GENIUS AND THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES.
In all the time which followed, Miss Charlotte Carlaw never
once alluded to the scene of that evening. That, with womanly
instinct, she drew her own conclusions is certain; that, in her own
characteristically fierce fashion, she cursed the girl for a fool and a
jilt is equally certain; but to Comethup she strove in every possible
fashion to teach him to forget the mishap, to take his mind as much as
possible from the sorry business. She could not cheat herself into the
belief that she succeeded; her quick senses told her that the added
tenderness in his voice and an additional gentleness in his manner were
but the outcome of all that he suffered in silence.
They returned to town on the day following 'Linda's flight, and two
days after that a letter was forwarded to Comethup by the captain--an
impudent, paltry thing, which yet gave him some small satisfaction.
"MY DEAR YOUNG CROESUS: The race is not always to the swift, nor
the battle to the strong. I've no doubt that at the present moment
you are thirsting for my blood, and pouring out threats against
me; yet I should be glad, for the sake of our old friendship and
because I am grateful for certain services you have rendered
me, that we might still be friends. You can't have everything in
this world; and once upon a time, when probably you didn't know
any better, you stole my birthright. At the present moment I have
stolen what was never yours. It was a mere girlish infatuation on
her part, and one which you should have been wise enough never to
take seriously. You wouldn't see that you were in the way, and you
forced me to adopt the only course possible. I am convinced of one
thing, and that is, that my new life with her will give me just
that stimulus which has somehow been wanting in all my efforts. We
were married on the day following our flight to London, so that you
need not, in your innocence, blush for me or for her. We are going
into the country for what is technically known as the honeymoon,
and then we return to town and I start seriously to work. I will
let you know my address.
"Yours sympathetically,
"BRIAN CARLAW."
He tore the letter up and went about his daily life, determined, if
possible, now that the matter was ended, to shut it all out of his
mind. Miss Carlaw, with the same kindly object in view, proposed a
flight to the Continent, and, believing that it would please her to
go, he gladly fell in with the suggestion. They were absent nearly two
months.
As they travelled with much the same state they had adopted on their
former journeyings--putting up at the best hotels and staying in the
largest cities--they were easily to be traced. This Comethup was soon
to discover, for one night in Rome, after a solitary ramble through
the streets, a note was handed him as he entered his hotel; he was
informed that it had been left by a gentleman, who would return in half
an hour. He tore it open, and discovered that it was written hurriedly
in pencil and was signed by Robert Carlaw, that the writer begged for a
few moments' conversation with him on a matter of emergency. Comethup
hesitated for a moment, and then strolled out into the streets again,
lingering about near the entrance of the hotel. He had no desire to
meet his aunt, and then arouse her suspicions by leaving her again.
In a little while he saw Mr. Robert Carlaw approaching him, swinging
along with something of the old jaunty step, and setting his hat a
little more rakishly on his head as he approached his destination.
Yet there was, with all his jauntiness, a certain lack of confidence
about the man--in his movements and in his glances--which may have been
inspired by the needy life he had led. Comethup stood watching him as
he neared the hotel entrance, and saw that he did not turn boldly in,
but lingered for a moment outside, looking in furtively. As Comethup
walked toward him a look of relief stole over his face, and he went
toward the young man with both hands outstretched. Comethup grasped
one of the hands, and his own was immediately covered by the other and
warmly pressed.
"My dear young friend," exclaimed Mr. Robert Carlaw, "how good it is to
set eyes once again upon you! May I dare say that I have hungered for a
sight of you? I trust you have not waited long here for me?"
"No," said Comethup. "But I thought that if you wished to see me we
might talk here more easily than in the hotel."
"True--true," murmured his uncle; "you are ever considerate. And I, who
am, and have been for a long time, nothing but a houseless wanderer,
a wretch who dare not meet the eye of his tailor, to say nothing of
his butcher and his baker, I seem to shun the lighted halls of luxury,
and to choose, as befitting my own fallen fortunes, the darker ways of
life. But enough of me." He made a dramatic gesture, sighed, and linked
his arm in that of the young man and strolled on with him.
"You're in no fresh trouble, I hope," said Comethup. He longed to speak
of 'Linda, to ask if she were happy, to be certain that all was well
with her.
"_Fresh_ trouble!" ejaculated Mr. Carlaw. "Would that any trouble
which I suffered could, in any sense of the word, be termed 'fresh'!
They are all too old and stale for that. I am buried to the neck in
them, am forever struggling to the lips in a horrid sea of them,
expecting to be drowned every moment. Once or twice a generous fellow,
who shall be nameless"--he squeezed Comethup's arm--"has thrown, to
carry the metaphor further, a life-line to me, and has drawn me ashore
for a space. But ill fortune has thrust me back again in time, and
each time I seem to sink deeper than ever. But enough of myself; I
am the emissary of others." He said it with an air as though he felt
it conferred a distinction upon him that he was not on this occasion
personally begging.
"Of others?" inquired Comethup, looking round at him.
"Yes; it is not for myself I plead. I do not know, by the way, that
I have ever really pleaded for myself; your generosity has merely
anticipated my necessities. Mine is a nature which, foolishly enough
from the world's point of view, places self last; it has ever been my
way. But I have taken this journey, on the present occasion, because
I can not see those who are dear to me--my flesh and blood, so to
speak--perishing, while the world looks on with careless eyes. I am a
father, and I feel the responsibilities more than might be imagined. I
have watched my son's career; I have seen men prick their ears at the
mention of his name and nod sagely; I have----"
Comethup was too impatient to hear more of the preamble. He seemed to
scent disaster in the very air, and broke in upon the other's slow
words impatiently. "Yes, yes; but tell me at once what you mean, why
you are here, and what's happened. Of course, if Brian is in want, you
know that I shall be only too glad to----"
"My dear nephew, you anticipate my meaning at once. It is only the
truly generous soul that can see deep into the heart of distress, as
it were, in a moment. I will not disguise from you the fact that these
young people, who have rashly, but with a very beautiful confidence in
Providence, I think, entered upon a union which naturally increases
expenses--I will not disguise from you the fact that they are in
want--that we all are in want. I--I have recently, from motives of
economy, taken up my residence with them, and that close intimacy has
enabled me to see clearly that which my son's natural pride has kept
from my knowledge. Sir, I can bear it no longer. I said to myself,
'These young people shall not suffer before my eyes. I will sacrifice
everything for them; I will humble my pride; I will approach our former
benefactor.' And I am here."
"I'm dreadfully sorry to hear what you say," replied Comethup. "Of
course I had no idea that Brian would be in such straits as you
describe. I shall be returning to England within a few days; perhaps I
shall be able to see him. In the meantime, perhaps you will allow me to
give you--I beg your pardon, lend you--a sum of money, and you can then
hasten back to them. I trust they are not--not in actual want?"
"Their credit, up to the moment, has, I rejoice to say, remained good;
but even that is on the point of exhaustion, and after that--well,
I tremble. So you see, when it came to a crisis I informed my son
that I would seek you. With the natural hesitation of a proud man, he
refused at first to listen to such a suggestion; but I prevailed, took
sufficient for my journey, on the most economical principles, and, as I
said before, here I am."
"I have only a little over thirty pounds with me," said Comethup, "but,
as I shall be returning to London immediately, that will suffice for
your present need. You return to England at once?"
"To-morrow morning," replied Mr. Robert Carlaw, thrusting the money
into his breast pocket. "To-night I shall sleep soundly, for the first
time for many weeks; I do not sleep soundly when I am troubled about
those who are near and dear to me. Yes, I return to-morrow morning."
They parted, and Comethup went slowly back to the hotel. No mention
had been made by his aunt about any probable date of return; they had
merely wandered from city to city as the whim took them, Miss Carlaw
having always in her mind the desire to teach him forgetfulness.
Therefore, when he went to her that night and stated, with what
carelessness he might, that he should like to return to London at once,
she was naturally somewhat startled. Even while he was speaking and
urging excuses for no longer remaining abroad she was casting about in
her mind to discover the real reason of this step he contemplated; she
began at last to fear that she understood the reason only too well.
"Come, my dear boy, what ails you? What's the reason of this sudden
change of plan? There's nothing troubling you, is there? You've had
no--no letters, no bad news, to worry you? Won't you tell me?"
To tell her was, of course, impossible. Even if he could have kept
back that former story of all the money he had paid away, he could not
now explain that this girl, who had left him for another, was in want,
and that he, the man she had cast aside, was to relieve her. That, of
course, could never be explained--would never be understood. Although
his aunt had scarcely mentioned the matter to him, he felt, from
something she had once said, that she knew the story of the marriage,
and knew that Brian was 'Linda's husband. Probably the captain had
told her. But Comethup saw clearly before him that there was but one
course he could adopt--that of silence. He could not bear to think
that any action of 'Linda's, or of those belonging to her, should be
misunderstood.
"No, of course I have had no bad news. What should make you think that?
Only I am a little tired of travelling, and you know London is always
delightful; I've heard you say that. My dear aunt, I know you only
undertook this journey because you thought I should like it. Won't you
go back to please me also?"
"Ah! you're keeping something from me; there's something hidden away in
your heart that you won't tell me. There! I'm not inquisitive--no more
than the rest of my sex; but I'd like to give you a word of warning,
boy. You've not been happy lately--oh, I know!--although you haven't
said a word about it; I'm too fond of you not to notice every little
sign. My dear boy, there's something I never meant to refer to; it's a
story that's best left alone. Comethup, you're not--not hungering after
her still, are you?"
"No," he replied.
"And you're not making this sudden journey to London after her?
Remember, you must put that out of your mind; I say _must_ advisedly,
because there's no other word to use in the matter. You can't blink the
thing away, my dear: she belongs to some one else, and you've done with
her. If you don't recognise that, it only means disaster for both of
you. With a man and a woman in such a situation there are two things
for the man to do: if he can't run away _with_ her, then, by the Lord,
he must run away _from_ her!"
"But I am not going to London to see her," said Comethup. "I'm afraid
you're magnifying the matter; she is married, happily married, and all
the other is forgotten and done with. Won't you understand that?"
"Yes, if you tell me so. I am very glad, for your sake, to hear you say
it. And, if it pleases you, we'll set off for London at once."
One thought was uppermost in Comethup's mind--that he must not see
'Linda. In the first place, he felt pretty certain that the fact of his
having been appealed to on her own and her husband's behalf had not
been revealed to her; and, in the second, he was not quite sure yet
that he could bear to meet her. That she must, at all costs, be kept
from want and suffering he had fully determined; all the bright hopes
and dreams he had had, even from his boyhood, concerning her were swept
aside and done with--things that never had been. The fortune that had
been placed in his hands and which had seemed once so wonderful was now
nothing, save that by its aid, in an indirect fashion and without her
knowledge, he could benefit her; he was glad to think that he still
possessed that power at least. For his wanderings had not changed him.
Solitary for the most part, except for the companionship of the strange
old woman who loved him and would have done so much to help him, he
had seen, in every place he visited, the face of the girl always before
him; had gone over, in imagination, words she had spoken to him; had
lived again through scenes of those brief half-happy weeks in which he
had thought she loved him.
Within an hour of reaching London he had set off for Brian's lodgings;
he had found a brief note awaiting him, giving the address. He
discovered it to be in a cheerless and shabby quarter of town; it was
obvious, from the style of the house, that they had no real home of
their own yet, but were living in furnished apartments. He wandered
up and down the street, in the dusk of the evening, for a long time,
wondering what he should do, or how it would be possible to meet Brian
without also seeing 'Linda. He had almost made up his mind, in despair
of anything better, to ring the bell and inquire for his cousin, when
the door of the house he was watching opened and 'Linda came out. He
was on the opposite side of the street, standing back in the shadow of
a doorway, and he saw her distinctly--saw, with something of a stab at
his heart, that she seemed thinner, and that some of the old elasticity
of her step was gone.
He watched her hungrily till she had turned the corner, and then
crossed the road and rang the bell. He was shown, by a weird-looking,
tired-eyed little servant-maid, into a room on the first floor; it was
empty, but in a few moments a door leading to a farther room was opened
and Brian came in. There was none of the old frank, joyous fashion of
greeting about him; he merely nodded, and thrust his hands into his
pockets and walked across to the fireplace.
"Well," he said, "so you've found me out at last, have you? You've been
long enough about it."
"I came to you as soon as I could," said Comethup. "You know I've been
abroad, and I----"
"Abroad! What do you want to fling that in my face for? Here,
some cursed fortune thrusts me, penniless, into a wretched London
lodging-house in a slum, and you flaunt it in the best hotels all
over Europe. Where's the justice of it? In God's name"--he swung
round fiercely, and made a step toward the other--"how does the world
expect me to work, why does it demand the best of me, under such
circumstances?"
"Don't be unreasonable," said Comethup slowly. "I met your father in
Rome, and sent him hurrying back to you."
"The damned old scoundrel! Do you know that I've never even seen him?
When I could stand it no longer, I suggested he should go and find you,
and he promised faithfully to come back the moment--well, the moment he
got anything. How much did you give him?"
"A little over thirty pounds," said Comethup.
"And a fine time he's having with it, I'll be bound. Never trust your
own flesh and blood, say I. Fancy your own father leaving you to
starve!"
"Well, I shouldn't trouble about that now," said Comethup. He had been
looking round the shabby room, with its absence of anything homelike,
save for a few flowers in a cheap vase on a little table and some
needlework in a little basket. He trembled at every footfall on the
stairs, and was only anxious to get away before she returned. "You know
I've always plenty of money, and if you will let me----"
"Oh! don't beat around the bush. What do you suppose I sent to you for?
It's easy enough to come in, well fed and well dressed--I'll warrant
you drove here in style----"
"I don't think I'd say that, if I were you," said Comethup quietly.
His hands were gripped closely behind him, and one foot was beating
restlessly on the carpet. "You know I've always been ready to--to lend
you anything in my power. There's only one thing I'd like to say, and
that is, I should be grateful if you wouldn't say anything about it to
any one else--to 'Linda, for instance."
"You needn't fear that; I've got my pride--possibly more of it than
you possess. There! I don't want to quarrel with you; only I suppose
I've got a little soured when I could see no prospect of anything
coming in. And money does go so devilish fast in London! Why, that
hundred I had--you remember when I left poor old dad stranded without
a halfpenny--it's all gone long since. Poetry is not a paying game, my
boy, and these days people don't seem to believe in a poet who's hidden
away in dingy rooms like this. You see, I can't ask any one to see
me; the people I knew have lost sight of me, and I am in daily dread
of being shelved altogether. A poet must remember his social duties,
like every one else. While I go on at this rate I shall never make a
splash--never do anything."
"Yes, you'll do well enough in time," said Comethup, glancing uneasily
toward the door. "As you want me to put the thing bluntly," he added
with a little laugh, "perhaps I may say that I've brought some money
with me, and that more shall be forthcoming when that's gone--until, of
course, you've been able to make your 'splash,' as you term it, and can
repay it."
"Oh! of course, that will be all right; it's bound to come sooner or
later. That's just the point; the things are talked about enough, and
if I could once thrust my head in at society's door and talk about them
myself, I should be a made man. How much can you spare me?"
"Well, I don't spend much myself, and I thought perhaps--say two
hundred?"
"By Jove, you're a good fellow! Pass it over. I must trump up a story
to 'Linda about a sudden remittance from the publishers; women like to
know the ins and outs of things."
"Is--is she well?" asked Comethup carelessly, as he held out the notes
to the other.
"Oh, yes, she's well enough," replied Brian. "Like most of her
delightful sex, she's possessed of a temper, and so am I, so that we
don't always pull together nicely in harness. But she's very fond of
me, and I--yes, I'm very fond of her. But, I say, you'd better be
going, hadn't you?"
"Yes, I think I'll go," replied Comethup. He picked up his hat, and
looked for a moment round the room; he did not know when, if ever, he
should see it again, and it was a wonderful place to him, poor though
it was, because she lived there.
Brian went to the door, to ascertain if the coast was clear, and
Comethup, shaking him hurriedly by the hand, ran downstairs and got
into the street. Even then for a long time he could not leave the
place, lingering unhappily up and down on the other side of the street,
waiting to catch a glimpse of her again.
He saw her come back presently and enter the house, saw lights gleam in
the room he had left, and a little later still saw them both come out
and the girl link her arm in Brian's, and watched them go off together
in high spirits. Walking sadly a long way behind them, he saw Brian
hail a cab at the end of the street and put her in and jump in himself;
saw the cab drive away westward.