Chapter 6

Fortunately, it proved unnecessary to disturb the junior partner during the night, but next morning, when he had heard the doctor's report and personally visited the sick-bed, he took the most serious view of the situation. He summoned his two married sisters, urging them to lose no time; he spent only half an hour at the office; and then he sat down with his _Scotsman_ in the library (his Bible accessible in case of emergencies) to await the developments that he grieved to think were now practically inevitable. The doctor had paid a second visit and given the gloomiest report. Put in a nutshell, it came to this: that he could make neither head nor tail of his patient's symptoms, but that, as they were clearly the result of a course of treatment at the hands of an unqualified practitioner, it was improbable that Mr. Walkingshaw would recover from the consequences of his error.

In the afternoon he was told that his father would like to see him. He had finished the _Scotsman_ and begun a conversation with his betrothed in a gently facetious vein, but it took him not a moment to adjust his features to the rigidity of an urn, and save for the faint squeaking of his boots, he ascended the stairs with noiseless solemnity. He found Mr. Walkingshaw propped up on pillows and breathing heavily. The demeanor of both was exactly becoming to the situation.

"Are you suffering much pain?" inquired the son in a hushed voice.

"It comes and goes," sighed the father. "It was just diabolical a few minutes ago; now it's a wee thing better, thanks."

"A kind of temporary relief," suggested the son.

"Possibly, possibly. I'd like to think it was going to last, though."

"I wish I could hold out hopes," said Andrew sympathetically.

Mr. Walkingshaw stirred suddenly.

"The doctor's not given me up yet, surely?" he exclaimed in a louder voice.

"Hush, hush! It'll only hurry things if you let yourself get excited."

"But, Andrew, my dear boy, tell me what he said to you."

The junior partner shook his head, kindly but resolutely.

"No, no; not yet awhile. So long as your mind remains clear, just keep composed; and then, when you feel any decided change, I'll hold nothing back from you, and we can get the rest of the family round the bedside. You'll agree that's the best thing."

The orthodoxy of this programme ought, one would think, to have soothed the W.S. But it is strange what fancies sick men take.

"I don't agree at all," said Mr. Walkingshaw warmly. "In fact, I may tell you Cyrus warned me there might be kind of temporary complications."

He looked at his son for a moment and then added, with sudden decision--

"Andrew, I'd like to see Cyrus."

A grim smile dilated Andrew's cheeks.

"You'll have to catch him first. He's off."

"Off?"

"Bolted this morning as soon as he heard he'd done for you. I hear he owes a couple of hundred pounds in the town, one way and another. That's your Professor for you!"

Mr. Walkingshaw groaned. His son thought it well to improve the occasion, since he did not expect to have many more.

"Him and his radio-electricity! What was it he was going to do--renew the cells of the body?"

"Well, why shouldn't cells be renewed?" protested the invalid weakly.

"There will be," said his son facetiously. "He'll find himself in one again or I'm mistaken."

Mr. Walkingshaw lay silent for a few minutes. Then suddenly he groaned.

"Another of them coming on!" he muttered, and twisted his face away.

It was a few minutes more before he spoke again.

"I trust they'll catch the rascal! Andrew, my boy, can you not do anything to assist the police?"

It was impressive to see how adequately the junior partner handled each fresh development of the situation. At these last words he looked exceedingly grave.

"Had your thoughts not better be turning to other things?" he suggested.

The invalid's head started forward from the pillow.

"Will you have the kindness to mind your own--" he began; and then, in judgment, another spasm assailed him.

Andrew closed his eyes, drew down the corners of his mouth, and his lips moved silently but evidently piously. It was impossible to remain callous to such an elevating influence.

"You are right, Andrew; you are right," said his father. "And now, just supposing I was taken, you'll see that affair of Guthrie and Co. through the way we decided on?"

Andrew opened his eyes immediately and exhibited a fresh instance of his adaptability to each changing circumstance.

"I've just been thinking of a better method still," he answered promptly. "Why should the creditors get any more than they're legally entitled to? You mind yon five thousand pounds invested in the Grand Trunk Railway?"

"Perfectly, perfectly."

"Well, when one goes into the thing, they've really no more than a moral right to that; and if one once begins on moral rights, there's no end to them."

"That sounds a bit worldly-wise, Andrew; but as you like--as you like."

His junior partner regarded him severely.

"I may remind you that I'm only following your own precepts."

"One says things in health that one repents of on a bed of sickness. Manage Guthrie and Co. as you like, but don't quote me if you mean to neglect moral obligations. I had the decency never to quote my own father, and it's the least you can do for yours, Andrew."

Andrew still looked displeased. It seemed to his fastidious ears that there was an unpleasant smack of something remotely resembling cynicism in this speech. It sounded almost as though he were expected to acquiesce in the outrageous proposition that members of his family occasionally allowed moral to be overridden by practical considerations. He could not conceive of himself admitting the possibility of such a thing even in the secret recesses of his soul. It was most uncomfortable to listen to his own father going on like this. He must be very ill indeed--evidently at death's door.

He walked to the window and looked out gloomily upon the gray clouds driving over the black chimney-cans. The wind had risen to a moderate gale, and the air was filled with sounds. It struck him as a very uproarious day for a Writer to the Signet to be going to his long home. He had given his father credit for soberer tastes. In fact, he was reminded unpleasantly of the riotous people he had heard of who passed away in company with a pint of champagne and a cigar. This sort of thing would really not do.

"About my will, Andrew," said his father's voice.

He turned with remarkable alacrity and a forgiving eye. At once he was the deferential offspring.

"You'll find you're left very well off," continued Mr. Walkingshaw.

His son's cheeks bulged in a melancholy smile; precisely the right smile under the circumstances.

"Not at the expense of the others, I hope," he answered modestly.

"Oh, I was meaning you'd be well off as a family."

The smile subsided.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Andrew.

"But of course you'll get the bulk."

The smile mournfully returned.

"You have the position to keep up, and I thought it only fair to you," said Mr. Walkingshaw.

Andrew bent his head in solemn acknowledgment of the truth of this observation and the justice of the arrangement.

"There's just one little addendum I want to make. This unpleasant affair of Jean's has set me thinking, and supposing I'm taken, Andrew--just supposing--"

"Assuming it's as we fear--I understand, I understand."

"Well, then, you see, I'll not be here myself to keep Frank and Jean from doing foolish-like things if they happen to have a mind to; and they're not like you and their sisters. You've all chosen sensibly, but they're in a kind of way different. I ought to have had them educated at home."

"What I've always said," his son agreed.

"Anyhow, it's too late now, and what I'll just have to do is this--introduce a clause making them forfeit their shares if they marry without your consent in the next five years."

"Would ten not be safer?" suggested Andrew.

"We'll say seven, then. And of course you'll not withhold your consent unreasonably? I'll trust you for that."

Andrew's attitude expressed to such perfection the confidence that might be reposed in him that his father shed him a satisfied smile.

"And now," said he, "I wonder had you not better get me my will?--or we might wait till to-morrow, and see how I'm feeling then."

If the junior partner had looked grave before, he looked funereal now.

"Your mind's clear now," he said. "I wouldn't put it off."

"Well, well," said Mr. Walkingshaw, "there are my keys on the dressing-table: you know where to find the will."

Andrew went downstairs as solemnly as he had come up, and with the same faint squeak.