The evening train, as it was known,--a local from the south,--was
approaching the little village of Ellisburg, winding its way over miles
of rolling country dotted with farm-houses of snowy white; to the east,
rough, rugged hills surmounted by a wall of forest, while far to the
west could be seen the sandy beaches and blue waters of Lake Ontario.
The arrival of this train formed one of the chief events in the daily
life of the little town, and each summer evening found a group of from
twenty to fifty of the village folk awaiting its incoming. To them it
afforded a welcome break in the monotony of their lives, a fleeting
glimpse of people and things from that vague world outside the horizon
bounding their own.
Amid the usual handful of passengers left at the station on this
particular evening were two who immediately drew the attention of the
crowd. Two men, one something over fifty years of age, tall, with erect
form and dark hair well silvered, and with a grave, sweet face; the
other not more than seven-and-twenty, but with hair as white as snow,
while his face wore an inscrutable look, as though the dark, piercing
eyes held within their depths secrets which the sphinx-like lips would
not reveal. Closely following them was a splendid collie, trying in
various ways to give expression to his delight at being released from
the confinement of the baggage-car.
There was a sudden, swift movement in the crowd as a young man stepped
quickly forward and grasped the younger of the two by the hand.
"Darrell, old boy! is this you?" he exclaimed; "Great Scott! what have
you been doing to yourself these two years?"
"Plenty of time for explanations later," said Darrell, shaking hands
heartily; "Ned, I want you to know my father; father, this is my old
chum, now Dr. Elliott."
The young physician's face betrayed astonishment, but he shook hands
with Mr. Britton with no remarks beyond the customary greeting.
"Now, Ned," continued Darrell, "get us out of this mob as quickly as you
can; I don't want to be recognized here."
"Not much danger with that white pate of yours; but come this way, my
carriage is waiting. I did not let out that you were coming back, for I
thought you wouldn't want any demonstration from the crowd here, so I
told no one but father; he's waiting for you in the carriage."
"You're as level-headed as ever," Darrell remarked.
They reached the carriage, greetings were exchanged with Mr. Elliott,
and soon the party was driving rapidly towards the village.
"We will go at once to my office," Dr. Elliott remarked to Darrell, who
was seated beside himself; "we can make arrangements there as to the
best method of breaking this news to your mother."
"You have told her nothing, then?" Darrell inquired.
"No; life has so many uncertainties and she has already suffered so
much. You had a long journey before you; if anything had happened to
detain you, it was better not to have her in suspense."
"You were right," Darrell replied; "you know I left all that to your own
judgment."
"Darrell, old boy," said the doctor, inspecting his companion
critically, "do satisfy my curiosity: is that white hair genuine or a
wig donned for the occasion?"
"What reason could I have for any such masquerading?" Darrell demanded;
"when you come to know my experience for the past two years you will not
wonder that my hair is white."
"I beg your pardon, old fellow; I meant no offence. We had all given you
up for dead--all but your mother; and your telegram nearly knocked me
off my feet."
Here the doctor drew rein, and, fastening the horses outside, they
entered his office, a small, one-story building standing close to the
street in one corner of the great dooryard of his father's home, and
sheltered alike from sun and storm by giant maples.
After brief consultation it was decided that as Dr. Elliott and his
father were frequent callers at the Jewett home, the entire party would
drive out there, and, in the probable event of not seeing Mrs. Britton,
who was an invalid and retired at an early hour, Darrell and his father
would spend the night at the old homestead, but their presence would not
be known by the wife and mother until the following morning.
"You see, sir," Dr. Elliott remarked to Mr. Britton, "your coming has
complicated matters a little. I would not apprehend any danger from the
meeting between Mrs. Britton and her son, for she has looked for his
return every day; but I cannot say what might be the result of the shock
her nervous system would sustain in meeting you. We are safe, however,
in going out there this evening, for she always retires to her room
before this time."
Both Mr. Britton and Darrell grew silent as the old Jewett homestead
came in view. It was a wide-spreading house of colonial build, snowy
white with green shutters and overrun with climbing roses and
honeysuckle vines. It stood back at a little distance from the street,
and a broad walk, under interlacing boughs of oak, elm, and maple, led
from the street to the lofty pillared veranda across its front. The full
moon was rising opposite, its mellow light throwing every twig and
flower into bold relief. Two figures could be seen seated within the
veranda, and as the carriage stopped Dr. Elliott remarked,--
"I was right; Mr. Jewett and his elder daughter are sitting outside, but
Mrs. Britton has retired."
As the four men alighted and proceeded up the walk towards the house
strangely varied emotions surged through the breasts of Darrell and his
father. To one this was his childhood's home, the only home of which he
had any distinct memory; to the other it was the home to which long ago
he had been welcomed as a friend, but from which he had been banished as
a lover. But all reminiscent thoughts were suddenly put to flight.
They had advanced only about half-way up the walk when one of the long,
old-fashioned windows upon the veranda was hastily thrown open and a
slender figure robed in a white dressing-gown came with swift but
tremulous steps down the walk to meet them, crying, in glad accents,--
"Oh, my son! my son! you have come, as I knew you would some day!"
Darrell sprang forward and caught his mother in his arms, and then,
unable to speak, held her close to his breast, his tears falling on her
upturned face, while she caressed him and crooned fond words of
endearment as in the days when she had held him in her arms. Dr.
Elliott and his father stood near, nonplussed, uncertain what to do or
what course to take. The old gentleman on the veranda left his seat and
took a few steps towards the group, as though to assist his daughter to
the house, but Dr. Elliott motioned him to remain where he was. Mr.
Britton, scarcely able to restrain his feelings, yet fearful of
agitating his wife, had withdrawn slightly to one side, but
unconsciously was standing so that the moonlight fell full across his
face.
At that instant Mrs. Britton raised her head, and, seeing the familiar
faces of Dr. Elliott and his father, looked at the solitary figure as
though to see who it might be. Their eyes met, his shining with the
old-time love with which he had looked on her as she stood a bride on
that summer evening crowned with the sunset rays, only a thousand-fold
more tender. She gave a startled glance, then raised her arms to him
with one shrill, sweet cry,--the cry of the lone night-bird for its
mate,--
"John!"
"Patience!" came the responsive note, deep, resonant, tender.
He held her folded within his arms until he suddenly felt the fragile
form grow limp in his clasp, then, lifting her, he bore her tenderly up
the walk, past the bewildered father and sister, into the house, Dr.
Elliott leading the way, and laid her on a couch in her own room.
She was soon restored to consciousness, and, though able to say little,
lay feasting her eyes alternately upon the face of husband and son, her
glance, however, returning oftener and dwelling longer on the face of
the lover, who, after more than twenty-seven years of absence, was a
lover still.
_Chapter XXXI_