At this point a little star peeped out of the hurrying clouds and vanished again instantly. It was as though some power above had winked.
On he strode through the steep, empty streets, lines of black freestone houses, built by regular church-goers and unbreathed upon by scandal ever since, frowning upon him perpetually; and the wind, which had risen greatly, wailing and booming all sorts of morals. And now a fresh trouble agitated him. He was growing less contrite! He kept seeing his brother's bulging cheeks, and Ellen's innocent, kind smile, and all sorts of backslidings suggested themselves. He had been criminal enough to fall in love, and now was added another crime—he could not fall out again. Never had he dreamt of such depths of depravity in him, Frank Walkingshaw.
Again a little star twinkled for an instant.
It was a full two hours later that he returned home, footsore (for he had been walking in his pumps) and with a mind as far from calm as ever. He assumed that everybody would be in bed, but no sooner had he shut the door than Jean appeared, flying downstairs to meet him.
"Oh," she cried, with a note of disappointment, "I hoped it was the doctor!"
"The doctor!" he exclaimed.
"Hush!" she whispered, and came close up to him. "Father has suddenly been taken very ill."
At that moment Andrew also appeared, to see who had entered. He looked portentously grave.
"Well," he said, "what have I been saying? It's happened just exactly as anybody but a fool might have known it would—just precisely. He's no one to blame but himself for it—and his precious Mrs. Dunbar."