But that wasn’t a patch to the way I felt, and I could see by the lack of color and set expression of dad’s face and the way he stared straight ahead of him without saying a word that he was feeling very unhappy about it too. There was something behind it all—something that raised in my mind vague doubts and very unpleasant thoughts.
Dad never spoke a word all the way home, and, needless to say, I did not either—I couldn’t; my whole world seemed to have been turned upside down in the space of half an hour. Was it true that I was not Donald Crawford? Was it possible that Alexander Crawford, this fine, big, broad-shouldered, kindly man beside me was not my real father? Was it a fact that that noble, generous, happy woman whom I called mamma was not my mother at all? Each of those questions took shape in my mind and each was like a stab in the heart, for Blink Broosmore had answered them all, and Alexander Crawford, though he must know how anxious I was to have Blink denied, did not speak to refute him.
We rolled up the drive and dad stepped out, still silent, but he did smile wistfully at me as he closed the car door.
“Put it away, Don, and hurry in for dinner,” he said and I felt certain I detected a break in his voice. I felt sorry—sorry for him and sorry for myself, and as I put the car in the garage, I had a hard time trying to see things clearly; my eyes would get blurred and a lump would get into my throat in spite of me.
As I dressed for dinner I felt half dazed. I hardly realized what I was doing, and I had to stop and pull myself together before I started downstairs to the dining room, for I knew if I did not have myself well in hand I would blubber like a big chump.
Mother and dad were waiting for me and I could see by mother’s sad expression and the troubled look in her eyes that dad had told her of the whole occurrence. And that only added to my unhappiness because I felt for a certainty that all that Blink Broosmore had shouted must be true.
For the first time in my memory dad forgot to say grace, and none of us ate with any apparent relish and none of us tried to make conversation. It was a painful sort of a meal and I wanted to have it over with as soon as I could. It seemed hours before Nora cleared the table and served dad’s demi-tasse.
I guess I then looked him full in the eyes for the first time since the occurrence on Front Street.
“That was a very unkind thing for Blink Broosmore to do,” said dad, and I knew by the firmness and evenness of his voice that he had gained full control of his feelings.
“Is—is—oh, did he tell the truth, dad?” I gulped helplessly and for the life of me I could not keep back the tears.