“Come, my dear boy, what ails you? What’s the reason of this sudden change of plan? There’s nothing troubling you, is there? You’ve had no—no letters, no bad news, to worry you? Won’t you tell me?”
To tell her was, of course, impossible. Even if he could have kept back that former story of all the money he had paid away, he could not now explain that this girl, who had left him for another, was in want, and that he, the man she had cast aside, was to relieve her. That, of course, could never be explained—would never be understood. Although his aunt had scarcely mentioned the matter to him, he felt, from something she had once said, that she knew the story of the marriage, and knew that Brian was ’Linda’s husband. Probably the captain had told her. But Comethup saw clearly before him that there was but one course he could adopt—that of silence. He could not bear to think that any action of ’Linda’s, or of those belonging to her, should be misunderstood.
“No, of course I have had no bad news. What should make you think that? Only I am a little tired of travelling, and you know London is always delightful; I’ve heard you say that. My dear aunt, I know you only undertook this journey because you thought I should like it. Won’t you go back to please me also?”
“Ah! you’re keeping something from me; there’s something hidden away in your heart that you won’t tell me. There! I’m not inquisitive—no more than the rest of my sex; but I’d like to give you a word of warning, boy. You’ve not been happy lately—oh, I know!—although you haven’t said a word about it; I’m too fond of you not to notice every little sign. My dear boy, there’s something I never meant to refer to; it’s a story that’s best left alone. Comethup, you’re not—not hungering after her still, are you?”
“No,” he replied.
“And you’re not making this sudden journey to London after her? Remember, you must put that out of your mind; I say must advisedly, because there’s no other word to use in the matter. You can’t blink the thing away, my dear: she belongs to some one else, and you’ve done with her. If you don’t recognise that, it only means disaster for both of you. With a man and a woman in such a situation there are two things for the man to do: if he can’t run away with her, then, by the Lord, he must run away from her!”
“But I am not going to London to see her,” said Comethup. “I’m afraid you’re magnifying the matter; she is married, happily married, and all the other is forgotten and done with. Won’t you understand that?”
“Yes, if you tell me so. I am very glad, for your sake, to hear you say it. And, if it pleases you, we’ll set off for London at once.”
One thought was uppermost in Comethup’s mind—that he must not see ’Linda. In the first place, he felt pretty certain that the fact of his having been appealed to on her own and her husband’s behalf had not been revealed to her; and, in the second, he was not quite sure yet that he could bear to meet her. That she must, at all costs, be kept from want and suffering he had fully determined; all the bright hopes and dreams he had had, even from his boyhood, concerning her were swept aside and done with—things that never had been. The fortune that had been placed in his hands and which had seemed once so wonderful was now nothing, save that by its aid, in an indirect fashion and without her knowledge, he could benefit her; he was glad to think that he still possessed that power at least. For his wanderings had not changed him. Solitary for the most part, except for the companionship of the strange old woman who loved him and would have done so much to help him, he had seen, in every place he visited, the face of the girl always before him; had gone over, in imagination, words she had spoken to him; had lived again through scenes of those brief half-happy weeks in which he had thought she loved him.
Within an hour of reaching London he had set off for Brian’s lodgings; he had found a brief note awaiting him, giving the address. He discovered it to be in a cheerless and shabby quarter of town; it was obvious, from the style of the house, that they had no real home of their own yet, but were living in furnished apartments. He wandered up and down the street, in the dusk of the evening, for a long time, wondering what he should do, or how it would be possible to meet Brian without also seeing ’Linda. He had almost made up his mind, in despair of anything better, to ring the bell and inquire for his cousin, when the door of the house he was watching opened and ’Linda came out. He was on the opposite side of the street, standing back in the shadow of a doorway, and he saw her distinctly—saw, with something of a stab at his heart, that she seemed thinner, and that some of the old elasticity of her step was gone.