All in an instant the cry rang from lip to lip: "There's a man
overboard!" Will he save her? Oh, heavens, is he too late to save the
life of the beautiful, rash girl who had plunged into the mad waters
scarcely a moment before, or will it mean death for both of them?
He had disappeared beneath the steamer. The next moment that passed
seemed the length of eternity to the horrified spectators who lined the
dock and the decks, straining their eyes looking down into the dark
waters lighted up so fitfully by the pallid moonlight.
He rose, and a great cry broke from every lip. He was alone, and almost
instantly he disappeared again. And again he rose, still alone. Every
heart sank. People held their breath. Useless, useless to hope. The poor
girl's fate was sealed.
Then a mighty cheer broke forth. The waters parted, and they saw him
again. This time he was making for the shore, holding in one arm the
body of the luckless young girl whom he had risked his own life to save.
Suddenly they heard him utter a sharp cry.
"A rope! A rope! I am sinking!"
In less time than it takes to tell it, a score or more of strong arms
hurled one out to him, and he caught it in the nick of time.
Then amidst the greatest excitement he was drawn to the deck with his
inanimate burden.
So intense had been the excitement that the passengers who had stood
nearest the principals in the bitter quarrel which had taken place had
lost track entirely of the fact that a tragedy had almost been enacted
in their midst.
And when they began to inquire into the matter no one could tell what
had become of the man who had cried out that he had been shot, and they
considered it a false alarm.
Had this lovely young girl anything to do with this matter, or was it a
coincidence that at the self-same moment she had flung herself into the
water?
Meanwhile, kindly hands took the burden from the young man's arms. As he
was drawn on deck some one in the crowd cried out in consternation:
"Great Heavens! It's Jack Garner! And the girl whom he has saved is
little Dorothy Glenn!"
There was much speculation as to why the girl had attempted to commit
suicide; but Jack's friend, a fellow-workman in the book-bindery,
declared quickly that it never could have been a case of attempted
suicide--the girl must have fallen overboard, and Jack had of course
sprung to the rescue.
This looked plausible enough; and what they had all expected to be a
great sensation seemed to turn out but an accident pure and simple.
As for Langdon, he had suddenly disappeared in the crowd after striking
at the revolver which Jack had drawn upon him and crying out mockingly
that he was shot when it was discharged, simply to get Jack into trouble
and to get sympathy for himself.
They found it no easy matter to restore the girl to consciousness, and
at this juncture an old gentleman, a retired doctor who had been in the
cabin when the accident had happened, came hurriedly to her assistance
when he heard that she was beyond the skill of those attending her in
the ladies' cabin.
"Stand back!" he cried, forcing his way through the crowd of women. "How
do you suppose you can bring her to while you stand round her and
exclude the air? And by all that's wonderful, although you poured brandy
down her throat, no one seemed to know enough to open her dress!"
And forthwith he began hurriedly to open the dress at the throat. But as
he did so a low cry broke from his lips, and his florid old face turned
deathly white.
"My God, it is she!" he cried, hoarsely; and despite the curious throng
about him, the old doctor burst into tears and wept like a child.
He felt that some explanation was due, and in a broken, husky voice he
said, pointing to a small, irregular mark over the girl's chest:
"I have been searching for her for sixteen years by night and by day,
and finally abandoned all hope of finding her. She--she is not a
relative, as you may suppose. A few words will explain:
"Some sixteen years ago I had a beautiful ward, as fair a young girl as
ever the sun shone on, and I, a lonely old man who had outlived all his
kinsfolk, loved her with all the devotion of my heart.
"She was happy enough in my home--aye, as happy as the day was long,
but, like many another young girl, the bitter trial of life came with
her first dream of love. She fell in love with a scoundrel. I knew the
man better than she, and refused my consent. But young girls are
willful, and the upshot of the whole matter was--she eloped with him. It
was the most terrible blow of my life. Two years went by, in which I
neither saw nor heard of her. Then unexpectedly I received a short,
hastily written letter from my heart-broken Alice.
"'When you read this I shall be no more,' she wrote. 'Oh, Doctor Bryan,
I have paid the penalty of my folly with my life. I am slowly dying of
starvation. For myself, I bow to the fate I have brought upon my own
head. But the result of my folly does not rest here. It falls upon the
head of an innocent little babe whom I must leave behind me. Oh, Doctor
Bryan, this is the prayer that in the last moments of my life I make to
you:
"'Plead with the little one's father to let her come to
you. If he keeps her, may God in heaven pity her
future. He will blast her life as he did mine, or--if
it suits his pleasure, he will abandon her on the
streets to starve, as I am doing now. If I could think
that she would be with you, I would die without this
heavy load on my heart. She is so fair and
beautiful--my poor little baby! She has only one
blemish--the same scar is upon her bosom that is upon
mine, and which I have heard you say was upon the bosom
of my mother--the birthmark of the three spears.
"'I can not write any more. My hand trembles so that I
can scarcely hold the pen.
"'Good-bye, Doctor Bryan. Never forget your poor,
heart-broken ALICE.'
"I searched for her night and day," repeated the old man, with a sob in
his voice. "Alice died at sea, and the fate of the little one could not
be learned, nor that of the father. I never ceased searching until the
last year. Then I said to myself, 'It is useless--useless. Alice's baby
is dead.' But I have found her most miraculously at last, thank God!"
This revelation created the most intense excitement among the women, who
had listened breathlessly to the _denouement_.
He had scarcely ceased speaking ere Dorothy opened her eyes. She found
to her great consternation a crowd surrounding her.
But in an instant memory returned to her, and with a startled cry she
struggled up to a sitting posture, gazing in blank bewilderment upon the
crowd that had gathered about her.
"I--I fainted and fell backward," she began; but the old gentleman bent
quickly over her, interrupting, hastily:
"Yes, you fell backward and down into the water, my child, and came near
drowning. Where is the young man who saved her?" he cried. "Will some
one fetch him here at once to me, so that I may thank him? Oh, child,
child!" he cried, again bending over Dorothy, "I would have recognized
you among ten thousand! You look at me with your mother's eyes!"
"My mother?" cried Dorothy, in awe, thinking that she had not heard
aright, or that the gentleman had mistaken her for some one else. "I--I
am an orphan; my name is Dorothy Glenn."
The old gentleman did not utter the words that sprang to his lips when
she mentioned the name Glenn, though his face darkened for an instant
with bitter memory.
"But will you tell me," cried Dorothy, with a piteous sob, "what has
become of my escort, Mr. Langdon?"
Nobody seemed to know, and it soon became apparent to everyone--even to
the girl herself--that in her peril he had miserably deserted her rather
than risk his life to save hers.
"Another young man periled his life for you," some one answered; but who
it was Dorothy could not learn, and in that moment she was glad enough
to call for Jack--poor, faithful Jack Garner.
But he did not come this time at her bidding. No one told her that he
was suffering from a severe contusion on the side of the head, and was
scarcely conscious of the message that was sent him at that time.
"You have no need of their protection. From this time henceforth you
shall be under my watchful care, little Dorothy;" and very briefly, and
to her intense amazement, Mr. Bryan told her the story that he had
already related to those about her. "I shall take you home with me," he
said, "and you shall never again know want."
To the girl it seemed as though what she had heard was but the wild
vagaries of a dream, from which she should awaken presently and find
herself back in the old book-bindery with the other girls. But the
exclamations of the people who pressed around her congratulating her
upon her good fortune, which read so much like a romance, were real
enough, for they all knew Doctor Bryan, the wealthy old retired
physician, whose elegant country place was just outside of New York.
The loss of Dorothy's handsome lover, who had forsaken her in so
shameful a manner, would have been a terrible blow to her had she had
time to think and brood over the matter. But this new excitement that
had come so suddenly upon her, making part and parcel of her life, threw
her thoughts in quite a different channel. How surprised Harry Langdon
would be when he heard the wonderful news, and how all the book-bindery
girls would hold their breath in astonishment too great for words when
she did not come to work on the following day, but got a letter from her
instead, explaining the wonderful change in her fortunes! Nadine Holt
would be green with envy, and so would the rest of the girls, down in
the secret depths of their hearts. There was only one among them who
would rejoice because her working-days among them were over, and that
was Jessie Staples, who had always declared Dorothy was born to be a
real lady.