WHAT DOROTHY'S NEIGHBOURS SAID OF GILBERT'S DESERTION.
The news of Gilbert Rushmere's good fortune soon spread through the
parish. The farmer told it to his men in the field, the men told it, as
in duty bound, to their wives, and then it flew like wildfire from house
to house.
Miss Watling invited her neighbours to tea, to talk it over, and have
her say upon the subject.
In her front parlour, or tea room, as she called it, were assembled
several old friends.
The first in place and dignity, Mrs. Barford, senior, to whom had been
assigned the large easy chair, with its commodious fringed cushion, and
well padded elbows. For the special use of her feet a footstool, covered
with a piece of coarse worsted work, which had been the pride of Miss
Watling's school days.
The old lady looked very dignified in her best black silk gown and cap
of real French lace, and seemed to consider herself a person of no small
importance.
Her daughter-in-law, who held a very subordinate position in the
estimation of the public, sat near the window, as red, as plump, as much
overdressed, and as vulgar looking as ever.
A rosy, curly-headed, blue-eyed boy was lounging over his mother's
knees, pulling at her smart cap-ribbons, and beating all the stiffness
out of her gay muslin dress, by pounding it with his head. He was a
beautiful child, and seemed to have it all his own way. Mrs. Sly and
her daughter, Sarah Ann, a coarse black-browed lass of eighteen, and
Mrs. Martha Lane, who kept the small shop, and sold tapes, needles, and
pins, and other small wares in the village, made up the party.
Neither Mrs. Rushmere, nor her adopted daughter, Dorothy Chance, had
been included in the invitation.
Miss Watling looked round the room with a gracious smile, to ascertain
that her guests were all comfortably seated, before she introduced the
great topic, the discussion of which had formed the chief inducement in
bringing them together.
"Well, ladies, I suppose you have heard the news? That Miss Dolly Nobody
won't be Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere after all."
"I never thought she wu'd," said Mrs. Joe, looking up from the child's
sock she was knitting. "Gilbert know'd what he was about, when he run'd
away. It was just to get quit o' her."
"I always said so from the first," returned Miss Watling, "but you all
had such ideas of the girl, that I could get no one to believe me."
"I don't think Gilbert has behaved well," said Mrs. Barford, cautiously.
"Dorothy Chance is a good girl, and a pretty girl."
"Pretty," sneered Miss Watling, interrupting her friend very
unceremoniously, "I could never see any beauty in the wench, with her
round black eyes and skin as dark as a gipsy's. I don't believe Gilbert
Rushmere cared a snap of his fingers for her."
"I know, Nancy, that he was very fond of her," suggested Mrs. Barford,
"and you know it too; for I have been told that he made you his
confidant, and begged you not to press upon him the offer you made him,
of taking your farm on shares."
This was said very quietly, but it was a home-thrust. Miss Watling
coloured up to the eyes.
"I guess who was your informant, Mrs. Barford. Gilbert left that very
night, so you could not get it from him. The story is very worthy of
credit, is it not, coming from such a source?"
"It is not true, then?" and the old lady put down her knitting, and
looked Miss Watling full in the face.
"I did not say that," said Miss Watling, sharply. "It is partly true and
partly false. He did refuse my offer, and gave me his reasons for so
doing."
"What were they?" asked several eager voices.
"He wished to leave the country to get rid of his entanglement with
Dorothy. 'He could not marry,' he said, 'a girl so much beneath him.'"
"And you advised him to go, Nancy?"
"Yes, I did. I thought that it was the best thing he could do. And you
see that I was right."
Mrs. Barford took up her work and smiled.
"It was hard upon the poor old people for you to give him such
counsel--still harder upon the poor girl. It nearly killed them, and
went nigh to break Dorothy's heart. I cannot yet believe that he has
cast her off. Did any of you hear Gilbert's letter?"
"Not read, but we heard the contents, ma'am," said little Mrs. Lane.
"Farmer Rushmere came into my shop yesterday for an ounce of
tobaccy--he's a great smoker.
"'Mrs. Lane,' says he, 'my son Gilbert has been promoted for his gallant
conduct. He's an officer now in His Majesty's service, and is going to
marry a rich young lady in Lunnon, with a portion of six thousand
pounds.' These were the very words he said. 'Lauk, sir,' says I, 'what
will become of poor Dorothy?'"
"And what did he say?" again demanded the eager voices.
"'She must get over her disappointment the best way she can,' says he.
'The girl is no worse off than she wor; she will still have a home at
our house.'"
"Very kind of him, I'm sure," said Miss Watling, "and she owes them so
much."
"I think the debt is the other way," suggested Mrs. Barford. "Dorothy
has repaid them a thousandfold. She has been a little fortune to them,
and, besides her clothes, she receives no payment for her services. As
to Gilbert marrying a lady of fortune, it may be true, it may not; these
stories are always exaggerated. You all know that a great heap of chaff
only contains a third of wheat."
"I have no doubt it's true," cried Letty. "I allers thought Gilly
Rushmere a right handsome feller."
"I don't agree with you there, Mrs. Joseph," returned Miss Watling, to
whom the grapes had become doubly sour, "he was too red and white to
please my taste. His nose was turned up, and his hair decidedly
carrotty."
The other women looked down in their laps and tittered; the same thought
was uppermost in all their minds.
Mrs. Joe, who had no delicacy, and hated Nancy Watling, burst into a
rude laugh, and gave utterance to her's with the greatest bluntness.
"All the parish said that you were over head and ears in love with
Gilbert, Nancy; that you made him an offer of marriage yourself; and
that he refused you point blank, for Dorothy Chance. Remember, I don't
say it's true, but for all that I heard it, and that you have hated both
of them like pison ever since."
Miss Watling rose indignantly from her seat; her stiff black silk gown
rustling ominously; her skinny bony hand extended towards the insolent
speaker in defiance, her small bugle eyes eating her up with scorn. For
a moment her rage was too great for words; her wrath almost choked her.
The ferocious glare fell harmlessly upon little plump Letty, who
continued to stuff her boy with rich plum cake. She meant to anger Miss
Watling, and secretly enjoyed her discomfiture.
"You insignificant, vulgar thing," at length hissed out the offended
lady. "How dare you insinuate such vile stories against my character?
Who and what are you, that you open your mouth against me? Every one
knows the situation you were in, when Mr. Joseph married you, which he
did to make an honest woman of you, and by so doing disgraced himself.
If I did not respect him and his mother, I would order you out of my
house, I would, I would, I would!"
"Don't choke yourself, Nancy, and look so ugly at me. See how you
frighten the child. Don't cry, Sammy, eat your cake. That's a good boy,"
patting his curly head. "Miss Watling won't bite you, child," and Letty
faced the now clenched hand and scowling brow of the injured lady with
an undaunted stare, and a most provoking smile on her red pouting lips.
"Ignorant creature," gasped Miss Watling, sinking into her chair; "but
what can be expected of a dairy-maid? Mrs. Joe Barford, you are beneath
contempt."
"Spit out your spite, Nancy. Hard words won't kill a body; I'm used to
them. But what's the use of all this fuss? I just told you what folks
said of you, and you can't take that, though you speak so hard of
others. People will talk--you talk--I talk, and one's just as bad as
t'other. In course you culdn't help Gilbert wishing to marry a young
maid, instead of an old one. That wor do fault o'yourn; we'd all be
young and handsum, if we could."
This allusion to her age and personal defects was the unkindest cut of
all. Miss Watling put down her cup of tea, leant back in her chair, and
cried hysterically.
Little Sammy looked at her, stopped eating, made a square mouth, and
began to roar aloud,
"Take out that squalling brat," screamed Miss Watling, taking the
handkerchief from her face; "my head will split."
"Don't be skeer'd, Sammy," said Letty, stooping to pick up the piece of
cake the child had dropped in his fright. "The woman's angry with ma;
she o'nt lump you."
Miss Watling had wit enough to perceive that the little woman had the
best of the battle; that she might as well try to catch a flea in the
dark, as subdue the subtle venom of her tongue; so she thought it best
to give in; and wiping the tears, or no tears from her eyes, she drew
herself up with great dignity, and resumed the duties of the tea table,
not, however, without muttering quite audibly to herself.
"Spiteful toad, I'll never invite her to my house again."
"Nobody wants you," retorted Letty. "Just you try an' see if I be fule
enow to come?"
It was well for Letty Barford that much of this speech was lost in the
prolonged roarings of Master Sammy whom the belligerent mother could
only pacify by promptly leading from the room.
Though loath to leave the table and her tea unfinished, the little woman
went out rubbing her hands, and rejoicing in her victory over her
ill-natured adversary. Though Letty was not a whit behind Miss Watling
in spite and malignity, she had no feelings to be touched, no nerves to
be jarred or irritated. People might say what they liked to her; she
did not care as long as she could wound them again, and she went out
laughing at the skirmish she had had with the heiress.
Directly the coast was clear and peace restored, Mrs. Barford, the
elder, took up the conversation. She felt a great liking for Dorothy,
and wanted to hear all she could about her.
"I don't believe this story, Mrs. Lane, about Gilbert and the rich lady.
People always brag so, when any lucky chance happens to them, and old
Rushmere was always a proud man. Can any of you inform me how Dorothy
bore the news of her lover's promotion, and of his giving her up?"
"He's not her lover, Mrs. Barford. You labour under a great mistake,
when you call him so. Did I not tell you, that it was all broken off
before Gilbert went away?"
"I was told," said Mrs. Lane, in a confidential whisper, "that Dolly
fainted dead away after she had read the letter."
"Only think of a dairy-maid, an unknown beggar's brat, giving herself
the airs of a fine lady," sneered the charitable Nancy.
"She has her feelings, I suppose," said Mrs. Barford. "It must have been
a cruel blow, for I know the poor girl loved him with all her heart."
"That she did, ma'am," continued Mrs. Lane, "and the more's the pity.
I'm afeard she loves him still, she looks so pale and thin; and the
bright eyes that were so full of joy and fun, have a mournful, downward
look. It grieves me to see the poor thing. But she never says a word,
never a word; and between ourselves, Miss Watling, Gilbert Rushmere
might have done worse."
"Not without he had taken a woman off the streets. Just imagine Dorothy
Chance a captain's lady," said Miss Watling. "The girl's uncommon
handsome," continued Mrs. Barford. "I believe that she is born to good
fortune."
"I suppose you have faith in the adage, 'Bad beginnings make good
endings.' I am sure her beginning was low enough, and bad enough."
"Oh, Nancy, don't be so severe, we know nothing about that. I saw the
corpse of the mother; and though, to be sure, she was bundled up in
dirty, sorry-looking clothes, she had the smallest, whitest hand I ever
saw. It did not look like a hand that had ever dabbled in dirty work,
but had belonged to a real lady; and the ring we took off the finger was
a wedding ring, and of real gold. She must have prized that ring very
much; or I'm thinking that she would have sold it, to procure a night's
lodging for herself and her child. Dorothy is not like her mother, if
that woman was her mother; she has not a common look; she speaks, and
walks, and acts like one belonging to a better class, and I believe
that she will yet turn out to be a lady."
"Now, Mrs. Barford, that do put me in mind of a conversation I had the
other day with Mrs. Brand, my lord's house-keeper," said Mrs. Lane.
"Mrs. Brand is an old friend of mine, and she told me--but pray, ladies,
don't let this go any further--she told me that my Lord Wilton was so
much struck with Dorothy, and her neat pretty ways, that he had her up
into his library, and talked with her for an hour or more, and he found
out a great resemblance between her and his mother. Mrs. Brand says that
the likeness is kind of miraculous, and my lord asked Dorothy a heap of
questions, and said that she should never want a friend while he lived."
"Hem," responded Miss Watling, tapping her foot quickly on the floor;
"lords don't take notice of girls like her for nothing. Miss Dolly had
better mind what she's about."
"Didn't you hear that she was going to school?" said Mrs. Sly, the
publican's wife, who had sat silent all this time, intently listening to
the gossip of the others. Mrs. Sly was an excellent listener, and by no
means a bad sort of woman, and much fonder of hearing than retailing
gossip. She was esteemed in the village as a nice quiet body, who never
said any ill of her neighbours, but Mrs. Sly never objected to hearing
others talk about them.
"To school," said Mrs. Barford, sitting forward in her chair, and
opening her eyes wide; "I thought the girl could read and write. She and
Gilbert went together to Brewer's school down in the village for years.
Mrs. Brewer always said that Dorothy was the cleverest child she ever
taught."
"Well, Mrs. Martin is teaching her now."
"Oh, I knew she was helping our parson's wife in the Sunday school,"
replied Miss Watling. "That absurd piece of folly that my lord wants to
thrust upon us."
"Why, Nancy, you know nothing," said Mrs. Lane, cutting into the
conversation. "My lord is to give Mrs. Martin a hundred pounds a year to
teach Dorothy Chance to be a lady."
"It's scandalous!" cried Miss Watling, turning livid with spite. "I
wonder Lord Wilton is not ashamed of himself, to try and stick up a minx
like that above her neighbours. It's no wonder that Miss Chance walks so
demurely into church beside the parson's wife, and holds up her saucy
head as if she was somebody. She's a wicked bay tree, yes she is, and
I'd like to scratch her impudent face."
"She's a clever lass, and no mistake, and a good girl, too, that is, if
I may be allowed to be any judge of character," said Mrs. Barford, "and
I've had some sixty-five years' experience of the world. Of Dorothy's
father we know nothing, and, perhaps, never will know anything; but this
I do say, that Gil Rushmere was never comparable to Dorothy Chance, and
we all know that he came of decent parents."
"I'm sick of hearing about her," cried Nancy, impatiently. "I believe
that she'll turn out just like her mother, and die in a ditch as she
did."
"No, no, no," said Mrs. Barford, laughing, "you'll live to see her ride
to church in her carriage."
"I wish I may die first!"
"It is her fate," returned Mrs. Barford, solemnly. "Folks are born to
good or ill luck, as it pleases the Lord. If he lifts them into high
places, no one but himself can pull them down; if he places them in the
low parts of the earth, it is not in our power to exalt them. It's
according to our deserts. He who created us, knows the stuff of which we
are made before we are born; and he puts us in the right place, though
we may fight against it all our lives, and consider it the very worst
that could be chosen for us. I did not see it thus in my young days, but
I begin to find it out now."
During this long oracular speech, the ladies diligently discussed the
good things on the table. Miss Watling hated people to preach over their
bread and butter; but Mrs. Barford had acquired the reputation of being
clever, and she dared not attempt to put her down, though she marvelled
at her want of sense in taking the part of a low creature like Dorothy.
After the table had been cleared, the three other visitors proposed to
join Letty in the garden, and Mrs. Barford and Miss Watling were left
alone together. This was an opportunity not to be lost by the
ill-natured spinster, who determined to be revenged on Letty by making a
little mischief between her and her mother-in-law.
"How do you and Mrs. Joe get on together now?" said she, drawing her
chair close beside the old lady; and speaking in a confidential
sympathizing voice.
"Oh, much as usual; we are not very well sorted. Joe is contented and
that's the main thing. He is a rough fellow himself, and never had any
ambition to be a gentleman."
"Letty with her vulgar tongue is not likely to improve her husband's
manners," said Miss Watling. "I am sure he is a gentleman to her. And
how can you, my dear old friend"--this was said with a gentle pressure
of the arm, and a look of great sympathy--"bear with the noise and worry
of _those_ children? The racket they make would drive me mad."
Mrs. Barford shook herself free of the obtrusive hand and bridled up.
She did not approve of the very strong accent given to the word _those_.
It was an insult, and implied contempt of her son's family.
A woman may listen complacently enough to remarks made against her
daughter-in-law, but say a word against that daughter-in-law's children,
and she is in arms at once. Those children are her son's children, and
to disparage them, is to throw contempt on her. Mrs. Barford thought
very little of Letty, but all the world of the little Letties, and she
was very angry with Miss Watling for her ill-natured remark.
"The children are fine, healthy, clever children, of whom _some_ people
might be proud, if such belonged to them," she said, drawing her chair
back from the table, and as far from her hostess as possible. "But as
that is never likely to be the case, the less said about them the
better. The children are the joy of my heart, the comfort of my old age,
and I hope to live long enough to see them grow up honest independent
men."
Here Mrs. Joe very opportunely opened the door, and master Sammy,
restored to good humour, came racing up to his grandmother, his flaxen
curls tossed in pretty confusion about his rosy face, his blue eyes
full of frolic and glee.
"Ganma, horsey tome. Let's dow home."
The old lady pressed him against her breast, and kissed his sunburnt
forehead, with maternal pride, thinking to herself, would not the
spiteful old thing give her eyes to be the mother of such a bright boy?
then aloud to him, "Yes, my dear boy, young folks like you, and old ones
like me, are best at home." She rose from her chair, and her rising
broke up the party. It was by no means a pleasant one. Everybody was
disappointed. The giver of the feast most of all.
Dorothy Chance, it would have made your cheeks, now so calm and pale,
flush with indignant red; it would have roused all the worst passions in
the heart, you are striving from day to day to school into obedience,
had you been present at that female conference, and heard their estimate
of your character and conduct. Few know all that others say of them,
still less are they cognizant of their unkind thoughts. The young are so
confident of themselves, have such faith in the good opinion which
others profess to entertain for them, that they cannot imagine that
deceit and malice, envy and hatred, lie concealed beneath the mask of
smiling faces and flattering caresses.
It is painful indeed to awake to the dread consciousness that sin lies
at the heart of this goodly world, like the worm at the core of the
beautiful rose; that friends who profess to be such, are not always what
they seem, that false words and false looks meet us on every side; that
it is difficult to discover the serpent coiled among our choicest
flowers.
Dorothy was still a stranger to the philosophy of life, which experience
alone teaches; and which happily belongs to maturer years. But she had
tasted enough of the fruit of the forbidden tree, to find it very
bitter, and to doubt the truth of many things, which a few months before
appeared as real to her as the certainty of her own existence.
Such had been Gilbert's love,--that first bright opening of life's
eventful drama. It had changed so suddenly without raising a doubt, or
giving her the least warning, to disturb her faith in its durability.
How often he had sworn to love her for ever. Dorothy thought those two
simple words _for ever_, should be expunged from the vocabulary, and
never be applied to things transitory again.
She had laughed at Gilbert when he talked of dying for love. She did not
laugh now. She remembered feelingly how many true words are spoken in
jest.
A heavy cross had been laid upon her. She had taken it up sorrowfully,
but with a firm determination to bear its weight, without manifesting by
word or sigh, the crown of thorns by which it was encircled, which,
strive as she would, at times pierced her to the heart.