Dora Deane

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DORA DEANE

OR

THE EAST INDIA UNCLE

BY

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES

_Author of "Tempest and Sunshine," "Meadow Brook," "Homestead on
the Hillside," "The English Orphans," "Maggie Miller," etc._

DORA DEANE,

OR,

THE EAST INDIA UNCLE

CHAPTER I.

DORA AND HER MOTHER.

Poor little Dora Deane! How utterly wretched and desolate she was,
as she crouched before the scanty fire, and tried to warm the
little bit of worn-out flannel, with which to wrap her mother's
feet; and how hard she tried to force back the tears which would
burst forth afresh whenever she looked upon that pale, sick
mother, and thought how soon she would be gone!

It was a small, low, scantily furnished room, high up in the third
story of a crazy old building, which Dora called her home, and its
one small window looked out on naught save the roofs and spires of
the great city whose dull, monotonous roar was almost the only
sound to which she had ever listened. Of the country, with its
bright green grass, its sweet wild flowers, its running brooks,
and its shady trees, she knew but little, for only once had she
looked on all these things, and then her heart was very sad, for
the bright green grass was broken, and the sweet wild flowers were
trampled down, that a grave might be made in the dark, moist earth
for her father, who had died in early manhood, leaving his wife
and only child to battle with the selfish world as best they
could. Since that time, life had been long and dreary to the poor
widow, whose hours were well-nigh ended, for ere to-morrow's sun
was risen, _she_ would have a better home than that dreary,
cheerless room, while Dora, at the early age of twelve, would be
an orphan.

It was a cold December night, the last one of the year, and the
wintry wind, which swept howling past the curtainless window,
seemed to take a sadder tone, as if in pity for the little girl
who knelt upon the hearthstone, and with the dim firelight
flickering over her tear-stained face, prayed that she, too, might
die, and not be left alone.

"It will be so lonely--so cold without my mother!" she murmured.
"Oh, let me go with her; I _cannot_ live alone."

"Dora, my darling," came faintly from the rude couch, and in an
instant the child was at her mother's side.

Winding her arms fondly about the neck of her daughter, and
pushing the soft auburn hair from off her fair, open brow, Mrs.
Deane gazed long and earnestly upon her face.

"Yes, you are like me," she said at last, "and I am glad that it
is so, for it may be Sarah will love you better when she sees in
you a look like one who once called her sister. And should
_he_ ever return----"

She paused, while her mind went back to the years long ago--to the
old yellow farmhouse among the New England hills--to the gray-
haired man, who had adopted her as his own when she was written
_fatherless_--to the dark-eyed girl, sometimes kind, and
sometimes overbearing, whom she had called her sister, though
there was no tie of blood between them. Then she thought of the
red house just across the way, and of the three brothers,
Nathaniel, Richard, and John. Very softly she repeated the name of
the latter, seeming to see him again as he was on the day when,
with the wreath of white apple blossoms upon her brow, she sat on
the mossy bank and listened to his low spoken words of love. Again
she was out in the pale starlight, and heard the autumn wind go
moaning through the locust trees as _Nathaniel_, the strange,
eccentric, woman-hating Nathaniel, but just returned from the
seas, told her how madly he had loved her, and how the knowledge
that she belonged to another would drive him from his fatherland
forever--that in the burning clime of India he would make gold his
idol, forgetting, if it were possible, the mother who had borne
him! Then she recalled the angry scorn with which her adopted
sister had received the news of her engagement with John, and how
the conviction was at last forced upon her that Sarah herself had
loved him in secret, and that in a fit of desperation she had
given her hand to the rather inefficient Richard, ever after
treating her rival with a cool reserve, which now came back to her
with painful distinctness.

"But she will love my little Dora for _John's_ sake, if not
for mine," she thought, at last; and then, as if she had all the
time been speaking to her daughter, she continued," And you must
be very dutiful to your aunt, and kind to your cousins, fulfilling
their slightest wishes."

Looking up quickly, Dora asked, "Have you written to Aunt Sarah?
Does she say I can come?"

"The letter is written, and Mrs. Gannis will send it as soon as I
am dead," answered Mrs. Deane. "I am sure she will give you a
home. I told her there was no alternative but the almshouse;"
then, after a pause, she added: "I wrote to your uncle Nathaniel
some months ago, when I knew that I must die. It is time for his
reply, but I bade him direct to Sarah, as I did not then think to
see the winter snow."

"Did you tell him of me?" eagerly asked Dora, on whom the name of
Uncle Nathaniel, or "Uncle Nat," as he was more familiarly called,
produced a more pleasant impression than did that of her aunt
Sarah.

"Yes", answered the mother, "it was of you that I wrote,
commending you to his care, should he return to America. And if
you ever meet him, Dora, tell him that on my dying bed I thought
of him with affection--that my mind wandered back to the years of
long ago, when I was young, and ask him, for the sake of one he
called his brother, and for her who grieves that ever she caused
him a moment's pain, to care for you, their orphan child."

Then followed many words of love, which were very precious to Dora
in the weary years which followed that sad night; and then, for a
time, there was silence in that little room, broken only by the
sound of the wailing tempest. The old year was going out on the
wings of a fearful storm, and as the driving sleet beat against
the casement, while the drifting snow found entrance through more
than one wide crevice and fell upon her pillow, the dying woman
murmured, "Lie up closer to me, Dora, I am growing very cold."

Alas! 'twas the chill of death; but Dora did not know it, and
again on the hearthstone before the fast dying coals she knelt,
trying to warm the bit of flannel, on which her burning tears fell
like rain, when through the empty wood-box she sought in vain for
chip or bark with which to increase the scanty fire.

"But I will not tell _her_," she softly whispered, when
satisfied that her search was vain, and wrapping the flannel
around the icy feet, she untied the long-sleeved apron which
covered her own naked arms, and laying it over her mother's
shoulders, tucked in the thin bedclothes; and then, herself all
shivering and benumbed, she sat down to wait and watch, singing
softly a familiar hymn, which had sometimes lulled her mother into
a quiet sleep.

At last, as her little round white arms grew purple with the cold,
she moved nearer to the bedside, and winding them lovingly around
her mother's neck, laid her head upon the pillow and fell asleep.
And to the angels, who were hovering near, waiting to bear their
sister spirit home, there was given charge concerning the little
girl, so that she did not freeze, though she sat there the
livelong night, calmly sleeping the sweet sleep of childhood,
while the mother at her side slept the long, eternal sleep of
death!

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST AND LAST NEW YEAR'S CALL.

It was New Year's morning, and over the great city lay the deep,
untrodden snow, so soon to be trampled down by thousands of busy
feet. Cheerful fires were kindled in many a luxurious home of the
rich, and "Happy New Year" was echoed from lip to lip, as if on
that day there were no aching hearts--no garrets where the biting
cold looked in. on pinching poverty and suffering old age--no low,
dark room where Dora and her pale, dead mother lay, while over
them the angels kept their tireless watch until human aid should
come. But one there was who did not forget--one about whose house
was gathered every elegance which fashion could dictate or money
procure; and now, as she sat at her bountifully-furnished
breakfast table sipping her fragrant chocolate, she thought of the
poor widow, Dora's mother, for whom her charity had been solicited
the day before, by a woman who lived in the same block of
buildings with Mrs. Deane.

"Brother," she said, glancing towards a young man who, before the
glowing grate, was reading the morning paper, "suppose you make
your first call with me?"

"Certainly," he answered; "and it will probably be in some dreary
attic or dark, damp basement; but it is well, I suppose, to begin
the New Year by remembering the poor."

Half an hour later, and the crazy stairs which led to the chamber
of death were creaking to the tread of the lady and her brother,
the latter of whom knocked loudly for admission. Receiving no
answer from within, they at last raised the latch and entered. The
fire had long since gone out, and the night wind, as it poured
down the chimney, had scattered the cold ashes over the hearth and
out upon the floor. Piles of snow lay on the window sill, and a
tumbler in which some water had been left standing, was broken in
pieces. All this the young man saw at a glance, but when his eye
fell upon the bed, he started back, for there was no mistaking the
rigid, stony expression of the upturned face, which lay there so
white and motionless.

"But the child--the child," he exclaimed, advancing forward--"can
she, too, be dead!" and he laid his warm hand gently on Dora's
brow.

The touch aroused her, and starting up, she looked around for a
moment bewildered; but when at last she turned towards her mother,
the dread reality was forced upon her, and in bitter tones she
cried, "Mother's dead, mother's dead, and I am all alone! Oh!
mother, mother, come back again to me!"

The young man's heart was touched, and taking the child's little
red hands in his, he rubbed them gently, trying to soothe her
grief; while his sister, summoning the inmates from the adjoining
room, gave orders that the body should receive the necessary
attention; then, learning as much as was possible of Dora's
history, and assuring her that she should be provided for until
her aunt came, she went away, promising to return next morning and
be present at the humble funeral.

That evening, as Dora sat weeping by the coffin in which her
mother lay, a beautiful young girl, with eyes of deepest blue, and
locks of golden hair, smiled a joyous welcome to him whose
_first_ New Year's call had been in the chamber of death, and
whose _last_ was to her, the petted child of fashion.

"I had almost given you up, and was just going to cry," she said,
laying her little snowflake of a hand upon the one which that
morning had chafed the small, stiff fingers of Dora Deane, and
which now tenderly pressed those of Ella Grey as the young man
answered, "I have not felt like going out today, for my first call
saddened me;" and then, with his arm around the fairy form of
Ella, his affianced bride, he told her of the cold, dreary room,
of the mother colder still, and of the noble little girl, who had
divested herself of her own clothing, that her mother might be
warm.

Ella Grey had heard of such scenes before--had cried over them in
books; but the idea that _she_ could do anything to relieve
the poor, had never entered her mind. It is true, she had once
given a _party dress_ to a starving woman, and a _pound of
candy_ to a ragged boy who had asked for aid, but here her
charity ended; so, though she seemed to listen with interest to
the sad story, her mind was wandering elsewhere, and when her
companion ceased, she merely said, "_Romantic_, wasn't it."

There was a look of disappointment on the young man's face, which
was quickly observed by Ella, who attributed it to its right
source, and hastened to ask numberless questions about Dora--"How
old was she? Did he think her pretty, and hadn't she better go to
the funeral the next day and bring her home for a waiting-maid?--
she wanted one sadly, and from the description, the orphan girl
would just suit."

"No, Ella," answered her lover; "the child is going to live in the
country with some relatives, and will be much better off there."

"The country," repeated Ella. "_I_ would rather freeze in New
York than to live in the dismal country."

Again the shadow came over the gentleman's brow, as he said, "Do
you indeed object so much to a home in the country?"

Ella knew just what he wanted her to say; so she answered, "Oh,
no, I can be happy anywhere with you, but do please let me spend
just one winter in the city after---"

Here she paused, while the bright blushes broke over her childish
face. She could not say, even to him, "after we are married," so
he said it for her, drawing her closer to his side, and forgetting
Dora Deane, as he painted the joyous future when Ella would be all
his own. Eleven o'clock sounded from more than one high tower, and
at each stroke poor Dora Deane moaned in anguish, thinking to
herself, "Last night at this time _she_ was here." Eleven
o'clock, said Ella Grey's diamond set watch, and pushing back her
wavy hair, the young man kissed her rosy cheek, and bade her a
fond good-night. As he reached the door, she called him back,
while she asked him the name of the little girl who had so excited
his sympathy.

"I do not know," he answered. "Strange that I forgot to inquire.
But no matter. We shall never meet again;" and feeling sure that
what he said was true he walked away.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III.

DORA'S RELATIVES.

There hundred miles to the westward, and the storm, which, on New
Year's eve, swept so furiously over all parts of the State, was
perceptible only in the dull, gray clouds which obscured the
wintry sky, shutting out the glimmering starlight, and apparently
making still brighter the many cheerful lights which shone forth
from the handsome dwellings in the village of Dunwood. Still the
night was intensely cold, and, as Mrs. Sarah Deane, in accordance
with her daughter Eugenia's request, added a fresh bit of coal to
the already well-filled stove, she sighed involuntarily, wishing
the weather would abate, for the winter's store of fuel was
already half gone, and the contents of her purse were far too
scanty to meet the necessity of her household, and at the same
time minister to the wants of her extravagant daughters.

"But I can economize in one way," she said, half aloud, and
crossing the room she turned down the astral lamp which was
burning brightly upon the table.

"Don't, pray mother, make it darker than a dungeon!" petulantly
exclaimed Eugenia, herself turning back the lamp. "I do like to
have rooms light enough to see one's self;" and glancing
complacently at the reflection of her handsome face, in the mirror
opposite, she resumed her former lounging attitude upon the sofa.

Mrs. Deane sighed again, but she had long since ceased to oppose
the imperious Eugenia, who was to all intents and purposes the
mistress of the house, and who oftentimes led her mother and
weaker-minded sister into the commission of acts from which they
would otherwise have shrunk. Possessed of a large share of
romance, Eugenia had given to their place the name of "Locust
Grove;" and as Mrs. Deane managed to keep up a kind of outside
show by practising the most pinching economy in everything
pertaining to the actual comfort of her family, they were looked
upon as being quite wealthy and aristocratic by those who saw
nothing of their inner life--who knew nothing of the many shifts
and turns in the kitchen to save money for the decoration of the
parlors, or of the frequent meager meals eaten from the pantry
shelf, in order to make amends for the numerous dinner and evening
parties which Eugenia and Alice insisted upon giving, and which
their frequent visits to their friends rendered necessary.
Extensive servant-hire was of course too expensive, and, as both
Eugenia and Alice affected the utmost contempt for anything like
_work_, their mother toiled in the kitchen from morning until
night, assisted only by a young girl, whose mother constantly
threatened to take her away, unless her wages were increased, a
thing which seemed impossible.

It was just after this woman's weekly visit, and in the midst of
preparations for a large dinner party, that Mrs. Deane received
her sister's letter, to which there was added a postscript, in a
strange handwriting, saying she was dead. There was a moisture in
Mrs. Deane's eyes as she read the touching lines; and leaning her
heated forehead against the cool window pane, she, too, thought of
the years gone by--of the gentle girl, the companion of her
childhood, who had never given her an unkind word--of _him_--
the only man she had ever loved--and Dora was their child--Fanny's
child and John's.

"Yes," she said, half aloud, "I will give her a home," but anon
there came stealing over her the old bitterness of feeling, which
she had cherished since she knew that Fanny was preferred to
herself, and then the evil of her nature whispered, "No, I will
not receive their child. We can hardly manage to live now, and it
is not my duty to incur an additional expense. Dora must stay
where she is, and if I do not answer the letter, she will
naturally suppose I never received it."

Thus deciding the matter, she crushed the letter into her pocket
and went back to her work; but there was an added weight upon her
spirits, while continually ringing in her ears were the words,
"Care for John's child and mine." "If I could only make her of any
use to me," she said at last, and then as her eye fell upon
_Bridget_, whose stay with her was so uncertain, the dark
thought entered her mind, "Why could not Dora fill her place? It
would be a great saving, and of course the child must expect to
work."

Still, reason as she would, Mrs. Deane could not at once bring
herself to the point of making a menial of one who was every way
her equal; neither could she decide to pass the letter by
unnoticed; so for the present she strove to dismiss the subject,
which was not broached to her daughters until the evening on which
we first introduced them to our readers. Then taking her seat by
the brightly burning lamp, she drew the letter from her pocket and
read it aloud, while Alice drummed an occasional note upon the
piano and Eugenia beat a tattoo upon the carpet with her delicate
French slipper.

"Of course she won't come," said Alice, as her mother finished
reading. "It was preposterous in Aunt Fanny to propose such a
thing!" and she glanced towards Eugenia for approbation of what
she had said.

Eugenia's quick, active mind had already looked at the subject in
all its bearings, and in like manner with her mother she saw how
Dora's presence there would be a benefit; so to Alice's remark she
replied: "It will sound well for us to have a _cousin_ in the
_poorhouse_, won't it? For my part, I propose that she comes,
and then be made to earn her own living. We can dismiss Bridget,
who is only two years older than Dora, and we shall thus avoid
quarreling regularly with her vixenish mother, besides saving a
dollar every week--"

"So make a _drudge_ of Dora," interrupted Alice. "Better
leave her in the poorhouse at once."

"Nobody intends to make a _drudge_ of her," retorted Eugenia.
"Mother works in the kitchen, and I wonder if it will hurt Dora to
help her. Every girl ought to learn to work!"

"Except Eugenia Deane," suggested Alice, laughing, to think how
little her sister's practise accorded with her theory.

At this point in the conversation, Bridget entered, bringing a
letter which bore the India post-mark, together with the
unmistakable handwriting of Nathaniel Deane!

"A letter from Uncle Nat, as I live!" exclaimed Eugenia. "What
_is_ going to happen? He hasn't written before in years. I do
wish I knew when he expected to quit this mundane sphere, and how
much of his money he intends leaving me!"

By this time Mrs. Deane had broken the seal, uttering an
exclamation of surprise as a check for $500 fell into her lap.

"Five hundred dollars!" screamed Eugenia, catching up the check
and examining it closely, to see that there was no mistake. "The
old miser has really opened his heart. Now, we'll have some
_genuine_ silver forks for our best company, so we shan't be
in constant terror lest some one should discover that they are
only plated. I'll buy that set of _pearls_ at Mercer's, too,
and, Alice, you and I will nave some new furs. I'd go to Rochester
to-morrow, if it were not Sunday. What shall we get for you,
mother? A web of cloth, or an ounce of sewing silk?" and the
heartless girl turned towards her mother, whose face was white as
ashes, as she said faintly: "The money is not ours. It is Dora's--
to be used for her benefit."

"Not ours! What do you mean! It can't be true!" cried Eugenia,
snatching the letter, and reading therein a confirmation of her
mother's words.

After a slight apology for his long silence, Undo Nat had spoken
of Fanny's letter, saying he supposed she must be dead ere this,
and that Dora was probably living with her aunt, as it was quite
natural she should do. Then he expressed his willingness to defray
all the expense which she might be, adding that though he should
never see her, as he was resolved to spend his days in India, he
still wished to think of her as an educated and accomplished
woman.

"Accompanying this letter," he wrote, "is a check for $500, to be
used for Dora's benefit. Next year I will make another remittance,
increasing the allowance as she grows older. I have more money
than I need, and I know of no one on whom I would sooner expend it
than the child of Fanny Moore."

"Spiteful old fool!" muttered Eugenia, "I could relieve him of any
superfluous dimes he may possess."

But even Eugenia, heartless as she was, felt humbled and subdued
for a moment, as she read the latter part of her uncle's letter,
from which we give the following extract:

"I am thinking, to-day, of the past, Sarah, and I grow a very
child again as I recall the dreary years which have gone over my
head, since last I trod the shores of my fatherland. You, Sarah,
know much of my history. You know that I was awkward, eccentric,
uncouth, and many years older than my handsomer, more highly
gifted brother; and yet with all this fearful odds against me, you
know that I ventured to love the gentle, fair-haired Fanny, your
adopted sister. You know this, I say, but you do not know how
madly, how passionately such as I can love--did love; nor how the
memory of Fanny's ringing laugh, and the thought of the sunny
smile, with which I knew she would welcome me home again, cheered
me on my homeward voyage, when in the long night-watches I paced
the vessel's deck, while the stars looked coldly down upon me, and
there was no sound to break the deep stillness, save the heavy
swell of the sea. At the village inn where I stopped for a moment
ere going to my father's house, I first heard that her hand was
plighted to another, and in my wild frenzy, I swore that my rival,
whoever it might be, should die!

"It was my youngest brother--he, who, on the sad night when our
mother died, had laid his baby head upon my bosom, and wept
himself to sleep--he whose infant steps I had guided, bearing him
often in my arms, lest he should 'dash his foot against a stone.'
And _his_ life I had sworn to take, for had he not come
between me and the only object I had ever loved? There was no one
stirring about the house, for it was night, and the family had
retired. But the door was unfastened, and I knew the way upstairs.
I found him, as I had expected, in our old room, and all alone;
for Richard was away. Had he been there, it should make no
difference, I said, but he was absent, and John was calmly
sleeping with his face upturned to the soft moonlight which came
in through the open window. I had not seen him for two long years,
and now there was about him a look so much like that of my dead
mother when she lay in her coffin bed, that the demon in my heart
was softened, and I seemed to hear her dying words again, 'I can
trust you, Nathaniel; and to your protection, as to a second
mother, I commit my little boy.'

"The little boy, whose curls were golden then, was now a brown-
haired man--my brother--the son of my angel mother, whose spirit,
in that dark hour of my temptation, glided into the silent room,
and stood between me and her youngest born, so that _he_ was
not harmed, and _I_ was saved from the curse of a brother's
blood.

"'Lead us not into temptation,' came back to me, just as I had
said it kneeling at my mother's side; and covering my face with my
hands, I thanked God, who had kept me from so great a sin. Bending
low, I whispered in his ear his name, and in a moment his arms
were around my neck, while he welcomed me back to the home, which,
he said, was not home without me. And then, when the moon had gone
down, and the stars shone too faintly to reveal his blushes, he
told me the story of his happiness, to which I listened, while the
great drops of sweat rolled down my face and moistened the pillow
on which my head was resting.

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