 | Dora Deane, or, The East India uncle; and
Maggie Miller, or, Old Hagar's secret |  |
1. DORA DEANE; OR, THE EAST INDIA UNCLE.
1. CHAPTER I.
DORA AND HER MOTHER.
Poor little Dora Deane! How utterly wretched and
desolate she was, as she crouched before the scanty fire,
and tried to warm the little bit of worn-out flannel, with
which to wrap her mother's feet; and how hard she tried to
force back the tears which would burst forth afresh whenever
she looked upon that pale, sick mother, and thought
how soon she would be gone!
It was a small, low, scantily furnished room, high up in
the third story of a crazy old building, which Dora called
her home, and its one small window looked out on naught
save the roofs and spires of the great city whose dull, monotonous
roar was almost the only sound to which she had
ever listened. Of the country, with its bright green grass,
its sweet wild flowers, its running brooks, and its shady
trees, she knew but little, for only once had she looked
on all these things, and then her heart was very sad, for the
were trampled down, that a grave might be made in the
dark, moist earth for her father, who had died in early manhood,
leaving his wife and only child to battle with the selfish
world as best they could. Since that time, life had been
long and dreary to the poor widow, whose hours were well-nigh
ended, for ere to-morrow's sun was risen, she would
have a better home than that dreary, cheerless room, while
Dora, at the early age of twelve, would be an orphan.
It was a cold December night, the last one of the year,
and the wintry wind, which swept howling past the curtainless
window, seemed to take a sadder tone, as if in pity for
the little girl who knelt upon the hearthstone, and with the
dim firelight flickering over her tear-stained face, prayed
that she, too, might die, and not be left alone.
“It will be so lonely—so cold without my mother!” she
murmured. “Oh, let me go with her; I cannot live alone.”
“Dora, my darling,” came faintly from the rude couch,
and in an instant the child was at her mother's side.
Winding her arms fondly about the neck of her daughter,
and pushing the soft auburn hair from off her fair, open
brow, Mrs. Deane gazed long and earnestly upon her face.
“Yes, you are like me,” she said at last, “and I am glad
that it is so, for it may be Sarah will love you better when
she sees in you a look like one who once called her sister.
And should he ever return”—
She paused, while her mind went back to the years long
ago—to the old yellow farm-house among the New England
hills—to the grey-haired man, who had adopted her as his
own when she was written fatherless—to the dark-eyed girl,
sometimes kind, and sometimes overbearing, whom she had
called her sister, though there was no tie of blood between
them. Then she thought of the red house just across the
John. Very softly she repeated the name of the latter,
seeming to see him again as he was on the day when, with
the wreath of white apple blossoms upon her brow, she sat
on the mossy bank and listened to his low spoken words of
love. Again she was out in the pale starlight, and heard
the autumn wind go moaning through the locust trees as
Nathaniel, the strange, eccentric, woman-hating Nathaniel,
but just returned from the seas, told her how madly he had
loved her, and how the knowledge that she belonged to
another would drive him from his fatherland forever—that
in the burning clime of India he would make gold his idol,
forgetting, if it were possible, the mother who had borne
him! Then she recalled the angry scorn with which her
adopted sister had received the news of her engagement
with John, and how the conviction was at last forced upon
her that Sarah herself had loved him in secret, and that in
a fit of desperation she had given her hand to the rather
inefficient Richard, ever after treating her rival with a cool
reserve, which now came back to her with painful distinctness.
“But she will love my little Dora for John's sake, if not
for mine,” she thought, at last; and then, as if she had all
the time been speaking to her daughter, she continued,
“And you must be very dutiful to your aunt, and kind to
your cousins, fulfilling their slightest wishes.”
Looking up quickly, Dora asked, “Have you written to
Aunt Sarah? Does she say I can come?”
“The letter is written, and Mrs. Gannis will send it as
soon as I am dead,” answered Mrs. Deane. “I am sure she
will give you a home. I told her there was no alternative
but the almshouse;” then, after a pause, she added: “I
wrote to your uncle Nathaniel some months ago, when I
him direct to Sarah, as I did not then think to see the
winter snow.”
“Did you tell him of me?” eagerly asked Dora, on whom
the name of Uncle Nathaniel, or “Uncle Nat,” as he was
more familiarly called, produced a more pleasant impression
than did that of her aunt Sarah.
“Yes,” answered the mother, “it was of you that I
wrote, commending you to his care, should he return to
America. And if you ever meet him, Dora, tell him that
on my dying bed I thought of him with affection—that my
mind wandered back to the years of long ago, when I was
young, and ask him, for the sake of one he called his brother,
and for her who grieves that ever she caused him a
moment's pain, to care for you, their orphan child.”
Then followed many words of love, which were very
precious to Dora in the weary years which followed that sad
night; and then, for a time, there was silence in that little
room, broken only by the sound of the wailing tempest.
The old year was going out on the wings of a fearful storm,
and as the driving sleet beat against the casement, while
the drifting snow found entrance through more than one
wide crevice and fell upon her pillow, the dying woman
murmured, “Lie up closer to me, Dora, I am growing very
cold.”
Alas! 'twas the chill of death; but Dora did not know
it, and again on the hearthstone before the fast dying coals
she knelt, trying to warm the bit of flannel, on which her
burning tears fell like rain, when through the empty wood-box
she sought in vain for chip or bark with which to
increase the scanty fire.
“But I will not tell her,” she softly whispered, when satisfied
that her search was vain, and wrapping the flannel
covered her own naked arms, and laying it over her
mother's shoulders, tucked in the thin bedclothes; and then,
herself all shivering and benumbed, she sat down to wait
and watch, singing softly a familiar hymn, which had sometimes
lulled her mother into a quiet sleep.
At last, as her little round white arms grew purple
with the cold, she moved nearer to the bedside, and winding
them lovingly around her mother's neck, laid her head upon
the pillow and fell asleep. And to the angels, who were
hovering near, waiting to bear their sister spirit home, there
was given charge concerning the little girl, so that she did
not freeze, though she sat there the live-long night, calmly
sleeping the sweet sleep of childhood, while the mother at
her side slept the long, eternal sleep of death!
2. CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST AND LAST NEW YEAR'S CALL.
It was New Year's morning, and over the great city lay
the deep, untrodden snow, so soon to be trampled down by
thousands of busy feet. Cheerful fires were kindled in
many a luxurious home of the rich, and “Happy New Year”
was echoed from lip to lip, as if on that day there were no
aching hearts—no garrets where the biting cold looked in
on pinching poverty and suffering old age—no low, dark
room where Dora and her pale, dead mother lay, while over
them the angels kept their tireless watch till human aid
should come. But one there was who did not forget—one
about whose house was gathered every elegance which
fashion could dictate or money procure; and now, as she
sat at her bountifully-furnished breakfast table sipping her
fragrant chocolate, she thought of the poor widow, Dora's
mother, for whom her charity had been solicited the day
before, by a woman who lived in the same block of buildings
with Mrs. Deane.
“Brother,” she said, glancing towards a young man who,
before the glowing grate, was reading the morning paper,
“suppose you make your first call with me?”
“Certainly,” he answered; “and it will probably be in
some dreary attic or dark, damp basement; but it is well,
I suppose, to begin the New Year by remembering the poor.”
Half an hour later, and the crazy stairs which led to the
chamber of death were creaking to the tread of the lady
and her brother, the latter of whom knocked loudly for
admission. Receiving no answer from within, they at last
raised the latch and entered. The fire had long since gone
out, and the night wind, as it poured down the chimney,
had scattered the cold ashes over the hearth and out upon
the floor. Piles of snow lay on the window sill, and a
tumbler in which some water had been left standing, was
broken in pieces. All this the young man saw at a glance,
but when his eye fell upon the bed, he started back, for
there was no mistaking the rigid, stony expression of the
upturned face, which lay there so white and motionless.
“But the child—the child,” he exclaimed, advancing
forward—“can she, too, be dead?” and he laid his warm
hand gently on Dora's brow.
The touch aroused her, and starting up, she looked
around for a moment bewildered; but when at last she
turned towards her mother, the dread reality was forced
upon her, and in bitter tones she cried, “Mother's dead,
mother's dead, and I am all alone! Oh! mother, mother,
come back again to me!”
The young man's heart was touched, and taking the
child's little red hands in his, he rubbed them gently, trying
to soothe her grief; while his sister, summoning the
inmates from the adjoining room, gave orders that the
body should receive the necessary attention; then, learning
as much as was possible of Dora's history, and assuring her
that she should be provided for until her aunt came, she
went away, promising to return next morning and be
present at the humble funeral.
That evening, as Dora sat weeping by the coffin in which
her mother lay, a beautiful young girl, with eyes of deepest
him whose first New Year's call had been in the chamber of
death, and whose last was to her, the petted child of fashion.
“I had almost given you up, and was just going to cry,”
she said, laying her little snow-flake of a hand upon the one
which that morning had chafed the small, stiff fingers of
Dora Deane, and which now tenderly pressed those of Ella
Grey as the young man answered, “I have not felt like going
out to-day, for my first call saddened me;” and then, with
his arm around the fairy form of Ella, his affianced bride,
he told her of the cold, dreary room, of the mother colder
still, and of the noble little girl, who had divested herself
of her own clothing, that her mother might be warm.
Ella Grey had heard of such scenes before—had cried
over them in books; but the idea that she could do anything
to relieve the poor, had never entered her mind. It
is true, she had once given a party dress to a starving woman,
and a pound of candy to a ragged boy who had asked
for aid, but here her charity ended; so, though she seemed
to listen with interest to the sad story, her mind was wandering
elsewhere, and when her companion ceased, she
merely said, “Romantic, wasn't it.”
There was a look of disappointment on the young man's
face, which was quickly observed by Ella, who attributed it
to its right source, and hastened to ask numberless questions
about Dora—“How old was she? Did he think her
pretty, and hadn't she better go to the funeral the next
day and bring her home for a waiting-maid?—she wanted
one sadly, and from the description, the orphan girl would
just suit.”
“No, Ella,” answered her lover; “the child is going to
live in the country with some relatives, and will be much
better off there.”
“The country,” repeated Ella. “I would rather freeze
in New York than to live in the dismal country.”
Again the shadow came over the gentleman's brow, as he
said, “Do you indeed object so much to a home in the
country?”
Ella knew just what he wanted her to say; so she
answered, “Oh, no, I can be happy anywhere with you,
but do please let me spend just one winter in the city
after”—
Here she paused, while the bright blushes broke over her
childish face. She could not say, even to him, “after we
are married,” so he said it for her, drawing her closer to
his side, and forgetting Dora Deane, as he painted the
joyous future when Ella would be all his own. Eleven
o'clock sounded from more than one high tower, and at
each stroke poor Dora Deane moaned in anguish, thinking
to herself, “Last night at this time she was here.” Eleven
o'clock, said Ella Grey's diamond set watch, and pushing
back her wavy hair, the young man kissed her rosy cheek,
and bade her a fond good-night. As he reached the door,
she called him back, while she asked him the name of the
little girl who had so excited his sympathy.
“I do not know,” he answered. “Strange that I forgot
to inquire. But no matter. We shall never meet again;”
and feeling sure that what he said was true, he walked
away.
3. CHAPTER III.
DORA'S RELATIVES.
Three hundred miles to the westward, and the storm,
which, on New Year's eve, swept so furiously over all parts
of the State, was perceptible only in the dull, grey clouds
which obscured the wintry sky, shutting out the glimmering
starlight, and apparently making still brighter the many
cheerful lights which shone forth from the handsome dwellings
in the village of Dunwood. Still the night was intensely
cold, and, as Mrs. Sarah Deane, in accordance with
her daughter Eugenia's request, added a fresh bit of coal
to the already well-filled stove, she sighed involuntarily,
wishing the weather would abate, for the winter's store of
fuel was already half gone, and the contents of her purse
were far too scanty to meet the necessity of her household,
and at the same time minister to the wants of her extravagant
daughters.
“But I can economize in one way,” she said, half aloud,
and crossing the room she turned down the astral lamp
which was burning brightly upon the table.
“Don't, pray mother, make it darker than a dungeon!”
petulantly exclaimed Eugenia, herself turning back the
lamp. “I do like to have rooms light enough to see one's
self;” and glancing complacently at the reflection of her
handsome face, in the mirror opposite, she resumed her
former lounging attitude upon the sofa.
Mrs. Deane sighed again, but she had long since ceased
to oppose the imperious Eugenia, who was to all intents
and purposes the mistress of the house, and who oftentimes
led her mother and weaker-minded sister into the commission
of acts from which they would otherwise have shrunk.
Possessed of a large share of romance, Eugenia had given
to their place the name of “Locust Grove;” and as Mrs.
Deane managed to keep up a kind of outside show by
practising the most pinching economy in everything pertaining
to the actual comfort of her family, they were
looked upon as being quite wealthy and aristocratic by
those who saw nothing of their inner life—who knew
nothing of the many shifts and turns in the kitchen to save
money for the decoration of the parlors, or of the frequent
meagre meals eaten from the pantry shelf, in order to make
amends for the numerous dinner and evening parties which
Eugenia and Alice insisted upon giving, and which their
frequent visits to their friends rendered necessary. Extensive
servant-hire was of course too expensive, and, as
both Eugenia and Alice affected the utmost contempt for
anything like work, their mother toiled in the kitchen from
morning until night, assisted only by a young girl, whose
mother constantly threatened to take her away, unless her
wages were increased, a thing which seemed impossible.
It was just after this woman's weekly visit, and in the
midst of preparations for a large dinner party, that Mrs.
Deane received her sister's letter, to which there was added
a postscript, in a strange handwriting, saying she was
dead. There was a moisture in Mrs. Deane's eyes as she
read the touching lines; and leaning her heated forehead
against the cool window pane, she, too, thought of the
years gone by—of the gentle girl, the companion of her
childhood, who had never given her an unkind word—of
child—Fanny's child and John's.
“Yes,” she said, half aloud, “I will give her a home,”
but anon there came stealing over her the old bitterness of
feeling, which she had cherished since she knew that Fanny
was preferred to herself, and then the evil of her nature
whispered, “No, I will not receive their child. We can
hardly manage to live now, and it is not my duty to incur
an additional expense. Dora must stay where she is, and
if I do not answer the letter, she will naturally suppose I
never received it.”
Thus deciding the matter, she crushed the letter into her
pocket and went back to her work; but there was an added
weight upon her spirits, while continually ringing in her
ears were the words, “Care for John's child and mine.”
“If I could only make her of any use to me,” she said at
last, and then as her eye fell upon Bridget, whose stay with
her was so uncertain, the dark thought entered her mind,
“Why could not Dora fill her place? It would be a great
saving, and of course the child must expect to work.”
Still, reason as she would, Mrs. Deane could not at once
bring herself to the point of making a menial of one who
was every way her equal; neither could she decide to pass
the letter by unnoticed; so for the present she strove to
dismiss the subject, which was not broached to her daughters
until the evening on which we first introduced them to
our readers. Then taking her seat by the brightly burning
lamp, she drew the letter from her pocket and read it aloud,
while Alice drummed an occasional note upon the piano and
Eugenie beat a tattoo upon the carpet with her delicate
French slipper.
“Of course she won't come,” said Alice, as her mother
finished reading. “It was preposterous in Aunt Fanny to
for approbation of what she had said.
Eugenia's quick, active mind had already looked at the
subject in all its bearings, and in like manner with her
mother she saw how Dora's presence there would be a benefit;
so to Alice's remark she replied: “It will sound well
for us to have a cousin in the poorhouse, won't it? For my
part, I propose that she comes, and then be made to earn
her own living. We can dismiss Bridget, who is only two
years older than Dora, and we shall thus avoid quarrelling
regularly with her vixenish mother, besides saving a dollar
every week”—
“So make a drudge of Dora,” interrupted Alice. “Better
leave her in the poorhouse at once.”
“Nobody intends to make a drudge of her,” retorted Eugenia.
“Mother works in the kitchen, and I wonder if it
will hurt Dora to help her. Every girl ought to learn to
work!”
“Except Eugenia Deane,” suggested Alice, laughing, to
think how little her sister's practice accorded with her
theory.
At this point in the conversation, Bridget entered, bringing
a letter which bore the India post-mark, together with
the unmistakable handwriting of Nathaniel Deane!
“A letter from Uncle Nat, as I live!” exclaimed Eugenia.
“What is going to happen? He hasn't written before in
years. I do wish I knew when he expected to quit this
mundane sphere, and how much of his money he intends
leaving me!”
By this time Mrs. Deane had broken the seal, uttering an
exclamation of surprise as a check for $500 fell into her lap.
“Five hundred dollars!” screamed Eugenia, catching up
the check and examining it closely, to see that there was
Now, we'll have some genuine silver forks for our best company,
so we shan't be in constant terror lest some one should
discover that they are only plated. I'll buy that set of
pearls at Mercer's, too, and, Alice, you and I will have some
new furs. I'd go to Rochester to-morrow, if it were not
Sunday. What shall we get for you, mother? A web of
cloth, or an ounce of sewing silk?” and the heartless girl
turned towards her mother, whose face was white as ashes,
as she said faintly: “The money is not ours. It is Dora's—
to be used for her benefit.”
“Not ours! What do you mean? It can't be true!”
cried Eugenia, snatching the letter, and reading therein a
confirmation of her mother's words.
After a slight apology for his long silence, Uncle Nat had
spoken of Fanny's letter, saying he supposed she must be
dead ere this, and that Dora was probably living with her
aunt, as it was quite natural she should do. Then he
expressed his willingness to defray all the expense which she
might be, adding that though he should never see her, as he
was resolved to spend his days in India, he still wished to
think of her as an educated and accomplished woman.
“Accompanying this letter,” he wrote, “is a check for
$500, to be used for Dora's benefit. Next year I will make
another remittance, increasing the allowance as she grows
older. I have more money than I need, and I know of no
one on whom I would sooner expend it than the child of
Fanny Moore.”
“Spiteful old fool!” muttered Eugenia, “I could relieve
him of any superfluous dimes he may possess.”
But even Eugenia, heartless as she was, felt humbled and
subdued for a moment, as she read the latter part of her
uncle's letter, from which we give the following extract:
“I am thinking, to-day, of the past, Sarah, and I grow a
very child again as I recall the dreary years which have
gone over my head, since last I trod the shores of my
father-land. You, Sarah, know much of my history. You
know that I was awkward, eccentric, uncouth, and many
years older than my handsomer, more highly gifted brother;
and yet with all this fearful odds against me, you know
that I ventured to love the gentle, fair-haired Fanny, your
adopted sister. You know this, I say, but you do not know
how madly, how passionately such as I can love—did love;
nor how the memory of Fanny's ringing laugh, and the
thought of the sunny smile, with which I knew she would
welcome me home again, cheered me on my homeward voyage,
when in the long night-watches I paced the vessel's
deck, while the stars looked coldly down upon me, and there
was no sound to break the deep stillness, save the heavy
swell of the sea. At the village inn where I stopped for a
moment ere going to my father's house, I first heard that
her hand was plighted to another, and in my wild frenzy, I
swore that my rival, whoever it might be, should die!
“It was my youngest brother—he, who, on the sad night
when our mother died, had laid his baby head upon my
bosom, and wept himself to sleep—he whose infant steps I
had guided, bearing him often in my arms, lest he should
`dash his foot against a stone.' And his life I had sworn to
take, for had he not come between me and the only object
I had ever loved? There was no one stirring about the
house, for it was night, and the family had retired. But the
door was unfastened, and I knew the way up-stairs. I
found him, as I had expected, in our old room, and all
alone; for Richard was away. Had he been there, it
should make no difference, I said, but he was absent, and
John was calmly sleeping with his face upturned to the soft
not seen him for two long years, and now there was about
him a look so much like that of my dead mother when she
lay in her coffin bed, that the demon in my heart was softened,
and I seemed to hear her dying words again, `I can
trust you, Nathaniel; and to your protection, as to a second
mother, I commit my little boy.'
“The little boy, whose curls were golden then, was now
a brown-haired man—my brother—the son of my angel
mother, whose spirit, in that dark hour of my temptation,
glided into the silent room, and stood between me and her
youngest born, so that he was not harmed, and I was saved
from the curse of a brother's blood.
“ `Lead us not into temptation,' came back to me, just as
I had said it kneeling at my mother's side; and covering my
face with my hands, I thanked God, who had kept me from
so great a sin. Bending low, I whispered in his ear his
name, and in a moment his arms were around my neck,
while he welcomed me back to the home, which, he said,
was not home without me. And then, when the moon had
gone down, and the stars shone too faintly to reveal his
blushes, he told me the story of his happiness, to which I
listened, while the great drops of sweat rolled down my face
and moistened the pillow on which my head was resting.
“But why linger over those days of anguish, which made
me an old man before my time? I knew I could not stand
by and see her wedded to another—neither could I look
upon her after she was another's wife; so, one night, when
the autumn days were come, I asked her to go with me out
beneath the locust trees, which skirted my father's yard.
It was there I had seen her for the first time, and it was
there I would take my final leave. Of the particulars of
that interview I remember but little, for I was terribly excited.
dawned, I had left my home forever” —
Then followed a few more words concerning Dora, with a
request that she should write to him, as he would thus be
able to judge something of her character; and there the
letter ended.
For a time there was silence, which was broken at last by
Eugenia, whose active mind had already come to a decision.
Dora would live with them, of course—it was best that she
should, and there was no longer need for dismissing Bridget.
The five hundred dollars obviated that necessity, and it was
theirs, too—theirs by way of remuneration for giving Dora a
home—theirs to spend as they pleased. And she still intended
to have the furs, the pearls, and the silver forks, just
the same as though the money had been a special gift to
her!
“Suppose Uncle Nat should happen to come home, and
Dora should tell him?” suggested Alice, who did not so
readily fall in with her sister's views.
“He'll never do that in the world,” returned Eugenia.
“And even if he should, Dora will have nothing to tell, for
she is not supposed to know of the money. If we feed,
clothe, and educate her, it is all we are required to do.”
“But would that be exactly just?” faintly interposed
Mrs. Deane, whose perceptions of right and wrong were not
quite so blunted as those of her daughter, who, in answer to
her question, proceeded to advance many good reasons why
Dora, for a time at least, should be kept in ignorance of the
fact that her uncle supported her, and not her aunt.
“We can manage her better if she thinks she is dependent
upon us. And then, as she grows older, she will not be
continually asking what has become of the money, which, as
I understand the matter, is really ours, and not hers”
Still, Mrs. Deane was not quite convinced, but she knew
how useless it would be to argue the point; so she said
nothing, except to ask how Dora was to get there, as she
could not come alone.
“I have it,” answered Eugenia. “I have long wished to
spend a few days in New York, but that bane of my life,
poverty, has always prevented. Now, however, as old
Uncle Nat has kindly furnished us with the means, I propose
that Alice and I start day after to-morrow, and return
on Saturday. That will give us ample time to see the lions
and get the city fashions.”
“It will cost a great deal for you both to stay at those
large hotels,” said Mrs. Deane; and Eugenie replied—
“One hundred dollars will cover all the expense, and pay
Dora's fare besides. What is the use of money, if we can't
use it? I shall get my furs, and jewelry, and forks while
I'm there, so I'd better take along three hundred and fifty
dollars, for fear of any accident. We are not obliged to
spend it all, of course;” she added, as she saw the look of
dismay on her mother's face. “And we can bring back
whatever there is left.”
For nineteen years Eugenia Deane had been suffered to
have her way, and her mother did not like to thwart her
now, for her temper was violent, and she dreaded an out-break;
so she merely sighed in reply, and when, on Monday
morning, Eugenia started for New York, her purse contained
the desired $350, which, after her arrival in the city,
was spent as freely as if it really belonged to her, and not
to the orphan Dora, who was now staying with Mrs. Grannis,
a kind-hearted woman in the same block where her
mother had died. The furs were bought, the pearls examined,
the forks priced, and then Alice ventured to ask
when they were going to find Dora.
“I shall leave that for the last thing,” answered Eugenia.
“She can't run away, and nobody wants to be bothered
with a child to look after.”
So for three more days little Dora looked out of the
dingy window upon the dirty court below, wishing her aunt
would come, and wondering if she should like her. At last,
towards the close of Friday afternoon, there was a knock
at the door, and a haughty-looking, elegantly dressed young
lady inquired if a little orphan girl lived there.
“That's her—Aunt Sarah,” exclaimed Dora, springing
joyfully forward; but she paused and started back, as she
met the cold, scrutinizing glance of Eugenia's large black
eyes.
“Are you the child I am looking for?” asked Eugenia,
without deigning to notice Mrs. Grannis's request that she
would walk in.
“I am Dora Deane,” was the simple answer; and then, as
briefly as possible, Eugenia explained that she had been
sent for her, and that early the next morning she would call
to take her to the depot.
“Did you know mother? Are you any relation?”
asked Dora, trembling with eager expectation; and Alice,
who, without her sister's influence, would have been a comparatively
kind-hearted girl, answered softly, “We are your
cousins.”
There was much native politeness, and natural refinement
of manner about Dora, and instinctively her little chubby
hand was extended towards her newly found relative, who
pressed it gently, glancing the while at her sister, who,
without one word of sympathy for the orphan girl, walked
away through the winding passage, and down the narrow
stairs, out into the sunlight, where, breathing more freely,
she exclaimed, “What a horrid place! I hope I haven't
that long dress, and high-neck apron?”
“Her face is pretty, though,” returned Alice, “and her
eyes are beautiful—neither blue nor black, but a mixture of
both. How I pitied her as they filled with tears when you
were talking! Why didn't you speak to her?”
“Because I'd nothing to say,” answered Eugenia, stepping
into the carriage which had brought them there, and
ordering the driver to go next to Stuart's, where she wished
to look again at a velvet cloak. “It is so cheap, and so
becoming, too, that I am half tempted to get it,” she exclaimed.
“Mother won't like it, I know,” said Alice, who herself
began to have some fears for the $350.
“Fudge!” returned Eugenia, adding the next moment,
“I wonder if she'll have to buy clothes for Dora the first
thing. I hope not,” and she drew around her the costly
fur, for which she had paid fifty dollars.
Of course the cloak was bought, together with several
other articles equally cheap and becoming, and by the time
the hotel bills were paid, there were found in the purse just
twenty-five dollars, with which to pay their expenses back
to Dunwood.
There were bitter tears shed at the parting next morning
in Mrs. Grannis's humble room, for Dora felt that the friends
to whom she was going, were not like those she left behind;
and very lovingly her arms wound themselves around the
poor widow's neck as she wept her last adieu, begging Mrs.
Grannis not to forget her, but to write sometimes, and tell
her of the lady who had so kindly befriended her.
“We can't wait any longer,” cried Eugenia, and with
she had experienced much of happiness, and where had come
to her her deepest grief.
“Forlorn! What is that old thing going for! Leave
it,” said Eugenia, touching with her foot a square, green
trunk or chest, which stood by the side of the long, sack-like
carpet-bag containing Dora's wardrobe.
“It was father's—and mother's clothes are in it,” answered
Dora, with quivering lips.
There was something in the words and manner of the little
girl, as she laid her hand reverently on the offending
trunk, that touched even Eugenia; and she said no more.
An hour later, and the attention of more than one passenger
in the Hudson River cars was attracted towards the two
stylish-looking ladies who came in, laden with bundles, and
followed by a little girl in black, for whom no seat was
found save the one by the door where the wind crept in, and
the unmelted frost still covered the window pane.
“Won't you be cold here?” asked Alice, stopping a moment,
ere passing on to her own warm seat near the stove.
“No matter; I am used to it,” was Dora's meek reply;
and wrapping her thin, half-worn shawl closer about her,
and drawing her feet up beneath her, she soon fell asleep,
dreaming sweet dreams of the home to which she was going,
and of the Aunt Sarah who would be to her a second
mother!
God help thee, Dora Deane!
4. CHAPTER IV.
DORA'S NEW HOME.
One year has passed away since the night when, cold,
weary and forlorn, Dora followed her cousins up the gravelled
walk which led to her new home. One whole year,
and in that time she has somewhat changed. The merry
hearted girl, who, until a few weeks before her mother's
death, was happier far than many a favored child of wealth,
has become a sober, quiet, self-reliant child, performing without
a word of complaint the many duties which have gradually
been imposed upon her.
From her aunt she had received a comparatively welcome
greeting, and when Eugenia displayed her purchases, which
had swallowed up the entire three hundred and fifty dollars,
Mrs. Deane had laid her hand on the little girl's soft, auburn
hair, as if to ask forgiveness for the injustice done her
by the selfish Eugenia, whose only excuse for her extravagance
was, that “no one in her right mind need to think
of bringing back any money from New York.”
And Dora, from her seat on a little stool behind the stove,
understood nothing, thought of nothing, except that Eugenia
looked beautifully in her velvet cloak and furs, and that
her aunt must be very rich, to afford so many handsome
articles of furniture as the parlor contained.
“And I am glad that she is,” she thought, “for she will
not be so likely to think me in the way.”
As time passed on, however, Dora, who was a close observer,
began to see things in their true light, and her life
was far from being happy. By her cousin Alice she was
treated with a tolerable degree of kindness, while Eugenia,
without any really evil intention, perhaps, seemed to take
delight in annoying her sensitive cousin, constantly taunting
her with her dependence upon them, and asking her sometimes
how she expected to repay the debt of gratitude she
owed them. Many and many a night had the orphan wept
herself to sleep, in the low, scantily furnished chamber
which had been assigned her; and she was glad when at
last an opportunity was presented for her to be in a measure
out of Eugenia's way, and at the same time feel that
she was doing something towards earning her living.
The oft-repeated threat of Bridget's mother that her
daughter should be removed, unless her wages were increased,
was finally carried into effect; and one Saturday
night, Mrs. Deane was startled by the announcement that
Bridget was going to leave. In a moment, Dora's resolution
was taken, and coming to her aunt's side, she
said:
“Don't hire another girl, Aunt Sarah. Let me help you.
I can do almost as much as Bridget, and you won't have to
pay me either. I shall only be paying you.”
Unclasping the handsome bracelet which had been purchased
with a portion of the remaining one hundred and
fifty dollars, Eugenia, ere her mother had time to reply,
exclaimed:
“That is a capital idea! I wonder how you happened
to be so thoughtful.”
And so it was decided that Dora should take Bridget's
place, she thinking how much she would do, and how hard
she would try to please her aunt, who quieted her own conscience
until she could find another servant.”
But as the days went by, the temporary arrangement bid
fair to become permanent, for Mrs. Deane could not be
insensible to the vast difference which Bridget's absence
made in her weekly expenses. Then, too, Dora was so willing
to work, and so uncomplaining, never seeking a word of
commendation, except once, indeed, when she timidly ventured
to ask Eugenia if “what she did was enough to pay
for her board?”
“Just about,” was Eugenia's answer, which, indifferent as
it was, cheered the heart of Dora, as, day after day, she
toiled on in the comfortless kitchen, until her hands, which,
when she came to Locust Grove, were soft and white as
those of an infant, became rough and brown, and her face
gradually assumed the same dark hue, for she could not
always stop to tie on her sun-bonnet, when sent for wood or
water.
With the coming of summer, arrangements had been
made for sending her to school, though Mrs. Deane felt at
first as if she could not be deprived of her services. Still
for appearance's sake, if for nothing more, she must go;
and with the earliest dawn the busy creature was up, working
like a bee, that her aunt and cousins might not have so
much to do in her absence. At first she went regularly,
but after a time it became very convenient to detain her at
home, for at least two days in every week, and this wrung
from her almost the only tears she had shed since the morning,
when, of her own accord, she had gone into the kitchen
to perform a servant's duties.
Possessing naturally a fondness for books, and feeling
ambitious to keep up with her class, she at last conceived
the idea of studying at home; and many a night, long after
over her books, sometimes by the dim light of a lamp,
and again by the light of the full moon, whose rays seemed
to fall around her more brightly than elsewhere. It was on
one of these occasions, when tracing upon her map the
boundary lines of India, that her thoughts reverted to her
uncle Nathaniel, whose name she seldom heard, and of whom
she had never but once spoken. Then in the presence of
her aunt and cousins she had wondered why he did not
answer her mother's letter.
“Because he has nothing to write, I presume,” said
Eugenia, who would not trust her mother to reply.
And Dora, wholly unsuspecting, never dreamed of the
five hundred dollars sent over for her benefit, and which
was spent long ago—though not for her—never dreamed of
the letter which Eugenia had written in reply, thanking her
uncle again and again for his generous gift, which she said
“was very acceptable, for ma was rather poor, and it would
aid her materially in providing for the wants of Dora,” who
was represented as being “a queer, old-fashioned child, possessing
but little affection for any one, and who never spoke
of her uncle Nathaniel, or manifested the least gratitude
for what he was doing!”
In short, the impression left upon the mind of Uncle
Nat was that Dora, aside from being cold-hearted, was
uncommonly dull, and would never make much of a woman,
do what they might for her! With a sigh, and a feeling
of keen disappointment, he read the letter, saying to himself,
as he laid it away, “Can this be true of Fanny's
child?”
But this, we say, Fanny's child did not know; and as her
eye wandered over the painted map of India, she resolved
to write and to tell him of her mother's dying words—tell
brother, and how she wished he would come home, that
she might know him better.
“If I only had some keepsake to send him—something
he would prize,” she thought, when her letter was finished.
And then, as she enumerated her small store of treasures,
she remembered her mother's beautiful hair, which had been
cut from her head, as she lay in her coffin, and which now
held a place in the large square trunk. “I will send him a
lock of that,” she said; and kneeling reverently by the
old green trunk, the shrine where she nightly said her
prayers, she separated from the mass of rich, brown hair,
one long, shining tress, which she inclosed within her letter,
adding, in a postscript, “It is mother's hair, and Dora's
tears have often fallen upon it. 'Tis all I have to give.”
Poor little Dora! Nathaniel Deane would have prized
that simple gift far more than all the wealth which he called
his, but it was destined never to reach him. The wily
Eugenia, to whom Dora applied for an envelope, unhesitatingly
showing what she had written, knew better than to
send that note across the sea, and feigning the utmost
astonishment, she said: “I am surprised, Dora, that after
your mother's ill-success, you should think of writing to
Uncle Nat. He is a suspicious, miserly old fellow, and will
undoubtedly think you are after his money!”
“I wouldn't send it for the world, if I supposed he'd fancy
such a thing as that,” answered Dora, her eyes filling with
tears.
“Of course you wouldn't,” continued Eugenia, perceiving
her advantage and following it up. “You can do as you
like, but my advice is that you do not send it; let him
write to you first, if he wishes to open a correspondence!”
This decided the matter, and turning sadly away, Dora
went back to her chamber, hiding the letter and the lock
of hair in the old green trunk.
“How can you be so utterly void of principle?” asked
Alice, as Dora quitted the room; and Eugenia replied: “It
isn't a lack of principle, it's only my good management. I
have my plans, and I do not intend they shall be frustrated
by that foolish letter, which would, of course, be followed
by others of the same kind. Now I am perfectly willing
that Uncle Nat should divide his fortune between us and
Dora, but unfortunately he is a one idea man, and should he
conceive a fancy for our cousin, our hopes are blasted forever;
so I don't propose letting him do any such thing.
Mother has given up the correspondence to me, and I intend
making the old gentleman think I am a most perfect specimen
of what a young lady should be, saying, of course, an
occasional good word for you! I believe I understand him
tolerably well, and if in the end I win, I pledge you my
word that Dora shall not be forgotten. Are you satisfied?”
Alice could not say yes, but she knew it was useless to
reason with her sister, so she remained silent; while a curious
train of thoughts passed through her mind, resulting at last
in an increased kindness of manner on her part towards her
young cousin, who was frequently relieved of duties which
would otherwise have detained her from school. And
Dora's step grew lighter, and her heart happier, as she
thought that Alice at least cared for her welfare.
On New Year's Day there came a letter from Uncle Nat,
containing the promised check, which Eugenia held up to
view, while she read the following brief lines:
“Many thanks to Eugenia for her kind and welcome
letter, which I may answer at some future time, when I have
anything interesting to say.”
“Have you written to Uncle Nat, and did you tell him
sitting unobserved behind the stove, and who now sprang
eagerly forward, while her cheeks glowed with excitement.
Soon recovering her composure, Eugenia answered, “Yes,
I wrote to him, and, of course, mentioned you with the rest
of us. His answer you have heard.”
“But the other paper,” persisted Dora. “Doesn't that
say anything?”
For a moment Eugenia hesitated, and then, deciding that
no harm could come of Dora's knowing of the money, provided
she was kept in ignorance of the object for which it
was sent, she replied, carelessly, “Oh, that's nothing but a
check. The old gentleman was generous enough to send us
a little money, which we need badly enough.”
There was not one particle of selfishness in Dora's disposition,
and without a thought or wish that any of the money
should be expended for herself, she replied, “Oh, I am so
glad, for now Aunt Sarah can have that shawl she has
wanted so long, and Alice the new merino.”
Dear little Dora! she did not know why Eugenia's eyes
so quickly sought the floor, nor understand why her aunt's
hand was laid upon her head so caressingly. Neither did
she know that Alice's sudden movement towards the window
was to hide the expression of her face; but when, a few
days afterwards, she was herself presented with a handsome
merino, which both Eugenia and Alice volunteered to make,
she thought there was not in Dunwood a happier child than
herself. In the little orphan's pathway there were a few
sunny spots, and that night when, by the old green trunk,
she knelt her down to pray, she asked of God that he would
reward her aunt and cousins according to their kindnesses
done to her!
Need we say that childish prayer was answered to the
letter!
5. CHAPTER V.
ROSE HILL.
A little way out of the village of Dunwood, and situated
upon a slight eminence, was a large, handsome building,
which had formerly been owned by a Frenchman, who,
from the great profusion of roses growing upon his grounds,
had given to the place the name of “Rose Hill.” Two
years before our story opens, the Frenchman died, and
since that time Rose Hill had been unoccupied, but now it
had another proprietor, and early in the summer Mr.
Howard Hastings and lady would take possession of their
new home.
Of Mr. Hastings nothing, definite was known, except
that he was a man of unbounded wealth and influence—
“and a little peculiar withal,” so said Mrs. Leah, the matron,
who had come up from New York to superintend the
arrangement of the house, which was fitted up in a style of
elegance far surpassing what most of Dunwood's inhabitants
had seen before, and was for two or three weeks
thrown open to the public. Mrs. Leah, who was a servant
in Mr. Hastings's family and had known her young mistress's
husband from childhood, was inclined to be rather communicative,
and when asked to explain what she meant by
Mr. Hastings's peculiarities, replied, “Oh, he's queer every
way—and no wonder, with his kind of a mother. Why,
she is rich as a Jew, and for all that, she made her only
make her a better wife, she said, and so, because Ella had
rather lie on the sofa and read a nice novel than to be
pokin' round in the kitchen and tending to things, as he
calls it, Mr. Hastings looks blue and talks about woman's
duties, and all that nonsense. Recently he has taken it
into his head that late hours are killing her—that is isn't
healthy for her to go every night to parties, concerts,
operas, and the like o' that, so he's going to bury her in the
stupid country, where she'll be moped to death, for of course
there's nobody here that she'll associate with.”
“The wretch!” exclaimed Eugenia, who formed one of
the group of listeners to this precious bit of gossip; but
whether she intended this cognomen for the cruel husband,
or Mrs. Leah, we do not know, as she continued to question
the old lady of Mrs. Hastings herself, asking if her health
were delicate and if she were pretty.
“Delicate! I guess she is,” returned Mrs. Leah. “If
she hasn't got the consumption now, she will have it.
Why, her face is as white as some of them lilies that used
to grow on the ponds in old Connecticut; and then to
think her husband won't let her take all the comfort she
can, the little time she has to live! It's too bad,” and the
corner of Dame Leah's silk apron went up to her eyes, as
she thought how her lady was aggrieved. Soon recovering
her composure, she reverted to Eugenia's last question, and
hastened to reply, “Pretty, don't begin to express it. Just
imagine the least little bit of a thing, with the whitest face,
the bluest eyes and the yellowest curls, dressed in a light
blue silk wrapper, all lined with white satin, and tied with a
tassel as big as my fist; wouldn't such a creature look well
in the kitchen, telling Hannah it was time to get dinner,
and seeing if Tom was cleaning the vegetables!”
And Mrs. Leah's nose went up at the very idea of a blue
silk wrapper being found outside of the parlor, even if the
husband of said wrapper did have to wait daily at least two
hours for his badly cooked dinner!
“Oh, but you ought to see her dressed for a party,” continued
Mrs. Leah, “she looks like a queen, all sparkling
with diamonds and pearls; but she'll never go to many
more, poor critter!”
And as the good lady's services were just then needed in
another part of the building, she bade good morning to her
audience, who commented upon what they had heard, each
according to their own ideas—some warmly commending
Mr. Hastings for removing his delicate young wife from the
unwholesome atmosphere of the city, while others, and
among them Eugenia, thought he ought to let her remain
in New York, if she chose. Still, while commiserating Mrs.
Hastings for being obliged to live in “that stupid village,”
Eugenia expressed her pleasure that she was coming, and
on her way home imparted to Alice her intention of being
quite intimate with the New York lady, notwithstanding what
“the spiteful old Mrs. Leah” had said about there being no
one in Dunwood fit for her to associate with. In almost
perfect ecstasy Dora listened to her cousin's animated description
of Rose Hill, its handsome rooms and elegant furniture,
and while her cheeks glowed with excitement, she
exclaimed, “Oh, how I wish I could really live in such a
house!”
“And I shouldn't wonder if you did. Your present
prospects look very much like it,” was Eugenia's scornful
reply, which Dora scarcely heard, for her thoughts were
busy elsewhere.
She had an eye for the beautiful, and, strange to say,
would at any time have preferred remaining in her aunt's
table; but as this last seemed to be her destiny, she submitted
without a murmur, contenting herself the while by
building castles, just as many a child has done before her,
and will do again. Somehow, too, Dora's castles, particularly
the one of which she was mistress, were always large
and beautiful, just like Eugenia's description of Rose Hill,
to which she had listened with wonder, it seemed so natural,
so familiar, so like the realization of what she had
many a time dreamed, while her hands were busy with the
dish-towel or the broom.
Dora was a strange child—so her mother and her aunt
Sarah both had told her—so her teachers thought, and so
her companions said, when she stole away by herself to
think, preferring her own thoughts to the pastime of her
schoolmates. This thinking was almost the only recreation
which Dora had, and as it seldom interfered with the practical
duties of her life, no one was harmed if she did sometimes
imagine the most improbable things; and if for a few
days succeeding her cousin's visit to Rose Hill, she did seem
a little inattentive, and somewhat abstracted, it was merely
because she had for a time changed places with the fashionable
Mrs. Hastings, whose blue silk morning-gown, while
discussed in the parlor, was worn in fancy in the kitchen.
Dream on, Dora Deane, dream on—but guard this, your
last imagining, most carefully from the proud Eugenia, who
would scarce deem you worthy to take upon your lips the
name of Mrs. Hastings, much less to be even in fancy the
mistress of Rose Hill.
6. CHAPTER VI.
MR. AND MRS. HASTINGS.
In blissful ignorance of the gossip which his movements
were exciting in Dunwood, Mr. Hastings in the city went
quietly on with the preparations for his removal, purchasing
and storing away in divers baskets, boxes and bags, many
luxuries which he knew he could not readily procure in the
country, and which would be sadly missed by his young
girl-wife, who sat all day in her mother's parlor, bemoaning
her fate in being thus doomed to a life in the “horribly
vulgar country.” She had forgotten that she could live
anywhere with him,” for the Ella Hastings of to-day is the
Ella Grey of little more than a year ago, the same who had
listened to the sad story of Dora Deane, without ever thinking
that some day in the future she should meet the little
girl who made such an impression upon her husband.
Howard Hastings was not the only man who, with a
grand theory as to what a wife ought to be, had married
from pure fancy; finding too late that she whom he took
for a companion was a mere plaything—a doll to be
dressed up and sent out into the fashionable world, where
alone her happiness could be found. Still the disappointment
to such is not the less bitter, because others, too, are
suffering from the effect of a like hallucination, and Howard
Hastings felt it most keenly. He loved, or fancied he
robes of richly embroidered lace, with the orange blossoms
resting upon her golden curls, and her long eye-lashes veiling
her eyes of blue, she had stood at the altar as his bride,
there was not in all New York a prouder or a happier man.
Alas, that in the intimate relations of married life, there
should ever be brought to light faults whose existence was
never suspected! Yet so it is, and the honey-moon had
scarcely waned, ere Mr. Hastings began to feel a very little
disappointed, as, one after another, the peculiarities of his
wife were unfolded to his view.
In all his pictures of domestic bliss, there had ever been
a home of his own, a cheerful fireside, to which he could
repair, when the day's toil was done, but Ella would not
hear of housekeeping. To be sure, it would be very pleasant
to keep up a grand establishment and give splendid dinner-parties,
but she knew that Howard, with his peculiar
notions, would expect her to do just as his “dear, fussy old
mother did,” and that, she wouldn't for a moment think of,
for she really “did not know the names of one half the queer
looking things in the kitchen.”
“She will improve as she grows older—she is very young
yet, but little more than eighteen,” thought Mr. Hastings;
and his heart softened toward her, as he remembered the
kind of training she had received from her mother, who was
a pure slave of fashion, and would have deemed her daughters
degraded had they possessed any knowledge of work.
And still, when the aristocratic Howard Hastings had
sued for Ella's hand, she felt honored, notwithstanding that
both his mother and sister were known to be well skilled in
everything pertaining to what she called “drudgery.” To
remove his wife from her mother's influence, and at the
same time prolong her life, for she was really very delicate,
home in the country, he at last purchased Rose Hill farm in
spite of Ella's tears, and the frowns of her mother, who
declared it impossible for her daughter to live without
society, and pronounced all country people “rough, ignorant
and vulgar.”
All this Ella believed, and though she was far too
amiable and sweet-tempered to be really angry, she came
very near sulking all the way from New York to Dunwood.
But when at the depot, she met the new carriage and horses
which had been purchased expressly for herself, she was
somewhat mollified, and telling her husband “he was the
best man in the world,” she took the reins in her own little
soft, white hands, and laughed aloud as she saw how the
spirited creatures obeyed her slightest wish. From the parlor
windows of Locust Grove, Eugenia and her sister looked
out upon the strangers, pronouncing Mr. Hastings the most
elegant-looking man they had ever seen, while his wife, the
girlish Ella, was thought far too pale to be very beautiful.
Near the gate at the entrance to Rose Hill, was a clear
limpid stream, where the school-children often played, and
where they were now assembled. A little apart from the
rest, seated upon a mossy bank, with her bare feet in the
running water, and her rich auburn hair shading her brown
cheeks, was Dora Deane, not dreaming this time, but watching
so intently a race between two of her companions, that
she did not see the carriage until it was directly opposite.
Then, guessing who its occupants were, she started up,
coloring crimson as she saw the lady's eyes fixed upon her,
and felt sure she was the subject of remark.
“Look, Howard,” said Ella. “I suppose that is what
you call a rural sight—a bare-foot girl, with a burnt face
and huge sun-bonnet?”
Ere Mr. Hastings could reply, Dora, wishing to redeem
her character, which she was sure she had lost by having
been caught with her feet in the brook, darted forward and
opening the gate, held it for them to pass.
“Shall I give her some money?” softly whispered Ella,
feeling for her purse.
“Hush-sh!” answered Mr. Hastings, for he knew that
money would be an insult to Dora, who felt more than
repaid by the pleasant smile he gave her as he said, “Thank
you, miss.”
“I have seen a face like his before,” thought Dora, as
she walked slowly down the road, while the carriage kept
on its way, and soon carried Ella to her new home.
Not to be pleased with Rose Hill was impossible, and as
the young wife's eye fell upon the handsome building, with
its cool, vine-wreathed piazza—upon the shaded walks, the
sparkling fountains and the thousands of roses which were
now in full bloom, she almost cried with delight, even forgetting,
for a time, that she was in the “horrid country.”
But she was ere long reminded of the fact by Mrs. Leah,
who told of the “crowds of gaping people,” who had been
up to see the house. With a deprecating glance at the village
where the “gaping people” were supposed to live, Ella
drew nearer to her husband, expressing a wish that the good
folks of Dunwood would confine their calls to the house and
grounds, and not be troubling her. But in this she was destined
to be disappointed, for the inhabitants of Dunwood
were friendly, social people, who knew no good reason why
they should not be on terms of equality with the little lady
of Rose Hill; and one afternoon, about a week after her
arrival at Dunwood, she was told that some ladies were
waiting for her in the parlor.
“Dear me! Sophy,” said she, while a flown for an
home.”
“But I just told them you were,” answered Sophy, adding
that “the ladies were well-dressed and fine looking,”
and suggesting that her young mistress should wear down
something more appropriate than the soiled white muslin
wrapper in which she had lounged all day, because “it was
not worth her while to dress, when there was no one but her
husband to see her.”
This, however, Ella refused to do. “It was good enough
for country folks,” she said, as she rather reluctantly
descended to the parlor, where her first glance at her visitors
made her half regret that she had not followed Sophy's
advice. Mrs. Judge Howell and her daughter-in-law were
refined, cultivated women, and ere Ella had conversed with
them five minutes, she felt that if there was between them
any point of inferiority, it rested with herself, and not with
them. They had travelled much, both in the Old and New
World; and though their home was in Boston, they spent
almost every summer in Dunwood, which Mrs. Howell pronounced
a most delightful village, assuring Ella that she
could not well avoid being happy and contented. Very
wonderingly the large childish blue eyes went up to the face
of Mrs. Howell, who, interpreting aright their expression,
casually remarked that when she was young, she fell into the
foolish error of thinking there could be nobody outside the
walls of a city. “But the experience of sixty years has
changed my mind materially,” said she, “for I have met
quite as many refined and cultivated people in the country
as in the city.”
This was a new idea to Ella, and the next visitors, who
came in just after Mrs. Howell left, were obliged to wait
while she made quite an elaborate toilet.
“Oh, Ella, how much better you are looking than you
were an hour or two since,” exclaimed Mr. Hastings, who
entered the chamber just as his wife was leaving it.
“There's company in the parlor,” answered Ella, tripping
lightly away, while her husband walked on into the
dressing-room, where he stepped first over a pair of slippers,
then over a muslin wrapper, and next over a towel, which
Ella in her haste had left upon the floor, her usual place for
everything.
This time the visitors proved to be Eugenia and Alice,
with the first of whom the impulsive Ella was perfectly
delighted, she was so refined, so genteel, so richly dressed,
and assumed withal such a patronizing air, that the shortsighted
Ella felt rather overawed, particularly when she
spoke of her “Uncle in India,” with whom she was “such a
favorite.” During their stay, servants were introduced as a
topic of conversation, and on that subject Eugenia was
quite as much at home as Mrs. Hastings, descanting at
large upon the many annoyances one was compelled to
endure, both from the “ignorance and impertinence of hired
help.” Once or twice, too, the words “my waiting-maid”
escaped her lips, and when at last she took her leave, she
had the satisfaction of knowing that Mrs. Hastings was duly
impressed with a sense of her importance.
“Such charming people I never expected to find in the
country, and so elegantly dressed too,” thought Ella, as
from her window she watched them walking slowly down
the long avenue. “That silk of Miss Eugenia's could not
have cost less than two dollars a yard, and her hands, too,
were as soft and white as mine. They must be wealthy—
those Deanes: I wonder if they ever give any parties.”
And then, as she remembered sundry gossamer fabrics
which were dignified by the title of party dresses, and
she should never need in the country, she exclaimed aloud,
“Why, can't I have a party here as well as at home?
The house is a great deal larger than the long narrow thing
on which mamma prides herself so much. And then it will
be such fun to show off before the country people, who,
of course, are not all as refined as the Deanes. I'll speak to
Howard about it immediately.”
“Speak to me about what?” asked Mr. Hastings, who had
entered the parlor in time to hear the last words of his wife.
Very briefly Ella stated to him her plan of giving a large
party as soon as a sufficient number of the village people
had called.
“You know you wish me to be sociable with them,” she
continued, as she saw the slightly comical expression of her
husband's face; “and how can I do it better than by
inviting them to my house?”
“I am perfectly willing for the party,” answered Mr.
Hastings, “but I do rather wonder what has so soon
changed your mind.”
“Oh, nothing much,” returned Ella, “only the people
don't seem half as vulgar as mamma said they would. I
wish you could see Eugenia Deane. She's perfectly magnificent—wears
a diamond ring, Valenciennes lace, and all
that. Her mother is very wealthy, isn't she?”
“I have never supposed so—if you mean the widow
Deane, who lives at the place called `Locust Grove,' ”
answered Mr. Hastings; and Ella continued, “Yes, she
is, I am sure, from the way Eugenia talked. They keep
servants, I know, for she spoke of a waiting-maid. Then,
too, they have an old bachelor uncle in India, with a million
or more, and these two young ladies will undoubtedly
inherit it all at his death.”
“Miss Deane must have been very communicative,” said
Mr. Hastings, who understood the world much better than
his wife, and who readily guessed that Miss Eugenia had
passed herself off for quite as much as she was.
“It was perfectly natural for her to tell me what she
did,” answered Ella, “and I like her so much! I mean
to drive over there soon, and take her out riding.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the ringing
of the door-bell, and it was not again resumed until the
Monday morning following, when, at the breakfast-table
Ella asked for the carriage to be sent round, as “she was
going to call at Mrs. Deane's, and take the young ladies to
ride.”
“But it is washing-day,” suggested Mr. Hastings, wishing
to tease his wife. “And nothing,” I am told, “mortifies
a woman more than to be caught with her hair in
papers, and her arms in the suds. So, if you value your
friend Eugenia's feelings, you had better wait until to-morrow.”
“Suds, Howard! What do you mean?” asked the
indignant Ella. “Eugenia Deane's hands never saw a
wash-tub! Why, they are almost as white as mine.” And
the little lady glanced rather admiringly at the small snowy
fingers, which handled so gracefully the heavy knife and
fork of silver.
“You have my permission to go,” said Mr. Hastings,
“but I am inclined to think you'll have to wait a long time
for your friends to make their appearance.”
Mentally resolving not to tell him if she did, Ella ran up
to her room, where, leaving her morning dress in the middle
of the floor, and donning a handsome plaid silk, she descended
again to the parlor, and suggested to her husband
the propriety of bringing the young ladies home with her
of having a silver dining set and nice things, unless there
was somebody to see them.”
“And am not I somebody?” asked Mr. Hastings, playfully
winding his arm around the little creature, who answered,
“Why, yes—but mamma never thought it worth her while
always to have the best things and fix up when there was no
one to dinner but us and father; and I don't think I need to
be so particular as when I was Ella Grey and you were
Mr. Hastings, for now I am your wife, and you are”—
Here she paused, while she stooped down to caress a huge
Newfoundland dog, which came bounding in. Then, remembering
she had not finished her sentence, she added,
after a moment, “And you are only Howard!”
Silenced, if not convinced, Mr. Hastings walked away,
wondering if every husband, at the expiration of fifteen
months, reached the enviable position of being “only Howard!”
Half an hour later, and Ella Hastings, having left
orders with Mrs. Leah for a “company dinner,” was riding
down the shaded avenue into the highway, where she bade
the coachman drive in the direction of Locust Grove.
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE VISIT.
The plain though comfortable breakfast of dry toast,
baked potatoes and black tea was over. This morning it
had been eaten from the kitchen table; for, as Mr. Hastings
had surmised, it was washing day, and on such occasions,
wishing to save work, Mrs. Deane would not suffer the
dining-room to be occupied. To this arrangement the proud
Eugenia submitted the more readily, as she knew that at
this hour they were not liable to calls; so, she who had
talked of her waiting-maid and wealthy uncle to Mrs. Hastings,
sat down to breakfast with her waiting-maid, eating
her potatoes with a knife and cooling her tea in her saucer;
two points which in the parlor she loudly denounced as positive
marks of ill breeding, but which in the kitchen, where
there was no one to see her, she found vastly convenient!
Piles of soiled clothes were scattered over the floor, and
from a tub standing near, a volume of steam was rising,
almost hiding from view the form of Dora Deane, whose
round red arms were diving into the suds, while she to herself
was softly repeating the lesson in History, that day to
be recited by her class, and which she had learned the
Saturday night previous, well knowing that Monday's duties
would keep her from school the entire day.
In the chamber above—her long, straight hair plaited up
in braids, so as to give it the wavy appearance she had so
black silk apron and her hands incased in buckskin gloves,
was Eugenia, setting her room to rights, and complaining
with every breath of her hard lot, in being thus obliged to
exert herself on hot summer mornings.
“Don't you wish you were rich as Mrs. Hastings,” asked
Alice, who chanced to come in.
“That I do,” returned Eugenia. “I have been uncomfortable
and discontented ever since I called upon her, for I
can't see why there should be such a difference. She has
all the money, servants and dresses which she wants, besides
the handsomest and most elegant man for a husband; while
I, Eugenia Deane, who am ten times smarter than she, and
could appreciate these things so much better, am obliged to
make all sorts of shifts, just to keep up appearances. But
didn't I impress her with a sense of my greatness!” she added,
after a pause, and Alice rejoined, “Particularly when you
talked of your waiting-maid! I don't see, Eugenia, how you
dare do such things, for of course Mrs. Hastings will eventually
know that you mean Dora.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” returned Eugenia; “and even
if she does, I fancy I have tact enough to smooth it over
with her, for she is not very deep.”
For a moment Alice regarded her sister intently, and
then said, “I wonder from whom you take your character
for deception.”
“I've dwelt upon that subject many a time myself,” answered
Eugenia, “and I have at last come to the conclusion
that as father was not famous for sense of any kind, I must
be a second and revised edition of mother—but hark, don't
you hear the roll of wheels?” And springing up, she reached
the window just as Mrs. Hastings alighted from her carriage,
which stood before the gate.
“Great goodness!” she exclaimed, “there's Mrs. Hastings
coming here to call—and I in this predicament. What shall
I do?”
“Let her wait, of course, until we change our dresses,”
answered Alice, and rushing down the stairs, Eugenia bade
Dora “show the lady into the parlor,” adding, “and if she
asks for me, say I am suffering from a severe headache, but
you presume I will see her.”
Perfectly delighted at the idea of standing face to face
with a person of whom she had heard so much, Dora removed
her high-necked apron, and throwing it across the
tub so that the sleeves trailed upon the floor, was hurrying
away, when her foot becoming accidentally entangled in the
apron, she fell headlong to the floor, bringing with her tub,
suds, clothes and all! To present herself in this drenched
condition was impossible, and in a perfect tremor lest Mrs.
Hastings should go away, Eugenia vibrated, brush in hand,
between her own chamber and the head of the kitchen
stairs, scolding Dora unmercifully in the one place, and pulling
at the long braids of her hair in the other.
At last, just as Mrs. Hastings was about despairing of
being heard, and was beginning to think that possibly her
husband might be right and Eugenia in the suds after all, a
chubby, brown-faced girl appeared, and after giving her a
searching, curious glance, showed her into the parlor.
“Are the young ladies at home?” asked Mrs. Hastings;
and Dora, who had never told a falsehood in her life, and
had no intention of doing so now, replied that they were,
and would soon be down; after which, with a low courtesy,
she went back to the scene of her late disaster, while Mrs.
Hastings busied herself awhile by looking around the room,
which, though small, was very handsomely furnished.
At last, beginning to grow sleepy, she took up a book,
approvingly, when the rustle of female garments aroused
her, and in a moment Eugenia and Alice swept into the
room. Both were tastefully dressed, while about Eugenia
there was an air of languor befitting the severe headache, of
which Mrs. Hastings was surprised to hear.
“Then that girl didn't tell you as I bade her to do,” said
Eugenia; adding, that “Mrs. Hastings must have thought
her very rude to keep her so long waiting.”
But Mrs. Hastings was too good-natured to think anything,
and, after a few common-place remarks, she told the
object of her call, saying, that “the fresh air would, undoubtedly,
do Eugenia good.” In this opinion the young
lady fully concurred, and, half an hour later, she was slowly
riding through the principal streets of Dunwood, wondering
if her acquaintances did not envy her for being on such
terms of intimacy with the fashionable Mrs. Hastings. Very
politely were the young ladies received by Mr. Hastings, on
their arrival at Rose Hill, and throughout the entire day
their admiration, both for the place and its owner, increased,
though Eugenia could not conceal from herself the fact, that
she stood very much in fear of the latter, whose keen black
eyes seemed to read her very thoughts. How such a man
came to marry Ella Grey, was to her a puzzle; and if occasionally
she harbored the thought that Eugenia Deane was
far better suited to be the mistress of Howard Hastings's
home than the childish creature he had chosen, she was only
guilty of what had, in a similar manner, been done by more
than one New York belle. Dinner being over, Ella led the
way to an upper balcony, which opened from her chamber,
and which was a cool, shaded spot. Scarcely were they
seated, when remembering something she had left in the
parlor, she went back for it, and in returning, she ran up
and with a low cry she fell half fainting into the arms of
her husband, who bent tenderly over her, while Eugenia
made many anxious inquiries as to what was the matter,
and if she were often thus affected.
“Yes, often,” answered Ella, who began to revive; then,
as the perspiration gathered thickly about the white lips,
she pressed her blue-veined hand upon her side, and cried,
“The pain—the pain! It has come again. Country air
won't do me any good. I shall die of consumption, just as
mother said.” And as if she saw indeed the little grave,
on which the next summer's sun would shine, she hid her
face in her husband's bosom, and sobbed aloud. Instantly
a dark thought flashed upon Eugenia—a thought which
even she would not harbor, and casting it aside, she drew
nearer to the weeping Ella, striving by an increased tenderness
of manner to atone for having dared to think of a time
when the little willow chair on the balcony would be empty,
and Howard Hastings free. Soon rallying, Ella feigned to
smile at her discomposure, saying that “consumption had
been preached to her so much that she always felt frightened
at the slightest pain in her side,” thoughtlessly adding, as
she glanced at her husband, “I wonder if Howard would
miss me any, were I really to die.”
A dark shadow settled upon Mr. Hastings's face, but he
made no reply; and Eugenia, who was watching him, fancied
she could read his thoughts; but when they at last
started for home, and she saw how tenderly he wrapped a
warm shawl around his delicate young wife, who insisted
upon going with them, she felt that however frivolous and
uncompanionable Ella might be, she was Howard Hastings's
wife, and as such, he would love and cherish her to the
last.
By her window in the attic sat Dora Deane, poring over
to-morrow's lessons; but as the silvery voice of Ella fell upon
her ear, she arose, and going to her cousin's chamber, looked
out upon the party as they drew near the gate.
“How beautiful she is!” she whispered to herself, as,
dropping her shawl, and flinging back her golden curls, Ella
sprang up to reach a branch of locust blossoms, which grew
above her head.
Then, as she saw how carefully Mr. Hastings replaced
the shawl, drawing his wife's arm within his own, she stole
back to her room, and, resuming her seat by the window,
dreamed, as maidens of thirteen will, of a time away in the
future, when she, too, might perhaps be loved even as was
the gentle Ella Hastings.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE PARTY.
One pleasant July morning, the people of Dunwood were
electrified by the news that on Thursday evening, Mrs.
Howard Hastings would be at home to between one and
two hundred of her friends. Among the first invited was
Eugenia, who had been Mrs. Hastings's chief adviser, kindly
enlightening her as to the somebodies and nobodies of the town,
and rendering herself so generally useful, that, in a fit of
gratitude, Mrs. Hastings had promised her her brother Stephen,
a fast young man, who was expected to be present at
the party. To appear well in his eyes was, therefore, Eugenia's
ambition; and the time which was not spent in giving
directions at Rose Hill, was occupied at home in scolding,
because her mother would not devise a way by which she
could obtain a new pink satin dress, with lace overskirt, and
flowers to match.
It was in vain that Mrs. Deane sought to convince her
daughter how impossible it was to raise the necessary funds.
Eugenia was determined; and at last, by dint of secretly
selling a half-worn dress to one Irish girl, a last year's bonnet
to another, and a broché shawl to another, she succeeded
in obtaining enough for the desired purchase, lacking five
dollars, and this last it seemed impossible to procure. But
Eugenia never despaired; and a paragraph read one evening
in a city paper, suggested to her a plan which she resolved
to execute immediately.
It was nearly dark; her mother and sisters were in the
village; Dora was gone on an errand, and she was alone.
Half reluctantly, she opened the stair door which led to
Dora's room, the low room in the attic. Up the steep staircase,
and through the narrow hall she went, treading softly,
and holding her breath, as if she feared lest the dead, from
her far-off grave in the great city, should hear her noiseless
footfall, and come forth to prevent the wrong she meditated.
But no, Fanny Deane slept calmly in her coffin, and Eugenia
kept on her way unmolested, until the chamber was reached.
Then, indeed, she hesitated, for there was, to her, something
terrifying in the darkness which had gathered in the corners
of the room, and settled like a pall upon the old green
trunk. To reach that and secure the treasure it contained,
would have been the work of a moment; but, wholly powerless
to advance, Eugenia stood still, while the cold perspiration
started from every pore.
“I can do anything but that,” she said, at last, and, as if
the words had given her strength to move, she turned back,
gliding again through the narrow hall, and down the steep
stairway, out into the open air; and when, that night, as
she often did, Dora looked for her mother's beautiful hair,
it lay in its accustomed place, unruffled and unharmed; and
the orphan child, as she pressed it to her lips, dreamed not
of the danger which had threatened it, or of the snare about
to be laid for herself by Eugenia, who could not yet give up
the coveted dress.
Next morning, as Dora stood before the mirror, arranging
her long, luxuriant hair, which she usually wore in
braids, hanging down her back, Eugenia came up, and with
an unusual degree of kindness in her manner, offered to fix
it for her, commenting the while on the exceeding beauty of
the rich auburn tresses, and saying, that if she were in
would, when grown up, have much handsomer hair than if
it were suffered to remain long. Dora remembered having
heard her mother say the same; but she had a pride in her
hair, which was longer and thicker than any of her companions';
so she said nothing until Eugenia, who, to serve her
own purpose, would not hesitate to tell a falsehood, and who
knew how much Dora admired Mrs. Hastings, spoke of that
lady's beautiful curls, saying they were all the result of her
having worn her hair quite short until she was sixteen years
of age. Then, indeed, Dora wavered. She had recently
suffered much from the headache, too, and it might relieve
that; so that when Eugenia offered her a coral bracelet in
exchange for her hair, she consented, and Alice entered the
room just as the last shining braid dropped upon the floor.
“What upon earth!” she exclaimed, stopping short, and
then bursting into a loud laugh at the comical appearance
which Dora presented; for Eugenia had cut close to
the head, leaving the hair so uneven that shingling seemed
the only alternative, and to this poor Dora finally submitted.
When at last the performance was ended, and she glanced
at herself in the mirror, she burst into a paroxysm of tears,
while Alice tried to soothe her by saying that it really would
eventually benefit her hair, and that she would not always
look so strangely.
But Dora, who began to suspect that it was pure selfishness
on Eugenia's part, which had prompted the act,
felt keenly the injustice done her, and refused to be comforted,
keeping her room the entire day, and weeping until
her eyelids were nearly blistered. Meantime, Eugenia had
hurried off to the city with her ill-gotten treasure, on which
the miserly old Jew, to whom it was offered, looked with
eager, longing eyes, taking care, however, to depreciate its
was fully his equal in management, and when at night
she returned home, she was in possession of the satin, the
lace, and the flowers, together with several other articles of
finery.
The next day was the party, and as Dora, besides being
exceedingly tasteful, was also neat, and handy with her
needle, she was kept from school, stitching the livelong day
upon the dainty fabric, a portion of which had been purchased
with her hair! Occasionally, as Eugenia glanced at
the swollen eyelids and shorn head, bending so uncomplainingly
over the cloud of lace, her conscience smote her for
what she had done; but one thought of Stephen Grey, and
the impression she should make on him, dissipated all such
regrets; and when at length the hour for making her toilet
arrived; her jaded cousin was literally made to perform all
the offices of a waiting-maid. Three times was the tired
little girl sent down to the village in quest of something
which the capricious Eugenia must have, and which, when
brought, was not “the thing at all,” and must be exchanged.
Up the stairs and down the stairs she went, bringing pins to
Alice and powder to Eugenia, enacting, in short, the part of
a second Cinderella, except that in her case no kind old
godmother with her potent wand appeared to her relief!
They were dressed at last, and very beautifully Eugenia
looked in the pink satin and flowing lace, which harmonized
so well with her complexion, and which had been bought
with the united proceeds of a velvet bonnet, a delaine dress,
a broché shawl, and Dora's hair!
“Why don't you compliment me?” she said to the weary
child, who, sick with yesterday's weeping, and the close confinement
of to-day, had laid her aching head upon the arm
of the lounge.
Slowly unclosing her eyes, and fixing them upon her
cousin, Dora answered—
“You do look beautifully. No one will excel you, I am
sure, unless it be Mrs. Hastings. I wish I could see how
she will dress.”
“You might go up and look in at the window; or, if I'd
thought of it, I could have secured you the office of door-waiter,”
said the thoughtless Eugenia, adding, as she held
out her shawl for Dora to throw around her, “Don't you
wish you could attend a party at Rose Hill?”
There was a sneer accompanying this question, which
Dora felt keenly. Her little swelling heart was already full,
and, with quivering lips and gushing tears, she answered,
somewhat bitterly—
“I never expect to be anybody, or go anywhere;” then,
as her services were no longer needed, she ran away to her
humble room, where from her window she watched the many
brilliant lights which shone from Rose Hill, and caught
occasional glimpses of the airy forms which flitted before
the open doors and windows. Once she was sure she saw
Eugenia upon the balcony, and then, as a sense of the difference
between herself and her cousins came over her, she
laid her down upon the old green trunk, and covering her
face with her hands, cried out, “Nobody cares for me, or
loves me either. I wish I had died that winter night. Oh,
mother! come to me, I am so lonely and so sad.”
Softly, as if it were indeed the rustle of an angel's wings,
came the evening air, through the open casement, cooling
the feverish brow and drying the tears of the orphan girl,
who grew strangely calm; and when at last the moon
looked in upon her, she was sleeping quietly, with a placid
smile upon her lips. Years after, and Dora Deane remembered
that summer night, when, on the hard green trunk,
who came home sadly out of humor with herself and
the world at large.
At breakfast, next morning, she was hardly on speaking
terms with her sister, while Stephen Grey was pronounced “a
perfect bore—a baboon, with more hair than brains.”
“And to that I should not suppose you would object,”
said Alice, mischievously. “You might find it useful in case
of an emergency.”
To this there was no reply, save an angry flash of the
black eyes, which, it seems, had failed to interest Stephen
Grey, who was far better pleased with the unassuming
Alice, and who had paid the haughty Eugenia no attention
whatever, except, indeed, to plant his patent leather boot
upon one of her lace flounces, tearing it half off, and leaving
a sad rent, which could not well be mended. This, then,
was the cause of her wrath, which continued for some time;
when really wishing to talk over the events of the evening,
she became a little more gracious, and asked Alice how she
liked Mrs. Elliott, who had unexpectedly arrived from New
York.
“I was delighted with her,” returned Alice; “she was
such a perfect lady. And hadn't she magnificent hair!
Just the color of Dora's,” she added, glancing at the little
cropped head, which had been so suddenly divested of its
beauty.
“It wasn't all hers, though,” answered Eugenia, who invariably
saw and spoke of every defect. “I heard her telling
Ella that she bought a braid in Rochester as she came
up. But what ails you?” she continued, speaking now to
Dora, whose eyes sparkled with some unusual excitement,
and who replied—
“You said Mrs. Elliott, from New York. And that was
thought it were she, I'd”—
“Make yourself ridiculous, I dare say,” interrupted Eugenia,
adding, that “there was more than one Mrs. Elliott
in the world, and she'd no idea that so elegant a lady as
Mr. Hastings's sister ever troubled herself to look after
folks in such a miserable old hovel as the one where Dora
had lived.”
This, however, did not satisfy the child, who, during the
week that Mrs. Elliott remained in the neighborhood, cast
many longing glances in the direction of Rose Hill, gazing
oft with tearful eyes upon a female figure which sometimes
walked upon the balcony, and which, perhaps, was her
benefactress. One night it was told at Locust Grove that
Mrs. Elliott had gone, and then, with a feeling of desolation
for which she could not account, Dora again laid her face
on the old green trunk and wept.
Poor Dora Deane! The path she trod was dark, indeed,
but there was light ahead, and even now it was breaking
upon her, though she knew it not.
9. CHAPTER IX.
DORA AT ROSE HILL.
Summer was over. The glorious September days were
gone. The hazy October had passed away, and the autumn
winds had swept the withered leaves from the tall trees
which grew around Rose Hill; when one cold, rainy November
morning, a messenger was sent to Mrs. Deane, saying
that Mrs. Hastings was sick, and wished to see her.
“Mrs. Hastings sent for mother! How funny! There
must be some mistake,” said Eugenia, putting her head in
at the door. “Are you sure it was mother?”
“Yes, quite sure,” answered the man. “Mrs. Hastings
thought she would know what to do for the baby, which
was born yesterday, and is a puny little thing.”
This silenced Eugenia, who waited impatiently until
nightfall, when her mother returned with a sad account of
affairs at Rose Hill. Mrs. Hastings was sick and nervous,
Mrs. Leah was lazy and cross, the servants ignorant and
impertinent, the house was in disorder; while Mr. Hastings,
with a cloud on his face, ill befitting a newly-made father,
stalked up and down the sick-room, looking in vain for an
empty chair, so filled were they with blankets, towels,
baby's dresses, and the various kinds of work which Ella
was always beginning and never finishing.
“Such an ignorant, helpless creature I never saw,” said
looking rooms! I don't wonder her servants give her so
much trouble; but my heart ached for him, poor man, when
I saw him putting away the things, and trying to make the
room a little more comfortable.”
It was even as Mrs. Deane had said. Ella, whose favorite
theory was, “a big house, a lot of things, and chairs
enough to put them in,” was wholly unprepared for sickness,
which found her in a sad condition. To be sure there were
quantities of French embroidery, thread lace and fine linen,
while the bed, on which she lay, cost a hundred dollars, and
the rosewood crib was perfect of its kind, but there was a
great lack of neatness and order; and as day after day Mr.
Hastings stood with folded arms, looking first from one window
and then from the other, his thoughts were far from
being agreeable, save when he bent over the cradle of his
first-born, and then there broke over his face a look of unutterable
tenderness, which was succeeded by a shade of
deep anxiety as his eye rested upon his frail young wife,
whose face seemed whiter even than the pillow on which it
lay.
After a few weeks, during which time Ella had gained a
little strength and was able to see her friends, Eugenia
came regularly to Rose Hill, sitting all day by the bedside
of the invalid, to whom she sometimes brought a glass of
water, or some such trivial thing. Occasionally, too, she
would look to see if the baby were asleep, pronouncing it
“a perfect little cherub, just like its mother;” and there
her services ended, for it never occurred to her that she
could make the room much more cheerful by picking up
and putting away the numerous articles which lay scattered
around, and which were a great annoyance to the more
orderly Mr. Hastings. Once, when Ella, as usual, was
were not the best girl in the world, and saying “they must
make her some handsome present in return for all she had
done,” he replied, “I confess, I should think more of Miss
Deane, if she did you any real good, or rendered you any
actual service; but, as far as I can discover, she merely sits
here talking to you until you are wearied out.”
“Why, what would you have her do?” asked Ella, her
large blue eyes growing larger and bluer.
“I hardly know myself,” answered Mr. Hastings; “but
it seems to me that a genuine woman could not sit day
after day in such a disorderly room as this.”
“Oh, Howard!” exclaimed Ella, “you surely cannot
expect Eugenia Deane to do a servant's duty. Why, she
has been as delicately brought up as I, and knows quite as
little of work.”
“More shame for her if this is true,” answered Mr. Hastings
somewhat bitterly, and Ella continued, “You've got
such queer ideas, Howard, of woman's duties. I should
suppose you would have learned, ere this, that few ladies are
like your mother, who, though a blessed good soul, has the
oddest notions.”
“But they make a man's home mighty comfortable, those
odd notions of mother's,” said Mr. Hastings; then, knowing
how useless it would be to argue the point, he was about
changing the subject, when the new nurse who had been
there but a few days (the first one having quarrelled with
Mrs. Leah, and gone home), came in and announced her
intention of leaving also, saying, “she would not live in the
same house with old mother Leah!”
It was in vain that Mr. Hastings tried to soothe the
angry girl—she was determined, and for a second time was
Ella left alone.
“Oh, what will become of me?” she groaned, as the
door closed upon her late nurse. “Do, pray, Howard, go to
the kitchen and get me some—some—I don't know what,
but get me something!”
With a very vague idea as to what he was to get or to
do, Mr. Hastings left the room just as it was entered by
Eugenia, to whom Ella detailed her grievances. “Her
head ached dreadfully, Howard was cross, and her nurse
gone. Oh, Eugenia!” she cried, “what shall I do? I wish
I could die. Don't ever get married. What shall I do?”
And hiding her face in the pillow, poor Ella sobbed
bitterly. For a time Eugenia stood, revolving the propriety
of offering Dora as a substitute in the place of the girl who
had just left. “Mother can work a little harder,” she
thought. “And Alice can help her occasionally. It will
please Mr. Hastings, I know. Poor man, I pity him!”
So, more on account of the pity she felt for Mr. Hastings,
than for the love she bore his wife, she said at last, “We
have a little girl at our house, who is very capable for one
of her years. I think she would be quite handy in a sick
room. At all events, she can rock the baby. Shall I send
her up until you get some one else?”
“Oh, if you only would,” answered Ella. “I should be
so glad.”
So, it was arranged that Dora should come next morning,
and then Eugenia, who was this time in a hurry, took
her leave, having first said that Mrs. Hastings “needn't
think strange if Dora called her cousin, and her mother aunt,
for she was a poor relation, whom they had taken out of
charity!”
At first Mrs. Deane objected to letting her niece go,
“for she was needed at home,” she said; but Eugenia
finally prevailed, as she generally did, and the next morning
bundle in hand for Rose Hill. She had never been there
before, and she walked leisurely along, admiring the beautiful
house and grounds, and thinking Mrs Hastings must be
very happy to live in so fine a place. Ella was unusually
nervous and low-spirited this morning, for her husband had
gone to Rochester; and when Dora was shown into the
room she was indulging in a fit of crying, and paid no
attention whatever when Mrs. Leah said, “This is the new
girl.” “She'll get over it directly,” muttered the housekeeper,
as she went from the room, leaving Dora inexpressibly
shocked at witnessing such grief in one whom she had
thought so happy.
“Can I do anything for you?” she said at last, drawing
near, and involuntarily laying her hand on the golden curls
she had so much admired.
There was genuine sympathy in the tones of that childish
voice, which touched an answering chord in Ella's heart,
and lifting up her head she gazed curiously at the little
brown-faced girl, who stood there neatly attired in a dress
of plain dark calico, her auburn hair, which had grown
rapidly, combed back from her open brow, and her dark-blue
eyes full of tears. No one could mistake Dora Deane
for a menial, and few could look upon her without being at
once interested; for early sorrow had left a shade of sadness
upon her handsome face, unusual in one so young. Then,
too, there was an expression of goodness and truth shining
out all over her countenance, and Ella's heart yearned
towards her at once as towards a long-tried friend. Stretching
out her white, wasted hand, she said, “And you are
Dora. I am glad you have come. The sight of you makes
me feel better already,” and the small, rough hand she held
was pressed with a fervor which showed that she was sincere
to liking each other—those two children—for in everything
save years, Ella was younger far than Dora Deane; and it
was strange, too, what a change the little girl's presence
wrought in the sick-chamber. Naturally neat and orderly,
she could not sit quietly down in the midst of disorder, and
as far as she was able, she put things in their proper places;
then, as her quick-seeing eye detected piles of dust which
for days had been unmolested, she said, “Will it disturb
you if I sweep?”
“Not at all. Do what you like,” answered Ella, her own
spirits rising in proportion as the appearance of her surroundings
was improved.
Everything was in order at last. The carpet was swept,
the furniture dusted, the chairs emptied, the curtains looped
back, and the hearth nicely washed. Fresh, clean linen
was put upon the pillows, while Ella's tangled curls were
carefully brushed and tucked under her tasteful cap, and
then for the first time Dora took the baby upon her lap. It
was a little thing, but very beautiful to the young mother,
and beautiful, too, to Dora, when she learned that its name
was “Fannie.”
“Fannie!” how it carried her back to the long ago,
when her father had spoken, and her precious mother had
answered to that blessed name! And how it thrilled her
as she repeated it again and again, while her tears fell like
rain on the face of the unconscious infant.
“Why do you cry?” asked Ella, and Dora answered, “I
am thinking of mother. Her name was Fannie, and I shall
love the baby for her sake.”
“Has your mother long been dead? Tell me of her,”
said Ella; and drawing her chair close to the bedside, Dora
told the sad story of her life, while Ella Hastings's tears fell
the dreary room, the dead mother, the bitter cold night, and
of the good lady who brought them aid.
Starting up in bed and looking earnestly at Dora, Ella
said, “And you are the little girl whom Howard and Mrs.
Elliott found sleeping on her mother's neck that New Year's
morning. But God didn't let you freeze. He saved you
to live with me, which you will do always. And I will be
to you a sister, for I know you must be good.”
And the impulsive creature threw her arms around the
neck of the astonished Dora, who for some time could not
speak, so surprised and delighted was she to learn that her
benefactress was indeed the sister of Mr. Hastings. After
a moment, Ella continued, “And you came to live with
some distant relatives—with Mrs. Deane?”
“Yes, with Aunt Sarah,” answered Dora, stating briefly
the comparatively double relationship that existed between
herself and her cousins, and casually mentioning her uncle
Nathaniel, whom she had never seen.
“Then he is your uncle, too—the old East India man,
whose heir Eugenia is to be. I should think he would send
you money.”
“He never does,” said Dora, in a choking voice. “He
sent some to Eugenia once, but none to me,” and a tear at
her uncle's supposed coldness fell on the baby's head.
Ella was puzzled, but she could not doubt the truth of
what Dora had said, though she wisely refrained from betraying
Eugenia, in whom her confidence was slightly
shaken, but was soon restored by the appearance of the
young lady herself, who overwhelmed her with caresses,
and went into ecstasies over the little Fannie, thus surely
winning her way to the mother's heart. Owing to a severe
cold from which Eugenia was suffering, she left for home
her husband.
“If you will tell me where to find his dressing-gown and
slippers, I'll bring them out for him,” said Dora, wheeling
up before the glowing grate the large easy-chair which she
felt almost sure was occupied by Mr. Hastings.
“His gown and slippers!” repeated Ella. “It's an age
since I saw them, but I guess they are in the dressing-room,
either behind the door, or in the black trunk, or on the
shelf—or, stay, I shouldn't wonder if they were on the closet
floor.”
And there, under a promiscuous pile of other garments,
Dora found them, sadly soiled, and looking as if they had
not seen the light for many a day. Shaking out the gown,
and brushing the dust from off the slippers, she laid them in
the chair, and Ella, who was watching her, said, “Pray,
what put that into your mind?”
“I don't know,” returned Dora; “only I thought, perhaps,
you did so, when you were well. Ever so long ago,
before pa died, mother made him a calico dressing-gown, and
he used to look so pleased when he found it in his chair.”
“Strange I never thought of such things,” softly whispered
Ella, unconsciously learning a lesson from the little
domestic girl, who brushed the hearth, dropped the curtains,
lighted the lamp, and then went out to the kitchen in quest
of milk for Fannie.
“He will be so happy and pleased!” said Ella, as, lifting
up her head, she surveyed the cheerful room.
And happy indeed he was. It was the first time he had
left his wife since her illness, and with a tolerable degree of
satisfaction he took his seat in the evening cars. We say
tolerable, for though he was really anxious to see Ella and
the baby, he was in no particular haste to see the room in
his handsome dwelling, starting back when he opened the
door of the-sick chamber, and half thinking he had mistaken
another man's house for his own. But Ella's voice
reassured him, and in a few moments he had heard from her
the story of Dora Deane, who ere long came in, and was
duly presented. Taking her hand in his, and looking down
upon her with his large black eyes, he said, “I have seen
you before, I believe, but I did not then think that when we
met again I should be so much indebted to you. I am glad
you are here, Dora.”
Once before had he held that hand in his, and now, as
then, the touch sent the warm blood bounding through her
veins. She had passed through much since that wintry
morning, had grown partially indifferent to coldness and
neglect, but the extreme kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Hastings
touched her heart; and stammering out an almost inaudible
reply, she turned away to hide her tears, while Mr. Hastings,
advancing towards the fire, exclaimed, “My double
gown! And it's so long since I saw it! To whose thoughtfulness
am I indebted for this?”
“'Twas Dora,” answered Ella. “She thinks of everything.
She is my good angel, and I mean to keep her
always, if she will stay. Will you, dear?”
“Oh, if I only could,” answered Dora; “but I can't. They
need me at home!”
“Why need you? They have servants enough,” said
Ella, who had not yet identified Eugenia's waiting-maid
with the bright, intelligent child before her.
“We have no servants but me,” answered the truthful
Dora. “We are poor, and I help Aunt Sarah to pay for
my board; so, you see, I can't stay. And then, too, I must
go to school.”
Perfectly astonished at this fresh disclosure, Ella glanced
towards her husband, whose quizzical expression kept her
silent, for it seemed to say, “I told you all the time, that
Miss Eugenia was not exactly what you supposed her
to be.”
“How could she deceive me so?” thought Ella, while Mr.
Hastings was mentally resolving to befriend the child, in
whom he felt such a strong interest.
Wishing to know something of her education, he questioned
her during the evening concerning her studies, and
the books she had read, feeling surprised and pleased to find
how good a scholar she was, considering her advantages.
“There's the germ of a true, noble woman there. I wish
my sister could have the training of her,” he thought, as he
saw how animated she became when he mentioned her
favorite books, and then watched her as she hovered round
the bedside of his wife.
Very swiftly and pleasantly passed the three following
days, and during all that time Eugenia did not once appear;
but at the close of the fourth day, a note was brought to
Ella, saying that both Eugenia and her mother were sick,
and Dora must come home.
“Oh, how can I let you go?” cried Ella, while Dora
crept away into a corner and wept.
But there was no alternative, and just at dark she came
to say, good bye. Winding her feeble arms around her
neck, Ella sobbed out her adieu, and then, burying her face
in her pillow, refused to be comforted. One kiss for the
little Fannie—one farewell glance at the weeping Ella, and
then, with a heavy heart, Dora went out from a place where
she had been so happy—went back to the home where no
one greeted her kindly, save the old house cat, who purred
a joyous welcome, and rubbed against her side as she
table, were piles of dishes left for her to wash. That night,
when, at a late hour, she stole up to bed, the contrast
between her humble room and the cozy chamber where she
had recently slept, affected her painfully, and, mingled with
her nightly prayer, was the petition, that “sometimes she
might go back and live with Mr. Hastings!”
Meantime at Rose Hill there was sorrowing for her, Ella
refusing to be comforted unless she should return. Mr. Hastings,
who had spent the day in the city, and did not come
home until evening, felt that something was wrong the
moment he entered the door of his chamber. The fire was
nearly out, the lamp was burning dimly, and Ella was in
tears.
“What is it, darling?” he asked, advancing towards
her; and laying her aching head upon his bosom, she told
him of her loss, and how much she missed the little brown-faced
girl, who had been so kind to her.
And Howard Hastings missed her, too—missed the tones
of her gentle voice, the soft tread of her busy feet, and
more than all, missed the sunlight of comfort she had shed
over his home. The baby missed her, too; for over her
Dora had acquired an almost mesmeric influence, and until
midnight her wailing cry smote painfully upon the ear of
the father, who, before the morning dawned, had concluded
that Rose Hill was nothing without Dora Deane. “She
shall come back, too,” he said, and the sooner to effect this,
he started immediately after breakfast for the house of
Mrs. Deane. Very joyfully the deep blue eyes of Dora,
who met him at the door, looked up into his, and her
bright face flushed with delight when he told her why he
had come. Both Eugenia and her mother were convalescent,
and sitting by the parlor fire, the one in a shilling calico,
Mrs. Deane objected, when she heard Mr. Hastings's errand,
saying, with a sudden flash of pride, that “it was not
necessary for her niece to work out.”
“And I assure you, it is not our intention to make a
servant of her,” answered Mr. Hastings. “We could not do
otherwise than treat so near a relative of yours as an equal.”
This last was well timed, and quite complacently Mrs.
Deane listened, while he told her that if Dora were allowed
to stay with them until his wife was better, she should be
well cared for, and he himself would superintend her studies,
so she should lose nothing by being out of school. “Come,
Miss Eugenia,” he continued, “please intercede for me, and,
I assure you, both Ella and myself will be eternally grateful.”
He had touched the right chord at last. Rumor said
that Ella Hastings would never see another summer, and if
before her death the husband was eternally grateful, what
would he not be after her death? Then, too, but the day
before they had received a remittance from Uncle Nat, and
with that they could afford to hire a servant; so, when
Eugenia spoke, it was in favor of letting “Mr. Hastings
have Dora just when he wanted her, if it would be any satisfaction
to poor dear Ella!”
A while longer Mr. Hastings remained, and when at last
he arose to go, he was as sure that Dora Deane would
again gladden his home as he was next morning, when from
his library window he saw her come tripping up the walk,
her cheeks flushed with exercise, and her eyes sparkling
with joy, as, glancing upward, she saw him looking down
upon her. In after years, when Howard Hastings's cup was
full of blessings, he often referred to that morning, saying
“he had seldom experienced a moment of deeper thankfulness
than the one when he welcomed back again to his
fireside and his home the orphan Dora Deane.”
10. CHAPTER X.
ELLA.
Very pleasantly to Dora did the remainder of the winter
pass away. She was appreciated at last, and nothing could
exceed the kindness of both Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, the latter
of whom treated her more like a sister than a servant,
while even Eugenia, who came often to Rose Hill, and
whose fawning manner had partially restored her to the
good opinion of the fickle Ella, tried to treat her with a
show of affection, when she saw how much she was respected.
Regularly each day Dora went to the handsome library,
where she recited her lessons to Mr. Hastings, who became
deeply interested in watching the development of her fine,
intellectual mind.
One thing, however, troubled her. Ella did not improve,
and never since Dora came to Rose Hill had she sat up
more than an hour, but lay all day on her bed, while her
face grew white almost as the wintry snow, save when a
bright red spot burned upon her cheeks, making her, as
Dora thought, even more beautiful than she had been in
health. Once in the gathering twilight, when they sat
together alone, she startled Dora with the question, “Is
everybody afraid to die?”
“Mother was not,” answered Dora, and Ella continued,
“But she was good, and I am not. I have never done
even looked upon it, for mother told us there was no need
of harrowing up our feelings—it would come soon enough,
she said; and to me, who hoped to live so long, it has come
too soon—all too soon;” and the hot tears rained through
the transparent fingers, clasped so convulsively over her
face.
For many weeks Dora had felt an undefined presentiment
of coming evil—had seen it in Ella's failing health—in the
increased tenderness of Mr. Hastings's manner, whenever he
bent over the pillow of his young wife, or bore her in his
arms, as he sometimes did, to the window, that she might
look out upon the garden, and the winding walks which she
would never tread again. And now Ella herself had confirmed
it—had spoken of death as something very near.
“Oh, she must not die!” was Dora's mental cry of
anguish, as moving nearer to the bedside she grasped the
little wasted hand which lay outside the counterpane, and
this was her only answer, for she could not speak. There
was a numbness at her heart, a choking sensation in her
throat, which prevented her utterance. But Ella understood
her, and returning the warm pressure, she continued, “You,
too, have seen it then, and know that I must die; but oh!
you do not know how I dread the lonesome darkness of the
grave, or the world which lies beyond. If somebody would
go with me, or teach me the way, it wouldn't be so
hard.”
Poor Ella! Her life had been one round of fashionable
folly, and now that the world was fading from her view, her
fainting soul cried out for light to guide her through the
shadowy valley her feet were soon to tread. And light
came at last, through the word of God and the teachings
of the faithful clergyman, who was sent for at her request,
now—no more terror of the narrow tomb, for there was One
to go with her—one whose arm was powerful to save; and
on him Ella learned to lean, clinging still with an undying
love to her husband, with whom she often talked of the time
when he would be alone and she be far away.
“It is so hard to give you up,” she said one day, when as
usual he was sitting by her side; “so hard to say good bye
forever, and know that though you will miss me at first, and
mourn for me too, there will come a time when another will
take my place—another than Ella can call you hers; but I
am willing,” she continued, as she saw him about to speak,
“willing that it should be so. I have loved you, Howard,
more than you can know, or I can ever tell; but I am not
worthy of you. I do not satisfy the higher feelings of your
heart; I am not what your wife should be, and for this
I must die. Many a night, when you were sleeping at my
side, have I lain awake, asking myself why I, to whom the
world was so beautiful and bright, must leave it so soon;
and as I thought over the events of our short married life,
the answer came to me, `I cannot make you happy as you
ought to be, and for your sake I am taken away.”'
“Oh, Ella, Ella!” groaned Mr. Hastings, laying his head
beside hers, upon the pillow.
From his inmost soul he knew that what she said was
true; but for this he would not that she should die. She
had been to him a gentle, loving wife, the one he had chosen
from all others to share his home; and though he had failed
to find in her the companion he had sought, she was very
dear to him—was the mother of his child; and the strong
man's heart was full of anguish as he thought of giving her
up so soon. Who would comfort him when she was gone,
or speak to him words of love?
Softly the chamber door unclosed, and Dora Deane looked
in; but seeing them thus together, she stole away into the
garden, where the early spring grass was just starting into
life, and there, weeping bitterly, she too prayed that Ella
might not die. But neither tears nor prayers were of avail
to save her. Still, for weeks she lingered, and the soft June
air, stealing in through the open window, had more than
once lifted the golden curls from off her fading brow, and
more than one bouquet of sweet wild blossoms had been
laid upon her pillow, ere the midnight hour, when, with anguish
at their hearts, Howard Hastings and Dora Deane
watched together by her side, and knew that she was dying.
There had been long, dreary nights of wakefulness, and the
worn-out sufferer had asked at last that she might die—
might sleep the dreamless sleep from which she would never
waken. And Howard Hastings, as night after night went
by, and the laughing blue eyes which had won his early love
grew dim with constant waking, had felt that it would be
better when his loved one was at rest. But death, however
long expected, is sudden at the last, and so it was to him,
when he saw the shadow creeping over her face, which
cometh once to all. She would not suffer them to rouse the
household, she would rather die with them alone, she said,
with Dora standing near, and her husband's arms about her,
so that the tones of his voice should be the last sound which
would fall upon her ear, and Dora's hand the last to minister
to her wants.
“I have loved you so much, Howard, oh, so much!” and
the white clammy fingers, so soon to be laid away beneath
the summer flowers, strayed lovingly through the raven
locks of her husband, who could answer only with his tears,
which fell fast upon her face. “And you too, Dora,” she
continued, motioning the weeping girl to advance, “I have
am gone, you will live here still and care for my child,
whom we have called Fannie. It is a beautiful name, Dora
—your mother's name, and for your sake, I would fain let
her keep it—but,” turning to Mr. Hastings, and laying her
hand caressingly upon his head, “when I no longer live, I
would rather you should call my baby Ella Grey; and if,
my husband”—here she paused to gather strength for what
she was about to say, and after a moment continued, “if in
coming years, another sits beside you in my chair, and the
voices of other children shall call you father, you will not
forget your first-born, I know, but will love her better, and
think, perchance, the oftener of me, if she bears my name;
for however truly you may hereafter love, it was Ella Grey
that won your first affection.
Again she paused, and there was no sound heard in the
chamber of death, save the sobs of those about to be bereaved,
and the faint rustling of the leaves without, which
were gently moved by the night wind.
“Bring me my baby,” she said at last; and Dora laid the
sleeping child in the arms of the young mother, who, clasping
it fondly to her bosom, breathed over it a dying mother's
blessing, and with a dying mother's tears baptized it Ella
Grey.
There was a long, deep silence then, and when at last
Howard Hastings lifted up his head from the pillow where
it had been resting, and Dora Deane came timidly to his
side, they gazed together on the face of the sweetly sleeping
dead.
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
Ella Hastings was dead. The deep-toned bell proclaimed
it to the people of Dunwood, who, counting the
nineteen strokes, sighed that one so young should die. The
telegraphic wires carried it to her childhood's home, in the
far-off city; and while her tears were dropping fast for the
first dead of her children, the fashionable mother did not
forget to have her mourning in the most expensive and becoming
style. The servants in the kitchen whispered it one
to the other, treading softly and speaking low, as if aught
could disturb the slumber of her who lay so motionless and
still, unmindful of the balmy summer air which kissed her
marble cheek. The grief-stricken husband repeated it again
and again as he sat by her side in the darkened room; and
only they who have felt it, can know with what a crushing
weight they fell upon his heart, the three words—“She is
dead!”
Yes, Ella was dead, and Eugenia Deane, with hypocritical
tears upon her cheek, gathered fresh, white rose-buds,
and twining them in the golden curls which shaded the face
of the beautiful dead, dared even there to think that Howard
Hastings was free; and as she saw the silent grief of
the stricken man, who, with his head upon the table, sat
hour after hour, unmindful of the many who came to look on
marvelled that one so frivolous as Ella should be so deeply
mourned. Once she ventured to speak, asking him some
trivial thing concerning the arrangement of affairs, and without
looking up, he answered, “Do as you like, until her mother
comes. She will be here to-morrow.”
So, for the remainder of the day, Eugenia flitted from the
parlor to the chamber of death, from the chamber of death
to the kitchen, and from the kitchen back again to the parlor,
ordering the servants, admitting visitors, and between
times scolding Dora for “being so foolish as to cry herself
sick for a person who, of course, cared nothing for her, except
as a waiter!”
Since the night of her mother's death, Dora's heart had
not been half so sore with pain. The girlish Ella had been
very dear to her, and the tears she shed were genuine. To
no one else would the baby go, and after dinner was over,
the dinner at which Eugenia presided, and of which Mr.
Hastings could not be induced to partake, she went into
the garden with her little charge, seating herself in a pleasant
summer-house, which had been Ella's favorite resort. It
was a warm, drowsy afternoon, and at last, worn out with
weeping, and the fatigue of the last night's watching, she
fell asleep, as the baby had done before. Not long had
she sat thus, when Mr. Hastings, too, came down the
gravelled walk, and stood at the arbor door. The constant
bustling in and out of Eugenia annoyed him, and wishing to
be alone, he had come out into the open air, which he felt
would do him good. When his eye fell on Dora, who was
too soundly sleeping to be easily aroused, he murmured,
“Poor child! she is wearied with so many wakeful nights;”
then, fearing lest the slender arms should relax their hold
and drop the babe, he took it gently from her, and folding
head could rest upon his shoulder.
For two long hours she slept, and it was not until the
baby's waxen fingers gave a vigorous pull to her short, thick
hair, that she awoke, feeling greatly surprised when she
saw Mr. Hastings sitting near.
“I found you asleep,” he said, by way of explanation,
“and knowing how tired you were, I gave you my arm for
a pillow;” then, as the baby wished to go to her, he gave it
up, himself going slowly back to the lonesome house, from
which Ella was gone forever.
The next morning, the mother and her three youngest
daughters, all draped in deepest black, arrived at Rose
Hill, prepared to find fault with everything which savored
at all of the “horrid country.” Even Eugenia sank into
nonenity in the presence of the cold, city-bred woman, who
ignored her existence entirely, notwithstanding that she
loudly and repeatedly expressed so much affection for the
deceased.
“Perhaps your daughter wrote to you of me (Miss Deane);
we were great friends,” she said, when they stood together
in the presence of the dead, and Mrs. Grey's emotions had
somewhat subsided.
“Possibly; but I never remember names,” returned the
haughty lady, without raising her eyes.
“There are so few people here with whom she could be
intimate,” continued Eugenia, “that I saw a great deal of
her.”
But to this Mrs. Grey made no reply, except to ask,
“Whose idea was it dressing Ella in this plain muslin wrapper,
when she has so many handsome dresses? But it don't
matter,” she continued, as Eugenia was about to disclaim
all participation in that affair. “It don't matter, for no
the baby? I haven't seen that yet,” she asked, as they
were descending the stairs.
“She's with Dora, I presume,” answered Eugenia; and
Mrs. Grey continued—
“Oh, the nurse girl, whom Ella wrote so much about.
Send her in.”
But Eugenia was not one to obey orders so peremptorily
given, and, for a long time, Madam Grey and her three
daughters waited the appearance of the nurse girl, who, not
knowing that they were in the parlor, entered it at last, of
her own accord, and stood before them with such a quiet,
self-possessed dignity, that even Mrs. Grey treated her with
far more respect than she had the assuming Eugenia, whose
rule, for the time being, was at an end. Everything had
been done wrong; and when Mr. Hastings spoke of having
Ella buried at the foot of the spacious garden, in a quiet,
grassy spot, where trees of evergreen were growing, she
held up her hands in amazement at the idea that her daughter
should rest elsewhere than in the fashionable precincts
of Greenwood. So Mr. Hastings yielded, and on the morning
of the third day, Dora watched with blinding tears the
long procession winding slowly down the avenue, and out
into the highway towards the village depot, where the
shrieking of the engine, and the rattling of the car bell
would be the only requiem tolled for Ella Hastings, as she
was borne rapidly away from a spot which had been her
home for one brief year.
The little Ella was in Dora's arms, and as she, too, saw
the handsome steeds and moving carriages, she laughed
aloud, and patted the window-pane with her tiny baby
hands. Dear little one! she did not know—would never
know, how much she was bereaved; but Dora knew, and
must leave her, for her aunt had said to Mr. Hastings, that
after the funeral Dora must go home, adding, that Mrs.
Leah would take care of Ella until his return. So, when
the hum of voices and the tread of feet had ceased, when
the shutters were closed and the curtains dropped, Eugenia
came for her to go, while Mrs. Leah came to take the child,
who refused to leave Dora, clinging so obstinately to her
neck, and crying so pitifully, that even Eugenia was touched,
and bade her cousin remain until Mr. Hastings came home.
So Dora staid, and the timid servants, as they sat together
in the shadowy twilight, felt not half so lonely when they
heard her gentle voice singing the motherless babe to sleep.
12. CHAPTER XII.
WAYS AND MEANS.
With all the showy parade and empty pomp of a fashionable
city funeral, Ella was laid to rest in Greenwood,
and, in their darkened parlor, arrayed in the latest style of
mourning, the mother and sisters received the sympathy of
their friends, who hoped they would try to be reconciled,
and were so sorry they could not now go to the Springs, as
usual. In another parlor, too, far more elegant but less
showy than that of Mrs. Grey, another mother wept for her
only son, speaking to him blessed words of comfort in his
bereavement, and telling him of the better world, where
again he would meet the loved and lost. Once she ventured
to hope that he would come back again to her fireside, now
that his was desolate, but he refused. Rose Hill henceforth
would be his home, and though it was lonely and drear, he
must in a few days go back to it; for the sake of the little
one, doubly dear to him now that its mother was gone. Oh,
how sad was that journey back, and what a sense of desolation
came over him, as he drew near his home, and knew
that Ella was not there!—that never more would she come
forth to meet him—never again would her little feet stray
through the winding walks, or her fairy fingers pluck the
flowers she had loved so well.
It was near the first of July. The day had been rainy,
he entered the hall and ascended the stairs, but he
could not that night go to the old room and find it empty;
and he was passing on to his library, when the sound of
some one singing made him pause, while a thrill of joy ran
through his veins, for he knew that childish voice, knew it
was Dora Deane singing to his child. Another moment and
he stood within the room where Ella had died. All traces
of sickness and death had been removed, and everything
was in perfect order. Vases of flowers adorned the mantel
and the stands, seeming little out of place with the rain
which beat against the window, and the fire which burned
within the grate. In her crib lay Fannie, and sitting near
was Dora Deane, her rich auburn hair combed smoothly
back, and the great kindness of her heart shining out from
the depths of her clear blue eyes.
There are people whose very presence brings with it a
feeling of comfort, and such a one was Dora. Mr. Hastings
had not expected to find her there; and the sight of
her bright face, though it did not remove the heavy pain
from his heart, took from him the sense of utter desolation,
the feeling of being alone in his sorrow.
“Dora,” he exclaimed, coming to her side, “I did not
expect this! How happened you to stay?”
“The baby cried so hard,” answered Dora, “that Eugenia
told me I might remain until your return.”
“It was very kind and thoughtful in her, and I thank her
very much. Will you tell her so?” he said, involuntarily
laying his hand on Dora's head.
Divesting himself at last of his damp overcoat, and
donning the warm dressing gown, which Dora brought him,
he sat down before the fire, and listened while she told him
how she had staid in that room and kept it in order for him,
if he came into it at once and found it comparatively
pleasant.
“You are a very thoughtful girl,” he said, when she had
finished, “and I hope I shall some time repay you for your
kindness to myself and Ella.”
But Dora did not wish for any pay, and at the mention
of Ella's name her tears burst forth afresh. The next morning,
when news of Mr. Hastings's return was received at
Locust Grove, Eugenia at once suggested that Dora be sent
for immediately. “It did not look well,” she said, “for a
good sized girl, fourteen and a half years of age, to be
staying in the same house with a widower. Folks would
talk!”
And growing suddenly very careful of her cousin's reputation,
she dispatched a note to Rose Hill, requesting her
immediate return. Not that she really thought there would
be any impropriety in Dora's staying with Mr. Hastings, but
because she had a plan by which she hoped herself to see
him every day. And in this plan she succeeded. As she
had expected, her note brought down Mr. Hastings himself,
who, on his-child's account, objected to parting with Dora,
unless it were absolutely necessary.
“She is as well off there as here,” said he; “and why
can't she stay?”
“I am perfectly willing she should take care of little
Ella,” answered the previously instructed Mrs. Deane, who,
in a measure, shared her daughter's ambitious designs; “but
it must be done here, if at all. I can't suffer her to remain
alone with those gossiping servants.”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Eugenia, speaking as if this were the
first she had heard of it. “That is a good idea. It will be
delightful to have the dear little creature here, and so much
be with an experienced person like mother!”
“But,” said Mr. Hastings, “this would keep Dora
entirely from her studies, and that ought not to be.”
“It need not,” hastily interrupted Eugenia. “She can
go to school every day, for nothing will give me greater
pleasure than to take care of our dear Ella's child;” and
the pocket-handkerchief went up to her face to conceal
the tears which might have been there, but probably were
not.
It was finally arranged, and in the course of a few days
the parlor of Locust Grove was echoing sometimes to the
laughter, and sometimes to the screaming of Little Ella
Grey, who, from some unaccountable freak of babyhood,
conceived a violent fancy for Eugenia, to whom she would
go quite as readily as to Dora, whose daily absence at
school she at last did not mind. Regularly each day, and
sometimes twice a day, Mr. Hastings came down to Locust
Grove, and his manner was very kind toward Eugenia, when
he found her, as he often did, with his baby sleeping in her
arms. He did not know how many times, at his approach, it
was snatched from the cradle by Eugenia, who, in reality, was
not remarkably found of baby-tending, and who, in the absence
of the father, left the child almost wholly to the care of her
mother and sister. Management, however, was everything,
and fancying she had found the shortest avenue to Mr.
Hastings's heart, she, in his presence, fondled, and petted,
and played with his child, taking care occasionally to hint
of neglect on the part of Dora, whom he now seldom saw,
as, at the hour of his calling, she was generally in school.
It was by such means as this, that Eugenia sought to
increase Mr. Hastings's regard for herself, and, in a measure,
she succeeded; for though his respect for Dora was undiminished,
Eugenia was very agreeable, very interesting, and very kind
to his daughter!
As the autumn advanced, and the cold rainy weather
precluded out-door exercise, it was but natural that he
should spend much of his time at Locust Grove, where his
tastes were carefully studied, his favorite books read, and
his favorite authors discussed, while Eugenia's handsome
black eyes smiled a welcome when he came, and drooped
pensively beneath her long eyelashes when he went away.
Thus the autumn and the winter passed, and when the
spring had come, the village of Dunwood was rife with
rumors concerning the attraction which drew Mr. Hastings
so often to Locust Grove; some sincerely pitying him if,
indeed, he entertained a serious thought of making Eugenia
Deane his wife, while others severely censured him for having
so soon forgotten one whose grave had not been made a
twelvemonth. But he had not forgotten, and almost every
hour of his life was her loved name upon his lips, and the
long golden tress his own hand had severed from her head
was guarded as his choicest treasure, while the dark hours
of the night bore witness to his lonely grief. And it was to
escape this loneliness—to forget for a brief time the sad
memories of the past—that he went so often to Locust
Grove, where as yet his child was the greater attraction,
though he could not be insensible to the charms of Eugenia,
who spared no pains to interest him in herself.
He was passionately fond of music, and many an hour
she sat patiently at the piano, seeking to perfect herself in
a difficult piece, with which she thought to surprise him.
But nothing, however admirably executed, could sound well
upon her old-fashioned instrument, and how to procure a
new one was the daily subject of her meditations. Occasionally,
standing useless and untouched in the parlors of Rose Hill,
something whispered her to “wait and it would yet be hers.”
But this did not satisfy her present desire, for aside from
the sweet sounds, with which she hoped to entrance Mr.
Hastings, was the wish to make him think them much
wealthier than they were. From one or two circumstances,
she had gathered the impression that he thought them poor,
and, judging him by herself, she fancied her chances for
becoming Mrs. Hastings 2d, would be greatly increased if
by any means he could be made to believe her comparatively
rich. As one means of effecting this, she must and would
have a new piano, costing not less than four hundred dollars.
But how to procure the money was the question; the
remittance from Uncle Nat, which had come on the first day
of January, was already half gone, and she could not, as
she had once done before, make Dora's head keep her out of
the difficulty. At last, a new idea suggested itself, and
springing to her feet she exclaimed aloud, for she was alone,
“I have it; strange I didn't think of that before. I'll write
to the old man, and tell him that as Dora is now fifteen, we
would gladly send her away to school, if we had the means,
but our expenses are so great it is impossible, unless the
money comes from him. And he'll do it too, the old miser!
—for in his first letter he said he would increase the allowance
as Dora grew older.”
Suiting the action to the word, she drew out her writing-desk,
and commenced a letter to her “dearest Uncle
Nathaniel,” feelingly describing to him their straitened
circumstances, and the efforts of herself and her sister to
keep the family in necessaries, which they were enabled to do
very comfortably with the addition of the allowance he so
generously sent them every year. But they wished now to
her! She had improved latterly, and they really hoped a
change of scene would benefit her. For Dora's sake, then,
would “her dear uncle be so kind as to send them, on the
receipt of that letter, such a sum as he thought best. If
so, he would greatly oblige his loving niece.”
“There! That will do,” she said, leaning back in her
chair, and laughing as she thought what her mother and
Alice would say, if they knew what she had done. “But
they needn't know it,” she continued aloud, “until the money
comes, and then they can't help themselves.”
Then it occurred to her that if Dora herself were to send
some message, the coming of the money might be surer;
and calling her cousin into the room, she said:
“I am about writing to old Uncle Nat—have you any
word or anything to send him?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Dora. “Give him my love, and tell
him how much I wish he would come home—and stay!” she
added, leaving the room, and soon returning with a lock of
soft brown hair, which she laid upon the table. “Give him
that, and tell him it was mother's.”
Had a serpent started suddenly into life before Eugenia,
she could not have turned whiter than she did at the sight
of that hair. It brought vividly to mind the shadowy twilight,
the darkness in the corners, and the terror which came over
her on that memorable night, when she had thought to steal
Dora's treasure. Soon recovering her composure, however,
she motioned her cousin from the room, and, resuming her
pen, said to herself, “I sha'n't write all that nonsense about
his coming home, for nobody wants him here; but the love
and the hair may as well go.”
Then, as she saw how much of the latter Dora had
brought, she continued, “There's no need of sending all this
keep a part of it; Dora won't care, of course, and I shall
tell her.”
Dividing off a portion of the hair for her own use, she
laid it aside, and then in a postscript wrote, “Dora sends”—
here she paused; and thinking that “Dora's love” would
please the old man too much, and possibly give him too
favorable an opinion of his niece, she crossed out the
“sends,” and wrote, “Dora wishes to be remembered to
you, and sends for your acceptance a lock of her mother's
hair.”
Thus was the letter finished, and the next mail which left
Dunwood bore it on its way to India, Eugenia little thinking
how much it would influence her whole future life.
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
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
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
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.
“Write to me, Dora, and tell me of yourself, that I may
judge something of your character. Tell me, too, if you
ever think of the lonesome old man, who, each night of his
life, remembers you in his prayers, asking that if on earth
he may never look on Fannie's child, he may at last meet
and know her in the better land. And now farewell, my
daughter, mine by adoption, if from no other cause.
“Write to me soon, and tell me if at home there is one
who would kindly welcome back
“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.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
MANAGEMENT.
One year had passed away since the night when Ella
Hastings died, and alone in his chamber the husband was
musing of the past, and holding, as it were, communion with
the departed, who seemed this night to be so near that once
he said aloud, “Ella, are you with me now?” But to his
call there came no answer, save the falling of the summer
rain; and again, with his face upon the pillow, just as it
had lain one year ago, he asked himself if to the memory of
the dead he had thus long been faithful; if no thought of
another had mingled with his love for her; and was it to
ascertain this that she had come back to him to-night, for
he felt that she was there, and again he spoke aloud, “I
have not forgotten you, darling; but I am lonesome, oh, so
lonesome, and the world looks dark and drear. Lay your
hand upon my heart, dear Ella, and you will feel its weight
of pain.”
But why that sudden lifting of the head, as if a spirit
hand had indeed touched him with its icy fingers? Howard
Hastings was not afraid of the dead, and it was not this
which made him start so nervously to his feet. His ear had
caught the sound of a light footstep in the hall below, and
coming at that hour of a stormy night, it startled him, for
he remembered that the outer door had been left unlocked.
through the silent hall, until it reached the threshold of his
chamber, where it ceased, while a low voice spoke his
name.
In an instant he was at the door, standing face to face
with Dora Deane, whose head was uncovered, and whose
hair was drenched with the rain.
“Dora,” he exclaimed, “how came you here and wherefore
have you come?”
“Your child!” was her only answer, and in another moment
he, too, was out in the storm with Dora Deane, whose
hand he involuntarily took in his, as if to shield her from
the darkness.
In a few words she told him how she had been aroused
from her sleep by her aunt, who said the baby was dying
with the croup; that the servant was timid and refused to
go either for him or the physician, and so she had come
herself.
“And were you not afraid?” he asked; and the heroic
girl answered, “No; I fancied Ella was with me, cheering
me on, and I felt no fear.”
Mr. Hastings made no reply, but, when he reached the
house, and saw the white, waxen face of the child, he felt
that Ella had indeed been near to him that night; that she
had come for her little one, who, with a faint, moaning cry,
stretched its hands towards Dora, as she entered the room.
And Dora took it in her arms, holding it lovingly there,
until the last painful struggle was over, and the father,
standing near, knew that wife and child had met together
in heaven.
At the foot of the garden, beneath the evergreens, where
he had wished to lay his other Ella, they buried the little
girl, and then Howard Hastings was, indeed, alone in the
now that all were gone. For many weeks he did not
go to Locust Grove, but remained in his quiet rooms, brooding
over his grief, and going often to the little grave beneath
the evergreens. There, once, at the hour of sunset,
he found Eugenia Deane planting flowers above his sleeping
child! She had marvelled much that he staid so long
away, and learning that the sunset hour was always spent
in the garden, she had devised a plan for meeting him. It
succeeded, and with well-feigned embarrassment she was
hurrying away, when he detained her, bidding her tarry
while he told her how much he thanked her for her kindness
to his child.
“I have wished to come to Locust Grove,” he said, “and
thank you all, but I could not, for there is now no baby
face to greet me.”
“But there are those there still who would welcome you
with pleasure,” softly answered Eugenia; and then with
her dark eyes sometimes on the ground and sometimes looking
very pityingly on him, she acted the part of a consoler,
telling him how much better it was for the child to be at
rest with its mother.
And while she talked, darkness fell upon them, so that
Howard Hastings could not see the look of triumph which
the dark eyes wore when he said, “You must not go home
alone, Miss Deane. Let me accompany you.”
So the two went together very slowly down the long
avenue, and when over an imaginary stone the fair Eugenia
stumbled, the arm of Howard Hastings was offered for her
support, and then more slowly still they continued on their
way. From that time Mr. Hastings was often at Eugenia's
side, and before the autumn was gone, he had more than
once been told she was to be his wife. And each time that
himself began to wonder how it were possible for him ever
to have disliked and distrusted a person so amiable, so intelligent
and so agreeable as Eugenia Deane! Still he could
never quite satisfy himself that he loved her, for there was
something which always came up before him whenever he
seriously thought of making her his wife. This something
he could not define, but when, as he sometimes did, he
fancied Eugenia the mistress of his house, there was always
in the background the form of Dora Deane, gliding noiselessly
about him, as she did that night when first she came
to Rose Hill. He saw but little of her now, for whenever
he called, Eugenia managed to keep from the room both
mother, sister and cousin, choosing to be alone with the
handsome widower, who lingered late and lingered long,
dreading a return to his lonely home.
Eugenia was now daily expecting an answer to her letter,
and feeling sure that it would bring the money, she began
to talk to Mr. Hastings of her new piano, playfully remarking,
that as he was a connoisseur in such matters, she believed
she should call on him to aid in her selection; and
this he promised to do, thinking the while of the unused
instrument in his deserted parlor, and feeling strongly
tempted to offer her its use. Thus the weeks passed on,
while Eugenia became more and more impatient for the letter.
“It is an age since I had anything from the post-office.
I wish you'd call and inquire,” she said to Dora one afternoon,
as she saw her preparing to go out.
Scarcely was she gone, however, when, remembering something
which she wanted, and, thinking she might possibly
meet with Mr. Hastings, she started for the village herself,
reaching the office door just as Dora, accompanied by Mr.
Hastings, was crossing the street in the same direction.
“I shan't have to go in now,” said Dora; and, fancying
her companion would prefer waiting for her cousin to walking
with her, she passed on, all unconscious of what she had
lost by being a minute too late.
“A letter from Uncle Nat—directed to Dora, too!” and
Eugenia grew alternately red and white, as, crushing the
missive into her pocket, she went out into the street, where
she was joined by Mr. Hastings.
“Dora left me rather unceremoniously,” said he, as he
bade her good evening, “and so I waited to walk with
you.”
But Eugenia could not appear natural, so anxious was she
to know what the letter contained. Up to the very gate
Mr. Hastings went, but for once she did not ask him to
stop; and he turned away, wondering at her manner, and
feeling a little piqued at her unusual coolness. Hastening
to her chamber, and crouching near the window, Eugenia
tore open Dora's letter, and clutching eagerly at the draft,
almost screamed with delight when she saw the amount.
Fifteen hundred dollars! She could scarcely believe her
senses; and drawing still nearer the window, for the daylight
was fading fast, she sought for the reason of this
unexpected generosity. But the old man's childish fancy,
which would have touched a heart less hard than hers,
aroused only her deepest ire—not because he had counted
out the hairs, but because there had not been more to
count. Bounding to her feet in her wrath, she exclaimed,
“Fool that I was, to have withheld one, when the old
dotard would have paid for it so richly. But it cannot now
be helped,” she continued, and resuming her seat, she read
the letter through, exploding but once more, and that at
the point where Uncle Nat had spoken of returning, asking
if there was one who would welcome him home.
“Gracious heavens!” she exclaimed, growing a little
faint. “Wouldn't I be in a predicament? But it shall
never be, if I can prevent it, and I fancy I can. As Dora
will not read this letter, it is not reasonably to be expected
that she will answer it, and it will be some time, I imagine,
before I invite him to come and see if we are kind to her!
What a childish old thing he must be, to pay so much for
one little lock of hair! I'd send him all of mine, if I
thought it would bring me fifteen hundred dollars.”
It did seem a large sum to her, that fifteen hundred dollars,
more than she dared to appropriate to herself; but the
piano she was determined to have, and, as she dreaded what
her mother might say, she resolved upon keeping the letter
a secret until the purchase was made, and then Mrs. Deane
could not do otherwise than indorse the draft, and let her
have the money.
They had been talking of going to Rochester for some
time past, and if she could manage to have Mr. Hastings go
with her, she could leave her mother at the hotel, or dispose
of her elsewhere, while she went with him to the music
rooms, and made the selection. As if fortune were, indeed,
favoring her, Mr. Hastings called the next night, and they
were, as usual, left together alone. She was looking uncommonly
well this evening; and as she saw how often, and
how admiringly his eyes rested upon her, hope whispered
that the prize was nearly won. After conversing awhile on
different subjects, she spoke of her new piano, asking him if
he remembered his promise of assisting her in a selection,
and saying she thought of going to the city some day that
week. Again Mr. Hastings remembered the beautiful rosewood
instrument, whose tones had been so long unheard in
his silent home, and he said, “Do you not like Ella's piano?”
while a feeling, shadowy and undefined, stole over him, that
his thoughts, answered artfully, “Oh, very much. I used
to enjoy hearing dear Ella play, but that don't do me any
good. It isn't mine, you know.”
Very softly and tenderly the beautiful black eyes looked
into his, and the voice was low and gentle, as it breathed
the sacred name of Ella. It was the hour of Howard
Hastings's temptation; and, scarce knowing what he did, he
essayed to speak—to offer her the piano, whose keys had
been so often touched by the fairy fingers, now folded away
beneath the winter snow. But his lips refused to move;
there was a pressure upon them, as if a little hand were laid
upon his mouth to prevent the utterance of words he had
better far not speak. Thus was he saved, and when Eugenia,
impatient at his delay, cast towards him an anxious glance,
she saw that his thoughts were not of her, and, biting her
lips with vexation, she half petulantly asked, “if he had
any intention of going to the city that week?”
“Yes—no—certainly,” said he, starting up as if from a
deep reverie. Then, as he understood what was wanted of
him, he continued, “excuse me, Miss Deane. I was thinking
of Ella, and the night when she died. What were you
saying of Rochester? I have business there to-morrow, and
if you go down, I will aid you all I can. By the way,” he
continued, “that is the night of —'s grand concert. How
would you like to attend it?”
“Oh, so much!” answered Eugenia, her fine eyes sparkling
with delight.
“But stop,” said he, “now I think of it, I have an engagement
which may possibly prevent me from attending it,
as I would like to do with you, for I know you would enjoy
it. Still, it may be that I can, and if so, I'll call for you at
the hotel. We can come home on the eleven o'clock train.”
So, ere Mr. Hastings departed, it was arranged that
Eugenia and her mother should next morning go down with
him to the city, and that in the evening he would, perhaps,
accompany them to the concert.
“I am progressing fast,” thought Eugenia, as she sat
alone in her chamber that night, after Alice had retired, “but
still I wish he'd come to the point, and not keep me in such
suspense. I thought once he was going to, and I believe now
he would if he hadn't gone to thinking of Ella, and all that
nonsense; but never mind, he's worth waiting for, with his
fine house and immense wealth; I shan't care so much
about Uncle Nat's money then, though goodness knows I
don't want him turning up here some day and exposing me,
as I dare say the meddlesome old thing would do.”
This reminded her of the letter, and, as Alice was asleep,
she thought this as favorable an opportunity for answering
it as she would probably have. Opening her writing-desk,
and taking her pen, she framed a reply, the substance of
which was, that ma, Alice and herself were very, very thankful
to her dear uncle for his generous gift to Dora, who,
strange to say, manifested no feeling whatever!
“If she is grateful,” wrote Eugenia, “she does not show
it in the least. I hardly know what to make of her, she's
so queer. Sometime, perhaps, she will appreciate your
goodness, and meanwhile, rest assured that I will see that
your gift is used to the best advantage.”
Not a word of coming home to the expectant old man,
whose heart each day grew lighter as he thought of the
letter which Dora would write bidding him to come to the
friends who would welcome him back. Not one line from
Dora to the kind uncle who, when he read the cruel lines,
laid his weary heard upon his pillow and wept bitterly that
this, his last fond hope, was crushed!
There is such a thing as Retribution, and Eugenia Deane,
sitting there alone that night, shuddered as the word
seemed whispered in her ear. But it could not deter her
from her purpose. Howard Hastings must be won. “The
object to be gained was worthy of the means used to gain
it,” she thought, as she sealed the letter; then, placing the
draft for the $1,500 safely in her purse, she crept softly to
bed, sleeping ere long as soundly as if the weight of a
guilty conscience had never rested upon her.
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
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
“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
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,
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
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
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.
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
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,
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
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
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.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
FAILURE AND SUCCESS.
In a state of great anxiety, which increased each moment,
Eugenia looked for the twentieth time into the long hall, and
seeing no one, went back again to the glass, wondering if her
new hat, which, without her mother's knowledge, had that
afternoon been purchased, and now adorned her head, were
as becoming as the milliner had said, and if fifteen dollars
were not a great price for one in her circumstances to pay
for a bonnet. Then she thought if Mr. Hastings proposed
soon, as she believed he would, she should never again feel
troubled about the trivial matter of money, of which she
would have an abundance. But where was he and why did
he not come? she asked herself repeatedly, caring less, however,
for the delay, when she considered that if they were
late, more people would see her in company with the elegant
Mr. Hastings, who was well known in the city.
“Eight o'clock as I live,” she exclaimed at last, consulting
her watch, “and the concert was to commence at half-past
seven. What can it mean?” and with another glance
at her bonnet, she walked the length of the hall, and leaning
far over the balustrade looked anxiously down into the
office below, to see if by any chance he were there.
But he was not, and returning to her room, she waited
another half hour, when, grown more fidgety and anxious,
been there that evening. Some one thought they had seen
him in the ladies' parlor that afternoon, but further information
than that, she could not obtain, and the discomfited
young lady went back to her room in no very enviable frame
of mind, particularly as she heard the falling of the rain,
and thought how dark it was without.
“What can have kept him?” she said, half crying with
vexation. “And how I wish I had gone home with
mother!”
Wishing, however, was of no avail, and when that night
at half-past ten, the hotel omnibus as usual went to the
depot, it carried a very cross young lady, who, little heeding
what she did, and caring less, sat down beneath a
crevice in the roof, through which the rain crept in, lodging
upon the satin bows and drooping plumes of her fifteen-dollar
hat, which, in her disappointment, she had forgotten
to exchange for the older one, safely stowed away in the
band-box she held upon her lap. Arrived at Dunwood
station, she found, as she had expected, no omnibus in
waiting, nor any one whose services she could claim as an
escort, so, borrowing an umbrella, and holding up her dress
as best she could, she started, band-box in hand, for home,
stepping once into a pool of water, and falling once upon
the dirty sidewalk, from which the mud and snow were
wiped by her rich velvet cloak, to say nothing of the frightful
pinch made in her other bonnet by her having crushed
the band-box in her fall.
In a most forlorn condition, she at last reached home,
where to her dismay she found the door was locked and the
fire gone out, her mother not having expected her to return
on such a night as this. To rouse up Dora, and scold her
unmercifully, though for what she scarcely knew, was under
Rose Hill was devising the best means of removing Dora
from her power, she at Locust Grove, was venting the
entire weight of her pent-up wrath upon the head of the
devoted girl, who bore it uncomplainingly. Removing at last
her bonnet, she discovered the marks of the omnibus leak,
and then her ire was turned towards him as having been
the cause of all her disasters.
“I'll never speak to him again, never,” she exclaimed, as
she crept shivering to bed.
But a few hours, quiet slumber dissipated in a measure
her wrath, and during the next day she many times looked
out to see him coming, as she surely thought he would,
laden with apologies for his seeming neglect. But nothing
appeared except the huge box containing the piano, and in
superintending the opening of that her mind was for a time
diverted. Greatly Alice and Dora marvelled whence came
the money with which the purchase had been made, and
both with one consent settled upon Mr. Hastings as having
been the donor. To this suggestion Eugenia made no reply,
and feeling sure that it was so, Dora turned away and walking
to the window sighed as she wondered what Ella would say
if she could know who was to take her place in the heart
of Howard Hastings.
The instrument was finely toned, and Eugenia spent the
remainder of the day in practising a very difficult piece,
which she knew Mr. Hastings admired, and with which she
intended to surprise and charm him. But he did not come,
either that day or the next, and on the morning of the
next, which was Saturday, feigning some trivial errand to
Mrs. Leah, she went herself to Rose Hill, casting anxious
glances towards the windows of his room to see if he were
in sight. Dame Leah was a shrewd old woman, and readily
see her master, rather than herself, she determined to tantalize
her by saying nothing of him unless she were questioned.
Continually hoping he would appear, Eugenia
lingered until there was no longer a shadow of excuse for tarrying,
and then she arose to go, saying as she reached the door,
“Oh, now I think of it, Mr. Hastings has a book in his library
which I very much wish to borrow. Is he at home?”
“No,” answered Mrs. Leah, “he went to New York,
Thursday morning, on the early train.”
“To New York!” repeated Eugenia, “for what? and
when will he be home?”
“He said he had important business,” returned Mrs. Leah,
adding that “maybe he'd be home that night.”
Eugenia had heard all she wished to know, and forgetting
entirely the book, bade Mrs. Leah good morning, and walked
away, feeling in a measure relieved, for the business which
took him so suddenly to New York, had undoubtedly some
connection with his failing to call at the hotel for her!
He had never called upon Sunday evening, but thinking that
after so long an absence he might do so now, she sat in
state from six o'clock till nine, starting nervously at every
sound, and once when sure, she heard him, running from the
room, so he would not find her there, and think she had been
waiting for him. But he did not come, and the next day,
feeling exceedingly anxious to know if he had returned, and
remembering the book, which she had failed to get, and must
have, she towards night sent Dora to Rose Hill, bidding
her if she saw Mr. Hastings tell him that her piano had
come and she wished him to hear it.
In the long kitchen by a glowing stove, Dame Leah sat,
busy with her knitting, which she quickly suspended when
she saw Dora, who was with her a favorite.
“So Eugenia sent you for that book?” she said, when
told of Dora's errand. “I'll see if he will lend it.”
Mr. Hastings was alone in his library. All that day he
had been making up his mind to call at Locust Grove, where
he knew Eugenia was impatiently expecting him, for Mrs.
Leah had told him of her call, winking slily as she spoke of
the forgotten book!
“Yes, I will go and have it over,” he thought, just as
Mrs. Leah entered, telling him that “Miss Deane wanted
that book.”
Thinking that Eugenia was in the house, he answered
hastily. “Take it to her, and pray don't let her in here.”
“It's Dora, not Eugenia,” said Mrs. Leah, and instantly
the whole expression of his countenance changed
“Dora!” he exclaimed. “It's a long time since I saw
her in this room. Tell her to come up.”
Very gladly Dora obeyed the summons, and in a moment
she stood in the presence of Mr. Hastings.
“I am glad to see you,” he said, motioning her to the little
stool, on which she had often sat when reciting to him
her lessons, and when she now sat down, it was so near to
him that, had he chosen, his hand could have rested on her
beautiful hair, for she held her hood upon her lap.
Two months before and he would not have hesitated to
smooth these shining tresses, but the question of his sister,
“Do you love her?” had produced upon him a curious effect,
making him half afraid of the child-woman who sat before
him, and who, after waiting a time for him to speak, looked
up into his face, and said, “Do you want me for anything
in particular, Mr. Hastings?”
“Want you, Dora? Want you?” he said, abstractedly,
as if that question, too, had puzzled him; then remembering
himself, and why he had sent for her, he answered,
Do you remember my sister Mrs. Elliott?”
The eager, upward glance of Dora's eyes, was a sufficient
answer, and he continued. “I saw her last week and
talked with her of you. She wishes you to come and live
with her. Will you go?”
Dora could never tell why she cried, but the thought of
living with Mrs. Elliott, whom she regarded as an almost
superior being, overcame her, and she burst into tears,
while Mr. Hastings looked at her, quite uncertain as to what,
under the circumstances, it was proper for him to do. If
his sister had never bothered him with that strange question,
he would have known exactly how to act; but
now in a state of perplexity, he sat motionless, until, thinking
he must do something, he said gently, “Dora, my child.”
The last word removed his embarrassment entirely. She
was a child, and as such he would treat her. So he said
again, “Dora, my child, why do you cry?” and Dora answered
impulsively, “It makes me so glad to think of living
with Mrs. Elliott, for you do not know how unhappy I have
been since she found me four years ago.
“I know more than you suppose. But it is over now,”
he said; and stretching out his arm, he drew her nearer to
him, and resting her head upon his knee, he soothed her as
if she were indeed the child he tried to believe she was, and
he her grey-haired sire, instead of a young man of twenty-seven!
And Dora grew very calm sitting there with Mr. Hastings's
hand upon her head, and when he told her it was all arranged,
and she should surely go, she sprang to her feet,
and while her cheeks glowed with excitement, exclaimed, “It
is too good to come true. Something will happen, Aunt
Sarah will not let me go.”
“Yes, she will,” said Mr. Hastings decidedly. “I am
going there to-night to talk with her.”
Then, as it was already growing dark, he arose to accompany
Dora home, both of them forgetting the book, which
Eugenia seemed destined never to receive. But she did not
think to ask for it in her joy at meeting Mr. Hastings, who
succeeded in appearing natural far better than he had expected,
telling her, not that he was sorry for having failed
to keep his appointment, but that it was not consistent for
him to do so, and adding that he hoped she was not very
much disappointed.
“Oh, no,” she said, “I know of course that business detained
you;”—then, as she saw him looking at her piano,
she advanced towards it, and seating herself upon the stool,
asked, “if he would like to hear her play?”
He could not conscientiously answer “yes,” for he felt
that the sound would sicken him; but he stood at her side
and turned the leaves of her music as usual, while she dashed
through the piece she had practised with so much care.
“How do you like it?” she said, when she had finished;
and he answered, “I always admired your playing, you
know, but the tone of the instrument does not quite suit me.
It seems rather muffled, as if the wires were made of hair!”
and his large black eyes were bent searchingly upon her.
Coloring crimson, she thought, “Can he have learned
my secret?” then, as she remembered how impossible it was
for him to know aught of the money, she answered, “Quite
an original idea,” at the same time seating herself upon the
sofa. Sitting down beside her as he had been in the habit
of doing, he commenced at once upon the object of his visit,
asking if her mother were at home, and saying he wished to
see her on a matter of some importance; then, knowing who
was really the ruling power there, he added, as Eugenia
had better speak of my business first to you!”
Feeling sure now of a proposal, the young lady resumed
her seat, involuntarily pulling at her fourth finger, and mentally
hoping the engagement ring would be a diamond one!
What then was her surprise when she found that not herself,
but Dora was the subject of his remarks! After telling
her of his visit to his sister, and of her wishes with regard
to Dora, he said, “since the death of my wife and
baby, I have felt a deep interest in your family, for the
kindness shown to me in my affliction. I promised Ella that
I would befriend Dora, and by placing her with Louise, I
shall not only fulfill my word, but shall also be relieved of
all care concerning her. Do you think I can persuade your
mother to let her go?”
Eugenia did not know. She would speak to her about
it after he was gone, and tell him on the morrow.
“I shall rely upon you to plead my cause,” he continued;
“Louise's heart is quite set upon it, and I do not wish to
disappoint her.”
“I will do my best,” answered Eugenia, never suspecting
that Mr. Hastings was quite as anxious as his sister, who,
she presumed, intended making a half companion, half waiting-maid
of her cousin.
“But it will be a good place for her, and somewhat of a
relief to us,” she thought, after Mr. Hastings had gone.
“She is getting to be a young lady now, and growing each
year more and more expensive. I presume Mrs. Elliott will
send her to school for a time at least, and in case our
families should be connected, it is well for her to do so. I
wrote to Uncle Nat that we wished to send her away to
school, and this is the very thing. Mother won't of course
insist upon her having all that money, for she will be
I can have a handsome outfit! Fortune does favor
me certainly.”
Thus Eugenia mused, and thus did she talk to her mother,
and she was the more easily persuaded when she saw how
eager Dora was to go.”
“I shall be sorry to leave you, Aunt Sarah,” said Dora,
coming to her side, and resting her hand upon her shoulder,
“but I shall be so happy with Mrs. Elliott, that I am sure
you'll let me go.”
Mrs. Deane was naturally a cold, selfish woman, but the
quiet, unassuming Dora had found a place in her heart, and
she would be very lonely without her; still it was better
for her, and better for them all that she should go; so she
at last gave her consent, and when the next day Mr. Hastings
called he was told that Dora could go as soon as he
thought best.
“Let it be immediately, then,” he said. “I will write to
Louise to night, and tell her we shall come next week.”
“I wish I could go to New York with her,” said Eugenia.
“It's so long since I was there.”
“You had better wait till some other time, for I could
not now show you over the city,” answered Mr. Hastings,
who had no idea of being burdened with Eugenia.
“He expects me to go with him sometime, or he would
never have said that,” thought Eugenia, and this belief
kept her good natured during all the bustle and hurry of
preparing Dora for her journey.
The morning came at last on which Dora was to leave,
and with feelings of regret Mrs. Deane and Alice bade her
good-bye, while Eugenia accompanied her to the depot,
where she knew she should see Mr. Hastings.
“I've half a mind to go with you as far as Rochester,” she
made no reply, and the project was abandoned.
Kissing her cousin good-bye, she stood upon the platform
until the train had moved away, and then walked slowly
back to the house, which even to her seemed lonesome.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE QUESTION ANSWERED.
It was late in the evening when our travellers reached the
city, which loomed up before Dora like an old familiar friend.
They found Mrs. Elliott waiting to receive them, together
with Mr. Hastings's mother, who, having heard so much of
Dora Deane, had come over to see her. Very affectionately
did Mrs. Elliott greet the weary girl, and after divesting her
of her wrappings, she led her to her mother, whose keen eyes
scrutinized her closely, but found no fault in the fair childish
face which looked so timidly up to her. Half bewildered,
Dora gazed about her, and then, with her eyes swimming in
tears, whispered softly to Mr. Hastings, “I am so afraid it
will prove to be a dream.”
“I will see that it does not,” said Mrs. Elliott, who had
overheard her, and who, as time passed on, became more
and more interested in the orphan girl.
For several days Mr. Hastings lingered, showing her all
over the city, and going once with her to visit the
room where he had found her. But the elements had preceded
them—fire and water—and not a trace of the old
building remained. At the expiration of a week, Mr. Hastings
started for home, half wishing he could take Dora with
him, and wondering if his sister were in earnest, when she
asked him if he loved her?
A new world now seemed opened to Dora, who never
thought it possible for her to be so happy. The ablest instructors
were hired to teach her, and the utmost care bestowed
upon her education, while nothing could exceed the
kindness both of Mrs. Elliott and Mrs. Hastings, the latter
of whom treated her as she would have done a young and
favorite daughter. One evening when Mrs. Elliott was
dressing for a party, Dora asked permission to arrange her
soft glossy hair, which she greatly admired.
“It's not all my own,” said Mrs. Elliott, taking off a
heavy braid and laying it upon the table. “I bought it in
Rochester, nearly two years ago, on the day of Ella's party.
I have often wished I knew whose it was,” she continued,
“for to me there is something disagreeable in wearing other
people's hair, but the man of whom I purchased it, assured
me that it was cut from the head of a young, healthy girl”
For a moment Dora stood thinking—then catching up the
beautiful braid and comparing it with her own, she exclaimed,
“It was mine! It was mine! Eugenia cut it off, and sold
it the day before the party. Oh, I am so glad,” she added,
“though I was sorry then, for I did not know it would come
to you, the dearest friend I ever had,” and she smoothed
caressingly the shining hair, now a shade lighter than her
own.
Mrs. Elliott had heard from her brother the story of
Dora's shorn locks, and the braid of hair was far more valuable
to her, now that she knew upon whose head it had
grown. In her next letter to her brother, she spoke of the
discovery, and he could not forbear mentioning the circumstances
to Eugenia, who, not suspecting how much he knew
of the matter, answered indifferently, “Isn't it funny how
things do come round? Dora had so much of the headache
that we thought it best to cut off her hair, which she
always a little penurious!”
Wholly disgusted with this fresh proof of her duplicity.
Mr. Hastings could scarcely refrain from upbraiding her for
her perfidy, but thinking the time had not yet come, he restrained
his wrath, and when next he spoke, it was to tell
her of a foreign tour which he intended making.
“I have long wished to visit the old world,” said he, “and
as there is nothing in particular to prevent my doing so, I
shall probably start the first of June. I should go sooner,
but I prefer being on the ocean in the summer season.”
For a moment Eugenia grew faint, fancying she saw an
end of all her hopes, but soon rallying, she expatiated largely
upon the pleasure and advantages to be derived from a
tour through Europe, saying, “it was a happiness she had
herself greatly desired, but should probably never realize.”
“Not if you depend upon me for an escort,” thought Mr.
Hastings, who, soon after, took his leave.
Much Eugenia wondered whether he would ask the important
question, and take her with him, and concluding at
last that he would, she secretly made some preparations for
the expected journey! But alas for her hopes! The spring
went by, the summer came, and she was still Eugenia Deane,
when one evening towards the middle of June, Mr. Hastings
came over to say good-bye, as he was intending to start
next morning for New York, or rather, for his sister's country
seat on the Hudson, where she was now spending the
summer. This was a death-blow to Eugenia, who could
scarcely appear natural. Tears came to her eyes, and once
when she attempted to tell him how lonely Rose Hill would
be without him, she failed entirely for want of voice.
“How hoarse you are. Have you a cold,” said Mr. Hastings,
and that was all the notice he took of her emotion.
Fearing lest he should suspect her real feelings, she tried
to compose herself, and after a time said, jokingly. “I
shouldn't wonder if you were going to take you a wife from
some of the city belles.”
“Oh, no,” he answered lightly. “Time enough to think
of that when I return.”
This gave her hope, and she bore the parting better than
she could otherwise have done.
“You will not forget me entirely, I trust,” she said, as she
gave him her hand.
“Oh, no,” he answered. “That would be impossible. I
have many reasons which you do not perhaps suspect, for
remembering you! By the way,” he continued, “have you
any message for Dora! I shall probably see her as she is
with my sister.”
“Give her my love,” answered Eugenia, “and tell her
to write more definitely of her situation. She never particularizes,
but merely says she is very happy. I do hope
Mrs. Elliott will make something of her!”
The next moment Mr. Hastings's good bye was ringing in
her ears, and he was gone. Seating herself upon the stairs,
and covering her face with her hands, Eugenia wept bitterly,
and this was their parting.
One week later and at the same hour in the evening, Mr.
Hastings sat in his sister's pleasant parlor, looking out upon
the blue waters of the Hudson, and wondering why, as the
time for his departure drew near, his heart should cling so
fondly to the friends he was to leave behind. “I shall see
them again if I live,” he said, “and why this dread of
bidding them farewell?”
At this moment his sister entered the room, bringing to
him a letter from a rich old Texan bachelor, who was spending
the summer with some friends in the vicinity of her
and asked permission to address her! He had seen her
occasionally at Mrs. Elliott's house, had met her frequently
in his morning rambles, and the heart which for forty-five
years had withstood the charms of northern beauties and
southern belles, was won by the modest little country
girl, and he would make her his wife, would bear her to his
luxurious home, where her slightest wish should be his law.
With a curious smile upon her lip, Mrs. Elliott read this
letter through, and then without a word to Dora, carried it
to her brother, watching him while he read it, and smiling
still more when she saw the flush upon his brow, and the
unnatural light in his eye.
“Have you talked with Dora?” he said, when he had
finished reading.
“No, I have not,” answered his sister. “I thought I
would leave that to you, for in case she should ask my
advice, my fear of losing her might influence me too much.”
“Louise,” he exclaimed, leaning forward so that his hot
breath touched her cheek, “you surely do not believe that
Dora Deane cares aught for that old man. She is nothing
but a child.”
“She is seventeen next November,” said Mrs. Elliott,
“almost as old as Ella was when first you were engaged, and
how can we tell how often she has thought of matrimony? Mr
Trevors is a man of unexceptionable character, and though
old enough to be her father, he is immensely wealthy, and
this, you know, makes a vast difference with some girls.”
“But not with her—not with Dora Deane, I'm sure,” he
said. “Where is she? Send her to me, and I will
see.”
Dora's governess, who had accompanied them to the
country, was sometimes very exacting, and this day she had
in one or two lessons.
“I'll report you to Mr. Hastings, and see what he can
do,” she had said, as she hurled the French Grammar back
upon the table.
This threat Dora had forgotten, until told that Mr. Hastings
had sent for her; then, fancying he wished to reprimand
her, she entered the parlor reluctantly, and rather
timidly took a seat upon an ottoman near the window,
where he was sitting.
During Dora's residence with Mrs. Elliott, she had
improved much, both in manner and personal appearance,
and others than the Texan planter called her beautiful.
The brownish hue, which her skin had acquired from frequent
exposure, was giving way to a clearer and more
brilliant complexion, while the peculiarly sweet expression
of her deep blue eyes would have made a plain face handsome.
But Dora's chief point of beauty lay in her hair—
her beautiful hair of reddish brown. It had grown rapidly,
fully verifying Alice's prediction, and in heavy shining braids
was worn around her classically shaped head. And Dora
sat there very still—demurely waiting for Mr. Hastings to
speak, wondering if he would be severe, and at last laughing
aloud when, in place of the expected rebuke, he asked if
she knew Mr. Trevors.
“Excuse me,” she said, as she saw his look of surprise.
“Miss Johnson threatened to report me for indolence, and
I thought you were going to scold me. Yes, I know Mr.
Trevors. I rode horseback with him last week.”
A pang shot through Mr. Hastings's heart, but he continued,
holding up the letter. “He has sued for your hand.
He asks you to be his wife. Will you answer yes?”
And trembling with excitement, he awaited her reply,
upon him.
“Mr. Trevors wish me to be his wife—that old man!”
she exclaimed, turning slightly pale. “It cannot be; let
me read the letter.” And taking it from his hand, she stood
beneath the chandelier, and read it through, while Mr. Hastings
scanned her face to see if he could detect aught to
verify his fears.
But there was nothing, and breathing more freely, he
said, as she returned to him the letter, “Sit down here,
Dora, and tell me what I shall say to him. But first consider
well, Mr. Trevors is rich, and if money can make you
happy, you will be so as his wife.”
Dora did not know why it was, but she could not endure
to hear him talk in such a calm unconcerned manner of
what was so revolting. It grieved her, and laying her
head upon the broad window seat, she began to cry.
Mr. Hastings did not this time say “Dora, my child,” for
Louise had told him she was not a child, and he began to
think so, too. Drawing his chair nearer to her, and laying
his hand upon her hair, he said gently, “will you answer
me?”
“Yes,” she replied, somewhat bitterly. “If Mrs. Elliott is
tired of me, I will go away, but not with Mr. Trevors. I
would rather die than marry a man I did not love, because
of his gold.”
“Noble girl!” was Mr. Hastings's involuntary exclamation,
but Dora did not hear it, and looking him in his face,
she said, “do you wish me to marry him?”
“Never, never,” he answered, “him, nor any one else!”
“Then tell him so,” said she, unmindful of the latter part
of the remark. “Tell him I respect him, but I cannot be
his wife.”
And rising to her feet she left the room, to wash away in
another fit of tears, the excitement produced by her first offer!
Very still sat Mr. Hastings when she was gone, thought
after thought crowding fast upon him, and half bewildering
him by their intensity. He could answer Louise's question
now! It had come to him at last, sitting there with Mr.
Trevor's letter in his hand, and Dora at his feet. Dora
who was so dear to him, and his first impulse was to hasten
to her side, and sue for the love she could not give the grey-haired
Texan.
“And she will not tell me nay,” he said. “It will come
to her as it has to me—the love we have unconsciously
borne each other.”
He arose to leave the room, but meeting his sister in the
door, he turned back, and seating himself with her in the
deep recess of the window, he told her of the mighty love
which had been so long maturing, and of whose existence
he did not dream until another essayed to come between him
and the object of his affection.
“And, Louise,” he said, “Dora Deane must be mine.
Are you willing—will you call her sister, and treat her as
my wife?”
And Mrs. Elliott answered, “I know, my brother, that
you love Dora Deane. I knew it when I asked you that
question, and if to-night I tried to tease you by making you
believe it possible that she cared for Mr. Trevors, it was to
show you the nature of your feelings for her. And I am
willing that it should be so—but not yet. You must not
speak to her of love, until you return. Hear me out,” she
continued, as she saw in him a gesture of impatience.
“Dora is no longer a child—but she is too young to be
trammelled with an engagement. And it must not be. You
must leave her free till she has seen more of the world, and
her mind is more mature.
“Free till another wins her from me,” interrupted Mr.
Hastings, somewhat bitterly; and his sister answered, “I
am sure that will never be, though were you now to startle
her with your love she probably would refuse you.”
“Never,” he said emphatically; and Mrs. Elliott replied
“I think she would. She respects and admires you, but
as you have looked upon her as a child, so in like manner,
has she regarded you as a father, or, at least the husband
of Ella, and such impressions must have time to wear
away. You would not take her with you, and it is better
to leave her as she is. I will watch over her and seek to
make her what your wife ought to be, and when you return
she will be older, will be capable of judging for herself, and
she will not tell you no. Do you not think my reasoning
good?”
“I suppose it is,” he replied, “though it is sadly at variance
with my wishes. Were I sure no one would come between
us, I could more easily follow your advice, and were
it not that I go for her, I would give up my journey at once,
and stay where I could watch and see that no one came
near.”
“This I will do,” said Mrs. Elliott, “and I fancy I can
keep her safe for you.”
Awhile longer they talked together, and their conversation
was at last interrupted by the appearance of Dora herself,
who came to say good night.
“Come and sit by me, Dora,” said Mr. Hastings, unmindful
of his sister's warning glance. “Let me tell you what I
wish you to do while I am gone,” and moving along upon
the sofa, he left a place for her at his side.
Scarcely was she seated when a servant appeared, wishing
to speak with Mrs. Elliott, and Mr. Hastings was left
alone with Dora, with whom he merely talked of what he
hoped to find her when he returned. Once, indeed, he
away, and asked as a keepsake a lock of her soft hair.
Three days afterwards he went to New York, accompanied
by Mrs. Elliott and Dora. He was to sail next morning,
and wishing to see as much of the latter as possible, he
felt somewhat chagrined when, soon after their arrival, his
sister insisted upon taking her out for a time, and forbade
him to follow. For this brief separation, however, he was amply
repaid when, on the morrow, his sister, who went with him
on board the vessel, placed in his hand at parting a daguerreotype,
which she told him not to open till she was gone.
He obeyed, and while Dora in his sister's home was weeping
that he had left them, he in his state-room was gazing
rapturously on a fair young face, which, looking out from
its handsome casing, would speak to him many a word of
comfort when he was afar on the lonely sea.
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. HASTINGS IN INDIA.
It was night again in Calcutta, and in the same room
where we first found him was Nathaniel Deane—not alone this
time, for standing before him was a stranger—“an American,”
he called himself, and the old East Indiaman, when he
heard that word, grasped again the hand of his unknown
guest, whose face he curiously scanned to see if before he
had looked upon it. But he had not, and pointing him to a
chair, he too sat down to hear his errand. Wishing to
know something of the character of the individual he had
come so far to see, Mr. Hastings, for he it was, conversed
awhile upon a variety of subjects, until, feeling sure that
'twas a noble, upright man, with whom he had to deal, he
said, “I told you, sir, that I came from New York, and so I
did; but my home is in Dunwood.”
One year ago, and Uncle Nat would have started with
delight at the mention of a place so fraught with remembrances
of Dora, but Eugenia's last cruel letter had chilled
his love, and now, when he thought of Dora, it was as one
incapable of either affection or gratitude. So, for a moment
he was silent, and Mr. Hastings, thinking he had not been
understood, was about to repeat his remark, when Uncle
Nat replied, “My brother's widow lives in Dunwood—Mrs.
Richard Deane—possibly you may have seen her!” And
black eyes looked out from under their thick shaggy eyebrows
at Mr. Hastings, who answered, “I know the family
well. Dora is not now at home, but is living with my
sister.”
Many and many a time had Uncle Nat repeated to himself
the name of Dora, but never before had he heard it
from other lips, and the sound thrilled him strangely, bringing
back in a moment all his olden love for one whose
mother had been so dear. In the jet black eyes there was
a dewy softness now, and in the tones of his voice a deep
tenderness, as, drawing nearer to his guest, he said in a half
whisper, “Tell me of her—of Dora—for though I never
saw her, I knew her mother.”
“And loved her too,” rejoined Mr. Hastings, on purpose to
rouse up the old man, who, starting to his feet exclaimed,
“How knew you that? You, whom I never saw until to-night!
Who told you that I loved Fannie Deane? Yes it
is true, young man—true, though love does not express
what I felt for her; she was my all—my very life, and when
I lost her the world was a dreary blank. But go on—tell
me of the child, and if she is like her mother. Though how
should you know? You, who never saw my Fannie?”
“I have seen her,” returned Mr. Hastings, “but death was
there before me, and had marred the beauty of a face which
once must have been lovely. Five years ago last January I
found her dead, and at her side was Dora, sweetly sleeping,
with her arms around her mother's neck.”
“You—you,” gasped the old man, drawing near to Mr.
Hastings—“you found them thus! I could kneel at your
feet, whoever you may be, and bless you for coming here to
tell me this; I never knew before how Fannie died. They
never wrote me that, but go on and tell me all you know.
gold by hundreds of thousands?”
Briefly Mr. Hastings told what he knew of Mrs. Deane's
sad death, while the broad chest of Uncle Nat heaved with
broken sobs, and the big tears rolled down his sunken
cheeks.
“Heaven forgive me for tarrying here, while she was suffering
so much!” he cried; “but what of Dora? She did
not die. I have written to her, and sent her many messages,
but never a word has she replied, save once”—here Uncle
Nat's voice grew tremulous as he added, “and then she sent
me this—look—'twas Fannie's hair,” and he held to view
a silken tress much like the one which lay next Howard
Hastings's heart! “Oh, what a child it made of me,
the first sight of this soft hair,” he continued, carefully returning
it to its hiding-place, without a word of the generous
manner in which it had been paid for.
“Shall I tell him now?” thought Mr. Hastings, but Uncle
Nathaniel spoke before him, and as if talking with himself,
said softly, “Oh, how I loved her, and what a wreck
that love has made of me. But I might have known it.
Twenty-one year's difference in our ages, was too great a
disparity, even had my face been fair as John's. She was
seventeen, and I was almost forty; I am sixty now, and
with every year added to my useless life, my love for her
has strengthened.”
“Could you not transfer that love to her daughter? It
might make you happier,” suggested Mr. Hastings, and
mournfully shaking his head, Uncle Nat replied, “No, no,
I've tried to win her love so hard. Have even thought of
going home, and taking her to my bosom as my own darling
child—but to all my advances, she has turned a deaf
ear. I could not make the mother love me—I cannot make
all alone. I wouldn't mind that so much, for I'm used to it
now, but when I come to die, there will be nobody to hold
my head, or to speak to me a word of comfort, unless God
sends Fannie back to me in the dark hour, and who knows
but he will?”
Covering his face with his hands, Uncle Nathaniel cried
aloud, while Mr. Hastings, touched by his grief, and growing
each moment more and more indignant, at the deception
practised upon the lonesome old man, said slowly and distinctly:
“Dora Deane never received your letter—never dreamed
how much you loved her—never knew that you had sent her
money. She has been duped—abused—and you most treacherously
cheated by a base, designing woman! To tell you this,
sir, I have come over land and sea! I might have written it,
but I would rather meet you face to face—would know if you
were worthy to be the uncle of Dora Deane!”
Every tear was dried, and bolt upright, his keen eyes
flashing gleams of fire, and his glittering teeth ground
firmly together, Nathaniel Deane sat, rigid and immovable,
listening to the foul story of Dora's wrongs, till Mr. Hastings
came to the withholding of the letter, and the money
paid for Fannie's hair. Then, indeed, his clenched fists
struck fiercely at the empty air, as if Eugenia had been
there, and springing half way across the room, he exclaimed,
“The wretch! The fiend! The beast! The Devil!!
What shall I call her? Help me to some name which will
be appropriate.”
“You are doing very well, I think,” said Mr. Hastings,
smiling in spite of himself at this new phase in the character
of the excited man, who, foaming with rage, continued
to stalk up and down the room, setting his feet upon the
floor with vengeance, and with every breath denouncing
Eugenia's perfidy.
“Curse her!” he muttered, “for daring thus to maltreat
Fannie's child, and for making me to believe her so ungrateful
and unkind. And she once cut off her hair to buy a
party dress with, you say,” he continued, stopping in front
of Mr. Hastings, who nodded in the affirmative, while Uncle
Nat, as if fancying that the few thin locks, which grew
upon his own bald head, were Eugenia's long, black tresses,
clutched at them savagely, exclaiming, “The selfish
jade! But I will be avenged, and Madam Eugenia shall
rue the day that she dared thus deceive me. That mother,
too, had not, it seems, been wholly guiltless. She was
jealous of my Fannie—she has been cruel to my child. I'll
remember that, too!” and a bitter laugh echoed through
the room, as the wrathful old man thought of revenge.
But as the wildest storm expends its fury, so Uncle
Nat at last grew calm, though on his dark face there were
still traces of the fierce passion which had swept over it.
Resuming his seat and looking across the table at Mr. Hastings,
he said, “It is not often that old Nat Deane is moved
as you have seen him moved to-night; but the story you
told me set me on fire, and for a moment, I felt that I was
going mad. But I am now myself again, and would hear
how you learned all this.”
In a few words, Mr. Hastings told of his foolish fancy for
Eugenia, and related the circumstance of his having overheard
her conversation at the hotel in Rochester.
“And Dora, you say, is beautiful and good,” said Uncle
Nat; “and I shall one day know her and see if there is in
her aught like her angel mother, whose features are as perfect
to me now as when last I looked upon them beneath the
locust trees.”
Bending low his head, he seemed to be thinking of the
past, while Mr. Hastings, kissing fondly the picture of Dora
Deane, laid it softly upon the table, and then anxiously
but his eye ere long fell upon it, and, with a cry like that
which broke from his lips when first he looked on his dead
Fannie's hair, he caught it up, exclaiming, “'Tis her—'tis
Fannie—my long lost darling, come back to me from the
other world. Oh, Fannie, Fannie!” he cried, as if his
reason were indeed unsettled, “I've been so lonesome here
without you. Why didn't you come before?”
Again, for a time, he was silent, and Mr. Hastings could
see the tears dropping upon the face of Dora Deane, who
little dreamed of the part she was acting, far off in Hindostan.
Slowly the reality dawned upon Uncle Nat., and
speaking to Mr. Hastings, he said, “Who are you that
moves me thus from one extreme to another, making me first
a fury and then a child?”
“I have told you I am Howard Hastings,” answered the
young man, adding that the picture was not that of Fannie,
but her child.
“I know—I know it,” returned Uncle Nat, “but the first
sight of it drove me from my senses, it is so like her. The
same open brow, the same blue eyes, the same ripe lips, and
more than all, the same sweet smile which shone on me so
often 'mid the granite hills of New Hampshire. And it is
mine,” he continued, making a movement to put it away.
“You brought it to me, and in return, if you have need for
gold, name the sum, and it shall be yours, even to half a
million.”
Money could not buy that picture from Howard Hastings,
and though it grieved him to do so, he said, very gently,
“I cannot part with the likeness, Mr. Deane, but we will
share it together until the original is gained.”
Leaning upon his elbows and looking steadily at his visitor,
Uncle Nathaniel said, “You have been married once?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Mr. Hastings, while his countenance
flushed, for he readily understood the nature of the
questioning to which he was to be subjected.
“What was the name of your wife?” was the next
query, and Mr. Hastings replied, “Ella Grey.”
“Will you describe her?” said Uncle Nat, and almost
as vividly as the features of Dora Deane were delineated by
the artist's power, did Mr. Hastings portray by word the
laughing blue eyes, the pale, childish face, the golden curls,
and little airy form of her who had once slept upon his
bosom as his wife.
“And did you love her, this Ella Grey?” asked Uncle Nat.
“Love her? Yes. But she is dead,” answered Mr. Hastings,
while Uncle Nat continued:
“And now if I mistake not, you love Dora Deane?”
“Yes, better than my life,” said Mr. Hastings, firmly.
“Have you any objections?”
“None whatever,” answered Uncle Nat, “for, though you
are a stranger to me, there is that in your face which tells
me you would make my darling happy. But it puzzles me
to know how, loving one as you say you did, you can
forget and love another.”
“I have not forgotten,” said Mr. Hastings, sadly; “God
forbid that I should e'er forget my Ella; but, Mr. Deane,
though she was good and gentle, she was not suited to me.
Our minds were wholly unlike; for what I most appreciated,
was utterly distasteful to her. She was a fair, beautiful
little creature, but she did not satisfy the higher, nobler feelings
of my heart; and she, too, knew it. She told me so
before she died, and spoke of a coming time when I would
love another. She did not mention Dora, who then seemed
like a child, but could she now come back to me, she would
approve my choice, for she, too, loved Dora Deane.”
“Have you told her this?” asked Uncle Nat—“told
Dora how much you loved her?”
“I have not,” was Mr. Hastings's reply. “My sister
would not suffer it until my return, when Dora will be more
mature. At first I would not listen to this; but I yielded
at last, consenting the more willingly to the long separation,
when I considered that with Louise she was at least safe
from Eugenia, and I hope, safe from any who might seek
either to harm her, or win her from me.”
“You spoke of having stopped in Europe on your way
hither,” said Uncle Nat. “How long is it since you left
New York?”
“I sailed from there the latter part of June, almost ten
months ago,” was Mr. Hastings's answer, adding that, as he
wished to visit some parts of Europe, and left home with
the ostensible purpose of doing so, he had thought it advisable
to stop there on his way, for he well knew that Mr.
Deane, after learning why he had come, would be impatient
to return immediately.
“Yes, yes; you are right,” answered the old man. “I
would go to-morrow if possible; but I shall probably never
return to India, and I must make some arrangements for
leaving my business in the hands of others. Were Dora
still in Eugenia's power, I would not tarry a moment. I
would sacrifice everything to save her, but as you say she is
safe with your sister, and a few week's delay, though annoying
to me, will make no difference with her. Do they know
aught of this—those wretches in Dunwood?” he continued,
beginning to grow excited.
“They suppose me to be in Europe, for to no one save
my mother and sister, did I breathe a word of India,” Mr.
Hastings replied; and Uncle Nat rejoined, “Let them continue
to think so, then. I would rather they should not
face, and taunt them with their treachery. It shall not be
long, either, before I do it. In less than a month, we are
homeward bound—and then, Miss Eugenia Deane—we'll
see!” and his hard fist came down upon the table, as he
thought of her dismay when told that he stood before her.
But alas for Uncle Nat! The time was farther in the
distance than he anticipated. The excitement of what he
had heard, told upon a frame already weakened by constant
toil and exposure in the sultry climate of India, and one
week from the night of Mr. Hastings's arrival, the old
man lay burning with fever, which was greatly augmented
by the constant chafing at the delay this unexpected illness
would cause. Equally impatient, Mr. Hastings watched
over him, while his heart grew faint with hope deferred, as
weeks, and even months, glided by; while vessel after vessel
sailed away, leaving Uncle Nat prostrate and powerless
to move. He had never been sick before in all his life, and
his shattered frame was long in rallying, so that the summer,
and the autumn and a part of the winter passed away,
ere, leaning heavily on Mr. Hastings's arm, he went on board
the ship which was to take him home—take him to Dora
Deane, who had listened wonderingly to the story of her
wrongs, told her by Mrs. Elliott at Mr. Hastings's request.
Indignant as she was at Eugenia, she felt more than repaid
for all she had suffered, by the knowledge that Uncle
Nat had always loved her; and many a cheering letter from
her found its way to the bedside of the invalid, who laid each
one beneath his pillow, beside the picture which Mr. Hastings
suffered him to keep. More than once, too, had Dora
written to Mr. Hastings kind, sisterly notes, with which he
tried to be satisfied, for he saw that she was the same frank,
ingenuous girl he had left, and from one or two things which
did not, at least, care for another,” so Louise assured him.
There was comfort in that, and during the weary days when
their floating home lay, sometimes becalmed and sometimes
tossed by adverse winds, he and Uncle Nat whiled away the
tedious hours, by talking of the happiness which awaited
them when home was reached at last.
During Mr. Deane's illness, Mr. Hastings had suggested
that the annual remittance be sent to Dunwood, as usual,
lest they should suspect that something was wrong, if it
were withheld, and to this Uncle Nat reluctantly consented,
saying, as he did so, “It's the last dime they'll ever receive
from me. I'll see her starve before my eyes, that girl Eugenia.”
Still, as the distance between himself and the young lady
diminished, he felt a degree of satisfaction in knowing that
the draft had as usual been sent, thus lulling her into a state
of security with regard to himself. Rapturously he talked
of the meeting with Dora, but his eye was fiery in its expression
when he spoke of that other meeting, when Eugenia
would be the accused and he the wrathful accuser. The
invigorating sea breeze did him good, and when at last the
Cape was doubled and he knew that the waves which
dashed against the ship, bore the same name with those
which kissed the shores of America, he stood forth upon the
deck, tall and erect as ever, with an eager, expectant look
in his eye, which increased as he each day felt that he drew
nearer and nearer to his home—and Dora Deane!
19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE MEETING.
One bright, beautiful summer morning, a noble vessel
was sailing slowly into the harbor of New York. Groups
of passengers stood upon her deck, and a little apart from
the rest were Uncle Nat and Howard Hastings, the former
gazing eagerly towards the city, which had more than
doubled its population since last he looked upon it.
“We are almost home,” he said to his companion, joyfully,
for though the roof that sheltered his childhood was
further to the northward, among the granite hills, he knew
that it was America, the land of his birth, which lay before
him, and as a child returns to its mother after a long and
weary absence, so did his heart yearn towards the shore they
were fast approaching.
A crowd of memories came rushing over him, and when,
at last, the plank was lowered, he was obliged to lean upon
the stronger arm of Howard Hastings, who, procuring a
carriage, bade the hackman drive them at once to his sister's.
For some time Mrs. Elliott and Dora had been looking for
the travellers, whose voyage was unusually long, and they
had felt many misgivings lest the treacherous sea had not
been faithful to its trust; but this morning they were not
expecting them, and wishing to make some arrangements
for removing to her country seat on the Hudson, Mrs. Elliott
had gone out there and taken Dora with her. Mr. Hastings's
would surely be home that night, and remembering how
weary Uncle Nathaniel was, he wisely concluded to remain
in the city and suprise them on their return.
Like one in a dream, Uncle Nat walked from room to
room, asking every half hour if it were not almost time for
the train, and wondering if Dora would recognize him if no
one told her who he was. Scarcely less excited, Mr. Hastins,
too, waited and watched; and when, just at dark, he
heard the door unclose, and Dora's voice in the hall without,
the rapid beating of his heart was distinctly audible.
“That's her—that's Dora. I'll go to her at once,” said
Uncle Nat; but Mr. Hastings kept him back, and Dora
passed on to her room, from which she soon returned, and
they could hear the sound of her footsteps upon the stairs, as
she drew near.
With his face of a deathlike whiteness, his lips apart, and
the perspiration standing thickly about them, Uncle Nat
sat leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon the door through
which she would enter. In a moment she stood before
them—Dora Deane—but far more lovely than Mr. Hastings
had thought or dreamed. Nearly two years before, he
had left her a school girl, as it were, and now he found her
a beautiful woman, bearing about her an unmistakable air
of refinement and high breeding. She knew him in an instant,
and with an exclamation of surprised delight, was hastening
forward, when a low, moaning cry, from another part
of the room, arrested her ear, causing her to pause ere Mr.
Hastings was reached.
Uncle Nat had recognized her—knew that she was Dora,
and attempted to rise, but his strength utterly failed him,
and stretching out his trembling arms towards her, he said,
supplicatingly, “me first, Dora—me first.”
It was sufficient, and Dora passed on with a welcoming
glance at Mr. Hastings, who feeling that it was not for him
to witness that meeting, glided noiselessly from the room in
quest of his sister. Fondly the old man clasped the young
girl to his bosom, and Dora could hear the whispered blessings
which he breathed over her, and felt the hot tears
dropping on her cheek.
“Speak to me, darling,” he said at last; “let me hear
your own voice assuring me that never again shall we be
parted, until your mother calls for me to come and be with
her.”
Looking lovingly up into his face, Dora answered, “I
will never leave nor forsake you, my father, but wherever
your home may be there will mine be also.”
Clasping her still closer in his arms, he said, “God bless
you, my child, for so I will call you, and never, I am sure,
did earthly parent love more fondly an only daughter than
I love you, my precious Dora. I have yearned so often to
behold you, to look into your eyes and hear you say that I
was loved, and now that it has come to me, I am willing,
almost, to die.”
Releasing her after a moment, and holding her off at a
little distance, he looked earnestly upon her, saying, as he
did so, “Yes, you are like her—like your mother, Dora.
Some, perhaps, would call you even more beautiful, but to
me there is not in all the world a face more fair than hers.”
In his delight at seeing her, he forgot for the time being
how deeply she had been injured, and it was well that he did,
for now nothing marred the happiness of this meeting, and for
half an hour longer he sat with her alone, talking but little,
but looking ever at the face so much like her whom he had
loved and lost. At last, as if suddenly remembering himself,
he said, “Excuse me, Dora; the sight of you drove
too long from one who loves you equally well with myself,
and who must be impatient at the delay. He is worthy of
you, too, my child,” he continued, without observing how the
color faded from Dora's cheeks. “He is a noble young
man, and no son was ever kinder to a father than he has
been to me, since the night when I welcomed him to my
home in India. Go to him, then, my daughter, and ask him
to forgive my selfishness.”
From several little occurrences, Dora had received the impression
that a marriage between herself and Mr. Hastings
would not be distasteful to his sister, but she had treated
the subject lightly as something impossible. Still the
thought of his loving another was fraught with pain, and
when at last she knew that he was on the stormy sea, and
felt that danger might befall him—when the faces of his
mother and sister wore an anxious, troubled look as days
went by, bringing them no tidings—when she thought it just
possible that he would never return to them again, it came
to her just as two years before it had come to him, and sitting
alone in her pleasant chamber, she, more than once,
had wept bitterly, as she thought how much she loved him,
and how improbable it was that he should care for her, whom
he had found almost a beggar girl.
In the first surprise of meeting him she had forgotten everything,
save that he had returned to them in safety, and her
manner towards him then was perfectly natural; but now,
when Uncle Nat, after telling what he did, bade her go to
him, she quitted the room reluctantly, and much as she
wished to see him, she would undoubtedly have run away
up stairs, had she not met him in the hall, together with
Mrs. Elliott, who was going to pay her respects to Uncle
Nat.
“I have not spoken with you yet, Dora,” he said, taking
her hand between both his. “Go in there,” motioning to
the room he had just left, “and wait until I present Louise
to your uncle.”
It was a habit of Dora's always to cry just when she
wished to least, and now entering the little music room, she
threw herself upon the sofa and burst into tears. Thus Mr.
Hastings found her on his return, and sitting down by her
side, he said gently, “Are you, then, so glad that I have
come home?”
Dora would not, for the world, let him know her real
feelings, and she answered, “Yes, I am glad, but I am crying
at what Uncle Nat said to me.”
Mr. Hastings bit his lip, for this was not exactly the kind
of meeting he had anticipated, and after sitting an awkward
moment, during which he was wishing that she had not answered
him as she did, he said: “Will you not look up,
Dora, and tell me how you have passed the time of my absence?
I am sure you have improved it, both from your own
appearance and what Louise has told me.”
This was a subject on which Dora felt that she could trust
herself, and drying her tears, she became very animated as
she told him of the books she had read, and the studies she
had pursued. “I have taken music lessons, too,” she added.
“Would you like to hear me play?”
Mr. Hastings would far rather have sat there, watching
her bright face, with his arm thrown lightly around her
waist, but it was this very act, this touch of his arm, which
prompted her proposal, and gracefully disengaging herself,
she crossed over to the piano, which was standing in the
room, and commenced singing the old, and on that occasion,
very appropriate song of “Home again, home again, from
a foreign shore.” The tones of her voice were rich and full,
to listen, forgot everything, until Mrs. Elliott said, “It
is Dora singing to my brother. Shall we join them?”
Leading the way she ushered him into the music room,
where, standing at Dora's side, he listened rapturously to
her singing, occasionally wiping away a tear, called forth
by the memories that song had awakened. The sight of
the piano reminded him of Eugenia, and when Dora had
finished playing, he laid his broad hand upon her shoulder
and said, “Do you ever hear from them—the villains?”
Dora knew to whom he referred, and half laughing at his
excited manner, she replied, as she stole a mischievous
glance towards Mr. Hastings, “I received a letter from Eugenia
not long since, and she seemed very anxious to know
in what part of Europe Mr. Hastings was now travelling, and
if he were ever coming home!”
“Much good his coming home will do her, the trollop!”
muttered Uncle Nat, whispering incoherently to himself as he
generally did, when Eugenia was the subject of his thoughts.
“Don't answer the letter,” he said at last, “or, if you
do, say nothing of me; I wish to meet them first as a
stranger.”
Near the window Mr. Hastings was standing, revolving
in his own mind a double surprise which he knew would mortify
Eugenia more than anything else. But in order to effect
this, Uncle Nat must remain incog. for some time yet,
while Dora herself must be won, and this, with the jealous
fears of a lover, he fancied might be harder to accomplish
than the keeping Uncle Nat silent when in the presence of
Eugenia.
“To-morrow I will see her alone, and know the worst,”
he thought, and glancing at Dora, he felt a thrill of fear
lest she, in all the freshness of her youth, should refuse her
wife.
But Ella Grey had never awakened a love as deep and absorbing
as that which he now felt for Dora Deane, and all
that night he lay awake, wondering how he should approach
her, and fancying sometimes that he saw the cold
surprise with which she would listen to him, and again that
he read in her dark blue eyes the answer which he sought.
The morrow came, but throughout the entire day, he found
no opportunity of speaking to her alone, for Uncle Nat
hovered near her side, gazing at her as if he would never
tire of looking at her beautiful face. And Dora, too, had
much to say to the old man, on this the first day after his
return. With his head resting upon her lap, and her soft
white hand upon his wrinkled brow, she told him of her
mother, and the message she had left for him on the sad
night when she died. Then she spoke of her aunt Sarah,
of Eugenia and Alice, and the wrath of Uncle Nat was
somewhat abated, when he heard her pleading with him not
to be so angry and unforgiving—
“I can treat Alice well, perhaps,” he said, “for she, it
seems, was never particularly unkind. And for your sake,
I may forgive the mother. But Eugenia never!—not even
if Fannie herself should ask me!”
Thus passed that day, and when the next one came,
Uncle Nat still staid at Dora's side, following her from
room to room, and never for a moment leaving Mr. Hastings
with her alone. In this manner nearly a week went by, and
the latter was beginning to despair, when one evening as
the three were together in the little music room, and Mrs.
Elliott was with her mother, who was ill, it suddenly occurred
to Uncle Nat that he had appropriated Dora entirely to
himself, not giving Mr. Hastings a single opportunity for
seeing her alone.
“I have wondered that he did not tell me he was engaged,”
he thought, “but how could he when I haven't
given him a chance to speak to her, unless he did it before
me; strange, I should be so selfish: but I'll make amends
now—though I do hope he'll be quick!”
Rising up, he walked to the door, when thinking that Mr.
Hastings might possibly expect him to return every moment,
and so keep silent, he said, “I've been in the way of
you young folks long enough, and I feel just as if something
might happen if I left you together! Call me when you
want me?” so saying he shut the door, and Mr. Hastings
was alone at last with Dora Deane!
Both knew to what Uncle Nat referred, and while Dora
fidgeted from one thing to another, looking at a book of
prints wrong side up, and admiring the pictures, Mr. Hastings
sat perfectly still, wondering why he was so much
afraid of her. Two years before he felt no fear; but a
refusal at that time would not have affected him as it
would do now, for he did not then know how much he loved
her. Greatly he desired that she should speak to him—
look at him—or do something to break the embarrassing
silence; but this Dora had no intention of doing, and she
was just meditating the propriety of running away, when he
found voice enough to say, “Will you come and sit by me,
Dora?”
She had always obeyed him, and she did so now, taking
a seat, however, as far from him as possible, on the end of
the sofa. Still, when he moved up closely to her side,
and wound his arm about her, she did not object, though
her face burned with blushes, and she thought it quite likely
that her next act would be to cry! And this she did do,
when he said to her, “Dora, do you remember the night
when Ella died?”
He did not expect any answer yet, and he continued,
“She told me, you know, of a time when, though not forgetting
her, I should love another—should seek to call
another my wife. And, Dora, she was right, for I do love
another, better, if it be possible, than I did my lost Ella.
'Tis four years since she left me, and now that I would have
a second wife, will the one whom I have chosen from all the
world to be that wife, answer me yes? Will she go back
with me in the autumn to my long deserted home, where her
presence always brought sunlight and joy?”
There was no coquetry about Dora Deane, and she could
not have practised it now, if there had been. She knew
Mr. Hastings was in earnest—knew that he meant what he
said—and the little hand, which at first had stolen partly
under her dress, lest he should touch it, came back from its
hiding-place, and crept slowly along until his was reached,
and there she let it lay! This was her answer, and he was
satisfied!
For a long, long time they sat together, while Mr. Hastings
talked, not wholly of the future when she would be his
wife, but of the New Year's morning, years ago, when he
found her sleeping in the chamber of death—of the bright
June afternoon, when she sat with her bare feet in the running
brook—of the time when she first brought comfort to
his home—of the dark, rainy evening, when the sight of
her sitting in Ella's room, with Ella's baby on her lap, had
cheered his aching heart—of the storm she had braved to
tell him his baby was dying—of the winter night when he
watched her through the window—of the dusky twilight
when she sat at his feet in the little library at Rose Hill—
and again in his sister's home on the Hudson, when he first
knew how much he loved her. Of all these pictures so indelibly
stamped upon his memory, he told her, and of the
on a foreign shore.
And Dora, listening to him, did not care to answer, her
heart was so full of happiness, to know that she should be
thus loved by one like Howard Hastings. From a tower not far
distant, a city clock struck twelve, and then, starting up, she exclaimed,
“So late! I thought 'twas only ten! We have kept
Uncle Nat too long. Will you go with me to him?” and with
his arms still around her, Mr. Hastings arose to accompany her.
For half an hour after leaving the music-room Uncle Nat
had walked up and down the long parlors, with his hands
in his pockets, hoping Mr. Hastings would be brief, and
expecting each moment to hear Dora calling him back! In
this manner an hour or more went by, and then grown very
nervous and cold (for it was a damp, chilly night, such as
often occurs in our latitude, even in summer) he began to
think that if Dora were not coming, a fire would be acceptable,
and he drew his chair near to the register, which was
closed. Wholly unaccustomed to furnaces, he did not think
to open it, and for a time longer he sat wondering why he
didn't grow warm, and if it took everybody as long to propose
as it did Mr. Hastings.
It “didn't take me long to tell my love to Fanny,” he said,
“but then she refused, and when they accept, as Dora will,
it's always a longer process, I reckon!”
This point satisfactorily settled, he began to wish the
atmosphere of the room would moderate, and hitching in
his chair, he at last sat directly over the register! but even
this failed to warm him, and mentally concluding that,
“though furnaces might do very well for New Yorkers, they
were of no account whatever to an East India man,” he fell
asleep. In this situation, Dora found him.
“Poor old man,” said she, “'twas thoughtless in me to
up, Uncle Nat—wake up!” and Uncle Nat rubbing his eyes
with his red stiff fingers, and looking in her glowing face,
knew “that something had happened!”
20. CHAPTER XX.
THE SPRINGS.
Mr. Hastings and Dora were engaged. Mrs. Hastings,
the mother, and Mrs. Elliott, the sister, had signified their
entire approbation, while Uncle Nat, with a hand placed on
either head of the young people, had blessed them as his
children, hinting the while that few brides e'er went forth as
richly dowered as should Dora Deane. The marriage was not
to take place until the following October, as Mr. Hastings
wished to make some improvements at Rose Hill, which was
still to be his home proper, though Uncle Nat insisted upon
buying a very elegant house in the city for a winter residence,
whenever they chose thus to use it. To this proposal Mr.
Hastings made no objection, for though he felt that his
greatest happiness would be in having Dora all to himself in
Dunwood, he knew that society in the city would never have
the effect upon her which it did upon Ella, for her tastes,
like his own, were domestic, and on almost every subject
she felt and thought as he did.
Immediately after his engagement he imparted to Uncle
Nat a knowledge of the double surprise he had planned for
Eugenia, and the old gentleman at last consented, saying,
though, that “'twas doubtful whether he could hold himself
together when first he met the young lady. Still, with
Mr. Hastings's presence as a check, he would try.”
So it was arranged that in Dunwood, where Mr. Hastings's
return was still unknown, Uncle Nat should pass as a Mr.
Hamilton, whom Mr. Hastings had picked up in his travels.
Four years of his earlier life had been spent in South
America, and whenever he spoke of any particular
place of abode it was to be of Buenos Ayres, where he had
once resided. By this means he could the more easily learn
for himself the character and disposition of his relatives,
and feeling now more eager than ever to meet them, he here
started with Mr. Hastings for Dunwood. It was morning
when they reached there, and with a dark, lowering brow,
he looked curiously at the house which his companion designated
as Locust Grove. It was a pleasant spot, and it
seemed almost impossible that it should be the home of a
woman as artful and designing as Eugenia. About it now,
however, there was an air of desertion. The doors were
shut and the blinds closed, as if the inmates were absent.
On reaching Rose Hill, where he found his servants overwhelmed
with delight at his unexpected return, Mr. Hastings
casually inquired of Mrs. Leah if the Deanes were at
home. A shadow passed over the old lady's face, and folding
her arms, she leaned against the door and began: “I
wonder now, if you're askin' after them the first thing! I
don't know but they are well enough, all but Eugenia. I
believe I never disliked anybody as I do her, and no wonder,
the way she's gone on. At first she used to come up
here almost every week on purpose to ask about you, though
she pretended to tumble over your books, and mark 'em all
up with her pencil. But when that scapegrace Stephen
Grey came, she took another tack, and the way she and he
went on was scandalous. She was a runnin' up here the
whole time that he wasn't a streakin' it down there.”
“Stephen Grey been here? When and what for?” interrupted
absence, had removed to Philadelphia, knew nothing of the
family.
“You may well ask that,” returned Mrs. Leah, growing
very much excited as she remembered the trouble the fast
young man had made her. “Last fall in shootin' time, he
came here, bag, baggage, guns, dogs and all—said it didn't
make a speck of difference, you being away—'twas all in the
family, and so you'd a' thought, the way he went on, drinkin,'
swearin', shootin', and carousin' with a lot of fellers who staid
with him here a spell, and then, when they were gone, he took
a flirtin' with Eugenia Deane, who told him, I'll bet, more'n
five hundred lies about an old uncle that, she says, is rich
as a Jew, and has willed his property to her and Alice.”
“The viper!” muttered Uncle Nat to himself; and Mrs.
Leah continued, “I shouldn't wonder if old Mr. Grey was
gettin' poor, and Steve, I guess, would marry anybody who
had money; but Lord knows I don't want him to have her,
for though he ain't an atom too good, I used to live in the
family, and took care of him when he was little. I should
a' written about his carryin's on to Mrs. Elliott, only I knew
she didn't think any too much of the Greys, and 'twould
only trouble her for nothin'.”
“But where are they now—Mrs. Deane and her daughters?”
asked Mr. Hastings; and Mrs. Leah replied, “Gone
to Avon Springs; and folks do say they've done their own
work, and ate cold victuals off the pantry shelf ever since last
November, so as to save money, to cut a swell. I guess Eugenia'll
be mighty glad if that old uncle ever dies. For my
part, I hope he won't! or, if he does, I hope he won't leave
her a dollar.”
“Not a dime!” thought Uncle Nat, who, not being supposed
to feel interested in Eugenia Deane, had tried to appear
his chair “to keep himself together.”
Alone with Mr. Hastings, his wrath burst forth, but after
a few tremendous explosions, he grew calm, and proposed
that they too should go at once to Avon. “We shall then
see the lady in all her glory,” said he, “and maybe hear
something about her old uncle, though you'll have to keep
your eye on me, or I shall go off on a sudden, and shake
her as a dog would a snake! We'll send for Mrs. Elliott
and Dora to join us there,” he continued; “it will be fun
to bring them together, and see what Eugenia will do.”
“I am afraid you could not restrain yourself,” said Mr.
Hastings; but Uncle Nat was sure he could, and after a few
days they started for Avon, where “Miss Eugenia Deane,
the heiress,” was quite a belle.
For a long time after Mr. Hastings's departure for Europe,
she had remained true to him, feeding on the remembrance
of his parting words, that “he had more reasons for
remembering her than she supposed;” but when, as months
went by, he sent her neither letter, paper nor message, she
began to think that possibly he had never entertained a
serious thought concerning her, and when Stephen Grey
came, she was the more ready to receive his attentions, and
forgive his former neglect. He was a reckless, unprincipled
fellow, and feeling this time rather pleased with the bold
dashing manner of Eugenia, backed as it was by the supposed
will of Uncle Nat, he made some advances, which
she readily met, making herself and him, as Mrs. Leah had
said, “perfectly ridiculous.” When he left Dunwood he
went west, telling her playfully, that, “if he found no one
there who suited him better than she, he would the next summer
meet her at Avon, and perhaps propose! He was
disgusted with Saratoga, Newport, Nahant, and all those
new.”
To spend several weeks at Avon, therefore, was now
Eugenia's object. She had succeeded in coaxing her mother
to withhold from Dora the thousand dollars, a part of which
was safely invested for their own benefit, but this alone
would not cover all their expenses, for Mrs. Deane, growing
gay and foolish as she grew older, declared her intention of
going to Avon also. “The water would do her good,” she
said, “and 'twas time she saw a little of society.”
To this plan Eugenia did not particularly object, “for it
would indicate wealth,” she thought, for the whole family to
spend the summer at a watering place. Still it would cost
a great deal, and though Uncle Nat's remittance came at
the usual time, they did not dare to depend wholly upon
that, lest on their return there should be nothing left with
which to buy their bread. In this emergency, they hit
upon the expedient of dismissing their servant, and starving
themselves through the winter and spring, for the purpose
of making a display in the summer; and this last
they were now doing. Eugenia fluttered like a butterfly,
sometimes in white satin, sometimes in pink, and again in
embroidered muslin; while her mother, a very little disgusted
with society, but still determined to brave it through,
held aside her cambric wrapper and made faces over three
glasses of spring water in the morning, drowned herself in a
hot bath every other day, rode twice a day in crowded
omnibuses to and from the springs, through banks of sand
and clouds of dust, and sat every evening in the heated
parlors, with a very red face, and a very tight dress, wondering
if everybody enjoyed themselves as little in society
as she did, and thinking ten dollars per week a great deal
to pay for being as uncomfortable as she was!
For her disquietude, however, she felt in a measure
repaid when she saw that Eugenia was the most showy
young lady present, and managed to keep about her a cross-eyed
widower, a near sighted-bachelor, a medical student
of nineteen, a broken down merchant, a lame officer, a
spiritualist, and Stephen Grey! This completed the list of
her admirers, if we except a gouty old man, who praised her
dancing, and would perhaps have called her beautiful, but
for his better half, who could see nothing agreeable or
pleasing in the dashing belle. True to his promise, Stephen
Grey had met her there, and they were in the midst of quite
a flirtation, when Mr. Hastings and Uncle Nat arrived;
the latter registering his name as Mr. Hamilton; and taking
care soon after to speak of Buenos Ayres, as a place where
he formerly lived. The ruse was successful, and in less than
half an hour, it was known through the house, that “the
singular looking old gentleman was a South American, a
bachelor, and rich undoubtedly, as such men always
were!
The Deanes were that afternoon riding with Stephen
Grey, and did not return until after supper, a circumstance
which Eugenia greatly lamented when she learned that their
numbers had been increased by the arrival of an elegant
looking stranger from New York, together with an old
South American, whose name was Hamilton. The name of
the other Eugenia's informant did not know, for he had not
registered it, but “he was a splendid-looking man,” she
said, and with more than usual care, Eugenia dressed herself
for the evening, and between the hours of eight and
nine, sailed into the parlor with the air of a queen.
From his window in an upper chamber Uncle Nat had
seen the ladies, as they returned from their ride; and when
Mr. Hastings, who at that time was absent from the room,
pacing the floor and evidently much excited.
“I've seen her,” said he, “the very one herself—Eugenia
Deane! I knew her mother in a moment, and I knew her
too, by her evil eyes. I could hardly refrain from pouncing
upon her, and I believe I did shake my fist at her! But
it's over now,” he continued, “and I am glad I have seen
her, for I can meet her and not betray myself; though,
Hastings, if at any time I am missing, you may know that
I've come up here to let myself off, for my wrath must evaporate
somehow.”
Feeling confident that he could trust him, Mr. Hastings
ere long accompanied him to the parlor, where his gentlemanly
manners, and rather peculiar looks procured for
him immediate attention; and when Eugenia entered the
room, he was conversing familiarly with some gentlemen
whose notice she had in vain tried to attract. At a little
distance from him and nearer the door was Mr. Hastings,
talking to Stephen Grey. Eugenia did not observe him
until she was directly at his side, then, turning pale, she
uttered an exclamation of surprise, while he, in his usual
polite, easy manner, offered his hand, first to her mother, and
then to herself and Alice, saying, in reply to their many
inquiries as to when he returned, that he reached Dunwood
a few days before, and finding they were all at Avon, had
concluded to follow. At this remark the pallor left Eugenia's
cheek, and was succeeded by a bright glow, for “Mr. Hastings
must feel interested in her, or he would not have followed her
there;” and the black eyes, which a few hours before had
smiled so bewitchingly upon Stephen Grey, now shone with a
brighter lustre, as she talked with Mr. Hastings of his European
tour, asking him why he had staid so long, and telling
him how natural it seemed to have him home once more.
“By the way,” she continued, “they say there is an old
South American here—a queer old fellow—did he come
with you?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Hastings, glancing towards Uncle
Nat, whose eyes had never for a moment lost sight of
Eugenia; “I found him in my travels, and liking him very
much, brought him home with me. Allow me to introduce
you, for though rather eccentric, he's a fine man, and quite
wealthy, too.”
“Wealth is nothing! I wouldn't think any more of him
for that,” returned Eugenia, taking Mr. Hastings's arm, and
advancing toward Uncle Nat, whose left hand grasped
tightly one side of his blue coat, while the other was offered
to Eugenia.
With a slight shudder, he dropped her hand as soon as it
was touched; then, pressing his fingers together so firmly,
that his long nails left marks in his flesh, he looked curiously
down upon her, eyeing her furtively as if she had been a wild
beast. Nothing of all this escaped Eugenia, who, feeling
greatly amused at what she thought to be his embarrassment,
and fancying he had never before conversed with so
fine a lady as herself, she commenced quizzing him in a
manner excessively provoking to one of his excitable temperament.
Lifting up first one foot, and then the other, he
felt his patience fast giving way, and at last, as her ridicule
became more and more marked, he could endure it no longer,
but returned it with a kind of sarcasm far more scathing than
anything she could say. Deeply chagrined, and feeling that
she had been beaten with her own weapons, she was about
to leave the “old bear,” as she mentally styled him, when
remembering that he was Mr. Hastings's friend, and, as such,
worthy of more respect than she had paid him, she said playfully,
“I have a mother and sister here, whom you may
tripping across the room, she made known her wishes to her
mother, adding that “there was a chance for her, as he
was an old bachelor.”
Long and searchingly the old man looked in the face of
the widow, thinking of the time when she had called Fannie
her sister; but of this Mrs. Deane did not know; and remembering
what Eugenia had said, she blushed crimson,
and as soon as possible, stole away, leaving him alone with
Alice, with whom he was better pleased, talking with her so
long that Eugenia, who was hovering near Mr. Hastings,
began to laugh at what she called her sister's conquest.
Nothing had escaped Mr. Hastings, and thinking this a good
opportunity for rebuking the young lady, he spoke of Mr.
Hamilton in the highest terms, saying that “he should consider
any disrespect paid to his friend a slight to himself.”
This hint was sufficient, and wishing to make amends for
her rudeness, Eugenia ere long sought the stranger, and
tried to be very agreeable; but there was no affinity between
them, and to Mr. Hastings, who was watching them,
they seemed much like a fierce mastiff, and a spiteful cat,
impatient to pounce upon each other!
During the evening the three were standing together, and
Eugenia suddenly remembering Dora, asked Mr. Hastings
how she was, saying she seldom wrote to them, and when
she did, her letters amounted to nothing. With a warning
glance at Uncle Nat, whose face grew very dark, Mr.
Hastings replied that she was well, and had, he thought,
improved under his sister's care.
“I am glad,” said she, “for there was need enough of
improvement. She was so unrefined, always preferring the
kitchen to the parlor, that we couldn't make anything of
her.”
A sudden “Ugh!” from Uncle Nat stopped her, and she
asked him what was the matter.
“Nothing, nothing,” said he, wiping his face, “only I'm
getting pretty warm, and must cool off.”
The next moment he was gone, and when, at a late hour,
Mr. Hastings repaired to his room, he knew by the chairs,
boots, brushes, and books scattered over the floor, that
Uncle Nat, snoring so loudly in bed, had cooled off!
“I had to hold on, to keep from falling to pieces right
before her,” he said, next morning, in speaking of the last
night's adventure; “but I shall do better next time. I am
getting a little accustomed to it.”
And he was right, for only twice during the entire day and
evening did he disappear from the room. Once when Eugenia
sat down to play, and once when he heard her telling Stephen
Grey, who asked her to ride again, that, “he really must
excuse her, as she had a letter to write to Uncle Nat, who
undoubtedly wondered why she was so tardy. And you
know,” she said, “it won't do to neglect him!”
Uncle Nat knew it was a farce to get rid of Stephen Grey,
who was nothing compared with his brother-in-law, but
his indignation was not the less; and Mr. Hastings, when
he saw the long blue coat flying up the stairs, smiled
quietly, though he pitied the poor old man, who was thus
kept vibrating between his chamber and the parlor.
In this manner several days passed away, during which
time Uncle Nat's temper was severely tested, both by Eugenia's
remarks concerning Dora, and by what she said of
himself, for he more than once heard her speaking of “Old
Uncle Nat,” who sent her money to buy the various articles
of jewelry which she wore. On such occasions it seemed
almost impossible for him to restrain his anger, and he often
wished he had never promised to keep silent; but by frequent
storm, he managed to be quiet, so that Eugenia had no suspicion
whatever, though she disliked him greatly, and wished
he had never come there. Mr. Hastings troubled her, too,
for she felt very uncertain as to the nature of his feelings towards
her. He treated her politely, but that was all, and
no management on her part could draw from him any particular
attention.
“Maybe he's jealous of Stephen Grey,” she thought, and
then she became so cold towards the latter individual, that
had he not remembered Uncle Nat's will, in which he firmly
believed, he would have packed his trunk at once, and left
her in disgust.
But Stephen's necessities were great. There was standing
against him a long list of bills, which his father refused
to pay, and he was ready to marry the first purse which was
offered. Had Eugenia been altogether agreeable to him, he
would have proposed ere this, but without knowing why, he
felt afraid of her. Added to this was the memory of his
mother's threat, that his father should disinherit him if he
disgraced them by marrying that Deane girl, in whose expected
fortune she did not believe. So halting between
two opinions, he allowed himself to be taken up and cast
off whenever the capricious Eugenia chose.
In the meantime, Uncle Nat had cultivated the acquaintance
of Mrs. Deane and Alice, finding the latter quite a
pleasant girl, and feeling disposed to think more favorably
of the former when he heard her speak kindly of Dora, as
she always did. Matters were in this state, when, one
afternoon, in compliance with her brother's written request,
Mrs. Elliott arrived, together with Dora. Most of the visitors
were at the springs, and as Eugenia never let an opportunity
pass for showing herself to the guests of the different
Dora was greeted by Mr. Hastings, and how fondly
Uncle Nat clasped her in his arms, holding her hand all the
way up the stairs, and only releasing her when she reached
the door of the room, which had been previously engaged
for them by Mr. Hastings. Feeling slightly indisposed,
Mrs. Elliott did not go down to supper, and as Dora chose
to remain with her, neither of them were seen until evening.
Eugenia had heard of the arrival of two aristocratic looking
ladies, one of whom was young and very beautiful, and this
aroused her fears at once. Hitherto she had reigned without
a rival, for aside from her beauty, the generally believed
rumor of her being an heiress, procured for her attention
from many who otherwise would have been disgusted with
her overbearing manner and boisterous conduct; for, like
many others, she had fallen into the error of thinking that
to be fashionable, she must be bold and noisy, and no voice
in the drawing-room ever reached so high a note as hers.
Still she was tolerated and flattered, and when the friend,
who told her of the new arrivals, and who had caught a
view of Dora's face, laughingly bade her beware lest her
star should begin to wane, she curled her lip in scorn, as
if anything in Avon could compete with her, who “had
spent so many seasons at Saratoga and Newport, and who
would have gone there this summer, only she wanted a
change, and then it was more quiet for ma!”
This was one of her stereotyped remarks until Mr. Hastings
came, but he knew her, and in his presence she was less
assuming. She had heard that the new arrivals were his
friends, and thinking they must of course be somebody, she
arrayed herself for the evening with unusual care, wearing
her white satin and lace bertha, the most becoming and at
the same time the most expensive dress she had.
“I wish I had some pearls,” she said, glancing at her
raven hair; “they would look so much richer than these
flowers.”
“I should think an heiress like you would have everything
she wanted,” suggested Alice, mischievously, and Eugenia
replied, “Oh, pshaw! We shall never get more than five
hundred a year from Uncle Nat, but I don't much care.
Old Mr. Grey is wealthy, and if Mr. Hastings don't manifest
any more interest in me than he has since he came
here, I shall let that foolish Steve propose, much as I dislike
him.”
So saying, she clasped upon her arm a heavy bracelet,
for which the sum of forty dollars had been paid, and descended
with her mother and sister to the parlor. Mrs.
Elliott and Dora were there before her—the former leaning
on Mr. Hastings's arm, while the latter was already surrounded
by a group of admirers, a few of whom had met
her before. She was standing with her back towards Eugenia,
who singled her out in a moment, as her rival, noticing
first her magnificent hair, in which an ornament of any
kind would have been out of place, and which was confined
at the back of the head by a small and elegantly wrought
gold comb. Her dress was perfectly plain, consisting simply
of white India muslin, which fitted her admirably and
seemed well adapted to her youthful form.
“Who is she?” inquired Eugenia of Uncle Nat, who had
stationed himself near the door, on purpose to see how the
first sight of Dora would affect her.
“Who is she!” he replied. “Strange you don't know your
own cousin Dora Deane,” and a look of intense satisfaction
danced in his keen eyes, as he saw the expression of astonishment
which passed over Eugenia's face.
“Impossible!” she exclaimed, while a pang of envy shot
Dora! Why, I always supposed Mrs. Elliott made a half
servant, half companion of her. She never told us any
different;” and with a vague hope that the old South American
might be mistaken, she took a step or two forward,
just as Dora turned round, disclosing to view her face.
There was no longer any doubt, and with mingled feelings
of surprise, mortification, jealousy, and rage, Eugenia advanced
to meet her, wisely resolving as she did so to make
the best of it, and never let her cousin know how much annoyed
she was. Both Mrs. Deane and Alice were greeted
kindly by Dora, who could scarcely be more than polite to
Eugenia, and when the latter made a movement to kiss
her, she involuntarily drew back, feeling that she could not
suffer it.
“Grown suddenly very proud,” muttered Eugenia, at the
same time determining that her mother should insist upon
taking Dora home with them, and secretly exulting as she
thought how she should again work in the dark kitchen at
Locust Grove, as she had done before. “That'll remove
some of her fine airs, I reckon,” she thought, as, with bitter
hatred at her heart, she watched her young cousin, who,
throughout the entire evening, continued to be the centre of
attraction.
Everybody asked who she was; everybody pronounced
her beautiful, and everybody neglected Eugenia Deane, who,
greatly enraged, retired early, and vented her wrath in
tears, to think that the once despised Dora should now be
so far above her.
“But it shall not be,” she said, and then to her mother
she unfolded her plan of having Dora go home with them
immediately. “I'd as soon be in Joppa as to stay here with
her for a rival,” she said. “Mr. Hastings don't care for me,
sarcastic remarks and prying eyes. I've been here long
enough, and I mean to go home.”
To this proposition Mrs. Deane assented willingly; but
she expressed her doubts concerning her ability to make
Dora accompany them.
“Of course she'll go,” said Eugenia. “Her mother
placed her under your control, and she is bound to obey.”
Yielding at last, as she generally did, Mrs. Deane promised
to see what she could do, and the next day she
announced to Mrs. Elliott her intention of taking Dora
home with her. “I am grateful for all you have done for
her,” said she; “but we need her, and cannot spare her
any longer, so, Dora dear,” turning to her niece, “pack up
your things, and we will start to-morrow morning.”
Had Uncle Nat been there, he would, undoubtedly, have
exploded at once; but he was not present, neither was Mr.
Hastings, and it remained for Mrs. Elliott alone to reply,
which she did firmly and decidedly. “No, Mrs. Deane,
Dora cannot go. She was committed to your care, I know,
but you gave her up to me, and I shall not part with her
unless I am legally compelled to do so, or she wishes to go.
She can answer this last for herself,” and she turned towards
Dora, who, drawing nearer to her, replied, “I am sorry to
disobey you, Aunt Sarah, but I cannot leave Mrs. Elliott.”
Mrs. Deane was not very courageous, and unwilling to
press her claim, she turned away and reported her ill-success
to Eugenia, who heaped a torrent of abuse upon both Mrs.
Elliott, Dora, the old South American, and Mr. Hastings,
who, she declared, were all leagued against them.
“But I don't care,” said she, “old Mr. Grey is quite as
wealthy as Mr. Hastings, and by saying the word, I can
marry Steve at any time; and I will do it, too,” she continued,
meet me on terms of equality, for she will not dare to
neglect the Greys!”
Somewhat comforted by this thought, she dried her tears,
and signified her willingness to start for home on the
morrow, even if Dora did not accompany her. As yet, she
had no suspicion whatever of the engagement existing
between Mr. Hastings and her cousin. There was nothing
in the manner of either to betray it, and when, next morning,
attired in her travelling dress, she stood with them upon
the piazza, she little thought how and where she would next
meet them. At her side was Stephen Grey. He had been
won over by her gracious smiles the night previous, and
was now going with her as far as Rochester, where, if a
favorable opportunity were presented, he intended offering
himself for her acceptance. Uncle Nat was not present,
and Eugenia was glad that it was so, for there was something
about him exceedingly annoying to her, and she always
felt relieved at his absence.
“Why do you go so soon? I thought you were intending
to spend the summer,” said one of her old admirers; and with
a scornful toss of her head, she replied, “It is getting so
insufferably dull here, that I can't endure it any longer.”
Just then the omnibus was announced, and with a hurried
good bye, she followed her baggage down the stairs, and
amid a cloud of dust was driven rapidly away, while Uncle
Nat, from his chamber window, sent after her a not very
complimentary or affectionate adieu. Arrived at the hotel
in Rochester, where Eugenia had once waited in vain for
Mr. Hastings, Stephen Grey managed to hear from her again,
that she had well-founded hopes of being one of the heirs of
Nathaniel Deane, who, she said, sent them annually a sum
of money varying from five to fifteen hundred dollars.
low, and whose father, while threatening to disinherit him,
was himself on the verge of bankruptcy, and thinking the
annual remittances worth securing, even if the will should
fail, Stephen found an opportunity to go down on his knees
before her after the most approved fashion, telling her that
“she alone could make him happy, and that without her he
should be wretched;” and she, knowing just how much in
earnest he was, promised to be his wife, intending the while
to break that promise if she saw in Mr. Hastings any signs
of renewed interest. So, when Stephen pressed her to name
an early day, she put him off, telling him she could not think
of being married until near the middle of autumn, and at the
same time requesting him to keep their engagement a secret,
for she did not wish it to be a subject of remark, as engaged
people always were. To this, Stephen consented willingly, as
he would thus escape, for a time, his mother's anger. And so
when, tired, jaded, cross and dusty, Eugenia Deane reached
Locust Grove, she had the satisfaction of knowing that her
trip to the Springs had been successful, inasmuch as it procured
for her “a husband, such as he was.”
21. CHAPTER XXI.
THE DOUBLE SURPRISE.
The Deanes had been home about two weeks when Mr.
Hastings returned to Rose Hill, accompanied by the “Old
South American,” who seemed to have taken up his abode
there. Being naturally rather reserved, the latter visited
but little in the village, while at Locust Grove he never
called, and seldom saw Eugenia when he met her in the
street. Mr. Hastings, too, was unusually cool in his manner
towards her, and this she imputed wholly to the fact of
her having been rude to his friend on the night of her
introduction. “He was never so before” she thought, and
she redoubled her efforts to be agreeable, to no effect, as he
was simply polite to her and nothing more. So after a
series of tears and headaches, she gave him up, comforting
herself with the belief that he would never marry anybody.
After this, she smiled more graciously upon Stephen Grey,
who, pretending to be a lawyer, had, greatly to her annoyance,
hung out his sign in Dunwood, where his office proper seemed
to be in the bar-room, or drinking-saloon, as in one of these
he was always to be found, when not at Locust Grove.
One evening, towards the last of September, when he
came as usual to see her, he startled her with the news, that
there was ere long to be a new bride at Rose Hill! Starting
involuntarily, Eugenia exclaimed, “A new bride! It
can't be possible! Who is it?”
It was months since Stephen had been in New York, and
he knew nothing, except that the lady was from the city,
and he mentioned a Miss Morton, with whom he had several
times seen Mr. Hastings walking, and who was very intimate
with Mrs. Elliott. At first Eugenia refused to believe
it, but when she had remembered how extensively Mr. Hastings
was repairing his place, and heard that the house was being
entirely refurnished, and fitted up in a princely style, she
wept again over her ruined hopes, and experienced many a
sharp pang of envy, when from time to time she saw go by
loads of elegant furniture, and knew that it was not for herself,
but another. The old South American, too, it was
said, was very lavish of his money, purchasing many costly
ornaments, and furnishing entirely the chamber of the bride.
For this the fair Eugenia styled him “a silly old fool,” wondering
“what business it was to him,” and “why he need
be so much interested in one who, if she had any sense,
would, in less than two weeks, turn him from the house,
with his heathenish ways.” Still, fret as she would, she
could not in the least retard the progress of matters, and
one morning towards the last of October, she heard from
Mrs. Leah, whom she met at a store in the village, that the
wedding was to take place at the house of the bride on
Tuesday of the next week, and that on Thursday evening following,
there was to be a grand party at Rose Hill, far exceeding
in splendor and elegance the one given there some
years before.
“Crowds of folks,” she said, “are coming from the city
with the bridal pair, who would start on Wednesday, stay
in Syracuse all night, and reach Dunwood about three
o'clock on Thursday afternoon. The invitations for the
village people,” she added, “were already written and were
left with her to distribute on Wednesday morning.”
Eugenia would have given much to know if she were invited,
but she was too proud to ask, and assuming an air of
indifference she casually inquired the name of the bride.
With the manner of one in a deep study, Mrs. Leah replied,
“Let me see! It's a very common name. Strange I
don't speak it!”
“Morton?” suggested Eugenia, but Mrs. Leah affected
not to hear her, and, having completed her purchases, she
left the store and walked slowly homeward, dropping more
than one tear on the brown paper parcel she held in her
hand.
Crying, however, was of no avail, and mentally chiding
herself for her weakness, she resolved to brave it through,
comforting herself again with the thought that the Greys were
as aristocratic as the Hastings's, and as Stephen's wife she
should yet shine in the best society, for in case she married
him she was resolved that he should take her at once to
Philadelphia, where she would compel his proud mother to
notice her. This helped to divert her mind, and in the
course of the day she was talking gaily of the party, and
wondering if she should be as intimate with the second Mrs.
Hastings as she had been with the first!
That night, Alice went down to the post-office, from
which she soon returned, evidentally much excited; and
rushing into the room where her mother and sister were
sitting, she said, as she threw a letter into the lap of the
latter, “It's from Uncle Nat, and postmarked New York.”
Turning whiter than ever she was before, Eugenia could
scarcely command herself to break the seal, and read the
few brief lines which told her that Uncle Nat had, at last,
concluded to come home, that a matter of some importance
would keep him from Locust Grove for a few days; but if
nothing occurred, he would be with them on Saturday evening
should expect to find Dora with them, and he hoped her
going away to school had been a benefit to her.”
So great was their consternation that for some minutes
neither of them uttered a word, but each waited for the
other to suggest some way of acting in the present emergency.
As Eugenia's mind was the most active of the three
she was the first to speak. After venting her indignation
upon Uncle Nat, for intruding himself where he was not
wanted, she continued: “We are in a sad dilemma, but we
must make the best of it, and inasmuch as he is coming, I
am glad that Dora is what she is. We can tell him how
rapidly she has improved, and how rejoiced we are that it
is so. I am glad I have said nothing about her for the last
two years, except that she was away at school. I'll write
to her to-night, and tell her to meet him here, and come immediately.
You know, she is good-natured, and on my
bended knees I'll confess what I have done, and beg of her
not to betray me to him, or let him know that we did not
pay for her education, and if she refuses, you, mother, must
go down on your knees, too, and we'll get up between us
such a scene that she will consent, I know—if not, why, we
must abide the consequence”—and with the look of one
about to be martyred, Eugenia sat down and wrote to Dora,
beseeching her to “come without delay, as there was something
they must tell her before meeting Uncle Nat!”
This was Friday night, and very impatiently she awaited
an answer, which, though written on Monday, did not come
until the Wednesday following.
“What does she say?” cried Mrs. Deane and Alice,
crowding around her, while with a rueful face she read that
Dora would be delighted to meet Uncle Nat at Locust Grove,
but could not come quite so soon as they wished to have her.
“You have undoubtedly heard,” she wrote, “of Mr. Hastings's
approaching marriage, at which I wish to be present.
Mrs. Elliott will accompany the bridal party to Rose Hill on
Thursday, and she thinks I had better wait and come with
her. I shall probably see you at the party.
On Eugenia's mind there was not a shadow of suspicion
that Dora Deane, appended to that letter, had ere this
ceased to be her cousin's name—that Mr. Hastings, who,
together with Uncle Nat, had the Saturday previous gone
down to New York, had bent fondly over her as she wrote
it for the last time, playfully suggesting that she add to it
an H, by way of making a commencement, nor yet that
Uncle Nat, with an immense degree of satisfaction in his
face, had read the short note, saying as he did so, “We'll
cheat 'em, darling, won't we?”
Neither did she dream that last night's moon shone down
on Dora Deane, a beautiful, blushing bride, who, with
orange blossoms in her shining hair, and the deep love-light
in her eye, stood by Mr. Hastings's side and called him her
husband. Nothing of all this she knew, and hastily reading
the letter, she exclaimed, “Plague on her! a vast deal
of difference her being at the wedding would make. But no
matter, the old codger will not be here until Saturday night
and there'll be time enough to coax her.”
Just then the cards of invitation were left at the door,
and in the delightful certainty of knowing that she was
really invited, she forgot in a measure everything else. In
the evening she was annoyed as usual with a call from
Stephen Grey. He had that day received news from home
that his father's failure could not long be deferred, and
marry him now, than after he was the son of a bankrupt.
Accordingly he urged her to consent to a private marriage
at her mother's on Friday evening, the night following the
party.
“There was nothing to be gained by waiting,” he said—
an opinion in which Eugenia herself concurred, for she feared
lest in some way her treachery should be betrayed, and she
should lose Stephen Grey, as well as Mr. Hastings.
Still she could hardly bring herself to consent until she
had seen Dora, and she replied that she would think of it,
and answer him at the party. Thursday morning came,
and passed, and about half-past two, Eugenia saw Mr.
Hastings's carriage pass on its way to the depot, together
with two more, which had been hired to convey the guests
to Rose Hill. Seating herself by her chamber window, she
waited impatiently for the cars, which came at last, and in
a few moments the roll of wheels announced the approach
of the bridal party. Very eagerly Eugenia, Alice, and their
mother gazed out through the half closed shutters upon the
carriage in front, which they knew was Mr. Hastings's.
“There's Mrs. Elliott looking this way. Don't let her see
us,” whispered Alice, while her mother singled out old Mrs.
Hastings for Dora, wondering why she didn't turn that way.
But Eugenia had no eye for any one, save the figure
seated next to Mr. Hastings, and so closely veiled as entirely
to hide her features.
“I wouldn't keep that old brown thing on my face, unless
it was so homely I was afraid of having it seen,” she said;
and hoping the bride of Howard Hastings might prove to be
exceedingly ugly, she repaired to Dora's room, and from the
same window where Dora once had watched the many lights
which shone from Rose Hill, she now watched the travellers
mother and sister she said, “I don't see why Dora can't
come over here a little while before the party. There's
plenty of time and I do want to have it off my mind. Besides
that, I might coax her to assist me in dressing, for she
has good taste, if nothing more; I mean to write her a few
lines asking her to come.
The note was accordingly written, and dispatched by the
Irish girl, who soon returned, bearing another tiny note,
which read as follows:
“I cannot possibly come, as I have promised to be present
at the dressing of the bride.
Forgetting her recent remark, Eugenia muttered something
about “folks thinking a great deal of her taste,” then
turning to the servant girl, she asked “how Dora looked,
and what she said?”
“Sure, I didn't see her,” returned the girl; “Mistress
Leah carried your letter to her, and brought hers to me.
Not a ha'p'orth of anybody else did I see.” And this was all
the information which Eugenia could elicit concerning the
people of Rose Hill.
The time for making their toilet came at last, and while
Eugenia was missing the little cropped head girl, who, on
a similar occasion, had obeyed so meekly her commands, a
fair young bride was thinking also of that night, when she
had lain upon her mother's old green trunk, and wept herself
to sleep. Wishing to be fashionable, Eugenia and her
party were the last to arrive. They found the parlors
crowded, and the dressing-room vacant, so that neither of
them received the slightest intimation of the surprise which
awaited them. In removing her veil, Eugenia displaced one
she wished she could see Dora just a minute, and
have her arrange the flowers!
But Dora was busy elsewhere, and pronouncing herself
ready, Eugenia took the arm of Stephen Grey, and followed
her mother and sister down stairs. At a little distance from
the door was Mr. Hastings, and at his side was Dora, wondrously
beautiful in her costly bridal robes. She had gracefully
received the congratulations of her Dunwood friends,
who, while expressing their surprise, had also expressed their
delight at finding in the new mistress of Rose Hill, the girl
who had ever been a favorite in the village. Near her was
Uncle Nat, his face wearing an expression of perfect happiness,
and his eye almost constantly upon the door, through
which Eugenia must pass. There was a rustle of silk upon
the stairs, and drawing nearer to Dora, he awaited the
result with breathless interest.
Mrs. Deane came first, but scarcely had she crossed the
threshold, ere she started back, petrified with astonishment,
and clutching Alice's dress, whispered softly, “am I deceived,
or is it Dora?”
And Alice, with wild staring eyes, could only answer
“Dora;” while Eugenia, wondering at their conduct, strove
to push them aside. Failing in this, she raised herself on
tiptoe, and looking over their heads, saw what for an
instant chilled her blood, and stopped the pulsations of her
heart. It was the bride, and fiercely grasping the arm of
Stephen Grey to keep herself from falling, she said, in a
hoarse, unnatural voice, “Great Heaven—it is Dora!
Dora Deane!”
Fruitful as she had hitherto been in expedients, she was
now utterly powerless to act, and knowing that in her
present state of excitement, she could not meet her cousin,
a chair in the dressing-room, where, with her hands clasped
firmly together, she sat rigid as marble until the storm of
passion had somewhat abated.
“And she has won him—Dora Deane, whom I have so ill-treated,”
she said at last, starting at the sound of her
voice, it was so hollow and strange. Then, as she remembered
the coming of Uncle Nat and the exposure she so
much dreaded, she buried her face in her hands, and in the
bitterness of her humiliation cried out, “It is more than I
can bear!”
Growing ere long more calm, she thought the matter over
carefully, and decided at last to brave it through—to greet
the bride as if nothing had occurred, and never to let Mr.
Hastings know how sharp a wound he had inflicted. “It
is useless now,” she thought, “to throw myself upon the
mercy of Dora. She would not, of course, withhold my
secret from her husband, and I cannot be despised by him.
I have loved him too well for that. And perhaps he'll
never know it,” she continued, beginning to look upon the
brighter side. “Uncle Nat may not prove very inquisitive—may
not stay with us long; or, if he does, as the wife
of Stephen Grey, I can bear his displeasure better,” and
determining that ere another twenty-four hours were gone,
she would cease to be Eugenia Deane, she arose and stood
before the mirror, preparatory to going down.
The sight of her white, haggard face startled her, and
for a moment she felt that she could not mingle with the
gay throng below, who would wonder at her appearance.
But the ordeal must be passed, and summoning all her courage,
she descended to her parlor, just as her mother and
Alice, alarmed at her very long absence, were coming in
quest of her. Crossing the room mechanically she offered
around her bloodless lips, “You have really taken us by surprise,
but I congratulate you; and you too,” bowing rather
stiffly to Mr. Hastings, who returned her greeting so
pleasantly, that she began to feel more at ease, and after a
little, was chatting familiarly with Dora, telling her she
must be sure and meet, “Uncle Nat,” on Saturday evening,
and adding in a low tone, “If I've ever treated you badly,
I hope yo won't tell him.”
“I shall tell him nothing,” answered Dora, and comforted
with this answer, Eugenia moved away.
“You are looking very pale and bad to-night. What is
the matter?” said Uncle Nat, when once he was standing
near her.
“Nothing but a bad headache,” she replied, while her
black eyes flashed angrily upon him, for she fancied he saw
the painful throbbings of her heart, and wished to taunt her
with it.
Supper being over, Stephen Grey led her into a little side
room, where he claimed the answer to his question. It
was in the affirmative, and soon after, complaining of the
intense pain in her head, she begged to go home. Alone in
her room, with no one present but her mother and Alice,
her pent-up feelings gave away, and throwing herself upon
the floor she wished that she had died ere she had come to
this humiliation.
“That Dora, a beggar as it were, should be preferred to
me is nothing,” she cried, “compared to the way which the
whole thing was planned. That old wretch of a Hamilton
had something to do with it, I know. How I hate him,
with his sneering face!”
Becoming at length a little more composed, she told her
mother of her expected marriage with Stephen Grey.
“But why so much haste?” asked Mrs. Deane, who, a
large wedding.
Sitting upright upon the floor, with her long loose hair
falling around her white face, Eugenia answered bitterly:
“Stephen Grey has no more love for me than I have for
him. He believes that we are rich, or we will be when Uncle
Nat is dead. For money he marries me, for money I
marry him. I know old Grey is wealthy, and as the wife
of his son, I will yet ride over Dora's head. But I must be
quick, or I lose him, for if after Uncle Nat's arrival our real
situation should chance to be disclosed, Steve would not
hesitate to leave me.
`So to-morrow or never a bride I shall be,”'
worn, suffering expression of her countenance. Eugenia was
terribly expiating her sins, and when the next night, in the
presence of a few friends, she stood by Stephen Grey, and
was made his wife, she felt that her own hands had poured the
last drop in the brimming bucket, for, as she had said, there
was not in her heart a particle of esteem or love for him who
was now her husband.
“It's my destiny,” she thought; “I'll make the best of
it,” and her unnatural laugh rang out loud and clear, as
she tried to appear gay and happy.
Striking contrast between the gentle bride at Rose Hill,
who felt that in all the world, there was not a happier being
than herself—and the one at Locust Grove, who with bloodshot
eyes and livid lips gazed out upon the starry sky, almost
cursing the day that she was born, and the fate which had
made her what she was. Ever and anon, too, there came stealing
on her ear the fearful word retribution, and the wretched
girl shuddered as she thought for how much she had to atone
Marvelling much at the strange mood of his bride,
Stephen Grey, on the morning succeeding his marriage,
left her and went down to the village, where he found a
letter from his father, telling him the crisis had come, leaving
him more than 100,000 dollars in debt! Stephen was not
surprised—he had expected it, and it affected him less painfully
when he considered that his wife would inherit a portion
of Uncle Nathaniel's wealth.
“I won't tell her yet,” he thought, as he walked back to
Locust Grove, where, with an undefined presentiment of approaching
evil, Eugenia moved listlessly from room to room,
counting the hours which dragged heavily, and half wishing
that Uncle Nat would hasten his coming, and have it over!
The sun went down, and as darkness settled o'er the
earth, a heavy load seemed pressing upon Eugenia's spirits.
It wanted now but a few minutes of the time when the
train was due, and trembling, she scarcely knew why, she
sat alone in her chamber, wondering how she should meet
her uncle, or what excuse she should render, if her perfidy
were revealed. The door bell rang, and in the hall below
she heard the voices of Mr. Hastings and Dora.
“I must go down, now,” she said, and forcing a smile to
her face, she descended to the parlor, as the shrill whistle
of the engine sounded in the distance.
She had just time to greet her visitors and enjoy their
surprise at the announcement of her marriage, when her
ear caught the sound of heavy, tramping footsteps, coming
up the walk, and a violent ringing of the bell announced
another arrival.
“You go to the door, Stephen,” she whispered, while an
icy coldness crept over her.
He obeyed, and bending forward in a listening attitude,
she heard him say, “Good evening, Mr. Hamilton.”
Just then, a telegraphic look between Mr. Hastings and
Dora caught her eye, and springing to her feet, she exclaimed,
“Mr, Hamilton!” while a suspicion of the truth
flashed like lightning upon her. The next moment he stood
before them, Uncle Nat, his glittering black eyes fixed upon
Eugenia, who quailed beneath that withering glance.
“I promised you I would come to-night,” he said, “and
I am here, Nathaniel Deane! Are you glad to see me?” and
his eyes never moved from Eugenia, who sat like one petrified,
as did her mother and sister. “Have you no word of
welcome?” he continued. “Your letters were wont to be
kind and affectionate. I have brought them with me, as a
passport to your friendship. Shall I show them to you?”
His manner was perfectly cool and collected, but Eugenia
felt the sting each word implied, and, starting up, she
glared defiantly at him, exclaiming, “Insolent wretch!
What mean you by this? And what business had you thus
to deceive us?”
“The fair Eugenia does not believe in deceit, it seems.
Pity her theory and practice do not better accord,” he answered,
while a scornful smile curled his lips.
“What proof have you, sir, for what you say?” demanded
Eugenia; and with the same cold, scornful smile, he replied,
“Far better proof than you imagine, fair lady. Would
you like to hear it?”
Not suspecting how much he knew, and goaded to madness
by his calm, quiet manner, Eugenia replied, “I defy
you, old man, to prove aught against me.”
“First, then,” said he, “let me ask you what use you
made of that fifteen hundred dollars sent to Dora nearly
three years ago? Was not this piano,” laying his hand
Did Dora ever see it, or the five hundred dollars sent annually
by me?”
Eugenia was confounded. He did know it all, but how
had she been betrayed? It must be through Dora's agency,
she thought, and turning fiercely towards her, she heaped
upon her such a torrent of abuse, that, in thunder-like tones,
Uncle Nat, now really excited, bade her keep silent; while
Howard Hastings arose, and confronting the angry woman,
explained briefly what he had done, and why he had done
it.
“Then you, too, have acted a traitor's part?” she hissed;
“but it shall not avail, I will not be trampled down by
either you, or this grey haired”—
“Hold!” cried Uncle Nat, laying his broad palm heavily
upon her shoulder. “I am too old to hear such language
from you, young lady. I do not wish to upbraid you
farther with what you have done. 'Tis sufficient that I
know it all, that henceforth we are strangers;” and he
turned to leave the room, when Mrs. Deane, advancing towards
him, said pleadingly, “Is is thus, Nathaniel, that you
return to us, after so many years? Eugenia may have
been tempted to do wrong, but will you not forgive her for
her father's sake?”
“Never!” he answered fiercely, shaking off the hand she
had lain upon his arm. “Towards Alice I bear no ill will;
and you, madam, who suffered this wrong to be done, I
may, in time, forgive, but that woman,” pointing towards
Eugenia, “Never!” And he left the room, while Eugenia,
completely overwhelmed with a sense of her detected guilt,
burst into a passionate fit of tears, sobbing so bitterly
that Dora, touched by her grief, stole softly to her side,
and was about to speak, when, thrusting her away, Eugenia
again. The sight of you mocking my wretchedness is hateful
and more than I can bear!”
There were tears in Dora's eyes, as she turned away, and
offering her hand to her aunt and cousin, she took her husband's
arm, and went out of a house, where she had suffered
so much, and which, while Eugenia remained, she
would never enter again.
Like one in a dream sat Stephen Grey. He had been a
silent spectator of the exciting scene, but thought had been
busy, and ere it was half over, his own position was clearly
defined, and he knew that, even as he had cheated Eugenia
Deane, so Eugenia Deane had cheated him. It was an even
thing, and unprincipled and selfish as he was, he felt that
he had no cause for complaint. Still the disappointment was
not the less severe, and when the bride of a day, looking
reproachfully at him through her tears, asked, “why he
didn't say to her a word of comfort?” he coolly replied,
“because I have nothing to say. You have got yourself
into a deuced mean scrape, and so have I!”
Eugenia did not then understand what he meant, and,
when, an hour or two later, she dried her tears, and began
to speak of an immediate removal to Philadelphia, where
she would be more effectually out of Uncle Nat's way, she
was surprised at his asking her, “what she proposed doing
in the city, and if she had any means of support.”
“Means of support!” she repeated. “Why do you ask
that question, when your father is worth half a million, and
you are his only son?”
With a prolonged whistle, he answered. “Father worth
a copper cent and I a precious fool comes nearer the truth!”
“What do you mean?” she asked, in unfeigned astonishment;
and he replied, “I mean that three days ago father
bread to eat hereafter, one or the other of us must earn it!”
Eugenia had borne much to-day, and this last announcement
was the one straw too many. Utterly crushed, she
buried her face in her hands, and remained silent. She
could not reproach her husband, for the deception had been
equal, and now, when this last hope had swept away, the
world indeed seemed dreary and dark.
“What shall we do?” she groaned at last, in a voice so
full of despair, that with a feeling akin to pity, Stephen, who
had been pacing up and down the room, came to her side,
saying, “why can't we stay as we are? I can average a
pettyfogging suit a month, and that'll be better than
nothing.”
“I wouldn't remain here on any account after what has
happened,” said Eugenia; “and besides that, we couldn't
stay, if we would, for now that Uncle Nat's remittance is
withdrawn, mother has nothing in the world to live on.”
“Couldn't you take in sewing,” suggested Stephen, “or
washing, or mopping?”
To the sewing and the washing Eugenia was too indignant
to reply, but when it came to the mopping, she lifted up her
hands in astonishment, calling him “a fool and a simpleton.”
“Hang me, if I know anything about woman's work,”
said Stephen, resuming his walk, and wondering why the
taking in of mopping should be more difficult than anything
else. “I have it,” he said at length, running his fingers
over the keys of the piano. “Can't you teach music?
The piano got you into a fix, and if I were you, I'd make it
help me out.”
“I'll use it for kindling-wood first,” was her answer, and
Stephen resumed his cogitations, which resulted finally in
his telling her, that on the prairies of Illinois there were a
There was a house on it, too, he said, though in what condition
he did not know, and if they only had a little money
with which to start, it would be best for them to go out
there at once. This plan struck Eugenia more favorably
than any which he had proposed.
Humbled as she was, she felt that the further she were
from Dunwood, the happier she would be, and after a consultation
with Mrs. Deane, it was decided that the beautiful
rosewood piano should be sold, and that with the proceeds,
Stephen and Eugenia should bury themselves for a time at
the West. Two weeks more found them on their way to
their distant home, and when that winter, Dora Hastings, at
Rose Hill, pushed aside the heavy damask which shaded her
pleasant window, and looked out upon the snow-covered
lawn and spacious garden beyond, Eugenia Grey, in her
humble cabin, looked through her paper-curtained window
upon the snow-clad prairie, which stretched away as far as
eye could reach, and shed many bitter tears, as she heard
the wind go wailing past her door, and thought of her home,
far to the east, towards the rising sun.
22. CHAPTER XXII.
CONCLUSION.
Three years have passed away, and twice the wintry
storms have swept over the two graves, which, on the prairies
of Illinois, were made when the glorious Indian summer
sun was shining o'er the earth, and the withered
leaves of autumn were strewn upon the ground. Stephen
and Eugenia are dead—he, dying as a drunkard dies—she,
as a drunkard's wife. Uncle Nat had been to visit the
western world, and on his return to Rose Hill, there was a
softened light in his eye, and a sadness in the tones of his
voice, as, drawing Dora to his side, he whispered, “I have
forgiven her—forgiven Eugenia Deane.”
Then he told her how an old man in his wanderings came
one day to a lonely cabin, where a wild-eyed woman was
raving in delirium, and tearing out handfuls of the long
black hair which floated over her shoulders. This she was
counting one by one, just as the old East India man had
counted the silken tress which was sent to him over the sea,
and she laughed with maniacal glee as she said the numbering
of all her hairs would atone for the sin she had done.
At intervals, too, rocking to and fro, she sang of the fearful
night when she had thought to steal the auburn locks concealed
within the old green trunk; on which the darkness
lay so heavy and so black, that she had turned away in
there was much of bitterness towards that erring woman for
the wrong she had done to him and his, but when he found
her thus, when he looked on the new-made grave beneath
the buckeye tree, and felt that she was dying of starvation
and neglect, when he saw how the autumn rains, dripping
from a crevice in the roof, had drenched her scanty pillows
through and through—when he sought in the empty cupboard
for food or drink in vain, his heart softened towards
her, and for many weary days he watched her with the tenderest
care, administering to all her wants, and soothing her
in her frenzied moods, as he would a little child, and when
at last a ray of reason shone for a moment on her darkened
mind, and she told him how much she had suffered from the
hands of one who now slept just without the door, and
asked him to forgive her ere she died, he laid upon his
bosom her aching head, from which in places the long hair
had been torn, leaving it spotted and bald, and bending
gently over her, he whispered in her ear, “As freely as I
hope to be forgiven of Heaven, so freely forgive I you.”
With a look of deep gratitude, the dark eyes glanced at
him for a moment, then closed forever, and he was alone
with the dead.
Some women, whose homes were distant two or three
miles, had occasionally shared his vigils, and from many a
log cabin the people gathered themselves together, and
made for the departed a grave, and when the sun was high
in the heavens, and not a cloud dimmed the canopy of blue,
they buried her beside her husband, where the prairie
flowers and the tall rank grass would wave above her head.
This was the story he told, and Dora listening to it, wept
bitterly over the ill-fated Eugenia, whose mother and sister
never knew exactly how she died, for Uncle Nathaniel would
his manner towards them was changed, and when the New
Year came round, one hundred golden guineas found entrance
at their door, accompanied with a promise that when
the day returned again, the gift should be repeated.
On the vine-wreathed pillars, and winding walks of Rose
Hill, the softened light of the setting sun is shining. April
flowers have wakened to life the fair spring blossoms, whose
delicate perfume, mingling with the evening air, steals
through the open casement, and kisses the bright face of
Dora, beautiful now as when she first called him her husband
who sits beside her, and who each day blesses her as his
choicest treasure.
On the balcony without, in a large armed willow chair, is
seated an old man, and as the fading sunlight falls around
him, a bright-haired little girl, not yet two years of age,
climbs upon his knee, and winding her chubby arms around
his neck, lisps the name of “Grandpa,” and the old man,
folding her to his bosom, sings to her softly and low of
another Fannie, whose eyes of blue were much like those
which look so lovingly into his face. Anon darkness steals
over all, but the new moon, “hanging like a silver thread
in the western sky,” shows us where Howard Hastings is
sitting, still with Dora at his side.
On the balcony, all is silent; the tremulous voice has
ceased; the blue-eyed child no longer listens; old age and
infancy sleep sweetly now together; the song is ended; the
story is done.
| Dora Deane, or, The East India uncle; and
Maggie Miller, or, Old Hagar's secret | |