The Prodigal Father Part 20

"It will be rather a Darby and Joan marriage, of course," she smiled.

"Will it?" replied Heriot, with a glint out of the corner of his eye that reminded her forcibly of the late Captain Dunbar.

"Oh, Heriot!" she expostulated. "Remember you're the father of a grown-up family."

"Well," he replied, with amorous facetiousness, "what man has done, man can do."

The lady endeavored gently to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly.

"Will it be a long engagement?" she asked, with a colder smile.

"By Jove, not very!" he whispered riotously.

She felt like one of those intelligent persons who pull the triggers of supposit.i.tiously unloaded guns. By a supreme effort she mastered her emotion and remarked--

"I wonder what your family will say."

He kissed her demonstratively and cried--

"My family be hanged! I'm not going to tell them yet."

"When will you?" she asked, disengaging herself with a difficulty that impressed her still further.

"Time enough when I get back from London."

The widow was not altogether unsophisticated. This blend of abandonment and secrecy impressed her unfavorably. She had known of more than one ballroom proposal where the gentleman was just sufficiently master of his emotions to stipulate for silence till he had departed on a twelvemonth's furlough.

"How soon are you coming back?" she inquired.

"Week or two," he answered airily.

"A week or two to see Colonel Munro!"

"Intricate business," he answered her, with a fresh salute.

"Poor old Charles Munro is a kind of relation of mine," she observed.

He eyed her with more surprise than pa.s.sion.

"Oh! I didn't know that."

"I haven't written to him for years. I think I must send him a letter this week."

Mr. Walkingshaw realized that he was marrying brains as well as beauty.

He also realized that Colonel Munro was now part of his London programme. However, on second thoughts, Charlie Munro was a dear old fellow, and very likely he'd have been looking him up in any case. His spirits bounded up again. In fact, why should they ever sink with such a fair creature by his side?

"Do, darling," he whispered.

She surrendered herself to his affection and sighed happily. Why should she feel disturbed with one of the most respectable of Writers to the Signet pledged to devote his declining years to her consolation?

"I trust you, Heriot," she murmured.

"My little duck!" he answered tenderly.

At twelve o'clock next morning the London express thundered on to the bridge across the Solway. Mr. Walkingshaw looked up at his son.

"We're out of Scotland now," he said, with a sigh of reminiscent ardor.

"Home and beauty are far behind us, Frank."

Then in a different key he added--

"It is curious that my spirits should keep rising."

From which it appeared that he had grown young enough to realize that though lunch may be over, there is always dinner to look forward to.

PART III

CHAPTER I

Colonel Munro drew the ends of his white tie through the loop in the middle with infinite care. In a very wide circle of acquaintances he was universally known as "Charlie" Munro; and you had only to look at him to see how appropriate was this gallant diminutive. His head was bald at the top, but cleanly and beautifully bald, like a head of the finest marble; on either side and behind, his hair was both white and curly; his eye was bright, his features remarkably handsome, his mustache a slender ornament of silver, and his figure tall and slender. At sixty-three he was probably handsomer than he had ever been before in his life; and that was saying a great deal. He lived in very pleasant bachelor chambers in St. James' under the charge of a competent valet.

"Let me see that card again," he said, as he gave his tie those little finis.h.i.+ng touches that converted it from an elegant accessory into a work of art.

The valet went to his sitting-room and returned with a calling card on a tray. Colonel Munro studied it a trifle lugubriously.

"James Heriot Walkingshaw," he read, with this addendum in pencil, "Shall call for you 7:30. Count on your company at dinner."

The Colonel b.u.t.toned his white waistcoat.

"Didn't you tell Mr. Walkingshaw that I would probably be engaged?" he asked.

"Well, sir," said the valet smoothly, "the gentleman seemed such an old friend of yours, I thought perhaps you wouldn't like to miss him."

"One's oldest friends are sometimes d----d nuisances, Forman."

The Colonel saw the pleasant evening he had contemplated spending in the society of two or three of the gayest old bloods in London darkening into a _tete-a-tete_ with Mr. Walkingshaw at his portentously respectable club, and regretted he had allowed Forman to lay out a clean white waistcoat; for he was, by force of circ.u.mstances, economical as well as gallant.

"I tell you what," said he, "I don't mean to wait a minute after 7:30.

If he turns up late, you can make my apologies, and say I'll be happy to lunch with him to-morrow."