THE QUESTION ANSWERED.
It was late in the evening when our travelers reached the city, which
loomed up before Dora like an old familiar friend. They found Mrs.
Elliott waiting to receive them, together with Mr. Hastings's mother,
who, having heard so much of _Dora Deane_, had come over to see her.
Very affectionately did Mrs. Elliott greet the weary girl, and after
divesting her of her wrappings, she led her to her mother, whose keen
eyes scrutinized her closely, but found no fault in the fair childish
face which looked so timidly up to her. Half bewildered, Dora gazed
about her, and then, with her eyes swimming in tears, whispered softly
to Mr. Hastings, "I am so afraid it will prove to be a dream."
"I will see that it does not," said Mrs. Elliott, who had overheard
her, and who, as time passed on, became more and more interested in the
orphan girl.
For several days Mr. Hastings lingered, showing her all over the city,
and going once with her to visit the room where he had found her. But
the elements had preceded them--fire and water--and not a trace of the
old building remained. At the expiration of a week, Mr. Hastings
started for home, half wishing he could take Dora with him, and
wondering if his sister were in earnest, when she asked him _if he
loved her?_
A new world now seemed open to Dora, who never thought it possible for
her to be so happy. The ablest instructors were hired to teach her, and
the utmost care bestowed upon her education, while nothing could exceed
the kindness both of Mrs. Elliott and Mrs. Hastings, the latter of whom
treated her as she would have done a young and favorite daughter. One
evening when Mrs. Elliott was dressing for a party, Dora asked
permission to arrange her soft glossy hair, which she greatly admired.
"It's not all my own," said Mrs. Eliott, taking off a heavy braid and
laying it upon the table. "I bought it in Rochester, nearly two years
ago, on the day of Ella's party. I have often wished I knew whose it
was," she continued, "for to me there is something disagreeable in
wearing other people's hair, but the man of whom I purchased it,
assured me that it was cut from the head of a young, healthy girl."
For a moment Dora stood thinking--then catching up the beautiful braid
and comparing it with her own she exclaimed, "_It was mine! It was
mine!_ Eugenia cut it off, and sold it the day before the party. Oh, I
am so glad," she added, "though I was sorry then, for I did not know it
would come to you, the dearest friend I ever had," and she smoothed
caressingly the shining hair, now a shade lighter than her own.
Mrs. Elliott had heard from her brother the story of Dora's shorn
locks, and the braid of hair was far more valuable to her, now that she
knew upon whose head it had grown. In her next letter to her brother,
she spoke of the discovery, and he could not forbear mentioning the
circumstances to Eugenia, who, not suspecting how much he knew of the
matter, answered indifferently, "Isn't it funny how things do come
round? Dora had so much of the headache that we thought it best to cut
off her hair, which she wished me to sell for her in Rochester, I think
she was always a little penurious!"
Wholly disgusted with this fresh proof of her duplicity, Mr. Hastings
could scarcely refrain from upbraiding her for her perfidy, but
thinking the time had not yet come, he restrained his wrath, and when,
next he spoke, it was to tell her of a _foreign tour_ which he intended
making.
"I have long wished to visit the old world," said he, "and as there is
nothing in particular to prevent my doing so, I shall probably start
the first of June. I should go sooner, but I prefer being on the ocean
in the summer season."
For a moment Eugenia grew faint, fancying she saw an end of all her
hopes, but soon rallying, she expatiated largely upon the pleasure and
advantages to be derived from a tour through Europe, saying, "it was a
happiness she had herself greatly desired, but should probably never
realize."
"Not if you depend upon me for an escort," thought Mr. Hastings, who,
soon after, took his leave.
Much Eugenia wondered whether he would ask the important question, and
take her with him, and concluding at last that he would, she secretly
made some preparations for the expected journey! But alas for her
hopes! The spring went by the summer came, and she was still Eugenia
Deane, when one evening towards the middle of June, Mr. Hastings came
over to say good-by, as he was intending to start next morning for New
York, or rather for his sister's country seat on the Hudson, where she
was now spending the summer. This was a death-blow to Eugenia, who
could scarcely appear natural. Tears came to her eyes, and once when
she attempted to tell him how lonely Rose Hill would be without him,
she failed entirely for want of voice.
"How hoarse you are. Have you a cold," said Mr. Hastings, and that was
all the notice he took of her emotion.
Fearing lest he should suspect her real feelings, she tried to compose
herself, and after a time said, jokingly, "I shouldn't wonder if you
were going to take you a wife from some of the city belles."
"Oh, no," he answered lightly. "Time enough to think of that when I
return."
This gave her hope, and she bore the parting better than she could
otherwise have done.
"You will not forget me entirely, I trust," she said, as she gave him
her hand.
"Oh, no," he answered. "That would be impossible. I have many reasons
which you do not perhaps suspect, for remembering you! By the way," he
continued, "have you any message for Dora! I shall probably see her as
she is with my sister."
"Give her my love," answered Eugenia, "and tell her to write more
definitely of her situation. She never particularizes, but merely says
she is very happy. I do hope Mrs. Elliott will make something of her!"
The next moment Mr. Hastings's good-by was ringing in her ears, and he
was gone. Seating herself upon the stairs, and covering her face with
her hands, Eugenia wept bitterly, and this was their parting.
One week later and at the same hour in the evening, Mr. Hastings sat in
his sister's pleasant parlor, looking out upon the blue waters of the
Hudson, and wondering why, as the time for his departure drew near, his
heart should cling so fondly to the friends he was to leave behind. "I
shall see them again if I live," he said, "and why this dread of
bidding them farewell?"
At this moment his sister entered the room, bringing to him a letter
from a rich old Texan bachelor, who was spending the summer with some
friends in the vicinity of her home. It was directed to the "Guardians
of Dora Deane," and asked permission to address her! He had seen her
occasionally at Mrs. Elliott's house, had met her frequently in his
morning rambles, and the heart which for forty-five years had withstood
the charms of northern beauties and southern belles, was won by the
modest little country girl, and he would make her his wife, would bear
her to his luxurious home, where her slightest wish should be his law.
With a curious smile upon her lip, Mrs. Elliott read this letter
through, and then without a word to Dora, carried it to her brother,
watching him while he read it, and smiling still more when she saw the
flush upon his brow, and the unnatural light in his eye.
"Have you talked with Dora?" he said, when he had finished reading.
"No, I have not," answered his sister. "I thought I would leave that to
you, for in case she should ask my advice, my fear of losing her might
influence me too much."
"_Louise_" he exclaimed, leaning forward so that his hot breath touched
her cheek, "you surely do not believe that Dora Deane cares aught for
that old man. She is nothing but a child."
"She is seventeen next November," said Mrs. Elliott, "almost as old as
Ella was when first you were engaged, and how can we tell how often she
has thought of matrimony? Mr. _Trevors_ is a man of unexceptionable
character, and though old enough to be her father, he is immensely
wealthy, and this, you know, makes a vast difference with some girls."
"But not with her--not with Dora Deane, I'm sure," he said. "Where is
she? Send her to me, and I will see."
Dora's governess, who had accompanied them to the country, was
sometimes very exacting, and this day she had been unusually cross, on
account of her pupil's having failed in one or two lessons.
"I'll report you to Mr. Hastings, and see what he can do," she had said
as she hurled the French Grammar back upon the table.
This threat Dora had forgotten, until told that Mr. Hastings had sent
for her; then, fancying he wished to reprimand her, she entered the
parlor reluctantly, and rather timidly took a seat upon an ottoman near
the window, where he was sitting.
During Dora's residence with Mrs. Elliott, she had improved much, both
in manner and personal appearance, and others than the Texan planter
called her beautiful. The brownish hue, which her skin had acquired
from frequent exposure, was giving way to a clearer and more brilliant
complexion, while the peculiarly sweet expression of her deep blue eyes
would have made a plain face handsome. But Dora's chief point of beauty
lay in her _hair_--her beautiful hair of reddish brown. It had grown
rapidly, fully verifying Alice's prediction, and in heavy shining
braids was worn around her classically shaped head. And Dora sat there
very still--demurely waiting for Mr. Hastings to speak, wondering if he
would be severe, and at last laughing aloud when, in place of the
expected rebuke, he asked if she knew Mr. Trevors.
"Excuse me," she said, as she saw his look of surprise, "Miss Johnson
threatened to report me for indolence, and I thought you were going to
scold me. Yes, I know Mr. Trevors. I rode horseback with him last week."
A pang shot through Mr. Hastings's heart, but he continued, holding up
the letter, "He has sued for your hand. He asks you to be his wife.
Will you answer yes?"
And trembling with excitement, he awaited her reply, while the
revelation of a new light was faintly dawning upon him.
"Mr. Trevors wish _me_ to be his wife--that old man?" she exclaimed,
turning slightly pale. "It cannot be; let me read the letter." And
taking it from his hand, she stood beneath the chandelier, and read it
through, while Mr. Hastings scanned her face to see if he could detect
aught to verify his fears.
But there was nothing, and breathing more freely, he said, as she
returned to him the letter, "Sit down here, Dora, and tell me what I
shall say to him. But first consider well, Mr. Trevors is rich, and if
money can make you happy, you will be so as his wife."
Dora did not know why it was, but she could not endure to hear him talk
in such a calm, unconcerned manner of what was so revolting. It grieved
her, and laying her head upon the broad window seat, she began to cry.
Mr. Hastings did not this time say "Dora, my child," for Louise had
told him she was not a child, and he began to think so, too. Drawing
his chair nearer to her, and laying his hand upon her hair, he said
gently, "will you answer me?"
"Yes," she replied, somewhat bitterly. "If Mrs. Elliott is tired of me,
I will go away, but not with Mr. Trevors. I would rather die than marry
a man I did not love, because of his gold."
"Noble girl!" was Mr. Hastings's involuntary exclamation, but Dora did
not hear it, and looking him in his face, she said, "do you wish me to
marry him?"
"Never, never," he answered, "him, nor any one else!"
"Then tell him so," said she, unmindful of the latter part of the
remark. "Tell him I respect him, but I cannot be his wife."
And rising to her feet she left the room, to wash away in another fit
of tears the excitement produced by her first offer.
Very still sat Mr. Hastings when she was gone, thought after thought
crowding fast upon him, and half bewildering him by their intensity. He
could answer Louise's question now! It had come to him at last, sitting
there with Mr. Trevor's letter in his hand, and Dora at his feet.
_Dora_ who was so dear to him, and his first impulse was to hasten to
her side, and sue for the love she could not give the gray-haired Texan.
"And she will not tell me nay," he said. "It will come to her as it has
to me--the love we have unconsciously borne each other."
He arose to leave the room, but meeting his sister in the door, he
turned back, and seating himself with her in the deep recess of the
window, he told her of the mighty love which had been so long maturing,
and of whose existence he did not dream until another essayed to come
between him and the object of his affection.
"And, Louise," he said, "Dora Deane must be mine. Are you willing--will
you call her sister, and treat her as my wife?"
And Mrs. Elliott answered, "I know, my brother, that you love Dora
Deane. I knew it when I asked you that question, and if to-night I
tried to tease you by making you believe it possible that she cared for
Mr. Trevors, it was to show you the nature of your feelings for her.
And I am willing that it should be so--but not yet. You must not speak
to her of love, until you return. Hear me out," she continued, as she
saw in him a gesture of impatience, "Dora is no longer a child--but she
is too young to be trammeled with an engagement. And it must not be.
You must leave her free till she has seen more of the world, and her
mind is more mature."
"Free till another wins her from me," interrupted Mr. Hastings,
somewhat bitterly; and his sister answered, "I am sure that will never
be, though were you now to startle her with your love she probably
would refuse you."
"_Never_" he said emphatically; and Mrs. Elliott replied, "I think she
would. She respects and admires you, but as you have looked upon her as
a child, so in like manner has she regarded you as a father, or, at
least the husband of Ella, and such impressions must have time to wear
away. You would not take her with you, and it is better to leave her as
she is. I will watch over her and seek to make her what your wife ought
to be, and when you return she will be older, will be capable of
judging for herself, and she will not tell you no. Do you not think my
reasoning good?"
"I suppose it is," he replied, "though it is sadly at variance with my
wishes. Were I sure no one would come between us, I could more easily
follow your advice, and were it not that I go for _her_ I would give up
my journey at once, and stay where I could watch and see that no one
came near."
"This I will do," said Mrs. Elliott, "and I fancy I can keep her safe
for you."
Awhile longer they talked together, and their conversation was at last
interrupted by the appearance of Dora herself who came to say good
night.
"Come and sit by me, Dora," said Mr. Hastings, unmindful of his
sister's warning glance. "Let me tell you what I wish you to do while I
am gone," and moving along upon the sofa, he left a place for her at
his side.
Scarcely was she seated when a servant appeared, wishing to speak with
Mrs. Elliott, and Mr. Hastings was left alone with Dora, with whom he
merely talked of what he hoped to find her when he returned. Once,
indeed, he told her how often he should think of her, when he was far
away, and asked as a keepsake a lock of her soft hair.
Three days afterwards he went to New York accompanied by Mrs. Elliott
and Dora. He was to sail next morning, and wishing to see as much of
the latter as possible, he felt somewhat chagrined when, soon after
their arrival, his sister insisted upon taking her out for a time, and
forbade him to follow. For this brief separation, however, he was amply
repaid when, on the morrow, his sister, who went with him on board the
vessel, placed in his hand at parting a daguerreotype, which she told
him not to open till she was gone. He obeyed, and while Dora in his
sister's home was weeping that he had left them, he in his state-room
was gazing rapturously on a fair young face, which, looking out from
its handsome casing, would speak to him many a word of comfort when he
was afar on the lonely sea.