IN WHICH SEPARATIONS ARE SUGGESTED.

In quite the strangest and yet the most natural way the old shoemaker was drawn into that little circle which revolved round the captain. It was a curious little band in most respects, formed of strange beings, with nothing of the practical about them; the captain seemed sometimes to be the youngest of them all.

Comethup’s life, at that enchanting time, was very full indeed—so full that he had sometimes to stop and gasp with wonder at all the extraordinary things and the extraordinary people that filled it. The captain had been something to be grateful about, and to hug one’s self over; the ghost in the garden had resolved itself into a very sweet and tender personality. And now came this wonderful old man, who hammered away half underground, and talked sometimes like a book and sometimes like scraps out of twenty books, all disjointed; whose hair was wild and whose eyes shone, and who was something to be a little afraid of at first and to love desperately afterward, although, for that matter, there were but few people who came into Comethup’s life that he was not able to give some part of his heart to. There was but one little hunger in his heart, and that was that he could not bring Brian into what he would have termed the chief glory of his life, for he had that keen and unerring instinct which told him that Brian would be impatient of the old shoemaker, and as scornful of him as he was of every one else who did not exactly please him.

Comethup got quite into the habit of paying hurried visits to the shoemaker’s shop, and then lingering for a while, in the fascination of the man and of the place. Very often he found ’Linda there, seated silently beside the man on the bench. Very few customers ever seemed to come there, and the few who did took no notice of the children. The old man’s moods varied greatly: sometimes he was in a savage humour and worked fiercely, hammering away at the leather as if for dear life, and taking no notice of the children; at other times he would sit, with his hands clasped idly on his apron, staring dreamily out of the window, and occasionally muttering to himself. On one such occasion he called Comethup suddenly to him and put his arm about his shoulders and stretched out the other hand toward the window. “Look, boy, look!” he cried. “What do you see?”

Comethup gazed blankly through the window, the panes of which were of old and common glass that distorted everything seen through them. He shook his head, and looked round at the old man. “Nothing,” he said, “only the houses, and the church spire at the end of the street.”

The shoemaker shook him gently but impatiently. “Look again,” he whispered; “move your head from side to side, as I move it—so. See the houses leap and jump and tremble; see the spire of the church double up like a reed, and seem as if it would plunge down into the street. Again—move your head again—see how they leap and tremble and fall!”

Comethup, a little frightened, moved his head, and then laughed faintly. “But it’s only the glass,” he said.

“Ah, but a man may sit here—a man poor and humble and with no power—and yet dream that he has the power so to sweep away those who have wronged him; to bring their fine houses tumbling about their ears, like things built of cards. Boy, I tell you if a man can dream that, he is stronger and greater than those who have the power to build—eh?”

Comethup obediently said, “Yes, I suppose so,” and the old man laughed, and took up his work and fell to hammering. Comethup, after he reached home, tried the plan with other windows, and trembled a little when he remembered the fierce whisper in which the old man had spoken; he wondered, too, why he should carry in his breast the desire to injure any one, or to wreck what he had built. Meanwhile, Brian had to be reckoned with; it was impossible to ignore him completely, and the hours which Comethup spent with him were growing fewer and fewer. But one morning he sprang suddenly into the very midst of it all, as it were, and quite accidentally.

He had been attending the grammar school on the outskirts of the town, in a desultory fashion, staying away when it pleased him, throwing his soul into the work for a day or two, and thinking of nothing else, and then disappearing for the whole day for about a week, dashing home, tired and hungry and dusty at the end of each day, and refusing any account of his movements. Once or twice, when Comethup had been away with the captain, he had heard on his return that his cousin had called; but when he went himself to his uncle’s house, to express his contrition, Mr. Robert Carlaw airily informed him that he hadn’t the remotest notion where Brian was, or what he was doing.

“Takes after his father, the young rip. I was just the same when I was a boy; began to go to the devil before I was breeched. It’s in the blood, and, damme, I’m the last man to try and stop him, the rascal!”

Comethup usually came away feeling desperately sorry for his cousin, and trembling considerably at the thought of the path that unfortunate youngster was treading, yet having, nevertheless, a sneaking admiration both for him and his ways.

It happened, on the morning in question, that Comethup had arranged to meet the captain; they would, in all probability, find ’Linda at the old shoemaker’s, and after that there was the glorious prospect of some hours on the marshes in the captain’s delightful company, with deeds of daring to be recited and romantic possibilities to be discussed. It had been firmly agreed upon between the captain and Comethup as to what their duties were to be in a moment of emergency, should the old town, for instance, be attacked by an alien foe, and ’Linda carried off by the besiegers. Comethup almost wished, with a beating heart, that it might happen, because, according to the captain’s account—and the captain was very serious when he mentioned it—it would mean midnight rides, and shootings, and maimings, and slaughterings to an absolutely delightful extent.

But this morning disappointment was in store for them. ’Linda was not to be discovered at the shoemaker’s, and the old man, being in a bad humour, growlingly stated that he knew nothing about her, not even pausing in his hammering to make the remark. Comethup and the captain turned away sorrowfully. Former experience had taught them that it would be useless to apply at her father’s house; but they walked past it, and Comethup even ran a little way into the garden, and softly called her name. But there was no response, and, after waiting a few moments, they were compelled to set out on their expedition without her.

She had taken so prominent a part in their lives of late, and imagination so cruelly suggested her figure in every place they visited, that the business of the day had no zest in it. The captain presently seated himself on a bank out on the marshes, with his cane lying across his knees, while Comethup sprawled at his feet and watched the distant line of the sand hills beyond which the sea lay. Suddenly the captain sat rigidly upright and stared away across the marshes in an opposite direction to that in which Comethup was looking; an ejaculation escaped his lips, and Comethup twisted round on one elbow and followed the direction of the captain’s gaze.

Two figures were running toward them, coming breathlessly over the uneven ground, and waving to them as they ran. Comethup sat up with a start. “Why, it’s ’Linda!” he exclaimed; and then, in a more surprised tone, “and Brian!”

The two came up pantingly, and the girl dropped down beside Comethup; the boy Brian tossed his hair back from his face, and burst out with his tale.

“We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he exclaimed. “You know I couldn’t find you at your house”—this to Comethup—“nor at the captain’s; and dad was in one of his frightful tempers, and had been raving about the house, swearing he’d kill me. He often does that, you know; I’m quite used to it. So you see I didn’t know what to do, until at last I thought of that house we went to see, Comethup, you know, the one that was haunted. It wasn’t half bad in the daylight, and it wasn’t haunted, after all.”

“I know that,” said Comethup. “And so does the captain.”

“How did you find this—this child?” asked the captain, dropping one hand lightly on the girl’s head.

“I’m coming to that,” replied Brian, briskly. “I went into the garden and had a good look round, and there didn’t seem to be anything to be afraid of. So I walked round the house to see what there was to be seen, and I——”

“And you saw me up at the window,” broke in ’Linda, with a laugh.

The boy smiled back at her, and dropped down beside her on the sandy ground. “Yes,” he said, “and I asked you if you were the ghost, and what you were doing up there; and you said you were waiting for Comethup. And I said that I was looking for him, too, and we’d better go and look together. Then I showed you how to get down from the window by the ivy, and—and here we are.” He rolled over on his back, crossed his hands under his head, and laughed again.

It was all true. He had stormed the situation in a fashion which neither Comethup nor the captain would have dreamed of; had flung himself joyously, as it were, into the midst of a matter from which they had innocently plotted to exclude him. ’Linda, too, had entertained him with an account of all that had happened: of her expeditions with Comethup and the captain, down to the minutest details, proud of the fact that she had so much to tell to this new and charming companion.

Comethup and the captain, with a quick mutual appreciation of the matter born of their intimacy, glanced at each other rapidly; the captain turned away his head, and sighed a little. ’Linda saw that, in some strange fashion, she had offended her former friends; the keen edge had been taken from the adventure, and she looked at Comethup with a little sudden quivering of the lip. Brian, blissfully unconscious, lay on his back on the ground, whistling softly to himself.

The situation was becoming embarrassing, and the captain had just cleared his throat, with the idea of making some commonplace remark which should set them all at their ease, when, looking up, he descried another figure coming swinging toward them at a rapid rate. The swirl of the coat-tails and the poise of the hat were not to be mistaken. He exclaimed hurriedly, “Brian, here’s your father!”

Brian Carlaw turned lazily over on one side and surveyed the approaching figure; resumed his former attitude, and said with a laugh: “I suppose he’s come to kill me; I didn’t think he’d find me here.” He appeared quite unconcerned about the matter, and Comethup could not help looking at him with increasing admiration as he observed his indifference to the approaching danger.

But it was obvious, as Mr. Robert Carlaw drew nearer, that he had no hostile intention. He was apparently greatly agitated, and seemed to be shouting something to them as he almost ran forward over the ground. He waved in his right hand a sheet of paper. He came upon the waiting group literally at a bound, and so out of breath that for a few moments he could do nothing but alternately thump his chest and tap the sheet of paper with a trembling forefinger and stretch it out appealingly toward his son. His dignity was too great to permit him to sit down, even on the bank beside the captain; he remained pacing about, and gaspingly endeavouring to speak for some moments, before he could get a word out, and when the words came they were, in view of what Brian said, certainly surprising.

“My son, my beloved son!” He stretched out his arms toward the recumbent boy, and something seemed to catch in his throat, as though he swallowed with difficulty.

Brian raised himself on one elbow and looked at his father through half-closed eyes. “I thought you were going to lick me,” he said.

Mr. Robert Carlaw again agitatedly indicated the letter. “My boy, forgive me, I beg. This is a moment when indiscretion, hastinesses of temper, may be forgotten. This is a moment that comes but once in every man’s life. You are not—not too young to understand. My boy, I have sought for you”—he swept his arm vaguely toward the horizon—“everywhere. I have been cut—cut to the heart at the thought that I—I had driven you from me. My son, thank Heaven I have found you!” He took off his hat, breathed heavily, and mopped his face with a delicate handkerchief. They looked at him in astonishment, not unmixed with awe; he appeared to be so terribly in earnest.

“Is anything the matter?” asked the captain, breaking a silence which began to be oppressive.

Robert Carlaw replaced his hat at a greater angle than usual, struck himself on the breast, laughed, and shook the letter at the little captain with ferocious playfulness. “Matter, sir? Matter enough! No longer can it be said that Robert Carlaw and his son hide their heads under a bushel—or under two bushels; this letter, sir, contains the promise of fortune—fortune rightly bestowed. No longer shall my son live obscurely, as his wretched parent has been compelled to do; no longer shall he herd with the sons of tradesmen and commoners; henceforth he takes that brilliant path which Fortune has mapped out for him.” He laughed again, and stretched out his arms again toward Brian, who was sitting up, staring at him in amazement.

“I’m afraid we don’t understand,” said the captain mildly.

Robert Carlaw, feeling that he had to deal with inferior minds, came down from the heights. “My dear sir, the matter, bluntly, is this. We are friends here, and there is no reason why all the world should not know such news as I have to tell. This, sir”—he indicated the paper he held—“is a letter from an eccentric lady, of—er—excellent birth—in point of fact, my sister; older than myself, a spinster, and childless. She writes, in her dear eccentric fashion—sweet woman, but, like myself, a spice of brimstone in her—to say that her loneliness tells upon her with advancing years; that she seeks some one to whom she may give what tenderness is in her, some one who shall become her heir. She suggests—nay, in her eccentric fashion, demands—my son. He is to fill the vacant place in her heart, and in her house; he is to become, when it shall please the good Lord”—Mr. Carlaw raised his eyes piously, and touched the brim of his hat with his fingers—“to call her from us, the possessor of her wealth.”

“That’s very fine for the boy,” said the captain slowly.

“Yes,” responded Mr. Carlaw, thoughtfully, “the boy is like his father; he was not built for toil. There are those who are made—positively made, sir—to cut a figure in the world, that duller eyes may look on them, and admire. I am one of those; it is in the blood; Brian is another.” With a great show of hurry upon him, he thrust the precious letter in his pocket, and stooped and caught Brian by the arm and dragged him to his feet. The boy, with that unbelief in his father which past experience had probably sown deep in his breast, resisted a little, and did not enter quite so joyously into the spirit of the matter as his parent wished.

“But what have I got to do?” he asked, petulantly, rising slowly to his feet with his fathers assistance.

“Do?” exclaimed that gentleman. “My son, there is not a moment to be lost. You do not know your Aunt Charlotte; I have but stated the case mildly when I say that she is eccentric. She may change her mind at any moment; may have forgotten the suggestion she makes in this letter before we have time to reach London. Come; there is not a moment to be lost; it is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Oh, we’re going to London, are we?” asked the boy, his face brightening.

“Yes, my son,” cried Mr. Carlaw, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder, “to London! London the glorious, the wonderful! London, where you shall take your place among the best of them, and be no more hidden from sight here. Your poor father would have taken his place among its notables years ago, but that the purse-strings had to be kept too tightly. Come, my son, it wrings a father’s heart to have to part with you, but Fate has been good to you, my son, Fate has been very good to you.”

He had got his arm round the boy’s shoulders, and was actually dragging him away, without remembering the proprieties, when Brian turned and looked back over his shoulder, compelling his father to halt for a moment. The smile that Comethup thought always was like light played about his face for a moment as they sat there watching him.

“Good-bye!” he called. “I don’t want to go a bit, but if dad says I must, there’s no help for it. Good-bye; don’t forget me. I won’t forget you, any of you, and I’ll come back soon to see you. Good-bye, Comethup.”

The last they saw of him was his slight, boyish figure, still encircled by his father’s arm, going across the uneven ground toward the town. Mr. Robert Carlaw was waving his disengaged hand enthusiastically in that direction, as though he pointed to fortune and all desirable things.