He beat his foot restlessly upon the ground, and turned away his head and bit his lip in the struggle to hide his feelings. Comethup in a dim way began to be pretty certain what was coming, but he was desperately sorry for the man, nevertheless.
"Now and then, in our dreary way through a horrible world, we come upon one human soul that has sympathy--nay, that has a heart of gold; it's rare, but still we find it. There is one such heart of gold in this city to-day. Listen: my son came here practically penniless; we looked into each other's eyes; we were big with hope, but still we were penniless. Suddenly my son returns to me with money--with what is, to us, a large sum. Delicacy forbids my asking whence it came; my son informs me that a friend--I repeat the word with emphasis--a friend has insisted upon helping him. His delicacy is as great as mine; he refuses to say more, and I--well, I do not press him. But in my heart I know--oh, my dear boy, let us drop parables; let me thank you as one man may thank another. I am broken, friendless, an outcast; yet my heart is still strong and true; my feelings, pray God, are those of a gentleman. I may tramp the highways to-morrow without a crust, but still I trust men may turn to look at me and say, 'There goes a gentleman.'"
He said it with an air, even with something of the old flourish, and Comethup was considerably impressed. After some silence, Mr. Robert Carlaw got up, with a sigh, and turned toward his nephew and held out his hand.
"This has done me good," he said. "I come into your fresh, buoyant, rich young life; I touch again the things that might have been; I renew, as it were, my youth. Our paths lie in different directions; you sweep along the broad highway, and the dust--yes, the dust--of your chariot wheels shall be flung over me as I walk. That is fate, that is life. Good-bye!"
He took his nephew's hand in both his own for a moment, sighed heavily, and turned away. In less than a minute he was back again. There was hesitation in his manner and he shifted his feet uneasily, yet he spoke with a desperate boldness.
"My dear friend, I--I have put off what I have to say--put it off in the hope that I might not have to say it. My courage deserts me; it is not easy for a man who has carried his head high before his fellows to lower it and to beg. Do not misunderstand me," he added hastily, "'tis not for myself; if it were for myself the petition should never be urged. It is for another--it is for my son. Comethup, it is necessary, in order that we may get our affairs somewhat straight, that we should leave this city. My son has money, but he needs it for his work--he may even need it for food. Can I go to him and say to him--can I, his father, say it to him, 'Brian, I am penniless; I have not sufficient money to bear me to my native land'? This may seem a mere matter of cowardice; but, broken and outcast though I am, I would still carry myself well in the eyes of my son; I would still have him say, 'This is my father, of whom I am proud, and who has never shamed me yet.' It is, I think, a natural thought, a natural wish. Frankly, as man to man, will you help me to do that?"