COMETHUP IS SHADOWED.

Comethup, sitting in solemn state with his aunt in a great box which would comfortably have held six, could not quite get rid of that guilty feeling he had of having deceived her. It was certainly the first time, but, despite the difference in their ages and dispositions, and despite the relationship existing between them, they had hitherto been in all things friends; there was a fine comradeship between the old woman and the boy—a comradeship which had demanded complete confidence on his part and equal trust on hers. Having nothing to conceal, his life had been like an open book to her, and she had read the book eagerly and with satisfaction. Now, for the first time, it had become necessary that he should deceive her; that, however justly, he should use her money for a purpose of which she would not have approved.

On the other hand, he thought with very genuine sympathy and affection of Brian, the boy who seemed destined to make so much more of life than Comethup could hope to do; who was in every sense, he thought, made of better and finer stuff. He remembered how he had said that fifty pounds would keep him beyond the reach of want for a year in London, and trembled a little to think how small a sum fifty pounds really meant; he found himself doing disturbing sums in division in his head, and figuring out how much lay between Brian and starvation every week.

In an interval between the acts, when the lights were turned fully on in the theatre, he leaned out over the edge of the box and carelessly looked at the people below. Not a few glasses were levelled at him, and not a few whispers went round concerning the identity of the handsome boy who sat in the big box with the old woman with the closed eyes. Gazing beneath him at the rows of stalls, he suddenly caught his breath and drew back; then leaned over again in some amazement. Beneath him, seated beside a lady in evening dress, was Brian Carlaw.

Comethup’s exclamation had not been unnoticed by his aunt. “Some one you know?” she inquired.

“I—I’m not quite sure,” said Comethup. “I think I’ll go round and see, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means,” said Miss Carlaw. “If it’s anybody nice, bring ’em here; if you think they’ll bore me, don’t.”

Comethup made his way down to the stalls, and came face to face with Brian, who was coming out. Brian looked confused for a moment, and then extended his hand. “My dear old boy, this is delightful. Twice in one day; there’s a fate in it. I dare say you’re surprised to see me here; but, as a matter of fact, it’s a piece of speculation. There’s a woman”—he jerked his head to indicate the lady whose side he had quitted—“who’s very good fun, and very useful. She’s taken rather a fancy to this budding versifier, and I think it’s probable that she may be able to do something for me. At all events, she’s a useful person to know. So you see, as it’s no use hoping to do anything in this world without taking risks, your money enabled me to secure a couple of stalls to-night; to bring her down here in style—in a word, to make a good impression. My dear boy, it’ll pay; depend upon it, it’ll pay well. I told you this morning that I was learning the trick of the whole business; it’s as easy as winking when you know it, and I think it’ll carry me through anything. You may sit and write and starve in your garret forever, and do not a ha’porth of good; you’ve got to come out of your garret and cut a good figure if people are to believe you. I’m beginning to like the game; I am, indeed. Come and have a cigarette.”

Comethup hastily declined, murmured something about how glad he was to see Brian again, and went back to his aunt’s box. He hoped, and indeed believed, that it was all right; but a little curious feeling of doubt in regard to Brian came into his mind, and would not be dispelled. He watched his cousin and the lady who was with him during the evening; noticed that Brian sat very close to her and whispered; observed that she talked in loud tones and laughed somewhat immoderately, and made considerable play with a huge feather fan. He had, too, to begin a new calculation in regard to the money with which he had supplied Brian; found it necessary to deduct from it the price of two stalls and an approximate amount for cabs, and then to redivide the sum remaining by fifty-two; Brian’s income for a year looked meagre indeed. Miss Charlotte Carlaw made inquiries concerning his friend, but Comethup put her off with an evasive reply.

On the following day the final arrangements were made, and they started for the Continent. Miss Charlotte Carlaw had carried the whole matter through with such energy, and in so short a space of time, that there had been no time to inform the captain, but Comethup wrote him a long letter from Paris, on the first day of their arrival there, breaking to him, as gently as possible, the intelligence that they would not be likely to meet for at least three years. The boy thought sometimes, in those early days, that he would have been glad to get back again to the old-fashioned town in which he had been born, and to narrow down his world—which had widened so much recently, and was widening every day—to the captain and ’Linda and the few others who had known and loved him as a child. But he blamed himself the next instant for his ingratitude.

They spent quite a long time in Paris—nearly two months—and at the end of the first month a surprising event occurred.

He was passing one day through the large hall of the hotel at which they were stopping, with his aunt’s hand resting on his arm, when he observed a young man, whose back was toward him, making some inquiries of a servant. The attitude and gestures seemed familiar. As he passed with his aunt toward the staircase he glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the young man had turned and was looking hesitatingly at him. It was his cousin, Brian Carlaw.

Brian made a half-movement toward him, and then looked at the unconscious Charlotte Carlaw, made a comical grimace, and shook his head. As Comethup went on up the stairs, still looking back at the other in perplexity, Brian stepped forward softly and motioned to him to come down again and join him there. Comethup nodded, and continued his way upstairs. He conducted his aunt to her room, and then hurried down again to Brian. That young man received him rapturously, and airily plunged into an explanation.

“Dear old boy, you know you wrote to me, like the good fellow you are, and told me where you were staying. I don’t mind confessing that at first I was wild with envy. Thought I, ‘Paris is the place for inspiration, for beauty, the very home of a poet.’ And then I thought: ‘No, my boy; you’ve got your work to do, and, gray skies or blue, sunshine or rain, you must do it.’ And I do assure you, old fellow, that I went at it hammer and tongs; I did indeed. Can’t we go into the smoking room or somewhere and have a chat?”

Comethup led the way into a corner of the room and they sat down. He began to be a little frightened at the business—a little afraid of this harlequin cousin, who was forever springing upon him, and whose presence he must keep secret.

“But then, while I worked,” pursued Brian, “and I give you my word I did work, away went the money. You’ve no idea what it is in London; you’ve had some one to provide everything for you—I had to provide for myself. And then I found that the days of genius out-at-elbows are gone past; genius must be well dressed now, and make something of a figure, or he’ll be mistaken for a beggar. It would take too long to explain, but the thing has to be done; it’s absolutely necessary. And so”—with a smile and a shrug of his shoulder—“the money went.”

“All of it?” asked Comethup, in a low voice.

“Most of it. I know it seems a lot, but there it is—or rather there it isn’t. Dear old boy”—he leaned affectionately nearer to Comethup—“I suppose we poor devils who live by our wits don’t take life quite in the same way as a more sober citizen might do. I can’t account for it, but if you look back, as I have done, over the histories of any men who’ve made anything of a stir in the world, you’ll find they were improvident, thriftless rascals, who never ought to have been trusted with a penny. They ought to have been given two suits of clothes a year, without any pockets, and fed by the state. It’s a horrible condition of things, that a man who’s doing work that he hopes will live should have to fight and beg for bread and butter. There, it’s no use moralizing; that’s what I told myself two days ago in London, when I’d come down to the last five-pound note. ‘I’ll go to Comethup,’ said I; ‘Comethup is a dear good chap, with plenty of money and nothing to do with it; Comethup knows what I’m going to do, and how I’m working, and all my hopes and plans; Comethup won’t see me fall to the ground.’ So here I am.”

Poor Comethup sat for a moment in silence. He felt the delicacy and yet at the same time the falseness of the position in which he stood. With that feeling which was always strongest in him—the desire not to wound any one’s feelings—he was prompted now to put the matter as gently as possible; but an explanation must be given, and given firmly. After a moment’s silence, he looked round at Brian with a troubled face; Brian, for his part, was smiling and quite at ease.

“You see, Brian,” he began, “I want to help you very much; I should really feel much happier if you had the money altogether. But then my aunt—our aunt, I should say—has been very good to me, and has never denied me anything. The money I lent you before was hers, and as she—well, as she doesn’t——”

“Doesn’t like me, you mean,” broke in Brian, with a laugh. “Oh, I know that quite well; and I can assure you I haven’t the least respect for her. What were you going to say?”

“Well, as she doesn’t like you, I couldn’t, of course, tell her exactly where the money had gone, although she wanted to know. I didn’t tell her quite the truth about it, and it made me feel frightfully mean. You know, if the money were my own, you should have as much as you wanted at any time; as it isn’t, it doesn’t seem quite fair to her, does it?”

“Nonsense! I don’t see it in that light at all,” replied Brian. “She’ll give you anything you like to ask, and she’s got plenty, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that you’re helping a poor devil to fame and fortune. My dear boy, it’ll all be paid back some day, every penny of it; there’s not the least doubt about that. I’ve got my chance now, but I shall lose it, as sure as fate, if I can’t get some money. Hang it all, old chap, you wouldn’t leave me stranded in Paris without a penny while you live on the fat of the land and drive about in a carriage? You couldn’t do it, Comethup; you’re not that sort of a fellow.”

“But it isn’t my money,” said Comethup with a groan. “Don’t you understand that? I think she ought to know.”

“Tell her, then,” said Brian, with a short laugh, “and see what’ll happen. You know perfectly well that she’ll refuse to allow you to give me another penny; you admit she doesn’t like me, and she doesn’t care whether I go to the dogs or not. What’s the use of talking such nonsense as that?”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Comethup, “and of course I can’t let you go about without any money, especially in a strange city. But I haven’t very much with me—only about twenty pounds—and I——”

“My dear boy, twenty pounds means more to me than you can understand; it’s a fortune. Twenty pounds will positively save me. You’ve been used to such a lot that it doesn’t seem much to you, but to me—ye gods! twenty pounds banishes dull care and puts me on the high road to fortune. And let me tell you this: I mean to be careful this time; I’m working, as I’ve told you, and, until I see the results of my work, I ask no more assistance from you or any one; to that I pledge my word.”

Comethup handed over the money, and Brian gripped the hand that gave it to him fervently for a moment. “Some day,” he said, in a voice of emotion, “some day you will understand more fully what you have done. I don’t know how to thank you, old chap.”

“Oh, please don’t say anything about that,” replied Comethup hastily. “Are you going back to London?”

“Oh, I shall stay in Paris for a day or two; it’s just a good chance to have a look round, and see what the wonderful place is like; I shall do it cheaply, never fear. By the way,” he added, as he rose from his seat, “did I tell you that dad is over here? Followed me to London, and we had an affecting reconciliation—tears and all that sort of business. So as I was coming over here he said he’d come too; couldn’t bear to be parted from me. I suppose”—this with a laugh—“I suppose I treated the dear old chap rather badly, and I’m glad to be friends with him again; he’s not a bad sort, take him altogether. Perhaps you’d better not tell your aunt that we’re here; she doesn’t love either of us. Good-bye. I won’t ask you to save me again, old chap. Write and let me know where you go, and when; the old address in London will find me. Good-bye.”

Comethup, in his bed that night, after much anxious thought came to a resolution. He fully and firmly made up his mind not to write to Brian again. Had the matter rested solely with himself, he could not have formed such a resolve; but he thought of his aunt, and knowing that it was impossible to tell her anything of the matter, he saw clearly that his duty to her was to keep away from Brian. Boy though he was, and great though his admiration was for his cousin, he yet saw clearly enough into the matter to know that Brian would light-heartedly come to him again and again without any thought of the future. It was with a great sense of relief that he heard his aunt next morning declare that they would leave Paris within a few days.

But his troubles were not at an end. Miss Charlotte Carlaw complained that he was moody and silent, and strove in her own kindly fashion to discover what was the matter. “I can see what it is,” she said abruptly one morning; “I’m the wrong sort of companion for you. I ought to have known it; I should have been wiser than to tie you to the apron strings of a blind old woman in this fashion. It’s been a mistake, and you must forgive me, boy. While I’ve been wanting to have you near me, I’ve lost sight of the fact that you, being young and strong, would probably want to be capering about the city alone and having a good time. Well, I warned you what it would be before we started, and you see I was right.”

“No, indeed, aunt,” said Comethup eagerly, “you are quite mistaken. I’m sorry if I have seemed to be bothered about anything; but I’m not, really, and you sha’n’t have to complain again. I’m quite sure no one could have a better time than I am having.”

“Well, I’m not quite satisfied, and I’m afraid I’ve really been very selfish about the matter. For Heaven’s sake, boy, if there’s anything you want, or want to do, within reason, say what it is! Or if anything is troubling you, you’re surely not afraid of an old woman who’s tried to be your friend and who would give a great deal to save you any sorrow?”

“Why, of course not,” replied the boy quickly; “I’ll tell you in a moment if there’s anything I want or—or if there’s anything troubling me. I’m glad you’re going away from Paris, because I’ve got just a little tired of it.”

“We’ll be off to-morrow,” said Miss Carlaw, with decision. “Now, just to please me, forget for an hour or two that I exist at all; off with you where you will, and don’t get into mischief. In fact, I’ll give you the day to yourself, and if you come near me at all I shall be very angry. I can contrive to amuse myself alone for once. Here’s money for you; lunch well, dine well, do what you like. Off with you; I don’t want to hear your voice till nightfall.”

Comethup somewhat reluctantly set off into the city. But it was a fine day, and the brightness of everything about him—the moving people, the life and animation of the city—all had their effect upon him. He was quite glad to be alone for once; he seated himself on a bench in some gardens in the sunshine and folded his arms and sat looking out at the world before him through half-closed eyelids and with a smile about his mouth, for he was very young, and the world seemed very fair.

He began to dream lazily about his old friends: wondered what the captain was doing at that hour, and almost pictured him strolling across the sandy wastes with ’Linda by his side. He was glad to think of ’Linda; glad to remember her as he had seen her last, a pretty girlish figure, at the gate of the captain’s garden. With all the bustle and noise of Paris about him, with strange tongues chattering and strange figures moving past him, he seemed to see, in a vision, the old place of his childhood in another atmosphere and another light; held it, as it were, in a sacred and secret place in his remembrance—a thing apart.

One of the figures that flitted vaguely before him stopped and appeared to draw back a pace and then to advance. Comethup opened his eyes fully and stared up at the figure. A familiar voice greeted him.

“My dear, dear nephew! How I have longed and hoped to see you! What has my cry been these past days, since I learned that you were in Paris? ‘Comethup,’ and yet again ‘Comethup.—Show me Comethup,’ I said, ‘and let me look into his eyes, and I am a happy man!’ And now my wish is granted; more than all, I find you alone. My dear boy!” He grasped Comethup fervently by the hand and sank upon the bench beside him.

“I heard you were in Paris,” said Comethup; “Brian told me.”

“Ah, that misguided boy! But still I love him. Who could help loving him? We have had our differences; we have even used harsh words to each other. But all that, I trust, is forgotten and forgiven. When I heard that he was coming to Paris, and coming, above all things, to see you, I said at once that I would go with him; my place was by his side, and, as I have told you, I longed to see my nephew. Boy”—he looked with affectionate sternness at Comethup—“you’re not looking well.”

“I—I’m very well, thank you; only a little tired.”

Mr. Robert Carlaw shook his head plaintively. “Ah, the weight of wealth, the responsibility of it! I am sometimes glad in my heart that Providence saw fit to make me poor; I have known my sorrows, but I have known my joys also. Wealth is a great responsibility. My dear sister is well, I trust?”

“Oh, yes, she’s quite well,” said Comethup.

There was an awkward pause for some moments, and then Mr. Carlaw, with something of an effort, turned toward his nephew. “My dear Comethup,” he said, prefacing his speech with a hastily suppressed sigh, “Fortune has been very good to you and has made you, if one may say so, her favourite child; has taken you from an obscurity (which I am sure was quite unmerited) and has placed you in affluence. If I did not think you were wise beyond your years I should not speak to you as I do now; but I know that Fortune has not blunted your sympathies, and that you are still the generous-hearted boy I knew in years gone by. Comethup, look well upon me”—he stuck his hands in the breast of his frock coat and looked gloomily at the boy—“and tell me what I am.”

Comethup looked at him in some amazement. “You—you’re my Uncle Robert, of course,” he said.

“Call me Bob,” said Mr. Carlaw, with some emotion. “My friends have always called me Bob; had they called me by any other name it might have been better for me. But Bob was a good fellow; Bob had his hand in his pocket for a friend; Bob hadn’t the slightest notion of that simple word ‘no’; in short, Bob, in the world’s eyes, has been going straight to the devil since he was breeched. Boy”—he laid his hand on Comethup’s arm, and Comethup felt that he trembled with agitation—“boy, your Uncle Bob has finished his course; your Uncle Bob is a bankrupt and an outlaw.”

For a few moments Comethup was too much shocked to say anything; he sat still, staring helplessly at his uncle, whose head was bowed in a forlorn fashion. He murmured something at last about being very sorry, and Mr. Carlaw felt for his hand and pressed it without looking at him or speaking. Rallying a little presently, the forlorn one raised his head and endeavoured to smile, and looked out hopefully upon the prospect.

“Sunshine—and sympathy; what can a man want more? You’re young, Comethup, in the ways of the world—I had almost said simple; the world will try to take advantage of you; will rob you with one hand while it fawns upon you with the other. Beware of it; take your own path straight through life, and trouble not about what any man may say. It’s the only way,” he added gloomily; “would that I had remembered it in time! For myself, although they have made me a beggar, I care nothing; a crust of bread and a cup of water are all that I ask of any man, and they will probably deny me those. But, my boy, I have responsibilities—I have a son.” Here his emotion appeared quite to overmaster him for an instant, and Comethup felt very sorry for him indeed. After a few moments he slapped his breast firmly and coughed, blinked his eyelids, and looked upon the boy with a ghostly smile.

“I think Brian will make his way—will get on, I mean,” said Comethup, in the hope of encouraging him.

“Make his way! Get on! You are right; you are very right. The time will surely come when his name will be echoed to the skies; when that which is pent in his father and has found no proper outlet will appear in the son, and gladden the father’s heart. It is there; I have proudly watched the beginnings of it; I have, in my poor way, fostered the first trembling attempts. But what is the case—how do we stand? Again comes in the damnable thought of money—money, without which we can do nothing. Like those of commoner clay, we must live—we must eat—we must have fire to warm us—a roof to shelter us. And here, at the very outset of my son’s career, I find myself a beggar.”

He beat his foot restlessly upon the ground, and turned away his head and bit his lip in the struggle to hide his feelings. Comethup in a dim way began to be pretty certain what was coming, but he was desperately sorry for the man, nevertheless.

“Now and then, in our dreary way through a horrible world, we come upon one human soul that has sympathy—nay, that has a heart of gold; it’s rare, but still we find it. There is one such heart of gold in this city to-day. Listen: my son came here practically penniless; we looked into each other’s eyes; we were big with hope, but still we were penniless. Suddenly my son returns to me with money—with what is, to us, a large sum. Delicacy forbids my asking whence it came; my son informs me that a friend—I repeat the word with emphasis—a friend has insisted upon helping him. His delicacy is as great as mine; he refuses to say more, and I—well, I do not press him. But in my heart I know—oh, my dear boy, let us drop parables; let me thank you as one man may thank another. I am broken, friendless, an outcast; yet my heart is still strong and true; my feelings, pray God, are those of a gentleman. I may tramp the highways to-morrow without a crust, but still I trust men may turn to look at me and say, ‘There goes a gentleman.’”

He said it with an air, even with something of the old flourish, and Comethup was considerably impressed. After some silence, Mr. Robert Carlaw got up, with a sigh, and turned toward his nephew and held out his hand.

“This has done me good,” he said. “I come into your fresh, buoyant, rich young life; I touch again the things that might have been; I renew, as it were, my youth. Our paths lie in different directions; you sweep along the broad highway, and the dust—yes, the dust—of your chariot wheels shall be flung over me as I walk. That is fate, that is life. Good-bye!”

He took his nephew’s hand in both his own for a moment, sighed heavily, and turned away. In less than a minute he was back again. There was hesitation in his manner and he shifted his feet uneasily, yet he spoke with a desperate boldness.

“My dear friend, I—I have put off what I have to say—put it off in the hope that I might not have to say it. My courage deserts me; it is not easy for a man who has carried his head high before his fellows to lower it and to beg. Do not misunderstand me,” he added hastily, “’tis not for myself; if it were for myself the petition should never be urged. It is for another—it is for my son. Comethup, it is necessary, in order that we may get our affairs somewhat straight, that we should leave this city. My son has money, but he needs it for his work—he may even need it for food. Can I go to him and say to him—can I, his father, say it to him, ‘Brian, I am penniless; I have not sufficient money to bear me to my native land’? This may seem a mere matter of cowardice; but, broken and outcast though I am, I would still carry myself well in the eyes of my son; I would still have him say, ‘This is my father, of whom I am proud, and who has never shamed me yet.’ It is, I think, a natural thought, a natural wish. Frankly, as man to man, will you help me to do that?”

Comethup felt that, under the circumstances, there was but one thing to be done. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the money his aunt had given him. “How much would you want, sir?” he asked slowly.

“Well, to be businesslike, may I say ten pounds?”

Comethup was rather glad he wanted no more, because the loss of that sum would still leave something in his own pockets so that it might not be necessary for him to apply to his aunt. He handed Mr. Robert Carlaw the amount specified, and Mr. Carlaw shook hands with him many times and blessed him, and finally walked away with a jaunty step.

Comethup dined sparingly, and wandered about the city for the greater part of the day. He returned to the hotel in the evening, and found his aunt sitting alone; he was informed that she had asked if he had returned several times during the day.

“Well, young scapegrace!” she exclaimed as he entered, “I don’t mind confessing I’ve missed you horribly; and I suppose you’ve been tearing round the city and flinging your money about, and making people wonder who the young English gentleman is, and where he gets his money from, and what he’s doing alone in a wicked city, eh? Oh, you’ve been doing the thing royally, I’ll be bound.”

Comethup thought of the modest dinner he had eaten in a small cafÉ, and of how for the rest he had wandered about the streets in lonely fashion for many hours; but there was a fiction to be kept up, and he laughed and said he was afraid he had spent a great deal of money.

“Well, never mind; it won’t do any harm, once in a way. You’re inclined to be a bit reckless, Prince Charming, but I suppose that’s my fault. Most of the money gone, eh?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Comethup. He saw that this was the clearest and best fashion to get out of the difficulty—to take to himself a character for extravagance which he did not possess; it would save the necessity for any explanation.

“Well, so that you’ve had a good time, I don’t mind. I must find you some more to-morrow; I only want you to enjoy yourself and to be straightforward, and keep nothing from me.”

Comethup awoke with a lighter heart the next morning—lighter, perhaps, because Paris was to be left behind. He was glad to think that he had got well over his difficulties; almost glad, too, to think that he had seen the last of Mr. Robert Carlaw. Of his feelings toward Brian he was not quite so certain; he pitied him very much, and hoped earnestly that Fortune and Fame were indeed holding out their hands to him. But he was but a boy, who had lived his simple life hitherto simply and straightforwardly and well, with nothing to conceal. Now, for the first time, with however good a purpose, he was deceiving one whom he knew to be his greatest and most loyal friend—one but for whose loyal assistance life could never have been to him the full and splendid thing it had been.

But he had not seen the last of his uncle by any means. As he went down the steps of the hotel, with his aunt leaning on his arm, toward the vehicle which waited to take them to the station, a figure suddenly sprang forward and thrust aside the servant who held the door. As the unconscious Miss Carlaw stepped into the carriage her brother bent his head reverently, appeared almost to be silently blessing her. The wonderful Robert was evidently possessed with a deep gratitude for which Comethup would scarcely have given him credit. It was, of course, impossible for the boy to speak; he could only look entreatingly at the man and beg him by signs to go away.

But Uncle Robert knew better than that. While the luggage was being piled upon the vehicle he flung himself eagerly into the most menial offices—the lifting of boxes and the final closing of the carriage door; then, when all was completed, he actually climbed upon the box seat beside the driver, folded his arms, and accompanied them to the station.

At the station it was just as bad. Poor Comethup lived in torments until the train actually steamed away, for Mr. Robert Carlaw got in the way of porters and assisted them, to their astonishment, in disposing of the luggage, and was altogether a very elegant and ridiculous millstone round the boy’s neck. Finally, as the train departed, he stood in an attitude of deep dejection, with his hat in his hand, watching them as they moved out of his sight.