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 attitudes 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.
He jumped up too, caught her by the hand, and led her to the sofa.
"Now, now," he said kindly; "sit down and tell me all about it."
She looked at him in fresh amazement.
"All about what?"
He found it a little difficult to explain precisely what he meant. He only knew that he felt an unwonted expansion of his heart towards this really charming little daughter.
"All about the weather and crops," he suggested playfully.
Jean began to tremble a little.
"I—I don't understand you at all," said she.
He smiled pleasantly.
"Am I such a very mysterious old fellow?"
At this odd and novel mixture of kindness and queerness she felt her words choking her, as much with fear as anything.
"We—we never have understood each other," she found herself saying.
He looked startled.
"What? You don't mean to say you—But I'm your father."
"I suppose that's the reason."
"I have always tried to do my duty."
"The trouble is, you succeeded."
"What!" he exclaimed. "Do you actually mean to say you—ah—didn't appreciate my duty?"
She was sitting by his side on the sofa, her eyes downcast and her lips obstinately set. Never before in her life had she stood up to him like this, but now that she had begun she was discovering to her surprise that she had more of her father's temper than she had dreamt of.
"No," she said. "I didn't sometimes."
Instead of getting angry, Mr. Walkingshaw seemed merely astonished and interested.
"Perhaps it was the way I did it," he suggested.
She looked up quickly.
"Yes," she answered.
"Well, my dear, I have lately discovered that I shall never be too old to learn. Just tell me how you'd like to be treated, and I'll try to manage it. I am very fond of you, Jean."
Her mouth lost its obstinacy; her eyes and voice grew kind.
"Father dear, if only you'd show it! If only—"
He interrupted her by a resounding kiss.
"More that kind of way?" he smiled.
For answer she threw her arms round him and gave him what he immediately decided to be the pleasantest hugging he had ever enjoyed. This was a method of doing his duty that must certainly be repeated; he had no doubts about that. It led to such surprising results, too. In a few minutes he found himself embarked upon the most charmingly confidential conversation.
"It was a little rough on you," he confessed.
"You mean—?" she hesitated.
"Well, well, perhaps we'd better not allude to it again," he answered kindly.
But apparently she had no intention at all of avoiding the subject.
"Oh, yes," she said eagerly. "I'd like to talk about it with you now."
It did not seem to occur to the W.S. that he might end by committing himself to some expression of sympathy he would repent of later.
"Capital," he answered genially. "You still like the fellow, then?"
"Like him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, father, I—I still love him."
"I wish he'd brush his hair a little better and wear a respectable tie; still, he undoubtedly has some original ideas."
Mr. Walkingshaw found himself musing on the artist's outrageous opinions with a new catholicity. They had staggered him at the moment: they began to interest him now.
"It's a pity he can't make a little more money," he added.
"But I don't need a large income to be happy, father."
"Eh?" said Mr. Walkingshaw.
This was going rather too fast; yet when he looked into her shining eyes, he found it really very difficult to keep severe.
"Money is a very important thing, my dear," he replied.
"It's not nearly so important as love! Surely, father, it's far, far better that two people should be very, very fond of each other than have plenty of money! You do agree with that, don't you?"
It was at this moment that there came to the little advocate-for-love's assistance a recollection of the sympathetic widow. In his mind's eye Mr. Walkingshaw suddenly saw a vision of her black eyes vivaciously beaming, and for some reason this enabled him to regard Jean's point of view in a wholly new and original light.
"Well," said he, "I'm not sure that there isn't something in what you say. I do believe you're right, my dear—in fact, I'm positive you're right. The love for a fine woman—well, it's a first-rate sensation—most refreshing."
"For a woman?" asked Jean, a little surprised. "But we were talking about a man."
There was no mirror available, but Mr. Walkingshaw had a strong suspicion that he must be blushing.
"For a man—of course," he said hastily. "I meant for a man. But in a general way I think I may say that love's the thing for everybody! It's the thing for you and me anyhow, eh, Jean?"
Jean felt as though she had scrubbed a lump of crystal and found it to be a diamond. How was it she had never before discovered these depths of affection and geniality below his awe-inspiring exterior? She had not scrubbed hard enough!
"Yes, indeed!" said she. "Oh, I do understand you now. Father, I'm so happy! And you won't think too hardly of Mr. Vernon, will you?"
"H'm," smiled her father. "That's a matter we might well take to avizandum, I think."
For a daughter of a Writer to the Signet, Jean was woefully ignorant. She did not know what avizandum meant in the least. But she felt sure it was the name of one of the roads to happiness; and she hugged him again.
It was in the midst of this embrace that Mrs. Donaldson entered. She had always esteemed the author of her own existence and her family's prosperity, but she had never hugged him; nor had he shown any evidence of desiring such an operation.
"Good gracious, Jean!" she exclaimed.
"We are arranging a bike ride," beamed her father.
To complete the confusion of his more creditable daughter, this improbable announcement was accompanied by an unabashed wink, directed at his less creditable child apparently for the superfluous purpose of assuring her he jested.
That evening Mr. Walkingshaw began to be discussed by his fellow-citizens in earnest.