THE STRANGER AT THE DOOR
Mrs. Collingwood remained a long time up-stairs,--so long, indeed, that
the girls began to be rather uneasy, fearing that she had fainted, or
perhaps was ill, or overcome--they knew not what.
"Do you think we ought to go up?" asked Cynthia, anxiously. "Perhaps she
needs 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 thought
of it."
At length they heard her coming slowly down, and presently she reentered
the drawing-room. They could see that she was much moved, and had
evidently been crying. She did not speak to them at once, but went and
stood by the mantel, looking up long and earnestly at the portrait of
the twins.
"My babies!" they heard her murmur unconsciously, aloud. At last,
however, she came to them, and sat down once more between them on the
sofa. They wondered nervously what she was going to say.
"My little girls--" she began, "forgive me!--you seem little and young
to 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 about
my 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 I
was a very young girl--only seventeen. I was a Southerner, but my
husband came from the North, and brought me up North here to live. I
always hated it--this Northern life--and, though I loved my husband
dearly, I hated his devotion to it. We never agreed about those
questions. When my twin babies were born, I secretly determined that
they should be Southerners, in spirit, and _only_ Southerners. I planned
that when they were both old enough, they should marry in the South and
live there--and my husband and I with them.
"But, in this life, things seldom turn out as we plan. My little girl
died before she was three; and I had scarcely become reconciled to this
grief when my husband was also taken from me. So I centered all my hopes
on my son--on Fairfax. As he grew older, however, and as the Civil War
came nearer, I noticed that he talked more and more in sympathy with the
North, and this distressed me terribly. However, I thought it best not
to say much about it to him, for he was a headstrong boy, and had always
resented opposition. And I felt sure that he would see things
differently when he was older.
"I wished to send him to a Southern college, but he begged me to send
him 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. Then
came the crisis in the country's affairs, and the Confederacy was
declared. I had already begun to correspond with Southern authorities,
to arrange about raising a company for Fairfax. I never doubted that he
would comply with my wishes. But I little knew him!
"I hardly need to tell you of the awful day that he came home. You are
already acquainted with the history of it. That afternoon, shortly after
he arrived, we had our interview. I have always possessed the most
violent temper a mortal had to struggle with. And in those earlier
years, when I got into a rage, it blinded me to everything else, to
every other earthly consideration. And during that interview,
well,--need I say it?--Fairfax was simply immovable,--gentle and loving
always,--but I could no more impress him with my wishes than I could
have moved the Rock of Gibraltar. The galling part to me was--that he
kept insisting he was only doing what was _right_! Right?-- How _could_
he be right when it was all directly contrary-- But never mind that
now! I have learned differently, with the passing, sorrowful years.
"But, to go back,--I stood it as long as I could, and then,--I turned
from him, disowned him, bade him leave the house at once and never see
my face again, and informed him that I myself would abandon the place on
the morrow, and return to the South. He left me, without another word,
and went to his room. I immediately summoned the servants and dismissed
them on the spot, giving them only time to get their things together and
go. Then I locked myself in my room till--he was gone. He came several
times, 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 this
point, they were all startled by a loud knock, coming from the direction
of the front door. So unexpected was the sound that they could only
stare at each other inquiringly without stirring. In a moment it came
again,--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 little
boarded-up door open-- _Did_ you leave it open?" she asked, turning to
Mrs. Collingwood.
"I think I did. I was too hurried and nervous, when I came in, to think
of it."
"That's it, then. Some one has seen it open, and has stopped to inquire
if everything is all right." She hurried away to the front door, and,
after an effort, succeeded in pulling it open. A man--a complete
stranger to her--stood outside. They regarded each other with mutual
surprise.
"Pardon me!" he said. "But perhaps you can inform me--is any one living
in this house at present?"
"Why, no!" replied Joyce, rather confusedly. "That is--no, the house is
empty, except just--just to-day!"
"Oh! er--I see! The fact is," the stranger went on, "I was passing
here and noticed this outer door open, which seemed a little queer. I
used to know the people who lived here--very well indeed--and I have
been wondering whether the house was still in their possession. It
seemed to be untenanted." At his mention of knowing the family, Joyce
looked him over with considerably more interest. He was tall, straight
and robust, though rather verging on the elderly. His iron-gray hair was
crisply curly, and his dark eyes twinkled out from under bushy gray
brows. His smile was captivating. Joyce decided at once that she liked
him.
"Oh! did you know the family, the--the--"
"Collingwoods!" he supplemented, with his twinkling smile. "Yes, I knew
them--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," he
added hastily, seeing her hesitate, "only if it would be entirely
convenient! I do not know, of course, why the house is open. Perhaps
people are--are about to purchase it."
Joyce was, for a moment, tongue-tied with perplexity. She hated to
refuse the simple wish of this pleasant stranger, yet how was she to
comply with it, considering the presence of Mrs. Collingwood, and the
almost unexplainable position of herself and Cynthia? What would he
think 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, at
last. "If you will give me your name, I will ask if--that person would
like to see you."
"Oh, that is hardly worth while!" he said, hastily. "My name is
Calthorpe,--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 and
turned away, as soon as she heard the name, leaving him standing there.
Mrs. Collingwood, however, shook her head when Joyce announced who was
outside.
"I do not remember any one named Calthorpe, and I scarcely feel that I
can see a stranger now. But we must not be inhospitable. Miss Cynthia
and I will go and sit in the library, and you can bring him into the
drawing-room a few moments. There is no other part of the house that can
very 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, and
entered with her. At the first glance, however, he started back
slightly, as with a shock of surprise.
"Why, how strange--how very singular!" he murmured. "These
candles--everything--everything just the same as though it were
yesterday!"
"Did you often come here?" inquired Joyce. "You must be very well
acquainted with the house!"
"Yes. I came often. I was almost like an inmate." He began to wander
slowly about the room, examining the pictures. In front of the baby
twins 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 her
curiously.
"Why, yes, I knew him well. But you, little lady, seem quite intimate
with 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 a
good deal about them."
"An unhappy family!" was his only comment, and he continued his tour
around the room. In front of the old, square, open piano he paused
again, and fingered the silk scarf that had, at some long ago date, been
thrown carelessly upon it. Then he ran his fingers lightly over the
yellow keys. The tones were unbelievably jangling and discordant, yet
Joyce thought she caught the notes of a little tune. And in another
moment 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 the
doorway. Her eyes were wide and staring, her features almost gray in
color.
"Who--who _are_ you?" she demanded, in a voice scarcely louder than a
whisper. 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 amazement
unutterable, saw the strange pair gaze, for one long moment, into each
other'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!