CHAPTER VI
"You're not drinking, Andrew," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "Go on, fill up your glass. Man, do you call that filling a glass? Here's the way."
Leaning across the table, he poured in the port till it stood above the rim, with the steady hand of a man of forty. He was hardly as young as that yet, but he was amazingly rejuvenated. It could not possibly last, Andrew said to himself; still, he felt dreadfully uncomfortable.
"You seem very anxious I should drink," he said gloomily, looking askance at his brimming glass.
"You're so dull, my boy," his father answered genially. "There's no life in you at all. You for a lover! You ought to have come back looking happy. One would think she'd broken it off."
It was the evening of the same day. Andrew had returned from his visit to the Berstouns shortly after Mrs. Donaldson departed, and as Frank was dining out, he and his father sat alone together over their wine.
"I've no reason to feel particularly happy," he said.
"Eh?" cried his father. "Nothing gone wrong, is there?"
"I don't understand these women."
"No," said Mr. Walkingshaw, with jovial candor, "you'd be a bit of a stick with the sex, I can well imagine. You haven't the cut of a ladies' man: but it's all a matter of practice, my boy; just a matter of learning experience as you go along. What did she say to you?"
Andrew was divided in mind. This tone exasperated him beyond measure. He felt inclined to leave the room. Yet, on the other hand, he judged himself ill-used by his betrothed, and when he had any ground of grievance, he had the pleasant habit of venting his complaints as long as his audience would listen to him. To-night the habit proved even stronger than his distaste for his high-spirited parent.
"She was queer," said he.
"They're all that," replied Mr. Walkingshaw knowingly. "The great thing is not to mind what they say. It's what they do that counts: and she'd be affectionate, I suppose, eh?"
"I've never gone in for much of your spooning and kissing and that sort of thing," began Andrew.
"The more fool you!" interrupted his parent. "What do you think a girl gets engaged for if it isn't to be cuddled?"
He surprised himself by his own acumen. The late Mrs. W. had not been in the least that sort of lady, and he had never been engaged to anybody else; yet here he was laying down the law with the serenest confidence. Some divine instinct must be inspiring him. His son seemed less favorably impressed with his sagacity.
"Ellen's not that sort of girl," said he.
"My dear fellow, they're all that sort. At least, that's my view of the matter. Well, what's gone wrong?"
"I don't know," said Andrew sourly. "I can't make her out. She's different somehow. It was almost as though she wasn't so fond of me."
"Are you sure you've done nothing to annoy her? They're very touchy, you know."
"I haven't done a thing to annoy her. I can swear to that."
"Then," said Mr. Walkingshaw, with inspired conviction, "there's some other fellow cutting you out."
Andrew started.
"Who?"
"Oh, I don't know all her neighbors. It's nobody she's met here, I suppose."
"She never saw a man when she was here but Frank and me."
"Then it's some one in Perthshire," pronounced Mr. Walkingshaw, emphatically but cheerfully.
Andrew frowned at his still brimming glass. He trusted that he did not overvalue himself; at the same time, the idea of another being preferred by a girl who had once enjoyed the privilege of being engaged to Andrew Walkingshaw struck him as far-fetched.
"I don't think it's another man," he said.
"It's my opinion it is, Andrew; and I'm not wanting to lose so nice a daughter-in-law, so you've got to see that she doesn't turn round altogether. You've got to go in and win; make sure of her, my boy!"
Mr. Walkingshaw grew more and more animated and his son more and more distressed. He was behaving so unlike the senior partner in Walkingshaw & Gilliflower.
"What are you wanting me to do?"
"Behave less like a damned umbrella," pronounced Mr. Walkingshaw, with a startling lapse into epigram.
Andrew stared.
"Oh?" said he.
"Be lively, and—er—amorous, and—ah—sparkling; that's the sort of thing. Go in for a few new ties and waistcoats. Socks, too, are things that the young men display considerable enterprise in. I was tempted myself this afternoon by a shop window full of really remarkably chaste hosiery—pale green with stripes! you'd look first class in them. I came to the conclusion at last that perhaps I was hardly young enough for them yet; but I invested in half a dozen ties of quite a tasty design."
"You bought half a dozen ties!" exclaimed Andrew.
"I did; and you're welcome to any of them you like. Or will you come with me and we'll choose something?"
"Thank you," replied his son sardonically; "but on the whole I'd sooner trust to nature."
"In that case, Heaven help you, my poor boy! You have your good points, but beauty's not among them. Imagine you as a statue, Andrew! Eh?"
The worthy gentleman laughed genially, but the unhappy lover did not join in his mirth.
"I am glad I amuse you," he said, and rose to leave the table.
"Sit down, sit down, man," his father commanded; "I haven't half finished with you yet. Have you read any poetry to her?"
"I have not."
"Well, read some; try a bit of—er—I'm not so well up in the poets as I hope to be soon, but I fancy Byron has written some very stimulating verses; or why go over the border for them—why not try her with Burns? What's finer than—
"'Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we—um—um—sae blindly,
Never—something—um—um—parted,
We should—something about being broken-hearted?'"
"It's very sentimental, I've no doubt," answered the junior partner, in a tone which implied that he was uttering the last word in caustic criticism.
But his father merely grew the more enthusiastic.
"And what else have you got to be but sentimental? My dear boy, my eyes have been opened this very afternoon. I've never been sentimental enough with my children; and what's the consequence? Here's you letting a pretty girl slip through your fingers because you don't let yourself loose on her! Now what you ought to say to her is something like this: 'My own darling—or sweetheart—or even duckie,'—use some popular symbol, as it were, of affection,—'I am so passionately'—or fervently, if you like—let us say, 'so fervently in love with you that I can't hold out'—or perhaps you might find a better word than that; you want to inflame the lassie without startling her. 'I can't endure'—that's a better word—'I can't endure for another month. Marry me four weeks from to-day!' And there you have the whole thing done."
Andrew had remained standing beside the table.
"Is that all now?" he inquired.
His father regarded him with a fine jovial scorn, much as Sir John Falstaff might have regarded the inventor of lemonade.
"I doubt you're a hopeless case," said he. "There's ginger enough in an ordinary policeman to make three of you. But I'm not going to let you lose Ellen Berstoun if I can help it. Run away now and complain to your auntie."
In pointed silence Andrew availed himself of this permission, while his father remained to light a cigar and meditate upon the disadvantages of unalloyed respectability. A fine example in many ways Andrew undoubtedly was, just as he trusted he had been himself; but he showed up poorly when it came to love-making. He was too old for his age; that was the trouble with Andrew. Now that he came to think of it, there was something uncompanionable in elderly people. It was surprising he had not noticed it before, but lately it had occurred to him forcibly. A brisk young fellow like Frank, a pretty girl like Jean—one felt more in touch with them. Perhaps they were a trifle on the juvenile side: the choicest, the most sympathetic period of life was undoubtedly that attained by—Mr. Walkingshaw jumped up, laid down his cigar, and started for the drawing-room. What a fine woman Madge was!
He spent a delightful hour in the ladies' society. The obliging widow was easily prevailed upon to gratify a passion he had lately developed for tuneful and romantic melody, and she thrummed through five waltzes and the whole of two comic operas, while he sat on the sofa holding Jean's hand and exchanging confidential smiles. Jean was in the seventh heaven of happiness; the widow enthusiastically approved of the symptoms; and the only critic present appeared to be his exemplary sister. She listened to the concert with a bleak face, and regarded the dalliance on the sofa out of a troubled and uncomprehending eye.
Aglow with sentiments, which from being mere amorphous ecstasies were rapidly developing into shapely visions of black eyes and well-nourished contours, Mr. Walkingshaw bade good-night to the ladies and settled himself comfortably in his easy-chair before a friendly fire and in company with a fragrant pipe. How delicious his tobacco tasted! Evidently this last tin must be of a superior quality. He resolved that he should insist on being supplied with the same high-class variety in future.
At this point his pleasant reverie was interrupted by the entrance of Frank, just returned from dining with a friend. His father greeted him genially.
"Well, my boy, help yourself to a drink and light your pipe."
Frank glanced at him suspiciously. He had never before been encouraged either to drink or to smoke; indeed, he had more than once complained that his father seemed to forget he was now a grown-up man. What his sudden cordiality meant he could not divine; but on general principles he feared it. This did not prevent him from accepting both overtures and sitting down on the other side of the fire. Mr. Walkingshaw asked him a few questions about how he had spent the evening, always with the same friendly air, till the young soldier began to suspect he had negotiated some peculiarly fortunate business transaction. He became emboldened to approach what he feared might prove a delicate subject.
"I'm thinking of running up to London for a week or two," he began.
"An excellent idea," said his parent. "It must be rather slow for you here."
Frank got more and more encouraged.
"The only trouble is, I find myself rather short of funds."
"How much do you want?"
The going was too smooth to last, thought Frank. He became cautious.
"Oh, a tenner or so, I suppose," he suggested.
"A tenner!" exclaimed his father.
"Say a fiver, then," said Frank hurriedly.
"A fiver for a week or two in London? My dear boy, you don't know how to do the thing at all. Your return ticket will cost you over three pounds; supposing one averages your dinners at ten shillings a night for a fortnight—that's seven pounds more; suppers, even if you supped alone" (here he winked upon his startled offspring), "will run you at least as much. Put railway and grub at thirty pounds—just to be safe. Then you'll be going to theaters and music-halls, and taking cabs, and having a week-end at Brighton—and the Lord knows what else. My hat, it will be a spree!"
With sparkling eyes and a beaming smile he leant forward in his chair and tapped his son upon the knee.
"I'll come with you, Frank."
"You!" gasped the poor youth.
"Yes," said Mr. Walkingshaw, apparently more to himself than to Frank, "that's the way to set about it!"
He beamed upon his son confidentially.
"I've got a splendid idea, and you're just the very chap to help me. I won't spoil sport, my boy, but I'll travel up with you—and, by Jove, we might stop at the same hotel, if that wouldn't embarrass you. Would it?"
"N—no," said Frank, "n—not at all."
"Just what we were needing—a little blow-out in London, eh?"
Frank gave a little nervous laugh.
"Do you really mean it?"
Mr. Walkingshaw was now standing in front of the fire, alternately rising on tiptoe and thumping down on his heels.
"Don't I just! When shall we start—to-morrow morning?"
"To-morrow! But I haven't done any packing."
"Well, no more have I. We'll just chuck in a few things and buy anything else we want in London. I need practically a new outfit myself. Can you introduce me to a good tailor?"
"Ye—es," stammered Frank.
"That's all settled, then."
Mr. Walkingshaw began to laugh mysteriously.
"I'd like to see Andrew's face when he learns I've gone!"
"But aren't you going to tell him?"
Mr. Walkingshaw's voice sank.
"Not a word to any of them, Frank! You put my things into your cab without any one noticing; I'll say I'm going to the office; and we'll meet at the station. I don't want to get talked about, you see."
It was reassuring to find that Mr. Walkingshaw still valued his reputation, even though the measures he took to preserve it were not excessively convincing.
"All right, then," said Frank; "I'd better go and pack now. Good-night."
"Good-night, my boy," his father answered fervently. "God bless you!"
The Cromarty Highlander had been through some nerve-testing experiences, but, as he went to his room, he realized that the severest ordeals often occur in civil life.
Meanwhile, his parent at a leisurely pace was following him upstairs when he perceived a light still burning in the drawing-room. He gently pushed the door open, and a smile of peculiar pleasure irradiated his rosy face. There, busy at the writing-table and quite alone, sat the sympathetic widow. He remembered how prettily she had answered a simple interjection once before.
"Hullo!" he warbled.