The portly gentleman seemed surprised, but passed the thing off easily. “Most extraordinary,” he exclaimed, “though why the devil Willis ever called the unfortunate creature by that outlandish name passes my comprehension.—How do you do, nephew? I suppose I ought to have remembered your existence long since; but I’m such a careless rascal that I leave undone those things which I ought to have done—if you’re a good churchman you’ll know the rest, without my troubling to repeat it. Here’s your cousin Brian; if you’re half as much trouble to your poor old dad as he is to me, I pity that worthy fellow.”
The captain was obviously anxious to get away, but Comethup had been looking at the boy to whom he was now introduced, and had, in a childish, worshipping fashion, been quite fascinated by him. He was rather taller than Comethup, and very well dressed, and was, moreover, an extremely handsome boy. He had a rather high forehead for a child, and very thick, curling brown hair brushed loosely back from it. His eyes were keen and bold and dark, and gave Comethup the odd impression of being able to see a great deal more than the eyes of other people. He held himself very upright, with his legs rather apart, and his hands thrust in his pockets; and he swaggered a little as he walked, like his father. He put out his hand to Comethup, and smiled so beautifully with a smile which made his face glow and change, that Comethup was quite glad to think that he was his cousin; he almost felt that he loved him from that moment.
David Willis came at that moment from the church, with his books under his arm; he gazed in an absent-minded fashion at the little group, and obviously did not quite know what to make of it all. Uncle Bob came blusteringly to the rescue; shook David heartily by the hand and walked off with him, with a hand clapped confidentially upon his shoulder and his head bent down sideways from his greater height to talk to him. The boy Brian walked along on the other side of his father, glancing back over his shoulder now and then with an engaging smile at Comethup, who followed behind with the captain. The captain was ill at ease and in a bad temper; he puffed out his chest as he walked and breathed heavily under his mustache, and made savage little cuts at the air with his cane, as though it had been a sword.
At the gate leading to the garden Mr. Robert Carlaw parted jovially, shaking David heartily by the hand again, and patting Comethup on the top of his best Sunday cap. In the captain he apparently scented an enemy; they bowed to each other stiffly, and the frown did not leave the captain’s face.
“He must come and see us,” said Mr. Carlaw, with a jerk of the head toward Comethup. “They’ll be company for each other; besides, they’re cousins. You’re such quiet folks; I declare I’d forgotten your existence—absolutely forgotten it.” He went swinging away down the street, with the boy swinging beside him, a curious, almost pathetic imitation of the father.
It had become the captain’s habit to dine with David Willis every Sunday—quite a simple, homely dinner of a joint and vegetables and a pudding to follow. The captain walked into the cottage now, sat himself stiffly down in a chair near the window, and drew Comethup against his knee and put his arm about him. David Willis was wandering about the room, softly humming to himself a fragment of the voluntary he had played that morning, while the servant-maid laid the table. It was a hot and breathless summer morning; the window of the little parlour was wide open, and Comethup could hear people passing and repassing in the street beyond the garden; could hear the murmur of their talk. There was a high, old-fashioned mahogany bureau on the other side of the room, with curved brass handles to the drawers, and with three leather-bound books, growing gradually smaller in size upward, like a pyramid, on the top of it. Comethup had never seen either the books or the bureau opened; it was curious, therefore, to see his father, with a smile on his face, stroll across there presently and lift the topmost book and open it. “You didn’t know our friend Carlaw was something of a poet, did you?” he asked, addressing the captain.
Disgust sprang suddenly into the captain’s eyes, and into the lines about his mouth. “A poet? Yes, I could have believed even that of him.” The captain chuckled a little grimly at his own humour.
David Willis laughed, and brought the book over toward the window, turning the leaves slowly and looking into it. “Yes,” he said, “he wrote these when he was quite a young man; they were published by subscription. He was a mere youth at the time, and he gave this copy to his sister, my wife. It’s very queer reading, very mad reading some of it. He’s a queer fellow, and a mad fellow.” David Willis laughed good-humouredly and closed the book and carried it back to the bureau.
“Yes, he’s mad enough,” said the captain shortly. “I know the sort of man—met dozens of his kidney. They flash through the world, spreading their feathers in the sun and making such a flutter that no one sees what shame and misery they leave in their track; or, if any one does see it, it’s all excused with the phrase, ‘Oh, he couldn’t help it—he was such a good fellow.’ Bah!” The captain was quite indignant, and the arm that held Comethup shook a little.
“You’re a little hard on our friend,” said David, easily. “He’s really rather a clever sort of fellow; there are lots of things he does quite well, only not quite well enough to make anything of them. He paints a little, writes a little, plays and sings remarkably well. But he never gives his mind to anything. I remember he said to me once: ‘It’s not my fault; they shouldn’t have given me such a name. Think of it! Bob! What can a fellow do with such a name as that, except go to the devil with it? And I’ve tried consistently to go to the devil with it.’ And I really believe he has.”