CHAPTER VII
Stroking the cat and sipping his tea, Mr. Walkingshaw conversed pleasantly with his sister. Jean and Frank had gone into the country, and the two sat alone together in the drawing-room.
"Brown?" said Miss Walkingshaw. "I never knew the Dunbars had a relative of that name. Who will he be?"
"I seem to mind seeing his face somewhere," replied her brother, "but more about him I can't tell you, except that he's a very pleasant fellow. Hullo, Andrew, where's Brown?"
The junior partner had entered alone.
"He had to go," said he.
"Dash it, he might have said good-by."
Andrew made no answer. He was looking at his aunt in a way that he had borrowed from his father's bygone manner. Though he had only quite recently begun to practise it seriously, he was sufficiently expert to convey unmistakably the fact that he desired her to withdraw. She rose obediently.
"Hullo, where are you off to?" asked her brother.
"I have things to do, Heriot," she answered nervously, "just a few things to do."
As she passed Andrew she paused, and her lips framed a question. There was something in his manner that frightened her; strange things were happening, she felt sure. But his glowering eye silenced her, and she faded noiselessly out of the room. Then Andrew advanced upon his father.
"Just run your eye through that," he said quietly.
He handed his father a large double sheet of blue foolscap containing a great deal of printed matter. The particular portion of it to which Mr. Walkingshaw's attention was directed ran thus—
"Certificate of Emergency
"(This certificate authorizes the detention of a Patient in an Asylum for a period not exceeding three days, without any order by the Sheriff.)
"I, the undersigned George William Downie, being M.D., Glasgow, hereby certify on soul and conscience, that I have this day at 15, Roray Place, in the County of Edinburgh, seen and personally examined James Heriot Walkingshaw, and that the said person is of unsound mind, and a proper Patient to be placed in an Asylum, and is in a sufficiently good state of bodily health at this date to be removed to the Asylum.
"And I hereby certify that the case of the said Person is one of emergency."
It was then dated, and signed, "George W. Downie."
"Asylum—Dr. Downie!" gasped Heriot. "But—what is this?"
"It says on the paper. Just look—can't you read?"
Heriot gave a convulsive start.
"Was—was that Dr. Downie?"
His son nodded.
Again Heriot's startled eyes ran over the certificate, and then they turned upon his son. It is regrettable that his next words were not more worthy of his reputation.
"You d——d young skunk!"
"It's no use swearing," his son replied coldly.
Mr. Walkingshaw fell back in his chair and seemed to meditate.
"You wired to Glasgow for him?" he inquired in a moment.
"I did."
"So that I shouldn't recognize him, I suppose?"
"Naturally."
"What a sell if I'd spotted him and talked what the silly fool would have thought sense!"
"You didn't," said Andrew.
Mr. Walkingshaw shook his head.
"Man, I'd never have given you credit for the brains to do the like of this."
Then he started.
"I see it all now! It was Madge put you up to the idea! Eh? Oh, you needn't trouble to deny it; I know you haven't the imagination yourself."
With a calmer air he studied the paper afresh.
"It's only for three days," he observed in a cheerier tone.
"Do you actually imagine you're likely to get out at the end of three days?"
Mr. Walkingshaw looked at his son steadily.
"You know perfectly well that every word I said was true."
Andrew remained coldly immovable.
"I am no judge myself. I'd sooner depend on Dr. Downie's opinion."
"Hypocrite to the last!" scoffed Heriot. "Can you look me in the face, Andrew, and tell me that you honestly thought it was insanity to make friends of my children and help them to marry the people they loved, and divide my money fairly among you all? Can you?"
"Permit me to remind you that it was not I who signed the certificate."
There was a moment's very dead silence, and then Heriot asked—
"Then do you actually mean to shut me up in a lunatic asylum for the rest of my days?"
Andrew had some of the finer points of the legal mind. He noted the trace of emotion in his father's voice, and knew he was fairly on top at last. To let this fact sink still further into Heriot's mind, he eyed him in austere silence for a few moments before he answered—
"If I have to, I shall."
"If you have to? What d'ye mean?"
"I mean that I am not going to have my business ruined—"
"Ruined! Can you not stick to the truth on a single point? I am putting new life into it!"
"I don't care for your kind of life, thanks," said Andrew primly, "and I repeat that I am not going to have my business—enlivened, if that's how you choose to put it, and my family disgraced, and my reputation lost; and if I let you go on another day as you've been going, it'll be too late to save any of them. But I don't want to be harder than I can help." He paused for a moment, and his lip grew longer and straighter. "So I'll offer you an alternative."
"Well?"
"If you'll guarantee to clear out of the country and not come back again, I'll take no further proceedings on the strength of this certificate. I don't want to put you in an asylum any more than you want to go, but I've got to protect myself."
Mr. Walkingshaw mused.
"When do you want me to start?"
"At once."
"At once!"
"Yes, at once, before you see anybody else."
"I'm not even to say good-by?"
"No."
"You've got some game on," said Heriot.
"I've got to protect myself and my family."
His father looked at him searchingly; but his face remained a solemn medallion of virtue. Then Mr. Walkingshaw again fell back in his chair and mused. Gradually the flicker of a smile appeared in his eye. It spread to his lips, and he sprang up cheerfully.
"It's not half a bad idea!" he exclaimed. "I'm just getting to the age when a young man ought to go about a bit and see something of the world. New Zealand now—that's a fine country—or Japan—or Texas. By Gad, you know I've several times wanted to do a bit of roughing it and big game shooting lately."
His son looked at him suspiciously. This cheerfulness was unusual in people he had worsted, and the unusual was always to be distrusted. But to the less vigilant, ordinary mind Mr. Walkingshaw merely presented the spectacle of a man of young middle-age with a heart some ten years younger still.
"Of course it will be a wrench," he added, with a sobered air. "I'll miss 'em all: Frank—Ellen—Jean. By Gad, I shall miss Jean. However, it need only be for a year or two. Meanwhile—by Jingo, there's no doubt about it!—this is the chance of my life. Let's see now, what does one need? A revolver with six thingamajigs—top-boots and riding breeches—a good compass—"
The chill voice of Andrew interrupted this catalogue.
"Once you go away, you've got to stay away."
"Stay away!"
"Your allowance will depend on that."
"My allowance!" gasped Heriot.
"Your estate has got to be administered by me just as though you were" (instinctively this pious young man's face grew solemn) "taken away from us."
"I wish I were not your father," sighed Heriot. "In happier circumstances, the pleasure of kicking you would just be immense."
Andrew disliked physical brutality. His cheeks grew flabbier at the very idea of such an outrage—even in theory.
"If you were to try anything of that kind, I warn you I'd withdraw my alternative."
His father laughed reassuringly.
"Oh, you needn't keep your back against the bookcase: I'll leave the job for some luckier devil."
A thought struck him.
"By the way, I've promised to give Jean and Frank enough to keep them going. You'll see to that?"
"I'll carry out the provisions made when you were in your right mind."
"What provisions?"
"The terms of your will."
Mr. Walkingshaw looked at his son steadily and in silence. After a full minute under this stare Andrew began to grow uneasy.
"There's to be no more nonsense, I warn you," he said.
"You mean either to rob your brother and sister of their money, or revenge yourself by stopping their marriages? By Heaven, Andrew—"
He broke off and plunged into meditation. Then his eyes began to smile, though his lips were now compressed.
"Very well," he murmured.
His son still felt a vague sense of apprehension.
"Mind, you've got to stay abroad."
"For ever?"
"You must give me your word you won't come back for two years certain, and after that you lose your allowance if you land in Great Britain or Ireland."
"Including the Channel Islands?"
"Including them."
"I see your game," smiled Heriot. "But I give you my word. Poor Jean, poor Frank—"
"You're not even to write to them," interrupted Andrew.
Mr. Walkingshaw stroked his chin meditatively.
"I agree to that," he said. "Any more conditions?"
The smile that prevailed in his discomfited parent's eye perturbed the junior partner. He warily scanned all possible loopholes.
"You're not to communicate with Madge Dunbar."
"God forbid!" said Heriot fervently.
"Nor my aunt."
"Bless her, poor soul; no fears of that."
"I think that's all," said Andrew reluctantly.
So long as those eyes continued to look at him like that, he desired to pile condition on condition. But the overwhelming advantages of being encumbered with no imagination occasionally—very occasionally—have compensating drawbacks. He could imagine nothing else to be guarded against.
"Then I'd better pack and be off."
"You had," said Andrew.
Just as he was leaving the room, Heriot turned and asked—
"You've heard of changelings?"
Andrew stared.
"Do you not mind hearing of goblins that get put into cradles instead of the real babies? That accounts for you. Thank the Lord, I need never again claim the discredit of begetting you!"