“But, my dear uncle,” exclaimed Comethup in despair, “what am I to do? Show me any way, and I’ll adopt it gladly.”
“My dear nephew,” said Mr. Robert Carlaw, with his chin resting meditatively in his hand, “there is a way, and an easy one, for a man in your position. Come, let us face facts: you are your aunt’s heir; if she died to-morrow—may Heaven spare her for many years!—you would have every penny she possesses. Such is your good fortune. Now, my dear nephew, it has been my most sorry fate to have to deal on occasion with the shady side of life; I have had, I may say, to get through it as best I could, and in the easiest possible fashion. Your path has been different; you have gone along in the sunshine, with some one else to clear the way for you; hence, you know nothing of these matters. But let me tell you this, my dear boy”—he tapped a persuasive forefinger on Comethup’s arm—“that there are men in this city to-day, personally known to me, who would be willing at a moment’s notice to advance any sum you might name within reason to a man with your prospects. Don’t mistake me,” he added hurriedly. “I am not urging that you should do anything dishonourable. Frankly, the thing amounts to this: you go to A. upon my introduction; A. says in effect: ‘What! is this Mr. Willis, the favourite nephew of Miss Charlotte Carlaw? And he is in want of money, just to tide him over until such time as he may, in the indefinite future, come into his fortune? Nothing easier,’ says A. ‘How much does Mr. Willis want?’ And there, my boy, the thing’s done. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, I follow you,” said Comethup slowly. “And so you want me to use her name, the name of a woman who’s been the best friend ever a man had; you want me to look out so eagerly for dead men’s shoes—or a dead woman’s, it doesn’t matter which—that I am to sell them before she’s finished wearing them? No, you’ve made a mistake, Uncle Bob; I don’t intend to do it. You and Brian have been living at my expense at the rate of over a thousand a year; to put it plainly, you’ve had every penny, or nearly every penny, that I’ve ever possessed since I was a boy. I don’t mind that, but the thing has got to stop. Beyond what I have I won’t go; you’ve been welcome to all that, and I don’t mind. But I’ll go no further.”
Mr. Robert Carlaw sighed and began to ponder the matter again; he was not quite certain of his cards, at least of those he could safely play; but he had a vague feeling that there was one trump card in his possession which might well be risked. The matter was desperate, and he resolved to play desperately.
“Well, you know best,” he said. “Frankly, I honour you—honour you for the noble position you take up at such a moment. When I consider your simplicity, your clear and beautiful nature, I feel like a modern Mephistopheles whispering temptation into your ear. But in this, as in all other matters, a man must look at a thing from his own standpoint, or from the standpoint of those who most nearly concern him. Doubtless you are right; let us say no more about it. The crash has come, and we must meet it. I have met worse blows than this, and Brian, being the son of his most unfortunate father, must learn to meet them too; doubtless it will be a salutary lesson to him. Men have strong hands and, I trust, stout hearts; if it rested with Brian and myself alone I would not mind; but there is some one else to consider, some one weak and helpless who knows nothing of any tragedy which may be impending over her.” He sighed again and shook his head with an air of deep dejection.
“You mean ’Linda?” said Comethup, without looking at him.
“I refer to that sweet girl. I am a man of quick and strong imagination; a moment ago I seemed to have a sudden mental picture of that child when she first learned the position in which we stand, when she——”
“But she mustn’t learn it,” cried Comethup hurriedly.
Mr. Robert Carlaw shook his head again. “My dear young friend, a wife’s place is by her husband; when the crash falls she will unhesitatingly—oh, I know the nobility of her character—she will, I say, unhesitatingly place her hand in that of her husband and will say, ‘Together we have been prosperous, together we will bow our heads before the storm.’ Poor child, poor child, that it should come to this!”
“I—I’m afraid I had lost sight of her,” said Comethup. “Of course she doesn’t understand, doesn’t know any of the circumstances; I’d forgotten that. She’s gone on, day by day, believing that all this money came from him; proud of him; glad that the world, as she thought, should shower its gold upon her clever husband, upon the man she loves. Yes, I’d forgotten all that.” He spoke as if to himself, without noticing his companion. He saw in a moment that this thing he had built up for her sake was in danger of being swept away; that she might be left stripped and trembling in a desert, with all that had made her life perfect torn away from her. He thought of her proud and happy face when he had seen her but a little time since with her husband; saw again, far away from the street in which he walked, a little lonely child in a garden; heard himself, as a boy, tell the old captain that he meant to look after her. Comethup Willis was of the stuff of which the fabled knights might have been made—one who simply and earnestly and splendidly set before him a task to be done and did it without wavering or turning aside. His own pain, his own longing counted for nothing; the child of the old days seemed to be stretching out her hands to him and crying to him, as she had done years before when they had first met; the cry was not to be resisted.