“May my Heaven beA rosary bower,With one sweet angel,And that one—Thee!”
“May my Heaven beA rosary bower,With one sweet angel,And that one—Thee!”
There was a moment’s pause.
“Miss Calvert,” he went on, “I would that my heaven might begin on earth. It will, if you will be mine.”
Dorothy, like all other girls, under similar circumstances, had felt for a moment the compliment of a man’s love, then all at once she recalled the conversation between Alfy and her quondam lover, and with her quick intuition, she had recognized her possible inheritance as the probable cause of Mr. Dauntrey’s sudden declaration. Still she would not be unkind.
“Oh, my foot pains me unbearably. Please, Mr. Dauntrey, get Alfy to come and help me.”
“Just one little word of hope and I fly.”
“No, Mr. Dauntrey, I can but say at once, andfrankly and firmly, too, no,” and with that she made pretense to such suffering from the injured foot that the suppliant for her hand had but, with the best grace he could muster, to comply with her very reasonable request.
Dorothy, when the others came, was able, leaning lightly on Alfy’s arm, to accompany them to the train, and soon was happily interested in the wonderful panorama spread before their eyes on the return journey.
The base of the mountain reached, there was some delay, and Mr. Dauntrey walked about with Ruth, the two in earnest conversation. Aunt Betty and Dorothy sat quietly, while the former made as presentable as she could the torn garment worn by the girl.
“You will have to discard this gown, and substitute for traveling your light mohair. Fortunately, the weather is warm enough now. You have not had it on for a long time.” To Alfy was referred this decision, with results that will develop later.
Alfy was interested, albeit horrified, and held irresistibly spellbound, by the “sausage” man, selling, as the placard said, “Hot Dogs.” A half dozen wooley canines were exhibited on the counterand elsewhere about, and when an order for a frankfurter sandwich was given, one of the dogs was grabbed up and caused to disappear into a mechanical contrivance with a large wheel, which was then turned and there were barkings and such grumblings as might be expected from an animal suffering dire and distressing annihilation. Then from an opening, the much aproned proprietor handed forth the promised sandwich.
At the hotel that afternoon, the girl’s injured foot was cared for by her aunt. “We want no medicine-man,” she said, “for I know of the most effective home remedy, guaranteed to cure in twenty-four hours. I have secured the ingredients from the hotel kitchen.”
“What may they be?” inquired Dorothy.
“Lard and salt. The former spread on, and about the injured ankle, and liberally sprinkled with salt. Then securely bandaged.”
“It certainly is simple, and I will surely be able to play at the reception to-morrow afternoon?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Aunty, we are so seldom by ourselves, and Ruth and Alfy have gone out. I want to have a long talk with you.”
Dorothy lay resting, her injured foot supported,while her aunt sat beside her, caressingly stroking her hair and forehead.
First, the young girl spoke of Mr. Dauntrey and of her experience of that day. The humorous aspect of the circumstances appealed alike to both. Then the inheritance was discussed, and Aunt Betty deplored again the unfortunate loss of the locket and the lacking “insurmountable requirements,” in the way of some missing papers. Concerning the latter, Aunt Betty had some hopes that among her accumulated correspondence and documents at Bellevieu, there might be found helpful data bearing on the subject.
“Unless some good fortune is happily vouchsafed us,” deplored Aunt Betty sorrowfully, “I greatly fear that Bellevieu will be lost.”
“Mr. Van Zandt wrote, however,” encouraged Dorothy, “that it would be well worth while for us to go to England, and that personally presenting myself might ‘achieve results otherwise unattainable.’ You see, I have remembered his words.”
“I am determined upon that,” responded Aunt Betty, “and I am arranging that we shall go within a month after we get back east. I have a little surprise for you, too. Molly Breckenridge is goingalso. The judge has arranged for her expenses.”
The reader, who would wish to still further follow the fortunes of our heroine will find in “Dorothy in England,” a volume of startling interest and sweet sentiment.
Dorothy was most appreciative of her aunt’s thoughtfulness, and now she unburdened her mind of her secret. She told her of her strong regard for Jim, of his expressed love for her, and of her own inability to just exactly determine if her feelings were the equivalent of his. She wished for Jim every happiness, and she shared in his ambitions. They had had a difference, and she was most unhappy, and yet there was an intangible something that restrained her from seeking a reconciliation.
The good, motherly woman, who was her confessor, knew perhaps better than the girl herself, the strength of her regard for Jim, and knew that the heart’s promptings are seldom influenced. With this wisdom for a guide, she counselled wisely and satisfyingly. Time, and right doing, would remedy and set square all that was untoward.
Folded in each other’s arms in harmony of feeling,they were suddenly broken in upon by Alfy.
“What do you think,” she cried. “You told me to get out your light traveling dress. You had not worn it since that day of the fire in New York, and what do you think!” she excitedly repeated, “in the fold of the skirt I found this!” and she held forth the long missing locket.
So it unquestionably was. The gown had been put away, and in the folds of the skirt had been caught, and so long retained, the locket.
A word more and our story ends. The journey east was uneventful. At Baltimore, Aunt Betty and the girls said good-bye to Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Dauntrey. Ruth was to visit a day at Bellevieu and then go on with Alfy to New York.
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent.