DORA'S RELATIVES.
There 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, gray 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 meager 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 _him_--the only man she had ever
loved--and Dora was their 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 Eugenia 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 propose such a thing!" and she
glanced towards Eugenia 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 quarreling 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 practise 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 no mistake. "The old miser
has really opened his heart. 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 nave 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, Undo 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 fatherland. 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 upstairs. 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 moonlight which came in through the
open window. I had 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. We never met again, for ere the
morrow's daylight 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 the 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 yon both to stay at those large hotels,"
said Mrs. Deane; and Eugenia 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 outbreak; so she merely sighed in reply, and when,
on Monday morning, Eugenia started for New York, her purse contained
the desired three hundred and fifty dollars, 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 caught anything. Didn't Dora look like a
Dutch doll in 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 three hundred and fifty dollars.
"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 one more farewell
kiss, Dora went out of the house where 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!_
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