“Yes, I think I know what he means,” said Comethup slowly. “I suppose one mustn’t judge a poet by ordinary standards. You see, I’m such an idle dog, and I just manage to stroll through life in—in the sunshine, and so I don’t quite understand what that other life—the life of a genius—means. By the way, I’m thinking of going down to see the captain; have you any message for him?”
Her face was turned away; she did not answer for a moment. “What does he think of me?” she asked at last, in a low voice.
“Nothing but the best, I can assure you,” he replied. “You’ve always been, and always will be, his little ’Linda, the child he knew so many years ago. Why should he think badly of you?”
“If you’re quite sure—well, give him my love; say that I think of him often and often; that in moments when I am alone I dream that I am in his garden again, among the roses; that I am still a little child, with my arms about him. And say—say that I am quite, quite happy. Will you remember that?”
“Every word,” said Comethup. He felt he could not trust himself to say anything more, or even to look into her eyes again; he got up and said hurriedly and awkwardly that he supposed he should see her again, and so left her. The rooms were very full, and Brian was talking away to a new group as Comethup got out of the place and went into the street.
All the misery was back upon him in fullest strength; all the old unsatisfied longings, the dreams he had dreamed, the hopes he had cherished, had swept down upon him like a flood with the touch of her hand, the glance of her eyes. It had not seemed so bitter a thing when he had merely to think of her, to picture her in this situation or in that in a wholly intangible form; to see her face to face was a different matter, needing a stronger courage. He asked himself, again and again, that question which is inevitable in some men’s lives: why Fate had given him so much, and yet stripped away from him that which was worth more than all he had received. Yet, through it all, she stood out as some one far above him; some one he had loved, in a foolish, vain fashion, in some far-off time, without any hope that she could love him in return. Whichever way his thoughts turned and returned, and swept hither and thither, there was not anywhere any blame for her.
He could not sleep that night; he paced his room hour after hour, turning old forgotten things over in his mind—things which would have been so much better left alone. He was roused after a little time by a light tap at the door, and Miss Charlotte Carlaw came in, a strange-looking figure, with a dressing-gown wrapped about her and a shawl thrown over her head. He stood still, and she came slowly across to him and fumbled for his hands and took them. “My boy, my boy,” she said, “what has happened? what is wrong?”
He did not answer; he drew her arm through his, and they began to walk up and down the room together, she with one hand gently touching his arm as if to soothe him.
“Dreams, dreams, dreams!” he broke out at last. “Oh! if a man might sleep soundly and forget everything that’s gone, forget words that were uttered, and the clasp of hands that have touched his, and—and other things besides!”
“I know, I know,” she whispered. “But there’s something, God or devil, I don’t know which it is, that won’t let us forget anything. The best and the worst of us, boy, have had to go through it, and I think we come in time to find that we’re glad we can’t forget, however bitter the remembrance may have been at first. The years soften things, dear, and show them in a better and a kindlier light, and we learn our difficult lesson with many tears and much smudging of the slate of life; but we learn it all the same, and we grow to laugh at the end, when the lessons are put away and the long day is finished. You haven’t learned that yet, Comethup, and you don’t think now you can; but you will, Heaven knows you will—Have you seen her again?”