THE BEGINNINGS OF A GENIUS.

The three years of wandering had stretched into four, and thence into five. It would have been under ordinary circumstances a happy, irresponsible time enough, for they took their journeyings haphazard, staying in a place for months at a time if it pleased them, or but a few days if they did not like it; they had every luxury and comfort and convenience that money could purchase; they stayed always in the best places and travelled in the best manner. Yet throughout it all there had hung, floating before him wherever he went, an ever-growing cloud of deceit and trickery about Comethup. Dread seemed to mark the most cloudless day, and he never entered a strange city or village without looking with anxious eyes at every passing tourist.

Throughout those five years it is safe to say that Comethup had never been wholly free from the presence of Robert Carlaw and his son. First the one and then the other; then both together; then the one, with a piteous tale of the other’s deceit; and the other, with a story of how badly the one had treated him. Comethup never quite knew whether they travelled in company or whether they merely kept touch with each other’s movements and met at intervals; at all events, they seemed to know pretty clearly the route taken by Comethup and his aunt, and the dates of their departure from various places. Indeed, Miss Carlaw and her nephew were easy of identification, for they travelled in state; and each was a noticeable figure and attracted attention in different ways. The blind old woman, travelling through beautiful places for pleasure, was a subject for sympathy; the handsome youth who was her constant attendant, and who carried his grave face through so many different scenes, and who appeared always so devoted to her, won the admiration of many people whose names he never knew and to whom he scarcely spoke.

Once or twice Comethup had felt with growing relief that the Carlaws, father and son, were gone; a month or two would pass and nothing be seen of them. And then one morning, in a strange city, the horizon would be darkened to him by the swing of Uncle Robert’s coat-tails; or his day would be changed and troubled by the sudden appearance of Brian, alert and eager and full of wild hopes as ever. The daring and resource of Mr. Robert Carlaw knew no bounds. On more than one occasion, in crowded streets, he actually walked on the farther side of his sister, bending forward to glance at Comethup and to smile and nod to him as though to assure the boy of his protection. On such occasions Miss Carlaw would embarrassingly let fall some remark, perhaps even touching Robert himself, all unconscious of the figure that stalked beside her. With that air of protection large upon him, he turned up in the most unexpected places, and his errand was always the same.

As degrading things degrade a man, so Robert Carlaw lost something of the old, reckless swagger—the fine air with which he had carried himself before the world. He did not come less boldly on that account when he made his shameful plea again and again to Comethup; but he came to make it, in time, more as a matter of course—a something to which he had the right. He must have had some small money of his own, or must have begged and borrowed elsewhere during those years; all that he squeezed out of Comethup could not have enabled him to travel as he did or live in the style he did.

Once or twice, as has been said, father and son presented themselves together; they had made up their differences and henceforth nothing was to separate them; their interests went hand in hand, as did their hopes and ambitions. On such occasions Mr. Robert Carlaw would announce, not without emotion, that life held new purposes for him. Comethup even saw him once turn up the sleeve of his coat and mutter something about work. Brian would laugh and clap his father on the shoulder, and cry that he was a good fellow and that they’d stand or fall together.

But in a day or two one or the other would make his appearance alone; would tell his tale of the desertion of that being who should have held to him, if only for the ties of blood; would plead that the deserter, in a moment of forgetfulness or duplicity, had taken the available capital, and would beg for further help. In one case it would be the father whom Brian in a sudden fit of petulance had deserted; in another case Brian would cry out upon his unnatural parent who had, theoretically at least, cursed him, and left him to starve.

So the game had gone merrily on until Comethup had grown quite used to it, and was only glad that he could keep the thing so successfully from his aunt’s knowledge. During those years Brian had not been altogether idle; he had produced two slim books of verse, which had found considerable favour with a certain section of the public, and which had got him pretty considerably talked about, if no more. He declared to Comethup that from a monetary standpoint the things were valueless; that they brought him fame, but that he had discovered that a year or two must elapse before he could really hope to live by his work.

“Unless,” he added, “I make a sudden hit; that, of course, would make a difference—would fling me to the top of the tree at a bound. Then, old fellow, my first duty would be to repay every penny—oh, I’ve made a careful calculation, and have got it all jotted down somewhere—every penny I owe you. As a matter of fact, I may see something to-morrow which will give me just the right thought—may write the thing red hot, as it were—and make my fortune. And you’ll have the satisfaction, dear old boy, of knowing that—indirectly, of course—you’ve brought it about.”

But, although the books were produced, and although they were well spoken of, and although Brian paid one or two flying visits to London “to stir up the publishers,” as he expressed it, it all seemed to make no difference to the position of affairs so far as Comethup was concerned, and that position remained unaltered. It practically amounted to this: that Comethup was certain that within a given time one of them or both would smilingly or tearfully appear in a strange city without funds and dependent on his bounty. Under those circumstances it became, of course, impossible to turn a deaf ear to their entreaties, and they had to be relieved.

Comethup gained a reputation for reckless extravagance that he did not in the least deserve. Personally, Miss Charlotte Carlaw was not displeased, although she was sometimes puzzled to understand how he spent his money, but she adhered to her principle and trusted him absolutely, never questioning him upon anything about which he seemed disinclined to speak. She had had her dearest wish realized in gaining the love of this boy; he was devoted to her, and had been more than a mere companion; he had been, as she had once suggested, eyes to her—had made her darkened journey something so full of colour and brightness that it became under his young influence more wonderful than any journey she had ever taken before.

During those years Comethup had kept up something of a correspondence with the old captain; had filled his own letters with glowing accounts of the places he visited, and his impressions of them; and had received from the captain, in return, such small news as he had to communicate about his simple and uneventful life. In one of the letters, soon after they had started for the Continent, the captain had corroborated Mr. Robert Carlaw’s account of his bankruptcy; had told—perhaps with something of grim satisfaction—of the selling of all the beautiful things contained in the house which Comethup had visited as a boy, together with a full description of how Mr. Carlaw had stood outside the house during the progress of the sale in an utterly dejected attitude; and of how the poor gentleman had received a vast amount of respectful sympathy on account of his ruin. Comethup, in reply to the letter, had very properly expressed his sorrow; but in no subsequent letter did he tell the captain of his frequent meetings with the father and the son. He felt that it would be wiser to maintain absolute silence in regard to the matter.

So nearly five years had slipped away, and Comethup, looking back as over a crowded page across the track of their wanderings, could find it in his heart to be very grateful for all that had happened; very grateful, too, in his simple, unselfish fashion, that he had been able, after all, to help the two who had so often pleaded to him. True, he was a little frightened at the remembrance that Miss Charlotte Carlaw’s bounty had enabled four people to run about the Continent for some years, instead of only two, as she had imagined. But that was done with now, and he had already started with his aunt on the homeward journey, and the two he pitied so much, and yet dreaded so much to see, were left behind.

Instructions had been given, and all arrangements made, so that their house was perfectly in order for their return. It seemed quite a lifetime to Comethup Willis since he had left that house behind and set out, a mere boy, on his travels with his aunt. Yet, despite all the sunny places he had visited, it was good to get back to the gray old city again; good to know that he was in sober England and within a short journey of the old place where the captain lived, and where all the hallowed associations of his own boyhood were gathered together.

There was much to be done in the first week of their return—friends to visit, and many matters which required attention after so long an absence. But at the end of the week Miss Carlaw called Comethup to her one evening, when they were alone after dinner, and bade him sit down near her. For quite a long time, while she rocked herself softly over the head of her stick in the old fashion, she was silent; at last she raised her head and turned her face toward him. He thought, as he looked at her, how little change the years had wrought in her; save for a few added lines, the face was the same strong, kindly one that he had seen first as a little child.

“My boy,” she began, “you know that to-morrow is an eventful day, don’t you? Or have you forgotten?”

Comethup laughed and blushed, and assured her that he had not forgotten.

“To-morrow you put aside boyish things—I think you did that some years ago, but I am speaking in the legal sense—and you reach years of discretion. I think you did that also a few years since; I’m quite sure you did. However, speaking by the text, you’re a man to-morrow, and can do as you like. You’ve done pretty much as you liked, you dear rascal, for some considerable time, but I love you the better for that. For the future I have no hold over you in any sense but that of the affection which links us, and I think that is a strong tie. For the rest, you have a right to go your own way. I have brought you up to no profession, for reasons which I have explained before; you have a smattering of several languages, and you know more of the world, I think, and have certainly seen more of it, than most men of twice your age. And I think that you’ve had rather a good time during the past five years, eh?”

“Such a good time,” replied Comethup, “that it all seems to have gone by like a beautiful dream. When I was a little chap I remember the captain used to tell me about all the wonderful places there were on the earth, but I never thought that I should see them. I sha’n’t be likely to forget that but for you I should be a poor and shabby fellow, who had never had the chance of putting his legs outside the little town in which he was born. I don’t forget that.”

She put out her hand to stop him. “There, never mind all that; I’ve been repaid a hundredfold. We won’t talk of the past; that’s done with. What we have to consider is the future. Now, you know, Comethup, you’re just a little bit inclined to be extravagant—don’t interrupt me, and don’t think that I’m blaming you—but I think you are extravagant, just a little bit. Probably the fault has been mine because I followed a ridiculous practice of giving you large sums of money just whenever it occurred to me that you wanted them. Of course, you were only a boy, and the temptation to spend was a natural one. Now I think we’ll follow a different plan. I want you to be quite free and independent; I want you to have money actually of your own, that you may use for your own purposes. Therefore I’ve decided to put a sum in the bank for you, and to give you your own cheque book, and let you look after your own affairs. I trust you so completely that I think it is quite the best thing to do. You know, or you ought to know by this time, that I’m a very rich woman, and some day you’ll have means. Live your own life and please yourself, and you’ll please me. Now kiss me and say good-night; you’ll wake up a man in the morning. Prince Charming goes upstairs for the last time to-night.”

He put his arm about her and kissed her gently. “Not for the last time, dear aunt,” he said; “the years have not changed me so much as that, I hope.”

She put up her hand and softly patted the hand that lay on her shoulder. “No, no; God knows they have not! You’re a good fellow, Comethup; and, if I’m not in the way, I think I want to live a few more years yet, old though I am, to find out whether you verify all my hopes of you. Good-night; sleep well.”

The next day Comethup entered into possession of all his new dignities: interviewed the manager at his aunt’s bank, and was solemnly congratulated by that gentleman; cashed his first cheque, and felt somehow that the coins were different from any that had jingled in his pockets before. It was good, too, to feel that perfect new sense of freedom which the mere turn of a day had given him; to breathe that larger air of manhood which he felt was his to have and to hold. There was quite a large dinner party that evening, for it was necessary, in his aunt’s opinion, that he should be shown, now that he had reached manhood’s estate, just as he had been shown when he first came into her life.

A few days after, he timidly informed his aunt one morning that he should like to visit the captain. “You know it’s years since I have seen him, and I——”

“My dear boy,” said his aunt, “you’re breaking through our compact. Didn’t I tell you you were to go where you liked, and when you liked, and do what you liked? Go and see the captain, by all means. But I think I’d write to him first; the sight of you—giant that you are—would be too great a shock to him if you swept down on him unexpectedly. Write to-day and go to-morrow; never hesitate about these matters.”

Comethup, in his impatience, sent a telegram instead, and started off early the next morning, feeling more than ever the sense of that glorious freedom which had come into his life. He had merely informed the captain that he should arrive in the morning, and had not mentioned the train. Finding, when half his journey was completed, that he would have to wait some considerable time at an out-of-the-way station before catching a train which would take him to his native place, he went on, as he had done before, to Deal, and there ordered a carriage and went the rest of the way by road.

It was a delightful feeling to lounge back in the carriage, on a perfect summer day, with all the country spread in its glory about him, and to know that this life—so rich and full and splendid, so surrounded with every luxury and care and forethought—was to go on and on, through all the years, with no pain or sorrow, with nothing left to hope for beyond what he had secured. His wanderings abroad had already taught him the width and wonder of the world, the pleasant places that were in it, the happy people who laugh along its sunlit ways. Altogether it was a bright and healthy and hopeful prospect that stretched before him, and it was a bright and healthy and hopeful youngster who looked upon the prospect.

The captain’s cottage stood among its roses as of old; seemed only a little smaller even than on the last occasion—a little more as though it had sunk gently down, like a tired old man, and was unable to hold itself quite so erect as before. Comethup walked up the path and stood for a moment in the open doorway of the cottage, and there was the captain.

He was standing in the middle of the little room, and he looked at the young man for a long moment in silence; then, on an impulse, each took a step forward and they clasped hands. Comethup noticed that the captain, like the house, had sunk a little, that his shoulders were bowed ever so slightly, and that his hands seemed thinner. But the touch of the hand was as warm and firm as ever.

“My dear boy,” he said slowly, “it’s such a delight to see you! I suppose the years seem longer when one is growing old; they would have seemed longer still but for your letters. It’s good of you to have remembered an old man, and to have come down to see him.”

“I’d have come before, only I couldn’t very well get away,” said Comethup. “It’s just as good to me to be back in the old place again; no other place seems really like home.”

The captain gave his hands a parting squeeze and let them go. “I suppose,” he said, in a more ordinary tone, “I suppose you’ll be content with your old room here?”

“Of course,” said Comethup, laughing. “Why not? You wouldn’t have me go to the inn, would you?”

“Of course not,” said the captain.

The portmanteau was brought in and the carriage dismissed. Lunch was laid in the old simple fashion by Homer, with whom Comethup warmly shook hands; and the young man chatted ceaselessly throughout the meal. There were many things about which the captain was curious—things which he had forgotten to mention in his short letters: as to the standing and apparent strength of foreign armies, and their methods of life and discipline. He nodded with supreme satisfaction on being told that some of the foreign soldiers Comethup had seen were very small and insignificant and very youthful.

“That’s as it should be,” replied the old man. “It’s very evident that in these things the foreigner is absolutely incapable of improving himself. He may cook well, and he may know how to swing off his hat and make a bow which is much too elaborate to have anything of sincerity in it, but he can’t breed fighting men; the thing is simply not to be done. I’m glad to hear you bear out the impression I have so long had concerning that matter. Now that one is—well, is not quite so strong as in more lusty years; now that one finds the years creeping on, it is easier to sleep calmly in one’s bed when one knows that foreign legions—taken in the lump—are as you describe them. Oh, we must never forget, as I have before pointed out to you, my dear Comethup, that we lie remarkably near the coast. You remember all the plans we used to make, boy,” he added less seriously, “when you were a little chap?”

“Yes, I remember well. I was a very little chap then.”

“Yes, indeed. And now you tower above me, and your voice is deeper, and your laugh stronger, and—well, I suppose we must expect changes. And yet there’s not much difference in you, Comethup,” he added, looking at him critically. “You’ve the same eyes, the same smile. And I’ll be bound you’ve the same heart. Yet it’s a long time since you used to trot by my side and get under my cloak on wet days.”

They sat for some moments in silence, musing over those old times, and then Comethup said quickly, with a flush on his face: “By the way, sir, I am a selfish brute—I’ve never even asked how ’Linda is. You remember little ’Linda?”

The captain smiled and shook his head. “Little ’Linda no longer,” he said. “The years don’t fly on with you, boy, and stand still for every one else. ’Linda is a woman.”

“She was almost that when I was here before,” replied Comethup. “And does she—does she still live at the old house?”

The captain nodded gravely. “Yes,” he said. “Her father’s dead, you know; I don’t think I’ve mentioned that in writing to you. He was found dead in bed one morning. He was a strange man. I only saw him once—let me see, you were with me, Comethup?”

Comethup remembered the occasion on which he had seen the strong, hard face of Dr. Vernier in the little circle of light among the books and papers. “Yes, the night you carried ’Linda home; I remember it well. But who looks after her now?”

“She lives there, in the care of the woman who has been her governess so long; you remember that the woman came there almost immediately after you found ’Linda in the garden. She seems devoted to the girl. I think ’Linda has a little money, and the house is her own. I expect you’ll see her; she has grown into a very beautiful woman.”

“I felt sure she would do that,” said Comethup, and found himself blushing the next moment at having expressed such an opinion.

“I think I told you in one of my letters that your Uncle Robert had left here. Did you see anything of him or of Brian while you were in London or after you’d gone abroad?”

“Once or twice,” said Comethup, carelessly. “You know Brian has published some poems; very good they were, too; some people made an awful fuss about them. Brian is growing quite famous.”

“Glad to hear it,” replied the captain, grimly. “He’s the sort of fellow who would write poems; I’m told his father tried his hand at that sort of thing once or twice. You know that your uncle ran through every penny he possessed, don’t you?”

“But he didn’t have very much, did he?” said Comethup.

“He did, though; his fortune was very little short of that possessed by your aunt. But he ran through the lot, married more, and settled down here; and now he’s got through that too. Oh, he’s a bright fellow!”

They found much to talk about all that afternoon; but though Comethup listened to the captain and delighted the captain’s heart by his close and clear descriptions of foreign places and foreign peoples, yet, if the truth must be told, he spoke and listened almost mechanically. Once or twice, while he talked, the very room in which he sat, and the quiet figure of the captain, seemed to vanish completely, and in their places was a dark and lonely garden, filled with the dead leaves of a year before, and seeming in its desolation the very haunt of every cheerless wind that blew nowhere else, and in the garden the figure of a child. Heaven knows through how many places he had carried that remembrance, in how many hours he had seen himself, a little child again, creeping tremblingly into the garden in search for the ghost. The later remembrance of the girl, as he had seen her when he left school, seemed to have vanished; it was, in any case, far more hazy when he tried to think of it than that earlier vision. Coming back after his wanderings to the old town had only made the recollection a stronger one. All the intervening years seemed to be swept aside, and his heart was melted with pity for the lonely child.

Yet, strangely enough, the knowledge—forced upon him in spite of his dreams—that she was a woman made him hesitate to speak of her to the captain; still less to go and see her, as he might have done years before. So he let the afternoon wear away, and the dusk of evening was creeping over the town before he finally announced, with what carelessness he could summon, that he thought he would take a walk. The captain must have looked a little below the carelessness, for, with a fine tact, for which he can not be sufficiently praised, he suggested that he felt tired, and would sit by the window and smoke.

Coming to the entrance of the old garden, Comethup noticed that nothing seemed changed. The gate, which had long ago fallen, was hidden a little more deeply in the grasses and weeds, but for the rest it might have been an enchanted castle, over which a spell had been thrown and upon which the sunlight must never shine. Even on that warm summer evening the place struck a chill upon him as he picked his way across the fallen gate and went up the avenue. But here at last, as he reached the house, there was a change. Lights gleamed from a window which he always remembered to have seen shuttered; and presently, as he stood, scarcely knowing whether to go up to the house or indeed what to do, one of the long windows which opened on to a narrow balcony was pushed open and a figure came through and stood, clearly outlined against the light behind, above him.

He knew in a moment that it must be ’Linda, although her face was in shadow. He made a half-movement toward her, and she started forward and came to the edge of the balcony and leaned over.

“Who’s down there?” she called in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

He went forward a little, so that the light from the room behind her might fall upon his face; she peered down at him anxiously.

“Don’t you know me?” he asked.

She did not reply, but turned and moved quickly to the end of the balcony and ran lightly down a little flight of iron steps which led to the ground. She came toward him, still without speaking, and with her hands clasped. Coming quite close, she looked into his face. “Why, it’s Comethup!” she said, and let her hands fall to her side.

There was something in the tone in which she spoke which chilled Comethup almost as much as the desolation of the place had done a few minutes before; and yet he could scarcely have said what it was that chilled him. There seemed, in her words and in her change of attitude, some disappointment; she might almost have been expecting to find another in the garden, and to have been unable altogether to conceal her regret at finding her hope unfulfilled. But, even while that thought was leaping through his mind, she had changed again, and was smiling into his face and clasping his hand, so that he almost felt that he had been mistaken and had misjudged her.

“Oh, how glad I am to see you!” she said quite naturally. “I’ve heard from the captain about you often; you know he’s never tired of talking of you. And you know we haven’t really met—you and I—since we were children, for when you came here five years ago we only saw each other for a day or two, and I scarcely remember what you were like, or what we said to each other.”

“That’s just the thought I have of you,” said Comethup. “I seem to have known, somehow, just what you would look like as a woman; but it’s the little ghost in the garden—this garden—I remember best. Do you remember that?”

She seemed to shudder a little as she looked about her. “Ah, the ghost!” she said. “Yes, I remember that; I remember how you came into the garden to find me. What a frightened baby I was then, to be sure—what a frightened, desolate baby!” She linked her hand in his arm and drew him with her along the path in between the trees. “Come,” she said, “walk with me here, as you did when we were little mites. Oh, it’s good to see you again; it’s good to look upon the face of a friend.” Something in her tones struck him to the quick; she seemed almost on the verge of tears. “Have you no friends, then?” he asked gently.

She looked up at him with a faint smile. “Well, the captain—and—and Mrs. Dawson—my governess, you know. I think that’s all. You’ve been all over the world, haven’t you?” she added suddenly.

“Not quite all of it,” he replied, “but a great deal. It makes me feel—well, like a blackguard, when I think that you’ve been here in this dull house all this time—five years, isn’t it?—while I’ve been running about and having a good time. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

She looked round at him again with a smile. “That’s nice of you,” she said. “But, you know, we can’t all have the good things in this world—can we? Still, I must confess it’s been rather dull; one sees the same houses and the same faces, and one does the same things day after day, summer and winter, for years. I’m only glad to take things as they come, and not to think. But I think sometimes—of course, I don’t know—I’d rather be desperately unhappy with some real sorrow than just exist like this. If one had a real sorrow one could fight it and live it down and do all sorts of things; but here”—she made a little despairing gesture with her hand—“there’s simply nothing to fight, nothing to do.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Comethup. “You know,” he added lamely, “I’ve been wanting to come and see you, wanting to know something about you, for a long time; only we’ve never been anywhere near England. But now I shall be able to see a great deal of you, I hope; I shall be coming down often to—to see the captain.”

Her eyes flashed at him for a moment and then were turned away. “Yes, to see the captain,” she responded.

Some one appeared on the little balcony, and a voice summoned the girl. ’Linda drew Comethup toward the house; at the foot of the steps leading to the balcony she turned toward him. “I should be grateful if you would come in, just for a little while. There’s only Mrs. Dawson there, and she’s sure to remember you.” She spoke almost in a tone of humility; her eyes entreated him.

He followed her up the steps and into the room. The woman of whom she had spoken was standing a little way from the window, and looked at him keenly for a moment as he passed in. ’Linda stopped and laughingly called Comethup to her remembrance, and the woman gave him her hand—a little distrustfully, he thought. The room was very meanly furnished, and a lamp stood on a table, with a work-basket—with half its contents tumbled out—beside the lamp. Mrs. Dawson sat down and took up some work and began to ply her needle industriously. ’Linda drew a chair to the open window and signed to Comethup to sit near her.

They talked in low tones of many things, she questioning him eagerly about his travels and the places he had seen, nodding with quick sympathy when he described some scene which had caught his fancy, and interposing a little sigh sometimes as she glanced about the room or across to the silent figure sewing. “Here has been my world,” she said softly, “this and the garden; yet I have dreamed some dreams here too.”

They were silent for some time, and Comethup, glancing up, suddenly met the keen glance of Mrs. Dawson. She dropped her eyes in a moment, but he had an uneasy feeling afterward that she constantly watched him. She went from the room a few moments before he took his departure.

“When shall I see you again?” he asked as he held the girl’s hand.

“I suppose you’re staying with the captain? Well, I shall be there every day, I’ve no doubt; you’ll see far too much of me.”

He laughingly assured her that that was impossible, ran down the steps and waved his hand to her where she stood leaning over the balcony, and went rapidly down the avenue. To reach the gate he had to take a sharp turn, which drew him out of sight of the house; when within a few yards of it a woman’s figure came swiftly from among the trees, and Mrs. Dawson, bareheaded and white-faced, confronted him.

He was on the point of holding out his hand and bidding her good-night, when he saw that she had come there of set and serious purpose; she was actually trembling in her eagerness to speak. He looked at her in some astonishment, not knowing what to say or do; she stood resolutely between him and the gate.

“Why do you come here like a thief, to whisper with her in the darkness?” she asked. Her voice was suppressed and she glanced uneasily in the direction of the house, as though fearful of being overheard.

“I don’t come like a thief,” said Comethup indignantly. “Why, I came here to-night for the first time for five years, just to see her, and she saw me from the balcony and came down.”

“The first time for five years! Why do you lie to me? There are things I can’t tell you, but my eyes are keener for her, my hearing stronger, all my senses more alive, than for any one else. That’s because—because I love her. Why do you lie to me? Do you think I haven’t seen you creep into the garden and call softly to her and whisper with her in the shadows, and then creep away again—yes, like a thief, I say? I’ve seen her sit by that window night after night listening to catch the faintest sound; I’ve seen the light in her eyes after you’ve left her. Tell me—in God’s name, tell me!—what would you do with her?” She came at him fiercely, with her hands held straight at her sides and clinched, and with her head thrust forward at him.

“Look here, Mrs. Dawson,” said Comethup helplessly, “you’re making some horrible mistake. I swear to you I haven’t set foot in this town for five years; I’ve been travelling all over Europe. I came down by the train from London this morning, and walked round here to see her to-night. You’re making a mistake.”

She came still nearer to him and looked into his eyes; perhaps she read the truth there. She looked at him in perplexity for a moment, and then, muttering something to herself, turned swiftly and began to make her way back to the house. But Comethup sprang after her and caught her arm.

“Stop!” he said. “You mustn’t go like that. There’s something here I don’t understand.”

She tried to free herself from his grasp. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I—I suppose I have made a mistake,” she said uneasily.

“But it does matter,” said Comethup. “You say that some one meets ’Linda; oh, you must have been making a mistake.”

“You will not tell her?” asked the woman eagerly. “She would be angry with me; she would not understand. You will not tell her?”

“No, of course I won’t say anything,” said Comethup doubtfully, “but I’m quite sure you’ve made a mistake.”

“Good-night,” said Mrs. Dawson, and set off at a rapid pace for the house.

Comethup, walking home under the stars, remembered that ’Linda had seemed, when first he saw her that night, to be expecting some one else. He linked that remembrance and the words he had just heard together, and was troubled.