He did not answer; he drew her arm through his, and they began to walk up and down the room together, she with one hand gently touching his arm as if to soothe him.
“Dreams, dreams, dreams!” he broke out at last. “Oh! if a man might sleep soundly and forget everything that’s gone, forget words that were uttered, and the clasp of hands that have touched his, and—and other things besides!”
“I know, I know,” she whispered. “But there’s something, God or devil, I don’t know which it is, that won’t let us forget anything. The best and the worst of us, boy, have had to go through it, and I think we come in time to find that we’re glad we can’t forget, however bitter the remembrance may have been at first. The years soften things, dear, and show them in a better and a kindlier light, and we learn our difficult lesson with many tears and much smudging of the slate of life; but we learn it all the same, and we grow to laugh at the end, when the lessons are put away and the long day is finished. You haven’t learned that yet, Comethup, and you don’t think now you can; but you will, Heaven knows you will—Have you seen her again?”
“To-night,” he muttered.
“Well, you talked with her, I suppose?”
“Yes. Oh, forgive me; it didn’t seem to matter so much before, but now——”
“Is she happy?” asked the old woman.
“Yes, she seems very happy.”
“That’s well; that’s better than I expected. Come, boy, I don’t want to preach to you; I am something of a blundering old sinner myself—I’m the last person to preach to any one. But I know something of what life is, and I’ve learned the best way to get through it. I suppose you’ll be bound to meet her sometimes; that’sthe sort of devilish game Fate plays with us. The things we most want to see are kept out of our sight, and those we would be glad to avoid are thrust under our very noses. But don’t see her more than you can help, and try to think—it’s a bit hard to do so, I admit—but try to think that the world holds something else than one woman, and something better than dreams and regrets. Face it, boy. Move about and see people and interest yourself in other matters. I won’t do you the injustice to say that you will be able to forget; I’m afraid you won’t do that. But at least you’ll grow to look at the matter in a different way, and to think it wasn’t so bad after all; I’m quite sure you will.”
They paced up and down the room together for a little time longer, Miss Carlaw occasionally drawing his hand up to her lips or against her cheek, and sometimes softly crooning a few bars of an old song, as though to a child in pain or trouble. Presently, quite briskly, she took him by the shoulders, and drew his head down that she might kiss him, and felt her way out of the room. And, after a time, he crept to bed and slept more soundly than he had hoped to do.
A couple of days after that he went down to see the captain. It was his first visit since the night of ’Linda’s flight, and he almost feared on his journey down that the captain might refer to the matter in some way and tear wider the old wound. But he might have known the little gentleman better, for no word was said on the subject during the whole of his stay, which lasted some days. With a melancholy desire, however to reopen the wound himself, Comethup let his feet stray one night, soon after his arrival in the old town, toward the neglected garden of the house in which she had lived—it seemed so much easier to think there, even to think calmly, than in any other place.
There seemed always to be dead and drifting leaves in that garden, at whatever time of the year; a different atmosphere was there from that found anywhere else. He walked all round the house, lingering among the trees,as he had lingered when a boy, almost thinking he saw sometimes the flutter of her childish frock going on before him. The place seemed deserted; not a light gleamed from any window.
At last he became conscious that there really was some one moving before him in the garden, flitting about among the trees, gliding into shadows, and keeping as much as possible out of sight. The place had seemed ghostly enough before, but now a little chill fear crept into his heart and stopped his feet; immediately the movement among the trees ceased also.
In some alarm Comethup, with a hasty glance behind him, called out hurriedly to know who was there. The movement began again, and a figure came slowly from between the trees and approached him in a sidelong, hesitating fashion. Comethup, summoning his courage, made a hasty step forward and was confronted by old Medmer Theed, the shoemaker.
“Why, how you startled me!” exclaimed the young man. “Why are you dodging and hiding among the trees like this?”
The old man came nearer to him and laid a thin, knotted hand on his arm. “To watch for her, to wait for her,” he whispered. “See”—he waved his other hand toward the dark old house—“it’s all silent and empty now, nothing to be seen. But she’ll come back, she’ll come back—just as the other child might have come; I wait for her as I waited for the other. But all my dreams have confused me. I don’t know which is alive and which is dead, or whether both are alive or both dead, or whether there was only one, after all. But she’ll come back, and so I wait for her. Sometimes I dream that she has come back already, after I’ve gone to my bed; and I wake with a start, thinking I hear her knocking, knocking at the door. But there’s no one there and the street is empty. But she’ll come back here.”
“But why should she come back?” asked Comethup sadly. “She is in London with her husband, happily married. Didn’t you know that?”
The old man laughed a little scornfully. “Happily married!” he echoed. “Does a child weep when it is happy? are there tears in a woman’s eyes when all is well with her?”
“Yes, of course, sometimes,” replied Comethup. “But why do you ask?”
“Listen. She was sent to me as a tiny child, straight from the arms of God, to comfort me when—when all my dreams were wrong. I have watched her grow up; have seen the sunlight gladly follow her across the doorway and across the floor of my shop when she flitted in—brighter than any sunlight—and sat beside me. The time came when she came to me less and less often; when she would only flit in sometimes, bringing the sunlight, and put her arms about my neck and her cheek against mine, and whisper a word or two and run away again. But I loved her—she was sent to me, she belonged to me. Mine was the charge to watch over her, and I watched for a long, long time. I saw her grow to girlhood; I saw her become a woman—just as the other had grown; and then began the time when I must watch her indeed. I have lain here among the trees many and many a night, only that I might see the light burning calmly in her window. And then the time came when I saw something else.”
“Go on,” said Comethup in a low voice.
“I sawhimcome—come like a thief in the night, calling softly to her; whispering softly, with his arms about her. See”—he stretched out his arms and shook them stiff and hard before Comethup—“I am strong; much labour has made me strong. I wish now that I had caught him by his white throat and turned his smiling face up to the stars and held him so until he died.”
“For shame!” cried Comethup. “Why should you kill him? She loved him, and they are married.”
“Yes, it was because I thought she loved him that I hesitated,” whispered the old man, dropping his hands to his sides. “And yet she came always as though with her love there was half a fear of him, as though he smiledand beckoned to her and drew her against her will. He didn’t love her, and she will come back here; she will be glad to come back. And so I watch for her night after night.”
Without any further words he slipped away again among the trees and was soon lost to sight. Comethup hesitated a moment, but feeling it would be useless to go after him or to argue further with him, he went out of the garden and took his way back to the captain’s. Another thought had occurred to him in regard to the old house, and he mentioned the matter to the captain that night as they sat together.
“By the way, sir,” he said, “do you remember a woman—a Mrs. Dawson, I think—who used to live with—with ’Linda at her father’s old house! What has become of her? I noticed to-night,” he added, with what carelessness he might, “that the place appears to be shut up and empty; I happened to pass that way.”
The captain looked at him keenly and sympathetically for a moment. “She has gone away,” he said at last. “She came to me immediately before leaving here; she seemed to know no one in the place except myself, and she had a vague idea that I had been kind to ’Linda in some way, and that it was necessary for her to thank me. In her agitation she let fall a remark which led me to question her; and I heard for the first time her melancholy history. As we are all interested, my dear boy, in anything that touches our little friend ’Linda, you might as well know it; although, for that matter, we are neither of us likely to see the woman again, and it will be better—in fact, it was her wish—that ’Linda should know nothing about it. It seems that this woman, who was known merely as Mrs. Dawson, was really ’Linda’s mother.”
“Her mother!” echoed Comethup. “But why was the matter kept secret, and why did she masquerade under another name and in the capacity of a dependent?”
“Soon after her marriage it appears that she fled with a lover, leaving the child behind. From what I once saw of Dr. Vernier, I am not very much disposed to lay anyheavy sentence upon her; besides, God forbid that I should judge any human creature, especially a woman! However, the lover died, and the mother traced her husband out and begged that she might see her child. With a cruelty which one can scarcely understand, he permitted her to remain in the house with the child strictly on the understanding that her identity was not to be revealed. To that stipulation she seems loyally to have conformed. Of course, as you may readily suppose, when the girl had grown up and her father was dead, the wretched mother naturally shrank from telling her daughter the shameful story, and lived on as before. Now, of course, in a moment her child is swept away from her and she can do nothing. In fact, rightly or wrongly, I advised her for ’Linda’s sake to say nothing. And where she has gone I really don’t know.”
“A pitiful story,” said Comethup after a pause. “We have, as you say, to think of the girl and of her new position; she has gone out of this woman’s life, and I suppose—well, it seems rather hard, doesn’t it?”
“Not so hard as it might have been. She believes that her daughter is happily married, and——”
“Believes!” echoed Comethup.
“I beg your pardon; I should have said she knows she is happily married. And that is something of a comfort to her. I think she despaired long since of ever being able to reveal herself to her daughter. And you think that our little ’Linda is really happy?”
“Why, of course she is. She married the man she loved,” said Comethup quietly.
“Well, I suppose she did,” said the captain. “And Brian, I understand, is doing well?”
“Oh, yes, he’s doing well enough,” replied Comethup, turning away.
He wandered again in the garden of her old house the next night. Medmer Theed may have been lurking among the trees, but he did not see him. Coming out, when it was very late, into the street, he found the old captain pacing up and down before the gate, with his longmilitary cloak about him, and his hands clasped under it behind his back. They walked on slowly down the road together. It seemed almost a natural thing that he should be there, and for some time Comethup said nothing. At last, looking round, he said slowly, “I suppose you think I’m a fool, sir?”
“God forbid!” said the old man, staring straight in front of him as he walked. “A man’s got to fight this sort of thing out alone, and with what strength God may give him. Come home, boy; to-morrow—oh, it hurts me to part from you—but to-morrow you must go to London.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. All this place is full of memories of her; I hear her voice—as child or woman—wherever I turn; her light feet tread all the road beside me where I walk; the very moon shines as calmly down upon me as when we walked together—lovers. Don’t think I’m saying anything against her; perhaps I’ve even been coward enough to hug my pain a little, because the pain has been so sweet. Give me your hand, old friend; I promise—there, I’ll swear if you like—that I’ll try to put it all aside. I can’t forget it; that’s quite another matter; but I’ll put it away from me and be a little braver about it. There’s my hand on it.”
“That’s well,” said the captain, gripping his hand. “I’m sorry to send you away, but I think you know it’s best, don’t you?”
“Yes, you’re right. I must find some work to do; I have been an idle dog too long. Come, let’s go home.”
Yet even in London he could not keep away from her; he thought of her when he woke in the morning, and breathed her name when he lay down to rest at night. He found his way one night to the little house they had taken in Chelsea; longed to go in, in a natural fashion, yet dared not trust himself. Once or twice he turned resolutely to go away, and then came back again, and lingered still. At last, when it was getting late, the door was opened and he saw, from his position on the opposite side of the street, his Uncle Robert Carlaw standingwithin the hall, lighting a cigar; saw him set his hat at the proper angle, and come swinging out into the street. Comethup had no particular wish to meet him, and only wondered a little, in his own mind, under what circumstances he had returned to his son’s house. He was just walking away in good earnest, when Mr. Robert Carlaw crossed the street, recognised him, and came breathlessly after him. Comethup faced about and pretended not to notice the other’s outstretched hand.
“Ah! my dear boy, I see we do not meet on the old cordial footing. Well, it has been my fate through life to be misjudged; to be met with scorn when I craved only sympathy; to have every action of mine misunderstood, every word misinterpreted. Don’t turn away from me, I beg; let me explain, let me appeal to you.”
Comethup had stopped, and stood looking at him coldly. “There certainly seems to be the need for some explanation,” he said. “I suppose you will not deny that you deceived me; that the money I placed in your hands, at your request, to help Brian and—and his wife, never reached them?”
“My dear nephew, a moment; I crave only a moment. I left you that night in Rome, with the full intention of returning to them and flinging the whole before them and crying: ‘See! the wolf is no longer at the door; your father has saved you!’ That was my full intention. But alas! I was tempted; tempted not for my own sake, but for theirs. The money was but a small amount—you will admit it was small, my dear nephew—and I saw the opportunity to increase it. I turned aside on my journey at one of those gambling hells which should, if I had my way, be swept off the face of Europe to-morrow; I turned aside and staked that small sum for them. I felt that I might be able to take them perhaps ten times the amount. But, alas! I lost all.”
“As you might have expected,” said Comethup. “Fortunately for them, I returned within a day or two after you, and——”
“So I have heard, so I have heard,” exclaimed Mr.Robert Carlaw. “Bless you, my young friend, bless you! For myself, how I contrived to reach London I scarcely know; but Ididreach it, and after some weeks of fear and trembling I at last approached my son and threw myself upon his mercy. I—in fact, we are quite reconciled, and I have taken up my abode with him.”
“So I observe,” said Comethup.
“But to-night, sir, to-night even that must cease. The crowning piece of ingratitude has at last been reached; the son for whom I have done so much, sacrificed so much—the son of whom I have been, as I felt, justly proud—has deserted me.”
“Deserted you?” cried Comethup, catching his arm. “What do you mean?”
“Gone, sir—fled! He has lulled me into a feeling of false security; led me to believe that I could end my days in the bosom of his family, surrounded by men of culture and refinement, who would naturally appeal to those finer instincts in me which have had so long to remain dormant, and then in a moment he has gone and ruined my prospects.”
“Why the devil don’t you speak plainly?” cried Comethup, roused at last, and shaking him fiercely by the arm. “What do you mean? Do you mean that he has deserted his wife?”
“Not only has he deserted her, my dear nephew, but he has had the audacity to leave her to my care”—he struck himself on the breast—“tomycare—an old man who has toiled for him through a long and cheerless life, and who might, but for the ingratitude of him and others, have been something of a figure in the world. But he has reckoned, sir, without knowing what I really am.”
“What do you mean?” asked Comethup slowly.
“I mean, my dear nephew, that that is a game at which two can play. Does he think that a man of my position is to be left to starve with a mere chit of a girl? No, sir; he took this responsibility upon himself, and it has nothing to do with me. I absolutely refuse to accept it.”
Comethup took him suddenly by the shoulders and looked steadily into his eyes; Mr. Robert Carlaw’s eyes shifted a little before the steady gaze of the other. “Do you mean to say that you’re going to desert her too, eh?” asked Comethup.
“My dear nephew, there’s no question of desertion——”
“Answer me, yes or no. I didn’t want to talk about it, but you may perhaps remember that you’ve depended upon me for some years past. Leave her now, and, as surely as there’s a God above us, I’ll leave you to starve! Now, how’s it to be?”
“But, my dear nephew, think of the position.”
“My dear uncle, I have thought of the position. When did Brian go, and where has he gone?”
“I believe he has gone to Paris, and, as generally happens in such cases, there’s a woman in the matter.”
Comethup nodded grimly and glanced across at the house which Mr. Robert Carlaw had just left; he seemed to mutter something between his teeth. “To Paris. Well, I dare say I can find him. In the meantime you go back and you stay with her. Does she know anything about this?”
“My dear boy, if there’s one thing I dislike more than another, it’s a scene with a woman—tears, and all that kind of thing. As that scapegrace son of mine had not seen fit to mention the matter, I thought it scarcely devolved upon me.”
“Exactly,” replied Comethup. “And so you were going to creep out and leave her there—alone in uncertainty—to starve, for aught that you cared! Now, go back to her. Tell her nothing about this, except that Brian has been called away on business; I dare say your conscience will stretch to the extent of that lie. As regards pecuniary matters, I think you know you may safely leave them with me; but about that you will say nothing to her. For the rest I pledge you my word that if I can find Brian he shall be back here within a week. Now, go back to her, and hold your tongue!”
Mr. Robert Carlaw commenced a protest, at first with something of bluster and then whiningly; but Comethup pointed sternly to the house, and at last, with a shrug of his shoulders, the uncle turned away and left the nephew standing looking after him. In a moment, however, he came rapidly back again. “My dear boy!” he exclaimed, “you won’t leave us in the lurch? There are, of course, things to pay, and—and a position to be kept up, and I——”
“I won’t leave you in the lurch; you may be sure of that. Go back to her.”
He watched Mr. Robert Carlaw re-enter the house, and then turned away and walked homeward with a rapid step.
COMETHUP DRIVES A BARGAIN.
It scarcely occurred to Comethup until after he had started on his chase what a mad business it all really was. He was in a mood more than once to turn back, to let this cousin take his own path; the feverish desire was upon him to be with ’Linda—even, perhaps, by reason of the other’s desertion, to creep a little nearer into her life. But that thought was a blasphemy. After all, this man who had left her was the one man she loved, the one man she ever would love; if Comethup would play the part he had set himself, the part of loyal friend, he must bring that man back.
He had made a careless, half-jesting excuse to his aunt, and had stated that he would be back again within a few days. And now, in Paris, he wondered how he should set about his quest, or in what quarter of the city he should discover the runaway. He had no clew. Brian knew Paris well, and it was impossible to say where he would take up his abode, especially if, as his father hadhinted, he had a companion. However, the search had to be made, and it was begun within an hour of Comethup’s arrival in the city.
For two long days and nights he scarcely rested, going to every place of amusement, from the highest to the lowest; scanning the faces of people who passed him in the streets; standing at the doors of theatres and dancing-halls, and watching every one wherever the life of the city beat most thick and fast. And at last his patience was rewarded.
He was sitting in acafélate on the afternoon of the third day, miserably turning over the matter in his mind and almost giving up the business as hopeless; he had a paper in his hand, but had not read a line of it. Suddenly, from the street where the lamps were beginning to gleam, Brian Carlaw came swinging in and took a seat near the door. Comethup raised the paper so as to hide his own face, and peered round it at his cousin. He was glad, for one thing, to find him alone; but he felt that it would be impossible to broach the subject in a public place, or even to confront him. For the present he must merely watch and be careful that his quarry did not again escape him.
Brian proved to be in a restless mood. After but a few minutes, and when he had only half consumed the refreshment he had ordered, he looked at his watch and got up and went out. Comethup dropped the paper, and followed him. Brian walked rapidly, evidently having a settled destination in view; at last he turned in at the door of a small hotel in a side street, and the door closed behind him.
Comethup waited for some moments and then followed him; discovered from the servant the number of Brian’s room, and ran up the stairs. Without pause of any kind he knocked sharply at the door, turned the handle, and went in. His cousin had divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, and was evidently preparing to dress for the evening; he turned round quickly on hearing the movement at the door, and looked in astonishmentat his visitor. Then gradually a smile stole over his face, and he cried out to Comethup with great cordiality:
“Why, my dear boy, what on earth does this mean? How did you discover me? I thought I was hidden from all the world.”
“Yes,” said Comethup, “I suppose you did. I have been searching for you for nearly three days. I followed you home just now.”
Something in his voice caused Brian’s face to change; the mirthful light went out of it, and his lips, so pleasantly smiling a moment before, became a hard, thin line. He advanced a little from the dressing table where he had been standing, and looked at the other with a frown. “What the devil should you follow me for? What do you want?”
Comethup backed away to the door, turned the key in the lock, and dropped the key in his pocket. His voice was very cool and steady when he spoke, only in his own ears it sounded as though some one else were speaking far away. “There’s something I want to say to you—something that must be said now. Are you listening?”
“Damn your impudence!” cried the other. “You were always a crack-brained fellow. What’s your game now, that you force your way into my room like this and lock me in? Do you want to murder me?”
“I am not quite sure,” said Comethup, with a strange little laugh. “It might come to that, perhaps; it depends upon yourself—Come away from that bell”—for Brian had made a dash at the white electric button in the wall—“or, by God, I’ll strangle you before any one can get this door open! And I’m a stronger man than you are; I’ve had a better training.”
Brian came back to the dressing table in a sidelong, furtive fashion, watching Comethup narrowly. “Well, what do you wish? I don’t want to have a scene, and I may tell you that I have no time to waste. I’m going out.”
“Not yet,” replied Comethup. “You’ve lots of time before we catch the night train.”
“The night train!” echoed Brian. “What the devil do I want with the night train?”
“To take you back to London,” said Comethup calmly. “I’m just going to explain, and it will be well for you to listen quietly. I know that it’s quite useless to appeal to you; I’ve learned that long since. So now I’ll put it more brutally, and tell you what youmustdo.”
“Go on,” said Brian sneeringly; “when one deals with a madman I suppose the best way is to humour him; at least I’ve always been told so.”
“I don’t want to say anything about myself; that would be rather out of place,” began Comethup in his slow, soft voice. “But I want to speak of some one else—of your wife. I heard, quite by accident, that you had deserted her; left her, for aught that you cared, to starve; that you had come here after another woman. I suppose you won’t—won’t think it worth while to deny all that?”
“Why should I? You seem to have got the story pretty accurately. What’s it to do with you?”
“Everything,” replied Comethup. “That’s what has brought me here. You don’t suppose I’d be racing about Paris for two or three days afteryoufor the pleasure of the thing, do you? I said I wasn’t going to speak about myself, but I find I must. This girl, ’Linda, the sweetest and brightest it was ever a man’s good fortune to win—this girl loves you; would give, I think, her immortal soul for you. Yet, at a whim, a caprice, you fling her aside, careless whether you break her heart, or——”
“Break her heart! Hearts are not so easily broken; even I can tell you that, although I am a poet. Besides, what the devil’s her heart got to do with you?”
“More than you can understand. I think I’d give everything I have in the world to spare her any pain. I’m afraid you can’t understand what that feeling is. I’d give my very soul to save her from tears or sorrow, to prevent any one of her ideals from being shattered. If I could die and know that in dying I gave her anygreater happiness—well, my life wouldn’t be worth an hour’s purchase from this moment—Oh, I forgot; you don’t understand all that. But there’s one thing you shall understand: you’re going back with me to London to-night.”
“Indeed? You seem to have made up your mind about that. If you take so deep an interest in ’Linda, why the devil don’t you let me go my own way and—well, look after her yourself?”
The words were nothing; it was the horrible smile that played about Brian’s lips—the sneering suggestion that he knew of the love in the other man’s mind, and triumphed in the knowledge; it was all this that maddened Comethup. With a cry he threw himself upon the other and forced him to his knees, and kept a grip upon his throat sufficient to stifle the life out of him had he kept it there long. “You coward! I’ve bandied words with you too long; I’ve told you things that are as far from your ken as the knowledge of the stars. Get up”—he dragged him to his feet and flung him off—“and get on that coat! I’ll waste no more time in talking. I won’t lose sight of you until I see you in your own home.”
“Well, and if I refuse?” said Brian sullenly, glaring at the other like a creature at bay.
Comethup laughed quietly and glanced round the room; buttoned his coat swiftly and came at his cousin slowly, steadily, without once taking his eyes from the eyes that shifted uneasily before his. “Why, if you refuse, I’ll kill you! Don’t think that’s a threat merely; we’re near the top of this house, and I can choke the life out of you long before any one breaks in this door, or even before you can give the alarm. Understand—I’m desperate; I’ve staked everything on this, and I won’t hesitate. Now, as we stand man to man, I’ll tell you what you may have guessed before. I love your wife; to me she’s higher even than the angels. And my love has this quality—that life and death and heaven and hell are nothing, mere words, compared with my love for her, compared to what that love would make me do. It’s amadness, isn’t it, friend Brian, that a man may love a woman so well that he would kill another man rather than see her trust in that other betrayed? She thinks nothing of me. How should she? If I killed you, she would never cease to revile my memory and hold you up as a martyr; there’s where the madness comes in. But that would be best for her, better than that she should find you out. Do you understand me?”
Brian looked at him curiously for a few moments and then began to laugh in a foolish, half-nervous fashion, as though he had suddenly been confronted with something he did not understand, and scarcely knew what attitude to take toward it. “Well, you’re more mad than I thought you were,” he said at last. “Suppose I go back to London, do you think I’m going to settle down in that dull house all my days? I tell you I’m made of different stuff. I want life, movement, music, laughter about me; a dull old dog like you can’t understand that.”
“You shall have them all,” said Comethup eagerly. “Come, I’ll make no one-sided bargain; let’s understand one another. I’ve shown you my hand, shown you the reason for this thing I’m doing. Don’t think I’m doing it for your sake; you needn’t flatter yourself to that extent. In all these things I put her first—her happiness is the great thing. Now, if I ask you to take up again a life which you say is distasteful, I’ll take upon myself to make it sweet. You shall have what money you want; I have a large income now, and when—God forgive the thought, but you force me to say it—when my aunt dies I shall be a very rich man. If you do this thing, I swear to you you shall never need money; that’s all it’s in my power to do, as a complete outsider, for the woman I love. She won’t ever know it, and you—well, you can keep her happy.”
“Oh, yes, I can do that,” said the other easily. “You talk of your love for her; you know you might strive all your days, you poor beggar, and never come nearer her heart; might spend every farthing you have in the world on her, and she would scarcely feel grateful to you.That’s where I’ve got the pull of you. She’s grateful to me if she can win a smile from me at any hour of the day; she’s so wrapped up in me that the simple words ‘my dear,’ flung carelessly to her, are more to her than the most impassioned love-speech could be from you or any one else. I don’t know what it is”—he went on with a laugh, tossing his hair back from his forehead—“but I have that power over women; I may even flout and insult them, and, by God! I think they like me the better for it.—Well, I don’t see the fun of risking starvation if it can be avoided, and, after all, you’re pretty safe. I’ll go back to London; but mind, I hold you to your word. If you care so much for her happiness, by the Lord, you shall pay for it!”
“I’ll pay you what you like,” said Comethup quietly. “But one word more: what brought you over here? Who’s the woman?”
“What a dear old moralist you are!” exclaimed Brian, laughing. “I suppose you’re afraid I may be deserting some one else, eh? Well, let me tell you for your comfort that she’s rich; that she’s taken a fancy to me, held up a beckoning finger, and I—well, I followed. I dare say she’d have dropped me in a month or two, when she found that her poet was like most other men, so perhaps it’s as well that you’ve rescued me. And, when I come to think of it, it will be quite in keeping with my character that I should rush away at a moment’s notice, without even an apology. You see, we poor devils are always supposed to do the most unexpected things—never anything proper or regular, you know. Upon my word, now I come to think of it, this will be better than dangling after her. She’ll think all the more highly of me.”
“Let us hope so,” said Comethup. “Now, as I think we understand each other clearly, I’ll leave you; I’ll come to you in time for us to catch the train. I must get my things from the hotel.” He moved toward the door, hesitated a moment, and then came back again. “On second thoughts, Iwon’tleave you. Pack up your things and come with me now; we can dine together.”
“I see, you don’t trust me?” said Brian with a sneer.
“Frankly, I don’t; you’ve scarcely given me reason to do so. And the game is too desperate for me to run any risks.”
Brian shrugged his shoulders and began to get his things together. He stopped once or twice and glanced rebelliously at his cousin; but Comethup sat on the side of the bed, with his hands on his hips, looking steadily at him—a figure not to be reasoned with, or argued out of anything he had determined upon.
The dinner at Comethup’s hotel passed in silence until almost the finish; then Brian, warmed by wine, looked up at the man opposite, and shook his head at him rallyingly, and spoke in his most charming and playful manner: “My dear old boy, when I’m dead you shall write my biography, the whole amazing business—’pon my word, you shall!”
“No,” said Comethup, shaking his head; “I don’t think—I’m quite sure I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you see,” replied Comethup gravely, “you’ve done so many things I don’t understand; I might—might misinterpret them. Employ some one who doesn’t know you.”
They crossed to England together and went on to London. Comethup left his own luggage at the London terminus and would have parted there with Brian; but the latter had a devilish scheme in his head—a well-contrived and carefully-thought-out piece of cruelty—the only revenge of which he was capable for his defeat. “I’m not going to leave you here,” said Brian; “you’ve got to come on to the house with me, come in with me, and see your work concluded. By God! I’m not going to have the thing half done; you’ve undertaken it, and you shall see it through to the bitter end. Oh, yes, you shall see the touching reconciliation between husband and wife; you shall stand, figuratively, with uplifted hands to bless them.”
“I—I’d rather not,” said Comethup hastily. “Whynot meet her in quite the usual fashion, and—and make what excuses you will for your absence?”
“Not a bit of it. I’m not going to let you off so easily. I shall say we met in Paris and travelled over together. I tell you you sha’n’t get out of it.”
“Do you insist?”
“I do. You shall find, friend Comethup, that you don’t have things all your own way; we don’t part until you leave me safely in the bosom of my family. You can’t trust me, you know,” he added sneeringly.
They drove together to the house. But for that hidden side of the picture the return of the prodigal would have been a matter for laughter. Mr. Robert Carlaw was in the hall, affected almost to tears; he haughtily brushed aside the servant who would have assisted with the luggage, and valorously staggered under its weight himself, murmuring between gasps, “My son, my beloved son!” Comethup would have made his escape, but Brian caught him by the arm and dragged him into the room where ’Linda was. She started up and ran to her husband; he took her with excessive tenderness into his arms, casting a side glance at his cousin.
“Why, my darling,” he cried, “you hug me as though you feared you had lost me altogether. Surely you know my erratic behaviour by this time? I had to rush off to Paris on business—business that admitted of no delay.—Kiss me again, my love; why, you’re almost crying!—and in Paris I met Comethup—dear old moral Comethup in Paris; think of it! So we travelled home together. Oh, you needn’t be ashamed of your tears or your joy before Comethup;hedoesn’t mind—do you, old chap?”
With his arm about her he drew her down beside him on a settee, and looked past her at Comethup with a smile of triumph in his eyes; held her closer and closer yet, with little tender caresses for her hands and her hair, that each might be a stab for the man who stood looking on.
“And I have some good news for you, my sweetheart. In Paris I conducted my business so well that I madequite a lot of money; we’ll be able to live in glorious style. We’ll give up this stuffy house—what do you think of that, friend Comethup?—and we’ll have a better one, and more servants; and, by Heaven! you shall drive a carriage. We’ll give dinners, and go out, and mix with people; you shall be the best-dressed woman in London. What do you think ofthat, old Comethup?”
“Oh, but I don’t want all those things,” said ’Linda softly, nestling to him. “So that I have you it would not matter, even if we were poor.”
“Nonsense, my darling! there’s no talk of poverty; I tell you we’re rich.” He burst into a roar of laughter. “By ’Jove! I’d no idea that poetry could ever pay so well. But there, while we are spooning and thinking about ourselves, we’re forgetting old Comethup. I dare say he’ll want to be going?”
“Yes,” said Comethup slowly, “I think I’ll be going. Good-night, ’Linda, good-night!”
He was crossing the little hall when Brian dashed out of the room after him, closing the door behind him. He came up to Comethup with his face completely changed, with the hard look upon it which it had worn during their interview in the hotel at Paris.
“Look here, you know,” he said quickly, “let’s have no misunderstanding about this. A bargain’s a bargain; I’ve fulfilled my part, now it’s your turn.”
“I’m not likely to forget,” replied Comethup.
“Well, we want money at once. I’m going to take you at your word. You want to see this comedy played out, and, by Heaven! you’ll have to pay for staging it. It’s a fair bargain: you have the fun of looking on, and I’ve got to play. Did I play my part well to-night?”
Comethup looked at him for a moment and made a movement as though he would strike him; then let his hand fall and turned away. “Almost too well,” he said.
“Ah, there I don’t agree with you; one can’t play a part too well.—So I shall expect to hear from you—say, to-morrow?”
“Yes, you shall hear from me to-morrow.”
Mr. Robert Carlaw was hovering about near the hall door with a look of expectancy on his face, and a hand darting out to seize Comethup if possible. But Comethup was in no mood to be stopped; he thrust him aside and went out, and walked rapidly down the street. “’Linda, ’Linda, my poor ’Linda!” he whispered. “God grant he plays his part well to the end!”
UNCLE ROBERT HAS AN INSPIRATION.
The pretty comedy to which Brian had referred had been running with something of regularity for over six months; the staging of it had been a more costly matter than Comethup had believed possible. His own expenses were small enough—indeed, he cut them down to the lowest figure; but Brian had seen in him an inexhaustible mine, from which he could demand whatever he wanted at any moment, light-heartedly enough. To do Brian justice, he had no knowledge of what the actual sum was on which his cousin had to depend, nor, indeed, did he care. He held the younger man strictly to his bargain—even threatened desertion, at the slightest remonstrance on Comethup’s part against reckless expenditure. ’Linda had no suspicion of the true state of affairs; she knew that there was always plenty of money, that they went out a great deal, that many well-known and clever people came to their house, that their doings when they went into the country or abroad were chronicled for all the world to read. Brian,herBrian, of whom she was so fond and so proud, had produced another book of verses, and the people she met talked to her about them, even quoted lines of them; they sometimes coupled her husband’s name with the names of certain wondrous young poets of bygone days. It was a never-failing source ofdelight that he had, on an impulse, dedicated this last book “To the Woman who stands always most near to Me.” She knew what that meant; she kissed the dear lines on the printed page again and again because she was so proud to think that all the world knew what it meant, and knew to whom the poet referred.
If, sometimes, at her own house or in the houses of others she met a tall, grave-faced man who said little to any one and who generally lounged in doorways or in out-of-the-way corners; if sometimes—indeed, very often—she glanced at him to find his eyes looking wistfully at her; if, in the dead of night, when she could not sleep sometimes, she had a sudden remembrance of him and of his loneliness, and of the old garden far away, where they had whispered together, it was all so fleeting—just a little breath of pain, as it were, across the perfect happiness of her days—that she forgot it at once and was glad to think that he must have left his sorrow behind him long ago, and have ceased to trouble about what could never be. In those months she was so supremely happy and her life was so crowded that she could not bear to think that any one else was unhappy through any mistake of hers, and so dismissed the matter at last, feeling sure that he too had dismissed it long since.
Of late, finding that he had but to ask to receive at once, Brian had carried the game on even more recklessly than before. He had long since demanded—almost immediately after the return from Paris—that an account should be opened in his name at a bank into which he could pay the sums received from Comethup; he felt, he said, that it looked so much better to write cheques for what was wanted. But a thousand pounds per annum will not stretch sufficiently to cover everything, and the moment arrived when Comethup was informed that his own account was considerably overdrawn. And there were still two months to wait before Miss Charlotte Carlaw would pay in anything more.
For himself it did not matter, although even he would be put to it for small personal expenses. But he sat intrembling fear that Brian might make a demand upon him any day, a demand which for the first time he would be unable to meet. While he was puzzling helplessly over the matter the demand arrived, borne by Mr. Robert Carlaw, who wore a troubled countenance. He had of late been the go-between of the cousins; he still lived in his son’s house, and was chiefly useful in entertaining dull visitors and performing petty offices for which Brian had no time nor inclination.
His method when seeking Comethup was a simple one: he did not care to go near the house, but caught the first small boy on whom he could lay hands and gave him a few coppers to take a note to the house, addressed to Comethup. The note was invariably couched in the same pitiful strain, imploring his dear nephew to grant him an interview in the street, where he was humbly waiting with despair tugging heavily at his heart.
“My dear, dear boy,” he exclaimed fervently on this occasion, “how can I thank you? If, like Brian, I were a poet I could compare you to the sun at midday, to the blessed rain from heaven upon a parched earth. Not being a poet, although I once had some pretensions in that direction, I am compelled to say ‘Bless you, my dear boy, bless you!’”
“Well,” said Comethup, as they paced slowly down a side street, “what’s the matter?”
“My dear boy, we are on the verge of ruin,” exclaimed Mr. Robert Carlaw. “Why should I disguise the fact from you? Why should I hide from you, who know the whole deplorable circumstances, the miserable truth? This morning a letter has arrived, threatening a distraint upon our goods unless a large sum of money be paid by to-morrow. Think of it, a distraint upon our goods! The horror, the disgrace of it!” he exclaimed, smiting his forehead with one hand and waving the other despairingly. “That is our cursed temperament—my son’s and mine—that we can go on through the world like happy children, laughing in the sunshine, picking the brilliant flowers of life, heedless of everything; when a storm comesand the wind howls—you follow my metaphor?—we are lost, absolutely lost. Others were born to face the world and its trials, to make a stubborn fight of it if necessary; we are exotics, my son and I, under an open sky, and we perish miserably. In point of fact, we are on the eve of perishing miserably at this moment.”
“I am sorry,” replied Comethup slowly, “but on this occasion I can’t help you.”
Mr. Robert Carlaw stopped and touched his arm, and peered anxiously into his face, “Can’t help us?” he cried, “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I have no money; that it’s all gone, and that I sha’n’t have any more for perhaps another two months. I’ve already drawn more than was due to me at the bank.”
“But, my dear boy,” whimpered his uncle, “what is to become of us, what is to become ofme? Think of the position: you have taught me to be dependent upon you, to look to you for the supply of those little comforts—not to say luxuries—which are necessary to a man of my position. I have felt so—so safe! Fortune has not been good to me; Fortune has stripped me of everything; and then, at the last moment, melting a little toward me, has pointed to you and has said in effect: ‘Go to Comethup; our dear Comethup will assist you.’ And I have come to you accordingly. My dear nephew, what is to become of us?”
Comethup faced about and looked at him contemptuously. “Yes, I know, you’ve come to me for everything; have relied upon me for everything. I’ve had a thousand a year from my aunt, and, as God’s my witness, I haven’t spent fifty of it. It’s all gone to feed you, and your son, and”—he paused, and a gentler expression came over his face—“yes, and ’Linda. Well, I suppose it’s all right; you’d got to be fed and kept going somehow, and it was easier for me to do it than it would have been for any one else. But now, here’s an end of it. I’d help you if I could—you know that but I simply can’t. It’s impossible for me to go to my aunt, even if I could bringmyself to do it; she’d want to know where the money had gone, would want to know a thousand things I can’t tell her. I tell you things have come to a deadlock; you’ve drained me—you and Brian—and you can drain me no further.”
Mr. Robert Carlaw walked slowly up and down the street with his head sunk upon his breast in profound thought; Comethup paced slowly at his side. After a time the elder man raised his head and thumped his chest, and spoke in a tone of renewed hopefulness.
“In a crisis of this kind, my dear nephew, despair is useless; we see before us a certain situation, and that situation has to be faced. In this world we are beings of one of two orders—we are either men or mice. If we are mice we submit to be crushed”—he stamped his heel vigorously on the pavement—“while if we are men we face the situation boldly and rise superior to it. In this case we are men; we refuse to be crushed. For myself I would not care; ever the sport of fortune as I have been, I yet may cut a figure in the world, even though it be a ragged one; ‘The Vagabond’ has always been my favourite song. But my heart is torn at the thought of others. I dare not return and see them hold out empty hands to me and cry for bread and tell them I have but a stone. My dear boy, it is not to be done; vagabond I may be, but I am still, I trust, a gentleman, and my heart beats true to those of my own flesh and blood. Think, my boy, think of Brian and of his young wife, and then tell me, if you will, that I am to go back to them and bow my head before them and say, ‘Behold me; I have failed!’”
“But, my dear uncle,” exclaimed Comethup in despair, “what am I to do? Show me any way, and I’ll adopt it gladly.”
“My dear nephew,” said Mr. Robert Carlaw, with his chin resting meditatively in his hand, “thereisa way, and an easy one, for a man in your position. Come, let us face facts: you are your aunt’s heir; if she died to-morrow—may Heaven spare her for many years!—youwould have every penny she possesses. Such is your good fortune. Now, my dear nephew, it has been my most sorry fate to have to deal on occasion with the shady side of life; I have had, I may say, to get through it as best I could, and in the easiest possible fashion. Your path has been different; you have gone along in the sunshine, with some one else to clear the way for you; hence, you know nothing of these matters. But let me tell you this, my dear boy”—he tapped a persuasive forefinger on Comethup’s arm—“that there are men in this city to-day, personally known to me, who would be willing at a moment’s notice to advance any sum you might name within reason to a man with your prospects. Don’t mistake me,” he added hurriedly. “I am not urging that you should do anything dishonourable. Frankly, the thing amounts to this: you go to A. upon my introduction; A. says in effect: ‘What! is this Mr. Willis, the favourite nephew of Miss Charlotte Carlaw? And he is in want of money, just to tide him over until such time as he may, in the indefinite future, come into his fortune? Nothing easier,’ says A. ‘How much does Mr. Willis want?’ And there, my boy, the thing’s done. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, I follow you,” said Comethup slowly. “And so you want me to use her name, the name of a woman who’s been the best friend ever a man had; you want me to look out so eagerly for dead men’s shoes—or a dead woman’s, it doesn’t matter which—that I am to sell them before she’s finished wearing them? No, you’ve made a mistake, Uncle Bob; I don’t intend to do it. You and Brian have been living at my expense at the rate of over a thousand a year; to put it plainly, you’ve had every penny, or nearly every penny, that I’ve ever possessed since I was a boy. I don’t mind that, but the thing has got to stop. Beyond what I have I won’t go; you’ve been welcome to all that, and I don’t mind. But I’ll go no further.”
Mr. Robert Carlaw sighed and began to ponder the matter again; he was not quite certain of his cards, atleast of those he could safely play; but he had a vague feeling that there was one trump card in his possession which might well be risked. The matter was desperate, and he resolved to play desperately.
“Well, you know best,” he said. “Frankly, I honour you—honour you for the noble position you take up at such a moment. When I consider your simplicity, your clear and beautiful nature, I feel like a modern Mephistopheles whispering temptation into your ear. But in this, as in all other matters, a man must look at a thing from his own standpoint, or from the standpoint of those who most nearly concern him. Doubtless you are right; let us say no more about it. The crash has come, and we must meet it. I have met worse blows than this, and Brian, being the son of his most unfortunate father, must learn to meet them too; doubtless it will be a salutary lesson to him. Men have strong hands and, I trust, stout hearts; if it rested with Brian and myself alone I would not mind; but there is some one else to consider, some one weak and helpless who knows nothing of any tragedy which may be impending over her.” He sighed again and shook his head with an air of deep dejection.
“You mean ’Linda?” said Comethup, without looking at him.
“I refer to that sweet girl. I am a man of quick and strong imagination; a moment ago I seemed to have a sudden mental picture of that child when she first learned the position in which we stand, when she——”
“But she mustn’t learn it,” cried Comethup hurriedly.
Mr. Robert Carlaw shook his head again. “My dear young friend, a wife’s place is by her husband; when the crash falls she will unhesitatingly—oh, I know the nobility of her character—she will, I say, unhesitatingly place her hand in that of her husband and will say, ‘Together we have been prosperous, together we will bow our heads before the storm.’ Poor child, poor child, that it should come to this!”
“I—I’m afraid I had lost sight of her,” said Comethup. “Of course she doesn’t understand, doesn’t knowany of the circumstances; I’d forgotten that. She’s gone on, day by day, believing that all this money came from him; proud of him; glad that the world, as she thought, should shower its gold upon her clever husband, upon the man she loves. Yes, I’d forgotten all that.” He spoke as if to himself, without noticing his companion. He saw in a moment that this thing he had built up for her sake was in danger of being swept away; that she might be left stripped and trembling in a desert, with all that had made her life perfect torn away from her. He thought of her proud and happy face when he had seen her but a little time since with her husband; saw again, far away from the street in which he walked, a little lonely child in a garden; heard himself, as a boy, tell the old captain that he meant to look after her. Comethup Willis was of the stuff of which the fabled knights might have been made—one who simply and earnestly and splendidly set before him a task to be done and did it without wavering or turning aside. His own pain, his own longing counted for nothing; the child of the old days seemed to be stretching out her hands to him and crying to him, as she had done years before when they had first met; the cry was not to be resisted.
He looked up with a start and found the eyes of Mr. Robert Carlaw fixed upon him. “You say that it is possible—honourably—to get an advance from some one?” he asked.
“The easiest thing in the world. Of course, there will be interest to be paid, and—and I’ve no doubt that the interest will be somewhat high; but that is a mere matter for arrangement. As I have said, the fact of your aunt’s wealth is well known; the further fact that she has refused to have anything to do with any of her relatives but your fortunate self is equally well known. My dear nephew, in this world of ours if a man has anything substantial behind him it is the easiest thing in the world for him to get what he wants. I can take you to a man this very hour, if necessary, who will conduct the business for you. And, let me tell you another thing:for the future it is my fixed intention to insist upon it that there shall be no further extravagance. We must not run the risk of another crisis of this character. In a little time we shall be able to pull ourselves straight, to repay this money, and so—if I may suggest so much—put your conscience at rest. Whatever money is advanced can be paid back, and my good sister will know nothing of the transaction.”
“You are sure there is no other way?” asked Comethup.
Mr. Robert Carlaw spread out his hands with an air of charming frankness. “Suggest one, my dear nephew, and I will instantly give you my opinion concerning it. Candidly, I can see no way so simple or so easy.”
“Very well,” said Comethup in a low voice. “Let’s go at once and get it over.”
They drove to an office in a quiet court in the city, and there Comethup was left in an outer room, where a solitary clerk was busily writing, while Mr. Robert Carlaw had a private interview with the accommodating gentleman who was so willing to lift other people’s troubles away from them. “It will be best for me just to—to pave the way, as it were,” he had said when they reached the place.
That necessary formality over, Comethup was shown in, and found a bland and smiling gentleman, of a somewhat pronounced type of features, anxious to shake him at once with much fervour by the hand. His uncle had, it appeared, with that consideration which characterized him, put the whole matter so fairly and clearly before this gentleman that the money was at Comethup’s instant disposal; indeed, it seemed such an ordinary and simple piece of business that Comethup’s mind was considerably lightened. There were papers to be signed, and it appeared that Mr. Robert Carlaw had suggested, in order to avoid troubling his dear nephew again, that the loan should be for a thousand pounds. The rate of interest, as he had said, was extremely high, but then the circumstances were peculiar; and in order that there might beno misunderstanding the interest for one year was deducted from the amount of the cheque, so that the cheque itself was very, very far short of the sum which had been named.
However, the thing was rapidly concluded, and uncle and nephew were ushered out of the office. When once the money had been placed in Mr. Robert Carlaw’s hands Comethup laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. “Look here, you know,” he said, with some sternness, “let us have no nonsense about this matter. I am sorry to refer to it, but on a former occasion—in Rome, you remember—when I put money into your hands it never reached its destination.”
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Carlaw, bridling, “do you imagine——”
“I imagine nothing,” replied Comethup quietly; “I am merely speaking of what occurred. This is a different matter, and I think—yes, I’m quite sure—that I’d better go home with you.”
Mr. Robert Carlaw shrugged his shoulders, but submitted to being thrust into a hansom with Comethup close at his elbow. At the corner of the street in which Brian lived the cab was dismissed, and they walked down the street together. Some fifty yards from the house Comethup stopped and nodded to his uncle to go on alone. That gentleman shook hands with him effusively, and went on and ran up the steps leading to the door, with a brisk air; waved a hand to his nephew, and disappeared. Comethup waited about for some time and finally went home.
Now, the mind of Mr. Robert Carlaw was divided between two sets of emotions during the next day or so. In the first place, he was honestly glad to have got so neatly out of an impending trouble; while, on the other hand, he fretted and chafed when he thought of the hand which had lifted the trouble from him. He had never ceased to think bitterly of the boy who had, as he considered, stepped into his son’s place; had never ceased to occupy his mind with schemes, however wild and futile,which might turn the tables. And thus it happened that an idea came to him, so wild and daring that at first he rejected it; but it grew and grew, and shaped itself, until at last it seemed in all points and from every aspect so extremely beautiful that he wondered, almost in an awed fashion, what special providence could have guided him to it.
The theatrical nature of the man, glorying in big effects and surprises and flourishes, compelled him to carry out the business secretly; and then, when he had brought it to a successful issue, to declare the fact triumphantly. Accordingly he said nothing to Brian about the matter, but went out early and returned home late in the pursuit of his object. And that object was to gain a private interview with his sister, Miss Charlotte Carlaw.
The opportunity came at last. He had watched the house for some days in the hope of seeing Comethup leave it; had haunted corners and doorways, waiting for his chance. At last, one evening he saw the young man come out in evening dress and enter the waiting carriage and drive away alone. Mr. Carlaw readily conjectured that he was going to a dinner party, and after waiting for a few minutes longer he walked up to the house and rang the bell.
“Will you inform Miss Carlaw,” he said in his sweetest manner to the servant, “that a gentleman wishes to see her on urgent private business? I will not give my name; Miss Carlaw knows me quite well. Oh, and say that I regret to trouble her at such an hour.”
The man carried the message and presently returned to say that Miss Carlaw would see him. He was ushered into a room where she sat in solitary state at dinner. She turned her head inquiringly toward the door as he softly entered. There was no need for him to speak, for she knew him instantly. The frown on her face was not encouraging.
“Well, brother Bob, what doyouwant?” she asked sharply. “And what’s the mystery, that you can’t sendup your name like an honest creature? Afraid I shouldn’t see you, eh?”
“My dear Charlotte,” replied Mr. Carlaw, “you always appear to do me an injustice in your thoughts. It is, perhaps, late in the day now to attempt to change your opinion of me; yet I venture to suggest that you will be surprised to learn that my errand to-night is undertaken—may I say it?—in pure unselfishness, and with the desire to do a fellow-creature a service.”
“Yes, I should certainly be very much surprised to hearthat, Bob,” replied his sister with a shrewd smile. “You’re not generally taken in that way; but it’s never too late to mend, you know. You can sit down. I’m all alone, as you see; my boy has gone out.”
Mr. Robert Carlaw sighed heavily and seated himself. “I am very glad,” he began, “to find you alone; what I have to say is of a private and confidential character, and—forgive me, I beg—somewhat painful. In fact, it would have been impossible for me to speak before my nephew.”
“I don’t understand you,” replied the old woman. She was frowning again, but seemed to be listening very intently. “I have no secrets from my boy.”
“Ah, my poor sister; the gods have not been good to you. Blinded by nature, you have, I fear, also been blinded by something stronger than nature—love. You say you have no secrets from the boy; that does not necessarily imply that he has none from you. Do you follow me?”
“No, I don’t. If you’ve anything to say about Comethup, why, in the devil’s name, can’t you say it before his face? You never did do things in a straightforward, honest fashion; there was always something crooked about you. If you’ve heard anything about my boy, or against him, I’ll tell you to begin with that it’s a pack of lies, and whatever it is I won’t hear it! I’m keen enough and I know enough of the world to know what the boy’s worth; he’s not of your stamp, and never will be, please God!”
“There, you observe,” said Mr. Carlaw, addressing thefurniture, “the absolute accuracy and beauty of my reasoning. I told you that you were blinded by love. What I have heard comes from no third party; I love and esteem my nephew so well that had any one dared to breathe a word against him, that person would have felt the weight of my displeasure. I am, I trust, my dear sister, still a gentleman, whatever my worldly position may be, and I do not carry idle tales. I came to you to-night because it is my earnest wish, as I just now hinted, to help that young man——”
“I have no doubt he’d be immensely obliged to you if he heard you say so,” broke in Miss Carlaw, “but I think he can do without your help.”
“I fear not,” replied her brother sadly. “I risk your displeasure—your anger—I know, in saying what I am about to say, but my duty is clear, and Imustspeak. Will you pardon me for saying that into whatever pitfalls our dear nephew has plunged the fault is not, perhaps, entirely his own?”
Miss Charlotte Carlaw got up from her chair and came round the table with the aid of her stick and stopped exactly opposite her brother. “Pitfalls? What are you talking about? You’ve come here to say something; why the devil can’t you say it? I suppose I’m bound to listen to you; a fellow of your sort must tell his lies in some ear or other if he can’t gain the attention of the one he first seeks. Now”—she rapped her stick furiously on the floor—“out with it! What have you to say about my boy?”
“My dear Charlotte, you are, I observe, as impatient as ever. My sole desire was to break the matter gently to you, in order, if possible, to save you any unnecessary pain.”
“Pain? What should pain me?” Yet her voice and her face were a little troubled as she spoke.
“My dear Charlotte, I know your generous nature, and I know—or I can guess—how lavishly you have dealt with this boy. It has been my good fortune to meet him once or twice, or perhaps I should say to see him inthe distance; for we move, as you are aware, in different spheres. I have seen the richness of his dress; I have observed that he never appears to be in want of money.”
“I don’t do things by halves,” said Miss Carlaw with a little touch of pride. “I said I would look after the boy, and I’ve done it. But what has all this to do with you—or with what you have to say?”
“Everything, my dear sister, everything. I suppose—forgive the question, but it is necessary—I imagine he has a large personal income?”
“He has,” replied the old woman shortly. “A thousand a year.”
Mr. Robert Carlaw lifted his hands in amazement. “A thousand a year! Incredible! And even that does not satisfy him.”
“Not satisfy him! What do you mean?”
“To put the matter plainly, my dear Charlotte, circumstances which I need not detail took me recently into a certain quarter of the city. I may state—not without a blush, for I’m still a gentleman—that my condition of life is such that I am compelled sometimes to resort to various shifts by which to raise money. You have not had to do that; fortune has been kinder to you than to others. In this case I had gone to visit a money-lender. Do I pain you?”
“Go on,” said Miss Carlaw quietly. She had backed away from him a little and was standing beside the fireplace, with one hand reaching up and resting on the high mantelshelf.
“Imagine my surprise, my distress, when I met in such a place your nephew, Comethup Willis!”
“Comethup at a money-lender’s! Either you’re mad or you think I am, brother Bob. Or have you suddenly gone blind, like your sister?”
“Alas! my dear Charlotte, I was never more wide-awake in my life, and never did I speak in more sober earnestness. I said nothing to the young man at the time, but the money-lender being a friend, I carefully andcautiously questioned him. And then I discovered the whole disgraceful business.” Mr. Robert Carlaw rose to his feet and began to pace excitedly about the room.
“Keep still, man, keep still!” cried Miss Carlaw furiously, “and get on with your story.”
“The man, who, like the rest of his kind, makes the most of his opportunities, informed me that he had advanced a large sum of money to young Mr. Willis. On my inquiring, naturally enough, what security he had asked, he told me that Mr. Willis had informed him that he was heir to the whole of Miss Charlotte Carlaw’s large fortune, and that he supposed that fact was security enough. The man evidently thought so, for he had advanced your misguided nephew the sum of a thousand pounds at a ruinous rate of interest.”
Miss Carlaw stood perfectly still for a long time; all expression seemed to have died out of her face. When at last she spoke her voice appeared to have changed, to have aged in some strange fashion. “Brother Bob,” she said, “we are of the same blood, you and I, and whatever our later quarrels may have been we’ve played together as boy and girl. I pray you, Bob, in mercy to me, tell me that this is some hideous jest. I’ll forgive you; I swear I’ll even laugh at you, if only you’ll tell me that you’ve come here, knowing my love for this boy, to play a cruel joke on me, and then to go away and laugh at it. Brother Bob, tell me you’re making fun of me.” The appeal was piteous enough to have melted any heart, but brother Bob merely shook his head and sighed again more heavily than before.