THE FALSE ACCUSATION.
Dorothy was not sorry to leave the old homestead. All the old
associations that had endeared it to her, and surrounded its gloomy
walls with an atmosphere of love, were broken up or changed so
completely, that she could no longer recognize them. Even the joyous
bark of old Pincher, rushing forth to greet her, on her return from
church or market, had been silenced, oh, how cruelly. She could not bear
to recall the treachery that had robbed her of an humble, faithful
friend.
"I cannot recognize the presence of God in this place, as I once did,"
she thought, "where every word spoken to me is a provocative to evil, to
do as they do, not to do as I would be done by. I have daily prayed to
be delivered from evil, and kept from temptation, and have too often
yielded to the snares laid to entrap my soul. It is hard to dwell with
the scorner, and escape free from contamination."
She was just cording her trunk, ready for its removal to the parsonage,
when Mrs. Gilbert suddenly entered the attic.
"I wish to look into that trunk before you take it away."
"May I ask why, Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere?"
"To see that you have taken nothing but what belongs to you."
"Certainly, if you are mean enough to suspect me of such baseness," and
the hot blood rushed into Dorothy's cheeks, and her dark eyes flashed
with a bright light, that made the cold flaxen haired woman recoil
before them. "But hold," she cried (as Mrs. Gilbert laid her hand
on the trunk,) "I shall not give you the key, except in the presence of
competent witnesses, lest the heart that conceived such an insult should
belie me also."
Springing down stairs, and scarcely feeling them beneath her feet, she
encountered Gilbert in the hall.
"Come with me upstairs, Mr. Gilbert."
"Dorothy, what ails you? Why are you so dreadfully excited? Have you
seen anything?" He had heard of her encounter with the supernatural on
the heath, and for a moment was possessed with the idea that she had
seen the apparition of his mother.
"It is no risen angel," cried the excited girl, "but a human fiend! I
want you to see. Follow me, Gilbert, if you ever loved me, and vindicate
my honour."
Alarmed, for he had never seen Dorothy in such a passion before, and
anxious to learn the cause of her distress, he followed her swift
footsteps into the attic, where he found his wife still standing beside
the half-corded trunk, tapping the floor with her foot, and humming the
tune of a country dance.
She smiled disdainfully, as Dorothy put the key into Gilbert's hand.
"Here is the key of my trunk; will you please to open it, and empty the
contents upon the floor?"
"What for Dorothy? you amaze me--what have I to do with it?"
"To satisfy the suspicions of that woman, I cannot call her lady, the
lie would choke me. She has demanded the inspection of its contents,
lest I should leave the home of my childhood, on the night of my beloved
mother's funeral, with stolen goods in my possession."
At the mention of Mrs. Rushmere's name, who had so loved and trusted
her, the hot fire of anger was quenched, and she turned so faint, she
had to lean against the low wall of the attic for support.
"What a fine piece of acting," sneered Sophia, "it's a pity the girl had
not been brought up for the stage."
"Is it possible, Mrs. Rushmere," and Gilbert looked and spoke sternly,
"that you can have disgraced yourself and me in this outrageous manner,
and cruelly insulted a noble girl, whose shoe latchet you are not worthy
to unloose."
"Open the trunk. Don't talk in that style to me; I have my doubts as to
this fine young lady's honour, and I don't mean to leave the room until
they are satisfied."
"Mr. Gilbert, do what she requires, or, after I am gone, she may accuse
me of theft, when I am not here to defend my character."
"That cannot be recovered, that was lost long ago," said the
cold-hearted woman.
Gilbert reluctantly opened the trunk, and his wife, coolly kneeling down
upon the floor, proceeded to toss over its neatly arranged contents;
presently she dived down among the clothes, and, quickly withdrawing her
hand, held up two silver table spoons.
"Who do these belong to?" she cried with a laugh of fiendish triumph.
"They are not mine," said Dorothy, trembling from head to foot. "They
were never placed there by me."
"Oh, of _course_ not. Every thief is honest till they are found out. I
suppose you never saw these spoons before."
"I have cleaned them a thousand times," said Dorothy calmly, for she saw
that she was in her enemy's power. "They were on the dinner table
to-day. I have not seen them since. In what manner you have contrived to
produce them out of my trunk, God only knows. This I can declare in His
holy presence, that I never placed them there."
"You need not assert your innocence, Dorothy," replied Gilbert, who had
seen an expression on his wife's face that convinced him that she was
the incendiary. "I know you too well to believe you guilty for a
moment."
"That's all very fine, Lieutenant Rushmere, but facts are stubborn
things. I like to unmask hypocrisy, I would therefore thank you to send
one of the men to town for a constable, to convey this virtuous, honest
Miss Chance to jail."
"I want further conviction of her having committed an act deserving such
rigorous measures," said Gilbert.
"What farther do you need? This is no case of circumstantial evidence.
You have the proofs in your hand. Do you think, sir, that I would
condescend to deceive you?"
"'S death! Madam," cried Gilbert in a towering passion, "it would not be
the first time;" and, still keeping the spoons which he had taken from
her in his hand, he went to the door and called Martha Wood. The girl
came up stairs on hearing her master's voice. He went into the passage
to meet her, so that no eye telegraphing could take place between her
and her mistress.
"Martha, did you wash the two large silver gravy spoons after dinner?"
"Yes, sir. What do you want with them?"
"That's nothing to you. Did you put them into the plate-box?"
"No, sir, I gave them to Mrs. Gilbert: she said she wanted them for a
particular purpose. I need not be so nice in cleaning them, she said she
would have a good joke to tell me about them before night."
"Woman, do you hear what this girl says?" asked Gilbert, stepping back
into the room. "Who deserves to be sent to prison now?"
His wife only answered by recommencing the same tune in a louder strain,
as she glided snake like from the room.
"Oh, my God, I thank thee!" said Dorothy, raising her clasped hands.
"Thou hast delivered me from a doom far worse than death!" Taking
Gilbert's sole remaining hand, she pressed it warmly between her own.
"How shall I thank you, dear brother, for saving your poor orphan sister
from disgrace and ruin?"
"Remember me in your prayers, Dorothy. I can no longer pour out my heart
to you, as in the old happy days, when we were all the world to each
other; but there is no sin in asking you to pray for me, a disappointed
and most unhappy man."
He left the room, and Dorothy's lips quivered, and tears again welled
up in her eyes, as she caught a half smothered moan, that told more than
words could do, the bitter anguish that was eating out his heart.
She found the old man moping on the stone bench in the court-yard, his
head bowed upon his hands, his face completely hidden by the snow-white
locks that fell over it in tangled confusion--the beautiful silky hair
of which his wife had always been so proud, which she loved to brush
over her fingers, before he went to church or market. Who was there to
take pride in the handsome old man now? Gilbert had grown reserved and
shy; there seemed little confidence or affection between the father and
son. Dorothy's heart bled for the lonely old man, left so desolate and
uncared for in his heavy affliction.
"Good-bye, dear father, don't fret yourself ill; I shall see you at
church every Sunday, and we can have a nice walk together after service
on the common, to talk over the good old times. You will be sure to
come, won't you?"
"Yes, my darling, if only to see her grave. I know you can't bide here,
Dorothy, that woman would be the death of us both. But if I wor sick or
dying, would you come and nurse the old man who used you so ill?"
"Yes, that I would; if Mrs. Gilbert were to bar the door in my face, I
would climb in at the window. But, cheer up, father, God is good, there
may be many happy days in store for you yet. You must try and live for
my sake."
She put the white locks back from the old man's ample forehead, and,
kissing him tenderly, went her way without casting a backward glance on
the old house.
Before we follow Dorothy to the pleasant home of her friend, Mrs.
Martin, we will step into Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere's chamber, and hear
what is passing there.
When, detected by her husband in her design to ruin Dorothy, she had
borne the exposure of her cruel treachery with an air of insolent
nonchalance, and left the room singing--a common artifice with low-bred
people, who attempt to hide their malignity by an affectation of gaiety
and perfect indifference. The snake hisses before he strikes his victim,
perhaps to give him timely warning to make his escape. The human snake
hisses to hide its disappointment, that it has shown its fangs in vain.
It was terrible when alone to witness the rage that disfigured the
countenance of Sophia Rushmere when she found herself baffled in her
cold-blooded treachery. The tune was changed to curses loud and deep,
and threats of vengeance against the innocent object of her jealous
hatred. She rated Martha Wood in no measured terms for the defeat of
her well laid plot. That individual answered her with corresponding
insolence.
"How should I know what you were after with the spoons? If you had told
me, I could have sworn that I saw Dorothy steal them. What's the use of
making a mystery about your doings to me? I should think I knew too much
about your affairs before your marriage for that."
"But you must have been very obtuse, Martha," said her mistress,
softening down, "not to perceive what I had in hand."
"I should, if I had got a sight of your face. In the manner that Mr.
Gilbert stood in the open doorway, I did not see that you were in the
room until the blunder was out."
"Do you know what he said about it after I left?"
"No, but I saw Dorothy go up to him and take his hand, and he bent down
and kissed her. I saw _that_ through a crack in the door!"
"The shameless wretch!" cried Sophy, stamping with passion. "But for
your folly, I should have had her transported. Thank God! she's gone. I
have got her out of the house at last, and I'll take good care that she
never comes into it again."
"She is too near at hand, I should think, Mrs. Gilbert, for your peace.
If your husband is as fond of her, as I hear folks say, that he once
was, it is a very easy matter for them to meet on that lonely heath,
even in broad day, and no one be a whit the wiser."
The artful girl was heaping fresh fuel on the fire she had kindled in
the breast of her weak employer, and when she had nearly maddened her
with her base insinuations, she went away laughing at her as a
consummate simpleton.
Mrs. Rushmere did not go to bed. She sat up nursing her wrath, and
waiting for her husband. The venom of Martha's poisoned arrows was
rankling in her breast. She considered herself the injured party now,
and no longer dreaded the indignant expression of his displeasure at her
conduct to Dorothy. She would begin the battle first, accuse him of
infidelity, and bear him down with a torrent of words.
Following out this idea, a terrible scene of mutual recrimination took
place between the husband and wife, which ended, as such scenes
generally do, in total alienation on his part, and frantic jealousy on
her's.
Gilbert Rushmere had endeavoured to make the best of a bad bargain, and
though he could not respect the woman who had tricked him into making
her his wife, he had treated her with more consideration and kindness
than she deserved.
The consciousness of having married her for money, involved a moral
sense of degradation, which made him more lenient in his judgment, of
the deceit practised against him; for had it not been mutual, he could
not blame her without including himself in the same condemnation.
For a long time he listened in silence to her maddening speeches,
trusting that the heat of her passion would wear out, that her tongue
would grow tired with continual motion, and that, not meeting with any
opposition, she would give it up as a useless task, and go to sleep. He
was fully aware of her weakness, but not of her obstinate strength of
will.
"Sophia," he said, when utterly wearied with her reproaches for
imaginary injuries, "after the disgraceful scene this afternoon in the
attic, it would be wiser in you to hold your tongue and go to sleep. If
you wish me to retain any affection for you, let me never have a
repetition of such conduct again."
"I shall not keep silence, sir, because you dare to tell me to hold my
tongue. I shall speak when I please, and as I please, without asking
your leave."
"Well, don't expect me to listen to such nonsense. My heart is
overwhelmed with grief for the death of a dear mother. You surely take a
strange time to distress me with your foolish and groundless jealousy."
"And you to show your preference for that vile woman, that hired
mistress of your patron, Lord Wilton!"
"Good heavens! Sophia, what do you mean?"
"I mean what I say, what all the world knows but yourself. Do you think
that I will condescend to be placed below this infamous creature in my
husband's estimation, to be told that I am not worthy to untie her
shoes. You don't know Sophia Rowly, if you can imagine that I will
submit to such an indignity for a moment. _I_, who was born a lady,
received the education of a lady, and was always treated as such, until
I became the wife of Gilbert Rushmere, the son of an ignorant illiterate
tiller of the soil."
"Who has given you a home when you had none, madam, when the debts you
dishonestly incurred during my absence had made beggars of us all. This
illiterate tiller of the soil made you mistress of his house, and placed
you at the head of his table; and this is the way you abuse his
generosity. It was an evil day for him, and those dear to him, when your
foot crossed his threshold."
"You would rather have seen Dorothy Chance at the head of the table?"
"She would be the ornament of any table. You cannot make me believe the
vile scandals propagated against Dorothy by such women as Nancy Watling.
They are just as true, madam, as your accusations against her this
afternoon, when nothing would appease your hatred to this beautiful
girl, but sending her to prison, or getting her transported. It was
murder, however you may disguise the fact; and in perjuring your soul to
ruin her, you dared the wrath of God to damn yourself."
"Fine language, this, to address to your wife," said Sophy, cowering
before her husband's withering and contemptuous glance.
"You deserve it!" he cried, in a voice of thunder.
"I scorn it!" she returned, with a faint laugh, and pointing at him with
her finger.
"It is time, Sophia, that you and I came to an understanding," said
Gilbert, becoming suddenly calm. "If you mean to persevere in this line
of conduct, we must part!"
"The sooner the better!" she said in the same taunting tone, though
inwardly terrified lest he should carry out his unlooked-for proposal;
for, cold and selfish as she was, she entertained for him a passion that
shed a vivifying heat into her torpid nature; it would have been love,
had she been capable of the devotion and self-sacrifice that are the
leading characteristics of that glorious sentiment. She saw the gulf
that yawned at her feet, but was too obstinate to yield. Gilbert now
spoke in a more earnest and decided manner.
"Sophia, do you really mean what you say?" There was something in the
look and manner that was startling; he, at any rate, meant what he said.
She would not retract, but remained obstinately silent. "Will you answer
me?"
"Can you give me a separate maintenance?" she sobbed out at length.
"Will you turn me and my mother out to starve?"
This difficulty had not occurred to him before. It was insurmountable.
He had no means but what he derived from his father, and though as
perfectly divorced in affection as the sanction of a legal tribunal
could have effected, he was compelled, by a dire necessity, to wear the
chain that avarice and ambition had rivetted.
They might henceforth sleep in the same bed, eat from the same board,
and in public act towards each other as husband and wife, but they were
as much divided in heart and confidence as if the wide ocean flowed
between them. Gilbert kept his own secret. Sophia Rushmere gave hers to
Martha Wood, who told it, as a greater secret, to Mrs. Rowly.