The Prodigal Father Part 15

"Well then, what do you suggest?"

Andrew's cheeks drooped, carrying the corners of his mouth down with them.

"There's no good in suggesting. You can trust your friends to do that for you. Pretty stories they'll be circulating!"

Mr. Walkingshaw regarded him with dignity, mingled with a trace of good-natured contempt for such a lack of spirit.

"My dear Andrew," said he, "you need not be under the slightest apprehension. Whatever my external appearance may become--and I trust it will remain not altogether unpleasing--I shall see to it that my conduct rebuts any breath of scandal. I shall be, if possible, more circ.u.mspect, more scrupulously observant of the rules which should regulate the behavior of a man in my position, more discreet both in speech and conduct. The tongues of the libelous will be effectually silenced _then_."

Mr. Walkingshaw accompanied these excellent sentiments by gently swinging himself to and fro in his revolving chair and rolling a sc.r.a.p of blotting-paper into a pellet, which, at the conclusion of his speech, he absent-mindedly discharged at the office clock. His son seemed as impressed by these movements as by his words.

"You'll find it easier," he began bitterly, "to set people talking than to--"

"When you come to think of it, the situation is not without decided advantages," his father interrupted, springing up and pacing the room with an animated air. "Just think of the renewed opportunities for doing all kinds of useful and beneficial things! I might take a more prominent part in public life: I might even go in for politics. I certainly shall take a bit of salmon-fishing. The study of some of our cla.s.sical authors suggests itself as a relaxation for my leisure moments. The subjects of aeroplanes and national defense are worthy of consideration, too. I should like to visit several of the continental countries--our own colonies are even more attractive; there wouldn't be the same difficulties about the language. Or, by Jingo, Andrew, I might learn French and Italian! Yes, the position is not without its compensations."

He stopped beside his son and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"I propose to widen greatly the scope of my energies, without in the least forfeiting the respect of my fellow-citizens. That is my ideal, Andrew. Ah, my boy, you and I will have some great times together! By that I mean, of course, some beneficial and profitable times."

He took a sudden step forward and kicked the wastepaper-basket into the fireplace.

"I might even take up football some day, if this goes on," he smiled, and then abruptly recovered his solemnity.

"Beneficial and profitable," he repeated gravely. "Those are to be our watchwords. Will you have a weed?"

The junior partner started out of the reverie into which he had fallen.

"Are you going to start smoking _here_?" he cried.

"Why the deuce shouldn't I? It's my own office. These old-fashioned ideas of yours about not smoking on business premises are getting out of date. Besides, it keeps the flies away. And now I must get on to my correspondence."

With a cigar in the corner of his mouth and humming something resembling an air, the senior partner dashed into his day's work with the ardor of an egg-collector.

CHAPTER V

In the meantime, the two least satisfactory members of the family were sadly enduring the consequences of their foolishness. To Frank and Jean the world seemed a very gray place at present; and even the daily increasing juvenility of their parent failed to enliven them. They were too engrossed in their own unhappiness to take much notice of it; and what they saw merely distressed them, for so far his beneficent projects had not included them. Frank moped about the house, consorted occasionally with an acquaintance, now and then went away for a day's golf, and at frequent intervals confided to Jean his disgust with the arrangements of the universe. Ellen Berstoun was to have paid them another visit, but for some reason she put it off; and at this decision he was plunged for forty-eight consecutive hours into a frenzy, alternately of relief and despair, which left him at last more lackadaisical than ever. A few days after his father's momentous interview with Andrew, he was roused to fresh anguish by the junior partner's departure to spend a week-end at Berstoun Castle, and his state of mind now became so unbearable that he abruptly announced to his sister--

"I can't stick this any longer! I'm going up to town."

"What for?" she asked.

"For a bust," he answered desperately. "I'm going to try to--to--to forget."

And the poor youth strode hurriedly out of the room to examine the state of his silk hat and his finances.

Jean devoutly wished she too could fly to London! Like a dutiful girl, she had returned, at her father's peremptory bidding, two unopened letters received from that city. Frank knew his address and forwarded them for her. Once or twice after that he himself received a letter in a hand suspiciously resembling the writing on the unbroken envelopes, and it certainly was a fact that on each of these occasions the erring pair were closeted for long together, and that Jean's spirits rose a little for a few hours afterwards. But they soon sank again.

After Frank had announced his desperate resolution she sat alone for some time in the drawing-room. Everybody else was out, and the house seemed prodigiously silent and vast. At last she heard a little noise, which presently took the form of footsteps bounding upstairs, accompanied by a cheerful tuneless whistling. The door was flung open, and her father entered.

It was only at that moment that Jean realized he was a curiously altered man. He was dressed in brown tweeds and a light waistcoat; his face was flushed, and a smile danced in his eyes.

"I've been for a bicycle ride," he announced.

She could hardly believe her ears.

"You--on a bicycle?" she gasped; for Mr. Walkingshaw had been born long before bicycles.

"Yes; I've had a couple of lessons--only two, and I went for a six-mile ride all alone to-day!"

"Then weren't you at the office?"

"In the morning; but one gets no exercise in that beastly office. I need a lot nowadays."

He threw himself into a chair and a smile broke over his face, in which, to her further bewilderment, she recognized an unmistakable flavor of roguishness.

"Thinking of him?" he inquired.

Poor Jean nearly jumped out of her chair.

"Of--of whom?" she gasped.

"The artist fellow, what's his name--Vernon."

"Father!" she said in a low, pained voice.

"Eh? What's the matter?"

She looked at him between grief and amazement.

"You said that his name was never to be mentioned. Do you mean to--why do you--what do you mean, father?"

Mr. Walkingshaw was finding it harder every day to retain his old att.i.tudes in all their dignity. He was altering at an astonishing pace.

How many years younger he had become already he could not compute. He had tried once or twice to calculate about where he stood but the surprising thing was that he found he cared less and less what was happening, and how fast it happened. He enjoyed himself amazingly so long as he did not worry; and the obvious moral was--don't worry. At the same time, he had no intention whatsoever of forfeiting the respect of his fellow-citizens, still less of his family. It was true this proviso occurred to him more often after than before he had surprised them by some trifling deviation; still, when it did occur, it occurred forcibly.

On this present occasion he suddenly became preternaturally solemn, coughed with a little dry, respectable sound, and replied severely--

"I meant that it must never be mentioned by you, but--ahem--it is--ah--different with your father. I still leave myself at liberty to mention him with reprobation."

Jean jumped up with a sparkling eye.

"In that case I'll leave you. I've obeyed you so far, but I certainly shan't obey you if you tell me to sit and listen to _anything_ against him!"

And she started for the door.

"My dear girl!" cried Mr. Walkingshaw.