"He knocks as if he had a right to come in," said Zenobia, laughing.
"And what are we thinking of?--It must be Mr. Hollingsworth!"
Hereupon I went to the door, unbolted, and flung it wide open. There,
sure enough, stood Hollingsworth, his shaggy greatcoat all covered with
snow, so that he looked quite as much like a polar bear as a modern
philanthropist.
"Sluggish hospitality this!" said he, in those deep tones of his, which
seemed to come out of a chest as capacious as a barrel. "It would have
served you right if I had lain down and spent the night on the
doorstep, just for the sake of putting you to shame. But here is a
guest who will need a warmer and softer bed."
And, stepping back to the wagon in which he had journeyed hither,
Hollingsworth received into his arms and deposited on the doorstep a
figure enveloped in a cloak. It was evidently a woman; or,
rather,--judging from the ease with which he lifted her, and the little
space which she seemed to fill in his arms, a slim and unsubstantial
girl. As she showed some hesitation about entering the door,
Hollingsworth, with his usual directness and lack of ceremony, urged
her forward not merely within the entry, but into the warm and strongly
lighted kitchen.
"Who is this?" whispered I, remaining behind with him, while he was
taking off his greatcoat.
"Who? Really, I don't know," answered Hollingsworth, looking at me
with some surprise. "It is a young person who belongs here, however;
and no doubt she had been expected. Zenobia, or some of the women
folks, can tell you all about it."
"I think not," said I, glancing towards the new-comer and the other
occupants of the kitchen. "Nobody seems to welcome her. I should
hardly judge that she was an expected guest."
"Well, well," said Hollingsworth quietly, "We'll make it right."
The stranger, or whatever she were, remained standing precisely on that
spot of the kitchen floor to which Hollingsworth's kindly hand had
impelled her. The cloak falling partly off, she was seen to be a very
young woman dressed in a poor but decent gown, made high in the neck,
and without any regard to fashion or smartness. Her brown hair fell
down from beneath a hood, not in curls but with only a slight wave; her
face was of a wan, almost sickly hue, betokening habitual seclusion
from the sun and free atmosphere, like a flower-shrub that had done its
best to blossom in too scanty light. To complete the pitiableness of
her aspect, she shivered either with cold, or fear, or nervous
excitement, so that you might have beheld her shadow vibrating on the
fire-lighted wall. In short, there has seldom been seen so depressed
and sad a figure as this young girl's; and it was hardly possible to
help being angry with her, from mere despair of doing anything for her
comfort.