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.
"Sophia, I am a married man."
"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.