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 trespa.s.sing in his garden, indicated that the despairing lover had paid a farewell, and surrept.i.tious, 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 a.s.sistance 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 b.u.t.tonholes 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 att.i.tude 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 cla.s.ses, 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 circ.u.mstances people thought Andrew had done well to attend it unaccompanied by other mourners. In short, every circ.u.mstance 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 n.o.body could desire a better lawyer than he. And as there were none to contradict this a.s.sumption (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 ent.i.tled.

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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sion 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sionate 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.