Part 7 (1/2)
”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 circ.u.mstance.
”I've just been thinking of a better method still,” he answered promptly. ”Why should the creditors get any more than they're legally ent.i.tled 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances.
”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.