Part 8 (1/2)
”If anything does happen to father,” said Jean sorrowfully, ”I shall never forgive myself.”
Frank looked surprised.
”Forgive yourself--for what?”
”For not loving him more. I almost hated him yesterday.”
Her voice sank very low and she looked apprehensively at her brother.
But he did not rebuke her as he ought.
”It's jolly difficult to love him sometimes,” he admitted sadly.
She seemed to gain courage.
”Frank,” she said, ”have you _ever_ actually felt as affectionate about him as one ought?”
He shook his head.
”He never struck me as wanting that kind of thing. I've respected him, of course.”
”Oh, so have I--enormously.”
”Well,” said Frank, ”that's all he wanted out of us, I fancy.”
”Still,” she murmured, ”we might have given him something more.”
”'Pon my word, I don't know what he'd have done with it.”
She could not but admit that that, in fact, was just the difficulty. The cultivation of sentiment had not been included in Mr. Walkingshaw's youthful curriculum. His father before him had enjoyed but two forms of relaxation from his daily burden of obligations to clients and Calvin--a gla.s.s of good claret, and a primitive form of golf played with a missile of feathers in the interstices of a tract of whins. His mother had not even these amus.e.m.e.nts. Small wonder Heriot Walkingshaw found it a little difficult to sympathize with soft creatures who demanded hot-water bottles at night and affection by day. Jean had a weakness for both, and had only managed to obtain the hot bottle--and even that was a secret.
The deluge continued and the wind bellowed. Lower and lower sank their spirits.
”I sometimes wish I were more like Andrew,” sighed Jean.
The young soldier started.
”Oh, Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed, and then in a moment added in a low voice, ”I wish I had his luck, though.”
Jean softly pressed his hand. She understood.
”I wish you had, Frank,” she whispered.
As if in rebuking answer to these impious desires, the portly form of Andrew filled the doorway. He looked like the reincarnation of all the mourners who had ever followed a hea.r.s.e.
”He is worse,” he said in a sepulchral voice. ”The end's not far off.
You had better come up and see him.”
In the sick chamber they found already a.s.sembled Miss Walkingshaw, Mrs.