DREAMS AND STRUGGLES.
Eunice Hurd was almost invariably out of sorts when in her normal
condition. The particular morning when we join her again she was
unusually crabbed, and disposed to be rather loud in her ill-humor. No
person in the whole household had changed so much, after Mrs. Lander’s
good or ill fortune, as Eunice Hurd. From a gaunt, hard-faced, rigid
female of few words and no pretension, she had graduated suddenly into a
fine lady of wonderful experiences and ridiculous proportions. Hitherto
the grand aim and object of her life had been to hoard up her liberal
wages, wear out as few dresses as possible, accumulate second-hand
bonnets, and cover all the old parasol skeletons in the house with brown
muslin and checked linen, which material sometimes formed a ridiculous
contrast to handles of carved ivory, or ebony tipped with cornelian. In
fact, a more prudent, economical, not to say parsimonious woman, than
Eunice Hurd had been up to this point, was not to be found in a ride of
ten miles.
But a sudden outburst of prosperity had fallen on the woman whose
patronage had hitherto kept her rather above the level of other servants
in the house, and Eunice had been among the first to profit by it. When
Mrs. Lander went into the gloom and solemn magnificence of deep
mourning, Eunice pounced upon her previous wardrobe like a kite upon its
prey. A cheap dressmaker was called in. Velvets, moire antique, and
silks of various shades and dimensions were let out, taken in, tucked,
puffed, trimmed and vulgarized generally into so many grotesque forms
that poor Mrs. Lander failed to recognize any of the elegant garments of
which she had once been so proud. Nor is this wonderful. Eunice was at
least four inches taller than the widow, and her gaunt figure possessed
no more proportions than a broomstick; whereas Mrs. Lander was
symmetrical, rather plump, and walked with the dignity of a Juno,
notwithstanding her years.
Beside all this, Eunice had no idea of fitness. To her a handsome dress
was proper for all occasions. She rather affected an elaborate toilet
early in the morning, and sometimes appeared with the breakfast in silks
rustling like a forest in the wind. Eunice had another peculiarity,
which rather impaired the full splendor of her appearance. After living
so many years on the hoarding system, it was impossible to come out at
once into the magnificent disregard of expense which she considered
necessary to her advent as a semi-lady. The old leaven was working in
her nature continually, and it fairly broke her heart to leave the
prodigal length and breadth of Mrs. Lander’s dresses in their original
amplitude. So, as each garment came under her manipulation, she
bethought herself of aprons, saques and other minor articles of dress
which might be “got out,” as she called it, by subtracting a breath here
and there. For these she told the dressmaker to “skimp out” sufficient
trimming, and the result was a wardrobe of marvellous variety and
picturesque scantiness.
The morning after Mrs. Lander had been so strangely disturbed, Eunice
came rustling into her bed-room in a purple moire antique, short enough
to reveal her ankles in front, and fluttering out in a train behind,
rendered sparse and scant by two missing breadths, which were that
moment at the dyer’s with various other strange abstractions of like
nature. A cap of rich but very dirty blond fluttered on her head, and
the deep ruffles of heavily-embroidered under-sleeves fell over her
bony, red hands, giving double effect to their coarseness.
“Goodness gracious, if you haven’t got up once in yer life without
calling!” she cried, on finding Mrs. Lander seated in her easy chair,
pale and quiet, but with a strange look of unrest in her face. “How long
have you been up? Gracious knows, this is a new streak! The window wide
open, too, and the lace curtains streaming through, a ketchen and
tearing in the rose bushes! Well now, I never did!”
“Eunice! Eunice! did you hear anything in the night?”
“Hear anything!—sakes alive, no; how should I? Nothing but the river,
that’s al’ays sounding like an etarnal troop of hosses that never will
hold up, and the yell of a railroad whistle, which sometimes makes me
e’enamost think the judgment day has come on arth, when it wakes me up
sudden out of a sound sleep. Well! what’s the matter?”
“Nothing—nothing at all, Eunice,” said the widow, rising and walking
across the room.
“I know better. Don’t try to cheat me; I ain’t a bird to be catched with
chaff, nor a hoss that can be bridled with a halter nohow. Once agin,
what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, only I must have had a strange dream last night.”
“Like enough, or you wouldn’t a been up this morning, sitting like a
ghost in that blue chair, huddled up in your shawl. It’s enough to give
you yer death of cold I tell ye!”
Mrs. Lander went to the window and looked out. A bright morning sun was
slanting warmly across the turf, which looked fresh and crisp under its
dew. The ladder lay half-buried in the grass which had regained its
elasticity and did not seem to have been moved for days. A branch of the
rose-bush lay trailing along the stone-work of the house, but that might
have been left there among the gardener’s uncompleted work. No other
trace of the midnight presence that was preying on her mind presented
itself to Mrs. Lander. She drew a deep breath, and turned toward Eunice
with a look of doubtful relief.
“Did you ever have a dream that was absolutely like reality, Eunice?”
she said.
“What, I? Yes, I have, and sich dreams! Once I was a married woman, and
hated my husband like pison for whipping three tow-headed young-uns that
was the torment of my life. That ’ere dream was enough of matrimony for
me for a hull lifetime. Real! I should think it was!”
“But did it seem as if you touched the person—kissed him?”
“What, I? Eliza Lander, I never kissed nothing whatsomever to the best
of my knowledge and belief, sence I was a nussing baby. It isn’t in me.”
“But did you converse? Did the words seem clear and real after you
awoke?”
“I don’t kind’er remember about the words, but the blows did, orful
real. I must have hammered away like all possessed at the bed-post, for
my knuckles were sore as if they’d just come out of a hard day’s work on
the washboard. As for the man—well, it’s of no use talking—I’ve hated
him like henbane ever since. He’s jest as real to me as you are, though
I never saw him in my born days.”
“Eunice,” said Mrs. Lander, impressively, “I had a strange dream last
night—a dream so like reality, that even now I believe in it—almost.”
“What was it all about? Now don’t tell me that you’re old fool enough to
have got a husband into your head! I wouldn’t put up with it, asleep or
not.”
“No! no! It’s not that.”
“Wal then, what is it? Do speak out, it riles me to see you standing
there, shivering and white, like a woman kneaded out of snow.”
“Eunice, I saw, or thought I saw, my daughter last night.”
“Like enough—you’re al’ays dreaming about her—it’s to be expected; poor
gal, I’ve dreamed of her myself more’n once. Woke myself up scolding at
John for not letting her in only yesterday morning! Nothing in that.”
“But I held her in my arms. She talked with me—reasoned with me—kissed
me—”
“That is wonderful! Cora wasn’t much given to making fuss over you—no
better proof of its being all a dream than that. She took after me a
little in the way of grit.”
“Eunice, she did kiss me.”
“Don’t tell me that, without she wanted something awful bad.”
“She did, Eunice.”
“What was it?”
“Nothing, nothing; I talk such nonsense. What could the shadows that
haunt our dreams ask?”
“Well,” said Eunice, maliciously, “if any of ’em took to coming back, I
shouldn’t wonder if it was the old man; he might feel kind’er uneasy
about that will.”
“But he made it! He made it, Eunice!”
“I know that well enough. But he might take it into his head that the
thing wasn’t signed according to order. Still he’s never troubled me
about it, and won’t, I reckon, afore the day of judgment, when I mean to
give him a piece of my mind for not finishing up his work like a man,
afore he went to sea. I’ve no patience with him!”
The shrill cry of a railroad whistle near the station stopped Eunice in
her denunciations. Mrs. Lander started up with a half-terrified look,
and went to the window in breathless haste.
“Who is it—who can it be? This train does not usually stop here,” she
said. “Has it stopped?”
Eunice came up, stood on tiptoe, and stretched her long neck over Mrs.
Lander’s shoulder.
“I don’t see nobody coming up from the station. But, as true as I live,
there is our Josh a standing in the stable door. I suppose he’s swapped
off the hosses and come home to brag about it.”
“Only Joshua!” exclaimed Mrs. Lander, with a sigh of profound relief.
“I’m glad he’s come. I thought—I feared—”
“What?”
“Nothing—nothing, only that dream was so real—so very, very real,” said
the widow, drawing a hand across her eyes.
“But Josh Hurd is a good deal more real, and here he comes, large as
life and twice as nat’ral. Why, the feller is coming right up stairs!
What’s got into him?”
The tramp of heavy feet made itself heard despite the thick carpet on
the stairs, and directly a clumsy knock sounded from the door.
“Come in!” shrieked Eunice, in dire wrath.
Josh opened the door and strode into the room with his cap on and both
hands in his pockets.
“They’ve come, both on ’em,” he said. “I’ve seen ’em with my own eyes.
Got here too late to tell you last night, but it’s so.”
Mrs. Lander fell back into her chair and gazed wildly on him, without
the power to speak, while Eunice drew close to her brother, flaming with
indignation.
“Who’s come, Josh Hurd? Who’s come, I want to know?”
“The two young gals, Cora Virginia Lander and Virginia Cora Lander. I’ve
seen ’em, I tell yer, and talked with ’em both, face ter face, and
they’re proper purty, I can tell yer, both on ’em.”
“Joshua Hurd, what do you mean?”
Eunice seized her brother by both shoulders, and gave him a vicious
shake as she shrieked this question in his ear.
“I mean ter say that both gals are alive and ki—. Well, I won’t say
that, because they are both on ’em so genteel. But in about an hour,
when the next train comes in you’ll hear thunder, that’s all!”
Mrs. Lander had arisen and came close to Joshua. Her hand shook like a
leaf as she laid it on his arm, and her white face was full of pitiful
anxiety.
“Tell me,” she said, “tell me all the truth! Is my daughter alive?”
“Yes; and Mr. Lander’s daughter’s too. They are both of ’em down in
York.”
“How—how were they saved?”
“In a boat. It was another boat that sunk. They floated, and floated,
till a ship picked ’em up. There is a good deal more to tell, but that
is the long and the short on’t.”
Eunice pushed Mrs. Lander away, and seized upon Joshua a second time
with two or three rough shakes.
“Josh Hurd, you’ve been a drinking! This is what they call delirious
tremars. I knew you wasn’t ter be trusted! I told her so!”
Joshua shook himself loose, growling like a Newfoundland dog with a
terrier at his throat.
“Hands off! hands off, I tell you! or I’ll pitch in, woman or no woman,
jest as sure as you live.”
“Speak, then! speak the truth, or I’ll shake it out of you!”
“I have spoke the gospel truth. What more do you want, Eunice?”
“I want ter know what you mean by saying that them two gals are alive.
It’s a trifling with Providence to lie so, Josh Hurd!”
“Jest you wait and see, then,” said Josh, shaking himself slowly back
into his coat.
“Eunice! Eunice!” said Mrs. Lander, in a low voice. “It is true, they
are alive, both of them. I felt almost sure of it this morning.”
“I don’t believe it—I won’t believe it! Eliza Lander, that chap’s lying
like a Connecticut trooper; I see it in his face.”
“Wait till the train comes in,” growled Joshua.
“I am satisfied that he speaks the truth,” said Mrs. Lander, faintly. “I
felt it—”
“Yes, that dream;” sneered Eunice. “Eliza Lander, you are a bigger fool
than I took you for!”
Mrs. Lander arose, pale as snow, but with resolution in her voice and
air. A gleam of wild, unsatisfied joy began to deepen in her eyes.
“Go down, Eunice, and prepare everything. My daughter is alive—my niece
is coming home to take possession here.”
“Take possession!—She! I’d like to see her try it! What’s to become of
the will, then?”
“That leaves the property to her!”
“So it does!” groaned Eunice, dropping into a chair, while both arms
fell heavily downward. “Our cake is all dough, sure enough! Why it’ll be
wuss than it was afore the old man died! Oh my! isn’t this a blow right
on the head!”
“You forget that my child is alive,” said Mrs. Lander. “This is a joy to
compensate for all loss.”
“That’s true; but then I ain’t her mother, and everything was going on
so pleasantly. Now all is to be given up! It’s enough to grind one’s
soul out! I shouldn’t wonder if she begrudged me these clothes, and
everything I’ve got. I tell you, Eliza Lander, I’d show fight! She isn’t
your daughter.”
“She’s a mighty purty gal now, I tell you,” Joshua cut in “and I’m glad
she’s got it. That tarnal will won’t set heavy on my stomach any longer.
When that harnsome critter comes into her own, I shall be an honest man
again in spite of you, Eunice Hurd.”
“You never had sense enough to be anything else!” sneered Eunice. “Don’t
talk to me, I’m sick!”
Mrs. Lander was walking up and down the room, wringing her hands and
tearing them apart in great excitement. She was certain now that her
midnight visit was a reality, and the great struggle, which was to leave
her guilty or innocent, commenced then. Her first meeting with the
child, whom she had so honestly believed dead, was to leave her an
impostor or a beggar. She had been poor, and knew how hard poverty was;
how it ground down the soul and palsied the pride within it; how men,
even good men, despised it as a proof of incapacity. No one living,
perhaps, had felt the bitterness of these facts more keenly than the
woman who paced that sumptuous chamber, which now belonged to another.
No creature living could have found more exquisite enjoyment in wealth.
For itself and for the power it gave she held it as the great good of
life—yesterday it had been hers, untrammeled, unquestioned, almost
unlimited. In her domestic life she was a Sybarite. Every enjoyment of
sense was perfect in her organism. Her taste in matters of beauty was
perfect. Even now, when she thought of her daughter, it was to remember
with a glow of pleasure how exquisitely lovely she was. Already she
disliked that other girl, the rightful owner of all the wealth which lay
around her. Could she surrender everything and take up her dependent
life again? The very thought was hateful.
She had but an hour to decide in—one little hour, and half of it was
gone already.
“What shall I do? What can I do?” she cried, appealing wildly to Joshua,
who sat upon one of the silken chairs, watching her with kindly interest
in his rough face.
“I don’t know what you are thinking on, or what you could do, if you
wanted to,” he answered, honestly. “But do just what’s right, that’s my
advice.”
The man spoke clearly, earnestly, and with something impressive in his
manner that arrested Mrs. Lander in her walk. She looked him steadily in
the face a moment, drew a deep breath, and her eyes fell under his
honest gaze. She did not look in Joshua Hurd’s face again for many a day
after that.
Slowly and steadily the woman paced up and down the room; she had
evidently arrived at some resolve; her step fell firmly on the carpet;
her face settled into hard composure. Her bosom no longer heaved with
sighs or struggled with irresolution. She was mistress of the occasion,
and for good or evil had made up her mind.
Eunice watched her with sharp, searching glances. What was the secret of
her emotion? This was not the joy of a mother who first hears that her
child is safe, nor was it altogether distress. Some struggle was going
on which racked the woman’s whole being. What could it be? Eunice was
herself greatly disturbed; if Mrs. Lander had reigned in the hall,
Eunice had been even more powerful in the basement. How would this
change effect her? Would the second-class sceptre be wrested from her
hand by this young girl? Not without a fight for it. Eunice was decided
on that. As she came to this conclusion, a railroad whistle cut to her
ear.