“Then this house, these pictures, the carriage in which I ride, this dress”—she struck herself fiercely on the breast—“all were bought with—with his money? Is that so?”
“Practically, that is so. You see, poetry, however good and however conducive to fame, is practically a drug in the market; there is no great income to be made from it. Consequently, other means of support became necessary and were fortunately at hand. I don’t suppose Brian’s personal income has been a tenth part of what we have been spending. That’s the melancholy fact. And now everything has gone from us.”
“Then I understand that we—these payments have ceased?” she said slowly.
“Entirely ceased. My poor nephew is no longer in a position to assist us; he has lost his aunt’s favour, and like ourselves has been cast upon an unsympathetic world.”
“Do you know how that happened?” she asked drearily.
Mr. Robert Carlaw decided under the delicate circumstances to lie. “No,” he replied, “I do not know. My worthy sister is, as I have suggested, eccentric, and one never knows from hour to hour what whim or fancy may seize her. No, I am not aware of the circumstances.”
“So what I’m to understand is this: that the man who has helped us so long being now himself a beggar, we are reduced to beggary; and Brian”—her voice broke and she turned her head away—“Brian seeks some one else who can support him. Are those the facts?”
“Crudely, those are the facts,” replied Mr. Carlaw. “I have been told that it is useless to attempt to govern genius by the ordinary laws to which smaller humanity is subject, and so we must take my misguided son as we find him and make the best of him. From the world’s point of view he has, like his unfortunate parent, gone to the devil—but the world in his case will not, I think, judge him hardly. The question that remains for us is, What shall we do?”
“What shall we do?” she echoed, starting up and facing him scornfully. “What shall we do? Hide ourselves—hide ourselves from the sight of every honest man and every honest woman! Creep through desert places where no one can see us; keep out of the sight of those who might glean the faintest idea of our story. What shall we do? You have carried a brave face to the world while your hands were filled with money wrung from a generous-hearted boy, who did it—God help us all!—from a motive you wouldn’t understand if you knew it. And you ask me what we shall do! You are an old man, and I a woman suddenly grown old; you have but few years before you—I, unfortunately, may have a long lifetime. Yet, if I could live through all the ages, and could get that best gift that man or woman may claim, the loss of memory, I could not wash out the stain of this thing. That is absolutely unforgivable. That I should have been kept in ignorance of it; that I should have taken the hand of this good fellow in friendship and smiled into his eyes while he fed and clothed me! Have you sunk so low that you can’t feel that—can’t understand it? Can you stand there and smile at me, knowing that you’ve stripped from me everything that made my life—my love—my self-respect—my very honour? And then you ask me what I shall do!”
Mr. Robert Carlaw was somewhat abashed. He had expected to meet tears and lamentations; he had not thought that she would look upon the matter in this light, or that she could find it in her heart to address such words to him. “I beg, whatever you do,” he said somewhat nervously, “I beg that you will do nothing rash; that you will think seriously of the position and review it with calm deliberation. Frankly, I am in that position that it is impossible for me to assist you; if I obtain the cup of water and the crust to which I have referred I shall consider myself fortunate.”