Donald and Dorothy

"All the Reeds are impetuous," he had said lightly, as if apologizing for this particular member of the family; "so we'll waive ceremony, my boy. With your permission, as I said before, I'll step into the parlor now, and have a little chat with the young lady."

"And as I said before," retorted Donald, "you'll do no such thing."

"Calm yourself," sneered the other. "It would be easy for me to get in through the window, were it not that one hates to scare the pretty bird; and as for the key – "

"As for the key," echoed Donald, who happened to have it in his possession; "well, and what of the key?"

"Why, my boy," glancing toward Don's pocket, "it wouldn't tax a six-footer like me overmuch to help himself to it; but, under the circumstances, it might be wiser merely to tell mine host in yonder room that an irate little manikin has taken it into his head to lock his sister, as he calls her, in the public parlor, and refuses to let her out."

"Insolent fellow!" exclaimed Donald, yet restraining his anger as well as he could. "Look out what you say. Another word like that, and I'll have you turned out of this place, neck and heels."

"Ha! ha! Pretty good. Well, as I was remarking, I've a word or two to say to my young lady in there. Hold up! H-o-l-d up! No one is going to kill her. Perhaps you're not aware I have a right there!"

"You have a right there, I'll admit, as a traveller," said Don; "but just now, I ask you to stay outside."

"And I ask you to let me in," returned the six-footer, beginning to be angry.

At any other time, Donald would not have parleyed a moment with the man, but, as the reader may have surmised, he had reasons of his own for prolonging the interview. He had planned well and worked quickly to get Dorry off unobserved; and now that his strategy had succeeded, the next point was to gain time for her to be far on her way before Eben Slade – for he it was – should discover that Dorry was not safely locked in the dingy parlor.

"I ask you to let me in," repeated the long, lank man, softening his tone, "as one gentleman would ask another. May be I've more right to talk to her than you have yourself."

"What do you mean, you rascal?"

"Thank you!" sneered Eben. "Rascal is good. Pray, do you know my name?"

"No, I do not; and I don't want to. It's enough that I recognize you; and probably the less one knows about you, the better."

"May be so. But the time's gone by for that. My name's Eben Slade. Now do you know why I want to go into that room? No? Well, I'll tell you," continued Eben Slade; "it's because I've more right to speak to that girl than you have. It's because – Hi! hi! not so fast, young man," muttered Eben, restraining Donald with considerable effort. "You can't put me out on the road this time. As I was saying – "

"What do you mean by those words, sir?"

"Let me into the room, my boy, and I'll tell you and her together, quietly, just what I mean. I want to tell both of you a plain story, and appeal to her sense of justice. She's old enough to act for herself. Perhaps you think I haven't heard something of Dorothy's, or what-you-call-her's, spirit by this time."

"Let her name alone!" cried Donald, furiously. "If you mention my sister again, I'll knock you flat, you overgrown ruffian!"

"Hush, not so fast! You'll have those fellows out here in a minute. What's the use of letting everybody into our private affairs?"

Here Eben stepped further into the hall, followed by Donald.

"Let me into that room, will you?"

Donald, taking the key from his pocket, now threw open the door, with a "much good may it do you;" and, closing it again after Slade had entered, coolly locked him in the room. The blinds flew open. Don rushed out to the still deserted stoop, only to see Eben Slade's angry face glaring at him from the window. The man could have got through the window easily enough, but he preferred his present position. Leaning out, with his elbows on the sill, he said distinctly, in a passionate, low voice:

"You've baffled me this time, Donald Reed, but I'll carry the day yet. That girl, wherever she's gone to, is no more your sister than she is mine, and I can prove it to her! She's my niece – my own sister's child! I've a right to her, and I can prove it. She's going back home with me, out West, where my wife's waitin' for her. Now, sir, what have you to say to that?"

The poor boy, aghast at Eben's statement, stood at first as if stunned; but recovering himself, he made a rush toward Eben, not blindly, but with a fierce determination to clutch him by the throat and force him to unsay his terrible words.

Eben sprang from the window at a bound. A struggle ensued – brief, violent. Donald might have been mastered, had not a strong man sprung upon them and with one blow knocked Eben Slade prostrate upon the boards.

It was Sailor Jack, who had driven up unperceived and leaped from the buggy just in time.

Three or four men rushed from the bar-room, all calling out at once.

"What's the matter here?"

"Any one killed? – What's the row?"

"Hi! – Separate them!" shouted the stout, red-faced landlord, coming out slowly behind the others and, as usual, failing to take in the situation.

Meantime, two of the men had seized Jack as Eben rose slowly; another tried to catch hold of Donald. Their sympathy plainly was with Slade, who, seeing his opportunity, suddenly started toward the buggy with the evident intention of driving off in it.

Jack, breaking from his astonished captors, was upon him in an instant, dragging him back, just as Slade had put one foot on the buggy-step, and as Donald was alertly seizing Lady's bridle.

"Stand off, all of you!" cried Jack, still holding Eben by the collar. "We're out on the open seas at last, my man! and now look out for yourself!"

The thrashing was brief but effective. Jack wore a serene look of satisfaction when it was over; and Eben Slade slunk doggedly away, muttering:

"I'll be even with 'em yet."

Every hat was off, so to speak, when Jack and Donald, who had paid the landlord handsomely, drove from Vanbogen's door. Lady was impatient to be off; but Jack soon made her understand that the splendid time she had made in coming from Nestletown was no longer necessary, since Dood, tied at the rear of the buggy, could not go faster than a walk. The removal of his shoe and prompt nursing had helped the pony so much that by this time he was able to travel, though with difficulty.

It was a strange drive: the spirited mare ahead, relieving her pent-up speed by gently prancing up and down as she walked; Jack, grim and satisfied, going over again in fancy every stroke that had fallen upon the struggling Eben; Donald, pale and silent, with Slade's vicious words still ringing in his ears; and the pony limping painfully behind.

"He's taken up with his own thoughts," said Jack to himself after a while, noting Don's continued silence. "It ain't for me to disturb him, though them twins somehow seem as near as if they was my own children; but I would like to know just what the little chap has heard from that sea-sarpent. Somethin' or other's took fearful hold on him, sure's sailin', poor lad! He ain't apt to be so onsociable."

Following up these thoughts, as the mare jogged along, it was a great solace to good Sailor Jack, after their dismal drive, to see Don look up at the house as they turned into the lane, and wave his hat gallantly to Dorothy.

She, too, standing at her bedroom window with Lydia, was wonderfully relieved by Don's salutation.

"Oh, it's all right!" she exclaimed, cheerily. "Even Dood isn't hurt as badly as we feared, and how lovely it is to have Don back again, safe and sound! And, oh, Liddy, you should have seen Jack when I refused to get into the buggy, and made him drive on for his life, to help Don. But the trouble is over now. How lovely! Both of us will take supper with Uncle, after all!"

Lydia, who had been doing all sorts of things to save Dorry from "taking her death o' cold," stood admiringly by, while with rapid touches, and many a laughing word, the happy girl arrayed herself to go down and meet "dear old Don and Uncle."

Meanwhile Mr. Reed, in his study, looking up inquiringly to greet Donald's return, was surprised to see the boy's white face and flashing eyes.

"Uncle George," said Donald, the moment he entered the room, "tell me quick! Is Dorothy Reed my sister?"

CHAPTER XXV.

THE SUNSET

For an instant Mr. Reed was too astonished to speak.

"Tell me," implored Donald, "is Dorothy Reed my sister?"

"Hush! hush!" was the hurried response. "She'll hear you!"

"Is she or not?" insisted Donald, his eyes still fixed on his uncle's face. It seemed to him that he caught the words, "She is." He could not be certain, but he stepped hopefully forward and laid his hand upon Mr. Reed's shoulder.

"She is!" he exclaimed joyfully, bending over till their faces almost met. "I knew it! Why didn't you tell me the fellow lied?"

"Who? What fellow?"

"Uncle! Is she or not? I must know."

Mr. Reed glanced toward the door, to be sure that it was closed.

"Uncle, Uncle! please answer my question."

"Yes, my boy, I think – that is, I trust– she is. Oh, Donald," cried Mr. Reed, leaning upon the table and burying his face in his hands, "I do not know, myself!"

"What don't you know, Uncle?" said a merry voice outside, accompanied by a light rapping at the door, "May I come in?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Reed, rising. But Don was first. He caught Dorry in his arms as she entered.

"Well!" she exclaimed, never suspecting the nature of the scene she had interrupted, "I thought I'd never get dressed. But where's the sense of shutting yourselves in here, when it's so beautiful outside after the shower? It's the grandest sunset I ever saw. Do come and look at it!"

With these words, and taking an arm of each, she playfully led them from the room, out to the piazza, where they could see the glory of the western sky.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she went on, as they stood looking over the glowing lake. "See, there's a splendid, big purple cloud with a golden edge for you, Uncle, and those two little ones alongside are for Don and me. Oh!" she laughed, clapping her hands, "they're twins, Don, like ourselves; what a nice time they're having together! Now they are separating – farther and farther apart – and yours is breaking up too, Uncle. Well, I do declare," she added, suddenly turning to look at her companions, "I never saw such a pair of doleful faces in all my life!"

"In all your life?" echoed her uncle, trying to laugh carelessly, and wishing to divert her attention from Donald.

"Yes, in all my life – all our life I might say – and it isn't such a very short life either. I've learned ever so many things in it, I'd have you know, and not all of them from school-books, by any means."

"Well, what have you learned, my girl?"

"Why, as if I could tell it all in a minute! It would take a year. I'll tell you one thing, though, that I've found out for certain" (dropping a little courtesy): "I've the very dearest brother ever a girl had, and the best uncle in the whole United States."

With these words, Dorothy, raising herself on tiptoe, smilingly caught her uncle's face with both hands and kissed him.

"Now, Don," she added, "what say you to a race to the front gate before supper? Watch can try, too, and Uncle shall see which – Why, where is Don? When did he run off?"

"I'll find him," said Uncle George, passing her quickly and reaching his study before Dorry had recovered from her surprise. He had seen Donald hasten into the house, unable to restrain the feelings called up by Dorry's allusion to the clouds, and now he, too, could bear her unsuspecting playfulness no longer.

Dorry stood a few seconds, half puzzled, half amused at their sudden desertion of her, when sounds of approaching wheels caught her attention. Turning, she saw Josie Manning coming toward the house, in an open carriage driven by Mr. Michael McSwiver.

"Oh, Dorothy!" Josie called out, before Michael had brought the fine gray horse to a halt, "can you come and take supper with me? I have driven over on purpose, and I've some beautiful new lichens at home to show you. Six of us G-B-C girls went out moss-hunting before the shower. So sorry you were not with us!"

"Oh, I don't think I can," hesitated Dorry. "Donald and I have been away all day. Can't you stay here instead?"

"Im-possible," was Josie's emphatic reply. "Mother will be waiting for me – Oh, what a noble fellow! So this is Watch? Ed Tyler told me about him."

Here Josie, reaching out her arm, leaned forward to pat the shaggy head of a beautiful Newfoundland, that, with his paws on the edge of the rockaway, was trying to express his approbation of Josie as a friend of the family.

"Yes, this is our new dog. Isn't he handsome? Such a swimmer, too! You ought to see him leap into the lake to bring back sticks. Here, Watch!"

But Watch would not leave the visitor. "Good fellow, I admire your taste," said Josie, laughingly, still stroking his large, silky head. "But I must be off. I do wish you'd come with me, Dot. Go and ask your uncle," she coaxed; "Michael will bring you home early."

Here Mr. McSwiver, without turning his face, touched the rim of his hat gravely.

"Well, I'll see," said Dorothy, as she ran into the house. To her surprise, Mr. Reed gave a willing consent.

"Shall I really go?" she asked, hardly satisfied. "Where is Donald?"

"He is readying himself for supper, I think, Miss," said Kassy, the housemaid, who happened to pass at that moment. "I saw him going into his room."

"But you look tired, Uncle, dear. Suppose I don't go, this time."

"Tired? not a bit. Never better, Dot. There, get your hat, my girl, and don't keep Josie waiting any longer."

"Well, good-by, then. Tell Don, please, I've gone to Josie's – Oh, and Josie and I would like to have him come over after tea. He needn't though, if he feels very tired, for Josie says Michael can bring me home."

"Very well, my dear. If Donald is not there by half-past nine o'clock, do not expect him. Wait; I'll escort you to the carriage."

CHAPTER XXVI.

UNCLE GEORGE TELLS DONALD

"Come into the study, Donald," said Uncle George, after their lonely supper, – lonely even to Lydia, who presided at the tea-tray wondering how Mr. G. could have been so thoughtless as to let that child go out. "We can have no better opportunity than this for our talk. But, first tell me – Who was the 'fellow' you mentioned? Where was he? Did Dorry see him?"

Donald, assuring his uncle that Dorry had not recognized the man, told all the particulars of the interview at Vanbogen's, and of Jack's timely appearance and Slade's beating.

Disturbed, even angry, as Mr. Reed was at hearing this unwelcome news, he could not resist Donald's persistent, resolute desire that the present hour should be given to the main question concerning Dorry.

Twilight slowly faded, and the room grew darker as they sat there, until at last they scarcely could see each other's faces. Then they moved nearer to the open window, conversing in a low tone, as star after star came softly into view.

Donald's large, wistful eyes sometimes turned to look toward the front gate, through which Dorry had passed, though he gave close attention to every word Mr. Reed uttered.

It was a strange story; but all its details need not be repeated here. Suffice it to say, at last Donald learned his uncle's secret, and understood the many unaccountable moods that so often had perplexed Dorry and himself.

What wonder that Mr. George had been troubled, and had sometimes shown signs of irritation! For nearly fifteen years he had suffered from peculiar suspense and annoyance, because, while he believed Dorothy to be his own niece, he could not ascertain the fact to his complete satisfaction. To make matters worse, the young girl unconsciously increased his perplexity by sometimes evincing traits which well might be inherited from his brother Wolcott, and oftener in numberless little ways so reminding him of his adopted sister Kate in her early girlhood, that his doubts would gain new power to torment him.

All he had been able to find out definitely was that, in the autumn of 1859, in accordance with his instructions, Mrs. Wolcott Reed, his brother's widow, with her twin babies, a boy and girl of six weeks, and their nurse, had sailed from Europe, in company with Kate and her husband, Henry Robertson, who had with them their own little daughter Delia, a baby barely a week older than the twins.

When about seven days out, the steamer had been caught in a fog, and, going too near the treacherous coast of Newfoundland, had in the night suddenly encountered a sunken rock. The violence of the shock aroused every one on board. There was a rush for the pumps, but they were of no use; the vessel already had begun to sink. Then followed a terrible scene. Men and women rushed wildly about, vainly calling for those belonging to them. Parents and their children were separated in the darkness – all, passengers and crew alike, too panic-stricken to act in concert. In the distracting terror of the occasion, there was great difficulty in lowering the steamer's boats – now their only possible hope of rescue. These were no sooner let down than they became dangerously overloaded. The first one, indeed, was so crowded that it swamped instantly. The other boats, threatened with the same fate, were tossed far apart as fast as they were filled, and in the darkness and tumult their crews were able to pick up but a few of the poor creatures who were struggling with the waves.

Two of the three babies, a boy and a girl, had been rescued, as we already know, by the efforts of one of the crew, Sailor Jack, known to his comrades as Jack Burton. He had just succeeded in getting into one of the boats, when he heard through the tumult a woman's wild cry from the deck:

"Save these helpless little ones! Look out! I must throw them!"

"Ay, ay! Let 'em come!" shouted Jack in response; and the next moment the babies, looking like little black bundles, flew over the ship's side, one after the other, and were safely caught in Jack's dexterous arms. Just in time, too, for the men behind him at once bent to the oars, in the fear that the boat, so dangerously near the sinking ship, was in danger of being engulfed by it.

Against Jack's protesting shout of "There's another coming! – a woman!" the boat shot away on the crest of a wave.

Hearing a scream above the surrounding din, Jack hastily flung off his coat, thrust the babies into the arms of his comrades, and shouting, "Keep them safe for me: I'm Jack Burton. It may be the mother! Look out for me, mates!" he plunged into the sea.

Jack made gallant efforts for a time, but returning alone, worn out with his fruitless exertions, he was taken into the boat. If, after that, in the severe cold, he remembered his jacket, it was only to take real comfort in knowing that the "little kids" were wrapped in it safe and sound. In the darkness and confusion he had not been able to see who had thrown the babies to him, but the noble-hearted sailor resolved to be faithful to his trust, and if he ever touched land again never to lose sight of them until he could leave them safe with some of their own kindred.

All night, in the bitter cold, the boat that carried the two babies had tossed with the waves, the men using their oars as well as they could, working away from the dangerous rocks out to the open sea, and hoping that daylight might reveal some passing vessel. Every one excepting the babies, suffered keenly; these, wrapped from head to feet in the sailor's jacket, and tucked in between the shivering women, slept soundly, while their preserver, scorning even in his drenched condition to feel the need of his warm garment, did his best at the oars.

With the first light of dawn a speck appeared on the horizon. It slowly grew larger, sometimes seeming to recede, and often disappearing utterly, until at last the straining eyes that watched it discerned its outline. It was a ship under full sail! Everything now depended upon being able to attract attention. One of the women, wrapped in a large white woollen mantle, snatched it off; it would serve as a signal of distress. The men hoisted the garment upon an oar, and, heavy and wet though it was, waved it wildly in the air.

"She's seen us!" cried Sailor Jack at last. "Hooray! She's headin' straight for us!"

And so she was.

Before sunset of that day, the honest sailor, with two babies, and all his companions in the boat were comfortably quartered on what proved to be the good ship "Cumberland," a sailing vessel bound for the port of New York.

Once safely on board, Sailor Jack had time to reflect on his somewhat novel position – a jolly tar, as he expressed it, with two helpless little kids to take ashore as salvage. That the babies did not now belong to him never entered his mind; they were his twins, to be cared for and to keep, he insisted, till the "Cumberland" should touch shore; and his to keep and care for ever after, unless somebody with a better right and proof positive should meet him in New York and claim them, or else that some of their relatives should be saved in one of the other boats.

So certain was he of his rights, that when the captain's wife, who happened to be on board, offered to care for the little creatures, he, concealing his helplessness as a nurse, accepted her kindness with a lordly air and as though it were really a favor on his part. "Them twins is Quality," he would say, "and I can't have 'em meddled with till I find the grand folks they belong to. Wash their leetle orphan faces, you may; feed 'em, you may; and keep 'em warm, you may; but their leetle jackets, night gownds, and petticuts, an' caps has got to stay just as they are, to identify 'em. And this ere gimcrack on the leetle miss – gold it is, you may well say" (touching the chain on the baby's neck admiringly) – "this ere gimcrack likely's got a legal consequence to its folks, which I couldn't and wouldn't undertake to calc'late."

Meantime the sailors would stand around, looking reverently at the babies, until, with Jack's gracious permission, the kind-hearted woman would tenderly soothe the little ones to sleep.

Among the survivors of the wreck, none could give much information concerning the babies. Only two were women, and one of these lay ill in a rough bunk through the remainder of the voyage, raving in her fever of the brother who bent anxiously over her. (In her delirium, she imagined that he had been drowned on that terrible night.) Sailor Jack held the twins before her, but she took no notice of them. Her brother knew nothing about them or of any of the passengers. He had been a fireman on the wrecked vessel, and scarcely had been on deck from the hour of starting until the moment of the wreck. The other rescued woman frequently had seen a tall nurse with two very young infants on her lap, and a pale mother dressed in black standing near them; and she remembered hearing some one say that there was another lady with a young baby on board, and that the two mothers were sisters, or relatives of some kind, and that the one with twins had recently become a widow. That was all. Beyond vaguely wondering how any one could think of taking such mites of humanity across the ocean, she had given no more thought to them. Of the men rescued, not one had known of the existence of the three wee passengers, the only babies on board, as the little creatures seldom had been taken on deck.

The two mothers, as Jack learned from one of the women, had been made so ill by the voyage that they rarely had left their state-rooms. Mr. Robertson, Kate's husband, was known by sight to all as a tall, handsome man, though very restless and anxious-looking; but, being much occupied with the care of his wife and child, he had spoken to very few persons on board the vessel.

This was all Jack could find out, though he never wearied of making inquiries among the survivors. He was shrewd enough, however, to ask them to write their names and addresses for him to keep, so that, if the twins' people (as he called them) ever should be found, they could in turn communicate with the survivors. The family naturally would want to inquire about "the other baby and its poor father, and the two mothers, one of which was a widow in mournin' – poor soul! and the nurse-girl, all drowned and gone."