The World Before Them Volume Iii Part 2

"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 inst.i.tution, 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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 att.i.tude, 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 a.s.surance 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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d! 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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.

CHAPTER III.

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 a.s.sist 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 gla.s.s 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 apprentices.h.i.+p 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 dest.i.tute from day to day.