Donald and Dorothy

CHAPTER XXVII.

DELIA, OR DOROTHY?

As Donald listened to his uncle by the study-window, on that starlit evening, many things that he had heard from Sailor Jack rose in his memory and blended with Mr. Reed's words. Part of the strange story was already familiar to him. He needed only a hint of the shipwreck to have the scene vividly before him. He and Dorry had often heard of it, and of their first coming to Nestletown. They knew that Uncle George had easily established his claim to the babies, as these and the one that was lost were the only infants among the passengers, and that he had brought them and Sailor Jack home with him from New York; that Jack, through his devotion to the children, had been induced to give up the sea and remain with Mr. Reed ever since; and that they, the twins, had grown up together the happiest brother and sister in that part of the country, until "the long, lank man" had come to mar their happiness, and Uncle had been mysteriously bothered, and had seemed sometimes to be unreasonably annoyed at Dorothy's innocent peculiarities of manner and temperament. But now Donald learned of the doubts that from the first had perplexed Mr. Reed; of the repeated efforts that he had made to ascertain which one of the three babies had been lost; how he had been baffled again and again, until at last he had given himself up to a dull hope that the little girl who had become so dear was really his brother's child, and joint heir with Donald to his and his brother's estates; and how Eben Slade actually had come to claim her and take her away, threatening to blight the poor child by proving that she was his niece, Delia Robertson, and not Dorothy Reed at all.

Poor Donald! Dorry had been so surely his sister that until now he had taken his joy in her as a matter of course, – as a part of his existence, bright and necessary as light and air, and never questioned. She was Dorry, he even now felt confident, not Delia – Delia, the poor little cousin who was lost; certainly not. She was Dorry and he was Donald. If she was not Dorry, then who was he? Who was Uncle George? Who were all the persons they knew, and what did everything in life mean?

No, he would not give her up – he could not. Something within him resented the idea, then scouted it, and finally set him up standing before his uncle, so straight, so proud in his bearing, so joyfully scornful of anything that threatened to take his sister away from him, that Mr. George rose also and waited for him to speak, as though Donald's one word must settle the question for ever.

"Well, my boy?"

"Uncle, I am absolutely sure of it. Our Dorry is Dorothy Reed – here with us alive and well, and I mean to prove it!"

"God grant it, Donald!"

"Well, Uncle, I must go now to bring my sister home. Of course, I shall not tell her a word of what has passed between us this evening. That scoundrel! to think of his intending to tell her that she was his sister's child! Poor Dot! think of the shock to her. Just suppose he had convinced her, made her think that it was true, that it was her duty to go with him, care for him, and all that – Why, Uncle, with her spirit and high notions of right, even you and I couldn't have stopped her; she'd have gone with him, if it killed her!"

"Donald!" exclaimed Mr. Reed, fiercely, "you're talking nonsense!"

"So I am – sheer nonsense! The man hasn't an argument in favor of his claim. But, Uncle, there is a great deal yet to be looked up. After Dot has bidden us good-night and is fast asleep, may I not come down here to the study again? Then you can show me the things you were speaking of – the pictures, the letters, the chain, the little clothes, the locks of hair, and everything – especially that list, you know. We'll go carefully over every point. There must be proof somewhere."

Donald was so radiant with a glad confidence that for an instant his uncle looked upon him as one inspired. Then sober thoughts returned; objections and arguments crowded into Mr. Reed's mind, but he had no opportunity to utter them. Donald clasped his uncle's hand warmly and was off, bounding down the moon-flecked carriage-way, the new dog leaping before him. Both apparently were intent only on enjoying a brisk walk toward the village, and on bringing Dorry home.

Dorry was very tired. Leaning upon Donald's arm as they walked homeward – for they had declined Mr. McSwiver's services – she had but little to say, and that little was all about the strange adventure at Vanbogen's.

"Who in the world was that man, Don?" and then without waiting for a reply, she continued: "Do you know, after I started for home, I really suspected that he was that horrid person – the long, lank one, you know – come back again. I'm glad it wasn't; but he may turn up yet, just as he did before. Why doesn't he stay with his own people, and not wander about like a lunatic? They ought to take care of him, anyway. Ugh! I can't bear to think of that dreadful man. It makes me shiver!"

"Then why do you think of him?" suggested Donald, with forced cheerfulness. "Let us talk of something else."

"Very well. Let's talk – let's talk of – of – Oh, Don, I'm so tired and sleepy! Suppose we don't talk at all!"

"All right," he assented. And so in cordial silence they stepped lightly along in the listening night, to the great surprise of Watch, who at first whined and capered by way of starting a conversation, and finally contented himself with exploring every shadowed recess along the moonlit road, running through every opening that offered, waking sleeping dogs in their kennels, and in fact taking upon himself an astonishing amount of business for a new-comer into the neighborhood, who naturally would be excused from assuming entire charge of things.

Mr. Reed met Don and Dorry on the piazza. Greetings and good-nights were soon over; and before long, Dorry, in her sweet, sound sleep, forgot alike the pleasures and adventures of the day.

Meantime, Mr. Reed and Donald were busily engaged in examining old family ambrotypes, papers, and various articles that, carefully hidden in the uncle's secretary, had been saved all these years in the hope that they might furnish a clew to Dorry's parentage, or perhaps prove that she was, as Mr. Reed trusted, the daughter of his brother Wolcott. To Donald each article was full of interest and hopeful possibilities; but his uncle looked at them wearily and sadly, because the very sight of them recalled a throng of disappointments and baffled surmises. There were the little caps and baby-garments, yellow, rumpled, and weather-stained, just as they had been taken off and carefully labelled on that day nearly fifteen years ago. Donald noticed that one parcel of these articles was marked, "Belonging to the boy, Donald," and the other simply "Belonging to the girl." There were the photographs of the two babies, which had been taken a week after their landing, carefully labelled in the same way, giving the boy's name but leaving a blank in place of the girl's. Poor, pinched, expressionless-looking little creatures, both of them were; for, as Uncle George explained to the crestfallen Donald, the babies were really ill at first, from exposure and unsuitable feeding. Then there were the two tiny papers containing each a lock of hair, and these also were marked, one, "The boy, Donald," and the other simply "The girl." Donald's had only a few pale little brown hairs, but "the girl's" paper disclosed a soft, yellow little curl.

"She had more than you had," remarked Uncle George, as he carefully closed the paper again; "you'll see that, also, by the accurate description of the two children that I wrote at the time. Here it is."

Donald glanced over the paper, as if intending to read it later, and then took up the chain with a square clasp, the same that Uncle George held in his hand when we saw him in the study on the day of the shooting-match. Three delicate strands of gold chain came together at the clasp, which was still closed. This clasp was prettily embossed on its upper surface, while its under side was smooth.

"Was this on Dor – on her neck or on mine, Uncle?" he asked.

"On the little girl's," said Mr. Reed. "In fact, she wore it until she was a year old, and then her dear little throat grew to be so chubby, Lydia fancied that the chain was too tight. The catch of the clasp seemed to have rusted inside, and it would not open. So, rather than break it, we severed the three chains here across the middle. I've since – "

Donald, who was holding the clasp toward the light, cut short his uncle's remark with the joyful exclamation:

"Why, see here! The under side has letters on it! D. R. – Dorothy Reed."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Reed, impatiently, "but D stands for Delia too."

"But the R," insisted Donald; "D. R., Dorothy Reed – it's plain as day. Oh!" he added quickly, in a changed tone, "that doesn't help us, after all; for R would stand for Robertson as well as for Reed. But then, in some way or other such a chain as this ought to help us. It's by no means a common chain. I never saw one like it before."

"Nor I," said Mr. Reed.

By this time, Donald had taken up "the girl's" little garments again. Comparing them with "Donald's" as well as he could, considering his uncle's extreme care that the two sets should not get mixed, he said, with a boy's helplessness in such matters: "They're about alike. I do not see any difference between them, except in length. Ho-ho! these little flannel sacques are of a different color; mine is blue and hers is pink."

"I know that," his uncle returned, despondingly. "For a long time I hoped that this difference would lead to some discovery, but nothing came of it. Take care! don't lay it down; give it to me" (holding out his hand for the pink sacque, and very carefully folding it up with "the girl's" things).

"How strange! And you wrote immediately, you say, and sent somebody right over to Europe to find out everything?"

"Not only sent my confidential clerk, Henry Wakeley, over at once," replied Mr. Reed, "but, when he returned without being able to give any satisfaction, I went myself. I was over there two months – as long as I could just then be away from my affairs and from you two babies. Liddy was faithfulness itself and needed no oversight, even had a rough bachelor like me been capable of giving it; but I felt better to be at home, where I could see how you were getting along. As Liddy and Jack and everybody else always spoke of you as 'the twins,' my hope that you were indeed brother and sister became a sort of habit that often served to beguile me into actual belief."

"Humph! well it might," said Donald, rather indignantly. "Of course we're brother and sister."

"Certainly," assented Mr. Reed, with pathetic heartiness, "no doubt of it; and yet I would give, I cannot say how much, to be absolutely certain."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

DON RESOLVES TO SETTLE MATTERS

For a time, an outsider looking on would have seen no great change at Lakewood, as the Reed homestead was called. There were the same studies, the same sports, the same every-day life with its in-comings, its out-goings, its breakfasts, dinners, and pleasant home-scenes; there were drives, out-door games, and sails and rambles and visits. Uncle George always was heartily willing to take part, when he could leave his books and papers; and Lydia, busy with household matters, often found opportunities to teach her young lady some of the mysteries of the kitchen.

"It's high time, Miss Dorry, that you learned these things," Lydia would say, "even if you are to be a grand lady, for you'll be the mistress of this house in time; and if anything should happen to me, I don't know where things would go to. Besides, as your uncle truly says, every lady should understand housekeeping. So, Miss Dorry dear, if you please to do so, we'll bake bread and cake on Saturday, and I'll show you at to-morrow's ironin' how we get Mr. Reed's shirt-bosoms so lovely and smooth; and, if you please, you can iron one for him, all with your own pretty hands, Miss."

As a consequence of such remarks, Mr. Reed sometimes found himself eating, with immense relish, cake that had only "just a least little heavy streak in the middle," or wearing linen that, if any one but Dorry had ironed it, would have been cast aside as not fit to put on.

But what matter! She was sure to improve under Lydia's instruction. Besides, her voice was sweet and merry as ever, her step as light and her heart even more glad; for Uncle was always his dear, good self now, and had no mysterious moods and startling surprises of manner for his little girl. In fact, he was wonderfully relieved by having shared his secret with Donald. The boy's stout-hearted, manly way of seeing the bright side of things and scouting all possible suspicions that Dorry was not Dorry, gave Mr. Reed strength and a restfulness that he had not known for years. Unconscious of the shadow still hanging over the home, Dorry, prettier, brighter, and sweeter every day, was the delight of the household; her very faults to their partial eyes added to her charm; for, according to Lydia, "they were uncommon innocent and funny, Miss Dorry's ways were." In fact, the young lady, who had a strong will of her own, would have been spoiled to a certainty but for her scorn of affectation, her love of truth, and genuine faithfulness to whatever she believed to be right.

Donald, on his part, was too boyish to be utterly cast down by the secret that stood between him and Dorry; but his mind dwelt upon it despite his efforts to dismiss every useless doubt.

Fortunately, Eben Slade had not again made his appearance in the neighborhood. He had left Vanbogen's immediately after Jack had paid his rough compliments to him, and he had not been seen there since. But at any moment he might reappear at Lakewood and carry out his threat of obtaining an interview with Dorry. This Donald dreaded of all things, and he resolved that it should not come to pass. How to prevent it was the question. He and his uncle had agreed that she must be spared not only all knowledge of the secret, but all anxiety or suspicion concerning her history; and they and Jack kept a constant lookout for the disagreeable intruder.

Day by day, when alone, Donald pondered over the case, resolved upon establishing his sister's identity, recalling again and again all that his uncle had told him, and secretly devising plans that grew more and more settled in his mind as time went on. Jack, who had been in Mr. Reed's confidence from the first, was now taken fully into Donald's. He was proud of the boy's fervor, but had little hope. Fourteen, nearly fifteen, years was a long time, and if Ellen Lee had hidden herself successfully in 1859 and since, why could she not do so still? Donald had his own opinion. Evidently she had some reason for hiding, or fancied she had; but she must be found, and if so, why should not he, Donald Reed, find her? Yes, there was no other way. Donald was studying logic at the time, and had committed pages of it to memory in the most dutiful manner. To be sure, while these vital plans were forming in his brain, he did not happen to recall any page of the logic that exactly fitted the case, but in some way he flattered himself that he had become rather expert in the art of thinking and of balancing ideas.

"A fellow can't do more than use his wits, after all," he said to himself, "and all this studying and getting ready to enter Columbia College next year, as Uncle says I may, will do well enough afterward; but at present we've something else to attend to."

And, to make a long story not too long and tedious, the end of it was that one bright spring day, months after that memorable afternoon at Vanbogen's, Donald, having had many earnest interviews meanwhile, obtained his uncle's unwilling consent that he should sail alone for England in the next steamer.

Poor Dorry – glad if Don was glad, but totally ignorant of his errand – was too amazed at the bare announcement of the voyage to take in the idea at all.

Lydia, horrified, was morally sure that the boy never would come back alive.

Sailor Jack, on his sea-legs in an instant, gave his unqualified approbation of the scheme.

Uncle George, unconvinced but yielding, answered Donald's questions; agreed that Dorry should be told simply that his uncle was sending him on important business; allowed him to make copies of letters, lists, and documents, even trusted some of the long-guarded and precious relics to his keeping; furnished advice and money, and, in fact, helped him all he could; then resolved the boy should not go after all; and finally, holding Dorry's cold hand as they stood a few days later on the crowded city wharf, bade him good-by and God bless him!

CHAPTER XXIX.

AN UNEXPECTED LETTER

"It was all so sudden," explained Dorothy to Charity Danby, a few weeks afterward, in talking over her brother's departure, "that I feel as if I were dreaming and that Don must soon come and wake me up."

"Strange that he should 'a' been allowed to go all the way to Europe, alone so – and he barely fifteen yet," remarked Mrs. Danby, who was ironing Jamie's Sunday frock at the time.

"Donald is nearly sixteen," said Dorry with dignity, "and he went on important business for Uncle. Didn't Ben go West when he was much younger than that?"

"Oh, yes, my dear, but then Ben is – different, you know. He's looked out for himself 'most ever since he was a baby. Now, Ellen Eliza," she exclaimed, suddenly changing her tone as the tender-hearted one came in sight, "what in the world are you goin' to do with that lame rabbit you put in the box there?"

"Cure it, Ma. That's what I'm going to do with it."

"Well, if anybody can, you can, I s'pose. But it's layin' so still I'm afraid you'll lose it."

"Charity says only hens lay, Ma," replied Ellen Eliza, suggestively, at the same time hurrying to the box in great solicitude.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby, laughing lightly. "Them children" (here the proud mother turned to Dorothy), "with their lessons and what not, are gettin' to be too much for me. I have to speak as ac'rate as a school-teacher to satisfy 'em. Only the other day, little Fandy took me by surprise. He's the brightest of the lot, you know. Well, I wanted to start the fire, and the matches had given clean out. 'Here's a pretty fix!' says I. 'A fire to light, and no matches!' 'I can help you, Ma,' says Fandy. 'Can you dear?' says I, pleased enough; 'have you got some matches?' 'No, Ma,' says the child. 'Well, how can you help me then?' I says; 'there isn't a spark or a live coal anywhere in the house. I can't light the fire without matches, that's certain.' 'Yes, you can light it without matches, Ma,' says he, in his 'cute, pos'tive way; 'yes, you can.' 'How can I?' says I, more to draw him out than with any hope o' gettin' help from him. 'Why,' says he, bowin' to me as grand as the best, and takin' somethin' out o' his little wescut pocket, 'you can use a match, Ma, and here's one; it's the only one I've got!' Now wasn't that a good catch, Dorothy, for a child o' his tender years?"

"Yes, indeed it was," assented Dorothy, heartily.

"Ma," began Ellen Eliza, who had been listening with much interest, "did – "

"Why, Ellen Eliza! Are you standing there yet? Now don't lay your wet apron down on your sister's poetry you forlorn, distres-sèd lookin' child! She's been writin' like wild this mornin', Mandy has, but I haven't had time enough to read it. It's a cryin' shame, Dorothy, her poetry isn't all printed in a book by this time. It would sell like hot cakes, I do believe, – and sell quicker, too, if folks knew she wasn't going to have much more time for writin'. She's going to be a teacher, Mandy is. Young Mr. Ricketts got her a situation in a 'cademy down to Trenton, where she's to study and teach and make herself useful till she perfects herself. 'Tisn't every girl gets a chance to be perfected so easy, either. Oh, Charity – there's so much on my mind! – I forgot to tell you that Ben found your 'rithmetic in the grass, 'way down past the melon-patch where baby Jamie must have left it. There, put up your sewing, Charity, and you and Dorothy take a run; you look jaded-like. Why, mercy on us!" continued the good woman, looking up at this moment and gently waving her scorching-hot iron in the air to cool it off a little, "you look flushed, Dorothy. You haven't gone and got malaria, have you?"

"Oh, no," said Dorry, laughing in spite of her sadness. "It is not malaria that troubles me: it's living for three whole weeks without seeing Donald."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Danby. "I don't wonder if it is, you poor child – only one brother so, and him a twin." Dorry laughed pleasantly again, and then, with a cheerful "good-by," walked slowly homeward.

The next morning, when she awoke, she felt so weary and sleepy that she sent a good-morning message to her uncle and told Lydia she would not get up till after breakfast-time. "Be sure," she said to Liddy, "to tell Uncle that I am not really ill, – only lazy and sleepy, – and by and by you may let Kassy bring a cup of very weak coffee."

Lydia, secretly distressed but outwardly cheerful, begged her dear young lady to take a nice long nap. Then lighting the fire, – for the morning was raw and chilly though it was May, – she bustled about the room till Dorry was very wide-awake indeed. Next, Uncle George came up to bid her good-morning, and make special inquiries, and when he went down reassured, Kassy came in with her breakfast. By this time Dorothy had given up all thought of sleep for the present.

"Why, Kassy!" she exclaimed in plaintive surprise, "you've brought enough to feed a regiment. I can't eat all that bread, if I am ill – "

"Oh, but I'm to make toast for you, here in your room, Miss," explained Kassy, who evidently had something on her mind. "Lydia, – I mean Mr. Reed, said so."

"How nice!" exclaimed Dorry, listlessly.

Kassy took her place by the open fire, and after hesitating a moment began to toast the bread, while Dorry lay looking at her, feeling neither ill nor well, and half inclined to cry from sheer loneliness. This was to be the twenty-third day without Donald.

"I wonder what that important business can be," she thought; "but, most likely, Uncle will tell me all about it before long."

Meanwhile, Kassy continued to toast bread. A formidable pile of browned slices already lay on the plate, and she was preparing, in absent-minded fashion, to attack another slice, when suddenly the long toasting-fork hung aimlessly from one hand, while the other began fumbling in her pocket. Finally, in a cautious, troubled way, she handed the young lady a letter.