CHAPTER XV
THE STRANGER AT THE DOOR
Mrs. Collingwood remained a long time up-stairs,--so long, indeed, thatthe girls began to be rather uneasy, fearing that she had fainted, orperhaps was ill, or overcome--they knew not what.
"Do you think we ought to go up?" asked Cynthia, anxiously. "Perhaps sheneeds help."
"No, I think she just wants to be by herself. It was fine of you,Cynthia, to send her up alone! I really don't believe I'd have thoughtof it."
At length they heard her coming slowly down, and presently she reenteredthe drawing-room. They could see that she was much moved, and hadevidently been crying. She did not speak to them at once, but went andstood by the mantel, looking up long and earnestly at the portrait ofthe twins.
"My babies!" they heard her murmur unconsciously, aloud. At last,however, she came to them, and sat down once more between them on thesofa. They wondered nervously what she was going to say.
"My little girls--" she began, "forgive me!--you seem little and youngto me, though. I suppose you consider yourselves almost young ladies;but you see, I am an old woman!-- I was going to tell you a little aboutmy life, but I suppose you already know most of the important things,thanks to Great-aunt Lucia!" She patted Joyce's hand.
"There are some things, however, that perhaps you do not know, and,after what you have done for me, you deserve to. I was married when Iwas a very young girl--only seventeen. I was a Southerner, but myhusband came from the North, and brought me up North here to live. Ialways hated it--this Northern life--and, though I loved my husbanddearly, I hated his devotion to it. We never agreed about thosequestions. When my twin babies were born, I secretly determined thatthey should be Southerners, in spirit, and _only_ Southerners. I plannedthat when they were both old enough, they should marry in the South andlive there--and my husband and I with them.
"But, in this life, things seldom turn out as we plan. My little girldied before she was three; and I had scarcely become reconciled to thisgrief when my husband was also taken from me. So I centered all my hopeson my son--on Fairfax. As he grew older, however, and as the Civil Warcame nearer, I noticed that he talked more and more in sympathy with theNorth, and this distressed me terribly. However, I thought it best notto say much about it to him, for he was a headstrong boy, and had alwaysresented opposition. And I felt sure that he would see thingsdifferently when he was older.
"I wished to send him to a Southern college, but he begged me to sendhim to Harvard. As his heart was so set on it, I couldn't deny him,thinking that even this would make little difference in the end. Thencame the crisis in the country's affairs, and the Confederacy wasdeclared. I had already begun to correspond with Southern authorities,to arrange about raising a company for Fairfax. I never doubted that hewould comply with my wishes. But I little knew him!
"I hardly need to tell you of the awful day that he came home. You arealready acquainted with the history of it. That afternoon, shortly afterhe arrived, we had our interview. I have always possessed the mostviolent temper a mortal had to struggle with. And in those earlieryears, when I got into a rage, it blinded me to everything else, toevery other earthly consideration. And during that interview,well,--need I say it?--Fairfax was simply immovable,--gentle and lovingalways,--but I could no more impress him with my wishes than I couldhave moved the Rock of Gibraltar. The galling part to me was--that hekept insisting he was only doing what was _right_! Right?-- How _could_he be right when it was all directly contrary-- But never mind thatnow! I have learned differently, with the passing, sorrowful years.
"But, to go back,--I stood it as long as I could, and then,--I turnedfrom him, disowned him, bade him leave the house at once and never seemy face again, and informed him that I myself would abandon the place onthe morrow, and return to the South. He left me, without another word,and went to his room. I immediately summoned the servants and dismissedthem on the spot, giving them only time to get their things together andgo. Then I locked myself in my room till--he was gone. He came severaltimes, knocked at my door, and begged me to see him, but I would not.Heaven forgive me!-- I would not! So he must have left me--that note!"She covered her eyes with her hand a moment. Then she went on:
"I never saw or knew of it till this day. If I had--" Just at thispoint, they were all startled by a loud knock, coming from the directionof the front door. So unexpected was the sound that they could onlystare at each other inquiringly without stirring. In a moment it cameagain,--a thumping of the old knocker on the front inner door.
"I guess I'd better go," said Joyce. "Some one may have seen the littleboarded-up door open-- _Did_ you leave it open?" she asked, turning toMrs. Collingwood.
"I think I did. I was too hurried and nervous, when I came in, to thinkof it."
"That's it, then. Some one has seen it open, and has stopped to inquireif everything is all right." She hurried away to the front door, and,after an effort, succeeded in pulling it open. A man--a completestranger to her--stood outside. They regarded each other with mutualsurprise.
"Pardon me!" he said. "But perhaps you can inform me--is any one livingin this house at present?"
"Why, no!" replied Joyce, rather confusedly. "That is--no, the house isempty, except just--just to-day!"
"Oh! er--I see! The fact is," the stranger went on, "I was passinghere and noticed this outer door open, which seemed a little queer. Iused to know the people who lived here--very well indeed--and I havebeen wondering whether the house was still in their possession. Itseemed to be untenanted." At his mention of knowing the family, Joycelooked him over with considerably more interest. He was tall, straightand robust, though rather verging on the elderly. His iron-gray hair wascrisply curly, and his dark eyes twinkled out from under bushy graybrows. His smile was captivating. Joyce decided at once that she likedhim.
"Oh! did you know the family, the--the--"
"Collingwoods!" he supplemented, with his twinkling smile. "Yes, I knewthem--quite intimately. Might I, perhaps, if it would not be intruding,come in just a moment to look once more at the old place? That is," headded hastily, seeing her hesitate, "only if it would be entirelyconvenient! I do not know, of course, why the house is open. Perhapspeople are--are about to purchase it."
Joyce was, for a moment, tongue-tied with perplexity. She hated torefuse the simple wish of this pleasant stranger, yet how was she tocomply with it, considering the presence of Mrs. Collingwood, and thealmost unexplainable position of herself and Cynthia? What would hethink of it all! While she was hesitating, an idea came to her.
"There is one of the family here to-day on--on business," she said, atlast. "If you will give me your name, I will ask if--that person wouldlike to see you."
"Oh, that is hardly worth while!" he said, hastily. "My name isCalthorpe,--but I'm sure they wouldn't remember me after all this time,and I do not wish to trouble them." But Joyce had excused herself andturned away, as soon as she heard the name, leaving him standing there.Mrs. Collingwood, however, shook her head when Joyce announced who wasoutside.
"I do not remember any one named Calthorpe, and I scarcely feel that Ican see a stranger now. But we must not be inhospitable. Miss Cynthiaand I will go and sit in the library, and you can bring him into thedrawing-room a few moments. There is no other part of the house that canvery well be shown." She took Cynthia's arm, walked into the library,and partly closed the door, while Joyce went out to admit the stranger.
"If you care to look around the drawing-room, you will be most welcome,"she announced politely. He accepted the invitation gratefully, andentered with her. At the first glance, however, he started backslightly, as with a shock of surprise.
"Why, how strange--how very singular!" he murmured. "Thesecandles--everything--everything just the same as though it wereyesterday!"
"Did you often come here?" inquired Joyce. "You must be very wellacquainted with the house!"
"Yes. I came often. I was almost like an inmate." He began to wanderslowly about the room, examining the pi
ctures. In front of the babytwins he paused a long time.
"Then you must have known young Mr. Fairfax very well," suggested Joyce."That's he, on the right in the picture." The stranger eyed hercuriously.
"Why, yes, I knew him well. But you, little lady, seem quite intimatewith the Collingwood family history. Tell me, are you a--a relative?"This confused Joyce anew.
"Oh, no! Just a--just a friend!" she explained. "But I have been told agood deal about them."
"An unhappy family!" was his only comment, and he continued his touraround the room. In front of the old, square, open piano he pausedagain, and fingered the silk scarf that had, at some long ago date, beenthrown carelessly upon it. Then he ran his fingers lightly over theyellow keys. The tones were unbelievably jangling and discordant, yetJoyce thought she caught the notes of a little tune. And in anothermoment he broke into the air, singing softly the opening line:--
"There never was a sweetheart like this mother fair of mine!--"
He had sung no more when the face of Mrs. Collingwood appeared in thedoorway. Her eyes were wide and staring, her features almost gray incolor.
"Who--who _are_ you?" she demanded, in a voice scarcely louder than awhisper. The stranger gazed at her with a fixed look.
"Arthur-- Arthur Calthorpe!" he faltered.
"No--you are not!"
They drew toward each other unconsciously, as though moving in a dream.
"No one--no one ever knew that song but--" Mrs. Collingwood came closer,and uttered a sudden low cry:
"_My son!_"
"_Mother!_"
The two girls, who had been watching this scene with amazementunutterable, saw the strange pair gaze, for one long moment, into eachother's eyes. Then, with a beautiful gesture, the man held out his arms.And the woman, with a little gasp of happiness, walked into them!