Part 50 (2/2)

His eye reproved her coldly. She exchanged with his aunt one of those sympathetic glances that pa.s.s between indulgent but comprehending women.

”He is a n.o.ble creature, but at moments a little inconsistent,” they mutually confided. And then she wrote the names of Lord and Lady Kilconquar on their card.

And that is how Jean might have been spending her evenings too, had she had proper principles.

CHAPTER V

The gentlemen entered the drawing-room, bringing a faint aroma of Andrew's excellent cigars. The ladies' conversation died away to the whispered ends of one or two stories too interesting to be left unfinished, and then with a deeper note and on manlier topics the flood of talk poured on again.

It had been a most successful dinner--soup excellent, fish first-rate, everything good. Of course the wines were unexceptionable, while the company recognized itself as a h.o.m.ogeneous specimen of all that was best in the city--with the Ramornies of Pettigrew thrown in. Here they were now, the whole twenty-two of them from old Lord Kilconquar, most eminent of judges, down to that rising young Hector Donaldson, bearing implicit testimony to the status of Andrew Walkingshaw. He stood there beside Lady Kilconquar's chair gravely discoursing on a well-chosen topic of local interest and bending solemnly at intervals to hear her comments.

You could see at once from the att.i.tude of all who addressed him that he was recognized as far from the least distinguished member of the company. He had touched the very apex of his career.

”Hush, Andrew,” murmured his wife. ”Mrs. Rivington is going to sing.”

Hector opened the piano, and Mrs. Rivington sat down and touched the keyboard. Then she looked around for silence, and it fell completely.

All the eye-witnesses present are agreed that it was in the moment of this pause that the drawing-room door opened, and they heard the butler announce the name of Mr. Walkingshaw.

The company turned with one accord and beheld a tall youth, attired in tweeds, march confidently into the room. In fact, he seemed so much at home, that, though naturally surprised (especially at his unorthodox costume), they never dreamt of any but the most obvious and simple explanation. They scrutinized him as he advanced, merely wondering what cousin--or could it be brother?--he was.

”Surely that's not Frank?” murmured Lord Kilconquar.

It certainly was not Frank; and yet it was some one who looked strangely familiar to one or two of the older people present. He made straight for Andrew, his hand outstretched.

”Don't you know me?” he asked; and the voice recalled strange memories too.

Andrew was not altogether unprepared for some such apparition appearing some day, though scarcely on such a horribly ill-timed occasion.

Somehow, he had always imagined the dread possibility as happening in his office. But he remembered exactly how he had decided to confront it.

He pulled his lip hard down, his eyes contracted dangerously, and then he merely shook his head.

”What!” cried the young man, with a touching note of rebuffed affection.

”Don't you recognize your own son?”

Andrew's brain reeled. His mouth fell open, and his stare lost all traces of formidableness.

”Father!” said the stranger in a moving voice.

Incoherently Andrew burst out.

”You--you--you're not my son!”

His disclaimer seemed so evidently sincere that the sense of the company was already in sympathy with the victim of this outrageous intrusion, when--alas for him!--his aunt chose that fatal moment, of all others, to rush out of her chronic background.

”Andrew!” she cried, her cheeks suddenly very pink, her eyes strangely excited, her voice trembling with the fervor of her appeal. ”He must be--oh, he must be! Look--look at the likeness to your father! Oh, Andrew, what if it is irregular; surely you wouldn't deny the living image of poor Heriot!”

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