Andrew had retired to the dining-room. Once the day's eating was over, this apartment, with its vast space of dignified gloom, its black marble mantelpiece, and the cloth of indigo plushette which now covered the table, made the most congenial refuge conceivable. His thoughts were in exact harmony with everything there, from the Venetian blinds to the portrait of his great-grandmother. The only discordant element was the presence of a few errant bread-crumbs, and happily they were under the table.
It was to this lair that he was tracked by Madge Dunbar. She never paused to ask if she disturbed him, or gave him any chance of protest, but advancing straight up to him, exclaimed—
"Your father is off his head!"
The junior partner eyed her warily, divided between suspicion and a glow of sympathy with her opinion.
"What has he done now?" he inquired gloomily.
"He has treated me exactly as he has treated you!"
The sympathy deepened; the suspicion began to ooze away; but all he remarked was, "Oh?"
He was indeed a magnificently cautious man.
"What can we do?" she cried.
Andrew scrutinized her carefully. She might be fibbing; she might be up to some of her tricks again; this might even be a move arranged with his father. One could not be too prudent.
"What do you propose to do?" he asked.
"Bring him to his senses if it's possible: if not—Oh, Andrew, his conduct is infamous! I don't care what we do to punish—I mean to restrain him."
At last, after many days' abstinence, the junior partner smiled. It was not a very wide, nor in the least a merry smile; his cheeks bulged only slightly under its gentle pressure, and the satisfaction which smiles traditionally notify seemed savored with a squeeze or two of lemon. But it marked the beginning of a new coalition, an ominous disturbance of the balance of power.
"That is exactly the point I have under consideration myself," he said. "The difficulty is, how is it to be managed?"
She seated herself within twelve feet of him, and yet he did not shrink from her now with modest mistrust.
"It seems to me perfectly obvious what we should do. Just offer him an alternative."
"What alternative?" asked Andrew.
Meanwhile, Mr. Walkingshaw was spending one of the happiest evenings he remembered. There was indeed some slight constraint in the drawing-room so long as his sister remained there, but when, after a series of sighs which punctuated some twenty minutes' pointed silence, she at last bade them a depressed good-night, the three happy lovers gave rein to their hearts. Heriot gave the loosest rein of all. It almost seemed as if a lover set at liberty was even happier than a lover just engaged. He had that air of animated relief noticeable in the escaped victims of a conscientious dentist. As for his children, they adored him little less than they adored two other people who were not there.
Yet once or twice Jean fell thoughtful. At last she said—
"I wonder whether we ought to go out to the Comyns' to-morrow after all?"
"My dear girl, why not? You'll have a very pleasant time there; and anyhow, it's too late to write and tell them you aren't coming."
"We could wire in the morning," she said. "Frank, do you think we ought to go?"
He looked a little surprised, but answered readily, "Not if you don't want to."
"But why not go?" their father repeated.
She hesitated. "Are you quite sure Andrew and Madge won't—won't try to be unpleasant?"
"Let them try if they like!" laughed Heriot. "But I assure you, my dear girl, I was so reasonable—so unanswerable, in fact—that they simply can't feel annoyed for more than a few hours. Hang it, they are very nice good people at heart. Just give 'em time to let the proper point of view sink in, and they'll be chirpy as sparrows again. Besides, what good could you do by staying at home? The Comyns have a nice place; you'll have a capital time. I insist on your going."
"Very well, then," said Jean.
Yet she could hardly picture Andrew and her cousin quite as chirpy as sparrows.
And all this time, beneath the very floor of the room where they laughed, the plans of the coalition ripened.
In the course of breakfast upon the following morning, Heriot startled his junior partner by announcing his intention of putting in a strenuous day's work at the office. Andrew exchanged a curious glance with Mrs. Dunbar, and then merely inquired—
"When will you be back?"
"Four o'clock," said Heriot cheerfully. "Quite long enough hours for a man of my age" (he smiled humorously at his son). "Of course there's sure to be a lot of things to put right, and so on" (Andrew raised a startled eye), "but I'll polish 'em off by four."
He ate a remarkably hearty breakfast and strode off blithely, this time a few minutes ahead of his partner. It was an even more singular thing that Andrew should linger to confer once more with the lady he had so lately regarded as the impersonation of everything suspicious.
Another curious incident happened later in the day. At lunch-time the junior partner left theoffice, and, without giving an explanation, remained absent through the afternoon. Not that Heriot missed him. He smoked and wrote and rallied Mr. Thomieson, and dictated letters which left his confidential clerk divided between the extremes of admiration for their shrewdness and horror at the terse and lively style in which they were couched; in short, he got through a day's work that sent him home at four o'clock in the best of spirits.
Andrew met him in the hall.
"Hullo," said Heriot, "where have you been all this time?"
"I want to speak to you for a minute," his son replied, and then, as his father turned naturally towards the library door, stayed him. "There's some one in there. Just come into the dining-room for a moment."
"Who's in there?"
Andrew waited till he had got him behind the closed door, and then said very gravely—
"It's Mrs. Dunbar and a friend of hers."
"What friend?—Not old Charlie Munro?"
"A Mr. Brown. Possibly you've not heard of him before, but I understand he's a connection of her late husband's family. She's asked him to come and meet you."
The exceeding solemnity of his manner obviously affected Heriot's high spirits.
"What's up?" he inquired.
"I should hardly think you would need to ask that, considering what has passed between you. In fact, I gather that they want to be satisfied there's some reasonable explanation of your conduct."
Mr. Walkingshaw gently whistled.
"Oh, that's the game, is it? Well, I suppose I'll just have to tell him the simple truth, in justice to myself."
His son heartily agreed.
"It's the only thing to be done," said he, "the only honest course left, so far as I can see. Just make a clean breast of everything, and you may trust me to confirm all you say."
"My dear boy, you're devilish good. I'm afraid I really haven't been as appreciative lately as I ought. You're talking like a sportsman now. Come on, we'll go in and tackle 'em together."
He took his son's arm and gave him a friendly smile as they crossed the hall; but the seriousness of the situation seemed to prevent Andrew from returning these evidences of comradeship.
The injured lady met her betrayer with marked constraint. She seemed to anticipate little pleasurefrom the interview, but had evidently made up her mind to go through with it as a duty she owed her reputation and her friend Mr. Brown. This gentleman was grave, elderly, and of an unmistakably professional aspect. In a vague way Heriot fancied he had seen his face before, though he could not recollect where.
"Well," said Mr. Walkingshaw genially, "here we all are; and now what's the business before the meeting?"
"I understand," replied Mr. Brown, in a calm and gentle voice, "that you have broken off your engagement with this lady. Now, as a—well, I may say, as an interested friend of Mrs. Dunbar, I should very much like to have your reasons."
Heriot smiled.
"Will you undertake to believe them?"
"I undertake to give them my closest professional consideration, whatever they are."
"May I ask if you are a lawyer?"
Mr. Brown coughed once or twice before replying.
"He is," said Andrew decisively, and Mr. Brown seemed content to let this reply pass as his own.
"You can talk to me with the utmost frankness," he said; "in fact, I infinitely prefer it."
"Well," began Heriot, "the simple fact of the matter is that I am growing rapidly younger."
"Ah?" commented Mr. Brown.
It was curious that he should exchange a quick glance, not with the lady whose interests he was representing, but with her errant lover's faithful son.
"Yes," said Mr. Walkingshaw, warming to his narrative, "I am literally racing backwards. It is like a drive over a road one has passed along before, only in the opposite direction and much faster. I simply whizz past the old milestones. Now, a man who is behaving like that has no business to marry an already mature lady, who is growing older at the rate of, say one, while he is growing younger at the rate of, say ten; has he, Mr. Brown?"
"No," replied Mr. Brown emphatically, "I honestly don't think he has."
Heriot was delighted with this confirmation of his judgment. He threw a glance at the widow to see how she took it, but her eyes were cast down, and she displayed no emotion whatever.
"That's the long and the short of the matter, Mr. Brown. I make the profoundest apologies tomy charming relative; but if you agree that I acted for the best, I suppose we might as well adjourn and have a cup of tea."
"Just one moment," said Mr. Brown gently. "I should like to have a few more particulars regarding this very interesting phenomenon, if you don't mind."
"Not a bit, my dear sir. It's a very natural curiosity."
"You feel, of course, a considerable exhilaration of spirits in consequence of this change?"
"I'm simply bursting with them."
"Naturally, naturally. And you propose, no doubt, to exercise your activities in some beneficial way?"
"In a dozen ways. I've already been the means of securing two happy engagements for my youngest children."
"And breaking off two," said Andrew.
His father turned to him with a frown. This was hardly the support he expected. To his great pleasure, the sympathetic Mr. Brown also disapproved of the interruption.
"One thing at a time, please," said he, and resumed his intelligent inquiries. "These youngpersons to whom your children have become engaged—they are hardly the matches you would have made at one time, are they?"
"I'm afraid I was a bit of an ass at one time," Mr. Walkingshaw confessed.
"I see, I see. And now, as to the engagements you have broken off—you felt yourself inspired, prompted from within, as it were, to bring them to an end, I take it?"
"You've put it deuced well," said Heriot.
"Did you feel in any way inspired from without—any visions or voices, so to speak, any manifestations or appearances—anything of that kind?"
Mr. Walkingshaw looked a little puzzled.
"The voices of romance and love, and that sort of thing, I certainly heard."
"Quite so, quite so, Mr. Walkingshaw. You heard them, did you? Well, it's not every one who hears these things."
He smiled pleasantly, and Mr. Walkingshaw became confirmed in his opinion that this was quite one of the most agreeable men he had met for a long time.
"May I ask whether you propose to take anymore steps to put this poor world of ours to rights?" inquired Mr. Brown.
"He is taking control of the business again," said Andrew.
"Again?" retorted Heriot. "When did I ever lose control of the business, I'd like to know? I've had my holiday, and now I'm going to make things hum in the office."
"You are going to make them hum?" asked Mr. Brown. "Do you mean you are going to override your partner's decisions, and so on?"
"My dear Mr. Brown, if I waited for his decisions, I'd be kicking up my heels in the office half the day. Metaphorically speaking, my son is somewhat like a man who fills his bath from a teacup instead of turning on the tap. I don't override his decisions, I simply anticipate them."
"That is his account of it," said Andrew darkly.
"Well, well," smiled Mr. Brown, "I think I understand. And now, Mr. Walkingshaw, may I ask if there is anything else you propose to do?"
This time he glanced at Andrew, as if courting information.
"He is altering his will," said the junior partner.
"Ah!" remarked his visitor again.
Mr. Walkingshaw drew himself up.
"That is my own affair," he said, with dignity.
"Quite so—quite so," replied Mr. Brown in that peculiarly soothing voice he had at his command. "We would wish to make no inquiries into that. Only, there's just one thing I'd like to know—you don't mean to let the grass grow under your feet, I take it?"
"No fears," said Heriot. "What I mean to do, I'm going to do at once. By Jingo, I'll be under age in a few years! I've got to do things promptly."
"Thank you," replied Mr. Brown suavely, "I think that is all I want to know. We needn't detain you any longer, Mr. Walkingshaw."
It struck Heriot that this was a funny way for the agreeable Mr. Brown to treat him in his own house. He assumed the air of a host at once.
"Then we'll go up and have some tea. Come along, Mr. Brown."
"I think," said his visitor politely, "that possibly your son and I had better have just a word or two with this lady first, if you'll permit us."
"Certainly, my dear sir; just come up when you're ready."
As he went upstairs, it suddenly struck him as rather odd that her connection by marriage and legal adviser should refer to Madge as "this lady"; and also that she should have sat so silently through a conversation which primarily concerned herself. But then such rum things did happen in this amusing world that it was never worth while worrying.
Stroking the cat and sipping his tea, Mr. Walkingshaw conversed pleasantly with his sister. Jean and Frank had gone into the country, and the two sat alone together in the drawing-room.
"Brown?" said Miss Walkingshaw. "I never knew the Dunbars had a relative of that name. Who will he be?"
"I seem to mind seeing his face somewhere," replied her brother, "but more about him I can't tell you, except that he's a very pleasant fellow. Hullo, Andrew, where's Brown?"
The junior partner had entered alone.
"He had to go," said he.
"Dash it, he might have said good-by."
Andrew made no answer. He was looking at his aunt in a way that he had borrowed from his father's bygone manner. Though he had only quite recently begun to practise it seriously, he was sufficiently expert to convey unmistakably the fact that he desired her to withdraw. She rose obediently.
"Hullo, where are you off to?" asked her brother.
"I have things to do, Heriot," she answered nervously, "just a few things to do."
As she passed Andrew she paused, and her lips framed a question. There was something in his manner that frightened her; strange things were happening, she felt sure. But his glowering eye silenced her, and she faded noiselessly out of the room. Then Andrew advanced upon his father.
"Just run your eye through that," he said quietly.
He handed his father a large double sheet of blue foolscap containing a great deal of printed matter. The particular portion of it to which Mr. Walkingshaw's attention was directed ran thus—
"Certificate of Emergency
"(This certificate authorizes the detention of a Patient in an Asylum for a period not exceeding three days, without any order by the Sheriff.)"I, the undersigned George William Downie, being M.D., Glasgow, hereby certify on soul and conscience, that I have this day at 15, Roray Place, in the County of Edinburgh, seen and personally examined James Heriot Walkingshaw, and thatthe said person is of unsound mind, and a proper Patient to be placed in an Asylum, and is in a sufficiently good state of bodily health at this date to be removed to the Asylum."And I hereby certify that the case of the said Person is one of emergency."
"(This certificate authorizes the detention of a Patient in an Asylum for a period not exceeding three days, without any order by the Sheriff.)
"I, the undersigned George William Downie, being M.D., Glasgow, hereby certify on soul and conscience, that I have this day at 15, Roray Place, in the County of Edinburgh, seen and personally examined James Heriot Walkingshaw, and thatthe said person is of unsound mind, and a proper Patient to be placed in an Asylum, and is in a sufficiently good state of bodily health at this date to be removed to the Asylum.
"And I hereby certify that the case of the said Person is one of emergency."
It was then dated, and signed, "George W. Downie."
"Asylum—Dr. Downie!" gasped Heriot. "But—whatisthis?"
"It says on the paper. Just look—can't you read?"
Heriot gave a convulsive start.
"Was—wasthatDr. Downie?"
His son nodded.
Again Heriot's startled eyes ran over the certificate, and then they turned upon his son. It is regrettable that his next words were not more worthy of his reputation.
"You d——d young skunk!"
"It's no use swearing," his son replied coldly.
Mr. Walkingshaw fell back in his chair and seemed to meditate.
"You wired to Glasgow for him?" he inquired in a moment.
"I did."
"So that I shouldn't recognize him, I suppose?"
"Naturally."
"What a sell if I'd spotted him and talked what the silly fool would have thought sense!"
"You didn't," said Andrew.
Mr. Walkingshaw shook his head.
"Man, I'd never have given you credit for the brains to do the like of this."
Then he started.
"I see it all now! It was Madge put you up to the idea! Eh? Oh, you needn't trouble to deny it; I know you haven't the imagination yourself."
With a calmer air he studied the paper afresh.
"It's only for three days," he observed in a cheerier tone.
"Do you actually imagine you're likely to get out at the end of three days?"
Mr. Walkingshaw looked at his son steadily.
"You know perfectly well that every word I said was true."
Andrew remained coldly immovable.
"I am no judge myself. I'd sooner depend on Dr. Downie's opinion."
"Hypocrite to the last!" scoffed Heriot. "Canyou look me in the face, Andrew, and tell me that you honestly thought it was insanity to make friends of my children and help them to marry the people they loved, and divide my money fairly among you all? Can you?"
"Permit me to remind you that it was not I who signed the certificate."
There was a moment's very dead silence, and then Heriot asked—
"Then do you actually mean to shut me up in a lunatic asylum for the rest of my days?"
Andrew had some of the finer points of the legal mind. He noted the trace of emotion in his father's voice, and knew he was fairly on top at last. To let this fact sink still further into Heriot's mind, he eyed him in austere silence for a few moments before he answered—
"If I have to, I shall."
"If youhaveto? What d'ye mean?"
"I mean that I am not going to have my business ruined—"
"Ruined! Can you not stick to the truth on a single point? I am putting new life into it!"
"I don't care for your kind of life, thanks," said Andrew primly, "and I repeat that I am not going to have my business—enlivened, if that'show you choose to put it, and my family disgraced, and my reputation lost; and if I let you go on another day as you've been going, it'll be too late to save any of them. But I don't want to be harder than I can help." He paused for a moment, and his lip grew longer and straighter. "So I'll offer you an alternative."
"Well?"
"If you'll guarantee to clear out of the country and not come back again, I'll take no further proceedings on the strength of this certificate. I don't want to put you in an asylum any more than you want to go, but I've got to protect myself."
Mr. Walkingshaw mused.
"When do you want me to start?"
"At once."
"At once!"
"Yes, at once, before you see anybody else."
"I'm not even to say good-by?"
"No."
"You've got some game on," said Heriot.
"I've got to protect myself and my family."
His father looked at him searchingly; but his face remained a solemn medallion of virtue. Then Mr. Walkingshaw again fell back in his chair andmused. Gradually the flicker of a smile appeared in his eye. It spread to his lips, and he sprang up cheerfully.
"It's not half a bad idea!" he exclaimed. "I'm just getting to the age when a young man ought to go about a bit and see something of the world. New Zealand now—that's a fine country—or Japan—or Texas. By Gad, you know I've several times wanted to do a bit of roughing it and big game shooting lately."
His son looked at him suspiciously. This cheerfulness was unusual in people he had worsted, and the unusual was always to be distrusted. But to the less vigilant, ordinary mind Mr. Walkingshaw merely presented the spectacle of a man of young middle-age with a heart some ten years younger still.
"Of course it will be a wrench," he added, with a sobered air. "I'll miss 'em all: Frank—Ellen—Jean. By Gad, I shall miss Jean. However, it need only be for a year or two. Meanwhile—by Jingo, there's no doubt about it!—this is the chance of my life. Let's see now, what does one need? A revolver with six thingamajigs—top-boots and riding breeches—a good compass—"
The chill voice of Andrew interrupted this catalogue.
"Once you go away, you've got to stay away."
"Stay away!"
"Your allowance will depend on that."
"My allowance!" gasped Heriot.
"Your estate has got to be administered by me just as though you were" (instinctively this pious young man's face grew solemn) "taken away from us."
"I wish I were not your father," sighed Heriot. "In happier circumstances, the pleasure of kicking you would just be immense."
Andrew disliked physical brutality. His cheeks grew flabbier at the very idea of such an outrage—even in theory.
"If you were to try anything of that kind, I warn you I'd withdraw my alternative."
His father laughed reassuringly.
"Oh, you needn't keep your back against the bookcase: I'll leave the job for some luckier devil."
A thought struck him.
"By the way, I've promised to give Jean and Frank enough to keep them going. You'll see to that?"
"I'll carry out the provisions made when you were in your right mind."
"What provisions?"
"The terms of your will."
Mr. Walkingshaw looked at his son steadily and in silence. After a full minute under this stare Andrew began to grow uneasy.
"There's to be no more nonsense, I warn you," he said.
"You mean either to rob your brother and sister of their money, or revenge yourself by stopping their marriages? By Heaven, Andrew—"
He broke off and plunged into meditation. Then his eyes began to smile, though his lips were now compressed.
"Very well," he murmured.
His son still felt a vague sense of apprehension.
"Mind, you've got to stay abroad."
"For ever?"
"You must give me your word you won't come back for two years certain, and after that you lose your allowance if you land in Great Britain or Ireland."
"Including the Channel Islands?"
"Including them."
"I see your game," smiled Heriot. "But Igive you my word. Poor Jean, poor Frank—"
"You're not even to write to them," interrupted Andrew.
Mr. Walkingshaw stroked his chin meditatively.
"I agree to that," he said. "Any more conditions?"
The smile that prevailed in his discomfited parent's eye perturbed the junior partner. He warily scanned all possible loopholes.
"You're not to communicate with Madge Dunbar."
"God forbid!" said Heriot fervently.
"Nor my aunt."
"Bless her, poor soul; no fears of that."
"I think that's all," said Andrew reluctantly.
So long as those eyes continued to look at him like that, he desired to pile condition on condition. But the overwhelming advantages of being encumbered with no imagination occasionally—very occasionally—have compensating drawbacks. He could imagine nothing else to be guarded against.
"Then I'd better pack and be off."
"You had," said Andrew.
Just as he was leaving the room, Heriot turned and asked—
"You've heard of changelings?"
Andrew stared.
"Do you not mind hearing of goblins that get put into cradles instead of the real babies? That accounts for you. Thank the Lord, I need never again claim the discredit of begetting you!"
A luggage-laden cab clattered over the granite cubes and passed out of the ring of tall mansions and the shadow of the stately trees within the garden. The career of Heriot Walkingshaw, W.S., was ended, and shocked respectability could lower again her up-rolled eyes and see nothing more outrageous than a prowling cat. May her troubles always end as happily! Undoubtedly, had the full facts been there and then made public, a statue of the junior partner (completely clad) would have adorned that decorous garden.
But his modest reticence was remarkable. He stood in the somber hall listening intently to make sure that the cab really did ascend the steep street towards the station, when his ally, after peering over the banisters, ran downstairs to meet him. He was just heaving a deep sigh of relief.
"Did some one go away in a cab?" she asked.
He looked at her sharply.
"Quite possibly."
In her eyes gleamed a sudden hint of suspicion.
"Was it Heriot?"
He took his time before answering very deliberately—
"It was."
"Where is he going?"
Again he paused. As every moment took his father farther from them, so every moment was precious.
"Can you not guess?"
"What!" she cried. "You're actually putting him into an asylum?"
"It's the best place for him."
She seized his arm.
"Did you give him the alternative?"
With a chaste movement he withdrew the arm.
"I gave him an alternative, certainly."
Her black eyes seemed to pierce into his brain. He disliked being looked at like that exceedingly.
"Ouralternative?"
"Our?" he questioned.
"The alternative we discussed last night?"
"We discussed a good many things."
She kept following him up till his back was nearly against the front door.
"Did you offer him the alternative of keeping his promise to me?"
"Look out," he muttered. "Some of the servants may be coming."
"Did you?"
"Would you marry a man that's off his head?"
"He isn't; he was only pretending!"
"That's not what Dr. Downie thought."
"Dr. Downie! What did he know!"
"He certified him."
He was backed against the front door now.
"Did you offer Heriot that alternative?"
He paused for a moment. Heriot must be at the station by now, and he had not many spare minutes before the train started.
"No, I did not," he answered.
The sympathetic widow's hand shot out; there was a smack and then a thud. The smack was caused by a momentary encounter between the hand and his spherical cheek, the thud by a meeting of his head and the door.
"You miserable creature!" she hissed.
With a look such as only the righteous can ever hope to wear, and that in the moment of martyrdom, he watched her rush upstairs sobbing.
And thus the coalition, having served its beneficent purpose, came abruptly to an end. A great deal might be written in this connection, adducingthis instance to illustrate the wider fields of statecraft, but unfortunately the present narrative is a simple record of facts, and not a philosophical treatise. The immediate consequence of the episode was that on the following morning Mrs. Dunbar set out for the west of Ross-shire to pay a long-promised visit to a third cousin who possessed several thousand acres of moorland in that vicinity.
It was on the following morning that Jean and Frank returned, their faces glowing with country sunshine and spring wind, their hearts quickened with anticipation. In the train coming home they had exchanged many confidences. Could he possibly manage to get married before he went out to India? Frank wondered. Would Lucas have to wait till he had sold a few more pictures? wondered Jean. He ran whistling up the steps and rang the bell. She burst radiantly into the somber hall. And then, at twelve o'clock in the morning of an ordinary working week-day, they found the junior partner at home to receive them. Such a portent had never before been seen.
"Where's father?" asked Jean.
Andrew's cheeks twitched nervously; yet on the whole he maintained a compassionate expression highly honorable to his fraternal instincts. In a hushed voice he addressed his sister.
"I want to have a word with you," said he.
He took her apart from her brother and shutthe library door securely. Frank was such a hot-tempered young fellow; and he had suffered one physical outrage already. In a voice as appropriate as his face he gently broke the news—
"Our father has been removed to an asylum."
"Removed—to an asylum!" gasped Jean.
She did not strike him, but on the whole he was even more glad when that interview came to an end than when he saw the widow's muscular back at last turn from the front door.
A few days afterwards a tall man in a sportsmanlike ulster walked up the gangway of a steamship bound for a port in South America. He was followed on board by a friend with very blue eyes and a cavalier mustache. They talked for a few minutes and then shook hands affectionately.
"Well, Lucas, good-by, old fellow," said the passenger. "And remember now what you're to tell them. They're not to drop a hint—not a whisper of what they know. Just keep your tails up all of you, as best you can. Handy thing, this revolver we chose. I must practise shooting from the hip pocket. I say, take special care of Jean. Tell her I know how plucky she is—she'll be staunch—she'll wait. Tell her I'll often bethinking—Hullo, last bell; you'd better get on shore."
A little later the steamer was in the middle of the gray Thames, bearing Heriot, his fortunes, and his six-shooter far, far from the office of Walkingshaw & Gilliflower. The protagonist of virtuous respectability sat there triumphantly enshrined. He had done everything a good man could reasonably be expected to do; only he had not imagined Lucas Vernon waving a farewell to his late partner.
Even in the heyday of Mr. Walkingshaw's career, when he was most conspicuously an example to his fellow-citizens, revered by the young and applauded by the old, there were to be found certain austere critics who held that, for themselves, the character of Andrew presented the more chaste ideal. Exemplary though his father's life had been (up to that fatal illness), there was always a latent vein of geniality in his character, a reminiscence of good living in his ruddy countenance, a brightness in his eye, that suggested possibilities; and even a possibility might conceivably, under certain circumstances, given this and that—well, it might be safer away. Whereas Andrew's pale round cheeks and solemn aspect were as reassuring as a plate of porridge.
These pioneers of criticism were thought extremists six months ago; now, they had all respectable society at their back. Of course it was never a point in a man's favor that his father (or indeed any relative) could run amuck as Andrew's haddone. On the other hand, he had so promptly and fearlessly plucked out the parent who offended him, and behaved, moreover, through all this tribulation with such becoming solemnity, that he very soon began rather to gain than to lose by his martyrdom. Each step he took was discretion itself. His father, people learnt, had been quietly removed to a retreat for the mentally infirm, situated, some said in Devonshire, and others in North Wales. The very ambiguity on this point was highly approved. It argued the perfection of prudence. As for the ungrateful girl who had jilted him, he had talked at considerable length to his friends on that subject, and they reported that, though naturally grieved, and even offended, by her conduct, he was nevertheless able to express in a calm voice many Christian sentiments; frequently, for instance, assuring his audience that he forgave her, and that if she preferred to stew in her own juice he was too much of a gentleman to interfere with her pleasure. At this rate, it was recognized that very soon nothing the Goddess of Mediocrity could offer would be beyond his reach. She had many worshipers, but unquestionably Andrew Walkingshaw looked like her favorite.
He himself was modestly disposed to agree withthis opinion. Really, the success of his prompt procedure had been remarkable. From his two sensible married sisters he had never anticipated trouble, and they had loyally fulfilled his expectations. With both he held private consultations, and each accepted his version of the facts without a single unnecessary or disquieting question. They knew they could trust Andrew. But what did surprise him was the calmness into which the impotent indignation of Frank and Jean subsided. Within three days they were converted from volcanoes to icebergs. It was a condition too frigid to give him unalloyed delight, yet all things considered he could not but think it exceedingly encouraging.
"I presume you don't intend to give either of us a marrying allowance?" said Frank, interrupting with this practical inquiry the guarded narrative of his elder brother.
"If I could feel it in any way to be my duty—"
Frank interrupted him again.
"But you don't; what?"
"No, Frank, I may tell you candidly—"
For the third time the soldier cut in—
"And I may tellyoucandidly that of all contemptible hounds I've ever had the misfortune to meet, you're the most despicable."
That concluded the conference; and judging from Jean's pointed neglect of any opportunities for consultation with which Andrew provided her, he gathered that Frank had sufficiently expressed her opinion also. It was, no doubt, painful to see oneself thus misjudged, but at the same time he could not feel too thankful for their abstinence from any further inquiry regarding their father's fate. At first this lack of curiosity struck him as almost suspicious, but he was reassured by his conviction of their depravity. While their father was favoring them, they made a fuss about him: now that he could favor them no more, their feigned affection for him disappeared, and all they thought of was reviling the one member of the family who knew what was best for them. Each time he recalled those monstrous epithets of Frank's, this conviction deepened, till he became positively ashamed of them for their indifference. They might at least have gone through the form of asking for some news of their father now and then, even if they had not the hearts to sympathize with his malady. But they had no sense of decency, those two.
Fortunately, he was soon relieved of Frank's society. Some weeks before his furlough was up he returned to India, and the house was well rid ofhim. A meandering and indignant letter from Archibald Berstoun of that ilk, informing Mr. Andrew Walkingshaw (in the third person) that he would be obliged if he would kindly keep his brother from trespassing in his garden, indicated that the despairing lover had paid a farewell, and surreptitious, visit to his mistress; but that was the last inconvenience he inflicted.
To add to Andrew's relief, Jean came to him a few days after Frank's departure and announced her intention of repairing to London and adopting the profession of nursing. In retailing this incident to his friends, her brother laid particular emphasis on the generosity he had displayed and the scanty thanks she had tendered him. The financial assistance he offered her was ample—perfectly ample for all that a girl wanted; while in the matter of good advice he had been positively extravagant.
"You'll think well over this, Jean," said he.
"I have thought," she answered briefly.
"It's an arduous profession you're embarking on, and a responsible profession, and an honorable profession. It requires—"
"Oh, I know what it requires," she interrupted. "It will be much better if you simply tell yourfriends what you intended to tell me. They may be impressed: I am not."
And, like the obliging brother he was, Andrew obeyed her wishes literally. He had his reward, for such of his friends as were able to wait till he had finished his narrative told him candidly that they thought he had left nothing unsaid, and that certainly his sister ought to consider herself fortunate. In fact, he only relinquished his grasp of their buttonholes when they had acquiesced in these conclusions.
The spectacle was now presented to the world of poor Andrew Walkingshaw, bereft of his father and deserted by his sister, living in that great house in company only with his sense of duty and his aunt. People were very sorry for him indeed; they said he should marry; in fact, such as enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance even began to select suitable young women for his approval. Andrew inspected these candidates gravely, but at the same time let it be clearly understood that he was in no hurry; he might decide to marry, or he might not—anyhow, if he did, the lady would be conferring no favor. It was left to your common sense to decide by whom, in that case, the favor would be conferred.
All this sympathy was very consoling, but in a world partially compounded of people less sensible than Andrew Walkingshaw, a few disappointments are inevitable. He found his in the annoying attitude of two or three valuable but wrong-headed clients, who would persist in making frequent inquiries as to the probable duration of the senior partner's indisposition. There was an unpleasant sense of comparison implied in these questions, a hint of preference for the slap-dash, hang-technicalities method with which, in his latter days, Heriot had scandalized aggrieved spinsters in quest of consolation and hesitating suitors desirous of having their minds made up. The trouble was that these latter classes, though delightful company to one of Andrew's sympathetic disposition, were considerably less remunerative than the irritating inquirers; and so long as there seemed any possibility of his father's return to sanity and his office, he felt that he could never regard his position as wholly satisfactory; on the other hand, though a sick lion may possibly be compared with a live dog, a defunct lion is proverbially out of the running.
Andrew thought over this aspect of the case long and conscientiously. He was exceedinglytruthful, he disliked superfluous butchery, but what choice had he?
It is said by the more inspired species of social reformer that what good men deem theoretically advisable is sure to happen sooner or later. In some cases, if the man be talented as well as good, it happens quickly. Within a few months of Jean's desertion came the last touch that was needed to complete the pathos of her brother's position and disarm the most hostile critic. Among the deaths in theScotsmanappeared the name of James Heriot Walkingshaw. Nothing was said as to how or where he had died; and, in fact, the point was never satisfactorily settled whether the sad event took place in North Wales or Devonshire; but, of course, the cause was only too evident. Well, poor man, it was a mercy the end had come as swiftly as it had. His friends were sorry, of course, but not surprised and quite resigned. They were very pleased with the way his son took it. He departed quietly for the funeral in a hatband six inches wide, and returned with a thoughtful and chastened air to resume his daily work. The interment took place, it was understood, in a churchyard adjacent to the retreat; and under the sad circumstances people thought Andrew had done well to attend itunaccompanied by other mourners. In short, every circumstance connected with the tragedy served to increase the respect in which he was held. Even Jean's unfortunate omission to use black-edged paper when writing a few brief and curiously stiff acknowledgments of the letters of condolence she received, reacted indirectly in Andrew's favor. People pitied the brother of this unfeeling girl. How wounded he must feel by her callousness!
But the most satisfactory consequence of all was the cessation of inquiries for any other Walkingshaw than Andrew. He considered himself justified in holding that this tacitly implied an admission that nobody could desire a better lawyer than he. And as there were none to contradict this assumption (since he had always made a point of avoiding the candid critic like the Devil, the impecunious school friend, and Sunday golf), he derived from it the full gratification to which he was entitled.
Never, surely, was there a more signal triumph for the meek. His brother had abused him, and he was now broiling in India, torn for ever from his betrothed; his sister had snubbed him, and there she was homeless in London slaving in a hospital;Mrs. Dunbar had smacked his face, and she was an exile in the moors of Ross-shire; and now here was his father, who had plagued and despised him, numbered in the list of the deceased. Alas for Heriot Walkingshaw! He had despised the wrong man when he despised Andrew. "The Example is dead; long live the Example!" might well have been inscribed upon his tombstone, had their friends been able to learn precisely where that monument was situated.
It is pleasant to be able to turn (still adhering closely to the facts as they occurred) from tombstones to orange blossom. His friends unanimously felt that Andrew, having suffered so much and so heroically, should now obtain the consolation he deserved. Among his many virtues none was more remarkable than his instinct for doing exactly what was expected of him, and at precisely the right moment. Forthwith he announced his engagement to Miss Catherine Henderson, whose father's residence had been used as the test by which Heriot first realized his disastrous return to youth. Mr. Henderson was now defunct, but his possessions served a better purpose than being stared at by a reprobate neighbor. They passed, in fact, into Andrew's keeping.
The lady who accompanied them was, of course, an only child, and the income of two thousand pounds a year she enjoyed was derived from such extraordinarily safe investments that even the cautious Andrew, when he went into her affairs witha fellow-solicitor (on the week before he proposed), remarked at once that he saw an increase of three hundred and fifty pounds to be got without risking a halfpenny. As she was only four years older than he, there was no disparity of years on this occasion; while her appearance effectually guaranteed her lover against the discomforts of rivalry. In short, she was generally admitted to be an ideal mate for Andrew Walkingshaw.
It was just eight months after Heriot's disappearance from public life that his son led Miss Henderson to the altar of St. Giles' Cathedral, and after a brief honeymoon in Switzerland established her in the stately mansion overlooking the circular garden. The fortunate couple had the further advantage of overlooking (when the leaves were off the trees) a substantial addition to their income in the shape of the bride's late residence, now let on very advantageous terms to a wealthy relative of Mr. Ramornie of Pettigrew. It seemed impossible for any step Andrew took to avoid being profitable. When he lost an umbrella at the club, it was always to find a better one in its place. And the most satisfactory thing of all was the consciousness that his prosperity was entirely the result of following the proper kind of principles.
One would fain avert one's eyes from the spectacle presented by the luckless Ellen Berstoun, were it not that her unhappy condition makes the contrast between lax and proper principles the more poignant. No mate with two thousand pounds a year for her! Instead, merely a hopeless passion for an impecunious subaltern sweltering in far-off India. That was poor company throughout the long series of monotonous months that were now her portion. The brown buds on the tall beeches broke into leaf, and the dark pines were tipped with vivid green; the leaves withered and fell, and the dead needles littered the moss. Those were the most exciting changes that happened. Her father (a victim of gout) cursed her and Frank and Andrew and Heriot impartially. Her mother sighed and let her into secrets of their housekeeping and finances which clearly showed how selfish she had been. Her sisters were kind upon the whole, but dreadfully disposed to talk things over in a practical kind of way.
And then at intervals arrived those letters, very long and very loving, and very full of riding and marching under strange skies, and adventures of which strange dark peoples and stranger beasts were the sinister ingredients. Theybrightened her eyes for a little while, and then left her sadder than before.
In the course of the second year of her bereavement, the disappointment of her parents with her failure was converted into satisfaction at the success of her sister Mary. An astonishingly wealthy shooting tenant in the neighborhood danced seven times with her at the County Ball, and proposed next morning by letter. He would have been accepted by telegram had Archibald of that ilk had his way, but fortunately the gentleman's ardor had not cooled by the time the next post reached him. A week later his prospective best man wriggled out of his duties by coming to an arrangement with Mary's younger sister that the wedding should be a double-barreled affair, with two brides and two grooms. As this second suitor was very nearly as rich as the first, Ellen found her fate alleviated by the entire and permanent removal of her parents' displeasure. She became now a mere object of pity, mingled at times with contempt for her folly in dooming herself to a sterile spinsterhood; for it was clear that Frank and she could never hope to marry, however much writing-paper they might waste.
Just as the world never plumbed the depths ofdignity and purpose in Woman till it saw her chained to a railing, clasping the hated constable like a lover, a hoarse example to her sluggish sisters, so it can never realize her capacity for foolishness till it has seen her waiting through weary years, hoping against reason, the victim of illogical constancy to a mere young man. Sweet and gracious Ellen Berstoun, so slender and pretty and charming, wasting her fragrance in the old garden and the dark pine-woods for the sake of certain passionate memories and the most impractical of day-dreams, was a sight to make a philosopher despair.
Undoubtedly Andrew's were the proper principles.
With the drawing in of dusk a thin mist stole up from the river and stealthily crept through the streets and lanes of Chelsea. It was not yet five o'clock, but on an afternoon in the depth of winter the little touch of fog converted dusk to darkness. The mist was not thick, but very cold and clammy, and in the zigzag lane the lamps were blurred and the shadows deep. Two people left a bus in the King's Road and turned down it. He was broad-shouldered, and swung along with a fine decided stride: she was trim and erect, and very quietly clad; her face was fresh and bright, a smile haunted her eyes, and her straight little nose seemed to breathe independence.
"The air is beastly damp," said he. "I wish you'd let me bring you in a cab."
"Nonsense, Lucas," she answered stoutly; "we neither of us can afford it. You must learn to be sensible."
"But, my dear girl, I tell you I'm beginning to make money now."
"Well, don't begin to spend it; and then perhaps you may have a little in the bank in a year or two."
"A year or two!" he exclaimed; "I'll have enough in six months to—"
She interrupted him briskly.
"Lucas! Don't you remember we agreed that whichever of us said 'marry' first should be fined?"
"I never agreed."
"Then I shall break off the engagement."
Yet she continued walking quickly by his side till they came to the studio. He took out his key, but she stopped short on the pavement with a fine air of decision.
"I won't come in unless you promise to be more or less rational," she said.
And then with the same air of decision she entered.
After a few minutes' apparently unnecessary delay he lit the gas and she settled herself in the deck-chair while he filled the teapot.
"Nursing is too heavy work for you," he said suddenly.
"Don't be absurd," she smiled.
He put down the teapot, took her by the shoulders,and looked into her eyes, at once critic and adorer.
"Jean! You can't deceive me. It's my business to know how people sit when they are tired, and what signs in their faces show they are overworked. You are nearly dead beat."
"Only—only a very little, Lucas," she said less stoutly.
Her spirit was brave, but her feet were weary, and how her back ached!
"I'm going to take you away from that infernal hospital," he announced.
Her back stiffened again.
"Lucas! you promised to be sensible."
He smiled down at her.
"I have the sense to marry you—and do it at once, too!"
She jumped up.
"Lucas!"
"Jean!"
He held her fast.
"You may be strong enough to hold me," she panted, "but you aren't strong enough to marry me against my will!"
"But why shouldn't we? Why the mischief, why the dickens, why the devil not?"
"Because you'd be bankrupt in a month. You'venosense, dear. Do get that into your head. By your own admission you have only just begun to sell your pictures. Wait and see whether it lasts—wait for a couple of years—"
"A couple of—! I won't, and that's flat!"
"One year, then."
"Twelve months? I can't, Jean."
"You must!"
"Daren't you risk it now?"
She drew herself back a little.
"Lucas, that isn't fair. I dare doanything—except come to you without a penny, and probably ruin you. If I had even twenty pounds a year to bring you, I'd risk it; but you know quite well that if I marry against Andrew's wishes any time within seven years I forfeit everything."
"If I killed Andrew," asked the painter grimly, "who would his money go to?"
"Wait!" she said, her spirit smiling through her eyes. "Don't you trust father to help us somehow—some time or other?"
He twisted his mustache desperately upwards.
"I want to help myself."
She smiled openly now.
"You can't be trusted yet; you're so greedy!"
He laughed, but a little wryly.
"It's because I'm starving."
"Then work, work!" said Jean.
"I can't work harder," he answered more philosophically. "I can only sell faster."
"And you're doing that too," she said encouragingly.
They needed all the encouragement they could snatch, these two perverse and desperate lovers. People who lack the sense to provide themselves with an income after falling in love generally do.
At the end of an hour, one of those galloping hours that fly swifter than ten ordinary minutes, they passed out into the lane again. The mist was now so thick that even when the way grew straight they could see no more than two lamps ahead, and it was very chill and damp.
"I'll hail a cab as soon as I see one."
"I won't drive in it, I warn you."
He implored, but she shook her fair head resolutely.
"One of us must be practical," she persisted.
"And the other in love?"
She pressed his hand, but remained the charming incarnation of obstinacy. He laughed at last, though a little anxiously as he saw a fringe of tinydrops gather on her hair; and he let her have her way. Together they entered a bus and slowly rumbled eastwards. The bus was full, and for a long time they sat in silence.
"It's quite fine here!" she exclaimed at last; "we've come out of the mist—look at the stars!"
They both cheered up amazingly. It actually seemed as if they were preposterous enough to take this ordinary meteorological incident as an omen.
"We'll have to ask the Rivingtons," said Andrew.
"And not the Donaldsons?" inquired his wife.
Andrew reflected. This was to be a very special dinner party; quite the smartest function they had given yet. His sister would want to be there, especially when she heard the Ramornies were coming over for it. On the other hand, they knew a great many more distinguished people than Hector and his wife had yet become, and of these they could only invite a small selection to the dinner party. It was a case in which principle clashed with principle.
"We'll have Gertrude and Hector too," he announced.
He had just remembered that Walkingshaw & Gilliflower were briefing Hector in a forthcoming case, and that there had been some discussion in the office as to the precisely proper fee to which, at that moment in his upward career, he was entitled. He would set this dinner against the oddtwo guineas in dispute. That, anyhow was an equitable principle, if ever there was one.
"And of course Lord and Lady Kilconquar?"
"Of course," said Andrew.
"And Sir William Sinclair?"
Andrew nodded.
"Must we ask the Mackintoshes?"
Andrew frowned.
"They'll do for our next dinner."
That was not going to be quite so smart a function.
"That's twenty-two," said Mrs. Walkingshaw.
"Just the right number," replied her husband. "It was what the Kilconquars had when we dined there."
Everything that Andrew had done was right, and his circumstances reflected his rectitude. No dodging about devious lanes in the fog for him and Mrs. Walkingshaw; no slow progress in crowded omnibuses; no Bohemian teas in paint-smelling studios. The streets through which they passed were wide and stately, even if a trifle windy; a motor car whirled them to their destination (which was always the right place to be seen at); their meals were consumed in sedate Georgian apartments, and in every detail would have satisfieda peer. They moved through life on oiled and noiseless wheels, wrapped in comfort and attended by respect. Let no carping critic say that the good things in this life are not distributed according to the most laudable principle. The guinea-fowl lays where she sees a nest-egg, and the larger it is the more does she deposit. And the prosperous nest-owner is he who stays always beside his treasure, gently coaxing the fowl, and vigilantly guarding against the least suspicion of disturbance, theft, or injury. Let anything happen that may in the world outside; here is his post of duty, and he sticks to it.
It is true that for a short while an uncomfortable shadow seemed to cloud the serenity of Andrew's soul. This happened about the second anniversary of his late father's removal from his native city to that retreat where he ended his days, and was believed by his aunt to result from the painful memories evoked by his recollection of the date. It is certain that his serenity returned with each succeeding week, till by this time, when several months had passed, he had thrown off his anxiety altogether. He remained perhaps a little more constantly vigilant than before—even, for instance, when coming home from church; but itseemed now he had rather the alertness of the coastguardsman than the tension of the sailor when the decks are cleared for action.
It is impossible to imagine a more ideal scene of domestic felicity than that presented by Andrew and his spouse this evening. The room had been redecorated and partially refurnished by its new mistress. As she never expressed any opinion without quoting a competent authority, her husband at once took into respectful consideration her suggestion that fashionable people no longer dangled a cut-glass chandelier from their ceiling, and always had colored tiles in their hearths. When she further suggested that it should be her privilege to effect these and other improvements out of the dowry she was bringing him, he passed from consideration to consent. So that the fortunate couple were now mounted in a setting worthy of their price.
Sitting at a Sheraton table in a semi-evening toilet that had cost her forty guineas, writing the names of some twenty of their most eminent fellow citizens in the spaces on the invitation cards, Catherine impressed her husband favorably—entirely favorably. A very satisfactory mate indeed he considered her. One could not imagine her paleeyes winking, or a saucy smile on her thin lips, or anything but the plainest common sense coming out of them. Yes, she was very satisfactory. It is true that he had once, in a burst of confidence, confided to one of his friends that she was "Awful skinny," but it is wonderful how far forty guineas will go towards modifying that defect. In short, she was—well, satisfactory. When one has secured the right adjective, why change it?
Andrew's complacency was completed by the presence of his aunt. He still kept her with him as a kind of perpetual testimonial to his solid worth. Her mere presence proved he was a kind and hospitable nephew; and on the least provocation she would enlarge upon his virtues in a way that was most pleasant for a visitor to hear. At other times she kept discreetly in the background, just as she had all her life. There was also this further advantage: that her legacy was much more satisfactorily employed in defraying (at her own desire, of course) some portion of her nephew's increasing expenses, than going into the pocket of a worthless landlord or hydropathic company.