“Well?” said Hamish, for Tom had stopped.
“I don’t know what I could say,” acknowledged Tom.
“Nor I. My boy, I have thought it over, and the conclusion I come to, if you appear at the station, is this: either that the tidings must be told to them, then and there, or else an evasion, bordering upon an untruth. If they do not see you there, they will not inquire particularly after Charles; they will suppose you are both in school.”
“I declare I never set my mind upon a thing but something starts in to frustrate it!” cried Tom, in vexation. But he relinquished his intention from that moment.
Chattering Annabel threw up her head. “As soon as papa and mamma come home, we shall put on mourning, shall we not? Constance was talking about it with Lady Augusta.”
“Do not talk of mourning, child,” returned Hamish. “I can’t give him up, if you do.”
Afternoon came, and Hamish proceeded alone to the station. Tom, listening to the inward voice of reason, was in school, and Arthur was occupied in the cathedral; the expected hour of their arrival was towards the close of afternoon service. Hamish had boasted that he should walk his father through Helstonleigh for the benefit of beholders, if happily he came home capable of walking; but, like poor Tom and his plan, that had to be relinquished. In the first half-dozen paces they would meet half a dozen gossipers, and the first remark from each, after congratulations, would be, “What a sad thing this is about your little Charles!” Hamish lived in doubt whether it might not, by some untoward luck, come out at the station, in spite of his precaution in keeping away Tom.
But, so far, all went well. The train came in to its time, and Hamish, his face lighted with excitement, saw his father once more in possession of his strength, descending without assistance from the carriage, walking alone on the platform. Not in the full strength and power of old; that might never be again. He stooped slightly, and moved slowly, as if his limbs were yet stiff, limping a little. But that he was now in a sound state of health was evident; his face betrayed it. Hamish did not know whose hands to clasp first; his, or his mother’s.
“Can you believe that it is myself, Hamish?” asked Mr. Channing, when the first few words of thankful greeting had passed.
“I should hide my head for ever as a false prophet if it could be any one else,” was the reply of Hamish. “You know I always said you would so return. I am only in doubt whether it is my mother.”