The World Before Them Volume Iii Part 7

Alarmed, for he had never seen Dorothy in such a pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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, G.o.d only knows. This I can declare in His holy presence, that I never placed them there."

"You need not a.s.sert 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 circ.u.mstantial 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 pa.s.sion, "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 pa.s.sage 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 G.o.d, 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sion. "But for your folly, I should have had her transported. Thank G.o.d! 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.