COMETHUP DRIVES A BARGAIN.
It scarcely occurred to Comethup until after he had started on his
chase what a mad business it all really was. He was in a mood more than
once to turn back, to let this cousin take his own path; the feverish
desire was upon him to be with 'Linda--even, perhaps, by reason of the
other's desertion, to creep a little nearer into her life. But that
thought was a blasphemy. After all, this man who had left her was the
one man she loved, the one man she ever would love; if Comethup would
play the part he had set himself, the part of loyal friend, he must
bring that man back.
He had made a careless, half-jesting excuse to his aunt, and had stated
that he would be back again within a few days. And now, in Paris, he
wondered how he should set about his quest, or in what quarter of
the city he should discover the runaway. He had no clew. Brian knew
Paris well, and it was impossible to say where he would take up his
abode, especially if, as his father had hinted, he had a companion.
However, the search had to be made, and it was begun within an hour of
Comethup's arrival in the city.
For two long days and nights he scarcely rested, going to every place
of amusement, from the highest to the lowest; scanning the faces of
people who passed him in the streets; standing at the doors of theatres
and dancing-halls, and watching every one wherever the life of the city
beat most thick and fast. And at last his patience was rewarded.
He was sitting in a _café_ late on the afternoon of the third day,
miserably turning over the matter in his mind and almost giving up the
business as hopeless; he had a paper in his hand, but had not read a
line of it. Suddenly, from the street where the lamps were beginning
to gleam, Brian Carlaw came swinging in and took a seat near the door.
Comethup raised the paper so as to hide his own face, and peered round
it at his cousin. He was glad, for one thing, to find him alone; but
he felt that it would be impossible to broach the subject in a public
place, or even to confront him. For the present he must merely watch
and be careful that his quarry did not again escape him.
Brian proved to be in a restless mood. After but a few minutes, and
when he had only half consumed the refreshment he had ordered, he
looked at his watch and got up and went out. Comethup dropped the
paper, and followed him. Brian walked rapidly, evidently having a
settled destination in view; at last he turned in at the door of a
small hotel in a side street, and the door closed behind him.
Comethup waited for some moments and then followed him; discovered
from the servant the number of Brian's room, and ran up the stairs.
Without pause of any kind he knocked sharply at the door, turned the
handle, and went in. His cousin had divested himself of his coat and
waistcoat, and was evidently preparing to dress for the evening; he
turned round quickly on hearing the movement at the door, and looked
in astonishment at his visitor. Then gradually a smile stole over his
face, and he cried out to Comethup with great cordiality:
"Why, my dear boy, what on earth does this mean? How did you discover
me? I thought I was hidden from all the world."
"Yes," said Comethup, "I suppose you did. I have been searching for you
for nearly three days. I followed you home just now."
Something in his voice caused Brian's face to change; the mirthful
light went out of it, and his lips, so pleasantly smiling a moment
before, became a hard, thin line. He advanced a little from the
dressing table where he had been standing, and looked at the other with
a frown. "What the devil should you follow me for? What do you want?"
Comethup backed away to the door, turned the key in the lock, and
dropped the key in his pocket. His voice was very cool and steady when
he spoke, only in his own ears it sounded as though some one else were
speaking far away. "There's something I want to say to you--something
that must be said now. Are you listening?"
"Damn your impudence!" cried the other. "You were always a
crack-brained fellow. What's your game now, that you force your way
into my room like this and lock me in? Do you want to murder me?"
"I am not quite sure," said Comethup, with a strange little laugh. "It
might come to that, perhaps; it depends upon yourself--Come away from
that bell"--for Brian had made a dash at the white electric button in
the wall--"or, by God, I'll strangle you before any one can get this
door open! And I'm a stronger man than you are; I've had a better
training."
Brian came back to the dressing table in a sidelong, furtive fashion,
watching Comethup narrowly. "Well, what do you wish? I don't want to
have a scene, and I may tell you that I have no time to waste. I'm
going out."
"Not yet," replied Comethup. "You've lots of time before we catch the
night train."
"The night train!" echoed Brian. "What the devil do I want with the
night train?"
"To take you back to London," said Comethup calmly. "I'm just going to
explain, and it will be well for you to listen quietly. I know that
it's quite useless to appeal to you; I've learned that long since. So
now I'll put it more brutally, and tell you what you _must_ do."
"Go on," said Brian sneeringly; "when one deals with a madman I suppose
the best way is to humour him; at least I've always been told so."
"I don't want to say anything about myself; that would be rather out of
place," began Comethup in his slow, soft voice. "But I want to speak of
some one else--of your wife. I heard, quite by accident, that you had
deserted her; left her, for aught that you cared, to starve; that you
had come here after another woman. I suppose you won't--won't think it
worth while to deny all that?"
"Why should I? You seem to have got the story pretty accurately. What's
it to do with you?"
"Everything," replied Comethup. "That's what has brought me here. You
don't suppose I'd be racing about Paris for two or three days after
_you_ for the pleasure of the thing, do you? I said I wasn't going to
speak about myself, but I find I must. This girl, 'Linda, the sweetest
and brightest it was ever a man's good fortune to win--this girl loves
you; would give, I think, her immortal soul for you. Yet, at a whim,
a caprice, you fling her aside, careless whether you break her heart,
or----"
"Break her heart! Hearts are not so easily broken; even I can tell you
that, although I am a poet. Besides, what the devil's her heart got to
do with you?"
"More than you can understand. I think I'd give everything I have
in the world to spare her any pain. I'm afraid you can't understand
what that feeling is. I'd give my very soul to save her from tears
or sorrow, to prevent any one of her ideals from being shattered.
If I could die and know that in dying I gave her any greater
happiness--well, my life wouldn't be worth an hour's purchase from
this moment--Oh, I forgot; you don't understand all that. But there's
one thing you shall understand: you're going back with me to London
to-night."
"Indeed? You seem to have made up your mind about that. If you take so
deep an interest in 'Linda, why the devil don't you let me go my own
way and--well, look after her yourself?"
The words were nothing; it was the horrible smile that played about
Brian's lips--the sneering suggestion that he knew of the love in the
other man's mind, and triumphed in the knowledge; it was all this that
maddened Comethup. With a cry he threw himself upon the other and
forced him to his knees, and kept a grip upon his throat sufficient to
stifle the life out of him had he kept it there long. "You coward! I've
bandied words with you too long; I've told you things that are as far
from your ken as the knowledge of the stars. Get up"--he dragged him to
his feet and flung him off--"and get on that coat! I'll waste no more
time in talking. I won't lose sight of you until I see you in your own
home."
"Well, and if I refuse?" said Brian sullenly, glaring at the other like
a creature at bay.
Comethup laughed quietly and glanced round the room; buttoned his coat
swiftly and came at his cousin slowly, steadily, without once taking
his eyes from the eyes that shifted uneasily before his. "Why, if
you refuse, I'll kill you! Don't think that's a threat merely; we're
near the top of this house, and I can choke the life out of you long
before any one breaks in this door, or even before you can give the
alarm. Understand--I'm desperate; I've staked everything on this, and
I won't hesitate. Now, as we stand man to man, I'll tell you what you
may have guessed before. I love your wife; to me she's higher even
than the angels. And my love has this quality--that life and death and
heaven and hell are nothing, mere words, compared with my love for her,
compared to what that love would make me do. It's a madness, isn't
it, friend Brian, that a man may love a woman so well that he would
kill another man rather than see her trust in that other betrayed? She
thinks nothing of me. How should she? If I killed you, she would never
cease to revile my memory and hold you up as a martyr; there's where
the madness comes in. But that would be best for her, better than that
she should find you out. Do you understand me?"
Brian looked at him curiously for a few moments and then began to laugh
in a foolish, half-nervous fashion, as though he had suddenly been
confronted with something he did not understand, and scarcely knew what
attitude to take toward it. "Well, you're more mad than I thought you
were," he said at last. "Suppose I go back to London, do you think I'm
going to settle down in that dull house all my days? I tell you I'm
made of different stuff. I want life, movement, music, laughter about
me; a dull old dog like you can't understand that."
"You shall have them all," said Comethup eagerly. "Come, I'll make no
one-sided bargain; let's understand one another. I've shown you my
hand, shown you the reason for this thing I'm doing. Don't think I'm
doing it for your sake; you needn't flatter yourself to that extent.
In all these things I put her first--her happiness is the great thing.
Now, if I ask you to take up again a life which you say is distasteful,
I'll take upon myself to make it sweet. You shall have what money you
want; I have a large income now, and when--God forgive the thought, but
you force me to say it--when my aunt dies I shall be a very rich man.
If you do this thing, I swear to you you shall never need money; that's
all it's in my power to do, as a complete outsider, for the woman I
love. She won't ever know it, and you--well, you can keep her happy."
"Oh, yes, I can do that," said the other easily. "You talk of your love
for her; you know you might strive all your days, you poor beggar,
and never come nearer her heart; might spend every farthing you have
in the world on her, and she would scarcely feel grateful to you.
That's where I've got the pull of you. She's grateful to me if she can
win a smile from me at any hour of the day; she's so wrapped up in me
that the simple words 'my dear,' flung carelessly to her, are more to
her than the most impassioned love-speech could be from you or any
one else. I don't know what it is"--he went on with a laugh, tossing
his hair back from his forehead--"but I have that power over women; I
may even flout and insult them, and, by God! I think they like me the
better for it.--Well, I don't see the fun of risking starvation if it
can be avoided, and, after all, you're pretty safe. I'll go back to
London; but mind, I hold you to your word. If you care so much for her
happiness, by the Lord, you shall pay for it!"
"I'll pay you what you like," said Comethup quietly. "But one word
more: what brought you over here? Who's the woman?"
"What a dear old moralist you are!" exclaimed Brian, laughing. "I
suppose you're afraid I may be deserting some one else, eh? Well, let
me tell you for your comfort that she's rich; that she's taken a fancy
to me, held up a beckoning finger, and I--well, I followed. I dare say
she'd have dropped me in a month or two, when she found that her poet
was like most other men, so perhaps it's as well that you've rescued
me. And, when I come to think of it, it will be quite in keeping with
my character that I should rush away at a moment's notice, without even
an apology. You see, we poor devils are always supposed to do the most
unexpected things--never anything proper or regular, you know. Upon
my word, now I come to think of it, this will be better than dangling
after her. She'll think all the more highly of me."
"Let us hope so," said Comethup. "Now, as I think we understand each
other clearly, I'll leave you; I'll come to you in time for us to
catch the train. I must get my things from the hotel." He moved toward
the door, hesitated a moment, and then came back again. "On second
thoughts, I _won't_ leave you. Pack up your things and come with me
now; we can dine together."
"I see, you don't trust me?" said Brian with a sneer.
"Frankly, I don't; you've scarcely given me reason to do so. And the
game is too desperate for me to run any risks."
Brian shrugged his shoulders and began to get his things together.
He stopped once or twice and glanced rebelliously at his cousin; but
Comethup sat on the side of the bed, with his hands on his hips,
looking steadily at him--a figure not to be reasoned with, or argued
out of anything he had determined upon.
The dinner at Comethup's hotel passed in silence until almost the
finish; then Brian, warmed by wine, looked up at the man opposite, and
shook his head at him rallyingly, and spoke in his most charming and
playful manner: "My dear old boy, when I'm dead you shall write my
biography, the whole amazing business--'pon my word, you shall!"
"No," said Comethup, shaking his head; "I don't think--I'm quite sure I
couldn't do that."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see," replied Comethup gravely, "you've done so many things
I don't understand; I might--might misinterpret them. Employ some one
who doesn't know you."
They crossed to England together and went on to London. Comethup
left his own luggage at the London terminus and would have parted
there with Brian; but the latter had a devilish scheme in his head--a
well-contrived and carefully-thought-out piece of cruelty--the only
revenge of which he was capable for his defeat. "I'm not going to leave
you here," said Brian; "you've got to come on to the house with me,
come in with me, and see your work concluded. By God! I'm not going
to have the thing half done; you've undertaken it, and you shall see
it through to the bitter end. Oh, yes, you shall see the touching
reconciliation between husband and wife; you shall stand, figuratively,
with uplifted hands to bless them."
"I--I'd rather not," said Comethup hastily. "Why not meet her in
quite the usual fashion, and--and make what excuses you will for your
absence?"
"Not a bit of it. I'm not going to let you off so easily. I shall say
we met in Paris and travelled over together. I tell you you sha'n't get
out of it."
"Do you insist?"
"I do. You shall find, friend Comethup, that you don't have things all
your own way; we don't part until you leave me safely in the bosom of
my family. You can't trust me, you know," he added sneeringly.
They drove together to the house. But for that hidden side of the
picture the return of the prodigal would have been a matter for
laughter. Mr. Robert Carlaw was in the hall, affected almost to tears;
he haughtily brushed aside the servant who would have assisted with the
luggage, and valorously staggered under its weight himself, murmuring
between gasps, "My son, my beloved son!" Comethup would have made his
escape, but Brian caught him by the arm and dragged him into the room
where 'Linda was. She started up and ran to her husband; he took her
with excessive tenderness into his arms, casting a side glance at his
cousin.
"Why, my darling," he cried, "you hug me as though you feared you had
lost me altogether. Surely you know my erratic behaviour by this time?
I had to rush off to Paris on business--business that admitted of no
delay.--Kiss me again, my love; why, you're almost crying!--and in
Paris I met Comethup--dear old moral Comethup in Paris; think of it! So
we travelled home together. Oh, you needn't be ashamed of your tears or
your joy before Comethup; _he_ doesn't mind--do you, old chap?"
With his arm about her he drew her down beside him on a settee, and
looked past her at Comethup with a smile of triumph in his eyes; held
her closer and closer yet, with little tender caresses for her hands
and her hair, that each might be a stab for the man who stood looking
on.
"And I have some good news for you, my sweetheart. In Paris I conducted
my business so well that I made quite a lot of money; we'll be able
to live in glorious style. We'll give up this stuffy house--what do
you think of that, friend Comethup?--and we'll have a better one, and
more servants; and, by Heaven! you shall drive a carriage. We'll give
dinners, and go out, and mix with people; you shall be the best-dressed
woman in London. What do you think of _that_, old Comethup?"
"Oh, but I don't want all those things," said 'Linda softly, nestling
to him. "So that I have you it would not matter, even if we were poor."
"Nonsense, my darling! there's no talk of poverty; I tell you we're
rich." He burst into a roar of laughter. "By 'Jove! I'd no idea that
poetry could ever pay so well. But there, while we are spooning and
thinking about ourselves, we're forgetting old Comethup. I dare say
he'll want to be going?"
"Yes," said Comethup slowly, "I think I'll be going. Good-night,
'Linda, good-night!"
He was crossing the little hall when Brian dashed out of the room after
him, closing the door behind him. He came up to Comethup with his face
completely changed, with the hard look upon it which it had worn during
their interview in the hotel at Paris.
"Look here, you know," he said quickly, "let's have no misunderstanding
about this. A bargain's a bargain; I've fulfilled my part, now it's
your turn."
"I'm not likely to forget," replied Comethup.
"Well, we want money at once. I'm going to take you at your word. You
want to see this comedy played out, and, by Heaven! you'll have to pay
for staging it. It's a fair bargain: you have the fun of looking on,
and I've got to play. Did I play my part well to-night?"
Comethup looked at him for a moment and made a movement as though he
would strike him; then let his hand fall and turned away. "Almost too
well," he said.
"Ah, there I don't agree with you; one can't play a part too well.--So
I shall expect to hear from you--say, to-morrow?"
"Yes, you shall hear from me to-morrow."
Mr. Robert Carlaw was hovering about near the hall door with a look
of expectancy on his face, and a hand darting out to seize Comethup
if possible. But Comethup was in no mood to be stopped; he thrust
him aside and went out, and walked rapidly down the street. "'Linda,
'Linda, my poor 'Linda!" he whispered. "God grant he plays his part
well to the end!"