The Prodigal Father Part 30

"Oh?" he remarked at length, and without so much as a good-night he turned on his heel and walked out of the hotel.

Frank's conscience hara.s.sed him for a long time after this interview.

He wished he could be quite certain that his manner towards his brother was entirely the result of Andrew's disagreeable references to their father. He would be the most ill-conditioned sweep unkicked, the most dishonorable sneaking blackguard, if by any chance he had allowed his luckless pa.s.sion to prejudice him! He began to wish he were back in India again. Was this beastly furlough never coming to an end? And so he drove off in his hansom, alternately sighing and cursing himself, to watch what he had selected from the pictures in the ill.u.s.trated papers as the most sentimental drama in town.

The advantage of living a well-regulated life was never better ill.u.s.trated than in the person of his brother Andrew. No qualms of conscience annoyed him as he drove back economically in his bus. He knew that he was right, and that people who violated his standards, and disagreed with him impertinently were wrong; and secure in that knowledge, he was enabled to hug against his outraged feelings the warm consolation of a grievance. All through his life this form of moral hot-water bottle had kept Andrew snug during many a painful night. It is worth being consistently righteous for the mere privilege of possessing this invaluable perquisite.

He decided to wait in London for twenty-four hours longer on the chance of his father returning, and so it happened that he found himself in his club reading-room on the following afternoon at the hour when the _Scotsman_ appeared to cheer the exiles from the north. He secured it at once, and with a consoling sense of homeliness proceeded to turn its familiar pages. All at once he was galvanized into the rigidity of a fire-iron--

"Writers to the Signets' Annual Dinner. Remarkable speech by Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw."

It was a few minutes before he summoned up his courage to read any further.

"Mr. Walkingshaw began by remarking that it was by the merest chance he was present among them to-night. He had been so engrossed by the attractions of London (laughter)--he did not mean what they meant (renewed laughter)--that he had positively forgotten all about his duty to his convivial fellow-pract.i.tioners till he was reminded by a telegram from a young lady (a laugh). He alluded to his daughter (cheers). Several morals might be drawn from this little incident. The advantages of the sixpenny telegram and the even greater advantages of getting on the right side of the fair s.e.x (cheers and laughter); these were two morals, but what he proposed to bring more particularly under their notice to-night was this: that if a respectable old chap like himself could enjoy himself so thoroughly as to forget his duty, there was hope even for the oldest of them (slight applause). What satisfaction was it to become prosperous and respected if at the same time one became a bugbear to one's children and a bore to one's acquaintances?

Supposing that one of the old and valued friends he saw before him could suddenly see himself with the eyes of a young man of forty, or better still of thirty, what would he think of himself?--He would desire to drive a pin through the old fossil's trousers and wake him up! (a laugh). He would realize he was out of touch with life; that he was neglecting a dozen opportunities a day for giving pleasure to people who were still young enough to enjoy themselves, and thereby bucking himself up too. Mr. Walkingshaw begged his audience, particularly that portion of it over fifty, to beware of the fatal habit of growing old. How was this to be avoided? Well, everybody could not hope to have his own good fortune, but he could give them a few tips. In the first place, they should make a point of falling in love at least twice a year (laughter). The old duffer who ceased to fall in love was doomed. Then, while leading a strictly abstemious life on six days of the week, they should let themselves go a bit on the seventh; and when in that condition (a laugh)--he did not mean 'blind fu',' but merely a little the happier for it--while in that condition they should unlock their cash boxes and distribute a substantial sum among the poor and deserving young. Furthermore, they should make a point of mixing at least twice a week in fresh society--Bohemians, sportsmen, and the like. Also, nothing should be allowed to degenerate into a habit, especially churchgoing--"

Andrew read no further. Half an hour later he was driving for King's Cross as fast as a cab could take him.

CHAPTER IX

It was characteristic of Andrew's serviceable and soundly unimaginative intellect that it should decline to grasp such a phenomenon as a father who was rapidly approaching his own age. It accepted the fact, since the evidence was now becoming overwhelming, but it firmly refused to go an inch beyond this concession. If one were seriously to regard his conduct as the natural result of youth and high spirits, there would be in a kind of way an excuse for it; and once you started that line of reasoning, where were you? You would be pardoning beggars because they were hungry, and bankrupts because they had no money, and all kinds of things. Andrew's conceptions of justice were not to be tampered with like that. It therefore followed (since he was extremely logical) that his parent must be looked upon simply as an erring and impenitent man.

His age did not matter. That was his business. His son's was to see that, whether Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw professed to be eighty or eighteen, he conducted himself in a manner befitting the head of so respectable a family and firm.

The only defect in this pre-eminently honest way of regarding the matter was that it handicapped the junior partner when it came to forecasting his parent's probable movements. If you persist in basing your calculations on the a.s.sumption that a bird _ought_ to be too old to fly, when it actually isn't, you will probably be wrong in expecting to find it always in your garden.

Andrew let himself into the house about the hour of 8:30 a. m., and almost fell into the arms of the agitated widow.

"Have you found him? Where is he? What has happened?" she implored him.

It was another of Andrew's wholesome peculiarities that, having once distrusted a person, his suspicions could hardly be allayed, even by evidence that would have satisfied a hypochondriacal ex-detective. This safeguard against deception effectually preserved him from the dangerous extremes both of indigence and greatness. He looked upon his second cousin with a shocked and doubtful eye. She had come very close. Did she expect _him_ to toy with her?

"Have I found who?" he inquired coldly.

"Heriot!"

"If you mean my father, I did not find him."

He looked at her sarcastically, and added, "He didn't mention that himself, of course?"

"I haven't seen him!" she almost shouted.

He looked thoroughly startled now.

"Hasn't he been here?"

"He was only in the house for an hour. That was the day before yesterday. He didn't let me know he was here--he didn't let his sister know--n.o.body knew but Jean!"

"Where was he staying?"

"At an hotel."

"An hotel!" exclaimed Andrew in horror. "Going to all that expense, with his house standing waiting for him? That beats everything I've heard yet! Is he there still?"

"No, no, he's not!" she cried, almost sobbing. "He's gone back to London."

"Gone back to London!"

"And Jean's gone with him!"

"Jean! Has he not got enough bills to pay at that infernal millionaire's hotel without hers?"

"I don't know," wailed the lady. "I don't understand him. I thought he cared for me--and he didn't even let me know he was here!"

In spite of his anger with his erring parent, he was sufficiently master of his emotions to feel a lively concern at all this speech suggested.

"I must get my breakfast," he observed icily, and was starting for the dining-room.

She collected herself instantly.

"Andrew!" she said, "you've got to go after him."

He stared at her, first in extreme surprise, then with an exceedingly sophisticated smile.

"Thank you, I've got my business to attend to."

"You can go to the office first. There's a train about two."

"I'll not be on it," he replied.

"Some one's _got_ to go and fetch him back."

"It won't be me."

She looked at him for a moment with an expression which did not interest him. He neither professed to understand women nor to think it worth while trying.

"Very well," she answered.

They went in to breakfast, but throughout the meal she never referred to Heriot again. Andrew flattered himself he had choked her off _that_ subject.