IN WHICH SEPARATIONS ARE SUGGESTED.
In quite the strangest and yet the most natural way the old shoemaker
was drawn into that little circle which revolved round the captain. It
was a curious little band in most respects, formed of strange beings,
with nothing of the practical about them; the captain seemed sometimes
to be the youngest of them all.
Comethup's life, at that enchanting time, was very full indeed--so
full that he had sometimes to stop and gasp with wonder at all the
extraordinary things and the extraordinary people that filled it. The
captain had been something to be grateful about, and to hug one's self
over; the ghost in the garden had resolved itself into a very sweet and
tender personality. And now came this wonderful old man, who hammered
away half underground, and talked sometimes like a book and sometimes
like scraps out of twenty books, all disjointed; whose hair was wild
and whose eyes shone, and who was something to be a little afraid of
at first and to love desperately afterward, although, for that matter,
there were but few people who came into Comethup's life that he was not
able to give some part of his heart to. There was but one little hunger
in his heart, and that was that he could not bring Brian into what he
would have termed the chief glory of his life, for he had that keen and
unerring instinct which told him that Brian would be impatient of the
old shoemaker, and as scornful of him as he was of every one else who
did not exactly please him.
Comethup got quite into the habit of paying hurried visits to the
shoemaker's shop, and then lingering for a while, in the fascination
of the man and of the place. Very often he found 'Linda there, seated
silently beside the man on the bench. Very few customers ever seemed
to come there, and the few who did took no notice of the children. The
old man's moods varied greatly: sometimes he was in a savage humour and
worked fiercely, hammering away at the leather as if for dear life,
and taking no notice of the children; at other times he would sit,
with his hands clasped idly on his apron, staring dreamily out of the
window, and occasionally muttering to himself. On one such occasion he
called Comethup suddenly to him and put his arm about his shoulders and
stretched out the other hand toward the window. "Look, boy, look!" he
cried. "What do you see?"
Comethup gazed blankly through the window, the panes of which were of
old and common glass that distorted everything seen through them. He
shook his head, and looked round at the old man. "Nothing," he said,
"only the houses, and the church spire at the end of the street."
The shoemaker shook him gently but impatiently. "Look again," he
whispered; "move your head from side to side, as I move it--so. See the
houses leap and jump and tremble; see the spire of the church double
up like a reed, and seem as if it would plunge down into the street.
Again--move your head again--see how they leap and tremble and fall!"
Comethup, a little frightened, moved his head, and then laughed
faintly. "But it's only the glass," he said.
"Ah, but a man may sit here--a man poor and humble and with no
power--and yet dream that he has the power so to sweep away those who
have wronged him; to bring their fine houses tumbling about their ears,
like things built of cards. Boy, I tell you if a man can dream that, he
is stronger and greater than those who have the power to build--eh?"
Comethup obediently said, "Yes, I suppose so," and the old man laughed,
and took up his work and fell to hammering. Comethup, after he reached
home, tried the plan with other windows, and trembled a little when
he remembered the fierce whisper in which the old man had spoken; he
wondered, too, why he should carry in his breast the desire to injure
any one, or to wreck what he had built. Meanwhile, Brian had to be
reckoned with; it was impossible to ignore him completely, and the
hours which Comethup spent with him were growing fewer and fewer. But
one morning he sprang suddenly into the very midst of it all, as it
were, and quite accidentally.
He had been attending the grammar school on the outskirts of the town,
in a desultory fashion, staying away when it pleased him, throwing his
soul into the work for a day or two, and thinking of nothing else,
and then disappearing for the whole day for about a week, dashing
home, tired and hungry and dusty at the end of each day, and refusing
any account of his movements. Once or twice, when Comethup had been
away with the captain, he had heard on his return that his cousin had
called; but when he went himself to his uncle's house, to express his
contrition, Mr. Robert Carlaw airily informed him that he hadn't the
remotest notion where Brian was, or what he was doing.
"Takes after his father, the young rip. I was just the same when I was
a boy; began to go to the devil before I was breeched. It's in the
blood, and, damme, I'm the last man to try and stop him, the rascal!"
Comethup usually came away feeling desperately sorry for his cousin,
and trembling considerably at the thought of the path that unfortunate
youngster was treading, yet having, nevertheless, a sneaking admiration
both for him and his ways.
It happened, on the morning in question, that Comethup had arranged to
meet the captain; they would, in all probability, find 'Linda at the
old shoemaker's, and after that there was the glorious prospect of some
hours on the marshes in the captain's delightful company, with deeds
of daring to be recited and romantic possibilities to be discussed.
It had been firmly agreed upon between the captain and Comethup as to
what their duties were to be in a moment of emergency, should the old
town, for instance, be attacked by an alien foe, and 'Linda carried off
by the besiegers. Comethup almost wished, with a beating heart, that
it might happen, because, according to the captain's account--and the
captain was very serious when he mentioned it--it would mean midnight
rides, and shootings, and maimings, and slaughterings to an absolutely
delightful extent.
But this morning disappointment was in store for them. 'Linda was not
to be discovered at the shoemaker's, and the old man, being in a bad
humour, growlingly stated that he knew nothing about her, not even
pausing in his hammering to make the remark. Comethup and the captain
turned away sorrowfully. Former experience had taught them that it
would be useless to apply at her father's house; but they walked past
it, and Comethup even ran a little way into the garden, and softly
called her name. But there was no response, and, after waiting a few
moments, they were compelled to set out on their expedition without her.
She had taken so prominent a part in their lives of late, and
imagination so cruelly suggested her figure in every place they
visited, that the business of the day had no zest in it. The captain
presently seated himself on a bank out on the marshes, with his cane
lying across his knees, while Comethup sprawled at his feet and watched
the distant line of the sand hills beyond which the sea lay. Suddenly
the captain sat rigidly upright and stared away across the marshes
in an opposite direction to that in which Comethup was looking; an
ejaculation escaped his lips, and Comethup twisted round on one elbow
and followed the direction of the captain's gaze.
Two figures were running toward them, coming breathlessly over the
uneven ground, and waving to them as they ran. Comethup sat up with a
start. "Why, it's 'Linda!" he exclaimed; and then, in a more surprised
tone, "and Brian!"
The two came up pantingly, and the girl dropped down beside Comethup;
the boy Brian tossed his hair back from his face, and burst out with
his tale.
"We've been looking for you everywhere," he exclaimed. "You know
I couldn't find you at your house"--this to Comethup--"nor at the
captain's; and dad was in one of his frightful tempers, and had been
raving about the house, swearing he'd kill me. He often does that, you
know; I'm quite used to it. So you see I didn't know what to do, until
at last I thought of that house we went to see, Comethup, you know, the
one that was haunted. It wasn't half bad in the daylight, and it wasn't
haunted, after all."
"I know that," said Comethup. "And so does the captain."
"How did you find this--this child?" asked the captain, dropping one
hand lightly on the girl's head.
"I'm coming to that," replied Brian, briskly. "I went into the garden
and had a good look round, and there didn't seem to be anything to be
afraid of. So I walked round the house to see what there was to be
seen, and I----"
"And you saw me up at the window," broke in 'Linda, with a laugh.
The boy smiled back at her, and dropped down beside her on the sandy
ground. "Yes," he said, "and I asked you if you were the ghost,
and what you were doing up there; and you said you were waiting for
Comethup. And I said that I was looking for him, too, and we'd better
go and look together. Then I showed you how to get down from the window
by the ivy, and--and here we are." He rolled over on his back, crossed
his hands under his head, and laughed again.
It was all true. He had stormed the situation in a fashion which
neither Comethup nor the captain would have dreamed of; had flung
himself joyously, as it were, into the midst of a matter from
which they had innocently plotted to exclude him. 'Linda, too, had
entertained him with an account of all that had happened: of her
expeditions with Comethup and the captain, down to the minutest
details, proud of the fact that she had so much to tell to this new and
charming companion.
Comethup and the captain, with a quick mutual appreciation of the
matter born of their intimacy, glanced at each other rapidly; the
captain turned away his head, and sighed a little. 'Linda saw that, in
some strange fashion, she had offended her former friends; the keen
edge had been taken from the adventure, and she looked at Comethup with
a little sudden quivering of the lip. Brian, blissfully unconscious,
lay on his back on the ground, whistling softly to himself.
The situation was becoming embarrassing, and the captain had just
cleared his throat, with the idea of making some commonplace remark
which should set them all at their ease, when, looking up, he descried
another figure coming swinging toward them at a rapid rate. The swirl
of the coat-tails and the poise of the hat were not to be mistaken. He
exclaimed hurriedly, "Brian, here's your father!"
Brian Carlaw turned lazily over on one side and surveyed the
approaching figure; resumed his former attitude, and said with a laugh:
"I suppose he's come to kill me; I didn't think he'd find me here."
He appeared quite unconcerned about the matter, and Comethup could
not help looking at him with increasing admiration as he observed his
indifference to the approaching danger.
But it was obvious, as Mr. Robert Carlaw drew nearer, that he had no
hostile intention. He was apparently greatly agitated, and seemed to be
shouting something to them as he almost ran forward over the ground.
He waved in his right hand a sheet of paper. He came upon the waiting
group literally at a bound, and so out of breath that for a few moments
he could do nothing but alternately thump his chest and tap the sheet
of paper with a trembling forefinger and stretch it out appealingly
toward his son. His dignity was too great to permit him to sit down,
even on the bank beside the captain; he remained pacing about, and
gaspingly endeavouring to speak for some moments, before he could get
a word out, and when the words came they were, in view of what Brian
said, certainly surprising.
"My son, my beloved son!" He stretched out his arms toward the
recumbent boy, and something seemed to catch in his throat, as though
he swallowed with difficulty.
Brian raised himself on one elbow and looked at his father through
half-closed eyes. "I thought you were going to lick me," he said.
Mr. Robert Carlaw again agitatedly indicated the letter. "My boy,
forgive me, I beg. This is a moment when indiscretion, hastinesses
of temper, may be forgotten. This is a moment that comes but once
in every man's life. You are not--not too young to understand. My
boy, I have sought for you"--he swept his arm vaguely toward the
horizon--"everywhere. I have been cut--cut to the heart at the thought
that I--I had driven you from me. My son, thank Heaven I have found
you!" He took off his hat, breathed heavily, and mopped his face with a
delicate handkerchief. They looked at him in astonishment, not unmixed
with awe; he appeared to be so terribly in earnest.
"Is anything the matter?" asked the captain, breaking a silence which
began to be oppressive.
Robert Carlaw replaced his hat at a greater angle than usual, struck
himself on the breast, laughed, and shook the letter at the little
captain with ferocious playfulness. "Matter, sir? Matter enough! No
longer can it be said that Robert Carlaw and his son hide their heads
under a bushel--or under two bushels; this letter, sir, contains the
promise of fortune--fortune rightly bestowed. No longer shall my son
live obscurely, as his wretched parent has been compelled to do;
no longer shall he herd with the sons of tradesmen and commoners;
henceforth he takes that brilliant path which Fortune has mapped out
for him." He laughed again, and stretched out his arms again toward
Brian, who was sitting up, staring at him in amazement.
"I'm afraid we don't understand," said the captain mildly.
Robert Carlaw, feeling that he had to deal with inferior minds, came
down from the heights. "My dear sir, the matter, bluntly, is this. We
are friends here, and there is no reason why all the world should not
know such news as I have to tell. This, sir"--he indicated the paper he
held--"is a letter from an eccentric lady, of--er--excellent birth--in
point of fact, my sister; older than myself, a spinster, and childless.
She writes, in her dear eccentric fashion--sweet woman, but, like
myself, a spice of brimstone in her--to say that her loneliness tells
upon her with advancing years; that she seeks some one to whom she may
give what tenderness is in her, some one who shall become her heir. She
suggests--nay, in her eccentric fashion, demands--my son. He is to fill
the vacant place in her heart, and in her house; he is to become, when
it shall please the good Lord"--Mr. Carlaw raised his eyes piously, and
touched the brim of his hat with his fingers--"to call her from us, the
possessor of her wealth."
"That's very fine for the boy," said the captain slowly.
"Yes," responded Mr. Carlaw, thoughtfully, "the boy is like his father;
he was not built for toil. There are those who are made--positively
made, sir--to cut a figure in the world, that duller eyes may look
on them, and admire. I am one of those; it is in the blood; Brian is
another." With a great show of hurry upon him, he thrust the precious
letter in his pocket, and stooped and caught Brian by the arm and
dragged him to his feet. The boy, with that unbelief in his father
which past experience had probably sown deep in his breast, resisted
a little, and did not enter quite so joyously into the spirit of the
matter as his parent wished.
"But what have I got to do?" he asked, petulantly, rising slowly to his
feet with his fathers assistance.
"Do?" exclaimed that gentleman. "My son, there is not a moment to be
lost. You do not know your Aunt Charlotte; I have but stated the case
mildly when I say that she is eccentric. She may change her mind at
any moment; may have forgotten the suggestion she makes in this letter
before we have time to reach London. Come; there is not a moment to be
lost; it is the opportunity of a lifetime."
"Oh, we're going to London, are we?" asked the boy, his face
brightening.
"Yes, my son," cried Mr. Carlaw, clapping him affectionately on the
shoulder, "to London! London the glorious, the wonderful! London, where
you shall take your place among the best of them, and be no more hidden
from sight here. Your poor father would have taken his place among
its notables years ago, but that the purse-strings had to be kept too
tightly. Come, my son, it wrings a father's heart to have to part with
you, but Fate has been good to you, my son, Fate has been very good to
you."
He had got his arm round the boy's shoulders, and was actually dragging
him away, without remembering the proprieties, when Brian turned and
looked back over his shoulder, compelling his father to halt for a
moment. The smile that Comethup thought always was like light played
about his face for a moment as they sat there watching him.
"Good-bye!" he called. "I don't want to go a bit, but if dad says
I must, there's no help for it. Good-bye; don't forget me. I won't
forget you, any of you, and I'll come back soon to see you. Good-bye,
Comethup."
The last they saw of him was his slight, boyish figure, still encircled
by his father's arm, going across the uneven ground toward the town.
Mr. Robert Carlaw was waving his disengaged hand enthusiastically in
that direction, as though he pointed to fortune and all desirable
things.