This puzzled, almost alarmed, me. Indeed, I was beginning to fear, and not without more reasons than one, that the long tension of grief and disappointment were proving too much for Gordon's intense and sensitive nature. I looked at him a moment as he sat before me with his head bowed in his hands; then I did what I believe was the very wisest thing—I comforted him for a little as best I could in my woman's way, though my heart was just as heavy as his own; then I said we really must go on with our accounts. And in a minute or two we were both bended once again above the big scribbling book, going into every item as carefully as though we were auditing the books of the Bank of England.
Suddenly, just as I was declaring that the butcher must have sent that same bill twice, a ring came to the door. I was glad. Gordon answered the summons, as he always did at night. And, to my amazement, our visitor turned out to be a Mr. Bradwin, one of the well-known brokers of Hertford, and a prominent member of our old congregation in St. Andrew's.
"Excuse my calling at this time of night, Dr. Laird," he apologized, after he was seated and a few words of greeting had passed between us; "but the fact is I've just received some news that I think you'll find decidedly interesting"—I cannot be positive, but I really think he glanced about the shabbily furnished room as he spoke—"and I couldn't wait till to-morrow to tell you."
"I hope it's good news, Mr. Bradwin," said Gordon, a very faint smile playing on his face.
My impulsive nature got the better of my judgment. "Is it about St. Andrew's, Mr. Bradwin?" I asked in an eager voice, my eyes leaping from his face to Gordon's.
"No, it isn't," replied our caller, and my eyes fell. "But it's good news for all that—decidedly good news, I should say. It's about something a little more important—to you, at least; something that has more to do with your happiness, I fancy."
Gordon sprang to his feet and his voice rang out like a pistol-shot: "It's about Harold, sir—it's about our boy!" He was standing in front of Mr. Bradwin now, his cheeks like snow, his eyes like fire. It was almost awful to see him. "Thank God," he cried, his voice half a laugh and half a cry; "you've heard where he is, haven't you?—and you've come to tell us. Why didn't we think of it before, Helen?—we might have known that was the news that couldn't wait. Tell me, sir—tell us both," and in his eagerness he bent over and took the astonished man by the shoulders.
A moment later his withdrawn hands were clasped upon his eyes with a gesture of inexpressible grief and he was groping his way to a chair. No word had been uttered; but the denial spoke from Mr. Bradwin's face, or else he shook his head in disavowal—I could not see, but I knew that the hope glowing a moment since in Gordon's heart was in ashes now. Our visitor's news was not of Harold.
"I'm so sorry," Mr. Bradwin began confusedly; "I forgot all about that—about your son; and I really almost hate now to tell you what I was so anxious to tell a little while ago. But it's good news, at any rate—even if it's not the best." Having said this he paused, looking from one to the other of his auditors.
"What is it, Mr. Bradwin?" I asked, not a little curious.