[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

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,

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

and the evening was dark and cold. Wet, chilly, and forlorn,
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,

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

because she thought it would not seem half so bad to 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

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

better for her too in case of croup, or anything like that, to
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

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

undiminished, he could not conceal from himself the fact that
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.

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

Occasionally, as she remembered the beautiful rosewood piano
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

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

send Dora to school, to see if anything could be made of
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

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

It would make beautiful hair ornaments, and I mean to
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.

p594-094

Previous section

Next section