered, there must be no thought of paying the bill directly; appearances must be kept up, and father and son must sail out of their difficulties with flying colours and in good attitudes. That was obviously a matter for Comethup to arrange; it was evident that they waited for him to set about the task.
“Do you intend to stay here long?” he began.
“About a week, I think,” said Brian. “The truth is, I’m a little rusty, and, despite all the delights of town, I sigh for the simplicity of the country-side. Yes, I think about a week; by that time we shall both be bored to death, or shall have had a violent quarrel——”
“My dear Brian!” interrupted his father.
“And shall have mutually cursed each other and gone our separate ways, until the time arrives for another reconciliation. That’s our gentle method of getting through life. At the present moment we are amiability itself; but how long it will last it is quite impossible to say. Do you think we can manage a week here, Comethup? It’s not a very expensive place, and the wines, which are atrocious, are not at all dear. What do you say?”
“Well, that’s foryouto say,” responded Comethup.
“Pardon me,” interrupted his uncle, “it is foryouto say. In our present embarrassed circumstances, we wait—I may say, with hopes which are certain to be realized—we wait on the word of one who has ever proved our friend. I say it not without emotion; I have recollections of many occasions on which——”
Brian broke in boisterously. “Here, for Heaven’s sake, don’t start a sermon, dad! Comethup doesn’t want it, and it won’t improve me; and you, for your part, don’t mean a word of it. Comethup quite understands the circumstances—don’t you, old chap?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Comethup hurriedly. “I’m in rather—rather a hurry, and if you will let me know——”
“How much we want?” Brian finished the hesitating sentence airily, and Comethup was grateful to him. “Well, suppose you let us have—dad’s an expensive chap to keep, and I don’t want to be forever worrying you—suppose you let us have a hundred. I’ll look after it myself, and be strictly economical; and long before it’s all gone my new book will be out and I shall have made my fortune. This next volume will certainly make my fortune—in an indefinable fashion, I feel sure of it.”
“Well, I haven’t so much money with me, of course,” said Comethup, “but I can give you a cheque, and they’ll clear it for you at the local bank, if that will do.”
“Excellently,” exclaimed Brian. “What a wonderfully generous fellow you are! Any one would think you had been sent expressly into the world to come to my aid at stated intervals and lift all worry from my shoulders.That you should be down here at this very hour—that’s the wonderful part of the business!”
Comethup wrote the cheque, and escaped as quickly as possible from their thanks. Mr. Robert Carlaw found it necessary to open the door for him, and even to accompany him down the stairs and through the bar, waving aside haughtily some common person who stood in the way. Outside, in the quiet moonlit street, he placed a hand on Comethup’s shoulder and looked at him and sighed.
“My dear nephew,” he said, “fortune has not been good to me. True, it has placed certain riches within my grasp; but Providence, on the other hand, has cursed me with a temperament which compels me to do all things greatly—on a large scale, as it were. I think I told you once that I felt I was meant to cut a figure—to loom large in the eye of the world. There are men cutting figures to-day who are but objects of contempt; they are not fitted, physically or mentally, for the parts they play. With me, it would have been different. I have, and I say it in all seriousness, tact, discernment, and a certain refinement, and—shall I say it?—delicacy, which all men do not possess. Yet I am a most unhappy man; I am growing old—no, do not attempt to contradict me; I feel that I am growing old—and I am compelled to seek my bread in the most precarious fashion—to be dependent even on the whim of my own son.” He lowered his voice, and glanced toward the inn door. “This money you have been generous enough to place in his hands—no doubt he will spend it with what wisdom he can, but I—I shall see nothing of it. And you must be aware that there are services rendered to me daily—by servants and others in humble positions—for which a gentleman must pay, if he would keep clear that distinction which is necessary between class and mass. You grasp my meaning?”
Comethup nodded. “Forgive me,” he said; “I had not thought of that. Will you permit me——”
“You are ever generous, my dear nephew,” murmured Mr. Robert Carlaw as he thrust the flimsy banknotes intohis waistcoat pocket. “Once more I can hold up my head before my fellows; once more I can feel that I am not wholly dependent on my son. Good-night, my dear friend; good-night!”
Comethup was halfway home when some curious feeling made him turn in the direction of ’Linda’s house. The town was quiet, and no one was in sight in any of the streets through which he passed; he crept in through the garden and went and stood under the balcony, looking up at the house, which was in complete darkness. And as he looked there came back to him the words she had uttered; not the words of comfort he had tried so resolutely to hold before him, but those others which held a vague fear for him, “What would you do if you found I did not love you?”
THE DESERTION OF A PARENT.
Comethup saw but little of his cousin during the week which followed. Once or twice he met him, riding wildly about in some of the country lanes on a horse he had hired, on which occasions he drew rein with a shout, and generally announced that he was having “a splendid time,” and that he would be able to go back to work feeling much better for the holiday.
During that week, too, Comethup was left very much with the captain, for ’Linda, without warning, broke several engagements she had made to go out with them, pleading afterward that she had had headaches or that there had been work to be done. One evening, as Comethup, after waiting all day in the hope of seeing her, was making his way to her house he met his cousin Brian swinging out through the gates. They stopped, in mutual surprise, and then Brian linked his arm in that of the other and began to lead him away.
“What a lucky meeting!” he exclaimed. “I was just wondering what I was to do with myself all the evening, and how I was to pass the time until I could decently go to bed. Come along. What shall we do?”
“I’m afraid you must excuse me,” said Comethup. “I can’t join you to-night; I’m just going to see ’Linda.”
“I’ve just seen her,” said Brian, looking at him with a smile. “You didn’t tell me, you rogue, anything about the business.”
“What business?” asked Comethup, a little coldly.
“Why, your engagement, of course. Well, I congratulate you. Our little friend has certainly grown into a lovely woman, but she always gave promise of that. My dear boy, you come in for all the good things; whathaveyou done to deserve them?”
“Yes, I suppose I’m very lucky,” said Comethup. He hesitated for a moment, and then held out his hand. “Good-night!”
“Oh, but it’s no use your going in now,” said Brian; “she’s gone to bed; got a headache or something of the kind. You won’t be able to see her.”
“Well, I’m going to the house at all events,” said Comethup doggedly; “I can at least inquire how she is. Good-night!”
“Good-night,” said Brian, and shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
Comethup went through the garden, and stood under the balcony. A light was burning in the room in which he had once sat with ’Linda, but the long French windows were closed. He climbed the steps and walked to the windows and looked in; Mrs. Dawson sat beside the table sewing. He knocked upon the pane, and then thrust open the window and walked in. She looked up quietly, letting her work rest under her hands in her lap. For a moment neither of them spoke.
“’Linda?” he asked at last. “Where is she?”
“She’s gone to her room,” replied the woman, looking at him in some surprise.
“But she can not have gone long, and I want to see her,” said Comethup.
“She gave me strict instructions she was not to be disturbed.”
“Ah! but she didn’t know that I was coming to her. I must see her; I haven’t seen her all day, although she promised to meet me.”
The woman rose slowly from her seat and laid her work on the table; she came toward him, looking at him with a curious intentness. “You haven’t seen her all day? Then who was with her in the garden just now, and why did she run in crying? I saw that, although she hid her face from me.”
“I—I don’t know,” said Comethup, with a miserable pain beginning to gnaw at his heart. “I suspect—I know you’re mistaken, as you were before, when you thought she met some one. But will you please go and tell her that I am here, and that I should like to see her?”
Without another word Mrs. Dawson went out of the room, and he heard her quick feet ascending the stairs. Within a few minutes she returned, and stood just within the doorway of the room, looking at him. “She says you must forgive her, but she can not see you to-night. She will see you to-morrow. And she sends you her love.”
With that he had to be content, and he went away through the garden and through the streets back to the captain’s cottage. All night long he lay wide awake, turning over the matter in his mind, seeing again Brian coming striding out of the garden, picturing in imagination an interview between him and the girl which ended in tears for her. But with the morning, just as he was thinking of getting up, came a little rattle of pebbles at his window; he scrambled out of bed and looked from behind the curtain. Below, in the garden, was ’Linda, smiling up at him, and with that smile all the troublous doubts and fears of the night were gone in a flash.
He nodded to her, and scampered through his dressing and ran down to join her. She was in her most playful and bewitching mood; she caught both his hands anddanced round him like a happy child, and dragged him into the house and kissed him before he had recovered breath to greet her.
“There, see what a change the morning brings!” she cried, her eyes dancing. “Last night I hated all the world, and hated myself most of all; this morning the world is lovely, and I am lovely—youmight have said that, sir!—and I’m going to be good for evermore, and never, never give my dear boy the slightest cause for a heartache.” Between laughter and tears she kissed him again, and clung to him.
“But you never have given me cause for that,” he said. “When I feel your arms about me and your lips on mine—well, nothing that has happened can matter at all; you seem to sweep everything else away. I was a little disappointed yesterday that I did not see you, but this more than makes up for it.”
“And you’re quite sure that you forgive me—that thisdoesmake up for it? Oh, my dear, I want you always to think of these best moments of mine, and to forget all the bad ones. See, with this bright morning I’ll begin over again; I’ll be so good, so tender, so devoted to you that you shall never have cause to think badly of me; all my moments shall be best moments from this hour; everything else shall be forgotten. Here’s the captain coming; kiss me again.”
She was in the same mood during breakfast, and for all that long and happy day. She strove, in a hundred ways, to blot out the memory of pain she had caused him—strove, by her present tenderness, to cover up past moments of petulance or anger. Yet there was in it all such a striving, such a sense of trying to do that which should have come naturally, without any striving, that even the good captain, simple gentleman though he was, looked at her more than once in surprise, and wondered what Comethup thought. But Comethup was blissfully happy, and only found time to bitterly accuse himself more than once of having been unjust in his thoughts toward her.
A second completely happy day followed that first one,and at the end of it he walked home with her to her house, lingering with her until the last moment to put off their parting. As they walked slowly under the great trees toward the balcony, a man came strolling toward them, with the glow of the cigarette he was smoking making a little point of light in the darkness. The girl had had both hands locked on Comethup’s arm; she took the hands quickly away when they came face to face with Brian. He stopped, pulled off his hat with a flourish, and laughed.
“I’ve been dreaming of romantic things,” he said; “and lo and behold! I step suddenly—an intruder, I fear—into the very heart of romance itself. Happy lovers wandering in the starlight! Why, all the dreams I have dreamed and all the poor verses I have scribbled are as nothing to this; I have yet to learn the very first trick of my trade—love at first hand. And who shall teach me?” He glanced, with a sort of comical wistfulness, at the girl, who had drawn a little away from Comethup, and whose eyes were fixed on the ground.
“Oh, you’ll find some one to teach you, I’ve no doubt,” said Comethup, with a laugh. “What has brought you wandering here?”
“I came to see an old friend—’Linda,” responded Brian. “Will she forgive me if I suggest that, in these rose-coloured days, she is apt to forget a poor fellow who was once her friend?”
The girl looked up quickly, with a flush on her face. “Indeed, I forget none of my old friends,” she said. “Why should you think that?” Comethup, looking at her, saw in her eyes an appeal to the man, a look half of defiance and of a resolution to keep firmly to her promise of the previous day—half of a pity for him, and a fear of him or of what he might say.
“Well, perhaps I don’t quite think that,” said Brian carelessly. “Only it’s been my experience through life to find that one is so easily forgotten, so easily thrust out of remembrance, when one is penniless and—helpless. You think that unjust, perhaps? There, I’m sorry. I’m in a wrong mood to-night, and I’ve waited so long in thisinfernal garden, on the chance of seeing an old friend, that I’ve got the horrors. Good-night, happy lovers!”
He turned on his heel, and went swinging away down the avenue, singing a song softly to himself as he went. The girl stood looking after him for a moment—stood quite still until Comethup touched her arm and recalled her to herself.
“Come, it’s late,” he said.
“Yes, it’s late,” she answered, almost mechanically. She did not put her hand again on his arm as they walked toward the house, and, at the foot of the steps leading to the balcony, when he would have drawn her into his arms, she put out her hands and held him gently away from her. “You have had kisses enough for one day,” she said; “you will tire of me if I yield always so easily. Good-night!”
He looked at her wistfully for a moment, and then raised her hands to his lips and let her go. She ran up the steps and in through the window without once looking round at him.
A letter from Miss Charlotte Carlaw, written in the stiff round hand which the use of the writing frame demanded, awaited him at the captain’s cottage. She was suddenly possessed by an idea, she wrote, to visit the old town and to make the acquaintance of ’Linda Vernier, quite in an informal fashion, for herself. But she wanted her boy’s arm to lean upon, and she did not care to make the journey alone. Would he come to town to fetch her? If he could tear himself away from his sweetheart for so long, and would come to London the next day, he could sleep in town that night and they could go down together on the day following. She knew, she added, that the captain’s house was a small one, and would be glad, therefore, if Comethup would take rooms for her at the best inn he could find.
Comethup, reproaching himself that he had of late left her so much alone, showed the letter to the captain, who immediately proposed to turn out of his own house for her accommodation. But Comethup laughingly assuredhim that his aunt would never consent to that; the only question was about the choice of an inn. To take her to the Bell was clearly impossible, since Mr. Robert Carlaw and his son were apparently firmly established there. Finally, it was decided to engage rooms at a smaller place, the captain assuring the young man that the accommodation, although limited, was of the best. The next morning Comethup started for London.
Miss Charlotte Carlaw was filled with a pleasurable excitement at the prospect of meeting the girl—talked of nothing else, in fact, on the journey down. They came in the old fashion to Deal, and thence drove, arriving at the inn late in the afternoon. It had been arranged that Miss Carlaw, after tea and a rest, should proceed to the captain’s house for dinner; on this point the captain had firmly insisted, and had spent two sleepless nights over a consideration of the courses. There ’Linda was to meet her. Comethup had posted a letter to her before leaving for London explaining his hurried departure, and begging that she would meet his aunt, as suggested, at the captain’s house.
Miss Carlaw, who had asked a casual question as to why rooms had not been taken at the Bell, and had been informed that those she had formerly occupied were engaged, presented herself punctually at the hour appointed for dinner, supported by Comethup. The captain was in something of a flutter, and kept trotting in and out of the room and holding whispered consultations with Homer. ’Linda had not arrived, and Comethup glanced more than once anxiously at his watch. At last Miss Carlaw, seated in the chair of state and leaning her chin upon her stick, faced round upon him a little impatiently.
“Punctuality is a virtue, my dear boy,” she exclaimed, “and that lady-love of yours is twenty minutes late. I can understand modesty and shyness and all that kind of thing, although I don’t think I ever suffered with those complaints myself; but the captain’s dinner is spoilt, and I’m ravenously hungry. I think you had better go and look for her.”
Comethup gladly seized the opportunity. “Wouldn’t it be better,” he said, as he was going out of the room, “if you went on with dinner? ’Linda will only feel a thousand times more nervous if she thinks you have been waiting; whereas, if I bring her in quite in an ordinary way—well, she won’t feel so embarrassed.”
“Oh, these lovers!” ejaculated Miss Carlaw. “Well, I suppose you’re right; so I’ll ask the captain to have dinner in at once. And you’re both young—just make her run for it.”
Comethup ran at top speed to the house, and went plunging through the garden and up the steps to the balcony. Scarcely waiting to knock, he flung open the long window and stepped into the room. Mrs. Dawson was there, not sewing quietly as usual, but pacing up and down the room. She stopped in her walk for a moment and faced him.
“’Linda!” he exclaimed. “Is she ready?”
“I have not seen her for some hours,” replied the woman.
“Not seen her? But I——”
She took a note from the table and held it out to him. “I found this here just now; it is addressed to you. I had been out, and came back and found it here.”
There seemed a dreadful silence about the house and in the room; the very noise of the ripping of the envelope seemed to hurt him. He pulled the letter out, and came forward to the light to read it. And this is what he read:
“My dear, dear Boy: If I had not been a coward, if I had been, in anything, worthy of all your tenderness, your goodness, and your love for me, I might have faced you, and told you what you will here find written, and trusted to your mercy. I think now that if you were here, and held my hands and looked into my eyes with those deep, honest eyes of yours, I could not do what I must do—I could not leave you. God knows what a long and bitter fight it has been; how I have told myself, again and again, that you were the best man on earth, and thatnothing should change my love for you. Believe that I meant that always; believe that I have tried, with prayers and tears, to shut everything else out. When first I met you, after we had grown to be man and woman, I carried something in my heart of which I dared not speak—the love of another man. On the first night that I ran down to meet you in the garden I thought he had come back to me. Now he has come back indeed, and all my world is changed, and I can cheat myself and you no longer. He is poor, and friendless, and helpless, but he will one day be a great man; and I, though I am but a poor, timid girl, can help him a little to his greatness as no one else can possibly do. If I am a coward, in running away and fearing to face you, forgive that, as you have forgiven so much else. We go to London this afternoon; we shall be married to-morrow. Something is tugging hard at my heart while I write this; you have been always so good to me that I seem to see you reading it. Forgive me; if you can find it in your big heart to do that, you will not quite forget—“Your friend,“’Linda.”
“My dear, dear Boy: If I had not been a coward, if I had been, in anything, worthy of all your tenderness, your goodness, and your love for me, I might have faced you, and told you what you will here find written, and trusted to your mercy. I think now that if you were here, and held my hands and looked into my eyes with those deep, honest eyes of yours, I could not do what I must do—I could not leave you. God knows what a long and bitter fight it has been; how I have told myself, again and again, that you were the best man on earth, and thatnothing should change my love for you. Believe that I meant that always; believe that I have tried, with prayers and tears, to shut everything else out. When first I met you, after we had grown to be man and woman, I carried something in my heart of which I dared not speak—the love of another man. On the first night that I ran down to meet you in the garden I thought he had come back to me. Now he has come back indeed, and all my world is changed, and I can cheat myself and you no longer. He is poor, and friendless, and helpless, but he will one day be a great man; and I, though I am but a poor, timid girl, can help him a little to his greatness as no one else can possibly do. If I am a coward, in running away and fearing to face you, forgive that, as you have forgiven so much else. We go to London this afternoon; we shall be married to-morrow. Something is tugging hard at my heart while I write this; you have been always so good to me that I seem to see you reading it. Forgive me; if you can find it in your big heart to do that, you will not quite forget—
“Your friend,“’Linda.”
He read it all through slowly, in a dazed fashion, and then quietly folded the paper, pleating it up small in his fingers and staring down at it. Mrs. Dawson had drawn nearer to him, and now laid her hand on his arm. He looked round at her like some great helpless animal that has been wounded, and can not understand why the blow should have been struck.
“Something is wrong. What has happened?” she asked, in a quick whisper.
“She—she’s gone!” he said. Then came the quick instinct, the very dawning of a purpose he was to keep so clearly before him afterward, that she must be protected; that her good name must be held high and clear in all men’s sight, that none might smirch it. He actually forced a laugh to his lips as he thrust the paper into his pocket. “There—there’s nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all; you needn’t look so frightened. It’s only—only alittle love story—a love story none of us guessed. Curious, isn’t it? She tells me here as—as an old friend, that she’s run away—there, don’t cry out—she’s run away to get married. That’s all.”
“To get married! But who is the man? Are you sure that he——”
A sterner light came into Comethup’s eyes. “Yes,” he said, “I am quite sure. They will be married at once. You must be very fond of her,” he added gently, “to take the matter so much to heart. But I suppose any one could get fond of her quite easily. And you’ve been with her a number of years.”
The woman looked at him with a forlorn expression of countenance, and clasped her hands and began to weep, not with any violence but in a hopeless, helpless way that was more terrible than anything else could possibly have been. The secret she had borne so long, the story of that shameful flight which she had been compelled at first to keep from her child, and later had kept for her own sake, seemed to weigh more heavily now than it could have done at any other time. She had seen the child grow to girlhood, and then to womanhood; had been content with what tenderness she could win from her, in her position as a tried and faithful friend, fearing to jeopardize even that small happiness by any avowal of the true relationship between them.
Comethup left her, and went slowly out through the garden again. He had forgotten everything but that one thought—that she was gone—forgotten that, within two hundred yards of him, his aunt and the captain awaited his arrival, and would look for an explanation. In quite an aimless way he got into the streets, and walked until he found himself outside the Bell Inn. Scarcely knowing what he did, he went up the stairs, turned the handle of the door, and walked into the room in which he had seen Brian and his father. Mr. Robert Carlaw was standing by the fireplace, looking into the glass; he turned round sharply as Comethup entered the room.
“Brian has gone, I hear?” said Comethup, in a low voice.
Mr. Robert Carlaw flung out his hands with a despairing gesture. “It is true, sir. With that base ingratitude which has ever been his chief characteristic he has deserted me in the hour of my need. More than all, he has taken with him the whole of the money you were generous enough to place in our hands, and which I was foolish enough to leave in his keeping.”
“That’s well,” said Comethup half to himself. “I’m glad he’s got some money.”
“Glad, sir! And pray what is to become ofme?” exclaimed Mr. Carlaw. “Have I lavished the tenderest care upon him for years past; have I sacrificed everything to him; have I raced, in my declining years, through strange and vile places of the earth, in order to be near him and to protect him; have I done all this to be deserted now, at the last, for a wretched jade——”
“Stop!” said Comethup quickly. “I’m afraid you don’t quite understand the situation. There is no question of any ‘wretched jade,’ as you describe her. Brian has merely decided to marry the sweetest and best girl that there is in the world. I don’t think you’re quite wise to talk in that fashion, and I don’t think I’d do it if I were in your place. I’ve no doubt you’ll see Brian again shortly. At the present moment, as he has been, well, let us say compelled to take the money for necessary expenses, perhaps you will allow me to replace what you consider you have lost.”
“You are very good, my dear nephew; you are always more than generous. Forgive me if I spoke in haste. But consider the position: my son, who is just entering, as I might say, into his kingdom, who has the ball, as it were, at his feet, to marry a girl like this, whom no one knows and who has never been heard of! Why, it’s shocking—positively terrible! With his face, and his figure, and his talents he might easily have gone one better than his poor old father, and been snapped up by a duchess. Such thingshaveoccurred.”
“I dare say,” said Comethup wearily. “I just—just called here to see you. I only heard a little while ago that Brian had left.”
“He left a note for me,” said Mr. Carlaw, “informing me coolly that he purposed getting married to-morrow, and that, as he wanted money for current expenses, he’d taken what there was, and had no doubt that I should ‘fall on my feet.’ Fall on my feet, indeed!—a fine expression to use to a father! What did he think was going to become of me?”
“I suppose he remembered that I was still in the town,” replied Comethup quietly. “When do you return to London?”
“Immediately; it is useless for me to stay here. I must discover my erring boy; I can not rest until I have effected a reconciliation with him.”
Comethup was glad to bring the interview to an end. He left Mr. Robert Carlaw smilingly fingering a cheque, and came out into the cool night air. Even then he did not care to go back to the cottage; he wandered on, stumbling now and then like a man half asleep, and came back presently to the broken gates of the garden in which he had walked so often with her. In the darkness of it he almost fancied that there hovered the white figure of the child he had seen as a boy; he almost thought he heard the piteous, pleading, childish voice calling to him from among the trees. He laid his arms against one of the trees, and rested his head upon them, and remained there in the solitary place for quite a long time. He did not weep; the bitterness of the thing lay too deep for tears. Young though he was, he looked up at the stars that were peeping through the branches, and wondered how he should live and what he should do, and how the world would go on, now that she had left it empty. He took the letter out of his pocket and put it to his lips, for she had written it, and there was some small consolation even in that.
How should he tell them? That was his next thought; how to get the miserable business explained, so that itmight afterward be set aside and forgotten and done with. He waited for some time outside the captain’s cottage, debating what to do, and finally crept in cautiously and stood just within the doorway of the room, and beckoned to the captain. His aunt sat with her back to him, and was quite unaware of his presence.
The captain stared at him for a moment as though he had been a ghost, then rose, and, with a muttered word of apology to Miss Carlaw, came out to him. Not a word was said until they stood outside in the little garden, with the cottage door closed and the two men looking into each other’s eyes.
“She’s gone!” said Comethup; and for the first time, with his old friend’s hand in his, his fortitude gave way and he turned his head aside. “She’s gone away, this afternoon, with the man she loves—gone to be married. You see, sir, I made a mistake—put her in a false position, as it were. But, of course, it is all right now—and she’s gone to be married.”
The captain stood perfectly still for nearly a minute without speaking; then he said slowly, “And the man—who is the man?”
“My cousin, Brian. I suppose I ought to have known from the very first that she must love him, and not me. You see, he’s such a different sort of fellow——”
“Thank God for that!” murmured the captain, under his breath.
“And now all we have to think about is how to tell my aunt. You see, it’s rather a foolish business: we’ve brought her down here under false pretences, as it were, and there’ll be such a lot to explain, won’t there? And I want, for a little time at least, to forget all about it, just as though it hadn’t happened. Shall we go in and tell her?”
“Yes, I suppose we must,” said the captain. “You know her better than I do; but I think she will understand, and will not trouble you with many questions.”
They passed together into the cottage. Miss Charlotte Carlaw must have heard the sound of the voices outside,and must have recognised that something was wrong. She sat quite still, with her hands resting on her stick, but her face wore a curiously anxious expression. Comethup crossed to the window and stood there, at some distance from her, wondering how he should begin. She waited for some moments, and then turned piteously toward the captain, and from him to her nephew.
“Will no one speak? What has happened? Comethup, my dear boy——”
“There’s been a mistake,” said Comethup, speaking in slow, steady tones. “I suppose we all make mistakes some time or other in life, and I’ve read somewhere that a man makes them most of all when he’s in love. So you see, aunt,I’vemade a mistake; have dreamed a poor, foolish dream; have pictured to myself something that didn’t exist. The lady I—I thought I was in love with was all the time secretly in love with some one else, and to-day they’ve gone away to be married. Please don’t speak to me; please let me explain. And I want you, first of all, to remember that it is not her fault, and never has been; the blunder has been mine, in cheating myself into the belief that she cared for me. It really isn’t her fault, and I”—he gave a queer little laugh—“I’m quite happy, and I say, with all my heart, ‘God bless her and her husband!’”
Miss Charlotte Carlaw’s perception must have been keener even than the captain had imagined. At the first, when Comethup began his blundering explanation, she had shown signs of a rising indignation, but as the pitiful recital went on her face changed, and her head was bowed slowly over the top of her stick. The captain stole quietly from the room, and the old woman raised her head at last and held out her hand toward her nephew. “My dear boy,” was all she said, but in the words was a sympathy so great that he could scarce restrain his tears. He did not feel strong enough to go near her yet, and so he said, with what lightness he could call into his voice:
“Shall we have dinner?”
“Is there nothing more you wish to say to me?” sheasked. “Oh, my dear boy, is there nothing you wish to say? You speak as lightly as though——”
“And think as lightly, I hope,” he replied. “I’ve made—made a blunder; that’s all.”
She dropped her stick, and stretched out both hands to him. He stepped forward then and took the hands and kissed her. “O Comethup!” she whispered, “I never wanted eyes so much as I want them to-night. I want to see your face!”
GENIUS AND THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES.
In all the time which followed, Miss Charlotte Carlaw never once alluded to the scene of that evening. That, with womanly instinct, she drew her own conclusions is certain; that, in her own characteristically fierce fashion, she cursed the girl for a fool and a jilt is equally certain; but to Comethup she strove in every possible fashion to teach him to forget the mishap, to take his mind as much as possible from the sorry business. She could not cheat herself into the belief that she succeeded; her quick senses told her that the added tenderness in his voice and an additional gentleness in his manner were but the outcome of all that he suffered in silence.
They returned to town on the day following ’Linda’s flight, and two days after that a letter was forwarded to Comethup by the captain—an impudent, paltry thing, which yet gave him some small satisfaction.
“My dear young Crœsus: The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. I’ve no doubt that at the present moment you are thirsting for my blood, and pouring out threats against me; yet I should be glad, for the sake of our old friendship and because I am gratefulfor certain services you have rendered me, that we might still be friends. You can’t have everything in this world; and once upon a time, when probably you didn’t know any better, you stole my birthright. At the present moment I have stolen what was never yours. It was a mere girlish infatuation on her part, and one which you should have been wise enough never to take seriously. You wouldn’t see that you were in the way, and you forced me to adopt the only course possible. I am convinced of one thing, and that is, that my new life with her will give me just that stimulus which has somehow been wanting in all my efforts. We were married on the day following our flight to London, so that you need not, in your innocence, blush for me or for her. We are going into the country for what is technically known as the honeymoon, and then we return to town and I start seriously to work. I will let you know my address.“Yours sympathetically,“Brian Carlaw.”
“My dear young Crœsus: The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong. I’ve no doubt that at the present moment you are thirsting for my blood, and pouring out threats against me; yet I should be glad, for the sake of our old friendship and because I am gratefulfor certain services you have rendered me, that we might still be friends. You can’t have everything in this world; and once upon a time, when probably you didn’t know any better, you stole my birthright. At the present moment I have stolen what was never yours. It was a mere girlish infatuation on her part, and one which you should have been wise enough never to take seriously. You wouldn’t see that you were in the way, and you forced me to adopt the only course possible. I am convinced of one thing, and that is, that my new life with her will give me just that stimulus which has somehow been wanting in all my efforts. We were married on the day following our flight to London, so that you need not, in your innocence, blush for me or for her. We are going into the country for what is technically known as the honeymoon, and then we return to town and I start seriously to work. I will let you know my address.
“Yours sympathetically,“Brian Carlaw.”
He tore the letter up and went about his daily life, determined, if possible, now that the matter was ended, to shut it all out of his mind. Miss Carlaw, with the same kindly object in view, proposed a flight to the Continent, and, believing that it would please her to go, he gladly fell in with the suggestion. They were absent nearly two months.
As they travelled with much the same state they had adopted on their former journeyings—putting up at the best hotels and staying in the largest cities—they were easily to be traced. This Comethup was soon to discover, for one night in Rome, after a solitary ramble through the streets, a note was handed him as he entered his hotel; he was informed that it had been left by a gentleman, who would return in half an hour. He tore it open, and discovered that it was written hurriedly in pencil and was signed by Robert Carlaw, that the writer begged for a few moments’ conversation with him on a matter of emergency. Comethup hesitated for a moment, and thenstrolled out into the streets again, lingering about near the entrance of the hotel. He had no desire to meet his aunt, and then arouse her suspicions by leaving her again.
In a little while he saw Mr. Robert Carlaw approaching him, swinging along with something of the old jaunty step, and setting his hat a little more rakishly on his head as he approached his destination. Yet there was, with all his jauntiness, a certain lack of confidence about the man—in his movements and in his glances—which may have been inspired by the needy life he had led. Comethup stood watching him as he neared the hotel entrance, and saw that he did not turn boldly in, but lingered for a moment outside, looking in furtively. As Comethup walked toward him a look of relief stole over his face, and he went toward the young man with both hands outstretched. Comethup grasped one of the hands, and his own was immediately covered by the other and warmly pressed.
“My dear young friend,” exclaimed Mr. Robert Carlaw, “how good it is to set eyes once again upon you! May I dare say that I have hungered for a sight of you? I trust you have not waited long here for me?”
“No,” said Comethup. “But I thought that if you wished to see me we might talk here more easily than in the hotel.”
“True—true,” murmured his uncle; “you are ever considerate. And I, who am, and have been for a long time, nothing but a houseless wanderer, a wretch who dare not meet the eye of his tailor, to say nothing of his butcher and his baker, I seem to shun the lighted halls of luxury, and to choose, as befitting my own fallen fortunes, the darker ways of life. But enough of me.” He made a dramatic gesture, sighed, and linked his arm in that of the young man and strolled on with him.
“You’re in no fresh trouble, I hope,” said Comethup. He longed to speak of ’Linda, to ask if she were happy, to be certain that all was well with her.
“Freshtrouble!” ejaculated Mr. Carlaw. “Would that any trouble which I suffered could, in any sense ofthe word, be termed ’fresh’! They are all too old and stale for that. I am buried to the neck in them, am forever struggling to the lips in a horrid sea of them, expecting to be drowned every moment. Once or twice a generous fellow, who shall be nameless”—he squeezed Comethup’s arm—“has thrown, to carry the metaphor further, a life-line to me, and has drawn me ashore for a space. But ill fortune has thrust me back again in time, and each time I seem to sink deeper than ever. But enough of myself; I am the emissary of others.” He said it with an air as though he felt it conferred a distinction upon him that he was not on this occasion personally begging.
“Of others?” inquired Comethup, looking round at him.
“Yes; it is not for myself I plead. I do not know, by the way, that I have ever really pleaded for myself; your generosity has merely anticipated my necessities. Mine is a nature which, foolishly enough from the world’s point of view, places self last; it has ever been my way. But I have taken this journey, on the present occasion, because I can not see those who are dear to me—my flesh and blood, so to speak—perishing, while the world looks on with careless eyes. I am a father, and I feel the responsibilities more than might be imagined. I have watched my son’s career; I have seen men prick their ears at the mention of his name and nod sagely; I have——”
Comethup was too impatient to hear more of the preamble. He seemed to scent disaster in the very air, and broke in upon the other’s slow words impatiently. “Yes, yes; but tell me at once what you mean, why you are here, and what’s happened. Of course, if Brian is in want, you know that I shall be only too glad to——”
“My dear nephew, you anticipate my meaning at once. It is only the truly generous soul that can see deep into the heart of distress, as it were, in a moment. I will not disguise from you the fact that these young people, who have rashly, but with a very beautiful confidence in Providence, I think, entered upon a union which naturally increases expenses—I will not disguise from you the factthat they are in want—that we all are in want. I—I have recently, from motives of economy, taken up my residence with them, and that close intimacy has enabled me to see clearly that which my son’s natural pride has kept from my knowledge. Sir, I can bear it no longer. I said to myself, ‘These young people shall not suffer before my eyes. I will sacrifice everything for them; I will humble my pride; I will approach our former benefactor.’ And I am here.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry to hear what you say,” replied Comethup. “Of course I had no idea that Brian would be in such straits as you describe. I shall be returning to England within a few days; perhaps I shall be able to see him. In the meantime, perhaps you will allow me to give you—I beg your pardon, lend you—a sum of money, and you can then hasten back to them. I trust they are not—not in actual want?”
“Their credit, up to the moment, has, I rejoice to say, remained good; but even that is on the point of exhaustion, and after that—well, I tremble. So you see, when it came to a crisis I informed my son that I would seek you. With the natural hesitation of a proud man, he refused at first to listen to such a suggestion; but I prevailed, took sufficient for my journey, on the most economical principles, and, as I said before, here I am.”
“I have only a little over thirty pounds with me,” said Comethup, “but, as I shall be returning to London immediately, that will suffice for your present need. You return to England at once?”
“To-morrow morning,” replied Mr. Robert Carlaw, thrusting the money into his breast pocket. “To-night I shall sleep soundly, for the first time for many weeks; I do not sleep soundly when I am troubled about those who are near and dear to me. Yes, I return to-morrow morning.”
They parted, and Comethup went slowly back to the hotel. No mention had been made by his aunt about any probable date of return; they had merely wandered from city to city as the whim took them, Miss Carlaw havingalways in her mind the desire to teach him forgetfulness. Therefore, when he went to her that night and stated, with what carelessness he might, that he should like to return to London at once, she was naturally somewhat startled. Even while he was speaking and urging excuses for no longer remaining abroad she was casting about in her mind to discover the real reason of this step he contemplated; she began at last to fear that she understood the reason only too well.
“Come, my dear boy, what ails you? What’s the reason of this sudden change of plan? There’s nothing troubling you, is there? You’ve had no—no letters, no bad news, to worry you? Won’t you tell me?”
To tell her was, of course, impossible. Even if he could have kept back that former story of all the money he had paid away, he could not now explain that this girl, who had left him for another, was in want, and that he, the man she had cast aside, was to relieve her. That, of course, could never be explained—would never be understood. Although his aunt had scarcely mentioned the matter to him, he felt, from something she had once said, that she knew the story of the marriage, and knew that Brian was ’Linda’s husband. Probably the captain had told her. But Comethup saw clearly before him that there was but one course he could adopt—that of silence. He could not bear to think that any action of ’Linda’s, or of those belonging to her, should be misunderstood.
“No, of course I have had no bad news. What should make you think that? Only I am a little tired of travelling, and you know London is always delightful; I’ve heard you say that. My dear aunt, I know you only undertook this journey because you thought I should like it. Won’t you go back to please me also?”
“Ah! you’re keeping something from me; there’s something hidden away in your heart that you won’t tell me. There! I’m not inquisitive—no more than the rest of my sex; but I’d like to give you a word of warning, boy. You’ve not been happy lately—oh, I know!—although you haven’t said a word about it; I’m too fond of you not tonotice every little sign. My dear boy, there’s something I never meant to refer to; it’s a story that’s best left alone. Comethup, you’re not—not hungering after her still, are you?”
“No,” he replied.
“And you’re not making this sudden journey to London after her? Remember, you must put that out of your mind; I saymustadvisedly, because there’s no other word to use in the matter. You can’t blink the thing away, my dear: she belongs to some one else, and you’ve done with her. If you don’t recognise that, it only means disaster for both of you. With a man and a woman in such a situation there are two things for the man to do: if he can’t run awaywithher, then, by the Lord, he must run awayfromher!”
“But I am not going to London to see her,” said Comethup. “I’m afraid you’re magnifying the matter; she is married, happily married, and all the other is forgotten and done with. Won’t you understand that?”
“Yes, if you tell me so. I am very glad, for your sake, to hear you say it. And, if it pleases you, we’ll set off for London at once.”
One thought was uppermost in Comethup’s mind—that he must not see ’Linda. In the first place, he felt pretty certain that the fact of his having been appealed to on her own and her husband’s behalf had not been revealed to her; and, in the second, he was not quite sure yet that he could bear to meet her. That she must, at all costs, be kept from want and suffering he had fully determined; all the bright hopes and dreams he had had, even from his boyhood, concerning her were swept aside and done with—things that never had been. The fortune that had been placed in his hands and which had seemed once so wonderful was now nothing, save that by its aid, in an indirect fashion and without her knowledge, he could benefit her; he was glad to think that he still possessed that power at least. For his wanderings had not changed him. Solitary for the most part, except for the companionship of the strange old woman who loved him and wouldhave done so much to help him, he had seen, in every place he visited, the face of the girl always before him; had gone over, in imagination, words she had spoken to him; had lived again through scenes of those brief half-happy weeks in which he had thought she loved him.
Within an hour of reaching London he had set off for Brian’s lodgings; he had found a brief note awaiting him, giving the address. He discovered it to be in a cheerless and shabby quarter of town; it was obvious, from the style of the house, that they had no real home of their own yet, but were living in furnished apartments. He wandered up and down the street, in the dusk of the evening, for a long time, wondering what he should do, or how it would be possible to meet Brian without also seeing ’Linda. He had almost made up his mind, in despair of anything better, to ring the bell and inquire for his cousin, when the door of the house he was watching opened and ’Linda came out. He was on the opposite side of the street, standing back in the shadow of a doorway, and he saw her distinctly—saw, with something of a stab at his heart, that she seemed thinner, and that some of the old elasticity of her step was gone.
He watched her hungrily till she had turned the corner, and then crossed the road and rang the bell. He was shown, by a weird-looking, tired-eyed little servant-maid, into a room on the first floor; it was empty, but in a few moments a door leading to a farther room was opened and Brian came in. There was none of the old frank, joyous fashion of greeting about him; he merely nodded, and thrust his hands into his pockets and walked across to the fireplace.
“Well,” he said, “so you’ve found me out at last, have you? You’ve been long enough about it.”
“I came to you as soon as I could,” said Comethup. “You know I’ve been abroad, and I——”
“Abroad! What do you want to fling that in my face for? Here, some cursed fortune thrusts me, penniless, into a wretched London lodging-house in a slum, and you flaunt it in the best hotels all over Europe. Where’s thejustice of it? In God’s name”—he swung round fiercely, and made a step toward the other—“how does the world expect me to work, why does it demand the best of me, under such circumstances?”
“Don’t be unreasonable,” said Comethup slowly. “I met your father in Rome, and sent him hurrying back to you.”
“The damned old scoundrel! Do you know that I’ve never even seen him? When I could stand it no longer, I suggested he should go and find you, and he promised faithfully to come back the moment—well, the moment he got anything. How much did you give him?”
“A little over thirty pounds,” said Comethup.
“And a fine time he’s having with it, I’ll be bound. Never trust your own flesh and blood, say I. Fancy your own father leaving you to starve!”
“Well, I shouldn’t trouble about that now,” said Comethup. He had been looking round the shabby room, with its absence of anything homelike, save for a few flowers in a cheap vase on a little table and some needlework in a little basket. He trembled at every footfall on the stairs, and was only anxious to get away before she returned. “You know I’ve always plenty of money, and if you will let me——”
“Oh! don’t beat around the bush. What do you suppose I sent to you for? It’s easy enough to come in, well fed and well dressed—I’ll warrant you drove here in style——”
“I don’t think I’d say that, if I were you,” said Comethup quietly. His hands were gripped closely behind him, and one foot was beating restlessly on the carpet. “You know I’ve always been ready to—to lend you anything in my power. There’s only one thing I’d like to say, and that is, I should be grateful if you wouldn’t say anything about it to any one else—to ’Linda, for instance.”
“You needn’t fear that; I’ve got my pride—possibly more of it than you possess. There! I don’t want to quarrel with you; only I suppose I’ve got a little soured when I could see no prospect of anything coming in. Andmoney does go so devilish fast in London! Why, that hundred I had—you remember when I left poor old dad stranded without a halfpenny—it’s all gone long since. Poetry is not a paying game, my boy, and these days people don’t seem to believe in a poet who’s hidden away in dingy rooms like this. You see, I can’t ask any one to see me; the people I knew have lost sight of me, and I am in daily dread of being shelved altogether. A poet must remember his social duties, like every one else. While I go on at this rate I shall never make a splash—never do anything.”
“Yes, you’ll do well enough in time,” said Comethup, glancing uneasily toward the door. “As you want me to put the thing bluntly,” he added with a little laugh, “perhaps I may say that I’ve brought some money with me, and that more shall be forthcoming when that’s gone—until, of course, you’ve been able to make your ‘splash,’ as you term it, and can repay it.”
“Oh! of course, that will be all right; it’s bound to come sooner or later. That’s just the point; the things are talked about enough, and if I could once thrust my head in at society’s door and talk about them myself, I should be a made man. How much can you spare me?”
“Well, I don’t spend much myself, and I thought perhaps—say two hundred?”
“By Jove, you’re a good fellow! Pass it over. I must trump up a story to ’Linda about a sudden remittance from the publishers; women like to know the ins and outs of things.”
“Is—is she well?” asked Comethup carelessly, as he held out the notes to the other.
“Oh, yes, she’s well enough,” replied Brian. “Like most of her delightful sex, she’s possessed of a temper, and so am I, so that we don’t always pull together nicely in harness. But she’s very fond of me, and I—yes, I’m very fond of her. But, I say, you’d better be going, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, I think I’ll go,” replied Comethup. He picked up his hat, and looked for a moment round the room;he did not know when, if ever, he should see it again, and it was a wonderful place to him, poor though it was, because she lived there.
Brian went to the door, to ascertain if the coast was clear, and Comethup, shaking him hurriedly by the hand, ran downstairs and got into the street. Even then for a long time he could not leave the place, lingering unhappily up and down on the other side of the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of her again.
He saw her come back presently and enter the house, saw lights gleam in the room he had left, and a little later still saw them both come out and the girl link her arm in Brian’s, and watched them go off together in high spirits. Walking sadly a long way behind them, he saw Brian hail a cab at the end of the street and put her in and jump in himself; saw the cab drive away westward.
A SECOND DESERTION.
Now that they were once again established in London, Miss Charlotte Carlaw made up her mind that they would entertain and be entertained; that the Prince Charming, who had burst, so to speak, upon her acquaintances as a mere child, should, now that his education and his travels were completed, appear before them as a man. She set about the business with characteristic energy. He was regarded, as he had always been, as the head of the house, and, although Miss Charlotte Carlaw very rarely went out, Comethup knew that it pleased her that he should accept invitations, even though his doing so must leave her alone. So it happened that he went about a great deal.
It was at a big house one night in the following year that he met ’Linda. It was the house of a woman who liked to call about her every little shining light, in whateverparticular sphere they might be, and make much of them for a while, and then drop them as hurriedly. Comethup had seen Brian at the end of one of the rooms, with a group about him; had had time to notice, as he passed unobserved, that Brian was talking at a great rate, and looking handsomer than ever. Several women were in the group, and he heard their bright laughter as he passed.
Quite alone in an alcove he stumbled suddenly upon the girl. It was the first time they had met since that night in the old garden, which now seemed so many miles away. She was very simply but very beautifully dressed. As she glanced up at him, with almost a frightened look, he overcame his momentary hesitation, held out his hand quite naturally, and smiled as she had seen him smile when a boy. He thought her glance changed almost to one of gratitude; he sat beside her and tried to get some natural phrase to his lips, and to still the heavy beating of his heart.
“I—I saw Brian—just now,” he said. “I had no idea you would be here, although I might have known.”
“You see, I’m not so lucky as Brian; he seems to know every one, or else they want to know him, and I get left a little out in the cold.”
“That’s a shame,” he replied. “I’m afraid we’re in the same boat; no one wants to have much to do with a dull fellow like me. So it’s rather lucky I came across you, isn’t it?”
She nodded slowly; her head was bowed a little, so that he could scarcely see her face. Presently, when she raised it and looked at him, it shook him to the depths to see that her eyes were full of tears. “Have you nothing to say to me?” she asked, in a low voice. “Oh! forgive me. I ought not to have said that; but it seems so hard to sit here and talk commonplaces, as though we had just been introduced—so hard, when I remember all that—all that has gone before. Wouldn’t it have been kinder if you had walked past me just now, without knowing me? I should have deserved that; this hurts me a thousand times more.”
“Why should I behave to you like that?” he asked, with a smile. “If we must go back to that old story, for Heaven’s sake let us look on the best side of it! If any one is to blame about the matter, I am the sinner. I like best—you won’t mind my saying this, I am sure!—I like best to think of all the splendid times we had, when we were little mites, with the captain, you know; and I like to think, if that will please you, that, when we got a little older—well, we played at love, as we played at so many things before, although the captain didn’t help us there, did he?”
She looked up at him quickly, with the ghost of a smile flitting across her face, and made a movement as though she would have stretched out her hand to him. But she stopped, and he went on again more easily:
“So now, you see, the game is ended, as so many other games we played ended in their good time. Let that suffice. It’s good to see you again, and to know that you are happy, and that all things are going well with you, little friend. Come, tell me about yourself.”
Their eyes met, and held each other’s for one long moment; then he turned his away. Perhaps in that look she understood, in a dim fashion, for the first time, all that this man had lost, all that she had snatched from him; perchance she saw something greater here than had before touched her life. But, moving to his mood, she began to talk quickly, almost gaily:
“Oh, yes, Brian is doing splendidly, and making heaps of money. You know we’ve left the first place in which we lived long ago, and have got a beautiful little house in Chelsea—you’ll come and see us, won’t you?—and a great many clever people come there to see him, and then we go out a great deal. Oh, you’ve no idea how different it all seems from the quiet old days before—before I was married. But I suspect you’ve heard how well Brian is getting on?”
He had heard it, indeed. Sitting beside her there, he wondered what she would have thought if she had known that the little house in Chelsea, the full, ever-varyinglife she led, the very dress that brushed against him, were all purchased with his money. He wondered what she would have thought had she known that this husband of hers swept gaily along the pathway of life which Comethup cleared for him, coming without the faintest hesitation, again and again, to his cousin when former supplies were exhausted, never stopping for an instant to consider the justice or the injustice of the matter, but taking everything as his right, almost without thanks; whining about his hard lot, or railing at Fate, according as the mood was with him, yet living always at the fullest pressure, with not even a passing thought for the morrow. For one brief moment, perhaps, a perfectly natural thought flashed into his mind to tell her, to let her see clearly the shame of the thing, to understand what this man she loved really was. But the thought was gone almost before it had entered his mind, and he felt himself flushing angrily that it should ever have been there at all. Instead, he looked round at her, and answered her question.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about it, and I’m very glad for your sake. I suppose Brian is working very hard?”
“Not very hard just now. He tells me that in his profession he has to look out always for fresh ideas, that unless he meets a great many people and sees a great many different phases of life he can’t expect to give expression to the best that’s in him. That’s what he says; I dare say you know what he means.”
“Yes, I think I know what he means,” said Comethup slowly. “I suppose one mustn’t judge a poet by ordinary standards. You see, I’m such an idle dog, and I just manage to stroll through life in—in the sunshine, and so I don’t quite understand what that other life—the life of a genius—means. By the way, I’m thinking of going down to see the captain; have you any message for him?”
Her face was turned away; she did not answer for a moment. “What does he think of me?” she asked at last, in a low voice.
“Nothing but the best, I can assure you,” he replied.“You’ve always been, and always will be, his little ’Linda, the child he knew so many years ago. Why should he think badly of you?”
“If you’re quite sure—well, give him my love; say that I think of him often and often; that in moments when I am alone I dream that I am in his garden again, among the roses; that I am still a little child, with my arms about him. And say—say that I am quite, quite happy. Will you remember that?”
“Every word,” said Comethup. He felt he could not trust himself to say anything more, or even to look into her eyes again; he got up and said hurriedly and awkwardly that he supposed he should see her again, and so left her. The rooms were very full, and Brian was talking away to a new group as Comethup got out of the place and went into the street.
All the misery was back upon him in fullest strength; all the old unsatisfied longings, the dreams he had dreamed, the hopes he had cherished, had swept down upon him like a flood with the touch of her hand, the glance of her eyes. It had not seemed so bitter a thing when he had merely to think of her, to picture her in this situation or in that in a wholly intangible form; to see her face to face was a different matter, needing a stronger courage. He asked himself, again and again, that question which is inevitable in some men’s lives: why Fate had given him so much, and yet stripped away from him that which was worth more than all he had received. Yet, through it all, she stood out as some one far above him; some one he had loved, in a foolish, vain fashion, in some far-off time, without any hope that she could love him in return. Whichever way his thoughts turned and returned, and swept hither and thither, there was not anywhere any blame for her.
He could not sleep that night; he paced his room hour after hour, turning old forgotten things over in his mind—things which would have been so much better left alone. He was roused after a little time by a light tap at the door, and Miss Charlotte Carlaw came in, a strange-lookingfigure, with a dressing-gown wrapped about her and a shawl thrown over her head. He stood still, and she came slowly across to him and fumbled for his hands and took them. “My boy, my boy,” she said, “what has happened? what is wrong?”