THE MEETING.
One bright, beautiful summer morning, a noble vessel was sailing slowly
into the harbor of New York. Groups of passengers stood upon her deck,
and a little apart from the rest were Uncle Nat and Howard Hastings,
the former gazing eagerly towards the city, which had more than doubled
its population since last he looked upon it.
"We are almost home," he said to his companion, joyfully, for though
the roof that sheltered his childhood was further to the northward,
among the granite hills, he knew that it was _America_, the land of his
birth, which lay before him, and as a child returns to its mother after
a long and weary absence, So did his heart yearn towards the shore they
were fast approaching.
A crowd of memories came rushing over him, and when, at last, the plank
was lowered, he was obliged to lean upon the stronger arm of Howard
Hastings, who, procuring a carriage, bade the hackman drive them at
once to his sister's. For some time Mrs. Elliott and Dora had been
looking for the travelers, whose voyage was unusually long, and they
had felt many misgivings lest the treacherous sea had not been faithful
to its trust; but this morning they were not expecting them, and
wishing to make some arrangements for removing to her country seat on
the Hudson, Mrs. Elliott had gone out there and taken Dora with her.
Mr. Hastings's first impulse was to follow them, but knowing that they
would surely be home that night, and remembering how weary Uncle
Nathaniel was, he wisely concluded to remain in the city and surprise
them on their return.
Like one in a dream, Uncle Nat walked from room to room, asking every
half hour if it were not almost time for the train, and wondering if
Dora would recognize him if no one told her who he was. Scarcely less
excited, Mr. Hastings, too, waited and watched; and when, just at dark,
he heard the door unclose, and Dora's voice in the hall without, the
rapid beating of his heart was distinctly audible.
"That's _her_--that's _Dora_. I'll go to her at once," said Uncle Nat;
but Mr. Hastings kept him back, and Dora passed on to her room, from
which she soon returned, and they could hear the sound of her footsteps
upon the stairs, as she drew near.
With his face of a deathlike whiteness, his lips apart, and the
perspiration standing thickly about them, Uncle Nat sat leaning
forward, his eyes fixed upon the door through which she would enter. In
a moment she stood before them--Dora Deane--but far more lovely than
Mr. Hastings had thought or dreamed. Nearly two years before, he had
left her a school girl, as it were, and now he found her a beautiful
woman, bearing about her an unmistakable air of refinement and high
breeding. She knew him in an instant, and with an exclamation of
surprised delight, was hastening forward, when a low, moaning cry, from
another part of the room, arrested her ear, causing her to pause ere
Mr. Hastings was reached. Uncle Nat had recognized her--knew that she
was Dora and attempted to rise, but his strength utterly failed him and
stretching out his trembling arms towards her, he said
supplicatingly,"_Me first, Dora me first._"
It was sufficient, and Dora passed on with a welcoming glance at Mr.
Hastings, who feeling that it was not for him to witness that meeting,
glided noiselessly from the room in quest of his sister. Fondly the old
man clasped the young girl to his bosom, and Dora could hear the
whispered blessings which he breathed over her, and felt the hot tears
dropping on her cheek.
"Speak to me, darling," he said at last; "let me hear your own voice
assuring me that never again shall we be parted until your mother calls
for me to come and be with her."
Looking lovingly up in to his face, Dora answered, "I will never leave
nor forsake you, my father, but whereever your home may be there will
mine be also."
Clasping her still closer in his arms, he said, "God bless you, my
child, for so I will call you, and never, I am sure, did earthly parent
love more fondly an only daughter than I love you, my precious Dora. I
have yearned so often to behold you, to look into your eyes and hear
you say that I was loved, and now that it has come to me, I am willing,
almost, to die."
Releasing her after a moment, and holding her off at a little distance,
he looked earnestly upon her, saying, as he did so, "Yes, you _are_
like her--like your mother, Dora. Some, perhaps, would call you even
more beautiful, but to me there is not in all the world a face more
fair than hers."
In his delight at seeing her, he forgot for the time being how deeply
she had been injured, and it was well that he did, for now nothing
marred the happiness of this meeting, and for half an hour longer he
sat with her alone, talking but little, but looking ever at the face so
much like her whom he had loved and lost. At last, as if suddenly
remembering himself, he said, "Excuse me, Dora; the sight of you drove
every other thought from my mind, and I have kept you too long from one
who loves you equally well with myself, and who must be impatient at
the delay. He is worthy of you, too, my child," he continued, without
observing how the color faded from Dora's cheek. "He is a noble young
man, and no son was ever kinder to a father than he has been to me,
since the night when I welcomed him to my home in India. Go to him,
then, my daughter, and ask him to forgive my selfishness."
From several little occurrences, Dora had received the impression that
a marriage between herself and Mr. Hastings would not be distasteful to
his sister, but she had treated the subject lightly as something
impossible. Still the thought of his loving another was fraught with
pain, and when at last she knew that he was on the stormy sea, and felt
that danger might befall him--when the faces of his mother and sister
wore an anxious, troubled look as days went by, bringing them no
tidings--when she thought it just possible that he would never return
to them again, it came to her just as two years before it had come to
him, and sitting alone in her pleasant chamber, she, more than once had
wept bitterly, as she thought how much she loved him, and how
improbable it was that he should care for her, whom he had found almost
a beggar girl.
In the first surprise of meeting him she had forgotten everything, save
that he had returned to them in safety, and her manner towards him then
was perfectly natural; but now when Uncle Nat, after telling what he
did, bade her go to him, she quitted the room reluctantly, and much as
she wished to see him, she would undoubtedly have run away upstairs,
had she not met him in the hall, together with Mrs. Elliott, who was
going to pay her respects to Uncle Nat.
"I have not spoken with you yet, Dora," he said, taking her hand
between both his. "Go in there," motioning to the room he had just
left, "and wait until I present Louise to your uncle."
It was a habit of Dora's always to cry just when she wished to least,
and now entering the little music room, she threw herself upon the sofa
and burst into tears. Thus Mr. Hastings found her on his return, and
sitting down by her side, he said gently, "Are you, then, so glad that
I have come home?"
Dora would not, for the world, let him know her real feelings, and she
answered, "Yes, I am glad, but I am crying at what Uncle Nat said to
me."
Mr. Hastings bit his lip, for this was not exactly the kind of meeting
he had anticipated, and after sitting an awkward moment, during which
he was wishing that she had not answered him as she did, he said: "Will
you not look up, Dora, and tell me how you have passed the time of my
absence? I am sure you have improved it both from your own appearance
and what Louise has told me."
This was a subject on which Dora felt that she could trust herself, and
drying her tears, she became very animated as she told him of the books
she had read, and the studies she had pursued. "I have taken music
lessons, too," she added. "Would you like to hear me play?"
Mr. Hastings would far rather have sat there, watching her bright face,
with his arm thrown lightly around her waist, but it was this very act,
this touch of his arm, which prompted her proposal, and gracefully
disengaging herself she crossed over to the piano, which was standing
in the room, and commenced singing the old, and on that occasion very
appropriate, song of "Home again, home again, from a foreign shore."
The tones of her voice were rich and full, and they reached the ear of
Uncle Nat, who in his eagerness to listen, forgot everything, until
Mrs. Elliott said, "It is Dora singing to my brother. Shall we join
them?"
Leading the way she ushered him into the music room, where, standing at
Dora's side, he listened rapturously to her singing, occasionally
wiping away a tear, called forth by the memories that song had
awakened. The sight of the piano reminded him of Eugenia, and when Dora
had finished playing, he laid his broad hand upon her shoulder and
said, "Do you ever hear from them--the villains?"
Dora knew to whom he referred, and half laughing at his excited manner,
she replied, as she stole a mischievous glance towards Mr. Hastings, "I
received a letter from Eugenia not long since, and she seemed very
anxious to know in what part of Europe Mr. Hastings was now traveling,
and if he were ever coming home!"
"Much good his coming home will do _her_, the _trollop!_" muttered
Uncle Nat, whispering incoherently to himself as he generally did, when
Eugenia was the subject of his thoughts. "Don't answer the letter," he
said at last, "or, if you do, say nothing of me; I wish to meet them
first as a stranger."
Near the window Mr. Hastings was standing, revolving in his own mind a
double surprise which he knew would mortify Eugenia more than anything
else. But in order to effect this, Uncle Nat must remain _incog._ for
some time yet, while Dora herself must be won, and this, with the
jealous fears of a lover, he fancied might be harder to accomplish than
the keeping Uncle Nat silent when in the presence of Eugenia.
"To-morrow I will see her alone, and know the worst," he thought and
glancing at Dora, he felt a thrill of fear lest she, in all the
freshness of her youth, should refuse her heart to one, who had called
another than herself his wife.
But Ella Grey had never awakened a love as deep and absorbing as that
which he now felt for Dora Deane, and all that night he lay awake,
wondering how he should approach her, and fancying sometimes that he
saw the cold surprise with which she would listen to him, and again
that he read in her dark blue eyes the answer which he sought. The
morrow came, but throughout the entire day, he found no opportunity of
speaking to her alone, for Uncle Nat hovered near her side, gazing at
her as if he would never tire of looking at her beautiful face. And
Dora, too, had much to say to the old man, on this the first day after
his return. With his head resting upon her lap, and her soft white hand
upon his wrinkled brow, she told him of her mother, and the message she
had left for him on the sad night when she died. Then she spoke of her
Aunt Sarah, of Eugenia and Alice, and the wrath of Uncle Nat was
somewhat abated, when he heard _her_ pleading with him not to be so
angry and unforgiving--
"I can treat Alice well, perhaps," he said, "for she, it seems, was
never particularly unkind. And for your sake, _I_ may forgive the
mother. But Eugenia _never!_--not even if Fannie herself should ask me!"
Thus passed that day, and when the next one came, Uncle Nat still
stayed at Dora's side, following her from room to room, and never for a
moment leaving Mr. Hastings with her alone. In this manner nearly a
week went by, and the latter was beginning to despair, when one evening
as the three were together in the little music room, and Mrs. Elliott
was with her mother, who was ill, it suddenly occurred to Uncle Nat
that he had appropriated Dora entirely to himself, not giving Mr.
Hastings a single opportunity for seeing her alone.
"I have wondered that he did not tell me he was engaged," he thought,
"but how could he when I haven't given him a chance to speak to her,
unless he did it before me; strange, I should be so selfish: but I'll
make amends now--though I do hope he'll be quick!"
Rising up, he walked to the door, when thinking that Mr. Hastings might
possibly expect him to return every moment, and so keep silent, he
said, "I've been in the way of you young folks long enough, and I feel
just as if something might happen if I left you together! Call me when
you want me?" so saying he shut the door, and Mr. Hastings was alone at
last with Dora Deane!
Both knew to what Uncle Nat referred, and while Dora fidgeted from one
thing to another, looking at a book of prints wrong side up, and
admiring the pictures, Mr. Hastings sat perfectly still, wondering why
he was so much afraid of her. Two years before he felt no fear; but a
refusal at that time would not have affected him as it would do now,
for he did not then know how much he loved her. Greatly he desired that
she should speak to him--look at him--or do something to break the
embarrassing silence; but this Dora had no intention of doing, and she
was just meditating the propriety of _running away_, when he found
voice enough to say, "Will you come and sit by me, Dora?"
She had always obeyed him, and she did so now, taking a seat, however,
as far from him as possible, on the end of the sofa. Still, when he
moved up closely to her side, and wound his arm about her, she did not
object, though her face burned with blushes, and she thought it quite
likely that her next act would be to cry! And this she did do, when he
said to her, "Dora, do you remember the night when Ella died?"
He did not expect any answer yet, and he continued, "She told me, you
know, of a time when, though not forgetting her, I should love
another--should seek to call another my wife. And, Dora, she was right,
for I do love another, better, if it be possible, than I did my lost
Ella. 'Tis four years since she left me, and now that I would have a
second wife, will the one whom I have chosen from all the world to be
that wife, answer me _yes?_ Will she go back with me in the autumn to
my long deserted home, where her presence always brought sunlight and
joy?"
There was no coquetry about Dora Deane, and she could not have
practised it now, if there had been. She knew Mr. Hastings was in
earnest--knew that he meant what he said--and the little hand, which at
first had stolen partly under her dress, lest he should touch it, came
back from its hiding-place, and crept slowly along until his was
reached, and there she let it lay! _This_ was her answer, and he was
satisfied!
For a long long time they sat together, while Mr. Hastings talked, not
wholly of the future when she would be his wife, but of the New Year's
morning, years ago, when he found her sleeping in the chamber of
death--of the bright June afternoon, when she sat with her bare feet in
the running brook--of the time when she first brought comfort to his
home--of the dark, rainy evening, when the sight of her sitting in
Ella's room, with Ella's baby on her lap, had cheered his aching
heart--of the storm she had braved to tell him his baby was dying--of
the winter night when he watched her through the window--of the dusky
twilight when she sat at his feet in the little library at Rose
Hill--and again in his sister's home on the Hudson, when he first knew
how much he loved her. Of all these pictures so indelibly stamped upon
his memory, he told her, and of the many, many times his thoughts had
been of her when afar on a foreign shore.
And Dora, listening to him, did not care to answer, her heart was so
full of happiness, to know that she should be thus loved by one like
Howard Hastings. From a tower not far distant, a city clock struck
_twelve_, and then, starting up, she exclaimed, "_So late!_ I thought
'twas only ten! We have kept Uncle Nat too long. Will you go with me to
him?" and with his arms still around her, Mr. Hastings arose to
accompany her.
For half an hour after leaving the music-room Uncle Nat had walked up
and down the long parlors, with his hands in his pockets, hoping Mr.
Hastings _would_ be brief, and expecting each moment to hear Dora
calling him back! In this manner an hour or more went by, and then
grown very nervous and cold (for it was a damp, chilly night, such as
often occurs in our latitude, even in summer) he began to think that if
_Dora_ were not coming, a fire would be acceptable, and he drew his
chair near to the register, which was closed. Wholly unaccustomed to
furnaces, he did not think to open it, and for a time longer he sat
wondering why he didn't grow warm, and if it took everybody as long to
propose as it did Mr. Hastings.
It "didn't take me long to tell my love to Fanny," he said, "but then
she refused, and when they accept, as Dora will, it's always a longer
process, I reckon!"
This point satisfactorily settled, he began to wish the atmosphere of
the room would moderate, and hitching in his chair, he at last sat
directly over the register! but even this failed to warm him, and
mentally concluding that although furnaces might do very well for New
Yorkers, they were of no account whatever to an East India man, he fell
asleep. In this situation, Dora found him.
"Poor old man," said she, "'twas thoughtless in me to leave him so
long," and kissing his brow, she cried, "Wake up, Uncle Nat--wake up!"
and Uncle Nat, rubbing his eyes with his red stiff fingers, and looking
in her glowing face, thought "that something had happened!"