And, like the obliging brother he was, Andrew obeyed her wishes literally. He had his reward, for such of his friends as were able to wait till he had finished his narrative told him candidly that they thought he had left nothing unsaid, and that certainly his sister ought to consider herself fortunate. In fact, he only relinquished his grasp of their buttonholes when they had acquiesced in these conclusions.
The spectacle was now presented to the world of poor Andrew Walkingshaw, bereft of his father and deserted by his sister, living in that great house in company only with his sense of duty and his aunt. People were very sorry for him indeed; they said he should marry; in fact, such as enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance even began to select suitable young women for his approval. Andrew inspected these candidates gravely, but at the same time let it be clearly understood that he was in no hurry; he might decide to marry, or he might not—anyhow, if he did, the lady would be conferring no favor. It was left to your common sense to decide by whom, in that case, the favor would be conferred.
All this sympathy was very consoling, but in a world partially compounded of people less sensible than Andrew Walkingshaw, a few disappointments are inevitable. He found his in the annoying attitude of two or three valuable but wrong-headed clients, who would persist in making frequent inquiries as to the probable duration of the senior partner's indisposition. There was an unpleasant sense of comparison implied in these questions, a hint of preference for the slap-dash, hang-technicalities method with which, in his latter days, Heriot had scandalized aggrieved spinsters in quest of consolation and hesitating suitors desirous of having their minds made up. The trouble was that these latter classes, though delightful company to one of Andrew's sympathetic disposition, were considerably less remunerative than the irritating inquirers; and so long as there seemed any possibility of his father's return to sanity and his office, he felt that he could never regard his position as wholly satisfactory; on the other hand, though a sick lion may possibly be compared with a live dog, a defunct lion is proverbially out of the running.
Andrew thought over this aspect of the case long and conscientiously. He was exceedingly truthful, he disliked superfluous butchery, but what choice had he?
It is said by the more inspired species of social reformer that what good men deem theoretically advisable is sure to happen sooner or later. In some cases, if the man be talented as well as good, it happens quickly. Within a few months of Jean's desertion came the last touch that was needed to complete the pathos of her brother's position and disarm the most hostile critic. Among the deaths in the Scotsman appeared the name of James Heriot Walkingshaw. Nothing was said as to how or where he had died; and, in fact, the point was never satisfactorily settled whether the sad event took place in North Wales or Devonshire; but, of course, the cause was only too evident. Well, poor man, it was a mercy the end had come as swiftly as it had. His friends were sorry, of course, but not surprised and quite resigned. They were very pleased with the way his son took it. He departed quietly for the funeral in a hatband six inches wide, and returned with a thoughtful and chastened air to resume his daily work. The interment took place, it was understood, in a churchyard adjacent to the retreat; and under the sad circumstances people thought Andrew had done well to attend it unaccompanied by other mourners. In short, every circumstance connected with the tragedy served to increase the respect in which he was held. Even Jean's unfortunate omission to use black-edged paper when writing a few brief and curiously stiff acknowledgments of the letters of condolence she received, reacted indirectly in Andrew's favor. People pitied the brother of this unfeeling girl. How wounded he must feel by her callousness!
But the most satisfactory consequence of all was the cessation of inquiries for any other Walkingshaw than Andrew. He considered himself justified in holding that this tacitly implied an admission that nobody could desire a better lawyer than he. And as there were none to contradict this assumption (since he had always made a point of avoiding the candid critic like the Devil, the impecunious school friend, and Sunday golf), he derived from it the full gratification to which he was entitled.
Never, surely, was there a more signal triumph for the meek. His brother had abused him, and he was now broiling in India, torn for ever from his betrothed; his sister had snubbed him, and there she was homeless in London slaving in a hospital; Mrs. Dunbar had smacked his face, and she was an exile in the moors of Ross-shire; and now here was his father, who had plagued and despised him, numbered in the list of the deceased. Alas for Heriot Walkingshaw! He had despised the wrong man when he despised Andrew. "The Example is dead; long live the Example!" might well have been inscribed upon his tombstone, had their friends been able to learn precisely where that monument was situated.