AN INCUBUS, AND THE DEMON OF JEALOUSY.

Of all the people in their small world, it is possible that Mr. Robert Carlaw was quite the last they would have chosen as a companion for what had promised to be a happy day. He sat for some time in gloomy thought, waking now and then to a sudden smile, as though joyousness were expected of him, but showing plainly that the effort cost him something, and was difficult. The lightness had gone out of the others, too; they sat more stiffly than they had done, and looked anywhere but at him. At last, with a sigh, he broke the silence.

“I can not tell you,” he began, “how grateful I am to Providence that I met you. For me the sun shines no more; blackness creeps about me. If I should laugh a little in the sun to-day, if I should be glad that bright faces are before me”—he bowed toward the young people—“believe that it is only a passing thing, and that despair—horrible despair—will claim me for its own within a few hours. Sir”—he turned abruptly on the captain—“I am a most unhappy man.”

“Indeed, I am sorry to hear it,” replied the captain coldly.

“A most unhappy man,” pursued the other. “I have been stung, sir, stung to the quick; I have nursed—nay, fondled—a viper in my bosom, with the inevitable result. I allude, sir, to my son. Debts I could have forgiven, recklessness I could condone—it is in the blood, and must out; but ingratitude, never! When I think of all that that boy owes to me—his talents, his education, everything—I feel that it is too much. Even the family temper—the temper that will take him far—he owes to me. And now, sir, what does he do?”

The captain shifted uneasily in his seat, and Comethup looked distressed; ’Linda had turned her head away.

“He forsakes me in my declining years; mocks the hand that fed him; leaves me to loneliness and despair. And yet, foolish creature that I am, my heart still yearns for him; my hearth is still warm for him. After all,” he pursued, in a lighter vein, “I suppose I have no right to complain. As I have said, it is in the blood; he bears the taint that has kept his wretched father down in the world, and yet—thank God!—the taint which has kept him a gentleman.” His breast swelled, and he shook his head valiantly.

No one quite knew what to say, and there was an awkward silence. Comethup glanced at ’Linda, but she was still looking out across the country, and he could not clearly see her face.

“I suppose,” went on Mr. Robert Carlaw, rapidly regaining his more joyous manner—“I suppose that one must expect that young birds will try their wings, and fly from the nest in time. I trust that he will fly strongly; I’m sure he will fly strongly. But he was made for better things than to seek his fortune in the rough-and-tumble of the world. Like his unfortunate father, he is a disappointed man; he should have had a fortune, but for the caprices—there, there, we will say no more of that. I had hoped, too, that he might have remained, for another reason; I had almost believed that a childish attachment was ripening into—but no matter; time will show.”

Comethup glanced at ’Linda again; her face was still averted, but on her cheek he could see that a sudden flush had grown, and that her hands were toying nervously with a ribbon at her waist. Deep down in his heart a little sudden chill of uneasiness sprang up and clouded the day for him; he had a quick memory of the last time he had traversed that road in a carriage as a child, when he had seen his cousin and the girl strolling down a lane together, the boy’s arm round her neck. He wanted to spring up and tell Mr. Robert Carlaw that it wasn’t true, that no one wanted him there, and that he was spoiling everything and making every one unhappy. But he sat still, and for a time they drove on in silence.

The picnic was not a success. The day was perfect, Homer’s catering of the best, and the wine excellent; but, hovering over all, was the melancholy spirit of Mr. Robert Carlaw, accompanied, strangely enough, in Comethup’s mind at least, by another spirit—that of a bright-faced, handsome fellow, wandering alone in a big city and fighting hard against desperate odds. Certainly Mr. Carlaw did his best to be agreeable; showed much alacrity in opening bottles and spreading out the contents of the basket; was eager in his attentions to Comethup, whom he persistently styled “my lucky nephew.” Indeed, it became evident that he was anxious to ingratiate himself in Comethup’s good graces; he pressed wine upon him, as though the feast had been of his giving; sat beside him and flattered him with talk of the boy’s school career—of which he professed to have heard minute details; and generally endeavoured to be very lively and agreeable.

After the meal was ended, and they had all regained something of their lost spirits, ’Linda laughingly announced that she was going to search for fairies in the wood, and ran off among the trees; Comethup sprang up and went after her. But even here Robert Carlaw was not to be shaken off; he cried out something about his youth returning, and plunged after them. The fairies were forgotten, and Comethup strolled sulkily beside her, with Mr. Robert Carlaw close at his elbow, swinging his stick jauntily and humming an air.

“A word with you, my dear nephew,” he said, linking his arm in that of the boy and bending his head toward him. “Our young friend here does not matter, and is probably”—he smiled and nodded at her—“sympathetic. I have always had a kindly feeling for you, my dear boy. In the case of another man, who carried his heart less openly on his sleeve than I do, that feeling might have been lessened by the fact that an inscrutable Providence thrust you into my boy’s place. But that, sir, does not influence me; my heart rings true to those of my own blood, those I would call my friends, without any consideration of mere earthly gain to influence me. In a word, boy”—this with charming frankness—“I like you; fortune has not spoiled you, and I feel that there is much in our natures—simplicity and guilelessness—that is akin. I want you to look upon me as your friend; I do not want us to lose sight of each other. The world is a wicked place, full, I am told, of schemers and double dealers. You may need protection; count on me. Remember that my poor house, such as it is, is open to you. I may be coming to London—probably in search of my truant—and we may meet. There are those in London who know Bob Carlaw—good fellows all, mind you, and gentlemen—and I promise you sha’n’t have a dull moment. Oh, I assure you Bob is well known in town—among the best.”

Comethup, who was really a little captivated by the man’s manner, murmured politely that he would be very glad to see him in town, and that he was quite sure they would always be good friends. Mr. Robert Carlaw wrung his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, and appeared very grateful and very much moved. So complete was his gratitude, indeed, that he was not to be shaken off in any way; he kept quite close to his young friend until they were all ready to get again into the carriage.

The drive home was a silent one, at least for some part of it. Within a few miles of the town Mr. Robert Carlaw fell into a heavy slumber, and the three drew heads together and conversed in whispers. Comethup, who had not been very happy all day, received unexpected comfort, for, as he sat beside the girl, he suddenly felt her warm, slim fingers slipped into his hand, and he held them softly until the carriage stopped. If the captain saw anything, he was discreet enough not to appear to notice it.

They shook Mr. Carlaw to consciousness at his own gate. He was profuse in apologies and thanks, and it was somewhat difficult to get rid of him; indeed, he ran back to the carriage just as it was starting, to grasp Comethup again by the hand and to look fervently into his eyes.

They all got out at the captain’s cottage, and ’Linda and Comethup lingered for a moment in the garden among the roses, while the captain went inside. When the captain came out again, smoking, the girl announced that she must go home at once; it was getting late. Comethup immediately offered to escort her, and she kissed the captain and went off with the boy down the road in the twilight.

Now there were a hundred things which Comethup wished to say; a hundred indefinite and tantalizing matters to which he seemed vaguely to seek an answer. But the boy was more afraid of this slip of a girl than he had ever been of anything or any one in all his life; the very flutter of her dress in the semi-darkness, the light touch of a ribbon-end which blew out and whipped his hand once as he walked beside her, were disquieting and awe-inspiring things. He tried frantically, as he had tried before, to hark back to the old days when they had been children, and she had clung to him and cried upon his shoulder. But this was no child; this was something wonderful, that had her eyes and her voice, and a suggestion of her in many little ways; but it was a different being, and the child of old times might have been a ghost indeed, as he had once believed, for anything she had in common with this girl. Yet something must be said, and he plunged at the matter.

“’Linda!”

She looked round at him quickly. “Yes,” she said.

“I’m so awfully glad that—that you’ve been able to go with us there. I mean that I——”

“Oh, it’s been glorious! I can feel the swing of the carriage now, even while I’m walking. And it’s been such a lovely day! Of course, it would have been better if Mr. Carlaw hadn’t dropped down upon us; but it was very nice as it was.”

“It—it wouldn’t have been half so nice if—if you hadn’t been there,” ventured Comethup, trembling. “I mean that I—oh, I haven’t had a chance of saying how glad I was to find that you—that you remembered me, and—and liked me; you know I had all the messages you sent me while I was at school; I haven’t forgotten one of them; I couldn’t forget them.”

“Oh, yes; the captain always asked me if I had any message for you, and so—and so of course I sent them.”

“But you—you didn’t mind sending them; I mean you liked sending them,” said Comethup, hurriedly.

“Why, of course; we had been such good friends, and I——”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Comethup, eagerly. “We were always good friends, weren’t we?—and although I’ve been away so long, still that doesn’t make any difference, does it? What I wanted to say was that—that I hope you won’t forget me when I’ve gone to London; that I shall be able to see you sometimes. You won’t forget me, will you, ’Linda?”

They had reached the gate leading into her father’s garden, and they passed in together. She looked round at him for a moment and smiled, and held out her hand quite frankly, with much of the girlish bashfulness gone. “No, I sha’n’t forget you, Comethup,” she said. “I sha’n’t forget that you were my first friend. Do you remember the night, long ago, when you found me here in this garden? And then afterward you brought the captain to me. How could I forget?”

He took the hand, and held it in both his own. “I was quite sure you wouldn’t, ’Linda,” he said, gladly. “I never forgot you all the years I was at school, although I couldn’t see you. But I’ll see you often now; I shall be coming down from London to see the captain, I expect.”

“London?” she said, absently. “Every one seems to go to London. Brian has gone there.”

There came again that little chill feeling at his heart to curb his gladness. “Yes,” he said, slowly, “I suppose you’ve seen a great deal of Brian?”

“Oh, there was no one else to see, except the captain. Brian and I have always been good friends; I think he was quite sorry to go away from me.”

Comethup stirred the leaves impatiently with his foot. “I suppose—I suppose you’re very—very fond of Brian?”

She laughed gayly, and twisted herself so that her skirt twirled about her. “Oh, yes,” she said, “we got on very well together. He was always getting into trouble, poor boy, and then he used to come to me for advice. You see, I’d known him always; we met each other every day.”

Comethup found himself making a rough calculation of what eight times three hundred and sixty-five would be, but checked himself in the midst of it to ask, “I suppose—you’re ever so much fonder of him than you are of me?”

She laughed again, and took a step or two toward the house, then came back to him. “I didn’t say so,” she said, softly. “Besides, what does it matter?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Comethup. “Only I should like you—I should like you to be fond of me; I should like——”

“I am fond of you, Comethup,” she said; and laughed again, in that provoking fashion she had. He laughed too, then, and held out his hand sheepishly.

“Good-night, ’Linda,” he said.

She slipped her fingers round his, and drew nearer to him. “Don’t be cross,” she said, in a whisper. “I love all my friends. You may kiss me if you like.”

She turned one cheek toward him, and he bent forward reverently and touched it with his lips. Then, waving her hand to him, she sped away between the trees toward the house. He stood for some moments looking after her, and then turned and walked back to the captain’s cottage, with his head in a whirl. He was quite certain of two things: that ’Linda was the most beautiful woman in the world, and that he was desperately in love with her and would be prepared to face all things for her sake, and perform prodigies of valour for her, and go out, if need be, a lonely exile, carrying a broken heart in his bosom and a stern yet gentle face to his fellows—all of which he knew was the proper thing to do, from the manly standpoint, in the present state of his feelings.

He saw ’Linda almost every day during his stay in the old town; they walked and drove with the captain, and came, toward the end of the week, to renew something of the old happy familiarity of their childhood. Comethup suffered all the tortures and all the ecstasies of a boy in his condition; was set walking upon air by a word from her, or a pressure of her fingers; or was plunged into the depths of misery by a rebuff, however slight or meaningless. But, being young and wonderfully healthy, he slept well and did not lose his appetite; and the matter, serious as he thought it, had no great effect upon him.

The day came when he was to start for London to join his aunt. He had decided to drive to Deal, as she had done, and there take a train for London; the fly was to come for him and his belongings immediately after breakfast. ’Linda breakfasted with them that morning, and seemed, Comethup thought miserably, brighter and happier than usual. For himself, he wondered what he should say to her, or what she would have to say to him, when the moment for parting came.

When the fly drew up at the door, he shook hands with the captain and then turned toward the girl. With downcast eyes she offered him her cheek and gave him her hand; but the captain cried: “Lips, you rogue; the boy’s not kissing his grandmother!”

Blushingly she turned her face, and their lips met; and Comethup stumbled somehow out of the house. As he was getting into the fly she ran out of the garden and came close to him.

“Comethup!” she whispered.

He turned, and leaned toward her. “Yes, ’Linda; what is it?”

“You’re going to London; you may meet—may see Brian; oh, please carry my—my good wishes to him, and say I want to know what he is doing and if he is prospering. You will, won’t you, Comethup?”

He looked at her eager face and nodded slowly and solemnly. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll tell him. We shall be sure to meet, you know; I’ll certainly tell him. Good-bye!”

She smiled gratefully, and kissed her hand to him. He carried the remembrance of those last words of hers on the journey to London, and turned them over and over as he went.