The Idol of the Blind: A Novel

by Tom Gallon

As degrading things degrade a man, so Robert Carlaw lost something of the old, reckless swagger—the fine air with which he had carried himself before the world. He did not come less boldly on that account when he made his shameful plea again and again to Comethup; but he came to make it, in time, more as a matter of course—a something to which he had the right. He must have had some small money of his own, or must have begged and borrowed elsewhere during those years; all that he squeezed out of Comethup could not have enabled him to travel as he did or live in the style he did.

Once or twice, as has been said, father and son presented themselves together; they had made up their differences and henceforth nothing was to separate them; their interests went hand in hand, as did their hopes and ambitions. On such occasions Mr. Robert Carlaw would announce, not without emotion, that life held new purposes for him. Comethup even saw him once turn up the sleeve of his coat and mutter something about work. Brian would laugh and clap his father on the shoulder, and cry that he was a good fellow and that they’d stand or fall together.

But in a day or two one or the other would make his appearance alone; would tell his tale of the desertion of that being who should have held to him, if only for the ties of blood; would plead that the deserter, in a moment of forgetfulness or duplicity, had taken the available capital, and would beg for further help. In one case it would be the father whom Brian in a sudden fit of petulance had deserted; in another case Brian would cry out upon his unnatural parent who had, theoretically at least, cursed him, and left him to starve.

So the game had gone merrily on until Comethup had grown quite used to it, and was only glad that he could keep the thing so successfully from his aunt’s knowledge. During those years Brian had not been altogether idle; he had produced two slim books of verse, which had found considerable favour with a certain section of the public, and which had got him pretty considerably talked about, if no more. He declared to Comethup that from a monetary standpoint the things were valueless; that they brought him fame, but that he had discovered that a year or two must elapse before he could really hope to live by his work.

“Unless,” he added, “I make a sudden hit; that, of course, would make a difference—would fling me to the top of the tree at a bound. Then, old fellow, my first duty would be to repay every penny—oh, I’ve made a careful calculation, and have got it all jotted down somewhere—every penny I owe you. As a matter of fact, I may see something to-morrow which will give me just the right thought—may write the thing red hot, as it were—and make my fortune. And you’ll have the satisfaction, dear old boy, of knowing that—indirectly, of course—you’ve brought it about.”

But, although the books were produced, and although they were well spoken of, and although Brian paid one or two flying visits to London “to stir up the publishers,” as he expressed it, it all seemed to make no difference to the position of affairs so far as Comethup was concerned, and that position remained unaltered. It practically amounted to this: that Comethup was certain that within a given time one of them or both would smilingly or tearfully appear in a strange city without funds and dependent on his bounty. Under those circumstances it became, of course, impossible to turn a deaf ear to their entreaties, and they had to be relieved.

Comethup gained a reputation for reckless extravagance that he did not in the least deserve. Personally, Miss Charlotte Carlaw was not displeased, although she was sometimes puzzled to understand how he spent his money, but she adhered to her principle and trusted him absolutely, never questioning him upon anything about which he seemed disinclined to speak. She had had her dearest wish realized in gaining the love of this boy; he was devoted to her, and had been more than a mere companion; he had been, as she had once suggested, eyes to her—had made her darkened journey something so full of colour and brightness that it became under his young influence more wonderful than any journey she had ever taken before.

During those years Comethup had kept up something of a correspondence with the old captain; had filled his own letters with glowing accounts of the places he visited, and his impressions of them; and had received from the captain, in return, such small news as he had to communicate about his simple and uneventful life. In one of the letters, soon after they had started for the Continent, the captain had corroborated Mr. Robert Carlaw’s account of his bankruptcy; had told—perhaps with something of grim satisfaction—of the selling of all the beautiful things contained in the house which Comethup had visited as a boy, together with a full description of how Mr. Carlaw had stood outside the house during the progress of the sale in an utterly dejected attitude; and of how the poor gentleman had received a vast amount of respectful sympathy on account of his ruin. Comethup, in reply to the letter, had very properly expressed his sorrow; but in no subsequent letter did he tell the captain of his frequent meetings with the father and the son. He felt that it would be wiser to maintain absolute silence in regard to the matter.

So nearly five years had slipped away, and Comethup, looking back as over a crowded page across the track of their wanderings, could find it in his heart to be very grateful for all that had happened; very grateful, too, in his simple, unselfish fashion, that he had been able, after all, to help the two who had so often pleaded to him. True, he was a little frightened at the remembrance that Miss Charlotte Carlaw’s bounty had enabled four people to run about the Continent for some years, instead of only two, as she had imagined. But that was done with now, and he had already started with his aunt on the homeward journey, and the two he pitied so much, and yet dreaded so much to see, were left behind.

Instructions had been given, and all arrangements made, so that their house was perfectly in order for their return. It seemed quite a lifetime to Comethup Willis since he had left that house behind and set out, a mere boy, on his travels with his aunt. Yet, despite all the sunny places he had visited, it was good to get back to the gray old city again; good to know that he was in sober England and within a short journey of the old place where the captain lived, and where all the hallowed associations of his own boyhood were gathered together.