“Not a bit,” said Comethup. “I’ll give you our address in London, and you can write to me. I shall be up there in a week’s time.”
He wrote it down on the back of an envelope and gave it to Brian. They shook hands again quite heartily, and Brian, retaining Comethup’s hand for a moment, said, in his friendly fashion: “Wish me luck. I’m going to set the Thames on fire, if ever a man set it flaring yet. You know what that means, don’t you? They say that of any one who’s going to do something more wonderful than any one else. I know what’s in me; I know what I can do. And that wretched old sleepy hollow where you and I once lived, Comethup—I’ve done with the infernal place. It shall be proud of me some day—proud to think that I lived there, that I was born there; oh, I’ll make them whisper my name with awe, and condone all my past offences. Good-bye, old chap; it’s awfully good of you, and some day, when I’m rich and famous, I’ll pay it back—I will, indeed. Good-bye; I’ll write and let you know how I get on. But you’ll hear of me—oh, you’ll hear of me.”
He crammed the envelope and the notes into his pocket and set off down the road, turning once to wave his hand to Comethup, who stood at the gate watching him.
The captain turned in briskly at the school gates on the following morning immediately after breakfast. He seemed to glow with the conscious pride of one intimately associated with the most important man of the day; to be proud of the fact that he was bearing off the boy whom it was the school’s delight to honour, for Comethup was the head boy of the school and captain of the Eleven—a man whom little boys regarded with awe, as he, when a little boy, had once regarded the captains who had long since passed out of the school. Very proud, too, was the captain to have this big lad slip his hand under his own weaker arm and stroll with him about the playground and among groups of admiring boys; prouder still when the head master, whom the modest captain regarded as a very wonder for learning, came to him and shook hands and murmured a few appropriate words about the loss the school would suffer with the departure of Comethup Willis.
The day, with its cricket match—in which Comethup covered himself, for the last time, with glory—came to an end, and the captain and the boy were free to depart. A fly was at the gate; Comethup’s boxes were piled upon it, and a crowd of younger boys had gathered about to see him go and to give him a final cheer. In the pride of the hour he had determined to drive the captain the whole of the way home, in order to save the trouble of the short train journey; the captain had expostulated, but Comethup had laughingly had his way.
As the fly started, the eldest boy, who would be captain next term in Comethup’s place, cried lustily, “Three cheers for Willis!” and Captain Garraway-Kyle stood up in the vehicle, snatched off his hat and waved it, and responded heartily. As he sat down again, and the fly, turning the corner of the road, left the familiar faces behind, he said in a gratified tone: “That’s music, boy; that’s the best of all music. When it comes from the throats of those who love you, it’s the finest orchestra in the world; sometimes it comes falsely, and means nothing; and then, if you have but the right ears to hear, the music is all jangled horribly, and means nothing but lies, and fawnings, and hypocrisy. But that’s the right music, boys—the music that comes from those who love us.”
They drove on for some time in silence, and then the captain said abruptly: “I had a visitor this morning, in a state of great excitement; he hasn’t been near me since you went to London. Can you guess?”
Comethup looked at him inquiringly and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Who was it?”
“Your uncle, Robert Carlaw. Said he’d had a great shock; that Brian had left him suddenly, without giving the slightest warning of where he was going or what his intentions were; he had merely left a curt note—I saw the note, and it was really very rude—a curt note saying he was going away, and did not intend to return or to trouble his father again. I suppose that mad fellow, your uncle, was fond of the boy in his way; at all events, he ramped and raved about the place, and talked of ingratitude, and serpents’ teeth, and thankless children, and what not, until I was quite glad to get rid of him. I wonder where the boy has gone?”
“I saw him yesterday,” said Comethup. “He came here—to the school, you know—to see me. He told me he was going to London to make his fortune; that he’d quarrelled with his father, and didn’t mean to go back to him. I was awfully surprised to see him.”