The Prodigal Father Part 37

"Well, Jimmy?" she inquired.

With an appearance of some caution, he handed her a note.

"It was to be gi'en to yoursel' privately, miss," he said mysteriously, and turned to go.

"Is there no answer?" she asked.

"He said I wasna to bide for an answer."

He hurried off as though his directions had been peremptory, and Ellen opened the letter. It was written upon the notepaper of a local inn, and if she was surprised to discover the writer, she was still more astonished by the contents.

"MY DEAR ELLEN," it ran, "I should take it as a very great favor indeed if you would come immediately on receiving this and meet me at the farther end of the wood below your garden. Follow the path, and you will find me waiting for you. The matter is of such importance that I make no apologies for suggesting this romantic proceeding!--With love, yours affectionately,

"J. HERIOT WALKINGSHAW.

"P.S.--Don't say a word to one of your family. Secrecy is absolutely essential."

Ellen stood lost in perplexity. Rumors had reached her of Mr.

Walkingshaw's recent eccentricity. The request was entirely out of keeping with all her previous acquaintance with him; that point of exclamation after "romantic proceeding" struck her as uncomfortably dissimilar to his usual methods of composition. Ought she not to consult one of her parents, or at least a sister? And yet the postscript was too explicit to be neglected.

For a few minutes she hesitated. Then she made up her mind; her warm heart could not bear to disappoint anybody; and besides, Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw, however odd his conduct might have been lately was such a pompously respectable--indeed venerable--old gentleman that a maiden might surely trust herself with him alone, even in a grove of trees. And so, in a furtive and backward-glancing manner, she stole into the wood.

It was an unusual way of approaching one's father's man of business and one's finance's parent, but Ellen consoled herself by the reflection that an experienced Writer to the Signet should best know how these things were done.

She hurried down a narrow, winding glade, lined by countless slender columns supporting far overhead a roof of millions of dark green needles swaying and murmuring in the breeze. Suddenly suns.h.i.+ne and green fields filled the opening of the glade, and as suddenly a tall gentleman stepped from behind a tree and politely raised a fas.h.i.+onable felt hat.

In all essential features he was the image of Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw, only that he was so very much younger.

"Well, my dear Ellen!" he exclaimed heartily.

She stared at him, too amazed for speech.

"Am I really so changed already?" he inquired with a smile. "That shows the beneficial effect of seeing you."

Even though his manner had altered as much as his appearance, she found the change so agreeable that she overlooked its strangeness. She smiled back at him.

"I am glad to see you looking so well," she said.

He beamed upon her in what he sincerely meant for a paternal manner.

"You, my dear child, look ripping! My hat, you are pretty! Ellen dear, my only wish is to make you as happy as you are bonny."

She looked at him searchingly, and her voice had a note of guarded alarm.

"What do you mean?"

His air became sympathy itself.

"My dear girl, I have been greatly distressed to hear that all has not been going smoothly with you and Andrew."

She gave him a quick glance and then looked away.

"Indeed!" she answered a little coldly. "Who told you that?"

"I can read it in my son's altered health."

She looked at him in surprise, but without anxiety.

"I didn't know there was anything the matter with him."

"He had to hasten up to London for a change of air."

"I hope it did him good," she said indifferently.

"My dear girl, have you no wish to hurry to his bedside?"

"I'm afraid I shouldn't be any good if I did."

"And you wouldn't find him in bed, either," smiled Mr. Walkingshaw, with a change of manner. "No, no, Ellen; you needn't pretend you're in love with Andrew if that's all the concern you feel. And I may tell you at once that he's as tough as ever, and as great a fool. The fellow is totally unworthy of you, so don't you worry your head about him any longer."

He bent over her confidentially.

"Supposing some one were to cut him out, eh?"

"Some one--" she stammered. "Who?"

"Guess!" he smiled.

She did guess; and it was a shocking surmise.

"I--I have no idea," she fibbed.

"Oh, come now, hang it, look me in the eye and repeat that!"

For an instant, she looked into that roguish eye, and her worst suspicions were confirmed.

"Mr. Walkingshaw," she answered, with trembling candor, "I feel very much honored, but really I must ask you not to--not to say anything more. Our ages--oh, everything--I couldn't! I had better go back now."

The philanthropic father gasped.

"Ellen! stop! My dear child, I don't mean myself! Good heavens, I am far too old for a young girl like you!"

Yet it was at that moment that he suddenly realized he wasn't.

"Then--then what--" she began, and stopped, overwhelmed with confusion.

Hurriedly he endeavored to put things once more upon a paternal footing.

"My fault, my dear Ellen, my fault entirely. Naturally you thought--er--yes, yes, it was quite natural. I--I put it badly. I didn't think what I was saying. The fact is, I've been"--a brilliant inspiration suddenly illumined the chaos of his mind--"I've been so troubled about poor Frank!"