“But what’s he going to do in London, without friends and without money?” Then, as Comethup sat silent, looking before him, the captain dropped a hand on the boy’s arm. “Comethup, he didn’t come to you merely to say good-bye, after seeing nothing of you for eight years. I suppose you——”
“Oh, I could see that he was in distress,” broke in Comethup, hurriedly, “and when I’d got such a lot I couldn’t very well let him go to London without a penny. You see, London is a big place, and he might starve—anything might happen. So I just gave him—well, just a little money; and I told him to write to me and let me know how he was getting on; I gave him my address in London.”
The captain was silent for a few moments, and then he said: “Well, well, I suppose you were right; you couldn’t let the fellow go without a penny. But if I were you, Comethup, I shouldn’t mention the matter to your aunt. I detest deceit, but there are some things it’s just as well in this world to say nothing about. Miss Carlaw—very properly, no doubt—dislikes your cousin, and she might be hurt if she thought you were spending her money on him. Personally, I don’t like the fellow, but I think it was the only thing you could do. But I don’t think I’d say anything to Miss Carlaw about it.”
It was quite a new sensation, and a very pleasant and exciting one, to drive into the old town seated beside the captain. The eight years, which had seemed to bring so many changes to the growing boy, had not changed the place at all; it appeared a little dwarfed, perhaps, grown smaller and less imposing; the gaunt old buildings, which had towered to the sky in the imagination of the small child, had dwindled, in the eyes of the youth, to mere ordinary dwellings. But, best of all, the things about it that were changeless were the solemn hush and peace that lay upon it, a stillness that belonged to no other place. The roar of London, the busy, murmuring life of school, were dropped completely behind; it was like coming home to rest, to some little place set in the heart of woods, after the toil and fret of a long day.
Homer was there, at the door of the captain’s cottage, saluting in the old fashion; he had grown a little grayer and a little less erect in attitude. The old familiar room, looking out over the garden and the street, seemed smaller than before and a little shabbier. Of everything the boy remembered so well, the captain alone seemed as though the years had leaped over him and left him unaltered.
Comethup was up very early the next morning—long before the captain had risen; he had a feeling that he would like to visit some of the old places alone. He lifted the latch of the cottage door—for no one thought of locking doors in that part of the country—and stole out softly through the garden and into the street. One or two early risers whom he passed looked at him curiously, and he thought he recognised some faces he had seen in the streets as a child. He sniffed the sweet morning air with delight, thinking how good it was to be rich and free and healthy; he might have thought, too, how good it was to be very young, but for the fact that he did not consciously appreciate that blessing.
He went to the house in which he had been born; it was held by strangers now, and there were curtains of a hideous colour in the windows, and one of the blinds had been drawn up by a careless hand and hung awry. But the roses were there in all their beauty—roses grown for other hands to pluck and to delight other eyes. He leaned over the little gate which led from the street and looked about him; looked into all the familiar corners that had held such terrors for him when he had been very young indeed; thought of the mother who had wandered there, as he had heard his father describe. And that brought him quite naturally to the churchyard, where he found the two mounds—a little less prominent than they had been—side by side, with some fresh flowers upon them. He knew that the flowers must have come from the captain, and his heart swelled a little, with renewed gratitude to his old friend.
It was too early for breakfast yet, and he set off through the town; aimlessly, as he told himself, and yet of fixed purpose. There seemed to be but one place that he desired to visit, and his pulses thumped a little, in an unaccustomed fashion, as he drew near to it; it was the garden in which he had found ’Linda.
The years had brought one change on the very threshold of it: one of the gates—that which had hung by a single hinge so long—had given way completely, and lay prone upon the grass inside, half covered with dead leaves and choking weeds. Comethup picked his way across it and walked cautiously under the trees. Bright as the morning was, it seemed quite dark here, and he shivered a little as he went on. He almost expected to see a little figure he remembered so clearly spring up again in his path and run to him, crying his name; but no one was in the garden, and only a bird fluttered among the leaves and cried in quick alarm to his mate. He made the circuit of the house, and looked up at the blank windows; but the place seemed quite deserted, and he came away, wondering a little impatiently where the girl could be, and filled with a determination to invoke the aid of the captain in order that he might see her.
A glance at his watch told him that the captain’s breakfast hour was near at hand, and he hurried back to the cottage. As he drew near to it he saw that some one was in the garden—a young girl, tall and slim, in a sober gray gown, with little ruffles at the throat and wrists. Her back was turned toward him, and she was busily gathering the choicest of the captain’s roses. Even then no suspicion of her identity entered his mind; he stopped for a moment, wondering, and then walked to the gate and pushed it open.