“Oh, he’ll turn up all right,” said Andy calmly—while all his being cried out, “Miss his train—when he is going to marry Elizabeth to-morrow!”
They were almost at the church door now, and Mrs. Stamford turned to give a last injunction about the music, when a queer, hoarse voice which neither of them recognised struck upon their ears, and they turned sharply round to see Mr. Stamford standing in the porch on the arm of his man-servant.
“Ellen,” he said, and then he sank upon the stone seat of the porch, motioning the man to go away.
She sat down beside him, schooling herself to quietness, but white to the lips.
“Yes, James. What is it?”
He opened his hand and held out to her a crumpled sheet of paper which lay upon it.
“Our son,” he said.
Mrs. Stamford took the telegram, and what she saw, though it was bad enough, was so much less terrible than she had feared that she broke out into a passion of weeping that could not be stayed, and she cried through it all—
“He’s alive! He’s alive!”
So long as he lived, whatever he did, there would always be something left in the world for his mother, and she gave the telegram to Andy with a brief “This concerns you, too,” which was bitter enough but not hopeless.