Doubly false

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.