Chapter VII: Broken Promises

THREE months later let us look in upon the girl-bride.

It was a warm morning in the middle of May; but poor Gertrude thought not of the weather. She was sitting in her own chamber curled up in a lounging chair, her head resting on the arm, crying as if her heart would break; and truly the scenes through which she had passed during the last twenty-four hours would have brought grief to many a wife of more mature years.

Following their arrival in Chicago, several parties were made in order to introduce the strangers into society. It was true that the extreme youth, the beauty and artlessness of Mrs. Dudley made her an object of interest and attention; and many evenings were by her among friends whom she felt that she could love. But after one occasion when she made some blunder, which caused quite a laugh at her expense; and for which her husband openly reprimanded her; she shrank from appearing in public, and made almost any excuse in order to remain at home.

One day when a number of ladies and gentlemen were calling upon her, an allusion was made to Dr. Kane's Arctic Explorations; and a gentleman said:

"I suppose of course, Mrs. Dudley, you have read his interesting volumes."

"No," she answered innocently, "I have never heard of them."

Paul, who sat near talking with a lady, called the attention of all to his wife by saying in a loud voice:

"Gertrude has no suspicion of any other Cain except the naughty boy who killed his brother."

When the company had gone, he turned to her and said angrily:

"Why need you disgrace me by exposing your ignorance any more than is necessary? Why couldn't you answer that you had not read the books, without adding that you never heard of them? I shall be laughed at for having married a fool."

"I told you I was ignorant; and you promised to teach me," she began, her lip quivering.

"What time have I to hear a-b, ab," he asked with a sneer.

Another time she was on her way to the parlor after tea, when she heard a great shout of laughter. She ran back to her room in an agony of grief and mortification when she overheard her husband reading aloud for the edification of a coarse companion, one of the letters she had written him soon after their engagement. Even in her own room she could hear a fresh burst of merriment when they stumbled upon a word spelled as it could be found in the dictionary.

All this time the affairs in her house were growing more and more confused. One servant after another was engaged and dismissed by the master for some trifling offence, until no decent one would come to them. It had become a habit of Paul's to take his dinners and often his breakfasts at a restaurant, without stopping to inquire where his wife procured her food.

At last he insisted that the usage of society required they should give a party in return for all their invitations, and their cards were accordingly sent out.

Poor, ignorant, unhappy Gertrude shrank with actual pain from the responsibilities of the occasion; and when she timidly asked her husband what she should do, he answered sharply:

"I can tell better what you will do. You'll act like a fool as you always have done," in company. But when she began to cry, he softened a little and explained:

"If you and your servant can manage to have the house in order, I'll excuse you from every thing else. The entertainment will be sent in from the confectioners; and waiters will relieve you of all care. You will take your place by me, nominally to receive the company; but I have engaged a lady every way competent, to do it in reality."

"Will it be Miss Richmond?"

"Yes."

"I would rather have had Marion Gilbert. She is so kind and really tries to teach me." The tone was sad and humble; but Paul did not seem to notice it.

"I have chosen the one I thought suitable," he replied, "and you will show her proper attention."

A spark of the old wilfulness shot from Gertrude's eye as she said:

"Perhaps I shall not see her, I may not be present at all."

"Just as you please, Mrs. Dudley; but remember if you choose to slight my invited guests, I never will forgive you."

She was subdued at once, and with a burst of feeling cried:

"Oh, Paul, I never thought you'd treat me so!"

The whole day of the party, Gertrude and her good-natured, but awkward Bridget spent in sweeping, dusting, washing glass and polishing silver. When night came, the weary child was more fit to go to bed in a darkened room; and have cold applications to her throbbing temples, than to dress and entertain company.

"Do try and get up some color," urged Paul, coming in for the first time since morning. "You look as if you were in the last stages of consumption. I should think you'd have some pride about yourself."

At eight the guests began to arrive; and at nine the rooms were crowded. Two or three times when Paul was introducing some one, Gertrude thought she should faint. The room seemed to whirl about in a most unpleasant manner; and once she was obliged to catch hold of a chair for support. She knew her husband was angry with her, from the occasional glances he gave her, and she longed to be by herself and have a good cry.

Miss Richmond stood near her, talking gayly with every one who came up; entirely ignoring the young wife's presence; and rendering the contrast between them as great as possible.

When the refreshments were passed around, Gertrude sick and giddy, declined the offer of one and another to bring her cake, fruit or ices. She was ignorant that etiquette required her, at least, to toy with her spoon; and did not understand why so many gazed at her, standing unemployed.

Presently Paul caught a glimpse of her and seizing a glass of vanilla-ice said aloud:

"Excuse me, Gertrude, I thought you were supplied."

Her countenance lighted with the attention, and without thought of harm, she said:

"My head aches so badly, I have no appetite."

"Take it," he muttered under his breath; and without another word returned to Miss Richmond's side.

Marion Gilbert happened to be near, and witnessed the by-play. All the evening she had watched Gertrude with a hope to be able to relieve her; but circumstances had kept them apart. Now she stepped forward, and, hiding Mrs. Dudley's blanched face from view, tried to interest her in conversation. She saw with what extreme difficulty the young wife kept back her tears; and soon managed to draw her into a corner where they could chat at leisure. At some inconvenience to herself; she staid with Gertrude until the last guest had departed; and then recommending a late breakfast kissed the poor child good night.

"I'm so weary, I can scarcely stand," Gerty said, as her husband was putting out the lights. "I am so glad it's over."

There was no answer, and understanding by this time that Paul was not pleased, she climbed up the staircase, and throwing off her dress, sank on the couch and soon fell into a heavy slumber.

The first sound she heard was the breaking of glass and starting up, to her surprise found it was broad day light. There was loud, angry talking in the hall; and running to the door Gertrude heard her husband dismissing Bridget and threatening to have her prosecuted for the damage she had done.

This was a severe trial; for though wholly ignorant, Bridget had proved more sympathizing and faithful than any of her predecessors. She knew it was no use for her to plead the girl's cause; and while she was wondering what she should do for breakfast the outer door shut, and Paul had gone.

A timid knock soon after was followed by the girl's entrance.

"I'm going, ma'am; and it's sorry I am for the sake of ye, for any baby can see ye're not fit to be left alone with the like of himself. Wherever are yer friends that they don't come, and take ye away before he kills ye intirely."

"Don't Bridget; don't talk so."

"Feth ma'am, and don't I know that; but sure there's many a husband has killed the girl he's vowed to love by his hard words. Oh, ma'am! I've seen throuble meself; and I knows how to sympathize with ye."

"I know you've been kind, Bridget. I'm very sorry you're going. I don't know what I shall do."

"Put ye're trust in the Lord, ma'am; that's all I can tell ye. Shall I give ye a bit of my life, ma'am. It'll show yer how the good Lord carries his children through a dale of throuble."

"Yes, Bridget, I should like to hear it; but I'm so faint. I've taken nothing since yesterday morning."

"I'll run down, and make ye a cup of tea. It's better for us not to mind the coffee at all, as himself is away."

In a short time she returned with tea and a cracker, which Gertrude swallowed with a relish. Then leaving the cup standing on the table, she began:

"I'm not a girl, ma'am, at all. I'm a married woman; and the ring is in my trunk. Patrick McCarty was as fine a bye as one would wish to see. He coorted me for a year; for he used to take a drop at 'the public;' and I thought it wasn't good for him, and we didn't agree about it. At last he said he'd lave drinking intirely if I'd be married, and come to Ameriky. I had seventeen pounds, ma'am, of my own airning, and a chist of as fine clothes as any one would wish."

"I consinted at last, and directly after our marriage we started for Liverpool. A cousin of Patrick's came along with us; a bold girl, and I didn't like my husband to be talking so loud with her in the car. He took a room for the three of us, with a closet in it for Maggie to sleep in. From the first day he treated me worse than a dog. He wanted me to give up all my money to his care; and when I said 'twas safer for me to keep it in my chist, he abused me awfully; and Maggie took his part against me. I don't know what I should have done if my mother hadn't taught me to pray. I used to go in the closet and ask God to continue my friend; and I had need of him, for one day when I had gone out to ease my burden by walking through the dirty streets, Patrick and Maggie carried my trunk away between them, thinking to get to the vessel and sail without me."

"I was like one disthracted; but whin I found my money and clothes and every thing, even to my Bible, was gone, I told mysilf 'twas no use fretting. I got a place pretty soon out of the city, where I churned butter and washed keelers; and the Lord was helping me grow continted, whin one day I heard a man had been run over and was lying in a shed with no one to look after him."

"I don't know what made me go there, for I had not thought of seeing Patrick; but it was he, poor feller; and I knew at oncet he had but a little while to live."

"I got leave of my mistress to have him moved to my room; and I nursed him as well as I was able, and he, all the time, as humble as one could wish. He and Maggie had quarrelled about the money until they agreed that she should have the clothes, and he, the siventeen pounds. All but one pound was gone; and it cost that to bury him; and I wouldn't be without the thought that I forgave him, the Lord helping me, for a chist full of money."

"Was he sorry for his cruel treatment?"

"Feth, ma'am; and he was that sorry, he'd never forgive himself at all; but, ma'am, I told him I read in my Bible, 'Not rindering evil for evil, or railing for railing, but contrariwise, blessing.'"

The large drops ran down Gertrude's cheeks, as she listened to this simple story. Presently she called Bridget to her, and putting her arms up, drew down the homely face and kissed it.

"You've done me good," she said softly, "and I can't let you go away."