COMETHUP LEAVES THE OLD LIFE.

Comethup carefully conducted his aunt to the inn and saw her comfortably established there. She appeared to have the whole establishment, from the landlord to the boots, at her beck and call within two minutes after passing the portals; was ordering dishes to her liking and sharply questioning those in attendance upon her, and flinging out an occasional biting word of sarcasm, that held them breathless and awed. At first she insisted that Comethup should stay and lunch with her; but he was equally firm in refusing. He remembered that the captain had enlarged his own simple meal for that day on Comethup’s account. He was divided, as usual, between the picture of this new friend, blind and helpless in a strange place, and the other picture of the captain, who had been so curtly dismissed but a few hours since, awaiting dinner for him.

To his relief, Miss Carlaw appeared to understand the situation at once. “That’s right; say what you mean, and stick to it. I suppose you’ve got another appointment—some one else has asked you to dinner, eh?”

“Yes, aunt, the captain.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. You needn’t mind me; I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and if they don’t do what I want here, I’ll know the reason why, by the Lord I will! Come back here when you leave the captain. Off with you.”

Comethup was late, and, although he ran as hard as he could, the captain had already sat down to his meal when he arrived. His face lit up when he saw the boy, although, quite mechanically, and for the due preservation of discipline, he glanced at his watch.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Comethup, breathlessly, as he saluted just within the doorway; “but my aunt wished me to show her to the inn, and I’ve been detained. I’m very sorry.”

“Never mind,” said the captain. “Come in and have some dinner.—Homer, another plate, please.”

Very little was said during the progress of the meal. The captain had a vague load on his mind, Comethup a very real one. The captain had been pacing about his room for an hour past, putting the case as clearly before himself as he could; telling himself, in so many frank and brutal words, that this child was an orphan and penniless; that this strange old woman had enormous wealth, and seemed to have taken a great fancy to the boy. Well, that was as it should be. The boy had his way to make in the world, and a poor old half-pay captain, going slowly but surely toward the end of his earthly journey, was not the man to be able to do much to help any one. The captain’s heart ached a little, it is true, and he looked back on the years that had stretched before the coming of this child, and the years that would stretch on after he had gone.

Comethup, for his part, tried once or twice to break the matter; he was not very definite in his ideas about it at all yet; he only knew that his aunt practically claimed him, and that she was not likely to remain in the old town with him. He watched the captain nervously, and was quite glad at last when that gentleman opened the matter.

“Rather strange lady, your aunt, eh?” he began.

“Yes,” replied Comethup. “But very kind, sir, I think.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” said the captain, heartily. “She certainly appears to be very good-hearted.”

There was another long pause, and then Comethup said, “She means—means to be very kind to me, sir.”

“Ah!” The captain nodded, and then added, with what cheerfulness he might: “That’s good; that’s very good, Comethup.”

Comethup swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at the captain wistfully. “She says—says she’s going to look after me.”

The captain nodded again, but did not speak; he turned his head and looked out of the window at the sky.

“I hope—I’m afraid—afraid she may mean me to go away with her.” It was out at last, and Comethup waited breathlessly for the captain to speak. But the captain merely stood up and murmured the words of the simple grace which closed each meal, and then walked across to the window. He stood there looking out for a long time, and finally twisted round and spoke a little more sharply than usual, perhaps to hide that which he did not care to show.

“Boy, life’s a big campaigning ground, where every man is under orders from a general he doesn’t even see. Sometimes it’s his good luck to march shoulder to shoulder with a friend for a bit, even to fight shoulder to shoulder with him. But an order may come suddenly, and the one marches off to some other place where he is wanted, or where promotion is quicker. Old and young, rich and poor, gentle and simple, we’re all under orders, boy, and if at the last, when the fight is done, there’s a comrade beside us to close our eyes and hold our hand for the last time—well, the great general has been merciful, that’s all.”

He paused for a moment, then sat down on the window seat and shaded his eyes with his hand.

“If it should happen that you have to go out into the great world now, as you surely must go some day—well, I’d be a poor fellow, and a bad friend, and no true soldier, if I held you back. It may not happen now, but—if it does”—he looked up quickly and smiled at the boy—“we sha’n’t be the worse friends, Comethup, and we sha’n’t forget each other—shall we?”

Comethup’s heart was almost too full to reply, but he gasped out, “No, sir,” and the captain got up with a smile.

“That’s well, boy. Now, I suppose your aunt will be expecting you, and you’d better go back to her. Please let me know what she proposes you should do, and when you are to leave us, if you go at all.”

Comethup saluted gravely and went out of the house with a heavy heart. At the inn he found his aunt impatiently walking up and down her sitting room; she stopped as he entered and addressed him by name, although he had not spoken.

“Well, Comethup, settled it with the captain, eh?”

“I’ve had dinner with him,” replied Comethup evasively.

“Ah—and talked about me the whole time, I’ll warrant! Well, I’m sure I don’t mind, and you don’t either of you know enough of me to say any harm.”

“I do assure you, aunt,” said Comethup, “that the captain spoke most highly of you.”

“Very nice of him, I’m sure. Quite pleasant to know that you impress people like that. However, we won’t talk about the captain now, or anybody else. Come over here.”

She seated herself near a window and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder in the same fashion as before. Comethup felt that his fate was about to be decided, and trembled a little, a fact which she instantly detected.

“Well, what’s the matter with you?” she asked, although not unkindly. “Do you think I’m going to eat you, or do something else dreadful to you? Have you ever read any fairy tales? Have you ever heard about a fairy godmother?”

“Yes,” said Comethup.

“Well, then, I’m going to be your fairy godmother. I’m going to show you what the world is like, boy; I’m going to look after you, and—if you’ve got the stuff in you, as I think you have—I’m going to make a man of you. Understand this: I want to make a bargain with you—a bargain I think you’re sensible enough to understand. Treat me fairly, and be straight and clear with me, and tell me the truth in everything you do, and, by the Lord! I’ll never desert you; play me false, or prove anything but what I believe you to be, and I’ll turn you out of doors at a moment’s notice to starve. I don’t want to make a prig of you. I don’t mind if you get into trouble, or what you do, so that you’re a man; anything short of that I won’t stand. Now, will you take the risk?”

It was a strange proposition to make to a child, but, in her deep earnestness, she did not seem to understand the strangeness of it. Comethup hesitated for a moment, and then began politely, “It’s very kind of you, aunt, and——” but she instantly checked him.

“Never mind that. What do you say? You must remember that I’m a lonely old woman, and a bit short in my temper on occasion; but I’ll be a good friend to you if you’ll be a good friend to me. That’s fair and square, isn’t it? I only want you to love me a little, Comethup, and you may be sure I shall know the difference between the false and the real. If you try to humbug me, I’ve done with you. Now, what’s it to be? Yes or No?”

“Yes,” said Comethup.

“Good! Not another word. If you don’t mind kissing a blind old fright you can kiss me, and we’ll call it sealed. Now, when will you be ready to start?”

“To London?” asked Comethup, anxiously.

“Yes, to London. You can’t start being a man in this one-eyed old town; you’d simply vegetate.”

“You see, aunt,” he began, timidly, “there are people—people I should like to say good-bye to. They’ve all been very kind to me, and I shouldn’t like them to think——”

“That you were turning your back on them in a hurry, eh? You’re quite right, boy; only I don’t want to stop here forever, and you must get your farewells done with. How many of these people are there? Half the town full, I suppose?”

“Oh, no,” replied Comethup, laughing; “there’s only the captain and—and ’Linda——”

She caught him up swiftly on that name. “Halloo! who’s ’Linda?”

“A—a little girl,” said Comethup faintly.

“Oh, you dog! you’ve begun precious early. Why, you oughtn’t to know what a petticoat means at your age. Is she pretty, child?”

“Very pretty,” said Comethup, with an air of deep conviction.

She rocked herself over her stick and laughed delightedly, and shook him by the shoulders. “I like you the better for it; we’ll make a man of you all the more easily. I suppose you’ll break your heart, or hers, when you leave her?”

“I shall be very sorry,” replied the boy, “and I think she’ll be sorry too.”

“Well, well, you shall come back and see her; I don’t want you to lose any of your friends. Only, mind, I must be first; I’m beginning to have a devil of a jealousy in me, child, of all these friends of yours who seem so fond of you. Is there any one else?”

“Yes; there’s Brian.”

The old lady stiffened a little. “Well, it won’t break his heart, at all events. Any one else?”

“Yes, one more; Mr. Theed.”

“And who the devil’s Mr. Theed?” she asked, wrinkling her brow.

“Oh, he’s a shoemaker—quite a nice shoemaker, I do assure you; he has dreams, and visions, and things. The captain likes him immensely, and ’Linda worships him. I think that’s all.”

“And enough, too,” she ejaculated. “Lord, what a family! The strangest collection I should think anybody could have got together! Comethup, I’m beginning to think you’re a very remarkable child. Well, how long do you want to say ‘Good-bye’ to these people? Of course we must stay here for a day or two—until after the funeral. Suppose we say a week; will that be long enough?”

Comethup caught gladly at the suggestion, and so the matter was settled. His aunt informed him that she had taken a room for him at the inn, and that he was to sleep there during the remainder of his stay in the old town. She gave him perfect freedom during the day, making the sole stipulation that he must dine with her at seven o’clock every evening; he could leave her immediately after breakfast, but he must never fail to put in an appearance at dinner. Having said this, she quite abruptly dismissed him, and he left her pacing up and down the room, with her stick lightly tapping the floor before her as she walked.

That strange week passed all too swiftly. There was so much to be crowded into it; so many delightful places—never so delightful as now—crowded with childish memories which had to be visited, and to which silent farewells had to be given. Not all the importance which his new dignity gave to him could quite swallow up the sorrow he felt in tearing himself away from the only place he had ever known. He wished, ungratefully enough sometimes, that he might wake suddenly and find that it had all been a dream, and that his aunt had never really come into his life, save in a dream; wished passionately that he might keep the people and the things about him just as they had ever been. Knowing nothing of that inevitable and seemingly cruel shifting about of the pawn in the great game of life, he resented it miserably and wondered why it should be necessary.

He saw the captain every day. Like an older child than himself, the captain planned to make the week seem longer than it really was; spun out the hours, arranged excursions to their old haunts, and tried valiantly to set aside the thought that their parting was near at hand. Once, indeed, when they were together on the old sandy waste outside the town he started a lesson, new and subtle, in military operations, but broke down in the middle and sat brooding, with his chin resting on his hands. They walked home silently, hand in hand, afterward, and the captain’s voice was husky when Comethup left him at the gate of his cottage garden.

With ’Linda it was a different matter. Comethup sought her one afternoon in the desolate garden of her father’s house, and, by good chance, found her wandering alone there. She ran to him with a cry of delight and hugged him in the usual tumultuous fashion; then, seeing his grave face, became grave in an instant for sympathy, and asked him what was the matter.

“I—I’m going away,” said Comethup, “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

She held him from her at arm’s length for a moment, and then threw her arms about him and clung to him, and shook him despairingly. “Oh, but you mustn’t, you mustn’t! Who’s going to take you away? What shall I do when you’re gone?”

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Comethup, miserably. “But you see I can’t help it. My father’s dead, and my aunt has come down to take me to London. You know, ’Linda, there’s the captain, and Brian, and Mr. Theed; you won’t be quite alone, will you?”

“Oh, it’s bad of you, it’s cruel of you!” she exclaimed, crying, and shaking him, and clinging to him by turns. “None of them are like you; I don’t love any of them as I love you, you know I don’t.”

That was very gratifying to Comethup; he felt his heart swell within him, even in the midst of his misery. “Yes, I know, I know,” he said, striving to soothe her. “But I’m coming down to see you, you know; I’m not going away altogether. In fact, I’m not going away at all for a day or two. It hurts me very much, indeed it does, to have to say good-bye at all; but I can’t help it, and I don’t really want to go at all.”

But she was not to be soothed or convinced. He left her in the desolate garden, with her arms laid against the trunk of a tree and her head resting upon them. He could scarcely find his way between the big iron gates for the tears in his own eyes.

He saw her again, a couple of days later, in the old shoemaker’s shop; and then, with the quick forgetfulness of childhood, her sorrow seemed to have gone in great measure, and she asked him eagerly about what he was going to do, and spoke with sparkling eyes of the glories of that London to which he was going—glories which the captain had painted for them. The shoemaker hammered away at his work, apparently without listening; but he must have heard the conversation, for, when Comethup was leaving with the girl, he ceased hammering, looked up, and spoke.

“You’d better have stayed here, boy,” he said sharply. “Folks that go to great cities lose their dreams, lose everything that’s worth the keeping. You’ll be rich; you’ll wear fine clothes and see fine people; it’ll spoil ye. That life spoils ’em all. He came from a great city,” he added, in a lower voice.

Comethup gently replied that he hoped it would not spoil him; and presently, after gravely shaking hands with Medmer Theed, went away with the girl. But, after they had stepped into the street, the old man came hurriedly to the door and called him back. Waving the girl aside, he bent down and whispered in the boy’s ear:

“If I’ve been harsh to ye, don’t take heed of it. And look to yourself, boy. I had a dream of ye last night, when the moon was high, and it troubles me. I can’t quite make it out, but there was blood upon you, boy, and it frightens me. Look to yourself in that great city. Yes, I remember there was blood upon ye.”

Comethup, a little frightened, stared at the old man for a moment, and then hurriedly joined ’Linda and drew her away. He turned the matter over in his mind once or twice, but, remembering the wild dreams the old man had had before, and being but a child, with many more important things to think of, it slipped from his memory, happily enough, and did not trouble him.

He took ’Linda back to her father’s house in the late afternoon, after roaming about with her during the day, and set off for the captain’s cottage. For the captain had been invited by Miss Charlotte Carlaw to dine with her that evening, and he was to accompany Comethup back to the inn. Miss Carlaw had asked the boy, kindly enough, if he would care to invite his old friend, and Comethup had gladly seized the opportunity. He found the captain a gorgeous figure—in his eyes at least.

That gallant gentleman had raked out of his wardrobe his dress suit; it had lain there unworn for years, since his seclusion in the country, and was very old-fashioned and somewhat threadbare. But Comethup felt more proud than ever of his friend, and only wished that his aunt had eyes to see him. Comethup, for his part, cut a somewhat better figure in the matter of dress than he had hitherto done, for his aunt had had him measured for a new suit of mourning, and had gone down to the little shop at which it was being made, every hour or two during the day, and had so frightened the unfortunate tailor that the clothes had been completed in an incredibly short space of time.

The captain put on his old military cloak, in order to hide something of his glory from the mere ordinary people in the streets, and the two set out for the inn together. Comethup, remembering his aunt’s attitude toward the captain on the occasion of their first meeting, trembled a little as to the reception he would meet with; but was delighted to find that the old lady was graciousness itself. She welcomed the captain to her quarters with profuse apologies for the poorness of the fare and the meagreness of the room.

“Not my fault, you know, sir,” she said, “but that infernal brother of mine. Of course, I’ve not been able to discover whether there is a better inn than this in the town, but I’m convinced there must be, and that it’s just a trick on the part of Bob Carlaw to cause me annoyance. Oh, I know him, and I’ll be even with him some day.”

“I fear, madam,” said the captain, “that our little town is somewhat deficient in accommodation for travellers. You see, we never have anybody here, or very rarely. This is a very good inn in its way, and I——”

“I beg your pardon, captain,” she interrupted, sharply, “you haven’t lived in it. I say that it’s a devilish bad inn. There, there, forgive my short temper. I shall be very glad to get back to London again, where I know every turn and corner of the house I live in, and can’t run against things unexpectedly. Will you oblige me, captain, by informing me if it’s after seven o’clock?”

The captain consulted his old-fashioned watch. “By the clock of the parish church, madam, it is some three minutes past the hour,” he said.

She rapped impatiently on the floor with her stick. “Comethup, ring the bell; ring it hard. I’ll let these people know that when I say seven I mean seven.”

The entrance of dinner as Comethup’s hand was on the bell saved a further explosion, and they sat down. The captain could not but admire, as Comethup had done before, the ease and dexterity with which Miss Carlaw found everything she wanted, seeming to know by the slightest movement of her quick hands exactly where everything about her was. She kept up a running fire of comment on herself and her mode of life, and on all she had already planned to do for her nephew.

“I suppose, like the rest of them, captain, you think I’m a helpless old woman, and bemoan my fate to be shut up in darkness, eh?” She went on rapidly, without giving him time for a reply: “Indeed, you’re quite mistaken. I’ve got such a blessed lot to be thankful for that I haven’t time to think about any little trifle that might otherwise worry me. Look at me, sound and strong and hearty, with everything I want in this world, and the other one too far off to be thought of yet a bit. Oh, and I can assure you I’m not a lonely old woman by any means. I love company; I love to hear voices and laughter and music all about me; there’s nothing like it to keep the heart young. I can tell you there’s generally a house full where Charlotte Carlaw is—and merry times the rogues have, men and women alike.” She paused, and her face grew grave and thoughtful for a moment. “Only sometimes, when they’re all gone, and the music has ceased and the house is quiet, I’ve felt—I’m an old fool, I know—but I’ve felt it would be good to have some one, pure and sweet of heart—some one who didn’t love me for my money, or because I said smart things, or sharp things, or because I was eccentric; some one who’d gone deeper into the heart of the old woman than that, and understood her a little. D’you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I think so,” said the captain.

Comethup, at that change in the old woman’s voice, had unconsciously moved his hand along the table nearer toward her; she must have been aware of the movement, for she dropped her own unerringly upon it. “And even here, you see,” she went on, “the Lord was good to me; I found this baby. I tried to find one before, but, oh! that boy! I sha’n’t forget it in a hurry. He’ll do big things, I don’t doubt; there’s no knowing what he will do; but he was too much for me. It’s all surface—surface there; I suppose he can’t help it, but it’s all sparkle and dash and nothing else. This chap’s different, I think.”

“I know it,” said the captain.

“You’re rather fond of the boy, aren’t you?” she asked.

“We’re very good friends,” said the captain, with a smile at Comethup. “I was a lonely old man before he came; I suppose I shall be a lonely old man again. But I’m not—not such a curmudgeon that I can’t be glad at his good fortune.”

“Well spoken, well spoken,” cried Miss Carlaw, rapping her knuckles on the table. “And you mustn’t think you’re losing the boy; I’ll trot him down here to see you as often as I can spare him. And you must come up and pay me a visit in London; we’ll always be glad to see you.”

Comethup’s face brightened, and the captain thanked Miss Carlaw cordially. She gave the old soldier permission to smoke, and signed to Comethup to produce a box of cigars, the best the inn could afford, from the side-board.

“You must forget my sex, you know, captain,” she said, “and look upon me as a host rather than a hostess. I should probably smoke myself if it weren’t that I’m afraid that I might startle this baby. Oh, I’m going to make a man of him, captain; I’m going to make a devilish fine man of him. And, by the Lord! I think he shall be a soldier.”

The captain beamed upon her; saw in this the opportunity for the gratification of those desires he had had, but which he had seen so little prospect of carrying into effect. With the delighted boy sitting between them, they began eagerly to build plans for his future, until, before the captain took his leave, Comethup had grown, in their loving imagination, into a giant of six feet five at least, and was a guardsman in a shining helmet and with a long, drooping mustache. Finally, when the moment for parting came, this extraordinary old woman started up and insisted on the three of them joining hands and singing “For Auld Lang Syne” until the tears stood in Comethup’s eyes and he wanted to embrace both his friends from sheer emotion.

But there was a sadder day to come—a day when the parting was to be in earnest. Comethup had already said his farewells to Brian, who, indeed, took the matter light-heartedly enough, and waved aside Comethup’s carefully prepared apology to him for having apparently stepped into his shoes. Comethup was glad indeed to think that his cousin bore no resentment toward him.

Miss Charlotte Carlaw, delicately enough, had prevented the boy’s presence at his father’s funeral; only on the day following it the captain had gone with him to the churchyard, and had shown him a new mound, on which fresh wreaths of flowers were lying—a mound close beside the one he already knew so well. It had been a conspiracy between his aunt and the captain to keep his thoughts away from that sad subject, and the boy was a little remorseful at the thought of how well they had succeeded; but his father’s life had been in a sense a thing apart from his—a thing so peaceful and full of quiet dreams that it seemed but a natural and fitting ending, even to the mind of the child, that he should sleep here calmly, in this beautiful place, beside the woman he had loved.

The captain had arranged to collect such personal effects of the late David Willis as might be of interest to his son—personal papers, and some portraits of his dead mother, and a few trinkets; the rest were to be sold. Comethup’s life in that quiet old place seemed to have closed strangely enough; he seemed, in a sense, to have left those who belonged to him sleeping quietly near their home, and to be going out of the life he had known quite naturally, now that the life itself existed no more.

The day fixed for the departure came at last, dawning just as placidly as a hundred other days had dawned. Comethup even thought it strange that people whose faces he knew passed along in the street below the window of the inn where he sat and went about their business quite heedless of the small boy who seemed to be leaving everything behind. He reflected miserably that everything would go on just the same when he had gone—that the snow would come, and the leaves fall, and the roses bloom again, for some one else; that the captain would take his walks abroad, and sit in church on sunny Sunday mornings; that ’Linda would wander forlorn among the trees in that dreary garden. He fell upon his knees before he left his room and prayed desperately and with tears that God would teach them not to forget him.

He was very silent over breakfast, and his aunt was quick to understand the cause. “What, not all the farewells made yet, boy? How many more people have you got to weep over before you’re carried away captive? There, there, I’m not laughing at you; the Lord forbid! I dare say you want an hour or two to yourself, just to rush round and embrace folks. I’ve ordered a carriage, and I’m going to drive to Deal. I can get a train direct there to London; if I went to the wretched little station here, I should have to change once at least, and that’s a nuisance. It’s not a long drive, and I shall leave here directly after lunch. Lunch at two, sharp; we’ll leave at a quarter to three. So I’ll give you until two o’clock. Off with you.”

Comethup made the most of those few hours. In quite a systematic fashion he went from place to place that he had known, going first to his father’s house, and looking up at the shuttered windows, for the place had been closed, and the captain had the key until after the sale. The boy wandered through the garden of the roses, and into every nook and corner wherein he had played so often in those earlier years; thence into the churchyard, with no feeling of fear, and scarcely one of any very deep sorrow. The place was so quiet and lay so calmly in the sunshine, and the birds fluttered and chirped so gayly about it, that it seemed a good thing that the two gentle creatures, who had loved each other and him so well, should be sleeping quietly there. He stole into the church, sat down in the captain’s pew, and thought of all that had happened since last he sat there. But he was young, and there were living things to be seen, and he did not remain there long.

He ran hard to the captain, only to discover that that gentleman was out. The man Homer informed him that the captain had gone out immediately after breakfast, and had not said when he would return. Comethup, after waiting impatiently a little while, saluted Homer, and then shook hands with him and went away.

The day seemed marked out for disappointment. ’Linda was not in the garden, and when, taking his courage in both hands, he knocked boldly at the door of Dr. Vernier’s house, there was no response. Nor was she to be discovered in the shop of Medmer Theed; and that strange old man himself appeared to be so frantically busy that he hammered away as if for dear life, and scarcely returned Comethup’s greeting.

The boy wandered disconsolately out on to the sandy wastes beyond the town, looking keenly in all directions, in the hope of seeing a familiar figure. But no one was in sight, and when presently he heard the clock of the old church chime the three quarters he hurried back to the inn.

“Well,” cried Miss Carlaw as he entered, “have you got it all over, eh?”

“I haven’t seen any one,” said Comethup.

“Ah, that’s unfortunate. But I can’t give you any more hours, you know. Too much emotion isn’t good for the young, and you’ve had a week of it. Come, eat your lunch.”

The carriage was at the inn door exactly to the minute, and the small luggage put upon it. Comethup, before he followed his aunt into the vehicle, looked wistfully up and down the street, but no one he knew was in sight. Their way, however, lay past the captain’s cottage, and there, to his infinite delight, was the captain at his garden gate, shading his eyes with his hand and looking up and down the road.

“Oh, please,” cried Comethup, frantically, “please may we stop?”

“What the devil for?” asked Miss Carlaw, sharply.

“Oh, there’s the captain, standing at his gate, looking for me. I really can’t go without saying good-bye to him.”

“All right; I suppose you must. Call to the man to stop. A minute, mind, no longer.”

Comethup tumbled out of the carriage, almost before it had stopped, and ran back to the captain. The captain saw the boy flying down the road toward him; tried to salute in the old stiff fashion, but changed in a moment, and caught the little figure in his arms and held him tightly. For a moment neither could speak; and then the captain, as if ashamed of showing any emotion, thrust the boy gently away, cleared his throat, and spoke quickly. “Thought I’d missed you, Comethup. Make a man of yourself, so that I’ll be proud of you. And—and write to me; tell me all you do. There’s your aunt waving from the carriage. Good-bye.”

Comethup hurried back to the carriage, turning his head once, as he ran, to see the captain standing stiffly at the garden gate shading his eyes and looking after him. The boy got into the carriage, and the horses started again.

“Well, now I hope you’re satisfied,” exclaimed Miss Carlaw. “Just understand I don’t stop for anything else—not a minute. We sha’n’t get to Deal this time next week if I have to keep dropping you on the road to embrace all the inhabitants.”

As the carriage turned out of the town Comethup, looking out of the window, saw two figures moving slowly along a road across the end of which they drove. Their faces were toward him, although they were not looking at him; he saw that it was his cousin Brian and ’Linda. The boy’s arm was thrown round the girl’s shoulders, and he seemed to be explaining something to her about some flowers or grasses he held as they strolled along. Comethup gazed wistfully at them, but, remembering his aunt’s words, he was silent, and the carriage soon left them out of sight. The last spire of the old town, the last red roof, had disappeared, and only the flat country lay on either side of the broad road. And so Comethup Willis left the things he knew behind him.