University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
UNCLE NAT

It was a glorious moonlight night, and, like gleams of
burnished silver, the moonbeams flashed from the lofty
domes and minarets of Calcutta, or shone like sparkling
gems on the sleeping waters of the bay. It was a night
when the Hindoo lover told his tale to the dusky maiden at
his side, and the soldier, wearing the scarlet uniform, talked
to his blue-eyed bride of the home across the waters, which
she had left to be with him.

On this night, too, an old man in his silent room, sat
thinking of his home far beyond the shores of “Merrie England.”
Near him lay a letter, Eugenia's letter, which was
just received. He had not opened it yet, for the sight of
it had carried him back across the Atlantic wave, and
again he saw, in fancy, the granite hills which had girded
his childhood's home—the rock where he had played—the
tree where he had carved his name, and the rushing mountain
stream, which ran so swiftly past the red house in the
valley—the home where he was born, and where had come
to him the heart grief which had made him the strange,
eccentric being he was. Thoughts of the dead were with
him, too, to-night, and with his face buried in his broad,
rough hands, he thought of her, whose winsome smile and
gentle ways had woven around his heart a mighty and

undying love, such as few men ever felt. Of Dora, too, he
thought—Dora, whom he had never seen, and his heart
yearned towards her with a deep tenderness, because his
Fannie had been her mother.

“I should love her, I know,” he said, “even though she
were cold-hearted and stupid as they say;” then, as he
remembered the letter, he continued, “I will open it, for it
may have tidings of the child.”

The seal was broken, the letter unfolded, and a tress of
shining hair dropped on the old man's hand, clinging lovingly,
as it were, about his fingers, while a low, deep cry
broke the stillness of the room. He knew it in a moment—
knew it was Fannie's hair—the same he had so oft caressed
when she was but a little girl and he a grown-up man. It
was Fannie's hair, come to him over land and sea, and his
eyes grew dim with tears, which rained over his thin, dark
face as he kissed again and again the precious boon, dearer
far to him than the golden ore of India. “Fannie's hair!”
very softly he repeated the words, holding it up to the
moonlight, and then turning it toward the lamp, as if to
assure himself that he really had it in his possession.
“Why was it never sent before?” he said at last, “or
why was it sent at all?” and taking up the letter, he read
it through, lingering long over the postscript, and grieving
that Dora's message, the first he had ever received, should
be comparatively so cold.

“Why couldn't she have sent her love to her poor old
uncle, who has nothing in the wide, wide world to love save
this one lock of hair! God bless you, Dora Deane, for
sending that,” and again he raised it to his lips, saying as
he did so, “And she shall have the money, too, aye, more
than Eugenia asked; one golden dollar for every golden hair,
will be a meet return!” And the old man laughed aloud at

the novel idea, which no one but himself would have conceived.

It was a long, weary task, the counting of those hairs;
for more than once, when he paused in his work to think of
her whose head they once adorned, he forgot how many
had been told, and patiently began again, watching carefully,
through blinding tears, to see that none were lost, for
he would not that one should escape him. It was strange
how childish the strong man became, counting those threads
of hair; and when at last the labor was completed, he
wept because there were no more. Fifteen hundred dollars
seemed too small a sum to pay for what would give him so
much joy; and he mourned that the tress had not been
larger, quite as much as did Eugenia, when she heard of
his odd fancy.

The moon had long since ceased to shine on the sleeping
city, and day was breaking in the east, ere Nathaniel
Deane arose from the table where he had sat the livelong
night, gloating over his treasure, and writing a letter which
now lay upon the table. It was addressed to Dora, and in
it he told her what he had done, blessing her for sending
him that lock of hair, and saying that the sight of it made
his withered heart grow young and green again, as it was
in the happy days when he so madly loved her mother.
Then he told her how he yearned to behold her, to look
upon her face and see which she was like, her father or
her mother. Both were very dear to him, and for their
sake he loved their child.

“No one will ever call me father,” he wrote, “and I am
lonely in my Indian home, lined all over, as it is, with gold,
and sometimes, Dora, since I have heard of you, orphaned
thus early, I have thought I would return to America, and
seeking out some pleasant spot, would build a home for

you and me. And this I would do, were I sure that I was
wanted there—that you would be happier with me than
with your aunt and cousins. Are they kind to you, my
child? Sometimes, in my reveries, I have fancied they
were not—have dreamed of a girlish face, with locks like
that against which my old heart is beating, and eyes of deep
dark blue, looking wistfully at me, across the waste of
waters, and telling me of cruel neglect and indifference.
Were this indeed so, not all India would keep me a moment
from your side.

“She'll answer that,” the old man said, as he read it
over. “She'll tell me to come home,” and, like a very
child, his heart bounded with joy as he thought of breathing
again the air of the western world.

The letter was sent, and with it we, too, will return to
America, and going backward for a little, take up our story
at a period three months subsequent to the time when Eugenia
wrote to Uncle Nat.