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 broche 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 Dora's place she would have it _cut off,_ as by this means she
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 value, lest his customer
should expect too much. But Eugenia 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 broche 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 any where;" 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, she slept so soundly as
not to hear the angry voice of Eugenia, 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 the name of the
lady who was so kind to me. Oh, if I only 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.
-------------------