The Prodigal Father Part 33

Mr. Walkingshaw had not given the impression that he was worrying about that or any other feeling, but one was bound to take his word for it.

"I enjoy the sensation far more myself," he went on. "It produces a kind of mutual confidence and that sort of thing. I hardly feel inclined to explain the cause of this improvement yet, Frank; but you may take my word that there is nothing in the least discreditable about it. In fact, when one comes to think of it, there's nothing so very extraordinary either. It's a perfectly sound scientific idea, perfectly sound; so you can make your mind at ease too, Frank."

As a matter of fact, Frank's mind had already wandered far afield from these interesting but slightly obscure speculations.

"Oh, that's all right, I a.s.sure you," he answered vaguely.

"It's a grand thing to know that Jean's love affair has turned out so happily," his father continued. "I can't tell you what a satisfaction it is to me."

"Yes, isn't it?" Frank murmured from the clouds.

"I only wish I could feel as sure of Andrew falling on his feet."

Frank's wits were wide awake now.

"Andrew!" he exclaimed. "Good heavens, do you mean to say you don't think he has fallen on his feet?"

His father shook his head dubiously.

"But, my dear father, I thought you agreed with me--agreed with all of us, I mean--that Ellen's just the--well, the--er--the--er--the nicest girl in the world."

"Oh, she's all that."

"Then what on earth do you mean?"

Mr. Walkingshaw leant confidentially over the arm of his easy-chair.

"Between ourselves, Frank, I'm rather doubtful whether she thinks Andrew the nicest man in the world."

"But--but--surely she--er--I mean, they are engaged."

"Frank, my boy, not a word of this to a soul--not even to Jean or Lucas.

I may be wrong, and I don't want to make mischief; but I have a strong suspicion there's another fellow."

"What kind of fellow?"

"A rival."

"Good G.o.d!" cried Frank. "Who the devil is he?"

"Hush, hush--not so violently, my dear fellow. It's pretty sickening, of course; but till you know who he is, you can't knock him down."

"Well, then, tell me who he is."

"That's just what I'd like to know myself. It's some one in Perths.h.i.+re."

"How do you know?" demanded Frank.

He controlled his voice, but in his eyes burned a light that boded ill for his brother's rival when he caught him.

"Well, you can judge for yourself how I know. Andrew noticed the change in Ellen's manner the first time he saw her after she'd been staying with us. The only fellow she met in Edinburgh was yourself, so it must be some one in Perths.h.i.+re."

The militant Highlander fell back in his chair with a gasp, and the light of battle died out of his eyes.

"Don't you agree with me?" asked his father.

"I--er--I don't know," he stammered.

Mr. Walkingshaw had grown none the less shrewd as his weight of years was lightened.

"Eh?" he demanded quickly, "what do you know about it? Be perfectly frank with me."

"But why should you think that--er--I--"

"Tell me this--do you know of any one who's been paying attention to Ellen Berstoun?"

Poor Frank's color grew deeper and deeper.

"There--there was one fellow, I'm ashamed to say."

"Ashamed? Why should you be ash--" Mr. Walkingshaw broke off suddenly and gazed at his son with very wide-open eyes. "Frank--it was yourself!"

The treacherous brother hung his head. And then, in the depths of his penitence, he heard these extraordinary words--

"My dear, dear chap, this is almost too good to be true!"

"Too _good_!" gasped Frank.

"What did you do--kiss her?"

"No, no; not so bad as that!"

"You let her know, though? There's no mistake about that, eh?"

"I'm afraid I did."

His father took his hand.

"She is yours," said he.

"_Mine?_ But, my dear father, she is Andrew's!"

"She was; but he's such a perfect sumph, I'm thankful she's got quit of him."

"What! Is it broken off?"

"It will be."