THE NEW PIANO.
The next morning, at the appointed time, Mr. Hastings, Mrs. Deane and
her daughter stood together in the Dunwood Depot, awaiting the arrival
of the train. Eugenia was in high spirits, chatting gaily with Mr.
Hastings, whose manner was so unusually lover-like, that more than one
looker-on smiled meaningly, as they saw how very attentive he was. On
reaching the city he parted from the ladies for a time, telling
Eugenia, as he bade her good morning, that he should probably not see
her again until about three o'clock in the afternoon, when he would
meet her at the music-rooms.
"Meet you at the music-rooms for what?" asked Mrs. Deane, who, though
she had frequently heard her daughter talking of a new piano, had never
for a moment believed her to be in earnest.
"What do you suppose he would meet me for, unless it were to look at
pianos?" answered Eugenia, and her mother replied, "Look at pianos! A
great deal of good that will do, I imagine, when both of us together
have but twenty-five dollars in the world!"
A curious smile flitted over Eugenia's face, as she thought of the
draft, but she merely replied, "And suppose we haven't any money, can't
I _make believe_, and by looking at expensive instruments induce Mr.
Hastings to think we are richer than we are? I don't accuse him of
being at all mercenary, but I do think he would have proposed ere this,
if he hadn't thought us so wretchedly poor."
Mrs. Deane could not understand how merely looking at a costly piano
indicated wealth; but feeling herself considerable interest in her
daughter's success, she concluded to let her pursue her own course, and
the subject was not resumed again until afternoon, when, having
finished their shopping, they sat alone in a private room, opening from
the public hall, and opposite the ladies' parlor in the hotel. They had
taken this room, because in case she attended the concert, Eugenia
would wish to rearrange her hair, and make some little change in her
personal appearance. "Then, too, when Mr. Hastings came," she said,
"they would be by themselves, and not have everybody listening to what
they said. By the way, mother," she continued, as she stood before the
glass, "if Mr. Hastings can attend the concert, suppose you go home at
half-past six. You don't care for singing, you know, and besides that,
you stumble so in the dark, that it will be so much pleasanter for Mr.
Hastings to have but one in charge."
"And much pleasanter for you, too, to be alone with him," suggested
Mrs. Deane, who really cared but little for music, and was the more
willing to accede to Eugenia's proposal.
"Why, yes," answered the young lady. "I think it would be
pleasanter--so if he says he can accompany me, you go home, like a dear
good old woman as you are." And tying on her bonnet, Eugenia went out
to keep her appointment, finding Mr. Hastings there before her, as she
had expected.
Several expensive pianos were examined, and a selection at last made of
a very handsome one, whose cost was $450. "I care but little what price
I pay, if it only suits me," said Eugenia, with the air of one who had
the wealth of the Indies at her disposal. "You will see that it is
carefully boxed and sent to Dunwood, will you not?" she continued,
turning to the man in attendance, who bowed respectfully, and stood
waiting for the money, while Mr. Hastings, too, it may be, wondered a
very little if it would be forthcoming. "I did not know certainly as I
should make a purchase," continued Eugenia, "so I left the money with
mother at the hotel: I will bring it directly;" and she tripped
gracefully out of the store, followed by Mr. Hastings, who felt almost
as if he had done wrong in suffering her to buy a new piano, when
_Ella's_ would have suited her quite as well, and the name upon it, "E.
Hastings," would make no difference!
Once, in the street, he thought to say something like this to her and
prevent the purchase, but again an unseen hand, as it were, sealed his
lips; and when he spoke, it was to tell her that he could probably
escort her to the concert, and would see her again about dark. Here
having reached the hotel, he left her, and walked on a short distance,
when, remembering something concerning the concert, which he wished to
tell her, he turned back, and, entering the hotel, went to the parlor,
where he expected to find her. But she was not there, and thinking she
had gone out for a moment and would soon return, he stepped into the
hall, and as the day was rather cold, stood over the register, which
was very near Eugenia's room. He had been there but an instant, when he
caught the sound of his own name, and looking up, he saw that the
ventilator over the door opposite was turned back, so that everything
said within, though spoken in a low tone, could be distinctly heard
without. It was Eugenia who was speaking, and not wishing to listen, he
was about turning away, when the words she uttered aroused his
curiosity and chained him to the spot.
They were, "And what if Mr. Hastings _did_ give it to me? If he marries
me, and I intend that he shall, 'twill make no difference whether the
piano was bought afterward or a little in advance. He knows, or ought
to know, that I would not use Ella's old one."
"But has he ever said a word to you on the subject of marriage?"
queried Mrs. Deane, and Eugenia answered, "Not directly, perhaps, but
he has had it in his mind a hundred times, I dare say. But pray don't
look so distressed. I never knew before that scheming mothers objected
to their daughters receiving costly presents from the gentlemen to whom
they were engaged."
"You are not engaged," said Mrs. Deane, and Eugenia replied, "But
expect to be, which is the same thing;" then after a pause, she
continued, "but, jesting aside, Mr. Hastings did not buy the piano. I
bought it myself and expect to pay for it, too, that is, if you will
indorse this draft. Look!" and she held to view the draft, of which
Mrs. Deane was, until that moment, wholly ignorant.
Wiping from his white brow the heavy drops of perspiration which had
gathered thickly upon it, Mr. Hastings attempted to leave the place,
but the same hand which twice before had sealed his lips, was
interposed to keep him there, and he stood silent and immovable, while
his surprise and indignation increased as the conversation proceeded.
In great astonishment Mrs. Deane examined the draft, and then
questioned her daughter as to how she came by it. Very briefly Eugenia
told of the letter she had sent her Uncle Nat. "I knew there was no
surer way of gaining his goodwill," said she, "than by thrusting Dora
in his face, so I asked her if she had any message, and she sent her
love, together with a lock of her mother's hair, which I verily believe
turned the old fellow's heart. I have not the letter with me which he
wrote in reply and directed to Dora, but it was a sickish, sentimental
thing, prating about his love for her mother, and how much he prized
that lock which he said he would pay for at the rate of one dollar a
hair! And, don't you believe, the silly old fool sat up all night,
crying over and counting the hairs, which amounted to fifteen hundred!
'Twould have been more if I hadn't foolishly kept back some for hair
ornaments. I was so provoked, I could have thrown them in the fire."
"But if the letter was directed to Dora, how came you by it?" asked
Mrs. Deane, who, knowing Eugenia as well as she did, was still wholly
unprepared for anything like this.
"'Twas the merest chance in the world," answered Eugenia, stating the
circumstances by which the letter came into her possession, and adding
that "Mr. Hastings must have thought her manner that night very
strange; but come," she continued, "do sign your name quick, so I can
get the money before the bank closes."
But this Mrs. Deane at first refused to do, saying it was not theirs,
and Dora should no longer be defrauded; at the same time, she expressed
her displeasure at Eugenia's utter want of principle.
"Grown suddenly very conscientious haven't you!" scornfully laughed the
young lady, reminding her of the remittances annually sent to them for
Dora's benefit, but which had been unjustly withheld; "very
conscientious indeed; but I am thankful I parted company with that
commodity long ago."
Then followed a series of angry words, and bitter recriminations, by
which the entire history of Eugenia's selfish treatment of her cousin,
even to the cutting off her hair more than two years before, was
disclosed to Mr. Hastings, who, immeasurably shocked and sick at heart,
turned away just as Mrs. Deane, to avoid further altercation, expressed
her readiness to indorse the draft, on condition that the balance,
after paying for the piano, should be set aside for Dora.
"And haven't I told you repeatedly that the piano was all I wanted? and
I shouldn't be so particularly anxious about that, if I did not think
it would aid me in securing Mr. Hastings."
"Which you never shall, so help me Heaven!" exclaimed the indignant
man, as he strode noiselessly down the hall, and out into the open air,
where he breathed more freely, as if just escaping from the poisonous
atmosphere of the deadly upas.
It would be impossible to describe his emotion, as he walked on through
one street after another. Astonishment, rage, horror, and disgust each
in turn predominated, and were at last succeeded by a deep feeling of
thankfulness that the veil had been removed, and he had escaped from
the toils of one, who, slowly but surely, had been winding herself
around his fancy--he would not say affections, for he knew he had never
loved her. "But she might have duped me," he said, "for I am but
human;" and then as he thought what a hardened, unprincipled woman she
was, he shuddered and grew faint at the mere idea of taking such a one
to fill the place of his gentle, loving Ella. "I cannot meet her
to-night," he continued, as he remembered the concert. "I could not
endure the sound of her voice, for I should say that to her which had
better not be said. I will go home--back to Dunwood, leaving her to
wait for me as long as she chooses."
With him, to will was to do, and having finished his business, he
started for the depot, whither Mrs. Deane had preceded him, having been
coaxed by Eugenia to return at half-past six, and thus leave her the
pleasure of Mr. Hastings's company alone. The piano had been paid for,
and as it was quite dark, and beginning to rain, the now amiable young
lady accompanied her mother to the depot, and having seen her safely in
the cars, which would not start in some minutes, was on her way back to
the hotel, her mind too intently occupied with thoughts of coming
pleasure to heed the man who, with dark lowering brow, and hat drawn
over his face, met her on the sidewalk, and who at sight of her started
suddenly as if she had been a crawling serpent.
"Will the Deanes always cross my path?" he exclaimed, as, opening the
car door, he saw near the stove the brown satin hat and black plumes of
the mother, who was sitting with her back towards him, and consequently
was not aware of his presence.
To find a seat in another car was an easy matter, and while Eugenia, at
the hotel, was alternately admiring herself in the glass, and peering
out into the hall to see if he were coming, he was on his way to
Dunwood, breathing more and more freely, as the distance between them
increased.
"Yes, I have escaped her," he thought, and mingled with thankfulness
for this, was a deep feeling of sympathy for Dora, to whom such
injustice had been done.
He understood perfectly her position--knew exactly the course of
treatment, which, from the first, she had received, and while trembling
with anger, he resolved that it should not continue. "I _can_ help her,
and I _will_," he said emphatically; though how, or by what means he
could not, in his present state of excitement, decide. Arrived at
Dunwood, he stepped hastily from the car and walked rapidly down the
street until he came opposite Locust Grove. Then, indeed, he paused,
while an involuntary shudder ran through his frame as he thought of the
many hours he had spent within those walls with one who had proved
herself unworthy even of the name of woman.
"But it is over now," he said, "and when I cross that threshold again,
may----"
The sentence was unfinished, for a light flashed suddenly out upon him,
and a scene met his view which arrested his footsteps at once, and,
raining as it was, he leaned back against the fence and gazed at the
picture before him. The shutters were thrown open, and through the
window was plainly discernible the form of Dora Deane, seated at a
table on which lay a book which she seemed to be reading. There was
nothing elegant about her dress, nor did Howard Hastings think of this;
his mind was intent upon _her_ who had been so cruelly wronged, and
whose young face, seen through the window on that winter night, looked
very fair, so fair that he wondered he had never thought before how
beautiful was Dora Deane.
At this point, Mrs. Deane, who had been slower in her movements,
reached the gate, and, resigning his post near the fence, Mr. Hastings
walked slowly home, bearing in his mind that picture of Dora Deane as
he saw her through the window, with no shadows on her brow, save those
left there by early grief, and which rendered her face still more
attractive than it would otherwise have been. That night, all through
the silent hours, there shone a glimmering light from the room where
Howard Hastings sat, brooding upon what he had heard, and meditating
upon the best means for removing Dora from the influence of her
heartless cousin. Slowly over him, too, came memories of the little
brown-faced girl who, when his home was cheerless, had come to him with
her kindly acts and gentle ways, diffusing over all an air of comfort
and filling his home with sunlight. Then he remembered that darkest
hour of his desolation--that first coming home from burying his dead;
and, now as then he felt creeping over him the icy chill which had lain
upon his heart when he approached the house whence they had borne his
fair girl wife. But he had found _her_ there--Dora Deane--folding his
motherless baby to her bosom, and again in imagination he met the soft
glance of her eye as she welcomed him back to Ella's room which seemed
not half so lonely with Dora sitting by his side. Again he was with her
in the storm which she had braved on that night when his child lay
dying--the child whom she had loved so much, and who had died upon her
lap. Anon, this picture faded too, and he saw her as he had seen her
but a few hours before--almost a woman now, but retaining still the
same fair, open brow, and sunny smile which had characterized her as a
child. And _this_ was the girl whom Eugenia would trample down--would
misrepresent to the fond old uncle, far away. "But it shall never be,"
he said aloud; "I will remove her Iron them by force if need be." But
"where would she go?" he asked. Then as he remembered Ella's wish that
he should care for her--a wish which his foolish fancy for Eugenia had
for a time driven from his mind, he felt an intense longing to have her
there with him; there, in his home, where he could see her every
day--not as his wife, for at that time Howard Hastings had never
thought it possible for him to call her by that name, she seemed so
much a child; but she should be his sister, and his manly heart
throbbed with delight, as he thought how he would watch over and
protect her from all harm. He would teach her and she would learn,
sitting at his feet as she sat two years before; and life would seem no
longer sad and dreary, for he would have a pleasant home and in it
_Dora Deane!_ Ere long, however, his better judgment told him that the
censorious, curious world would never suffer this to be; _she couldn't
come as his sister--she couldn't come at all_--and again there came
over him a sense of desolation, as if he were a second time bereaved.
Slowly and steadily the raindrops pattered against the window pane,
while the lamp upon the table burned lower and lower, and still Mr.
Hastings sat there, pondering another plan, to which he could see no
possible objection, provided Mrs. Deane's consent could be obtained:
"and she shall consent," he said, "or an exposure of her daughter will
be the consequence."
Then, it occurred to him that, in order to succeed, he must for a time
at least appear perfectly natural--must continue to visit at Locust
Grove, just as he had been in the habit of doing--must meet Eugenia
face to face, and even school himself to listen to the sound of her
piano, which he felt would grate so harshly on his ear. And all this he
could do if in the end Dora would be benefited.
For the more immediate accomplishment of his purpose, it seemed
necessary that he should visit New York, and as in his present
excitement, he could not rest at home, he determined upon going that
very morning, in the early train. Pushing back the heavy drapery which
shaded the window he saw that daylight was already breaking in the
east, and, after a few hurried preparations, he knocked at Mrs. Leah's
door, and telling her that important business required his presence in
New York, whither he should be gone a few days, he started for the
depot, just as the sun was rising; and, that night, Mrs. Elliott, his
sister, was surprised to hear that he was in the parlor, and wished to
see her.
"Why, Howard!" she exclaimed, as she entered the room and saw how pale
and haggard he was, "what is the matter, and why have you come upon me
so suddenly?"
"I have come, Louise, for aid," he answered, advancing towards her, and
drawing her to his side. "Aid for an injured orphan. Do you remember
Dora Deane?"
"Perfectly well," answered Mrs. Elliott. "I was too much interested in
her to forget her soon. Ella wrote me that she was living in Dunwood,
and when next I visited you, I intended seeking her out. But what of
her, and how can I befriend her?"
In as few words as possible, Mr. Hastings told what he knew of her
history since his sister saw her last, withholding not even the story
of his own strange fancy for Eugenia. "But that is over, thank Heaven,"
he continued; "and now, Louise, you must take Dora to live with you.
You have no child, no sister, and she will be to you both of these. You
must love her, educate her, make her just such a woman as you are
yourself; make her, in short, what that noble-hearted old man in India
will wish her to be when he returns, as he shall do, if my life is
spared; and Louise," he added, growing more and more earnest, "she will
well repay you for your trouble. She brought sunshine to my home; she
will bring it to yours. She is naturally refined and intelligent. She
is amiable, ingenuous, open-hearted, and will one day be beautiful."
"And you, my brother, love her?" queried Mrs. Elliott, looking him
steadily in his face, and parting the thick, black hair from off his
high, white forehead.
"_Love her_, Louise!" he answered, "_I love Dora Deane!_ Why, no. Ella
loved her, the baby loved her, and for this I will befriend her, but to
_love her_, I never thought of such a thing!" and walking to the
window, he looked out upon the night, repeating to himself, "_Love Dora
Deane_. I wonder what put that idea into Louise's brain?"
Returning ere long to his seat, he resumed the conversation, which
resulted at last in Mrs. Elliott's expressing her perfect willingness
to give Dora a home, and a mother's care, to see that she had every
possible advantage, to watch over and make her not only what Uncle Nat
would wish to find her, but what Howard Hastings himself desired that
she should be. Of Mrs. Elliott, we have said but little, neither is it
necessary that we should dwell upon her character at large. She was a
noble, true-hearted woman, finding her greatest happiness in doing
others good. Widowed in the second year of her married life, her home
was comparatively lonely, for no second love had ever moved her heart.
In Dora Deane, of whom Ella had written so enthusiastically, she felt a
deep interest, and when her brother came to her with the story of her
wrongs, she gladly consented to be to her a mother, nay, possibly a
sister, for, with woman's ready tact, she read what Mr. Hastings did
not even suspect, and she bade him bring her at once.
A short call upon his mother, to whom he talked of Dora Deane; a hasty
visit to Ella's grave, on which the winter snow was lying; a civil bow
across the street to Mrs. Grey, who had never quite forgiven him for
having _killed her daughter_; and he started back to Dunwood bearing
with him a happier, healthier, frame of mind, than he had experienced
for many a day. There was something now worth living for--the watching
Dora Deane grow up into a woman, whose husband would delight to honor
her, and whose children would rise up and call her blessed. This
picture, however, was not altogether pleasing, though why the thoughts
of Dora's future husband should affect him unpleasantly, he could not
tell. Still it did, and mentally hoping she would never marry, he
reached Dunwood at the time and took his departure from it. And here we
leave him while, in another chapter, we look in upon Eugenia, whom we
left waiting for him at the hotel.