My appearance was so changed that none of all who would formerly have somewhat sourly acknowledged my passing with a nod now recognized me.
Suddenly I caught sight of Dr. Crackenthorpe, moving on in front of me in company with another man. The doctor was no more altered than his surroundings, judged at least by his back view. This presented the same long rusty coat of a chocolate color—relic of a bygone generation, I always thought—cut after a slightly sporting fashion, which he wore in all my memory of him throughout the winter; half-Wellington boots, into which the ends of his trousers were tucked, and a flat-topped, hard felt hat, under the brim of which his lank tails of brick-colored hair fell in dry, thin tassels.
The man he walked with seemed old and bent, and he moved with a spiritless, hesitating step that appeared to cause the other some impatience.
I was so far from claiming knowledge of this second person that, when he turned his head aside a moment to gaze upon something as I came near, it was with a most painful shock that I discovered it to be my father.
I hurried up, calling to him. He gave a great start—they both did—and turned round to meet me.
Then I was terribly taken aback to see the change that had come over him. He, whom four years ago I had left hale, self-reliant, powerful in body and intellect, was to all appearance a halting and decrepit old man, in whom the worst sign was the senile indecision of his eyes.
He came at me, holding out both his hands in welcome with trembling eagerness, and I was much moved to see some glint of tears furrowing his cheeks.
“Renalt, my boy—Renalt, my boy!” he cried in a gladsome, thin voice, and that was all; for he could find words for no more, but stood looking up in my face—I topped him now—with a half-searching, half-deprecating earnestness of perusal.
“Well, dad,” I answered, cheerfully—for I would give no hint of surprise before the other—“you said ‘come,’ and here I am.”
“A brave fellow—a brown, strong man!” He was feeling me over as he spoke—running his thumb down the sinews of my hands—pinching the firm arm in my sleeve.