University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
THE NEW PIANO.

The next morning, at the appointed time, Mr. Hastings,
Mrs. Deane and her daughter stood together in the
Dunwood Depot, awaiting the arrival of the train. Eugenia
was in high spirits, chatting gaily with Mr. Hastings,
whose manner was so unusually lover-like, that more than
one looker-on smiled meaningly, as they saw how very attentive
he was. On reaching the city he parted from the
ladies for a time, telling Eugenia, as he bade her good
morning, that he should probably not see her again until
about three o'clock in the afternoon, when he would meet
her at the music-rooms.

“Meet you at the music-rooms for what?” asked Mrs.
Deane, who, though she had frequently heard her daughter
talking of a new piano, had never for a moment believed
her to be in earnest.

“What do you suppose he would meet me for, unless it
were to look at pianos?” answered Eugenia, and her mother
replied, “Look at pianos! A great deal of good that will
do, I imagine, when both of us together have but twenty-five
dollars in the world!”

A curious smile flitted over Eugenia's face, as she thought
of the draft, but she merely replied, “And suppose we
haven't any money, can't I make believe, and by looking at

expensive instruments induce Mr. Hastings to think we are
richer than we are? I don't accuse him of being at all
mercenary, but I do think he would have proposed ere this,
if he hadn't thought us so wretchedly poor.”

Mrs. Deane could not understand how merely looking at a
costly piano indicated wealth; but feeling herself considerable
interest in her daughter's success, she concluded to let
her pursue her own course, and the subject was not resumed
again until afternoon, when, having finished their shopping,
they sat alone in a private room, opening from the public
hall, and opposite the ladies' parlor in the hotel. They had
taken this room, because in case she attended the concert,
Eugenia would wish to rearrange her hair, and make some
little change in her personal appearance. “Then, too, when
Mr. Hastings came,” she said, “they would be by themselves,
and not have everybody listening to what they said.
By the way, mother,” she continued, as she stood before the
glass, “if Mr. Hastings can attend the concert, suppose you
go home at half-past six. You don't care for singing, you
know, and besides that, you stumble so in the dark, that it
will be so much pleasanter for Mr. Hastings to have but one
in charge.”

“And much pleasanter for you, too, to be alone with
him,” suggested Mrs. Deane, who really cared but little for
music, and was the more willing to accede to Eugenia's proposal.”

“Why, yes,” answered the young lady. “I think it
would be pleasanter—so if he says he can accompany me,
you go home, like a dear good old woman as you are.” And
tying on her bonnet, Eugenia went out to keep her appointment,
finding Mr. Hastings there before her, as she had
expected.

Several expensive pianos were examined, and a selection

at last made of a very handsome one, whose cost was $450.
“I care but little what price I pay, if it only suits me,” said
Eugenia, with the air of one who had the wealth of the
Indies at her disposal. “You will see that it is carefully
boxed and sent to Dunwood, will you not?” she continued,
turning to the man in attendance, who bowed respectfully,
and stood waiting for the money, while Mr. Hastings, too, it
may be, wondered a very little if it would be forthcoming.
“I did not know certainly as I should make a purchase,”
continued Eugenia, “so I left the money with mother at the
hotel: I will bring it directly;” and she tripped gracefully
out of the store, followed by Mr. Hastings, who felt almost
as if he had done wrong in suffering her to buy a new piano,
when Ella's would have suited her quite as well, and the
name upon it, “E. Hastings,” would make no difference!

Once, in the street, he thought to say something like this
to her and prevent the purchase, but again an unseen hand,
as it were, sealed his lips; and when he spoke, it was to tell
her that he could probably escort her to the concert,
and would see her again about dark. Here having reached
the hotel, he left her, and walked on a short distance, when,
remembering something concerning the concert, which he
wished to tell her, he turned back, and, entering the hotel,
went to the parlor, where he expected to find her. But she
was not there, and thinking she had gone out for a moment
and would soon return, he stepped into the hall, and as the
day was rather cold, stood over the register, which was very
near Eugenia's room. He had been there but an instant,
when he caught the sound of his own name, and looking up,
he saw that the ventilator over the door opposite was turned
back, so that everything said within, though spoken in a low
tone, could be distinctly heard without. It was Eugenia
who was speaking, and not wishing to listen, he was about

turning away, when the words she uttered aroused his
curiosity and chained him to the spot.

They were, “And what if Mr. Hastings did give it to me?
If he marries me, and I intend that he shall, 'twill make no
difference whether the piano was bought afterward or a
little in advance. He knows, or ought to know, that I
would not use Ella's old one.”

“But has he ever said a word to you on the subject of
marriage?” queried Mrs. Deane, and Eugenia answered,
“Not directly, perhaps, but he has had it in his mind a
hundred times, I dare say. But pray don't look so distressed.
I never knew before that scheming mothers objected to their
daughters receiving costly presents from the gentlemen to
whom they were engaged.”

“You are not engaged,” said Mrs. Deane, and Eugenia
replied, “But expect to be, which is the same thing;” then
after a pause, she continued, “but, jesting aside, Mr. Hastings
did not buy the piano. I bought it myself and expect
to pay for it, too, that is, if you will indorse this draft.
Look!” and she held to view the draft, of which Mrs. Deane
was, until that moment, wholly ignorant.

Wiping from his white brow the heavy drops of perspiration
which had gathered thickly upon it, Mr. Hastings
attempted to leave the place, but the same hand which
twice before had sealed his lips, was interposed to keep
him there, and he stood silent and immovable, while his surprise
and indignation increased as the conversation proceeded.

In great astonishment Mrs. Deane examined the draft,
and then questioned her daughter as to how she came by
it. Very briefly Eugenia told of the letter she had sent her
Uncle Nat. “I knew there was no surer way of gaining his
good will,” said she, “than by thrusting Dora in his face,

so I asked her if she had any message, and she sent her
love, together with a lock of her mother's hair, which I
verily believe turned the old fellow's heart. I have not the
letter with me which he wrote in reply, and directed to
Dora, but it was a sickish, sentimental thing, prating about
his love for her mother, and how much he prized that lock,
which he said he would pay for at the rate of one dollar a
hair! And, don't you believe, the silly old fool sat up all
night, crying over and counting the hairs, which amounted
to fifteeen hundred! 'Twould have been more if I hadn't
foolishly kept back some for hair ornaments. I was so provoked
I could have thrown them in the fire.”

“But if the letter was directed to Dora, how came you
by it?” asked Mrs. Deane, who, knowing Eugenia as well as
she did, was still wholly unprepared for anything like this.

“'Twas the merest chance in the world,” answered
Eugenia, stating the circumstance by which the letter came
into her possession, and adding that “Mr. Hastings must
have thought her manner that night very strange; but
come,” she continued, “do sign your name quick, so I can
get the money before the bank closes.”

But this Mrs. Deane at first refused to do, saying it was
not theirs, and Dora should no longer be defrauded; at the
same time, she expressed her displeasure at Eugenia's utter
want of principle.

“Grown suddenly very conscientious, haven't you!” scornfully
laughed the young lady, reminding her of the remittance
anually sent to them for Dora's benefit, but which had been
unjustly withheld; “very conscientious indeed; but I am
thankful I parted company with that commodity long ago.

Then followed a series of angry words, and bitter recriminations,
by which the entire history of Eugenia's selfish
treatment of her cousin, even to the cutting off her hair

more than two years before, was disclosed to Mr. Hastings,
who, immeasurable shocked and sick at heart, turned away
just as Mrs. Deane, to avoid further altercation, expressed
her readiness to indorse the draft, on condition that the
balance after paying for the piano, should be set aside for
Dora.

“And haven't I told you repeatedly that the piano was all
I wanted? and I shouldn't be so particularly anxious about
that, if I did not think it would aid me in securing Mr. Hastings.”

“Which you never shall, so help me Heaven!” exclaimed
the indignant man, as he strode noiselessly down the hall,
and out into the open air, where he breathed more freely,
as if just escaping from the poisonous atmosphere of the
deadly upas.

It would be impossible to describe his emotion, as he walked
on through one street after another. Astonishment, rage, horror,
and disgust each in turn predominated, and were at last
succeeded by a deep feeling of thankfulness that the veil
had been removed, and he had escaped from the toils of one,
who, slowly but surely, had been winding herself around his
fancy—he would not say affections, for he knew he had never
loved her. “But she might have duped me,” he said, “for I
am but human;” and then as he thought what a hardened,
unprincipled woman she was, he shuddered and grew faint
at the mere idea of taking such a one to fill the place of his
gentle, loving Ella. “I cannot meet her to-night,” he continued,
as he remembered the concert. “I could not
endure the sound of her voice, for I should say that to her
which had better not be said. I will go home—back to
Dunwood, leaving her to wait for me as long as she chooses.”

With him, to will was to do, and having finished his business,
he started for the, depot, whither Mrs. Deane had

preceded him, having been coaxed by Eugenia to return at
half past six, and thus leave her the pleasure of Mr. Hastings's
company alone. The piano had been paid for, and as
it was quite dark, and beginning to rain, the now amiable
young lady accompanied her mother to the depot, and
having seen her safely in the cars, which would not start in
some minutes, was on her way back to the hotel, her mind
too intently occupied with thoughts of coming pleasure to
heed the man, who, with dark lowering brow, and hat
drawn over his face, met her on the sidewalk, and who at
sight of her started suddenly as if she had been a crawling
serpent.

“Will the Deanes always cross my path?” he exclaimed,
as, opening the car door, he saw near the stove the brown
satin hat and black plumes of the mother, who was sitting
with her back towards him, and consequently was not aware
of his presence.

To find a seat in another car was an easy matter, and
while Eugenia, at the hotel, was alternately admiring herself
in the glass, and peering out into the hall to see if he
were coming, he was on his way to Dunwood, breathing more
and more freely, as the distance between them increased.

“Yes, I have escaped her,” he thought, and mingled with
thankfulness for this, was a deep feeling of sympathy for
Dora, to whom such injustice had been done.

He understood perfectly her position—knew exactly the
course of treatment, which, from the first, she had received,
and while trembling with anger, he resolved that it should
not continue. “I can help her, and I will,” he said emphatically;
though how, or by what means he could not, in
his present state of excitement, decide. Arrived at Dunwood,
he stepped hastily from the car and walked rapidly
down the street until he came opposite Locust Grove.

Then, indeed he paused, while an involuntary shudder ran
through his frame as he thought of the many hours he had
spent within those walls with one who had proved herself unworthy
even of the name of woman.

“But it is over now,” he said, “and when I cross that
threshold again, may”—

The sentence was unfinished, for a light flashed suddenly out
upon him, and a scene met his view which arrested his footsteps
at once, and, raining as it was, he leaned back against
the fence and gazed at the picture before him. The shutters
were thrown open, and through the window was plainly
discernible the form of Dora Deane, seated at table,
on which lay a book which she seemed to be reading.
There was nothing elegant about her dress, nor did Howard
Hastings think of this; his mind was intent upon her
who had been so cruelly wronged, and whose young face,
seen through the window on that winter night, looked very
fair, so fair that he wondered he had never thought before
how beautiful was Dora Deane.

At this point, Mrs. Deane, who had been slower in her
movements, reached the gate, and, resigning his post near
the fence, Mr. Hastings walked slowly home, bearing in his
mind that picture of Dora Deane as he saw her through
the window, with no shadows on her brow, save those left
there by early grief, and which rendered her face still more
attractive than it would otherwise have been. That night,
all through the silent hours, there shone a glimmering light
from the room where Howard Hastings sat, brooding upon
what he had heard, and meditating upon the best means
for removing Dora from the influence of her heartless cousin.
Slowly over him, too, came memories of the little brown-faced
girl who, when his home was cheerless, had come to him
with her kindly acts and gentle ways, diffusing over all an air

of comfort and filling his home with sunlight. Then he remembered
that darkest hour of his desolation—that first coming
home from burying his dead; and, now as then he felt
creeping over him the icy chill which had lain upon his heart
when he approached the house whence they had borne his
fair girl wife. But he had found her there—Dora Deane—
folding his motherless baby to her bosom, and again in imagination
he met the soft glance of her eye as she welcomed him
back to Ella's room which seemed not half so lonely with
Dora sitting by his side. Again he was with her in the storm
which she had braved on that night when his child lay dying—
the child whom she had loved so much, and who had died
upon her lap. Anon, this picture faded too, and he saw her
as he had seen her but a few hours before—almost a woman
now, but retaining still the same fair, open brow, and sunny
smile which had characterized her as a child. And this was the
girl whom Eugenia would trample down—would misrepresent
to the fond old uncle, far away. “But it shall never
be,” he said aloud; “I will remove her from them by force
if need be.” But “where would she go?” he asked. Then
as he remembered Ella's wish that he should care for her—
a wish which his foolish fancy for Eugenia had for a time
driven from his mind, he felt an intense longing to have her
there with him; there, in his home, where he could see her
every day—not as his wife, for at that time, Howard Hastings
had never thought it possible for him to call her by
that name, she seemed so much a child; but she should
be his sister, and his manly heart throbbed with delight, as
he thought how he would watch over and protect her from
all harm. He would teach her, and she should learn, sitting
at his feet as she sat two years before; and life
would seem no longer sad and dreary, for he would have a
pleasant home, and in it Dora Deane! Ere long, however,
his better judgment told him that the censorious, curious
world would never suffer this to be; she couldn't come as his
sister—she couldn't come at all—and again there came over him
a sense of desolation, as if he were a second time bereaved.

Slowly and steadily the rain drops pattered against the
window pane, while the lamp upon the table burned lower
and lower, and still Mr. Hastings sat there, pondering
another plan, to which he could see no possible objection,
provided Mrs. Deane's consent could be obtained; “and
she shall consent,” he said, “or an exposure of her daughter
will be the consequence.”

Then, it occurred to him, that in order to succeed, he must
for a time at least appear perfectly natural—must continue
to visit at Locust Grove, just as he had been in the habit
of doing—must meet Eugenia face to face, and even school
himself to listen to the sound of her piano, which he felt
would grate so harshly on his ear. And all this he could do
if in the end Dora would be benefited.

For the more immediate accomplishment of his purpose,
it seemed necessary that he should visit New York, and as,
in his present excitement, he could not rest at home, he determined
upon going that very morning, in the early train.
Pushing back the heavy drapery which shaded the window,
he saw that daylight was already breaking in the east, and,
after a few hurried preparations, he knocked at Mrs.
Leah's door, and telling her that important business required
his presence in New York, whither he should be gone a few
days, he started for the depot, just as the sun was rising;
and, that night, Mrs. Elliott, his sister, was surprised to
hear that he was in the parlor, and wished to see her.

“Why, Howard!” she exclaimed, as she entered the room,
and saw how pale and haggard he was, “what is the matter,
and why have you come upon me so suddenly?”

“I have come, Louise, for aid,” he answered, advancing

towards her, and drawing her to his side. “Aid for an injured
orphan. Do you remember Dora Deane?”

“Perfectly well, answered Mrs. Elliott. I was too much
interested in her to forget her soon. Ella wrote me that
she was living in Dunwood, and when next I visited you, I
intended seeking her out. But what of her, and how can I
befriend her?”

In as few words as possible, Mr. Hastings told what he
knew of her history since his sister saw her last, withholding
not even the story of his own strange fancy for Eugenia.
“But that is over, thank Heaveu,” he continued; “and
now, Louise, you must take Dora to live with you. You
have no child, no sister, and she will be to you both of these.
You must love her, educate her, make her just such a woman
as you are yourself; make her, in short, what that noble-hearted
old man in India will wish her to be when he
returns, as he shall do, if my life is spared; and Louise,” he
added, growing more and more earnest, “she will well repay
you for your trouble. She brought sunshine to my
home; she will bring it to yours. She is naturally refined
and intelligent. She is amiable, ingenuous, open-hearted,
and will one day be beautiful.

“And you, my brother, love her?” queried Mrs. Elliott,
looking him steadily in his face, and parting the thick, black
hair from off his high, white forehead.

“Love her, Louise!” he answered, “I love Dora Deane!
Why, no. Ella loved her, the baby loved her, and for this
I will befriend her, but to love her, I never thought of such a
thing!” and walking to the window, he looked out upon the
night, repeating to himself, “Love Dora Deane! I wonder
what put that idea into Louise's brain?”

Returning ere long to his seat, he resumed the conversation,
which resulted at last in Mrs. Elliott's expressing her
perfect willingness to give Dora a home, and a mother's

care, to see that she had every possible advantage, to watch
over and make her not only what Uncle Nat would wish to
find her, but what Howard Hastings himself desired that
she shuold be. Of Mrs. Elliott, we have said but little,
neither is it necessary that we should dwell upon her characacter
at large. She was a noble, true-hearted woman, finding
her greatest happiness in doing others good. Windowed
in the second year of her married life, her home was comparatively
lonely, for no second love had ever moved her
heart. In Dora Deane, of whom Ella had written so enthusiastically,
she felt a deep interest, and when her brother
came to her with the story of her wrongs, she gladly consented
to be to her a mother, nay, possibly a sister, for, with
woman's ready tact, she read what Mr. Hastings did not
even suspect, and she bade him bring her at once.

A short call upon his mother, to whom he talked of Dora
Deane; a hasty visit to Ella's grave, on which the winter
snow was lying; a civil bow across the street to Mrs. Grey,
who had never quite forgiven him for having killed her daughter;
and he started back to Dunwood, bearing with him
a happier, healthier, frame of mind, than he had experienced
for many a day. There was something now worth
living for—the watching Dora Deane grow up into a woman,
whose husband would delight to honor her, and whose
children would rise up and call her blessed. This picture,
however, was not altogether pleasing, though why the
thoughts of Dora's future husband should affect him unpleasantly,
he could not tell. Still it did, and mentally
hoping she would never marry, he reached Dunwood at the
close of the third day after his departure from it.

Here for a moment we leave him, while, in another chapter,
we look in upon Eugenia, whom we left waiting for him
at the hotel.