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  THE WORLD BEFORE THEM.

  A Novel.


  BY

  MRS. MOODIE,

  AUTHOR OF "ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH."


  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. III.


  [Illustration]


  LONDON:
  RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
  1868.




  LONDON:
  Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street




  THE WORLD BEFORE THEM.




  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.

"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 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
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.

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 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."

"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
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
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
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
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 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.

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 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?"

"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.

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.




  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 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 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 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 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
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 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 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 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 fashion. 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 attitude, 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 assurance 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