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 undying love, such as few men ever felt. Of
Dora, too, he 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 the novel
idea, which no one but himself would have conceived. 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 you and me. And this I would do, were I sure that I was 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.
"Your rough old UNCLE NAT."
"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.
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