“Oh, I shall stay in Paris for a day or two; it’s just a good chance to have a look round, and see what the wonderful place is like; I shall do it cheaply, never fear. By the way,” he added, as he rose from his seat, “did I tell you that dad is over here? Followed me to London, and we had an affecting reconciliation—tears and all that sort of business. So as I was coming over here he said he’d come too; couldn’t bear to be parted from me. I suppose”—this with a laugh—“I suppose I treated the dear old chap rather badly, and I’m glad to be friends with him again; he’s not a bad sort, take him altogether. Perhaps you’d better not tell your aunt that we’re here; she doesn’t love either of us. Good-bye. I won’t ask you to save me again, old chap. Write and let me know where you go, and when; the old address in London will find me. Good-bye.”
Comethup, in his bed that night, after much anxious thought came to a resolution. He fully and firmly made up his mind not to write to Brian again. Had the matter rested solely with himself, he could not have formed such a resolve; but he thought of his aunt, and knowing that it was impossible to tell her anything of the matter, he saw clearly that his duty to her was to keep away from Brian. Boy though he was, and great though his admiration was for his cousin, he yet saw clearly enough into the matter to know that Brian would light-heartedly come to him again and again without any thought of the future. It was with a great sense of relief that he heard his aunt next morning declare that they would leave Paris within a few days.
But his troubles were not at an end. Miss Charlotte Carlaw complained that he was moody and silent, and strove in her own kindly fashion to discover what was the matter. “I can see what it is,” she said abruptly one morning; “I’m the wrong sort of companion for you. I ought to have known it; I should have been wiser than to tie you to the apron strings of a blind old woman in this fashion. It’s been a mistake, and you must forgive me, boy. While I’ve been wanting to have you near me, I’ve lost sight of the fact that you, being young and strong, would probably want to be capering about the city alone and having a good time. Well, I warned you what it would be before we started, and you see I was right.”
“No, indeed, aunt,” said Comethup eagerly, “you are quite mistaken. I’m sorry if I have seemed to be bothered about anything; but I’m not, really, and you sha’n’t have to complain again. I’m quite sure no one could have a better time than I am having.”
“Well, I’m not quite satisfied, and I’m afraid I’ve really been very selfish about the matter. For Heaven’s sake, boy, if there’s anything you want, or want to do, within reason, say what it is! Or if anything is troubling you, you’re surely not afraid of an old woman who’s tried to be your friend and who would give a great deal to save you any sorrow?”
“Why, of course not,” replied the boy quickly; “I’ll tell you in a moment if there’s anything I want or—or if there’s anything troubling me. I’m glad you’re going away from Paris, because I’ve got just a little tired of it.”
“We’ll be off to-morrow,” said Miss Carlaw, with decision. “Now, just to please me, forget for an hour or two that I exist at all; off with you where you will, and don’t get into mischief. In fact, I’ll give you the day to yourself, and if you come near me at all I shall be very angry. I can contrive to amuse myself alone for once. Here’s money for you; lunch well, dine well, do what you like. Off with you; I don’t want to hear your voice till nightfall.”
Comethup somewhat reluctantly set off into the city. But it was a fine day, and the brightness of everything about him—the moving people, the life and animation of the city—all had their effect upon him. He was quite glad to be alone for once; he seated himself on a bench in some gardens in the sunshine and folded his arms and sat looking out at the world before him through half-closed eyelids and with a smile about his mouth, for he was very young, and the world seemed very fair.
He began to dream lazily about his old friends: wondered what the captain was doing at that hour, and almost pictured him strolling across the sandy wastes with ’Linda by his side. He was glad to think of ’Linda; glad to remember her as he had seen her last, a pretty girlish figure, at the gate of the captain’s garden. With all the bustle and noise of Paris about him, with strange tongues chattering and strange figures moving past him, he seemed to see, in a vision, the old place of his childhood in another atmosphere and another light; held it, as it were, in a sacred and secret place in his remembrance—a thing apart.