Chapter 35 Donald and Dorothy by Mary Mapes Dodge
A DAY OF JOY
While the great ship that bears Donald and Madame René to America is plowing its way across the ocean, we who are on dry land may look into the home at Lakewood.
Uncle George and the two girls have just come in from a twilight walk; the glow of exercise is on their faces, and they are merry, not because anything funny has been seen or said, but because their hearts are full of joy. Donald is coming home.
Down stairs in the housekeeper's pleasant sitting-room are a pair of old friends, and if you could open the door without being seen you would hear two familiar voices.
"Where's the use," Mr. Jack is saying confidentially, "in Master Donald's bein' away so long? The place ain't natteral,—nothing's natteral without that boy. And there's Miss Dorothy, the trimmest little craft that ever was; here she's been tossin' about and draggin' anchor, so to speak, all because he ain't here alongside. He's gone to find out for certain, is he? Where's the use in findin' out? One clipper's as good as another if both are sound in the hull and full-rigged. To my mind the capt'n'd better took what the Lord's giv' him, and be thankful accordin'. You can't change the bottom o' the sea by continyully takin' soundin's. I tell you, messmate—"
He stops short as Lydia raises a warning finger,—
"You're forgetting again, Mr. Jack!" she pleads, "and after all the grammar me and Miss Dorry have taught you. Besides, you might be just as elegant in talking to me as to the family."
"Eleganter, Mistress Blum—eleganter," is the emphatic response; "but not when a chap's troubled—'t ain't in the order o' things. A cove can't pray grammatic and expect to be heard, can he? But, as I was sayin', there's been stormy times off the coast for the past three days. That boy ought t' have been kept at home. Gone to find out? Humph! Where's the use? S'pose when them two mites was throwed out from the sinkin' ship I'd 'a' waited to find out which babies they were; no, I ketched 'em fur what they was. Where's the use findin' out? There ain't no use in it. I'm an old sailor, but somehow I'm skeery as a lass to-night. I've kind o' lost my moorin's."
"Lost what, Mr. Jack?" said Lydia, with a start.
"My moorin's. It seems to me somehow's that lad'll never come to land."
"Mercy on us, Jack!" cried Lydia, in dismay. "What on earth makes you say a thing like that?"
"'Cos I'm lonesome. I'm upset," said Jack, rising gloomily, "an' that's all there is about it. An' there's that wall-eyed McSwiver—"
"Mr. Jack," exclaimed Lydia, suddenly, "you're not talking plain and honest with me. There's something else on your mind."
"An' so there is, Mistress Lydia; an' I may as well out with it. Ken you pictur' to yourself a craft tossed about on the sea, with no cap'ain nor compass nor steerin' gear nor nothin',—the whole thing clean adrift, an' no anchor to hold it from a-driftin' furder? Well, I'm that craft. I want some one to tow me into smooth waters, and then sail alongside allers—somebody kind and sensible and good. Now do you take the idee?"
Ship
Lydia thought she did, but she was not quite sure; and as we cannot wait to hear the thrilling conversation that followed, we will steal up stairs again, to hear the pleasant "good-night" often repeated while Uncle, at the study door, waves his hand blithely to the pretty procession of two mounting to the sleeping-room above.
Later, while the girls are whispering together in Dorry's cosey corner, Mr. Reed writes the long letter to Eben Slade, which tells him that he may now come on with "legal actions" and his threats of exposure; that Mr. George is ready to meet him in any court of law, and that his proofs are ready. Then at the last follows a magnanimous offer of help, which the baffled man will be glad to accept as he sneaks away to his Western home—there to lead, let us hope, a less unworthy life than of old.
The letter is sealed. Now the lights are out. Mr. Jack, tranquil and happy, having at last made Lydia "take the idee" to his satisfaction, has tip-toed his way to his bachelor room above the stable, and Watch settles himself upon the wide piazza to spend the pleasant midsummer night out of doors.
Sleep well, good old Watch! To-morrow will be a busy day for you. Very early, a trim young man will come with a message from the telegraph office, and you will have to bark and howl as he approaches, and slowly subside when Dorothy rushes down to receive the telegram, which tells of a certain ship being sighted at daylight off Sandy Hook. Then affairs at the stable will occupy you. Jack, getting out the carriage in a hurry, never heeding your growls and caresses, will drive to the house, and (while you are wildly threading your way between wheels and the horses' legs) Uncle George, Josie, and Dorothy, radiant with expectation, will enter the vehicle, Jack will mount to the box, and off they will start for the railway station!
Lydia—happy soul!—will call "Come back, Watch!" and then, resting on the piazza again, you may amuse yourself with the flies that try to settle on your nose, or dream of a wild race with your young master, while she makes the house fairly shine for the welcoming that is soon to be.
. . . Wake up, old Watch! "To-morrow" is here. Even now Uncle George, Josie, and Dorothy are on the Express-train for New York. It shakes and trembles with excess of speed, yet it is all too slow to satisfy the happy three who are going at last to see their ship come in.
Lydia Blum, are you aware that this is the twentieth time that you have "just run up and put the finishin' touch to Mr. Donald's room"? Ah, how pleased he will be when he learns that, after your wedding, you and Jack are to continue living on the place just the same, excepting that you are to have a little cottage of your own!
And you, Charity Danby,—so trim, rosy, and joyful for Dorothy's sake,—don't you see how you are hindering Kassy with your nosegays and garlands and vines trailing all through the house?
And, Jack, how can you wait till it is time to drive to the train but by working like mad in the stables, in the carriage-house, in the gymnasium,—anywhere, everywhere,—so that the boy will be all the more delighted when he comes?
Hark, now, Liddy! Don't you hear something? No, that was only the village boys shouting out on the lake! Dust away, dear woman! And you, Charity, throw wide the study-blinds, and brush that stray twig from the study-table before the young mistress of the house comes back! Ah, little you dream of the joy that will thrill those very walls to-night when under Dot's own fingers the clasp of a quaint old necklace shall yield to the touch of a tiny key, and Uncle George and his precious girl shall laugh and cry together!
Ready, every one! No false alarm this time. Lydia, Kassy, and Norah, Charity and all the Danbys, are waving handkerchiefs and hats as two carriages come rolling up through the sunset light that floods the avenue.
Hurrah! Bark your loudest now, old Watch! Jack feels like dancing a hornpipe on his box. Ed Tyler, and his father, and Josie Manning jump out of one carriage; Uncle George, leaping like a boy from the other, helps a tall, bright-eyed woman, dressed in black, to alight; and then, amid a chorus of cheers and barking, and joyous cries of welcome, happiest of the happy, follow the brother and sister—DONALD and DOROTHY!