He held her to his breast for a full minute. Then, at last, when she was able to hold him at arm’s length and look with anxious eyes into his stricken, careworn face, she read there the story of his sorrow and anguish. It was now her turn to lavish tenderness.
“Oh, my poor John, my poor John!” she cried, as together they passed into the porch, leaving the cabman looking after them, wondering where his fare was coming from. Then Rudd appeared—from nowhere—and slipped the fare into the man’s hand. Rudd had caught the excitement of the household, and his face was beaming.
“Was that mother?” cried Dick from an upper window, in a loud whisper.
“Yes, sir, it’s herself right enough.”
Dick nodded and disappeared. He was impatient 352 enough to go down, but held himself in check, leaving his father and mother to enjoy uninterrupted communion.
It was a long time before Mary’s musical voice was heard at the foot of the stairs, asking, “Where’s Dick?”
“I’m here, mother, and as lively as a cricket.”
This was not strictly correct, for he came downstairs very gingerly, and obviously relied on the banisters for support. He gave his mother a hearty hug, and, in reply to her questions concerning the whereabouts of Netty, explained that the daughter of the house had gone out in a state of agitation and tears, not stating her destination.
By a curious coincidence, the first visitor to arrive at the house after the return of Mrs. Swinton was one of Dick’s unpaid creditors, the very man who had threatened to have him arrested on the eve of his departure for the war. A small balance of the debt still remained unliquidated. But the mother was quite equal to the situation. She laughed gaily, like her old self, and went to the study check-book in hand to wipe out the last of the blots on the old life, with an easy conscience, knowing that the balance at the bank would never more be an uncertain quantity.