THE DOUBLE SURPRISE.
The Deanes had been home about two weeks when Mr. Hastings returned to
Rose Hill, accompanied by the "Old South American," who seemed to have
taken up his abode there. Being naturally rather reserved, the latter
visited but little in the village, while at Locust Grove he never
called, and seldom saw Eugenia when he met her in the street.
Mr. Hastings, too, was unusually cool in his manner towards her, and
this she imputed wholly to the fact of her having been rude to his
friend on the night of her introduction. "He was never so before," she
thought, and she redoubled her efforts to be agreeable, to no effect,
as he was simply polite to her and nothing more. So after a series of
tears and headaches, she gave him up, comforting herself with the
belief that he would never marry anybody. After this, she smiled more
graciously upon Stephen Grey, who, pretending to be a lawyer, had,
greatly to her annoyance, hung out his sign in Dunwood, where his
office proper seemed to be in the bar-room, or drinking-saloon, as in
one of these he was always to be found, when not at Locust Grove.
One evening, towards the last of September, when he came as usual to
see her, he startled her with the news, that there was ere long to be a
new bride at Rose Hill! Starting involuntarily, Eugenia exclaimed, "A
new bride! It can't be possible! Who is it?"
It was months since Stephen had been in New York, and he knew nothing,
except that the lady was from the city, and he mentioned a _Miss
Morton_, with whom he had several times seen Mr. Hastings walking, and
who was very intimate with Mrs. Elliott. At first Eugenia refused to
believe it, but when she had remembered how extensively Mr. Hastings
was repairing his place, and heard that the house was being entirely
refurnished, and fitted up in a princely style, she wept again over her
ruined hopes, and experienced many a sharp pang of envy, when from time
to time she saw go by loads of elegant furniture, and knew that it was
not for herself, but another. The old South American, too, it was said,
was very lavish of his money, purchasing many costly ornaments, and
furnishing entirely the chamber of the bride. For this the fair Eugenia
styled him "a silly old fool," wondering "what business it was to him,"
and "why he need be so much interested in one who, if she had any
sense, would, in less than two weeks, turn him from the house, with his
heathenish ways." Still, fret as she would, she could not in the least
retard the progress of matters, and one morning towards the last of
October, she heard from Mrs. Leah, whom she met at a store in the
village, that the wedding was to take place at the house of the bride
on Tuesday of the next week, and that on Thursday evening following,
there was to be a grand party at Rose Hill, far exceeding in splendor
and elegance the one given there some years before.
"Crowds of folks," she said, "are coming from the city with the bridal
pair, who would start on Wednesday, stay in Syracuse all night, and
reach Dunwood about three o'clock on Thursday afternoon. The
invitations for the village people," she added, "were already written
and were left with her to distribute on Wednesday morning."
Eugenia would have given much to know if she were invited, but she was
too proud to ask, and assuming an air of indifference she casually
inquired the name of the bride.
With the manner of one in a deep study, Mrs. Leah replied, "Let me see!
It's a very common name. Strange I don't speak it!"
"_Morton?_" suggested Eugenia, but Mrs. Leah affected not to hear her,
and, having completed her purchases, she left the store and walked
slowly homeward, dropping more than one tear on the brown paper parcel
she held in her hand.
Crying, however, was of no avail, and mentally chiding herself for her
weakness, she resolved to brave it through, comforting herself again
with the thought that _the Greys_ were as aristocratic as the
_Hastings_, and as Stephen's wife she should yet shine in the best
society, for in case she married him she was resolved that he should
take her at once to Philadelphia, where she would compel his proud
mother to notice her. This helped to divert her mind, and in the course
of the day she was talking gaily of the party, and wondering if she
should be as intimate with the second Mrs. Hastings as she had been
with the first!
That night, Alice went down to the post-office, from which she soon
returned, evidently much excited; and rushing into the room where her
mother and sister were sitting, she said, as she threw a letter into
the lap of the latter, "It's from _Uncle Nat_, and postmarked _New
York_."
Turning whiter than ever she was before, Eugenia could scarcely command
herself to break the seal, and read the few brief lines which told her
that Uncle Nat had, at last, concluded to come home, that a matter of
some importance would keep him from Locust Grove for a few days; but if
nothing occurred, he would be with them on Saturday evening of next
week! In the postscript, he added, that "he should expect to find Dora
with them, and he hoped her going away to school had been a benefit to
her."
So great was their consternation that for some minutes neither of them
uttered a word, but each waited for the other to suggest some way of
acting in the present emergency. As Eugenia's mind was the most active
of the three she was the first to speak. After venting her indignation
upon Uncle Nat, for intruding himself where he was not wanted, she
continued: "We are in a sad dilemma, but we must make the best of it,
and inasmuch as he is coming, I am glad that Dora is what she is. We
can tell him how rapidly she has improved, and how rejoiced we are that
it is so. I am glad I have said nothing about her for the last two
years, except that she was away at school. I'll write to her to-night,
and tell her to meet him here, and come immediately. You know, she is
good-natured, and on my bended knees I'll confess what I have done, and
beg of her not to betray me to him, or let him know that we did not pay
for her education, and if she refuses, you, mother, must go down on
your knees, too, and we'll get up between us such a scene that she will
consent, I know--if not, why, we must abide the consequence"--and with
the look of one about to be martyred, Eugenia sat down and wrote to
Dora, beseeching her to "come without delay, as there was something
they must tell her before meeting Uncle Nat!"
This was Friday night, and very impatiently she awaited an answer,
which, though written on Monday, did not come until the Wednesday
following.
"What does she say?" cried Mrs. Deane and Alice, crowding around her,
while with a rueful face she read that Dora would be delighted to meet
Uncle Nat at Locust Grove, but could not come quite so soon as they
wished to have her.
"You have undoubtedly heard," she wrote, "of Mr. Hastings's
approaching marriage, at which I wish to be present. Mrs. Elliott will
accompany the bridal party to Rose Hill on Thursday, and she thinks I
had better wait and come with her. I shall probably see you at the
party.
"Yours in haste, "DORA DEANE."
On Eugenia's mind there was not a shadow of suspicion that _Dora
Deane_, appended to that letter, had ere this ceased to be her cousin's
name--that Mr. Hastings, who, together with Uncle Nat, had the Saturday
previous gone down to New York, had bent fondly over her as she wrote
it for the last time, playfully suggesting that she add to it an H, by
way of making a commencement, nor yet that Uncle Nat, with an immense
degree of satisfaction in his face, had read the short note, saying as
he did so, "We'll cheat 'em, darling, won't we?"
Neither did she dream that last night's moon shone down on Dora Deane,
a beautiful, blushing bride, who, with orange blossoms in her shining
hair, and the deep love-light in her eye, stood by Mr. Hastings's side
and called him her husband. Nothing of all this she knew, and hastily
reading the letter, she exclaimed, "Plague on her! a vast deal of
difference _her_ being at the wedding would make. But no matter, the
old codger will not be here until Saturday night, and there'll be time
enough to coax her."
Just then the cards of invitation were left at the door, and in the
delightful certainty of knowing that she was really invited, she forgot
in a measure everything else. In the evening she was annoyed as usual
with a call from Stephen Grey. He had that day received news from home
that his father's failure could not long be deferred, and judging
Eugenia by himself, he fancied she would sooner marry him now, than
after he was the son of a bankrupt. Accordingly he urged her to consent
to a private marriage at her mother's on Friday evening, the night
following the party.
"There was nothing to be gained by waiting," he said--an opinion in
which Eugenia herself concurred, for she feared lest in some way her
treachery should be betrayed, and she should lose Stephen Grey, as well
as Mr. Hastings.
Still she could hardly bring herself to consent until she had seen
Dora, and she replied that she would think of it, and answer him at the
party. Thursday morning came, and passed, and about half-past two,
Eugenia saw Mr. Hastings's carriage pass on its way to the depot,
together with two more, which had been hired to convey the guests to
Rose Hill. Seating herself by her chamber window, she waited
impatiently for the cars, which came at last, and in a few moments the
roll of wheels announced the approach of the bridal party. Very eagerly
Eugenia, Alice, and their mother gazed out through the half closed
shutters upon the carriage in front, which they knew was Mr. Hastings's.
"There's Mrs. Elliott looking this way. Don't let her see us,"
whispered Alice, while her mother singled out old Mrs. Hastings for
Dora, wondering why she didn't turn that way.
But Eugenia had no eye for any one, save the figure seated next to Mr.
Hastings, and so closely veiled as entirely to hide her features.
"I wouldn't keep that old brown thing on my face, unless it was so
homely I was afraid of having it seen," she said; and hoping the bride
of Howard Hastings might prove to be exceedingly ugly, she repaired to
Dora's room, and from the same window where Dora once had watched the
many lights which shone from Rose Hill, she now watched the travelers
until they disappeared within the house. Then, rejoining her mother and
sister she said, "I don't see why Dora can't come over here a little
while before the party. There's plenty of time and I do want to have it
off my mind. Besides that, I might coax her to assist me in dressing,
for she has good taste, if nothing more; I mean to write her a few
lines asking her to come."
The note was accordingly written, and despatched by the Irish girl, who
soon returned, bearing another tiny note, which read as follows:
"I cannot possibly come, as I have promised to be present at the
dressing of the bride. "DORA."
Forgetting her recent remark, Eugenia muttered something about, "folks
thinking a great deal of her taste," then turning to the servant girl,
she asked "how Dora looked, and what she said?"
"Sure, I didn't see her," returned the girl; "Mistress Leah carried
your letter to her, and brought hers to me. Not a ha'p'orth of anybody
else did I see." And this was all the information which Eugenia could
elicit concerning the people of Rose Hill.
The time for making their toilet came at last, and while Eugenia was
missing the little _cropped head_ girl, who, on a similar occasion, had
obeyed so meekly her commands, a fair young bride was thinking also of
that night, when she had lain upon her mother's old green trunk, and
wept herself to sleep. Wishing to be fashionable, Eugenia and her party
were the last to arrive. They found the parlors crowded, and the
dressing-room vacant, so that neither of them received the slightest
intimation of the surprise which awaited them. In removing her veil,
Eugenia displaced one of the flowers in her hair, and muttering about
Alice's awkwardness, she wished she could see Dora just a minute, and
have her arrange the flowers!
But Dora was busy elsewhere, and pronouncing herself ready, Eugenia,
took the arm of Stephen Grey, and followed her mother and sister
downstairs. At a little distance from the door was Mr. Hastings, and at
his side was Dora, wondrously beautiful in her costly bridal robes. She
had gracefully received the congratulations of her Dunwood friends,
who, while expressing their surprise, had also expressed their delight
at finding in the new mistress of Ross Hill, the girl who had ever been
a favorite in the village. Near her was Uncle Nat, his face wearing an
expression of perfect happiness, and his eye almost constantly upon the
door, through which Eugenia must pass. There was a rustle of silk upon
the stairs, and drawing nearer to Dora, he awaited the result with
breathless interest.
Mrs. Deane came first, but scarcely had she crossed the threshold, ere
she started back, petrified with astonishment, and clutching Alice's
dress, whispered softly, "am I deceived, or _is it Dora?_"
And Alice, with wild staring eyes, could only answer "_Dora_;" while
Eugenia, wondering at their conduct, strove to push them aside. Failing
in this, she raised herself on tiptoe, and looking over their heads,
saw what for an instant chilled her blood, and stopped the pulsations
of her heart. It was the _bride_, and fiercely grasping the arm of
Stephen Grey to keep herself from falling, she said, in a hoarse,
unnatural voice, "_Great Heaven--it is Dora!_ DORA DEANE!"
Fruitful as she had hitherto been in expedients, she was now utterly
powerless to act, and knowing that in her present state of excitement,
she could not meet her cousin, she turned back and fleeing up the
stairs, threw herself upon a chair in the dressing-room, where, with
her hands clasped firmly together, she sat rigid as marble until the
storm of passion had somewhat abated.
"And _she_ has won him--_Dora Deane_, whom I have so ill treated," she
said at last, starting at the sound of her voice, it was so hollow and
strange. Then, as she remembered the coming of Uncle Nat and the
exposure she so much dreaded, she buried her face in her hands, and in
the bitterness of her humiliation cried out, "It is more than I can
bear!"
Growing ere long more calm, she thought the matter over carefully, and
decided at last to brave it through--to greet the bride as if nothing
had occurred, and never to let Mr. Hastings know how sharp a wound he
had inflicted. "It is useless now," she thought, "to throw myself upon
the mercy of Dora. She would not, of course, withhold my secret from
her husband, and I cannot be despised by him. I have loved him too well
for that. And perhaps he'll never know it," she continued, beginning to
look upon the brighter side. "Uncle Nat may not prove very
inquisitive--may not stay with us long; or if he does, as the wife of
Stephen Grey, I can bear his displeasure better," and determining that
ere another twenty-four hours were gone, she would cease to be Eugenia
Deane, she arose and stood before the mirror, preparatory to going down.
The sight of her white haggard face startled her, and for a moment she
felt that she could not mingle with the gay throng below, who would
wonder at her appearance. But the ordeal must be passed, and summoning
all her courage, she descended to the parlor, just as her mother and
Alice, alarmed at her very long absence, were coming in quest of her.
Crossing the room mechanically she offered her hand to Dora, saying,
while a sickly smile played around her bloodless lips, "You have really
taken us by surprise, but I congratulate you; and you too," bowing
rather stiffly to Mr. Hastings, who returned her greeting so
pleasantly, that she began to feel more at ease, and after a little,
was chatting familiarly with Dora, telling her she must be sure and
meet, "Uncle Nat," on Saturday evening, and adding in a low tone, "If
I've ever treated you badly, I hope you won't tell him." "I shall tell
him nothing," answered Dora, and comforted with this answer, Eugenia
moved away.
"You are looking very pale and bad to-night. What is the matter?" said
Uncle Nat, when once he was standing near her.
"Nothing but a bad headache," she replied, while her black eyes flashed
angrily upon him, for she fancied he saw the painful throbbings of her
heart, and wished to taunt her with it.
Supper being over, Stephen Grey led her into a little side room, where
he claimed the answer to his question. It was in the affirmative, and
soon after, complaining of the intense pain in her head, she begged to
go home. Alone in her room, with no one present but her mother and
Alice, her pent-up feelings gave away, and throwing herself upon the
floor she wished that she had died ere she had come to this humiliation.
"That Dora, a beggar as it were, should be preferred to _me_ is
nothing," she cried, "compared to the way which the whole thing was
planned. That old wretch of a Hamilton had something to do with it, I
know. How I hate him, with his sneering face!"
Becoming at length a little more composed, she told her mother of her
expected marriage with Stephen Grey.
"But why so much haste?" asked Mrs. Deane, who a little proud of the
alliance, would rather have given a large wedding.
Sitting upright upon the floor, with her long loose hair falling around
her white face, Eugenia answered bitterly, "Stephen Grey has no more
love for me than I have for him. He believes that we are rich, or we
will be when Uncle Nat is dead. For _money_ he marries me, for money I
marry him. I know old Grey is wealthy, and as the wife of his son, I
will yet ride over Dora's head. But I must be quick, or I lose him, for
if after Uncle Nat's arrival our real situation should chance to be
disclosed, Steve would not hesitate to leave me.
'So to-morrow or never
a bride I shall be,'"
she sang with a gaiety of manner wholly at variance with the worn,
suffering expression of her countenance. Eugenia was terribly expiating
her sins, and when the next night, in the presence of a few friends,
she stood by Stephen Grey, and was made his wife, she felt that her own
hands had poured the last drop in the brimming bucket, for, as she had
paid, there was not in her heart a particle of esteem or love for him
who was now her husband.
"It's my destiny," she thought; "I'll make the best of it," and her
unnatural laugh rang out loud and clear, as she tried to appear gay and
happy.
Striking contrast between the gentle bride at Rose Hill, who felt that
in all the world, there was not a happier being than herself--and the
one at Locust Grove, who with bloodshot eyes and livid lips gazed out
upon the starry sky, almost cursing the day that she was born, and the
fate which had made her what she was. Ever and anon, too, there came
stealing on her ear the fearful word _retribution_, and the wretched
girl shuddered as she thought for how much she had to atone.
Marveling much at the strange mood of his bride, Stephen Grey, on the
morning succeeding his marriage, left her and went down to the village,
where he found a letter from his father, telling him the crisis had
come, leaving him more than one hundred thousand dollars in debt!
Stephen was not surprised--he had expected it, and it affected him less
painfully when he considered that his wife would inherit a portion of
Uncle Nathaniel's wealth.
"I won't tell her yet," he thought, as he walked back to Locust Grove,
where, with an undefined presentiment of approaching evil, Eugenia
moved listlessly from room to room, counting the hours which dragged
heavily, and half wishing that Uncle Nat would hasten his coming, and
have it over!
* * * * *
The sun went down, and as darkness settled o'er the earth, a heavy load
seemed pressing upon Eugenia's spirits. It wanted now but a few minutes
of the time when the train was due, and trembling, she scarcely knew
why, she sat alone in her chamber, wondering how she should meet her
uncle, or what excuse she should render, if her perfidy were revealed.
The door bell rang, and in the hall below she heard the voices of Mr.
Hastings and Dora.
"I must go down, now," she said, and forcing a smile to her face, she
descended to the parlor, as the shrill whistle of the engine sounded in
the distance.
She had just time to greet her visitors and enjoy their surprise at the
announcement of her marriage, when her ear caught the sound of heavy,
tramping footsteps, coming up the walk, and a violent ringing of the
bell announced another arrival.
"You go to the door, Stephen," she whispered, while an icy coldness
crept over her.
He obeyed, and bending forward in a listening attitude she heard him
say, "Good evening, Mr. Hamilton."
Just then, a telegraphic look between Mr. Hastings and Dora caught her
eye, and springing to her feet, she exclaimed, "_Mr. Hamilton!_" while
a suspicion of the truth flashed like lightning upon her. The next
moment he stood before them, Uncle Nat, his glittering black eyes fixed
upon Eugenia, who quailed beneath that withering glance.
"_I promised you I would come to-night_" he said, "_and I am here,
Nathaniel Deane! Are you glad to see me?_" and his eyes never moved
from Eugenia, who sat like one petrified, as did her mother and sister.
"Have you no word of welcome??" he continued. "Your letters were wont
to be kind and affectionate. I have brought them with me, as a passport
to you friendship. Shall I show them to you?"
His manner was perfectly cool and collected, but Eugenia felt the sting
each word implied, and, starting up, she glared defiantly at him,
exclaiming, "Insolent wretch! What mean you by this? And what business
had you thus to deceive us?"
"The fair Eugenia does not believe in _deceit_, it seems. Pity her
theory and practise do not better accord," he answered, while a
scornful smile curled his lips.
"What proof have you, sir, for what you say?" demanded Eugenia; and
with the same cold, scornful smile, he replied, "Far better proof than
you imagine, fair lady. Would you like to hear it?"
Not suspecting how much he knew, and goaded to madness by his calm,
quiet manner, Eugenia replied, "I defy you, old man, to prove aught
against me."
"First, then," said he, "let me ask you what use you made of that
fifteen hundred dollars sent to Dora nearly three years ago? Was not
this piano," laying his hand upon the instrument, "bought with a part
of that money? Did Dora ever see it, or the five hundred dollars sent
annually by me?"
Eugenia was confounded. He did know it all, but how had she been
betrayed? It must be through Dora's agency, she thought, and turning
fiercely towards her, she heaped upon her such a torrent of abuse,
that, in thunder-like tones, Uncle Nat, now really excited, bade her
keep silent; while Howard Hastings arose, and confronting the angry
woman, explained briefly what he had done, and why he had done it.
"Then you, too, have acted a traitor's part?" she hissed; "but it shall
not avail, I will not be trampled down by either you, or this
gray-haired--"
"Hold!" cried Uncle Nat, laying his broad palm heavily upon her
shoulder. "I am too old to hear such language from you, young lady. I
do not wish to upbraid you farther with what you have done. 'Tis
sufficient that I know it all, that henceforth we are strangers;" and
he turned to leave the room, when Mrs. Deane, advancing towards him
said pleadingly, "Is it thus, Nathaniel, that you return to us, after
so many years? Eugenia may have been tempted to do wrong, but will you
not forgive her for her father's sake?"
"_Never!_" he answered fiercely, shaking off the hand she had lain upon
his arm. "Towards Alice I bear no ill will; and you, madam, who
suffered this wrong to be done, I may, in time, forgive, but _that
woman_," pointing towards Eugenia, "_Never!_" And he left the room,
while Eugenia, completely overwhelmed with a sense of her detected
guilt, burst into a passionate fit of tears, sobbing so bitterly that
Dora, touched by her grief, stole softly to her side, and was about to
speak, when, thrusting her away, Eugenia exclaimed, "Leave me, Dora
Deane, and never come here again. The sight of you mocking my
wretchedness is hateful and more than I can bear!"
There were tears in Dora's eyes, as she turned away, and offering her
hand to her aunt and cousin, she took her husband's arm, and went out
of a house, where she had suffered so much, and which, while Eugenia
remained, she would never enter again.
Like one in a dream sat Stephen Grey. He had been a silent spectator of
the exciting scene, but thought had been busy, and ere it was half
over, his own position was clearly defined, and he knew that, even as
he had cheated Eugenia Deane, so Eugenia Deane had cheated him. It was
an even thing, and unprincipled and selfish as he was, he felt that he
had no cause for complaint. Still the disappointment was not the less
severe, and when the bride of a day, looking reproachfully at him
through her tears, asked, "why he didn't say to her a word of comfort?"
he coolly replied, "because I have nothing to say. You have got
yourself into a deuced mean scrape, and so have I!"
Eugenia did not then understand what he meant, and, when, an hour or
two later, she dried her tears, and began to speak of an immediate
removal to Philadelphia, where she would be more effectually out of
Uncle Nat's way, she was surprised at his asking her, "what she
proposed doing in the city, and if she had any means of support."
"Means of support!" she repeated. "Why do you ask that question, when
your father is worth half a million, and you are his only son?"
With a prolonged whistle, he answered, "Father worth a copper cent and
I a precious fool comes nearer the truth!"
"What do you mean?" she asked, in unfeigned astonishment; and he
replied, "I mean that three days ago father _failed_, to the tune of
one hundred thousand dollars, and if you or I have any bread to eat
hereafter, one or the other of us must earn it!"
Eugenia had borne much to-day, and this last announcement was the one
straw too many. Utterly crushed, she buried her face in her hands, and
remained silent. She could not reproach her husband, for the deception
had been equal, and now, when this last hope had been swept away, the
world indeed seemed dreary and dark.
"What shall we do?" she groaned at last, in a voice so full of despair,
that with a feeling akin to pity, Stephen, who had been pacing up and
down the room, came to her side, saying, "Why can't we stay as we are?
I can average a pettyfogging suit a month, and that'll be better than
nothing."
"I wouldn't remain here on any account after what has happened," said
Eugenia; "and besides that, we couldn't stay, if we would, for now that
Uncle Nat's remittance is withdrawn, mother has nothing in the world to
live on."
"Couldn't you take in _sewing_," suggested Stephen, "or _washing_, or
_mopping_?"
To the sewing and the washing Eugenia was too indignant to reply, but
when it came to the _mopping_, she lifted up her hands in astonishment,
calling him "a fool and a simpleton."
"Hang me, if I know anything about woman's work," said Stephen,
resuming his walk, and wondering why the taking in of _mopping_ should
be more difficult than anything else. "I have it," he said at length,
running his fingers over the keys of the piano. "Can't you teach music?
The piano got you into a fix, and if I were you, I'd make it help me
out."
"I'll use it for kindling-wood first," was her answer, and Stephen
resumed his cogitations, which resulted finally in his telling her,
that on the prairies of Illinois there were a few acres of land, of
which he was the rightful owner. There was a house on it, too, he said,
though in what condition he did not know, and if they only had a little
money with which to start, it would be best for them to go out there at
once. This plan struck Eugenia more favorably than any which he had
proposed.
Humbled as she was, she felt that the further she were from Dunwood,
the happier she would be, and after a consultation with Mrs. Deane, it
was decided that the beautiful rosewood piano should be sold, and that
with the proceeds, Stephen and Eugenia should bury themselves for a
time at the West. Two weeks more found them on their way to their
distant home, and when that winter, Dora Hastings, at Rose Hill, pushed
aside the heavy damask which shaded her pleasant window, and looked out
upon the snow-covered lawn and spacious garden beyond, Eugenia Grey, in
her humble cabin, looked through her paper-curtained window upon the
snow-clad prairie, which stretched away as far as eye could reach, and
shed many bitter tears, as she heard the wind go wailing past her door,
and thought of her home far to the east, towards the rising sun.