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 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 stayed in that room and kept it
in order for him, 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 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 fond 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, 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.
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 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 shan'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. 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.
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