COMETHUP IS SHADOWED.
Comethup, sitting in solemn state with his aunt in a great box which
would comfortably have held six, could not quite get rid of that guilty
feeling he had of having deceived her. It was certainly the first
time, but, despite the difference in their ages and dispositions, and
despite the relationship existing between them, they had hitherto been
in all things friends; there was a fine comradeship between the old
woman and the boy--a comradeship which had demanded complete confidence
on his part and equal trust on hers. Having nothing to conceal, his
life had been like an open book to her, and she had read the book
eagerly and with satisfaction. Now, for the first time, it had become
necessary that he should deceive her; that, however justly, he should
use her money for a purpose of which she would not have approved.
On the other hand, he thought with very genuine sympathy and affection
of Brian, the boy who seemed destined to make so much more of life than
Comethup could hope to do; who was in every sense, he thought, made of
better and finer stuff. He remembered how he had said that fifty pounds
would keep him beyond the reach of want for a year in London, and
trembled a little to think how small a sum fifty pounds really meant;
he found himself doing disturbing sums in division in his head, and
figuring out how much lay between Brian and starvation every week.
In an interval between the acts, when the lights were turned fully on
in the theatre, he leaned out over the edge of the box and carelessly
looked at the people below. Not a few glasses were levelled at him, and
not a few whispers went round concerning the identity of the handsome
boy who sat in the big box with the old woman with the closed eyes.
Gazing beneath him at the rows of stalls, he suddenly caught his breath
and drew back; then leaned over again in some amazement. Beneath him,
seated beside a lady in evening dress, was Brian Carlaw.
Comethup's exclamation had not been unnoticed by his aunt. "Some one
you know?" she inquired.
"I--I'm not quite sure," said Comethup. "I think I'll go round and see,
if you don't mind."
"By all means," said Miss Carlaw. "If it's anybody nice, bring 'em
here; if you think they'll bore me, don't."
Comethup made his way down to the stalls, and came face to face with
Brian, who was coming out. Brian looked confused for a moment, and
then extended his hand. "My dear old boy, this is delightful. Twice in
one day; there's a fate in it. I dare say you're surprised to see me
here; but, as a matter of fact, it's a piece of speculation. There's
a woman"--he jerked his head to indicate the lady whose side he had
quitted--"who's very good fun, and very useful. She's taken rather a
fancy to this budding versifier, and I think it's probable that she may
be able to do something for me. At all events, she's a useful person
to know. So you see, as it's no use hoping to do anything in this
world without taking risks, your money enabled me to secure a couple
of stalls to-night; to bring her down here in style--in a word, to
make a good impression. My dear boy, it'll pay; depend upon it, it'll
pay well. I told you this morning that I was learning the trick of the
whole business; it's as easy as winking when you know it, and I think
it'll carry me through anything. You may sit and write and starve in
your garret forever, and do not a ha'porth of good; you've got to come
out of your garret and cut a good figure if people are to believe
you. I'm beginning to like the game; I am, indeed. Come and have a
cigarette."
Comethup hastily declined, murmured something about how glad he was to
see Brian again, and went back to his aunt's box. He hoped, and indeed
believed, that it was all right; but a little curious feeling of doubt
in regard to Brian came into his mind, and would not be dispelled. He
watched his cousin and the lady who was with him during the evening;
noticed that Brian sat very close to her and whispered; observed that
she talked in loud tones and laughed somewhat immoderately, and made
considerable play with a huge feather fan. He had, too, to begin a new
calculation in regard to the money with which he had supplied Brian;
found it necessary to deduct from it the price of two stalls and an
approximate amount for cabs, and then to redivide the sum remaining
by fifty-two; Brian's income for a year looked meagre indeed. Miss
Charlotte Carlaw made inquiries concerning his friend, but Comethup put
her off with an evasive reply.
On the following day the final arrangements were made, and they started
for the Continent. Miss Charlotte Carlaw had carried the whole matter
through with such energy, and in so short a space of time, that there
had been no time to inform the captain, but Comethup wrote him a long
letter from Paris, on the first day of their arrival there, breaking
to him, as gently as possible, the intelligence that they would not be
likely to meet for at least three years. The boy thought sometimes, in
those early days, that he would have been glad to get back again to
the old-fashioned town in which he had been born, and to narrow down
his world--which had widened so much recently, and was widening every
day--to the captain and 'Linda and the few others who had known and
loved him as a child. But he blamed himself the next instant for his
ingratitude.
They spent quite a long time in Paris--nearly two months--and at the
end of the first month a surprising event occurred.
He was passing one day through the large hall of the hotel at which
they were stopping, with his aunt's hand resting on his arm, when he
observed a young man, whose back was toward him, making some inquiries
of a servant. The attitude and gestures seemed familiar. As he passed
with his aunt toward the staircase he glanced back over his shoulder
and saw that the young man had turned and was looking hesitatingly at
him. It was his cousin, Brian Carlaw.
Brian made a half-movement toward him, and then looked at the
unconscious Charlotte Carlaw, made a comical grimace, and shook his
head. As Comethup went on up the stairs, still looking back at the
other in perplexity, Brian stepped forward softly and motioned to him
to come down again and join him there. Comethup nodded, and continued
his way upstairs. He conducted his aunt to her room, and then hurried
down again to Brian. That young man received him rapturously, and
airily plunged into an explanation.
"Dear old boy, you know you wrote to me, like the good fellow you
are, and told me where you were staying. I don't mind confessing that
at first I was wild with envy. Thought I, 'Paris is the place for
inspiration, for beauty, the very home of a poet.' And then I thought:
'No, my boy; you've got your work to do, and, gray skies or blue,
sunshine or rain, you must do it.' And I do assure you, old fellow,
that I went at it hammer and tongs; I did indeed. Can't we go into the
smoking room or somewhere and have a chat?"
Comethup led the way into a corner of the room and they sat down. He
began to be a little frightened at the business--a little afraid of
this harlequin cousin, who was forever springing upon him, and whose
presence he must keep secret.
"But then, while I worked," pursued Brian, "and I give you my word I
_did_ work, away went the money. You've no idea what it is in London;
you've had some one to provide everything for you--I had to provide for
myself. And then I found that the days of genius out-at-elbows are gone
past; genius must be well dressed now, and make something of a figure,
or he'll be mistaken for a beggar. It would take too long to explain,
but the thing has to be done; it's absolutely necessary. And so"--with
a smile and a shrug of his shoulder--"the money went."
"All of it?" asked Comethup, in a low voice.
"Most of it. I know it seems a lot, but there it is--or rather there it
isn't. Dear old boy"--he leaned affectionately nearer to Comethup--"I
suppose we poor devils who live by our wits don't take life quite in
the same way as a more sober citizen might do. I can't account for it,
but if you look back, as I have done, over the histories of any men
who've made anything of a stir in the world, you'll find they were
improvident, thriftless rascals, who never ought to have been trusted
with a penny. They ought to have been given two suits of clothes a
year, without any pockets, and fed by the state. It's a horrible
condition of things, that a man who's doing work that he hopes will
live should have to fight and beg for bread and butter. There, it's no
use moralizing; that's what I told myself two days ago in London, when
I'd come down to the last five-pound note. 'I'll go to Comethup,' said
I; 'Comethup is a dear good chap, with plenty of money and nothing to
do with it; Comethup knows what I'm going to do, and how I'm working,
and all my hopes and plans; Comethup won't see me fall to the ground.'
So here I am."
Poor Comethup sat for a moment in silence. He felt the delicacy and yet
at the same time the falseness of the position in which he stood. With
that feeling which was always strongest in him--the desire not to wound
any one's feelings--he was prompted now to put the matter as gently as
possible; but an explanation must be given, and given firmly. After a
moment's silence, he looked round at Brian with a troubled face; Brian,
for his part, was smiling and quite at ease.
"You see, Brian," he began, "I want to help you very much; I should
really feel much happier if you had the money altogether. But then
my aunt--_our_ aunt, I should say--has been very good to me, and has
never denied me anything. The money I lent you before was hers, and as
she--well, as she doesn't----"
"Doesn't like me, you mean," broke in Brian, with a laugh. "Oh, I know
that quite well; and I can assure you I haven't the least respect for
_her_. What were you going to say?"
"Well, as she doesn't like you, I couldn't, of course, tell her exactly
where the money had gone, although she wanted to know. I didn't tell
her quite the truth about it, and it made me feel frightfully mean. You
know, if the money were my own, you should have as much as you wanted
at any time; as it isn't, it doesn't seem quite fair to her, does it?"
"Nonsense! I don't see it in that light at all," replied Brian. "She'll
give you anything you like to ask, and she's got plenty, and you
have the satisfaction of knowing that you're helping a poor devil to
fame and fortune. My dear boy, it'll all be paid back some day, every
penny of it; there's not the least doubt about that. I've got my
chance now, but I shall lose it, as sure as fate, if I can't get some
money. Hang it all, old chap, you wouldn't leave me stranded in Paris
without a penny while you live on the fat of the land and drive about
in a carriage? You couldn't do it, Comethup; you're not that sort of a
fellow."
"But it isn't my money," said Comethup with a groan. "Don't you
understand that? I think she ought to know."
"Tell her, then," said Brian, with a short laugh, "and see what'll
happen. You know perfectly well that she'll refuse to allow you to
give me another penny; you admit she doesn't like me, and she doesn't
care whether I go to the dogs or not. What's the use of talking such
nonsense as that?"
"I suppose you're right," said Comethup, "and of course I can't let you
go about without any money, especially in a strange city. But I haven't
very much with me--only about twenty pounds--and I----"
"My dear boy, twenty pounds means more to me than you can understand;
it's a fortune. Twenty pounds will positively save me. You've been
used to such a lot that it doesn't seem much to you, but to me--ye
gods! twenty pounds banishes dull care and puts me on the high road to
fortune. And let me tell you this: I mean to be careful this time; I'm
working, as I've told you, and, until I see the results of my work, I
ask no more assistance from you or any one; to that I pledge my word."
Comethup handed over the money, and Brian gripped the hand that gave
it to him fervently for a moment. "Some day," he said, in a voice of
emotion, "some day you will understand more fully what you have done. I
don't know how to thank you, old chap."
"Oh, please don't say anything about that," replied Comethup hastily.
"Are you going back to London?"
"Oh, I shall stay in Paris for a day or two; it's just a good chance to
have a look round, and see what the wonderful place is like; I shall
do it cheaply, never fear. By the way," he added, as he rose from his
seat, "did I tell you that dad is over here? Followed me to London,
and we had an affecting reconciliation--tears and all that sort of
business. So as I was coming over here he said he'd come too; couldn't
bear to be parted from me. I suppose"--this with a laugh--"I suppose
I treated the dear old chap rather badly, and I'm glad to be friends
with him again; he's not a bad sort, take him altogether. Perhaps you'd
better not tell your aunt that we're here; she doesn't love either of
us. Good-bye. I won't ask you to save me again, old chap. Write and let
me know where you go, and when; the old address in London will find me.
Good-bye."
Comethup, in his bed that night, after much anxious thought came to a
resolution. He fully and firmly made up his mind not to write to Brian
again. Had the matter rested solely with himself, he could not have
formed such a resolve; but he thought of his aunt, and knowing that
it was impossible to tell her anything of the matter, he saw clearly
that his duty to her was to keep away from Brian. Boy though he was,
and great though his admiration was for his cousin, he yet saw clearly
enough into the matter to know that Brian would light-heartedly come to
him again and again without any thought of the future. It was with a
great sense of relief that he heard his aunt next morning declare that
they would leave Paris within a few days.
But his troubles were not at an end. Miss Charlotte Carlaw complained
that he was moody and silent, and strove in her own kindly fashion to
discover what was the matter. "I can see what it is," she said abruptly
one morning; "I'm the wrong sort of companion for you. I ought to have
known it; I should have been wiser than to tie you to the apron strings
of a blind old woman in this fashion. It's been a mistake, and you must
forgive me, boy. While I've been wanting to have you near me, I've
lost sight of the fact that you, being young and strong, would probably
want to be capering about the city alone and having a good time. Well,
I warned you what it would be before we started, and you see I was
right."
"No, indeed, aunt," said Comethup eagerly, "you are quite mistaken.
I'm sorry if I have seemed to be bothered about anything; but I'm not,
really, and you sha'n't have to complain again. I'm quite sure no one
could have a better time than I am having."
"Well, I'm not quite satisfied, and I'm afraid I've really been very
selfish about the matter. For Heaven's sake, boy, if there's anything
you want, or want to do, within reason, say what it is! Or if anything
is troubling you, you're surely not afraid of an old woman who's tried
to be your friend and who would give a great deal to save you any
sorrow?"
"Why, of course not," replied the boy quickly; "I'll tell you in a
moment if there's anything I want or--or if there's anything troubling
me. I'm glad you're going away from Paris, because I've got just a
little tired of it."
"We'll be off to-morrow," said Miss Carlaw, with decision. "Now, just
to please me, forget for an hour or two that I exist at all; off with
you where you will, and don't get into mischief. In fact, I'll give you
the day to yourself, and if you come near me at all I shall be very
angry. I can contrive to amuse myself alone for once. Here's money for
you; lunch well, dine well, do what you like. Off with you; I don't
want to hear your voice till nightfall."
Comethup somewhat reluctantly set off into the city. But it was a fine
day, and the brightness of everything about him--the moving people, the
life and animation of the city--all had their effect upon him. He was
quite glad to be alone for once; he seated himself on a bench in some
gardens in the sunshine and folded his arms and sat looking out at the
world before him through half-closed eyelids and with a smile about his
mouth, for he was very young, and the world seemed very fair.
He began to dream lazily about his old friends: wondered what the
captain was doing at that hour, and almost pictured him strolling
across the sandy wastes with 'Linda by his side. He was glad to think
of 'Linda; glad to remember her as he had seen her last, a pretty
girlish figure, at the gate of the captain's garden. With all the
bustle and noise of Paris about him, with strange tongues chattering
and strange figures moving past him, he seemed to see, in a vision, the
old place of his childhood in another atmosphere and another light;
held it, as it were, in a sacred and secret place in his remembrance--a
thing apart.
One of the figures that flitted vaguely before him stopped and appeared
to draw back a pace and then to advance. Comethup opened his eyes fully
and stared up at the figure. A familiar voice greeted him.
"My dear, dear nephew! How I have longed and hoped to see you! What has
my cry been these past days, since I learned that you were in Paris?
'Comethup,' and yet again 'Comethup.--Show me Comethup,' I said, 'and
let me look into his eyes, and I am a happy man!' And now my wish is
granted; more than all, I find you alone. My dear boy!" He grasped
Comethup fervently by the hand and sank upon the bench beside him.
"I heard you were in Paris," said Comethup; "Brian told me."
"Ah, that misguided boy! But still I love him. Who could help loving
him? We have had our differences; we have even used harsh words to each
other. But all that, I trust, is forgotten and forgiven. When I heard
that he was coming to Paris, and coming, above all things, to see you,
I said at once that I would go with him; my place was by his side, and,
as I have told you, I longed to see my nephew. Boy"--he looked with
affectionate sternness at Comethup--"you're not looking well."
"I--I'm very well, thank you; only a little tired."
Mr. Robert Carlaw shook his head plaintively. "Ah, the weight of
wealth, the responsibility of it! I am sometimes glad in my heart that
Providence saw fit to make me poor; I have known my sorrows, but I
have known my joys also. Wealth is a great responsibility. My dear
sister is well, I trust?"
"Oh, yes, she's quite well," said Comethup.
There was an awkward pause for some moments, and then Mr. Carlaw, with
something of an effort, turned toward his nephew. "My dear Comethup,"
he said, prefacing his speech with a hastily suppressed sigh, "Fortune
has been very good to you and has made you, if one may say so, her
favourite child; has taken you from an obscurity (which I am sure was
quite unmerited) and has placed you in affluence. If I did not think
you were wise beyond your years I should not speak to you as I do now;
but I know that Fortune has not blunted your sympathies, and that you
are still the generous-hearted boy I knew in years gone by. Comethup,
look well upon me"--he stuck his hands in the breast of his frock coat
and looked gloomily at the boy--"and tell me what I am."
Comethup looked at him in some amazement. "You--you're my Uncle Robert,
of course," he said.
"Call me Bob," said Mr. Carlaw, with some emotion. "My friends have
always called me Bob; had they called me by any other name it might
have been better for me. But Bob was a good fellow; Bob had his
hand in his pocket for a friend; Bob hadn't the slightest notion of
that simple word 'no'; in short, Bob, in the world's eyes, has been
going straight to the devil since he was breeched. Boy"--he laid
his hand on Comethup's arm, and Comethup felt that he trembled with
agitation--"boy, your Uncle Bob has finished his course; your Uncle Bob
is a bankrupt and an outlaw."
For a few moments Comethup was too much shocked to say anything; he
sat still, staring helplessly at his uncle, whose head was bowed in a
forlorn fashion. He murmured something at last about being very sorry,
and Mr. Carlaw felt for his hand and pressed it without looking at
him or speaking. Rallying a little presently, the forlorn one raised
his head and endeavoured to smile, and looked out hopefully upon the
prospect.
"Sunshine--and sympathy; what can a man want more? You're young,
Comethup, in the ways of the world--I had almost said simple; the world
will try to take advantage of you; will rob you with one hand while
it fawns upon you with the other. Beware of it; take your own path
straight through life, and trouble not about what any man may say.
It's the only way," he added gloomily; "would that I had remembered
it in time! For myself, although they have made me a beggar, I care
nothing; a crust of bread and a cup of water are all that I ask of
any man, and they will probably deny me those. But, my boy, I have
responsibilities--I have a son." Here his emotion appeared quite to
overmaster him for an instant, and Comethup felt very sorry for him
indeed. After a few moments he slapped his breast firmly and coughed,
blinked his eyelids, and looked upon the boy with a ghostly smile.
"I think Brian will make his way--will get on, I mean," said Comethup,
in the hope of encouraging him.
"Make his way! Get on! You are right; you are very right. The time will
surely come when his name will be echoed to the skies; when that which
is pent in his father and has found no proper outlet will appear in
the son, and gladden the father's heart. It is there; I have proudly
watched the beginnings of it; I have, in my poor way, fostered the
first trembling attempts. But what is the case--how do we stand? Again
comes in the damnable thought of money--money, without which we can do
nothing. Like those of commoner clay, we must live--we must eat--we
must have fire to warm us--a roof to shelter us. And here, at the very
outset of my son's career, I find myself a beggar."
He beat his foot restlessly upon the ground, and turned away his head
and bit his lip in the struggle to hide his feelings. Comethup in a dim
way began to be pretty certain what was coming, but he was desperately
sorry for the man, nevertheless.
"Now and then, in our dreary way through a horrible world, we come
upon one human soul that has sympathy--nay, that has a heart of gold;
it's rare, but still we find it. There is one such heart of gold in
this city to-day. Listen: my son came here practically penniless; we
looked into each other's eyes; we were big with hope, but still we were
penniless. Suddenly my son returns to me with money--with what is, to
us, a large sum. Delicacy forbids my asking whence it came; my son
informs me that a friend--I repeat the word with emphasis--a friend
has insisted upon helping him. His delicacy is as great as mine; he
refuses to say more, and I--well, I do not press him. But in my heart
I know--oh, my dear boy, let us drop parables; let me thank you as
one man may thank another. I am broken, friendless, an outcast; yet
my heart is still strong and true; my feelings, pray God, are those
of a gentleman. I may tramp the highways to-morrow without a crust,
but still I trust men may turn to look at me and say, 'There goes a
gentleman.'"
He said it with an air, even with something of the old flourish, and
Comethup was considerably impressed. After some silence, Mr. Robert
Carlaw got up, with a sigh, and turned toward his nephew and held out
his hand.
"This has done me good," he said. "I come into your fresh, buoyant,
rich young life; I touch again the things that might have been; I
renew, as it were, my youth. Our paths lie in different directions; you
sweep along the broad highway, and the dust--yes, the dust--of your
chariot wheels shall be flung over me as I walk. That is fate, that is
life. Good-bye!"
He took his nephew's hand in both his own for a moment, sighed heavily,
and turned away. In less than a minute he was back again. There was
hesitation in his manner and he shifted his feet uneasily, yet he spoke
with a desperate boldness.
"My dear friend, I--I have put off what I have to say--put it off in
the hope that I might not have to say it. My courage deserts me; it is
not easy for a man who has carried his head high before his fellows to
lower it and to beg. Do not misunderstand me," he added hastily, "'tis
not for myself; if it were for myself the petition should never be
urged. It is for another--it is for my son. Comethup, it is necessary,
in order that we may get our affairs somewhat straight, that we should
leave this city. My son has money, but he needs it for his work--he
may even need it for food. Can I go to him and say to him--can I, his
father, say it to him, 'Brian, I am penniless; I have not sufficient
money to bear me to my native land'? This may seem a mere matter of
cowardice; but, broken and outcast though I am, I would still carry
myself well in the eyes of my son; I would still have him say, 'This
is my father, of whom I am proud, and who has never shamed me yet.' It
is, I think, a natural thought, a natural wish. Frankly, as man to man,
will you help me to do that?"
Comethup felt that, under the circumstances, there was but one thing
to be done. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the money his
aunt had given him. "How much would you want, sir?" he asked slowly.
"Well, to be businesslike, may I say ten pounds?"
Comethup was rather glad he wanted no more, because the loss of that
sum would still leave something in his own pockets so that it might not
be necessary for him to apply to his aunt. He handed Mr. Robert Carlaw
the amount specified, and Mr. Carlaw shook hands with him many times
and blessed him, and finally walked away with a jaunty step.
Comethup dined sparingly, and wandered about the city for the greater
part of the day. He returned to the hotel in the evening, and found
his aunt sitting alone; he was informed that she had asked if he had
returned several times during the day.
"Well, young scapegrace!" she exclaimed as he entered, "I don't mind
confessing I've missed you horribly; and I suppose you've been tearing
round the city and flinging your money about, and making people wonder
who the young English gentleman is, and where he gets his money from,
and what he's doing alone in a wicked city, eh? Oh, you've been doing
the thing royally, I'll be bound."
Comethup thought of the modest dinner he had eaten in a small _café_,
and of how for the rest he had wandered about the streets in lonely
fashion for many hours; but there was a fiction to be kept up, and he
laughed and said he was afraid he had spent a great deal of money.
"Well, never mind; it won't do any harm, once in a way. You're inclined
to be a bit reckless, Prince Charming, but I suppose that's my fault.
Most of the money gone, eh?"
"I'm afraid so," said Comethup. He saw that this was the clearest
and best fashion to get out of the difficulty--to take to himself a
character for extravagance which he did not possess; it would save the
necessity for any explanation.
"Well, so that you've had a good time, I don't mind. I must find you
some more to-morrow; I only want you to enjoy yourself and to be
straightforward, and keep nothing from me."
Comethup awoke with a lighter heart the next morning--lighter, perhaps,
because Paris was to be left behind. He was glad to think that he had
got well over his difficulties; almost glad, too, to think that he had
seen the last of Mr. Robert Carlaw. Of his feelings toward Brian he
was not quite so certain; he pitied him very much, and hoped earnestly
that Fortune and Fame were indeed holding out their hands to him. But
he was but a boy, who had lived his simple life hitherto simply and
straightforwardly and well, with nothing to conceal. Now, for the
first time, with however good a purpose, he was deceiving one whom he
knew to be his greatest and most loyal friend--one but for whose loyal
assistance life could never have been to him the full and splendid
thing it had been.
But he had not seen the last of his uncle by any means. As he went down
the steps of the hotel, with his aunt leaning on his arm, toward the
vehicle which waited to take them to the station, a figure suddenly
sprang forward and thrust aside the servant who held the door. As the
unconscious Miss Carlaw stepped into the carriage her brother bent
his head reverently, appeared almost to be silently blessing her. The
wonderful Robert was evidently possessed with a deep gratitude for
which Comethup would scarcely have given him credit. It was, of course,
impossible for the boy to speak; he could only look entreatingly at the
man and beg him by signs to go away.
But Uncle Robert knew better than that. While the luggage was being
piled upon the vehicle he flung himself eagerly into the most menial
offices--the lifting of boxes and the final closing of the carriage
door; then, when all was completed, he actually climbed upon the box
seat beside the driver, folded his arms, and accompanied them to the
station.
At the station it was just as bad. Poor Comethup lived in torments
until the train actually steamed away, for Mr. Robert Carlaw got in the
way of porters and assisted them, to their astonishment, in disposing
of the luggage, and was altogether a very elegant and ridiculous
millstone round the boy's neck. Finally, as the train departed, he
stood in an attitude of deep dejection, with his hat in his hand,
watching them as they moved out of his sight.