“I am sorry to say I have received bad news, I fear very bad news, but—we must hope for the best.”
“What, sir?” shouted Haviland, springing to his feet. “Who is it? Who?”
“Your father.”
Haviland’s face went deadly white. He staggered forward, and in his agony of grief seized the headmaster—the terrible headmaster—by the coat sleeve.
“Is he—is he—?”
“Alive, yes. But, my poor boy, you must go to him at once. Everything is arranged for you to catch the earliest train for London, and you have just a quarter of an hour to get ready in.”
“Tell me, sir, what have you heard?” besought Haviland piteously.
Dr Bowen, like many hot-tempered men, was at bottom soft-hearted, and now he could hardly control his voice to reply, so deeply was he affected. For the telegram which he had received was to the effect that Haviland’s father had met with a street accident, and was not expected to live till night. If his son arrived in time to see him again, it was all that could be hoped.
“Remember, Haviland,” he said, after conveying this as feelingly as possible, “that, after all, while there is life there is hope, however small. Go now and get ready. In view of this great grief which has been sent you I will say nothing of what is past, except that when you return to us next term, I am sure you will redeem what is past and start afresh.”
The latter was intended to convey that, under the great sorrow which had fallen upon him, Haviland might consider the past overlooked, and that although he was going home now, it was not under expulsion.