Robert Carlaw replaced his hat at a greater angle than usual, struck himself on the breast, laughed, and shook the letter at the little captain with ferocious playfulness. “Matter, sir? Matter enough! No longer can it be said that Robert Carlaw and his son hide their heads under a bushel—or under two bushels; this letter, sir, contains the promise of fortune—fortune rightly bestowed. No longer shall my son live obscurely, as his wretched parent has been compelled to do; no longer shall he herd with the sons of tradesmen and commoners; henceforth he takes that brilliant path which Fortune has mapped out for him.” He laughed again, and stretched out his arms again toward Brian, who was sitting up, staring at him in amazement.
“I’m afraid we don’t understand,” said the captain mildly.
Robert Carlaw, feeling that he had to deal with inferior minds, came down from the heights. “My dear sir, the matter, bluntly, is this. We are friends here, and there is no reason why all the world should not know such news as I have to tell. This, sir”—he indicated the paper he held—“is a letter from an eccentric lady, of—er—excellent birth—in point of fact, my sister; older than myself, a spinster, and childless. She writes, in her dear eccentric fashion—sweet woman, but, like myself, a spice of brimstone in her—to say that her loneliness tells upon her with advancing years; that she seeks some one to whom she may give what tenderness is in her, some one who shall become her heir. She suggests—nay, in her eccentric fashion, demands—my son. He is to fill the vacant place in her heart, and in her house; he is to become, when it shall please the good Lord”—Mr. Carlaw raised his eyes piously, and touched the brim of his hat with his fingers—“to call her from us, the possessor of her wealth.”
“That’s very fine for the boy,” said the captain slowly.
“Yes,” responded Mr. Carlaw, thoughtfully, “the boy is like his father; he was not built for toil. There are those who are made—positively made, sir—to cut a figure in the world, that duller eyes may look on them, and admire. I am one of those; it is in the blood; Brian is another.” With a great show of hurry upon him, he thrust the precious letter in his pocket, and stooped and caught Brian by the arm and dragged him to his feet. The boy, with that unbelief in his father which past experience had probably sown deep in his breast, resisted a little, and did not enter quite so joyously into the spirit of the matter as his parent wished.
“But what have I got to do?” he asked, petulantly, rising slowly to his feet with his fathers assistance.
“Do?” exclaimed that gentleman. “My son, there is not a moment to be lost. You do not know your Aunt Charlotte; I have but stated the case mildly when I say that she is eccentric. She may change her mind at any moment; may have forgotten the suggestion she makes in this letter before we have time to reach London. Come; there is not a moment to be lost; it is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Oh, we’re going to London, are we?” asked the boy, his face brightening.
“Yes, my son,” cried Mr. Carlaw, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder, “to London! London the glorious, the wonderful! London, where you shall take your place among the best of them, and be no more hidden from sight here. Your poor father would have taken his place among its notables years ago, but that the purse-strings had to be kept too tightly. Come, my son, it wrings a father’s heart to have to part with you, but Fate has been good to you, my son, Fate has been very good to you.”
He had got his arm round the boy’s shoulders, and was actually dragging him away, without remembering the proprieties, when Brian turned and looked back over his shoulder, compelling his father to halt for a moment. The smile that Comethup thought always was like light played about his face for a moment as they sat there watching him.