The rector wiped his eyes and pulled himself together, realizing, after the first rush of emotion, the terrible situation created by his son’s return. His natural impulse was to rush upstairs to Mary, and tell her the glad news—glad, yet terrible. But Dick forestalled him by remarking quite casually:
“I want to see you first, father, before telling mother. My coming back will be a shock; and she ought to be prepared.”
“Yes—you’ve taken me by surprise, my boy. Why didn’t you write? Why didn’t you let us know? Why didn’t you telegraph?” 231
“I did write, and I thought you knew all about it, and would be expecting me, and, as soon as I landed, I telegraphed to Dora Dundas, thinking she would call on mother. But the colonel intercepted my telegram, and came himself, and told me of the—of the—”
The rector looked down at his desk; he could not face his son. His hand involuntarily clenched as it rested on the table.
“He told me of the mess I’ve got myself into over the bank business—told me they would arrest me if I came home. But I couldn’t keep away, father.” There were tears in Dick’s voice now. “I just wanted to see you before—before emigrating.”
“Emigrating, my boy! Why should you emigrate?”
This was hardly the tone that Dick expected: no reproach, no questioning.
“It’s no good running the risk of a prosecution, is it, father? And, as I’ve disgraced the family, I’d—”
“You mean to say that you don’t deny the bank’s charge of forgery?”