WHEN JOURNEYS END IN WELCOME
"Welcome! Welcome! WELCOME!!"
The blacksmith, "himself once more" and not the summer idler on a hotel
veranda, stood at Mrs. Betty's right hand on the broad steps of
Deerhurst, to greet the carriages of happy folk who were whirled over
the curving driveways and up to the hospitable door which stood wide
open, as if eager to embrace them all in its own genial "welcome."
Somehow, there was a slight trembling in the hostess's slender frame and
she put out her white hand against the porch-pillar to steady herself.
Somehow, too, there seemed a little mist in her bright eyes, as she
peered anxiously outward toward her arriving guests. Had they all come?
Everyone whom she had bidden to her "infair?"
In the first carriage, the state barouche, sat the four grayheaded
"Boys" whom she had known all their lives and for whom her best was
prepared. In the next was "that slip of a girl," one Mrs. Lucretia
Hungerford, a "girl" whose locks were already touched with the rime of
years; a rather stern and dignified person who could be no other than
Miss Isobel Greatorex of whom Dorothy had written; and a cadet in gray.
A West Pointer! Off for the briefest of "furloughs" and a too-short
reunion with his radiant mother. Cadet Tom Hungerford, and no other.
Also, within that open trap a third gentlewoman, brought by Mrs.
Hungerford's invitation for a short "tour of the States" to see what
sort of home it was unto which she would consign her son, the lad Melvin
come to try his fortunes so far from home. The little widow, Mrs. Cook,
indeed; past mistress in the art of making gardens and good dinners, and
happy in her unexpected outing as a child. To her bonny face under its
white hair, with her lovely English color and her sorrow-chastened
smile, the heart of Mrs. Betty immediately went out in interest and
admiration. Stranger though she was her welcome, too, was ready.
But it was on that last open pony-cart, with its load of young folks,
that the eye of the hostess rested first and last. Such a gay and
laughing quartette that was! Molly and Dolly, the blonde and the
brunette, Monty and Melvin, the rotund and the slender; but Dolly the
gayest, the sweetest, the darlingest of all!
At least, that was what some of those welcoming people, grouped upon the
steps, believed with all their hearts. Father John and Mother Martha,
Mr. Seth and "Fairy Godmother," aye and honest Jim, first and
faithfullest of comrades--to these there was visible, for one moment,
no face save the face of smiling Dorothy.
When they were all housed and supper ended, they gathered in the great
parlors, which Alfaretta's capable hands had adorned with masses of
golden-rod, of scarlet woodbine and snowy wreaths of seeding
clematis--feathery and quite "too graceful for words," as Dorothy
declared, lovingly hugging Alfaretta who lingered by the door, a new
shyness upon her, yet longing to be beside these other girls and lads no
older than she, but who had seen so much more of the world in which they
all lived.
Then when Mrs. Betty begged:
"Now if all are rested, let's compare our notes of the summer and tell
what each found loveliest to remember. Come in, Alfaretta, and cuddle
down with the rest upon the rugs before the fire. Old Deerhurst is at
its best, to-night, filled with happiness. Now, Dr. Ryall, as
once-master of these other 'Boys,' can you give your happiest thought of
the summer?"
The venerable collegian leaned back and twirled his thumbs. He had left
his boyishness but not his happiness back in the Markland woods, and it
was quite gravely yet simply he answered:
"Why yes, Elizabeth, and easily. It was the awakening of Monty yonder
to a sense of his own responsibility as a human being, made in his
Creator's image. He's got down to bottom facts. He knows it isn't
dollars but doings that make God's true man. Needn't blush, my lad; but
be reverently thankful." Then he turned a merry glance upon the company
and demanded: "Next?"
And as if he were still in the class-room questioned upon a text-book,
his merchant-pupil answered:
"The happiest sight to me was the first salmon I landed!"
"A good and honest answer!" laughed Mrs. Betty, and like the president
called: "Next!"
One after another the answers came; that of the surgeon being the memory
of a wounded fawn whom he had cured and set at liberty again. The
Judge's happiest moment had been when he caught sight of Molly's face on
that dark night in the forest, when he dreaded lest he should see it no
more alive and alight with love.
All had some answer to give, even Miss Greatorex, who wondered why they
smiled when she recorded her blest experience in discovering a rare
specimen of quartz. Surely, that was the very best gift she was bringing
home to "the Rhinelander," and wasn't it a specimen worth the whole trip
to a "foreign" land?
Even the youngsters were pressed to tell what they had found choicest
and when Molly answered the question put to her, she spoke with a sweet
solemnity: "The sound of Melvin's bugle in the wilderness."
There was a momentary silence. All were more moved than they could say,
remembering how different a group this would have been had that bugle
never blown "Assembly" in that far-away forest. Dorothy said nothing.
Even when it came to her and the last "turn," she could only turn her
happy eyes to one and another of the loved faces before her and shake
her head. There had been times out there on the Nova Scotia farm when
she had not been happy; when the moods of "wondering" had disturbed her
peace and made her discontent. That was all past now that she was
reunited to Father John and Mother Martha and somehow, best of all, to
that beautiful, white-haired "Fairy Godmother," who had caught her to
her breast in such a tender fashion and had even left tears of joy from
the old, dark eyes upon her own upturned cheek. Why had she loved the
lady so? Why did the clasp of her slender arms seem so much more than
that of sturdy Mrs. Martha? Dorothy inwardly upbraided herself for the
disloyal feeling, but she was too honest to deny even to herself that
her dearest welcome home had come from one on whom she had no claim.
"Well, Dolly Doodles, it isn't fair for all the rest to tell their part
and you just sit mum and stare and stare and stare! Honey Doll, I'm
ashamed of you!" cried Molly.
Thus goaded into speech, Dorothy answered: "The happiest thing I've
known isn't past, in the summer-time, but just right now and here. It's
coming home to Deerhurst and--YOU!"
She could not have helped it and she could not have explained why not;
but there was a look in Mrs. Betty's eyes, an appealing tenderness that
went straight to the heart of the girl, who sped like an arrow shot from
the hearth to a place in her hostess's arms.
And again there was silence; while some of that goodly company exchanged
most speaking glances. Then with a gesture prouder than the proudest she
had ever given, Mrs. Calvert lifted her head and beckoned the Judge.
"Schuyler, you're a lawyer and that rare one, an honest man. I depute
you to open this sealed document and read the contents to the company.
Practically, it is my 'last will and testament'--I mean the last one
I've made, though I'm likely to alter it a score of times yet! I
inscribed it 'to be opened after my death,' but as I feel I've just
secured a new lease of life you needn't wait for that but shall open it
now."
She spoke with all her old whimsicality but with a tremor in her voice,
and somehow Seth Winters managed to place himself a little nearer to her
and Dorothy clung the tighter about her neck.
Not yet did the child dream that this sealed packet related to herself
or that the irrepressible feeling which had sent her flying to the old
gentlewoman's arms had been the call of the blood. She merely felt that
her "Godmother" needed soothing and that it was her delightful duty to
so soothe.
There is no need to here repeat the technical wording of what the Judge
so distinctly read in his clear, strong voice, amid a silence which
except for that voice would have echoed the falling of the proverbial
"pin." He summed it up after one reading in a brief epitome:
"Dorothy, otherwise Dorothy Elizabeth Somerset Calvert, is the last and
nearest living relative of Mrs. Elizabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert. She is
the only child of one Cecil Calvert, deceased, and of Miriam his wife.
Cecil Calvert, herein named, was the only son of the only son of Mrs.
Calvert's only brother. The descent is clear and unmistakable. Cecil
Calvert, the father of Dorothy, was early left an orphan and was
'raised' by Mrs. Betty, presumably to be her heir. When he came of age
to want a wife she provided one for him. He objected and made his own
choice. She cut him off with a limited income, but sufficient for one
differently reared, and taking his bride he went to the far West. There
he died and his wife soon followed him; but her illness was a lingering
one and during it she sought to provide for their baby Dorothy.
"This envelope contains her letters and those of her husband, written
after his fatal seizure to Mrs. Calvert, describing everything connected
with their young and, as it proved, improvident lives. Neither of them,
the sad wife protests, had ever been trained to the wise handling of
money or of anything useful. It had not been their fault so much as
their misfortunes that they were dying in what was to them real poverty;
and the pathetic letters ended with the declaration that, after its
mother's death, the child Dorothy would be safely convoyed to its
great-great-aunt's door and left to her to be 'fairly dealt with.' It
was all quite simple and direct; the commonplace story of many other
lives."
But here Mrs. Betty, stifling the emotion which the re-reading of the
papers had roused in her, took up the tale herself.
"When the baby came I was indignant. That at first. I felt I was too old
to have a squalling infant forced into my house. Then better thoughts
prevailed. I saw in the little thing traces of my own family likeness
and I would have kept her. It was old Dinah and Ephraim who advised me
then and wisely I believe, though there have been times when I've wished
I hadn't listened to them. They told me with the privilege of life-long
service, that I'd made a brilliant failure of my raising of Cecil. They
advised me to hunt up some worthy couple unburdened with children of
their own and force the child upon them, to rear in simple, sensible
ways, I to pay such a sum as would provide for the child's actual
necessities. No more. I listened and the notion falling in somewhat with
my own conviction--you behold the result.
"Dorothy is what she is; to me the loveliest little maid in God's good
world. Save what nature implanted in her, all that makes her adorable to
me and others is due to her foster-parents, the most unselfish and
self-devoted pair of mortals it has ever been my lot to know in my long
life. She belongs to them more than to me; but it shall be as she and
they elect. Even yet I will try to say it justly.
"My homes are many and ample. There is room in every one of them for a
little household of four. Johnnie, Martha, my own Dorothy, shall we not
make at last, one unbroken, happy family?"
It was a long speech and it had sorely tried the speaker. One by one her
guests withdrew, leaving only the "four" of whom she spoke with that
faithful friend of all, the radiant Seth, remaining in that firelit
room.
Then cried Dorothy, running to draw her foster-parents to her
great-aunt's side:
"Yes, father, yes mother! Come and be--_us!_ I have a name at last and
it still must be yours with 'Calvert' at the end, a hyphen between! Say
yes, dear ones, who've loved me all my life. We want you, 'Godmother'
and I, and don't you dare--don't either of you dare to be proud and
independent now, when your little girl's so happy--_so happy!_"
Who could withstand her? Or the sincere affection which beamed upon them
from Mrs. Cecil's fine old eyes? Not "whistling Johnnie" of the big
heart, himself; nor faithful Martha, radiant now in the doing away of
"mysteries" and the happiness of the girl who had been found a
"squalling baby" on her doorstep.
So the night fell on Dorothy Calvert's homecoming and home-finding. Once
more she stood on the threshold of a new life. What befell her in it and
what use she made of some of the great gifts which had come to her
cannot be told here. That telling must be left for other pages and
other hours; perhaps the reader will like to go with us to "Dorothy's
House party," until then let us bid happy Dorothy a glad
Good night!
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors and ensure
consistent usage of punctuation in this e-text; otherwise, every effort
has been made to be faithful to the author's words and intent.