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diff --git a/42145-8.txt b/42145-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0f119ce..0000000 --- a/42145-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5501 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The World Before Them, by Susanna Moodie - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The World Before Them - A Novel (Volume 2) - -Author: Susanna Moodie - -Release Date: February 20, 2013 [EBook #42145] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD BEFORE THEM *** - - - - -Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Sue Fleming and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from scanned images of public domain -material from the Google Print project.) - - - - - - - - - - THE WORLD BEFORE THEM. - - A Novel. - - BY - MRS. MOODIE, - AUTHOR OF "ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH." - - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. II. - - - LONDON: - RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. - - 1868. - - - - - LONDON: - Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street. - - - - -THE WORLD BEFORE THEM. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE MARTINS. - - -The cottage, in which the Martins resided, was a quaint-looking -white-washed tenement, which opened into the burying-ground of the -small Gothic church, within whose walls the prayers of many generations -had been offered up. It stood in an isolated position, on the other side -of the heath, and was approached by the same deep sandy lane, which ran -in front of the farm, and round the base of the hill, commanding a fine -view of the sea. - -A few old elms skirted the moss-covered stone-wall that surrounded the -churchyard, adding much picturesque beauty to the lonely spot, casting -their fantastic shadows in sunlight and moonlight upon the long rows of -nameless graves that clustered beneath them. These grassy tenements, so -green and quiet, looked the abodes of perfect peace, a fitting resting -place, after the turmoil of this sorrowful life, to the "rude -forefathers" of the little hamlet, which consisted of a few thatched mud -cottages, that clustered round the church, and formed a straggling -street,--the public-house in the centre, a building of more recent date, -being the most conspicuous dwelling in the place. - -This was the evening resort of all the idlers in the neighbourhood; and -standing near the coast, and only two miles distant from a large -sea-port town, was much frequented by sailors and smugglers, who -resorted thither to drink and gamble, and hear Jonathan Sly, the -proprietor, read the weekly paper, and all the news of the war. -Dorothy, in her walks to and from the parsonage, generally avoided the -public thoroughfare, and turned off through a pathway field, which led -to the back of the house, having several times encountered a gang of -half-drunken sailors, and been terrified by their rude gaze, and still -more unwelcome expressions of admiration. - -Dearly Dorothy loved the old church, in which she had listened with -reverence, from a child, to the word of God. - -Her mother had found her last resting-place beneath the sombre shadow -of an old yew tree, that fronted the chancel window. - -No sunbeam ever penetrated the dark, closely interwoven branches. No -violet opened its blue eyes amid the long grass and nettles that crowned -that nameless heap of "gathered dust." - -Dorothy had often cleared away the weeds, and planted flowers upon the -spot. They drank in the poisonous exhalations of the melancholy tree, -and withered and died. - -She tried rose bushes, but those flowers of love and light shared the -same fate. The dank prophetic-looking yew frowned them into death. - -Dorothy regarded all these failures with a superstitious awe, and -glanced at that lonely grave, from a distance, with baited breath, and a -strange chill at her heart. - -That giant tree, the child of past centuries, that stood watching over -it like a grim sentinel, seemed to her simple mind like an embodiment of -evil. It had no grace, no beauty in her eyes; she had even -sacrilegiously wished it levelled to the earth. It kept the sun from -shining on her mother's grave; the robin and linnet never warbled their -sweet hymns from among its heavy foliage. It had been planted by some -one in the very despair of grief, and the ghost of sorrow hovered under -its gloomy canopy. - -In spite of this morbid feeling, a strange sympathy with the unknown -parent often drew Dorothy to the spot. A visit to the churchyard had -been a favourite evening ramble with her and her lover, and, when tired -of their seat on the low stone wall, they wandered hand in hand down to -the sea-shore, to watch the passing sails, and to bathe their feet in -the glad blue waters. Even in the churchyard, love, not divinity, formed -the theme of their conversation; the presence of the dead failing to -repress the hopes and joys of their young gushing life. - -In her walks to the parsonage, Dorothy felt a pensive delight in -recalling every circumstance that had happened in these summer evening -walks with Gilbert Rushmere. They were of little moment at the time, -scarcely regarded; but absence had invested them with a twofold -interest. - -First love stamps upon the memory of youth its undying image; and from -trifles light as the thistle's down can erect for itself a monument -more durable than granite. - -What a halo of beauty it casts over the scenes in which its first sight -was breathed, its first vows fondly whispered, making the desert and -solitary places to blossom as the rose. - -Even those bleak salt marshes bordering the sea, over which the sea-gull -flapped her heavy grey wings, and which resounded to the pewitt's -melancholy monotonous cry, possessed a charm for Dorothy. - -From those marshes Gilbert and Dorothy drove up the cows to be milked. - -On the banks of that sluggish river that lay like a dead thing between -its slimy mud banks until filled by the tide, in which few persons could -discover anything to interest the imagination, the twain, when boy and -girl, used to fish for crabs with a small hooped net, after the tide had -retired. - -Those were happy times, full of sport and glee. How they used to laugh -and clap their hands, when the ugly spider-like creatures tumbled into -the trap, and fought and quarrelled over the bait that had lured them to -destruction. - -The old haunts, the well-remembered objects, however repulsive to the -eye of taste, were dear to Dorothy; they brought her lover nearer, and -she forgot the long stretch of sea and land that divided them. - -She never imagined that absence and the entire change that had taken -place in his mode of life could make any alteration in his views and -feelings with regard to herself; that it was possible that days and even -months could elapse without his casting one thought on her. - -Fortunately for Dorothy, she had so much to employ her hands during the -day, in order to get leisure to study in the evening, that it was only -during these solitary walks that she could live in the past and build -castles for the future. Mr. Martin, the good curate, had welcomed his -wife's young pupil with parental kindness, and soon felt a deep interest -in her. - -He was a slight feeble looking man, with a large head and still larger -heart. No sour gloomy fanatic, hiding disappointed ambition under the -mask of religion: but a cheerful, earnest Christian practically -illustrating his glorious faith, by making it the rule of life, both in -public and private. - -His religious impressions had been formed at a very early period by a -pious parent, and he was an only child. Early deprived of a father's -care, the good providence of God had watched over the widow and her son, -uniting them by that most holy of all ties, the love of Jesus. - -Before his mother was removed by death, she had the joy of beholding -Henry actively employed in the Divine Master's service; and she expired -in his arms, earnestly requesting him to hold fast his faith, and to -meet her in heaven. - -He had promised, with God's help, to do this, and had struggled manfully -with overwhelming difficulties to obey that solemn injunction. - -He had married in early manhood a woman he loved, without any reference -to worldly prudence; and though much physical suffering had resulted -from being poorly paid, and having to support a rapidly increasing -family on very inadequate means, Henry Martin was never heard to repine. -He was poor, but really a happy man. The cruse of oil and barrel of -meal, though often nearly exhausted, had still been supplied; and the -children, though meanly clad, and nourished on the most homely fare, -were healthy, loving and full of promise. - -The good curate declared with a full and grateful heart, that his cup -overflowed with undeserved blessings. He lived within his humble means -and was satisfied. But sickness came, and took from him a noble dutiful -boy, the very pride of his eyes and the delight of his heart; and -doctors' bills and funeral expenses had curtailed their means; and the -morning that Mrs. Martin paid her visit to the Hall was the first that -had ever seen the worthy man and his family reduced to plain bread. - -When Mrs. Martin communicated the unpleasant fact, he received it with -his usual trust in the providence of God. "We shall not be deserted, -Rosina; the Heavenly Father will give us daily bread. Have faith in -God." - -With a heavy heart, the poor wife had set off on her visit to the Hall, -determined to ask the assistance of Lord Wilton in behalf of her -husband. In this she was prevented, by the munificence of the noble -gentleman. On her return, she flung herself upon the breast of her more -trusting partner, and communicated the happy intelligence; weeping in -the very joy of her heart, while she informed him of the better -prospects in store for them. - -"Restrain these transports, my dear Rosina," he said, as he folded the -poor weeper to his kind heart, "or bring them as a thank offering to the -good God, who has so miraculously saved us from want. Let us kneel down -together, and while we return our sincere thanks for his great mercy, -let us beseech him to keep us humble in prosperity, lest this reverse of -fortune should render us proud and forgetful of our duty." - -Dorothy soon found herself quite at home with the good pastor and his -amiable family. Dearly she loved the little ones. Her solitary life had -given her few opportunities of cultivating the acquaintance of children, -or of drawing out their affections. To her simple womanly heart, nursing -the baby was a luxury, a romp with the older children, a charming -recreation, a refreshment both to soul and body, after the severer -labours of the day. - -When her evening lessons were concluded, the little flock would gather -round her knees, by the red firelight, to hear her sing in her melodious -voice, the ballads of "Chevy Chase," and "Lord Thomas and Fair Ellen," -or tell the story of "Hans in Luck," or the less practical fairy tale of -the White Cat. - -Harry, the eldest, a very sensible boy of nine years, greatly admired -the ballad lore, but was quite sceptical as to the adventures of the cat -princess. - -"I don't believe a word of it, Dolly," he said. "I never heard a cat -speak. My cat is nearly white, but she never says anything but mew. I -like the story of Hans, it sounds more like truth, for I think, I should -have been just as foolish, and made no better bargains than he did." - -"Oh," cried little Johnnie, "I love the story of the dear Babes in the -Wood, only it makes me feel so cold, when they lie down and die in each -other's arms, in that big and lonely wood. Do tell it again, Dolly -dear," putting his white arms around her neck, and kissing her, "I will -not cry this time." - -Harry was quite a genius in arithmetic, and had asked his father, as a -great favour, that he might instruct Dorothy in that most difficult of -all sciences to one possessing a poetical temperament. - -"Now, Dolly, you must get the pence table by heart, I found it harder to -learn than all the others. As to the multiplication table, that Rosey -calls so difficult, and is always blundering at, that's mere play," and -he snapped his fingers. "But this about the pound, shillings, and pence -is very hard." - -"Oh no, Harry, that is the easiest of all," said Dorothy, laughing. "I -have been used to add up money ever since I was a little child. Ask me -what so many pounds of butter, at such a price, any price you like to -name, comes to; and I think I can tell you correctly without table or -book." - -"But who taught you, Dorothy?" asked the wondering boy, after having -received correct replies, to what he considered, puzzling questions. - -"Necessity and experience," quoth Dorothy, "but I made a great many -mistakes before I got into their method of teaching, and was sure that I -was right." - -"Your mental arithmetic, Dorothy," said Mr. Martin, looking up from his -book, greatly amused by the controversy, "in its practical results is -quite as useful, or more so than Harry's. It serves the purposes of -every day life, which seldom involves great speculations." - -"Ah, but," said Dorothy, "my lessons cost me no little trouble. Father -scolded, and sometimes whipped me, when I did not make the money come -right, and I had to look sharp after it the next time; so you see I was -not so clever as you think me." - -"Everything that is worth having must be obtained with labour," said Mr. -Martin. "God has wisely ordered it so, not only in worldly matters, but -in the more important affairs of the soul. Saving faith never comes to -any one, without diligently seeking for it, earnestly praying for it, -and making it the first great object of life; and even then it will -remain a dead letter, without it reforms the character; and influences -all our dealings with our fellow-men. The sincerity of our faith lies in -deeds, not in words; for when we act as Christians, God works with us, -and proves the genuineness of our profession, by the fruit which it -brings forth." - -"Ah," said Dorothy, with a half-regretful sigh. "How I wish that I were -indeed a Christian." - -"May God confirm that wish, my dear child, and in so doing, confer upon -you the greatest blessing that he can impart to man." - -During the winter months, the Sunday-school was held in the curate's -kitchen, a large room, able to accommodate forty or fifty pupils. For -some weeks the attendance was very small, and gave little encouragement -to the teachers. - -In vain Mr. Martin addressed his congregation from the pulpit, and urged -upon them the importance of sending their children to be instructed; the -wealthier farmers disapproved of the movement, and the poor men in their -employ were too much afraid of being thrown out of work, by giving them -offence, to yield to his earnest pleading. His exhortations fell to the -ground unheeded; the children of the men employed at the Hall farm -alone complied with his urgent request. - -Mrs. Martin at length determined to take Dorothy with her, and visit -every cottage in the parish, and see how far they could prevail with the -mothers to allow their little ones to come once a week for instruction. - -They found everywhere great unwillingness, and abundant excuses. - -One woman, when urged to send a fine girl and boy to be taught, replied -very sulkily, - -"Bill has to keep farmer Pipers' 'oggs on Sundays--'oggs can't keep -theirselves." - -"But the girl," suggested Mrs. Martin. - -"Is it my Sally you want!" quickly replied the sturdy dame; leaning her -head on the top of the broomstick, with which she was sweeping the -house; and looking defiantly at the questioners. "She has to take care -o' the babby." - -"Cannot you take care of it, for an hour, after church is over, Mrs. -Carter, while Sally attends the school?" - -"No I can't," screamed the woman, at the top of her shrill voice, "and -don't mean to try. Sunday's the only day I've got, that I can call my -own, an' I go to see the neighbours, an' to hear the news. Yer should be -satisfied, Mrs. Martin, marm, that I go to hear yer husband preach once -a day, without wanting to take away the children, an' spoil em for work, -wi' yer book larnin' an' nonsense. So good day to you," and the coarse -vixen flung the door in the lady's face, and indulged within her own -castle in a hearty fit of laughter. - -"This is not very encouraging, Dorothy," said Mrs. Martin. "Lord Wilton -will find more difficulty in establishing his school than he -anticipates. It is hard to deal with these ignorant people; but their -rudeness must not discourage us from the performance of our duty." - -"If Mr. Martin will give out, after service to-morrow," said Dorothy, -"that he will instruct all the children who like to come from the next -parish, I think we should soon get plenty of scholars." - -"You would provoke them to jealousy." - -"Yes, and it will be sure to succeed. That woman who refused to send her -children just now, would let them come, rather than have another woman's -children from Storby enjoy the privilege she refused." - -Dorothy's suggestion was acted upon. The Storby people were invited to -send their children to Lord Wilton's school. The Hadstone folks were -provoked to emulation, and the next Sunday the school room was filled to -overflowing, and Dorothy and Mrs. Martin commenced their labours in -earnest. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -GILBERT'S GOOD FORTUNE. - - -Lord Wilton had been absent in London for several weeks. The Rushmeres -had received no tidings of Gilbert, and the time would have passed -drearily enough for Dorothy, but for her lessons and the increasing work -at the school. - -One bright March morning, Dorothy was alone in the big room at the Farm -spinning, and, as usual, pondering over the fate of her absent lover, -when her day-dream was disturbed by a sharp rap at the door from the -butt end of a riding-whip. - -The whirr of the wheel ceased, and Dorothy opened the door. It was Lord -Wilton himself, looking thinner and paler than when she had before seen -him. He raised his hat with a melancholy smile, as Dorothy stood -blushing and awe-struck on the threshold. - -"I bring you good news of your lover, Dorothy, and here is a letter from -the youth himself to his father, which came enclosed in one I have just -received from my son." - -Dorothy's colour went and came, as she took the letter from the -nobleman's outstretched hand. - -"Will your lordship be pleased to alight?" - -"Not to-day. My presence would spoil the delight of reading that letter, -which you will be sure to do the moment I am out of sight. But I must -tell you," he continued, bending down kindly from his horse, and -addressing Dorothy in a most earnest manner, "what, perhaps, Gilbert -Rushmere may omit to do in that letter, and which I know will please -you all." - -Dorothy raised her lustrous eyes to Lord Wilton's face, with a look of -eager inquiry, as he went on. - -"Tell Mr. Rushmere that his son behaved most gallantly in that terrible -battle. The ---- Regiment was in the very thick of the fight, and -suffered tremendously. When my son received the wound that struck him -down, young Rushmere bestrode the body, and finally carried it off on -his shoulders, under a heavy fire from the enemy. For this noble act he -has been promoted to the rank of a sergeant, but his advancement will -not end there. - -"What, in tears, Dorothy?" he added, in a softer tone, and regarding the -young girl with an air of melancholy interest. "I thought my news would -make you so happy." - -"So it does--so it does," sobbed Dorothy. "Oh, my lord, there are tears -of joy as well as of sorrow. If I did not cry my heart would burst," -and covering her face with her apron, Dorothy retreated into the house. - -"Happy girl," said Lord Wilton, as she disappeared, "how I envy her this -honest burst of natural feeling." - -"How rude Lord Wilton must have thought me," said Dorothy, when she -regained her composure. "Never once to inquire after the health of his -wounded son. And he so kind, as to take the trouble of riding up himself -to bring us Gilbert's letter." - -She looked wistfully at the precious document she still held in her -hand. "How I wish that father and mother were in. How I long to know all -that he has written in the letter." Here, she kissed it passionately. - -"His hand has been just there, when he wrote the direction. What joy to -know that he is alive and well--has acted like a brave man, and received -a brave man's reward. God has been very good to us, to cover the dear -one's head in the day of battle." - -The old clock struck twelve. Dorothy hurried to cover the table for -dinner. - -Rushmere and his man were in the field sowing barley, the boy following -with the harrows; her mother absent at the house of a sick neighbour. -She knew that dinner must be ready to a minute. Her mind was in such a -flutter of excitement, that she found the every day task very difficult -to perform. - -Every thing seemed to go wrong--the fire would not burn, or the pot boil -as quickly as usual, and Dorothy was hot and tired, when Mrs. Rushmere -came in. - -"You are late, my child," she said, throwing her bonnet and shawl upon a -side table, "hurry with the dinner. Father is washing his hands at the -pump, and the men are coming in. You must have been thinking of -something besides your work." - -"Oh, mother," returned Dorothy, as she placed the large round of boiled -beef upon the table. "Lord Wilton has been here, and gave me this letter -from Gilbert. I have such good news to tell you. It was that that put me -into such fluster, that I hardly knew what I was about. Had I not better -wait to read the letter until after the men are gone, and father is -comfortably smoking his pipe?" - -"Yes, certainly. A letter from Gilly! Lord Wilton brought it himself! -How kind--how good of his lordship. Quick, Dolly, with the potatoes and -dumplings. I will draw the ale. Let us get the dinner over as fast as -possible. I feel in such a tremor I shall not be able to eat a morsel." - -Never did a meal seem so long. The men, hungry with their work, ate with -a will, and when their appetite began to slacken, they discussed the -state of the land they had been seeding, and the probable chances of a -good crop. - -Dorothy and Mrs. Rushmere could scarcely control their impatience, and -thought that they meant to sit at the table for ever. At last they gave -over from sheer inability to eat more. - -"Well, master," said Sam Boyden, rising, "you'll be wi' us presently?" - -"Ay, by the time the horses have had their feed. By God's blessing, we -must finish putting in the crop afore night. It looks for rain, an' that -heavy clay wu'd be too claggy to harrow to-morrow." - -"I 'spect yer right, master," and hitching up his nether garments, and -lighting his short black pipe, honest Sam and his boy departed. - -Without waiting to clear the table, Dorothy drew the letter from her -bosom. "From Gilly, father," and she held it up before the old man, with -an air of triumph. - -The unlighted pipe dropped from the farmer's hand. - -"The Lord be praised! Then my dear boy is alive. Let us hear what he has -to say o' himsel.'" - -Dorothy broke the seal and read as follows: - - "My dear father and mother, - - "You will be surprised to find that I am in England once more, - and have not been to see you. But I have duties to perform that - will not allow me to quit my post. You will have read in the - papers a full account of the battle of Corunna, and the death of - our gallant commander, Sir John Moore. I was one of the soldiers - who helped to lay him in his grave. It was a sad sight. We all - shed tears. We had not time to make a coffin, we wrapped him up - in the glorious flag we had defended with our lives, which was - stained with the heart's blood of as brave a man as ever died - fighting for his country. - - "I have not time to tell you all our sufferings during our - retreat to the coast. The fighting was nothing to the hardships - we endured. But, thanks be to God, we are once more in dear old - England. - - "Our regiment was among the first that charged upon the enemy. - I felt a little cowardly, when the order was given for us to - advance. I thought of you and mother, and the tears were in my - eyes. When we got into the thick of it, and I saw my comrades - falling around me, it made a man of me at once. I could have - fought the devil. - - "In leading his troop to the charge, Lord Fitzmorris was in - advance of the men, and got surrounded by the enemy. We rushed - to the rescue, and put the rascals to flight, but not before the - Captain had fallen from his horse severely wounded. I saw that - he was still alive, and carried him to the rear on my shoulders - amidst a heavy fire. The men cheered--it was the proudest moment - of my life. I nursed him during the voyage home, and he is now - out of danger. For this act, which was prompted by the love and - esteem I had for him, I was made sergeant, in the place of Tom - Johnson, who fell in the battle. He was a fine jolly - good-tempered fellow--a great favourite in the regiment. I felt - sorry that I was a gainer by the loss of a valuable life. But - this is not all. When we arrived in England, I was presented - with a lieutenant's commission, purchased by Lord Wilton, as a - reward for the service I had rendered his son. I am now a - gentleman--an officer in His Majesty's service, and have been - congratulated on my promotion by all the officers in the - regiment. Our colonel himself was the first to shake hands with - me, and Lord Fitzmorris introduced me at the mess. I hope you - and dear mother will feel proud of your son. It was the best - thing I ever did, when I quarrelled with you all and left home. - I might have remained all my life a country hawbuck, trudging at - the cart tail. - - "The folks here make quite a lion of me, and say that I am a - handsome dashing fellow. I shall look out for a rich wife by and - by, when the war is over, and try to restore the fallen fortunes - of the old house. I have a young lady in my eye, to whom I was - introduced last night. She will have a fortune of six thousand - pounds when her uncle dies. She paid me many compliments, and - danced with me several times during the evening." - -A thick mist floated before Dorothy's eyes. She was seized with an -universal tremour, and made a convulsive grasp at the table to keep -herself from falling. - -"Why do you stop, girl?" cried Rushmere, impatiently, too much engrossed -by his own exultant feelings to notice the change that the last few -lines had produced on the poor reader. - -"Hush, Lawrence," said Mrs. Rushmere, who saw it all, and hastened to -pour out a glass of water for the pale, gasping, heart-stricken -creature, "you see she cannot help it." Then, in her kind, considerate -voice, she addressed Dorothy. "Go to your room, my dear child, and -compose yourself. I will try and read the rest of the letter to your -father." - -The shock had been electrical, thrilling through every nerve of her -body. It was so unexpected--such a reverse to the joyous feelings with -which she had opened the letter, that Dorothy was stunned, and as yet -hardly conscious of the extent of her misery. - -She took the glass of water mechanically, and drank the whole of the -contents. Pride came to her assistance. She could not bear that Mr. -Rushmere, whose stern eye was fixed upon her, should read all the -anguish of her heart. Choking down that bitter pang was not done without -a tremendous effort, but it was done and successfully. Her hands ceased -to tremble, and her voice became steady, as she read to the end of the -fatal letter. - - "We are busy raising recruits to fill up the blanks in the - regiment, and I am ordered on this service. Directly our - complement is complete, we embark for Spain, under the command - of Sir Arthur Wellesley. I shall not be able to run down to see - you; but remember me kindly to all the Storby and Hadstone - folks, and believe me to remain, your affectionate son, - - "GILBERT RUSHMERE." - -The dreadful task was ended. Dorothy quietly put down the letter on the -table, and left the room. - -"Wife," cried the old man, rubbing his hands, "that be glorious news." - -"It is a great mercy, Lawrence, that his life was spared," returned the -mother, thoughtfully. - -"Spared--his life spared. My woman, is that all you ha' to say at the -good fortin of our son? Think o' him as an officer--a brave man--and a -gentleman!" Wishing to flatter her female vanity, he added, with a -shrewd smile, "He wor a handsome, straight-built feller--he will look -well in his grand uniform." - -"Not dearer to me, Lawrence, than he was in his farm slop. I suppose his -promotion is all for the best," she continued with a sigh. "I shall be -satisfied if he brings back to us the same warm heart. King George may -have got a good soldier, and we may have lost an affectionate son. His -letter is not like my Gilbert--it does not make me feel so happy as I -expected." - -"You are thinking o' the lass now, Mary. You ought to rejoice, woman, -that he has given up all thoughts o' her. Such low notions wu'd not suit -him now. He seems determined to marry a lady, and build up the old -house." - -"The house is good enough for the old inhabitants, Lawrence. As to -Dorothy, she would be no disgrace to a richer family than ours." - -"It was kind o' presumptuous, dame, in her, to think o' marrying wi' our -son. But I see how the wind blows. You think a deal more o' the lass -than you do o' your brave son." - -"I should have thought better of Gilbert had he sent a kind word to -Dorothy, knowing, as he does, how much she loves him. The poor young -thing, my heart aches for her. I hope, Lawrence, you will have the sense -not to talk of him before her. It would be jagging a painful wound, -while it is yet fresh and bleeding." - -"Whist, woman, hold up, don't be arter telling me what to do, or not to -do. I'm master o'v my own house any how--an' o'v my own tongue, to boot. -I'm glad, right heartily glad that 'tis all off atween Gilbert an' -Dolly. Bless me," and he rose hastily from his chair, "I ha' quite -forgotten the barley--an' I hear Sam hollowing for me. Well, well, this -be the best news that ha' come to the house for many a long day." - -He left the room rubbing his hands, a fashion he had, whistling and -singing alternately a stave of a harvest song. - -"I'm ashamed of Lawrence," said his kind wife, looking after him with -the tears in her eyes. "To hear him singing like a boy, when he knows -how the little maid is suffering. Ah, well," wiping her eyes with her -apron, "it's no use talking--men never did, and never will understand -the feelings of us poor women. It's not in their hard rough nature, so -it's no use expecting any sympathy from them." And with a heavy heart, -in spite of the good news about her darling son, Mrs. Rushmere commenced -clearing the table of the empty platters. - -And what had become of Dorothy? She left the room scarcely conscious of -what she was doing, and, without hat or shawl, wandered out upon the -heath. Instinct guided her steps to the lonely hollow, in which had been -unfolded the first page in her life's history. There she was sure to be -alone. No curious eye would venture there, to mark her grief or probe -the anguish of her heart--the spot was haunted ground. - -There she sat down--not to weep--her sorrow had not as yet found the -blessed relief of tears. She could only press her hands tightly over her -heart, and from time to time moan piteously--"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" - -Every thing felt so blank and strange. There was such dull emptiness, -where a few minutes before there had been such bounding joy. - -It was long before a wave of thought broke in upon that deep dead calm; -or her mind awoke to the painful conviction of her utter bereavement--a -loss never again to be recovered in this cold unsympathizing world. - -Had Gilbert been dead--had he fallen in his first battle, with the -blessed consciousness that his last thoughts had been of her, the bitter -pang would have been endurable. He still lived, but was dead to her. -Nay, worse--he had ceased to love her--had forgotten her--did not -trouble himself even to mention her name, or send one kind word of -remembrance. - -This was no casual omission--it was evidently designed. The blow was -meant to strike home--to convince her that he had cast her off as a -thing not worth remembering, or only as a stumbling block in his path to -fortune. Had she deserved this? How full of bitterness was the thought. -She could not dismiss it from her mind--it was graven there with a pen -of iron. The reality was too certain to admit of excuse or palliation. -It had become fact. - -When he left his home in anger, she never imagined that it was with -her--that he really meant what he said. When she remained firm to her -duty--to the solemn promise she had given to his father, it was with the -idea that she was serving him, and she had sufficient faith in his -affection for her, to believe that he appreciated the heroic sacrifice. - -He had cast her off there and then--had relinquished her for ever. He -had asked her to leave the house with him, to become his wife, in the -very face of his father's anger; she had refused to accede to his -request, and he had taken it as a final decision. She realized it all -now. - -But who was to blame in the matter? Had it not been her own act? She had -stood firm to her word, and he had proved to her, bitterly proved to -her, that he could as obstinately adhere to his. - -But she had loved him--so faithfully, so well--had been so confident of -his fidelity, that she could not as yet bring herself to believe, that -he would part with her in that cold heartless manner. That he had left -his parents, his country, his home, all the happy associations of his -boyhood and youth, to be revenged on her. - -She who had sacrificed her own feelings to do what she considered to be -her duty. It was hard to think so meanly of Gilbert Rushmere. But he -deserved it. The bitterest pang of her grief lay there. - -He was no more worthy of her love. She must learn to forget. - -Even in these moments of humiliation Dorothy felt that she had acted -right, nor did she for an instant regret the course she had pursued. -This sense of rectitude was the only prop upon which she could lean in -her hour of desolation, but she found it, as every one will find it, a -column of strength. - -Hiding her crushed affections deep down in the silent chambers of her -soul, she bowed her knees to the Heavenly Father, and in solemn earnest -tones, besought the assistance of the Divine Comforter, to help her in -her hour of need, and teach her resignation. - -Who ever sought a healing draught from that life-giving fountain, and -turned empty away? If their faith was too small to receive the full cup, -some healing drops would reach the parched lips, to cool the burning -thirst, and reconcile them to a sorrowful lot. - -With Dorothy it was but a softening mist, a dew scattered by the spray -of a fountain, that reached the arid desert of her heart--but ah, how -magical were the effects. The hard resentful feelings which had been -gathering against her ungrateful lover, gradually melted, and she wept. - -Wept and prayed for the broken reed on which she had so long leant--the -idol of clay, at whose feet she had so long worshipped; and while she -forgave his desertion, she entreated of Heaven to bless him--to make him -a wise, good man, useful in his day and generation. - -The shades of night were closing fast around her, when Dorothy rose from -her cold resting place, and returned home to perform her usual domestic -labours. Her love was dead, but she had gained courage to bury it -decently and sadly, and without uttering one wail, that might break -upon the ears of the unsympathizing world. Her heart was the grave, -into which she could retire at any moment to weep--the funeral lamp was -ever burning--the sepulchre decked with flowers--and peace brooded -there--a dove with folded wings. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -WHAT DOROTHY'S NEIGHBOURS SAID OF GILBERT'S DESERTION. - - -The news of Gilbert Rushmere's good fortune soon spread through the -parish. The farmer told it to his men in the field, the men told it, as -in duty bound, to their wives, and then it flew like wildfire from house -to house. - -Miss Watling invited her neighbours to tea, to talk it over, and have -her say upon the subject. - -In her front parlour, or tea room, as she called it, were assembled -several old friends. - -The first in place and dignity, Mrs. Barford, senior, to whom had been -assigned the large easy chair, with its commodious fringed cushion, and -well padded elbows. For the special use of her feet a footstool, covered -with a piece of coarse worsted work, which had been the pride of Miss -Watling's school days. - -The old lady looked very dignified in her best black silk gown and cap -of real French lace, and seemed to consider herself a person of no small -importance. - -Her daughter-in-law, who held a very subordinate position in the -estimation of the public, sat near the window, as red, as plump, as much -overdressed, and as vulgar looking as ever. - -A rosy, curly-headed, blue-eyed boy was lounging over his mother's -knees, pulling at her smart cap-ribbons, and beating all the stiffness -out of her gay muslin dress, by pounding it with his head. He was a -beautiful child, and seemed to have it all his own way. Mrs. Sly and -her daughter, Sarah Ann, a coarse black-browed lass of eighteen, and -Mrs. Martha Lane, who kept the small shop, and sold tapes, needles, and -pins, and other small wares in the village, made up the party. - -Neither Mrs. Rushmere, nor her adopted daughter, Dorothy Chance, had -been included in the invitation. - -Miss Watling looked round the room with a gracious smile, to ascertain -that her guests were all comfortably seated, before she introduced the -great topic, the discussion of which had formed the chief inducement in -bringing them together. - -"Well, ladies, I suppose you have heard the news? That Miss Dolly Nobody -won't be Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere after all." - -"I never thought she wu'd," said Mrs. Joe, looking up from the child's -sock she was knitting. "Gilbert know'd what he was about, when he run'd -away. It was just to get quit o' her." - -"I always said so from the first," returned Miss Watling, "but you all -had such ideas of the girl, that I could get no one to believe me." - -"I don't think Gilbert has behaved well," said Mrs. Barford, cautiously. -"Dorothy Chance is a good girl, and a pretty girl." - -"Pretty," sneered Miss Watling, interrupting her friend very -unceremoniously, "I could never see any beauty in the wench, with her -round black eyes and skin as dark as a gipsy's. I don't believe Gilbert -Rushmere cared a snap of his fingers for her." - -"I know, Nancy, that he was very fond of her," suggested Mrs. Barford, -"and you know it too; for I have been told that he made you his -confidant, and begged you not to press upon him the offer you made him, -of taking your farm on shares." - -This was said very quietly, but it was a home-thrust. Miss Watling -coloured up to the eyes. - -"I guess who was your informant, Mrs. Barford. Gilbert left that very -night, so you could not get it from him. The story is very worthy of -credit, is it not, coming from such a source?" - -"It is not true, then?" and the old lady put down her knitting, and -looked Miss Watling full in the face. - -"I did not say that," said Miss Watling, sharply. "It is partly true and -partly false. He did refuse my offer, and gave me his reasons for so -doing." - -"What were they?" asked several eager voices. - -"He wished to leave the country to get rid of his entanglement with -Dorothy. 'He could not marry,' he said, 'a girl so much beneath him.'" - -"And you advised him to go, Nancy?" - -"Yes, I did. I thought that it was the best thing he could do. And you -see that I was right." - -Mrs. Barford took up her work and smiled. - -"It was hard upon the poor old people for you to give him such -counsel--still harder upon the poor girl. It nearly killed them, and -went nigh to break Dorothy's heart. I cannot yet believe that he has -cast her off. Did any of you hear Gilbert's letter?" - -"Not read, but we heard the contents, ma'am," said little Mrs. Lane. -"Farmer Rushmere came into my shop yesterday for an ounce of -tobaccy--he's a great smoker. - -"'Mrs. Lane,' says he, 'my son Gilbert has been promoted for his gallant -conduct. He's an officer now in His Majesty's service, and is going to -marry a rich young lady in Lunnon, with a portion of six thousand -pounds.' These were the very words he said. 'Lauk, sir,' says I, 'what -will become of poor Dorothy?'" - -"And what did he say?" again demanded the eager voices. - -"'She must get over her disappointment the best way she can,' says he. -'The girl is no worse off than she wor; she will still have a home at -our house.'" - -"Very kind of him, I'm sure," said Miss Watling, "and she owes them so -much." - -"I think the debt is the other way," suggested Mrs. Barford. "Dorothy -has repaid them a thousandfold. She has been a little fortune to them, -and, besides her clothes, she receives no payment for her services. As -to Gilbert marrying a lady of fortune, it may be true, it may not; these -stories are always exaggerated. You all know that a great heap of chaff -only contains a third of wheat." - -"I have no doubt it's true," cried Letty. "I allers thought Gilly -Rushmere a right handsome feller." - -"I don't agree with you there, Mrs. Joseph," returned Miss Watling, to -whom the grapes had become doubly sour, "he was too red and white to -please my taste. His nose was turned up, and his hair decidedly -carrotty." - -The other women looked down in their laps and tittered; the same thought -was uppermost in all their minds. - -Mrs. Joe, who had no delicacy, and hated Nancy Watling, burst into a -rude laugh, and gave utterance to her's with the greatest bluntness. - -"All the parish said that you were over head and ears in love with -Gilbert, Nancy; that you made him an offer of marriage yourself; and -that he refused you point blank, for Dorothy Chance. Remember, I don't -say it's true, but for all that I heard it, and that you have hated both -of them like pison ever since." - -Miss Watling rose indignantly from her seat; her stiff black silk gown -rustling ominously; her skinny bony hand extended towards the insolent -speaker in defiance, her small bugle eyes eating her up with scorn. For -a moment her rage was too great for words; her wrath almost choked her. -The ferocious glare fell harmlessly upon little plump Letty, who -continued to stuff her boy with rich plum cake. She meant to anger Miss -Watling, and secretly enjoyed her discomfiture. - -"You insignificant, vulgar thing," at length hissed out the offended -lady. "How dare you insinuate such vile stories against my character? -Who and what are you, that you open your mouth against me? Every one -knows the situation you were in, when Mr. Joseph married you, which he -did to make an honest woman of you, and by so doing disgraced himself. -If I did not respect him and his mother, I would order you out of my -house, I would, I would, I would!" - -"Don't choke yourself, Nancy, and look so ugly at me. See how you -frighten the child. Don't cry, Sammy, eat your cake. That's a good boy," -patting his curly head. "Miss Watling won't bite you, child," and Letty -faced the now clenched hand and scowling brow of the injured lady with -an undaunted stare, and a most provoking smile on her red pouting lips. - -"Ignorant creature," gasped Miss Watling, sinking into her chair; "but -what can be expected of a dairy-maid? Mrs. Joe Barford, you are beneath -contempt." - -"Spit out your spite, Nancy. Hard words won't kill a body; I'm used to -them. But what's the use of all this fuss? I just told you what folks -said of you, and you can't take that, though you speak so hard of -others. People will talk--you talk--I talk, and one's just as bad as -t'other. In course you culdn't help Gilbert wishing to marry a young -maid, instead of an old one. That wor do fault o'yourn; we'd all be -young and handsum, if we could." - -This allusion to her age and personal defects was the unkindest cut of -all. Miss Watling put down her cup of tea, leant back in her chair, and -cried hysterically. - -Little Sammy looked at her, stopped eating, made a square mouth, and -began to roar aloud, - -"Take out that squalling brat," screamed Miss Watling, taking the -handkerchief from her face; "my head will split." - -"Don't be skeer'd, Sammy," said Letty, stooping to pick up the piece of -cake the child had dropped in his fright. "The woman's angry with ma; -she o'nt lump you." - -Miss Watling had wit enough to perceive that the little woman had the -best of the battle; that she might as well try to catch a flea in the -dark, as subdue the subtle venom of her tongue; so she thought it best -to give in; and wiping the tears, or no tears from her eyes, she drew -herself up with great dignity, and resumed the duties of the tea table, -not, however, without muttering quite audibly to herself. - -"Spiteful toad, I'll never invite her to my house again." - -"Nobody wants you," retorted Letty. "Just you try an' see if I be fule -enow to come?" - -It was well for Letty Barford that much of this speech was lost in the -prolonged roarings of Master Sammy whom the belligerent mother could -only pacify by promptly leading from the room. - -Though loath to leave the table and her tea unfinished, the little woman -went out rubbing her hands, and rejoicing in her victory over her -ill-natured adversary. Though Letty was not a whit behind Miss Watling -in spite and malignity, she had no feelings to be touched, no nerves to -be jarred or irritated. People might say what they liked to her; she -did not care as long as she could wound them again, and she went out -laughing at the skirmish she had had with the heiress. - -Directly the coast was clear and peace restored, Mrs. Barford, the -elder, took up the conversation. She felt a great liking for Dorothy, -and wanted to hear all she could about her. - -"I don't believe this story, Mrs. Lane, about Gilbert and the rich lady. -People always brag so, when any lucky chance happens to them, and old -Rushmere was always a proud man. Can any of you inform me how Dorothy -bore the news of her lover's promotion, and of his giving her up?" - -"He's not her lover, Mrs. Barford. You labour under a great mistake, -when you call him so. Did I not tell you, that it was all broken off -before Gilbert went away?" - -"I was told," said Mrs. Lane, in a confidential whisper, "that Dolly -fainted dead away after she had read the letter." - -"Only think of a dairy-maid, an unknown beggar's brat, giving herself -the airs of a fine lady," sneered the charitable Nancy. - -"She has her feelings, I suppose," said Mrs. Barford. "It must have been -a cruel blow, for I know the poor girl loved him with all her heart." - -"That she did, ma'am," continued Mrs. Lane, "and the more's the pity. -I'm afeard she loves him still, she looks so pale and thin; and the -bright eyes that were so full of joy and fun, have a mournful, downward -look. It grieves me to see the poor thing. But she never says a word, -never a word; and between ourselves, Miss Watling, Gilbert Rushmere -might have done worse." - -"Not without he had taken a woman off the streets. Just imagine Dorothy -Chance a captain's lady," said Miss Watling. "The girl's uncommon -handsome," continued Mrs. Barford. "I believe that she is born to good -fortune." - -"I suppose you have faith in the adage, 'Bad beginnings make good -endings.' I am sure her beginning was low enough, and bad enough." - -"Oh, Nancy, don't be so severe, we know nothing about that. I saw the -corpse of the mother; and though, to be sure, she was bundled up in -dirty, sorry-looking clothes, she had the smallest, whitest hand I ever -saw. It did not look like a hand that had ever dabbled in dirty work, -but had belonged to a real lady; and the ring we took off the finger was -a wedding ring, and of real gold. She must have prized that ring very -much; or I'm thinking that she would have sold it, to procure a night's -lodging for herself and her child. Dorothy is not like her mother, if -that woman was her mother; she has not a common look; she speaks, and -walks, and acts like one belonging to a better class, and I believe -that she will yet turn out to be a lady." - -"Now, Mrs. Barford, that do put me in mind of a conversation I had the -other day with Mrs. Brand, my lord's house-keeper," said Mrs. Lane. -"Mrs. Brand is an old friend of mine, and she told me--but pray, ladies, -don't let this go any further--she told me that my Lord Wilton was so -much struck with Dorothy, and her neat pretty ways, that he had her up -into his library, and talked with her for an hour or more, and he found -out a great resemblance between her and his mother. Mrs. Brand says that -the likeness is kind of miraculous, and my lord asked Dorothy a heap of -questions, and said that she should never want a friend while he lived." - -"Hem," responded Miss Watling, tapping her foot quickly on the floor; -"lords don't take notice of girls like her for nothing. Miss Dolly had -better mind what she's about." - -"Didn't you hear that she was going to school?" said Mrs. Sly, the -publican's wife, who had sat silent all this time, intently listening to -the gossip of the others. Mrs. Sly was an excellent listener, and by no -means a bad sort of woman, and much fonder of hearing than retailing -gossip. She was esteemed in the village as a nice quiet body, who never -said any ill of her neighbours, but Mrs. Sly never objected to hearing -others talk about them. - -"To school," said Mrs. Barford, sitting forward in her chair, and -opening her eyes wide; "I thought the girl could read and write. She and -Gilbert went together to Brewer's school down in the village for years. -Mrs. Brewer always said that Dorothy was the cleverest child she ever -taught." - -"Well, Mrs. Martin is teaching her now." - -"Oh, I knew she was helping our parson's wife in the Sunday school," -replied Miss Watling. "That absurd piece of folly that my lord wants to -thrust upon us." - -"Why, Nancy, you know nothing," said Mrs. Lane, cutting into the -conversation. "My lord is to give Mrs. Martin a hundred pounds a year to -teach Dorothy Chance to be a lady." - -"It's scandalous!" cried Miss Watling, turning livid with spite. "I -wonder Lord Wilton is not ashamed of himself, to try and stick up a minx -like that above her neighbours. It's no wonder that Miss Chance walks so -demurely into church beside the parson's wife, and holds up her saucy -head as if she was somebody. She's a wicked bay tree, yes she is, and -I'd like to scratch her impudent face." - -"She's a clever lass, and no mistake, and a good girl, too, that is, if -I may be allowed to be any judge of character," said Mrs. Barford, "and -I've had some sixty-five years' experience of the world. Of Dorothy's -father we know nothing, and, perhaps, never will know anything; but this -I do say, that Gil Rushmere was never comparable to Dorothy Chance, and -we all know that he came of decent parents." - -"I'm sick of hearing about her," cried Nancy, impatiently. "I believe -that she'll turn out just like her mother, and die in a ditch as she -did." - -"No, no, no," said Mrs. Barford, laughing, "you'll live to see her ride -to church in her carriage." - -"I wish I may die first!" - -"It is her fate," returned Mrs. Barford, solemnly. "Folks are born to -good or ill luck, as it pleases the Lord. If he lifts them into high -places, no one but himself can pull them down; if he places them in the -low parts of the earth, it is not in our power to exalt them. It's -according to our deserts. He who created us, knows the stuff of which we -are made before we are born; and he puts us in the right place, though -we may fight against it all our lives, and consider it the very worst -that could be chosen for us. I did not see it thus in my young days, but -I begin to find it out now." - -During this long oracular speech, the ladies diligently discussed the -good things on the table. Miss Watling hated people to preach over their -bread and butter; but Mrs. Barford had acquired the reputation of being -clever, and she dared not attempt to put her down, though she marvelled -at her want of sense in taking the part of a low creature like Dorothy. - -After the table had been cleared, the three other visitors proposed to -join Letty in the garden, and Mrs. Barford and Miss Watling were left -alone together. This was an opportunity not to be lost by the -ill-natured spinster, who determined to be revenged on Letty by making a -little mischief between her and her mother-in-law. - -"How do you and Mrs. Joe get on together now?" said she, drawing her -chair close beside the old lady; and speaking in a confidential -sympathizing voice. - -"Oh, much as usual; we are not very well sorted. Joe is contented and -that's the main thing. He is a rough fellow himself, and never had any -ambition to be a gentleman." - -"Letty with her vulgar tongue is not likely to improve her husband's -manners," said Miss Watling. "I am sure he is a gentleman to her. And -how can you, my dear old friend"--this was said with a gentle pressure -of the arm, and a look of great sympathy--"bear with the noise and worry -of _those_ children? The racket they make would drive me mad." - -Mrs. Barford shook herself free of the obtrusive hand and bridled up. -She did not approve of the very strong accent given to the word _those_. -It was an insult, and implied contempt of her son's family. - -A woman may listen complacently enough to remarks made against her -daughter-in-law, but say a word against that daughter-in-law's children, -and she is in arms at once. Those children are her son's children, and -to disparage them, is to throw contempt on her. Mrs. Barford thought -very little of Letty, but all the world of the little Letties, and she -was very angry with Miss Watling for her ill-natured remark. - -"The children are fine, healthy, clever children, of whom _some_ people -might be proud, if such belonged to them," she said, drawing her chair -back from the table, and as far from her hostess as possible. "But as -that is never likely to be the case, the less said about them the -better. The children are the joy of my heart, the comfort of my old age, -and I hope to live long enough to see them grow up honest independent -men." - -Here Mrs. Joe very opportunely opened the door, and master Sammy, -restored to good humour, came racing up to his grandmother, his flaxen -curls tossed in pretty confusion about his rosy face, his blue eyes -full of frolic and glee. - -"Ganma, horsey tome. Let's dow home." - -The old lady pressed him against her breast, and kissed his sunburnt -forehead, with maternal pride, thinking to herself, would not the -spiteful old thing give her eyes to be the mother of such a bright boy? -then aloud to him, "Yes, my dear boy, young folks like you, and old ones -like me, are best at home." She rose from her chair, and her rising -broke up the party. It was by no means a pleasant one. Everybody was -disappointed. The giver of the feast most of all. - -Dorothy Chance, it would have made your cheeks, now so calm and pale, -flush with indignant red; it would have roused all the worst passions in -the heart, you are striving from day to day to school into obedience, -had you been present at that female conference, and heard their estimate -of your character and conduct. Few know all that others say of them, -still less are they cognizant of their unkind thoughts. The young are so -confident of themselves, have such faith in the good opinion which -others profess to entertain for them, that they cannot imagine that -deceit and malice, envy and hatred, lie concealed beneath the mask of -smiling faces and flattering caresses. - -It is painful indeed to awake to the dread consciousness that sin lies -at the heart of this goodly world, like the worm at the core of the -beautiful rose; that friends who profess to be such, are not always what -they seem, that false words and false looks meet us on every side; that -it is difficult to discover the serpent coiled among our choicest -flowers. - -Dorothy was still a stranger to the philosophy of life, which experience -alone teaches; and which happily belongs to maturer years. But she had -tasted enough of the fruit of the forbidden tree, to find it very -bitter, and to doubt the truth of many things, which a few months before -appeared as real to her as the certainty of her own existence. - -Such had been Gilbert's love,--that first bright opening of life's -eventful drama. It had changed so suddenly without raising a doubt, or -giving her the least warning, to disturb her faith in its durability. - -How often he had sworn to love her for ever. Dorothy thought those two -simple words _for ever_, should be expunged from the vocabulary, and -never be applied to things transitory again. - -She had laughed at Gilbert when he talked of dying for love. She did not -laugh now. She remembered feelingly how many true words are spoken in -jest. - -A heavy cross had been laid upon her. She had taken it up sorrowfully, -but with a firm determination to bear its weight, without manifesting by -word or sigh, the crown of thorns by which it was encircled, which, -strive as she would, at times pierced her to the heart. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -REMINISCENCES. - - -"What is the matter with Dorothy?" asked Henry Martin of his wife. "A -great change has come over her lately. She looks pale, has grown very -thin, and speaks in a subdued voice, as if oppressed by some great -sorrow." - -"I think, Henry, it has some reference to her lover. Mrs. Barford hinted -as much to me the other day as we walked together from church. Don't -speak of it to her. She will tell you all about it in her own time." - -"He was a fine, well-grown young man," remarked the curate, "but very -inferior to her in worth or intellect. I have often wondered that -Dorothy could fancy him. But this trial is doubtless sent for her good, -as all such trials are. For her sake, I am not sorry that he has cast -her off." - -"It may be for the best, Henry, but such a disappointment is very hard -to bear, and though she never alludes to it, I know she feels keenly his -desertion." - -"It is singular," mused the curate, and speaking as if to himself, "the -deep interest that Lord Wilton takes in this girl. Do you know, Rosina," -turning to his wife, "I sometimes think that his regard for her is -stronger than that of a mere friend." - -"Why, Henry, you don't mean to insinuate that he wishes to make her his -wife. He is old enough to be her father." - -"And what if he be her father," continued Martin, in his abstracted way. -"To his sin be it spoken. Sit down, Rosina, and take up your sewing. I -want to have a serious talk with you about this matter. - -"I met Lord Wilton the other day riding in the vicinity of Heath Farm. -He drew up beside me, and asked how Dorothy was coming on with her -lessons. I spoke of her highly as she deserves. - -"He seemed strangely agitated. 'Martin,' he said, grasping my shoulder, -as he leant towards me from the saddle, 'you can do me no greater favour -than by making that sweet girl a good Christian. I wish you to educate -her thoroughly, both for earth and heaven, God bless her! I would give -all I possess to see her happy.' - -"He put spurs to his horse, and rode off at a reckless pace, like one -who wished to get rid of painful recollections. I thought--but I may -wrong him--that some connection existed between him and Dorothy, of -which the world was ignorant, which would account for the deep -melancholy that always clouds his face. Lord Wilton is a kind man, a -benevolent man, but some hidden sin is wasting his frame, and robbing -him of peace." - -"Has Dorothy any idea of this?" - -"None, I am certain, and mark me, Rosina. This is a mere fancy of my -own. You must not mention what I have said to her." - -"Certainly not." - -The good man walked to the window, and looked abstractedly across his -small garden plot for a few minutes, then returned as suddenly to his -seat. - -"Rosina," he said, looking with a half smile at his gentle partner, -"these suspicions with regard to Dorothy, brought back to my memory a -strange story. You will not be jealous, my dear wife, if I relate to you -a tale of boyish love and its disappointments. It happened many years -before I saw or had learned to love you." - -"Henry, that is a sad cut to my vanity," returned his wife, laughing, "I -always had flattered myself that I was your first love. However, I -promise to give you a fair hearing, and will not be affronted, until I -know the end of your story. But what connection it can have with Dorothy -Chance puzzles me." - -"There may be none. It is only mere conjecture, as I said before. Of the -probabilities I will leave you to judge. - -"My father was curate of the neighbouring sea-port town during the few -years of his married life. He conducted the morning and evening service, -in that large beautiful old church that stands on the edge of the cliff, -and had to walk over to Hadstone in the afternoon, through all weathers, -to preach in our little church here. It was hard work, and very poor -pay, his salary amounting, like mine, to eighty pounds a-year." - -"How did you contrive to live, Henry?" - -"Not very luxuriously. Sprats and herrings were plentiful, however; my -mother was an excellent manager, the neighbours were kind, and I was an -only child; my parents worthy, pious people, and I a happy, hopeful boy. - -"We lived in a little cottage near the sea, just before you turn into -the main street. The first house in that street, and the one nearest to -us, was occupied by a Mrs. Knight. - -"She was an old woman, and must have numbered her threescore and ten -years, when we came to Storby. She kept a small shop, confined entirely -to the sale of French kid gloves, French laces, silks, shoes, and such -articles of women's wear. - -"It was always suspected that these were smuggled goods, but Mrs. Knight -was patronized by all the ladies in the place, and most likely, bribed -the excise officer, a drunken, worthless fellow, to keep her secret. - -"This woman, had been the wife of a trading captain, who sailed between -that port and London, and old people who knew her in her young days, -described her as having been a very handsome woman; but a darker, more -repulsive-looking being I never saw. She had a terrible temper, and was -morose and miserly in the extreme. I had read in the Bible of the witch -of Endor, and I always fancied that she must have resembled Mrs. Knight. -She seldom spoke to me, but when she did I felt a tremor creep through -my limbs. - -"She carried on a flourishing trade during her husband's life. His ship -was lost in a heavy gale on the coast, and she was left a widow with one -son. - -"This happened long before my time. - -"Mrs. Knight's great ambition was to make a fortune, and bring up her -son John a gentleman. In both these projects she was disappointed. - -"John Knight was born with marine propensities, and insisted on going to -sea. - -"After many desperate battles with the lad, of whom, however it appears, -she was passionately fond, for he was eminently handsome, she gave a -reluctant consent, and he went as junior mate in an East Indiaman. - -"A voyage to the East Indies and back, in those days, could not be -accomplished in less than eighteen months; and during those long -intervals, Mrs. Knight toiled on at her illicit trade, to make money for -this beloved son. - -"While he was absent, an only sister died, a widow in poor -circumstances, who on her death-bed sent for Mrs. Knight and implored -her to take under her protection her daughter, a young girl of sixteen, -as she had no friends by the father's side, who could or would do so. - -"After some demur on the part of Mrs. Knight, she gave the required -assent, and the poor woman died in peace, and Maria returned with her -aunt to Storby. - -"The girl was very pretty, brisk, clean and handy; could read and write, -and was a good accountant; and the aunt began to think that her advent -was quite a godsend in the little shop. Maria was an especial favourite -with the customers, and was so obliging and useful that even the cross -aunt often spoke of her as quite a treasure. - -"All things went on smoothly until John Knight returned from sea; and, -finding a cousin in the house of whom he had never before heard, and -that cousin a pretty winning creature, he naturally fell desperately in -love with her, and wished to establish a closer relationship between -them. - -"Seeing that the girl was on good terms with his mother, and that their -own position might be considered in the lower walks of life, John lost -no opportunity to make himself agreeable to Maria, till the young folks -were over head and ears in love. - -"Some neighbours, who thought that the match had been agreeable to all -parties, complimented Mrs. Knight on her son's approaching marriage with -her niece. - -"Then the clouds gathered, and the storm burst upon the luckless pair. -Mrs. Knight raged, John swore, and Maria cried. The rebellious son -declared that he would marry the girl he loved, in spite of all the -mothers in England; that if she refused her consent, and persuaded Maria -to yield obedience to her unreasonable demands, he would leave England -for ever, and never let her hear from him again. - -"This threat did frighten the cold, hard woman. There was only one thing -she loved in the world, and that was her son. For him she toiled and -took no rest, saving and accumulating to make him rich, and now he was -going to frustrate all her plans for his advancement by marrying a girl -who was a beggar depending upon her bounty. What was to be done? She -saw that he was determined to have his own way, that violent opposition -to his wishes would only make him obstinate, that she must use some -other means to circumvent his wishes. - -"She accordingly let the subject drop, forbidding either of them to -mention a word of it to her again; and John went off to visit a shipmate -who resided in the country, hoping to find his mother in a better temper -when he returned. - -"He was to be absent a month, and Mrs. Knight took this opportunity of -informing Maria that her services were no longer required, and if she -did not leave the town immediately and seek service elsewhere, it would -be the worse for her. That she had acted most ungratefully in daring to -inveigle the affections of her son; and that she would never forgive her -to her dying day. - -"The girl wept and entreated, said that she knew no one in the town, who -would take her in; that she had no money, and on her knees promised her -aunt, that she would never marry John without her consent, if she would -only for this once forgive an offence which was quite involuntary on her -part. - -"John was so handsome, and had been so kind to her, that -she had fallen in love with him without knowing it. Her aunt had not -warned her that she was not to look at him or speak to him, or she would -have been more circumspect. - -"Mrs. Knight was deaf to reason and nature. She had been a young woman -herself, and might have been in love, but it seems she had forgotten all -about it, and, after venting upon her niece all the pent up wrath she -was afraid of bestowing upon her son, she turned the poor girl into the -streets. - -"Fortunately for Maria, she had received a very tender note that morning -from John, by the hands of a sailor who was returning to his friends at -Storby, and the man informed her of the place where her lover was to be -found; for he had left the house in a rage without telling his mother or -Maria the name of the parties with whom he was going to stay. - -"The town was a sea-port thirty miles distant, and she walked the whole -way without a penny in her purse, or a morsel to eat. When she got to -the house where young Knight was staying, she sat down on the door-step, -overcome with shame and fatigue, and began to cry. John, returning from -a frolic with a set of jolly tars, found his mistress sitting alone in -the street, half dead with cold and fright. The next morning he got a -license, and went to church with her and married her, in the face of the -whole congregation, for it was Sunday. - -"A week after, Mrs. Knight was standing at the door of her shop, not -very well satisfied with the turn things had taken, and wondering what -had become of Maria, whom she missed more and more every day from -behind the counter, when a chaise drove up to the door, and John Knight -led his bride up to his mother, and introduced her as his wife, with an -air of genuine triumph. - -"'You don't dare to tell me, John, that you have married Maria?' - -"'She is my wife, mother, I insist upon your receiving her as your -daughter.' - -"'You can't force me to do that, John. She shall never set her foot in -my house again.' Mrs. Knight scowled defiantly at the young married -pair. - -"John answered, with great good humour, 'Nonsense, mother, listen to -reason. Your being angry cannot undo the knot the parson has tied. Death -only can do that. We are one. If you turn out Maria, you turn out me. -You ought to be obliged to me for bringing home your niece safe and in -her right mind. You turned her into the streets, without a penny in her -pocket to buy a morsel of bread, or to pay for the shelter of a roof, -the orphan child of your sister. She might have been ruined. God ordered -it otherwise--be thankful that he has saved you from a greater sin. And -now kiss and be friends, or you and I, mother, part upon this threshold -to meet no more on earth.' - -"The threat of losing him--her idol, was enough to terrify Mrs. Knight -into submission. She promised to forget the past, and to be kind to her -daughter-in-law, if her son would only consent to remain at home. The -women kissed one another. - -"Oh, women, women! How often, Judas-like, you betray your best friends -with a kiss. As long as John remained at home, things went on smoothly -enough. Maria was very attentive to Mrs. Knight, and as she did not -scold her, she was content to put up with her sullen humour for her -husband's sake. - -"This hollow peace between the mother and daughter did not last long. -The three first months of matrimonial life glided away only too -quickly. John Knight received orders to join his ship, which had taken -in her cargo, and was expected to sail in a few days. - -"Sad news it was to the two young creatures, who were all the world to -each other. The parting was like death to them. Mrs. Knight alone was -tranquil, and received the intelligence with an air of indifference. She -arranged everything for John's departure, and left the husband and wife -to spend the last hours of their union in undisturbed sorrow. - -"A long perilous voyage was before John Knight. He felt not a little -down-hearted at leaving Maria with his mother. He did not exactly like -the ominous peace she had maintained with her daughter-in-law. It was -not natural--not, at least, to her, who was wont to let her wrath find a -voice, and speak in terrible tones on all occasions; and but for Maria's -advice to the contrary, he would have hired a lodging for her at a -distant part of the town. She was likely, too, to become a mother. He -was doubtful how Mrs. Knight would receive the expected stranger. He -knew that she hated the noise of children, and he feared that Maria -would have a poor time of it during his long absence. - -"The young wife had none of these apprehensions. She was quite willing -to believe that the old woman's anger towards her had died a natural -death, and that she, Maria, was indispensable to the comfort of the -mistress of the house, and her presence necessary for the well-doing of -the shop. - -"John was at length persuaded that all was right, but he yielded the -point very reluctantly. - -"Before leaving the house, he solemnly confided his young wife to the -care of his mother, and begged her to treat her as a daughter for his -sake. - -"The old woman promised nothing, but seemed hurt that he should -consider it necessary to urge upon her so earnestly such a request. - -"'Did he expect,' she said, angrily, 'that she was going to murder the -girl the moment that he was out of sight?' - -"John's ship had not sailed many days before the hatred Mrs. Knight had -so long concealed came into active operation, and she commenced a series -of aggressions against her daughter-in-law, that rendered her life -miserable, and slowly and surely undermined her constitution. - -"She had to endure vehement reproaches, and all the scornful contempt -that a strong, harsh nature can bring to play upon a timid, sensitive -mind, that cannot fail to be weakened and borne down in the unequal -struggle. - -"Maria did not, however, yield. She bore the attacks of her vindictive -enemy with wonderful courage, offering a firm and silent resistance to -her imperious demands, while she accorded a willing obedience to -whatever was not cruel and unreasonable, leaving the old woman no -grounds of complaint, and often turning her malicious attacks upon -herself by pretending not to see them. - -"She had a double motive for acting entirely upon the defensive, the -welfare of her husband, for she knew that her aunt was rich, and that of -her child, whose advent she looked forward to as a recompense for all -her troubles. - -"This longed-for, but dreaded event, at last arrived, and Maria became -the mother of a female child, to the increased dissatisfaction of Mrs. -Knight, who said, - -"'That even in this matter Mrs. John was determined to spite her, by -having a girl. She knew how she hated girls.' - -"Maria was too much engrossed with her new treasure to heed these -ungracious complaints. It was a beautiful healthy infant, and she had -come through the trial so well, that she had every reason to be -thankful. - -"The old woman, for a wonder, was kinder to her than she expected, and -spared no expense in providing her with good and nourishing diet, and -the attendance of an excellent nurse, though she still grumbled at the -sex of the child. - -"About ten days after young Mrs. Knight's confinement, she was found one -morning dead in her bed. The nurse said that she was quite well when she -went to bed, had eaten a bowl of gruel, and laughed and chatted with her -about the baby, kissing it frequently, and declaring that it was the -picture of John. - -"The nurse scolded her for talking so much, took the baby from her, and -bade her go to sleep. She slept in the same bed with her mistress, and -took charge of the child, that its mother might not be troubled with it -during the night. - -"Early in the morning, when the nurse awoke, she spoke to young Mrs. -Knight, and told her that the babe wanted her; receiving no answer, she -grew uneasy, and sitting up in the bed, discovered that the poor girl -was dead. - -"The alarm was instantly given; the neighbours poured in; two doctors -rushed to the rescue; old Mrs. Knight wept and wrung her hands, while -the women filled the house with shrieks and lamentations. - -"No suspicion was aroused by the appearance of the dead. The corpse -presented the happy, tranquil aspect of one who had died in sleep, while -under the influence of some pleasing dream. It was not the age for -chemical investigations. No one suspected any foul play, and no evidence -was sought for to prove that such had been the case. Maria Knight was -consigned to her early grave without any question being raised of her -right to be there. She had died, the coroner said, "by the visitation of -God," and the sympathizing neighbours, and the pitiful women were -contented. - -"Mrs. Knight had a wet nurse for the child, and gave the dead mother a -very handsome funeral; though no one ever heard her express the least -regret for her untimely death. - -"'As for the child,' she said, 'if it had been a boy, and like John, she -could have loved it. It was the image of its mother, she wished it had -died with her, for she never liked her; and it was hardly to be expected -that she should feel any great affection for her child.' She named the -child Alice, after her sister. She had had enough of the name of Maria, -and did not wish to have it recalled to her memory. - -"People marvelled at the hard, cold heart, that could transmit hatred to -the second generation; but they all had experienced the uncongenial -nature of Mrs. Knight, and merely shrugged their shoulders, and said, -'It was just like her; what would John Knight say, when he came home.' - -"But John Knight never came home. Never heard of the death of his young -wife, or the birth of his child. His ship was lost at sea, and all hands -perished. - -"The arrow launched by the hand of Heaven went home to the cruel -mother's heart; for months she raved over the loss of her son, and only -recovered her reason to become more cruel and grasping than ever. Her -idol of flesh had perished. She now set up one of gold, and all that -remained of human softness in her nature, became as hard as the metal -which composed her new divinity. - -"She took very little notice of the orphan babe. She had tolerated it -while her son lived; but he was gone, and the hated mother alone -survived in the child. She never caressed it, seldom spoke to it, or of -it, and always treated it with the most marked neglect. - -"The extreme beauty of the little girl deeply interested the sympathies -of my dear mother, who was one of the kindest women on earth; her large -maternal heart, yearning over everything in the shape of a child, -especially if that child was ill-used and an orphan. - -"She often sent me to Mrs. Knight, to invite Alice to spend the day with -her; that the children might have a good romp in the garden together. - -"I was just four years older than Alice, but very small for my age. She -was a healthy, well-grown child, there did not look more than the -difference of a year in our respective ages. I had neither sister nor -brother, and these visits from our little neighbour were hailed by me -with intense pleasure. - -"What a sweet child she was, with such a pair of clear, laughing blue -eyes, such a happy, dimpled, innocent little face, yet brimful of mirth -and mischief, and then, such wealth of golden brown hair, falling all -round her rosy cheeks in showers of shining curls. She was my darling, -my precious pet, and she would answer to no other names. I fell in love -with her as a boy, and for years I only felt alive and happy in her -presence. - -"Hand in hand we roamed the beach to look for shells and bright stones, -or wandered about the green common at the back of the town, among the -gay furze bushes, hunting for the first violets. - -"Mrs. Knight stood somewhat in awe of my father. Violence loves to -contend with violence; it can only be subdued by gentleness and -patience. My father's amiable qualities opposed to her fierce anger, -were arrows in the hand of the giant, silently and surely they -demolished the bulwarks of pride and hatred behind which she sought to -entrench herself. - -"She was civil to my mother, and though I shrank from the stern, sharp, -scowling face, she sometimes condescended to pat my head, and call me a -pretty boy. - -"I had once seen her beat Alice very severely, for having mislaid her -bonnet; and I never saw Mrs. Knight without longing to beat her after -that. - -"Cross as she was to other people, she never hindered our happy -meetings, and I ought to have felt grateful for that favour. - -"My father grew so fond of the beautiful child, that he offered to teach -her gratis. Mrs. Knight was too proud to accept this at his hands; but -she sent the child to school with us, and paid liberally for her -education. - -"We now sat upon the same form, learned from the same books, shared in -the same amusements, and had but one heart between us. - -"Childhood lives in the present, it remembers little of the past, and -the future stretches before it like a summer sea, bounded by the heavens -and bright with sunbeams. The morrow will be fair as to-day, it never -anticipates a storm, or thinks of the possibility of change. Alice and I -were always to live together, the idea of separation found no place in -our thoughts. - -"Time rolled on, I had just completed my fifteenth year, when it pleased -God to remove my dear father--a blow so sudden, so unexpected, that for -a long time my poor mother and I were plunged into the deepest sorrow. - -"He was a good man. I loved him without fear, entertaining for him the -most profound respect and veneration; and feeling the fullest confidence -in his attachment to me. - -"This was my first grief, and if Alice had not been always near me to -wipe away my tears, and inspire fresh hope into my fainting heart, I -hardly think I should have survived the shock, and, for some months -after the occurrence of the sad event, was threatened with consumption. - -"My mother struggled bravely with her sorrow, for my sake. Our means -always limited, became doubly so now. It was perhaps a mercy that we -were called upon to work; not allowed to sit idle, and waste the -precious time in unavailing regrets. Action is the best antidote for -grief, occupation deadens suffering by forcibly detaching the mind to -pursue other objects, which gives birth to new hopes as a necessary -consequence. - -"My mother opened a school for young ladies, and worked hard at her new -vocation. - -"An uncle, who was in a large wholesale business in London, exerted his -influence to get me into Christ Church School, and was successful. - -"Then came the parting with my mother, and dare I say it, worse still, -my separation from Alice. - -"It was a heart-breaking affair on all sides. I pitied my mother most, -for she loved as keenly and had less of our sympathy, which as love is -generally selfish, was almost entirely centred in our own sorrow. - -"Boy as I was, I felt a sad presentiment that Alice and I were never -destined to be so happy again, but the actual parting, so full of -anguish to us, was not without its gleams of joy. - -"It was the first of May, but we had not given that circumstance a -thought, though its return in other years had always been hailed with -delight. The day was fair and beautiful; the grass emerald green, and -starred with myriads of daisies; the hedge-rows white with fragrant -blossoms; the birds, happy lovers, singing glad carols from every bush -and spray, the air soft, the heavens full of light fleecy clouds, -floating in a sky of pearly blue. - -"We sat down among the tufts of golden broom, upon a green slope at the -far side of the common, where the high land that bounded the coast, -gradually descended till it was lost in the long line of level marshes, -through which the slow river dragged its sluggish length to the sea. - -"It was a lonely spot; only frequented by the herds that fed upon the -common; we had little dread of interruption. The public road was more -than a mile distant; and it was a rare occurrence for anyone to pass -that way. Here, no prying curious eyes could look upon our grief; we -might indulge in the luxury of woe to the uttermost, without fearing a -reproof for excess. - -"Holding each other by the hand, we wept and bemoaned our sad fate, -until we had no tears left to shed. Then we looked mournfully into each -other's eyes, without uttering a word, entranced and full of speechless -affection. In this eloquent silence, the long hours rolled on, all too -short for us, until the church clock tolled six. - -"I was to leave by the coach for London at seven. The sound, as it -boomed along the hollow cliffs, startled us. Our dream of love was over. -The terrible reality of the parting stared us in the face. - -"'Henry, we must go home.' sobbed Alice. 'You have still to bid your -mother good-bye. She will be waiting for us.' - -"These were the first words we had spoken, to each other. - -"I wanted to tell Alice all the love I felt for her, though I was -certain that she was as well acquainted with the fact as I was myself; -and of her affection for me I entertained not a doubt, but I wanted to -hear her promise to love me and only me, for ever and ever, and to -return the blessed assurance given to me, with interest, but my tongue -was tied. I could not put my thoughts into language, the very intensity -of my passion rendered me dumb. - -"We walked home silently together; my mother met us at the door. She too -had been weeping, for her eyes were red and heavy. - -"The tea was waiting for us on the table, but how could we eat? My -mother did not press us, neither did she chide our long absence. She -looked at us kindly through her tears. - -"'Poor things!' I heard her murmur to herself. 'It is their first -grief.' - -"At any rate, we had her warm sympathy. - -"She had packed my trunks during our absence, and they were in the -passage ready corded for the coach; before we were aware of it, the -stage rattled up to the door, there was no time left for love pledging -now, or heart-breaking farewells. - -"One long, fond embrace from that dear mother. One kiss, the last I ever -received from my child-love, and we parted, I to embark upon the stormy -ocean of life, and Alice to return a sad and lonely creature to her -miserable home, and the tender mercies of her harsh grandmother. - -"A few weeks after I left S----, one of those strange incidents, which -sometimes occur in life, separated us more effectually. - -"The Lady Dorothy Fitzmorris, the mother of the present Earl, was then -living at the Hall. Her eldest son--for Lord Wilton was not the -heir--commanded a regiment in America during the War of Independence. -His brother Edward served as captain under him. Both were fine promising -young men, they were her only children. - -"Her husband, Sir Thomas Fitzmorris, had been dead for some years. The -title of Wilton did not belong to the Fitzmorris family, but came -through her ladyship's father. - -"Sir Thomas had a younger brother, Gerald, who was a distinguished -officer in the army. I was for several years tutor to his sons. His wife -ran off with a General Dallas. A duel ensued. Gerald Fitzmorris was shot -by the man who had dishonoured him; and his wife followed her paramour -to India. This brief story of the family is necessary for the better -understanding of my story. How often have I wished that I had never -known one of the name." - -"Don't say that, Henry. It sounds like ingratitude when the Earl has -been so kind to us," said Mrs. Martin. - -The curate answered with a sigh, and continued his narrative. - -"Well, the Lady Dorothy was an excellent woman, greatly beloved in the -parish, for she was very kind to the poor, and was ready to help any one -that stood in need of her assistance. She was a very beautiful woman. -When you see Dorothy Chance, you have a striking likeness of her -ladyship; but without the dignity and nameless grace which generally -belongs to the high born lady. - -"Lady Dorothy happened one day to be in Mrs. Knight's shop, and Alice -was behind the counter. Struck with the wonderful beauty of the young -girl, she inquired of Mrs. Knight who she was, and when told that it was -her grandchild, she complimented the old lady on her possessing such a -treasure. - -"'Treasure,' quoth Mrs. Knight, with a scornful glance at the object -of the great lady's admiration. 'I set small store by such a treasure. -She has been a source of trouble and sorrow to me since the hour she -was born. I should only be too glad to give her to any one who thought -such a treasure worth having.' - -"'Will you give her to me?' said my lady, as she observed the eyes of -the lovely girl running over with tears. 'I want a person of her age, to -attend upon me. I will pay her well, and have her educated according to -her station.' - -"'Your ladyship may take her, if you have a fancy for her. She will be -prouder of being your servant than she is of being my child.' - -"So my sweet little Alice was transplanted like a lovely wild flower -into the Hall garden, and was soon lost to her early friends. - -"My mother wrote me all about her favourite's good fortune; but the news -gave me little pleasure. From that hour I had a presentiment of that -which in after years actually came to pass. - -"My uncle was in a good business in London, and he always invited me to -spend my vacations with him. He had too large a family of his own, to -help me in any other way; but he always contrived that my dear mother -should meet me at his house during the holidays, and share with me his -liberal hospitality. - -"After my term of scholarship expired, I was entered as a servitor at -Cambridge, and studied hard to obtain my degree, and get into holy -orders. - -"My mother was growing old, and her health was failing. I was anxious to -give her a home, and release her from the fatiguing life in which she -was engaged. - -"Seven years had passed away since Alice and I parted. My mother had -long ceased to mention her in her letters; but her memory was as fresh -in my heart as ever. - -"The hope of her becoming my wife, directly I was able to support her, -had been the great object of my life. It had supplied me with the energy -and perseverance, in which physically I had always been deficient. I -returned to the home of my childhood, full of happy anticipations. I was -no longer a boy, but a thoughtful, studious man, with no stain upon my -reputation, having earned a high character both at school and during my -college life. - -"Oh; well I remember the first time I saw Alice after my return to -S----. She was in Lady Dorothy's carriage, seated beside her ladyship, -with a beautiful infant in her lap. - -"I raised my hat as the equipage passed. She did not recognize me. I do -not think she noticed me at all. The hot blood flushed my face. -Mortified and cut to the heart, I hurried home. - -"My mother seemed to comprehend what had happened. - -"'You have seen Alice?' she said. - -"'Yes, but she did not see me.' - -"'It is as well,' she returned coldly. 'Alice is no longer a -simple-hearted child. The false position in which she has been placed -has made her proud and vain. It would have been better for her to have -remained with her cross, disagreeable grandmother, than to have been -tolerated by the high born and wealthy.' - -"I felt angry with my mother for speaking thus of Alice. I thought it -harsh and unkind. - -"The glimpse I had caught of her face had rekindled the old fire in my -heart. She was a beautiful, elegant, fair woman. The very beau ideal of -my long dream of love, and should yet be my wife, if it were possible -for me to make her so. - -"With some trepidation, I asked my mother what position she filled at -the Hall, and whose child it was she held in her arms? - -"'I cannot exactly answer your question,' she said. 'She is neither -regarded as a servant, nor yet as one of the family. She is generally in -attendance upon my lady, and takes care of her little grandson.' - -"'To which of her sons does the child belong?' - -"'To the youngest, Captain Edward, who is now at the Hall. His young -wife died in child-bed, and people talk largely of his admiration for -his mother's pretty _protégée_.' - -"I sprung from my chair. 'Mother, mother!' I cried. 'Do you mean to -drive me mad? This low village tattle is unworthy of you.' - -"'I fear that there is some truth in these reports,' said my mother -quietly. 'Alice used to speak to me when we met, and make affectionate -inquiries about her old playfellow; but for the last three months, she -passes me without recognition.' - -"'That looks strange. But however appearances may be against her, I -cannot and I will not believe anything to her discredit even from your -lips.' - -"I seized my hat, and walked up the road at an excited pace, and never -slackened my speed, till I reached a stile that led through the park. - -"I don't know what took me in that direction. I was unconscious of the -fact, until I found myself there. It was the last spot in the world in -my then mood, to which I should have bent my steps. But once there, the -place seemed congenial to my feelings. - -"I crossed the stile and plunged into a wilderness of shade, glad to -find myself in gloom and solitude. - -"After a while, the dark grove widened, the sunlight pierced the -branches and danced upon the ground, and leaving trees and shadows -behind, I emerged into an open lawn-like space as smooth and green, as -velvet turf and moss could make it, and reclining under the one huge -oak, that towered up like a giant in the centre, I saw her whom I least -expected to see, and who at that moment occupied all my thoughts. - -"The recognition was mutual. But when I called her by name and hurried -forward to meet her, she started up like a frightened doe and fled. - -"I did not follow; my mind was distracted with doubt. A jealous agony -filled my soul. I staggered to the spot she had occupied, threw myself -beneath the tree, and burying my face in my hands wept long and -bitterly. - -"In this abandonment of grief and love, a voice, a man's voice, -whispered near me: - -"'Alice, my dear Alice.' - -"I raised my head and looked the speaker in the face. I did not know -him personally then. I know him now. It was Lord Wilton. Captain Edward -Fitzmorris, in those days. His faced kindled to a deep red. He muttered -something about 'people intruding upon private property,' and walked -hastily away, and I returned to my mother bearing in my heart the bitter -conviction of the truth of her remarks. - -"The next day I left S----. - -"It was not long before I got a letter from my mother, which informed me -that Alice had been dismissed from the Hall in disgrace, and had -returned to her grandmother, who, finding that she was likely to become -a mother, and that she obstinately refused to name the father of her -child had driven her from the door, and the unfortunate girl had -wandered away, no one knew whither. - -"My mother had tried to discover her retreat, but could obtain no trace -of her. It was the general report of the town that she had walked into -the sea when the tide was coming in, and suffered the waves to flow over -her. - -"Her fate still remains a mystery. - -"Suspicion pointed to Captain Fitzmorris as her probable seducer. For my -own part, I never had any doubts upon the subject. He left England, as -attaché to a foreign embassy, a few months before her dismissal from the -Hall, and never visited this part of the country until lately. - -"Sir Thomas, his elder brother, was killed in battle; Earl Wilton, his -uncle, died shortly after, and Captain Edward inherited, through his -mother, his title and immense wealth." - -"But, my dear Henry, I do not see what connection all this has with -Dorothy Chance," said Mrs. Martin. - -"Well, wife, if you do not, I do, for I believe that Dorothy is the -daughter of the Earl by Alice Knight. Her age agrees exactly with what -would have been the age of that child. The description of the mother -bears a strong resemblance to that unfortunate creature, and then her -striking likeness to the Earl and his mother is something more than a -coincidence. But you have not heard my story to the end. - -"Mrs. Knight died some ten years ago. On her death-bed, she confessed to -me that she had poisoned Maria in that bowl of gruel; that she believed -that the poor vagrant found dead on the heath was Maria's child, for on -the night of the storm she had seen her apparition, in a dream, and -awoke in a terrible state of mental agony, in the firm conviction that -her cruel conduct had been the cause of her grandchild's death. - -"The next day she went with a crowd of neighbours to farmer Rushmere's -to see the corpse of the poor woman; which though unrecognized by them, -she was certain, after making due allowance for her destitute condition, -was the body of Alice Knight. As a sort of atonement, for her crimes -and barbarous cruelty to this unfortunate creature, she left the large -fortune she had accumulated to the child of this vagrant, if it could be -satisfactorily proved that it was the daughter of Alice Knight. If after -the lapse of thirty years it remained unclaimed, it was to form a fund -for the relief of mariners shipwrecked upon this coast." - -"Now, Henry, this makes your story as clear to me as daylight," said -Mrs. Martin, "can't you prove Dorothy's identity and claim the fortune -for her?" - -"Ah, my dear wife, there lies the difficulty. Who is there to prove it? -It all rests on circumstantial evidence, which, though it can, -and has brought many a neck to the gallows, is very insufficient when it -relates to claiming fortunes. - -"I don't think that it would conduce to Dorothy's happiness, the -possession of a large fortune. The girl is much happier as she is. -While the money applied to the relief of the destitute seamen would do a -great deal of good. - -"I had always been haunted by a horrible suspicion," continued the -curate, "that Mrs. Knight had murdered Alice. Her confession cleared up -that doubt for ever. For though her harsh treatment, I have every reason -to think, overwhelmed the poor girl in difficulties that led to her -untimely death, it is a satisfaction to know that she did not actually -perish by her hand." - -"A poor satisfaction, Henry. Did the cruel old woman die penitent?" - -"Her end was without hope. An agony of remorse. A presentiment of -certain punishment, and no recognition of the Saviour. Rosina, it was an -awful death. God is a God of mercy, but if his word is true it was -impossible for that soul to be saved. A full conviction of guilt -without repentance is the saddest state which a human creature can -experience, and such was hers. If we wait patiently, time will bring to -light the hidden things of darkness. The crimes committed by her in -secret were revealed amid the shadows of the dark valley. - -"I cannot repeat the ravings of that unhappy woman. They were too -shocking to retain in one's memory; only to think about them, seemed -like blasphemy. I never recall that night, when I watched and prayed -beside her death-bed, without a shudder, and whispering to myself, But -for God's grace I might have been like her. Oh, save me righteous Jesus -from the death of the wicked. It is only thou that makest one sinner to -differ from another. Without thee, we can indeed do nothing." - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -DOROTHY BECOMES RECONCILED TO THE LOSS OF HER FIRST LOVE. - - -A fortnight had scarcely elapsed, before Gilbert wrote again to his -parents. The letter contained a hurried farewell, penned a few hours -before his regiment embarked for Spain. There was no message for -Dorothy, her name was not mentioned, and the omission was evidently -intentional. - -How little Gilbert Rushmere suspected the share that Dorothy had had in -his advancement, that but for her, he might have remained a private in -the ---- regiment during the term of his military service. So short -sighted are we poor mortals--that the very means adopted by Lord Wilton -to secure Dorothy's union with the man she loved, by exciting his -ambition and avarice, had brought about their separation, and that, too, -more effectually than Mr. Rushmere's unreasonable objections to their -marriage. - -A few days after Gilbert left England, Dorothy accidentally encountered -Lord Wilton on the heath. - -She was thinking of Gilbert, but not with the sad tearful tenderness -that his desertion had hitherto called forth. His marked neglect had -caused a reaction. She felt indignant at his conduct. His silence was -not only cruel, it was insulting, and implied that he no longer deemed -her worthy of a thought. - -In order to maintain her self-respect, she could view it in no other -light, and would endeavour to meet it with the indifference and contempt -it deserved. - -Hate him she could not, nor did she wish to do so; but her love for him -had subsided into a very tranquil stream; no longer leaping over every -obstacle that impeded its course, with the headlong impetuosity of -youthful passion. - -She could now speak of Gilbert to his parents without tears choking her -voice, and think of him calmly when alone. The wound he had inflicted on -her heart, however painful to bear in its first agony, was surely and -slowly healing itself. - -Nature is a great mental and bodily physician, if people would only let -her perform her mysterious operations alone; injudicious interference -causes all the danger, and often destroys the reason and life of the -sufferer. - -But it was to describe Dorothy's interview with Lord Wilton, and not to -moralize on love and disappointment that we commenced this chapter. - -The nobleman dismounted from his horse, and accosted his _protégée_ with -his usual kindness, and inquired with great earnestness of look and -tone, "If Gilbert Rushmere had been down to see her, and if she was -pleased with his promotion." - -The first question she promptly replied to in the negative. His lordship -seemed surprised and annoyed. "With regard to his promotion," she said, -"his parents could but be pleased and gratified, and the young soldier -spoke of it with the deepest gratitude." - -"But what do you think of it, Dorothy? Will his good fortune make you -happy?" - -The young girl's lips quivered. She grew very red, then turned as pale -as ashes, but mastering her emotion, she answered with tolerable -self-command. - -"I hope so for his parents' sake." - -"Not for your own, Dorothy." - -Dorothy's voice dropped almost to a whisper, as she stammered out: "Oh, -my lord, don't ask me, I have really not the courage to speak about it." - -"But, my dear girl, I must know the reason of this distress. I thought -you and Gilbert were one?" - -"I thought so once." She looked down and pressed her hands tightly over -her breast. "My lord, Gilbert Rushmere has forgotten me." - -"The traitor." - -"Do not blame him too severely, my lord. Perhaps I have been too harsh -in my condemnation. It is not his fault that I placed too high an -estimate on his character, was too confident in his love. He has only -acted according to his nature. He has not deceived me, I have suffered -my affection for him to blind my eyes to his faults." - -"My noble girl, I cannot suffer you to excuse him by taking the blame of -such selfish, heartless conduct on yourself." - -"Ah, my lord, we are all more or less selfish and the creatures of -circumstance; while I continued to love Gilbert, his desertion seemed to -me very dreadful; the anguish it gave me was almost more than I could -bear, but now when it is all over, and I can think of it calmly, I see -it in a very different light. While we lived in the same house, learned -from the same books, and worked together in the same fields, there was a -natural equality between us. But since Gilbert has acquired a higher -position, associated with well educated people, and seen more of the -great world, he feels a superiority over me, of which he was before -entirely ignorant. He has advanced, while I remain in the same position -in which he left me, a servant, in his father's house." - -Lord Wilton winced. "An adopted daughter, I thought." - -"Ah, my lord! truth is truth. I may deserve to be so considered, and as -far as dear Mrs. Rushmere is concerned I enjoy the love and confidence -of a child. With the old man I am only his servant." - -Lord Wilton sighed heavily. Dorothy's speech evidently pained him, but -he made no comment upon it. He walked on by her side for some minutes in -silence. "And what led you to conclude that Gilbert Rushmere had -forgotten you?" - -"Simply, my lord, because he has ceased to mention me in his letters, -and talks of marrying some one else." - -"Very conclusive reasons, my poor child. But are you certain that this -is no jealous freak on your part, but really a deliberate act of -desertion on his?" - -"I never was jealous of Gilbert in my life," and Dorothy drew herself up -with no little dignity, "my faith in his love was too great for that." - -"Which makes your present disappointment harder to bear." - -"Yes, my lord," and Dorothy drew a long sigh, "but I feel it less than I -did a month ago. The heart knows its own bitterness; a stranger cannot -enter into its joys or sorrows. So the Scriptures say. I do not quote -the passage correctly, but it is something to that effect. My mind has -been more tranquil, since I knew for certain that I could never be -Gilbert Rushmere's wife." - -"He may see his folly, Dorothy, and return to his first love." - -"My lord, that is impossible. Love is a stream that always flows onward; -it never returns to fill the channel that it has deserted and left dry. -You might as well try to collect the shower that the thirsty earth drank -up yesterday. Love once dead, can never revive again or wear the same -aspect that it did at first, for the spirit that kindled it is gone, and -what you once adored is only a silent corpse." - -"You are resigned to the loss of your lover?" - -"My lord, it is all for the best. Gilbert was the idol to whom I gave -the undivided worship of my whole heart. God in his mercy saw fit to -dash it in pieces. Let us leave the fragments in the dust, and speak of -them no more." - -"So young and so wise," mused the Earl, regarding his companion with -intense interest. "How have you learned to bear so great a sorrow with -such heroic fortitude?" - -"I employed my hands constantly in useful labour, which kept me from -pondering continually over painful thoughts. There is no better remedy -for acute sorrow. I have always found it so; it gives strength both to -the body and mind. But it was not this alone, my lord, which reconciled -me to my grief." She paused a moment. Lord Wilton waved his hands -impatiently. - -"Go on, Dorothy, I am listening intently. What was your next step?" - -"I sought the advice and assistance of a higher power than my own. I -laid my poor broken heart in the dust at His feet, and poured the -anguish of my soul before Him. He heard my bitter cry, 'Save me Lord, -for I perish,' and lifted me out of the deep waters as they closed over -me. From that hour, I have clung to Him for help with the same -confidence that a little child clings to the bosom of its mother. I know -and feel that all He does is right, and that He does not causelessly -afflict the children of men." - -"The difficulty is in recognizing that our trials and sufferings are -from God," said the Earl, "God the all merciful. I fear, Dorothy, that I -should find your remedy very inefficient when applied to an incurable -sorrow." - -"Ah, do try it, my lord," said Dorothy, with great earnestness. "It may -be slow in its operations, but in the end it never fails. There is no -sorrow that is _incurable_, if you will only bring it to the foot of the -cross, and lay it down there. It will melt away from your soul, like the -mist before the rising sun--and when you contemplate the blessed Saviour -in His terrible death agony, and remember that He bore it all for such -as you, your sufferings will appear light indeed when compared with His, -and you will learn from Him the truth--the glorious truth that will set -you free from the bondage of sin and the fear of death. That makes -slaves and cowards of us all." - -"Softly, my dear girl. I want the faith to realize all this. Do you -speak from your own experience, or only repeat the lessons taught you by -Henry Martin?" - -"I speak of that which I have known and felt," said Dorothy, -emphatically. "Of that which has taught me to bear patiently a great -affliction, that has reconciled me to a hard lot, and brought me nearer -to God. I can now bless Him for my past trials. If I had never known -trouble, I should never have exchanged it for His easy yoke, or felt a -divine peace flowing out of grief." - -"I do not doubt your word, Dorothy. I am a miserable man, overwhelmed -with the consciousness of guilt, without the power to repent." - -"Oh, my lord, this cannot be, and you so good and kind. If you are a -bad man, where in this world shall we look for a righteous one?" - -"My poor child, you know little of the world, and still less of me. You -esteem me happy, because I am rich and high-born, deriving from my -wealth and position the means of helping others who are destitute of -these advantages. There is no real merit in this. I cannot bear to -witness physical suffering; and give from my abundance that I may be -relieved from the sight of it." - -"But you confer a benefit upon the poor by relieving their necessities, -which must be acceptable in the sight of God." - -"I fear not. Infinite wisdom looks deeper into these things than -short-sighted men, and the motive which induces the act is of more value -in His sight than the mere act. I have more money than I can use, and -possess every luxury and comfort that gold can buy. It is no sacrifice -to me giving to the poor. I really lose nothing, and my vanity is -pleased by the admiration they express at my generosity; I often feel -deeply humiliated by the self-approbation induced by these trifling -donations." - -"I wish there were more people in the world like your lordship." - -"Dorothy, Dorothy! you see before you a wretched conscience-stricken -creature, who would gladly give all that he has in the world for the -peace of mind you say that you enjoy. You, like the rest of my -neighbours, think me little short of perfection, for to most people the -outward and tangible is always the real. But, alas, I know myself -better. Listen to me, Dorothy, while I give you a page from my life's -history, which will show your benefactor in a new light." - -Dorothy looked wonderingly up into her companion's face. His brow was -knitted, his lips firmly compressed, and the sorrowful expression of his -pale face almost bordered on despair. She shuddered, and tears -involuntarily filled her eyes. Was this new idol going to resolve itself -into a mere image of clay? If he were no better than other men, where in -this world would she find truth? Dorothy was grieved and perplexed, but -she walked on in silence till the Earl again spoke. - -"I confide more willingly in you, Dorothy, because, like me you -have realized the great agony of having loved and lost. Yes, I loved as -my own soul a young girl as pure and artless as yourself. She held a -dependent and subordinate situation, and was far beneath me in rank. But -beauty is a great equalizer, and I never for a moment considered that -noble creature my inferior. I sought her love, and won her whole heart, -but circumstances prevented me from taking her by the hand, and publicly -acknowledging her as my wife to the world, and I sacrificed to the -Moloch of wealth and power her happiness and my own, and blasted for -ever the only wealth she possessed, a pure and unsullied name." - -"Oh, my lord, how could you do so?" - -"Ah! how indeed. I ask myself a thousand times a-day the same torturing -question. The fear of what people would say, Dorothy--the dread of -poverty--of loss of caste--for I was not at that time an elder son, made -me a coward and a fool. I left her--left the woman I adored to struggle -through the difficulty in which I had placed her, single-handed and -alone. - -"I was appointed _attaché_ to a foreign embassy, and left England for -several years, and was only recalled to inherit my present title, and -all the large property that fell to me by the death of an uncle, and -that of my eldest brother. No longer deterred from doing her justice by -the base fear of losing these advantages, I sought her in her old home, -my mother having dismissed her in disgrace from her service. Here I -found that her cruel grandmother had driven her forth into the streets, -and all traces of her had been lost. For seventeen years I have sought -her sorrowing through the world, to make reparation for my selfishness -and cruelty; but her fate remains a mystery, and the only clue that I -have obtained of her probable history, fills my mind with shame and -remorse. I can no longer wipe this foul stain from her memory if I -would. - -"You look at me in surprise and horror, Dorothy. Can you still think me -a good and great man. See how you have been deceived in your -estimate of me." - -Tears were in the Earl's eyes and on his pale cheeks. Dorothy looked -down to hide her own. - -"My lord," she said, in a soft low voice, "you have been very -unfortunate, and perhaps are less guilty than you think yourself, and -oh, I pity you with my whole heart." - -Involuntarily she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, and he -caught her in his arms and clasped her to his heart, his tears falling -over her like rain. - -"My dear child, my only friend, God bless you for your kind sympathy. Is -there any hope for a sinner like me?" - -"My lord," she whispered, "there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner -that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons that need no -repentance. Receive this great truth into your heart, and you will find -the peace you need." She spoke with such earnestness, that a gleam of -hope shot into the sad eyes of the Earl. - -"Dorothy, I will think over your words." - -"Pray over them, my lord; we must not only will, but do the thing that -is right." - -"Will you pray for me, Dorothy?" - -"I have always done so, my lord, since the first hour we met, and you -expressed such a kind interest in a poor friendless orphan girl." - -"Look upon me always as a friend--a father, Dorothy; you know not the -strong tie that unites my destiny with yours. Perhaps you will know one -day, and pity and forgive me for the injury you have received at my -hands." - -"My lord, you did your best to serve me. How could you imagine that -Gilbert could act as he has done? The blame, if there is any, rests -entirely with him. It cannot cancel the vast debt of gratitude I owe to -you." - -"You owe me nothing, Dorothy. My earnest desire is to see you good and -happy." - -A look of wondering curiosity stole over the young girl's face. He spoke -to her in riddles, but she knew the difference in their respective -stations to ask him questions. - -He evidently read her thoughts, and suddenly turning the conversation, -spoke to her in more cheerful tones. He inquired about her studies, and -what progress she had made in them. How she liked the books he had -provided for her instruction, and what sort of reading she preferred. -She answered with enthusiasm: - -"That the books had but one fault, they made the labours of the house -and field less agreeable, for she would like to be reading them all -day." - -"I expected as much," said the Earl, with his usual sweet smile. "I wish -to give you the means of earning your living in a more refined and -useful manner. There are plenty of hands to work in the world that -belong to people who have little or no brains in their heads, and such -people make the most profitable farm servants. Nature has bestowed upon -you a quick intellect, and to labour in the fields is to bury the -talents entrusted to your care, in the dust. By the way," he continued, -"Mrs. Martin tells me that you have a fine ear for music, and a powerful -melodious voice. It would gratify me highly to hear you sing." - -"Oh, my lord," said Dorothy, blushing rosy red, "what pleasure could -such a voice as mine give a gentleman like you? I only sing to amuse the -children, and wile away the time when I am at work." - -"You must leave me to be the best judge of that. If you feel timid, -which is but natural, just sit down on this sloping green bank, and -consider me a child, while you sing some little simple air." - -Dorothy felt all in a tremor, but he looked so kind that she did not -like to refuse, so she did as she was bid, and sat down on the grass at -his feet, and with her eyes fixed intently upon the daisies, sang a -little ballad very popular in those days, commencing with "Over the -mountains and over the moor." - -Her voice, at first tremulous with emotion, soon gained strength, and -she sang with a sweetness and pathos that would have drawn down -tremendous applause from a public audience. The Earl listened with rapt -attention. - -"Excellent!" he cried. "Mrs. Martin was right. Here is an admirable -talent that must be cultivated. Should you like to learn to play upon -the piano?" - -Dorothy's eyes literally shone with delight. "Oh, my lord, it would make -me so happy." - -"That is enough. I will order a good instrument from London. It will be -your property. Mrs. Martin will give it a place in her house, and when -you gain any proficiency, you can repay her kindness by teaching her -children. A good pianist can always command a comfortable -independence." - -"And who will instruct me?" asked Dorothy. - -"That matter is easily settled. You know old Piper, who plays the organ -in the church. He has but one idea, and that is music, which absorbs his -whole intellect. A fool in almost everything else, he is yet a splendid -musician. He will rejoice in such a promising pupil." - -"He is a strange, odd creature," said Dorothy. "If he is to be my -master, it will be hard to keep from laughing. He came one day to Mr. -Rushmere, to get him to buy tickets for a concert. Father was making a -riddle to separate some large peas from a different sort that were much -smaller, that had got accidentally mixed in the granary, and spoiled the -sample of both. The old man stood and looked at him for some time, then -said so innocently, - -"'Now, sir, can't you make that 'ere machine to let out all the large -peas, and keep the little 'uns behind?' - -"How father laughed, and told him that his idea was so clever, that he -advised him to take out a patent for his invention. He took the joke as -a great compliment, and went away rubbing his hands, highly delighted -with his mechanical skill." - -"You must try to listen to his wise speeches, Dorothy, with a grave -face. Odd as he is, the old man is a great favourite of mine, for he -taught me, when I was a lad, to play on the violin, and put up with all -my wild tricks with the greatest good humour. One day he requested me to -pay more attention to time, as I was apt to trust too much to my ear. - -"'What is time?' I demanded very pertly, and purposely to quiz him. - -"'Time,' said he, repeating my words with a look of bewildered -astonishment, as if he doubted my sanity. 'Why, Master Edward, time is -time. When a person has played a piece in time, he feels so neat, so -clean, and so satisfied with himself.' I did not attempt to keep my -gravity, but ran laughing out of the room. - -"Time has not changed the queer old man a bit. The other day I sent him -a fine hare: two hours after, I was riding with another nobleman through -Storby, when, who should turn the corner of Market Street but old Piper, -bearing in his hands a great red earthenware dish, covered in with -paste. When he saw me, he stopped just before our horses, and, making me -a profound bow, tapped the dish with his hand, calling out in a jocular -voice: - -"'Thank you, my lord, for pussie! she is safe here, under _cover_, and I -am now going to dine like a prince.' - -"The bystanders laughed. How could they help it; my friend fairly -roared, and I felt rather mortified at the old man making such a public -demonstration of his gratitude for such a small gift." - -Dorothy enjoyed the anecdote, and laughed too. "I have no doubt we shall -get on famously together, for I will set my whole heart to the work." - -The Earl shook her heartily by the hand, and rode off in good spirits. -The little episode of the music, and the eccentricities of Dorothy's -future master, had won him from his melancholy. A week had scarcely -elapsed before Mrs. Martin brought Dorothy the joyful intelligence that -the piano had arrived; that Mr. Piper was tuning it, and had pronounced -it a first rate instrument, and the children were all wild with delight. - -This was a new epoch in Dorothy's life. She employed every spare moment -in mastering the difficulties of the science, and enchanted old Piper -with the attention she gave to his prosaical instructions. "Her face," -he said, "might make a fortune, but her voice was sure to do it. He was -no great judge of beauty, had never courted a woman in his life, and was -too old to think of it now. But he was a judge of music, and he was -pretty sure that she could not fail in that." - -Mr. Rushmere did not approve of this new encroachment on what he -considered his natural right in Dorothy; though for some months he was -kept in profound ignorance of the turn her studies had taken, and even -when he at last made the discovery, he was not aware that Lord Wilton -was the delinquent that had robbed him of her time. Lord Wilton had -furnished Dorothy with money to pay for the hire of a girl, to take -charge of the coarser domestic drudgery; still Lawrence Rushmere -grumbled and was not satisfied. He wondered where and how the girl -obtained her funds, and whether she came honestly by them. Mrs. -Rushmere, who was in the secret--for Dorothy kept nothing from her--told -him "that it was part of the salary paid by the Earl to Dorothy for -teaching in the Sunday school." This was the truth; "and that he ought, -instead of constantly finding fault with the poor girl, to rejoice in -her good fortune. Dorothy was growing more like a lady every day, and -was so good and clever that he should consider her a credit to the -house." - -"I thought a deal more on her," quoth the old man, "when she was dressed -in homespun and was not above her business. Those silly people are -making a fule o' the girl, turning her head with vanity and conceit. -Wife, you can't make a purse out o' a sow's ear, or a real lady out o' -one not born a lady. They are spoiling the girl an' quite unfitting her -for an honest labourer's wife." - -At this moment the object under dispute came tripping into the room, -dressed in a simple muslin gown with a neat coarse straw bonnet tied -closely under her soft round chin. Mrs. Rushmere glanced up at the -lovely smiling girl, so graceful in all her movements, so artless and -winning in her unaffected simplicity, and quite realized her husband's -idea, that she was not fit for a ploughman's help-mate. - -"Well, Doll, lass, what's up at the parsonage?" cried the farmer. "Your -face is all of a glow and brimful of summat." - -"Our old vicar is dead, father; Mr. Martin has just got the news." - -"Bless my soul, Mr. Conyers gone? Why he be a young man to me," and he -pushed his hands through his gray locks. "What did a' die of, lass?" - -"Apoplexy--it was quite sudden. He had just eaten a hearty dinner, when -he fell down in a fit, and never spoke again." - -"Ah, them parsons generally die o' that. They be great yeaters, and the -stomach, they do say, affects the head. It seems like putting the cart -afore the horse, don't it, dame?" - -"I ran up to tell you," continued Dorothy, "that Mrs. Martin sends her -best compliments to you, father, and would esteem it a great favour if -you would allow me to stay all day at the parsonage, to help her prepare -rooms for the use of the new vicar, who is going to board with her, and -is expected down to-night." - -"Whew," cried Rushmere, snapping his fingers. "I think Mrs. Martin had -better keep you altogether. She's a clever woman to make use of other -people's servants. I have a great mind to send you back to tell her that -I won't let you go." - -Dorothy was silent. Experience had taught her that it was the best -policy never to answer her father in these moods. Left to himself his -better nature generally prevailed. - -"And who be the new vicar, Dolly?" asked her mother, who seldom failed -in getting her adopted child out of these scrapes, by diverting her -husband's attention to another object. - -"Mr. Gerard Fitzmorris, a first cousin of my lord's." - -"I knew his father," said Rushmere, "when he was raising a regiment -here, to fight the rebels in Ireland. He was a bad man. A drunkard an' a -gambler, and got killed in a duel. His wife ran away with another -officer. He followed them to France, challenged her seducer, an' got the -worst of it. His death was no loss to the world, or to his family. So, -so, this is his son. Poor stuff to make a man o' God out on' one would -think." - -"Children do not always inherit their parents' vices," suggested Mrs. -Rushmere. - -"It would be bad for the world if they did. But somehow I ha' found that -they often bear a strong family likeness," muttered the farmer. - -"Well, girl, an' when do the new parson commence his work?" - -"He will read himself in next Sunday morning. Mr. Martin says that he is -an excellent preacher, and a real Christian. Not one made so by -education, and from having been born and brought up in a Christian land, -but from conversion, and an earnest desire to be of use in the church." - -"Humph," said Rushmere, "this is the way they generally cant about every -new parson. In a little while, they find out that these converted -sinners are no better nor the rest on us, only they think themselves -more godly. And you girl, don't you go to pull long faces and cant like -them. It is not by words but by deeds, that a man will be justified at -the last." - -"Both would prove insufficient, father," suggested Dorothy, "without the -grace of God. If men could save themselves, our blessed Lord's death was -a useless sacrifice." - -"Oh in course, you know better nor me, Dolly. If you go on at this rate, -you'll be able to teach parson his duty." - -Dorothy laughed, and seeing him once more in a good humour again, put in -her plea, of helping Mrs. Martin prepare for her guest. "If not a good -act, it would be a neighbourly one," she said, "I will be back in time -father, to get your supper." - -"But don't let these pious folk spoil you, lass. Dorothy Chance will -soon be too great a lady, wi' her musical nonsense and book larning, to -step across father Rushmere's threshold." - -Dolly ran back and kissed the old man. - -"What's that for, Doll?" and the yeoman laughed and opened his eyes -wide. - -"For calling yourself my father. You have not spoken of me as your child -for so long. I thought you meant to disown me altogether." - -Dorothy looked so sweetly and spoke so pleasantly, that the old man's -anger vanished in her smile. - -"Go thy ways, Dolly, thou art a good wench. I love thee well, and thou -know'st it. If I be crusty, it's no new thing to thee, who know'st my -nature far better, nor I do mysel'. Like old Pincher, my bark is a great -deal worse nor my bite." - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -DOROTHY DOES NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH THE VICAR AT FIRST SIGHT. - - -Dorothy was not long in retracing her steps to the parsonage. She found -Mrs. Martin up to her eyes in business, taking up carpets, shifting -furniture, and giving the house a thorough cleaning from top to bottom. -The curate, who was generally very helpless on such occasions, and -decidedly in everybody's way during these domestic ordeals, was busy -stowing away books and papers out of the reach of mops and brooms. - -"Now, Dorothy, which do you think will be the best room to give Mr. -Fitzmorris for his study? The one over the parlour that looks to the -south, and has such a nice view of Lord Wilton's plantations, or the -east chamber, which has such a fine prospect of the sea? Men are always -fond of the sea." - -"It looks bleak and cold over that long dreary stretch of flat salt -marshes," said Dorothy, examining the landscape from both windows with a -critical eye. "I think he will prefer the sunny room that looks to the -south. I know I should." - -"We can but change it, Dorothy, if it should not be to his taste. But I -have thought of another difficulty, which cannot be so easily remedied. -What of the piano?" and she turned an anxious eye on Dorothy. "How will -he be able to write his sermons with the eternal thumping of the -children on the instrument? It will be enough to drive a nervous man -from the house." - -"How, indeed?" said Dorothy. "We must move the piano." - -"But where?" - -"To the Farm." - -"By no means. You provoking little puss! It is the only handsome piece -of furniture in the house." - -"We can place it in the dining-room, and only practice when he is absent -on parish business. If he is such a good, kind man as he is represented, -he will do all in his power to accommodate the females of the -household." - -"We will try that plan. But what about the noise of the children?" - -"The children are very quiet, and always do as they are bid. I am sure -no reasonable person can find fault with them." - -The women chatted and worked on merrily, and before the church bell -tolled six, the south room was arranged entirely to their own -satisfaction. The windows were draped in snowy white, the casements -shone clear as the air, and tables, and chairs, and book-stands had -received an extra polish from the indefatigable hands of Dorothy, and -she commenced the arrangement of two large boxes of books that had -arrived by the London carrier, in the cases which had been forwarded for -their reception. - -This last labour of love she performed very slowly, stopping to peep -into every volume as she dusted it. The Latin and Greek authors were -quickly disposed of, and the huge tomes of divinity scarcely attracted -any notice, but some fine works on botany and natural history chained -her attention. The plates were so beautiful that, in spite of sundry -implied remonstrances from Mrs. Martin, who was fidgetty lest the vicar -should arrive before all was completed, she could not resist the -temptation of looking at them, and even called in Harry and little -Johnnie to share her delight. - -"I like the lions best," said little Johnnie. "I don't care for that big -pussie-cat with the green eyes and the long tail. It looks as if it -could scratch," and he put his fat fingers vigorously down upon the -Bengal tiger. - -"Yes, and eat you afterwards," said Harry. "I don't like lions and -tigers. I love these beautiful flowers, they make me think of the -angels, they look so pure and lovely, and darling Dorothy loves them -too," and he leaned his head back upon Dorothy's white arm, and looked -earnestly up into her smiling face. Dorothy pressed the little curly -head fondly against her breast. - -"Harry, we will get Mr. Fitzmorris to tell us all about the pretty -flowers; I don't know our favourites with these hard names. Flowers are -among God's best gifts to man. They have wonderful secrets of their own, -and, besides the innocent pleasure they give to every true heart, -possess in themselves a remedy for almost every disease. That reminds me -that I have yet to fill the china vase for the table. Come and help me, -Harry, for your tastes and mine always agree." - -The two happy children, for Dorothy was still a child in heart, ran down -into the garden, hand in hand, and soon selected a splendid bouquet of -sweet spring blossoms, which Dorothy grouped with artistic taste, and -left in the centre of the table. A beautiful object, which put the -finishing touch to the exquisitely neat adornments of the small -apartment. She did not wait for the arrival of its future occupant, but -took her way home through the lonely lane that wound round the heath to -the Farm. - -"I wonder what sort of a man he is?" said Dorothy, thinking of the new -vicar, "whether he be old or young, plain or good-looking. If he -resembles the Earl, I cannot fail to like him. Lord Wilton, though -getting up in years, is the most interesting and the handsomest man I -have ever seen." - -Her speculations were abruptly dispelled, by a large Newfoundland dog -brushing past her, and she looked up and blushed to find herself face -to face with a strange gentleman, whose clerical dress left no doubts in -her mind as to his identity. - -The person she was thinking about was before her. - -He was a man of middle stature, not stout, but with a strong muscular -frame and the unmistakable bearing of a gentleman, who stopping directly -in her path, asked in a very unromantic and practical manner, "if he was -in the right road that led to the parsonage?" - -Dorothy answered with some confusion, as if she suspected that the -stranger had read her thoughts. - -"That the next turn in the lane would bring him in sight of the house." - -With a brief "Thank you," Mr. Fitzmorris raised his hat, and passed on. - -Dorothy was dreadfully disappointed. Was this the man for whom she had -arranged that beautiful vase of flowers? Judging from appearances, he -would be more likely to throw them out of the window as a nuisance, than -see anything to admire in them. What a different person he was to the -picture she had drawn of him in her mind! He did not resemble the Earl -in the least. He was not handsome. His features were strongly marked and -even stern for his age, for he could not have counted more than thirty -years, if indeed he were as old. - -His complexion was coldly fair, the blue tints predominating over the -red, which gave a general pallor to his face not at all relieved by the -flaxen hair that curled in short masses round his ample forehead. His -eyebrows of the same colour, were strongly defined and rather bushy, -beneath which flashed out glances of keen intelligence, from a pair of -large eyes, vividly blue--they were remarkable eyes, which seemed to -look you through at a glance, and which once seen, could not easily be -forgotten. - -He took no particular notice of Dorothy, and scarcely waited for her -answer to his abrupt inquiry. - -"I don't think I shall like him at all," said Dorothy, her natural -vanity rather piqued by his nonchalance. "He looks clever, but proud and -stern. A poor substitute, I fear, for our dear Henry Martin, with his -large heart and gentle benevolence. Mr. Fitzmorris looks as if he could -fight with other weapons than the sword of the spirit," and Dorothy -closed the farm gate very emphatically behind her. - -"Well, Dorothy, what of our new vicar?" asked Mrs. Rushmere, like most -old folks eager for the news. "Have you seen him?" - -"Yes," replied Dorothy, with a tone of great indifference. - -"And what is he like?" - -"No one I have ever seen." - -"Is he handsome?" - -"Decidedly not." - -"Is he clever?" - -"He looks intelligent, but I can't tell, I only saw him for a moment. He -stopped me in the lane to inquire his way to the parsonage; I should -scarcely know him again." - -Dorothy tripped off to her own chamber, to avoid further questions, and -to take off her muslin dress, and substitute a more homely garb in which -to cook Mr. Rushmere's supper. - -The next morning was the day for receiving her music lesson. Dorothy -felt very much disinclined to walk to the parsonage to take it; though -she knew that old Piper would be raging mad at her want of punctuality. -She had no wish to encounter Mr. Fitzmorris, or meet again the keen -glance of his wonderful eyes. It was evident that he considered her a -very inferior person, and Dorothy's pride had progressed with her -education, and she began to feel that she was not undeserving of a -certain degree of respect from persons who might happen to move in a -higher class than her own. - -Not being able to frame a plausible excuse for her absence from the -cottage, she was compelled to put on her bonnet, and dare the ordeal she -so much dreaded. - -It was a lovely morning in the middle of May, and she gathered some -branches of hawthorn in full blossom for the children as she went along. - -On coming up to the small white gate, that opened into the lawn fronting -the parsonage, she saw Mr. Fitzmorris seated on the grass, under the -shade of the tall bowering sycamore tree that grew in the centre of it, -with all the little ones gathered about him, laughing and romping with -them to their hearts' content, his laugh as loud, and his voice as -merry and joyous as the rest. - -Could this be the cold, proud looking man she met in the lane last -night? His hat lay tossed at a distance upon the grass, the noble head -was bare, and wee Mary was sticking bluebells and cowslips among the -fair curls that clustered over it. A glow was on the pale face, and the -eyes sparkled and danced with pleasure. - -"Dorothy! Dorothy!" screamed all the little voices at once. "Here comes -our dear Dorothy! Do come and play with us under the tree." - -Dorothy smiled and shook her head at them, and almost ran into the -house. - -"And who is your dear Dorothy, Harry?" asked Mr. Fitzmorris, looking -after the pretty apparition as it vanished. - -"Oh, she's such a darling, next to papa and mamma, I love her better -than anything in the world," said Harry with enthusiasm, "and I know -she loves me." - -"I'm sure, Harry, we all love her as much as you do," said Rosina. "But -you always want to keep Dolly all to yourself. She does not love you a -bit more than she does me and Johnnie." - -"That she don't," cried Johnnie. "She loves me more than you all, for I -sit on her lap while she tells us pretty stories, and Harry's too old to -do that." - -"I should rather think so," said Mr. Fitzmorris, laughing and looking at -Harry, a tall boy of nine years. "I think Johnnie's plea is the best. At -any rate, he contrives to get nearest to the young lady's heart. But why -are you all so fond of her? Do you love her for her pretty face?" - -"Not for that alone," returned Harry. "But she is so kind, she never -says or does a cross thing, and always tries to make us happy." - -"Then she deserves all the love you can give her. It is a blessed thing -to try and make others happy." - -Just at that moment the grand notes of the old hundredth floated forth -upon the breeze, and became a living harmony, accompanied by Dorothy's -delicious voice. Mr. Fitzmorris rose to his feet, and stood with -uncovered head: the smile that had recently played upon his lips giving -place to an expression of rapt devotion, as if his whole heart and soul -were wafted towards heaven in those notes of praise. - -"It is Dorothy who is singing. She sings in our choir," said Harry. - -"Hush," returned the vicar, placing his finger on his lip. "We are -'before Jehovah's awful throne.' Wherever you hear that name mentioned, -you are upon holy ground." - -The boy drew back awe-struck, and for the first time in his young life, -realized the eternal presence of God in the universe. - -After Dorothy's lessons were over, Mr. Fitzmorris asked Mrs. Martin to -introduce him to her young friend. - -"I hope you are not vain of that fine voice?" he said, taking a seat -beside her. - -"Why should I be? I can hardly call it mine, for I had no choice in the -matter. It was a free gift." - -Mr. Fitzmorris regarded the youthful speaker with a look of surprise. -For the first time it struck him forcibly that her face was very -beautiful, while its earnest, truthful expression conveyed the more -pleasing impression that it was one of great integrity. - -"A free gift," he said, repeating unconsciously her words. "To be used -freely, I hope, in the service of the glorious Giver, and not as a means -of obtaining the applause and admiration of the world?" - -"Not very likely, sir. My world is confined to a small sphere. It was -only the other day that I found out that I had a voice worthy of being -used in the choir. I used to sing to please my father, and to lighten my -labour when at work in the field." - -"At work in the field!" and Mr. Fitzmorris glanced at the elegant form -and taper fingers. "What business had you working in the fields?" - -"I am poor and dependent," said Dorothy, laughing, though she felt a -great awe of her interrogator; "and the children of poverty are seldom -allowed the privilege of choosing their own employments." - -"But your appearance, Miss Chance, your language, even the manner of -your singing, seems to contradict the humbleness of your origin." - -"What I have said is true," returned Dorothy. "I should be sorry if you -thought me capable of misrepresentation." - -"You must not be so quick to take offence where none is meant," said Mr. -Fitzmorris, quietly, as Dorothy, who felt rather wounded, rose to go. -"Sit down, my good little girl, and listen to reason." - -Dorothy thought that he had no right to question her so closely; he -seemed to read her thoughts, and she neither resumed her seat nor spoke. - -"You think me very impertinent, Miss Chance. You forget that, as your -future pastor, I feel no small interest in your welfare; that the care -of souls is my special business; that it is nothing to me whether you be -poor or rich--all are alike in the eyes of Him I serve, whose eternal -image is impressed, irrespective of rank or wealth, as strongly upon the -soul of the peasant as upon that of the prince. Those alone are poor in -whom sin has obliterated this Divine likeness. If you are rich in the -Master's love, you are doubly so in my eyes, for I love all those who -love the Lord Jesus with sincerity." - -The smile that now lighted up the pale, stern features of the young -vicar, made them almost beautiful. Dorothy felt the power of that calm, -noble face, and reproached herself for the unjust prejudices she had -entertained for him. - -"I have spoken very foolishly," she said, and the tears came to her -eyes. "Will you, sir, forgive my presumption?" - -"I have nothing to forgive," and he looked amused. - -"Oh, yes, you have. When I first saw you I thought you looked cold and -proud, and acting upon that supposition, I was determined not to like -you. This, you know, was very wrong." - -"Not so wrong after all. You are a good physiognomist, Miss Chance. I -was once all that you imagined me to be, and it takes a long while to -obliterate the expression which the mind stamps upon the countenance in -our early years. What made you alter your opinion so quickly?" - -"A light which passed over your face, which I believe can only come from -Heaven." - -"I wish you may be a true prophet, Miss Chance." - -"Oh, sir, don't call me by that ugly name. Let it be plain Dorothy." - -"Well then, Dorothy, now there is peace between us, sit down and tell me -who first discovered that you had a fine voice." - -"Lord Wilton." - -"Lord Wilton!" Mr. Fitzmorris almost started to his feet. - -"He met me one day upon the heath, and told me that he had learned from -Mrs. Martin that I had a good voice, and asked me to sing to him." - -"And you complied with the request?" - -"Certainly." - -"Don't you think that it was a strange request for a nobleman to make to -a poor country girl? Do you know, Dorothy, what Lord Wilton is?" - -"Yes, Mr. Fitzmorris, the best friend I ever had in the world." - -"Dorothy, the friendship of such men is enmity to God. Lord Wilton is a -man of the world. A man without religion, who is haunted continually by -the stings of conscience. Such a man rarely seeks the acquaintance of a -young girl beneath him in rank, for any good purpose." - -"Ah, you wrong him! indeed you do," cried Dorothy. "He wishes me to be -good and happy, and to look upon him as a friend and father; and I love -him as such. He placed me under Mrs. Martin's care, that I might be -instructed to help her in the Sunday-school. Would a bad man have done -that? For Mrs. Martin and her husband are among the excellent of the -earth!" - -"A great change must have come over him. When I last saw him, but that -is some years ago, he was all that I have represented him." - -Mr. Fitzmorris walked to the window, and stood with folded arms, -apparently in deep thought. - -There had never been much intimacy between his branch of the family and -Lord Wilton's, though they were first cousins. Their mutual uncle had -left an immense fortune to the Earl, which Gerard's father thought -should have been equally divided. He did not consider that he had been -fairly treated in the matter, and accused the Earl of having undermined -him in the good graces of the titled millionaire. - -These family quarrels are very bitter, and their pernicious effects are -often traceable through several generations. - -It was not of this great family disappointment that General Fitzmorris -was thinking, for he was very indifferent about wealth, only regarding -it as a useful means of doing good. He was mentally glancing over -several passages in the Earl's life, in which his conduct had been -severely censured by the public, when the seduction and subsequent -suicide of a beautiful girl adopted by his mother, had formed the theme -of every tongue. - -And who was this beautiful country girl, this Dorothy Chance, that he -should take such an interest in her education. He was afraid the old -leaven was again at work, and he was determined, if possible, to -frustrate his designs. - -"Is your father one of my parishioners, Dorothy?" he said, again -addressing her. - -"Yes, sir, my adopted father." - -"Are you an orphan?" - -"My mother is dead. My father, I never knew; I don't know whether he be -living or dead. But please, sir, don't ask me anything about it. Mrs. -Martin can tell you my strange history. I did not mind hearing about it -once, but now it gives me great pain." - -"I should be sorry to distress you, Dorothy," he said, coming over to -where she was standing, her hand resting on the piano. - -"I wish to be your friend." - -"I believe you, Mr. Fitzmorris, but I cannot be your friend, if you -speak ill of Lord Wilton." - -"I will only speak of him as he deserves. If he is a regenerated man, I -shall rejoice to give him the right hand of fellowship. And now, good -morning, Dorothy, I have much to do before the duties of the Sabbath. I -shall see you again shortly." - -Mr. Fitzmorris left the room, and Dorothy returned to the farm. - -On her way thither, she pondered much on what had passed between her and -Mr. Fitzmorris. His conversation had filled her mind with a thousand -painful doubts and fears. Could there really be any impropriety in her -intimacy with Lord Wilton? and was it possible that he could be such a -person as Mr. Fitzmorris described? Then she recalled the Earl's own -confession. The fearful manner in which he had accused himself of crimes -committed in his youth against some one, whom he had loved and injured, -and robbed of her fair name. But he had not spoken of her as his wife, -but as one whom he had been ashamed to own, and had deserted and left to -perish. - -This was cruel and cowardly to say the least of it, but she, Dorothy, -had pitied him so much, had mingled her tears with his, and actually -wept in his arms. - -Dorothy was frightened at having allowed her sympathy to carry her so -far. She had acted foolishly; she saw, when it was too late, the -imprudence of such conduct. If any one had passed them at the time, Miss -Watling, for instance, what a story she would have had to tell. Her -character would have been lost for ever. Was not this fancied -illustration of her indiscretion more conclusive than any argument that -Mr. Fitzmorris had used? - -She felt miserably uncomfortable and ill at ease. In vain she repeated -St. Paul's words, "To the pure, all things are pure." There was another -text that seemed to answer that, "Avoid all appearance of evil." And -would not malicious people raise an evil report about her, if they saw -her frequently walking and talking with a man so far above her in rank -as Lord Wilton? - -Dorothy had boundless faith in the purity of his motives, in the -sincerity of his friendship for her. But would the gossips of Hadstone -see him with her eyes, or judge him with her heart? Alas, no. Dorothy -shuddered at the danger which threatened her. But how could she avoid -it. Could she tell Lord Wilton that she would lose her character if she -was seen speaking to him? Would it not be base ingratitude to her noble -benefactor? No. She would let things take their course. She was certain -that his intentions were good and honourable, that it would all come -right at last. She wished that she had never seen Mr. Fitzmorris. He had -made her unhappy, and she had yet to learn that he was a better man than -the Earl. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -MR. FITZMORRIS. - - -The next morning the parish church was thronged to overflowing, to hear -Mr. Fitzmorris go through the ceremony of reading himself into the -office of vicar. This he did in an earnest and impressive manner, as one -deeply conscious of the responsible situation he had been called to -fill. He read the articles of the church in a clear, calm natural voice, -without the least tinge of affectation or display. - -In the sermon that followed, he addressed his congregation, with the -affectionate earnestness of a brother anxious to guide them into the -paths of righteousness and peace. "He'll do. That he will," said old -Rushmere to Joe Barford, as they left the church together. "He talks -like a sensible man and a Christian. I shan't begrudge paying the small -tythes to the like o' him." - -"Well neebor, I thinks a mighty deal more o' measter Martin," responded -Joe. "I doon't take to these big folks a' doon't. It doon't seem nataral -to me for lords and jukes to go up into a pulpit, an' hold forth to the -loikes o' us." - -"He's neither lord nor duke. Though his mother was a yearl's darter an' -a bad one she wor. It's one o' God's mysteries, how such wicked parents -can have good children." - -"He mayn't be as good as a' looks," quoth Joe. "I'll give yer my 'pinion -on him twelve month hence." - -Joe was a bit of a democrat, and having lost _caste_ himself, was very -bitter against every one who held a higher position. - -Miss Watling was determined to patronize the new vicar. He was not bad -looking, and a bachelor. To be sure he was a younger brother and not -over gifted with the mammon of unrighteousness; but on this latter -clause, she based the hope that he might be on the look out for a rich -wife, and it was just possible, that his choice might fall upon her. She -loitered in the porch gossipping with a friend until he left the church, -and then said loud enough for him to hear, - -"_I call him a divine young man._" - -Gerard Fitzmorris passed out, without the least idea that he was the -hero of this fine speech. His mind was so occupied with other thoughts, -that he neither heard nor saw the speaker. Letty Barford did not like -the new parson at all. - -"He was tew stiff," she said, "and wanted to introduce new fashions into -the church. He troubled himself, tew much about people's souls as if -they did not know how to take care of them without consulting him. If -he came talking to her about her sins, she wu'd just tell him to mind -his own business, and leave her to go to heaven, or t'other place, her -own way." - -Dorothy listened to all these remarks in silence. The eloquent discourse -she had just heard had made a deep impression on her mind. She thought a -great deal more of Mr. Fitzmorris since she had heard him in the pulpit, -and felt convinced, in spite of her former prejudice, that he was a man -of God. - -She wished that Lord Wilton had heard him preach, and tell the story of -his own conversion with such humble earnestness. It had affected her to -tears, and she could not sufficiently admire a man of his rank and -education unveiling the struggles of his own heart, that his fellow men -might be benefitted by the confession. - -Lord Wilton was in London; he had been called away suddenly to meet his -son who had left the army on the sick list, and was reported by the -surgeon of the regiment as being far gone in consumption. - -"It will be a dreadful blow to the Earl, if he should lose his son," -said Mr. Martin, as he walked home from church with the vicar. "In such -case who would be the heir?" - -"My brother Francis." - -"And where is he at present?" - -"That would be a difficult question to answer. Here and there and -everywhere. Like most young men of the world, where ever pleasure or -love of excitement leads him. Should this title fall to him, I fear it -would be the very worst thing that could happen to him." - -"That does not necessarily follow." - -"My dear friend, an increase of wealth to men of very dissipated habits, -seldom leads to improvement. It only gives them a greater opportunity of -being wicked. I would much rather the Earl married again." - -"That is not at all likely. He seems to have outlived all human passion. -His hopes and affections are entirely centred in this son." - -"How dreadful is the rending asunder of ties that bind us closely to the -earth," said Mr. Fitzmorris. "I speak from painful experience--but it -must be done to bring us to God with whole and undivided hearts. It is -only through much suffering, mental or physical, but generally both -combined, that men come to a knowledge of their own weakness, and the -all-sufficiency of Christ, to satisfy the cravings of the soul, for a -higher and more perfect state of existence." - -"By the hints you threw out in your sermon, Mr. Fitzmorris, I was led to -imagine that your own conversion had been brought about by some heavy -affliction." - -"Yes, I have felt the deep anguish of offering up a bleeding heart upon -the altar of duty. But oh, how great has been my reward! what joy and -peace has arisen out of the very sorrow that was at first so -overwhelming. What a blessed light sprang out of that dense darkness, -when the Holy Spirit first illumined, with irresistible splendour, the -black gulf of despair in which my soul lay grovelling. Though keenly -conscious of my lost state, I was totally unable to express my wants and -desires in prayer. - -"A humble instrument was sent to aid me in that terrible conflict. A -rude, uneducated man, but a sincere Christian, who had recently entered -my service, and who watched by my sick bed when all my friends forsook -me for fear of infection. He it was who opened up to me the sublime -truths of the Gospel, and taught me to pray. - -"To me, he became more than a friend or brother, my father in Christ. I -loved him as only a son new-born to life could love such a benefactor. -When I recovered from that terrible fever, he took it and died. - -"Oh, what a triumph was that death! How serenely he rendered up his -simple soul to his Creator, and entered the dark river with a smile upon -his lips, and the light of Heaven upon his brow. Whenever my faith grows -weak, I think of Harley's death-bed, and become as strong as a lion -ready to battle for the truth against a whole world combined." - -"You are no bigot either, Fitzmorris." - -"I abhor it in any shape. Religion was meant to make men happy, not -gloomy, morose, and censorious, condemning others because they cannot -think as we think, or see any particular advantages in the forms and -ceremonies that we deem essential. It is only in modes of worship that -real Christians differ. I always endeavour to look beyond the outward -and material, to the inward and spiritual." - -Henry Martin was very much of the same way of thinking, but he was not -such an enthusiast as Gerald Fitzmorris, and, perhaps, lacked the -mental courage to avow it. - -For some weeks, Mr. Fitzmorris was so much engaged in going round the -two parishes of Hadstone and Storby, for he had been inducted into both, -and getting acquainted with the church members, that Dorothy could go -and practice her lessons without any fear of meeting him. - -Storby, being a sea-port town containing several thousand inhabitants, -offered a larger field of usefulness, and the Hadstone folk were left -almost entirely to the care of Henry Martin, Mr. Fitzmorris occasionally -preaching and inspecting the Sunday school. - -There was no evening service at Hadstone, and the distance to Storby -being within the compass of a pleasant walk, the Martins and Dorothy -generally walked over to listen to the vicar's eloquent preaching. - -Every day he grew in their affection and esteem; he was so kind and -cheerful, so amiable to the children, and so contented with Mrs. -Martin's humble arrangements for his comfort, that she often told -Dorothy that he was a "treasure of a man." - -He was generally up for a morning walk by five o'clock, when he never -failed to call the children, telling them to come with him to the fields -and learn wisdom. - -Dorothy had several times joined the party, and been a delighted -listener to his lessons in natural history. He never failed to lead -their minds upward from the contemplation of the works of the Creator, -to the Creator himself, making religion a beautiful, holy, and practical -thing. - -"The Lord's kingdom is a world of wonders," he said; "the more we study -nature, the greater He becomes in our eyes, the more insignificant we -seem in our own. Look around you, dear children. The Heavens declare the -glory of God. David learned that sublime lesson ages ago. The seasons -and their changes present a constant succession of miracles to those who -study them with the eye of faith. On every side we are encompassed by a -cloud of witnesses to testify of the Divine love, the inexhaustible -contrivance, and the infinite wisdom of the Deity. - -"Look at this exquisite little flower, its tiny petals so minute that a -rude touch would blot them out of existence; yet examine them in this -microscope, and behold how perfect they are--'that Solomon in all his -glory was not arrayed like one of these.'" - -"But some things are very ugly," said Harry. "I hate snakes and toads." - -"Both, though repulsive in our eyes, are not without their beauty. The -toad has a sparkling eye, and the snake is graceful in his movements. -The swiftness and agility with which he glides over the ground, presents -a wonderful illustration of the mechanical skill of the great -Contriver." - -"Oh," said Dorothy, "there is no pleasure to me so great as observing -the works of God in his creation." - -"You are right, Dorothy, to encourage such sentiments. The love of -nature is a sinless enjoyment, in which angels share. Nature is a -material embodiment of divine truth, and if studied rightly, brings the -mind into communion with the great Father, whose Spirit lives through -all. Yea, even inanimate substances, or those which we consider as such, -obey His commands and work out His will. This, to our finite -comprehension, is unintelligible, but nothing is without its -significance to Him whose Spirit exists in every atom that His wisdom -has called into being. - -"Despise not the lowest forms of life, for His power is shown as fully -in the smallest insect, as in the lordly being who bears His image, and -calls himself man. - -"Can you look at anything, however mean, as made in vain, when it -required the mind of a God to give it a place in His universe? - -"Oh that man could comprehend the perfect unity that exists between God -and His works. From the least to the greatest, if one among them had not -been necessary, it would never have been formed, for the Creator does -nothing in vain. There is no waste in the Divine economy. He gathers up -the fragments so that nothing is lost, but renews them in other forms to -suit His own purpose. Thus the chain of existence runs on through the -long ages of eternity, and not one link is broken, though the law of -change operates on all." - -"Now, Harry, you must not abuse toads and snakes any more," said Rosina, -"for they are as much God's creatures as we are, and I hate to see you -kill them, when they are not doing you any harm." - -"Well said, little Rosey," and Mr. Fitzmorris patted her curly head. -"'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.' Cultivate -purity of heart, and universal benevolence, which are very acceptable in -the sight of the good Father. And that reminds me, dear children, that I -have work of another sort to do, and must not loiter away the precious -time among the green grass and the sunbeams any longer." - -"The day is so pleasant--everything looks so lovely," said Dorothy, "I -agree with the poet, 'Methinks it is good to be here.'" - -Reluctantly they all rose from the green hill-side to return to the -parsonage. Rosey and Johnnie, as the youngest of the party, claiming the -right to walk with Mr. Fitzmorris. Dearly the children loved him, for he -taught them with a gentle authority, which, while it inspired awe, -greatly increased their affection. "You are a great friend to the -working classes, Mr. Fitzmorris," said Dorothy, as they walked over the -heath. - -Dorothy loved to hear him talk, and wanted to engage him in -conversation. - -"Our blessed Master was one of them," he said cheerfully. "They are -peculiarly His people, for like the birds of the air, they live under -His especial providence, and are generally more thankful recipients of -His bounty than the rich. I despise the man, be his rank in life what it -may, who is ashamed of honest labour. Industry is a healthful recreation -both for the body and mind, and is the genuine parent of honesty. Our -good Hannah More has said, that 'cleanliness is next to godliness,' but -poor people must be industrious before they can afford to be clean. The -three united form a beautiful harmony." - -"I suppose that that is the reason, Mr. Fitzmorris, that you work so -much in the garden, and in papa's potato field, instead of going out -visiting like other folks?" - -Mr. Fitzmorris laughed heartily. - -"I enjoy a little healthy work for its own sake, Harry, when it does not -take me away from necessary duties. I have seed to sow, and visits to -make that you wot not of. A wise man has said, and I fully endorse the -sentiment, that 'The Lord's kingdom is a kingdom of uses.' 'My Father -works hitherto, and I work,' said the blessed Master. If duty calls you -to work, work as he worked--not merely for your own advantage, but for -the benefit of others. While labouring at any profitable employment, -never forget the poor and destitute, whose wants may be alleviated by -your diligence." - -"I wish you would teach me, Mr. Fitzmorris," said Dorothy, "how to work -less for myself and more for my fellow creatures. It must be a blessed -thing, when it makes you so happy." - -"I have my sorrows, too, Dorothy," he said, with a sigh. "But they are -of a less personal nature than they were formerly. I grieve for those -near and dear to me that cannot understand the peace and freedom that I -have found; that will not believe that the religion of Jesus enlarges -the heart, till it could encircle the world in its wide embrace. To -those whose eyes have been miraculously opened to the light of truth, -the condition of the wilfully blind is sad indeed." - -The cheek lately flushed with exercise, was very pale now, and the -wonderful eyes moist with tears, and he walked some paces quickly in -advance of his companion, then turning back, he said in his usual kind, -but rather abrupt manner: - -"Dorothy, if you wish to take a lesson from me, and see how I work, -come to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock, and I will show you a new -method of employing your time." They were now opposite the curate's -garden, and Dorothy turned up the lane and retraced her steps to the -farm. - -Exactly as the clock struck four, she rapped at Mr. Fitzmorris' study -door. He was ready to receive her, his hat and gloves lay on the table -beside him, and a small carpet-bag lying on the floor. He closed the -book he was reading, and rose to meet her. - -"I am glad to see you so punctual, Dorothy; it is a valuable quality. I -hate to wait for any one, and still more, that any one should wait for -me. You remember that awful parable of the five foolish virgins. I never -read it without a secret fear, lest death should find me with no oil in -my lamp. But we will talk as we go along, if you are not afraid of -trusting yourself with me?" - -"Mr. Fitzmorris, how can you imagine such a thing?" and Dorothy looked -up in his face as if to reproach him for her supposed want of faith. - -"I should not blame you a bit, Dorothy Chance, after the long lecture I -read you about your imprudence in meeting Lord Wilton alone on the -heath. You must think me a great hypocrite for taking you out alone with -me. But Mrs. Martin has made me acquainted with your history, and I -respect you for defending the character of the man who has, indeed, -proved himself to you, a sincere friend, who from Henry Martin's account -of him, I trust is slowly, though surely, striving to enter the straight -gate that leads to heaven." - -"Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, you are so good and truthful, it is impossible to -be angry with you long; and I was angry with you for speaking so harshly -of poor Lord Wilton, but I love you all the better now, for confessing -so frankly that you were in error." She held out her hand as she spoke. -Gerard took it, and pressed it reverentially. - -"We are friends then?" - -"Yes. I hope for ever." - -"Amen!" said her companion heartily; "and now, little one, no more -sentimentality, but let us go to work." - -Shouldering the carpet-bag across his stick, the vicar led the way over -the lawn, and on to the heath. - -"Where are we going?" asked Dorothy, not a little amused at the decided -manner in which her companion took to the road. - -"Do you know a place called Hog Lane, at the bottom of the heath, on the -east side, where it slopes down to the salt flats?" - -"Yes, I have been there looking for the cows with Gilbert." - -"And who is Gilbert?" - -Mr. Fitzmorris suddenly faced about. He was walking still ahead, and -cast such a sharp penetrating glance at Dorothy, that she felt her face -crimson, and her knees tremble with agitation. - -"Is he your brother, or your sweetheart?" - -"Neither, Mr. Fitzmorris. He is the son of the kind people who brought -me up." - -"And you never took a fancy to each other. Eh, Dorothy?" - -"Oh, yes, we did," returned Dorothy, with great simplicity. "But that is -all off now, and he is going to marry somebody else. I did love him with -my whole heart and soul, and it caused me the greatest anguish of mind I -ever experienced, to try and forget him. It's all for the best, Mr. -Fitzmorris, but it was hard to realize the dreadful truth that he had -ceased to love me." - -She turned aside to hide her tears. - -Gerard was shocked that his careless speech had given her so much pain, -for of this part of her history Mrs. Martin had not spoken. Perhaps she -was afraid by so doing that she might lessen the interest which she -perceived that Mr. Fitzmorris felt in Dorothy. - -"Forgive me, Dorothy, I spoke at random. How little we understand the -might of words, their power of conferring pleasure, or giving intense -pain. Do dry these tears; the sight of them quite unmans me. By-and-by, -when we are better friends, you will tell me all about it, and we can -sympathize with each other." - -"And you have known that great heart sorrow?" sobbed Dorothy. - -"In its deepest, fullest sense, Dorothy Chance. But the loss of my -earthly love gave birth to one of a higher and nobler character--the -love of Christ--which has made me happy, indeed. May the same blessed -balm, my poor girl, be poured into your wounds." - -"They are closing," returned Dorothy. "It is only now and then, when -some casual observation brings it to my mind, that they open afresh." - -"Oh, the might of words," again sighed her companion. "But let us banish -all such melancholy reminiscences. See, yonder is the entrance to Hog -Lane, a very dirty unromantic spot;" and he pointed out the location -with his stick. A row of low dilapidated cottages, fronting the marsh. - -"Who owns this property?" - -"It belongs to Miss Watling. The people who live in these hovels are her -tenants." - -"It well deserves the name of Hog Lane. I must have some talk with that -woman, and try and persuade her to repair the houses. They are not fit -habitations for pigs." - -"She is so fond of money, you will scarcely get her to do anything to -make them more comfortable," said Dorothy. - -"Well, if she steadily refuses, I must do something to them myself. The -house just before us, and to which we are going, has such a broken roof, -that the rain falls upon my poor dying old friend, as he lies in his -bed. I will call upon her, and take her out to see him, which cannot -fail to win her compassion." - -Mr. Fitzmorris rapped at the half-open door of the first house in the -row. A feeble voice bade him "come in," and Dorothy followed her -conductor into a small dark room, dimly lighted by a few broken panes of -glass. - -An old man was lying on a flock bed that stood in a corner of the room, -beside which a little girl was seated knitting. The furniture of the -room consisted of the aforesaid bed, a ricketty table and the -three-legged stool which the small individual occupied. Various -discoloured pieces of crockery, and a few old cooking utensils were -ranged on a worm-eaten shelf. The old man's face wore an expression of -patient endurance. It was much wasted and deadly pale. His dim eyes -brightened, however, as Mr. Fitzmorris approached his bed. "Well, my -dear old friend," he said, in his deep tender voice, and taking one of -the thin hands that lay upon the ragged patchwork coverlid, in his own. -"How is the Lord dealing with you to-day?" - -"Graciously," was the gentle reply. "I have not suffered such acute pain -in my limbs, and my mind has had a season of rest. I feel nearer to Him, -and my heart is refreshed and comforted. I know that the Lord is good, -'that His mercy endureth for ever,' thanks be to your reverence, for the -care you have taken of my soul. If you had not been sent to me like a -good angel, I should have died in my sins, and never come to a knowledge -of the truth." - -"Ah, you will forget all the bodily suffering when the glorious day of -your release comes, you will then own with trembling joy, that it was -good for you to have been thus afflicted. But where is Rachel, Jones?" -he continued, looking round the room. "In your helpless state, you -cannot well be left alone." - -"Please, sir, mother is gone to Storby to buy bread," said the little -girl. "She left me to take care of neighbour Francis, during her -absence." - -"How long has she been away?" - -"Since the morning." - -"And my poor old friend has not been turned in his bed all day?" - -"Ah, it's very weary lying in the one position for so many hours," -sighed the paralyzed man. "But I have borne it as patiently as I could." - -Stepping up to the bed, Mr. Fitzmorris raised the sufferer in his strong -arms, adjusted his pillows comfortably, and turned him gently on his -side, with his face to the open door, that he might be refreshed with a -view of the country beyond. Then taking a little flask from his -carpet-bag, he gave him a glass of wine, and handing another bottle to -Dorothy, he told her to go into the next house, and warm the broth it -contained at Martha Brown's fire. When Dorothy returned with a bowl of -rich broth, she found the vicar sitting on the bed, reading to the old -man from a small pocket Bible. The rapt look of devotion in the sick -man's face, and the heavenly expression which played like a glory round -the calm brow of the vicar would have made a study for a painter. - -Dorothy paused in the door-way to contemplate it. To her it was a living -picture of beauty--and when, after the chapter was concluded, and in his -sweet solemn manner, Mr. Fitzmorris said, "Let us pray," she knelt down -by the humble bed, and upon the broken floor, and prayed with all her -heart. - -What a simple touching prayer it was that flowed from those gracious -lips; it seemed to embody the spiritual wants of all present--but when, -on rising from his knees, Mr. Fitzmorris proceeded to feed the old man, -who was utterly incapable of helping himself, she could not restrain -her tears. - -"Oh, let me do that," she said. - -He answered her with his quiet smile. - -"Not to-day, Dorothy. To me it is a blessed privilege to administer to -the wants of a suffering servant of Christ. When you have experienced -the happiness it imparts, you will go and do likewise." - -On leaving the impotent man, he paid a visit to the three other -dwellings, which were all comprised under the one roof. - -To Martha Brown, a widow with six young children, he gave a Bible and a -tract. For she had been a mechanic's wife, had seen better days, and -could read and write. After speaking words of comfort and cheering, he -slipped into her hand money to buy shoes, and a new suit for her eldest -boy, whom he had recommended into a gentleman's service, but the lad -wanted decent clothing before he could accept the offer. This the good -Samaritan generously supplied. "The Lord bless you, sir," said the -woman, putting her apron to her eyes. "I hope Jim will never disgrace -the good character your reverence has given him." - -Rachel Jones, the occupant of the third cottage, a farm labourer's wife, -was out. She was regularly paid by Mr. Fitzmorris for attending upon -Thomas Francis, whom his benevolence had saved from the workhouse--a -fate which the poor old man greatly dreaded. - -The last cabin they entered was more dirty and dilapidated than the -three other dwellings; its tenant, a poor shoemaker, who patched and -re-soled the coarse high-lows used by the farm servants. He was a -middle-aged man, with a large, half-grown-up family of squalid, -bare-footed, rude girls and boys. His wife had been dead for several -years, and his mother, an aged crone, bent double with the rheumatism, -though unable to leave her chair, ruled the whole family with her -venomous tongue. "She is a very uninteresting person," said Mr. -Fitzmorris, in a whisper to Dorothy, as he rapped at the door, "but the -poor creature has a soul to be saved, and the greater her need, the more -imperative the duty to attempt her conversion." - -Before the least movement was made to admit the visitors, a shrill, -harsh voice screamed out, - -"Ben! Who be that at the door?" - -"New parson, and Farmer Rushmere's gal." - -"And why don't you open the door?" - -"'Cos I don't want to. I'd rather they went away." - -"Open the door immediately," screamed the old beldame, "or I'll strip -the skin off you." - -"When you can get at me," laughed the insolent lad. "Why don't you -hobble up and open the door yoursel'?" - -Mr. Fitzmorris put an end to this disgraceful colloquy, by walking into -the house. The shoemaker was absent; no one but the old crone and her -grandson, a young, surly-looking ruffian of fourteen, was at home. - -"Well, Mrs. Bell, how are you this afternoon?" - -"Oh, just the same. Aches and pains--aches and pains. Now in my arm--now -in my leg--then again in every bone in my body. What a thing it is to be -old and poor, and surrounded by a lot of young wretches, who laugh at -your sufferings, and do all they can to worry and vex you." - -"You draw a poor picture of domestic comfort," said Mr. Fitzmorris, -sitting down beside her. "But why do you suffer your grandchildren to -behave in this undutiful manner?" - -"Lauk-a-mercy, sir, how can I help it?" - -"Are you kind to them?" - -"No," said the boy. "Granny's never kind. She scolds, and rates, and -swears at us from morn till night, and then she's riled if we swears -agin." - -"You hear what your grandson says, Mrs. Bell. Is his accusation true?" - -"It be none of your business, whether or no," returned the woman, with a -scowl. - -"Ah, but it is my business. God sent me here to convert sinners, and -without you listen to the message of mercy he sends to you through me, I -fear, at your advanced age, that you will find yourself in a very bad -way. How old are you?" - -"Eighty-four." - -"So old, and no nearer heaven. Why, my poor old friend, you have no -reasonable expectation to live one day beyond another." - -"I shan't die the sooner for your saying so." - -"Nor live one day the longer--both casualties are in the hands of God. -Do you ever pray?" - -"I never was taught a prayer." - -"Shall I pray with you?" - -"Just as you please." - -"Well, I do please. But first listen for a few minutes to the Word of -God." - -He read several of those remarkable invitations to sinners, which few -can hear for the first time unmoved, and then knelt down beside the old -reprobate, and prayed so earnestly for God to touch her heart, and lead -her to repentance, that her hard nature seemed humbled by his eloquence. - -When he rose to go, to his infinite surprise and joy the boy stole to -his side. - -"Oh, sir, are you _sure_ that those awful words you read to Granny are -true?" - -"Yes, my son, God's truth." - -"And will he save a bad boy like me?" - -"Certainly, if you repent, and seek him with all your heart and soul. -The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin." - -"And will you come again, and teach me how to love Him and pray to -Him?" - -"Yes, with pleasure. Can you read?" - -"No, sir." - -"Come to Storby Sunday-school, and I will teach you." - -"That I will, right gladly. But, oh, sir, I know that I have been a very -wicked boy." - -"So are all men who live without God in the world. If you wish really to -lead a new life, begin by leaving off swearing, and treat your old -grandmother more respectfully. It may please God to make you an -instrument in His hands for her conversion." - -"I will try," said the lad. "Oh, I be glad, glad, that you came to the -house." - -Mr. Fitzmorris was glad too, or his face belied him. He slipped a few -pieces of silver into the old woman's hand, to procure her some tea and -sugar, and went on his way rejoicing. - -"See, my dear young friend," he said to Dorothy, when they were once -more on their road home, "how rich a harvest God often reaps from the -most unpromising fields. The seed sown in that boy's heart may yet bear -fruit for heaven." - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -DOROTHY'S FIRST LETTER. - - -Dorothy formed many plans for future usefulness during her walk home, -nor had she the least suspicion of the different field in which her -labours of love would be required. - -Mrs. Rushmere had for several months complained of a sharp stinging pain -between her shoulders, caused by a very small and apparently -insignificant tumour. "Too small," the old lady said, "to make a fuss -about." She had, however, several times lately remarked to Dorothy, -"that the provoking thing caused her much inconvenience." - -Always having enjoyed excellent health, Dorothy was very ignorant of -the nature of diseases, but thinking that something must be wrong with -her mother, she had urged her very strongly to show the cause of her -uneasiness to Dr. Davy, the medical practitioner of Storby. This the old -lady had promised to do, but had put it off from day to day. When -Dorothy returned from her walk with Mr. Fitzmorris, she was greatly -alarmed at finding Mrs. Rushmere in her bed, with traces of tears still -wet upon her cheeks. - -"My darling mother, what is the matter?" cried the affectionate girl, -stooping over the bed and kissing her tenderly. "Are you ill?" - -"More in mind than body," returned the good woman, trying to smile. "Oh, -Dolly, dear, that tumour pained me so this afternoon, that I got father -to drive me over to see the doctor." - -"Well, and what did he say?" asked Dorothy, eagerly. Mrs. Rushmere's -lips quivered. - -"Dolly, I don't like to tell you. It will grieve you sore." - -Dorothy looked alarmed, and turned very pale, as she clasped her -mother's hand tighter in her own. - -"He said it was a cancer." The old lady spoke slowly and with -difficulty. "That it had been suffered to go too far, and at my age any -operation in such a dangerous part was useless." - -There was a long pause, only broken by the low sobbing of the two women. - -"I don't mind dying, Dolly dear," continued Mrs. Rushmere, gathering -courage to speak at last. "But oh, my pet! it is such a cruel death." - -"May God give you strength to bear it, my dear mother," said Dorothy. -"This is sad news; it cuts me to the heart." - -"I hope I may be spared to see Gilly again," continued Mrs. Rushmere, -for a moment forgetful of her sad fate. "The doctor said that I might -live for months, or even for years; but I only want to live long enough -to look into his face once more." - -After lying very still for a few minutes, she turned piteously to -Dorothy, and continued-- - -"Dolly, if Gilbert should repent of his unkindness to you, would you -forgive him?" - -"Dear mother, I have done that long ago. How could I ask God to forgive -me, and harbour resentment against anyone?" - -"But would you marry him, if he wished it?" - -Dorothy was silent. She felt in her heart that she no longer wished to -be Gilbert Rushmere's wife, yet she did not wish to agitate Mrs. -Rushmere, by giving a flat negative to her question. - -Her inward retrospection was interrupted by Mrs. Rushmere sinking back -on her pillow, and gasping out, in a faint voice, - -"Dorothy, you no longer love him?" - -"Dear mother, these are useless and cruel questions. Gilbert will never -put me to the trial of refusing him." - -"But if a' did?" - -"The answer to such an inquiry rightly belongs to the future. I know no -more than you do how I might act. I trust in God that He would guide me -to do what was right." - -"And will you promise, Dorothy, not to leave me, till it is all -over--till--till they have laid me in the clay?" - -"That I can promise with my whole heart. Yes, dearest, best friend, set -your mind at rest on that point. I will nurse you, and do everything -that lies in my power to help you, and alleviate your sufferings. How -could you imagine for a moment the possibility of your Dolly leaving -you?" - -"Ah, what a jewel that foolish boy threw recklessly way," sighed the -good mother, as her adopted daughter left the room to make her a cup -of tea. - -A few days after this painful interview, the mail brought the news of -the battle of Vittoria having been fought. Great was the public -rejoicings on the occasion; a glad shout of triumph rang through the -British Isles, proclaiming the victory their warlike sons had achieved. -It was only in those homes to which the messenger of death brought evil -tidings of the loved and lost, that the voice of joy was mute. - -Dorothy ran over to Jonathan Sly's to borrow the paper to read to old -Rushmere, and in the list of the killed and wounded, found that -Lieutenant Gilbert Rushmere had lost his right arm. - -"Oh, father!" she cried, and suddenly stopped. - -"Well, girl, out wi't. Dost think I'm not a man, that I can't bear the -worst? Is Gilly killed?" - -"No, thank God! but--but--he has lost his right arm." - -"Lost his right arm! He had better ha' lost his life than return a -cripple from the wars. Don't you see, girl, that this will put a stop to -his promotion, an' make an idle pensioner of him--when, in these -stirring times, he might ha' risen to be a general officer. -Dear--dear--dear! This is a terrible calamity. My boy--my brave boy!" - -"Don't tell mother a word about it, father, it would kill her in her -weak state," urged Dorothy. - -"It won't vex her, Dorothy, as it does me. She has no ambition for her -son. She would sooner ha' him sitting beside her with his one arm, so -she had him safe at home, than know that he was commander o' the British -army abroad. It will be as well to say nought about it, Dorothy, if you -can keep it from her. My dear old woman--the loss o' her will be bad -enough, wi'out this fresh trouble. Lost his right arm! Oh, my poor -Gilly!" - -Badly as Gilbert had behaved to her, Dorothy could better have borne the -loss of her own arm. She still loved him well enough to feel truly -grieved for his misfortune. - -To a man of Gilbert's active habits, the want of that arm would be a -dreadful calamity. She could not bear to think of the empty sleeve, -hanging so uselessly beside his tall athletic figure. In all rural -sports be had always been foremost, and never failed to carry off the -prize. What would they do without him on the cricket ground--their best -bat? What at the ploughing matches, where he had always turned the -straightest furrow? In the hay and harvest fields, where he had no -equal? Even in the boat races he had always pulled the best oar. And -when his discarded love thought of these things, she retired to the -solitude of her own chamber, and wept bitterly. - -She thought that Lawrence Rushmere ought to have felt more grateful to -God for sparing the life of his son. But the old man had been in the -habit of speculating so much upon his rising to hold a high position in -the army, that he could scarcely as yet realize the destruction of all -his ambitious hopes. - -This, together with the growing weakness of his wife, who, to do the old -man justice, he loved better than anything in the world, tended much to -sour his temper, and render it no easy matter to live at peace with him. - -Directly Gerard Fitzmorris heard, through Mrs. Martin, of the troubles -in the Rushmere family, he hastened to offer them the consolations of -religion, and the sympathy of a true and benevolent heart. His pastoral -visits were duly appreciated by the poor invalid and Dorothy, to whom -they afforded the greatest comfort. - -Mrs. Rushmere was a woman after the vicar's own heart. Her gentle -resignation and genuine piety filled him with respect and admiration. He -treated her as an affectionate son would do a beloved mother; soothing -her in moments of intense suffering with his kind ministrations, and -strengthening her mind with the blessed promises of the Gospel, to bear -with submission the great burthen that had been laid upon her. - -"The heavier the cross," he would say, "the brighter the crown. The more -meekly it is borne, the sweeter will be the rest at the end of the -journey." - -Then he would join his fine mellow voice with Dorothy in singing the -beautiful, though now forgotten, verse in the evening hymn: "For death -is life, and labour rest." Even the blunt farmer's hard nature was -softened by his touching prayers. - -Mr. Fitzmorris did not exactly approve of Gilbert's loss being kept a -profound secret from his mother. - -"I hate all concealment," he cried. "The simple truth is always the -best. You had better let me break it to her, than run the risk of her -hearing it accidentally from another. The shock of seeing him with the -empty sleeve, would give her more pain than if you were to make her -acquainted with the facts." - -Still, neither Dorothy nor Mr. Rushmere could be persuaded to follow his -advice. - -A very few days had elapsed before Dorothy deeply repented not adopting -his judicious advice. - -Though her disease was rapidly progressing, and Mrs. Rushmere was -becoming daily weaker, she was still able to occupy the room below, -propped up by pillows in her easy chair. The sight of all the household -arrangements, and the inmates going to and fro, amused her, and often -made her forgetful of the pain she was suffering. - -One morning while Dorothy was absent in the outer kitchen, preparing -some broth, Miss Watling, who had learned the extent of Gilbert's -injuries, called upon Mrs. Rushmere to condole with her on the event, -and pick up any bit of gossip she could with regard to Dorothy. - -"Ah, my dear Mrs. Rushmere!" she cried, hurrying up to the easy chair, -in which the old lady was reclining half asleep. "I am so sorry to find -you sick and confined to the house. But you must not fret about Gilbert, -indeed you must not. Directly I was told the dreadful news, I said to -Mrs. Barford, 'Lord a' mercy, it will kill his poor mother.'" - -"What about Gilbert! What dreadful news?" cried Mrs. Rushmere, starting -from her half conscious state, and grasping the thin bony arm of her -visitor with convulsive energy. - -"Why, surely they must have told you that he was badly wounded in the -great battle of Vittoria." - -"Badly wounded. A great battle. Oh, my son! my son!" and the distressed -mother fell back in her chair in a swoon. - -At this moment, Dorothy entered with the broth for the invalid. One -glance at the death pale face of Mrs. Rushmere told the whole story. She -put down the basin and hurried to her assistance. - -"Oh, Miss Watling!" she said in a deprecating voice. "See what you have -done?" - -"And what have I done? told the woman what she ought to have known three -weeks ago." - -"We had been keeping it from her," said Dorothy, "because she was not -strong enough to bear it." - -"And pray, Dorothy Chance, if a lady may be permitted to ask the -question, what is the matter with her?" - -"She is dying," sobbed Dorothy, "of cancer in the back." - -"How should I know that? I am not gifted with second sight." - -"You know it now," said Dorothy, "and as she is coming to, it would be -better for you to leave me to break the whole thing more gently to her." - -"Oh, of course, you are the mistress here, and I am to leave the house -at your bidding. I shall do no such thing without my old friend Mrs. -Rushmere turns me out." - -Dorothy cast a glance of mingled pity and contempt upon the speaker. -Just then, Mrs. Rushmere opened her eyes, and met Dorothy's anxious -sympathizing glance. - -"Dorothy, is he dead?" she asked in a faint voice. - -"No, dearest mother. Do compose yourself." - -"But is he mortally wounded? Tell me, tell me, the whole truth!" - -Dorothy sank on her knees beside the chair, and passed her arms round -Mrs. Rushmere's waist, so that her head could rest upon her shoulder, -while she whispered in her ear. "He lost his right arm in the battle." - -"And you did not tell me?" - -"We wished to spare you unnecessary pain, dear mother." - -"I know you did it for the best, Dorothy--but all this time, I would -have prayed for him. A mother's earnest prayers are heard in heaven." - -"That's downright popery, Mrs. Rushmere," chimed in the hard woman. - -"What does she say, Dorothy?" - -"Oh, dear mother, it is a matter of no consequence. Do take your broth -before it is cold. You have been greatly agitated. You know the worst -now, and God will give you comfort." - -Dorothy placed the broth on a little table before her, wishing in her -heart that she could hit on some plan to get rid of their unfeeling -visitor. - -"Gilbert will have to leave the army now," said Miss Watling. "But I -suppose he will retire on half pay, and have a good pension. But were -the government to give him a fortune, it would scarcely repay a fine -young fellow for the loss of a right arm." Mrs. Rushmere dropped her -spoon upon the floor and shivered. - -"For the love of charity, Miss Watling, don't refer to this terrible -subject--you see how it agitates Mrs. Rushmere. There, she has fainted -again. I will have to send off for the doctor." - -"That is another hint for me to go. This is all one gets by trying to -sympathize with vulgar, low people." And the angry spinster swept out of -the room. - -Her place was almost immediately filled by Mr. Fitzmorris. A look from -Dorothy informed him how matters stood. He drew his chair beside Mrs. -Rushmere's, and took her hand in his. - -"Mother, this is a severe trial, but you know where to seek for help. -There is one whose strength can be made perfect in human weakness. Come, -dry these tears, and thank God for sparing the life of your son. -Remember, that he might have died in his sins--and be thankful. -Dorothy," he said, glancing up into the sweet face that rested on the -top of her mother's chair, "fetch Mrs. Rushmere a glass of wine, and -warm that broth again. I mean to have the pleasure of seeing her eat -it." - -"You are so good--so kind," said Mrs. Rushmere, a wintry smile passing -over her pale face. - -"Nonsense, my dear Madam. No living creature deserves the first term. -Even our blessed Lord while in the flesh rejected it. 'There is none -good but God,' was his answer to the young man who preferred his great -possessions to that blessed invitation, 'Come and follow me.' - -"But I really have good news for you; news which Lord Wilton kindly sent -to cheer you. Gilbert's arm was amputated above the elbow, and he is -doing very well. Is already out of the hospital, and on his way home. -Now, have you not every reason to be thankful, when so many mothers have -to mourn for sons left for the wolf and the vulture on the battle -plain?" - -"I do not complain," sighed Mrs. Rushmere. "Oh, God be thanked! I shall -see him again." - -A burst of tears relieved her oppressed heart, and when Dorothy returned -with the broth, Mr. Fitzmorris watched the patient eat it with evident -satisfaction. - -"She is better now," he said; "I will read a few sentences and pray with -her; and then, Dolly, dear, you had better put her to bed. She has had -enough to harass her for one day." - -The circumstance of Mr. Fitzmorris calling her "Dolly, dear," though it -might only have been a slip of the tongue, trifling as it was, sent a -thrill of joy to her heart. - -When he rose to go, he beckoned her to the window, and put a very large -letter into her hand. "This was enclosed to me by Lord Wilton. He is -about to accompany his sick son to Madeira for change of air--the -physician's last shift to get rid of a dying patient." - -Dorothy put the letter in her pocket, secretly wondering what it could -be about. She had no opportunity of reading it before she went to bed, -as Mrs. Rushmere required her attendance far into the night, and the -whole management of the house now devolved on her. - -How eagerly she opened the letter, when, after a thousand petty -hindrances, she at last found herself seated at the little table in her -own chamber. Enclosed within the letter was a large sealed packet, upon -which was written, "only to be opened, if I never return to England." - -The letter ran thus:-- - - "My dear Dorothy, - - "I cannot leave England without bidding you farewell. You are very - dear to me, so dear that words could scarcely convey to you the - depth and strength of my affection. Do not start, my child--I can - see the look of profound astonishment in the dear black eyes--I am - not in love with you. The passion that bears that name, the passion - that a lover feels for the woman he adores, whom he desires to call - his own before all others, has long been dead in my heart, and lies - buried with the loved and lost in a nameless grave. - - "The love that unites me to you, my dear Dorothy, though widely - different, is not less holy in its nature, and flows out of the - unutterable tenderness that a parent feels for a beloved child. - Oh, that I could call you my child before the whole world. - - "Here, while watching beside the sick bed of my only son, the - heir of my titles and estates, who, I fondly hoped, would carry - down my name to posterity, and knowing that his hours are - already numbered, my heart turns, in its sore agony, to you, the - daughter of my choice, for sympathy and consolation. Do not deny - me this, my dear young friend: write and tell me so; write just - as you think and feel. I long for the simple utterances of your - pure and guileless heart, so refreshing to my weary spirit, - tired with the unmeaning hollow professions of the world. - - "We sail for Madeira to-morrow, I do not entertain the least - hope that it will benefit Edward's health, but the change of - scene and climate may amuse him on the one hand, and mitigate - his sufferings on the other. - - "Oh, Dorothy, how deeply I regret that you will never see this - dear son. You who would have loved him so well, and who - resemble him in many things so closely. Let us hope that we may - all meet in another and better world. - - "I am glad to hear that you have a friend in Gerard Fitzmorris. - We have never been thrown much together, on account of the feuds - and jealousies which, unfortunately, existed between the two - families, but I have every reason to believe that, unlike his - father and brother, the young vicar of Hadstone is an excellent - man; one in whom, on any emergency, you may place the utmost - confidence. I say this because I apprehend some trouble in store - for you at home. - - "I have learned from my son that Gilbert Rushmere, in order to - secure a young lady of fortune whom he met in London, while on - the recruiting service, married her before he went back with the - regiment to Spain. It turns out that the young lady in question - deceived her lover on this point, and it is more than probable - that, on his return from abroad, he will go down to Heath Farm - with his wife. - - "I fear, my dear Dorothy, that this will be everything but an - agreeable arrangement for you, and I have provided a home for - you with Mrs. Martin in case you should find it so. I likewise - enclose a draft on the county bank for fifty pounds of which I - beg your acceptance, and which either my cousin Gerard or Mr. - Martin can get cashed for you. The sealed packet you must lay by - _very carefully_, as upon it may depend the recognition of your - parentage. Perhaps it would be safer for you to deposit such - important documents in the hands of Mr. Martin or Fitzmorris. - Should I live to return, their contents will be of little - importance, as you can then learn them from my own lips. - - "Do not grieve over your lover's marriage, but believe with me - that it is a providential thing, the very best that could happen - in your position. - - "And now, farewell, beloved child. Keep me in your thoughts, and - remember me ever in your prayers. I have not forgotten our - conversation on the heath. From reading daily that blessed volume - to my dear Edward, I have derived more peace and comfort than my - troubled spirit has known for years. - - "Your attached friend, - "EDWARD FITZMORRIS. - "London, July 14th." - -Dorothy read the letter over several times. Bewildered and astonished, -she scarcely knew what to make of its contents. Though it had informed -her of the marriage of Gilbert, she had not shed a tear or felt the -least regret. She could meet him without sorrow for the past, or hope -for the future. He was far, far removed from her now. They were placed -wide as the poles asunder. She could speak to him without hesitation, -and answer him without a blush. He was no longer anything to her. He was -the husband of another. But then his marriage. It seemed to have been -one of deceit and trickery, and she felt sorrow for him. But after all, -had he not been rightly served? He had married a woman without love, for -her money, and had not obtained the wealth for which he had sacrificed -himself and her. - -Dorothy felt that there was a retributive justice even in this world; -that if Gilbert had acted uprightly he would not have been punished; and -when she thought of the misery such a disappointment must have inflicted -on his proud heart, and the loss of the strong right arm, that might -have won him an honourable and independent position, she fully realized -how severe that punishment had been. - -From the news of her lover's marriage, which to her was so unexpected, -she turned to ponder over the contents of the Earl's letter, or those -portions of it that related to herself and him. Inexperienced as Dorothy -was in the conventionalisms of the world, she could not but feel that -there was some strange mystery hidden under the terms of endearment, so -profusely heaped upon her. A vague surmise leaped across her brain. -Could it be possible that she was anything nearer to him than a friend? -She laughed at her presumption in supposing such a thing, but the idea -had made an impression on her mind that she could not banish. - -Sudden and extraordinary as his attachment had been to her, she never -had for a moment imagined him as a lover. She always thought that his -regard was the pure offspring of benevolence, the interest he took in -her story, when backed by the strong likeness she bore to his mother. -Now she asked herself whence came that singular resemblance? Her own -mother was a fair woman, every person that had seen her agreed in that. -How came she with the straight features and dark eyes of the Earl and -his mother? And then she turned the sealed packet over and longed with -an intense desire, which amounted to pain, to read its contents and -solve the strange mystery which was known only to him. - -A keen sense of honour forbade her to break the seal. The temptation to -do so was the strongest she had ever experienced in her life. She sat -pondering over these things, heedless of the long hours that slipped by, -until the first rays of the summer sun had converted into diamonds all -the dewdrops on the heath. It was too late or rather too early then to -go to bed, so changing her afternoon muslin for a calico working dress, -she roused the prentice girl to go with her to the marshes and fetch -home the cows. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -DOROTHY MAKES A "CONFIDANT" OF MR. FITZMORRIS. - - -Dorothy was undecided in what manner to break the news of Gilbert's -marriage to his mother, to whom she well knew the intelligence would be -everything but welcome. Fortunately she was spared what she foolishly -considered a humiliating task. - -The walking post from the village beyond Hadstone in the shape of a very -spare wrinkled old woman, whom all the boys in the neighbourhood -considered a witch, left a letter at the door on her way to Storby, for -Mrs. Rushmere. - -"This is from Gilbert," said Dorothy, as she examined the seal and -superscription. "But no, the hand is not his. Some one must have written -it for him, (and she remembered the lost arm), his wife perhaps." The -writing was that of a woman, and the letter was neatly folded and -sealed. Gilbert's letters were short and ill-shaped, and closed with a -great blotch of discoloured wax pressed down with a regimental button. -The epistle was evidently none of his. - -She had left Mrs. Rushmere in the easy chair, talking with her husband -about Gilbert's misfortune. They were still pursuing the same theme, -when she reentered the room. - -"A letter for you, dear mother, with the London post-mark. One shilling -postage. The old woman is waiting for it at the door." - -Mrs. Rushmere gave her the money, bidding her quickly return, and read -the letter. It was, as Dorothy suspected, from Gilbert's wife. - - "Dear Madam, - - "I write at the desire of my husband, your son, Lieutenant - Rushmere." - -"Hold!" cried the farmer. "Gilbert married. I'll not believe a word -on't. He'd never get married without telling us about it, or giving us a -jollification at the wedding. Tut, tut, girl, 'tis all a hoax." - -"Go on with the letter, Dorothy, and let us hear what the woman says for -hersel'," said Mrs. Rushmere. "It may be true after all." - -"I think you will find it so," returned Dorothy, who had been glancing -over the first page. - - "You will be sorry to hear that he lost his right arm in the - battle of Vittoria, but is now in a fair way of recovery, and as - well in health as could be expected. He is very anxious to visit - his home and his parents again, and if nothing happens to - prevent our journey, we shall be with you the day after to-morrow - by the London mail. Mr. Rushmere need not trouble himself to - send a conveyance to meet us at the coach. My mother will - accompany us. I bring my own servant, and the luggage - consequently will be heavy. Lieutenant Rushmere proposes to hire - a post-chaise to carry us on to Hadstone. Hoping, dear madam, to - meet you and Mr. Rushmere in good health, - - "I remain, yours truly, - "SOPHIA RUSHMERE." - -Dorothy folded the letter, and the three exchanged glances. "His wife, -and mother, and servant. Where are they all to be stowed?" asked -Dorothy, who did not like the formal tone of the letter, and the cool -manner in which the lady had included her mother and servant in the -visit. "Well, Dolly, dear, we must contrive to make them comfortable," -cried the good mother, rubbing her hands, and rejoicing in the near -prospect of beholding her son. "Gilbert has taken us by surprise, both -in regard to his marriage and this visit; but the mother and daughter -may turn out very agreeable people, and be willing to submit to a little -inconvenience." - -"I hope it may be so, dear mother, for your sake; I will do my best to -accommodate the party, but I want to know how it is to be done. There -are only three sleeping rooms, and the attic, in the old house." - -"The servant gals can sleep together," said Rushmere, "in the attic. -Gilbert and his wife can occupy his own room; and the old missus may -share your bed." - -"The good lady may not approve of sleeping with a stranger." - -"Oh, dang the old mother! she might ha' waited till she was invited. -What the dickens did they want to bring her for?" - -"I can stay with Mrs. Martin during their visit," suggested Dorothy. "As -they bring their own servant, and our Polly is a very willing creature, -my service will no longer be required." - -"It is natural, Dorothy, that you should object to meet Gilbert's wife," -said Mrs. Rushmere, thoughtfully; "and if we could possibly do without -you, I would advise it strongly." - -"And who's to wait upon you, Mary," asked Rushmere, angrily. "Gilbert's -naught to Dorothy now. I don't see the necessity of her running away -just when she be most wanted." - -"I could sleep and take my meals at Mrs Martin's, and attend to dear -mother's requirements as well as I do now. But, indeed, indeed, I should -feel much happier away. At least," she added, in a broken voice, "for -the first few days." - -"Let it be so," said Mrs. Rushmere, kindly pressing her hands. - -"Thank you, dearest mother, for the permission; I will go, but not -until I have arranged everything for their comfort. And one thing I must -request of you, father, that you never treat me as a servant before -Gilbert's wife." - -"Oh, if you mean to take yourself off, Dolly, you may as well go -altogether. Gilbert's wife's a lady; she won't put up with airs from the -like o' you." - -"Ah, there it is, father, you are kind enough when we are alone, but the -moment any one comes into the house you treat me as an object of -charity, especially if you think them rich and well-born. But I tell you -candidly that I have too much self-respect to bear it any longer. If you -cannot value my love and faithful services, I have friends who stand as -high in the world's estimation, who do. You may find Gilbert's wife a -woman more to your taste, but she will never be a better daughter to you -than I have been." - -"Nobody found fault with you, girl, that you should go off in a tantrum -about naught. It's only just your envy of Gilly's rich wife, that makes -you saucy to me. In course, as my son's wife, she must be a person of -more consequence in the house than ever you can be. It's neither kind -nor grateful o' you to be talking of leaving your mother when she be -unable to help herself." - -Mrs. Rushmere cast a pleading look at Dorothy, to take no notice of this -ungracious speech. He had an ugly habit, she often said, of undervaluing -his best friends before strangers which sprang out of an overweening -sense of his own importance, and a wish to exalt himself at the expense -of others. - -Dorothy took Mrs. Rushmere's hint, and left the room to prepare for the -arrival of the bridal party. She was vexed with herself for resenting -Mr. Rushmere's coarse speeches, and pressed Lord Wilton's letter which -she had in her bosom, more closely against her heart. While she -possessed the esteem of such men as the Earl, Henry Martin, and Gerard -Fitzmorris, why need she mind the ungenerous sarcasm of an illiterate -man. - -Calling Polly, the parish apprentice, to her aid, she set diligently to -work, and before the dinner hour arrived, their united efforts had made -the two chambers fit for the reception of their expected inmates. - -Dorothy did not mean to share her bed with Gilbert's mother-in-law, and -though she felt much regret in leaving the dear little room she had -occupied for so many years, she greatly preferred sleeping alone in the -attic. Thither she removed her little store of books, her pots of -geraniums and fuchsias, the small trunk that held her clothes, and a few -keepsakes she had been given by the kind Martins. What to do with the -check she had received from Lord Wilton, she did not know. She was -astonished that such a small slip of paper could stand for such a large -sum of money. She felt dreadfully afraid of losing it, and determined -to show it to Mr. Fitzmorris, and ask him to keep it for her, together -with the mysterious sealed packet, which she had a great longing to -read. "And I am afraid I shall do it, if it remains in my own -possession," she said, "though I know it would be very wicked." - -When the rooms were put in order, and everything looked as clean and -bright as new pins, as Polly said, Dorothy led Mrs. Rushmere upstairs to -inspect them, and see if they were entirely to her satisfaction. - -"They look like yourself, my darling Dorothy," said Mrs. Rushmere, -falling on her neck and kissing her. "Neat and beautiful. Oh! my beloved -child, you don't know how I feel for you. How much I dread the coming of -these strange women. It do seem to me so odd that he should marry all on -a suddent, an' never tell us a word about it. An' he so weak an' ill, -from the loss o' his arm." - -"Oh, but he was married before he left England the last time, which -accounts for his sending no message to me in his letter." - -"Why, Dolly, did the wife write that? I never heard you read a word on't -in her letter?" - -Dorothy was dumb-foundered, she had quite forgotten that Lord Wilton was -her informant, and to get out of the scrape into which she had fallen, -for she abhorred all concealment, she thought it best to show Mrs. -Rushmere the Earl's letter. - -Sending Polly downstairs to prepare the dinner, she made her mother take -a seat on a lounge by the window, while she read the important document, -and shewed her the mysterious sealed packet, and the draft for the -money. - -Mrs. Rushmere made her read it twice over. It was a long time before she -spoke. She sat lost in a profound reverie. - -"Mother," said Dorothy, "you will not mention what I have read to any -one. Neither to father nor Gilbert." - -"Poor Gilly," sighed the mother, "how blind he has been to reject the -gold and take up with the dross, and exchange a real lady for a cunning -impostor. He ha' given himself away for a brass farthing. Well, Dorothy, -you have had your revenge, and bitterly will father and son repent o' -their obstinate folly." - -"We will talk no more of that, mother. It was a painful experience, but -it is past and gone. The Lord did not intend me to be Gilbert's wife. -'The lot is cast into the lap, but the choosing of it is from Him.' I -feel this day happy and grateful that it is so." - -"You may well do that, Dorothy. Your fortunes, will, indeed, lie far -apart. Oh! my child, when I think of all that he has lost, of all that -might have been his, it is enough to break my heart." - -"Mother, I don't understand you." - -"No, nor is it fit you should. But I see, I know it all. Time will -bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and when I am in the dust, -Dorothy, and you are a great lady, remember how dearly I loved you. -Loved you while poor and friendless, and gathered you into my heart as -my own." - -Mrs. Rushmere's head was now resting upon Dorothy's bosom, and she was -weeping bitterly. - -"Mother, I am so sorry I showed you that letter, it has grieved you so -much; but I have never kept anything from you. I did not like to conceal -my correspondence with the Earl. Do you think it would be improper in me -to answer his letter, and accept that money?" - -"You must do both, Dorothy. You owe him both love and obedience. You -have given me your confidence, I will give you mine. I feel certain that -you be his daughter." - -"Mother!" - -"Whether by marriage or imprudent love, remains yet to be told. But -time will prove that I be right." - -"Ah, how could that poor starved creature be an Earl's wife?" and -Dorothy shuddered, as if an arrow had suddenly pierced her heart. - -"How, indeed?" continued Mrs. Rushmere. - -"There was a wild story afloat some years agone, of his having seduced a -beautiful girl adopted by his mother. She went home to her grandmother -in consequence, and the cruel old woman turned her into the streets, an' -she was never heard of again--folks did say that she walked into the sea -when the tide was coming in, an' destroyed hersel'. No one but God -knows." - -"But I could not love Lord Wilton if I were that miserable lost -creature's daughter," cried Dorothy, wringing her hands. "Oh mother! -mother! it would be worse than being called the beggar's brat that -farmer Rushmere picked up on the heath. If I thought that I were his -child through that infamous connection, I would spurn him and his gift -from me as accursed things!" - -She took the packet from her bosom, and was about to put her threat into -execution. Mrs. Rushmere stayed her hand. - -"Dorothy, what be you about? Supposing your mother to have been his -wife, you may be destroying the proofs of your legitimacy. As Lawrence -would say, 'cutting your own throat.'" - -"True," said Dorothy, frightened at her own rashness. "How wrong it is -of any one to act without thinking. This wedding-ring, after all, may be -a true witness that my poor mother was an honest woman." - -"At any rate, Dorothy, it is useless for you to try and puzzle out the -truth; even if so be that you hit upon it, without farther evidence you -could not satisfy yoursel' that it was so. But be sartin sure o' this, -that mystery and concealment are generally used to cover crime. If Lord -Wilton had acted rightly, he would not have been afraid of owning his -wife to the world. Selfishness and sin must lie at some one's door, and -women--the poor creatures--when they love, generally fling their all -into the scale, regardless of consequences. - -"But there's the dinner-bell, my pet, father will be rampaging if he -comes in and finds us talking here." - -After Dorothy had given Mrs. Rushmere her tea that evening, and got her -comfortably to bed, she tripped across the dreary heath by the light of -the July moon to see Mrs. Martin, and tell her all that had transpired. - -She found no one at home but Mr. Fitzmorris, who was walking up and down -the lawn, with a closed book in his hand, in which he could no longer -see to read. He looked up, as the little gate swung to, and came forward -to meet her. "Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, you are the very person I wanted to -see. I am so glad to find you alone." - -He looked into the sweet face with an inquiring glance, but seemed -suddenly struck with its unusual pallor. - -"Dorothy, something has happened to annoy you. I can read that face of -yours like an open book. _You_ could not deceive any one." - -"I hope I may never be tempted to try. But oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, I was -sorely tempted last night to do a very dishonourable thing." - -"And did the tempter succeed, Dorothy?" - -"No, though I had not the courage to say 'get thee behind me Satan.' But -if you will sit down under this tree, I will tell you all about it, and -the many anxious thoughts that are passing through my mind." - -"I am hardly old enough, Dorothy, to be a father confessor." - -"But I have as much confidence in you, Mr. Fitzmorris, as though you -were as old as Methuselah." - -Gerard laughed heartily. - -"As you have inducted me into this office, Dorothy, make a clean breast -of it." - -"But it is no laughing matter," quoth Dorothy, "I found it sad and -serious enough." - -She then informed him of the contents of Lord Wilton's letter, and -showed him the check for the fifty pounds, and the mysterious sealed -packet. He listened very attentively. - -"It is too dark under the trees, Dorothy, to examine these important -papers. Come with me into my study. There we shall be free from -interruption." - -When once in the sanctum sanctorum, into which no one ever intruded but -Mrs. Martin, and that only once-a-week, to dust the furniture and -arrange his books and papers, the vicar lighted his candles, and -bidding Dorothy take a seat in the big leather arm-chair, he went to the -table and read Lord Wilton's letter. - -To Dorothy's great surprise, he made no comment on its contents. - -"You wish me to take charge of this packet?" he asked. - -"If you will be troubled with it. But what do you think of the letter, -Mr. Fitzmorris?" - -"A great deal, Dorothy, but the contents are too sacred to be lightly -talked about. Have you any idea of the relation in which this man stands -to you, my young friend?" - -"I scarcely dare guess," and Dorothy, bowed her head on her hands and -burst into tears. - -"That he is your father there can be no doubt." - -"Oh, sir, how can I love him as a father, if I be the child of sin and -dishonour?" - -"Still, Dorothy, he is your father," said Gerard, solemnly taking the -hand that trembled in his own, "the author of your being; as such, -however erring, he has a right to claim from you the love and duty of a -child. That he truly loves you, and is anxious to repair, as far as now -lies in his power, the injury he has inflicted upon you and your poor -mother, is touchingly evident. My dear little cousin, (what a thrill of -joy shot through Dorothy's heart as he called her so,) it is not for us, -who are all sinners in the sight of a holy God, lightly to condemn -another. No one knows how they would themselves act when placed in -situations of strong temptation. The best of us are so much the -creatures of circumstances, that we ought to pity rather than pronounce -harsh judgment against the fallen. - -"Take this unhappy father to your heart, Dorothy, and cherish him there. -You may be an instrument in the hands of God for the salvation of his -soul." - -"I do love him," sobbed Dorothy, "but I want to respect, to venerate -him, to look upon him as the dearest living tie next to God in my soul. -The first time I ever saw him, when he was so kind to me, a poor, -uneducated country girl, I felt drawn towards him by a strong, -mysterious instinct--if I may so call it--and whenever I have met him -since, my love for him, and the deep interest I felt in his sorrow, -although perfectly unconscious of the cause, acquired new strength." - -"The voice of nature asserting her solemn claims upon your heart. To -drown this voice, Dorothy, would be to close your ears to the -commandment which tells us to honour our father and mother." - -"What shall I do? Oh, tell me, how to act towards him;" and the -supplicating black eyes were raised to his, gleaming through tears. - -"Write to him, Dorothy, freely, fully, confidentially. Let there be no -secrets between you. He claims your sympathy; give it to him with your -whole heart. Think how much he needs it, watching day by day the sick -bed of his only son. Hoping, fearing, still praying for his recovery, -yet inwardly conscious that the feeble flame of life flickers to its -close. Remember, that in a few weeks at the farthest, you will be all -that remains to him in the world." - -"Oh, I feel ashamed of having felt any bitterness against him," said -Dorothy. "It was cruel, it was sinful. How I wish I could console him -for the loss of that dear son. The brother," he says, "that is so like -me, whom now, I shall never see." - -"Oh, yes, Dorothy, you will see him. His life is but one act in the vast -drama of Eternity. But we will turn from this sad subject, and speak of -Lord Wilton's kindness and forethought for your comfort, in providing a -home for you with Mrs. Martin, in case you should find the company of -these strange women, who are coming to the farm to-morrow, -disagreeable." - -"It was very good." - -Both remained silent some minutes. Mr. Fitzmorris took Dorothy's hand, -and said with deep earnestness:-- - -"Dare I ask my young friend how she bore the news of Gilbert's -marriage?" - -"You will think me very unfeeling, Mr. Fitzmorris; I felt glad--felt -that I could meet him with perfect composure. That it was God's will -that it should be so, and I was satisfied. But the thought of meeting -his wife was really painful. This you will consider foolish pride on my -part. But to me such a meeting is humiliating." - -"If she be the woman that the Earl represents, you need not feel humbled -by her bad, or exalted by her good opinion. Treat her with Christian -benevolence, and avoid all discussions that may lead to angry words. I -think it would be hard for any one to quarrel with you, Dorothy." - -"But you don't know me, Mr. Fitzmorris. All black-eyed people are -naturally fierce. I was on the eve of quarrelling this very morning -with father." - -"A very hard matter, I should think, to keep from quarrelling with him," -said Mr. Fitzmorris, laughing. "But, Dorothy, if you can live in peace -with these people, until Lord Wilton's return, I see no actual necessity -for your leaving the farm, while your doing so might give rise to -unpleasant scandal. Besides, what would that sweet woman, your dear -mother, do without you? Keep at the post of duty, little cousin, as long -as you can." - -"Then you think I had better return." - -"Decidedly, I shall call and see Mrs. Rushmere, whenever I can command a -spare moment, and you can let me know from time to time, how you get on. -Now, put on your bonnet, and I will see you home." - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -THE ARRIVAL OF THE BRIDAL PARTY. - - -Dorothy felt happier, for having opened her mind to Mr. Fitzmorris, she -went early to her humble chamber and slept soundly. - -The bridal party was expected a little before twelve, which was the -usual dinner hour; but in order to prepare a more luxurious repast in -honour of the strangers, and to give the ladies time to change their -dresses, the dinner was postponed until one. Dorothy was busy all the -morning making cakes and pies, and preparing fowls and other dainties -for their especial benefit. - -Polly was in high spirits, grinning approbation, and watching all her -young mistress's operations with intense delight. - -"I hope they will like the dinner," said Dorothy. - -"Lauk, miss, how can they help it wi' all them bootiful junkets. I never -seed sich loads of nice things a' cooking in all my life. My, I'm -thinking how the old measter will tuck into that grand plum puddink." - -"Now mind and keep the pots boiling, Polly, and a good clear fire to the -roast beef." - -"Eh, never you fear, Miss Dolly, I'll cook 'em prime." - -Dolly proceeded to arrange the dinner table with exquisite neatness. She -had just concluded her preparations and made her simple toilet, when a -post chaise, the roof loaded with trunks, dashed up to the house. - -Pincher, who had been restlessly following his young mistress from the -kitchen to the big hall during the morning, as if he had a right to -inspect all her operations, rushed out and greeted the arrival of the -bridal party, with a torrent of angry barking. Mr. Rushmere, in his best -Sunday suit, hurried to the carriage to receive his long absent son. - -Mrs. Rushmere was not as well as usual, and was much agitated by the -expected reunion. She was reclining in her easy chair, near the window, -where she could get the first sight of the party without being seen. -Dorothy was leaning over the back of the chair, dreading the effect of -her first interview with Gilbert and the introduction to her -daughter-in-law might have upon the weak nerves of the mother. - -"Silence your confounded barking, you unmannerly cur," cried the farmer, -kicking poor honest Pincher from between his feet, "and don't go and -skear the women folk." - -"Oh, my dog! my beautiful Jewel," screamed a shrill female voice, "that -ugly brute will kill my pet! Here, Martha," calling to a coarse, vulgar -dumpy-looking girl, who sat beside the driver on the box, "come down -quick, and take care of my dog." - -The girl left her lofty perch, in her descent showing a pair of legs -that would have beat the world-renowned Mullengar heifer hollow, and -taking a white curly little poodle from the arms of her mistress, -sulkily waddled with him into the house. - -"What, Pincher! The good old dog," cried a well remembered voice. "Come -here, sir, and speak to your master." - -The dog fairly leaped up into Gilbert's arms, and said, "How do you do," -as plain as a dog could do. - -"Father, how are you?" holding out his left hand. "As hale and hearty, I -see, as ever. Will you help out the ladies, while I go and speak to -mother?" - -"That's my Gilly," said Mrs. Rushmere, half rising from her chair. "God -bless him." The next moment she was sobbing on his shoulder. - -"Good God, what's the matter with mother? Dear mother, how ill you look; -speak to me, mother." - -"Leave her to me, Mr. Rushmere. She has been ill for some weeks. The joy -of seeing you again, is too much for her," said Dorothy, bathing the -hands and temples of the invalid with sal volatile. - -"Dorothy Chance, can that be you?" cried Gilbert, gazing in astonishment -at the beautiful young woman before him. "Well, wonders will never -cease. I left you a buxom country girl, I return after a few months and -find you a lady. Have you no word for an old friend?" - -"Gilbert, I am glad to see you back, for your mother's sake. I wish you -much joy of your marriage." - -Gilbert felt hurt and humbled. - -At that moment, old Rushmere striving to do the amiable, ushered the two -ladies into the room, just as Mrs. Rushmere regained her -self-possession. - -"My dear," said her husband, leading Mrs. Gilbert up to his wife, "let -me have the pleasure of introducing you to your daughter." Mrs. Rushmere -held out her hand, and the younger female bent down and kissed her. - -"I'm a very sick woman, my dear. You must excuse my not rising, but I am -very glad to see you. I hope you will make yersel at home; we be but -simple country folk." - -"So I perceive, ma'am. I dare say we shall soon be friends." - -"This is Mrs. Rowly, wife," said the farmer, introducing Mrs. Gilbert's -mother, an ordinary looking woman of fifty; vulgar and gaudily dressed. -"I hope we shall all get better acquainted soon." - -This ceremony was scarcely over, when Mrs. Gilbert asked, with a -supercilious air, to be shown to their apartments, as she was tired with -her long journey, and wished to lie down for an hour or two before -dinner. - -"Martha," she said, addressing the girl, who had been staring about her -with the white poodle in her fat arms. "Give Jewel a bath, his coat is -quite dusty, and when he is dry bring him up to me. I am afraid that -horrid, vulgar-looking cur will hurt him." - -"Dinner will be on the table in half-an-hour, Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere," -said Dorothy, hardly able to keep her gravity. - -"Gracious! at what hour do you country people dine?" and she pulled out -a gold watch. "It is just half-past twelve. I could not eat a morsel so -early in the day. We always have been accustomed to get dinner at six -o'clock." - -"That may do for fashionable Lunnon folks," muttered old Rushmere, "but -it won't do here. If you can't yeat a good dinner when 'tis ready, I -will." - -"My wife will soon accommodate herself to country hours," said Gilbert, -laughing. "The fine, fresh air has made me very hungry. So, when you -have changed your dress, Sophy, I shall be glad to eat my dinner." - -"The dinner can be put back for an hour," said Dorothy, "if it would -suit Mrs. Gilbert better." - -"She must learn to take things as she finds them," said Gilbert, casting -a significant look at his wife. "I know of old, that father never will -wait for his dinner." - -"Not for King George!" cried Rushmere, slapping his knee with vigour. -"A' never could see any sense in spoiling good food." - -"But you know, Mr. Rushmere," said the young lady, in a soft dulcet -voice, and sheathing her claws, as a cat does, in velvet, "it requires -time for town-bred people to accommodate themselves to fashions so -totally unlike what they have been used to. You must have patience with -me, and I shall soon get into your ways." - -"All right," returned Lawrence, rather doggedly. "I be too old to learn -new tricks--an' what's more, a' don't mean to try." - -"Nobody wants you, father," said Mrs. Gilbert, giving him a very small -white hand. - -"Let's kiss an' be friends then," quoth Rushmere, pulling her face down -to him, at the risk of demolishing all the flowers in her gipsy hat, and -imprinting on her cheek a salute, that sounded through the room like the -crack of a pistol. - -The young lady drew back and laughed, but she cast a side-long glance at -her mother, which seemed to say, "the vulgar fellow, how can I tolerate -him?" - -Happily unconscious of his newly-found daughter's private sentiments, -Mr. Rushmere rubbed his hands together in great glee, exclaiming, in a -jocular manner, - -"That's your sort. I like to be free an' easy wi' friends. It's no use, -my dear, putting on grand airs with folks that don't understand 'em." - -"I believe you are perfectly right," replied Mrs. Gilbert, with another -peculiar glance at her mother. "The Bible says, I think, 'that it is no -use casting pearls before swine.'" - -Then turning to Dorothy, upon whose rosy mouth an expression rested very -like contempt, she said, "Will you show us the way upstairs? I suppose -that even in the country you change your dresses before dinner?" - -Happily for Gilbert his father had not heard the latter part of his -wife's speech, and the insult it implied. The old man's good sense and -judgment had been laid to sleep by that Judas-like kiss. - -"Your wife, Gilly," he said, as she disappeared up the old staircase, -"is a fine woman, an' a lady, if ever I saw one. Not very young, -though--eh, Gilly? Atween twenty-five and thirty," poking his son in the -ribs. "Just the proper age to make a man a good, prudent wife. Well, my -boy, I wish you much joy with her, long life, health, prosperity, an' -plenty o' fine, stalwart sons to carry _his_ name down to posterity," -pointing to the soldier of the covenant. "Come, let us take a glass o' -fine old ale on the strength 'ont!" - -"And what does mother say?" and the soldier went across, and sat down -beside the poor pale invalid. - -"I wish you may be happy, my dear Gilbert. The sight of that empty -sleeve sadly takes from the joy of seeing you." - -"Yes, it is a cruel loss, and yet I am rather proud of it, mother. It -was lost fighting for my country. It happened just in the moment of -victory, when the shouts of my comrades resounded on all sides. I hardly -knew what had happened till the excitement was over, for I believe I -shouted as loud as the rest." - -"Come here, Gilly, and tell me all about it," cried Rushmere, getting a -little elevated with that long draught of old ale. - -"Hurrah, my boy! My brave boy! You be a true Briton an' no mistake. I -honour the empty sleeve. It is the badge o' a hero. Lord Nelson wore it -afore you." - -While the parents were asking of their son a thousand interesting -questions about the war and his future prospects, Dorothy had conducted -the two ladies to their sleeping-rooms. - -Mrs. Gilbert looked round the humble adornments of the chamber, with a -very dissatisfied air. The place appeared less attractive for being -cluttered up with trunks and band boxes, which always give an air of -discomfort to a chamber of small dimensions. - -"What miserable cribs," she observed, shugging her shoulders. "Does the -house afford no better accommodation?" - -"This is the best and largest sleeping room. It was always occupied by -your husband till he went abroad." - -"By Lieutenant Rushmere," said Mrs. Gilbert, correcting her. "Stow those -trunks away into the dressing-room, and that will give us more space to -move about." - -"There is no dressing-room." - -"No dressing-room!" exclaimed both the women in a breath. Dorothy shook -her head. - -"They can be placed in the passage, Mrs. Gilbert, if you wish it. Shall -I call up your servant to remove them?" - -"Certainly not. She has my dog to feed and attend to. Cannot you do it -yourself?" - -"_Certainly not_," said Dorothy, repeating her words, "I am not a -hireling but an adopted daughter of Mrs. Rushmere's, with whom I have -resided since my infancy." - -"Oh, indeed. I thought there were no fine ladies in the country," -sneered the spurious aristocrat. - -"Not without they are imported from London," said Dorothy, with an air -of nonchalance, as she left the room. - -"Mamma! mamma!" cried Mrs. Gilbert, raising her hands. "Did you ever -hear such impertinence? I'll soon get that jade out of the house. I -wonder Gilbert never told us a word about this creature, and he was -brought up with her." - -"I think Gilbert Rushmere has behaved very ill in bringing us down to -this outlandish place," said Mrs. Rowly, turning from the glass. "After -all his bragging and boasting, you would have imagined it a baronial -castle at least, and his mother a titled lady." - -"If I had known what sort of people they were, I never would have -married him," said Mrs. Gilbert. "I thought him handsome and rich, and -there he is--a useless cripple, with nothing for us to depend upon but -his paltry pension." - -"Now you are here, Sophy, you must make the best of it. You know how we -are situated. You cannot live elsewhere." - -"And to have that stuck-up girl always in the house--a spy upon all -one's actions. It's not to be thought of or tolerated for a moment. I -wonder what sort of people there are in the neighbourhood. I shall -positively die of dulness, shut up with these illiterate low-bred -creatures." And the bride continued grumbling and complaining, until -Polly announced that dinner was on the table. - -Polly had had her troubles in the kitchen with Mrs. Gilbert's maid, who -was about as common a specimen of humanity as could well be imagined, -rendered doubly ridiculous by a servile apeing of the fine manners of -her mistress. - -She was a most singular looking creature; her height not exceeding five -feet, if that, and as broad as she was long. Neck she had none. Her huge -misshapen head was stuck between her shoulders, and so out of proportion -to the rest of the body, that at the first glance she appeared -strangely deformed. - -She had a flat, broad, audacious face, with a short pert nose in the -centre of it, which was hardly elevated enough to give her a profile at -all. Her eyes were small, wide apart, and perfectly round, and she had a -fashion of fixing them on any one's face, with a stare of such -unblushing effrontery, that she literally looked them down. Insolent to -the poor and unfortunate, she was the most submissive sneak to those -whom she found it her interest to flatter and cajole. - -She had in this manner got the length of her young mistress's foot, as -the common saying has it, and by worming herself into her confidence, -had been the recipient of so many important secrets, that Mrs. Gilbert, -afraid that she might betray her, let her have her own way, and do as -she pleased; consequently, she had to put up with her insolence and -contradiction, in a manner that would have been perfectly humiliating -to a person more sensitive. - -This creature was made up of vanity and self-conceit. She would talk to -others of her splendid head--her beautiful high forehead--her pretty -hands and feet. It was hardly possible to think her in earnest; and for -a long while Dorothy imagined this self-adulation arose out of the -intense contradiction in her character, her mind being as ill-assorted -as her body. But no, it was a sober fact. Her audacity gave her an -appearance of frankness and candour she did not possess, but which often -imposed upon others; for a more cunning, mischief-loving, malicious -creature never entered a house to sow dissension and hatred among its -inhabitants. - -Clever she was--but it was in the ways of evil--and those who, from the -insignificance of her person, looked upon her as perfectly harmless, -often awoke too late to escape the effects of her malignity. She had -watched with keen attention the meeting between the Rushmeres, while she -stood apparently as indifferent as a block to the whole scene, with the -white poodle hanging over her arms. - -She guessed, by the sad expression that passed over the sick mother's -face, when introduced to her mistress, that she read that lady's -character, and was disappointed in her son's wife. The girl was -perfectly aware how weak and arrogant her mistress was, and she laughed -in her sleeve at the quarrels she saw looming in the future. - -For Dorothy, she felt hatred at the first glance. Young, good and -beautiful--that was enough to make her wish to do her any ill turn that -lay in her power. How easy it would be to make her vain proud mistress -jealous of this handsome girl. What fun to set them by the ears -together. Had she only known that Gilbert had recently been the lover of -the girl, whose noble appearance created such envy in her breast, the -breach between him and his wife would sooner have been accomplished than -even her cunning anticipated. - -She was rather afraid of old Rushmere, whom she perceived was as -obstinate and contradictory as herself. But he could be flattered. She -had proved that the hardest and coldest natures are more vulnerable to -this powerful weapon than others. - -Martha Wood, the damsel whose portrait we have attempted to draw, -stepped down into the kitchen to perform a task she abhorred, and wash -the pampered pet, whose neck she longed to wring, and some day, when a -favourable opportunity occurred, she had determined to do it. - -"Are you the kitchen girl?" she said to Polly, who she saw was an easy -going, good-natured creature. - -"That's what I'se be." - -"What queer English you speak," said Martha, dropping her fat bulk into -a chair. "It's the fashion here. Your master and mistress speak the -same." - -"I do'ant know what a' means," said Polly, pouring the water off the -potatoes. "My master an' mistress are moighty kind folk, I can tell -yer." - -"Oh, I dare say, but London is the place for girls to live well, and get -well paid." - -"I do'ant care for the pay, so I be well fed an' comfortable," responded -Polly. Then happening to cast her eyes upon Jewel, she exclaimed. "La! -what be that?" - -"A lap dog." - -"What sort o' a dawg? a' looks for a' the world loike a bundle o' wool. -A fooney dawg," and she ventured to touch its head with her forefinger; -"wu'll a' bite?" - -"Bite, no he has not spunk in him to do that. I want you to give him a -bath." - -"A what." - -"Put him in a tub of warm water, and wash him with soap and a flannel." - -"Wash a dawg wi' warm water. I'll see him drownded in it, fust," said -Polly retreating to her potatoes. "I never washed a dawg in a' my life." - -"Do it for me this once, there's a dear kind creature," cried Martha, -coaxingly, who wanted to establish a precedent and get the brute by -degrees off her own hands. "I am so tired with my long journey." - -"Tired wi' riding all night in a grand coach," laughed Polly, "a' only -wish a' had sich a chance." - -"Will you wash Jewel for me, there's a good girl?" - -"No, a' won't," cried Polly, standing on her dignity. "Sich jobs belong -to Lunnon servants. Us country folk be above stooping to sich dirty -work. A' wud put soap inter's eyes, 'an choak um', by letting the water -get down un's throat." - -"Get me some warm water then, an' a piece of soap," said Martha sulkily. - -"Yer must get it yersel, for a' must hurry up with the taters." - -The crafty Martha found for once, the simple country girl had got the -master of her. - -"Never mind," thought she; "I will make her wash him yet." - -When Polly returned to the kitchen, she found her London friend on her -knees beside the keeler, in which she generally washed her dishes, -cleansing the dust from Jewel's woolly coat. The dog looked a pitiful -spectacle shivering in the water, his hair out of curl and clinging to -his pink skin. - -"What an objeckt he do look," said Polly. "A' never seed any think so -ridiculus. Why do'ant yer let the poor beast alone?" - -"He's a pest, I hate and detest him," said Martha giving the poodle a -vicious shake, "but the job has to be done. Give me a cloth to rub him -dry, and hand me that basket to put him in." - -"Why do you put 'um in the basket?" asked the wondering Polly. - -"Till he gets dry by the fire, or else he would crawl among the ashes -and make himself as dirty as ever." - -"Well, I hope our Pincher won't find him out. He'd toomble ow'r the -basket, an' chaw him up in a minit." - -"I should like to see him do it," said Martha, more in earnest than -joke. "He would get what would keep him quiet, I think. Who's that plain -dark girl, Polly," she said, looking up from the dog, "that your old -mistress calls Dorothy?" - -"A plain dark gal. Miss Dolly plain. All the gentlemen calls her a -booty. A's a great sight handsomer than yer mistrus, wi' her low -forehead that ha' scarce room for her eyebrows. Sich small cunning -looking eyes, an' a nose as long as the pump handel, an' thin sich a big -bony cross looking mouth. I 'spose yer think she be handsomer than our -dear Miss Dorothy." - -"Well, I did not say that; two blacks don't make a white," and Martha -laughed heartily. "I never said she was a beauty, and I only wish she -heard you describe her. She has a very low mean forehead, not like -mine that the gentleman who visited our Institution said was -_magnificent_." - -"Doth that mean bold an' imperdent?" said Polly. - -"Do you think I look bold and impudent?" Martha was on her feet in a -moment, her eyes flashing, and her fists half clenched. - -"I thought that wor what yer meant by magnificent, I do'ant understan -yer fine Lunnon words," and Polly looked at her companion's angry face, -with the utmost innocence. - -"You are a poor ignorant creature," returned Martha. "My parents gave -me a good education, and nature a fine intellect. I need not care for -what you think of me." - - -END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. - - - - -Transcriber's Note: Although most printer's errors have been retained, -some have been silently corrected. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The World Before Them, by Susanna Moodie - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD BEFORE THEM *** - -***** This file should be named 42145-8.txt or 42145-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/1/4/42145/ - -Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Sue Fleming and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -book was produced from scanned images of public domain -material from the Google Print project.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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