GENIUS AND THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES.

In all the time which followed, Miss Charlotte Carlaw never once alluded to the scene of that evening. That, with womanly instinct, she drew her own conclusions is certain; that, in her own characteristically fierce fashion, she cursed the girl for a fool and a jilt is equally certain; but to Comethup she strove in every possible fashion to teach him to forget the mishap, to take his mind as much as possible from the sorry business. She could not cheat herself into the belief that she succeeded; her quick senses told her that the added tenderness in his voice and an additional gentleness in his manner were but the outcome of all that he suffered in silence.

They returned to town on the day following ’Linda’s flight, and two days after that a letter was forwarded to Comethup by the captain—an impudent, paltry thing, which yet gave him some small satisfaction.

He tore the letter up and went about his daily life, determined, if possible, now that the matter was ended, to shut it all out of his mind. Miss Carlaw, with the same kindly object in view, proposed a flight to the Continent, and, believing that it would please her to go, he gladly fell in with the suggestion. They were absent nearly two months.

As they travelled with much the same state they had adopted on their former journeyings—putting up at the best hotels and staying in the largest cities—they were easily to be traced. This Comethup was soon to discover, for one night in Rome, after a solitary ramble through the streets, a note was handed him as he entered his hotel; he was informed that it had been left by a gentleman, who would return in half an hour. He tore it open, and discovered that it was written hurriedly in pencil and was signed by Robert Carlaw, that the writer begged for a few moments’ conversation with him on a matter of emergency. Comethup hesitated for a moment, and then strolled out into the streets again, lingering about near the entrance of the hotel. He had no desire to meet his aunt, and then arouse her suspicions by leaving her again.

In a little while he saw Mr. Robert Carlaw approaching him, swinging along with something of the old jaunty step, and setting his hat a little more rakishly on his head as he approached his destination. Yet there was, with all his jauntiness, a certain lack of confidence about the man—in his movements and in his glances—which may have been inspired by the needy life he had led. Comethup stood watching him as he neared the hotel entrance, and saw that he did not turn boldly in, but lingered for a moment outside, looking in furtively. As Comethup walked toward him a look of relief stole over his face, and he went toward the young man with both hands outstretched. Comethup grasped one of the hands, and his own was immediately covered by the other and warmly pressed.

“My dear young friend,” exclaimed Mr. Robert Carlaw, “how good it is to set eyes once again upon you! May I dare say that I have hungered for a sight of you? I trust you have not waited long here for me?”

“No,” said Comethup. “But I thought that if you wished to see me we might talk here more easily than in the hotel.”

“True—true,” murmured his uncle; “you are ever considerate. And I, who am, and have been for a long time, nothing but a houseless wanderer, a wretch who dare not meet the eye of his tailor, to say nothing of his butcher and his baker, I seem to shun the lighted halls of luxury, and to choose, as befitting my own fallen fortunes, the darker ways of life. But enough of me.” He made a dramatic gesture, sighed, and linked his arm in that of the young man and strolled on with him.

“You’re in no fresh trouble, I hope,” said Comethup. He longed to speak of ’Linda, to ask if she were happy, to be certain that all was well with her.

“Fresh trouble!” ejaculated Mr. Carlaw. “Would that any trouble which I suffered could, in any sense of the word, be termed ’fresh’! They are all too old and stale for that. I am buried to the neck in them, am forever struggling to the lips in a horrid sea of them, expecting to be drowned every moment. Once or twice a generous fellow, who shall be nameless”—he squeezed Comethup’s arm—“has thrown, to carry the metaphor further, a life-line to me, and has drawn me ashore for a space. But ill fortune has thrust me back again in time, and each time I seem to sink deeper than ever. But enough of myself; I am the emissary of others.” He said it with an air as though he felt it conferred a distinction upon him that he was not on this occasion personally begging.

“Of others?” inquired Comethup, looking round at him.

“Yes; it is not for myself I plead. I do not know, by the way, that I have ever really pleaded for myself; your generosity has merely anticipated my necessities. Mine is a nature which, foolishly enough from the world’s point of view, places self last; it has ever been my way. But I have taken this journey, on the present occasion, because I can not see those who are dear to me—my flesh and blood, so to speak—perishing, while the world looks on with careless eyes. I am a father, and I feel the responsibilities more than might be imagined. I have watched my son’s career; I have seen men prick their ears at the mention of his name and nod sagely; I have——”

Comethup was too impatient to hear more of the preamble. He seemed to scent disaster in the very air, and broke in upon the other’s slow words impatiently. “Yes, yes; but tell me at once what you mean, why you are here, and what’s happened. Of course, if Brian is in want, you know that I shall be only too glad to——”

“My dear nephew, you anticipate my meaning at once. It is only the truly generous soul that can see deep into the heart of distress, as it were, in a moment. I will not disguise from you the fact that these young people, who have rashly, but with a very beautiful confidence in Providence, I think, entered upon a union which naturally increases expenses—I will not disguise from you the fact that they are in want—that we all are in want. I—I have recently, from motives of economy, taken up my residence with them, and that close intimacy has enabled me to see clearly that which my son’s natural pride has kept from my knowledge. Sir, I can bear it no longer. I said to myself, ‘These young people shall not suffer before my eyes. I will sacrifice everything for them; I will humble my pride; I will approach our former benefactor.’ And I am here.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry to hear what you say,” replied Comethup. “Of course I had no idea that Brian would be in such straits as you describe. I shall be returning to England within a few days; perhaps I shall be able to see him. In the meantime, perhaps you will allow me to give you—I beg your pardon, lend you—a sum of money, and you can then hasten back to them. I trust they are not—not in actual want?”

“Their credit, up to the moment, has, I rejoice to say, remained good; but even that is on the point of exhaustion, and after that—well, I tremble. So you see, when it came to a crisis I informed my son that I would seek you. With the natural hesitation of a proud man, he refused at first to listen to such a suggestion; but I prevailed, took sufficient for my journey, on the most economical principles, and, as I said before, here I am.”

“I have only a little over thirty pounds with me,” said Comethup, “but, as I shall be returning to London immediately, that will suffice for your present need. You return to England at once?”

“To-morrow morning,” replied Mr. Robert Carlaw, thrusting the money into his breast pocket. “To-night I shall sleep soundly, for the first time for many weeks; I do not sleep soundly when I am troubled about those who are near and dear to me. Yes, I return to-morrow morning.”

They parted, and Comethup went slowly back to the hotel. No mention had been made by his aunt about any probable date of return; they had merely wandered from city to city as the whim took them, Miss Carlaw having always in her mind the desire to teach him forgetfulness. Therefore, when he went to her that night and stated, with what carelessness he might, that he should like to return to London at once, she was naturally somewhat startled. Even while he was speaking and urging excuses for no longer remaining abroad she was casting about in her mind to discover the real reason of this step he contemplated; she began at last to fear that she understood the reason only too well.

“Come, my dear boy, what ails you? What’s the reason of this sudden change of plan? There’s nothing troubling you, is there? You’ve had no—no letters, no bad news, to worry you? Won’t you tell me?”

To tell her was, of course, impossible. Even if he could have kept back that former story of all the money he had paid away, he could not now explain that this girl, who had left him for another, was in want, and that he, the man she had cast aside, was to relieve her. That, of course, could never be explained—would never be understood. Although his aunt had scarcely mentioned the matter to him, he felt, from something she had once said, that she knew the story of the marriage, and knew that Brian was ’Linda’s husband. Probably the captain had told her. But Comethup saw clearly before him that there was but one course he could adopt—that of silence. He could not bear to think that any action of ’Linda’s, or of those belonging to her, should be misunderstood.

“No, of course I have had no bad news. What should make you think that? Only I am a little tired of travelling, and you know London is always delightful; I’ve heard you say that. My dear aunt, I know you only undertook this journey because you thought I should like it. Won’t you go back to please me also?”

“Ah! you’re keeping something from me; there’s something hidden away in your heart that you won’t tell me. There! I’m not inquisitive—no more than the rest of my sex; but I’d like to give you a word of warning, boy. You’ve not been happy lately—oh, I know!—although you haven’t said a word about it; I’m too fond of you not to notice every little sign. My dear boy, there’s something I never meant to refer to; it’s a story that’s best left alone. Comethup, you’re not—not hungering after her still, are you?”

“No,” he replied.

“And you’re not making this sudden journey to London after her? Remember, you must put that out of your mind; I say must advisedly, because there’s no other word to use in the matter. You can’t blink the thing away, my dear: she belongs to some one else, and you’ve done with her. If you don’t recognise that, it only means disaster for both of you. With a man and a woman in such a situation there are two things for the man to do: if he can’t run away with her, then, by the Lord, he must run away from her!”

“But I am not going to London to see her,” said Comethup. “I’m afraid you’re magnifying the matter; she is married, happily married, and all the other is forgotten and done with. Won’t you understand that?”

“Yes, if you tell me so. I am very glad, for your sake, to hear you say it. And, if it pleases you, we’ll set off for London at once.”

One thought was uppermost in Comethup’s mind—that he must not see ’Linda. In the first place, he felt pretty certain that the fact of his having been appealed to on her own and her husband’s behalf had not been revealed to her; and, in the second, he was not quite sure yet that he could bear to meet her. That she must, at all costs, be kept from want and suffering he had fully determined; all the bright hopes and dreams he had had, even from his boyhood, concerning her were swept aside and done with—things that never had been. The fortune that had been placed in his hands and which had seemed once so wonderful was now nothing, save that by its aid, in an indirect fashion and without her knowledge, he could benefit her; he was glad to think that he still possessed that power at least. For his wanderings had not changed him. Solitary for the most part, except for the companionship of the strange old woman who loved him and would have done so much to help him, he had seen, in every place he visited, the face of the girl always before him; had gone over, in imagination, words she had spoken to him; had lived again through scenes of those brief half-happy weeks in which he had thought she loved him.

Within an hour of reaching London he had set off for Brian’s lodgings; he had found a brief note awaiting him, giving the address. He discovered it to be in a cheerless and shabby quarter of town; it was obvious, from the style of the house, that they had no real home of their own yet, but were living in furnished apartments. He wandered up and down the street, in the dusk of the evening, for a long time, wondering what he should do, or how it would be possible to meet Brian without also seeing ’Linda. He had almost made up his mind, in despair of anything better, to ring the bell and inquire for his cousin, when the door of the house he was watching opened and ’Linda came out. He was on the opposite side of the street, standing back in the shadow of a doorway, and he saw her distinctly—saw, with something of a stab at his heart, that she seemed thinner, and that some of the old elasticity of her step was gone.

He watched her hungrily till she had turned the corner, and then crossed the road and rang the bell. He was shown, by a weird-looking, tired-eyed little servant-maid, into a room on the first floor; it was empty, but in a few moments a door leading to a farther room was opened and Brian came in. There was none of the old frank, joyous fashion of greeting about him; he merely nodded, and thrust his hands into his pockets and walked across to the fireplace.

“Well,” he said, “so you’ve found me out at last, have you? You’ve been long enough about it.”

“I came to you as soon as I could,” said Comethup. “You know I’ve been abroad, and I——”

“Abroad! What do you want to fling that in my face for? Here, some cursed fortune thrusts me, penniless, into a wretched London lodging-house in a slum, and you flaunt it in the best hotels all over Europe. Where’s the justice of it? In God’s name”—he swung round fiercely, and made a step toward the other—“how does the world expect me to work, why does it demand the best of me, under such circumstances?”

“Don’t be unreasonable,” said Comethup slowly. “I met your father in Rome, and sent him hurrying back to you.”

“The damned old scoundrel! Do you know that I’ve never even seen him? When I could stand it no longer, I suggested he should go and find you, and he promised faithfully to come back the moment—well, the moment he got anything. How much did you give him?”

“A little over thirty pounds,” said Comethup.

“And a fine time he’s having with it, I’ll be bound. Never trust your own flesh and blood, say I. Fancy your own father leaving you to starve!”

“Well, I shouldn’t trouble about that now,” said Comethup. He had been looking round the shabby room, with its absence of anything homelike, save for a few flowers in a cheap vase on a little table and some needlework in a little basket. He trembled at every footfall on the stairs, and was only anxious to get away before she returned. “You know I’ve always plenty of money, and if you will let me——”

“Oh! don’t beat around the bush. What do you suppose I sent to you for? It’s easy enough to come in, well fed and well dressed—I’ll warrant you drove here in style——”

“I don’t think I’d say that, if I were you,” said Comethup quietly. His hands were gripped closely behind him, and one foot was beating restlessly on the carpet. “You know I’ve always been ready to—to lend you anything in my power. There’s only one thing I’d like to say, and that is, I should be grateful if you wouldn’t say anything about it to any one else—to ’Linda, for instance.”

“You needn’t fear that; I’ve got my pride—possibly more of it than you possess. There! I don’t want to quarrel with you; only I suppose I’ve got a little soured when I could see no prospect of anything coming in. And money does go so devilish fast in London! Why, that hundred I had—you remember when I left poor old dad stranded without a halfpenny—it’s all gone long since. Poetry is not a paying game, my boy, and these days people don’t seem to believe in a poet who’s hidden away in dingy rooms like this. You see, I can’t ask any one to see me; the people I knew have lost sight of me, and I am in daily dread of being shelved altogether. A poet must remember his social duties, like every one else. While I go on at this rate I shall never make a splash—never do anything.”

“Yes, you’ll do well enough in time,” said Comethup, glancing uneasily toward the door. “As you want me to put the thing bluntly,” he added with a little laugh, “perhaps I may say that I’ve brought some money with me, and that more shall be forthcoming when that’s gone—until, of course, you’ve been able to make your ‘splash,’ as you term it, and can repay it.”

“Oh! of course, that will be all right; it’s bound to come sooner or later. That’s just the point; the things are talked about enough, and if I could once thrust my head in at society’s door and talk about them myself, I should be a made man. How much can you spare me?”

“Well, I don’t spend much myself, and I thought perhaps—say two hundred?”

“By Jove, you’re a good fellow! Pass it over. I must trump up a story to ’Linda about a sudden remittance from the publishers; women like to know the ins and outs of things.”

“Is—is she well?” asked Comethup carelessly, as he held out the notes to the other.

“Oh, yes, she’s well enough,” replied Brian. “Like most of her delightful sex, she’s possessed of a temper, and so am I, so that we don’t always pull together nicely in harness. But she’s very fond of me, and I—yes, I’m very fond of her. But, I say, you’d better be going, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, I think I’ll go,” replied Comethup. He picked up his hat, and looked for a moment round the room; he did not know when, if ever, he should see it again, and it was a wonderful place to him, poor though it was, because she lived there.

Brian went to the door, to ascertain if the coast was clear, and Comethup, shaking him hurriedly by the hand, ran downstairs and got into the street. Even then for a long time he could not leave the place, lingering unhappily up and down on the other side of the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of her again.

He saw her come back presently and enter the house, saw lights gleam in the room he had left, and a little later still saw them both come out and the girl link her arm in Brian’s, and watched them go off together in high spirits. Walking sadly a long way behind them, he saw Brian hail a cab at the end of the street and put her in and jump in himself; saw the cab drive away westward.