University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. BURROUGHS'S BUSINESS.

It was the afternoon of Thursday, Aug. 25: and
Dora, sitting beside the bed where her little charge lay
sleeping heavily, heard the rattle of wheels, and, peeping
from the window, saw Karl jumping from the wagon, followed
more slowly by a tall, handsome young gentleman,
whom she concluded to be Mr. Burroughs; her cousin having
gone to meet him at the railway-station, seven miles
away.

“He's good-looking enough for a colonel,” thought Dora,
and then started back, coloring a little; for Mr. Burroughs,
in entering the house, had glanced up, and caught her eye.
The next minute, Kitty darted into the room from her own
chamber.

“They've come! Did you see him? Isn't he a real
beauty? I do love a tall man! — he's as tall as Mr. Brown,
and his whiskers are ever so much prettier; but, then, Mr.

Brown's a minister. My! how nice you look, Dora! Go
right down, and I'll stay with little Molly.”

Dora glanced involuntarily at the mirror, and caught the
reflection of a bright face, surrounded by heavy chestnut
curls, and lighted with clear hazel eyes, and flashing white
teeth, a head of queenly shape and poise, and a firm, graceful
figure, well set off by its white dress, black bodice,
and scarlet ribbons, — a charming picture, with the quaintly
decorated chamber for background, and the heavy black
frame of the old mirror for setting: and a brighter color
flashed into the young girl's cheek as she recognized the
fact; but she only said, —

“Why do you call her Molly, Kitty?”

“Oh! just a fancy name. We must call her something,
and can't find out her right name.”

“She called it Sunshine,” said Dora, bending to kiss the
pale little face upon the pillow as she passed.

“Moonshine, more like,” replied Kitty. “She didn't
mean it for a name, of course. You didn't understand.
But, come: your beau is waiting.”

“Don't, Kitty, please!”

“I might as well begin. Every man is a beau that
comes near you. I never saw such luck!”

Dora opened her lips, closed them tightly, and left the
room. The next moment she stood in the low doorway of
the parlor, bowing gravely, but not shyly, to the stately
gentleman, whose head grazed the great white beam in the
ceiling as he came forward to meet her.

“Miss Darling, I presume,” said he.

“Yes, sir; I am Dora Darling: and you are Mr. Burroughs;
are you not?”

“At your service,” said the gentleman, bowing again;
and, handing Dora a chair, he took another for himself.

“Won't you have some water, or a glass of milk, after
your drive, Mr. Burroughs?” asked Dora with anxious
hospitality; and, as the gentleman confessed to an inclination
for some water, she tripped away, and presently returned
with a tumbler, which Mr. Burroughs very willingly
took from her slender fingers instead of a salver.

“You know I was a vivandière, sir,” said Dora, smiling
frankly; “and I always think of people being thirsty and
tired when they come in so.”

Mr. Burroughs smiled, too, as he handed back the empty
glass.

“I wish we had all turned our army experiences to as
good account,” said he.

“Were you in the army?” asked Dora with sudden
animation.

“Yes: I was lieutenant in the Massachusetts Sixth, and
went through Baltimore with them,” said Burroughs,
straightening himself a little as the associations of military
drill came back upon him.

“Oh! were you there? Wasn't it glorious to be the very
first?” exclaimed Dora; and, with no further preamble,
the two plunged into a series of army reminiscences and
army gossip, that kept them busy until Karl entered the
room, saying, —

“Well, Dora, what do you think of Mr. Burroughs's
news?”

“She has not heard it yet,” said Mr. Burroughs, laughing
a little. “We have been so busy talking over our army
experiences, that we have not come to business.”

“I am glad you have not; for I want to see how Dora
will take it: but you will be grieved, as well as pleased,
little girl.”

“Yes,” pursued Mr. Burroughs. “I am sorry to inform
you, Miss Dora, that your friend Col. Blank is dead.”

“Oh, Col. Blank dead!” exclaimed Dora, while a sudden
shadow fell upon her bright face.

“I am very, very sorry,” continued she. “Mr. Brown
went to see him two months ago, and he was quite well
then.”

“Yes: this was rather a sudden illness; a fever, I believe.
They tell me, that, since his wife died, he has never
been very well, and at last was only ill three weeks.”

“I am so sorry!” said Dora again. “He was very kind
to me always.”

“And no doubt died with feelings of affection and confidence
for you, Miss Dora; since he has made you his
heir.”

“Me!” exclaimed the young girl in a tone more of
fright than of pleasure.

“Yes; and, although the property is not of any great
available value at present, I think, if properly managed, it
may, in the future, become something very handsome,”
said the lawyer.

“But I am so sorry Col. Blank is dead! Why, on Cheat
Mountain, he seemed so strong and well! He was never
tired on the marches, and hardly ever rode, but walked at
the head of the column so straight and soldierly!”

The two men glanced at each other, then at her, and
gravely smiled. The regret was so unaffected, so unselfish,

and so unworldly, that each, after his own fashion, admired
and marvelled at it. Mr. Burroughs was the first to speak;
and, drawing a packet of papers from his pocket, he spread
before Dora's sorrowful eyes a copy of Col. Blank's will,
a plan of the estate bequeathed by it to her, and an official
letter from Mr. Ferrars, the principal executor. This Mr.
Ferrars, the lawyer informed his young client, was a personal
friend of his own, and had placed the matter in his
hands, thinking that the news might be more satisfactorily
arranged by an interview than by correspondence.

“And, as I was coming East at the time, I could very conveniently
call to see you on my way home,” concluded Mr.
Burroughs.

“Thank you, sir,” said Dora meekly; and then, rather
sadly, but very patiently, listened while the lawyer described
the property she had inherited, and indicated the best course
to pursue with regard to it.

“You will perceive, Miss Dora, that the bulk of the
estate consists of this large tract of territory in Iowa, containing
a great deal of valuable timber, a hundred or so
common-sized farms of superb soil, and prairie-land enough
to graze all the herds of the West.

Col. Blank had just invested all his property, except the

estate in Cincinnati, in the purchase of this tract, and was
about to remove thither, when Mrs. Blank died; and, as I
said, he never seemed quite himself after that event, and
took no further steps toward emigration. The house in
Cincinnati might sell, Mr. Ferrars thought, for three or
four thousand dollars; enough, you see, to make a beginning
at `Outpost,' as the colonel called it.”

“Did he name the Iowa farm Outpost?” asked Dora
rather eagerly.

“Yes: you see the name is written on this map of the
estate.”

“Then we will call it so; won't we, Karl?”

“But you don't advise my cousin to emigrate to the backwoods,
do you, Mr. Burroughs?” asked Karl disapprovingly.

“It is the only method of reaping any immediate benefit
from her inheritance,” said the lawyer. “The territory is
valuable, very; but would not sell to-day for any thing like
the price paid by Col. Blank, who fancied its situation, and
intended to live there. The only way to get back the
money is to hold the land until better times, or until emigration
reaches the Des Moines more freely than it has yet
done.”

“I shall certainly go there and live,” said Dora with
quiet positiveness.

“You have decided?” asked Mr. Burroughs, looking into
her face, and smiling.

“Quite,” said Dora.

Karl looked too, saw the firm line of the young girl's
rosy lips, and slightly raised his eyebrows.

“It is settled,” said he with comic resignation.

Dora returned his gaze wistfully. She could not, in presence
of a stranger, say what was in her heart: but she
longed to let him know that this prospect of independence,
of making a home of her own, of assuming duties and pursuits
of her own, was such a prospect as no friend could
wish her to forego; was the full and only cure for the bitterness
of heart she had been unable to conceal from him upon
the previous evening, — a bitterness so foreign to the sweet
and noble nature of the young girl, that it had affected her
cousin's mind with a sort of terror.

Something of all she meant must have stood visibly in
the clear eyes Dora now fixed upon Karl; for, in meeting
that gaze, the young man changed color, and said hastily, —

“But if you will be happier, Dora; if you are not contented
here — It is a humdrum sort of life, I know.”

“Oh, no! not that; but I want to be doing something. I
mean something almost more than I can do, not ever so
much less. I like to feel as if I must use every bit of
strength and courage I have, and then I always find more
than I thought I had.”

Mr. Burroughs looked sharply at the young girl who
made this ungirlish avowal. Was this utter simplicity? or
was it an ingenious affectation? Was Dora Darling one of
the noblest, or one of the most crafty, of womankind?

Tom Burroughs was a man of the world and of society,
and flattered himself that neither man nor woman had art
deeper than his penetration; but as he rapidly scanned the
broad brow, clear, level-glancing eyes, firm, sweet mouth,
queenly head, and mien of innocent self-confidence, he asked
himself again, —

“Is it the perfection of art, or can it be the perfection of
nature?”

But Karl was saying rather gloomily, —

“And what is to become of us, Dora?”

“Kitty and you?” asked Dora, open-eyed. “Why, of
course, you are to come too! Did you suppose I wanted to
leave you? Of course, it is your home and mine, just as
this house has been: we are all one family, you know.”

“To be sure. Well, I fancy there will be something for
me to do on your Outpost farm. You must make me
overseer.”

“No: you shall be confidential adviser; but I am going
to oversee every thing myself, and you must go on with your
medical studies.”

“You are going to become practical farmer, then?”
asked Mr. Burroughs, raising his eyebrows never so
slightly.

“Yes, sir: not to really work with my own hands out of
doors, you know, but to see to every thing. At first, I
sha'n't understand much about it, I suppose; but I shall learn,
and I shall be so happy!”

“And how soon will you be ready to go?” asked Mr.
Burroughs.

Dora considered for a moment.

“To-day is Thursday. I think we might start Monday
morning; couldn't we, Karl?”

“And meantime sell this place and furniture?” asked Mr.
Windsor, smiling.

“Not sell, but let the place. There is Jacob Minot
would be glad to hire it, and a good tenant too. As for
the furniture, we had better carry it with us. Shall we

have to build a house when we get there, Mr. Burroughs?”

“Yes. Col. Blank had selected a site, and made
some little beginning: I believe nothing more than having
the land cleared and a cellar dug, however. You will begin
with a log-cabin; shall you not?”

“Yes: I suppose so. Well, Karl, mightn't we start on
Monday?”

“Not in heavy marching order, I am afraid; but very
soon, if you are quite determined.”

“Yes, quite; but what will Kitty think?” asked Dora
suddenly.

“Oh! I think she will like it. Here she comes, and we
can ask her.”

The crisp rustle of muslin skirts swept down the stairs;
and Mr. Burroughs, turning his head, saw standing in the
doorway a tall, handsome brunette, with masses of black hair
rolled away from a low forehead, glancing black eyes, and
ripe lips, showing just now the sparkle of white teeth between,
as the young lady half waited for an introduction
before entering.

“Mr. Burroughs, Kitty; my sister, sir,” said Karl, rising,
and handing a chair to Kitty, who, with rather too wide a

sweep of her bright muslin skirts, seated herself, and said,
half laughing, —

“I suppose you are through with your secrets by this
time?”

“We were just wanting to tell you the new plan, and see
how you will like it,” said Dora quickly; for she felt an
involuntary dread lest Kitty should, in presence of this
courteous stranger, say something to do herself discredit.