Chapter 27

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_ CHAPTER XXVII In the hour of Dorothy's desolation her heart went back to Jack Garner, who had loved her so in other days. Poor Jack! whom she had thrown over so cruelly for a handsomer, wealthier fellow, only to be deserted by him in turn for the first pretty face that had crossed his path. And that very day came the turning point of her life. She had answered an advertisement a few days before by letter to an intelligence office, and in the course of a week she received the following reply: "MY DEAR MADAM--Replying to your note, would say your communication was hardly explicit enough for us to determine whether you would suit our patron or not. "The party we refer to is Mrs. Garner, a widow. Her family consists of one son, a niece who lives with them, and a young lady. "They wish a companion for Mrs. Garner. She requires a somewhat elderly woman. Even the child would not be so objectionable, if the right person were secured." The letter dropped from Dorothy's hand, and she uttered a low cry; but presently picking it up, and reading it eagerly through again, she found a postscript added to it which read as follows: "Call, if you please, at the Garner homestead to-morrow, at 10:30 A. M., if convenient." Dorothy's heart beat quickly. Could it be possible that this Garner family and the one she had known were one and the same? Oh, no! it could not be, for they were poor, very poor, and these people lived in a fashionable quarter. Jack might plod along all his life and never have a dollar ahead. Poor Jack! And her eyes grew moist as she thought of him. Ah, how well he had loved her! Dorothy knew quite well that according to the requirements of the advertiser she would not suit on account of her youth. An older person than herself was wanted; yet the thought of the possibility of taking little Pearl with her caused her to ponder over the matter very carefully. Surely there was some way to meet the difficulty. "I am afraid I will not get the situation I was telling you of last night," said Dorothy to her landlady; and she told her why. "Youth and beauty, although the greatest blessings Heaven can give us, often bring with them a certain train of disadvantages. I once knew a young and most lovely girl who, on this very account, could not get work. She resorted to a desperate measure, but it insured success. Perhaps it might in your case. She put on, over her golden curls, a dark wig with plenty of gray in it, seamed a wrinkle or two under her long lashes with a camel's hair pencil, and put on a pair of glasses. She secured a position as housekeeper in an eccentric old bachelor's family, which consisted of only himself and his aged parents. Well, the old folks soon passed away, the old bachelor soon following them, and every dollar he had on earth he left to his housekeeper, to 'keep her from the poor house to which she would soon have to go in her old age,' as he phrased it. It was a large fortune, and she is enjoying it to-day with a young husband and dear little children gathered about her, and she often speaks of it when I see her, and tells me all her good luck came from putting on that wig, donning the spectacles, and lining her face to make it look old. She never would have gained that position otherwise, for she was very fair and childish in appearance." "I think I will do the same thing!" cried Dorothy, enthusiastically. "It can do no harm, anyway. It is a terrible deceit to practice, but if I secure the position, and the people learn to like me, in a very short time I will reveal the truth to them, and I think they will find pardon for me and keep me in their employ." "I am sure they will," assented her companion, "and all I can say is, I hope you may have as great good luck as the girl I told you about." Dorothy smiled faintly. "I--I would never care to be--be rich," she faltered. "There are some people whom Heaven intended to always work for a living--I am one of them." "If you think of buying a wig, I have one to sell you," said the landlady. "I used to be in the theatrical business, and had all those things. I will show you how to make up for a middle-aged woman, so that even your own folks wouldn't know you in broad daylight." Dorothy was a little dubious upon hearing all this. She wondered if it was not to sell the outfit that the landlady had suggested all this. However, she passively placed herself in her hands, and the work of transformation began. "Now, look!" exclaimed the landlady, at length. "What do you think of yourself now?" and she placed a hand glass before her. Dorothy uttered a low cry. Could that face be her own at which she gazed in the mirror's depths? Was she the old woman represented there? And from the bottom of her heart she thanked God that it was only make-believe; that beneath it all her face was still young and fair, without the ravaging touch of Time's withering hand. But it touched her heart keenly to see her little Pearl, whom she was learning to fairly idolize, shrink from her. "I must, indeed, look greatly changed," she said, with a sob. Hastily dressing the little one, and taking her with her, Dorothy wended her way to her destination. She had always looked upon a little child much the same as a little girl admires a big wax doll. Now she was beginning to realize that a real live baby must be washed and dressed and fed and attended to; that it wouldn't go to sleep or keep awake when people wished; in short, she was beginning to understand that it could be a darling little nuisance at times, even to those who adored the dimpled bit of precious humanity the most. Fairly panting with carrying so heavy a burden in her slender arms, Dorothy reached at length the avenue and number--a magnificent brown stone mansion in the center of the block. With beating heart she ascended the steps and touched the bell. A very polite servant answered her summons and ushered her into a spacious drawing-room. "Madame will be with you presently, as she is expecting you," he said, indicating a seat. Little Pearl commenced to cry, and Dorothy was at her wit's end to know what to do with her. She was all flushed with nervousness by the time she heard footsteps in the corridor approaching the room. An instant later the silken portières were swept aside by a white, jeweled hand, and a white-haired lady entered. Dorothy rose to her feet, and caught her breath with a low cry that died in her throat. The room seemed to whirl around her. She stood face to face with Jack's mother! Dorothy had never seen her but once or twice before in those old days. She remembered every lineament of her face perfectly, however. How could she help it, when Mrs. Garner bore such a striking resemblance to her fair-haired, handsome son? But she could not understand it; it almost seemed as if she was in a dream to find Mrs. Garner here surrounded by such elegance as this. But before she could collect her scattered senses the lady advanced toward her, saying, in her sweet, kind voice: "You are very punctual, Mrs. Brown. This is in itself a great recommendation. You are tired holding the baby in your arms. I will ring for one of the servants to relieve you for a little while, if you wish." Dorothy never remembered in what words she thanked her, and she was even too confused to keep the thread of the conversation, but was conscious that she was replying at random. Yet the kind old lady did not seem to notice her confusion. "I want some one for a companion," said the lady, slowly. "I have recently lost my niece, Miss Barbara Hallenbeck, and her death preys heavily upon my mind." Dorothy was shocked at the news, but she could utter no comment. "I am soon to lose my son," went on Mrs. Garner, slowly. Dorothy sprang to her feet with a gasping cry: "Jack dying!" Poor, dear, faithful Jack Garner, who had loved her so well! It seemed to Dorothy that every pulse in her body quivered, and her heart was almost bursting at the news. In that one hour the girl's heart was revealed to her. She was face to face with the truth at last: she loved Jack Garner--yes, she loved Jack! In that moment of time the past seemed to glide before her mental vision like a vast panorama. She turned with a gesture of woe pitiful to behold to his dear old mother. "You are about to lose your only son?" she gasped. "May Heaven pity you!" She was almost about to add: "If I could save his life by giving my own, oh, how gladly I would do it!" Mrs. Garner saw the look on her face, and rightly interpreted it. "Do not misunderstand me," she added, hastily. "I do not mean that I am to lose him by death. My son is soon to be married." _

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