THE DESERTION OF A PARENT.
Comethup saw but little of his cousin during the week which followed.
Once or twice he met him, riding wildly about in some of the country
lanes on a horse he had hired, on which occasions he drew rein with a
shout, and generally announced that he was having "a splendid time,"
and that he would be able to go back to work feeling much better for
the holiday.
During that week, too, Comethup was left very much with the captain,
for 'Linda, without warning, broke several engagements she had made to
go out with them, pleading afterward that she had had headaches or that
there had been work to be done. One evening, as Comethup, after waiting
all day in the hope of seeing her, was making his way to her house he
met his cousin Brian swinging out through the gates. They stopped, in
mutual surprise, and then Brian linked his arm in that of the other and
began to lead him away.
"What a lucky meeting!" he exclaimed. "I was just wondering what I was
to do with myself all the evening, and how I was to pass the time until
I could decently go to bed. Come along. What shall we do?"
"I'm afraid you must excuse me," said Comethup. "I can't join you
to-night; I'm just going to see 'Linda."
"I've just seen her," said Brian, looking at him with a smile. "You
didn't tell me, you rogue, anything about the business."
"What business?" asked Comethup, a little coldly.
"Why, your engagement, of course. Well, I congratulate you. Our little
friend has certainly grown into a lovely woman, but she always gave
promise of that. My dear boy, you come in for all the good things; what
_have_ you done to deserve them?"
"Yes, I suppose I'm very lucky," said Comethup. He hesitated for a
moment, and then held out his hand. "Good-night!"
"Oh, but it's no use your going in now," said Brian; "she's gone to
bed; got a headache or something of the kind. You won't be able to see
her."
"Well, I'm going to the house at all events," said Comethup doggedly;
"I can at least inquire how she is. Good-night!"
"Good-night," said Brian, and shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
Comethup went through the garden, and stood under the balcony. A light
was burning in the room in which he had once sat with 'Linda, but the
long French windows were closed. He climbed the steps and walked to
the windows and looked in; Mrs. Dawson sat beside the table sewing. He
knocked upon the pane, and then thrust open the window and walked in.
She looked up quietly, letting her work rest under her hands in her
lap. For a moment neither of them spoke.
"'Linda?" he asked at last. "Where is she?"
"She's gone to her room," replied the woman, looking at him in some
surprise.
"But she can not have gone long, and I want to see her," said Comethup.
"She gave me strict instructions she was not to be disturbed."
"Ah! but she didn't know that I was coming to her. I must see her; I
haven't seen her all day, although she promised to meet me."
The woman rose slowly from her seat and laid her work on the table; she
came toward him, looking at him with a curious intentness. "You haven't
seen her all day? Then who was with her in the garden just now, and why
did she run in crying? I saw that, although she hid her face from me."
"I--I don't know," said Comethup, with a miserable pain beginning to
gnaw at his heart. "I suspect--I know you're mistaken, as you were
before, when you thought she met some one. But will you please go and
tell her that I am here, and that I should like to see her?"
Without another word Mrs. Dawson went out of the room, and he heard her
quick feet ascending the stairs. Within a few minutes she returned, and
stood just within the doorway of the room, looking at him. "She says
you must forgive her, but she can not see you to-night. She will see
you to-morrow. And she sends you her love."
With that he had to be content, and he went away through the garden
and through the streets back to the captain's cottage. All night long
he lay wide awake, turning over the matter in his mind, seeing again
Brian coming striding out of the garden, picturing in imagination an
interview between him and the girl which ended in tears for her. But
with the morning, just as he was thinking of getting up, came a little
rattle of pebbles at his window; he scrambled out of bed and looked
from behind the curtain. Below, in the garden, was 'Linda, smiling up
at him, and with that smile all the troublous doubts and fears of the
night were gone in a flash.
He nodded to her, and scampered through his dressing and ran down to
join her. She was in her most playful and bewitching mood; she caught
both his hands and danced round him like a happy child, and dragged
him into the house and kissed him before he had recovered breath to
greet her.
"There, see what a change the morning brings!" she cried, her eyes
dancing. "Last night I hated all the world, and hated myself most of
all; this morning the world is lovely, and I am lovely--_you_ might
have said that, sir!--and I'm going to be good for evermore, and never,
never give my dear boy the slightest cause for a heartache." Between
laughter and tears she kissed him again, and clung to him.
"But you never have given me cause for that," he said. "When I feel
your arms about me and your lips on mine--well, nothing that has
happened can matter at all; you seem to sweep everything else away. I
was a little disappointed yesterday that I did not see you, but this
more than makes up for it."
"And you're quite sure that you forgive me--that this _does_ make
up for it? Oh, my dear, I want you always to think of these best
moments of mine, and to forget all the bad ones. See, with this bright
morning I'll begin over again; I'll be so good, so tender, so devoted
to you that you shall never have cause to think badly of me; all my
moments shall be best moments from this hour; everything else shall be
forgotten. Here's the captain coming; kiss me again."
She was in the same mood during breakfast, and for all that long and
happy day. She strove, in a hundred ways, to blot out the memory of
pain she had caused him--strove, by her present tenderness, to cover
up past moments of petulance or anger. Yet there was in it all such
a striving, such a sense of trying to do that which should have come
naturally, without any striving, that even the good captain, simple
gentleman though he was, looked at her more than once in surprise, and
wondered what Comethup thought. But Comethup was blissfully happy, and
only found time to bitterly accuse himself more than once of having
been unjust in his thoughts toward her.
A second completely happy day followed that first one, and at the end
of it he walked home with her to her house, lingering with her until
the last moment to put off their parting. As they walked slowly under
the great trees toward the balcony, a man came strolling toward them,
with the glow of the cigarette he was smoking making a little point of
light in the darkness. The girl had had both hands locked on Comethup's
arm; she took the hands quickly away when they came face to face with
Brian. He stopped, pulled off his hat with a flourish, and laughed.
"I've been dreaming of romantic things," he said; "and lo and behold!
I step suddenly--an intruder, I fear--into the very heart of romance
itself. Happy lovers wandering in the starlight! Why, all the dreams I
have dreamed and all the poor verses I have scribbled are as nothing
to this; I have yet to learn the very first trick of my trade--love at
first hand. And who shall teach me?" He glanced, with a sort of comical
wistfulness, at the girl, who had drawn a little away from Comethup,
and whose eyes were fixed on the ground.
"Oh, you'll find some one to teach you, I've no doubt," said Comethup,
with a laugh. "What has brought you wandering here?"
"I came to see an old friend--'Linda," responded Brian. "Will she
forgive me if I suggest that, in these rose-coloured days, she is apt
to forget a poor fellow who was once her friend?"
The girl looked up quickly, with a flush on her face. "Indeed, I
forget none of my old friends," she said. "Why should you think that?"
Comethup, looking at her, saw in her eyes an appeal to the man, a look
half of defiance and of a resolution to keep firmly to her promise of
the previous day--half of a pity for him, and a fear of him or of what
he might say.
"Well, perhaps I don't quite think that," said Brian carelessly. "Only
it's been my experience through life to find that one is so easily
forgotten, so easily thrust out of remembrance, when one is penniless
and--helpless. You think that unjust, perhaps? There, I'm sorry. I'm
in a wrong mood to-night, and I've waited so long in this infernal
garden, on the chance of seeing an old friend, that I've got the
horrors. Good-night, happy lovers!"
He turned on his heel, and went swinging away down the avenue, singing
a song softly to himself as he went. The girl stood looking after him
for a moment--stood quite still until Comethup touched her arm and
recalled her to herself.
"Come, it's late," he said.
"Yes, it's late," she answered, almost mechanically. She did not put
her hand again on his arm as they walked toward the house, and, at the
foot of the steps leading to the balcony, when he would have drawn her
into his arms, she put out her hands and held him gently away from her.
"You have had kisses enough for one day," she said; "you will tire of
me if I yield always so easily. Good-night!"
He looked at her wistfully for a moment, and then raised her hands to
his lips and let her go. She ran up the steps and in through the window
without once looking round at him.
A letter from Miss Charlotte Carlaw, written in the stiff round hand
which the use of the writing frame demanded, awaited him at the
captain's cottage. She was suddenly possessed by an idea, she wrote,
to visit the old town and to make the acquaintance of 'Linda Vernier,
quite in an informal fashion, for herself. But she wanted her boy's arm
to lean upon, and she did not care to make the journey alone. Would
he come to town to fetch her? If he could tear himself away from his
sweetheart for so long, and would come to London the next day, he could
sleep in town that night and they could go down together on the day
following. She knew, she added, that the captain's house was a small
one, and would be glad, therefore, if Comethup would take rooms for her
at the best inn he could find.
Comethup, reproaching himself that he had of late left her so much
alone, showed the letter to the captain, who immediately proposed
to turn out of his own house for her accommodation. But Comethup
laughingly assured him that his aunt would never consent to that;
the only question was about the choice of an inn. To take her to the
Bell was clearly impossible, since Mr. Robert Carlaw and his son were
apparently firmly established there. Finally, it was decided to engage
rooms at a smaller place, the captain assuring the young man that the
accommodation, although limited, was of the best. The next morning
Comethup started for London.
Miss Charlotte Carlaw was filled with a pleasurable excitement at the
prospect of meeting the girl--talked of nothing else, in fact, on the
journey down. They came in the old fashion to Deal, and thence drove,
arriving at the inn late in the afternoon. It had been arranged that
Miss Carlaw, after tea and a rest, should proceed to the captain's
house for dinner; on this point the captain had firmly insisted, and
had spent two sleepless nights over a consideration of the courses.
There 'Linda was to meet her. Comethup had posted a letter to her
before leaving for London explaining his hurried departure, and begging
that she would meet his aunt, as suggested, at the captain's house.
Miss Carlaw, who had asked a casual question as to why rooms had not
been taken at the Bell, and had been informed that those she had
formerly occupied were engaged, presented herself punctually at the
hour appointed for dinner, supported by Comethup. The captain was in
something of a flutter, and kept trotting in and out of the room and
holding whispered consultations with Homer. 'Linda had not arrived,
and Comethup glanced more than once anxiously at his watch. At last
Miss Carlaw, seated in the chair of state and leaning her chin upon her
stick, faced round upon him a little impatiently.
"Punctuality is a virtue, my dear boy," she exclaimed, "and that
lady-love of yours is twenty minutes late. I can understand modesty
and shyness and all that kind of thing, although I don't think I ever
suffered with those complaints myself; but the captain's dinner is
spoilt, and I'm ravenously hungry. I think you had better go and look
for her."
Comethup gladly seized the opportunity. "Wouldn't it be better," he
said, as he was going out of the room, "if you went on with dinner?
'Linda will only feel a thousand times more nervous if she thinks you
have been waiting; whereas, if I bring her in quite in an ordinary
way--well, she won't feel so embarrassed."
"Oh, these lovers!" ejaculated Miss Carlaw. "Well, I suppose you're
right; so I'll ask the captain to have dinner in at once. And you're
both young--just make her run for it."
Comethup ran at top speed to the house, and went plunging through the
garden and up the steps to the balcony. Scarcely waiting to knock, he
flung open the long window and stepped into the room. Mrs. Dawson was
there, not sewing quietly as usual, but pacing up and down the room.
She stopped in her walk for a moment and faced him.
"'Linda!" he exclaimed. "Is she ready?"
"I have not seen her for some hours," replied the woman.
"Not seen her? But I----"
She took a note from the table and held it out to him. "I found this
here just now; it is addressed to you. I had been out, and came back
and found it here."
There seemed a dreadful silence about the house and in the room; the
very noise of the ripping of the envelope seemed to hurt him. He pulled
the letter out, and came forward to the light to read it. And this is
what he read:
"MY DEAR, DEAR BOY: If I had not been a coward, if I had been, in
anything, worthy of all your tenderness, your goodness, and your
love for me, I might have faced you, and told you what you will
here find written, and trusted to your mercy. I think now that if
you were here, and held my hands and looked into my eyes with those
deep, honest eyes of yours, I could not do what I must do--I could
not leave you. God knows what a long and bitter fight it has been;
how I have told myself, again and again, that you were the best man
on earth, and that nothing should change my love for you. Believe
that I meant that always; believe that I have tried, with prayers
and tears, to shut everything else out. When first I met you, after
we had grown to be man and woman, I carried something in my heart
of which I dared not speak--the love of another man. On the first
night that I ran down to meet you in the garden I thought he had
come back to me. Now he has come back indeed, and all my world is
changed, and I can cheat myself and you no longer. He is poor, and
friendless, and helpless, but he will one day be a great man; and
I, though I am but a poor, timid girl, can help him a little to
his greatness as no one else can possibly do. If I am a coward, in
running away and fearing to face you, forgive that, as you have
forgiven so much else. We go to London this afternoon; we shall be
married to-morrow. Something is tugging hard at my heart while I
write this; you have been always so good to me that I seem to see
you reading it. Forgive me; if you can find it in your big heart to
do that, you will not quite forget--
"Your friend,
"'LINDA."
He read it all through slowly, in a dazed fashion, and then quietly
folded the paper, pleating it up small in his fingers and staring down
at it. Mrs. Dawson had drawn nearer to him, and now laid her hand on
his arm. He looked round at her like some great helpless animal that
has been wounded, and can not understand why the blow should have been
struck.
"Something is wrong. What has happened?" she asked, in a quick whisper.
"She--she's gone!" he said. Then came the quick instinct, the very
dawning of a purpose he was to keep so clearly before him afterward,
that she must be protected; that her good name must be held high and
clear in all men's sight, that none might smirch it. He actually
forced a laugh to his lips as he thrust the paper into his pocket.
"There--there's nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all; you needn't look
so frightened. It's only--only a little love story--a love story none
of us guessed. Curious, isn't it? She tells me here as--as an old
friend, that she's run away--there, don't cry out--she's run away to
get married. That's all."
"To get married! But who is the man? Are you sure that he----"
A sterner light came into Comethup's eyes. "Yes," he said, "I am quite
sure. They will be married at once. You must be very fond of her," he
added gently, "to take the matter so much to heart. But I suppose any
one could get fond of her quite easily. And you've been with her a
number of years."
The woman looked at him with a forlorn expression of countenance, and
clasped her hands and began to weep, not with any violence but in a
hopeless, helpless way that was more terrible than anything else could
possibly have been. The secret she had borne so long, the story of that
shameful flight which she had been compelled at first to keep from
her child, and later had kept for her own sake, seemed to weigh more
heavily now than it could have done at any other time. She had seen the
child grow to girlhood, and then to womanhood; had been content with
what tenderness she could win from her, in her position as a tried and
faithful friend, fearing to jeopardize even that small happiness by any
avowal of the true relationship between them.
Comethup left her, and went slowly out through the garden again. He had
forgotten everything but that one thought--that she was gone--forgotten
that, within two hundred yards of him, his aunt and the captain awaited
his arrival, and would look for an explanation. In quite an aimless way
he got into the streets, and walked until he found himself outside the
Bell Inn. Scarcely knowing what he did, he went up the stairs, turned
the handle of the door, and walked into the room in which he had seen
Brian and his father. Mr. Robert Carlaw was standing by the fireplace,
looking into the glass; he turned round sharply as Comethup entered the
room.
"Brian has gone, I hear?" said Comethup, in a low voice.
Mr. Robert Carlaw flung out his hands with a despairing gesture. "It
is true, sir. With that base ingratitude which has ever been his chief
characteristic he has deserted me in the hour of my need. More than
all, he has taken with him the whole of the money you were generous
enough to place in our hands, and which I was foolish enough to leave
in his keeping."
"That's well," said Comethup half to himself. "I'm glad he's got some
money."
"Glad, sir! And pray what is to become of _me_?" exclaimed Mr. Carlaw.
"Have I lavished the tenderest care upon him for years past; have I
sacrificed everything to him; have I raced, in my declining years,
through strange and vile places of the earth, in order to be near him
and to protect him; have I done all this to be deserted now, at the
last, for a wretched jade----"
"Stop!" said Comethup quickly. "I'm afraid you don't quite understand
the situation. There is no question of any 'wretched jade,' as you
describe her. Brian has merely decided to marry the sweetest and best
girl that there is in the world. I don't think you're quite wise to
talk in that fashion, and I don't think I'd do it if I were in your
place. I've no doubt you'll see Brian again shortly. At the present
moment, as he has been, well, let us say compelled to take the money
for necessary expenses, perhaps you will allow me to replace what you
consider you have lost."
"You are very good, my dear nephew; you are always more than generous.
Forgive me if I spoke in haste. But consider the position: my son,
who is just entering, as I might say, into his kingdom, who has the
ball, as it were, at his feet, to marry a girl like this, whom no one
knows and who has never been heard of! Why, it's shocking--positively
terrible! With his face, and his figure, and his talents he might
easily have gone one better than his poor old father, and been snapped
up by a duchess. Such things _have_ occurred."
"I dare say," said Comethup wearily. "I just--just called here to see
you. I only heard a little while ago that Brian had left."
"He left a note for me," said Mr. Carlaw, "informing me coolly that he
purposed getting married to-morrow, and that, as he wanted money for
current expenses, he'd taken what there was, and had no doubt that I
should 'fall on my feet.' Fall on my feet, indeed!--a fine expression
to use to a father! What did he think was going to become of me?"
"I suppose he remembered that I was still in the town," replied
Comethup quietly. "When do you return to London?"
"Immediately; it is useless for me to stay here. I must discover my
erring boy; I can not rest until I have effected a reconciliation with
him."
Comethup was glad to bring the interview to an end. He left Mr. Robert
Carlaw smilingly fingering a cheque, and came out into the cool night
air. Even then he did not care to go back to the cottage; he wandered
on, stumbling now and then like a man half asleep, and came back
presently to the broken gates of the garden in which he had walked so
often with her. In the darkness of it he almost fancied that there
hovered the white figure of the child he had seen as a boy; he almost
thought he heard the piteous, pleading, childish voice calling to him
from among the trees. He laid his arms against one of the trees, and
rested his head upon them, and remained there in the solitary place for
quite a long time. He did not weep; the bitterness of the thing lay too
deep for tears. Young though he was, he looked up at the stars that
were peeping through the branches, and wondered how he should live and
what he should do, and how the world would go on, now that she had left
it empty. He took the letter out of his pocket and put it to his lips,
for she had written it, and there was some small consolation even in
that.
How should he tell them? That was his next thought; how to get the
miserable business explained, so that it might afterward be set aside
and forgotten and done with. He waited for some time outside the
captain's cottage, debating what to do, and finally crept in cautiously
and stood just within the doorway of the room, and beckoned to the
captain. His aunt sat with her back to him, and was quite unaware of
his presence.
The captain stared at him for a moment as though he had been a ghost,
then rose, and, with a muttered word of apology to Miss Carlaw, came
out to him. Not a word was said until they stood outside in the little
garden, with the cottage door closed and the two men looking into each
other's eyes.
"She's gone!" said Comethup; and for the first time, with his old
friend's hand in his, his fortitude gave way and he turned his head
aside. "She's gone away, this afternoon, with the man she loves--gone
to be married. You see, sir, I made a mistake--put her in a false
position, as it were. But, of course, it is all right now--and she's
gone to be married."
The captain stood perfectly still for nearly a minute without speaking;
then he said slowly, "And the man--who is the man?"
"My cousin, Brian. I suppose I ought to have known from the very first
that she must love him, and not me. You see, he's such a different sort
of fellow----"
"Thank God for that!" murmured the captain, under his breath.
"And now all we have to think about is how to tell my aunt. You see,
it's rather a foolish business: we've brought her down here under false
pretences, as it were, and there'll be such a lot to explain, won't
there? And I want, for a little time at least, to forget all about it,
just as though it hadn't happened. Shall we go in and tell her?"
"Yes, I suppose we must," said the captain. "You know her better than I
do; but I think she will understand, and will not trouble you with many
questions."
They passed together into the cottage. Miss Charlotte Carlaw must have
heard the sound of the voices outside, and must have recognised that
something was wrong. She sat quite still, with her hands resting on
her stick, but her face wore a curiously anxious expression. Comethup
crossed to the window and stood there, at some distance from her,
wondering how he should begin. She waited for some moments, and then
turned piteously toward the captain, and from him to her nephew.
"Will no one speak? What has happened? Comethup, my dear boy----"
"There's been a mistake," said Comethup, speaking in slow, steady
tones. "I suppose we all make mistakes some time or other in life, and
I've read somewhere that a man makes them most of all when he's in
love. So you see, aunt, _I've_ made a mistake; have dreamed a poor,
foolish dream; have pictured to myself something that didn't exist.
The lady I--I thought I was in love with was all the time secretly in
love with some one else, and to-day they've gone away to be married.
Please don't speak to me; please let me explain. And I want you, first
of all, to remember that it is not her fault, and never has been; the
blunder has been mine, in cheating myself into the belief that she
cared for me. It really isn't her fault, and I"--he gave a queer little
laugh--"I'm quite happy, and I say, with all my heart, 'God bless her
and her husband!'"
Miss Charlotte Carlaw's perception must have been keener even than the
captain had imagined. At the first, when Comethup began his blundering
explanation, she had shown signs of a rising indignation, but as the
pitiful recital went on her face changed, and her head was bowed slowly
over the top of her stick. The captain stole quietly from the room,
and the old woman raised her head at last and held out her hand toward
her nephew. "My dear boy," was all she said, but in the words was a
sympathy so great that he could scarce restrain his tears. He did
not feel strong enough to go near her yet, and so he said, with what
lightness he could call into his voice:
"Shall we have dinner?"
"Is there nothing more you wish to say to me?" she asked. "Oh, my
dear boy, is there nothing you wish to say? You speak as lightly as
though----"
"And think as lightly, I hope," he replied. "I've made--made a blunder;
that's all."
She dropped her stick, and stretched out both hands to him. He stepped
forward then and took the hands and kissed her. "O Comethup!" she
whispered, "I never wanted eyes so much as I want them to-night. I want
to see your face!"