HOW PEOPLE ARE TAUGHT TO HATE ONE ANOTHER.
Mrs. Rowly had been chiding her daughter for showing her temper before her husband's family, pointing out the imprudence of her conduct in such forcible language, that the young lady had promised to behave more cautiously for the future.
She greeted Mr. Rushmere with her blandest smile, and, slipping the little white hand within his arm, told him in her softest voice, "that he must teach her all about farming, as she did not know wheat from barley, or a pig from a calf."
"Lord bless your ignorance, my dear. In what part o' the world were you raised?"
"Oh, I'm a cockney, born within the sound of Bow Bells. What else can you expect of me? I never was out of London before. I am afraid I shall rival the renowned citizen, who immortalized himself by finding out that a cock neighed. I don't think however that I could be quite so foolish as that."
Old Rushmere was highly flattered by the attention paid to him by his daughter-in-law. He complimented her upon her sweet little hand and foot, and told her that he envied Gilbert his pretty wife.
Though, if the truth must be spoken, young Mrs. Rushmere had no beauty of which to boast, beyond a slight graceful figure, and the small hands and feet which had attracted the farmer's attention. Her face was something worse than plain. It was a cold, arrogant, deceitful face, with harsh, strongly marked features, and a pair of long narrow eyes, that never looked honestly or openly at any one, reminding you of some stealthy animal, ever on the watch for a deadly spring.
She loved to say things that she knew would annoy and irritate, in a cold-blooded contemptuous way, and under those half closed eyelids lurked any amount of malice and low cunning.
Though weak in intellect and very vain, she was as obstinate as a mule, and, though moving in a different position from Martha Wood, there was a great congeniality of disposition between them.
Sophia Rushmere was a petty tyrant. Martha Wood, though less cold and calculating than her mistress, knew how to rule over her, and make her a tool and a slave. The pair were well worthy of each other.
Mrs. Rushmere, though simple and natural as a child, had read Sophia's character at a glance. She looked in that dubious face, and felt that it was false. She listened to that low, soft studied voice, and was convinced that the owner could speak in far other and less musical tones, and she wondered how Gilbert could have taken this artificial woman in preference to her Dorothy, and the good mother pitied him from her very heart.
Mrs. Rowly, though sharp and angular, with a ridiculous assumption of consequence, was not so disagreeable as her daughter. She looked like a person who could speak her mind, and that in the coarsest and most decided manner, and carry her point against overwhelming odds, by sheer pretence and impudence, but she could not conceal, like Sophia, her real disposition. If she betrayed like Judas for money, it would not be with a kiss.
"What do you think of my poor Gilbert's wife?" said Mrs. Rushmere to Dorothy, that afternoon, as the latter sat beside her bed.
"Don't ask me, dear mother. I have no opinion to give."
"He is an unhappy man, Dorothy, as all men deserve to be, who sell themselves for money. He had better ha' died in yon battle, than tied himself to that woman."
Dorothy thought so too, but she gave no expression to her thoughts. She merely remarked, "that the marriage might turn out better than Mrs. Rushmere expected."
The meeting between Dorothy and her lover had been less painful than she had anticipated. She no longer regretted the separation which had occasioned her so much anguish, but fervently thanked God that his providence had so ordered it, and she knew from the deep sense of gratitude that overflowed her heart, that it was for the best; that Gilbert Rushmere, though greatly improved in his appearance and manners, was not the man to make her happy.
The enlargement of her own mind, and the society of intelligent people, had made her crave for something higher and better, mentally and morally, than he could ever bestow. She entertained for him much of the old sisterly affection which she felt for him when they were boy and girl, but nothing beyond.
She did not like his wife, but excused the hostility of her manner towards herself. If she had been made aware of the relation which once existed between her and Gilbert, she thought it perfectly natural. Placed in the same situation as Mrs. Gilbert, she might feel a little jealous of an old love too. In this opinion, Dorothy greatly underrated the high sense of moral rectitude which actuated her general conduct. Under the greatest provocation she would have despised herself for wantonly wounding the feelings of another.
She longed to leave the house, for she dreaded the insolence of Mrs. Gilbert and her mother; but Mrs. Rushmere had so pathetically entreated her to stay and nurse her, that she felt that it would be the height of ingratitude to refuse a last request made by a dying friend, and of one to whom she owed so much.
She wanted to go and consult Mrs. Martin, who would point out the best course to pursue in avoiding unpleasant collisions with Gilbert's friends, but she was kept so fully employed, that no opportunity presented itself.
In the meanwhile, Martha Wood had not been idle in the kitchen; by the dint of cajoling and flattering Polly, she had wormed out of her some of the family secrets, which she lost no time in turning into capital. When called by her mistress to attend her to her chamber at night, she came with a face full of importance, as if she had something very particular to communicate.
"Well, Martha, how have you got through the day?" cried Mrs. Gilbert, opening her eyes a little wider than usual, as her confidant approached to undress her.
"Oh, badly enough, ma'am; that Polly Welton is a horrid low creature, not above six months out of the workhouse."
"You ought to have a fellow feeling for her, Martha," said Mrs. Gilbert spitefully.
"I was not a workhouse bird, Mrs. Rushmere," returned Martha, swelling and puffing out her broad cheeks. "You know that well enough. My father was a gentleman, and I was brought up at a private institution, at his expense."
"You need not try to fool me about that, Martha. You have attempted often enough, but it won't go down. Your father might, or might not have been a gentleman. You were a natural child, and your mother a poor creature, who got her living on the streets. So no more of your fine airs to me. What have you been doing with yourself all day?"
"Sitting in the kitchen nursing Jewel," said the girl, with a sulky scowl.
"You might have been doing something. Why did not you offer to help the girl wash the dishes?"
"When you are mistress here, I will do what you bid me. I have no call to wait upon them."
"But they will not keep you for nothing, Martha."
"I don't want them. If you are not satisfied, give me my release and let me go. I could soon get a better place."
"Nonsense! You must do as I bid you, and see that you help that girl Polly in her work to-morrow."
"You would not wish me to help her, if you knew all the vile things she said of you," replied Martha, in an audible aside.
"Of me! What could she say of me? She knows nothing of me or my affairs."
"She did not say she did. But she said that you were old and ugly, and not to be compared with Miss Dolly. That you had not a single good feature in your face. What do you think of the picture?"
"The wretch! But how came she to say all this?"
"Just because I asked her who the plain dark girl was that Mrs. Rushmere called Dorothy. She fired up, like a vulgar vixen as she is, and defended her friend by abusing you. I thought we should have come from words to blows, for I could not sit by and hear my own mistress abused after that fashion. But if you wish me to help her of course I can."
"I'll tell Gilbert. I'll complain to Mr. Rushmere," sobbed Sophia, crying for rage. "If he suffers me to be insulted by his servant I'll leave the house. I've no doubt that Dorothy is at the bottom of it all—who, and what is she?"
"Some child that Mrs. Rushmere adopted years ago. Polly told me, that it was for love of her that Mr. Gilbert ran away and listed for a soldier, because the old man would not give his consent, and this Dorothy refused to marry him."
Mrs. Gilbert's misery was now complete. She sat down in a chair, with her fair hair all loose about her shoulders, staring at the incendiary in a wild vacant manner. At this unfortunate moment, Gilbert entered the room. Hurrying up to his wife, he demanded the cause of her distress.
"Are you a man, Gilbert Rushmere?" she said, slowing rising and confronting him, "to allow your wife to be insulted by your father's menials?"
"How, and in what manner, Sophy?" She repeated the tale of her wrongs as Martha had told them. Gilbert's eye flashed—he turned them angrily upon Martha, who was secretly enjoying the mischief she had made.
"Go to your bed, girl, and let me never hear any of this vile tattling again. It is such stories, carried from one to the other, that ruin the peace of families."
Martha knew that the arrows she had launched had struck home, and left the room without a word in her defence.
Gilbert turned sorrowfully to his wife, who was crying violently.
"Sophy, if you will encourage that girl in bringing you tales about other members of the family, how can we ever live in peace? You know the imperative necessity of curbing your temper, until I am able in some way to provide a living for you. Why will you frustrate all my plans for your comfort by this childish folly?"
"How dare you talk to me, sir, in that strain; when you had the dastardly cruelty of bringing me down here to live in the same house as your former mistress?" She rose and stood before him, with her hand raised in a menacing attitude, and a smile of scorn writhing her lip.
"Good heavens! Sophia, what do you mean?"
"I mean what I say, sir. It is useless for you to deny facts so apparent. Will you have the assurance to say to me that you do not love this girl—this Dorothy Chance?"
"The love I once felt for her? Certainly not."
"The love you still feel for her?" demanded the angry wife.
"Yes, sir, I know it to my cost. But that is no answer to my question. I despise the hypocritical evasion. You know in your heart that you prefer this woman to your wife."
"You will force me to do so, Sophia, if you go on at this unreasonable rate. You must be aware that Dorothy Chance was brought up with me under this roof, and it was natural that I should feel something more than brotherly love for a creature so beautiful and good."
"Stop! Hold your tongue. I won't hear another word," screamed Sophy. "Such a confession is enough to drive me mad."
"It has nothing to do with you, wife. All this is past and gone, and happened before ever I saw you. If my father would have given his consent to our marriage, you would never have been so unfortunate as to become my wife, and I should never have been tricked into the belief that you loved me, and were a woman of fortune." He laughed bitterly, for he saw that this latter observation had completely silenced his wife, who slowly and sullenly retreated towards the bed; and he continued:
"My love for Dorothy, at that time, was a species of madness. I loved her with all my heart and soul, with every faculty of mind and body. She was young, gay, and light-hearted, and, I thought, returned my passion very coldly. I was impatient of delay, and very jealous. I urged her to marry me without waiting for the old man's consent. She had promised him not to do so, and stood to her word, refusing my hand before his very face.
"My God! shall I ever forget the mortification and rage of that moment. I could have killed her. My red-hot love turned to ice. I left the house wishing never to see her face again, and, perhaps, had I known that she was still here, I never should have thrown myself in her way. Are you satisfied now, Sophia? I think you ought to be, after such a degrading confession."
His wife did not answer, though she heard every word. She had slipped into bed and pretended to be sound asleep.