Kitabı oku: «Donald and Dorothy», sayfa 13

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."

Long weeks afterward, one other boat was heard from – the only other one that was ever found. Its freight of human beings, only seven in all, had passed through great privation and danger, but they finally had been taken aboard a steamer going east. The list of persons saved in this boat had been in due time received by Mr. Reed, who, after careful investigation, at last ascertained to a certainty that they all were adults, and that neither Mr. and Mrs. Robertson, nor Wolcott Reed's widow, were of the number. He communicated in person or by letter with all of them excepting one; and that one was a woman, who was described as a tall, dark-complexioned girl, a genteel servant, who, as three of the men declared, had been occasionally seen, pacing up and down the deck of the ill-fated vessel during the early part of the voyage, carrying a "very small baby" in her arms. She had given her name as Ellen Lee; had accepted assistance from the ship's company, and finally she had been traced by Mr. Reed's clerk, Henry Wakeley, to an obscure boarding-house in Liverpool. Going there to see her, Mr. Wakeley had been told that she was "out;" and calling there again, late on the same day, he learned that she had paid her bill and left the house four hours before.

After that, all efforts to find her, both on the part of the clerk and of Mr. Reed, had been unavailing; though to this day, as the latter assured Donald, detectives in Liverpool and London had her name and description, as belonging to a person "to be found."

"But do they know your address?" asked Donald.

"Oh, yes, I shall be notified at once if any news is heard of her; but after all these years there is hardly a possibility of that. Ellen Lees are plentiful enough; it is not an uncommon name, I find; but that particular Ellen Lee seems to have vanished from the earth."

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."