A DEAD DOG.
Before Gilbert went to sleep that night, he fully determined to tell his
father the real state of his affairs, and throw himself and his family
upon his charity, until something should enable him to get a decent
living. The loss of his arm was a great drawback, he well knew; but he
had the reputation of being an excellent practical farmer, which made
him entertain strong hopes of being employed as a bailiff, or overseer,
on some gentleman's estate.
He trusted that Lord Wilton would assist him in procuring such a
situation, and, probably, would employ him on his own property, in
return for the service he had rendered his son.
He knew that his father was a close calculator of domestic expenditure;
that he would soon be tired of keeping such a large addition to his
family, without receiving an equivalent from them in money or services.
He might grumble now and then of having to board him and his wife
gratis; but the additional expense of Mrs. Rowly and the servant, for
any length of time, would make him outrageous.
In everything pertaining to household matters, Sophia was as ignorant as
a child. She had been brought up to catch a rich husband, not to soil
her pretty white hands with work, to spend her time before the glass in
adorning her person, or to lie on a sofa reading novels. He had urged
her, before leaving London, to part with Martha, but she obstinately
refused to do so.
"The idea of waiting upon herself," she said, "was not to be tolerated
for a moment. Martha's term of apprenticeship had not expired, and she
was bound to keep her. And as to dear mamma, she must accompany them,
for she had no money to procure a lodging elsewhere."
What was to be done with such impracticable people, was beyond Gilbert's
power to devise. He turned and tossed all night, and the day broke and
found him as undecided as ever.
In the morning he walked out after breakfast to the hay-field with his
father, and had an excellent opportunity of getting the trouble that
perplexed him off his mind, but his courage failed him altogether, and
he put off the dreaded disclosure that he was utterly destitute from
day to day.
His wife at last suggested that he had better tell his mother, and leave
it to her to break the matter to Mr. Rushmere, entreating him, at the
same time, to spare her in the relation as much as he possibly could.
Since the day of their arrival at Heath Farm, Mrs. Rushmere had rapidly
declined, and was now entirely confined to her own room, which Dorothy
never left, without it was to arrange with Polly the cooking and the
necessary work of the day.
Gilbert generally went up to spend an hour with his mother during the
absence of her kind nurse, and in one of these interviews, he informed
her of his humiliating position, and implored her advice and assistance
in his present emergency.
Mrs. Rushmere was greatly distressed by his communication. Simple and
natural as a child herself, she possessed a great insight into
character, and though she seldom saw either of the women with whom her
son had unfortunately connected himself, she had read their characters,
and foresaw, in case of her death, the miserable life that her dear old
partner would lead with either of them as mistress of the house.
Dorothy, of course, would have to leave, directly she had followed her
to the grave. She reproached herself for keeping the poor girl in her
present disagreeable position, but Dorothy had promised her to put up
with every insult and slight patiently for her sake, and Mrs. Rushmere
rightly conjectured that the time of her emancipation was not far
distant.
"Well, my poor son, I will speak to your father about this sad business.
You must not be impatient, if he feels angry and resentful. I know how
he rejoiced in the idea of your being a rich man. This will be a cruel
disappointment to him."
"Oh, mother dear, it was his fault. Had he been only a little less
avaricious, I might at this moment have been a happy man." He laid his
head beside her on the pillow, and wept like a child.
That night, Mr. Rushmere was duly informed of the communication Gilbert
had made to his mother. He had, however, carefully concealed the
duplicity of his wife, with regard to the fortune, by saying that she
had fully believed that she was to be heir to her uncle's property, and
was as much disappointed as himself. Old Rushmere sat for some time
beside his wife's bed astonished and almost stupefied.
"Oh, dang it, wife," he broke out at last, "this is a confounded bad
business, and ruination to us all. To think that the boy should be sich
a simple fool, to go an' marry a woman older nor himself without being
sure o' the money. Sold his commission too, and to pay her debts--worse
and worse--an' nothing but the pension for his wound to depend on to
keep his wife an' mother from starving. Well, well, that ever Lawrence
Rushmere should be father to such a simpleton."
"Lawrence," and Mrs. Rushmere took the large brown hand of her husband
between her thin pale hands, "you must forgive him for my sake."
"Dang it, wife. How am I going to keep all this posse o' people. It's
unreasonable, that it be; a' won't do it."
"He be your only son, Lawrence, all that will soon be left to you o'
me."
"Oh, Mary, you are not going to leave me, not yet, not yet. A few more
years and then we must both go. But oh, not yet, not yet, my dear, good
wife. Get hearty and well, and old Larry will do all you require o'
him." The stout old yeoman bent over the pillow, and kissed the pale
meek face of his wife, and the tears from her gentle blue eyes.
"Well, Larry, dear, you must do this for me whiles I be living. Give
your son an' his family a home, until such time as poor Gilly's arm's
healed, an' he be able to help himself. You are not a poor man, husband,
an' can spare this much for an only son. An' remember he might have done
better if ye would only ha' let him."
"Aye, I'm sorry for that now. Doll would have made him a better wife
than his butterfly o' a woman. If so be, I have to keep her, Gilly must
set her to work, an' the old mother likewise. I'm not going to keep a
house full o' sarvants to wait upon them."
"Neighbour Sly wants a girl, an' will take Polly off your hands,
Lawrence, an' this Martha Wood can fill her place. But leave me
Dorothy, my darling Dorothy, till I be gone. It won't be long."
On the whole, Rushmere behaved better than could be expected. At dinner,
he told Gilbert that his mother had informed him of his troubles, and he
was willing to take him as partner in the farm; he was to manage the
concern and dispose of all the produce, sharing the returns equally with
him.
Dorothy looked earnestly at the old man, when he made this proposal. She
knew enough of human nature to feel convinced that it would never work
well. That old Rushmere would never consent to act under the direction
of his son, and that his labourers, who were very fond of him, would
never serve two masters. But her influence for good in that house was
over. Advice or remonstrance with a man of Rushmere's obstinate
character was alike vain.
Gilbert was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, which were echoed
by the ladies.
"And now, my dear," said the old man, turning to Mrs. Gilbert, "I can't
afford to keep idle folk. What can you do for a living; can you cook?"
"I never was brought up to kitchen work, father," returned Mrs. Gilbert,
in a very bland voice, "but I can try."
"Dolly can teach you."
"I shan't trouble her," muttered the newly installed mistress of the
house. "A woman of sense surely may acquire a knowledge of such trifling
matters without any particular instructions."
"Ah, my dear, but it requires experience," said Rushmere. "It don't want
a person to be able to read an' write, to brew good ale an' make sweet
butter, an' bake light bread; but it do want practical knowledge o' such
work, as Dorothy here can tell you. She be a first rate housekeeper."
"You need not refer me to Dorothy Chance, Mr. Rushmere, while my own
mother is present. She always was considered a capital manager."
"I dessay, I dessay," quoth Rushmere, nodding pleasantly towards the
lady in question. "Mrs. Rowly looks like a woman well acquainted with
work, an' it would be strange if you could not manage the house an'
dairy between you."
"I think, Mr. Rushmere, there will be no occasion to employ so many
hands in the kitchen," said Mrs. Rowly, glancing significantly at
Dorothy. "Surely my daughter and Martha, with the assistance I can give
them, ought to be sufficient."
"Certainly, certainly," cried old Rushmere, "those be exactly my
sentiments, ma'am. Too many cooks spoil the broth. Polly goes, when her
month expires, to Mrs. Sly's; an' Dorothy, when my dear old wife----"
The farmer stopped short. He could not finish the sentence.
"Cannot I nurse Mrs. Rushmere?" said Mrs. Rowly. "I have had a great
deal of experience in that way."
"No doubt you could," said Rushmere. "Howsomever she won't suffer any
one to help her but Dorothy."
"I shall leave you, father, the moment my services are no longer
required," said Dorothy. "I have a good home and kind friends to go to.
It is only on dear mother's account that I have remained so long. I
shall gladly resign to Mrs. Gilbert my place in the house."
The next morning, on going into the kitchen, Dorothy found Mrs. Gilbert
and her mother up to their eyes in business, examining the contents of
cupboards and pantries, and making a great litter and confusion
everywhere.
She was told when she offered her assistance in restoring the place to
order, that her services were not required by Mrs. Gilbert, whom she
must now consider as mistress of the house, that she must not presume to
interfere with Martha Wood and her work, but confine herself entirely to
Mrs. Rushmere's chamber.
And Mrs. Gilbert commenced her reign over Heath Farm, by treating
Dorothy and Polly as creatures beneath her notice, and decidedly in the
way, while she encouraged Martha in her mischievous tattling, until she
set Polly and her by the ears together.
Old Rushmere grumbled over the badly cooked dinners, the heavy bread and
sour butter, and blamed Dorothy for what certainly she could not help.
One morning Dorothy went down into the kitchen to prepare a little broth
for the poor invalid. The fire was out, and everything in the greatest
confusion. A greasy unwashed floor and dirty towels, and dusters
scattered around on tables and chairs. It was impossible to get the
least thing done without worry and difficulty.
"Polly," she said very gently, "while you remain here you should do your
duty to your employers. Why is your kitchen so dirty, and your fire
always out, when I want to cook broth or gruel for your poor sick
mistress? Things should not be in this disgraceful condition, and you
have Martha to help you."
"Martha help me. Lauk, Miss Dorothy, she be no help to a body, she make
all the dirt and muddle she can. She do take my nice white dish keeler
to wash her missus' dirty dawg. I can't prevent her. I says to her only
yesterday, if a' do that agen, I'll tell Miss Dorothy. 'Go to the
devil,' says she, 'with yer. Miss Dorothy she be no missus o' mine. Mrs.
Gilbert's missus here now. I'd like to hear Doll Chance dare to set me
to work.' My heart's a breakin' wi' her dirty ways and her saucy
impertinence. I'm right glad I'm going to-morrow; the old house a'nt
like it wor."
"But this don't excuse you, Polly, for letting the fire out."
"Mrs. Gilbert told me hersel to let the fire go down directly the
breakfus wor over. 'Miss Dorothy wull want it,' says I, 'to make the old
missus her broth.' 'Let her want,' says she, 'or make it hersel. I don't
mean to attend to her wants, I can tell you.'"
"Alas, alas!" sighed Dorothy, "what a house of misrule. Poor old father,
how will it be with him by and bye, when they begin to abuse their power
so early?"
Like the sailors, she saw breakers ahead, but had no power to steer the
vessel off the rocks.
"Missus Gilbert," continued Polly, glad of getting some one to whom she
could tell her griefs, "is allers jawing me, for not doing the work. But
while her fat lazy girl sits doing naught, but towzleing the dawg, I'm
not a' goin to kill mysel wi' work."
"Bear it patiently for a few hours, Polly. You will soon be free now.
Run, there's a good girl to the woodstack, and bring some sticks to
rekindle the fire."
In a few minutes, Polly rushed back to the kitchen, and flung an arm
full of sticks down with a bang upon the hearth that could be heard all
over the house, and holding up her hands cried out at the top of her
voice. "A's been an' gone an' done it. I knew a' wud, directly a' got a
chance."
"Done what?" demanded Dorothy, her cheeks blanching with terror.
"Ow'r Pincher ha' chawed up yon lump o' white wool."
"Killed Mrs. Gilbert's little poodle?"
"Ah, as dead as a door nail."
"I am sorry for it, very sorry. She will make an awful fuss about it,
Polly. Did you see Pincher do it?"
"No, but Martha says a' did it. She oughter to know. See, she be coming
in, crying an' roaring as if it wor a dead child."
Martha ran into the kitchen carrying the dead dog in her arms, screaming
and shouting in a state of great excitement.
"Oh the precious Jewel? the darling pet! What will my mistress say? How
shall I tell her? Oh, oh, oh."
Hearing from the next room the outcries of her servant, Mrs. Gilbert
hurried in and demanded what all the noise was about.
"Oh, ma'am, just look here at your beautiful dog," sobbed Martha,
holding up the little creature, from whose throat the blood was dripping
all over the floor.
"Who has dared to ill use my dog?" cried Sophy Rushmere, not yet aware
he was dead, and she turned and glared at Polly with the ferocity of a
tigress.
"Oh, he is dead!" screamed Martha, "stone dead."
"Who killed him?"
"The horrid brute Pincher."
"Call Mr. Gilbert to shoot the monster."
"A' can't do it, ma'am," said Polly, very innocently. "A' ha' got but
one arm."
"Hold your tongue you impudent jade. I have no doubt you set the other
dog to worry him." Mrs. Gilbert took the dead dog in her arms and cried
aloud.
Dorothy went up to her, and very kindly offered to examine the little
animal, and ascertain whether he was really dead.
"Don't touch him!" screamed Sophy, pushing her rudely away. "I dare say
you are glad of his death, and know more about it than you choose to
say."
Dorothy drew back with an air of disgust. "I can excuse your grief
and annoyance at the death of the poor dog, who was a pretty harmless
little creature, but not your insulting those who never injured him.
Perhaps if it were a fellow-creature, you would not feel the least
distress about it."
"Martha," said Mrs. Gilbert, paying no heed to her, "go and call your
master. I will be revenged on that ferocious beast. If he refuses to
kill him, I will kill him myself."
Dorothy became suddenly aware of the danger that threatened her old
favourite.
"Good heavens!" she thought, "this cruel woman will never execute her
threat. Gilbert will not suffer her to destroy the good old dog."
"Mrs. Gilbert," she said in a voice of entreaty, "I hope you do not mean
to hurt the dog. It is the nature of these animals to quarrel and fight
with each other. The death of Pincher would do you no good, while it
would greatly distress Mrs. Rushmere, who loves the dog."
"Oh, I suppose you care nothing about him, when I see you feeding and
caressing him every day. You have no regard for my feelings. There was
nothing in the world I loved so well as my dog."
"Not even your husband, Sophy?" said Gilbert, who just then came in.
"Now don't expect me to be very sorry for the death of my rival. When
Martha came running to me in the field, I thought something terrible had
happened."
"Could anything be worse?" sobbed his wife, kissing the head of her dead
favourite. "If you have any regard for me, Gilbert, you will just go out
and kill the hateful wretch that murdered him."
"Kill Pincher! I would lose my other arm first."
"God bless you, Gilbert!" cried Dorothy, with her eyes full of tears. "I
felt certain you would never kill such an old friend."
That speech, meant for his good, decided the fate of poor Pincher. A
sinister smile passed over Mrs. Gilbert's pale face. She dropped the
body of Jewel upon the floor, and left the room.
After she was gone, Gilbert took up the animal and carefully examined
the wound.
"Pincher never did this. The dog has been stabbed with a knife. The
jugular vein is completely severed. I never cared much for the creature,
who gave more trouble than a child, but it was a dastardly thing to do."
"I saw Pincher do it," said Martha, sulkily.
"You saw no such thing," retorted her master. "It is a base lie. It is
more likely you did it yourself."
Martha gave way to a fresh burst of hysterical crying and ran upstairs
to her mistress. Gilbert called Polly to fetch a spade and bury the
dead dog in the garden.
"Martha," said Mrs. Gilbert, as that worthy came into her chamber, "shut
the door and come here to me. I will give you half a crown if you will
hang the dog Pincher."
"La, ma'am, keep your money. It's Dorothy Chance's dog, and I'll hang
him to spite her. She's fonder of that ugly cur, than ever you were of
Jewel. It will vex her dreadfully if anything happens amiss to him."
"So much the better," cried the amiable Sophia. "I shall then be
revenged on them both."
So Pincher was hung without judge or jury, as innocent of the crime for
which he paid the penalty, as many a poor creature condemned upon
circumstantial evidence had been before him.
Dorothy was the first to discover her old favourite, dangling from the
low branch of an apple tree in the orchard. A cry of anguish and
surprise brought Mr. Rushmere and Gilbert to the spot.
"Dolly, girl! What's the matter?" cried the yeoman, "your face is as
white as a sheet!"
Dorothy answered by pointing to the dog, and walked away to hide her
tears.
Gilbert, hardly less distressed than herself, guessed the truth in a
moment. His father, flew into a frenzy of passion, and threatened to
inflict all sorts of punishment on the dastardly rascals who had killed
his faithful brave old dog.
"A man would never have done it," muttered Gilbert. "This is the work of
a jealous woman."
And he felt the deepest abhorrence for the author of the outrage.