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:

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):

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's:

1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's intent.

2. A Table of Contents has been added to this etext version for the reader's convenience.