CHAPTER X.
COMETHUP LEAVES THE OLD LIFE.
Comethup carefully conducted his aunt to the inn and saw her comfortably established there. She appeared to have the whole establishment, from the landlord to the boots, at her beck and call within two minutes after passing the portals; was ordering dishes to her liking and sharply questioning those in attendance upon her, and flinging out an occasional biting word of sarcasm, that held them breathless and awed. At first she insisted that Comethup should stay and lunch with her; but he was equally firm in refusing. He remembered that the captain had enlarged his own simple meal for that day on Comethup’s account. He was divided, as usual, between the picture of this new friend, blind and helpless in a strange place, and the other picture of the captain, who had been so curtly dismissed but a few hours since, awaiting dinner for him.
To his relief, Miss Carlaw appeared to understand the situation at once. “That’s right; say what you mean, and stick to it. I suppose you’ve got another appointment—some one else has asked you to dinner, eh?”
“Yes, aunt, the captain.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. You needn’t mind me; I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and if they don’t do what I want here, I’ll know the reason why, by the Lord I will! Come back here when you leave the captain. Off with you.”
Comethup was late, and, although he ran as hard as he could, the captain had already sat down to his meal when he arrived. His face lit up when he saw the boy, although, quite mechanically, and for the due preservation of discipline, he glanced at his watch.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said Comethup, breathlessly, as he saluted just within the doorway; “but my aunt wished me to show her to the inn, and I’ve been detained. I’m very sorry.”
“Never mind,” said the captain. “Come in and have some dinner.—Homer, another plate, please.”
Very little was said during the progress of the meal. The captain had a vague load on his mind, Comethup a very real one. The captain had been pacing about his room for an hour past, putting the case as clearly before himself as he could; telling himself, in so many frank and brutal words, that this child was an orphan and penniless; that this strange old woman had enormous wealth, and seemed to have taken a great fancy to the boy. Well, that was as it should be. The boy had his way to make in the world, and a poor old half-pay captain, going slowly but surely toward the end of his earthly journey, was not the man to be able to do much to help any one. The captain’s heart ached a little, it is true, and he looked back on the years that had stretched before the coming of this child, and the years that would stretch on after he had gone.