CHAPTER XII
Naturally, Lucas stayed to dinner, and naturally also he and Jean were left in uninterrupted occupation of the private sitting-room, while her father and Frank smoked and talked together in a quiet corner of the hall. Mr. Walkingshaw was radiant with the reflection of the happiness he had brought about. He could do nothing but make little plans for introducing Lucas to his picture-buying acquaintances, select eligible districts of London for their residence, and jot down various articles of furniture or ornament that he could spare them from his own mansion. Frank seemed equally delighted, though his good spirits were occasionally interrupted by fits of reverie.
"Somehow or other," said Mr. Walkingshaw, "I feel more and more like a friend of Jean and you, and less and less like your father. Odd thing, isn't it, Frank?"
"A jolly fine thing," said Frank warmly. "By Jove, sir, I can't tell you how much I prefer it!"
"Do you really? Well, then, I won't worry about the feeling any more."
Mr. Walkingshaw had not given the impression that he was worrying about that or any other feeling, but one was bound to take his word for it.
"I enjoy the sensation far more myself," he went on. "It produces a kind of mutual confidence and that sort of thing. I hardly feel inclined to explain the cause of this improvement yet, Frank; but you may take my word that there is nothing in the least discreditable about it. In fact, when one comes to think of it, there's nothing so very extraordinary either. It's a perfectly sound scientific idea, perfectly sound; so you can make your mind at ease too, Frank."
As a matter of fact, Frank's mind had already wandered far afield from these interesting but slightly obscure speculations.
"Oh, that's all right, I assure you," he answered vaguely.
"It's a grand thing to know that Jean's love affair has turned out so happily," his father continued. "I can't tell you what a satisfaction it is to me."
"Yes, isn't it?" Frank murmured from the clouds.
"I only wish I could feel as sure of Andrew falling on his feet."
Frank's wits were wide awake now.
"Andrew!" he exclaimed. "Good heavens, do you mean to say you don't think he has fallen on his feet?"
His father shook his head dubiously.
"But, my dear father, I thought you agreed with me—agreed with all of us, I mean—that Ellen's just the—well, the—er—the—er—the nicest girl in the world."
"Oh, she's all that."
"Then what on earth do you mean?"
Mr. Walkingshaw leant confidentially over the arm of his easy-chair.
"Between ourselves, Frank, I'm rather doubtful whether she thinks Andrew the nicest man in the world."
"But—but—surely she—er—I mean, they are engaged."
"Frank, my boy, not a word of this to a soul—not even to Jean or Lucas. I may be wrong, and I don't want to make mischief; but I have a strong suspicion there's another fellow."
"What kind of fellow?"
"A rival."
"Good God!" cried Frank. "Who the devil is he?"
"Hush, hush—not so violently, my dear fellow. It's pretty sickening, of course; but till you know who he is, you can't knock him down."
"Well, then, tell me who he is."
"That's just what I'd like to know myself. It's some one in Perthshire."
"How do you know?" demanded Frank.
He controlled his voice, but in his eyes burned a light that boded ill for his brother's rival when he caught him.
"Well, you can judge for yourself how I know. Andrew noticed the change in Ellen's manner the first time he saw her after she'd been staying with us. The only fellow she met in Edinburgh was yourself, so it must be some one in Perthshire."
The militant Highlander fell back in his chair with a gasp, and the light of battle died out of his eyes.
"Don't you agree with me?" asked his father.
"I—er—I don't know," he stammered.
Mr. Walkingshaw had grown none the less shrewd as his weight of years was lightened.
"Eh?" he demanded quickly, "what do you know about it? Be perfectly frank with me."
"But why should you think that—er—I—"
"Tell me this—do you know of any one who's been paying attention to Ellen Berstoun?"
Poor Frank's color grew deeper and deeper.
"There—there was one fellow, I'm ashamed to say."
"Ashamed? Why should you be ash—" Mr. Walkingshaw broke off suddenly and gazed at his son with very wide-open eyes. "Frank—it was yourself!"
The treacherous brother hung his head. And then, in the depths of his penitence, he heard these extraordinary words—
"My dear, dear chap, this is almost too good to be true!"
"Too good!" gasped Frank.
"What did you do—kiss her?"
"No, no; not so bad as that!"
"You let her know, though? There's no mistake about that, eh?"
"I'm afraid I did."
His father took his hand.
"She is yours," said he.
"Mine? But, my dear father, she is Andrew's!"
"She was; but he's such a perfect sumph, I'm thankful she's got quit of him."
"What! Is it broken off?"
"It will be."
"An engagement?"
"What's an engagement? Speaking as a lawyer of many years' standing, I may tell you candidly that engagements, and agreements, and bargains are simply devices for keeping rascals from swindling one another. If honest men agree, they don't need a stamped bit of paper; and if they disagree, where's the point in leashing them together, like a couple of growling dogs? And the case is a thousand times stronger when it comes to a man and a girl. I was only afraid I should lose a charming daughter-in-law, and now you've taken that weight off my mind. I can't tell you how happy I feel!"
Frank's young face was grave and his candid eyes looked straight at his father.
"Look here," he replied, "I'm going to do the straight thing by Andrew. I don't know that I've ever loved him as much as I ought, but that's all the more reason why I shouldn't chisel him now."
"Oh, that's your military idea of discipline and all the rest of it; but let me tell you, falling in love is a different kind of thing from forming fours."
For the first time the young soldier clearly disapproved of his father's rejuvenation.
"Duty is duty," he persisted, "and I tell you honestly I'm not going to sneak in behind my brother's back."
"Is Ellen to have nothing to say in the matter? Do you propose to marry her to the man she doesn't love, instead of the man she does, without so much as giving her the choice?"
The soldier met this flank attack by a change of front.
"But Andrew has the means to marry her, and I've not."
"I'll give you the means," said his father.
Frank began to realize that Duty was in a very tight corner.
"But I haven't any grounds whatever for thinking that Ellen cares for me."
"I have."
"You'll have to convince me."
"Is it not clearly your duty to settle that point first?"
Frank hesitated.
"Well—perhaps it is."
The crafty strategist smiled.
"We'll settle it!"
"When?"
"At once. Where's a time-table?"
"But look here, my dear father, there's the question of honor to be settled after that."
"After that—exactly; I'm with you all the way. But in the meanwhile, first get this into your head. An engagement is an affair of two hearts, not of two pockets or two heads. If the hearts are off, the bargain's off. That's the whole ethics of an engagement. And let me tell you I'm not without some experience."
"Heriot!" exclaimed a familiar voice.
The W.S. looked round with a start. There, through the middle of the hall, attired in a most becoming traveling coat of fur, advanced the sympathetic widow.
"My dear Madge!" cried her betrothed.
Almost in the same instant his off eye signaled to his son a hurried but expressive warning.