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——”