MANAGEMENT.
One year had passed away since the night when Ella Hastings died, and
alone in his chamber the husband was musing of the past, and holding,
as it were, communion with the departed, who seemed this night to be so
near that once he said aloud, "Ella, are you with me now?" But to his
call there came no answer, save the falling of the summer rain; and
again, with his face upon the pillow, just as it had lain one year ago,
he asked himself if to the memory of the dead he had thus long been
faithful; if no thought of another had mingled with his love for her;
and was it to ascertain this that she had come back to him to-night,
for he felt that she was there, and again he spoke aloud, "I have not
forgotten you, darling; but I am lonesome, oh, so lonesome, and the
world looks dark and drear. Lay your hand upon my heart, dear Ella, and
you will feel its weight of pain."
But why that sudden lifting of the head, as if a spirit hand had indeed
touched him with its icy fingers? Howard Hastings was not afraid of the
dead, and it was not this which made him start so nervously to his
feet. His ear had caught the sound of a light footstep in the hall
below, and coming at that hour of a stormy night, it startled him, for
he remembered that the outer door had been left unlocked. Nearer and
nearer it came, up the winding stairs, and on through the silent hall,
tin til it readied the threshold of his chamber, where it ceased, while
a low voice spoke his name.
In an instant he was at the door, standing face to face with Dora
Deane, whose head was uncovered, and whose hair was drenched with the
rain.
"Dora," he exclaimed, "how came you here and wherefore have you come?"
"Your child!" was her only answer, and in another moment he, too, was
cut in the storm with Dora Deane, whose hand he involuntarily took in
his, as if to shield her from the darkness.
In a few words she told him how she had been aroused from her sleep by
her aunt, who said the baby was dying with the croup; that the servant
was timid and refused to go either for him or the physician, and so she
had come herself.
"And were you not afraid?" he asked; and the heroic girl answered, "No;
I fancied Ella was with me, cheering me on, and I felt no fear."
Mr. Hastings made no reply, but, when lie reached the house, and saw
the white, waxen lace of the child, he felt that Ella had indeed been
near to him that night; that she had come for her little one, who, with
a faint, moaning cry, stretched its hands towards Dora, as she entered
the room. And Dora took it in her arms, holding it lovingly there,
until the last, painful struggle was over, and the father, standing
near, knew that wife and child had met together in heaven.
At the foot of the garden, beneath the evergreens, where he had wished
to lay his other Ella, they buried the little girl, and then Howard
Hastings was, indeed, alone in the world--alone in his great house,
which seemed doubly desolate now that all were gone. For many weeks he
did not go to Locust Grove, but remained in his quiet rooms, brooding
over his grief, and going often to the little grave beneath the
evergreens. There, once, al the hour of sunset, he found _Eugenia
Deane_ planting flowers above his sleeping child! She had marveled much
that he stayed so long away, and learning that the sunset hour was
always spent in the garden, she had devised a plan for meeting him. It
succeeded, and with well-feigned embarrassment she was hurrying away,
when he detained her, bidding her tarry while he told her how much he
thanked her for her kindness to his child.
"I have wished to come to Locust Grove," he said, "and thank you all,
but I could not, for there is now no baby face to greet me."
"But there are those there still who would welcome you with pleasure,"
softly answered Eugenia; and then with her dark eyes sometimes on the
ground and sometimes looking very pityingly on him, she acted the art
of a consoler, telling him how much better it was for the child to be
at rest with its mother.
And while she talked, darkness fell upon them, so that Howard Hastings
could not see the look of triumph which the dark eyes wore when he
said, "You must not go home alone, Miss Deane. Let me accompany you."
So the two went together very slowly down the long avenue, and when
over an _imaginary_ stone the fair Eugenia stumbled, the arm of Howard
Hastings was offered for her support, and then more slowly still they
continued on their way. From that time Mr. Hastings was often at
Eugenia's side, and before the autumn was gone, he had more than once
been told she was to be his wife. And each time that he heard it, it
affected him less painfully, until at last he himself began to wonder
how it were possible for him ever to have disliked and distrusted a
person so amiable, so intelligent and so agreeable as Eugenia Deane!
Still he could never quite satisfy himself that he loved her, for there
was something which always came up before him whenever he seriously
thought of making her his wife. This something he could not define, but
when, as he sometimes did, he fancied Eugenia the mistress of his
house, there was always in the background the form of Dora Deane,
gliding noiselessly about him, as she did that night when first she
came to Rose Hill. He saw but little of her now, for whenever he
called, Eugenia managed to keep from the room both mother, sister and
cousin, choosing to be alone with the handsome widower, who lingered
late and lingered long dreading a return to his lonely home.
Eugenia was now daily expecting an answer to her letter and feeling
sure that it would bring the money, she began to talk to Mr. Hastings
of her new piano, playfully remarking, that as he was a connoisseur in
such matters, she believed she should call on him to aid in her
selection; and this he promised to do, thinking the while of the unused
instrument in his deserted parlor, and feeling strongly tempted to
offer her its use. Thus the weeks passed on, while Eugenia became more
and more impatient for the letter.
"It is an age since I had anything from the post-office I wish you'd
call and inquire," she said to Dora one afternoon, as she saw her
preparing to go out.
Scarcely was she gone, however, when, remembering something which she
wanted, and, thinking she might possibly meet with Mr. Hastings, she
started for the village herself reaching the office door just as Dora,
accompanied by Mr. Hastings, was crossing the street in the same
direction.
"I shan't have to go in now," said Dora; and fancying her companion
would prefer waiting for her cousin to walking with her, she passed on,
all unconscious of what she had lost by being a minute too late.
"A letter from Uncle Nat--directed to Dora, too!" and Eugenia grew
alternately red and white, as, crushing the missive into her pocket,
she went out into the street, where she was joined by Mr. Hastings.
"Dora left me rather unceremoniously," said he, as he bade her good
evening, "and so I waited to walk with you."
But Eugenia could not appear natural, so anxious was she to know what
the letter contained. Up to the very gate Mr. Hastings went, but for
once she did not ask him to stop; and he turned away, wondering at her
manner, and feeling a little piqued at her unusual coolness. Hastening
to her chamber, and crouching near the window, Eugenia tore open Dora's
letter, and clutching eagerly at the draft, almost screamed with
delight when she saw the amount. FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS! She could
scarcely believe her senses: and drawing still nearer the window, for
the daylight was fading fast, she sought for the reason of this
unexpected generosity. But the old man's childish fancy, which would
have touched a heart less hard than hers, aroused only her deepest
ire--not because he had counted out the hairs, but because there had
not been more to count. Jumping to her feet in her wrath, she
exclaimed, "Fool that I was, to have withheld one, when the old dotard
would have paid for it so richly. But it cannot now be helped," she
continued, and resuming her seat, she read the letter through,
exploding, but once more, and that at the point where Uncle Nat had
spoken of returning asking if there was one who would welcome him home.
"Gracious heavens!" she exclaimed, growing a little faint. "Wouldn't I
be in a predicament? But it shall never be, if I can prevent, it, and I
fancy I can. As Dora will not read this letter, it is not reasonably to
be expected that she will answer it, and it will be some time, I
imagine, before _I_ invite him to come and see if we are kind to her!
What a childish old thing he must be, to pay so much for one little
lock of hair! I'd send him all of mine, if I thought it would bring me
fifteen hundred dollars."
It did seem a large sum to her, that fifteen hundred dollars, more than
she dared to appropriate to herself; but the piano she was determined
to have, and, as she dreaded what her mother might say, she resolved
upon keeping the letter a secret until the purchase was made, and then
Mrs. Deane could not do otherwise than indorse the draft, and let her
have the money.
They had been talking of going to Rochester for some time past, and if
she could manage to have Mr. Hastings go with her, she could leave her
mother at the hotel, or dispose of her elsewhere, while she went with
him to the music rooms, and made the selection. As if fortune were,
indeed, favoring her, Mr. Hastings called the next, night and they
were, as usual, left together alone. She was looking uncommonly well
this evening; and as she saw how often and how admiringly his eyes
rested upon her, hope whispered that the prize was nearly won. After
conversing awhile on different subjects, she spoke of her new piano,
asking him if he remembered his promise of assisting her in a
selection, and saying she thought of going to the city some day that
week. Again Mr. Hastings remembered the beautiful rosewood instrument,
whose tones had been so long unheard in his silent home, and he said,
"Do you not like Ella's piano?" while a feeling, shadowy and undefined,
stole over him, that possibly it might, some day, be hers; and Eugenia,
divining his thoughts, answered artfully, "Oh, very much. I used to
enjoy hearing dear Ella play, but that don't do me any good. It isn't
mine, you know."
Very softly and tenderly the beautiful black eyes looked into his, and
the voice was low and gentle, as it breathed the sacred name of Ella.
It was the hour of Howard Hastings's temptation; and, scarce knowing
what he did, he essayed to speak--to offer _her_ the piano, whose keys
had been so often touched by the fairy fingers, now folded away beneath
the winter snow. But his lips refused to move; there was a pressure
upon them, as if a little hand were laid upon his mouth to prevent the
utterance of words he had better far not speak. Thus was he saved, and
when Eugenia, impatient at his delay, cast towards him an anxious
glance, she saw that his thoughts were not of her, and, biting her lips
with vexation, she half petulantly asked, "if he had any intention of
going to the city that week?"
"Yes--no--certainly," said he, starting up as if from a deep reverie.
Then, as he understood what was wanted of him, he continued, "Excuse
me, Miss Deane. I was thinking of Ella, and the night when she died.
What were you saying of Rochester? I have business there to-morrow, and
if you go down, I will aid you all I can. By the way," he continued,
"that is the night of ----'s grand concert. How would you like to
attend it?"
"Oh, so much!" answered Eugenia, her fine eyes sparkling with delight.
"But stop," said he, "now I think of it, I have an engagement which may
possibly prevent me from attending it, as I would like to do with you,
for I know you would enjoy it. Still, it may be that I can, and if so,
I'll call for you at the hotel. We can come home on the eleven o'clock
train."
So, ere Mr. Hastings departed, it was arranged that Eugenia and her
mother should next morning go down with him to the city, and that in
the evening he would, perhaps, accompany them to the concert.
"I am progressing fast," thought Eugenia, as she sat alone in her
chamber that night, after Alice had retired, "but still I wish he'd
come to the point, and not keep me in such suspense. I thought once he
was going to, and I believe now he would if he hadn't gone to thinking
of Ella, and all that nonsense; but never mind, he's worth waiting for,
with his fine house and immense wealth; I shan't care so much about
Uncle Nat's money then, though goodness knows I don't want him turning
up here some day and exposing me, as I dare say the meddlesome old
thing would do."
This reminded her of the letter, and, as Alice was asleep, she thought
this as favorable an opportunity for answering it as she would probably
have. Opening her writing-desk, and taking her pen, she framed a reply,
the substance of which was, that _ma, Alice_ and _herself_ were very,
very thankful to her dear uncle for his generous gift to Dora, who,
strange to say, manifested no feeling whatever!
"If she is grateful," wrote Eugenia, "she does not show it in the
least. I hardly know what to make of her, she's so queer. Sometime,
perhaps, she will appreciate your goodness, and meanwhile, rest assured
that I will see that your gift is used to the best advantage."
Not a word of coming home to the expectant old man, whose heart each
day grew lighter as he thought of the letter which _Dora_ would write
bidding him to come to the friends who would welcome him back. Not one
line from Dora to the kind uncle who, when he read the cruel lines,
laid his weary head upon his pillow and wept bitterly that this, his
last fond hope, was crushed!
There is such a thing as Retribution, and Eugenia Deane, sitting there
alone that night, shuddered as the word seemed whispered in her ear.
But it could not deter her from her purpose. Howard Hastings must be
won. "The object to be gained was worthy of the means used to gain it,"
she thought, as she sealed the letter; then, placing the draft for the
$1,500 safely in her purse, she crept softly to bed, sleeping ere long
as soundly as if the weight of a guilty conscience had never rested
upon her.