“I’m afraid so,” said the captain.
“Well, I gave her every reason to do so. There—don’t ask me anything about it, because I can’t tell even you; there are some things, you know, that one has to keep quite to one’s self. It’s good to know that you don’t think so very badly of me; that you are willing to take me by the hand again just as though all this had never happened.” He got up from his chair and laid his hand on the captain’s shoulder. “If you’ll let me sleep in the little room in which I slept as a child I’ll be grateful to you. And let us say good-bye here for the last time. Long before you’re awake in the morning, old friend, I shall be gone. And I pray you, for the sake of the love you had for me so long ago, don’t think of me as you see me to-night—poor and broken and an outcast; but remember only the child you played with years and years ago; remember only the boy you were proud of when you used to come and see me at school. Will you do that?”
“Boy or man, it makes no difference,” said the captain; “I can only think of you as I have thought of you always—as one who is nearer to my heart than any I have met on my journey through life.”
Before he could be prevented Comethup had caught the old man’s hands and had carried them swiftly to his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered; “God bless you! I can go now with a lighter heart than I have carried for a long time. Good-bye, old friend, good-bye!”
They gripped hands once more, and Comethup, crying lightly that he knew the way, stumbled out of the room and went swiftly upstairs, leaving the captain standing alone.
The captain sat down and tried to resume his thoughts. But everything seemed to have been tumbled about and thrust into fresh directions by the arrival of Comethup. After a little time the old man got up and reached down his heavy cloak and put on his hat and went softly out. The night was fine; only the slow chiming of the hour from the church clock struck upon his ears. He walked through the garden and out into the deserted streets.
Going along with bent head, pondering deeply, he was brought to a sudden recollection of his surroundings by hearing some one falter his name; he looked up with a start and saw ’Linda before him. So surprising had been the coming of the other visitor that he was scarcely startled to see her suddenly there before him; he did not even ask her the reason for her presence.
“I was coming to see you,” she whispered as she held his hand. “I have been trying to make up my mind to come to you all the afternoon.”
“Are you here alone?” he asked.
“Yes, quite alone. We are going abroad to-morrow, and I craved permission to come down to the old place once again. We may not be returning for years. I wanted—oh, can’t you understand?—I wanted just to creep back here again for an hour or two; to visit the old scenes, perhaps even to dream some of the old dreams. And so I took a little room at the inn here, where no one seems to remember me, and I am going away quite early in the morning. Miss Carlaw is coming down to Deal to-morrow and I am to drive from here to meet her, and from there we start on our travels. But I felt I could not go away from the old place without seeing my old friend.”