Friday came, but a telegram at the last moment told of trains delayed and connections missed. Hannah Jane would not reach home until nine-forty the next morning. So it was with a four-seated carryall that Thaddeus Clayton started for the station on Saturday morning to meet both of his children and their families.
The ride home was a silent one; but once inside the house, Jehiel and Hannah Jane, amid a storm of sobs and cries, besieged their father with questions.
The family were all in the darkened sitting-room--all, indeed, save Harriet, who sat in solitary state in the chamber above, her face pale and her heart beating almost to suffocation. It had been arranged that she was not to be seen until some sort of explanation had been given.
“Father, what was it?” sobbed Hannah Jane. “How did it happen?”
“It must have been so sudden,” faltered Jehiel. “It cut me up completely.”
“I can’t ever forgive myself,” moaned Hannah Jane hysterically. “She wanted us to come East, and I wouldn’t. ’Twas my selfishness--’twas easier to stay where I was; and now--now--”
“We’ve been brutes, father,” cut in Jehiel, with a shake in his voice; “all of us. I never thought--I never dreamed-father, can--can we see-- her?”
In the chamber above a woman sprang to her feet. Harriet had quite forgotten the stove-pipe hole to the room below, and every sob and moan and wailing cry had been woefully distinct to her ears. With streaming eyes and quivering lips she hurried down the stairs and threw open the sitting-room door.
“Jehiel! Hannah Jane! I’m here, right here--alive!” she cried. “An’ I’ve been a wicked, wicked woman! I never thought how bad ‘twas goin’ ter make you feel. I truly never, never did. ’Twas only myself--I wanted yer so. Oh, children, children, I’ve been so wicked--so awful wicked!”
Jehiel and Hannah Jane were steady of head and strong of heartland joy, it is said, never kills; otherwise, the results of that sudden apparition in the sitting-room doorway might have been disastrous.