The Prodigal Father Part 51

"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 d.a.m.ned!"

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--