The Prodigal Father Part 50

"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 circ.u.mstances reflected his rect.i.tude. 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 fas.h.i.+onable people no longer dangled a cut-gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ces 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 pa.s.s between indulgent but comprehending women.

"He is a n.o.ble 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 h.o.m.ogeneous 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 att.i.tude 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!"