UNCLE ROBERT HAS AN INSPIRATION.

The pretty comedy to which Brian had referred had been running with something of regularity for over six months; the staging of it had been a more costly matter than Comethup had believed possible. His own expenses were small enough—indeed, he cut them down to the lowest figure; but Brian had seen in him an inexhaustible mine, from which he could demand whatever he wanted at any moment, light-heartedly enough. To do Brian justice, he had no knowledge of what the actual sum was on which his cousin had to depend, nor, indeed, did he care. He held the younger man strictly to his bargain—even threatened desertion, at the slightest remonstrance on Comethup’s part against reckless expenditure. ’Linda had no suspicion of the true state of affairs; she knew that there was always plenty of money, that they went out a great deal, that many well-known and clever people came to their house, that their doings when they went into the country or abroad were chronicled for all the world to read. Brian, her Brian, of whom she was so fond and so proud, had produced another book of verses, and the people she met talked to her about them, even quoted lines of them; they sometimes coupled her husband’s name with the names of certain wondrous young poets of bygone days. It was a never-failing source of delight that he had, on an impulse, dedicated this last book “To the Woman who stands always most near to Me.” She knew what that meant; she kissed the dear lines on the printed page again and again because she was so proud to think that all the world knew what it meant, and knew to whom the poet referred.

If, sometimes, at her own house or in the houses of others she met a tall, grave-faced man who said little to any one and who generally lounged in doorways or in out-of-the-way corners; if sometimes—indeed, very often—she glanced at him to find his eyes looking wistfully at her; if, in the dead of night, when she could not sleep sometimes, she had a sudden remembrance of him and of his loneliness, and of the old garden far away, where they had whispered together, it was all so fleeting—just a little breath of pain, as it were, across the perfect happiness of her days—that she forgot it at once and was glad to think that he must have left his sorrow behind him long ago, and have ceased to trouble about what could never be. In those months she was so supremely happy and her life was so crowded that she could not bear to think that any one else was unhappy through any mistake of hers, and so dismissed the matter at last, feeling sure that he too had dismissed it long since.

Of late, finding that he had but to ask to receive at once, Brian had carried the game on even more recklessly than before. He had long since demanded—almost immediately after the return from Paris—that an account should be opened in his name at a bank into which he could pay the sums received from Comethup; he felt, he said, that it looked so much better to write cheques for what was wanted. But a thousand pounds per annum will not stretch sufficiently to cover everything, and the moment arrived when Comethup was informed that his own account was considerably overdrawn. And there were still two months to wait before Miss Charlotte Carlaw would pay in anything more.

For himself it did not matter, although even he would be put to it for small personal expenses. But he sat in trembling fear that Brian might make a demand upon him any day, a demand which for the first time he would be unable to meet. While he was puzzling helplessly over the matter the demand arrived, borne by Mr. Robert Carlaw, who wore a troubled countenance. He had of late been the go-between of the cousins; he still lived in his son’s house, and was chiefly useful in entertaining dull visitors and performing petty offices for which Brian had no time nor inclination.

His method when seeking Comethup was a simple one: he did not care to go near the house, but caught the first small boy on whom he could lay hands and gave him a few coppers to take a note to the house, addressed to Comethup. The note was invariably couched in the same pitiful strain, imploring his dear nephew to grant him an interview in the street, where he was humbly waiting with despair tugging heavily at his heart.

“My dear, dear boy,” he exclaimed fervently on this occasion, “how can I thank you? If, like Brian, I were a poet I could compare you to the sun at midday, to the blessed rain from heaven upon a parched earth. Not being a poet, although I once had some pretensions in that direction, I am compelled to say ‘Bless you, my dear boy, bless you!’”

“Well,” said Comethup, as they paced slowly down a side street, “what’s the matter?”

“My dear boy, we are on the verge of ruin,” exclaimed Mr. Robert Carlaw. “Why should I disguise the fact from you? Why should I hide from you, who know the whole deplorable circumstances, the miserable truth? This morning a letter has arrived, threatening a distraint upon our goods unless a large sum of money be paid by to-morrow. Think of it, a distraint upon our goods! The horror, the disgrace of it!” he exclaimed, smiting his forehead with one hand and waving the other despairingly. “That is our cursed temperament—my son’s and mine—that we can go on through the world like happy children, laughing in the sunshine, picking the brilliant flowers of life, heedless of everything; when a storm comes and the wind howls—you follow my metaphor?—we are lost, absolutely lost. Others were born to face the world and its trials, to make a stubborn fight of it if necessary; we are exotics, my son and I, under an open sky, and we perish miserably. In point of fact, we are on the eve of perishing miserably at this moment.”

“I am sorry,” replied Comethup slowly, “but on this occasion I can’t help you.”

Mr. Robert Carlaw stopped and touched his arm, and peered anxiously into his face, “Can’t help us?” he cried, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have no money; that it’s all gone, and that I sha’n’t have any more for perhaps another two months. I’ve already drawn more than was due to me at the bank.”

“But, my dear boy,” whimpered his uncle, “what is to become of us, what is to become of me? Think of the position: you have taught me to be dependent upon you, to look to you for the supply of those little comforts—not to say luxuries—which are necessary to a man of my position. I have felt so—so safe! Fortune has not been good to me; Fortune has stripped me of everything; and then, at the last moment, melting a little toward me, has pointed to you and has said in effect: ‘Go to Comethup; our dear Comethup will assist you.’ And I have come to you accordingly. My dear nephew, what is to become of us?”

Comethup faced about and looked at him contemptuously. “Yes, I know, you’ve come to me for everything; have relied upon me for everything. I’ve had a thousand a year from my aunt, and, as God’s my witness, I haven’t spent fifty of it. It’s all gone to feed you, and your son, and”—he paused, and a gentler expression came over his face—“yes, and ’Linda. Well, I suppose it’s all right; you’d got to be fed and kept going somehow, and it was easier for me to do it than it would have been for any one else. But now, here’s an end of it. I’d help you if I could—you know that but I simply can’t. It’s impossible for me to go to my aunt, even if I could bring myself to do it; she’d want to know where the money had gone, would want to know a thousand things I can’t tell her. I tell you things have come to a deadlock; you’ve drained me—you and Brian—and you can drain me no further.”

Mr. Robert Carlaw walked slowly up and down the street with his head sunk upon his breast in profound thought; Comethup paced slowly at his side. After a time the elder man raised his head and thumped his chest, and spoke in a tone of renewed hopefulness.

“In a crisis of this kind, my dear nephew, despair is useless; we see before us a certain situation, and that situation has to be faced. In this world we are beings of one of two orders—we are either men or mice. If we are mice we submit to be crushed”—he stamped his heel vigorously on the pavement—“while if we are men we face the situation boldly and rise superior to it. In this case we are men; we refuse to be crushed. For myself I would not care; ever the sport of fortune as I have been, I yet may cut a figure in the world, even though it be a ragged one; ‘The Vagabond’ has always been my favourite song. But my heart is torn at the thought of others. I dare not return and see them hold out empty hands to me and cry for bread and tell them I have but a stone. My dear boy, it is not to be done; vagabond I may be, but I am still, I trust, a gentleman, and my heart beats true to those of my own flesh and blood. Think, my boy, think of Brian and of his young wife, and then tell me, if you will, that I am to go back to them and bow my head before them and say, ‘Behold me; I have failed!’”

“But, my dear uncle,” exclaimed Comethup in despair, “what am I to do? Show me any way, and I’ll adopt it gladly.”

“My dear nephew,” said Mr. Robert Carlaw, with his chin resting meditatively in his hand, “there is a way, and an easy one, for a man in your position. Come, let us face facts: you are your aunt’s heir; if she died to-morrow—may Heaven spare her for many years!—you would have every penny she possesses. Such is your good fortune. Now, my dear nephew, it has been my most sorry fate to have to deal on occasion with the shady side of life; I have had, I may say, to get through it as best I could, and in the easiest possible fashion. Your path has been different; you have gone along in the sunshine, with some one else to clear the way for you; hence, you know nothing of these matters. But let me tell you this, my dear boy”—he tapped a persuasive forefinger on Comethup’s arm—“that there are men in this city to-day, personally known to me, who would be willing at a moment’s notice to advance any sum you might name within reason to a man with your prospects. Don’t mistake me,” he added hurriedly. “I am not urging that you should do anything dishonourable. Frankly, the thing amounts to this: you go to A. upon my introduction; A. says in effect: ‘What! is this Mr. Willis, the favourite nephew of Miss Charlotte Carlaw? And he is in want of money, just to tide him over until such time as he may, in the indefinite future, come into his fortune? Nothing easier,’ says A. ‘How much does Mr. Willis want?’ And there, my boy, the thing’s done. Do you follow me?”

“Yes, I follow you,” said Comethup slowly. “And so you want me to use her name, the name of a woman who’s been the best friend ever a man had; you want me to look out so eagerly for dead men’s shoes—or a dead woman’s, it doesn’t matter which—that I am to sell them before she’s finished wearing them? No, you’ve made a mistake, Uncle Bob; I don’t intend to do it. You and Brian have been living at my expense at the rate of over a thousand a year; to put it plainly, you’ve had every penny, or nearly every penny, that I’ve ever possessed since I was a boy. I don’t mind that, but the thing has got to stop. Beyond what I have I won’t go; you’ve been welcome to all that, and I don’t mind. But I’ll go no further.”

Mr. Robert Carlaw sighed and began to ponder the matter again; he was not quite certain of his cards, at least of those he could safely play; but he had a vague feeling that there was one trump card in his possession which might well be risked. The matter was desperate, and he resolved to play desperately.

“Well, you know best,” he said. “Frankly, I honour you—honour you for the noble position you take up at such a moment. When I consider your simplicity, your clear and beautiful nature, I feel like a modern Mephistopheles whispering temptation into your ear. But in this, as in all other matters, a man must look at a thing from his own standpoint, or from the standpoint of those who most nearly concern him. Doubtless you are right; let us say no more about it. The crash has come, and we must meet it. I have met worse blows than this, and Brian, being the son of his most unfortunate father, must learn to meet them too; doubtless it will be a salutary lesson to him. Men have strong hands and, I trust, stout hearts; if it rested with Brian and myself alone I would not mind; but there is some one else to consider, some one weak and helpless who knows nothing of any tragedy which may be impending over her.” He sighed again and shook his head with an air of deep dejection.

“You mean ’Linda?” said Comethup, without looking at him.

“I refer to that sweet girl. I am a man of quick and strong imagination; a moment ago I seemed to have a sudden mental picture of that child when she first learned the position in which we stand, when she——”

“But she mustn’t learn it,” cried Comethup hurriedly.

Mr. Robert Carlaw shook his head again. “My dear young friend, a wife’s place is by her husband; when the crash falls she will unhesitatingly—oh, I know the nobility of her character—she will, I say, unhesitatingly place her hand in that of her husband and will say, ‘Together we have been prosperous, together we will bow our heads before the storm.’ Poor child, poor child, that it should come to this!”

“I—I’m afraid I had lost sight of her,” said Comethup. “Of course she doesn’t understand, doesn’t know any of the circumstances; I’d forgotten that. She’s gone on, day by day, believing that all this money came from him; proud of him; glad that the world, as she thought, should shower its gold upon her clever husband, upon the man she loves. Yes, I’d forgotten all that.” He spoke as if to himself, without noticing his companion. He saw in a moment that this thing he had built up for her sake was in danger of being swept away; that she might be left stripped and trembling in a desert, with all that had made her life perfect torn away from her. He thought of her proud and happy face when he had seen her but a little time since with her husband; saw again, far away from the street in which he walked, a little lonely child in a garden; heard himself, as a boy, tell the old captain that he meant to look after her. Comethup Willis was of the stuff of which the fabled knights might have been made—one who simply and earnestly and splendidly set before him a task to be done and did it without wavering or turning aside. His own pain, his own longing counted for nothing; the child of the old days seemed to be stretching out her hands to him and crying to him, as she had done years before when they had first met; the cry was not to be resisted.

He looked up with a start and found the eyes of Mr. Robert Carlaw fixed upon him. “You say that it is possible—honourably—to get an advance from some one?” he asked.

“The easiest thing in the world. Of course, there will be interest to be paid, and—and I’ve no doubt that the interest will be somewhat high; but that is a mere matter for arrangement. As I have said, the fact of your aunt’s wealth is well known; the further fact that she has refused to have anything to do with any of her relatives but your fortunate self is equally well known. My dear nephew, in this world of ours if a man has anything substantial behind him it is the easiest thing in the world for him to get what he wants. I can take you to a man this very hour, if necessary, who will conduct the business for you. And, let me tell you another thing: for the future it is my fixed intention to insist upon it that there shall be no further extravagance. We must not run the risk of another crisis of this character. In a little time we shall be able to pull ourselves straight, to repay this money, and so—if I may suggest so much—put your conscience at rest. Whatever money is advanced can be paid back, and my good sister will know nothing of the transaction.”

“You are sure there is no other way?” asked Comethup.

Mr. Robert Carlaw spread out his hands with an air of charming frankness. “Suggest one, my dear nephew, and I will instantly give you my opinion concerning it. Candidly, I can see no way so simple or so easy.”

“Very well,” said Comethup in a low voice. “Let’s go at once and get it over.”

They drove to an office in a quiet court in the city, and there Comethup was left in an outer room, where a solitary clerk was busily writing, while Mr. Robert Carlaw had a private interview with the accommodating gentleman who was so willing to lift other people’s troubles away from them. “It will be best for me just to—to pave the way, as it were,” he had said when they reached the place.

That necessary formality over, Comethup was shown in, and found a bland and smiling gentleman, of a somewhat pronounced type of features, anxious to shake him at once with much fervour by the hand. His uncle had, it appeared, with that consideration which characterized him, put the whole matter so fairly and clearly before this gentleman that the money was at Comethup’s instant disposal; indeed, it seemed such an ordinary and simple piece of business that Comethup’s mind was considerably lightened. There were papers to be signed, and it appeared that Mr. Robert Carlaw had suggested, in order to avoid troubling his dear nephew again, that the loan should be for a thousand pounds. The rate of interest, as he had said, was extremely high, but then the circumstances were peculiar; and in order that there might be no misunderstanding the interest for one year was deducted from the amount of the cheque, so that the cheque itself was very, very far short of the sum which had been named.

However, the thing was rapidly concluded, and uncle and nephew were ushered out of the office. When once the money had been placed in Mr. Robert Carlaw’s hands Comethup laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. “Look here, you know,” he said, with some sternness, “let us have no nonsense about this matter. I am sorry to refer to it, but on a former occasion—in Rome, you remember—when I put money into your hands it never reached its destination.”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Carlaw, bridling, “do you imagine——”

“I imagine nothing,” replied Comethup quietly; “I am merely speaking of what occurred. This is a different matter, and I think—yes, I’m quite sure—that I’d better go home with you.”

Mr. Robert Carlaw shrugged his shoulders, but submitted to being thrust into a hansom with Comethup close at his elbow. At the corner of the street in which Brian lived the cab was dismissed, and they walked down the street together. Some fifty yards from the house Comethup stopped and nodded to his uncle to go on alone. That gentleman shook hands with him effusively, and went on and ran up the steps leading to the door, with a brisk air; waved a hand to his nephew, and disappeared. Comethup waited about for some time and finally went home.

Now, the mind of Mr. Robert Carlaw was divided between two sets of emotions during the next day or so. In the first place, he was honestly glad to have got so neatly out of an impending trouble; while, on the other hand, he fretted and chafed when he thought of the hand which had lifted the trouble from him. He had never ceased to think bitterly of the boy who had, as he considered, stepped into his son’s place; had never ceased to occupy his mind with schemes, however wild and futile, which might turn the tables. And thus it happened that an idea came to him, so wild and daring that at first he rejected it; but it grew and grew, and shaped itself, until at last it seemed in all points and from every aspect so extremely beautiful that he wondered, almost in an awed fashion, what special providence could have guided him to it.

The theatrical nature of the man, glorying in big effects and surprises and flourishes, compelled him to carry out the business secretly; and then, when he had brought it to a successful issue, to declare the fact triumphantly. Accordingly he said nothing to Brian about the matter, but went out early and returned home late in the pursuit of his object. And that object was to gain a private interview with his sister, Miss Charlotte Carlaw.

The opportunity came at last. He had watched the house for some days in the hope of seeing Comethup leave it; had haunted corners and doorways, waiting for his chance. At last, one evening he saw the young man come out in evening dress and enter the waiting carriage and drive away alone. Mr. Carlaw readily conjectured that he was going to a dinner party, and after waiting for a few minutes longer he walked up to the house and rang the bell.

“Will you inform Miss Carlaw,” he said in his sweetest manner to the servant, “that a gentleman wishes to see her on urgent private business? I will not give my name; Miss Carlaw knows me quite well. Oh, and say that I regret to trouble her at such an hour.”

The man carried the message and presently returned to say that Miss Carlaw would see him. He was ushered into a room where she sat in solitary state at dinner. She turned her head inquiringly toward the door as he softly entered. There was no need for him to speak, for she knew him instantly. The frown on her face was not encouraging.

“Well, brother Bob, what do you want?” she asked sharply. “And what’s the mystery, that you can’t send up your name like an honest creature? Afraid I shouldn’t see you, eh?”

“My dear Charlotte,” replied Mr. Carlaw, “you always appear to do me an injustice in your thoughts. It is, perhaps, late in the day now to attempt to change your opinion of me; yet I venture to suggest that you will be surprised to learn that my errand to-night is undertaken—may I say it?—in pure unselfishness, and with the desire to do a fellow-creature a service.”

“Yes, I should certainly be very much surprised to hear that, Bob,” replied his sister with a shrewd smile. “You’re not generally taken in that way; but it’s never too late to mend, you know. You can sit down. I’m all alone, as you see; my boy has gone out.”

Mr. Robert Carlaw sighed heavily and seated himself. “I am very glad,” he began, “to find you alone; what I have to say is of a private and confidential character, and—forgive me, I beg—somewhat painful. In fact, it would have been impossible for me to speak before my nephew.”

“I don’t understand you,” replied the old woman. She was frowning again, but seemed to be listening very intently. “I have no secrets from my boy.”

“Ah, my poor sister; the gods have not been good to you. Blinded by nature, you have, I fear, also been blinded by something stronger than nature—love. You say you have no secrets from the boy; that does not necessarily imply that he has none from you. Do you follow me?”

“No, I don’t. If you’ve anything to say about Comethup, why, in the devil’s name, can’t you say it before his face? You never did do things in a straightforward, honest fashion; there was always something crooked about you. If you’ve heard anything about my boy, or against him, I’ll tell you to begin with that it’s a pack of lies, and whatever it is I won’t hear it! I’m keen enough and I know enough of the world to know what the boy’s worth; he’s not of your stamp, and never will be, please God!”

“There, you observe,” said Mr. Carlaw, addressing the furniture, “the absolute accuracy and beauty of my reasoning. I told you that you were blinded by love. What I have heard comes from no third party; I love and esteem my nephew so well that had any one dared to breathe a word against him, that person would have felt the weight of my displeasure. I am, I trust, my dear sister, still a gentleman, whatever my worldly position may be, and I do not carry idle tales. I came to you to-night because it is my earnest wish, as I just now hinted, to help that young man——”

“I have no doubt he’d be immensely obliged to you if he heard you say so,” broke in Miss Carlaw, “but I think he can do without your help.”

“I fear not,” replied her brother sadly. “I risk your displeasure—your anger—I know, in saying what I am about to say, but my duty is clear, and I must speak. Will you pardon me for saying that into whatever pitfalls our dear nephew has plunged the fault is not, perhaps, entirely his own?”

Miss Charlotte Carlaw got up from her chair and came round the table with the aid of her stick and stopped exactly opposite her brother. “Pitfalls? What are you talking about? You’ve come here to say something; why the devil can’t you say it? I suppose I’m bound to listen to you; a fellow of your sort must tell his lies in some ear or other if he can’t gain the attention of the one he first seeks. Now”—she rapped her stick furiously on the floor—“out with it! What have you to say about my boy?”

“My dear Charlotte, you are, I observe, as impatient as ever. My sole desire was to break the matter gently to you, in order, if possible, to save you any unnecessary pain.”

“Pain? What should pain me?” Yet her voice and her face were a little troubled as she spoke.

“My dear Charlotte, I know your generous nature, and I know—or I can guess—how lavishly you have dealt with this boy. It has been my good fortune to meet him once or twice, or perhaps I should say to see him in the distance; for we move, as you are aware, in different spheres. I have seen the richness of his dress; I have observed that he never appears to be in want of money.”

“I don’t do things by halves,” said Miss Carlaw with a little touch of pride. “I said I would look after the boy, and I’ve done it. But what has all this to do with you—or with what you have to say?”

“Everything, my dear sister, everything. I suppose—forgive the question, but it is necessary—I imagine he has a large personal income?”

“He has,” replied the old woman shortly. “A thousand a year.”

Mr. Robert Carlaw lifted his hands in amazement. “A thousand a year! Incredible! And even that does not satisfy him.”

“Not satisfy him! What do you mean?”

“To put the matter plainly, my dear Charlotte, circumstances which I need not detail took me recently into a certain quarter of the city. I may state—not without a blush, for I’m still a gentleman—that my condition of life is such that I am compelled sometimes to resort to various shifts by which to raise money. You have not had to do that; fortune has been kinder to you than to others. In this case I had gone to visit a money-lender. Do I pain you?”

“Go on,” said Miss Carlaw quietly. She had backed away from him a little and was standing beside the fireplace, with one hand reaching up and resting on the high mantelshelf.

“Imagine my surprise, my distress, when I met in such a place your nephew, Comethup Willis!”

“Comethup at a money-lender’s! Either you’re mad or you think I am, brother Bob. Or have you suddenly gone blind, like your sister?”

“Alas! my dear Charlotte, I was never more wide-awake in my life, and never did I speak in more sober earnestness. I said nothing to the young man at the time, but the money-lender being a friend, I carefully and cautiously questioned him. And then I discovered the whole disgraceful business.” Mr. Robert Carlaw rose to his feet and began to pace excitedly about the room.

“Keep still, man, keep still!” cried Miss Carlaw furiously, “and get on with your story.”

“The man, who, like the rest of his kind, makes the most of his opportunities, informed me that he had advanced a large sum of money to young Mr. Willis. On my inquiring, naturally enough, what security he had asked, he told me that Mr. Willis had informed him that he was heir to the whole of Miss Charlotte Carlaw’s large fortune, and that he supposed that fact was security enough. The man evidently thought so, for he had advanced your misguided nephew the sum of a thousand pounds at a ruinous rate of interest.”

Miss Carlaw stood perfectly still for a long time; all expression seemed to have died out of her face. When at last she spoke her voice appeared to have changed, to have aged in some strange fashion. “Brother Bob,” she said, “we are of the same blood, you and I, and whatever our later quarrels may have been we’ve played together as boy and girl. I pray you, Bob, in mercy to me, tell me that this is some hideous jest. I’ll forgive you; I swear I’ll even laugh at you, if only you’ll tell me that you’ve come here, knowing my love for this boy, to play a cruel joke on me, and then to go away and laugh at it. Brother Bob, tell me you’re making fun of me.” The appeal was piteous enough to have melted any heart, but brother Bob merely shook his head and sighed again more heavily than before.

“Alas! my dear Charlotte, it is no jest. To say that I was thunderstruck would be to put the matter mildly; and I can well imagine what your feelings must be. What he does with this money is more than I can say; I can give a shrewd guess, but I may be doing him an injustice, so I won’t say what that guess is. But it is certainly true that he has raised this money in the fashion I have explained to you. If you still believe that I am guilty of such atrocious bad feeling as to jest with you on a subject of such a nature, I beg that you will yourself ask him.”

“Yes, I shall certainly ask him,” replied Miss Carlaw.

“That is wise, that is just,” replied her brother. “Perhaps I might suggest that it would be better not to mention my name in the matter. After all, I am not concerned in it in any way, and being a man of peace I do not desire to have this young man’s enmity. He will probably believe that you have heard it through some business channel of which he knows nothing.”

“Oh, you needn’t fear that I shall mention your name. If he admits it, the fact that I know it is sufficient. Have you anything more to say?”

“Nothing, beyond the hope that you will not deal hardly with him. He is young, thoughtless, headstrong; he has been brought up extravagantly, and——”

“With plenty to be extravagant upon,” said Miss Carlaw, with something of a return of her old manner. “Well, brother Bob, I suppose you’ll go home to-night in triumph; you’ll go home and laugh because an old fool has been blind in a double sense; because she’s been fooled as thousands of women have been fooled before, eh? Oh, you need have no mercy; go and tell all your friends, every one who knows you, tell all the world that I have warmed something in my bosom until at last it has stung me. Tell ’em all.”

“Indeed, my dear sister,” said Mr. Carlaw, “you do me a grave injustice. You spoke just now, not without emotion, of our childish years; my heart goes out to you to-night more than it has ever done. I may say that, having seen much of men and women in this queer world of ours, I feared something of this from the beginning; I felt that the boy had not that strength of character, if I may so term it, necessary to take his place with any dignity in an exalted sphere. Humbly he might have done well; the best of us are likely to have our heads turned.”

“There, that will do; I’m quite capable of abusing him myself, if necessary, without your help. I suppose I ought to thank you for what you’ve told me to-night, but I’m afraid I can’t quite do that. I wish, in my heart of hearts, I might have died five minutes before you came in, for then his kiss was warm upon my old cheek, and I—God help me!—I believed in him. There, don’t speak to me. Go away, please; I want to be alone.”

Mr. Robert Carlaw quietly took his way out of the room and out of the house. As he walked home he looked up at the night sky and smiled softly to himself, and felt that the world was good and that Providence had been specially kind to him.

“Women are strange creatures,” he muttered to himself, “and when they’ve been upset or have had something rudely torn away from them they do remarkable things. Years ago, my dear Charlotte, you rejected my offspring and put Master Comethup Willis in his place. I may be wrong, but I think now, with the swing of the pendulum, it is ten thousand chances to one that you will restore Brian to your favour; and then our begging days are over, and all our fortunes will be made. And I shall have made them.”