CHAPTER XIII

The hour was late, but in spite of Heriot's kindly suggestion that

the rapture he anticipated from her conversation should be postponed

till she had recovered from the fatigues of her journey, his fiancee

unselfishly preferred to recompense him immediately for his prolonged

deprivation of her society. He acceded at once to her wishes, with the

most amiable air imaginable.

"And now, my dear Madge," said he, when they were seated in a secluded

corner of the lounge, "tell me all your news. In the first place, how's

my own precious?"

"I am very well, thank you," replied the lady, a little coolly.

"Delighted to hear it!"

"You could, of course, have discovered it sooner by simply writing to

inquire," she pointed out, with the same air.

"But I did, my dear girl, I did."

"Once."

"Only once, was it? Now, I could have sworn it was twice."

"And did you think twice was often enough?"

"Well, you see, Madge," he explained, "we got engaged in such a deuce

of a hurry, and I had to rush off next morning, and so on. I didn't

have time to ask you how often you wished me to write."

"Didn't my last two unanswered letters give you any idea on the

subject?"

"Two letters, Madge? Now, do you know, I could have sworn it was only

one."

She looked at him steadily.

"Heriot, what is the meaning of your conduct?"

"To what points in it do you refer, my dear?"

"I may tell you I have heard from Charlie Munro."

It was remarkable how quickly Mr. Walkingshaw had developed. That

reputation he still clung to when he saw her last was no longer a

brake upon his downward career.

"Poor old Charlie!" he laughed. "By Jove, Madge, I jolly well hoisted

him with his own thingamajig!"

She regarded him stonily.

"And what of the business you went to see him about?"

"Did I say I was going to see him on business?"

"You did!"

"Oh, no, no, my dear girl; you must have misunderstood me. Of course, it

was natural enough; we were both rather carried away by our feelings

that night, weren't we, Madge?"

He took her hand and pressed it affectionately, but it made no response.

"Why didn't you come to see me when you were in Edinburgh?" she

inquired.

"I ought to have," he answered, with an expression of the sincerest

apology. "Yes, I suppose I ought to have."

"You suppose! Didn't it occur to you at the time?"

"Oh, yes, it occurred. In fact, my difficulty was to keep myself away

from you."

"May I ask why it was necessary to make the effort?"

"Well, the fact is," he explained, "I had a little scheme for Jean which

I wanted to keep a secret--"

"And you couldn't trust me!" she interrupted.

"A charming woman and a secret?" he smiled archly. "My dear girl, your

rosy lips would have gone chatter, chatter, chatter all over the town!"

She snatched her hand away with some degree of violence.

"You talk like an idiot!" she replied.

"My dear Madge! This is your own Heriot?"

She took out a little handkerchief of lace and gently touched first one

eye and then the other.

"I don't believe you love me!"

Heriot's kind heart was sincerely moved.

"I adore you!"

A faint smile at last appeared upon her face.

"How can you possibly when you go on like this?"

"Like what?"

The smile died away and a quick frown took its place.

"Heriot! Do you mean to say you think your behavior has looked like

loving me?"

"It's the heart that counts, Madge, not the behavior," he assured her.

She sat up in her chair with an air of decision.

"The behavior does count; so please don't talk as though you thought I

was a fool. For your own sake, for the sake of your reputation and your

family, you've got to come back with me to-morrow!"

He seized her hand.

"My dear Madge, that's just what I meant to do."

He rose and bent over her with every symptom of affection.

"And now you must really go to bed. You're looking tired; really you

are. It quite distresses me."

She still kept her seat.

"You promise to come with me?"

"I assure you I've got to come."

"I must have your promise."

He looked hurt.

"Hang it, Madge, can't you trust me?"

"No, I cannot. Give me your promise."

His air of affection decidedly diminished, but he gave the pledge--

"I promise to go north to-morrow."

"I can really trust you?"

He began to frown.

"Implicitly."

She rose at last, and they went together towards the lift.

"When do you breakfast?" she asked.

He answered somewhat stiffly--

"There is no necessity of starting before two o'clock. Breakfast when

you like."

"We shall say ten o'clock, then."

"That is fairly late, isn't it?"

"You forget that I have had a tiring day, and perhaps you hardly realize

whose conduct has tired me. Good-night."

"Good-night," he replied in an unimpassioned voice.

As the widow ascended she told herself that she had adopted entirely the

right attitude. She might relent to-morrow, but till then it was well he

should be deprived of the sunshine of her smiles.

Next morning at the hour of 10:15 she stepped out of the lift to find

Jean waiting in the hall. She greeted Mrs. Dunbar with a markedly

composed air.

"I hope you won't mind breakfasting alone?" she said.

It was evident that the widow did mind.

"Do you mean to say your father has actually breakfasted without me?"

"Unfortunately, he had to."

"Had to!"

"He and Frank found they must catch the ten o'clock train."

Mrs. Dunbar gasped.

"He--has gone?"

"Yes."

"But he promised to go with me!"

"I understood him to say," said Jean quietly, "that he had merely

promised to go north."

"Oh, indeed! Then he has run away?"

"From whom?" asked Jean demurely.

The widow bit her lip.

"I consider his conduct simply disgraceful--"

Jean interrupted her quickly--

"I had rather not discuss my father's conduct. Don't let me keep you

from breakfast."

Mrs. Dunbar remained standing in silence, a magnificent statue of

displeasure. In a moment she inquired--

"And why are you waiting here?"

"Father thought you might like my company on the journey."

"How very thoughtful of him! Then you go at two?"

"Yes."

The widow gazed at her intently.

"I can hardly believe this of Heriot. Is all this his own idea?"

Jean flushed slightly, but answered as demurely as ever--

"It is his wish."

"Ah, I see!" exclaimed Mrs. Dunbar bitterly, "I thought there was a

woman's hand in this affair."

"Do you mean another woman's hand?"

The injured lady began uneasily to realize that there was a fresh

factor in the situation. But who would have dreamt of little Jean

Walkingshaw being dangerous? As Madge traveled north that afternoon,

uncompromisingly secluded behind a lady's journal, she could not get

out of her head the uncomfortable fancy that her trim, fair-haired

escort sat like a protecting deity (heathen and sinister) between

Heriot and all who desired, even with the most loving purpose, to

chasten his faults and moderate the exuberance of his too virile

spirit.

Jean herself was warmly conscious that some such duty was surely laid

upon her. With what less reward could she repay all he had done for her?

It will be discovered, however, from the succeeding instalment of facts,

that though the guardian angel of Heriot Walkingshaw might go the pace

with him thus far, it would probably have been beyond the power even of

a genuinely celestial spirit to keep at his shoulder when he spurted.

PART IV

CHAPTER I

Archibald Berstoun of that ilk ("of y' ilk" was the form that most

delicately tickled his palate) still dwelt in the fortalice built by

his ancestors at a time when to the average Scot the national tartan

suggested but an alien barbarian who stole his cattle; and the national

bagpipe, the national heather, and the national whisky were merely the

noise the brute made, the cover that preserved him from the gallows, and

the stuff that gave you your one chance of catching him asleep.

(A few reflections on the whirligig of time were here inserted, but have

since been omitted, as they were found to occur in a modified form

elsewhere.)

The castle stood in the lowland part of Perthshire, and was erected by

the second of that ilk as a tribute to the dexterity with which his

highland neighbors had removed the effects and cut the throat of the

first. It was a sober and simple building, steep-roofed and battlemented

at the top, turreted at the angles, and pierced with a few narrow

windows so irregularly scattered about its gray harled walls as

to suggest that no two rooms could possibly be on the same level.

Naturally, the architectural genius who illumines the quiet annals of

every landed family had knocked out a number of French windows into the

lawn and constructed the first story of a Chinese pagoda, in which he

proposed to store Etruscan curios with an aviary above; but his

descendants had fortunately lacked the funds to complete these

improvements. In fact, the stump of the pagoda was now so entirely

overgrown with ivy that it had become the traditional fortress of

Agricola.

This ancient habitation of a hard-fighting race was framed on two sides

by a garden that looked as old as the walls which towered above it, and

was well-nigh as simple and sober. Dark clipped yews, and smooth green

grass, and graceful old-world flowers were its chief and sufficient

ingredients. The genius who designed the pagoda had not yet turned his

attention to the garden when Providence checked his career.

A wood of black Scotch firs stretched for a long way beyond this

pleasant garden, and struck a stern northern note befitting the gnarled

battlements; while, nearer the house, gray beech stems towered out of

the brown dead leaves below up to the brown live buds a hundred feet

nearer the clouds.

On the remaining two sides of the castle you were not supposed to bestow

attention, since after the old custom the home farm approached more

closely than is fashionable nowadays; though to the curious they were

the sides best worth attention, owing to the cultured pagoda-builder

having deemed it beneath his dignity to molest them.

One afternoon in early spring Ellen Berstoun walked slowly down a

sheltered garden path. She had been singularly moody of late--so

distressed, indeed, and so little like a lucky girl whose wedding might

be fixed for any day she chose to name, that her five unmarried sisters

held many private debates on the causes of her conduct. The three next

to her in years expressed grave apprehensions lest the very fairly

creditable marriage arranged for her should after all fall through.

Ellen was not treating Andrew well, they complained; while on the other

hand, the two youngest, being as yet irresponsibly romantic, declared

vigorously that they had sooner dear Ellen remained single to the end of

her days than introduced such a long-lipped, fat-cheeked brother-in-law

into the family.

It was a part of poor Ellen's burden that she was acutely conscious of

the duty which her parents and all her aunts assured her she owed these

sisters. But, on the other hand, to share the remainder of her existence

with Andrew Walkingshaw--There rose vividly a picture of that most

respectable of partners, and the emotion attendant on this vision drew

from her a sigh that ought to have convinced the most skeptical she was

very hard hit indeed.

It was at this moment that she spied a lad approaching from the house.

"Well, Jimmy?" she inquired.

With an appearance of some caution, he handed her a note.

"It was to be gi'en to yoursel' privately, miss," he said mysteriously,

and turned to go.

"Is there no answer?" she asked.

"He said I wasna to bide for an answer."

He hurried off as though his directions had been peremptory, and Ellen

opened the letter. It was written upon the notepaper of a local inn, and

if she was surprised to discover the writer, she was still more

astonished by the contents.

"MY DEAR ELLEN," it ran, "I should take it as a very great favor

indeed if you would come immediately on receiving this and meet me

at the farther end of the wood below your garden. Follow the path,

and you will find me waiting for you. The matter is of such

importance that I make no apologies for suggesting this romantic

proceeding!--With love, yours affectionately,

"J. HERIOT WALKINGSHAW.

"P.S.--Don't say a word to one of your family. Secrecy is

absolutely essential."

Ellen stood lost in perplexity. Rumors had reached her of Mr.

Walkingshaw's recent eccentricity. The request was entirely out of

keeping with all her previous acquaintance with him; that point of

exclamation after "romantic proceeding" struck her as uncomfortably

dissimilar to his usual methods of composition. Ought she not to consult

one of her parents, or at least a sister? And yet the postscript was too

explicit to be neglected.

For a few minutes she hesitated. Then she made up her mind; her warm

heart could not bear to disappoint anybody; and besides, Mr. Heriot

Walkingshaw, however odd his conduct might have been lately was such a

pompously respectable--indeed venerable--old gentleman that a maiden

might surely trust herself with him alone, even in a grove of trees. And

so, in a furtive and backward-glancing manner, she stole into the wood.

It was an unusual way of approaching one's father's man of business and

one's finance's parent, but Ellen consoled herself by the reflection

that an experienced Writer to the Signet should best know how these

things were done.

She hurried down a narrow, winding glade, lined by countless slender

columns supporting far overhead a roof of millions of dark green needles

swaying and murmuring in the breeze. Suddenly sunshine and green fields

filled the opening of the glade, and as suddenly a tall gentleman

stepped from behind a tree and politely raised a fashionable felt hat.

In all essential features he was the image of Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw,

only that he was so very much younger.

"Well, my dear Ellen!" he exclaimed heartily.

She stared at him, too amazed for speech.

"Am I really so changed already?" he inquired with a smile. "That shows

the beneficial effect of seeing you."

Even though his manner had altered as much as his appearance, she found

the change so agreeable that she overlooked its strangeness. She smiled

back at him.

"I am glad to see you looking so well," she said.

He beamed upon her in what he sincerely meant for a paternal manner.

"You, my dear child, look ripping! My hat, you are pretty! Ellen dear,

my only wish is to make you as happy as you are bonny."

She looked at him searchingly, and her voice had a note of guarded

alarm.

"What do you mean?"

His air became sympathy itself.

"My dear girl, I have been greatly distressed to hear that all has not

been going smoothly with you and Andrew."

She gave him a quick glance and then looked away.

"Indeed!" she answered a little coldly. "Who told you that?"

"I can read it in my son's altered health."

She looked at him in surprise, but without anxiety.

"I didn't know there was anything the matter with him."

"He had to hasten up to London for a change of air."

"I hope it did him good," she said indifferently.

"My dear girl, have you no wish to hurry to his bedside?"

"I'm afraid I shouldn't be any good if I did."

"And you wouldn't find him in bed, either," smiled Mr. Walkingshaw, with

a change of manner. "No, no, Ellen; you needn't pretend you're in love

with Andrew if that's all the concern you feel. And I may tell you at

once that he's as tough as ever, and as great a fool. The fellow is

totally unworthy of you, so don't you worry your head about him any

longer."

He bent over her confidentially.

"Supposing some one were to cut him out, eh?"

"Some one--" she stammered. "Who?"

"Guess!" he smiled.

She did guess; and it was a shocking surmise.

"I--I have no idea," she fibbed.

"Oh, come now, hang it, look me in the eye and repeat that!"

For an instant, she looked into that roguish eye, and her worst

suspicions were confirmed.

"Mr. Walkingshaw," she answered, with trembling candor, "I feel very

much honored, but really I must ask you not to--not to say anything

more. Our ages--oh, everything--I couldn't! I had better go back now."

The philanthropic father gasped.

"Ellen! stop! My dear child, I don't mean myself! Good heavens, I am

far too old for a young girl like you!"

Yet it was at that moment that he suddenly realized he wasn't.

"Then--then what--" she began, and stopped, overwhelmed with confusion.

Hurriedly he endeavored to put things once more upon a paternal footing.

"My fault, my dear Ellen, my fault entirely. Naturally you

thought--er--yes, yes, it was quite natural. I--I put it badly. I didn't

think what I was saying. The fact is, I've been"--a brilliant

inspiration suddenly illumined the chaos of his mind--"I've been so

troubled about poor Frank!"

Her expression altogether changed.

"What's the matter?" she exclaimed.

His mind calmed down. Composing his countenance, he shook his head

sadly.

"I don't think he'll get over it."

She laid her hand upon his arm with a quick, involuntary gesture.

"But what has happened? Tell me!"

The wisdom of age and the shrewdness of youth twinkled together in Mr.

Walkingshaw's eye, but he managed to retain a decorously solemn air.

"You are really concerned this time?"

"Of course! I--I mean, naturally."

He drew her hand through his arm and led her along the fringe of the

pine woods.

"Come and see," he said gently. "Poor boy he's had a bad fall."

"What! Is he here--with you?"

"Yes--yes," he answered, with an absent and melancholy air.

He led her a few paces into the trees, and there, seated on a fallen

trunk, they saw the victim of fate smoking a cigarette with a meditative

air. He sprang to his feet with a light in his eye that might have been

the result of some acute disaster, but scarcely looked like it.

"Frank, my boy," said his father, "I have just been explaining to Ellen

that you have fallen"--he turned to the girl with a merry air--"in

love!" he chuckled, and the next moment they were listening to his

flying footsteps and looking at one another.

CHAPTER II

High overhead the pines murmured gently, and Mr. Walkingshaw, strolling

through the quiet colonnades below in solitude and shade, heard the

strangest messages whispered down by those riotous tree-tops. He was no

longer even middle-aged! Or at least his heart certainly was not. It

seemed to keep a decade or so younger than his body, and Heaven knew

that was growing younger fast enough! At this rate how much longer could

he play the beneficent parent? Good Lord, he had jolly nearly fallen

head over ears in love with sweet Ellen Berstoun in the course of five

minutes' conversation! She wasn't a day too old for Heriot W. That's to

say, he could do with a lassie of that age fine, and, by Gad, he

shouldn't wonder but Ellen mightn't have rather cottoned to him if her

heart had been free. She looked deuced coy when she thought he was

proposing. Yes, a girl like Ellen was the ticket for him. But in that

case, what about Madge?

For several minutes Mr. Walkingshaw stood very solemnly studying the

bark on an entirely ordinary pine, concluding his scrutiny by hitting it

a sharp smack with his walking-stick and turning away from the sight of

it with apparent distaste. However, a minute or two later he seemed to

find one he liked better, for he placed his back against it, removed his

hat, and gazed upwards at the softly murmuring branches. Once more their

whispers made him smile. Sufficient for the day were the difficulties

thereof! That was the way to look at it. Meanwhile, the spring was

young, and the little flowers in the wood were young, and the blue sky

that showed in peeps through the swinging tree-tops looked as young as

any of them, and certainly it was a young and lusty breeze that swayed

them. By Jingo, what excellent company they all were for him!

And then he heard another murmuring sound, coming this time from behind

him. He held his breath and caught the words--

"Ellen! I love you--I love you!"

He peeped round the tree, and for an instant saw them. A most gratifying

tribute to his diplomacy--but devilish disturbing to a young fellow

without a girl! Hurriedly he snapped a twig; he snapped another; he

broke a branch; he whistled, he coughed, he shouted. And then they

looked up, vaguely surprised to find there was another person in the

world.

"Well, Frank," said his father, as they walked back together towards

their inn, "are you not feeling happy now, my boy, eh?"

"Happy!" exclaimed Frank. "I'm stupefied with happiness!"

As Heriot Walkingshaw strode between the spring breeze and the murmuring

pines, his son's arm through his, listening to his gratitude and Ellen's

praises, he too felt happier than ever before in his life. What a lot of

pleasure he had learned how to give. And the way to give it was so

simple once you found it out. Apparently you had merely to get in

sympathy with people, and then do the things which naturally, under

those circumstances, you would both like to be done. There was really

nothing in it at all; still, it was jolly well worth doing.

Only as they neared the inn did a qualm begin to trouble Frank.

"It's deuced rough luck on Andrew, losing that girl," he said suddenly.

"Hang it, it would kill _me_!"

"It's only losing his money that'll ever hurt Andrew," replied his

father cheerfully. "Don't you worry about what he'll say."

Unfortunately, Mr. Walkingshaw forgot that the provision for this happy

marriage was, in fact, coming indirectly from Andrew's pocket. Even the

youngest of us cannot foresee everything, or Heriot would not have been

humming "Gin a laddie kiss a lassie," quite so lightheartedly.

"I must say I funk having it out with him," remarked Frank.

"Just you leave it all to me. I'm a match for Andrew any day."

It would have been well if Mr. Walkingshaw had "touched wood" as he made

this vaunt; but at that moment his confidence was so serene that he felt

master of any emergency conceivable by man.

"Andrew's not the mate for Ellen," he said presently. "The young are for

each other, Frank; that's the law of nature."

He smiled to himself.

"I learnt that this afternoon. By Jove, what a pretty girl Ellen is!"

And then again his young heart remembered the sympathetic widow, and he

stopped smiling.

CHAPTER III

The backbone of our country is that band of civic heroes who, when

turmoil rages and disaster threatens, are the last men to desert the

desk. In this glorious company Andrew Walkingshaw was numbered. His

father might tear up and down the country like a disreputable whirlwind,

his widowed relative fume and plot, his sister disgrace the family by an

unsuitable engagement, his betrothed leave his affectionate letters

unanswered, his own soul writhe in decorous anguish at these calamities,

but Casabianca himself was not more faithful to his post than he. It is

true, indeed, that he had once tried the alternative policy and chased

that cyclone, but he had taken to heart the lesson, and thenceforth

closed his ears to disquieting rumors, his eyes to distressing symptoms,

and went about his work, if possible, more conscientiously than ever.

That was the proper way to get through business--conscientiously. He was

sickened with the people (clients of some eminence, but evidently with a

screw loose) who kept deferring their more important concerns till the

senior partner returned with his infernal headlong methods. Let them

wait if they liked! Let them take their business elsewhere if they were

such fools! Deliberately and calmly _he_ had washed his hands of his

senior partner. That was the end of him so far as he was concerned, said

Andrew to himself. But alas! you may wash your hands of a tornado, but

supposing it retorts by blowing down your house?

It was about nine in the evening, and he sat by himself, severely

scrutinizing the pleadings drawn up by his clerk for a forthcoming case,

connected with so large a sum of money that it was a pleasure merely to

read the imposing figures. The ladies were upstairs in the drawing-room.

So long as Mrs. Dunbar was among them, he was not likely to show his

face _there_.

The door opened, and he turned, frowning at the interruption, and then

sprang up with a troubled eye. It was his father certainly; but what a

remarkable change since he had seen him last! For the first time Andrew

realized the full enormity of his conduct in growing younger. His very

appearance had become a crying scandal.

"Sweating away at your old papers?" inquired Heriot pleasantly.

Andrew stiffly resumed his seat.

"Yes, I am busy," he replied, and took up the pleadings again.

But his father ignored the hint. Straddling comfortably before the fire,

he remarked--

"Frank and I have been up to Perthshire."

Andrew looked up quickly, but merely answered--

"Oh, indeed?"

"We've been seeing Ellen."

"What about?"

Mr. Walkingshaw threw himself into a chair.

"My boy," said he, with the air of friendly commiseration which he felt

that the occasion undoubtedly demanded, "I find I was right about your

rival."

Andrew remained calm, though not quite so calm as before.

"Do you mean there's some one else after her?"

"He's got her."

The calm departed.

"Got! What the deuce d'ye mean?"

"She has chosen another, Andrew."

"Chosen! But she's no choice left her. She's engaged to me."

"She was engaged to you. She's now engaged to him."

"To _him_? Who the dev--er--what are you driving at? Who's the man?"

"Frank."

"Frank!"

Andrew stared at his father incredulously.

"I don't believe a word of it."

"Well, you may ask Frank if you like; but I assure you you can take my

word for it."

It was characteristic of Andrew's robust mind that, instead of wasting

time in noisy vaporings and sentimental sorrow, it seized at once the

weak point in the case.

"But he can't afford to marry."

"Oh, I'll see to that."

"_You'll_ see!" shouted Andrew. "Do you mean to say _you've_ had a

finger in the pie?"

"Four fingers and a thumb," smiled his parent.

Once more Andrew, without waste of words in expostulation or commentary,

summarized the situation in a sentence--

"This is fair damnable!"

"Come, come, my dear fellow," said Mr. Walkingshaw soothingly. "I owe

you an explanation, of course, but when you've heard it, I know you'll

agree I've done the right thing."

"An explanation!" exclaimed Andrew sardonically. "Go on, let's hear it."

"I can give you the gist of it in a sentence: she loves Frank, and she

doesn't love you. Now, in that case, which of you ought she to marry?"

"That's nothing to do with it--"

"What! love's nothing to do with marriage?"

"When a woman's once engaged, she's got to implement her promise."

"Whether it makes her happy or miserable?"

"Who was miserable, I'd like to know?"

"Ellen."

"It's the first I've heard of it."

"Do you mean to say you couldn't see it for yourself?"

"No, I could not; and even if she was, there's not the shadow of an

excuse for your conduct. You're just making a mess of everything you

meddle with. Getting me jilted like this! What do you suppose people

will say? What'll they be thinking of me? Oh, good Lord!"

The unhappy young man brooded somberly. Mr. Walkingshaw lit a cigar,

and then settled himself down to remove by gentle argument the cloud

that temporarily obscured his son's serenity.

"Just look at the thing for a moment in a quiet and reasonable light,

Andrew. Happiness, as you are well aware, is the chief aim of humanity.

Damn it, our religion teaches us that--or practically that. A kind of

warm and amiable gleefulness--that's the ideal. Now, how can a young

girl like Ellen be happy or gleeful married to a sober old codger like

you, eh? Man, the thing's clean impossible. She's no more suited to you

than a lace cover to a coal-scuttle. Well, then what's the obvious thing

to do? Hand her over to a brisk young fellow who can do her justice, of

course. Besides, just think of your own brother pining away in the--what

do they call it?--torrid zone, all for love of a girl who's pining away

for love of him. The thing's totally illogical. A society of hedgehogs

would have more sense than to allow an arrangement like that. You see my

point now, don't you?"

"I've heard you say with your own lips," retorted Andrew, "that all a

girl required was a comfortable home and a husband who knew his own

mind."

"But you must remember," explained his father, "I was an old fool then."

Andrew sprang to his feet with a wry and bitter face.

"You certainly haven't the qualities of age now. I never heard such

daft-like rubbish in my life. For Heaven's sake, just try to use any

common sense you've got left. Frank will never have enough money to keep

her properly."

"Ah, but naturally I mean to alter my arrangements."

Gradually the full possibilities of the situation were revealing

themselves to the well-regulated mind of the junior partner.

"You mean to change your will?"

"I do."

Yet another horrid possibility showed its head.

"And are you going to alter Jean's share too, so that this precious

Vernon fellow may have something to squander?"

"Something respectable to live on," corrected his parent. "You mustn't

starve art, you know."

Andrew stared at him in silence, and when he spoke, it was with the air

of a much-wronged worm which has deliberately resolved to turn at last.

"I'm not wanting any of your Ellen Berstouns. If she's played this trick

on me, that's enough of her. But I tell you plainly I'm not going to let

you rob me to keep a pack of worthless painters and people out of the

gutter, without taking some steps. I warn you of that."

"My dear Andrew," said his father reproachfully, "that's hardly the

attitude of a professing Christian. Just think, now; is it? You'll

easily find a decent, quiet woman with a bit of money and no objection

to hearing every day for an hour or two how you've been worried by your

clients and swindled by your father, and I do honestly believe you'll

get as near happiness as you're capable of. That's common sense, now;

isn't it?"

The slamming of the door answered him.

"What a sulky fellow he is!" said Heriot to himself.

Yet so conscious was he of the rectitude of his intentions, and so

confiding had his disposition grown, that it never crossed his mind to

beware of an infuriated lawyer. Besides, when Andrew had slept over it,

he would surely realize how unanswerable were his father's arguments.

"We'll see the old stick-in-the-mud dancing at Frank's wedding!"

thought he. "There's no vice in Andrew; only a bit of obstinacy.

It's all bark and no bite with him."

With these amiable reflections he speedily consoled himself for the

discomfort of any little temporary friction. And then the door opened

gently.

CHAPTER IV

"I heard you had come back again," said Mrs. Dunbar.

She closed the door as gently as she had opened it. The action

pathetically expressed the quiet sorrow of a much-wronged woman's

heart.

"Yes," said Heriot gallantly, "I'm back again to Scotland, home and

beauty. Ha, ha! Now that was quite pretty, wasn't it?"

But her black eyes declined to sparkle, as she glided silently to a

chair. Out of the corner of his own eye her lover looked at her

critically.

"I'm delighted to see you again, Madge," he went on; but his words had a

hollow ring, and his eye continued to express more doubt than passion.

"Have you no apology to offer me?" she inquired, with the same ominous

calm.

"For what, my dear lady?"

She started a little and glanced at him apprehensively. "My dear lady"

hardly indicated love's divinest frenzy.

"For treating me shamefully!"

"This is strong language," he smiled indulgently. "Tell me now, I say,

just tell me what I've done."

Thus invited, the lady described his conduct in leaving her alone and

unprotected in a London hotel, to the neglect of his affectionate

assurances and the shame and confusion of herself, in language which did

no more than justice to the theme.

"But I left Jean to look after you," he protested.

"When I want your daughter to look after me I shall ask you for her

assistance," she replied tartly. "You broke your word to me, and you

can't deny it."

"I do deny it," he replied, with dignity. "I told you I should travel

north--"

"Oh!" she interrupted, with scathing contempt, "you were very

straightforward and gentlemanly, I know!"

He looked at her ever more critically. A recollection of Ellen and the

pine-wood returned forcibly.

"Put it as you will," he replied philosophically, and turned towards the

fire.

She watched him jealously.

"But why did you run away?" she persisted. "Where have you been since?

Heriot, I insist upon knowing that--I insist!"

She rose and came towards him. He took her hand and pressed it gently.

"I shall tell you all," he said, as he led her back to her chair and

drew another towards it. When they were about three feet apart he sat

down himself and bent confidentially towards her. Yet he did not attempt

to bridge entirely the intervening space.

"I have been up to Perthshire," he began, "assisting dear Ellen Berstoun

to break off her engagement with Andrew."

Mrs. Dunbar sat up with a much more alert expression.

"I am glad to hear it," she said, with decision.

"I discovered that Frank and she loved one another. I am very glad to

say he is now engaged to her instead."

She smiled at last.

"Do tell me what Andrew said!"

He shook his head.

"I'm afraid he is somewhat unreasonably annoyed."

She smiled more brightly still.

"How very good for him! Really, Heriot, you have done a very sensible

thing indeed."

Heriot smiled back.

"It seemed to me," said he, "that there was really too much disparity in

years. The young should marry the young, Madge."

"I agree with you entirely."

It was his smile that now seemed to indicate an increasing satisfaction.

"You agree also that under those circumstances it is no longer the duty

of two people to marry, even if they have unfortunately become engaged?"

"I think it would only lead to wretchedness if they did. Honestly, I

don't feel in the least sorry for Andrew. In fact, I thoroughly agree

that people ought to have their engagements broken off for them if they

haven't the sense to see they are unsuitable for themselves."

Heriot received this assurance with evident pleasure. His manner grew

more confidential still.

"Madge," he said, "I think it is time I made you a very serious

confession."

Her smile departed.

"You may have noticed," he continued, "a certain bloom, so to speak,

upon me, a sort of freshness, and so on. Madge, it is the bloom of

youth."

She grew uneasy.

"Oh, really?"

"It is a literal, physical fact. I am rapidly approaching thirty."

She moved into the farthest corner of her chair, but made no other

comment.

"You will thus see that it is merely a question of time before there

will be an even greater disparity of years between you and me than

between Ellen and Andrew."

Her expression changed entirely.

"Heriot!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Yes, Madge, I grieve deeply to resign the hopes of happiness I had

formed on a life spent in your society, but alas! I must. Your adult

charms cannot be thrown away upon an unappreciative youth; it would be a

tragedy."

"You are many years older than I!"

"I was a short time ago, but to-day we are roughly speaking,

twins--though with this difference, that as I am looking forward to a

strenuous youth, and you to a handsome old age, naturally I feel a

chicken compared with you. But then think of the next year or two, when

I shall perhaps be playing football, and you will find it no longer

possible to keep your gray hairs so artistically brushed beneath your

black tresses: think of that, Madge!"

"Are you out of your mind?" she gasped.

"On the contrary, I have never been clearer-headed in my life."

"Then," she exclaimed wrathfully, "you are merely inventing a ridiculous

fable to excuse your shuffling out of your engagement!"

"My dear lady," he replied pacifically, "shall I jump over this chair to

convince you?"

"_Nothing_ would convince me."

"Ah," he said, with a friendly smile, "I see that you want to have me

whether I'm a suitable mate or not, whether my feelings have changed--"

"I certainly do not!" she interrupted.

"Then in that case shall we call it off?"

He rose and picked up an evening paper.

She tried the resource of tears. The spectacle of a handsome woman

weeping had brought him temporarily to his senses once before. But this

time, though his manner was as kind as any widow could desire, his words

brought the unfortunate lady no more consolation than his conduct.

"My dear Madge, just look at the thing sensibly. Surely you are old

enough by this time to take a practical view of what after all is a very

simple situation. You laid down the law yourself not five minutes ago,

and laid it down very justly. If two people are unsuitably mated, the

engagement should be broken off. Very well; just try to realize for a

moment what it means to marry a man who is getting fuller and fuller of

beans all the time--at your age, mark you. The fact is, we are just like

two trains rushing in opposite directions. For a moment we may be side

by side, and then--whit!--we have passed each other and are getting a

couple of miles farther apart every minute."

Even this graphic allegory failed to dry her tears.

"You are deserting me--you are breaking my heart!" she wailed.

"Hush, hush," he answered soothingly; "on the contrary, I am sparing

you--sparing you no end of anxiety."

She looked at him like a tragedy queen.

"Have you no thought of how my reputation will suffer, Heriot?"

"How can it suffer? Nobody knows we've been engaged."

"Do you suppose they haven't guessed?"

"Not from anything I've said or done, I can assure you."

She sprang up indignantly.

"Have you no sense of honor?"

"Look here," he answered, with his most ingratiating manner, "I'll be a

son to you, Madge--an affectionate, dutiful--"

"You coward!" she cried.

Heriot found himself alone in his library with his engagement

satisfactorily ended.

CHAPTER V

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.

CHAPTER VI

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 the office, 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 pleasure from 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 to my 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 young persons 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 any more 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.

CHAPTER VII

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 that the 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--what _is_ this?"

"It says on the paper. Just look--can't you read?"

Heriot gave a convulsive start.

"Was--was _that_ Dr. 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. "Can you 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 you _have_ to? 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's

how 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

and mused. 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 I give 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!"

CHAPTER VIII

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.

"_Our_ alternative?"

"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,

adducing this 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.

CHAPTER IX

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 shut the 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 be

thinking--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.

PART V

CHAPTER I

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 had done. 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 with this 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 tell _you_ candidly 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 of

him. 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 your friends 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 exceedingly truthful, 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 the _Scotsman_

appeared 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 it unaccompanied 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.

CHAPTER II

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 with a 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. They brightened 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 of dignity 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.

CHAPTER III

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've _no_ sense, 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 do _anything_--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 tiny drops 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.

CHAPTER IV

"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

odd two 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 satisfied a 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 it seemed

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 pale eyes

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.

Andrew was glancing through an evening paper, and his aunt

conscientiously studying that morning's _Scotsman_. Suddenly she

exclaimed:

"The Cromarty Highlanders have come to Glasgow!"

Andrew stared at her.

"Not the second battalion?"

"Yes, Frank's regiment."

"But they weren't to leave India for three years yet."

Mrs. Andrew looked over her shoulder.

"Oh, I saw they'd been ordered home some time ago."

"You didn't mention it to me," said Andrew.

She looked a little surprised, for she knew that Frank's was not a name

mentioned in that house.

"I didn't think you'd be interested."

"I am not in the least," replied her husband.

His eye reproved her coldly. She exchanged with his aunt one of those

sympathetic glances that pass between indulgent but comprehending women.

"He is a noble creature, but at moments a little inconsistent," they

mutually confided. And then she wrote the names of Lord and Lady

Kilconquar on their card.

And that is how Jean might have been spending her evenings too, had she

had proper principles.

CHAPTER V

The gentlemen entered the drawing-room, bringing a faint aroma of

Andrew's excellent cigars. The ladies' conversation died away to the

whispered ends of one or two stories too interesting to be left

unfinished, and then with a deeper note and on manlier topics the flood

of talk poured on again.

It had been a most successful dinner--soup excellent, fish first-rate,

everything good. Of course the wines were unexceptionable, while the

company recognized itself as a homogeneous specimen of all that was best

in the city--with the Ramornies of Pettigrew thrown in. Here they were

now, the whole twenty-two of them from old Lord Kilconquar, most eminent

of judges, down to that rising young Hector Donaldson, bearing implicit

testimony to the status of Andrew Walkingshaw. He stood there beside

Lady Kilconquar's chair gravely discoursing on a well-chosen topic of

local interest and bending solemnly at intervals to hear her comments.

You could see at once from the attitude of all who addressed him that he

was recognized as far from the least distinguished member of the

company. He had touched the very apex of his career.

"Hush, Andrew," murmured his wife. "Mrs. Rivington is going to sing."

Hector opened the piano, and Mrs. Rivington sat down and touched the

keyboard. Then she looked around for silence, and it fell completely.

All the eye-witnesses present are agreed that it was in the moment of

this pause that the drawing-room door opened, and they heard the butler

announce the name of Mr. Walkingshaw.

The company turned with one accord and beheld a tall youth, attired in

tweeds, march confidently into the room. In fact, he seemed so much at

home, that, though naturally surprised (especially at his unorthodox

costume), they never dreamt of any but the most obvious and simple

explanation. They scrutinized him as he advanced, merely wondering what

cousin--or could it be brother?--he was.

"Surely that's not Frank?" murmured Lord Kilconquar.

It certainly was not Frank; and yet it was some one who looked

strangely familiar to one or two of the older people present. He made

straight for Andrew, his hand outstretched.

"Don't you know me?" he asked; and the voice recalled strange memories

too.

Andrew was not altogether unprepared for some such apparition appearing

some day, though scarcely on such a horribly ill-timed occasion.

Somehow, he had always imagined the dread possibility as happening in

his office. But he remembered exactly how he had decided to confront it.

He pulled his lip hard down, his eyes contracted dangerously, and then

he merely shook his head.

"What!" cried the young man, with a touching note of rebuffed affection.

"Don't you recognize your own son?"

Andrew's brain reeled. His mouth fell open, and his stare lost all

traces of formidableness.

"Father!" said the stranger in a moving voice.

Incoherently Andrew burst out.

"You--you--you're not my son!"

His disclaimer seemed so evidently sincere that the sense of the company

was already in sympathy with the victim of this outrageous intrusion,

when--alas for him!--his aunt chose that fatal moment, of all others,

to rush out of her chronic background.

"Andrew!" she cried, her cheeks suddenly very pink, her eyes strangely

excited, her voice trembling with the fervor of her appeal. "He must

be--oh, he must be! Look--look at the likeness to your father! Oh,

Andrew, what if it is irregular; surely you wouldn't deny the living

image of poor Heriot!"

"By Gad! So he is," exclaimed Lord Kilconquar.

A general murmur instinctively confirmed this verdict. They wished to be

charitable--but what a family resemblance!

"I--I--I tell you it's a put-up job!" stammered their host.

"Who put it up, father?" asked the strange youth plaintively.

Lord Kilconquar shook his head, and again the startled company followed

his lead.

"Look, Andrew!" cried his aunt, pointing to a tinted photograph of James

Heriot Walkingshaw at the age of twenty, which hung above the

mantelpiece. "Oh, just look at the resemblance!"

The young man regarded this work of art with evident emotion.

"My sainted grandfather!" he murmured, though quite loud enough for the

company to hear.

The poor lady stretched her thin clasped hands beseechingly under

Andrew's very nose.

"He says it himself--he says it himself!" she pleaded. "For Heriot's

sake, don't disown him!"

There was a rustle of silk, decisive and ominous. It was caused by the

skirt of the chaste lady of Pettigrew.

"Good-night," she said.

She only touched her brother's hand with the tips of her fingers, and

her stony glance gave him his first clear vision of the appalling chasm

that yawned beneath his feet.

"Maggie!" he besought her, "you don't believe it?"

"Can you not disgrace yourself _quietly_?" she hissed, and a moment

later was gone.

Andrew realized that he was already in the chasm, hurtling downwards

with fearful velocity. One after another, his guests followed the

example of his scandalized sister; and their host was too unmanned to

hold up his head and carry off the partings with the air of injured

innocence that alone might have given his reputation another (though a

feeble) chance.

As they left the hang-dog figure that so lately was a respected Writer

to the Signet, they said to one another that all was over socially with

Andrew Walkingshaw. And it had been so public, so dramatic, that they

feared--of course they hoped against hope, but still they feared that

the fine old business could not but suffer too. In London one might

disgrace oneself and yet retain one's clients; but could one here? Well,

anyhow, that and many other interesting aspects of the case would be

debated by all Edinburgh to-morrow morning.

Meanwhile, the unhappy victim of fate was left alone with his wife, his

aunt, and his long-lost offspring. A desperate gesture dismissed Miss

Walkingshaw; yet, though she trembled beneath his wrathful eye, she

could not refrain from beseeching him again--

"He must be, Andrew--he must be! Just compare him with the picture."

And then she shrank out of the drawing-room.

"Leave us," he commanded his wife.

Her pale eyes gazed on him defiantly.

"I certainly shall not. I demand a full explanation, Andrew!"

"Go away, will you!"

For answer she sat down firmly upon the sofa.

"Papa, papa, don't be rough with her," expostulated the youth.

Andrew confronted him indignantly.

"That's enough of this nonsense!" he thundered. "What d'ye mean? Who are

you?"

"Doesn't the voice of nature tell you?" the youth inquired sadly.

"The voice of nature be damned!"

The young man turned to the cold lady on the sofa.

"Stepmother," he asked, "will you protect me?"

She looked at him at first stonily, and then suddenly more kindly. He

was remarkably good-looking, with such nice bright eyes, and a manner

difficult to resist.

"I shall certainly see that justice is done you," she replied.

The young man seated himself beside her and took her hand.

"Thank you," he murmured affectionately.

Andrew swore aloud and vigorously, but the pale eyes never flinched.

"Do you mean deliberately to tell me you don't know who this young man

is?" she demanded.

Put in that form, the question made him hesitate for an instant. The

hesitation did honor to his sense of veracity, but it finally cost him

the remains of his character.

"You needn't trouble to answer!" she cried. "You _do_ know who he is.

Come, you had better tell me all about it at once. I presume you have

not been _married_ previously?"

The youth spoke quickly.

"You don't think father was so scandalous as not to marry her?"

"Did you?" she demanded.

The luckless Writer fell into the trap. It seemed to him a gleam of

hope--a chance of saving his precious reputation.

"Er--ye--es," he stammered.

"You were married?" she cried.

There was a dreadful pause, and then abruptly she demanded, "What became

of her?"

A dark frown answered this pertinent inquiry. She turned to the young

man.

"Do you know?"

He seemed to have some difficulty in controlling his voice as he

answered--

"She lives in London."

"Lives!" shrieked the lady. "Andrew--you are a bigamist! And I--I am

not lawfully--"

She leapt up and gave him one terrible look; and before he could speak

she had swept wrathfully from the room.

And then the most surprising thing occurred. Instead of continuing his

filial overtures, the young man sank into the corner of the sofa and

burst into peal upon peal of boyish laughter.

"Oh, my dear Andrew!" he gasped. "Oh, I can't help it--you a bigamist!

Poor respectable old blighter! I say, what a joke! Oh, Andrew, Andrew,

my bonny, bonny boy!"

In silence through it all, Andrew gazed darkly down at the late Heriot

Walkingshaw.

CHAPTER VI

"When you have finished," said Andrew grimly.

He looked a nasty customer to tackle now, but the laugher on the sofa

merely subsided into a friendly smile.

"Shake hands, Andrew," he cried, jumping up.

Andrew placed his hands behind his back, and his glowering eyes answered

this overture.

"What!" said Heriot, "won't you even shake hands?"

Andrew still stared darkly.

"You'd rather have it war than peace?"

"I had rather conclude this conversation as soon as possible."

Heriot looked at him for a moment, and then shook his head with a smile

compounded of sorrow and humor.

"You're a hopeless case," said he. "Well, your blood be on your own

head!"

Andrew's lip grew longer and longer.

"I admit you've made a fool of me," he said, "if that's any

satisfaction. But you'll make nothing out of me; not a shilling, not a

halfpenny. Do you hear?"

"Is that all?"

"Practically; but I may just as well point out, to let you see where you

stand, that as you have now done your worst, there's no use trying on

blackmail or anything of that kind. You have been so very clever, you've

thrown away any hold you might fancy you had. Do you quite understand

that?"

Heriot began to smile again, and Andrew's face grew grimmer.

"You can prove _nothing_. You may say you're my father if you like--"

"God forbid!" Heriot interrupted devoutly. "I've had enough of fathering

a bogle. Claim any sire you like from Lucifer downwards, but don't put

the blame on me. I won't be disgraced with you again; not at any price."

For a few moments Andrew seemed to be in travail of a fitting repartee.

When it appeared it possessed all the practical characteristics of its

parent.

"In that case," he retorted, "you had better clear out of my house as

quick as you can."

Heriot regarded him with extreme composure.

"Do you actually imagine you are going to get off as easy as this?" he

inquired, "Man Andrew, I haven't been senior partner in Walkingshaw &

Gilliflower for nothing. You're just a rat in a trap. That's precisely

your position at this moment."

"I'd be glad to hear you explain how you make that out," said Andrew.

Heriot smiled humorously as he produced a bulky pocket-book. Out of this

he selected one of many letters it contained.

"Do you know the writing?" he asked.

Andrew turned a thought more solemn, but his only answer was a wary

sidelong glance.

"Don't be afraid to say. A hundred people can swear to it. There's no

secret to be kept."

"It is my late father's hand," said Andrew gravely.

His guest burst into a shout of laughter, and then with an effort pulled

himself together again.

"Read it," he said, "and by the way, I may just as well tell you I've

plenty more like it, so there's no point in putting it in the fire."

Andrew took it with gingerly suspicion, which changed into a different

emotion as he read:

"DEAR HARRIS,--I write to let you know that I have reached this

city in safety and am slowly recovering from the mental anguish I

have undergone. As regards my wretched and ungrateful son Andrew, I

still disagree with you. No, Harris, I cannot bring myself to

expose the infamy of my eldest boy to a thunder-struck world; I

simply cannot do it. His immorality and dishonesty temporarily

unhinged my mind. I am exiled through his perfidy, but I forgive

him, Harris; I forgive him. Hoping to see you again someday,--

"Your unhappy friend,

"J. HERIOT WALKINGSHAW"

The address was an hotel in Monte Video, and the date about two years

before.

"What--what's all this rigmarole?" gasped Andrew. "It's sheer nonsense

from beginning to end."

His unwelcome guest was again shaken with boyish laughter.

"Prove it!" he cried. "Prove it's nonsense! Eh? How'll you manage that?"

Andrew's face grew darker and darker.

"Who does 'Harris' profess to be, I'd like to know?"

"Grandson of Mrs. Harris!" laughed Heriot.

"What Mrs. Harris?"

"Sarah Gamp's pal."

"You are drunk," said Andrew.

Heriot regarded him with portentous solemnity.

"Mr. Harris was the kind gentleman who befriended my grandfather on his

voyage to South America. He received afterwards many letters from your

papa, Andrew; and very, very thoughtfully handed them to me. They prove,

my boy, that you treated your parent outrageously. They prove that you

must have been a shocking bad hat yourself. Some of them prove that your

kind and forgiving parent is still alive at this moment; others prove

that he expired under heart-rending circumstances six months ago; and I

propose to use whichever alternative seems best--that's to say,

whichever will flatten you out most effectively. And that's who Harris

is."

For some minutes Andrew studied the letter in silence. He felt like a

heavy-weight boxer in the grip of a professor of Ju-Jitsu. What use was

a lifelong apprenticeship to common sense, respectability, and the law

of Scotland, when it came to wrestling with a juggler of this kind? he

asked himself bitterly. One ought to have led a life of crime! The

longer he looked at the preposterous epistle, the more diabolical did

it appear. At last he spoke--

"This is an impudent forgery."

"There are some hundreds of specimens of your father's hand to compare

it with," said Heriot calmly; "I am perfectly willing to let any expert

judge whether it's genuine or not."

The heavy-weight tried another wriggle.

"This is the letter of a lunatic. I have a certificate to prove it. I

can call Dr. Downie to prove it."

"You needn't go to so much trouble. You'll find that plot against my

grandfather's liberty fully described in some of the letters. The point

that will be put to you by the cross-examining Counsel is, if you

thought him off his chump, why did you only pretend to put him in an

asylum?"

"I did put him," snapped Andrew.

Heriot rose and rang the bell.

"What's that for?" asked Andrew; but he was only answered by a smile.

"Show up the other two gentlemen," said Heriot.

The discreet butler glanced at his master, but he was too dumbfounded to

give any indication of his pleasure one way or the other.

A minute later, Frank and Lucas entered. They nodded coolly, but Andrew

only stared.

"Now, Lucas, dear boy," said Heriot genially, "tell this old cockalorum

who you saw off on a steamer for South America."

Lucas smiled grimly at his brother-in-law to be.

"Heriot Walkingshaw," he replied.

"Swear to it?" smiled Heriot.

Lucas nodded, his blue eyes glittering on Andrew all the time; and there

followed a pause in the conversation.

"What do you propose to do?" asked Andrew.

"Make you disgorge, old cock," said Heriot.

"Disgorge what?"

"Every single penny you inherited!"

Andrew made a last convulsive struggle.

"I'll not do it!"

"In that case, the following interesting facts will immediately be made

public: that you lied when you said your father was in an asylum, and

lied again when you said he was dead; that he suffered indescribable

agonies in consequence of your ill-treatment; that he is either alive at

this moment or died a death that will bring tears to the eyes of all

Edinburgh; and that, in any case, you helped yourself to his fortune

with precisely as much justification as a burglar who opens a safe. The

matter will then be placed in the hands of Thompson, Gilray, & Young."

This choice of a vindictive rival firm struck Andrew as the most

diabolical artifice of all. His eyes blinked and his cheeks twitched;

and when he spoke his voice reminded them painfully of the professional

mendicant of the pavement.

"Would you ruin me?"

"Ruin be hanged! Your wife has two thousand pounds a year, and you've

got the lion's share of the business. But you've got to shell out every

brass farthing you bagged from your poor dear father, and settle it in

equal shares on Frank and Jean."

Frank made a quick movement of gratitude and protest.

"Shut up," said Heriot jovially. "You mind your own business, Frank.

This is my shout."

"My dear Frank--" his brother began solemnly.

"Andrew!" thundered Heriot, "if you make any miserable whining appeal to

your brother, I'll tell Lucas to kick you. Are you ready, Lucas?"

"Quite," said the artist.

A few minutes later the present head of Walkingshaw & Gilliflower had

appended his signature to the following document (the unaided

composition of the late senior partner in the aforesaid firm):

"I, Andrew Walkingshaw, having the fear of this world and the next

before my eyes, do hereby promise and swear that upon the morning

following the above date of the month and year, at the hour of 10

a.m., I shall formally, legally, and irrevocably settle in equal

shares upon my brother and sister, Frank and Jean Walkingshaw, the

whole estate, real and personal, of my revered father, except such

portion of it inherited and enjoyed by my sisters Margaret

Walkingshaw or Ramornie and Gertrude Walkingshaw or Donaldson, and

my aunt Mary Walkingshaw. This I do for the following consideration:

that through their kindness and charity my despicable,

unsportsmanlike, and criminal conduct may never be revealed. I

humbly and sorrowfully confess that I had my estimable father

aforesaid certified as insane when I knew his brain to be

considerably sounder than my own; that I did this in order to diddle

him and my younger brother and sister out of their money; that

instead of putting him under restraint, I exiled him furth of Great

Britain and Ireland, so that he thereby suffered discomforts and

torments for whose virulence I take his word; that I announced his

death knowing him to be alive; and that I then in a criminal and

shameful manner appropriated his estate to my own use. May all

wicked and foolish men be laid by the heels as I have been, and may

their relatives be as forgiving as mine! This paper I sign

cheerfully and penitently."

It was a pale and flabby-cheeked Writer to the Signet who laid down his

pen after reading and signing this lucid document. He stalked solemnly

to the door, and then with a chastened air addressed them--

"May Heaven forgive you."

Thus in a blaze of appropriate piety the star of Andrew Walkingshaw set.

There is small probability of his ever becoming an Example again. At

present it is his arduous task to live down, by the austerity of his

demeanor and the judicious expenditure of his wife's income, the

suspicions connected with the apparition at his dinner party, and his

subsequent act of inexplicable magnanimity in divesting himself of his

fortune and handing it to his brother and sister. It is with the

greatest regret that the editor of these few simple facts finds himself

unable to cap with a suitable reward the career of well-principled

respectability so unfortunately interrupted; but his obligations to the

illogical truth are peremptory.

* * * * *

"My dear old boys and jolly good sportsmen, and all the rest of it,"

said Heriot jovially, "don't mention it--don't mention it. What can you

do to show your dashed gratitude? There's only one thing; one blooming

favor I ask of you: send me to a good public school!"

CHAPTER VII

The devious lane was filled with sunshine; the studio being lighted only

from the north was filled instead with happiness. The same two sat

there; but to-day she was no longer so demurely clad and all the aches

and weariness were gone, and he no longer fumed.

"Is this better than scrubbing the floor of a ward?" he smiled.

"Buying a trousseau is harder work than you realize, Lucas," she

answered, with that touch of reproof by which all good women remind man

gently but daily that it is her part to suffer, his to misunderstand.

There followed a space of happy silence, and then she said--

"Didn't I tell you that everything would come right if we waited?"

"Yes," he admitted, "that was one of your good guesses."

She raised her delicate brows.

"Aren't you happy _now_?"

"Good heavens! I should think so."

"Then be more grateful, dear," she smiled.

Rapturously he confessed he had erred, and was even sufficiently in love

to think he perceived how.

"I positively must go now," she said in a little, and, despite his

protestations, rose.

"Shall we walk?" he asked.

"Haven't you a cab call?"

"But you haven't been out of a hansom all day, and it's only ten

minutes--"

"Oh, bother the expense!" she cried. "I believe in being sensibly

economical, but not in being _close_."

Again he cheerfully accepted the gentle rebuke as the reproof his

inconsistency deserved.

And so off they whirled in a hansom.

At that very same hour, far, far to the northward, the winter sun was

struggling in gleams through the pine-tops and falling in patches on the

moss. For an instant one patch lit the hat of straw and gentle face of

Ellen Berstoun; and though it was but a small patch, it also lit a large

tweed cap a few inches higher up. Beneath the cap a voice murmured--

"Ellen!"

No more letters came to her now from India; and no longer she walked

alone.

These incidents occurred nearly three years ago. Since then Mr. and Mrs.

Frank Walkingshaw and Mr. and Mrs. Lucas Vernon have grown into

comparatively old married couples.

As for the genial and sagacious author of their happiness, the latest

report to hand informs the present editor that the name of James Heriot

Walkingshaw stands first in the batting averages of a select preparatory

school.

THE END

Transcriber's Note:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,

every effort has been made to remain true to the author's intent.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Prodigal Father, by J. Storer Clouston