MRS. MOODIE,

AUTHOR OF "ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH."

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 1868.

LONDON:

Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street

CHAPTER I.

MRS. GILBERT RUSHMERE.

The dinner was so well cooked, and so nicely served, that in spite of the unusual hour, Mrs. Rowly and her daughter made a very hearty meal.

Mrs. Rushmere's easy chair had been drawn to the head of the table, and Dorothy sat beside her and carved, Gilbert being unable at present to cut his own food. Dorothy longed to do it for him, when she observed how unwillingly his wife performed this necessary service.

[Pg 2]

"I am a great trouble to you, Sophy," he said; "but directly my arm is healed, I shall soon learn to help myself, as I have seen others do, who had met with the same misfortune."

"It is a good thing to have a wife to help you," suggested Mrs. Rowly.

"Yes, but it makes a fellow feel so dependent. He has to submit through sheer necessity to petticoat government."

"A' don't think that even one arm would make me do that," said Rushmere, "tho' I believe a' had the best wife in Christendom."

Mrs. Rushmere laughed good-naturedly.

"Oh, Lawrence, men be often under their wives' government, an' as ignorant of the fact as babies."

"You speak, I suppose, from experience," said Mrs. Gilbert, in her gentle low voice. "I should have thought the old gentleman a very difficult person for [Pg 3] any wife to manage. I find Gilbert a hard case, in spite of his one arm."

"There's only one way to rule me, and that's by kindness," returned Gilbert.

Without meaning it, perhaps, his voice assumed a serious tone, almost amounting to sadness. He looked up, and his eyes and Dorothy's met; forcing an appearance of gaiety, he said, "What have you to say on the subject, Dorothy?"

"I never give an opinion on subjects I know nothing about. I am the only person in the room who cannot speak from experience. I should think your plan, however, must be the best."

"It is a pity you have not an opportunity of trying it, Miss, What's your name," said Mrs. Gilbert, "in which case you might perhaps find out that kindness can be thrown away."

"I expected to find Dorothy married when I came home," said Gilbert. "I [Pg 4] thought it impossible that the young fellows in the neighbourhood could suffer her to remain single."

"She waited for you, Gilly, till she found it o' no use," cried Rushmere passing the bottle to his son.

"Oh that I had waited for her," was the thought that flashed through Gilbert's mind, charged with a deep regret.

"Father will have his joke," said Dorothy, colouring like a rose, "without thinking that it may be at the expense of another."

Mrs. Gilbert left off eating, and listened keenly to what was passing.

"Believe me, Gilbert, that there is no one present who congratulates you more sincerely on your marriage than I do."

"My dear child, will you help me up stairs?" said Mrs. Rushmere, apprehensive of mischief from her husband's blunt indiscretion and want of delicacy.

[Pg 5]

Gilbert rose, and with his left arm supported her to the foot of the stairs. "Oh, Dorothy," he said, "no wonder that you despise me. God only knows how I despise myself."

"It is too late to repent now, Gilbert. You must try like me to forget. You owe it to your wife, as much as to me."

She passed her arm round Mrs. Rushmere's waist, and left Gilbert at the foot of the stairs. He put the cuff of his empty sleeve to his eyes. Was it to wipe away a tear?

His wife looked daggers at him, when he returned to the table. His father proposed a walk round the farm after dinner, an invitation that Gilbert eagerly accepted, and the mother and daughter were left alone together.

"We shall have a nice time of it here," said Mrs Gilbert. "Let us go out, mother, and take a look round the premises. One might as well be in a [Pg 6] prison as confined to this dark, dingy room."

"I can see no garden attached to the place," said Mrs. Rowly, looking out of the deep bay window which only opened upon the stone-paved court. "That girl who helped at dinner could tell us all about it."

"Don't call her, mamma, I have a perfect horror of that woman. I am certain that Gilbert and she have been very intimate. He never took his eyes off her during dinner."

"You need not be jealous of her, Sophy; I am certain that she cares nothing for him. You are foolish to trouble your head with any love affairs he had previous to his marriage."

"But I am sure he cares for her, and I don't mean to play second fiddle in his father's house to any one but Mrs. Rushmere. If this girl remains in the house I must quit it." [Pg 7]

"And would you like to nurse the sick mother?"

"I hate sick people. Let her hire a nurse."

"She may not be able to do that. I see no indications of wealth here. A carpetless sanded floor, and furniture old enough to have come out of the ark. One room which serves for drawing-room, dining-room and parlour. I dare say these poor people have enough to do to keep themselves."

"But Gilbert said that his father was rich."

"Pshaw! You see now Gilbert has exaggerated matters."

"But what are we to do? I can't and won't live here."

"Till your debts are paid, you must."

"Oh, dear, I wish I were single again," and Mrs. Gilbert began to cry.

"Sophy, when you were single you were never contented, always lamenting [Pg 8] that you were not married. No one ever asked you to marry until I gave out that you would have a fortune."

"And what have I gained by that lie?"

"A handsome, honest fellow, if you would only think so. He would not have been so badly off either, if he had not been forced to sell his commission to pay your debts. He had a fair chance too, of rising in the army, if he had not met with that misfortune. I think you very unreasonable to throw all the blame on him. What now remains for you to do, is to make yourself agreeable to his parents, and secure a home, such as it is, for us."

"I can't pretend to like that old man," and Sophy shrugged her shoulders.

"He's rather an amusing variety of the species," said Mrs. Rowly, "and the easiest person in the world to cajole. But once more, let me tell you, Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere, it is no use quarrelling with your bread [Pg 9] and butter. Put on your hat, and let us take a turn in the open air, perhaps we may chance to meet the gentlemen."

And now they are gone to spy out the nakedness of the land we will tell our readers a little of their private history, and how the young soldier was deceived in his fortune-hunting speculation.

Mrs. Rowly was the widow of a custom-house officer, and for many years lived very comfortably, nay, affluently, upon the spoils which he gathered illegally in his office. Their only child, Sophia, though very far from pretty, was a genteel-looking girl, and educated at a fashionable boarding-school; but just as she arrived at womanhood, the father was detected in his unlawful pursuits, and so heavily fined, that it caused his utter ruin, and having incurred heavy debts to keep up an appearance beyond his station, he ended his days in prison, leaving his wife and daughter to shift for themselves in the best manner they [Pg 10] could.

With the assistance of a brother, who was in the grocery line of business, and of whom they had always been ashamed in their more prosperous days, Mrs. Rowly set up a small boarding-house, in one of the little cross streets in the Minories, and just contrived to keep her head above water for several years, until Sophia was turned of seven-and-twenty. The young lady dressed and flirted, and tried her best to get a husband, but all her endeavours proved futile.

She was ambitious, too, of marrying a gentleman, and looked down with contempt upon shopkeepers' assistants, clerks in lawyers' offices, and mechanics, until the time had nearly slipped by when she could hope, without fortune, to marry at all.

It was then that her mother, finding herself deeply involved, circulated the report in her neighbourhood, that Sophy had been left six [Pg 11] thousand pounds on the death of a cousin, a consumptive boy, who could not reasonably be expected to live many months.

The bait took. Miss Rowly was invited to houses she never before had hoped to enter; and at a ball, given by the mother of an officer in Gilbert's regiment, she met the handsome young man, just raised to the rank of a subaltern, who had so gallantly saved the life of Captain Fitzmorris.

Though still rather countrified in his appearance, she was instantly smitten by his frank, free manners, and his fine manly figure. Some foolish fellow, in the shape of a friend, whispered in Gilbert's ear that the young lady would have a fortune. In a rash moment, when a little heated by wine, and won by her soft flatteries, he made her an offer of marriage. This was instantly accepted, particularly as Gilbert, boy-like, had [Pg 12] boasted of his old ancestral home, and the noble family from which he was descended. And besides all this, he was an officer in the army, and likely to rise in his profession, under the patronage of a wealthy nobleman like Lord Wilton. Miss Rowly was charmed with her future prospects.

Gilbert proposed to take her down to Hadstone as his wife, directly the campaign was over. But his charming Sophia was too fearful of losing him during that indefinite period, and got her mother to propose to him that they should be married before he left for Spain, and that she would accompany him abroad.

They were married; but the affectionate bride, when the time for his departure drew nigh, forgot this part of her promise, and preferred staying at home with her mother, to encountering all the hardships attendant upon a soldier's wife, whose husband was on actual service in a foreign land.

[Pg 13]

During his absence, Mrs. Gilbert and her mother enjoyed every comfort on the credit of their supposed fortune; and when he returned sick and disabled from Spain, he had not been many days at Mrs. Rowly's before he was arrested for the debts his wife had contracted since their marriage.

It was then that Gilbert discovered what a dupe he had been; that the woman he had taken to his bosom was a miserable deceiver; and he had to sell his commission to avoid the horrors of a prison.

After much recrimination and mutual upbraidings on the part of Gilbert and his wife, they at last came to the conclusion that it was useless to quarrel over what could no longer be remedied; that it was far better to sit down calmly and consider what was to be done.

All Mrs. Rowly's furniture had been seized and sold for the benefit of her [Pg 14] creditors, for she was as deeply involved as her daughter.

"Why can't we go home to your father's?" asked Mrs. Rowly. "I am sure your parents will be glad to see you."

Gilbert had some doubts on that head. He knew how he had deserted them; and never having received a line from them, to assure him of their forgiveness, (though this had been his own fault, in omitting to tell them where and how to direct him,) he was sadly at a loss how to act.

And then he thought of Dorothy, and wondered if she were unmarried, and living still with the old people. If so, how should he be able to meet her, and introduce her to the cold selfish woman he had preferred to her? No, he could not, he dared not go back to Hadstone.

"Why don't you answer, Gilbert?" urged his wife. "What prevents you from going home?" [Pg 15]

"I parted with my father in anger. I am doubtful, for he is an obstinate man, whether he will be willing to receive us."

"Don't put him to the trial," said Mrs. Rowly. "Let Sophy write, and tell him we are coming, and start without giving him time to send a refusal. We must go somewhere; to remain here is impossible, for you cannot draw your pension for the next six months, and we cannot live upon air."

Gilbert was terribly perplexed. While pride forbade him to seek an asylum with his parents, necessity compelled him to do so, and though he now almost loathed both his wife and her mother, he was too manly to leave them in distress.

He therefore sold his watch, his sword and regimental suit, to procure money to prosecute their journey; and when he arrived at Hadstone, he had only a few shillings left in his purse.

[Pg 16]

The kind reception he met with cut him to the heart, and the sight of that beautiful girl, who might have been his, almost maddened him with grief and remorse.

When he proposed that walk with his father, he fully intended to open his mind to him, and tell him how he was situated, but shame and pride kept him tongue tied. Besides, was it not his father's fault that he had not married the woman he loved; and could he expect an avaricious man to sympathize with him in the misery he endured, or feel for his present poverty and degradation. So he walked by his father's side over the old fields that had witnessed his labours with Dorothy, without saying a word upon the subject nearest his heart. It was with feelings of inward disgust that he saw his wife and her mother coming over the heath to meet them.

[Pg 17]

CHAPTER II.

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 [Pg 18] 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 [Pg 19] 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 [Pg 20] 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 [Pg 21] 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 [Pg 22] 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 [Pg 23] 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 [Pg 24] 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 [Pg 25] 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."