“Or tell papa,” said Alice. “He never likes to hear about the horseman.”
“Yes, or tell papa,” said Fred. He could not tell what it meant, but he had a strange feeling as if it were he himself that must do this and shield his sisters from things that might frighten them—as if his father somehow had not much to do with it. But he was greatly shocked with himself when he became conscious of this thought. He was so much absorbed, indeed, in the uncomfortable fancies called up by Janet’s name, that Susie’s story of the King’s hunting and danger of his life, and how the goodwife of Yalton brought him a bowl of milk, and how the lands, as much as they could ride round in a day, according to the most approved romantic fashion, were bestowed upon the D’yells for that service, had little effect upon her brother. And presently the dog-cart came round to the door, and the sight of Fred seated in it with his portmanteau diverted Susie’s thoughts also and brought back her grievance. She stood watching his departure by the side of her mother, who had come out as was her wont to see the boy off.
“There he goes!” said Susie. “Oh, what fossilized hearts boys have! He never thinks of me that has to stay at home. Tell Lucy Scrymgeour if she thinks I will ask her to our ball she is in the greatest mistake, and it will be just as much splendider than theirs, as Yalton is better than Westwood. And tell her mamma is going to take me to London to be presented and make my three obeysances to the Queen, and when I have done that I can go to every place, and all the other queens are obliged to ask me. Well, if mamma doesn’t, it’s not my fault; but you can always tell her, Fred: and just say to that ichthyosaurious Davie that I’ll have all the grand guardsmen and equerries to talk to, and I wouldn’t look at him.”
“But it’s not his fault, Susie,” said Alice; “and perhaps he’ll tell Fred he is very sorry.”
“I don’t think he will, for boys have no hearts: they have vegetable things instead, when they are not fossilized. If he says he is sorry, Fred, you can say I don’t mind very much, only I’ll never speak to them again.”
“I hope you’ll have a nice ball, Fred,” said Mrs. Dalyell. “Come back as early as you can to-morrow, for there are some people coming to tea. And you may bring over Lucy and David, and any other young ones that are staying at Westwood. We can give them their tea on the terrace, it’s not too cold for that; and I am sure Mrs. Scrymgeour will be thankful to any one that will take them out of her way.”
CHAPTER III.
About the time when Fred was starting from Yalton Mr. Wedderburn, the friend of the family, might have been seen in his office in a condition very unlike his usual calm. That he was very much disturbed about something was evident. His table was covered with all those carefully-arranged letters and docketed papers which are essential to the pose of a man of business; and by intervals he wrote a letter—or, rather, part of a letter—to which he added a line whenever he could fix his thoughts to it; but these intervals were scattered through the reflections and calculations of several hours, to which Mr. Wedderburn returned, from minute to minute, laying down his pen and falling back into some more absorbing subject of thought. Sometimes he got up and walked about the room, going from one window to the other, and staring out at each as if the slight variation of the view could afford him some light upon the subject over which he puckered his brows. Now and then he said to himself audibly, “I must go out to-night.” He was not a man who indulged in the habit of speaking to himself, nor was there much in these words which could throw light upon the subject of his thoughts; but it was evidently a sort of relief to him to say this as he paced heavily about the room and looked out, staring blankly, neither seeing, nor expecting to see, anything that would clear up the trouble on his face. “I must go out to-night.” This phrase, however, meant a great deal to the sober and reserved Edinburgh lawyer.
It meant that to the house which he visited so often, receiving hospitality, kindness, and a sense of almost family well-being, for which he gave back nothing but a steady, undemonstrative friendship, the moment had now come when he must go in another character—in the character, indeed, of an anxious brother and helper, but yet as announcing an approaching catastrophe and the breaking-up of a superstructure of long-established prosperity and peace. He had not been convinced of the necessity of this till to-day. Whispers, indeed, had come to his ears of doubtful speculations and a position which was beginning to be assailed by questions which never should arise as to the position of a man in business. But he had lent a deaf ear to all that was malicious, and brushed away all friendly fears. “Bob D’yell’s as sensible a fellow as ever stepped. It’ll take strong evidence to make me believe that he’s been playing ducks and drakes with his money.” This confident speech from a man of Pat Wedderburn’s authority (in Edinburgh, as in fashionable circles, the well-known members of the community are generally distinguished by their Christian names) had done much to support a credit which was not so robust as it had been. But this morning Mr. Wedderburn had heard very unpleasant things—things which had gone to his heart, and wounded both his affection and his pride. He had a pride in his friend’s credit as in his own. And when he thought of the cheerful household and all its innocent indulgences, Mr. Wedderburn struck the table with his fist in the trouble of his heart. To think that they might have to leave Yalton, to give up their little luxuries, their social rank, all the pleasures of their life, affected this old bachelor as probably it would not at all affect themselves. He could have shed angry tears over the “putting down” of Mrs. Dalyell’s carriage and the girls’ ponies, which, if it came to that, and they were aware that their position required such sacrifices, these ladies would give up without a murmur; and, perhaps, none of them would have much objection to come “in” to a house in Edinburgh instead of Yalton, which was a possibility which made Mr. Wedderburn swear. He was very unhappy about them, one and all, and about his life-long friend, Bob D’yell, who must no doubt have been in the wrong, and whom sometimes in his heart he blamed angrily and bitterly, thinking what the effect of his rashness would be to the others. Pat Wedderburn was grieved to the heart. He could as easily have believed in himself going wrong; “But, God bless us!” he said to himself, “it’s not going wrong. He has been taken in; he was always a sanguine fellow, and he’s been deceived.” His thoughts finally resolved themselves into the necessity, above and before all things, of having a long talk with Bob; and he repeated, as he once more stared mechanically out of the further window, “I must go out to-night.”
He could not, however, go “out” before the usual time, and in the interval he could not rest. Finally, he took his hat and left his office with a better inspiration. If he could find his friend at one of the establishments in which he had an interest, the talk might be had at once, without any need, at least for to-night, of disturbing the peaceful echoes of Yalton. Mr. Wedderburn went out for this purpose with very tender thoughts of his friend mingled with his anger. “Why couldn’t the fellow tell me in time? But the Lord grant it may still be in time! There’s things I might have done. I’m not without funds nor resources, nor ideas, either, for that matter.” And as Mr. Wedderburn went along the orderly Edinburgh street, he burst out into a kind of laugh, such as is among many elderly Scotchmen the last evidence of emotion, and said within himself: “To the half of my kingdom!” The humour of the contrast between that romantic phrase and the very prosaic, rapid calculation he had gone through as to the money he—not a romantic person at all, an Edinburgh W.S., of fifty-five, and of the most humdrum appearance—could command: and the true feeling with which he had realised his friend’s misfortune, burst forth in that anomalous sound. A woman who was passing turned round and looked at him with puzzled alarm; and a boy, one of those rude commentators who spare nobody’s feelings, called out, “That’s a daft man; he’s laughing to himsel’.” “Laughing,” said Mr. Wedderburn with something like a groan: “there is little laughing in my head.” And so he went on to the Railway Office, and the Insurance Office, to ask for Mr. Dalyell.