He took his brush again and faced the canvas. For a few minutes he labored painfully, and then turned with an exclamation.
"The memory of the old devil has got into my brush—" he began, and then stopped.
There was a knock upon the studio door.
"Hullo! A patron?" said Hillary.
"A dun more probably," muttered Lucas.
He opened the door and found himself confronting the rubicund countenance and imposing form of Heriot Walkingshaw. Over the shoulder of this apparition he looked into the clear eyes of Frank. They were trying to convey a caution to use whatever tact he possessed; but the artist was too dumbfounded to heed them.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Good-day, Mr. Vernon," said his guest.
He held out his hand, and Lucas mechanically shook it.
"May we come in?" he asked.
"If you want to—certainly," said Lucas; and they entered.
"A fellow-artist, I presume?" inquired Mr. Walkingshaw, glancing at the pale and pretty youth.
Lucas automatically introduced them.
"Very happy to meet you, Mr. Hillary," said the W.S. genially. "Let me introduce my son."
Leaving the two young men to entertain each other, he walked aside for a few paces with his host. His countenance was composed and his air dignified; though, as he thoughtlessly took Vernon's arm to direct his partially paralyzed movements, the artist began dimly to apprehend that no overt outrage was premeditated.
"I say," he began in that pleasantly unconventional vein which appeared to afford his vigorousreflections the readiest outlet, "this must seem a bit odd and so on, but why the deuce should we go on quarreling just because we've once begun? We're above that, eh?"
"I have no wish—" began the artist.
"Exactly, exactly," interrupted his visitor breezily; "we both mean the same thing, so that's all right. Perhaps we misunderstood each other on a previous occasion. Of course perhaps we didn't—we may be a couple of scoundrels just as we imagined, eh? Ha, ha! Still, let's assume there was a little misunderstanding. Now what have you been painting?"
The artist's blue eyes looked at him fixedly.
"I am addressing the same Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw?" he inquired in a voice compounded of several emotions.
"The same, my dear fellow—essentially the same. I look better—younger—fitter, I dare say, eh?"
"Yes," said Lucas, still eyeing him curiously, "you do."
"But you see I am still Frank's father."
He laughed genially, and this argument at last seemed to convince the young man that he was not the victim of a strange delusion.
"I am sorry for being a little hasty—" he began, with a candid smile.
"Not at all," interrupted Mr. Walkingshaw good-humoredly. "Don't mention it. There was a lady in the case; that's excuse enough for any two men quarreling. By the way, my daughter is not with me, but she would no doubt wish to have her kind regards—that is to say—well, well, let me see the pictures."
In the course of this speech the affable gentleman had been reminded by the senior partner that one must be careful not to commit oneself rashly. It was odd how often he required these warnings nowadays—and how frequently they came just half a sentence too late.
"Brush been busy?" he added hastily.
Lucas pointed to a dozen or more canvases stacked against the wall.
"Fairly," he said.
"May I look at them? Oh, don't trouble to take them off the floor. I'll just turn them over for myself, if I may."
He stooped over the stack and moved each canvas in turn till he could catch a glimpse of its face. With this ocular demonstration that there actually were pictures upon all of them he seemedcontent, for he turned to his host with an approving smile.
"You have not been altogether idle, then?"
"Altogether idle!"
Hillary turned at the exclamation.
"Poor old Lucas is working himself to death," he said, with his gentle and insinuating air.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Walkingshaw, and surveyed the artist with increased respect.
"Hillary is inclined to talk—" began Lucas, but was silenced by a ferocious stamp of Frank's boot.
"Hush, you idiot!" he murmured.
"No, Lucas," said his friend readily, "I am not inclined to talk as a rule, but I cannot bear to hear you maligned. I never saw a man work as you do."
"Is that your candid opinion of our friend?" smiled Mr. Walkingshaw with a pleasant air.
"It feebly endeavors to express my opinion," replied the engaging young man. "He paints on an average one picture per six hours of daylight; and the most astounding thing sir, is their consistently high merit."
Lucas looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"I don't sell them, unfortunately," he blurted out.
The W.S. turned grave.
"None of them?" he inquired.
"I haven't sold much lately."
"How's that?"
"The public is not yet educated up to him," said Hillary. "But between ourselves, Mr. Walkingshaw, if I had a thousand pounds at this moment, I should put it all in Vernons; they'll be worth five thousand in ten years' time at a modest estimate—a very modest estimate."
"You are a critic?" inquired the W.S.
"I am considered so," answered the youth modestly.
Mr. Walkingshaw turned to the embarrassed artist.
"At the same time, I gather that whatever your merits, this is one of your lean years, eh?"
"Devilish," said Lucas.
"That must be discouraging?"
"It might be if I let it."
"That is a damned good answer, Vernon," said Mr. Walkingshaw emphatically.
Before the three young men had recovered from the sympathetic surprise which this reply occasioned, he had planted himself in front of the unfinished picture on the easel.
"What's this you're doing? A wood? Ah, yes, I recognize the trees. Very lifelike indeed—most creditable. What's the price of it, if I may ask?"
"What I can get," replied Lucas, with a reminiscence of his afternoon's despair.
"Still the same unpractical fellow!" smiled Mr. Walkingshaw. "You're not very strong on figures, eh?"
"I don't meet many," said the artist candidly.
"Well," suggested his visitor kindly, "what about fifty pounds?"
"I'd think myself devilish lucky."
"May I have it at that?"
"You?"
"It isn't booked already, I trust?"
"N—no."
"That's a bargain, then?"
Lucas's eyes were again fixed in a strange stare. Then a quick change of expression broke over his face.
"You're very kind, Mr. Walkingshaw!" he said warmly.
"Tuts, tuts, not a bit. I want to warm up my study with a splash of color. That's the way you artists would put it. Eh?"
"A splash of color—yes."
"You see, I'm getting the hang of your lingo already, Vernon. And now, what else have you got for sale? What do you recommend, Hillary, eh?"
That young man displayed a sudden aptitude for business which had never characterized his own efforts to make a livelihood.
"As a work of art likely to rise enormously in value, I conscientiously recommend that," he said, pointing to another canvas.
"A nice head," commented Mr. Walkingshaw. "High-toned yet spiritual, one might term it. I like the way the eyes seem to look out of the paper—or is it canvas it's done on?"
"Oh—er—I beg your pardon," said Lucas, waking suddenly from his reverie; "I—I'll let you have that thrown in."
"Wits a wool-gathering, Vernon?" smiled his patron indulgently. "But I dare say you've some excuse. I'll take the picture with pleasure, but I insist on paying for it. Let us put this at twenty-five pounds."
"I won't let you!" cried Lucas. "I give it you—I make you a present of it. You've been so kind already—"
"Pooh! Come, come," interrupted Mr. Walkingshaw kindly, yet firmly. "You've got to make your way, and how will you do that if you give away your—fruits of the brush you'd call them, I suppose, eh?"
The artist could not but admit the force of this argument, and in the course of an hour had the satisfaction of selling, at considerably above his usual market price, no fewer than four of his masterpieces; while Mr. Walkingshaw, on his part, became the fortunate possessor of a promising but unfinished sylvan scene, the portrait of an unknown lady, a rainy day upon the Norfolk coast, and (what he considered the gem of the collection) a recognizable panorama of Edinburgh from the north, including among its minor details a splash of red ocher which he felt certain was the grand stand at the Scottish Union's football field. This recalled the sympathetic widow, and gave the picture a sentimental as well as an artistic value. He could have wished that on this, as indeed on most other occasions, the artist had paid more attention to verisimilitude and less to mere vague harmonies and so forth, but as he was assured by that intelligent young Hillary that this method was all the Go at present, and that hisfriend Lucas was recognized as a rising Dab at it. That at least is how he retailed the argument afterwards.
At the conclusion of these arrangements he again drew the artist aside.
"Would you like a check immediately," he inquired, "or upon delivery of the pictures?"
With considerable animation Lucas assured him there was no hurry at all.
"There is a distinction between punctuality and hurry," replied Mr. Walkingshaw. "I recommend it to your notice, Vernon. As to the date of payment, I suggest by the first post after the delivery of the pictures. Does that satisfy you?"
"Quite," said the painter, with a subdued air.
"Strenuous work, patience, and the cultivation of business habits are the recommendations I make to you, my dear fellow—as I would to any other young man. They have been, if I may say so, the secret of any little success I may have achieved myself. Good-by, Vernon, good-by!"
He departed thus upon a note of austere benevolence, leaving behind him a grateful yet chastened artist.
"Well, Frank," said he, as they drove back together,"that young fellow has managed to sell one or two pictures, I'm glad to find."
His eyes twinkled merrily as he spoke, but before his son had time to reply the senior partner spoke again.
"I only hope he keeps it up," was his addendum.
For a young man, Frank had remarkable discretion (apart from his one lamentable lapse). He dutifully agreed with this sentiment, and then proceeded to congratulate his parent on the taste with which he had selected his pictures and the excellence of the investment he had made. Mr. Walkingshaw appeared gratified by his approval.
"I don't throw my money away, Frank," he said complacently. "By the way, what's the cab fare?"
"One and six," said Frank.
In the temporary absence of the senior partner, Mr. Walkingshaw handed the man half a crown, and entered the hotel humming a romantic melody.
As he crossed the hall a deferential attendant approached with a telegram.
"Hullo!" said he, "a wire. I wonder who the deuce this is from."
It is a lamentable fact, remarked upon even by popular politicians, that the very measures which give the highest satisfaction to some people produce the profoundest depression in others. And it is worth adding that it is not always the most original reflections which have procured for their authors the widest reputation (though, if one wanted to quote an authority for this last axiom, one would perhaps turn rather to the popular theologians).
Of the truth of the first proposition, that worthy young man, Andrew Walkingshaw, was an unhappy example. It is the case that his parent's disappearance was not without compensating advantages. He was spared a number of minor annoyances, which of late had been the undeserved accompaniment of his blameless life; but then, the mystery of that disappearance, its unorthodoxy, its appalling suggestions of scandal! He knew now what it must feel like to have a relative engaged upon fashionable divorce proceedings orconspicuously notorious on the music-hall stage. For, despite his industry in circulating a circumstantial account of the business that had called the head of the firm so suddenly away, he thought he observed in the face of every acquaintance a kind of sly and knowing expression. "Aha!" every one of them seemed to say, "I've got my knife intoyou, Andrew!"
Beneath the roof of the respectable mansion in which he had hitherto spent a life unsullied by mystery or romance he found, to his horror, that these sinister manifestations were even more marked than in his club. The restored happiness of Jean was a bad sign, very ominous under the circumstances. It is true that she professed complete ignorance of their father's movements, but Andrew was too astute a lawyer to pay much attention to what people said; it was how they behaved that he went by; and Jean's conduct was suspicious. Why should she be smiling while this dark cloud hung over their reputations? The like of that looked very bad. He resolved to probe the matter a bit further.
"There's some one wanting to know where Frank has got to," he began, with an ingenuous air, when he met her next.
"What does he want to see him about?" inquired Jean.
"He didn't say, but I thought perhaps you had heard Frank mention where he was going. Did you by any chance?"
His air remained as ingenuous as ever, but Jean looked at him doubtfully. For a moment she hesitated.
"Yes," she said.
"Oh, where was it?"
"Of course I don't know whether he has gone there."
"The chances are he has," said Andrew. "What was his intention?"
"Who was the man that wanted to know?"
Andrew was particularly scrupulous never to deviate far from the high road of truth. Of course there were footpaths alongside that led to the same place, and gave one a certain amount of latitude; but beyond these no moral or respectable man should venture. Supposing one were caught in an adjoining field cutting a corner!
"That's neither here nor there," he said evasively.
"Was there really anybody at all asking for him, or is the 'some one' yourself?"
Her brother looked severe.
"Look here, Jean," said he, "you know where he has gone—I've got that much out of you; and it's your duty to tell me."
Her eyes were fixed on him steadily.
"You think Frank and father have gone off together?"
"I know nothing about that."
"And that's why you are suddenly so curious about Frank?"
He regarded her in injured silence; but instead of appearing affected by his unspoken reproach, she continued with an air of knowing both his intentions and her own.
"If father wanted you to know he would have told you himself."
"It is for his own sake I want to find out."
"Then you admit you were trying to find out about father! What benefit would it be to him if you knew?"
"It is most inconvenient at the office not knowing his address."
"If it really were very inconvenient, father would be certain to think of that and send you his address himself."
"He has not thought of it."
"Well then, there can't be any great inconvenience."
Not for the first time in his life Andrew wished that all humanity belonged to his own sensible, candid, trustworthy sex.
"I tell you there is," he insisted.
"I trust father implicitly," she replied.
"Oh, you think his recent behavior has been the kind of thing to inspire confidence?"
"It has in me!" she answered enthusiastically.
"You have a high opinion of his sense," he sneered.
"A great deal higher than I have of anybody else's in the world—in Edinburgh, anyhow!" she retorted, and with her chin held high broke off the conference.
This was sufficiently exasperating, but it was not the worst that treacherous sex could do. The widow's demeanor was a hundred times more menacing. She was so motherly towards Jean, so sisterly towards his unfortunate aunt, so skittishly condescending towards himself, that his previous suspicions of her were sunshiny compared with the dark convictions that lay heavier upon him each day. Her black eyes danced mockingly whenever he looked into them; she seemed alwaysto be hugging the most delicious secret. Andrew doubted she had hugged more than a secret in this house.
It was a further confirmation of her perfidy that ever since his father's flight she had made a point of being down to breakfast before him, so that he could never see what letters she received. That was damning evidence against her—damnable evidence, in fact, for it argued a degree both of intelligence and energy for which he had not given her credit. Like his father before him, he was discovering that there was more up this sparkling lady's sleeve than met the eye.
A few mornings after the disappearance he thought he had caught her. When he entered the room she was reading a letter. He snapped up the chance instantly.
"Is that my father's writing?" he inquired, dissimulating his acuteness under an easy conversational air.
"It's a little like it," she replied, with an amiable smile, slipping the letter into its envelop and turning that face downwards on the table.
The W.S. began to respect as much as he detested her. All through breakfast she rippled with the happiest smiles and the gayest conversation.At the end, his detestation had again got its head in front of his respect.
But the following morning he himself received a letter which threw the widow and her smiles so completely into the background that for the next forty-eight hours he was scarcely aware of her existence. It ran thus:
"250Bury Street,St. James', S.W."My Dear Andrew,—It is with the greatest concern and regret that I feel myself compelled to write to you on the subject of my old friend, your poor father. No doubt you will be able to judge better than myself how far he is responsible for his conduct, and whether or not there is any serious need for anxiety; but I consider I should be doing less than my duty if I failed to inform you of the risks to his health and his reputation which he is running at present. I spent last night with him; in fact, it was only in the small hours of this morning that I left him still dancing at the Covent Garden Fancy Ball. I assure you I am at a loss how to express my consternation and alarm at his peculiar behavior. Are you aware that he has taken to dyeing his hair and doctoring his face, so that at first sight one might almost mistake him for a much younger man than we know him to be? The extravagance of his languageand restlessness of his movements lends color to the suspicion that he is a little wrong in his head. I do not wish to alarm you unnecessarily, but if you had seen him galloping about in a domino and a false nose at two o'clock in the morning I cannot help thinking you would share my concern. He seems also to have lost all his old caution about money matters. Are you aware that he is stopping at the Hotel Gigantique, of all places, and doing himself and your brother Frank like a couple of millionaires? I cannot help considering this a very remarkable symptom."I myself am in bed to-day, so pray forgive the handwriting.—With kind regards to you all, believe me, yours sincerely,"Charles Munro."
"250Bury Street,St. James', S.W.
"My Dear Andrew,—It is with the greatest concern and regret that I feel myself compelled to write to you on the subject of my old friend, your poor father. No doubt you will be able to judge better than myself how far he is responsible for his conduct, and whether or not there is any serious need for anxiety; but I consider I should be doing less than my duty if I failed to inform you of the risks to his health and his reputation which he is running at present. I spent last night with him; in fact, it was only in the small hours of this morning that I left him still dancing at the Covent Garden Fancy Ball. I assure you I am at a loss how to express my consternation and alarm at his peculiar behavior. Are you aware that he has taken to dyeing his hair and doctoring his face, so that at first sight one might almost mistake him for a much younger man than we know him to be? The extravagance of his languageand restlessness of his movements lends color to the suspicion that he is a little wrong in his head. I do not wish to alarm you unnecessarily, but if you had seen him galloping about in a domino and a false nose at two o'clock in the morning I cannot help thinking you would share my concern. He seems also to have lost all his old caution about money matters. Are you aware that he is stopping at the Hotel Gigantique, of all places, and doing himself and your brother Frank like a couple of millionaires? I cannot help considering this a very remarkable symptom.
"I myself am in bed to-day, so pray forgive the handwriting.—With kind regards to you all, believe me, yours sincerely,
"Charles Munro."
The firmament seemed to darken as though a thunderstorm brooded over the devoted house. Already in fancy Andrew could hear the first crashings and flashes of the coming scandal. His appetite vanished, his coffee grew cold, and presently he rose and silently left the room. Yet the man of superior mental equipment rarely fails to extract some crumbs of consolation out of the direst disaster. Andrew extracted his by summoning Jean before he started for the office and handing her the terrible letter. As he watchedher read it, the phrase shaped by his countenance might be read without the aid of any signal-book—
"What did I tell you?"
Certainly there was a well-earned morsel of satisfaction to be derived from her startled eyes and the little catches in her breath. She could believe him now! When she spoke at last her first words were exceedingly gratifying.
"What a horrid old man he must be!"
He looked suitably reproachful.
"That is strong language to use of your father."
Her eyes blazed.
"I am talking of Colonel Munro! The idea of giving father away like that. It's one of the very meanest things I ever heard of! I sincerely hope he may be in bed for a month."
She swept away, and her brother was left to brood gloomily upon the selfish perversity that thus actually defrauded him of his legitimate triumph.
"Well," said Andrew, "what is to be done?"
The problem was undoubtedly delicate. He had paid it the compliment of summoning his two sensible married sisters to aid him with their counsel; and even they, though not lacking in decision as a rule, regarded first the Colonel's letter and then their brother with disturbed and doubtful eyes. He gave them no hint of the dreadful and disreputable change in their father's very being; that was positively too shocking to confide even to a sister (besides, they wouldn't have believed him), but he considered that the essentials of the problem were now fairly grasped by them both, and he was pleased to find a sympathetic unanimity of horror.
"He can't be allowed to go on disgracing himself in London; that much is perfectly clear," said Mrs. Ramornie.
"Not to speak of ruining us all," added Andrew.
"Can you not go and fetch him home?" asked Mrs. Donaldson.
Andrew pursed his lips.
"In the first place, would he come? You know how infernally obstinate he can be. In the second place, do we want him making an exhibition of himself here?"
"He would not have quite the opportunities here."
"Not for spending money, I admit; but we don't want him taking the chair and making speeches at the W.S. dinner to-morrow night in his present condition."
"Will he not remember and come back for it, anyhow?" suggested Mrs. Ramornie.
He shook his head.
"He has never spoken about it for a long while. I'm practically positive he has forgotten."
"But do you not need him at the office?" asked Mrs. Donaldson.
"Needhim!"
"I can only tell you," she replied, "that Hector says he gets through business in a most surprising way, for all his eccentricity."
"Very surprising," he retorted sarcastically.
"Oh," she said airily, "I know you fancy yourself, but Hector declares father is the man for his money nowadays."
Andrew's cheeks drooped gloomily. He hadheard hints of this preposterous opinion once or twice lately, and they disgusted his sense of fitness. How could a man possibly be good at business if he rushed through it like a steam-engine? Supposing one of the telegraph posts at the side wanted a touch of tar, how could you notice it going at that pace! But what was the use in arguing with a woman?
"Well, I can only tell you this," he snapped: "there's Madge Dunbar waiting for him here with her mouth open."
The two sisters immediately relinquished all idea of bringing him home.
"But if we let him stay in London, he'll be bankrupt in a month!" cried Andrew desperately.
"What the deuce is to be done?"
They pondered for a few minutes in silence, and then Mrs. Ramornie exclaimed, with an inspired air—
"He must go abroad!"
"And how are you going to manage that?" inquired Andrew.
"You've got to go and take him."
"Me!" he cried. "But—but, dash it, Maggie, he'll never go withme."
"You will have to dissemble a little, of course;pretend you want a holiday too, and take him to—to, well, we must look up some inexpensive French watering-place."
Gertrude smiled her approval.
"That's the idea, Andrew! Go up in a white felt hat, and tell him you know of a naughty little place in France where you can get dancing. He'll jump at it!"
Their brother regarded them with ever-increasing gloom.
"That kind of thing is not in my line—" he began; but once more he was impressed with the disadvantages of a bi-sexual world. The two ladies seemed positively incapable of grasping his objections, either to wearing a Homburg hat or recommending a naughty French watering-place.
"I don't insist on its being white; grey will do," said Mrs. Donaldson.
"Of course, I should never dream of taking him to a really disreputable place," said Mrs. Ramornie; "you only want a Casino and a little promenading, and so on."
"It will be great fun, Andrew!"
"It is your duty, Andrew."
"Yes, yes; of course we know you are an Elderof the Kirk and all the rest of it; but on an occasion, don't you know, Andrew!"
"What alternative do you suggest, Andrew?"
Yet he was still hanging fire when Jean entered. It had been tacitly understood that her presence was not required at the council of war, and the marked silence which followed her entry might reasonably have warned her that matters were being discussed too complicated for young unmarried girls. Yet she closed the door behind her and came forward with a quietly resolute air.
"I've only just heard you were here," she said. "You are talking about father, I suppose."
"We are," replied Mrs. Ramornie briefly.
Jean sat down.
"What have you decided?" she asked.
"We have decided he should go abroad with Andrew for a little change."
"Why?"
"Do you need to ask why, Jean? Surely you don't want him to go on making a fool of himself in London?"
"I don't see why he shouldn't go to a dance occasionally if he wants to."
"Go to a dance!" exclaimed Mrs. Donaldson.
"My dear Jean! do you suppose this was an ordinary—"
"Hush, Gertrude," said their brother austerely.
"Anyhow," said Mrs. Ramornie, "it is quite settled that he must leave London at all costs, and that it is inadvisable he should return to Edinburgh at present."
"But Aunt Mary was only saying to-day that he has to preside at a dinner to-morrow night."
"Oh, he'll forget all about that," said Gertrude, "and, of course, we don't mean to remind him."
"Why not?"
"Because he is not to be trusted at present," said Andrew.
A quick flush irradiated Jean's clear face.
"Heisto be trusted. He is to be trusted far more than ever before in his life!"
The three counselors exchanged glances.
"We know better than you do," said Mrs. Ramornie severely.
But Jean was not easily to be quelled.
"I think it will be a perfect shame if you allow father to forget his engagement," she protested.
Her eldest sister's face grew more like Andrew's than ever.
"He mustnotcome home at present, and wetrust that Andrew will do his duty and not permit him to stay in London."
"Andrew!" exclaimed Jean. "How can he prevent him?"
Their brother hung back no longer.
"I shall go up to London to-morrow morning," he announced.
"Splendid!" cried Gertrude.
He looked at her coldly.
"I do not propose to do anything ridiculous. If I can get him to go to some place in the south of England and stop for a month or two, that will be quite sufficient; and I do not propose, either, to wear any other clothes than what I've got at present."
Having thus asserted his independence of conduct and apparel, he turned again to Jean.
"That is what we have decided," he said.
She jumped up, her lip quivering a little. Then she controlled herself, and as she left the room only said quietly—
"Thank you for telling me."
The council was then able to conclude its deliberations without further interruption.
After dinner that night, Andrew found Mrs. Dunbar alone in the drawing-room, and immediately turned to withdraw.
"Are you not going to have coffee, Andrew?" she asked.
There was something different in her manner; something almost nervous; something apparently less hostile. Andrew glanced at her suspiciously. What new move in her diabolical game did this signify?
"I've got letters to write," he answered coldly, and shut the door decisively behind him.
The fair widow sighed, and again picked up a letter lying in her lap and looked at it unhappily. She had kept her word and written to Charlie Munro, and unfortunately Heriot had forgotten to warn him that his answer to any such communication must be exceedingly discreet. No wonder she seemed distressed.
Naturally, the junior partner gave his fair enemy no information regarding his movements.She saw him leave in the morning as usual, apparently to go to the office, and it was not till some time later that she learned from his aunt of his departure for London. Curiously enough, she seemed rather pleased than otherwise by this move. Her correspondence with Colonel Munro had left the most unsettling effects.
Meanwhile, Andrew was nearing London. He was pleased to find his train arrive upon the stroke of 6:15, for he valued punctuality above everything except his reputation. From the station he drove to the large political club where he always put up, ate a dinner that exactly accorded with his station in life, and took a horse bus to the Hotel Gigantique. (Motor buses were only just beginning to be seen upon the streets at that time, and he was always suspicious of noisy innovations.)
By the merest chance, the first person he saw in the hall of the hotel was Frank, attired in overcoat and opera hat, and evidently bound for some extravagant expedition, the cost of which would no doubt be defrayed by his parent to the detriment of his brother's and sisters' patrimony.
"Well, Frank," said the elder brother, "where's your father?"
The "your" was a subtle indication of thedepth to which Mr. Walkingshaw had fallen in the estimation of the right-minded.
"Out of town," said Frank briefly.
"Where's he gone?"
Frank shook his head.
"You can ask at the office," he suggested.
"Do you mean to say you don't know?"
"I mean to say it's none of my business."
Andrew had begun the conversation in a decidedly hectoring manner. He now began to alter his key a little.
"Look here, Frank, things are pretty serious. We've got to stop this tomfoolery."
The other interrupted him.
"What tomfoolery?"
"Making an exhibition of himself all over London, and wasting his money at a place like this. You know perfectly well what I mean."
"I only know that he's in the best form I've ever seen him in my life. He's just a devilish kind and sporting guv'nor, that's what he is."
"If you mean going about the most disreputable places in London in a half-intoxicated condition—"
"That's a lie, anyhow," said Frank calmly, yet with a glint in his eye.
His brother recoiled a pace, but his manner grew none the less uncompromising.
"I suppose you'll say he's moving in fine high-class society, do you?"
"It's a lot better than anything he ever found in his office."
"Thank you," replied the junior partner; "and now perhaps you'll tell me when he's expected back?"
"Day or two," said Frank shortly.
Andrew pondered for a moment.
"Oh?" he remarked at length, and without so much as a good-night he turned on his heel and walked out of the hotel.
Frank's conscience harassed him for a long time after this interview. He wished he could be quite certain that his manner towards his brother was entirely the result of Andrew's disagreeable references to their father. He would be the most ill-conditioned sweep unkicked, the most dishonorable sneaking blackguard, if by any chance he had allowed his luckless passion to prejudice him! He began to wish he were back in India again. Was this beastly furlough never coming to an end? And so he drove off in his hansom, alternately sighing and cursing himself, to watch what he hadselected from the pictures in the illustrated papers as the most sentimental drama in town.
The advantage of living a well-regulated life was never better illustrated than in the person of his brother Andrew. No qualms of conscience annoyed him as he drove back economically in his bus. He knew that he was right, and that people who violated his standards, and disagreed with him impertinently were wrong; and secure in that knowledge, he was enabled to hug against his outraged feelings the warm consolation of a grievance. All through his life this form of moral hot-water bottle had kept Andrew snug during many a painful night. It is worth being consistently righteous for the mere privilege of possessing this invaluable perquisite.
He decided to wait in London for twenty-four hours longer on the chance of his father returning, and so it happened that he found himself in his club reading-room on the following afternoon at the hour when theScotsmanappeared to cheer the exiles from the north. He secured it at once, and with a consoling sense of homeliness proceeded to turn its familiar pages. All at once he was galvanized into the rigidity of a fire-iron—
"Writers to the Signets' Annual Dinner. Remarkable speech by Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw."
It was a few minutes before he summoned up his courage to read any further.
"Mr. Walkingshaw began by remarking that it was by the merest chance he was present among them to-night. He had been so engrossed by the attractions of London (laughter)—he did not mean what they meant (renewed laughter)—that he had positively forgotten all about his duty to his convivial fellow-practitioners till he was reminded by a telegram from a young lady (a laugh). He alluded to his daughter (cheers). Several morals might be drawn from this little incident. The advantages of the sixpenny telegram and the even greater advantages of getting on the right side of the fair sex (cheers and laughter); these were two morals, but what he proposed to bring more particularly under their notice to-night was this: that if a respectable old chap like himself could enjoy himself so thoroughly as to forget his duty, there was hope even for the oldest of them (slight applause). What satisfaction was it to become prosperous and respected if at the same time one became a bugbear to one's children and a bore to one's acquaintances? Supposing that one of the old and valued friends he saw before him couldsuddenly see himself with the eyes of a young man of forty, or better still of thirty, what would he think of himself?—He would desire to drive a pin through the old fossil's trousers and wake him up! (a laugh). He would realize he was out of touch with life; that he was neglecting a dozen opportunities a day for giving pleasure to people who were still young enough to enjoy themselves, and thereby bucking himself up too. Mr. Walkingshaw begged his audience, particularly that portion of it over fifty, to beware of the fatal habit of growing old. How was this to be avoided? Well, everybody could not hope to have his own good fortune, but he could give them a few tips. In the first place, they should make a point of falling in love at least twice a year (laughter). The old duffer who ceased to fall in love was doomed. Then, while leading a strictly abstemious life on six days of the week, they should let themselves go a bit on the seventh; and when in that condition (a laugh)—he did not mean 'blind fu',' but merely a little the happier for it—while in that condition they should unlock their cash boxes and distribute a substantial sum among the poor and deserving young. Furthermore, they should make a point of mixing at least twice a week in fresh society—Bohemians, sportsmen, and the like. Also, nothing should be allowed to degenerate into a habit, especially churchgoing—"
"Mr. Walkingshaw began by remarking that it was by the merest chance he was present among them to-night. He had been so engrossed by the attractions of London (laughter)—he did not mean what they meant (renewed laughter)—that he had positively forgotten all about his duty to his convivial fellow-practitioners till he was reminded by a telegram from a young lady (a laugh). He alluded to his daughter (cheers). Several morals might be drawn from this little incident. The advantages of the sixpenny telegram and the even greater advantages of getting on the right side of the fair sex (cheers and laughter); these were two morals, but what he proposed to bring more particularly under their notice to-night was this: that if a respectable old chap like himself could enjoy himself so thoroughly as to forget his duty, there was hope even for the oldest of them (slight applause). What satisfaction was it to become prosperous and respected if at the same time one became a bugbear to one's children and a bore to one's acquaintances? Supposing that one of the old and valued friends he saw before him couldsuddenly see himself with the eyes of a young man of forty, or better still of thirty, what would he think of himself?—He would desire to drive a pin through the old fossil's trousers and wake him up! (a laugh). He would realize he was out of touch with life; that he was neglecting a dozen opportunities a day for giving pleasure to people who were still young enough to enjoy themselves, and thereby bucking himself up too. Mr. Walkingshaw begged his audience, particularly that portion of it over fifty, to beware of the fatal habit of growing old. How was this to be avoided? Well, everybody could not hope to have his own good fortune, but he could give them a few tips. In the first place, they should make a point of falling in love at least twice a year (laughter). The old duffer who ceased to fall in love was doomed. Then, while leading a strictly abstemious life on six days of the week, they should let themselves go a bit on the seventh; and when in that condition (a laugh)—he did not mean 'blind fu',' but merely a little the happier for it—while in that condition they should unlock their cash boxes and distribute a substantial sum among the poor and deserving young. Furthermore, they should make a point of mixing at least twice a week in fresh society—Bohemians, sportsmen, and the like. Also, nothing should be allowed to degenerate into a habit, especially churchgoing—"
Andrew read no further. Half an hour later he was driving for King's Cross as fast as a cab could take him.
It was characteristic of Andrew's serviceable and soundly unimaginative intellect that it should decline to grasp such a phenomenon as a father who was rapidly approaching his own age. It accepted the fact, since the evidence was now becoming overwhelming, but it firmly refused to go an inch beyond this concession. If one were seriously to regard his conduct as the natural result of youth and high spirits, there would be in a kind of way an excuse for it; and once you started that line of reasoning, where were you? You would be pardoning beggars because they were hungry, and bankrupts because they had no money, and all kinds of things. Andrew's conceptions of justice were not to be tampered with like that. It therefore followed (since he was extremely logical) that his parent must be looked upon simply as an erring and impenitent man. His age did not matter. That was his business. His son's was to see that, whether Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw professed to be eighty or eighteen, he conducted himself in a mannerbefitting the head of so respectable a family and firm.
The only defect in this pre-eminently honest way of regarding the matter was that it handicapped the junior partner when it came to forecasting his parent's probable movements. If you persist in basing your calculations on the assumption that a birdoughtto be too old to fly, when it actually isn't, you will probably be wrong in expecting to find it always in your garden.
Andrew let himself into the house about the hour of 8:30 a. m., and almost fell into the arms of the agitated widow.
"Have you found him? Where is he? What has happened?" she implored him.
It was another of Andrew's wholesome peculiarities that, having once distrusted a person, his suspicions could hardly be allayed, even by evidence that would have satisfied a hypochondriacal ex-detective. This safeguard against deception effectually preserved him from the dangerous extremes both of indigence and greatness. He looked upon his second cousin with a shocked and doubtful eye. She had come very close. Did she expecthimto toy with her?
"Have I found who?" he inquired coldly.
"Heriot!"
"If you mean my father, I did not find him."
He looked at her sarcastically, and added, "He didn't mention that himself, of course?"
"I haven't seen him!" she almost shouted.
He looked thoroughly startled now.
"Hasn't he been here?"
"He was only in the house for an hour. That was the day before yesterday. He didn't let me know he was here—he didn't let his sister know—nobody knew but Jean!"
"Where was he staying?"
"At an hotel."
"An hotel!" exclaimed Andrew in horror. "Going to all that expense, with his house standing waiting for him? That beats everything I've heard yet! Is he there still?"
"No, no, he's not!" she cried, almost sobbing. "He's gone back to London."
"Gone back to London!"
"And Jean's gone with him!"
"Jean! Has he not got enough bills to pay at that infernal millionaire's hotel without hers?"
"I don't know," wailed the lady. "I don't understand him. I thought he cared for me—and he didn't even let me know he was here!"
In spite of his anger with his erring parent, he was sufficiently master of his emotions to feel a lively concern at all this speech suggested.
"I must get my breakfast," he observed icily, and was starting for the dining-room.
She collected herself instantly.
"Andrew!" she said, "you've got to go after him."
He stared at her, first in extreme surprise, then with an exceedingly sophisticated smile.
"Thank you, I've got my business to attend to."
"You can go to the office first. There's a train about two."
"I'll not be on it," he replied.
"Some one'sgotto go and fetch him back."
"It won't be me."
She looked at him for a moment with an expression which did not interest him. He neither professed to understand women nor to think it worth while trying.
"Very well," she answered.
They went in to breakfast, but throughout the meal she never referred to Heriot again. Andrew flattered himself he had choked her offthatsubject.
While Andrew was still patiently waiting in London, a south-bound express swung down the long slope from Shap; past Oxenholme, past Milnthorpe, past Carnforth, out into the green levels of Lancashire. In one corner of a first-class carriage sat Jean Walkingshaw, her eyes smiling approval at that very paper which was to disturb her brother's serenity a few hours later. Her father sat opposite watching her.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he inquired.
"I think it's most amusing and—and—"
"Spirited?"
"Oh, very spirited!" she laughed. "In fact, I think it's a splendid speech."
He seemed gratified.
"Some fellows didn't seem to care for it," he observed.
"They must have been very stupid, then!"
"Old buffers generally are," he replied. "Some of the young chaps thought it first-rate, even though they were a little startled for the moment.Though why people should feel startled by anything so self-evident as my remarks beats me. Be hanged to them for silly idiots! Eh, Jean?"
His momentary expression of chagrin made way for a merry smile, which set his daughter smiling gaily back.
"If they disagree with you, father, they must be!" she laughed.
They sat silent for a few minutes, Jean watching the green fields and trees and gates and walls rush past to join the jagged fells behind them, her father watching her.
"It's awfully good of you taking me back with you," she said presently.
"If it's a treat for you, you deserve it," he answered affectionately; "and if it's not—well, anyhow, it's pleasant for me having your company."
"It is a treat for me, though I don't quite see what I've done to deserve it."
"You have stood by your father, my dear; and one good turn deserves another. I'd have been most infernally sick if I'd forgotten that dinner. It gave me the very chance of saying a word or two in season I'd been longing for. I only hope it will do the old fogies good."
He took up the paper and glanced again at the report.
"'Remarkable speech,' they call it," he continued complacently. "Well, they are not very far wrong. Itwasa remarkable speech. Eh, Jean?"
The good gentleman seemed unable to obtain his daughter's approval often enough. The fact was he had been a trifle disappointed with the attitude of some of his old friends last night. There was no doubt about it, he must go to the young folks for the meed of sympathy he deserved.
Jean again looked out of the window, but she ceased to pay much attention to the backward-drifting landscape. Her heart was too full of hopes and questionings and restless wonder. In a little she turned to her father again and said, with an eye so candid and a smile so kind that many members even of her own sex would never have suspected a hint of ulterior design—
"Do you know, you are the very best of fathers!"
He replied in the same spirit of affection, and she continued—
"I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to being in London again! You couldn'thave done anything I'd have liked better."
"Yes," he confessed, "London is an amusing place."
"And one always meets so many people one knows there. That is one of its attractions."
He agreed that it was.
"I wonder who I'll meet this time?"
She spoke with an air of the most innocent speculation, but the nature of her parent's smile changed subtly.
"Goodness knows who one will meet in London," he replied. "Not Andrew, we'll hope, eh? I wonder where he is now."
At this change of subject her breast gave a quick little heave that might have marked a stifled sigh, but she dutifully joined in what she could not but think an unnecessarily prolonged series of speculations regarding the movements of a quite uninteresting young man.
But her eyes were very bright indeed and her face distinct with suppressed excitement as they drove from Euston Station into the life of the streets. All the while she kept looking out of the cab window, as though amid the passing myriads she might happen already to recognize one of those acquaintances she hoped to meet. At last she wasin London! And London in early spring; London with the smuts washed off by torrential showers and then flooded with glorious sunshine; London with the young leaves like a thin veil of green on the limes and elms, and the tassels hanging from the poplars, and the sycamores and horse chestnuts already casting grateful shade; London with the mowing machines whirling in the parks and the watering-carts swishing down the streets—is a fairy city for a young girl with a large hotel to live in, a generous father, and a lover somewhere hidden in those mysterious miles of crowds and houses. Jean half wished she could feel a little less impatient, so that she might relish every passing moment to its dregs.
Her father, Frank, and she dined sumptuously and went to the most entertaining play afterwards—a stimulating medley of waltz refrains and gorgeous clothes and a funny man and fifty pretty girls. She did not pose as a dramatic critic, and thought it splendid. Then they had supper at the Savoy, and—so to bed.
But though she had gone to her room, Jean lingered for long before her open window, looking wistfully over the humming, lamp-lit town.Hisname had not been mentioned.
Lucas painted, but not so fiercely as before; and again from the deck-chair Hillary watched him. He rented the studio next door, and having a comfortable private income of £80 a year, generally spent his afternoons encouraging his friend. Occasionally, however, he considered it advisable to supply chastening reflections.
"I don't like it," he observed.
"Don't like what?"
"If he really meant to buy those pictures, I can't help thinking you would have heard from him again."
The artist turned abruptly.
"It was only three days ago. I don't expect to hear yet."
"Dear old Lucas, I don't want to discourage you, but I call it fishy. Supposing he has met some one since who really knew something about pictures?"
His friend resumed work in silence.
"There is also another possibility," continuedHillary in his gentle voice. "He struck me as suspiciously extravagant—supposing he has gone bankrupt? I noticed, too, that his complexion was somewhat rubicund—supposing he has had an apoplectic fit? In that case, would his executors be bound by his verbal promise? Honestly, Lucas, I don't think so."
There came a sharp rap on the door.
"It will relax the strain on your intellect if you go and see who that is," suggested the painter.
"A telegram," said Hillary, strolling back from the door.
"Good heavens!" cried Lucas. "Read that."
Hillary read—