A STRANGE BETROTHAL
Nothing of Dorothy's doing in all her young life had so exasperated Mrs. Lawton as her refusal to drive out with William Henry Bulkley. How, she asked herself, could a child of hers be so stupidly content in poverty and obscurity, when, by a little self-sacrifice, she could acquire wealth; then with beauty and wealth combined with the Bassett-Lawton finesse she could attain position and exist socially. With the slightest sense of her own value and an adroit touch of coquetry now and then, she could simply twist Mr. Bulkley about her little finger.
"Of course he is a bit old for her, indeed," admitted Mrs. Lawton to herself. "He is a trifle older than her father, but—but—love for me, a tender desire for my welfare, should outweigh that objection; and I have tried hard to make her understand that my worldly salvation depends wholly upon her conduct. And yet the stupid creature receives the rich man who has cast her his handkerchief with frightened silence or with prim monosyllables! I—I could shake her! In my days of affluence and power, I always raised my voice against corporal punishment for children; but live and learn, live and learn! I know now I was in error, for the other day when she hid herself to avoid going to drive with William Henry Bulkley nothing would have given me more unalloyed pleasure than to have soundly trounced Miss Dorothy Lawton, my own youngest born daughter! If he only had an opportunity, no doubt Mr. Bulkley would flatter her vanity, arouse her ambition; but if he has no chance even to make splendid promises to her—well, he shall have a chance! She shall go out for a drive with him! Simpleton! She might herself have been driving a pair of dear little ponies this month past but for John Lawton's stiff-necked refusal to permit her to accept them. He's always ready to join hands with the girls in any sentimental folly. But I have a plan in my mind. The bird that can sing, but won't sing, my dear, must be made to sing! So next time Mr. Bulkley drives out here you will accept the seat beside him for at least a short drive, or I am not Letitia Lawton and your mother, Miss!"
While she was brooding over her plans in the sitting-room, Dorothy and Lena were busy in the kitchen, which was filled with the pleasant odor of baking bread. A large bottle of Lena's providing had been carefully covered with white flannel, and around and around it Dorothy was smoothly winding and basting down a bit of good old lace that was soiled beyond all using, and, as there was no money to spare for its renovation, she was taking this slow and tiresome way of cleaning it herself.
Lena, always delighted to do something for her favorite Miss Lady, was shaving some white soap up, ready for melting in a kettle of boiling water, and was earnestly assuring Miss Dorothy that she would "get uf der hands scalded, uf she attempted to do dose jobs! Youst tell me, my Miss," she begged, "und I vill boil de bottle, or younce him up und down, or twist him round or vat you vant every hows, only don' you get of der hands scalted."
And just then, around at the front of the house, William Henry Bulkley drove to the door. Mrs. Lawton heard the approaching horse dashing through the sea of fallen leaves, and, springing from her chair, she hurried to the hall, opened the door a crack, and, with finger on lip, whispering: "Don't ring! wait a moment!" she closed it again upon the wondering visitor, who, nevertheless, obeyed, and stood there waiting.
Mrs. Lawton, with astonishing speed, ascended the stairs, entered her room, and taking a bottle from her dressing-table containing a mixture known to the whole family as "Mamma's drops," she swiftly poured the contents from the window, corked the bottle, and returned it empty to its place. She then seized a handkerchief, shook a few drops of camphor upon it, and, tying it about her head as she moved, hurried lightly on tiptoe down-stairs, and, opening the door again, whispering to Mr. Bulkley "Ring now!" she slipped into the sitting-room, and became instantly a stricken sufferer from violent sick headache.
As the bell jangled loudly in the kitchen it startled both occupants.
Lena made an exclamation, and Dorothy, starting out with: "Why, surely, it's too early for——," stopped and flushed consciously, for she had that morning received a wee bit of a note from Leslie Galt, saying that he would be returning from the office earlier than usual that day and asking her permission to call, that he might speak to her on a very important subject—"a subject the enclosed might faintly hint at." And the enclosed being a violet, had "hinted" so sweetly that a sort of blissful misery of anticipation had been thrilling her nerves and flushing and paling her cheeks all the day. Now, as Lena left the kitchen, she glanced into the bit of broken looking-glass the little German maid had tacked on the wall for guidance in her own Sunday prinking, and, with tremulous fingers, was training the fluffy curls on her brow in the way they should go, when Lena returned with the heavy dragoon's men stride that anger always engendered in her, announcing, sullenly: "It's dot Herr Bergamots man, miss"—a name she had given Mr. Bulkley on account of the perfumes he used so lavishly—"und smellin' like a whole drug-store turned outside der door!"
"Oh!" gasped poor Dorothy in dismay, for she instantly realized that if his ponderous loitering was as long as usual poor Leslie Galt would find no opportunity to discuss that important subject with her that day. With a fallen countenance she was turning toward the door, when Lena added: "Und miss, der Mistress Mudder, she say you shall first com' quick right away by her, in der sittin'-rooms, where she make almost to die by der sick stomach head!"
"What!" exclaimed Dorothy, "mamma sick—why, since when?" Then anxiously: "Had she not her lunch and tea as usual, Lena?"
"Ja! she had, und she eat like a soldier!" scornfully asserted that handmaiden. "Und den sit mit der feet on der cushions und der plate full of der Herr Galt's grapes on der knee, und eat und tell me, vile I clear der tray avay, how hard is der life by her now! Und how hard for her to have der children mit ungrateful teeth not so sharp as der serpents! Und now she com' all tied up by der head und all crazy like by der pains, und vant you quick pefore even you go to der parlor to see der Herr Bulkley!"
"Oh!" cried Dorothy, "get a glass and spoon quick, for mamma will want her 'drops' the very first thing!"
As she hurried to the sitting-room she wondered why on earth her mother had not called or rang the bell, as was her custom when she was not feeling well. Entering the room she asked: "What can I do for you, mamma, and what has made you ill so suddenly?"
"Anxiety for the future of my family and the unhappiness of being a disobeyed, unloved mother has made me ill!" answered the sufferer. "I am of a very sensitive and delicate temperament; I have borne the neglect of the world in patience; I have suffered for the ordinary comforts of life without a murmur."
"Oh, mamma!" deprecatingly interjected Dorothy.
"Hold your tongue, miss!" snapped Mrs. Lawton. "You know, as well as I do, I have not had a silk stocking to my leg for years, and I have borne it all, and lived on, some way! But when my own flesh and blood flout me, and coldly deny me a little comfort for my last days, my courage breaks, and sickness supervenes—'er—'er, perhaps I mean intervenes. I—'er—'er, well, anyway—oh, dear heaven! help me, someone! My drops! my drops!" She rolled her head frantically about and called louder and louder for "drops."
Dorothy ran out, but, Mr. Bulkley stopping her in the hall, she took glass and spoon from Lena, and told her to run upstairs for mamma's drops-bottle (Mrs. Lawton smiled as she heard), and then explained that a sudden headache had attacked her mother, but her drops would relieve her and produce sleep.
"Hum! Opium, I should think!" remarked Mr. Bulkley.
"Oh, I hope not!" said Dorothy, and held out her hand for the bottle Lena had brought, and lo! it was empty.
"Did you spill it?" she asked, in a frightened voice.
"Nein! I huf not spilled nottings, my Miss Lady!" said Lena, shortly. "And my bread com' burn uf I don't go back by der kitchen!"
"O—o—h! o—o—h!" groaned Mrs. Lawton. "Where are my drops? What's that? All gone? Not even one dose? Well, I shall die without it! I simply can't bear this pain!"
She shot a meaning glance at Mr. Bulkley, who caught the cue, and exclaimed: "My poor dear friend! If this remedy can be had at Yonkers, and Miss Dorothy will direct me, I will go at once and procure these precious drops!"
A distressed, a harried look came into the girl's face. "Mamma," she said, "Sybil will go and I'll stay by you."
"Sybil's in New York by this time!" answered Mrs. Lawton. "I have been too ill to be able to tell you before! So, hurry your hat on and start at once!"
"Dear mamma, Lena can get the drops—she knows where the store is—and then we need not trouble Mr. Bulkley."
"No trouble!—no trouble at all!" pompously declared that gentleman.
"Lena has an oven full of bread to watch!" snapped the suffering one, whose head seemed surprisingly clear, by spells, at least.
"Then," despairingly cried Dorothy, "I will run for it myself! I can go very quickly, mamma, and perhaps Mr. Bulkley will be so good as to keep you company till I return!"
"Dorothy," cried Mrs. Lawton, "are you so utterly heartless that you can deliberately lengthen out this period of suffering, simply to gratify some whim of your own? O—o—o—h!" she groaned, dismally.
While Mr. Bulkley remonstrated: "Really, now, my dear little girl, while we have no right to—er—er, to expect logic from a lovely creature like yourself—you'll pardon me, Miss Dorrie, but you really don't show your usual good sense in this instance! It is quite absurd, your idea of walking when you can reach the village and return in less than a third of the time by driving, and—and you know the poor lady's comfort should be our first thought, so toss on your hat and let us start at once!"
With a lump big and hard in her throat the girl turned and left the room, and half way up the stairs she was almost sure that she heard a low laugh from the room she had left. "Oh," she thought, "if only papa was back from his long walk, or if my Syb were here! How I wish Leslie had arrived before this dreadful old man, who quite wears himself out pretending to be a young man! Oh, dear! oh, dear! if Leslie should happen to see me out with Mr. Bulkley—on the very day he was to call! Oh, mamma, mamma! you are not playing fair!" and she dried two big tears from her eyes before pulling down her veil, and then, all ungloved, she ran down, and scrambling unassisted—to Mr. Bulkley's annoyance—into the trap, sat there clutching the empty bottle, whose various labels told plainly of visits to more than one chemist's shop, and so overheard, though imperfectly, the groom making some suggestion about the horse, "the chin-strap (mumble, mumble), curb, pretty severe (mumble, mumble), tender mouth."
Mr. Bulkley's domineering tones answered: "Let it alone, I tell you! I know what I'm about! I don't want my arms pulled out! Stay here till I come back!" And, without the comforting presence of even a groom, they started toward Yonkers.
The mounted police of those days found little to do on Broadway, and even less on the quiet length and breadth of Riverdale Avenue, and many of them, from very weariness and ennui, made pets of their horses, sometimes teaching them simple tricks. Most of the men walked a good deal, and, with bridles hanging loosely over their arms, allowed the horses to browse the grass at the roadside. But one man had fallen into the habit of leaving his horse entirely free, to follow him like a dog. This animal was the big black, whose swollen leg Mr. Lawton had been interested in, in the spring. His name was Napoleon. He had been on the force for years, and was famous for his speed in short dashes. He had become well acquainted with the Lawtons, and would beg from the girls in the most barefaced manner whenever he met them; while he had established apron-nibbling relations with Lena, who talked much to the policeman of her "mash-man," who was his friend, while Napoleon meditatively sampled the gingham she wore.
Sometimes, while the officer gossiped, the horse would be a third of a block and more away, climbing an embankment, or reaching into some hollow after an enticing bit of dandelion or clover clump; and though he answered to a whistle, as a dog would, Sybil had several times remarked that some day an interesting moment would arrive for that policeman, that some sudden call would come for his services, and before the sundered man and horse could be united time would be lost and trouble would accrue—for the man, at least. But October had arrived, and her prophecy was as yet unfulfilled.
As Mr. Bulkley drove out of the old White house gateway the most unobservant person must have noticed that the big chestnut gelding was either in great discomfort or in a very bad temper. Dorothy was surprised, too, to see Mr. Bulkley trying to pull the animal, who wanted to go, down to a walk, and, finally, in a burst of temper, sawing the poor brute's mouth so cruelly that Dorothy, with a cry of pity, caught at Mr. Bulkley's wrist with her ungloved hand, saying: "Please, oh, please, don't do that, it hurts him so! See, there's a streak of blood on the foam of his mouth!"
And, at that unconscious touch, William Henry Bulkley, with the red of his cheek spreading over brow and neck, turned avid eyes upon her, saying thickly that "that little hand of hers had power to guide him where it would," adding, with brutal coarseness, that he "would crush the horse's jaw, like a nutshell, to spare her annoyance!" a speech that was a trifle wide of the mark, since he, and not the horse, had hurt and frightened her.
"Mr. Bulkley," said Dorothy, "won't you please let him go on a little faster? Mamma will find the time very long!"
And her companion laughed aloud, as, with ill-considered frankness, he made answer: "Oh, I guess mamma's all right!" Then he traitorously added: "She's being treated vicariously. The drive you take will cure her headache!" laughing immoderately.
"I do not understand you," said Dorothy, coldly.
"Oh, my little girl!" he gurgled; "my little girl, whims in the young and beautiful are not only pardonable, they are adorable. They should be obeyed without hesitation, but the whims of the elderly are ridiculous. My friend Mrs. Lawton has whims, and that headache of hers will be helped quite as readily by a little quiet as by these wonderful drops. This is a lovely day for the view from Park Hill, and we'll just drive up there and enjoy it!"
"Mr. Bulkley," broke in the distressed and angry girl, "I must insist upon getting mamma's medicine and returning at once!"
And just then, through a side street leading to Broadway, came Leslie Galt, tall, well set up, well-dressed, some law books under his arm, and in his face all the pride and bright hopefulness that belong by natural right to the face of the man who goes to seek his love and ask her promise. He recognized the big chestnut as it passed his corner, and also he knew but too well who was the wearer of the white-winged, blue-veiled hat, and his heart sank like lead in his breast in bitter disappointment. He stood a moment at the corner, then, instead of turning down Broadway toward Woodsedge, he followed up the street in the direction taken by the slowly moving carriage.
Dorothy had not seen him, but, instead, caught a glimpse of old black Napoleon, half-way up a bank, after a bunch of late clover blooms peeping out invitingly from the fallen leaves, while his uniformed master, a third of a block away, conversed gallantly with a sturdy young blowzy-belle of his own nationality. And even as Sybil's prophecy came into her mind, she noted a small store on her left with red and blue bottle-filled windows and stands of soda-water and cod-liver oil signs outside, and she eagerly cried: "Stop, please! Here's a drug-store!"
"But," grumbled Mr. Bulkley, "I thought we were going up into the town? This is not the place you intended going to?"
"Oh, any drug-store will answer," insisted the girl; "the drops are not difficult to prepare."
And with an angry jerk her vexed companion pulled the fretting horse in close to the sidewalk and stopped. But as Dorothy, bottle in hand, rose, the animal started, throwing her back into her seat, and Mr. Bulkley's loud "whoa!" and violent jerk on the tormented mouth did not add much to his steadiness in standing. For again, yes, and a third time, was Dorothy's effort to descend frustrated by the irritable, nervous starting of the chestnut.
And then Mr. Bulkley's always feeble hold upon his temper gave way entirely, and, snatching the bottle from the girl's hand, he violently exclaimed: "Good God! Let me get out! Here!" and he flung the reins into her lap and sprang out of the trap. Answering her startled cry with "I won't be more than a moment" he started across the walk to the store.
And sometimes more than one would be superfluous, for some moments are crowded with incident; this was one of them. In the same instant that followed the sudden lessening of the strain upon the horse's mouth there had come Dorrie's startled cry and the sharp bang of the store door, violently slammed by Mr. Bulkley, each causing a leap of the chestnut's every nerve, and followed by the swift response of a raked up pile of leaves to some impish current of air that sent them in swirling circle out into the street, where, whirling down the hill like a veritable dancing Dervish of the Dust, they passed fair between the horse's legs! A bound, a long, wild scream from Dorothy, and the chestnut was off, with the trap slewing this way and that from side to side!
That cry had reached Galt's ears, and it almost stopped the beating of his heart for a hideous moment. Then, hurling the books he carried to the ground, he started on a run, when suddenly he heard the shrill, long whistle of the policeman recalling his horse, and glancing behind him he saw the officer racing toward him. Right in front came the big, black Napoleon, obediently answering his master's call. With a single bound Galt was at the horse's side, had grabbed the bridle with one hand, the pommel with the other, and hurling himself into the saddle, pelted by a very hail of furious oaths and threats to shoot, he gave the good old black the heel and a chance once more to prove his vaunted speed, for the runaway was now a race between the chestnut and the black!
And all the time, this frantic lover on his illegal mount, though praying dumbly for the safety of his love, was, all unconsciously, swearing like a madman. The policeman followed until his breath was gone, and, pausing an instant to regain it, he saw a boy come from a side street, who was exercising a livery horse. Before the half of Jack Robinson could have been said the policeman had the boy by the leg, down, and himself striding the horse, and pelted madly off in wild pursuit—and the race became a hunt.
At sight of the girl in the swaying, swinging vehicle, people racing along the sidewalks cried out in pity. Drivers turned out to give free passage to the furious horse. And Dorothy, who, white-faced, staring straight ahead, had gasped once or twice, "Sybbie! oh, Sybbie!" feeling faintness stealing over her, could only hope it might come before the inevitable crash.
And then she was dimly conscious of regularly beating hoofs behind her. Something dark showed close at her side, fell back, reappeared, seemed stationary for a moment, then rushed ahead, and she recognized Napoleon, and wondered vaguely why his rider wore no uniform.
The old horse knew his business well. He had avoided the wheels, but now crowded in close upon the runaway. Galt reached for and caught the bridle; the chestnut swerved to the sidewalk; then a tree, a high curb, cramped wheels, sudden splintering of a shaft, and the high cart was over, and Dorothy, hurled half-way across the street, fell on one doubled-up arm and lay silent and motionless.
The crowd that so miraculously appears upon the scene of even a suburban accident, was closing about her, when, leaving the horses to the care or the neglect of others, Leslie Galt dropped on one knee, and lifting the pallid face, whose left side, dust-smeared, bruised, and sand-cut, was so piteous a sight to him, in breathless, unthinking haste, cried: "Dorothy! my darling! For God's sake, speak to me!"
And even as the words left his lips he remembered his situation, but it was too late. He caught the exchanged glances, the half-wink, half-leer on the face of a hulking fellow, and, like a flash, boldly lied to protect the helpless girl, saying: "Run for a doctor, someone, please! This is my affianced wife, Miss Lawton, and I dare not think of leaving her!"
The effect of that statement was instantaneous. Murmurs of sympathy were heard, women pressed closer. One drew the tossed skirt smooth about the girl's ankles; another produced a smelling bottle from her chatelaine; a third gently strove to straighten that crumpled looking arm; while the leering fellow went plunging diagonally across the street to call out a doctor residing near. Galt had barely time to feel a pang of terror over his headlong assertion, an awful fear that Dorothy might repudiate his claim, when the furious policeman came pounding up, threatening unspeakable and dire punishment for this disturber of the peace, this breaker of the law, and—and horse-thief, and demanding that he submit at once to arrest.
"All right," answered Galt. "As an officer you have every right to hale me to prison; and yet, as a man, I'm sure you will make some allowance for a fellow who sees his future wife in danger! For," desperately thought Leslie, "I may as well hang for a sheep as a lamb, and stick now to my claim."
Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, innocently: "I know you are anxious not only to lock me up, officer, but to get the opportunity to explain to your superiors how you and your horse came to be so widely separated while you were on duty?"
The policeman's jaw dropped a bit. He looked distinctly troubled. A lady came out just then and asked that the injured girl be brought into her house, and, as the policeman stooped to help Leslie lift her, he exclaimed: "God be good to us! Wh-y it's Miss Dorothy Lawton! Won't there be ructions when the old man at home hears of this! Them girls are just his two eyes! What's that? Will I be leavin' you free of arrist till the doctor comes? What kind of a bounder do you take me for, anyway? I'll leave you free till you'll be gettin' the little colleen safe home, sure, and thin maybe you'll show up and stand for a fine and the like? Divil take that gang out there!" and out he charged upon the crowd.
Finding himself for a few precious moments alone with Dorothy, who was lying on a settle in a hall, Galt began a hurried search of his breast-pocket. He brought out a small box, and, opening it, was shaking out into his palm a glittering ring, when a faint moan reached his ear, and, bending over, he saw the blue eyes he loved slowly open, saw the dazed look passing, and as glad recognition dawned in them he swiftly took her hand, and slipping the ring upon her finger, he whispered, rapidly, urgently: "Little Dorothy, listen! Try to understand! And oh, try, too, to forgive me! But you are hurt, dear, and that I may have the right to protect and care for you, I—I—oh, Dorrie, see, dear!" He lifted her hand that she might see the ring. "I have dared to claim you, sweet—have declared you my promised wife! For God's sake, don't deny me! Promise!"
But Dorothy promised nothing. The faint blush that had crept into her cheek died there. The wide-amazed eyes slowly closed, and in utter silence she slipped back into the unconsciousness in which the doctor presently found her.