Dora Deane; Or, The East India Uncle

by Mary Jane Holmes

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?"