“I suppose,” went on Mr. Robert Carlaw, rapidly regaining his more joyous manner—“I suppose that one must expect that young birds will try their wings, and fly from the nest in time. I trust that he will fly strongly; I’m sure he will fly strongly. But he was made for better things than to seek his fortune in the rough-and-tumble of the world. Like his unfortunate father, he is a disappointed man; he should have had a fortune, but for the caprices—there, there, we will say no more of that. I had hoped, too, that he might have remained, for another reason; I had almost believed that a childish attachment was ripening into—but no matter; time will show.”
Comethup glanced at ’Linda again; her face was still averted, but on her cheek he could see that a sudden flush had grown, and that her hands were toying nervously with a ribbon at her waist. Deep down in his heart a little sudden chill of uneasiness sprang up and clouded the day for him; he had a quick memory of the last time he had traversed that road in a carriage as a child, when he had seen his cousin and the girl strolling down a lane together, the boy’s arm round her neck. He wanted to spring up and tell Mr. Robert Carlaw that it wasn’t true, that no one wanted him there, and that he was spoiling everything and making every one unhappy. But he sat still, and for a time they drove on in silence.
The picnic was not a success. The day was perfect, Homer’s catering of the best, and the wine excellent; but, hovering over all, was the melancholy spirit of Mr. Robert Carlaw, accompanied, strangely enough, in Comethup’s mind at least, by another spirit—that of a bright-faced, handsome fellow, wandering alone in a big city and fighting hard against desperate odds. Certainly Mr. Carlaw did his best to be agreeable; showed much alacrity in opening bottles and spreading out the contents of the basket; was eager in his attentions to Comethup, whom he persistently styled “my lucky nephew.” Indeed, it became evident that he was anxious to ingratiate himself in Comethup’s good graces; he pressed wine upon him, as though the feast had been of his giving; sat beside him and flattered him with talk of the boy’s school career—of which he professed to have heard minute details; and generally endeavoured to be very lively and agreeable.
After the meal was ended, and they had all regained something of their lost spirits, ’Linda laughingly announced that she was going to search for fairies in the wood, and ran off among the trees; Comethup sprang up and went after her. But even here Robert Carlaw was not to be shaken off; he cried out something about his youth returning, and plunged after them. The fairies were forgotten, and Comethup strolled sulkily beside her, with Mr. Robert Carlaw close at his elbow, swinging his stick jauntily and humming an air.
“A word with you, my dear nephew,” he said, linking his arm in that of the boy and bending his head toward him. “Our young friend here does not matter, and is probably”—he smiled and nodded at her—“sympathetic. I have always had a kindly feeling for you, my dear boy. In the case of another man, who carried his heart less openly on his sleeve than I do, that feeling might have been lessened by the fact that an inscrutable Providence thrust you into my boy’s place. But that, sir, does not influence me; my heart rings true to those of my own blood, those I would call my friends, without any consideration of mere earthly gain to influence me. In a word, boy”—this with charming frankness—“I like you; fortune has not spoiled you, and I feel that there is much in our natures—simplicity and guilelessness—that is akin. I want you to look upon me as your friend; I do not want us to lose sight of each other. The world is a wicked place, full, I am told, of schemers and double dealers. You may need protection; count on me. Remember that my poor house, such as it is, is open to you. I may be coming to London—probably in search of my truant—and we may meet. There are those in London who know Bob Carlaw—good fellows all, mind you, and gentlemen—and I promise you sha’n’t have a dull moment. Oh, I assure you Bob is well known in town—among the best.”
Comethup, who was really a little captivated by the man’s manner, murmured politely that he would be very glad to see him in town, and that he was quite sure they would always be good friends. Mr. Robert Carlaw wrung his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, and appeared very grateful and very much moved. So complete was his gratitude, indeed, that he was not to be shaken off in any way; he kept quite close to his young friend until they were all ready to get again into the carriage.
The drive home was a silent one, at least for some part of it. Within a few miles of the town Mr. Robert Carlaw fell into a heavy slumber, and the three drew heads together and conversed in whispers. Comethup, who had not been very happy all day, received unexpected comfort, for, as he sat beside the girl, he suddenly felt her warm, slim fingers slipped into his hand, and he held them softly until the carriage stopped. If the captain saw anything, he was discreet enough not to appear to notice it.
They shook Mr. Carlaw to consciousness at his own gate. He was profuse in apologies and thanks, and it was somewhat difficult to get rid of him; indeed, he ran back to the carriage just as it was starting, to grasp Comethup again by the hand and to look fervently into his eyes.
They all got out at the captain’s cottage, and ’Linda and Comethup lingered for a moment in the garden among the roses, while the captain went inside. When the captain came out again, smoking, the girl announced that she must go home at once; it was getting late. Comethup immediately offered to escort her, and she kissed the captain and went off with the boy down the road in the twilight.
Now there were a hundred things which Comethup wished to say; a hundred indefinite and tantalizing matters to which he seemed vaguely to seek an answer. But the boy was more afraid of this slip of a girl than he had ever been of anything or any one in all his life; the very flutter of her dress in the semi-darkness, the light touch of a ribbon-end which blew out and whipped his hand once as he walked beside her, were disquieting and awe-inspiring things. He tried frantically, as he had tried before, to hark back to the old days when they had been children, and she had clung to him and cried upon his shoulder. But this was no child; this was something wonderful, that had her eyes and her voice, and a suggestion of her in many little ways; but it was a different being, and the child of old times might have been a ghost indeed, as he had once believed, for anything she had in common with this girl. Yet something must be said, and he plunged at the matter.