"You are right, Andrew; you are right," said his father. "And now, just supposing I was taken, you'll see that affair of Guthrie and Co. through the way we decided on?"

Andrew opened his eyes immediately and exhibited a fresh instance of his adaptability to each changing circ.u.mstance.

"I've just been thinking of a better method still," he answered promptly. "Why should the creditors get any more than they're legally ent.i.tled to? You mind yon five thousand pounds invested in the Grand Trunk Railway?"

"Perfectly, perfectly."

"Well, when one goes into the thing, they've really no more than a moral right to that; and if one once begins on moral rights, there's no end to them."

"That sounds a bit worldly-wise, Andrew; but as you like--as you like."

His junior partner regarded him severely.

"I may remind you that I'm only following your own precepts."

"One says things in health that one repents of on a bed of sickness.

Manage Guthrie and Co. as you like, but don't quote me if you mean to neglect moral obligations. I had the decency never to quote my own father, and it's the least you can do for yours, Andrew."

Andrew still looked displeased. It seemed to his fastidious ears that there was an unpleasant smack of something remotely resembling cynicism in this speech. It sounded almost as though he were expected to acquiesce in the outrageous proposition that members of his family occasionally allowed moral to be overridden by practical considerations.

He could not conceive of himself admitting the possibility of such a thing even in the secret recesses of his soul. It was most uncomfortable to listen to his own father going on like this. He must be very ill indeed--evidently at death's door.

He walked to the window and looked out gloomily upon the gray clouds driving over the black chimney-cans. The wind had risen to a moderate gale, and the air was filled with sounds. It struck him as a very uproarious day for a Writer to the Signet to be going to his long home.

He had given his father credit for soberer tastes. In fact, he was reminded unpleasantly of the riotous people he had heard of who pa.s.sed away in company with a pint of champagne and a cigar. This sort of thing would really not do.

"About my will, Andrew," said his father's voice.

He turned with remarkable alacrity and a forgiving eye. At once he was the deferential offspring.

"You'll find you're left very well off," continued Mr. Walkingshaw.

His son's cheeks bulged in a melancholy smile; precisely the right smile under the circ.u.mstances.

"Not at the expense of the others, I hope," he answered modestly.

"Oh, I was meaning you'd be well off as a family."

The smile subsided.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Andrew.

"But of course you'll get the bulk."

The smile mournfully returned.

"You have the position to keep up, and I thought it only fair to you,"

said Mr. Walkingshaw.

Andrew bent his head in solemn acknowledgment of the truth of this observation and the justice of the arrangement.

"There's just one little addendum I want to make. This unpleasant affair of Jean's has set me thinking, and supposing I'm taken, Andrew--just supposing--"

"a.s.suming it's as we fear--I understand, I understand."

"Well, then, you see, I'll not be here myself to keep Frank and Jean from doing foolish-like things if they happen to have a mind to; and they're not like you and their sisters. You've all chosen sensibly, but they're in a kind of way different. I ought to have had them educated at home."

"What I've always said," his son agreed.

"Anyhow, it's too late now, and what I'll just have to do is this--introduce a clause making them forfeit their shares if they marry without your consent in the next five years."

"Would ten not be safer?" suggested Andrew.

"We'll say seven, then. And of course you'll not withhold your consent unreasonably? I'll trust you for that."

Andrew's att.i.tude expressed to such perfection the confidence that might be reposed in him that his father shed him a satisfied smile.

"And now," said he, "I wonder had you not better get me my will?--or we might wait till to-morrow, and see how I'm feeling then."

If the junior partner had looked grave before, he looked funereal now.

"Your mind's clear now," he said. "I wouldn't put it off."

"Well, well," said Mr. Walkingshaw, "there are my keys on the dressing-table: you know where to find the will."

Andrew went downstairs as solemnly as he had come up, and with the same faint squeak.

CHAPTER VII

It never occurred to Frank and Jean to blame their father in any way for electing so boisterous a day for his probable decease. Clearly they had not so fine an instinct for respectability as their brother. Their orthodoxy, compared with his, was built upon a sandy foundation: warm hearts can never hope to sustain, in its impressive equipoise, the head of an Andrew Walkingshaw. One might as well expect to find sap running up the legs of his office stool.

That afternoon they instinctively drifted away from the others and sat unhappily together. The gusty booming of the wind and the clash of branches in the garden across the gale-scourged street tormented them with fancies. It seemed as though a thousand riotous misfortunes were buffeting their hearts.

"Rain!" cried Jean, with a little start and then a shiver.

"Isn't it beastly?" muttered Frank, his eyes on the carpet.

It came on with the sudden violence of a thunder-clap. In a moment the tossing trees became gesticulating ghosts seen dimly through a veil of glistening rods of water sharply diagonal--nearly horizontal; and even through the musketry rattle on the window-panes they could hear the pavement hiss beneath their deluge.

"Oh, Frank dear!" murmured Jean.

Giving way to illogical tenderness, the young soldier took her hand and held it.

Of course, the least turn for hard argument would have rea.s.sured them.

The storm would blow over; they could find new lovers; their father, even suppose he died, would receive suitable interment. Besides, they would be the richer by his decease. But they remained foolishly moved.