The House Behind The Cedars [5]
too loudly, lest this too might attract the attention of the man across the street. There was no response to his rap. He put his ear to the door and heard voices within, and the muffled sound of footsteps. After a moment he rapped again, a little louder than before.
There was an instant cessation of the sounds within. He rapped a third time, to satisfy any lingering doubt in the minds of those who he felt sure were listening in some trepidation. A moment later a ray of light streamed through the keyhole.
"Who's there?" a woman's voice inquired somewhat sharply.
"A gentleman," answered Warwick, not holding it yet time to reveal himself. "Does Mis' Molly Walden live here?"
"Yes," was the guarded answer. "I'm Mis' Walden. What's yo'r business?"
"I have a message to you from your son John."
A key clicked in the lock. The door opened, and the elder of the two women Warwick had seen upon the piazza stood in the doorway, peering curiously and with signs of great excitement into the face of the stranger.
"You 've got a message from my son, you say?" she asked with tremulous agitation. "Is he sick, or in trouble?"
"No. He's well and doing well, and sends his love to you, and hopes you've not forgotten him."
"Fergot him? No, God knows I ain't fergot him! But come in, sir, an' tell me somethin' mo' about him."
Warwick went in, and as the woman closed the door after him, he threw a glance round the room. On the wall, over the mantelpiece, hung a steel engraving of General Jackson at the battle of New Orleans, and, on the opposite wall, a framed fashion-plate from "Godey's Lady's Book." In the middle of the room an octagonal centre-table with a single leg, terminating in three sprawling feet, held a collection of curiously shaped sea-shells. There was a great haircloth sofa, somewhat the worse for wear, and a well-filled bookcase. The screen standing before the fireplace was covered with Confederate bank-notes of various denominations and designs, in which the heads of Jefferson Davis and other Confederate leaders were conspicuous.
"Imperious Caesar, dead, and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away,"
murmured the young man, as his eye fell upon this specimen of decorative art.
The woman showed her visitor to a seat. She then sat down facing him and looked at him closely. "When did you last see my son?" she asked.
"I've never met your son," he replied.
Her face fell. "Then the message comes through you from somebody else?"
"No, directly from your son."
She scanned his face with a puzzled look. This bearded young gentleman, who spoke so politely and was dressed so well, surely--no, it could not be! and yet--
Warwick was smiling at her through a mist of tears. An electric spark of sympathy flashed between them. They rose as if moved by one impulse, and were clasped in each other's arms.
"John, my John! It IS John!"
"Mother--my dear old mother!"
"I didn't think," she sobbed, "that I'd ever see you again."
He smoothed her hair and kissed her. "And are you glad to see me, mother?"
"Am I glad to see you? It's like the dead comin' to life. I thought I'd lost you forever, John, my son, my darlin' boy!" she answered, hugging him strenuously.
"I couldn't live without seeing you, mother," he said. He meant it, too, or thought he did, although he had not seen her for ten years.
"You've grown so tall, John, and are such a fine gentleman! And you ARE a gentleman now, John, ain't you--sure enough? Nobody knows the old story?"
"Well, mother, I've taken a man's chance in life, and have tried to make the most of it; and I haven't felt under any obligation to spoil it by raking up old stories that are best forgotten. There are the dear old books: have they been read since I went away?"
"No, honey, there's be'n nobody to read 'em, excep' Rena, an' she don't take to books quite like you did. But I've kep' 'em dusted clean, an' kep' the moths an' the bugs out; for I hoped you'd come back some day, an' knowed you'd like
There was an instant cessation of the sounds within. He rapped a third time, to satisfy any lingering doubt in the minds of those who he felt sure were listening in some trepidation. A moment later a ray of light streamed through the keyhole.
"Who's there?" a woman's voice inquired somewhat sharply.
"A gentleman," answered Warwick, not holding it yet time to reveal himself. "Does Mis' Molly Walden live here?"
"Yes," was the guarded answer. "I'm Mis' Walden. What's yo'r business?"
"I have a message to you from your son John."
A key clicked in the lock. The door opened, and the elder of the two women Warwick had seen upon the piazza stood in the doorway, peering curiously and with signs of great excitement into the face of the stranger.
"You 've got a message from my son, you say?" she asked with tremulous agitation. "Is he sick, or in trouble?"
"No. He's well and doing well, and sends his love to you, and hopes you've not forgotten him."
"Fergot him? No, God knows I ain't fergot him! But come in, sir, an' tell me somethin' mo' about him."
Warwick went in, and as the woman closed the door after him, he threw a glance round the room. On the wall, over the mantelpiece, hung a steel engraving of General Jackson at the battle of New Orleans, and, on the opposite wall, a framed fashion-plate from "Godey's Lady's Book." In the middle of the room an octagonal centre-table with a single leg, terminating in three sprawling feet, held a collection of curiously shaped sea-shells. There was a great haircloth sofa, somewhat the worse for wear, and a well-filled bookcase. The screen standing before the fireplace was covered with Confederate bank-notes of various denominations and designs, in which the heads of Jefferson Davis and other Confederate leaders were conspicuous.
"Imperious Caesar, dead, and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away,"
murmured the young man, as his eye fell upon this specimen of decorative art.
The woman showed her visitor to a seat. She then sat down facing him and looked at him closely. "When did you last see my son?" she asked.
"I've never met your son," he replied.
Her face fell. "Then the message comes through you from somebody else?"
"No, directly from your son."
She scanned his face with a puzzled look. This bearded young gentleman, who spoke so politely and was dressed so well, surely--no, it could not be! and yet--
Warwick was smiling at her through a mist of tears. An electric spark of sympathy flashed between them. They rose as if moved by one impulse, and were clasped in each other's arms.
"John, my John! It IS John!"
"Mother--my dear old mother!"
"I didn't think," she sobbed, "that I'd ever see you again."
He smoothed her hair and kissed her. "And are you glad to see me, mother?"
"Am I glad to see you? It's like the dead comin' to life. I thought I'd lost you forever, John, my son, my darlin' boy!" she answered, hugging him strenuously.
"I couldn't live without seeing you, mother," he said. He meant it, too, or thought he did, although he had not seen her for ten years.
"You've grown so tall, John, and are such a fine gentleman! And you ARE a gentleman now, John, ain't you--sure enough? Nobody knows the old story?"
"Well, mother, I've taken a man's chance in life, and have tried to make the most of it; and I haven't felt under any obligation to spoil it by raking up old stories that are best forgotten. There are the dear old books: have they been read since I went away?"
"No, honey, there's be'n nobody to read 'em, excep' Rena, an' she don't take to books quite like you did. But I've kep' 'em dusted clean, an' kep' the moths an' the bugs out; for I hoped you'd come back some day, an' knowed you'd like