EUNICE HURD EXASPERATED.
Eunice Hurd was in a state of fierce indignation when she left that girl
in the chamber which she was morally certain belonged of right to
another. So fiery and intense was her feeling, that she passed by that
wing of the building where her own empire was established, and began
marching up and down the green sward close to the house, shaking her
head viciously and flinging out her hands, as if the very atmosphere
were an enemy which she longed to grapple with. After awhile her natural
strong good sense conquered all this turbulence, and she began to think
and calculate on the existing state of things in that dwelling.
“One thing is certain,” she reasoned. “Something is going on which they
haven’t let me into, and don’t mean it. Well, that’s good for ’em. I
ain’t by no manner of means the person they can depend on to cheat a
young critter like that out of home and name. Them country cousins was
another thing. Who cared for them? But when it comes to a choice between
these ’ere two gals—one of ’em as good as pie and better, while ’tother
al’ays was a sneaking, selfish, foxy critter, jest calcerlated for this
kind o’ business, and nothing else—why it isn’t in me to take up that
side. Besides, one is liberal as all out doors, and ’tother, consarn
her! never was ginerous to anybody but herself since she was born, and
never will be. So I’ll stand up for the right. They’ve got me to tussle
with, let me tell ’em, and they’ll find out that Eunice Hurd isn’t a
baby, by no manner of means!”
Eunice paused as these thoughts filled her mind, and then went on,
sweeping the grass with the train of her purple dress, which at length
caught on something and dragged at her unmercifully. She turned with a
snarl and seized upon the branch of a rose-bush that had fastened its
thorns in her dress, and wrenched it away, flinging it to a distance.
Again she moved on, and once more a long, thorny branch rasped the rich
silk, tearing it in places.
“What on arth is this rose-bush down here for, ripping away at my dress
like all possessed? I saw the gardener nailing it up yesterday with my
own eyes, yet here it is, trailing off yards and yards in the grass, or
at any rate half of it. How came it here? There was no wind last night
to tear it down.”
While asking herself these questions, Eunice stepped backward, and was
nearly overthrown by a ladder, which lay on the sward behind her.
She turned with a fresh snarl and examined the ladder. It lay almost
directly under the window of Mrs. Lander’s room, holding down a
straggling spray of the rose-bush, which had annoyed her so.
“Somebody has been here—somebody has done this,” she muttered. “That
ladder has been moved since the dew fell, just as sure as I’m a sinner!
There’s fresh sile on the end. The gardener hasn’t been here since
yesterday forenoon. Who has?”
Eunice folded her arms here and fell into thought for a full minute.
Then she stooped down, lifted up the ladder and set the rose branch
which it had imprisoned free. It swayed back against the wall of the
building, and then Eunice saw that at least half the bush remained
firmly in its place.
“Somebody has been here. What for?” she muttered. “What for, I should
like to know?”
That moment her eyes caught two stains of fresh earth just beneath Mrs.
Lander’s chamber window—exactly such stains as the supporters of that
ladder would leave on the white marble.
“Some one has been up there,” she thought. “In at the window, as true as
I live! Jerusalem and California! that was the dream she had! They made
up this wickedness in the night, the foxes! But Eunice Hurd is peeping
into their hole, she is. That’s why the window was so wide open and the
curtain streaming out—that’s what made her snivel and shake so—as if she
could do anything in earnest without me to back her. What’s that?
Jerusalem and so forth, what is that?”
Eunice saw a fragment of cloth fluttering from an upright branch of the
rose-bush just below the window. Snatching up the ladder, she dragged it
forward, planted it against the wall, mounted it with the agility of a
cat, and came down with the fragment grasped in her hand.
“It is blue merino; is it like her dress? I’ll go in before she has time
to take it off, and make sure,” she said, in high excitement. “They mean
to cheat me, do they? Let ’em try it!”
Meantime Virginia and her little maid locked themselves in the chamber
which had been forced upon them, and there, like two caged birds, they
stood and looked at each other in pitiful helplessness. At this time
Cora was ransacking the closets and forcing the drawers in that other
chamber, which contained all the young creature’s household treasures.
“What can I do? What ought I to do?” she said, leaning her fair forehead
down on Ellen’s shoulder. “This is terrible! Only half an hour ago I was
thinking all this mine—thinking how to share it with them in a way that
might not wound their pride. Now—now, oh Ellen! I feel like a beggar!
They would rob me twice. My inheritance and my faith in the goodness of
God’s creatures they have swept off at a single swoop.”
“No, do not think that, lady. Some of God’s creatures are very, very
good.”
“You are good, Ellen; I know that.”
“And so are many, many persons that never will be known. I have heard my
father say that half the generous deeds and noble sacrifices of the
earth are such as will only be recognized in Heaven.”
“Your father had great faith in humanity, then.”
“Oh yes; he was so patient, so forbearing. He never believed that any
one could be entirely depraved, but hoped for the best and did for the
best.”
“Ah me! only yesterday I thought of the best. How everything is
changed.”
“Is it only because these people wish to wrong you and steal your name?”
“I thought yesterday,” continued Virginia, “that mourning and the
sadness which springs out of bereavement were the worst of sorrow. But
now that the bitterness of wrong has come, I know better. This lost love
and lost faith in the living is worse than death. It seems to me as if
the cousin I loved so had passed into another being. My heart aches with
bitter pain when I think of her.”
“I heard my mother say this once when we had a sharp sorrow to bear, but
_he_ soothed her and told her in his deep, calm way to leave the wicked
with God, who sometimes permits wo and strife in nations, sin in
households, that some evil may be driven out, some wonderful good
secured to the great bulk of mankind.”
“I never thought much of these things, Ellen,” said Virginia, gently.
“Indeed, I never had a trouble till now.”
“Then I am older and wiser in this way than you. I knew what hard, hard
trouble was when a little girl. It was because you suffered that I loved
you so from the first.”
“And have you been always in trouble, my poor girl?” said Virginia,
smiling sadly on that earnest face.
“No, I was happy once; but that was long ago.”
“Long ago, and you so young.”
“Am I young?” said Ellen, lifting her stag-like eyes innocently to her
mistress. “It never seemed to me so.”
Virginia sat down and drew the hunchback close to her. There was a
comfort in this, and a sense of protection, feeble as the little
creature was.
“Ellen, tell me what this trouble was. You and I are alone in the world;
I would like to know all that lies back in your life, because I love you
and trust you, Ellen.”
Tears rose thick and fast into Ellen’s eyes. She sunk down upon the
floor, half kneeling, half sitting, and uplifting her honest young face
so that her eyes looked straight into those bent upon her with such
sympathetic earnestness, smiled as people only smile when ready to make
a painful sacrifice.
“Yes, I will tell you everything, and would if death had not swept all
away. My father was what they call a gentleman once. You saw him and
know that he was one. He was married very young indeed, and his wife
died, leaving a little boy behind her that my father loved dearly; so
dearly, that he gave up everything and lived almost alone on a pretty
place he owned near Waterford, in Ireland, in order to bring the boy up
under his own care. For twelve years my father kept himself out of the
world and gave up his life to the child. Alfred had no other teacher,
and scarcely any other companion. He loved my father dearly, I think,
and I know that my father’s love for him was like worship.
“At last Alfred was sent to Heidelberg, in Germany, where a great many
young men are educated, and my father went into the world again,
commencing life as it were then. He had some property, enough for all
their wants, and more; but went to work in earnest at his profession,
ambitious for his son. After a year or two he saw my mother and married
her. More children came—first a son, who died; then my poor self;
afterward Brian, but even Brian, bright and handsome as he is, was not
to be compared to Alfred. This must be true, for all the people about
our place agreed in saying that he was the most splendid young man that
the sun ever shone upon. He came home once when I was a little child,
but I can only just remember how magnificent he seemed. My father was
expecting him to come back to Waterford and join him in the business of
his office; but he wanted to travel, and my father felt it a happiness
to work that he might enjoy.
“I think Alfred was in Paris a great deal and sometimes in London, for
my father went three or four times to both these places in order to meet
him. I was a sharp child; people like me often are, I am told; and
though my mother never spoke of it, I saw that these visits were always
followed by seasons of anxiety, and that men came more frequently to
talk with my father about loans of money. Then came discussions about
household expenses, and care on every side. So our home grew darker and
darker year by year. If Alfred had seen this, and heard my father
walking to and fro in his chamber till after midnight, as I often did,
he might have been more thoughtful. But he never came home. When he
wrote, the shadow of some great trouble always followed his letters. I
used to watch my father when he received these letters, and could see
his hands shake and his lips turn pale as he opened them.
“At last a letter came which took my father suddenly from home. We
children knew nothing of his business, but the wistful sadness in our
mother’s face made us thoughtful, even to the youngest, for there were
five of us then, not counting the splendid young fellow whom my father
loved better than us all.
“When my father came back he looked thin, and his hair had grown
white—very white for a man of his age. He was terribly cast down, and
for the first time in my life I saw tears in his eyes when he took us
one by one into his embrace. It was a miserable greeting, and we
children sat down and cried together when he took my mother into a room
alone with mournful solemnity, as if they were going to a funeral.
“When they came forth again, my mother was white as death, but there was
something in her face that told us that she was ready to make a great
sacrifice. Through all the gloom of my father’s sorrow there shone out a
grand and settled love for her. Something that she had done or consented
to do seemed to have anchored her into the very depths of his heart.”
Here Virginia interrupted the girl.
“How strangely your words sound, Ellen. They are those of a woman, not
to say a poet. I cannot realize that you are little more than a child.”
“Nor I; but I was almost always with my father, seldom with the
children—and he _was_ a poet, though I think he never wrote a word of
verse in his life. That, perhaps, is why I speak words that seem strange
and out of place.”
“Strange child—strange child,” said Virginia, tenderly. “I think we do
sometimes entertain angels unawares. But go on, I did not mean to
interrupt you.”
“That night my father gathered us all into the library for family
prayers. He did not read the service—I think his heart was too full for
that—but his prayer to God, as we all knelt around him, was like the
pleading of a sinner for mercy. It was not for himself, we all knew
that, but some thought deep in his soul broke forth in a wail of pain
that made even the little children look around upon his quivering white
face with tears in their eyes. This passionate cry of sorrow merged
itself into a swell of mournful thanksgiving for the love and comfort
which God had bestowed upon the darkness of his life, even in that black
hour. When we all arose from our knees and gathered around him, weeping
in blind sympathy, he blessed us with a smile upon his lip.
“‘Children,’ he said, ‘this is not our home. I—I have sold it and spent
the money. We are very poor people now; scarcely a family in all Ireland
is so poor.’
“‘Father, father, shall we live in a cabin and have a nice white pig to
sleep in the corner and play with, like Michael Croft?’ asked one of the
children. ‘Oh, we shall like that!’
“A faint smile quivered over my father’s mouth. He patted the little one
gently on the head. ‘Yes, child, we will live in a cabin, but it shall
be far away from here, with wild woods and green prairies to look out
upon; where no one will ever learn that we have been better bred than
our neighbors. There shall be plenty of white pigs too, little Willie,
but they must have a cabin of their own, and you shall own a young fawn
to play with.’
“‘That will be brave!’ said little Willie, clapping his hands and
laughing through his tears, while the younger ones brightened up and
scattered off into the next room, eager to talk the thing over, leaving
Brian and myself sitting together, sorrowful with thoughts that they
were too young for.
“‘Is it to America we are going?’ inquired Brian looking wistfully at
his father.
“‘Yes, my son—does the thought frighten you?’
“‘No, father. But must you work there—till the soil like a peasant?’
“‘And does my son fear that?’
“‘For my father, yes. He was born a gentleman,’ answered Brian, ‘for
myself, no.’
“‘That is bravely spoken, my boy! Fear nothing for me. The education
which unfits a man for any duty that lies before him must be imperfect
and, in so much, unworthy. You and I will take our first lesson at
wood-chopping together, while Ellen here shall help her mother with the
housework. We may be very happy in the far West. No one will think of
inquiring there how much or how little we have worked before.’
“He spoke cheerfully, and looked at my mother, who put her hand softly
into his and smiled upon him.
“‘You see this is not so terrible, after all. I knew the children would
not complain,’ she said, in her low, tender voice. ‘We shall only love
each other the better in a strange country. _He_ may yet join us there.’
“My father turned a grateful look upon her, but gave no answer in words,
though a gloom slowly gathered over his face and he sighed heavily.
“Brian went up to him and rested one hand on his shoulder.
“‘Father, I will be a good son, and if ever the time comes that he wants
kindness from a brother, let him try me.’
“Then my father burst into tears. I had never seen him weep before; but
now he sobbed like a child.
“‘Who told you anything of this?’ questioned my mother, fluttering like
a wounded dove around its mate. ‘Why does a child of mine speak in this
way?’
“‘No one has told us anything,’ answered Brian, ‘but we feel, and our
hearts speak.’
“‘See how you have hurt him,’ she said, still dissatisfied.
“‘No, no; I am not hurt. This is gratitude. Why should we hold aloof
from the sympathy of our children? It needs no words. Brian, you and I
will be fellow-workers—fast friends—we understand each other.’
“‘I wish you could feel in earnest how much I love you,’ said Brian,
standing up proudly, like a man.
“‘I did not know myself till now. Here is Ellen, too, with such
sorrowful eyes—’
“‘It is because I am so helpless,’ I answered, when the great swell of
my heart would let me speak. ‘Because I can do nothing.’
“‘Is it nothing that you can be your mother’s comforter and mine?’ said
my father, gathering me in his arms. ‘What could we do without you, my
Ellen?’
“In this mood we broke up that pleasant old home—sold everything, and
with a little money—so little that we could not afford a first-class
passage, even for my mother—went on board that steamer. You know the
rest, but you do not know how often I stood on the verge of our limits
on the deck watching you as you read or talked. Dear lady, my heart went
towards you at the first glance: I longed to throw myself at your feet
as you lay on that white rug, to kiss the hem of your dress. When the
fire broke out—”
Virginia lifted both hands to her face and shrunk back in her chair,
moaning with pain of that awful memory.
“I wanted to tell you something more about my father,” said Ellen, in a
low, penitent voice. “I did not mean to hurt you so. When the fire raged
fiercest, and there was no longer a hope, my father gathered us close to
the bulwark—all but Brian, who had gone to the other side of the deck,
where a boat still swung with its tackling half burned away. While they
were trying to right it, all the cordage parted and it plunged into the
ocean stern foremost, almost carrying Brian with it. A great body of
flame burst up from the deck, separating us with a storm of fire. Then
my father turned away with his face to the water, and said to my mother
and myself what he had wished to say to Brian.
“‘My wife—my child—some of us may be saved. There is no torture in
drowning. Fear nothing worse than death. They have flung spars and
planks into the water; one of you may reach them, and so float till a
ship comes up. Should this happen to either of you, remember the charge
I give. Some time in life you may meet him—I mean my eldest son, Alfred
Nolan—keep nothing back, tell him all that you have seen, all that you
have thought. Say to him that the last words of his father before he
went into eternity were these—remember them well, there may be a soul’s
salvation in them—say to him: Your father dies blessing you, praying for
you, rather than his own life. Say—and mark the words well—that his
father would gladly die this horrible death even of fire, if its agonies
could redeem his son. Tell him that you saw the flames swooping toward
me as I said this—that the fire was roaring under my feet and leaping
into the sky, leaving only a moment of life, which I used for him. Tell
him that the innocent children that will go down with me into eternity
are less dear to me than the one guilty son for whom my last breath of
prayer shall be given. Say that I perish believing that out of my fiery
grave will come repentance, regeneration, and perhaps a useful future to
him. Will you tell him this, my child, my wife?’
“‘We will! we will!’ cried out two voices, blending in a solemn promise.
“Mother stood by, white and trembling, with the little ones clinging to
her skirts. She looked down upon them with low moans of pain, and on her
part clung to the garments of my father. I think if the fire had leaped
upon us then we should have perished embracing each other. The fire did
leap upon us, and went roaring after us foot by foot till we were driven
to the bow, where you stood crowded close with that good man. Then Brian
came through the flames, determined to die with us. We two were saved,
and these last words of our father are all that we brought with us out
of the deep. Some day, lady, I shall see and know my brother Alfred.”
“It was an awful scene; my whole being shudders when I think of it!”
cried Virginia, quivering with the terror of her own memories. “We are
here—you and I, safe; but, ah! me alone! Ellen, I am glad you told me
about this noble father. I saw him then, and the very remembrance fills
me with a solemn trust in the eternal justice of God. Let us watch and
be patient. One person we can trust, and that is your brother. He has a
bright, honest face, like yours, dear—only—”
“More life in it; and his figure is so straight and tall. What a man he
will make!” cried Ellen, brightening all over. “You would not think it,
but he has the pride of a nobleman. That is why he will not acknowledge
to the education which cost his father so much trouble. He does not wish
to be thought a gentleman’s son. As for me, no one would ever suspect
good blood or gentle breeding here. So I pass without question. The
first sight decides my claims to notice. Even that red-haired woman
settled me with a sweep of her hand into something more insignificant
than a servant.”
“Let them think what they will, Ellen. It is enough that I know and love
you as a dear friend,” said Virginia, smoothing the waves of lovely hair
that shaded that earnest face.
“Hush, some one is coming,” said Ellen starting to her feet; “they must
not find me here leaning on my mistress. Shall I open the door?”
There was a knock and the jingle of china in the passage.
“It is Eunice Hurd, I think,” said Virginia, trembling, for the scene of
that morning had shaken her nerves sadly. “Let her in; she seemed
friendly.”
The door was opened and a servant came in with a great silver tray
between her outstretched arms, on which was a delicate tête-à-tête set
of Sèvres china, some glittering silver, and all the paraphernalia of an
epicurean breakfast.
“I thought I’d bring it up here, as you didn’t seem to hitch hosses with
them people down stairs,” said Eunice Hurd, marching after the servant.
“They haven’t taken a morsel yet. Other things to think of, I suppose.
How do you feel now, Miss Lander? Chirker than you did, I reckon. At any
rate, here’s a briled chicken and some biscuit, and _sich_ butter.
Remember the cheny, I calculate?”
While she was speaking, Eunice, opening out a rosewood card-table,
spread a damask cloth upon it with both her large, red hands, while the
purple moire antique shook and rustled under her quick motion.
“Reckoned you would,” she muttered on. “Twelve years old the day he
brought this set of china home. Thought it was for the big wax doll at
first. Mercy on us, how he did laugh! Most people would have let ’em all
been broken up, but I ain’t of that sort. There, marm, is a cup of
coffee smoking hot, and plenty of cream to settle it down—and sich cream
too! The cows have grown so dainty that they won’t touch any thing less
than white clover, with nipping from the rose leaves and apple blossoms
when they flutter into the grass—queer critters, them English cows are;
and sich milk as they give! The calves had a nice time of it this
spring, I can tell you. There’s a snow-white one, with a black spot
shooting up its forehead like an Injun arrow, Joshua wouldn’t have it
killed nohow till you got home. It’s a beauty, I tell you! anything
more, Miss? I’d stay and hand the things my own self, only Miss
What’s-her-name will be prowling inter the kitchen, for anything I know.
Make yourself to home, for it _is_ home so long as Eunice Hurd is under
this roof.”
Eunice gathered up her purple dress with both hands, and was marching
out of the room, then she turned back and added:
“If the little flippertegibbet has a mind to, she can come down any time
and tell me if you want anything—wouldn’t go near the madam or that gal,
if I was you.”
Eunice retreated with these words, sniffing the air as she went.