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 or conspicuously 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 into _you_, 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 always to 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:
250 BURY 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
language and 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 watched her 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.