Chapter 29 Donald and Dorothy by Mary Mapes Dodge
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.
"I—I should have given it to you before, Miss," she faltered, "but kept it because I thought—that—perhaps—I—"
But Dorry already had torn open the envelope, and was reading the contents.
Kassy, watching her, was frightened at seeing the poor girl's face flush painfully, then turn deadly pale.
"Not bad news, is it, Miss? Oh, Miss Dorry, maybe I've done wrong in handing it to you; but a gentleman gave me half a dollar, day before yesterday, Miss, to put it secretly into your hands, and he said it was something you'd rejoice to know about."
Dorry, now sitting up on the bed, hardly heard her. With trembling hands, she held the opened letter, and motioned toward the door.
"Go, call Mr. Reed! No, no—stay here—Oh, what shall I do? What ought I to do?" she thought to herself, and then added aloud, with decision: "Yes, go ask Mr. Reed to please come up. You need not return."
Hastily springing to the floor, Dorry thrust her feet into a pair of slippers, put on a long white woollen wrapper that made her look like a grown woman, and stood with the letter in her hand as her uncle entered.
She remained motionless as a statue while he hastily read it, her white face in strange contrast to the angry hue that overspread Mr. Reed's countenance.
"Horrible!" he exclaimed, as he reached the last word. "Where did this letter come from Dorothy? How did you get it?"
"Kassy brought it. A man gave her half a dollar—she thought it had good news in it. Oh, Uncle!" (seeing the wrath in Mr. Reed's face), "she ought not to have taken it, of course, but she doesn't know any better—and I didn't notice either, when I opened it, that it had no post-mark."
"Did you read it all?"
Dorothy nodded.
"Well, I must go. I'll attend to this letter. The scoundrel! You are not going to faint, my child?" putting his arm quickly around her.
"Oh, no, Uncle," she said, looking up at him with an effort. "But what does it mean? Who is this man?"
"I'll tell you later, Dorry. I must go now—"
"Uncle, you are so angry! Wait one moment. Let me go with you."
Her frightened look brought Mr. Reed to his senses. In a calmer voice he begged her to give herself no uneasiness, but to lie down again and rest. He would send Lydia up, for he must lose no time in attending to that letter. He was just going to open the door, when Josie Manning's pleasant voice was heard at the foot of the stair: "Is any one at home? May I come up?"
"Oh, no," shuddered Dorothy.
"Yes, yes," urged Mr. Reed. "Let your friend see you, my girl. Her cheerfulness will help you to forget this rascally, cruel letter. There, good-by for the present," and, kissing her, Mr. Reed left the room.
Josie's bright face soon appeared at the door.
"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed. "Are you rehearsing for a charade, Miss Reed? And who are you in your long white train—Lady Angelica, or Donna Isabella, or who?"
"I don't know who I am!" sobbed poor Dorothy, throwing herself upon the bed and hiding her face in the pillows.
"Why, what is the matter? Are you ill? Have you heard bad news? Oh, I forget," continued Josie, as Dorry made no reply; "what a goose I must be! Of course you are miserable without Don, you darling! But I've come to bring good news, my lady—to me, at least—so cheer up. Do you know something? Mamma and Papa are going to start for San Francisco on Wednesday. They gave me my choice—to go with them or to stay with you, and I decided to stay. So they and your uncle settled it late last night that I am to be here with you till they come back—two whole months, Dot! Isn't that nice?"
"Ever so nice!" said Dorry, without lifting her head. "I am really glad, Jo; but my head aches, and I feel dreadfully this morning."
"Have you had any breakfast?" asked the practical Josie, much puzzled.
"N-no," sobbed Dorry.
"Well, no wonder you feel badly. Look at this cold coffee, and that mountain of toast, and not a thing touched. I declare, if I don't go right down and tell Liddy. We'll get you up a good hot breakfast, and you can doze quietly till we come."
Dorry felt a gentle arm round her for an instant, and a warm cheek pressed to hers, and then she was alone—alone with her thoughts of that dreadful letter.
It was from Eben Slade, and it contained all that he had told Donald on that day at Vanbogen's, and a great deal more. He had kept quiet long enough, he added, and now he wished her to understand that, as her uncle, he had some claim upon her; that her real name was Delia Robertson; she was no more Dorothy Reed than he was; and that she must not tell a living soul a word about this letter, or it would make trouble. If she had any spirit or any sense of justice, he urged, she would manage for him to see her some day when Mr. Reed was out. Of course—(the letter went on to say)—Mr. Reed would object if he knew, for it was to his interest to claim her; but truth was truth, and George Reed was no relation to her whatever. The person she had been taught to call Aunt Kate was really her mother, and it was her mother's own brother, Eben, who was writing this letter. All he asked for was an interview. He had a great deal to say to her, and Mr. Reed was a tyrant who would keep her a prisoner if he could, so that her own Uncle Eben could not even see her. He had been unfortunate and lost all his money. If he was rich he would see that he and his dear niece Delia had their rights, in spite of the tyrant who held her in bondage. She must manage to see him,—(so ran the letter)—and she could put a letter for him, after dark that night, under the large stone by the walnut-tree behind the summer-house. He would come and see her at any time she mentioned. No girl of spirit would be held, for a single day, in such bondage, especially when sacred duties called her elsewhere. The writer concluded by calling her again his dear Delia, and signing himself her affectionate uncle, Eben Slade.
Early on that same evening, Sailor Jack, reaching the summer-house by a circuitous route, stealthily laid a dainty-looking note under the large stone by the walnut tree. He held his breath as he lingered a moment among the shadows. Ah, if he only could have his own way, what a chance this would be to leave that paltry thrashing at Vanbogen's far in the background! How he longed to get his hands on Eben Slade once more! But, no; he had received his instructions, and must obey. Besides, Slade was too wary a man to be caught this time. So poor Jack was forced to go back to the stables, and there bustle noisily about as though nothing unusual were expected.
But it was some satisfaction to follow Mr. Reed's further orders to keep a sharp lookout all that night, about the premises. Meantime Eben Slade, who like most men of his sort was a coward at heart, had hastily withdrawn to a safe distance, after finding what he sought under the walnut-tree. Soon he sat down in the woods that crossed his road, and there, by the light of a candle-end that he had with him, eagerly opened the dainty letter.
The man clutched the paper angrily as he read. It was not from the poor, frightened girl whose words he had hoped to see, but from Mr. Reed,—a plain, strong letter, that, while it increased Slade's wrath, and showed him the futility of pursuing his persecutions for the present, made him also savagely hopeful.
"Well," he muttered to himself, as he stole through the rain, along the dark road towards the shabby house which was to shelter him for the night, "I don't give her up yet by a good deal, and there's considerable worry ahead of George Reed still. Confound it! If I had that man's money and position I could work out the case to a certainty. But what can a fellow do without a dime or a friend? What if the boy has gone over the sea to find out for himself, he isn't likely to succeed after all these years; and if he does get any further particulars, why they're just as apt as not to be all in my favor. The girl is just as likely to be mine as theirs. Ten chances to one she's Kate's child, after all. Things will work right, yet. I'll bide my time."