“My dear chap,” began Brian boisterously, “I know you’ll laugh when you hear everything; you’ll split yourself with laughter at our expense. You know, another man in my position would see the grim side of it, the sordid side; I only see the humorous one. Look at my respected dad; saw you ever such a figure of melancholy? You must know that I made up my mind to come down to my native place—I think I hinted something of the sort when I saw you in London. I pined for old sights, and old sounds, and familiar faces; I heard again the babble of the brooks of my youth, the songs of the birds whose nests I robbed in boyhood’s hour. Well, I was just preparing to start when my wonderful parent put in an appearance; we hadn’t seen each other for a considerable period. ‘Where are you going?’ says he. ‘To the home of my birth,’ says I. Then, like the historic milkmaid, ‘I’ll go with you,’ says he. And here we are.”
“But, my son,” interrupted Mr. Robert Carlaw gravely, “the worst has yet to be told.”
“The worst? The best, you mean; quite the best.—You know, my dear Comethup, our preposterous fashion of taking life—a sort of childlike belief that the ravens, or some other well-disposed persons, will feed us. Well, you don’t need to be told that my disgraceful parent and myself discovered, when we arrived here, that we hadn’t a sovereign between us; and this, too, after we had, in the lightness of our hearts, secured the best rooms that the place could afford.”
“You forget, my dear Brian,” interrupted his father, “that that was my suggestion. I considered it necessary, for the sake of your reputation here.”
“Yes, that’s all very well,” laughed Brian; “but we quite forgot, in the innocence of our hearts, that these people knew that you had met with disaster in the shape of bankruptcy. The consequence is that I see that most terrible thing—the greed of gold—beginning to glitter in their eyes. However, we’re here, and we’ve got to make the best of it. I suppose we must be fed, and I suppose these good people must be paid. Therefore, as I say, Providence has been good to us and has sent us”—he bowed with charming frankness toward his cousin—“Comethup.”
The humour of the thing began to appeal to Comethup also. Perhaps it was better that that side of the matter should strike him most clearly, for the rest had become so much a matter of course, that Brian should send to him when the slightest difficulty arose, that he had long since ceased to wonder at it or to be surprised. It was evident that both father and son regarded the thing not as a charity, but as their right; whatever might have been their first feelings, custom had blunted them. Comethup, for his part, could never quite divest his mind of the idea that he was giving an alms, and he tried, therefore, always to carry the business through as delicately. It was evident here that, in a place where Brian’s reputation must at all hazards be first considered, there must be no thought of paying the bill directly; appearances must be kept up, and father and son must sail out of their difficulties with flying colours and in good attitudes. That was obviously a matter for Comethup to arrange; it was evident that they waited for him to set about the task.
“Do you intend to stay here long?” he began.
“About a week, I think,” said Brian. “The truth is, I’m a little rusty, and, despite all the delights of town, I sigh for the simplicity of the country-side. Yes, I think about a week; by that time we shall both be bored to death, or shall have had a violent quarrel——”
“My dear Brian!” interrupted his father.