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 the depth 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 had selected 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 the
_Scotsman_ appeared 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
could suddenly 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.