“Close it, then, but see if he is in, please.”
“I’ll lave it open, and ye can come in or stay out according if ye are dry-humored or wet-soled;” and he shuffled off. The door was open! Her father had assured her of this once long ago. Inside were warmth and light; outside, in the shadow, were cold and darkness. Here she stood. Would the man never return? Ah, here he came hurrying along; she drew nearer the door; within a half-foot she stood still with locked jaw and swimming senses.
“My good woman,” said the grave, kindly voice which calmed while it unnerved her, “come in and speak to me here. Am I wanted anywhere? Come in, please; the door must be closed.”
With almost superhuman will she drew herself together and came closer. Seeing the dark, moving figure, he opened the door wide, and she stepped in; then as it closed she faced him, turning up her white, haggard face to his.
“You!”
He recoiled as if stunned, but quickly recovered himself.
“What trouble has brought you to me?” he cried.
“My mother,” she replied in a low, stifled voice, adding almost instantly in a distant and formal tone, “can you come at once? She is suffering with hysteria and calls you incessantly.”
He drew himself up and looked at her with a cold, grand air. This girl had been the only woman who had signally affected his life; yet if her only recognition of it was this cold manner, he could command the same.
“I will come,” he replied, looking unbendingly, with steely gray eyes, into her white passionless face, framed in its dark hood.