A FAMILY QUARREL.
Dorothy found Mr. Rushmere chafing with passion, when she returned to
the big room to take her simple supper of bread and milk. Gilbert's
conduct to Miss Watling had cut him to the quick, and thrown down in a
moment the fine castle in the air which he had been for weeks building
for his son's especial benefit.
The sight of Dorothy, whom he looked upon as the real cause of his
bitter disappointment, stirred his generally sluggish nature to its
depths, and his rage burst out with the vehemence of a volcano, caring
nothing for the mischief and ruin which might follow its desolating
course.
He upbraided her with inveigling the affections of his son, and making
him rude and undutiful to his parents--reiterating his threat of sending
her off to seek her own living, and cursing the unlucky hour he brought
her to the house.
He said so many hard and cruel things, that Dorothy was roused at last.
Leaving her supper untasted upon the table, she went across the room to
Mrs. Rushmere, who was standing before the window, with her back to her
husband, weeping bitterly. Dorothy put her arm across her shoulder, and
spoke in a low voice, meant to be calm, but which trembled with
suppressed emotion.
"Mother, I am no longer wanted here. I will go and seek service
elsewhere to-morrow."
"Dorothy, my child, you are not in earnest. You cannot mean what you
say?"
"Father wishes it. I believe that it will be better for all parties. You
are my only friends; the only parents I have ever known. God, who reads
my heart, knows the love I feel for you both, but--but,"--and here poor
Dolly broke down, and flinging herself into the kind woman's
outstretched arms, they mingled their tears together.
"She is right--quite right," said the old man, too angry to be touched
by the grief of the weeping women. "She has been here long enough. It is
time she should go."
"And where is the poor child to go?" asked the wife, pressing Dorothy to
her warm maternal breast. "Have you the feelings of a man, Lawrence,
after she has shared our home for so many years, and been to us a
dutiful and loving daughter, to turn her out upon the wide, wide world."
"She shall go," was the dogged reply to his wife's appeal.
"Don't distress yourself, mother, on my account," whispered Dorothy. "I
am young and strong. I can work for my living. Never fear. God will
raise me up friends, and find me another home." Then turning to Mr.
Rushmere, she addressed him with the calm dignity which was natural to
her.
"Father, after all the benefits I have received from you we must not
part in anger. If I have been in fault, God knows that I have erred
through ignorance, that it was wholly unintentional on my part. I
acknowledge now, what I did not understand before, that I am not a fit
mate for your son. I have given up all idea of being his wife. Speak to
me, father. Say that you forgive me, and let us part in peace."
She slid down on her knees before the stern old man, as he sat sullenly
in the big arm-chair, and looked imploringly into his face. Her rosy
cheeks were deadly pale now, and wet with the tears that flowed
unceasingly from her large black eyes.
Rushmere felt rather ashamed of the violent language he had used--he
softened a little, and replied in a gentler tone,--
"Dolly, you are a good girl. You know I love and respect you, but you
cannot marry my son. I should feel degraded if you were Gilbert's wife."
The blood rushed in a hot tide into the girl's pale wet face, and yet
she shivered as if an arrow had pierced her heart. With a low moan her
head sunk upon the old man's knee, and she shook and trembled with
violent emotion.
"Go," and Rushmere laid his large hand upon the bent head, with all its
glossy ebon ringlets--"Go, and God bless you."
Dorothy rose from her knees.
"Your wishes shall be obeyed, father. I will go, as you desire it. Only
let me stay this night beneath the roof that has sheltered me so long.
I will seek a new home to-morrow. And now, good night. Oh," she cried,
in a tone of bitter anguish, "how hard it is to part from all we love.
To bid you good night for the last time, in the dear old home."
Their eyes met. The old man drew her down to him and kissed her.
"You must go, Dorothy. I am sorry to part with you, but I do so for
Gilbert's sake."
"Who talks of parting? What does all this mean?" cried Gilbert, who had
been standing some minutes unobserved in the doorway, hurrying forward.
"Who is going away? What is the matter with mother and Dorothy, that
they are crying like babies?"
"Gilbert," said Mrs. Rushmere, sorrowfully, "it is Dorothy who is going
to leave us."
"Where is she going?"
"To see service."
"Good God! Mother, are you all mad? What will you do without her? How
can you suffer her to go?"
"I cannot prevent it, Gilbert. It is your father's doing. Ask him."
Gilbert turned wrathfully, and faced the old man. They glared upon each
other like two angry wild beasts.
"So, this is your doing, sir. You thrust an unprotected young girl out
of your house, because she happens to be dear to me! Now, mark my words,
for I mean to abide by what I say. If Dorothy is driven from her home on
my account, I leave it also--leave it, never to return while you live.
Don't cry, mother. Don't shake your head, Dorothy. I am in earnest--so
help me God!"
"What do you say to that, Lawrence?" cried Mrs. Rushmere. "Do end this
disgraceful scene and listen to reason."
"I say," and Rushmere spoke in a voice of thunder, "that he is an
undutiful son, a disgrace to his family; that he may go as soon as he
likes; the sooner the better; that I never wish to set my eyes upon him
again. That's what I say, dame!"
He shook his fist in Gilbert's face, and his brow grew dark with violent
passion.
Dorothy glided round to the back of the chair. She was afraid of his
falling down in a fit. She now fronted her angry lover, and she silently
pointed down to his agitated father, and made imploring gesture for him
to leave the room.
Gilbert read her meaning in her terrified eyes. He was determined not to
go, but to tell his father a bit more of his mind.
"Speak to him, dear mother; he will heed what you say."
Mrs. Rushmere shook her head sorrowfully.
"It is of no use attempting to reason with angry men. It only makes
matters worse. To contradict an obstinate man in a rage, is to add fuel
to the fire. Go to your bed, Gilbert, your father will forget all about
it to-morrow."
"I don't care whether he does or not. My mind is made up. If he is
indifferent to my happiness, and unjust to the woman I love, I will no
longer work like a slave for him. From this hour I am my own master."
He turned and held out his hands to Dorothy.
"Come, Dorothy, darling, come with me. Let us seek our fortunes in the
world together. Here we have no longer a home. See if this strong arm
cannot win one for you."
"I have been the cause of all the trouble, Gilbert. Be reconciled to
your father, and let me go my way in peace."
"How! Do you reject my offer, Dorothy?" He spoke in tones of suppressed
anger. "You surely will not refuse to become my wife!"
"Yes--under existing circumstances. I will never bring sorrow under the
roof that has sheltered me," said Dorothy, firmly, without daring to
raise her eyes to her lover's face.
"Look at me, Dorothy. Look at me straight in the eyes, and then tell me
that you mean what you say."
Dorothy raised her eyes to his, swimming in tears, her lips quivered,
but she replied, in a voice more decided than before.
"Gilbert Rushmere, I cannot be your wife. It is cruel to ask me, in the
face of your father's anger."
"It is enough." He folded his arms and smiled disdainfully. "I shall not
ask you again. I have sacrificed everything for you--and this is my
reward."
He went up to Mr. Rushmere, and held out his hand. He was desperately
angry with Dorothy.
"You hear her, father. She has refused to be my wife."
"She's a sensible girl," said the farmer.
"Perhaps she is," and Gilbert laughed bitterly. "May she never have
cause to repent of her decision. A different course, however, might have
made us happy."
"You have agreed to give him up then, Dorothy?" said Rushmere, eagerly
eyeing the trembling girl.
Dorothy did not speak. Words rose to her lips, but to have given them
utterance would have choked her. Gilbert answered in her stead.
"Yes, sir. She has yielded to your wishes--and we have nothing more to
say to each other. Are you satisfied?"
"Quite, quite, my son," and the old man grasped his hand warmly. A
slight sound, like a suppressed sob, broke the stillness of the great
hall. Gilbert looked round. Dorothy stood firm and erect behind his
father's chair, her right hand grasping the frame, her large eyes wide
open and fixed on vacancy, her features rigid, her face as white as
that of a stone statue.
His heart smote him. He knew the purity of her motives, he saw how she
suffered, but his pride and vanity were alike wounded;--he would not
yield an inch--he would punish her for the decided manner in which she
had rejected his offer. He did not doubt her love, but in that evil mood
he had ceased to love her himself.
"Gilbert, I am glad you acknowledge the folly of your conduct," said the
farmer, breaking the painful silence. "When you don't see the girl, you
will soon forget her, take my word for it. Out of sight out of mind.
There's much truth in those old proverbs."
Gilbert again glanced up at Dorothy, to see how this speech affected
her.
She was no longer in the room.
A few minutes later, the tramp of a horse's hoofs sounded on the
pavement of the court-yard. Dorothy had sought refuge in her own
chamber from a scene she was no longer able to endure. She had sunk down
beside the bed, her head was buried in the pillow; she was sobbing
wildly. That sound broke painfully upon her ear--it was the climax of
her agony. She started to her feet. She sprang to the window, and flung
wide the casement, stretching out her arms with a despairing gesture, as
she caught a glimpse of Gilbert's retreating figure.
"Gilly, Gilly!" she cried, "come back and speak to me. Tell me that we
do not part in anger. That you will forgive your poor broken-hearted
Dolly!"
The gate swung back on its hinges--the figure had vanished into the
night.
"He is gone--he does not hear me," sobbed the distracted girl. "I shall
never, never see him again."
She threw herself on the floor, and prayed that God would end her
life--that she might die in the old house and never see the light of
another day. This was her first great life-trial. She had tried to bear
up against it, to submit with patience to her bitter grief, but her
fortitude had all deserted her now, and she wept with such an
abandonment of sorrow, as if her whole being would dissolve in tears.
This could not last long. After awhile she sat upon the floor, and tried
to comprehend the misery that had overwhelmed her; to think more calmly
of her situation, and the forlorn prospects of the morrow; to hope, that
her fears respecting Gilbert were unfounded; that he had ridden out on
pleasure or business; perhaps, to get over his passion by violent
exercise. She had known him to try that remedy before. It was foolish of
her to look only at the dark side of things.
"He could not leave her in that way if he loved her as she loved him.
No, no, it was cruel of her to imagine such a thing. It was not to be
wondered at that he was vexed with her for refusing him, before his
parents, as she had done. But how could she help it, without breaking
her promise to his father. Surely he must remember that, and exonerate
her for her seeming indifference."
And then, her mind wandered away to her mother; and she wondered why she
should stand between her and her marriage with Gilbert.
She had often heard the farmer tell the story--and a sad story it was,
and never failed to bring the tears into her eyes; but she had never
connected the tale with disgrace or infamy, or thought it possible that
she could be blamed for the poverty, or even guilt, of parents she had
never known.
How could any one prove that her mother was a bad woman, or that she was
base born? Was not that mother's wedding ring, at that moment, pressing
her finger? She, Dorothy, might be the child of sorrow, but who should
dare to say that she was the offspring of shame?
The poor girl's heart began to warm towards this mysterious unknown
mother; all her womanly instincts were aroused to defend her memory; and
she felt indignant that Mr. Rushmere, who had acted so nobly by her, and
her orphan child, should be the first to cast a reproach upon her.
In spite of her simple reasoning, Dorothy keenly felt that the dubious
circumstances in which she had been found, must give a colouring to her
future life; and would not prove a letter of recommendation in helping
her on in the world.
While she was pondering these things in her heart, there came a gentle
tap at the door, and Mrs. Rushmere, in her night-cap and bed-gown
entered.
"What, Dorothy, darling, not abed yet. Alack, I cannot sleep a wink
myself, so as sorrow loves sympathy, I came to have a chat with you. Do
you know that Gilbert is gone? He took his own young horse, and rode
off at full speed. What can he be after at this time o'night? Still,
child, I am right glad that he is gone, and given father time to get
over his anger. When he comes back, which he will early in the morning,
the old man will have forgotten it all--for he dearly loves his son,
though he be cross with him, and with us all, now and then."
"But will Gilbert return?" and Dorothy fixed her eyes, with such an
eager inquiring glance on Mrs. Rushmere's face, that the startled little
woman said, "it made her blood run cold."
"Return?--Yes, that he will. I have no fears about him. The hay must be
carted to-morrow. Gilly never neglects his business. Besides, he shook
hands with his father, and seemed reconciled to giving you up. It's all
right between them now. You had better go off early in the morning,
Dolly, before he gets sight of you, or the love fit will come on
stronger than ever."
"Ah, dear mother," sighed the girl, terribly afraid that her lover was
lost to her for ever, "no fear of that." Her head sunk between her hands
for a few minutes, but, recovering herself, she turned quickly to Mrs.
Rushmere.
"I cannot go before I have milked the cows, and done the morning's work
for you. Oh, mother, mother, what shall I do without you? Who is there
in the world to love and care for me now?"
"Don't fret, Dolly dear, and go to cry the eyes out of your head. You
look as pale as a ghost. Things never be so bad, as at first sight they
seem."
"True, mother," said Dorothy, perseveringly wiping away the rebellious
tears, which would find their way down her pale cheeks, do what she
could to hinder them, "but what is to become of me? Where am I to go?"
"I have been planning that for you, dear child," returned the kind
woman. "You know, my old friend, Mrs. Barford, who lives six miles over
the heath, on the other side of Hadstone. She will be right glad to take
you in for my sake. My mother and her mother were first cousins, and
Jenny and I went to school together. She is none of your idle
ill-natured gossips, but a real kind motherly woman."
"I like the old lady, but her son and his wife are very rough people,"
suggested Dorothy.
"Never you mind that. You go to Mrs. Barford; she owns the farm, and is
the mistress, and tell her all your trouble. Say that I sent you. She
knows you too well to suspect you of coming to her with a lie in your
mouth, or that you have done anything amiss."
"But how do you know, for certain, that she will take me in?" asked
Dorothy.
"Well, Dolly, dear, I have heard that you can never be sure of anything
in this world, but if Jane Barford is living I feel no doubt about it.
Her daughter-in-law is only just about, after her confinement, and has a
baby to take care of, and they are not well able to keep a girl. Jane
does little herself in the house, and I know that they will be right
glad of your help during the busy time."
"Is the younger Mrs. Barford a kind person?"
"I know almost nothing about her. She looks good-natured enough at
church, beside her husband and her fine little boys. She was only a
servant girl, up at the Hall Farm, when Joe Barford married her, which
was a sore vexation to his mother, who had been decently educated at the
same school with me, while this poor ignorant lass did not know a letter
in the book. She is not a very good housewife either. She is tidy
enough, but very thriftless--mean, without the power of being
economical. Joe made but a poor match, and though he works hard enough
himself, they can barely make both ends meet, after paying Mrs. Barford
her thirds."
This short history was everything but satisfactory to Dorothy. She
seemed to comprehend in a moment the discomfort and misrule in the
Barford establishment.
"Mother," she said, after a few minutes thought, "I do not think I shall
suit these Barfords, and I don't think, from your description of them,
that they will suit me. Had I not better seek a place at Storby?"
"Dolly, you be ignorant of town life, and know nothing about town work.
You go to Mrs. Barford, as I tell you, and bide with her, till I can
send you word from home. Things mayn't be so pleasant as they be here,
but you make yourself as comfortable as you can. Your father is not a
hard hearted man; when his passion is over he will be the first to want
you back. He will only find out your real value, Dolly, when you are
gone. As for me, darling, you are as dear to the old mother as her own
flesh and blood. Don't you know that?"
Dorothy's arms closed tightly round Mrs. Rushmere's neck, as she faintly
whispered,
"Yes, ah, yes. It needs no words to tell me that."
"Then keep up your heart, child, and trust in God. All things done by
Him happen for the best. Maybe I shall yet live to see you Gilly's
wife."
This last remark recalled poor Dolly's grief, and she fell to crying
worse than before.
"Now, go to bed, Dolly, and try to get a little sleep. Remember what the
good book says--'Sorrow may last for a night, but joy cometh in the
morning.' We may be worriting ourselves for nothing after all."
The kind honest sympathy of this true friend roused Dorothy from her
stupor of grief. Raising her head from Mrs. Rushmere's supporting arms,
she promised to attend to all her injunctions, and reconcile her mind to
her altered lot. The women parted for the night, and Dorothy laid her
aching temples on her pillow, and soon fell into a deep and dreamless
slumber.