Dorothy's Triumph

"Maryland, my Maryland!" dreamily hummed Dorothy Calvert.

"Not only your Maryland, but mine," was the resolute response of the boy beside her.

Dorothy turned on him in surprise.

"Why, Jim Barlow, I thought nothing could shake your allegiance to old New York state; you've told me so yourself dozens of times, and-"

"I know, Dorothy; I've thought so myself, but since my visit to old Bellvieu, and our trip on the houseboat, I've-I've sort o' changed my mind."

"You don't mean that you're coming to live with Aunt Betty and I again, Jim? Oh, you just can't mean that! Why, we'd be so delighted!"

"No, I don't mean just that," responded Jim, rather glumly-"in fact, I don't know just what I mean myself, except I feel like I must be always near you and Mrs. Calvert."

"Say Aunt Betty, Jim."

"Well, Aunt Betty."

"You know she is an aunt to you, in the matter of affection, if not by blood."

"I do know that, and I appreciate all she did for me before she got well enough acquainted with you to believe she wanted you to live with her forever."

"Say, Jim, dear, often when I ponder over my life it seems like some brilliant dream. Just think of being left a squalling baby for Mrs. Calvert, my great-aunt, to take care of, then sent to Mother Martha and Father John, because Aunt Betty felt that she should be free from the care of raising a troublesome child. Then, after I've grown into a sizable girl, in perfect ignorance as to my real parentage, Aunt Betty meets and likes me, and is anxious to get me back again. Then Judge Breckenridge and others take a hand in the matter of hunting up my real name and pedigree, with the result that Aunt Betty finally owns up to my being her kith and kin, and receives me with open arms at Deerhurst. Since then, I, Dorothy Elisabeth Somerset-Calvert, F. F. V., etc., etc., changed from near-poverty to at least a comfortable living, with all my heart could desire and more, have had one continuous good time. Yes, Jim, it is too strange and too good to be true."

"But it is true," protested the boy-"true as gospel, Dorothy. You are one of the finest little ladies in the land and no one will ever dispute it."

"Oh, I wasn't fishing for compliments."

"Well, you got 'em just the same, didn't you? And you deserve 'em."

The train on which Dorothy and Jim, together with Ephraim, Aunt Betty's colored man, were riding, was already speeding through the broad vales of Maryland, every moment bringing it nearer the city of Baltimore and Old Bellvieu, the ancestral home of the Calverts, where Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert, familiarly termed, "Aunt Betty," would be awaiting them.

Since being "taken into the fold" by Aunt Betty, after years of living with Mother Martha and Father John, to whom she had sent the child as a nameless foundling, Dorothy had, indeed, been a happy girl, as her experiences related in the previous volumes of this series, "House Party," "In California," "On a Ranch," "House Boat," and "At Oak Knowe," will attest.

Just now she was returning from the Canadian school of Oak Knowe, where she had spent a happy winter. Mrs. Calvert had been unable to meet her in the Dominion, as she had intended, but had sent Jim and Ephraim, the latter insisting that he was needed to help care for his little mistress. Soon after the commencement exercises were over the trio had left for Dorothy's home.

And such a commencement as it had been! Dorothy could still hear ringing in her ears the rather solemn, deep-toned words of the Bishop who conferred the diplomas and prizes, as he had said:

"To Miss Dorothy Calvert for uniform courtesy." Then again: "To Miss Dorothy Calvert, for advancement in music."

"The dear old Bishop!" she cried, aloud, as she thought again of the good times she had left behind her.

"'The dear old Bishop'?" Jim repeated, a blank expression on his face. "And who, please, is the dear old Bishop?"

"I'd forgotten you did not meet him, Jim. He's the head director of the school at Oak Knowe, and one of the very dearest of men. I shall never forget my first impression of him-a venerable man, with a queer-shaped cap on his head, and wearing knee breeches and gaiters, much as our old Colonial statesmen were wont to do. 'So this is my old friend, Betty Calvert's child, is it?' he said. Dorothy imitated the bass tones of a man with such precision that Jim smiled in spite of himself. 'Well, well! You're as like her as possible-yet only her great-niece. Ha! Hum!' etc., etc. Then he put his arm around me and drew me to his side, and, Jim, I can't tell you how comfortable I felt, for I was inclined to be homesick, 'way up there so far from Aunt Betty. But he cured me of it, and asked Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon to care for me."

"Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon?"

"Why, yes-the Lady Principal. You met her, Jim. You surely remember her kind greeting the night the prizes and diplomas were conferred. She was very courteous to you, I thought, considering the fact that she is so haughty and dignified."

"Don't believe I'd like to go to a girls' school," said Jim.

"Why, of course, you wouldn't, silly-being a boy."

"But I mean if I was a girl."

"Why?"

"Oh, the life there is too dull."

"What do you know about life at a girls' school, Jim?"

"Well, I've heard a few things. I tell you, there must be plenty of athletics to make school or college life interesting."

"Athletics? My dear boy, didn't you see the big gym at Oak Knowe? Not a day passed but we girls performed our little feats on rings and bars, and as for games in the open air, Oak Knowe abounds with them. Look at me! Did you ever see a more rugged picture of health?"

"You seem to be in good condition, all right," Jim confessed.

"Seem to be? I am," corrected Dorothy.

"Well, just as you say. I won't argue the point. I'm very glad to know you've become interested in athletics. That's one good thing Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon has done for you, anyway."

"Jim, I don't like your tone. Do you mean to insinuate that otherwise my course at Oak Knowe has been a failure?"

"No, no, Dorothy; you misunderstood me. You've benefited greatly, no doubt-at least, you've upheld the honor of the United States in a school almost filled with English girls. And that's something to be proud of."

"Not all were English, Jim. Of course, Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard and her chum, Laura Griswold, were members of the peerage. But the majority of the girls were just everyday folks like you and I have been used to associating with all our lives. Even Millikins-Pillikins was more like an American than an English girl."

"'Millikins-Pillikins'!" sniffed Jim. "What a name to burden a girl with!"

"Oh, that's only a nickname; her real name is Grace Adelaide Victoria Tross-Kingdon."

"Worse and more of it!"

"Jim!" she protested sternly.

"I beg your pardon, Dorothy-no offense meant. Millikins-Pillikins is related to Miss Muriel Tross-Kingdon, I suppose?"

"Certainly."

"Well, it may be all right," sighed the thoroughly practical Jim, "but this putting a hyphen between your last two names looks to me like a play for notoriety."

Dorothy's eyes flashed fire as she turned a swift gaze upon him.

"Now, look here, Jim Barlow, we've been fast friends for years, and I don't want to have a falling out, but you shall not slander my friends. And please remember, sir, that the last two words in my name are connected by a hyphen, then see if you can't bridle your tongue a while."

Dorothy, plainly displeased, turned and looked out of the car window. But she did not see the green fields, or the cool-looking patches of woodland that were flashing past; she was wondering if she had spoken hastily to her boy chum, and whether he would resent her tone.

But Jim, after a moment's silence, became duly humble.

"I-I'm very sorry I said that, Dorothy," he began, slowly. "I-I'm sure I'd forgotten the hyphen in your own name. I was just thinking of those English girls. I'm positive that when they met you they felt themselves far above you, and it just makes my American blood boil-that's all!"

Dorothy turned in time to catch a suspicious moisture in Jim's eyes, and the warm-hearted girl immediately upbraided herself for speaking as she had.

"You're true blue, Jim! I might have known how you meant it, and that you wouldn't willingly slander my friends. And, just to show you that I believe in telling the truth, I'll admit that Gwendolyn was a hateful little spitfire when I first entered the school. But finally she grew to know that in the many attributes which contribute to our happiness there were girls in the world just as well off as she. Gradually she came around, until, at the end, she was one of my warmest friends."

Dorothy went on to relate how she had saved Gwendolyn from drowning, and how, in turn, the English girl had saved Dorothy from a terrible slide to death down an icy incline.

"Well, that wasn't bad of her," admitted Jim. "But she couldn't very well stand by and see you perish-anyway, you had saved her life, and she felt duty bound to return the compliment."

"Please believe, Jim, that she did it out of the fullness of her heart."

"Well, if you say so," the boy returned, reluctantly.

Both looked up at this juncture to find Ephraim standing in the aisle. The eyes of the old colored man contained a look of unbounded delight, and it was not difficult to see that his pleasure was caused by the anticipated return, within the next few hours, to Old Bellvieu and Mrs. Calvert.

"Well, Ephy," said Dorothy, "soon we'll see Aunt Betty again. And just think-I've been away for nine long months!"

"My, Miss Betty'll suttin'ly be glad tuh see yo' once moah, 'case she am gittin' tuh a point now where yo' comp'ny means er pow'ful lot tuh her. Axin' yo' pawdon, lil' missy, fo' mentionin' de subjeck, but our Miss Betty ain't de woman she were befor' yo' went away las' fall. No, indeedy! Dar's sumpthin' worryin' her, en I hain't nebber been able tuh fin' out w'at hit is. But I reckon hit's some trouble 'bout de ole place."

"I'll just bet that's it," said Jim. "You remember we discussed that last summer just before we went sailing on the houseboat, Dorothy?"

"Yes," said the girl, a sad note creeping into her voice. "Something or somebody had failed, and Aunt Betty's money was involved in some way. I remember we feared she would have to sell Bellvieu, but gradually the matter blew over, and when I left home for Oak Knowe I had heard nothing of it for some time. The city of Baltimore has long coveted Bellvieu, you know, as well as certain private firms or individuals. The old place is wanted for some new and modern addition I suppose, and they hope eventually to entice Aunt Betty into letting it go. Oh, I do wish the train would hurry! I'm so anxious to take the dear old lady in my arms and comfort her that I can scarcely contain myself. Don't you think, Jim, there will be some way to save her all this worry?"

"We can try," answered the boy, gravely. The way he pursed up his lips, however, told Dorothy that he realized of what little assistance a boy and girl would be in a matter involving many thousands of dollars. "Let's wait and see. Perhaps there is nothing to worry over after all."

"Lor' bress yo', chile-dem's de cheerfulest wo'ds I eber heered yo' speak. An' pray God yo' may be right! De good Lord knows I hates tuh see my Miss Betty a-worryin' en a-triflin' her life erway, w'en she'd oughter be made comf'table en happy in her las' days. It hain't accordin' tuh de Scriptur', chillen-it hain't accordin' tuh de Scriptur'."

And with a sad shake of his head the faithful old darkey moved away. A moment later they heard the door slam and knew that he had gone to the colored folks' compartment in the car ahead.

"Ephy is loyalty personified," said Dorothy. "His skin is black as ink, but his heart is as white as the driven snow."

The boy did not answer. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes riveted on the passing landscape. Dorothy, too, looked out of the window again, a feeling of satisfaction possessing her as she realized that she was again in her beloved South.

On every hand were vast cotton fields, the green plants well above ground, and flourishing on account of the recent rains. Villages and hamlets flashed by, as the limited took its onward way toward the great Maryland city which Dorothy Calvert called her home.

"Oh, Jim, see!" the girl cried, suddenly, gripping her companion's arm, and pointing out of the window. "There is the old Randolph plantation. We can't be more than an hour's ride from Baltimore. Hurrah! I'm so glad!"

"Looks like a 'befor' de war' place," Jim returned, as he viewed the rickety condition of what had once been one of Maryland's finest country mansions.

"Yes; the house was built long before the war. It was owned by a branch of the famous Randolphs, of Virginia, of whom you have heard and read. Aunt Betty told me the story one night, years ago. I shall never forget it. There was a serious break in the family and William Randolph moved his wife and babies away from Virginia, vowing he would never again set foot in that state. And he kept his word. He settled on this old plantation, remodeling the house, and adding to it, until he had one of the most magnificent mansions in the South. Aunt Betty frequently visited his family when a young girl. That was many years before the Civil War. When the war finally broke out, William Randolph had two sons old enough to fight, so sent them to help swell the ranks of the Confederate Army. One was killed in battle. The other was with Lee at Appomattox, and came home to settle down. He finally married, and was living on the old plantation up to ten years ago, when he died."

"What became of the father?" queried the interested Jim.

"Oh, he died soon after the war, without ever seeing his brothers in Virginia, they say. The son, Harry Randolph, being of a sunny disposition, though, finally resolved to let bygones be bygones, and some years after his father's death, he went to see his relatives in the other state, where he was received with open arms. How terrible it must be to have a family feud, Jim!"

"Terrible," nodded the boy.

"Just think how I'd feel if I were to get mad at Aunt Betty and go to Virginia, or New York to stay, never to see my dear old auntie again on this earth. Humph! Catch me doing a thing like that? Well, I reckon not-mo matter how great the provocation!"

Jim smiled.

"Not much danger of your having to do anything like that," he replied. "Aunt Betty loves you too much, and even if you did, you could go back to Mother Martha and Father John."

"Yes; I could, that's true. But life would never seem the same, after finding Aunt Betty, and being taken to her heart as I have. But let's not talk of such morbid things. Let us, rather, plan what we shall do for a good time this summer."

"Humph!" grunted the boy. "Reckon I'll be having a good time studying 'lectricity. There's work ahead of me, and I don't dare allow myself to forget it."

"But, Jim, you are going home with me for a vacation. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, or, at least, that's what I've always been taught to believe."

"I know, Dorothy; but I've got a living to make." The serious note in Jim's voice made Dorothy turn in some surprise.

"Why, Jim Barlow, how you talk! You're not old enough to strike out for yourself yet." A note of authority crept unconsciously into Dorothy's tones.

"Yes; I am. Lots of boys younger than I have gone out to wrestle with the world for a livelihood, and I reckon I can do the same."

"But Dr. Sterling won't let you, I'm sure."

"Humph! A lot Dr. Sterling has to say about that!"

"But you would surely regard his advice as worth something?"

"Yes; a great deal. His advice is for me to learn electricity-to learn it thoroughly from the bottom up. To do that I shall have to serve as an apprentice for a number of years. The pay is not great, but enough to live on. I've made up my mind, Dorothy, so don't try to turn me from my purpose."

Dorothy Calvert looked with pride on this manly young fellow at her side, as she recalled her first meeting with him some years before. At that time she had been living with Mother Martha and Father John on the Hudson near Newburgh. Jim, the "bound boy," had been Mrs. Calvert's protégé, and had finally worked his way into the regard of his elders, until Dr. Sterling had taken him under his protecting wing. The doctor, a prominent geologist, had endeavored to teach the boy the rudiments of his calling, and Jim had proved an apt pupil, but had shown such a yearning toward electricity and kindred subjects that the kindly doctor had purchased for him some of the best books on the subject. Over these the boy had pored night and day, rigging up apparatus after apparatus, that he might experiment with the great force first discovered in its primitive form by Benjamin Franklin, and later given to the world in such startling form by Morse and Edison.

"I shall never try to turn you from your purpose, Jim," said Dorothy. "I feel that whatever you attempt will be a success. You have it in you, and in your lexicon there is no such word as fail. When do you begin your apprenticeship?"

"In Baltimore this month, if I can find a place."

"Oh, Jim, won't that be fine? I'll tell Aunt Betty the moment we arrive. Perhaps some of her friends will know of an opening. I'm sure some of them will, and we'll have you always with us."

"That sounds good to me. I've written Dr. Sterling to send my books and electrical apparatus by freight to Bellvieu."

"Then we'll give you a fine, large room all to yourself, where you can set up your laboratory."

Dorothy's enthusiasm began to communicate itself to Jim, and soon he had launched himself into an exposition of electricity and its uses, with many comments on its future.

So engrossed were both boy and girl in the discussion that they did not hear Ephraim, who came silently down the aisle and stood in a respectful attitude before them.

"S'cuse me, please, Miss Dorot'y, en Mistah Jim, but p'raps yo' don't know dat we's almos' tuh de Baltimore station."

Dorothy threw a quick glance out of the window.

"Oh, so we are! See, Jim! There's the old Chesapeake, and it's a sight for sore eyes. Now, for old Bellvieu and Aunt Betty!"

There was a hasty gathering of satchels and paraphernalia as the train drew into the big station. The hum of voices outside, mingled with the shouts of the cab drivers and the shrill cries of the newsboys, met their ears as they descended from the coach.

Through the throng Ephraim led the way with the luggage, Dorothy and Jim following quickly, until finally, in the street, the girl descried a familiar carriage, on the top of which a young colored boy was perched.

"Hello, Methuselah Bonaparte Washington! Don't you know your mistress?" cried Dorothy, running toward him.

This was probably the first time Dorothy had ever called him anything but "Metty," by which nickname he was known at Bellvieu, where he had always lived, and where he had served as Aunt Betty's page and footman since he was old enough to appreciate the responsibilities of the position.

His eyes glowed with affection now, as he viewed his little mistress after many months' absence. Descending from his perch on the carriage, he bowed low to Dorothy, his face wreathed in a smile of such broad proportions that it seemed his features could never go back into their proper places.

"Lordy, lil' missy, I's suah glad tuh sot mah eyes on yo' once mo'. Ole Bellvieu hain't eben been interestin' sence yo' lef las' fall."

"Do you mean that, Metty?" cried the girl, her heart warming toward the little fellow for the sincerity of his welcome.

"Yas'm, lil' missy, I suah does mean hit. An' I hain't de only one dat's missed yo'. Mrs. Betty done been habin' seben fits sence yo' went off tuh school, an' as fo' Dinah en Chloe, dey hain't smiled onct all wintah. Dey'll all be glad tuh see yo' back-yas'm, dey suah will!"

"And how is Aunt Betty?" the girl asked, a little catch in her voice. Instinctively she seemed to dread the answer. Aunt Betty was getting old, and her health had not been of the best recently.

"She's pow'ful pooh, lil' missy, but I jes' knows she'll git plenty ob strength w'en she sees yo' lookin' so fine en strong."

"Well, take us to her," said Dorothy, "and don't spare the horses."

"Yas'm-yas'm-I'll suah do dat-I'll suah do dat!"

Through the narrow, crowded streets of old Baltimore the Calvert carriage dashed, with Dorothy and Jim inside, and Ephraim keeping company with Metty on the box. Metty chose a route through the dirtiest streets, where tumbledown houses swarmed with strange-looking people, who eyed the party curiously; but this was the shortest way to the great country home of the Calverts. Soon the streets grew wider, the air purer, then the Chesapeake burst into view, the salty air refreshing the tired occupants of the carriage as nothing had done for days.

Finally, the glistening carriage and finely caparisoned horses sped on a swift trot through the great gateway at Bellvieu, and Dorothy, leaning out of the window, saw Aunt Betty standing expectantly on the steps of the old mansion.

Home at last!

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