THE BEGINNINGS OF A GENIUS.
The three years of wandering had stretched into four, and thence
into five. It would have been under ordinary circumstances a happy,
irresponsible time enough, for they took their journeyings haphazard,
staying in a place for months at a time if it pleased them, or but a
few days if they did not like it; they had every luxury and comfort
and convenience that money could purchase; they stayed always in the
best places and travelled in the best manner. Yet throughout it all
there had hung, floating before him wherever he went, an ever-growing
cloud of deceit and trickery about Comethup. Dread seemed to mark the
most cloudless day, and he never entered a strange city or village
without looking with anxious eyes at every passing tourist.
Throughout those five years it is safe to say that Comethup had never
been wholly free from the presence of Robert Carlaw and his son. First
the one and then the other; then both together; then the one, with a
piteous tale of the other's deceit; and the other, with a story of
how badly the one had treated him. Comethup never quite knew whether
they travelled in company or whether they merely kept touch with each
other's movements and met at intervals; at all events, they seemed to
know pretty clearly the route taken by Comethup and his aunt, and the
dates of their departure from various places. Indeed, Miss Carlaw and
her nephew were easy of identification, for they travelled in state;
and each was a noticeable figure and attracted attention in different
ways. The blind old woman, travelling through beautiful places for
pleasure, was a subject for sympathy; the handsome youth who was her
constant attendant, and who carried his grave face through so many
different scenes, and who appeared always so devoted to her, won the
admiration of many people whose names he never knew and to whom he
scarcely spoke.
Once or twice Comethup had felt with growing relief that the Carlaws,
father and son, were gone; a month or two would pass and nothing be
seen of them. And then one morning, in a strange city, the horizon
would be darkened to him by the swing of Uncle Robert's coat-tails;
or his day would be changed and troubled by the sudden appearance of
Brian, alert and eager and full of wild hopes as ever. The daring
and resource of Mr. Robert Carlaw knew no bounds. On more than one
occasion, in crowded streets, he actually walked on the farther side
of his sister, bending forward to glance at Comethup and to smile and
nod to him as though to assure the boy of his protection. On such
occasions Miss Carlaw would embarrassingly let fall some remark,
perhaps even touching Robert himself, all unconscious of the figure
that stalked beside her. With that air of protection large upon him, he
turned up in the most unexpected places, and his errand was always the
same.
As degrading things degrade a man, so Robert Carlaw lost something
of the old, reckless swagger--the fine air with which he had carried
himself before the world. He did not come less boldly on that account
when he made his shameful plea again and again to Comethup; but he came
to make it, in time, more as a matter of course--a something to which
he had the right. He must have had some small money of his own, or must
have begged and borrowed elsewhere during those years; all that he
squeezed out of Comethup could not have enabled him to travel as he did
or live in the style he did.
Once or twice, as has been said, father and son presented themselves
together; they had made up their differences and henceforth nothing was
to separate them; their interests went hand in hand, as did their hopes
and ambitions. On such occasions Mr. Robert Carlaw would announce, not
without emotion, that life held new purposes for him. Comethup even
saw him once turn up the sleeve of his coat and mutter something about
work. Brian would laugh and clap his father on the shoulder, and cry
that he was a good fellow and that they'd stand or fall together.
But in a day or two one or the other would make his appearance alone;
would tell his tale of the desertion of that being who should have held
to him, if only for the ties of blood; would plead that the deserter,
in a moment of forgetfulness or duplicity, had taken the available
capital, and would beg for further help. In one case it would be
the father whom Brian in a sudden fit of petulance had deserted; in
another case Brian would cry out upon his unnatural parent who had,
theoretically at least, cursed him, and left him to starve.
So the game had gone merrily on until Comethup had grown quite used to
it, and was only glad that he could keep the thing so successfully from
his aunt's knowledge. During those years Brian had not been altogether
idle; he had produced two slim books of verse, which had found
considerable favour with a certain section of the public, and which
had got him pretty considerably talked about, if no more. He declared
to Comethup that from a monetary standpoint the things were valueless;
that they brought him fame, but that he had discovered that a year or
two must elapse before he could really hope to live by his work.
"Unless," he added, "I make a sudden hit; that, of course, would make
a difference--would fling me to the top of the tree at a bound. Then,
old fellow, my first duty would be to repay every penny--oh, I've made
a careful calculation, and have got it all jotted down somewhere--every
penny I owe you. As a matter of fact, I may see something to-morrow
which will give me just the right thought--may write the thing red hot,
as it were--and make my fortune. And you'll have the satisfaction, dear
old boy, of knowing that--indirectly, of course--you've brought it
about."
But, although the books were produced, and although they were well
spoken of, and although Brian paid one or two flying visits to London
"to stir up the publishers," as he expressed it, it all seemed to
make no difference to the position of affairs so far as Comethup
was concerned, and that position remained unaltered. It practically
amounted to this: that Comethup was certain that within a given
time one of them or both would smilingly or tearfully appear in a
strange city without funds and dependent on his bounty. Under those
circumstances it became, of course, impossible to turn a deaf ear to
their entreaties, and they had to be relieved.
Comethup gained a reputation for reckless extravagance that he did
not in the least deserve. Personally, Miss Charlotte Carlaw was not
displeased, although she was sometimes puzzled to understand how he
spent his money, but she adhered to her principle and trusted him
absolutely, never questioning him upon anything about which he seemed
disinclined to speak. She had had her dearest wish realized in gaining
the love of this boy; he was devoted to her, and had been more than
a mere companion; he had been, as she had once suggested, eyes to
her--had made her darkened journey something so full of colour and
brightness that it became under his young influence more wonderful than
any journey she had ever taken before.
During those years Comethup had kept up something of a correspondence
with the old captain; had filled his own letters with glowing accounts
of the places he visited, and his impressions of them; and had received
from the captain, in return, such small news as he had to communicate
about his simple and uneventful life. In one of the letters, soon
after they had started for the Continent, the captain had corroborated
Mr. Robert Carlaw's account of his bankruptcy; had told--perhaps with
something of grim satisfaction--of the selling of all the beautiful
things contained in the house which Comethup had visited as a boy,
together with a full description of how Mr. Carlaw had stood outside
the house during the progress of the sale in an utterly dejected
attitude; and of how the poor gentleman had received a vast amount of
respectful sympathy on account of his ruin. Comethup, in reply to the
letter, had very properly expressed his sorrow; but in no subsequent
letter did he tell the captain of his frequent meetings with the father
and the son. He felt that it would be wiser to maintain absolute
silence in regard to the matter.
So nearly five years had slipped away, and Comethup, looking back as
over a crowded page across the track of their wanderings, could find
it in his heart to be very grateful for all that had happened; very
grateful, too, in his simple, unselfish fashion, that he had been able,
after all, to help the two who had so often pleaded to him. True, he
was a little frightened at the remembrance that Miss Charlotte Carlaw's
bounty had enabled four people to run about the Continent for some
years, instead of only two, as she had imagined. But that was done with
now, and he had already started with his aunt on the homeward journey,
and the two he pitied so much, and yet dreaded so much to see, were
left behind.
Instructions had been given, and all arrangements made, so that their
house was perfectly in order for their return. It seemed quite a
lifetime to Comethup Willis since he had left that house behind and
set out, a mere boy, on his travels with his aunt. Yet, despite all
the sunny places he had visited, it was good to get back to the gray
old city again; good to know that he was in sober England and within a
short journey of the old place where the captain lived, and where all
the hallowed associations of his own boyhood were gathered together.
There was much to be done in the first week of their return--friends
to visit, and many matters which required attention after so long an
absence. But at the end of the week Miss Carlaw called Comethup to
her one evening, when they were alone after dinner, and bade him sit
down near her. For quite a long time, while she rocked herself softly
over the head of her stick in the old fashion, she was silent; at last
she raised her head and turned her face toward him. He thought, as he
looked at her, how little change the years had wrought in her; save for
a few added lines, the face was the same strong, kindly one that he had
seen first as a little child.
"My boy," she began, "you know that to-morrow is an eventful day, don't
you? Or have you forgotten?"
Comethup laughed and blushed, and assured her that he had not forgotten.
"To-morrow you put aside boyish things--I think you did that some years
ago, but I am speaking in the legal sense--and you reach years of
discretion. I think you did _that_ also a few years since; I'm quite
sure you did. However, speaking by the text, you're a man to-morrow,
and can do as you like. You've done pretty much as you liked, you
dear rascal, for some considerable time, but I love you the better for
that. For the future I have no hold over you in any sense but that of
the affection which links us, and I think that is a strong tie. For
the rest, you have a right to go your own way. I have brought you up
to no profession, for reasons which I have explained before; you have
a smattering of several languages, and you know more of the world, I
think, and have certainly seen more of it, than most men of twice your
age. And I think that you've had rather a good time during the past
five years, eh?"
"Such a good time," replied Comethup, "that it all seems to have gone
by like a beautiful dream. When I was a little chap I remember the
captain used to tell me about all the wonderful places there were on
the earth, but I never thought that I should see them. I sha'n't be
likely to forget that but for you I should be a poor and shabby fellow,
who had never had the chance of putting his legs outside the little
town in which he was born. I don't forget that."
She put out her hand to stop him. "There, never mind all that; I've
been repaid a hundredfold. We won't talk of the past; that's done with.
What we have to consider is the future. Now, you know, Comethup, you're
just a little bit inclined to be extravagant--don't interrupt me, and
don't think that I'm blaming you--but I think you are extravagant, just
a _little_ bit. Probably the fault has been mine because I followed a
ridiculous practice of giving you large sums of money just whenever it
occurred to me that you wanted them. Of course, you were only a boy,
and the temptation to spend was a natural one. Now I think we'll follow
a different plan. I want you to be quite free and independent; I want
you to have money actually of your own, that you may use for your own
purposes. Therefore I've decided to put a sum in the bank for you,
and to give you your own cheque book, and let you look after your own
affairs. I trust you so completely that I think it is quite the best
thing to do. You know, or you ought to know by this time, that I'm a
very rich woman, and some day you'll have means. Live your own life and
please yourself, and you'll please me. Now kiss me and say good-night;
you'll wake up a man in the morning. Prince Charming goes upstairs for
the last time to-night."
He put his arm about her and kissed her gently. "Not for the last time,
dear aunt," he said; "the years have not changed me so much as that, I
hope."
She put up her hand and softly patted the hand that lay on her
shoulder. "No, no; God knows they have not! You're a good fellow,
Comethup; and, if I'm not in the way, I think I want to live a few more
years yet, old though I am, to find out whether you verify all my hopes
of you. Good-night; sleep well."
The next day Comethup entered into possession of all his new dignities:
interviewed the manager at his aunt's bank, and was solemnly
congratulated by that gentleman; cashed his first cheque, and felt
somehow that the coins were different from any that had jingled in his
pockets before. It was good, too, to feel that perfect new sense of
freedom which the mere turn of a day had given him; to breathe that
larger air of manhood which he felt was his to have and to hold. There
was quite a large dinner party that evening, for it was necessary, in
his aunt's opinion, that he should be shown, now that he had reached
manhood's estate, just as he had been shown when he first came into her
life.
A few days after, he timidly informed his aunt one morning that he
should like to visit the captain. "You know it's years since I have
seen him, and I----"
"My dear boy," said his aunt, "you're breaking through our compact.
Didn't I tell you you were to go where you liked, and when you
liked, and do what you liked? Go and see the captain, by all means.
But I think I'd write to him first; the sight of you--giant that
you are--would be too great a shock to him if you swept down on him
unexpectedly. Write to-day and go to-morrow; never hesitate about these
matters."
Comethup, in his impatience, sent a telegram instead, and started
off early the next morning, feeling more than ever the sense of that
glorious freedom which had come into his life. He had merely informed
the captain that he should arrive in the morning, and had not mentioned
the train. Finding, when half his journey was completed, that he would
have to wait some considerable time at an out-of-the-way station before
catching a train which would take him to his native place, he went on,
as he had done before, to Deal, and there ordered a carriage and went
the rest of the way by road.
It was a delightful feeling to lounge back in the carriage, on a
perfect summer day, with all the country spread in its glory about
him, and to know that this life--so rich and full and splendid, so
surrounded with every luxury and care and forethought--was to go on
and on, through all the years, with no pain or sorrow, with nothing
left to hope for beyond what he had secured. His wanderings abroad had
already taught him the width and wonder of the world, the pleasant
places that were in it, the happy people who laugh along its sunlit
ways. Altogether it was a bright and healthy and hopeful prospect that
stretched before him, and it was a bright and healthy and hopeful
youngster who looked upon the prospect.
The captain's cottage stood among its roses as of old; seemed only a
little smaller even than on the last occasion--a little more as though
it had sunk gently down, like a tired old man, and was unable to hold
itself quite so erect as before. Comethup walked up the path and stood
for a moment in the open doorway of the cottage, and there was the
captain.
He was standing in the middle of the little room, and he looked at
the young man for a long moment in silence; then, on an impulse, each
took a step forward and they clasped hands. Comethup noticed that the
captain, like the house, had sunk a little, that his shoulders were
bowed ever so slightly, and that his hands seemed thinner. But the
touch of the hand was as warm and firm as ever.
"My dear boy," he said slowly, "it's such a delight to see you! I
suppose the years seem longer when one is growing old; they would have
seemed longer still but for your letters. It's good of you to have
remembered an old man, and to have come down to see him."
"I'd have come before, only I couldn't very well get away," said
Comethup. "It's just as good to me to be back in the old place again;
no other place seems really like home."
The captain gave his hands a parting squeeze and let them go. "I
suppose," he said, in a more ordinary tone, "I suppose you'll be
content with your old room here?"
"Of course," said Comethup, laughing. "Why not? You wouldn't have me go
to the inn, would you?"
"Of course not," said the captain.
The portmanteau was brought in and the carriage dismissed. Lunch was
laid in the old simple fashion by Homer, with whom Comethup warmly
shook hands; and the young man chatted ceaselessly throughout the meal.
There were many things about which the captain was curious--things
which he had forgotten to mention in his short letters: as to the
standing and apparent strength of foreign armies, and their methods of
life and discipline. He nodded with supreme satisfaction on being told
that some of the foreign soldiers Comethup had seen were very small and
insignificant and very youthful.
"That's as it should be," replied the old man. "It's very evident that
in these things the foreigner is absolutely incapable of improving
himself. He may cook well, and he may know how to swing off his hat and
make a bow which is much too elaborate to have anything of sincerity
in it, but he can't breed fighting men; the thing is simply not to be
done. I'm glad to hear you bear out the impression I have so long had
concerning that matter. Now that one is--well, is not quite so strong
as in more lusty years; now that one finds the years creeping on, it
is easier to sleep calmly in one's bed when one knows that foreign
legions--taken in the lump--are as you describe them. Oh, we must never
forget, as I have before pointed out to you, my dear Comethup, that we
lie remarkably near the coast. You remember all the plans we used to
make, boy," he added less seriously, "when you were a little chap?"
"Yes, I remember well. I was a very little chap then."
"Yes, indeed. And now you tower above me, and your voice is deeper, and
your laugh stronger, and--well, I suppose we must expect changes. And
yet there's not much difference in you, Comethup," he added, looking
at him critically. "You've the same eyes, the same smile. And I'll be
bound you've the same heart. Yet it's a long time since you used to
trot by my side and get under my cloak on wet days."
They sat for some moments in silence, musing over those old times, and
then Comethup said quickly, with a flush on his face: "By the way, sir,
I am a selfish brute--I've never even asked how 'Linda is. You remember
little 'Linda?"
The captain smiled and shook his head. "Little 'Linda no longer," he
said. "The years don't fly on with you, boy, and stand still for every
one else. 'Linda is a woman."
"She was almost that when I was here before," replied Comethup. "And
does she--does she still live at the old house?"
The captain nodded gravely. "Yes," he said. "Her father's dead, you
know; I don't think I've mentioned that in writing to you. He was found
dead in bed one morning. He was a strange man. I only saw him once--let
me see, you were with me, Comethup?"
Comethup remembered the occasion on which he had seen the strong, hard
face of Dr. Vernier in the little circle of light among the books and
papers. "Yes, the night you carried 'Linda home; I remember it well.
But who looks after her now?"
"She lives there, in the care of the woman who has been her governess
so long; you remember that the woman came there almost immediately
after you found 'Linda in the garden. She seems devoted to the girl. I
think 'Linda has a little money, and the house is her own. I expect
you'll see her; she has grown into a very beautiful woman."
"I felt sure she would do that," said Comethup, and found himself
blushing the next moment at having expressed such an opinion.
"I think I told you in one of my letters that your Uncle Robert had
left here. Did you see anything of him or of Brian while you were in
London or after you'd gone abroad?"
"Once or twice," said Comethup, carelessly. "You know Brian has
published some poems; very good they were, too; some people made an
awful fuss about them. Brian is growing quite famous."
"Glad to hear it," replied the captain, grimly. "He's the sort of
fellow who would write poems; I'm told his father tried his hand at
that sort of thing once or twice. You know that your uncle ran through
every penny he possessed, don't you?"
"But he didn't have very much, did he?" said Comethup.
"He did, though; his fortune was very little short of that possessed by
your aunt. But he ran through the lot, married more, and settled down
here; and now he's got through that too. Oh, he's a bright fellow!"
They found much to talk about all that afternoon; but though Comethup
listened to the captain and delighted the captain's heart by his close
and clear descriptions of foreign places and foreign peoples, yet, if
the truth must be told, he spoke and listened almost mechanically. Once
or twice, while he talked, the very room in which he sat, and the quiet
figure of the captain, seemed to vanish completely, and in their places
was a dark and lonely garden, filled with the dead leaves of a year
before, and seeming in its desolation the very haunt of every cheerless
wind that blew nowhere else, and in the garden the figure of a child.
Heaven knows through how many places he had carried that remembrance,
in how many hours he had seen himself, a little child again, creeping
tremblingly into the garden in search for the ghost. The later
remembrance of the girl, as he had seen her when he left school, seemed
to have vanished; it was, in any case, far more hazy when he tried to
think of it than that earlier vision. Coming back after his wanderings
to the old town had only made the recollection a stronger one. All the
intervening years seemed to be swept aside, and his heart was melted
with pity for the lonely child.
Yet, strangely enough, the knowledge--forced upon him in spite of his
dreams--that she was a woman made him hesitate to speak of her to the
captain; still less to go and see her, as he might have done years
before. So he let the afternoon wear away, and the dusk of evening
was creeping over the town before he finally announced, with what
carelessness he could summon, that he thought he would take a walk. The
captain must have looked a little below the carelessness, for, with a
fine tact, for which he can not be sufficiently praised, he suggested
that he felt tired, and would sit by the window and smoke.
Coming to the entrance of the old garden, Comethup noticed that nothing
seemed changed. The gate, which had long ago fallen, was hidden a
little more deeply in the grasses and weeds, but for the rest it might
have been an enchanted castle, over which a spell had been thrown and
upon which the sunlight must never shine. Even on that warm summer
evening the place struck a chill upon him as he picked his way across
the fallen gate and went up the avenue. But here at last, as he reached
the house, there was a change. Lights gleamed from a window which he
always remembered to have seen shuttered; and presently, as he stood,
scarcely knowing whether to go up to the house or indeed what to do,
one of the long windows which opened on to a narrow balcony was pushed
open and a figure came through and stood, clearly outlined against the
light behind, above him.
He knew in a moment that it must be 'Linda, although her face was in
shadow. He made a half-movement toward her, and she started forward and
came to the edge of the balcony and leaned over.
"Who's down there?" she called in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
He went forward a little, so that the light from the room behind her
might fall upon his face; she peered down at him anxiously.
"Don't you know me?" he asked.
She did not reply, but turned and moved quickly to the end of the
balcony and ran lightly down a little flight of iron steps which led to
the ground. She came toward him, still without speaking, and with her
hands clasped. Coming quite close, she looked into his face. "Why, it's
Comethup!" she said, and let her hands fall to her side.
There was something in the tone in which she spoke which chilled
Comethup almost as much as the desolation of the place had done a few
minutes before; and yet he could scarcely have said what it was that
chilled him. There seemed, in her words and in her change of attitude,
some disappointment; she might almost have been expecting to find
another in the garden, and to have been unable altogether to conceal
her regret at finding her hope unfulfilled. But, even while that
thought was leaping through his mind, she had changed again, and was
smiling into his face and clasping his hand, so that he almost felt
that he had been mistaken and had misjudged her.
"Oh, how glad I am to see you!" she said quite naturally. "I've heard
from the captain about you often; you know he's never tired of talking
of you. And you know we haven't really met--you and I--since we were
children, for when you came here five years ago we only saw each other
for a day or two, and I scarcely remember what you were like, or what
we said to each other."
"That's just the thought I have of you," said Comethup. "I seem to have
known, somehow, just what you would look like as a woman; but it's
the little ghost in the garden--this garden--I remember best. Do you
remember that?"
She seemed to shudder a little as she looked about her. "Ah, the
ghost!" she said. "Yes, I remember that; I remember how you came
into the garden to find me. What a frightened baby I was then, to be
sure--what a frightened, desolate baby!" She linked her hand in his
arm and drew him with her along the path in between the trees. "Come,"
she said, "walk with me here, as you did when we were little mites.
Oh, it's good to see you again; it's good to look upon the face of a
friend." Something in her tones struck him to the quick; she seemed
almost on the verge of tears. "Have you no friends, then?" he asked
gently.
She looked up at him with a faint smile. "Well, the captain--and--and
Mrs. Dawson--my governess, you know. I think that's all. You've been
all over the world, haven't you?" she added suddenly.
"Not quite all of it," he replied, "but a great deal. It makes me
feel--well, like a blackguard, when I think that you've been here in
this dull house all this time--five years, isn't it?--while I've been
running about and having a good time. It doesn't seem fair, does it?"
She looked round at him again with a smile. "That's nice of you,"
she said. "But, you know, we can't all have the good things in this
world--can we? Still, I must confess it's been rather dull; one sees
the same houses and the same faces, and one does the same things day
after day, summer and winter, for years. I'm only glad to take things
as they come, and not to think. But I think sometimes--of course, I
don't know--I'd rather be desperately unhappy with some real sorrow
than just exist like this. If one had a real sorrow one could fight
it and live it down and do all sorts of things; but here"--she made a
little despairing gesture with her hand--"there's simply nothing to
fight, nothing to do."
"I'm dreadfully sorry," said Comethup. "You know," he added lamely,
"I've been wanting to come and see you, wanting to know something about
you, for a long time; only we've never been anywhere near England. But
now I shall be able to see a great deal of you, I hope; I shall be
coming down often to--to see the captain."
Her eyes flashed at him for a moment and then were turned away. "Yes,
to see the captain," she responded.
Some one appeared on the little balcony, and a voice summoned the
girl. 'Linda drew Comethup toward the house; at the foot of the steps
leading to the balcony she turned toward him. "I should be grateful if
you would come in, just for a little while. There's only Mrs. Dawson
there, and she's sure to remember you." She spoke almost in a tone of
humility; her eyes entreated him.
He followed her up the steps and into the room. The woman of whom she
had spoken was standing a little way from the window, and looked at
him keenly for a moment as he passed in. 'Linda stopped and laughingly
called Comethup to her remembrance, and the woman gave him her hand--a
little distrustfully, he thought. The room was very meanly furnished,
and a lamp stood on a table, with a work-basket--with half its contents
tumbled out--beside the lamp. Mrs. Dawson sat down and took up some
work and began to ply her needle industriously. 'Linda drew a chair to
the open window and signed to Comethup to sit near her.
They talked in low tones of many things, she questioning him eagerly
about his travels and the places he had seen, nodding with quick
sympathy when he described some scene which had caught his fancy, and
interposing a little sigh sometimes as she glanced about the room or
across to the silent figure sewing. "Here has been my world," she said
softly, "this and the garden; yet I have dreamed some dreams here too."
They were silent for some time, and Comethup, glancing up, suddenly met
the keen glance of Mrs. Dawson. She dropped her eyes in a moment, but
he had an uneasy feeling afterward that she constantly watched him. She
went from the room a few moments before he took his departure.
"When shall I see you again?" he asked as he held the girl's hand.
"I suppose you're staying with the captain? Well, I shall be there
every day, I've no doubt; you'll see far too much of me."
He laughingly assured her that that was impossible, ran down the steps
and waved his hand to her where she stood leaning over the balcony, and
went rapidly down the avenue. To reach the gate he had to take a sharp
turn, which drew him out of sight of the house; when within a few yards
of it a woman's figure came swiftly from among the trees, and Mrs.
Dawson, bareheaded and white-faced, confronted him.
He was on the point of holding out his hand and bidding her good-night,
when he saw that she had come there of set and serious purpose; she
was actually trembling in her eagerness to speak. He looked at her in
some astonishment, not knowing what to say or do; she stood resolutely
between him and the gate.
"Why do you come here like a thief, to whisper with her in the
darkness?" she asked. Her voice was suppressed and she glanced uneasily
in the direction of the house, as though fearful of being overheard.
"I don't come like a thief," said Comethup indignantly. "Why, I came
here to-night for the first time for five years, just to see her, and
she saw me from the balcony and came down."
"The first time for five years! Why do you lie to me? There are
things I can't tell you, but my eyes are keener for her, my hearing
stronger, all my senses more alive, than for any one else. That's
because--because I love her. Why do you lie to me? Do you think I
haven't seen you creep into the garden and call softly to her and
whisper with her in the shadows, and then creep away again--yes, like
a thief, I say? I've seen her sit by that window night after night
listening to catch the faintest sound; I've seen the light in her eyes
after you've left her. Tell me--in God's name, tell me!--what would you
do with her?" She came at him fiercely, with her hands held straight at
her sides and clinched, and with her head thrust forward at him.
"Look here, Mrs. Dawson," said Comethup helplessly, "you're making
some horrible mistake. I swear to you I haven't set foot in this town
for five years; I've been travelling all over Europe. I came down by
the train from London this morning, and walked round here to see her
to-night. You're making a mistake."
She came still nearer to him and looked into his eyes; perhaps she read
the truth there. She looked at him in perplexity for a moment, and
then, muttering something to herself, turned swiftly and began to make
her way back to the house. But Comethup sprang after her and caught her
arm.
"Stop!" he said. "You mustn't go like that. There's something here I
don't understand."
She tried to free herself from his grasp. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I--I
suppose I have made a mistake," she said uneasily.
"But it _does_ matter," said Comethup. "You say that some one meets
'Linda; oh, you must have been making a mistake."
"You will not tell her?" asked the woman eagerly. "She would be angry
with me; she would not understand. You will not tell her?"
"No, of course I won't say anything," said Comethup doubtfully, "but
I'm quite sure you've made a mistake."
"Good-night," said Mrs. Dawson, and set off at a rapid pace for the
house.
Comethup, walking home under the stars, remembered that 'Linda had
seemed, when first he saw her that night, to be expecting some one
else. He linked that remembrance and the words he had just heard
together, and was troubled.