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diff --git a/42165-8.txt b/42165-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3d47d62..0000000 --- a/42165-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5958 +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 - - -Title: The World Before Them - A Novel, Volume 1 (of 3) - -Author: Susanna Moodie - -Release Date: February 22, 2013 [EBook #42165] - -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. I. - - - LONDON: - - RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. - - 1868. - - - - - LONDON: - - Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street. - - - - - -THE WORLD BEFORE THEM. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -DOROTHY AND HER LOVER. - - -"But, Dolly! father will never give his consent, you know that;" said a -male voice behind the hawthorn hedge, that skirted the deep, sandy lane -that led to Heath Farm. The tone, reproachful and irritating, in which -this was spoken, was answered in a sweet, calm voice. - -"Until he gives his consent, his frank, free consent, Gilbert, I cannot, -and _will not_ be your wife." - -"You are just as obstinate as the old man." - -"Ay, and as proud. But don't think for a moment, Gilbert, that I blame -your father. Were I in his place, I might think just as he thinks. If he -has higher views for his son than a marriage with a nameless girl like -me, his son should be the last to find fault. Don't let love blind you -to facts. Look them boldly in the face, as I do. I cannot forget what I -am, and what I owe to your father. The happy life I have led here from a -child, made me forgetful of the great debt until"--and here the calm -voice faltered--"the reproaches of last night brought it all fresh to my -mind, and I saw how ungrateful I had been to my benefactor, in giving -the least encouragement to you." - -"Yes, I shall not soon forget the cruel insult he put upon you. It was -mean and cowardly, to say the least of it. He might be proud to call you -his daughter, and his daughter you shall be, in spite of him." - -"There are two words to that bargain," and that voice now spoke sternly -and decidedly, "two voices that speak in my heart--the voice of love -pleading for you; the voice of conscience, demanding of me to act -rightly. Which shall I obey?" - -No answer was given to this appeal. - -The speakers came forward to the stile; the young farmer with the fork -over his shoulder, with which he had been making hay; his companion, a -girl of seventeen, with the rake in her hand, her broad, coarse straw -hat dangling from her arm, her raven ringlets thrown back from her fine -sun-burnt face, which glowed with healthy exercise. - -The lovers had been working together through the long June day. This was -the first time that either had spoken upon a subject that was uppermost -in their thoughts, which had lain like a heavy weight upon their hearts, -and rendered them unusually reserved to each other. They had worked in -silence and apart, expecting the explanation which they knew must come, -which both wished, yet each secretly dreaded, and put off until the -last moment, as if by mutual consent. - -The hay was all cocked, they could no longer linger in the field; and as -they strolled homeward, Gilbert had broken the ice, and spoken in such -an abrupt and decided manner, that it had aroused in his companion a -spirit of resistance; and confirmed her in the course which, after long -and painful consideration, she had determined to adopt, not to accept -the hand of her lover against the wishes of his father. - -The young people leant for a few minutes on the stile, beneath the shade -of a large ash tree--the only tree of any magnitude in the heathy lane -before them. They would have made a good study for an artist, had an -artist been at hand to sketch them and their surroundings. - -The sun had sunk behind the common fronting them, which formed a steep -ridge against the horizon; and seemed to separate them from the rest of -the world. The road led to an old fashioned, high gabled farm-house at -the foot of the hill; the only tenement visible from that lonely spot. - -A little brawling brook crossed the road, and threaded its silvery way -through the low meadow which had been the scene of their labours; -singing and prating to the flowers that bent over its tiny waves, as -they wound their course down to the sandy beach, to add their mite to -the vast world of waters. - -The sides of the lane were skirted with high furze bushes. The short -strip of velvet sod that bordered the road, blue with harebells, -interlaced with tufts of purple heath; and the high common glowed like -an amethyst in the red rays of the setting sun. - -The near proximity to the sea hindered a softer growth of herbage, but -the spot was not deficient in picturesque beauty; and the deep bass -voice of the unseen ocean gave an additional charm to the rugged -landscape. - -To the young and loving, nature is always beautiful in the most homely -garb; and as the delicious perfume of the new mown hay floated out upon -the warm evening air, our young folks, who had never known a brighter -spot, thought it divine--an Eden of flowers and freshness. - -There was nothing remarkable in the appearance of the young farmer; but -his fellow-worker possessed no ordinary share of beauty, and in her own -peculiar way was a remarkable person. - -They were simple country folks, who had been brought up in the old house -at the foot of the hill. They had spent their lives together in that -secluded spot, and had been, and still were, all the world to each -other. - -Gilbert Rushmere was the son of a well-to-do yeoman, whose forefathers -had owned and cultivated the farm that extended for a hundred acres in -breadth, on either side of the road, for many generations. The old -family records shewed that the Rushmeres had, during the reign of the -Lancastrian line of Plantagenets, been a family of considerable repute -in the county of----. That Nicholas de Rushmere had been lord of the -manor of Hadstone, and resided in the old baronial hall that still -raised its proud head above the oak forest that skirted the western -horizon, though hid from view by the steep common in front of the lane, -in which his rustic descendant stood. - -A strong, active, young fellow, of three and twenty, was Gilbert -Rushmere; with ruddy cheeks, blue eyes and homely features; the latter, -however, rendered very agreeable by the frank, honest expression they -wore, which had secured for him the good-will of his neighbours. - -Some people are born to be popular among the class to which they belong. -Not so much from any merit peculiarly their own; but from inheriting -from nature a happy physical temperament, a willingness to please and -to be pleased, with every one with whom they fall in company. - -Such men are always prized more highly than they deserve; if educated, -they push their way into situations of comfort and independence, with -very little effort. Society likes their genial companionship, and they -are favourites with, and favoured alike by young and old. - -Gilbert was one of those petted individuals who carry the good-will of -others by storm. Young fellows in his own grade repeated his sayings and -imitated his doings, and he was the chief man and oracle among them at -fair or market. - -He had received the scanty education generally bestowed upon the sons of -small yeomen at the beginning of the present century. He could read and -write, and cast accounts, but in good truth, he preferred the labours of -the field to poring over books, and could do a hard day's work without -grudge or grumbling, could plough a straight furrow, and master a -high-spirited horse; and was considered the best cricket player in the -county. In the eyes of his companion--and oh! what splendid black eyes -they were--he was without doubt the cleverest, handsomest, and dearest -man in the world. - -Of Dorothy Chance--for so the young girl was called--a few words must be -said, in order to explain the conversation, which the reader has -overheard, between her and her lover. - -Fifteen years prior to the commencement of our story, Dorothy had been -found by farmer Rushmere on the wild common fronting them. It was the -early dawn of a bright summer day, succeeding a night of terrific storm -and darkness. The farmer was abroad earlier than usual, to see if his -weanling calves had sustained any injury from the down-pouring of the -pitiless thunder shower. - -Passing through a deep hollow in the heath, his attention was drawn -towards a clump of furze bushes, by the faint cries of a child. Thinking -that it might belong to some neighbour, had wandered from its home, and -been overtaken by the storm, he hastened to the spot. - -A little head suddenly appeared above the wet heather-bells, then as -quickly disappeared, and all was again quiet. The frightened little one, -on seeing a stranger approaching, nestled more closely into the cold -bosom, on which she had slept, during the terrible tempest of the past -night. - -"Is it a child, or a fairy?" muttered the good man, as the apparition -vanished into the earth. - -"Here Towser!" whistling to his sheep dog, who followed close at his -heels. "Find this stray lamb for thy master?" - -The sagacious animal pounced upon the terrified child. - -"Mamma! mamma!" screamed the frightened little one, as Rushmere tried to -lift her from her hiding place, under the tattered cloak of a young -woman, whose slight emaciated form lay shrouded in the wet heather. - -The farmer slightly stirred the prostrate sleeper with his foot. - -"Woman--Thou beest a sound sleeper--Wake up, and see to thy bairn, and I -will gie thee both a good breakfast." - -The figure remained motionless. There was no answering voice or sound. - -The farmer stooped down, and raised the shabby bonnet from the face of -the woman to examine her more carefully. - -He stepped hastily back, his cheeks, before so fresh and ruddy, were now -blanched with a deadly pallor. - -The poor marble statue at his feet can no longer respond to the cries of -her famishing child. She is cold, is dead. - -A forlorn victim of want--perhaps, of vice, overtaken by night and -storm, rendered feeble by disease and famine, unable to battle with the -hostile elements, has died unknown and unheeded in that lonely spot. No -human ear heard her cries for help, no pitying voice soothed her last -agonies. No friendly eye marked the despairing love which clutched to -her chilling bosom the tender form of her sleeping child, when during -the bitter conflict with death, she implored the Heavenly Father to take -them both. - -She was still very young, not over twenty years of age; and, though -squalid and dirty, and clothed with the filthy rags that vice bestows -upon her degraded victims, her shrunken features retained even in death -some semblance of former beauty. Her hands were small and white, and -delicately formed; and seemed to have been little accustomed to hard -work or out-door drudgery. - -A plain gold ring encircled the third finger of the left hand. There was -no money in her pockets, nothing that could give the least clue to who, -or what she had been. It was painfully evident to the most casual -observer, that she had died of absolute starvation. - -Poor houseless wanderer! She had found at last a safe home--a soft bosom -on which to pillow her aching head, and still the wild beatings of her -breaking heart. - -"Bless my soul! but this is a bad business, a bad business," muttered -the farmer. "I wonder how it all com'd about." - -The innocent child put its wasted arms around its mother's neck, and -tried to awaken her with its caresses, kissing pale lips that could -never kiss again, and warbling unintelligible baby language into an ear -locked by eternal silence. - -The man's rugged nature was touched by the pitiful sight. Tears filled -his eyes, as he lifted the living child from the dead bosom to which it -obstinately clung. The ragged cloak, with which maternal love had -endeavoured to shield its offspring from the fury of the storm, became -holy as the white robe of an angel. - -"Poor lass I Thy last thought was for thy child. May the good Lord shew -the same mercy to thee." - -So farmer Rushmere took the little foundling to his home, and adopted -her as his child; and buried the unrecognized stranger, at his own -expense, in the picturesque burying-ground of the small gothic -ivy-covered church that stood on the other side of the heath. - -The little girl they conjectured to be between two and three years of -age. She could only lisp a few broken words. All they could learn from -her, in answer to their oft-repeated questions, was, that the poor dead -woman was "Mammy," and that she herself was "Mammy's Dolly;" so the good -man and his wife, to make sure of her being a Christian, re-baptized -this stray lamb from the world's great fold, and named her Dorothy -Chance. An odd and somewhat unromantic name, but very significant of the -circumstances under which she was found. - -A fortunate chance it was that brought Dorothy beneath farmer Rushmere's -roof. From that day, the good Providence that had watched over her, -blessed his basket and his store, and made every undertaking to prosper -in his hands. - -Had he found a crock of gold, the treasure would have been of less value -in the homestead than the services of Dorothy proved to its inmates in -after years. - -Mrs. Rushmere, a kind, simple-hearted woman, had but one child, a boy, -some six years older than Dolly. She had always wished for a daughter, -to share with her the domestic labours of the farm, and her desires had -met their fulfilment when the orphan child of the vagrant was thrown -into her arms. - -The little maid grew and prospered under her maternal care; and became -the pet and darling of her adopted mother. At fifteen years of age she -was able to perform all the labours required in the house, besides -helping in the field during the busy seasons of hay-time and harvest. - -Slight in figure and graceful in all her motions, Dorothy was, -nevertheless, strong and active. Sickness had never blanched the warm -glow on her cheeks, or dimmed the brightness of her large, lustrous -eyes. Healthy, happy, cheerful, it was a pleasure to listen to her clear -ringing voice, to enter into the spirit of her joyous laugh; to feel -that a creature, so free from care and guile, hovered like a good angel -about your path. - -Without the sunshine of Dolly's presence, the old homestead would have -been a gloomy prison, surrounded by that lonely desolate heath, and its -inmates weary plodders along the dusty high-road of life. - -The Rushmeres kept no servants, male or female. The farmer and his son -did all the out-door work, leaving to Mrs. Rushmere and Dolly the -management of the dairy, the rearing of calves and poultry, and the -spinning of flax and wool. - -Once a week, Dorothy drove a light tax-cart to the market town, some -five miles distant, to dispose of her eggs, cheese, and butter. The -excellence of these latter articles had gained for their maker quite a -reputation; they always commanded the highest price, and brought no -small gain to her adopted parents. - -Dorothy's reputation, however, was not confined to her skill as a -dairy-maid; she was considered the prettiest girl in those parts; though -her beauty was not a perfect model of what art has chosen for its -highest types. - -Her eyes were dark and expressive, surmounted by a smooth forehead and -black arched eyebrows, soft as velvet, and quite eastern in their hue -and texture. Her nose was straight and well-formed, but the rosy mouth, -full of white even teeth, and graced by two charming dimples, which -continued to smile after the honest, gay peal of laughter had died away -upon the dewy lips, was far too large for the required standard of -female beauty. Her cheeks and chin were softly rounded and bronzed by -the sun to a warm brown tint, reminding one of the rich colouring of -ripe autumnal fruits. - -After all, the beauty which gladdened every eye lay in the expression of -the whole countenance; in the harmony that reigned in every feature; -which, when lighted up and animated by the spirit within, was -irresistibly pleasing--a picture full of sense, goodness, and warm -confiding affection. - -Lovers our little Dorothy had by the score, though she was never seen -but at church or at market. Many a young farmer in the neighbourhood -would have deemed himself a fortunate fellow, could he have persuaded -Dorothy to become his wife. And Dorothy was not averse to -admiration--few women are; but she was too young, and too much occupied -by household matters, to cast one thought on matrimony. Her life, -hitherto, had glided on so smoothly, that she was not aware that her -love for Gilbert exceeded the affection that a sister might own for an -elder brother, who had always treated her with tender confidence and -kindness, until his importunities had suddenly awakened her to the fact, -and pressed the conviction home to her heart, that they were something -more than brother and sister to each other. Still, on Dorothy's part, it -was more a love springing out of long association and deep-rooted -esteem, than the passion generally recognised by that name. She could -have given him up to another, without any very severe pang, if she -thought by so doing, it would have been for his happiness. - -This state of things was not destined to last long. The peace of -families is subject to sudden interruptions, as well as the peace of -nations. The noblest qualities of the heart often have their birth amid -scenes of domestic strife, as the devotion and patriotism of the -soldier are strengthened by the horrors of the battle-field. - -Old Rushmere had raised an unreasonable persecution against his son on -Dorothy's account. This circumstance had made her feel a deeper interest -in Gilbert, and had quickened her friendship into love. - -Though good and worthy in his way, the old man was avaricious, and -possessed an enormous amount of family pride. This latter quality was -based, not upon the position in the county which his family then held, -but upon that which it had once occupied. Gilbert was his only child, -the last of the old stock; and he cherished a parental hope, that his -boy, by industry and a wealthy marriage, might restore its ancient -respectability. Such dreams, however improbable of fulfilment, are -natural enough. - -He loved Dorothy, but he did not wish her to be Gilbert's wife; he -regarded her in the light of a daughter, knew her worth, and the -advantage of her presence in the house; but expected Gilbert to feel no -deeper interest in her than that of a sister, and was quite indignant -that he would not acknowledge an imaginary tie of kindred. - -He had been a prudent, hard-working man himself; and though Heath Farm -was not remarkable for the goodness of its soil, consisting mostly of -wild, uncultivated heath land, he had contrived to lay by a handsome sum -of money, and hoped to see his son one day a gentleman. And what was -Dorothy? Perhaps the bastard of a beggar. Such an alliance was not to be -tolerated for a moment, in connection with the last scion of his name -and race. - -Rushmere blamed his innocent wife for having encouraged the growing -attachment between Gilbert and Dorothy, in no measured terms of -displeasure; and having caught this disobedient son in the very act of -kissing the ruby lips of the orphan, he told him in hot anger before her -face--"That if he persevered in that nonsense, he would cut him off -with a shilling; and turn her out of the house to find a living on the -heath where he first picked her up." - -The good wife remonstrated. In the humour her spouse was then in she had -better have remained silent--she told him, that he was harsh and unjust. -I am afraid she called him a fool, for abusing the young people after -that fashion--she insisted that Dorothy was the best girl in the county; -that she loved her as her own life; that Gilly was a wise man in wishing -to secure such an excellent wife; that he might search England through, -and not meet with such a bonny lass; that she would rejoice at their -marriage, and give them her blessing with all her heart. - -This praise of her favourite, though quite sincere on Mrs. Rushmere's -part, and fully merited by Dorothy, was very impolitic at such a moment; -it exasperated the angry old man, and made matters worse. - -Gilbert, backed by the imprudence of his mother, did worse. He made use -of very violent language to his father, and said and did many undutiful -things. - -"He was a man," he said, "and of age to please himself--he meant to be -his own master--he did not care a fig for his father's opinions and -prejudices, and he would marry Dorothy, whether he liked it or not." - -There is no knowing how the quarrel might have terminated--for Rushmere -was an obstinate, self-willed man like his son--had not the innocent -cause of the disturbance, instead of crying and wringing her hands, or -dropping down at his feet in a dead faint, like any other heroine of -romance, quietly stepped up to the exasperated farmer, and, laying her -hand upon his arm, said in her pleasant, cheerful voice. - -"Don't be afraid, father. He shan't marry me without your consent, so -don't be angry and abuse us all; for which you will be sorry an hour -hence. Listen now to me. I love Gilbert. I believe that he loves me. I -love you and mother also. I do not intend to vex or grieve you by any -conduct of mine; nor do I mean to leave you, now you are both infirm and -old. I am young and strong, and better able to work than you are. If you -turn me out of the house by one door, I will come in at the other. I owe -you a large debt of gratitude, which I want to work out--so do not talk -of sending me away. God gave you to me for parents. I have no other, nor -friends beside you in the wide world." - -Her lips quivered, but, quickly regaining her composure, she went on. -"Hear me, father, while I promise you faithfully, before God and you -all--and you know, father, I never told you a lie--that I will not marry -Gilbert without your consent and approbation--your full, free, hearty -consent." She held out her hand--"Will that satisfy you?" - -Obstinate as he was, the girl's frank honesty conquered the angry old -man. He took the proffered peace-offering, and shook it warmly. - -"Ay, lass! I will e'en take thee at thy word. You are more dutiful than -yon chap. I cannot so easily forgive him." - -"But you must forgive him, father. Angry people are not aware of all the -hard things they say to each other." - -"True for you, girl. I have naught to say agin you, Dolly; I might get a -worse daughter. But there are some ugly drawbacks to that bargain." - -"Don't name them, father,"--and Dorothy raised her small hand -beseechingly. "I know them well enough,"--tears now glistened in her -eyes, she turned her head away,--"I never felt that I was so poor and -friendless before." Then kissing the old man, she ran out of the room. -Gilbert's "O shame, father," and Mrs. Rushmere's "God bless the dear -child," following her hasty retreat. - -Dorothy was deeply moved, but was only too glad to be the means of -restoring peace to the belligerents she had left. - -It was a few days after the bursting of this domestic thunder-cloud, -that Gilbert and Dorothy were thrown alone together. Mr. Rushmere had -been called away to the town on business, and the lovers had been -working all day in the hay-field. Gilbert was not at all satisfied with -the promise Dolly had given to his father; he thought himself slighted -and ill-used. He had been anxiously watching for an opportunity to talk -it all over. Dorothy, anticipating his intentions, had carefully kept -aloof. - -There was no getting out of the way now, and she was forced to listen to -the renewal of his suit; and to parry, in the best way she could, his -passionate appeals to her to revoke the promise she had given to his -father. - -They walked silently down the lane together, Gilbert sullen and -mortified, Dorothy pitying but resolute. Gilbert at last spoke. - -"If you loved me, Dolly, you could not talk about it in that cool way, -and sacrifice my happiness to gratify my father's foolish pride." - -"I mean to keep my word, Gilly. We are both young. We can afford to -wait." - -"A pleasant prospect, truly." - -"Is it not better than disobeying your parents, or my leaving them, -which I must do, if you continue to press me on this subject." - -"Dorothy, Dorothy! how cold you are. Now don't preach, and talk to me -about duty and patience, and all that. I can't stand such cant, when my -heart is breaking. How can I hold my peace?" - -"Then you wish me to go?" - -"Dolly! do you mean to drive me mad?" - -"Not quite--I think you would be dangerous,"--and Dorothy laughed -merrily. Gilbert winced at the joke. She did not wish to provoke him to -anger, but to make him see things in a more cheerful light. - -"Gilly," she continued, quite serious now, "do you not see the necessity -of yielding to your father's wishes? It is the only way by which you can -even hope to see me your wife. He will surely separate us if you -obstinately resist his will. Think how painful it would be to part. How -dear mother would grieve after her little Dolly--to say nothing of -Gilbert,"--with a sly bewitching glance. - -"Mother could not do without me. She could not manage the dairy, and do -all the housework alone. Your father will come round by and by. He is -sometimes stern, and appears unfeeling, but you know that in the main he -has a kind heart. No good can come from opposing him. If you forget your -duty, I must not forget mine. Your father wants you to marry a rich -wife, as I told you before,--not a poor girl, who has not even a name -that she can lawfully call her own." - -"I can remedy that evil, Dorothy, by giving you mine." - -"A gift that will be joyfully accepted, Gilly, when seconded by your -father's approval. Till that can be obtained, let us talk of something -else." - -"This subject is nearest my heart. I have no words for any other." He -looked upon her bright face, a dubious expression flittering over his -own. "Old men can't live for ever--he may die!--I shall then be free to -please myself." - -Dorothy was shocked. She waved her hands impatiently. "Don't talk of his -death. It is dreadful to anticipate happiness from such a sad event. -Father is as likely to live as either of us--is hale and strong--with a -back unbent, and a step as firm as your own. Oh, Gilbert, I did not -think that you were so selfish. I love the dear old man. God grant that -he may live for twenty years!" - -"And you expect me to remain single all that time, Dolly,--do you call -that reasonable? I will not do it, even to please you." - -"Do not wait for me, Gilly, if you can get a better _chance_," said -Dorothy, striving to call up a smile upon his gloomy face. Her lover was -in no laughing humour. - -"Provoking girl. I cannot make you understand the state of my feelings. -I shall die, Dolly, if you cruelly persist in refusing to be my wife." - -"Of love! Gilbert?" This was said with a comical air of doubt, and a -half smile, which sent a ripple of laughter over the charming face. - -"Ay, lass--of love." - -The ripple now broke into a wave of joyous merriment. - -"Gilly, did you ever know a man or woman that died for love?" - -The lover looked puzzled. - -"I can't exactly say that I have. I have heard of such -unfortunates--have seen chaps very miserable about their sweethearts, -when they were contrary, or were fond of some one else--and have read -about it in books." - -"Do you believe everything you read in books, Gilbert?" - -"To be sure I do--what were they written for else? Do you think that a -sensible man would waste paper and ink, and his precious time in -printing off lies?" - -"I am certain, Gilly, that some books are only written to make people -laugh. I am no scholar, and can't read half as well as you, yet I know -that much. Do you think the book you were reading out to father the -other night--the one you know that you bought of the pedlar--all about -the little men and women with the hard names--was a real history?" - -"Gulliver's Travels." - -"Do you believe that true?" - -"Of course I do." - -Dorothy clapped her hands and laughed heartily. - -"You ought to be a good Christian, Gilbert." - -"Why, lass?" - -"For great is your faith. But--hark!--is not that the old clock in the -kitchen clapping seven? We must not stand here gossipping any longer, or -father will be after us to hurry our motions. Mother has the supper -ready by this time. If you are not hungry, I am. I have not yet found -out the way to live upon love." - -"Oh, Dolly!" sighed the young man. - -Dorothy, already out of hearing, had vanished into the old-fashioned -house at the bottom of the hill. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -HEATH FARM. - - -The farm-house was one of those quaint, picturesque old buildings, which -have long ago vanished from our public thoroughfares, and is only to be -found in remote rural districts, approached by narrow cross-roads. Its -high gables and chimneys, its bay windows, projecting several feet -beyond the wall, and filled with diamonded panes of glass set in lead, -and guarded by heavy iron stanchions, told a tale of past centuries, and -carried you back to the feudal times, when every man's house was -literally his castle, and presented a hostile front to the traveller. - -A pointed porch, composed of very small dark red bricks, grey and rusty -looking from the lichens which encrusted them, sheltered the front -entrance from the bleak easterly winds, which swept over a long range of -salt marshes, from the sea. A massy oak door opened from the porch, into -a long square hall, paved with broad flag stones, in which the family -generally assembled to take their meals. - -Through that ancient doorway a band of Cromwell's soldiers had once -passed, and been regaled at the huge oak table that held the centre of -the floor. Silver flagons had foamed with nut-brown ale; and "success to -the brave defenders of England's rights--and confusion to all -tyrants"--had been drank 'mid uproarious shouts, that made the old -rafters overhead, ring again. - -Sir Lawrence Rushmere, the head of the family in those days, had been a -person of some importance during the great struggle that revolutionized -England, and laid the foundation of her present greatness. - -A staunch adherent of the stern Protector, he had furnished a number of -horses and arms at his own cost, for the use of the Commonwealth, and -brought his own strong arm and stout heart to advocate the good cause. -For the active part he took in the contest, his descendants had to -suffer no small amount of robbery and wrong after the Restoration. The -larger portion of their estates were forfeited to the crown; and the old -house and two hundred acres of poor heathy waste land was all that -remained to the impoverished family. - -The old dining-hall had shared in the general decay, and been shorn of -all its ancient honours. Like the cobbler's stall in the old song, it -served the present occupants for "kitchen and parlour and all." It was -the room of general resort, into which all the offices pertaining to -the farm opened, and in which all the lighter labours of the house, -such as spinning and weaving, were carried on. - -A small, dark, highly-polished spinning-wheel, such as is used in the -eastern counties for converting the fine white flax into thread, -occupied a conspicuous place along the wall; and, during the short -winter days, kept up a perpetual whirring sound, which formed a pleasant -accompaniment to the gay blithe voice of Dorothy, as she sang some local -ditty, while the fine thread grew beneath her fingers. - -The wide fire-place nearly extended across the upper end of the hall, -with its broad hearth-stone, huge iron crank, and hooks, bright brass -dogs, and white brick settles, telling of warm yule fires, and abundance -of country cheer. - -A practical illustration of the same might be seen in the rows of fat -hams, and rounds of hung beef that dangled from the beams that crossed -the low ceiling: interspersed with strings of onions and savory -pot-herbs--and, as if by way of variety, separated by hanks of white and -coloured yarn. - -A picture in oils, painted upon wood, and by no means a bad specimen of -the arts, hung over the carved oak mantel--the half-length portrait of a -fine soldierly looking man. This is the soldier of the covenant--the -grim Roundhead, Sir Lawrence Rushmere--for so his enemies called him. -Look at him well. His bold honest English face deserves a nearer -scrutiny. Examine his broad brows, his large clear blue eyes, his firm -nose, and resolute mouth, before you call that man a traitor. - -He has drawn the sword he holds in his hand in what, after mature -consideration, he considers the right cause, and being once fully -convinced that it is so, has thrown his whole heart and soul into the -struggle. If you can overturn a rock whose roots are embedded in the -depths of ocean, you may hope to turn him from his purpose. - -This old family portrait is held in great reverence by his last -descendant, who bears his name; and though degenerated into a rude half -educated tiller of the ancestral acres, Lawrence Rushmere thinks himself -a great man, while looking upon the noble portrait of his remote -progenitor. - -The old high-backed arm-chair, so richly carved, in which the farmer -smokes his pipe after the labours of the day are over, is always placed -fronting that picture. - -He sees a great resemblance between himself and the brave soldier of the -covenant, and draws the attention of every stranger that comes to the -house to the picture, by asking, "if they do not remark the likeness?" A -harmless vanity, which amuses without giving offence, and he generally -ends by saying, - -"Yes, Sir. That brave knight was my great, great grandfather, and he has -often sat in this very chair in which I am sitting now. It shall never -go out of the family while there's a Rushmere left to fill his place." - -Look at those long rows of pewter dishes and platters that grace the -shelves. These too are relics of a former age. No doubt the said Sir -Lawrence has taken many a good dinner off them. Yet no one points them -out as objects worthy of notice, though they are kept as bright and -clean as if required for daily use. They have been completely laid upon -the shelf half a century ago. - -The rest of the furniture of the room is as old as the Protectorate; -especially that large Venetian mirror, in its beautiful frame of ebony. -What a prize for a modern antiquary. - -Poor simple Mrs. Rushmere and Dorothy have not the most remote idea of -its value. The old lady thinks it a very becoming glass, which makes -people look much handsomer than they really are, and Dorothy -contemplates her sweet face in its mysterious depths, and speculates on -all who have done the same, and wishes that she could call the sleepers -from their graves, and make them pass in review before her. - -What a multitude of strange faces, and still stranger fashions, they -would bring again to light! - -Dorothy sometimes pursues this idea, till she grows afraid of her own -conceit, and turns away from the mirror, as if she really saw the -spectres she had conjured up. - -But the crowning glory of the place is a large dome-shaped cupboard, -which fits into a corner of the spacious room, and fills it from the -floor to the ceiling. It opens with a single door, the outside of which -is a fine picture by some old master, representing the judgment of -Solomon. The reverse side, when the door is opened suddenly, calls forth -a cry of surprise, and not unusually of terror, from the spectator. - -There stands our first father, in the naked deformity of sin, in the -very act of eating the forbidden fruit, with a face so full of remorse -and agony, that it chills the heart of the gazer with its unmitigated -horror. - -Though used to this terrible picture from a child, Dorothy could never -look at it without a shudder. When Gilbert and she were children, and -behaved amiss, Mrs. Rushmere had only to threaten to shut them up in the -cupboard with father Adam, and it brought them instantly to their -senses. - -The shelves of this mysterious piece of furniture were filled with Japan -china. Real "chaney"--as good Mrs. Rushmere called it--which, like the -ebony-framed mirror, had belonged to the family in its bygone days of -wealth and importance. These gorgeous tea-cups were never used but on -high-days and holidays, or on the advent of any particular visitors. - -Such an unusual event had just taken place, and a mild looking old lady, -in a plaited cap and brown stuff gown, was going to and fro, from the -open cupboard to the table, arranging some of the exquisite china cups -and saucers on a carved wooden tray, and bringing sundry delicate cakes -and biscuits, of Dorothy's own making, from their hidden receptacles, to -do honour to the evening meal. The table was covered with a snow-white -damask cloth, manufactured by the same skilful hands, and boasted a good -supply of fine wheaten bread, and the fresh cheese and butter, for which -the Heath Farm had become famous, under the said damsel's -superintendence. - -The guest for whose especial benefit all these preparations were made, -was a very great person indeed--at least, in the eyes of these simple -country folk--and Mrs. Rushmere was all fuss and excitement to set -before her the very best the house afforded. - -Stephen Watling, a near neighbour and landed proprietor, whose farm -joined their own, had died suddenly, in the very prime of life, a few -weeks before, and his only sister had come into possession of the -property. - -From keeping her brother's house, she had become the mistress of it in -her own right, and merged plain Nancy into Miss Watling, or as her -country neighbours said, - -"Had put on her Sunday gown, and had nothing to do now but hold up her -head high, and sup her soup out of a silver spoon." - -The heiress was not a very prepossessing looking individual. The sudden -acquirement of wealth had served to increase an innate vulgarity, -rendered more conspicuous by an arrogant assumption of superiority. She -affected airs of consequence, which made her company everything but -agreeable to those who had known her in a subordinate situation. - -Miss Watling was on the wrong side of thirty, bony and sharp featured, -with small and snaky looking black eyes, a sallow complexion, loud -voice, and most repulsive manners. Her affectation of extreme youth was -so absurdly ridiculous, that it made her appear older and uglier than -she really was. - -Ever since her unexpected good fortune, Mr. Rushmere had secretly -contemplated Miss Watling as a very eligible wife for his son. He had -not as yet dared to broach the subject to that refractory individual, as -he dreaded no small amount of opposition--or even to hint at it to his -wife, who, he well knew, favoured his attachment to Dorothy, and with -whom the rich spinster was no favourite; but he was thinking it over all -day long, and calculating the worldly advantages to be derived from the -union of the two estates. - -It would make Gilbert a rich man at once. As to the difference of age, -that was a mere trifle, more than counterbalanced by the lady's superior -wealth. - -True, she was very plain--he could not deny that--but beauty, after -all, was only skin deep, and would not, according to the homely adage, -"_buy beef_." His son was a handsome young fellow, and he felt certain -that Miss Watling was not indifferent to his personal attractions. It -would be a capital match, and his son would be a downright fool to let -such an opportunity of securing a rich wife slip through his fingers. - -Thus age and avarice can always over-leap barriers which, to the young -and romantic, are insurmountable. - -From the master of Heath Farm Miss Watling received the most cordial -welcome, and was easily persuaded to lay aside her bonnet and shawl, and -take tea with the family. - -To judge of the lady's grief by the ultra blackness of her mourning -garments, you would have supposed that no gleam of joy could ever enter -her afflicted heart again. All crape and bombazine from head to foot, -she presented to the spectator a ghastly exterior of hopeless sorrow. - -"And so poor Stephen is gone," said the simple Mrs. Rushmere. "Who would -have thought of his leaving us so suddenly? The last time he was here he -looked the picture of health and contentment. Well, well,--we must all -go some of these days. But the death of such as he--it seems so -shocking. A man in the very prime of life--it is surely a great loss to -the parish. You, Nancy, who were his only relative, must feel it sorely. -The house must be very lonesome to you, wanting the master." - -"It was dreadful, Mrs. Rushmere, to be taken without a minute's warning, -to think of his poor neglected soul. He never cared about religion. He -was so entirely taken up with his worldly concerns, it makes me very -uncomfortable to think what may become of him in the other world," said -the bereaved sister. - -"God is merciful," sighed the old lady. - -"It is of no use trusting to mercy, without repentance," was the sharp -rejoinder, "and he had no time for that." - -"He was a kind man to the poor, Nancy. A good neighbour and a regular -church-goer, honest and industrious--let us hope that these qualities -will be taken into account. It is not for sinful creatures like us to -condemn a man, because it pleased the Almighty to call him suddenly out -of the world." - -"Works--mere works," and Miss Watling shrugged her shoulders -emphatically. "For my part, I have no hope of his salvation. If he had -faith, he put his light under a bushel, for no one in the house ever saw -it. But he is gone, and has left me, a young unprotected female, to -struggle alone in this wicked world." - -"Why, surely, Nancy, you be old enough to take care of yourself?" -returned the good woman, with more truth in her look and accent than -was agreeable to her visitor. "You be some years older than he." - -"You are mistaken, ma'am," said Miss Watling, "he was a grown up man -when I was a _little_ girl at school." - -"Oh, my dear!" cried the provoking old lady, "it is of no use your -telling me that. Why, don't I know all about it. I was with your mother -when you were born. It is just thirty-five years ago, last May. You were -a sharp cross little thing, and you gave your mother a world of trouble. -I have often heard her say, that she never had the sound of your crying -out of her ears, or got a whole night's rest, for the two first years of -your life. You were turned of six before Stephen was born. You pouted -and sulked, and had a great fight with nurse, for bringing a nasty boy -into the house. Don't I remember it all, and how your father laughed at -your tantrums. - -"'Little maid's jealous of boy,' he said, 'she won't have it all her -own way now.'" - -Mrs. Rushmere had touched a tender point. She knew that her visitor was -dreadfully sensitive about her age; but she was so much disgusted with -the unfeeling piece of cant, in which she had just indulged about her -brother, that she did it to punish her for her cruelty and hypocrisy. - -"You have an excellent memory," said Miss Watling, wincing under the -infliction. "Such reminiscences, however, are neither polite nor -agreeable. It would be unbecoming in me to contradict so old a woman as -you, for it is impossible for me to recall events which happened in my -infancy." - -Miss Watling was angry, but she kept in her wrath. She had no intention -of quarrelling with the Rushmeres. She swallowed that bitter pill about -her age in the best way she could, and anxious to get rid of the -disagreeable dispute, in which she was sure to come off second best, -she asked Mrs. Rushmere how she liked her mourning. - -"The bombazine," she observed, "is very fine--the crape, the best I -could procure in Storby. As I had to go into mourning for Stephen, I -thought I would do the thing genteelly. Besides, shabby black is so mean -and unbecoming." - -Mrs. Rushmere glanced coldly at the crape scarf her visitor held up for -her inspection. - -"It does well enough for those who wear their grief upon their sleeve. -One little bit of heart mourning is worth it all." - -Before the wearer of the sables could frame a reply, Dorothy opened the -door and looked into the room, but quickly withdrew her head, when she -saw by whom it was occupied. Mrs. Rushmere followed her to the door. - -"Where is Gilly?" - -"Just cleaning himself up a bit, and changing his working slop. He will -be here in a minute. Don't wait for me, mother. I have the cows to milk. -I can get my supper by and by." - -The owner of the bright face vanished, Mrs. Rushmere poured out the tea, -and the small party gathered about the table. - -Gilbert came in presently--glanced coldly at the visitor, made a stiff -country bow, and took a seat by his mother, and as far from Miss Watling -as he possibly could. He never had liked her when plain Miss Nancy, but -since she had got a handle to her name, her airs and affectations had -filled him with disgust. - -"Do you suffer that young person, Mrs. Rushmere, to call you mother?" -asked Miss Watling, with a sneer upon her thin upper lip. "Surely it is -taking too great a liberty." - -"Oh, not at all. You forget, Nancy, that she is my adopted daughter, -that I look upon her as my own child. The dear knows I could not love -her better if she were." - -"Well, my dear madam, there's no accounting for tastes." Nancy Watling -thought that it was her turn to say something spiteful. "I see nothing -to admire in that girl. Is she not the beggar's brat that Mr. Rushmere -picked up upon the heath?" - -"So she be," muttered Lawrence, half aloud from his own chair. - -"No fault of hers," said Gilbert, flushing up. "She has beauty and sense -enough to have been the daughter of a king." - -"Rather a vulgar princess," giggled Miss Watling. "She looks what she -was born to be--a servant!" - -His mother caught the flash of her son's eye, and pinched his knee under -the table, to keep him quiet; then finding that her hint was not likely -to cool down his rising passion, and hearing a pet cat mewing for a -morsel of the repast, she screamed out-- - -"Mind, Gilly! you great blundering fellow. You have trod on pussy's -tail, and she will be sure to scratch you." - -"I'll take good care of that," said Gilbert, deceived by his mother's -innocent stratagem, "by turning her out of the room. Dolly has made such -a pet of that beast, she has become quite a nuisance." - -He rose and put out the unoffending cat, and peace was once more -restored. - -The farmer, who had been sitting upon thorns during the dispute, -inwardly cursing his wife's want of tact and plainness of speech, and -his son's rudeness, thought it high time to put in a word or two, and -direct the conversation into a new channel. - -"What do you intend to do with the farm, Nancy? Will you let it, or -carry on the business yourself?" - -"Well, my old friend," said Miss Watling, folding her hands in her lap, -and looking down demurely, "that is the difficulty. I am exceedingly -puzzled what to do. I came here this afternoon on purpose to consult -you, though I knew what a busy time it was with you during the hay -harvest. I am so young and inexperienced, and so ignorant of -agricultural matters, I should make a poor farmer. I know nothing about -cropping lands, milking, or churning. I was given an education quite -above such pursuits." - -Gilbert glanced up from the tea-cup he held in his hand, a comical smile -passing over his face, though he said nothing. Miss Watling seemed to -interpret his thoughts, for she positively looked down and blushed. - -Did she forget, at that moment, how often Gilbert had helped her, when a -boy, to drive home the cows from the salt marshes, and sat and whistled -on the meadow stile, while she milked them--or was she conscious of -uttering an untruth? - -Gilbert was determined to plague her a little, by jogging her memory. - -"Nancy," he said, "you do yourself great injustice. If you don't -understand the farm business, I don't know who does. Why, you were -always considered the best spinner and weaver in the parish. Remember -how often you used to scold me for tangling the yarn, when you were -spinning on the great wheel. I was mortally afraid of the big thrashings -you threatened me with, and trusted more to my heels than to your -generosity and forbearance. Those were jolly times. I wonder you can so -easily forget them, and try to thrust such nonsensical fibs down our -throats." - -This sally drew forth a general laugh, in which Miss Watling joined as -heartily as the rest. - -"Gilbert do you call that good manners, to contradict a lady? Where, -sir, did you get your schooling?" said the former sharply. - -"Among simple country folk, father. I did not mean to contradict Nancy, -only to remind her of past times." - -"Oh, I don't mind what he says, Mr. Rushmere. He was always a saucy -boy," returned the lady, striving to smile pleasantly. - -"She takes it better than I expected," thought Gilbert. "It is as good -as a play to hear her attempt to act the fine lady. How polite father is -to her. I wonder what they are driving at?" - -"You had better let the land, Nancy," said Rushmere, after a few minutes -thought, in answer to her protestations of ignorance as to agricultural -matters. - -"I won't do that," said Miss Watling, briskly, "I should be sure to be -cheated by my tenants. A woman can't follow the plough, or go into the -stable, to see if horses are properly cared for, and they are deceived -and taken in by every one. Consider my youth and inexperience." - -"Take a husband to help you out of the difficulty." - -"Yes, if I could find a good one." - -"I think I could recommend a smart, honest, good-looking fellow to your -notice," said Rushmere, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "One who can -work hard, and who would do justice to the land." - -"Now I hope to goodness father does not mean me. His foolish joke has -actually brought colour into the old maid's face," thought Gilbert, who -listened with intense interest to the conversation, hardly knowing -whether to be affronted or amused. - -The farmer knew very well what he was about, and did mean him; and was -rejoicing in the prospect of a successful negotiation on his behalf. - -"I was not thinking of matrimony," said Miss Watling. "There is plenty -of time for that. It is not every one to whom I would trust myself and -my property. I assure you, Mr. Rushmere, that I shall be very particular -in my choice of a husband. But I was thinking that if I could get a -steady industrious young man to farm the place on shares, and look after -my private matters, it would answer my purpose better than letting it -upon lease." - -Gilbert made a great clatter with his knife and fork, to conceal the -laugh that he could not repress. He now saw what Miss Watling was -driving at, and he felt certain that he was "the man." - -"Does she think me a goose? She and her affairs may go to Jericho, for -what I care," whispered the unambitious young fellow to his mother. - -"To be sure--to be sure, Nancy," said the farmer. "You are a woman of -sense, and see things in the right light. It would be an excellent -chance for Gilly. It is high time for him to be doing something for -himself. I can hire a labourer in his place, to work the farm. What do -you say, Gilbert, to Miss Nancy's proposal?" This was accompanied by a -shrewd look to his son, indicating plainly enough what he expected him -to say. "Can you and the lady agree?" - -"I fear not, sir. I hate all partnership concerns. I have been too long -my own master to submit to a mistress. Besides," he added, with a droll -smile, that showed all his splendid white teeth, "I am _too young_ to -fill such a responsible situation." - -"Oh, not at all, Mr. Gilbert," returned the anxious lady, looking full -into Gilbert's handsome face. "You need not let that stand in the way. -Brought up to the business all your life--born, I may say, to be a -farmer, you cannot want experience. I should only be too happy to -entrust the property to your care. You shall be your own master--have -everything your own way. Manage the land to please yourself. Any -interference on my part would be quite unnecessary. If you are not too -proud to accept my offer, I am sure that we shall get on famously -together." - -"Thank you--thank you, Nancy--Miss Watling, I should say," returned -Gilbert, coldly. "In a pecuniary point of view, it might turn out a good -thing; and I know several young fellows who would jump at it. I have no -wish to enter into such an engagement, and must decline it altogether." - -"Why, sir, why?" cried old Rushmere, in an angry tone. "Are you mad, -sir, or a fool?" - -"I am my father's son," said Gilbert, turning to the door. "It does not -suit my inclinations. I have other reasons, which I do not choose to -discuss here." - -"If you should change your mind, Mr. Gilbert, let me know," returned -Miss Watling, deeply mortified. "I will defer advertising in the papers -until next week." - -"Thank you, Miss Nancy," said the farmer. "My son is a wilful young -man--he will think better of your liberal offer." - -"There is little danger of my changing my mind," said Gilbert, sulkily. -"Miss Watling, you may advertise for a bailiff as soon as you like." - -"Stop, Gilly," cried his mother, as he was about to leave the room, "it -is getting dark, you must see Miss Watling safe over the common." - -Gilbert wished her at the bottom of the brook. He saw plainly that her -proposal boded him no good; that his refusal was highly displeasing to -his father, and would call forth a storm of anger against himself and -Dorothy; and with a very bad grace, he yielded to his mother's request, -to see the cause of the mischief safe to her own door. - -"I wish these troublesome women would stay at home and mind their own -business," he muttered, as he stalked on ahead of the lady, who -diligently gathered up her glossy sables, to keep them out of the dust -of the lane. "What right had she to come and set father and me by the -ears together?" - -At the farm-gate they met Dorothy, fresh and blooming as a rose, with a -pail in each hand foaming to the brim with milk. Gilbert nodded to her -as they passed on. - -"You have excellent cows, Mr. Gilbert," remarked Miss Watling, scowling -at the pretty milk-maid, "and a capital dairywoman." - -"Yes, everything depends upon that," said the young man. - -"You, of course, consider her a treasure." Miss Watling had quickened -her steps, and was now at his side, and as she spoke she looked -spitefully back at Dorothy. - -"Of course I do. We derive much profit from her skill. The farm yields -but a poor return in grain. We depend mainly on the flocks and herds. -How many cows do you milk now, Miss Nancy?" - -"_I_ milk! what a question!" - -"Ah, I suppose you have forgotten how to do it," and Gilbert looked -mischievously at her, from under the broad brim of his coarse straw hat, -which had been plaited and put together by Dorothy's dainty fingers. "I -remember the time when we were all young together,"--and he -laughed--"that is, before you came in for the big fortune, when you -thought it a great compliment to be called the best milker in the -parish. I should like to hear you talk like a sensible woman." - -"But times are altered since then, Gilly," said Miss Watling -confidentially, and slipping her arm within his. "I can still milk the -cow, or act the lady, with old friends. But one has, you know, to assume -a little dignity, or no one would suspect me of being a rich lady." - -"Still less with the dignity--which suits you as little as a court dress -would me. But I respect you now, Nancy, for speaking the honest truth. -I thought you had given yourself up to the other thing altogether. Look -you, Nancy. I believe you wish to be my friend. Will you be angry with -me, if I speak the honest truth?" - -Miss Watling's heart fluttered a little. - -"What can you want to say to me, Gilly--Is it any thing very -particular?" - -"Yes--very particular, at least as far as I am concerned." - -"About the proposal I made to your father?" with a smile. - -"The same." - -"You mean to accept it?" speaking joyfully, and pressing his arm -tenderly. - -"Oh, no, no," cried Gilbert, shrinking from the caress, "quite the -reverse. I decline it at once, and for ever; and I beg, Nancy, that you -will never broach the subject to me, or to father, again. Old folks -don't see with our eyes, or feel as we feel; they always forget when -they were young themselves. The spring and summer of life is gone with -them, and the autumn with its golden fruit is all they care about, and -wish us to procure at any cost. What does a young fellow want with -money, while he is full of health and warm blood, and has enough to -enjoy himself?" - -"But why should you refuse a good offer?" said Miss Watling, only half -comprehending the meaning of Gilbert's roundabout way of introducing a -disagreeable subject. - -"Simply, because it is not a good one for me. I don't like it, and will -have none of it. I am happy where I am, and don't want to change my -situation." He stopped suddenly, and took Miss Watling's hand. "Will you -be my friend, Nancy?" - -"Can you doubt it, Gilbert?" - -"Well, then, I love Dorothy Chance." - -Miss Watling dropped her hand, as if it had come in contact with a hot -coal. - -"Love--Dorothy--Chance!" and the hard mouth writhed convulsively. -Gilbert's eyes were bent upon the ground; he did not see the twitching -of the malignant face; and was not even conscious that she had withdrawn -the black kidded hand from his own--or the conversation would have come -to a sudden stop. - -"Yes," he continued, "I love Dorothy Chance with all my heart and soul, -and mean to make her my wife as soon as a good opportunity offers. -Father don't like the match, though he likes the girl. He loves money, -and he wants me to kneel down with him and worship the golden calf. I -won't do it. If I can't have Dolly, I'll have no one else. That's the -plain downright truth, Nancy Watling. Do you wish me to take your farm -on shares now?" - -"Certainly not, Mr. Gilbert Rushmere," drawing herself up, with a -withering air of spurious dignity. "If you can forget your good old -family, and stoop so low as to marry a girl that your father picked out -of the dirt, you may stay at home with her. I don't want to have -anything to do with you. I don't wonder at Mr. Rushmere not giving his -consent to such a vulgar connection. It is enough to break the honest -heart of the poor old man. His only son, too--the last of his name. Mr. -Gilbert Rushmere, you astonish me!" - -"I have heard all these arguments before," said Gilbert, sorry for his -misplaced confidence, when it was too late. "I consider them mere words, -and take them for what they are worth. I thought it would be best to act -like a man, and give you my real reasons for rejecting your kind offer. -I have satisfied my conscience, and I leave you to think of me as you -like. But here we are at your gate, Nancy, so I will wish you good -night." - -Nancy Watling deigned no reply to his farewell salutation, but walked -indignantly across her moon-lighted lawn. She felt mortified, -disappointed, and decidedly belligerent. True, she had not made him an -offer of marriage, but it was tantamount to it; and he had despised -both her and her money, and all for a penniless black-eyed dairy-maid, -who might be his father's daughter for aught he knew to the contrary. - -It was a strange story, at any rate, his finding the dead woman and the -child out on the heath. She remembered what the village gossips had -whispered about it, at the time, and she determined to publish a new -edition of the long-forgotten scandal. - -She would be revenged on Gilbert, for the insult he had passed upon her, -let it cost what it might. As for Gilbert, what need she care about -him--if he did not accept her and her farm, another would. He was a rude -brute, a vulgar, low fellow, to treat any lady as he had that night -treated her. If he married that base-born creature Dorothy, no -respectable person would ever enter the house. - -While such uncharitable thoughts were passing through Nancy Watling's -small, narrow mind, Gilbert, glad to be rid of his disagreeable charge, -took his homeward path across the heath. Sometimes he stopped--not to -admire the cloudless beauty of the sky--he was a careless observer of -the beauties of nature--but to put his hands to his sides, and laughed -with uncontrollable merriment. - -He was amused at his own cleverness--rejoicing over the adroit manner in -which he had got rid of the odious woman, and her self-interested offers -of service. - -"I am rid of her at last. I'm thinking she'll come after me no more. I -don't approve of women giving such broad hints to us men folk. It was as -good as asking me to be her husband. I can tell black Nancy that she's -no wife for Gilbert Rushmere. Does she think that I would sell myself to -age, ill-temper and ugliness, for all the money in the Bank of England? -I would rather go to church with Dolly in homespun, than ride in a -carriage beside that shrivelled piece of tanned leather. How Dolly will -laugh when I tell her how affectionately the old thing hugged my arm! A -partnership with her, ha, ha! is it not rare fun to disappoint her -matrimonial speculations?" - -To Dorothy, this visit of Miss Watling's to the farm proved everything -but a laughing matter. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -A FAMILY QUARREL. - - -Dorothy found Mr. Rushmere chafing with passion, when she returned to -the big room to take her simple supper of bread and milk. Gilbert's -conduct to Miss Watling had cut him to the quick, and thrown down in a -moment the fine castle in the air which he had been for weeks building -for his son's especial benefit. - -The sight of Dorothy, whom he looked upon as the real cause of his -bitter disappointment, stirred his generally sluggish nature to its -depths, and his rage burst out with the vehemence of a volcano, caring -nothing for the mischief and ruin which might follow its desolating -course. - -He upbraided her with inveigling the affections of his son, and making -him rude and undutiful to his parents--reiterating his threat of sending -her off to seek her own living, and cursing the unlucky hour he brought -her to the house. - -He said so many hard and cruel things, that Dorothy was roused at last. -Leaving her supper untasted upon the table, she went across the room to -Mrs. Rushmere, who was standing before the window, with her back to her -husband, weeping bitterly. Dorothy put her arm across her shoulder, and -spoke in a low voice, meant to be calm, but which trembled with -suppressed emotion. - -"Mother, I am no longer wanted here. I will go and seek service -elsewhere to-morrow." - -"Dorothy, my child, you are not in earnest. You cannot mean what you -say?" - -"Father wishes it. I believe that it will be better for all parties. You -are my only friends; the only parents I have ever known. God, who reads -my heart, knows the love I feel for you both, but--but,"--and here poor -Dolly broke down, and flinging herself into the kind woman's -outstretched arms, they mingled their tears together. - -"She is right--quite right," said the old man, too angry to be touched -by the grief of the weeping women. "She has been here long enough. It is -time she should go." - -"And where is the poor child to go?" asked the wife, pressing Dorothy to -her warm maternal breast. "Have you the feelings of a man, Lawrence, -after she has shared our home for so many years, and been to us a -dutiful and loving daughter, to turn her out upon the wide, wide world." - -"She shall go," was the dogged reply to his wife's appeal. - -"Don't distress yourself, mother, on my account," whispered Dorothy. "I -am young and strong. I can work for my living. Never fear. God will -raise me up friends, and find me another home." Then turning to Mr. -Rushmere, she addressed him with the calm dignity which was natural to -her. - -"Father, after all the benefits I have received from you we must not -part in anger. If I have been in fault, God knows that I have erred -through ignorance, that it was wholly unintentional on my part. I -acknowledge now, what I did not understand before, that I am not a fit -mate for your son. I have given up all idea of being his wife. Speak to -me, father. Say that you forgive me, and let us part in peace." - -She slid down on her knees before the stern old man, as he sat sullenly -in the big arm-chair, and looked imploringly into his face. Her rosy -cheeks were deadly pale now, and wet with the tears that flowed -unceasingly from her large black eyes. - -Rushmere felt rather ashamed of the violent language he had used--he -softened a little, and replied in a gentler tone,-- - -"Dolly, you are a good girl. You know I love and respect you, but you -cannot marry my son. I should feel degraded if you were Gilbert's wife." - -The blood rushed in a hot tide into the girl's pale wet face, and yet -she shivered as if an arrow had pierced her heart. With a low moan her -head sunk upon the old man's knee, and she shook and trembled with -violent emotion. - -"Go," and Rushmere laid his large hand upon the bent head, with all its -glossy ebon ringlets--"Go, and God bless you." - -Dorothy rose from her knees. - -"Your wishes shall be obeyed, father. I will go, as you desire it. Only -let me stay this night beneath the roof that has sheltered me so long. -I will seek a new home to-morrow. And now, good night. Oh," she cried, -in a tone of bitter anguish, "how hard it is to part from all we love. -To bid you good night for the last time, in the dear old home." - -Their eyes met. The old man drew her down to him and kissed her. - -"You must go, Dorothy. I am sorry to part with you, but I do so for -Gilbert's sake." - -"Who talks of parting? What does all this mean?" cried Gilbert, who had -been standing some minutes unobserved in the doorway, hurrying forward. -"Who is going away? What is the matter with mother and Dorothy, that -they are crying like babies?" - -"Gilbert," said Mrs. Rushmere, sorrowfully, "it is Dorothy who is going -to leave us." - -"Where is she going?" - -"To see service." - -"Good God! Mother, are you all mad? What will you do without her? How -can you suffer her to go?" - -"I cannot prevent it, Gilbert. It is your father's doing. Ask him." - -Gilbert turned wrathfully, and faced the old man. They glared upon each -other like two angry wild beasts. - -"So, this is your doing, sir. You thrust an unprotected young girl out -of your house, because she happens to be dear to me! Now, mark my words, -for I mean to abide by what I say. If Dorothy is driven from her home on -my account, I leave it also--leave it, never to return while you live. -Don't cry, mother. Don't shake your head, Dorothy. I am in earnest--so -help me God!" - -"What do you say to that, Lawrence?" cried Mrs. Rushmere. "Do end this -disgraceful scene and listen to reason." - -"I say," and Rushmere spoke in a voice of thunder, "that he is an -undutiful son, a disgrace to his family; that he may go as soon as he -likes; the sooner the better; that I never wish to set my eyes upon him -again. That's what I say, dame!" - -He shook his fist in Gilbert's face, and his brow grew dark with violent -passion. - -Dorothy glided round to the back of the chair. She was afraid of his -falling down in a fit. She now fronted her angry lover, and she silently -pointed down to his agitated father, and made imploring gesture for him -to leave the room. - -Gilbert read her meaning in her terrified eyes. He was determined not to -go, but to tell his father a bit more of his mind. - -"Speak to him, dear mother; he will heed what you say." - -Mrs. Rushmere shook her head sorrowfully. - -"It is of no use attempting to reason with angry men. It only makes -matters worse. To contradict an obstinate man in a rage, is to add fuel -to the fire. Go to your bed, Gilbert, your father will forget all about -it to-morrow." - -"I don't care whether he does or not. My mind is made up. If he is -indifferent to my happiness, and unjust to the woman I love, I will no -longer work like a slave for him. From this hour I am my own master." - -He turned and held out his hands to Dorothy. - -"Come, Dorothy, darling, come with me. Let us seek our fortunes in the -world together. Here we have no longer a home. See if this strong arm -cannot win one for you." - -"I have been the cause of all the trouble, Gilbert. Be reconciled to -your father, and let me go my way in peace." - -"How! Do you reject my offer, Dorothy?" He spoke in tones of suppressed -anger. "You surely will not refuse to become my wife!" - -"Yes--under existing circumstances. I will never bring sorrow under the -roof that has sheltered me," said Dorothy, firmly, without daring to -raise her eyes to her lover's face. - -"Look at me, Dorothy. Look at me straight in the eyes, and then tell me -that you mean what you say." - -Dorothy raised her eyes to his, swimming in tears, her lips quivered, -but she replied, in a voice more decided than before. - -"Gilbert Rushmere, I cannot be your wife. It is cruel to ask me, in the -face of your father's anger." - -"It is enough." He folded his arms and smiled disdainfully. "I shall not -ask you again. I have sacrificed everything for you--and this is my -reward." - -He went up to Mr. Rushmere, and held out his hand. He was desperately -angry with Dorothy. - -"You hear her, father. She has refused to be my wife." - -"She's a sensible girl," said the farmer. - -"Perhaps she is," and Gilbert laughed bitterly. "May she never have -cause to repent of her decision. A different course, however, might have -made us happy." - -"You have agreed to give him up then, Dorothy?" said Rushmere, eagerly -eyeing the trembling girl. - -Dorothy did not speak. Words rose to her lips, but to have given them -utterance would have choked her. Gilbert answered in her stead. - -"Yes, sir. She has yielded to your wishes--and we have nothing more to -say to each other. Are you satisfied?" - -"Quite, quite, my son," and the old man grasped his hand warmly. A -slight sound, like a suppressed sob, broke the stillness of the great -hall. Gilbert looked round. Dorothy stood firm and erect behind his -father's chair, her right hand grasping the frame, her large eyes wide -open and fixed on vacancy, her features rigid, her face as white as -that of a stone statue. - -His heart smote him. He knew the purity of her motives, he saw how she -suffered, but his pride and vanity were alike wounded;--he would not -yield an inch--he would punish her for the decided manner in which she -had rejected his offer. He did not doubt her love, but in that evil mood -he had ceased to love her himself. - -"Gilbert, I am glad you acknowledge the folly of your conduct," said the -farmer, breaking the painful silence. "When you don't see the girl, you -will soon forget her, take my word for it. Out of sight out of mind. -There's much truth in those old proverbs." - -Gilbert again glanced up at Dorothy, to see how this speech affected -her. - -She was no longer in the room. - -A few minutes later, the tramp of a horse's hoofs sounded on the -pavement of the court-yard. Dorothy had sought refuge in her own -chamber from a scene she was no longer able to endure. She had sunk down -beside the bed, her head was buried in the pillow; she was sobbing -wildly. That sound broke painfully upon her ear--it was the climax of -her agony. She started to her feet. She sprang to the window, and flung -wide the casement, stretching out her arms with a despairing gesture, as -she caught a glimpse of Gilbert's retreating figure. - -"Gilly, Gilly!" she cried, "come back and speak to me. Tell me that we -do not part in anger. That you will forgive your poor broken-hearted -Dolly!" - -The gate swung back on its hinges--the figure had vanished into the -night. - -"He is gone--he does not hear me," sobbed the distracted girl. "I shall -never, never see him again." - -She threw herself on the floor, and prayed that God would end her -life--that she might die in the old house and never see the light of -another day. This was her first great life-trial. She had tried to bear -up against it, to submit with patience to her bitter grief, but her -fortitude had all deserted her now, and she wept with such an -abandonment of sorrow, as if her whole being would dissolve in tears. - -This could not last long. After awhile she sat upon the floor, and tried -to comprehend the misery that had overwhelmed her; to think more calmly -of her situation, and the forlorn prospects of the morrow; to hope, that -her fears respecting Gilbert were unfounded; that he had ridden out on -pleasure or business; perhaps, to get over his passion by violent -exercise. She had known him to try that remedy before. It was foolish of -her to look only at the dark side of things. - -"He could not leave her in that way if he loved her as she loved him. -No, no, it was cruel of her to imagine such a thing. It was not to be -wondered at that he was vexed with her for refusing him, before his -parents, as she had done. But how could she help it, without breaking -her promise to his father. Surely he must remember that, and exonerate -her for her seeming indifference." - -And then, her mind wandered away to her mother; and she wondered why she -should stand between her and her marriage with Gilbert. - -She had often heard the farmer tell the story--and a sad story it was, -and never failed to bring the tears into her eyes; but she had never -connected the tale with disgrace or infamy, or thought it possible that -she could be blamed for the poverty, or even guilt, of parents she had -never known. - -How could any one prove that her mother was a bad woman, or that she was -base born? Was not that mother's wedding ring, at that moment, pressing -her finger? She, Dorothy, might be the child of sorrow, but who should -dare to say that she was the offspring of shame? - -The poor girl's heart began to warm towards this mysterious unknown -mother; all her womanly instincts were aroused to defend her memory; and -she felt indignant that Mr. Rushmere, who had acted so nobly by her, and -her orphan child, should be the first to cast a reproach upon her. - -In spite of her simple reasoning, Dorothy keenly felt that the dubious -circumstances in which she had been found, must give a colouring to her -future life; and would not prove a letter of recommendation in helping -her on in the world. - -While she was pondering these things in her heart, there came a gentle -tap at the door, and Mrs. Rushmere, in her night-cap and bed-gown -entered. - -"What, Dorothy, darling, not abed yet. Alack, I cannot sleep a wink -myself, so as sorrow loves sympathy, I came to have a chat with you. Do -you know that Gilbert is gone? He took his own young horse, and rode -off at full speed. What can he be after at this time o'night? Still, -child, I am right glad that he is gone, and given father time to get -over his anger. When he comes back, which he will early in the morning, -the old man will have forgotten it all--for he dearly loves his son, -though he be cross with him, and with us all, now and then." - -"But will Gilbert return?" and Dorothy fixed her eyes, with such an -eager inquiring glance on Mrs. Rushmere's face, that the startled little -woman said, "it made her blood run cold." - -"Return?--Yes, that he will. I have no fears about him. The hay must be -carted to-morrow. Gilly never neglects his business. Besides, he shook -hands with his father, and seemed reconciled to giving you up. It's all -right between them now. You had better go off early in the morning, -Dolly, before he gets sight of you, or the love fit will come on -stronger than ever." - -"Ah, dear mother," sighed the girl, terribly afraid that her lover was -lost to her for ever, "no fear of that." Her head sunk between her hands -for a few minutes, but, recovering herself, she turned quickly to Mrs. -Rushmere. - -"I cannot go before I have milked the cows, and done the morning's work -for you. Oh, mother, mother, what shall I do without you? Who is there -in the world to love and care for me now?" - -"Don't fret, Dolly dear, and go to cry the eyes out of your head. You -look as pale as a ghost. Things never be so bad, as at first sight they -seem." - -"True, mother," said Dorothy, perseveringly wiping away the rebellious -tears, which would find their way down her pale cheeks, do what she -could to hinder them, "but what is to become of me? Where am I to go?" - -"I have been planning that for you, dear child," returned the kind -woman. "You know, my old friend, Mrs. Barford, who lives six miles over -the heath, on the other side of Hadstone. She will be right glad to take -you in for my sake. My mother and her mother were first cousins, and -Jenny and I went to school together. She is none of your idle -ill-natured gossips, but a real kind motherly woman." - -"I like the old lady, but her son and his wife are very rough people," -suggested Dorothy. - -"Never you mind that. You go to Mrs. Barford; she owns the farm, and is -the mistress, and tell her all your trouble. Say that I sent you. She -knows you too well to suspect you of coming to her with a lie in your -mouth, or that you have done anything amiss." - -"But how do you know, for certain, that she will take me in?" asked -Dorothy. - -"Well, Dolly, dear, I have heard that you can never be sure of anything -in this world, but if Jane Barford is living I feel no doubt about it. -Her daughter-in-law is only just about, after her confinement, and has a -baby to take care of, and they are not well able to keep a girl. Jane -does little herself in the house, and I know that they will be right -glad of your help during the busy time." - -"Is the younger Mrs. Barford a kind person?" - -"I know almost nothing about her. She looks good-natured enough at -church, beside her husband and her fine little boys. She was only a -servant girl, up at the Hall Farm, when Joe Barford married her, which -was a sore vexation to his mother, who had been decently educated at the -same school with me, while this poor ignorant lass did not know a letter -in the book. She is not a very good housewife either. She is tidy -enough, but very thriftless--mean, without the power of being -economical. Joe made but a poor match, and though he works hard enough -himself, they can barely make both ends meet, after paying Mrs. Barford -her thirds." - -This short history was everything but satisfactory to Dorothy. She -seemed to comprehend in a moment the discomfort and misrule in the -Barford establishment. - -"Mother," she said, after a few minutes thought, "I do not think I shall -suit these Barfords, and I don't think, from your description of them, -that they will suit me. Had I not better seek a place at Storby?" - -"Dolly, you be ignorant of town life, and know nothing about town work. -You go to Mrs. Barford, as I tell you, and bide with her, till I can -send you word from home. Things mayn't be so pleasant as they be here, -but you make yourself as comfortable as you can. Your father is not a -hard hearted man; when his passion is over he will be the first to want -you back. He will only find out your real value, Dolly, when you are -gone. As for me, darling, you are as dear to the old mother as her own -flesh and blood. Don't you know that?" - -Dorothy's arms closed tightly round Mrs. Rushmere's neck, as she faintly -whispered, - -"Yes, ah, yes. It needs no words to tell me that." - -"Then keep up your heart, child, and trust in God. All things done by -Him happen for the best. Maybe I shall yet live to see you Gilly's -wife." - -This last remark recalled poor Dolly's grief, and she fell to crying -worse than before. - -"Now, go to bed, Dolly, and try to get a little sleep. Remember what the -good book says--'Sorrow may last for a night, but joy cometh in the -morning.' We may be worriting ourselves for nothing after all." - -The kind honest sympathy of this true friend roused Dorothy from her -stupor of grief. Raising her head from Mrs. Rushmere's supporting arms, -she promised to attend to all her injunctions, and reconcile her mind to -her altered lot. The women parted for the night, and Dorothy laid her -aching temples on her pillow, and soon fell into a deep and dreamless -slumber. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -DOROTHY'S DEPARTURE. - - -The sun had just risen when Dorothy unclosed her eyes. Everything looked -bright on earth, and in the heavens, in the early flush of that lovely -June morning. The perfume of the honeysuckle and briar rose, that -clasped the old porch in their fragrant embrace, and climbed to the very -roof of the house, mingled deliciously with the scent of the new mown -hay. Who, looking abroad into the sweet face of nature, at that pure -still hour, which an old poet has felicitously named "the bridal of the -earth and sky," could believe in the wickedness and depravity of the -human portion of her children. - -In great cities, enveloped in the miasma of moral depravity, this -depressing conviction comes home to the heart of the thinking and -religious inhabitants, where not an hour in the diurnal circle is -unmarked by crime,--it is only in the solitude of the country that -nature puts on a virgin grace, and man forgets in her august presence -the stern reality and withering blight of sin. - -In spite of the great sorrow that lay at her heart, the earth had not -lost the freshness of Eden for Dorothy, and she had still faith in the -goodness of her fellow-creatures. She sprung lightly from her bed, sorry -that the birds had not roused her an hour sooner, for she had a great -amount of work to do that morning. - -She had forgotten all the anguish of the previous night, until it was -brought back to her remembrance, by the dull aching sense of weariness -that pressed upon her heart and brain. - -Slowly and painfully she realized it all. - -The reflection of her pale face in the glass startled her. The sunken -eyes, the tangled masses of raven hair, the look of exhaustion and -hopeless woe. - -Can that be Dorothy--that wan image of despair? The laughing happy -country girl--what havoc a few hours has made in that gay warm heart! - -A new life had dawned upon her; the bright and beautiful had vanished, -and clouds and storms had gathered over the glad morning of her -existence. She must now strengthen her heart for the great moral -conflict between good and evil, and fight vigorously with the cares and -temptations of an evil world. - -"God help me!" she cried, "I feel a poor, weak, miserable creature, I -that thought myself so strong. May He give me courage to bear up against -this great trial, and teach me to lead an honest, virtuous life." - -Brief as the prayer was, it gave her strength, and she set about her -usual morning work with energetic earnestness of purpose, anxious to do -all in her power for Mrs. Rushmere, before she left her. - -The cows were milked, the poultry fed, a large cheese made and in the -press, and the week's butter churned and dressed for market before the -family met at the breakfast table. - -Dorothy cast a hurried glance round the room. Her heart sank within her. -Gilbert's place was vacant, and the fear that had distressed her so much -on the previous night returned with redoubled force. Then, again, hope -whispered, "He is in the stable preparing the horses for the field. -Maybe he has gone to the meadow, to see if the hay is dry enough for -carting. He would come, at any rate, to bid her good bye." - -"How we shall miss our good, industrious Dorothy," said Mrs. Rushmere, -to the farmer, as he took his seat at the table. "She has been hard at -work for me since daybreak. I shall never find another to supply her -place." - -"Aye, wife, but Gilly would never be settled as long as she bides here. -When the plough has been put into the field, it is of no use drawing -back from the furrow." - -"As a man sows, so shall he reap," replied Mrs. Rushmere. "The crop of -trouble you have been sowing for yourself and me, Lawrence Rushmere, is -likely to produce a plentiful harvest. You have made two young happy -creatures, very miserable. May God forgive you, but I can't say amen to -your doings. I have spoken my mind, however, upon the subject, and now -we will say no more about it. Dolly, it is time that you were upon the -road: the day is hot and the path dusty, and you have a long lonely walk -before you." - -Dorothy cleared off the table, and went to her own room to pack up her -clothes, and prepare for her journey. There was no finery in her -wardrobe, a few neat cotton gowns for summer wear, and homespun for the -winter--that was all. - -She felt very sorrowful as she smoothed the homely garments, and placed -them in a small leathern trunk. "Oh," she thought, "shall I ever be -happy again?" and she wished, though she felt it to be a sin, that she -had died with her poor forlorn mother on the heath. Before her little -preparations were completed, she was joined by Mrs. Rushmere. - -"Don't cumber yourself, Dolly, with that big trunk. You look tired -now--that heavy luggage will break you down altogether. Put a few -necessaries into a bundle, just for present use. You will not be away -long, take my word for it. I will send the cow-boy over with the trunk, -should I prove a false prophet. Father is coming round. He seems -restless and uneasy like. He feels that he has been too hasty, but like -most of the men folk, is too proud to own it. I should not wonder, -before the end of the week, that he goes to fetch you back himself." - -"I am proud too, mother. Perhaps I may refuse to come." - -Mrs. Rushmere looked at her in surprise. - -"Dorothy, don't say that." - -The glance of the hitherto meek girl filled her with wonder. - -"Yes, dear mother, and I mean it too. The trodden worm, I have heard, -will turn again--and my heart has been trodden into the dust. Our first -parents never returned to Eden after they had been driven out." - -"Lauk-a-mercy, child, you don't mean to compare yourself with them, or -call this poor place Paradise? They would have been glad to come back, -had God seen fit to recall them." - -"Mother," said Dorothy, solemnly, "there is only one thing which could -bring me back to Heath Farm. If Gilbert should not return." - -"Gilbert not return! Whatever put such an unlucky thought into your -head, Dorothy. Return, aye, surely he will, if he be not back already. -It is such a beautiful day for the carting. He would never suffer that -fine crop of hay to be spoiled; and father, with no one here to help him -to bring it in. He would never act so foolishly to spite you. No, no, he -will be home soon. I have no fear of that." - -Dolly was less sanguine. She did fear it. A vague presentiment of evil -was at that moment pressing heavily on her heart. She knew that Gilbert, -when roused to anger, was stubborn and wilful; that the spirit of -resistance was as strong in him as in the old man; that he was but a -second edition of his father. But she saw it was best to keep her fears -to herself; that what she had already hinted, had frightened the kind -little woman, and filled her with alarm about her son. - -"It is a pity that father had not kept in his displeasure until after -the busy time was over," she said, in her simplicity. "It is so hard to -leave you, mother, to do all the summer work. I hardly know how you will -get through it alone." - -"Passion costs money, child, but it is of no use talking about it now. I -shall have to hire a girl in your place. I am too old for the stooping -and lifting. Oh," she continued, with a sigh, "what a pleasant world it -would be, if it were not for the bad tempers of the people in it. I hear -Lawrence calling to us in the court below. You had better go to him, -Dolly, and bid him good bye, before he takes the team to the field. -Dear, dear, what can keep Gilly? What shall we do without him?" and she -cast a dreary look from the window up the road. - -Dorothy took up her bundle, and embracing Mrs. Rushmere, with her whole -heart and soul in that last kiss, ran down into the paved court below. - -She found Mr. Rushmere busy adjusting and sorting divers pieces of -harness. - -"Confound the fellow," he muttered, in vexed tones, "for taking himself -off, just at a time when he knew that I would miss him most. What the -deuce has he done with Dobbin's dutfin?" - -"It's in the barn, father," cried Dorothy, in a cheerful voice. "He took -it there to mend it. I will get it for you in a minute." - -Away ran the light-footed girl, ever ready to render a service to the -old man, and to shield Gilbert from blame. In a few minutes she -returned, with the missing article in her hand. - -The farmer watched her as she came up, and a deep regretful sigh burst -from his lips. - -"Well, 'tis a bonny lass. I don't blame Gilbert much for loving the like -o' her. She is pretty enough, and good enough, to be my daughter--but, -then,--her mother. God knows what she may have been--and what's bred in -the bone, they say, is hard to get out of the flesh. She was handsome -too--if she had not been so wasted with misery--though the girl is no -more like her than I am like the moon. She was fair as a lily, with -bright golden hair, and bore no resemblance to this dark-eyed, -black-browed wench. If I could only think that she had been an honest -woman, I should not care. But there's the difficulty. My Mary thinks me -a hard-hearted man. I know she does, and that I have acted unkindly by -Dolly, but I have done it for the best, and she will think as I do by -and by. It is right that she should quit. I have kept her these many -years for naught. She can now take care of herself." - -"Father, I am going. May God bless and reward you for all your kindness -to me," said Dolly, with quivering lips, as she dropped the piece of -harness at his feet. - -"Stop," cried Rushmere, putting his hand into his pocket, and drawing -forth a heavy yellow leathern bag, "you must not leave me without a -penny in your purse, to buy you a night's lodging," and he slipped three -guineas into her hand, and drew her towards him and kissed her. - -Dorothy's first impulse was to return the gold. She thought better of -it. The sum was not large, and he could afford to give it, and she had -honestly earned every fraction of it. She might want a little money; she -had none of her own, so she thanked him heartily for his gift, bade him -good bye, and walked away as fast as she could, to hide her tears. - -Her path to Mrs. Barford's farm lay down the sandy lane, and then back -of the house, six miles over the heath in a westerly direction, and away -from the coast. - -The morning was pretty far advanced, and she could not reach her place -of destination before noon. She had many misgivings in her mind about -these Barfords, and what sort of reception she was likely to receive -from them. - -She did not know much about them. She had seen and spoken with them -occasionally, both at market and at church. They were a grade below the -Rushmeres; were without even the plain education that she had received -at the village school, and spoke the common dialect of the county. Mrs. -Barford had held a better position, she had heard her mother say, but -she had made a low marriage--her son a lower one still; and though the -farm was good, and they enjoyed a tolerable competence, they were not -received into the society of the yeomen of a better class. They were no -favourites with Gilbert, who had pronounced them decidedly vulgar--a -common term of reproach in the mouths of persons who have themselves no -great claims to gentility. - -Mrs. Barford might, or she might not, believe Dorothy's statements; the -latter began to think that the whole affair would have a bad look, and -justly excite the suspicion that she had done something wrong, or Mrs. -Rushmere, who was known to be very fond of her, would not have consented -to her leaving them in such an abrupt manner. - -Dorothy's mind had been too much agitated by the sudden blow that had -fallen upon her, to give her position a calm consideration; and now, -when she thought it over, she inwardly shrunk from the disagreeable -investigation that it involved. If she had not promised Mrs. Rushmere to -follow her advice, her path would have been to the sea-port town, about -two miles distant, and not over the heath to the west of Hadstone. It -was, however, of no use drawing back now, and with a heavy heart she -commenced her journey. - -As she proceeded up the lane, she paused at the stile where she and -Gilbert had held their last conversation. She fully expected to meet him -there, and lingered for some minutes under the shade of the ash tree, -and looked anxiously up and down the road, wondering how he could let -her leave the farm, without intercepting her, to say a last good-bye. - -Poor Dorothy. How bitterly she repented having sacrificed so much, out -of a foolish sense of gratitude to his father. Ought not Gilbert's -happiness, she reasoned with herself, to have been dearer to her than -all the world beside? Could a heavier punishment have fallen upon her, -by yielding to his request to become his wife, than she was now called -upon to endure? - -The old man could only have turned her out of doors for disobeying him, -and he had done that, and left her friendless in the world, without -Gilbert's love to console, or Gilbert's arm to win for her another home. -Had not her very integrity brought about the thing she dreaded? And when -she thought on these things she wept afresh. - -The next turning in the lane would hide the old house from her view. She -stopped and looked at it through her blinding tears. It was the home -that had sheltered her orphan childhood; she had never slept a night -from under its moss-grown roof. Its walls contained her world--all that -she most loved and prized on earth. It was a bitter agony to bid it -farewell, perhaps for ever--to see the dear familiar faces and objects -no more. - -And Gilly--what had become of him? Fear knocked loudly at her heart, -whenever she asked of it this agitating question. She looked for him at -every field-gate, at every turning of the lane, and could not believe it -possible that they were thus to part. - -Climbing the steep hill that led up to the heath, an old Scotch terrier, -who had been her playmate from a child, sprang suddenly to her side with -a joyful bark. - -"You, Pincher, would not let me go without saying good-bye. You, at any -rate, will miss poor Dolly, if she be forgotten by all beside." - -Pincher looked wistfully up in her face, and seemed to understand that -something was wrong with his mistress. Was he conscious of its deadly -paleness--of the tears that flowed down it? He certainly had never seen -that joyous laughing face look so sad before, and redoubled his -caresses, to assure her of his sympathy, whining and licking her hands. - -In moments of utter bereavement who has not felt, to the heart's core, -the tender attachment of a faithful dog? It is only when overwhelmed -with sorrow and forsaken by the world, that we know how to value the -humble love that abides with us till death. - -"Poor brute," sighed Dorothy, patting his shaggy head, "we have had many -happy days together, old dog, and I meant to take care of you and -cherish you as long as you lived, but it seems that we must part. Go -home, Pincher. Go home, sir. It is not lucky for anything to love me." - -Pincher had no idea of going home. For once the dear familiar voice -commanded in vain. The old dog stuck to her like a burr, and she had not -the heart to take up a stick to enforce obedience. So the twain walked -on very lovingly together, Dorothy gazing sadly and fondly at every -well-known object in her path. - -The brook babbled to her like an old friend; the blue harebells nodded -their heads in the breeze, and silently seemed to say good-bye. She -gathered a bunch of the lovely flowers, and hid them away, on her bosom, -to remind her, when far away, of all she had loved and lost. - -Crossing the heath, her pathway lay near the spot where she had been -found, clinging to the bosom of her dead mother. She turned off the road -to look at it. The golden furze bushes glowed as brightly and smelt as -sweetly in the morning air, as when Lawrence Rushmere first lifted her -up from her cold bed of wet heather. - -She had often visited the spot before. Now, it seemed invested with a -peculiar interest. Like that unknown mother, she too had become a -houseless wanderer, seeking for a home and shelter from a hard unfeeling -world. - -"Poor mother," she thought, "in my days of careless happiness, how -little I thought of you,--still less could I comprehend the sorrow that -crushed the life out of your heart. Now I feel--I understand it all. -Shall I never know your sad history, or who was my father? It hardly -ever struck me before, that I must have had a father. Who? and what was -he? Is he living or dead? Oh, shall I ever, ever solve the cruel -mystery?" - -A chill seemed to strike through her. She checked these useless -inquiries; they gave rise to painful and humiliating conjectures. It was -better, perhaps, that she should never be enlightened, and drying her -tears, she regained the path across the heath and hurried on. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -DOROTHY'S NEW FRIENDS. - - -It was noon when Dorothy entered the gate that opened upon the -grass-grown avenue, that led up to the farm-house. It was flanked on -either side by a row of lofty elms, from which the rooks were cawing -lustily, as they tended their sable offspring, in the huge unsightly -nests that swung on every bough. - -The people were just returning from the hay-field to their dinner, and -it seemed so natural to Dorothy to hear them calling to the horses, as -the load of hay, fresh and fragrant, swept past on its way to the rick. - -The farm-servant, who walked beside the load, with his fork over his -shoulder, stared at her, and plucked the front lock of his hair, by way -of salutation. - -Dorothy went up to him, and asked, "if his old mistress was at home?" - -"Ya'as. She be to whome, an' young meastress too. A' be seek wi -sha'aking ague. I'm thinkin' she'll be right glad to see you, Dorothy -Cha'ance." And the team moved on, and poor Dolly, more ashamed of her -errand than ever, went into the house. - -She found that the younger Mrs. Barford was not in from the field, but -an old crone, who was rocking the cradle, told her "to go straight up to -the old woman's chamber," and Dorothy, glad to escape from the farmer -and his men, went up accordingly. - -She found the sick woman wrapped up in a warm dressing-gown, reclining -languidly in a large easy chair. She was a fine looking woman of sixty, -but the disagreeable disease under which she was labouring, rendered -her sallow and hollow-eyed, and added a ghastly lengthiness to her -straight features. - -She received Dorothy with much kindness; bade her sit down and tell her -the news; and how they all were at Heath Farm; and why she (Dorothy) had -taken such a long walk in the heat of the day, and at such a busy time; -adding, with great self-complacency, "that she supposed her old friend, -Mary Rushmere, had heard she was ill, and had sent Dorothy to learn how -she was." - -Dorothy was obliged to undeceive her on that point, though she expressed -great concern to find her unable to leave her chamber, and, encouraged -by the friendly countenance of the invalid, she explained the cause of -her visit, and offered her services gratis, in return for the protection -of a home. - -Mrs. Barford, who knew the value of those services to her former -employers, not only accepted them with great satisfaction, but promised -to remunerate them as they deserved. - -"Take off your things, Dorothy, and make yourself contented. It's an ill -wind that blows nobody any good. Letty has just had another baby, and -her dairy-maid got married and left at this busy time, and I'm sick and -good for naught. I look upon your coming as a special providence, for -every body knows what a good industrious girl you be." - -"I will try my very best to serve you," said Dorothy. "I am a good -nurse, and it will give me much pleasure to wait upon you. I never had -the ague, but I am sure it must be a weary thing." - -"The fit has just left me, Dorothy. I feel better now. You must tell me -that story again. So Rushmere did not wish his son to marry you?" - -"I don't wonder at that," said Dolly, sadly; "but dear mother wished -it." - -"And well she might. A clever industrious woman, let her rank be what it -may, is a treasure to a farmer. Gilbert showed his good sense in -wishing to secure such a wife. Larry was always proud and uppish, and -carried his head a foot higher than his neighbours. I was sorry when -Mary Horton married him. He has made her a better husband than I thought -he would. He need not blame Gilbert for marrying for love, it was the -very thing he did himself. Mary had no fortune but her pretty face." - -"She is the best woman in the world," said Dolly, energetically. "I feel -as if I never could love her enough, or repay her for all she has done -for me. Father was very good and kind, too, till Gilbert took this -unfortunate fancy for me." - -"You have no fancy for him, then?" and the old lady pinched the velvet -cheek of the earnest girl. - -"Of course, I have," answered Dorothy, with amusing simplicity. "If I -did not care for him, I should have no cause to be here." - -Mrs. Barford laughed. - -"Now tell me, child, what were Lawrence Rushmere's principal objections -to such a suitable match for his son?" - -In spite of the character bestowed upon her by her old friend, Mrs. -Barford dearly loved a bit of gossip. She had been confined to the house -a month, and there had been, as a natural consequence, a great dearth of -news. - -"He wanted Gilly to marry Miss Watling. She has money and land. I have -none." - -"Marry Nancy Watling!" cried the invalid, rubbing her hands together, in -a sort of ecstacy. "Ugly, ill-tempered old Nance--well, that's a capital -joke. Lawrence must be in his dotage. Does he think that he can force a -handsome jolly young bachelor, like his son Gilbert, to marry the like -o' her? Why the woman is old enough, Dolly, to be your mother--and what -said Nance?" - -"I think she wished it very much." - -"No doubt she did." - -"She offered her place to him to farm on shares, and said that she -wanted a smart young man to take charge of her affairs. It was his -refusal that made all the trouble." - -For a sick woman, to be sure, the ague fit had left its victim for that -day, and she was feeling better. Mrs. Barford laughed very uproariously. - -Just then, her son came in to hear how she was, and what he should send -up for her dinner. His good-natured wide mouth expanded into a broad -grin, as he stood with a clownish air at the door, staring at Dorothy, -without advancing a step. - -"Why, mother, you be in a mighty foony humour. I 'spected to find ye's -croonin an groaning in fit this morning. What did lass say, to make ye's -laugh out so loud?" - -"Shut the door, Joe, and come here," said his mother, still laughing. -"What do you think. Nance Watling has been turning everything upside -down at the Heath Farm. She made proposals to Gilbert for a sleeping -partner." - -"Oh, no, ma'am. Not quite so bad as that," put in Dorothy, thinking that -her new friend was not adhering strictly to the truth. "He was to go -shares with her in the farm." - -"Pshaw! child. I can see through her tricks. It all comes to the same -thing. Why she made an offer to Joe here before he married." - -"Yes, that a' did," simpered Joe, "I dare say she'd deny it now. She -wanted to ha' me, whether a' wud or no. And what said old man?" - -"He wanted Gilly to close with her offer." - -"O coorse--he thought o' her big fortin. Old Larry is fond o' the -money." - -"Gilbert kicked up, it seems," continued Mrs. Barford, "and would have -none of the old maid. He wanted to take this lass. Lawrence flew into a -rage, and turned the poor girl out of the house. The wife, who knows her -value, sent her straight to me. She will be of rare service during these -busy times to Letty and me." - -"That a' wull," responded Joe. "Coome along, Dolly, an' speak to my -missus. The dinner will be 'a waiting, an' times money here. Mother -can't ye's drink a pint o' yell an pick a bit o' bacon?" - -The sick woman shook her head, with an air of disgust. - -"Dolly will bring me a glass of cowslip wine and a bit of dry toast. I -don't feel like eating yet." - -"Dang yer cowslip wine," quoth Joe, "it's poor trash, the yell would do -a' more good." - -"It's bad for the bile, Joe. This ague makes a body very squeamish. But -go to your dinner, children, and don't keep the men waiting. Dorothy, -you can attend to me by and by." - -Dorothy smoothed her black locks, which the wind and her quick walking -had scattered over her face, and followed her jolly conductor down to -the kitchen. - -The homely but substantial dinner was smoking on the table, and Joe's -wife was already in her place at the head of the board. - -A short stout matron of thirty, with yellow hair, blue eyes, and a very -rosy face; her features were coarse, and their expression everything but -pleasing; her whole appearance decidedly common and vulgar. Four young -boys ranging from five to thirteen years of age, were seated on either -side their mother, and formed very respectable olive branches; healthy -merry looking fellows, with eyes brimful of fun and mischief. A wicker -cradle, in which the youngest scion of the house was sleeping, stood -beside Mrs. Barford, number two; so that if baby stirred during the -repast his mother could keep him quiet, by moving the cradle with her -foot, while attending to the wants of her household. - -Joe fronted his better half at the foot of the table, in his shirt -sleeves; tall, bony and hard featured, his honest jovial face tanned to -a swarthy red; he presented a fair specimen of a common tiller of the -soil; his three working hands, who sat near him, were far more civilized -in their appearance than the master of the house. - -As they came trooping in, and tumbled into their seats, Letty Barford -called out, in a shrill voice. - -"Don't make such a clatter there, or yo'll waken up the babby. Joe, I -wonders at ye, keepen the dinner waiting so long. The old woman upstairs -shu'd ha' more sense. An' who is this gall ye ha' brought with you?" -scowling at Dorothy. "I'm thinken I've seen her face afore." - -"It's Miss Chance, from Heath Farm," said Joe, in a very subdued voice, -his large grey eye quailing beneath the fierce inquiring gaze of his -wife. - -"Miss.--We have no misses here," she muttered, in an audible aside. "Sit -down, Dorothy Chance, Ye'r welcome to what we ha'; not 'specting company -you'll find no junkets at table." - -Dorothy, who neither liked the looks of the speaker, nor her harsh -voice, mechanically obeyed; and the great business of dinner commenced. - -Such a clatter of knives and forks, such an earnest addressing of each -individual to the important task of satisfying his hunger, that few -words were spoken during the meal. - -Beans and bacon, cabbage and brown hard dumplings, formed the bill of -fare, which the men washed down with plenty of table beer. - -Dorothy had been used to such homely diet, and, in spite of her grief, -ate a tolerably hearty meal, not having tasted food since she had dined -on the previous day. - -"That's right, lass! doan't fret aboot sweetheart, but get a good -dinner. There's plenty o' men left in the country," said the yeoman, -drinking off his glass of foaming ale, and nodding to Dorothy. "There's -my Dick, an' he wor only ten year older, I'd gi him to yer, wi a right -good wull--that a' wud." - -Dorothy blushed scarlet, the men burst into a loud haw, haw; and Master -Dick, glancing at the strange girl, said, with a saucy air-- - -"When I wants a maid, I'll please mysel," a declaration which all -present seemed to consider very witty. - -The dinner was at last concluded, and men and boys went off to the -hay-field, leaving Dorothy alone with Mrs. Joe and the baby. - -With great reluctance she communicated to the coarse common-minded -woman, the unfortunate circumstances that had brought her to the house, -taking care to give the relation in the most matter-of-fact language. - -Mrs. Joe listened to the tale with an air of stolid indifference, though -secretly glad of the chance that had brought such an excellent -work-woman into the house. She was a poor manager, and possessed no -capacity for anything beyond keeping her husband and children remarkably -clean. Her butter and cheese had no repute at market, and she generally -had to dispose of these important articles of farm produce for an -inferior price. - -"Well," she said, with a most provoking air of distrust, "yours do seem -a strange story. I hope it may be all true. How'dsomever, that be no -consarn o' mine. I be right glad you be come. Maybe, you'll teach me -your method o' makin' cheese an' butter. Yours wor allers the crack o' -the market. I ha' had that ere butter o' your'n thrown up in my face a -hunder times." - -"I will take charge of the dairy, Mrs. Joseph, if you wish it?" - -"Doan't call me, Mrs. Joseph. I doan't want any o' those quality names -here. I'm allers called Letty. If a' wull take care o' the cows, it will -save me a world o' trouble. The children are all lads, an it's little -help they gi' a body, they keeps un allers washing an' mending, an' -fretting un's heart out about thar mischief. Then old uman's so ugly -about the rows they make, toombling over chairs an' stools, an' yapping -when thar hurt, my heads a'most split wi' noise. I did hope that young -'un in cradle wu'd ha' proved a lass, but 'tis a man child, an' a fine -whopping boy too, amaist big enough, and strong enough, to go to -plough." - -Here Letty drew the coverlet from the face of the sleeping babe, and -displayed his chubby proportions with maternal pride. - -"That's some 'at like a babby--he's a credit to the farm." - -"What a lovely child," cried Dorothy, as the sleepy little fellow, -barely a month old, lazily opened his blue eyes, and stretched himself -and yawned in the most healthy and approved fashion. "What have you -called him?" - -"Hain't taken un to parson yet. A mean to call 'un Thomas, arter my own -feather. Mother do think that she ha' a right to name all the bairns, -but I mean to ha' my own way for once." - -"Tommy and I are sure to be friends," said Dorothy, lifting the child -from the cradle. "I dearly love babies--it will be play nursing him." - -The mother laughed. - -"Ye'r dearly welcome to sich play. If you bide here, ye'll ha' lots -on't. But what of the old missus upstairs.--What'll she ha' for dinner?" - -Dorothy had forgotten all about the cowslip wine and the toast, and -procuring these delicacies from Mrs. Joe, she hastened with them back to -the sick chamber. - -"Out o' sight out o' mind," said the invalid, good-naturedly. "I -thought, Dolly, you never meant to come. What has kept you since -dinner?" - -"I had to tell Mrs. Letty the reason why I left the farm." - -"An' what did she say?" asked her companion, with an eager look. - -"I think she scarcely believed me," returned Dorothy. "She almost said -as much." - -"Oh, you must not mind her. She is a rude envious creature, an' as -jealous o' her husband as she can be. You must mind how you speak to -him, or you'll get scissors. I have to keep Mistress Letty in her place, -the vulgar low thing that she is, or I should have a poor time of it, if -I let her have her own way. She is actually jealous of the natural -affection Joe has for me, an' he's the best tempered fellow in the world -to put up with her nonsense. But I'm mistress here, an' she's obliged to -draw in her horns. You'll get on very well with her, if you only show -her a bold front; for, after all, she's a big coward, her bark is worse -than her bite." - -While drawing this unprepossessing but true character of her -daughter-in-law, Mrs. Barford went on leisurely sipping her cowslip -wine. - -"I hope we shall be friends," said Dorothy, "we all have our faults, and -so many young children are a great trial of temper; I shall be able to -relieve Mrs. Letty of the trouble of the baby, and do most of the indoor -work. It will be better than my going out into the fields with her -husband and the men." - -"You are just right. Now run down and clear away the dishes. I feel -quite comfortable. Reach a pillow from the bed, Dolly. Just put it -here, to the right side of the chair. Now the house is quiet, I shall -get a nice nap." - -Here Master Tommy thought fit to try the strength of his lungs, and -began squalling lustily. - -"Drat the child!" cried Mrs. Barford, using her son Joe's favourite -expletive, "he allers chooses to be wide awake when I want to go to -sleep. Do try, Dolly, and keep him still. You will find plenty to do -down stairs between this and supper time." Coiling herself round in the -comfortable chair, the old lady settled herself for a nap, and Dorothy -ran down to clear away the dishes and relieve Letty from the care of the -babe. - -A week passed away, Dorothy thought it as long as a month. There came no -word from the farm, and she concluded that Gilbert had returned to his -accustomed duties; and that even Mrs. Rushmere had become reconciled to -her absence. - -Another week, and still no news of Gilbert. - -Dorothy, by this time, was thoroughly acquainted with her new place; had -got used to the people and the cattle; and was a great favourite in the -family, from Master Dick down to little Sammy, who sat upon her lap of -an evening to hear her tell him a story before he went to bed, Mrs. -Letty forming the only exception. She could not bear to hear her -mother-in-law praise Dorothy, but she found her too useful to quarrel -with lightly, and confined her dislike to a watchful scrutiny of her -words and actions, and a curt rude manner in giving her orders. - -Dorothy would have felt this want of common courtesy very keenly, had -not her mind been occupied with a deeper cause of anxiety, and she -neither resented nor took the least notice of Mrs. Joe's ill manners, -beyond setting her down in her own mind as a selfish unfeeling woman, -with whom she could never be on friendly terms, and whose company was -very disagreeable. - -One day she was passing through a passage that led from the kitchen to -the dairy. Joe and his wife were in earnest conversation in the kitchen; -the door was open, they did not see Dorothy, and she could not help -overhearing what they were talking about. - -"Doa'nt b'lieve a word on't. The girl's a good modest girl. She never do -trouble herself aboot men folk." - -"Phew!" hissed forth the little wife. - -"People are mighty good till they be found out. She's a sly one--she be. -I doa'nt swallow that story o' her'n. Depend upon it, man, it be a big -lie fro' beginning to end. She doa'nt fool me wi' the like o' that. -Farmer Rushmere wu'd not turn her out for naught." - -"Dang it! Letty, I know summut o' women folk. I'd as soon suspect mother -o' the like as Dorothy Chance. A nicer, quieter girl never comed into a -house." - -"O coorse, Joe, she be all perfection in yar eyes," and Mrs. Joe began -to whimper. "These still 'uns be allers the worst. Wait awhile an' -you'll find out who's right. I hate the wench, wi' her cunning black -eyes lookin a body through. She be a deep un--she be." - -Here the matrimonial colloquy ended, and Dorothy hurried on to the -dairy. She put down her pails, shut the door, and began to ponder over -what she had heard. - -What could Mrs. Joe mean? What had she done? Of what did she accuse her? -She felt inclined to go back and demand an explanation. Then, the old -adage rushed into her mind. "Listeners seldom hear any good of -themselves," and she was no match in a battle of words with such a woman -as Mrs. Joe; so she determined to take no notice of what she had heard, -but to seek another situation as soon as she could. - -Dorothy felt very wretched, and set about churning that evening with a -heavy heart. Her faith in the goodness of human nature was very much -shaken; she had conscientiously done her duty to her employers, and this -was her reward. - -Saturday was the market-day at Hadstone. Dorothy dressed the butter--it -was a prime article--and packed a panier of fresh eggs, before she went -to bed that night, thinking that her services would be required to sell -them in the morning. She wanted much to go to town, in the hope of -hearing some news about the Rushmeres, and to obtain, if possible, -another service, for she felt it was impossible to remain much longer -where she was. - -Unfortunately for her, this was Letty's holiday. The only day in the -week, except Sunday, that she could learn the news of the parish. -Dorothy felt cruelly disappointed, but she said nothing, and helped -Letty, as carefully as usual, to pack the baskets into the light cart. - -In her best bonnet and black silk spencer, (they wore spencers in those -days instead of jackets) her light flaxen hair disposed in round curls, -her gay chintz gown spotlessly clean; the younger Mrs. Barford looked a -comely country wife. Dorothy gave her the whip, and ran ahead to open -the gate that led into the road. - -"Mrs. Barford," she said, in a hesitating voice, "do not forget to make -inquiries about the old folks at the farm, and whether Gilbert has -returned. I do so wish to know. I should feel more happy and settled -like." - -"Never fear lass. I'm dying wi' curiosity to larn all I can aboot them." -She smiled significantly and glanced furtively at Dorothy. - -"Old Mrs. Larks wull tell me every thing. She allers picks up all the -news. Mayhap, you may hear more than wull please you." - -Dorothy felt mad with herself for asking her to inquire about her old -friends, and Mrs. Letty commenced giving her instructions about the -household during her absence. - -"Now mind, Dolly, an' take care o' the babe, an' put no sugar in a's -milk. An' see that the men ha' their dinner in right time; an' doant put -tew many plooms inter thar doomplins, for 'tis carting day, 'an they -'spect plooms. An' keep the old woman from scolding the lads. She'll be -sure to be peeking an' perking inter every thing the moment my back's -turned. I shan't be whome afore 'tis time to milk cows. An' mind an' be -here to open the gate when I coomes back." - -Crack went the whip and away floundered the old horse through the gate. -Dolly, after watching his progress for a few minutes down the hill, with -a heavy sigh and a boding anticipation of evil tidings, returned slowly -to the house. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -NEWS OF GILBERT. - - -The elder Mrs. Barford, the real mistress of the house, for the farm -belonged to her, and she shared the profits with her son; had quite -recovered from the ague, which she attributed to the good nursing and -care of Dorothy. She and her son's wife were not on very good terms. - -Mrs. Barford, as a country heiress, had received a boarding-school -education, and was very superior to Letty in every respect. Her mother -died when she was very young. After her father's death, which happened -before she was out of her teens, she had married the bailiff, who -farmed the estate for her benefit. A good looking, but totally -uneducated man. - -He despised what he called book-larning, and suffered his only son to -grow up as ignorant and clownish as himself. This had been a deep -mortification to Mrs. Barford, but as it had originated in her own -imprudence, and she had no one to blame but herself, she wisely held her -tongue about it. It was not until after Joe brought home his vulgar -wife, that she was practically taught to feel the degradation that her -mésalliance had brought upon her once respectable family. - -While Dorothy was alone with her that morning, she informed Mrs. Barford -of the conversation she had overheard between her son and his wife, and -asked her if she knew what it meant? - -The old lady was as ignorant of the matter as herself. She was very fond -of Dorothy, who, she said, was the only person in the house she could -talk to, and was very angry with Letty for having indulged in such base -suspicions. - -"It is just like her," she said. "Nobody knows the trial I have had with -her, since Joe brought her here to be the plague of my life. Don't heed -her, Dorothy. She is a cantankerous creature, who never has a good word -to say about any one. I am mistress here, and you shall stay as long as -I please, without asking her leave. She did not bear the best of -characters when my poor boy was fool enough to marry her. Dick was born -five months after, which brought a scandal upon the house; and it is -allers those sort o' folks that are the first to find fault with others -who are better and prettier than themselves. She is a poor shiftless -thing, and indifferent to every thing but her own comfort." - -Much as Dorothy disliked Letty, she thought that little comfort could be -extracted from continuous hard work, and the care of five children, the -youngest a baby; her very want of method made her labours less effective -and more fatiguing. - -Without, perhaps, being aware of it, the elder Mrs. Barford was very -selfish and exacting; she added a good deal to Letty's domestic -drudgery, and never did the least thing herself, beyond continual -fault-finding and scolding the children. - -Dorothy had tried her best to relieve Letty of half her burthen, and in -return had been made a bone of contention between them. Mrs. Barford -wanted her to wait entirely upon herself, and was jealous of her doing -so much for Letty; and Joe, who endorsed all that his mother did and -said, had widened the breach, by admiring Dolly's pretty face, and -extolling her superior management. - -It was hard to keep the peace between them all. - -Dorothy had been so much engrossed by her own troubles, that she had -taken little notice of their occasional bickerings; it was only since -yesterday that she had imagined that she was in any way the cause of -their quarrels,--hitherto she had gone about her work little heeding -them. This day in particular, the old lady was cross and hard to please. -The baby cried, wanting its mother, and refused to be fed. The younger -boys were troublesome, and the day oppressively hot. Dolly was sadly put -about, to attend to them all and cook the dinner. It was a relief when -Joe and the men came in from work. - -"The beef an' cabbage," Joe said, "wor cooked prime." He wished "the -missus wud go out every day, an' leave lass to cook the dinner." The -ploom dumplings, however, were not so much to his taste. - -"Doll," he said, "do you call e'es suetty things ploom dumplins? I see -no plooms in 'em. It dew put me in mind o' a story feather used to tell, -o' a stingy missus, who made a pudden for the men in harvest, an' put -one ploom in ter middle on't; an' while men wor quareling aboot who -shu'd ha' the ploom, a wasp flew away wi' it." - -A chorus of haw haws, showed how delighted his fellow-clowns were with -farmer Joe's story. - -Dorothy felt annoyed, though she laughed with the rest. - -"I should have made the dumplings with more fruit in them, master, only -Letty cautioned me not to be extravagant with the plums." - -"I thought as much," returned Mrs. Barford, rather spitefully. "Letty is -fond of saving in a small way. Stopping the cask at the spigot, and -letting out at the bunghole, as my father used to say. Take it as a -general rule, Dorothy, when men work hard to feed them well." - -"The old missus for ever," shouted Nat Green, one of the farm servants. -"She wor a prime hand at a pudden anyhow." - -"Ah, ha," said Joe, who happened to be in a very jocular mood, "that -reminds me o' a terrible thrashing I once got from mother. I was a -youngster about the size of Jack there; we wor in the thick o' the -harvest, it wor carting day, an' all hands on the farm mortal busy, -mother wanted plooms for the pudden an' ther wor none to send to shop -but I, so she calls me to her, an' gees me a shilling. - -"'Joe,' she says, 'run down to the village and buy two pund o' plooms o' -Mr. Carter; be quick, for I be in a mighty hurry, and I'll gi' you a -ha'penny when you come back.' I wor right glad o' the chance. 'Twor -aboot a mile, an' I run'd the whole way, an' bought the plooms. - -"Says Mr. Carter, says he, 'doan't eat them by the way.' - -"I shu'd never have thought o' that, foreby he had held his tongue. As I -coomed whome a hole broke in the paper, an' plooms coomed tomblin out, -one arter another; an' I kept yeating an' yeating till thar wor half -gone. Dang it, I wor sceared. What shu'd a' do? Mother wor awful in them -days aboot stealing, so I sat doon on bank by road side, an' thought it -well over, an' by gosh, I hit on a plan I thought wud get me oot o' -scrape." - -"Well, feather," called out Master Dick, opening wide his round blue -eyes, "what did a' do? Did granny find it oot?" - -"That she did, boy. I opened the parcel, an' bit ev'ry ploom in two." - -"You were about as wise then, Joe, as you be now," suggested Mrs. -Barford, who, like the children and Dolly, was listening intensely to -the story. - -"But what did granny say?" again demanded the boy. - -"She asked how they coomed in that state? I pretended I did not know. -That was just the way I got e'm from Mr. Carter. - -"'You lie,' quoth she, 'an' are a big fule into the bargain. Come here -an' I wull teach you how to tell the truth.' - -"An' she took an ashen stick, an' she loomped I, an' thrashed I, till a' -went off limping to bed. - -"'Lie thar, Joe, till the morn,' says she, 'an' take your time to find -out how many two halves make put together.' - -"Lauck, a lauck, how my bones ached! It wor all right, howsomever; I -never put my haund to stealing again." - -The boys regarded their grandmother with a look of awe. The men returned -to the field, and Dorothy busied herself with household matters till the -sun went down. She was in a fever of impatience for Letty's return from -the town, and worked as hard as she could to keep down her heart and -drown thought. - -"What keeps Letty," said Mrs. Barford, putting aside her knitting, and -going to the door, "she is later than usual. Now she has some one to do -her work she will stay gossiping about the town till dark night. When -you have milked, Dolly, run to the avenue gate, and see if she be -coming." - -The round red moon was slowly rising behind the trees, and Joe and his -men had finished their supper, and brought the last load of hay into the -yard, before Dolly had cleared away and finished milking. - -Without staying to take a cup of tea with Mrs. Barford, she tied on her -bonnet and ran down to the avenue gate, just as old Captain came -lumbering up to it. - -"Dolly," cried his mistress, "be that you?" - -Dorothy threw open the gate. - -"I 'spose you all thought I wor lost. I ha' strange news for you, -Dorothy." - -"Bad or good?" asked Dolly, in a voice scarcely above her breath. - -"Bad enough. This be what I heard in the market. That you, Dorothy -Chance, had played the fule wi' Gilbert Rushmere. That the old folk -turned you off for your bad conduct. That Gilly run'd away, to get rid -on ye, an' went an' listed for a soger, an' be gone to forin parts. An' -the old woman be quite crazed, an' well nigh dead wi' grief, an' has not -been out o' bed for a fortnite. That Rushmere goes cursing and swearing -about the house, an' wishing you in the bad place, an' that he had never -seen your black face. That's the news I heard, and for sartin it be bad -enough an' no mistake." - -Dorothy's colour went and came as she clung to the gate for support. -"You cannot believe that of me, Mrs. Letty. You cannot have the heart to -believe it," she gasped out, in a tone of entreaty, appealing to the -heart and conscience of her accuser. "It is false! cruelly false! I -never did aught amiss with Gilbert in my life." - -"Folks say it's true, at any rate," retorted the little souled creature, -with a malignant glance of triumph at her pale trembling victim. "I -tould you I never did 'blieve that cock an' bull story wi' which you -gulled mother an' Joe. It didn't sound probable like--it didn't." - -Joe's wife rode slowly up the avenue, to communicate what she had heard -to the assembled household, leaving Dorothy at the gate crying as if her -heart would burst. - -The cruel and unjustifiable conduct of her lover, the distress of his -parents, and her own desolation, was almost more than she could bear; -and when to all this suffering was added the abominable slander just -uttered by her unfeeling mistress, the weight of undeserved injury that -pressed upon her brain was maddening. It changed all the benevolence of -her nature into wrathful bitterness and unmitigated contempt. - -A word had never before been breathed against her character. She had -always been spoken of as a modest good girl, and pointed out as a model -for imitation to all the young women in the parish,--and the base -calumny just spoken by Letty Barford, and her evident satisfaction in -repeating it, filled her with more grief, than even the sad news of -Gilbert's enlistment. - -"What shall I do!" she cried. "I cannot stay here. I cannot hold up my -head among these people with all this shame cast upon me." - -In a few minutes her resolution was taken. "I will go home," she sobbed, -"and hear the truth from their own lips,--they must need help in their -present distress. Who can feel for them like me, whose heart is bleeding -from the same wound. Mother knows my innocence--she will pay no heed to -these wicked stories. Yes, I will return to her this very night." - -She drew herself up proudly, wiped away her tears, and walked with a -firm step back to the house, tied up her few things in the bundle, and -entered the kitchen with the courage that conscious integrity can alone -give. - -Men, women, and children, were gathered together in the middle of the -room, all talking at once. - -"Hush!" said Letty, glancing towards the door, as Dorothy came in. -"Here's my lady herself." - -"Dolly," cried the yeoman, "Dolly, lass, I do'ant 'blieve one word o'nt. -It's all a malicious invention of Nance Watling's. Face it out, Dolly. -I'll stand by you at ony rate." - -"I want no one to take my part, Mr. Barford," returned Dorothy, her -spirit rising as she spoke. "I don't care who invented or who believes -such a vile story. It is false. I can live it down." - -"That's right, my girl, take it with a high hand," retorted Letty, who -concluded that Dorothy's speech was levelled at her. "It makes a body -laugh, when a beggar's brat gi'es hersel' sich airs." - -"For shame, Letty," said the old lady, whose faith in Dorothy's goodness -had been a little upset by her daughter-in-law's relation, but who still -regarded her with affection. "What harm has poor Dolly ever done to you? -Those who have glass windows of their own," she added, in an aside, -"should be the last to throw stones." - -"To show you all that I am innocent," continued Dorothy, taking no -notice of Letty's insulting speech, which she considered infinitely -beneath answering, or Mrs. Barford's doubtful sympathy, "that I am not -afraid of meeting my dear foster parents, I shall go home this very -night." Her black eyes flashed, the colour deepened in her cheeks, and -the hitherto quiet girl looked sublime in the intensity of her disdain. - -"I think you are right, Dorothy," said Mrs. Barford, who foresaw that -there would be no peace with Letty if she remained. "If the old people -will receive you again, home is the best place for you. I would not stay -here to be insulted by Mrs. Letty, let the story be true or false." - -"Who wants her?" shrieked Mrs. Joe. "The sooner she goes the better." - -"She be'ant a' going alone ow'r that lonesome heath," said the -compassionate Joe, who could not bear to see a pretty girl in distress, -and who could not look in Dorothy's indignant face and believe her -guilty, "if I drive her whome mysel." - -"You'll do no sich thing, Mr. Joe Barford," cried Letty, putting her -arms akimbo, and stepping between her husband and Dorothy. "I 'spose you -want to run off wi' the brazen-faced minx?" - -"Thank you, Mr. Barford," said Dorothy sternly. "I am able to take care -of myself. There is nothing to fear." - -"Nothing to fear," repeated Joe, lifting his hand with a gesture of -astonishment. "Why, lass, the place is haunted. Did'st never hear that?" - -"Yes, wi' her precious mother's ghost," sneered Letty. "Like mother, -like child." - -Dorothy started. She cast upon the speaker a look of ineffable contempt, -and left the house without a word of parting to its inhabitants, never -stopping for a moment till she gained the high road. "Good heavens!" she -cried, when once more alone, and beneath the wide canopy of the night, -"are these people fiends, that they rejoice in the supposition of my -guilt, and condemn me on mere hearsay, without the least proof that I -have committed this great sin? - -"Is this human nature, of the wickedness of which I have heard so much, -and which I found so hard to believe. I will never trust to kind looks -and flattering words again. I tried to serve these people to the best -of my ability; they all seemed pleased with me and spoke me fair, yet -the first breath of evil that assails my character has turned them into -bitter enemies. If this be life, how much better to--!" The rest of the -unspoken sentence her better reason silenced. - -This was only one of the many hard lessons people learn in the world. -Dorothy was as yet a novice to the world and its crooked paths, and she -felt indignant at the sorry treatment she had received from it during -the past few weeks. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -MIDNIGHT ON THE HEATH. - - -Dorothy walked on at a rapid pace for upwards of an hour: the night had -now fairly closed in upon her; the moon shone bright, and the air was -warm and balmy, but the road was long and lonely; not one solitary -cottage was to be found beside her path, after she turned into the -upland road that led across the heath. - -People of limited education, born and brought up in out of the way -country places, are apt to be superstitious. Dorothy was not above the -common weakness of her class. Ghost stories, dreams and presentiments, -not to say anything of bewitchments and distempers, caused by the -withering glance of the evil eye, were subjects that generally formed -the topic of conversation round the winter hearth, and were devoutly -believed as truths, by the simple narrators, who derived from them an -inexhaustible fund of amusement. - -This fear of the invisible world, so inherent in simple natures, has -been implanted for a wise purpose. It keeps alive a consciousness of the -immortality of the soul, which otherwise might be disregarded by those -who are separated by poverty and distance from coming to the knowledge -of revealed truth. - -As Dorothy hastened on, some of the wild legends she had heard from -childhood glanced through her mind. The tide of angry feeling that had -raised her above fear, was fast subsiding, and a thousand weird fancies -flitted through her brain. She began bitterly to repent having refused -the honest yeoman's blunt offer, to see her safe over the long lonely -upland waste, stretching out into the far distance, which lay so still -under the moonshine before her. - -It was too late to go back. She could not think of that now--but she -could not help owning to herself that she was horribly afraid, and she -ran along the steep rugged path as fast as if she had been pursued by a -host of evil spirits. - -Something sprang up against her. She gave a loud scream. - -It was Pincher, who had missed her from the kitchen, and had followed -upon her track. - -Dorothy kissed the dear old dog in her excess of gratitude--his presence -gave her courage. Who has not felt the comfort and companionship of a -faithful dog at night, and on a lonely road. Dorothy felt that she was -safe now, she had a trusty friend to protect her, who, if need be, would -lay down his life to defend her. - -The girl and her four-footed companion walked on lovingly together -beneath the broad light of the moon, conversing to each other in their -own peculiar way. - -They had now mounted the steep ridge of the heath that commanded a fine -view of the ocean, which lay heaving and gleaming like molten silver -against the horizon, sending up a deep, mysterious voice through the -stillness of the night. - -How grand it would have appeared to Dorothy at any other time, for her -soul, simple and innocent as that of a little child, was steeped in the -poetry of nature, which the Divine Mother alone whispers to the good and -pure of heart. Now, the mournful music made by those coming and -retreating waves, breaking the death-like silence which reigned around, -filled her mind with a chilling dread. - -She was fast approaching the deep hollow where her mother died, and the -terrible words that had dropped from Joe Barford, that it was haunted by -her ghost, rushed into her mind, filling it with an ungovernable fear. - -"What if she should see her apparition?" She stopped--irresolute what to -do. Her own shadow in the moonlight made her start and scream. She tried -to run past the spot, which lay in deep shadow to the right, but her -feet seemed chained to the earth, and her eyes, as if under a terrible -fascination, were fixed upon the clump of furze that crowned the little -ridge above, that looked so black and shadowy when all around was bright -as day. - -While she stood, pale with horror, her eyes wide open, her quivering -lips apart, the white teeth chattering together, and her limbs relaxed -and trembling, a low wailing sound crept through the purple heath, the -furze bushes shivered as if instinct with life, and the dog crawled to -her feet moaning piteously. - -Dorothy tried to rouse herself, to break, by speaking to the dog, the -horrible spell in which her senses were bound up, but not a sound could -she utter. In desperation she turned her head from the haunted spot. - -She saw, what to her frenzied eye appeared a slight figure, shrouded in -mist, through which the moon-beams flickered and played slowly, flitting -along her path. - -Again that wild unearthly sound rustled among the bushes, and the dog -broke out into a long dismal howl. A cry, which heard, even at noon day, -seldom fails to blanch the manliest cheek. Dorothy heard it not--with a -sobbing moan she sank to the ground insensible to fear, or aught else -beneath the wide canopy of heaven. - -Pincher nestled close to his fainting mistress, hiding his shaggy head -upon her breast. - -Whatever the dog suffered through the lonely watches of the night, -Dorothy was happily unconscious of his terrors and her own. - -She was so near to her old home, that had her senses been roused from -that death-like stupor, she might have heard the clock in the great hall -strike twelve. At that beautiful season of the year, day brightens in -the east before three o'clock, and the rosy tints in the west seldom -leave the horizon. - -The sun had just risen over the sea, when Lawrence Rushmere went to -water his horses at the brook in the sandy lane that ran in front of the -house, sheltered beneath the steep ascent of the heath. At the gate -which led from the court-yard, he encountered Pincher, whom he had not -seen since Dorothy left. - -"What, the old doorg," he cried, patting him with infinite satisfaction. -"The old doorg come home. I wonder what kept thee away so long. How is -it with the poor wench?" - -After the first salutation was over between master and dog, Pincher -tried, in his dog fashion, to make him understand, by a thousand odd -movements, that he wanted his special attention. He ran from the gate up -the steep path leading to the heath, barking furiously, then returned to -the farmer, and pulled him by the coat, as if he wished him to follow, -and went through the same pantomime again and again. - -"What can the doorg want wi' me," said Rushmere, at last struck by his -odd behaviour, "I never saw him act in that fashion afore. Some of the -cattle must have strayed upon the heath, and, mayhap, have fallen into a -hole. Pincher was allers as wise as a Christian. I'll follow un, an' see -what has happened." - -He fastened his horses to the gate, and took the path that led to the -heath. Pincher ran barking on before, evidently delighted with his -success, and led his master to the spot where Dorothy lay, pale and -drenched with the night-dews, upon the ground. - -The sight of the poor girl, so thin and altered since he last saw her -in the glow of life and health, brought vividly to his recollection the -dead mother, and filled his mind with shame and remorse, for the manner -in which she had been driven from her home. - -His large frame trembled, and tears sprang into his eyes. - -"She is not dead but sleeping," he said, as he remarked, with no small -satisfaction, the regular heaving of her breast. "But what a place to -choose for a bed, so near the spot where her mother died. Dorothy!" he -cried, in a loud voice, "awake. It is I, the father who calls thee." - -The girl unclosed her eyes, sat up, and gazed upon him with a vague -unmeaning stare. - -"Dorothy, lass, don't you know the father?" - -He sat down beside her, and took her cold little hand in his. "What -brought you here, child? Thou hast lost thy senses sure, to be sleeping -upon the cold damp ground. It is enough to kill thee." - -The well-known voice, still more the kind words, recalled Dorothy to -consciousness, and banished from her mind the horrors of the night. - -"Father, dear father!" she whispered in a voice scarcely audible, as she -nestled her head upon his broad shoulder, "how kind of you to come to -find me." - -"Nay, it was not I but the doorg you have to thank, Dolly, it was he -that brought me here, or you might have lain on the wet heath till the -day of judgment. But why did you not come to the house--were you afraid -that I should turn you away from my door?" - -"I was on my way home, father, but something dreadful happened to me -last night. Oh, so dreadful, that only to think of it makes my flesh -creep." She clung to the old man, and shivered in every limb. - -"Speak out, lass. What was it? What ails thee? Did any one insult thee?" - -"No, no, it was not flesh and blood." Lowering her voice, and casting a -timid glance around, she whispered in his ear, as if afraid of speaking -it out. "I saw last night the ghost of my mother." - -"Lord a mercy!" cried the farmer, springing to his feet, with the -elasticity of a young man, and gazing upon Dorothy with a wild horror -gleaming in his eyes. "Were you in your right mind. What did a' look -like?" - -"A shadow--a thin vapoury form, through which I saw the moon shining." - -"But how didst thou know the mother? Did it speak?" - -Dolly shook her head. - -"A low wailing, sobbing cry passed along the ground, and shook the -bushes It was like nothing human--so sad and wild. Pincher crept to my -feet and howled back an answer." - -"Aye, doorgs be wise--they see what we can't see--and what then, lass?" - -"A mortal fear came over me. I tried to run but fell. I remember nothing -after that, until you woke me up just now." - -"It wor strange," mused the old man. "I never did wholly believe in -ghosts, but you are not the girl to tell a lie. You might have been -mistaken--but I would bet ten to one on the doorg. And how do you feel, -Dolly, arter lying so long in the dews?" - -"Stiff and cold," said Dorothy, her teeth chattering in her head, and a -deeper pallor settling on her face. "I shall soon get over that, when I -am once more at home." - -"And what brought thee out so late last night, child. Worn't thee afeard -of passing over the lonesome heath?" - -"Father, I had been told a sad story--had been vexed by a cruel and -false accusation against my character; and I could not remain where I -was, and put up with their insults, or rest until I heard the truth of -what they told me from your own lips." She stopped for a minute to -gather courage to ask the dreadful question. "Has Gilbert enlisted for a -soldier and gone to the wars?" - -The old man burst into tears, and sobbed like a child. - -Dorothy needed no stronger confirmation of her fears. She saw that the -report was only too true, and her heart bled for the poor old man. -"Father," she cried, affectionately pressing his hand between her own, -"is it _too late_ to buy him off?" - -"It's na' use thinking o' that, Dorothy, we did not get his letter until -the ship had sailed, that took him away ow'r seas wi' the rest. He's in -Spain long afore this." - -"Then he did write." - -"Yea, a short bit o' a letter." - -"Did he give any excuse for going?" - -"Aye, the same old tale over agen. He had given up the girl he loved to -please me, and he had listed for a soger to please himsel', and I alone -wor to blame. The king wanted men, and he would go and fight for him and -his country; his life were no better worth than another's, and he could -not forget Dorothy while he remained at home." - -Rushmere began to sob afresh. Dorothy's eager eyes were fixed -imploringly on his face. She did not like to ask "Is that all? Is there -no message, no word of comfort for me?" The longing desire to hear the -whole of the letter, might be read in every feature of her expressive -face. - -"Ah, Dolly," cried the old man, wringing his hands as he spoke, "had I -been kinder to thee, lass, I should not have lost my son--my only -son--the last man who bears my name on the earth, for aught I know to -the contrary. It was only just of the Almighty to punish me for my -pride. But 'tis almost more than I have strength to bear." - -"All we can do now, father, is to bear the burthen with patience, and -hope in God's mercy for the future. It is of no use turning despondingly -to the past." - -"Aye, girl, but conscience will turn our looks backward, whether we like -it or no, an' will tell us of acts an' cruel words we would fain forget, -an' that ow'r an' ow'r agen." - -"Did Gilbert send any word or message for me, father?" said Dorothy, -growing desperate with excitement. - -"Did a'," returned Rushmere, looking blankly in Dorothy's agitated face, -as if his own thoughts were far away beyond the sea, with his absent -son. - -"Yes, a' did. He bade us, if we loved him--how could he doubt it--take -care of Dorothy, an' cherish her as our own flesh and blood, as she wor -the only child left to us now, an' not to punish the poor girl for his -fault." - -"God bless him!" said Dorothy, sadly, her heart not quite satisfied, and -the tears coming fast into her eyes. "He sent no love, no kind -remembrance to his old playmate?" - -"That was all, Dolly, except his duty to us." - -Dorothy sighed, and for some minutes both were silent, at length the old -man said, - -"Dorothy, do you heed what Gilly said. Will you come back to us, an' be -our daughter once more--the comfort of our old age. We ha' naught else -to cling to now?" - -Dorothy met the request, so humbly made, with heart-felt expressions of -gratitude. She could not help thinking that Gilbert had acted selfishly, -in deserting his parents; that it was a poor way of proving his love to -her, by showing such a want of affection for them; but she crushed the -ungracious thought, and inquired how Mrs. Rushmere had borne this heavy -blow--ashamed of not having asked for her before. - -"Alack, child, when she read the letter, she swoon'd dead away, an' when -the neighbours brought her round, she grew stark staring mad, raving and -crying, 'Gilly, Gilly, come back to your poor mother. Oh, my heart, my -heart, it will break a' wanting my son.' It was awful to hear the like, -an' she allers such a quiet creature. It was many days afore she grew -calm. She went one morn, an' she fetched the big Bible, and went down -upon her knees in the corner of the room, an' she cried an' crooned ow'r -it for hours, an' would na' take a morsel o' any thing to eat or to -drink. At last she gets up, and she clasps her hands thus--together--an' -she looks at me wi' her old pleasant kind face, - -"'Lawrence,' she says, 'God has comforted my poor sore heart, and given -me his blessed peace. This trial is o' him. Let us kneel down together, -an' pray that He may bless it to our souls.' - -"An' I did pray, Dolly, as I never did before in my life, an' we found -the word mighty to overcome grief. - -"Then wife says, 'Larry,' she says to me, 'you must go an' bring our -Dolly back. God gave her to us, an' you ha' clean forgotten the trust.' - -"'It's never too late to repent,' says I. 'I will go for the little maid -to-morrow evening, when I come from work.' What moved your heart, -Dorothy, to come alone?" - -Dorothy did not like to mention the scandal which had roused her -indignation, lest it should increase the farmer's self-reproaches, which -were heavy enough. She merely said, and it was the truth, - -"That she was suddenly told of Gilbert's enlistment, and she could not -believe it until further confirmation from them. That it was late when -she left Barford's, but the night was so clear that she never -apprehended any cause for alarm, that it must have been midnight when -she fancied she saw the apparition on the heath, but since the sun had -shone into her eyes she began to doubt the reality of the vision. - -"She had been hard at work all day, and was greatly troubled in her mind -when she started on her lonely walk. She might have sat down to rest and -fallen asleep, and dreamt it, she no longer seemed to recall the -circumstances very distinctly. The horrible phantasy had faded from her -mind with the morning light, and she would try and think of it as a -mental delusion. - -"But then, what made Pincher howl in that fearful manner?" - -Dolly shuddered. "It must be true, the dog could not have been deceived, -though I might." - -A severe attack of fever and ague was the result of Dorothy passing the -night upon the heath. For many weeks she was unable to leave her bed, -and for some time small hopes were entertained for her life. Mrs. -Rushmere received the poor wanderer with open arms, and thought little -of the additional trouble. She had suffered too much to murmur about -trifles. During the delirium of the fever, Dorothy raved continually -about her mother, and dared not be left a moment alone in the dark. - -It was firmly believed in the house, and through the neighbourhood, that -she had seen her mother's ghost, who had threatened the Rushmeres with -unheard of calamities for turning her daughter out of doors. The wildest -reports were in circulation; and the wonderful tale was repeated with a -thousand exaggerations at church and at market. - -The story reached Hadstone. The Barfords shook their heads. "It was -Dorothy's misdoings," they kindly suggested, "that had disturbed her -mother in her grave." - -Miss Watling, whose malicious tongue had first given rise to the scandal -about Dorothy Gilbert, considered "that it was a judgment upon that vile -creature, and that Gilbert had acted like a wise man, in going away to -be rid of her. Time," she added, emphatically, "would prove, that all -that had been said about her was true." She went farther, and hinted -that her present illness had a very suspicious look. - -Dorothy was annoyed that Mr. Rushmere had given publicity to her -midnight adventure on the heath, but the temptation of repeating a -veritable ghost story, in which he firmly believed, was too great for -the old man to resist. As to the other tales, they did not all come to -her ears; and such as did, she treated with a proud disdain. "God knew -her innocence," she said, "and in His own good time would disprove them -all." - -The harvest was over before she was able to resume her household duties. -As her former health and strength returned, her fears gradually -diminished, and she could converse with calmness to Mrs. Rushmere of the -terrible vision, which she now attributed to an over-excited state of -mind combined with great bodily fatigue. About Gilbert and his future -prospects, she had learned to speak without betraying the real state of -her feelings; and had inspired the old people with the hope that he -would one day return from the wars an officer at least. - -Things began to wear a brighter aspect, and the labours of the farm went -on peacefully and prosperously. The Rushmeres if not contented were -resigned, and both united in treating Dorothy with kindness and -consideration. The old family bible was in more constant use, and each -day was commenced and ended with prayer. - -Time passed on. The winds of autumn had laid the heart of the forest -bare; short and gloomy days, and frequent storms of rain and hail, told -that the winter was at hand. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -A STRANGE VISITOR. - - -It was the latter part of November. The day had been intensely cold, -with a biting north-east wind and black frost. Towards evening the snow -began to fall, at first in thin scattered flakes, but as the night -closed in, thick and heavily. - -Dorothy listened uneasily to the howling winds, as they swept in loud -gusts along the heath, and often went to the door to watch for the -return of Mr. Rushmere from Hadstone market. He had ridden over to the -town early in the day, to receive a large payment for wheat, which he -had sold the week before to a corn merchant there. - -"Father is late," she remarked to Mrs. Rushmere, who was knitting -quietly by fire light, on one of the settles beside the hearth and who -apprehended no danger, being blessed with a less anxious temperament -than her adopted daughter. A cheerful fire was roaring up the great -chimney, and she was literally basking in the warmth the ruddy blaze -diffused around. - -"I wish he was home," continued Dorothy, who felt almost angry with her -mother for looking so comfortable. "It is a wild night, and the snow is -drifting terribly on the heath, he will hardly find his way across it in -the storm. Why, mother, it is growing very dark--it is sometime since -the clock struck six." - -The old lady glanced up from her work; her placid face wore a look of -unusual serenity. - -"Don't be so unrestful, Dolly. I feel in my heart that he be close at -hand. Lawrence Rushmere is not the man to be afeard of a few -snow-flakes. Spread the table, and get every thing in readiness for his -supper, when he does come. I can't feel uneasy, for I am certain he will -bring us news of Gilly. I was dreaming of him last night. I have borne -him on my mind all day. I do feel so happy and lightsome, that it would -be a sin to fret about troubles which may never come to our door." - -"I hope you may be right, mother. I cannot think of father being out at -night, and on such a night as this, on that lonely heath, without a -shudder. If thinking of Gilly would bring us news of him, we ought to -hear from him very often; for I am thinking about him all day long," -returned Dorothy, commencing with alacrity to cover the table. - -"A mother's love is a great mystery, Dolly. It never changes like the -love of man to woman. It begins before the birth of her little one, and -lasts till the hour of death. It is more like the love of God to his -creatures. It bears patiently all changes of time and circumstance; -forgives every fault; forgets acts of selfishness, neglect and -ingratitude; loving on, and hoping on, to the last." - -"Hark!" cried Dorothy, "I hear the wheels grate on the stones in the -court-yard. I will take the lanthorn, and help father unharness Jack. -Yes, it is he. I hear him speaking to the horse. Now, mother, we shall -see if you be a true prophet." - -Dorothy took the light and ran out. - -"Well, Doll, here I be, all right. I wor amaist blinded wi' snow, coming -ow'r that confounded heath. Has't got a good fire? 'Tis mortal cold. I -be all kivered ow'r wi' snow," and he stamped his feet and shook a -shower of white flakes from his great-coat. - -"Go in, father, I will take care of the horse. Mother and I have been on -the look out for you for the last hour. Have you brought us good news?" - - -"Fifty pounds for the wheat, child--ten pounds more than I expected: but -wheat has riz five shillings the quarter. Is not that good news, my -girl, and the money paid in hard cash into my hand?" - -Dorothy drew a long, regretful sigh. - -"It might have been better." - -"Lauk, a mercy, child! the women folk be never satisfied. 'Tis bad news -enough for them as has to buy. But that's no consarn of ours." - -Dorothy led Jack off to the stable, and the half-frozen yeoman turned in -to enjoy his cheerful fire. Dorothy was bitterly disappointed. In spite -of herself she had endorsed Mrs. Rushmere's presentiment that she would -that night hear tidings of Gilbert, and she felt inclined to murmur -against the old lady entertaining such foolish notions. - -She rubbed down the pony, gave him his oats and a warm bed, and returned -with a sadder heart to the house than when she left it. - -After the substantial evening meal was over, and Rushmere had quietly -lighted his pipe, and the women resumed their knitting, Mrs. Rushmere -asked, in a plaintive voice, - -"No news of Gilly, Lawrence?" - -"Why, dame, what makes you think thir wor?" - -Dorothy looked hard at the old man. She saw a covert smile on his -wrinkled face, while his wife pushed her former inquiry. - -"Mothers are allers hoping against hope, Larry. I felt so certain that -you would bring us some word of him." - -"Father, you have got a letter. I know you have," cried Dorothy. "I can -see it in your eyes," and she sprang to his side. - -"An' if so be I have, what's that to you, little minx? Reach down my -great-coat. You'll find my pocket-book in the right side pocket, but -don't toomble any o' the money out." - -Dorothy searched for the hidden treasure in desperate haste, and placed -the letter on the table before him. - -"And you had a letter, Lawrence, all this time, and never told us a word -about it," said Mrs. Lawrence, reproachfully. - -"I knew the letter wu'd keep," laughed the farmer, "an' I wanted you an' -the lass to eat your victuals in quiet. I know'd if you see'd the letter -you'd both gang empty to bed." - -"But how could you eat your supper, Lawrence, an' the letter lying -unread in your pocket?" - -"I know'd all aboot it," said Rushmere, with a jolly chuckle. "I got it -by heart afore I left the town. It wor that made me so late home. Here, -Doll, thee be'est a better scholar nor I, read the letter out to your -mother." - -Dorothy's hand trembled with agitation; she could hardly unfold the -precious document, and the tears came so thick and fast to her eyes, -that when unfolded, she could hardly see to read it. - -"What the deuce ails the girl? Read a little louder, Dolly, for mother -an' I to hear it." - -Dorothy made an effort to control her feelings, and read as follows:-- - - "Dear and honoured Parents, - - "I hope these few lines will meet you in health, as they leave - me at this present time, by the blessing of God; and that you - have forgiven me for my undutiful conduct in leaving you as I - did. I repented directly the false step was taken, but, like a - true Briton, I was too proud to go back. - - "The regiment only remained in England a week after I listed, - when we were ordered off to Portugal, to join the army under - Sir John Moore. We had a fine passage, but I was very sea-sick, - and home-sick, which I found the worst ailment of the two; and I - thought that if I made no better soldier than I did a sailor, I - might just as well have remained at the plough. - - "But that's all over. I like the life I have chosen better than - when I first entered. We have had hard times, and hard marching - through this rough country, but thanks be to God, I have escaped - with a whole skin. - - "The captain who commands our company is a lad of my own age, - born in our part of the country; Lord Fitzmorris, the only son - of Earl Wilton, who lives up at the big hall on the hill. By the - by, father, he says, that the grand old place once belonged to - my forebears. Is that true?" - -"In coorse it is," interrupted old Rushmere. "But 'tis a long time ago, -when he," nodding to the picture fronting him, "was lord o' all these -manors." - - "I am the captain's body servant, and he takes great interest in - me, and says that he will push me on for your sakes, and make a - man of me before the war is over, of which there is no prospect - at present. When it comes to fighting, it will be no child's - play, I promise you, and so old Boney will find. We are hard - pressed by the enemy, and the army is suffering greatly for the - want of food and clothing, and we are hourly expecting an - engagement with the French, who are encamped upon the heights - above Corunna. - - "My dear parents, if I should be killed don't grieve for my - loss. A man can only die once, and if he falls in a good cause, - fighting for his country, it is a credit to himself and his - parents. Remember me to all the neighbours. Tell Molly Dawson - that her son is well of his wound, and has been made a sergeant. - Has Nancy Watling succeeded in getting a husband? I don't - flatter myself that she broke her heart on my account, but what - would she think of me in my red coat? I suppose I shall find - Dorothy married when I come back, with a house full of children. - Give my love to her, as to a sister, and tell her to pray for - the poor soldiers in Spain. - - "God bless you, dear father and mother. I pray that he may once - more unite us under the roof of the dear old home. So no more, - at this time, from your affectionate son. - - "GILBERT RUSHMERE. - - "P.S. Tell Dorothy to write a long letter for you. I want to - hear all the home news. All about the farm and the horses, and - how you got through the harvest without me, and whether Bill - Taylor took my place at the last cricket match, and if old - Pincher is still alive. - - "G. R." - -The letter was read and re-read many times, the delighted parents -repeating every word after Dorothy. Holding each other by the hand, they -exchanged glances of mutual affection and sympathy. - -"The dear boy," cries the mother. "God bless him! I always knew he would -be sorry, when he came to his right mind, and love us as well as ever." - -"Aye," said the father, "I feel proud o' my son. He's o' the right -stuff. He'll fight like a man, an' a true Briton, when the time comes, -an' do his duty to his country like a hero." - -Dorothy was the only one in the room who was not quite satisfied with -Gilbert's letter. She was hurt at the clause about herself. If he loved -her as she did him, could he speak in that light way about her marrying -another, or send his love to her as to a sister--a title, which from -boyhood he had always refused to address her by. A change had come over -him since they parted; he had grown fonder of his parents, but colder to -her. She would not damp their joy, by expressing her disappointment, but -she felt it very keenly. - -"Mother, you were a true prophet," she said, closing the letter and -giving it back to Mr. Rushmere. - -"Aye, child, hearts whisper to hearts, let the distance a'tween them be -ever so great. Love can travel in a thought over land and sea. I b'lieve -that Gilbert never thinks of me but I know it. I told you, Dorothy, that -I should hear from him. I felt it in my heart." - -"The angels don't whisper such blessed dreams to me," returned Dorothy, -sadly. - -"Dolly," and the old man spoke to her very gravely. "Art dreaming about -Gilly yet? I thought you had clean forgotten him." - -"Only as a sister should think of an absent brother," returned Dorothy, -ashamed of the subterfuge. "As Gilbert himself wishes me to remember -him." - -"I b'lieve you ha' a hankering arter the lad yet," said Rushmere, -tartly. "Dorothy, do'ant cross that stile, or maybe you'll get into a -bad road, an' be left sticking in the mud. It won't do. It won't do, -lass. I will never gi' my consent." - -He shook his head, settled himself in his deep leather-backed chair, and -puffed away vigorously at his pipe. - -"Wait, father, till I ask you for it. If ever I marry Gilbert, it will -be your own doing. The time may come when you may both regret that I was -not his wife." - -Her speech was interrupted by a loud rap at the door. Pincher sprang up -from the hearth-stone, where he lay basking at Dorothy's feet, with a -fierce yell, as if he had received a mortal injury by having his -comfortable nap disturbed, and rushed to the heavily barred door, -barking furiously. - -"Some one has lost their way on the heath," said Dorothy, laying her -hand upon the strong iron bolt that secured the door. "It is a bad night -to be abroad, father; shall I let them in?" - -"In coorse." - -"Ask first, Dolly, who they be, an' what they want," suggested his more -cautious wife. - -Pincher again lifted up his voice, as if he had a right to be heard in -the consultation, and in deep spasmodic fits of barking, remonstrated -against admitting strangers at that unreasonable hour. - -"Be still, sir," and Dorothy pushed the old dog rather unceremoniously -from the door. "Go, and lie down in the corner, and behave yourself." - -Pincher looked up in her face, and sullenly obeyed, growling as he -slowly retreated to the fire, with hair bristling up, and eyes blazing -defiance. - -Another rap, louder and more importunate, echoed through the large -room. "Who's there?" demanded Dorothy. - -"A woman, lost in the snow," screamed a shrill voice without. "If you be -Christians, open the door. I shall freeze to death, if I stand much -longer here." - -Dorothy thought of her mother,--back flew bolt and bar, and the heavy -door opened to admit a tall gaunt female figure, wrapt up in a red -cloak, and carrying a large wicker basket on her arm. - -"Mercy, what a night!" cried the stranger, shaking the white flakes from -her clothes. "But for the lights in your windows, I must have perished -on the heath. Will you give me a bed, good people, for the night, in -your barn?" - -"Na," said Rushmere, "we never gi' people beds in the barn, while -there's room in the house. Sit down by the fire, and warm yourself. My -darter will gi' ye summat to eat, an' a good pint o' yell foreby. Dolly, -help the woman to take off her cloak." - -The stranger, who had stood in the shade, now came forward to the fire, -and Dorothy assisted her to remove her tattered cloak. She was so tall -that Dorothy was obliged to rise on tiptoes to render this service, and -to her no small disgust, observed that the stranger smelt strongly of -gin. - -"Why, lass," said the farmer, laughing, "you be big enough, an' tall -enough, for a grenadier." - -"It requires long legs, and strong ones too," returned the woman, taking -a seat on the settle by the fire, and putting the large basket on her -arm beside her, on the floor, "to travel this rough country. I was on my -way to Storby, and missed my path crossing the heath. The snow drifted -so in my eyes, it was impossible to see the road. Have you any rabbit -skins, or hare skins, to sell. Any old clothes, or rags. I do a little -business in that line to support my family, but 'tis hard scratching to -get along, these hard times; vittals is so dear, and you country folk -expect such bargains, and never trade for cash, that I can't make much -by the exchange." - -"Have you a husband?" asked the farmer. - -"No, nor never had, and don't want one. I'm much better alone. I can lie -down mistress and get up master. Married women are slaves. Men think -more of their cattle than they do of their wives." - -"That's just as the case may be," returned Rushmere. "Some o' them don't -deserve much consideration. I ha' allers heard say, a good wife makes a -good husband." - -"And how many children have you?" asked Mrs. Rushmere, looking -suspiciously at her strange guest. - -"Two," said the woman, "a girl and a boy. They are too young to tramp -the roads. I leave them at home with my mother, while I travel the -country to earn them bread." - -"And what have you got in your basket?" asked Dorothy, who was as -curious as the rest to learn something about their visitor. - -"A little of everything. Needles, pins, thread; cotton of both sorts, -white and coloured; side-combs for the gals, and pipes and tobacco for -the men. Take a look at my wares." - -The gaunt creature rose, and placed the basket on the table before Mrs. -Rushmere. - -As she stood in the full light of the candle, Dorothy, who had only -before caught a partial glimpse of her face, shrunk back as she scanned -the vulgar harsh features, and encountered the bold gaze of the tramp. -Pincher, who followed close at her heels, gave an ominous growl, and -burst off into a fresh paroxysm of barking. - -"That's a cross dog of yours," cried the woman, kicking at Pincher, with -her heavy nailed boots. - -"You had better not do that?" said Dorothy. "He'll bite you if you ill -treat him." - -"I wonder you keep such an ugly tempered brute about the house," -retorted the woman. "It is not pleasant to have such a varmint snapping -at one's heels." - -"A brave dog like him is sometimes useful," remarked Dorothy, pointedly, -"especially in a lone place like this. I have only to say, seize her, -Pincher! and he'd have you down in a minute." - -"Oh, pray don't," cried the woman, with a hoarse cackling laugh, "I -don't covet his acquaintance. I think, though, he'd find me too much for -him. In my tramps through the country, I've put to silence bigger and -stronger brutes than him." - -Again Dorothy tried to examine the heavy dark browed countenance of the -stranger, and her investigation only increased her mistrust and -aversion. - -In the meanwhile, Mrs. Rushmere was eagerly exploring the contents of -the big basket, and had lain aside several useful articles, with an -intent to purchase. - -"What is the price of these?" - -The woman turned them over with her large coarse hands, then reckoned up -the amount on her fingers. - -"Just three shillings." - -"You buy rabbit and hare skins?" - -"I would rather take money than trade just now." - -Mrs. Rushmere drew her purse from her pocket; it was a heavy one, as she -was her own banker, and it generally contained all the money which she -received for the produce of the dairy. - -Dorothy, who was standing behind her chair, could not help being struck -with the eager hungry glance with which the woman eyed the glittering -gold and silver coins, and her face became more dark and repulsive than -ever. - -"Wife," put in the farmer, "doan't be a fule. There be plenty o' rabbit -and hare skins in the shed. If she doan't trade for them, let her -things bide in her basket. It isn't fair o' the woman to take silver o' -us an' skins of t'other folk." - -"You farmers are so cruelly stingy," said the woman angrily, "you won't -let a body live, and wheat up to five pounds the quarter. I think I saw -you in the market, master. You made a better bargain for your grain than -exchanging it for old moth-eaten rabbit skins." - -Dorothy again caught the furtive glance of the woman's evil eyes, and -recoiled from it as if she had trodden upon a snake. - -After a great deal of chaffering and bargaining for various articles, -the tramp consented to receive in payment some fine woollen yarn that -dangled from the beams, observing, "that she must turn a penny somehow." -She then put aside the basket, and sat down, to discuss the bread and -cheese, and tankard of home-brewed ale, that Dorothy placed on the table -for her supper. - -"You found the roads bad," said Rushmere, refilling his pipe. - -"Up to the top of my boots," and the woman lifted up her large foot, -which was cased in a heavy highlow, thickly studded with iron nails. "I -was near mired, at the lower end of the heath, and began to think I -would have to stay there all night. Who would have expected to step into -a mud-hole during such a hard frost as this?" - -"You be lucky to get out as you did," said the farmer. "That are be -Storby Moss. The ground be allers wet, an' holds the water like a -sponge. Many's the good beast that's died in yon quag." - -The woman leaned back upon the settle, stretched her feet to the fire, -and began leisurely to examine the large hall, from the well garnished -beams above her head, to the iron bars that secured the windows. - -"These old houses," she observed, "are much stronger than the new. The -people in the old times knew what they were about when they built them. -Arn't you afraid of being robbed in this lonely out of the way place?" - -"Never think of such a thing," said Rushmere, "we live among honest -folk. I keep a good blunderbuss loaded over the door, an' thieves would -na' find it an easy job to get in through these iron bars. We never keep -ony thing o' value in the house, to tempt them sort o' chaps, wi' a bank -so near. - -"Have another glass o' ale, lass? Art fond o' nuts? Dolly, bring some o' -those filberts out o' the sack in the pantry, and the crackers foreby." - -Dorothy brought her apron full of nuts. "Catch?" she cried, in a -laughing tone, as she threw a double handful into the tramp's lap. - -The woman caught them, and laughed too. - -Dorothy turned to the dresser, and a strange expression came over her -face. - -After the woman had eaten the nuts, and seen the bottom of the tankard, -she began to yawn, and asked, "if she could lie down and sleep beside -the fire?" - -"I will show you a room; follow me," said Dorothy. - -The woman seemed very reluctant to accept the offer, pleading various -excuses. Her muddy boots, her dirty clothes, and the necessity of her -being off by daybreak in the morning, to all of which Dorothy turned a -deaf ear, positively insisting on her going to bed. - -"Well, if you will have it so, miss, I will no longer refuse a good -offer. I have not been inside a bed for many months past, and am used to -sleep, wet or dry, in the barn, or by the hearth, as it may happen. -People are not generally so anxious about the comfort of visitors like -me." - -Dorothy lighted a candle, and led the way up the wide oak staircase at -the bottom of the hall to the chambers above. - -"You can sleep in this room," she said, unclosing a door that opened on -to the gallery, with which all the sleeping apartments communicated. -"You will find water, towel and soap on the stand. You need not be in a -hurry to go in the morning. We all rise before daylight, at this time of -the year, and you can have your breakfast before you go." - -As she turned to leave the room, the woman suddenly grasped her wrist, -and forcibly detained her, staring in her face, with the same bold -glance which had inspired such deep loathing. - -"Stay, my pretty lass, I can tell your fortune. Tell you the name of the -lad you are to marry, the fate of him you are always thinking about, who -is away in foreign parts, and all the good luck in store for you." - -"I don't believe in such folly," cried Dorothy angrily, wrenching her -hand from the woman's grasp. "It is worse than folly; it is wickedness. -Good night. I hope you may sleep well." - -She shut the door. A loud laugh followed her down stairs. - -Dorothy, on reaching the great room, sat down in a chair, and panted for -breath. - -"What is the matter? What ails you, Dolly?" asked the old people, with -looks of alarm. - -"Nothing--that horrible looking person took hold of me, to tell my -fortune. I got frightened and angry, and ran down stairs too fast. That -has set my heart in flutter, and taken away my breath. Dear mother, give -me a glass of water, and don't look so pale and scared. It won't do for -us all to play the coward." - -"Why, whatever do you mean, Dolly?" said Mrs. Rushmere, giving her the -water. "Is the child crazy?" - -"Not quite," returned Dorothy, trying to laugh, as she gave back to her -mother the empty tumbler. - -"I will tell you what I mean, for I feel calmer now. I don't like that -woman, if she be really a woman, a fact which I very much doubt. I don't -like her staying in the house, and I have made up my mind not to go to -bed tonight, but to sit up and watch till the morning." - -"I saw nothing amiss in the woman, Dolly," said Rushmere. "She be big, -an' ugly, an' bold like, but what manners can you expect from the like -o' her?" - -"Father," pleaded Dolly, "it is not that. I am used to poor ignorant -rude creatures, but she looks bad. I can't find words to express the -dislike I feel for her. I feel as if she were here for no good. Did you -see how she glowered at the money in mother's purse? I expected every -moment that she would make a grab at it--and then the hint, father, she -threw out to you, about selling your corn so well in the market. She -must have walked quicker here than Jack trotted home. Did you pass any -one on the road?" - -"Not I. Dolly, you make me feel rather curious about un. But if she wor -a thief, she would not ha' asked if we were afeard of robbers. Na, na, -child, go to your bed, there's naught to fear, an' a man too in the -house." - -"I don't mean to go to bed," said Dolly, stoutly. "I'll tell you my -reasons to-morrow morning. I have a bunch of stockings to mend for -father; I'll sit up in the pantry and darn them. Is the gun loaded?" - -"Na, Dorothy," and Rushmere laughed long and heartily, "I told the woman -a big lie, just to scare her. It has not been loaded these ten years. I -shu'd like to see you trying to pop it off." - -"It's a pity to keep a useful weapon only for show," returned Dolly, -eyeing the old blunderbuss with looks of regret. "It is like the boy in -the fable, crying out wolf, when no wolf was near." - -It was in vain that the old people tried to reason Dolly out of the -foolish notion she had taken about the tramp; but finding that she was -determined to have her own way, they went to bed, and left her to please -herself--not, however, before Dorothy had whispered in her mother's ear: - -"Be sure to lock your door, and pass the big iron bar across it." - -Mrs. Rushmere, who felt more nervous than her husband--for fear is -strangely infectious--promised faithfully to observe her injunction. - -"And now for the night," sighed Dorothy, as she returned alone to the -great hall. "If it were not for them, I never could muster courage to -watch here by myself. How many hours is it yet to day?" - -She glanced up at the tall, old-fashioned clock, in its dark mahogany -case; a solemn looking piece of antiquity, that had stood on the same -spot, and told the lapse of time to many generations of the Rushmeres, -who had long ceased to reckon it for ever. It was still ticking on, -telling the same tale to the beautiful girl, who now stood before it; -and by her, as far she was individually concerned, was as little heeded. - -"Only nine o'clock. How many hours I shall have to keep awake." - -Like most hard workers, sleep was a necessity to Dorothy, of so -overpowering a nature, that the difficulty with her was not how to go to -sleep, but how to keep awake. Of one thing she felt certain; that she -was more likely to nod on her post than the strange being who was -occupying her neat little chamber above. - -She now diligently set to work, to prepare for her long vigil. - -First, she raked the fire together; and covered the hot coals with -ashes, then she lighted a dark lanthorn, and put on a large great-coat -of Mr. Rushmere's over her other garments; with the further adornment of -an old fur cap, the lappets of which she carefully tied under her chin, -the better to conceal her identity; she was now ready for action. - -Going to the wood-shed, she brought from thence, a small axe, with which -she was wont to chop into convenient lengths, the branches of the -faggots with which she heated the brick oven for baking. - -She ran her finger along the edge of the instrument--Gilbert, when at -home, used to keep it nicely sharpened for her use. She shook her -head--Gilbert was not at home, and her axe was so blunt that a body -might ride to Rumford on it. But then again, she reflected, that any -weapon was better than none; so retaining the axe, she retreated into -the pantry, a small room that opened into the great hall, from under -the staircase, on the side nearest to the fire, and which commanded a -full view of the length and breadth of the hall. - -No one coming down the stairs could see into the pantry; but any person -in the pantry could not fail to hear the slightest step upon the stairs; -and by mounting upon a stool and looking through the sky-light above the -door, could reconnoitre everything that was passing in the public room. - -After diligently investigating the capabilities of the place, and laying -down a plan of action, or resistance, as the case might prove. Dorothy -descended from her lofty perch on the stool, and met the red gleaming -eyes of Pincher intently watching all her movements. - -"Pincher, you can't stay here, poor dog," she said, patting his head. -"If there's no danger, I shan't want your services; and if there should -be, which the good God forbid, your barking, sir, would betray me." - -The dog seemed to comprehend her meaning; and followed her very quietly -into the shed near the back entrance; and having carefully fastened him -in, she returned to her post in the pantry. - -The door she left purposely half closed, turning the dark side of the -lanthorn, so that no gleam from it could be thrown upon the opposite -wall, or from the panes above, and taking some coarse woollen stockings -from a basket on the dresser, she sat down in front of the lanthorn, -with her face to the door, to listen to any sounds that might awaken -suspicion. - -Hour after hour passed away. The stockings were all mended, and neatly -rolled up. Dorothy began to feel drowsy, directly she had nothing left -to engage her attention. Once or twice she had nodded upon her chair; -and owned to herself that she was horribly sleepy. - -The night was very cold, and the fire had gone out. The clock struck -one. How loud and solemn it sounded, in the deep stillness that reigned -through the house; a stillness always rendered more intense during a -heavy fall of snow. - -The clock striking that one solitary warning, completely roused Dorothy -from her half conscious state. She had so seldom heard it mark that -hour, during the deep hush of night, that the unusual sound smote upon -her ear like the toll of the death-bell. She thought of the night she -had spent upon the heath; and her cheeks grew cold and her teeth began -to chatter. Hark! what was that? A deep growl from Pincher, and now a -furious barking in the shed. A long, shrill whistle, once or twice -repeated. Dorothy cautiously mounted the stool, as a heavy foot sounded -on the stairs. - -She was wide awake now. The imaginary fears were gone, and she became -distinctly conscious of some great impending danger. She was not called -upon to battle with the spiritual powers of darkness; but to exercise -courage and coolness, in circumventing the wickedness of man--her spirit -rose to the emergency, and she felt as brave as a lion. She drew down -the dark slides of the lanthorn, and applied her eyes to the panes of -glass over the door. - -Some one crossed the floor, but the wide hall was still in darkness. It -did not long remain so. Raking among the ashes on the hearth, a light -was soon obtained by the intruder; and then she saw a dark ill-looking -man, approach the table, and set down the candle he had lighted, and -cautiously survey the apartment. - -Satisfied that he was alone, he took from a side pocket two large horse -pistols, and from a belt under his woollen smock frock, a long gleaming -knife. He examined the locks of the pistols, cocked them, drew the blade -of the murderous looking knife across his thumb, to see if it was in -good working order, listened intently, and then cursed the dog for -making that "infernal noise!" - -His next step was to take some grease from the candle, and apply to the -large iron bolts that secured the door, which he cautiously and -noiselessly withdrew, went out into the court-yard beyond, and gave the -same sharp call whistle that had startled Dorothy from her unquiet -sleep. - -Now, was her time, or never. Dorothy slipped off her shoes, sprang from -her hiding place, and quick as thought, closed upon the robber the -massive outer-door, and drew the heavy bolts back to their fastenings. -She then hastened to the window and opening the narrow casement, secured -on the outside with stout iron stancheons, she fired both the robber's -pistols in succession at two dark figures who were standing a few paces -from the house. - -A heavy groan and a volley of horrible execrations, followed this daring -act; and the ruffian made off dragging with him his wounded or dead -comrade. - -"Thank God!" cried Dorothy, holding fast to the iron bars, to keep -herself from falling. "I have saved their lives and my own." - -The report of the fire-arms awoke Rushmere and his wife, who rushed half -dressed down stairs, to see what had happened to Dorothy, who now the -reaction had come, had fallen to the floor in a dead faint. - -Rushmere lifted her up in his arms, and placed her in his great -arm-chair. His wife brought the candle and looked in her death pale -face. - -"She is not shot, Lawrence. There is no blood upon her that I can see. -Bring me some water to dash in her face; she is in a swoon." - -The shock of the cold water soon brought Dorothy to herself. - -"That horrible woman, I knew she was a man;" were the first words she -uttered. "She came here in disguise to let in the rest of the gang; and -they would have robbed and murdered us." - -"And thou hast saved our lives my brave lass," cried Rushmere, grasping -her cold hand, which he was chafing in his own. "Should Gilly ever come -back, I will give him this brave little hand myself, and feel proud of -my daughter." - -Dorothy bent down and devoutly kissed the old man's hand. Her heart was -too full to utter a word of thanks. She felt, however, that a great -victory had been achieved, and that she had fought the battle alone. - -"How did you find out, Dolly, that she was a man?" asked Mrs. Rushmere. -"I saw nothing very particular about the creature. I thought her large -and ugly, that was all." - -"I suspected that she was not a woman when she first came in. She did -not step through the house like one, nor look like one. She had such -heavy coarse eyebrows, such bold impudent eyes, and such a dark shade -about the mouth and chin. When father told me to get the nuts, I -determined to try and find out to which sex she belonged, and satisfy my -doubts." - -"Mercy, child! you must be a witch if you could tell by that," said Mrs. -Rushmere. - -"Oh, it was the easiest test in the world. When I threw the nuts and -told her to catch, a real woman would have made a wide lap to receive -them; while this creature clapped her knees close together. I knew -instantly that it was a man in woman's clothes, and that he was here for -no good; and I determined to keep watch over the house while you slept." - -"Dolly, you be a hero! Yes, so you be," cried Rushmere. "But how did you -keep from screeching out when you found it was a man?" - -"That would have betrayed my secret and his; and as he had deadly -weapons about him, might have led to the death of us. Indeed, father, I -felt too much frightened to say a word." - -"Were you not afraid, Dorothy, to shew him up stairs?" said Mrs. -Rushmere. - -"Yes, and felt still more afraid, while alone with him there. But our -safety depended upon seeming to think him what he pretended to be. My -indifference lulled his suspicions to sleep." - -"It has been a wonderful deliverance," said Mrs. Rushmere, solemnly, -"wrought by God, through the hands of a simple country girl. Let us go -down upon our knees, Lawrence, and thank Him humbly and heartily, for -His great mercy." - -"Amen," responded the yeoman. "Dorothy, my child, kneel down beside me, -and lift up your heart in prayer." - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -DOROTHY GAINS FURTHER KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD. - - -The next morning, Mr. Rushmere and his hired man, tracked the robbers by -their foot-prints in the snow; and the marks of blood that stained its -new fallen whiteness, over the low meadows in front of the house down to -the sea shore. At the water's edge, all trace of them was lost. It was -evident, however, by many foot marks on the sand at one particular spot, -that a boat during the night had been put off from the beach, in which -the robbers, in all probability, had effected their escape; and that -they formed a portion of a notorious gang of smugglers that infested the -coast. - -Before noon, Dorothy's adventure was known all over the parish, and -formed the theme of conversation, in the dwellings of both rich and -poor. Some applauded her courage and coolness, and lauded the generous -self-devotion she had shewn to her foster parents, in hazarding her own -life, in the attempt to save them. - -But the number of those capable of appreciating the heroism of the young -girl was few. The larger portion of the community were the envious -detractors and slanderers, who never can see any merit in noble actions, -of which they are themselves incapable. - -Dorothy in this, as in other matters, had her enemies as well as her -friends. - -"Only think of that horrible, bold creature--that Dorothy Chance," said -Nancy Watling, addressing a knot of gossips, gathered round the small -shop in the village, to retail the news, and procure, on the sly, a -little smuggled tea, from the mistress of the establishment. "She has -actually gone and shot a man, or next thing to it. Such a wicked -unwomanly act. If I were Mr. Rushmere I'd be afraid of her robbing and -shooting me." - -"Bless me! Miss Nancy, do tell us how it all happened," cried Mrs. Lane, -the vendor in small wares. "I thought that girl looked as meek as a -lamb. I'll never trust in good looks again." - -"Pray don't, ma'am, or you'll be sure to be deceived. She's a wolf--a -perfect wolf. She shot the fellow in cold blood, after he had left the -house, and the door was secured against him. I never heard of such a -piece of diabolical cruelty." - -"She desarves to be hanged, she do," cried Letty Barford. "She'd think -as little of coaxing a woman's husband from her, as she wu'd of shooting -a thief like a doorg." - -"And did the poor man really die?" asked a pale young woman, hugging a -very small red-haired baby closer to her breast, as if she expected -this ferocious Dorothy Chance to come and shoot it. - -"The goodness knows!" continued Nancy, "it will not be her fault if he -escaped." - -"Nonsense, Nancy Watling, how spiteful you be," remarked the elder Mrs. -Barford, joining the group. "Perhaps it's all false. A tale got up for -the nonce, in order to frighten away thieves from the house. I would not -like to live in such a lonesome place, and old Rushmere, the only man on -the premises of a night. After this I hope they will let the servant -board with them." - -"Aha," cries Letty, "mother's now just let it out. Doan't I begin to -smell a fox. Dolly played this trick on the old folks to get a young -feller into the house. Well, she be a deep un, she be." - -"You may be right, Mrs. Letty," returned Nancy Watling, "that artful -creature is capable of anything." - -Thus her neighbours talked of Dorothy, suggesting the worst motives as -the cause of her recent adventure. Fortunately that much abused -individual was not conscious of the cruel manner in which her conduct -was misrepresented by these worthies, or the envy and malice with which -they sought to traduce her. She had little time to listen to the idle -tale-bearers, who are ever ready to fetch and carry from house to house -ill-natured reports, which, if they do not invent, they never fail to -exaggerate, and leave worse than they found them. - -Mrs. Rushmere's health had greatly declined since Gilbert left them, and -the entire management of the house now devolved on Dorothy, who, without -grudge or grumbling, put out all her strength of body and mind to meet -the emergency. - -Gilbert had always worked the farm in conjunction with his father, but -since he left his home a man had been hired to fulfil the duties which -he had recklessly abandoned. This involved considerable trouble and -much additional expense. Every exertion was necessary to make the poor -farm pay for the extra hand employed. - -A larger dairy was necessary, the greatest industry and the strictest -economy were called into requisition, to make both ends meet, and lay by -a little for the future. - -Dorothy was up with the dawn, and the night was often far advanced, -before the labours of the day were finished. Her board and clothing, the -latter of the very plainest description--was all that the noble-hearted -girl received for her unremitting toil. - -Weary and overtasked, she never repined. The Rushmeres had protected her -friendless childhood; they were Gilbert's parents, and that was enough -to satisfy the warm loving heart, that only lived for him and them--her -unselfish nature needed no stronger stimulus for exerting herself in -their behalf. - -She was often told by busy tattlers that she was a fool for working so -hard for such poor wages, that she would earn a better living for -herself elsewhere; but she always silenced these mischief-makers, by -coldly telling them "to mind their own business, that she was -comfortable and contented, and stood in no need of their advice and -assistance." - -She would have found a great consolation in writing to Gilbert, and -telling him all the troubles that had befallen her since they parted; -but on a careful examination of his letter, she perceived that he had -omitted to give them his direction, or the slightest clue to discover -his whereabouts, and she was forced to abandon the idea. He had written -once--it was more than probable that he would soon write to them again. - -But then--that terrible battle that was to be fought, haunted her mind -like a waking nightmare. He might be killed, and those to whom he was so -dear might never learn his fate till the regiment returned to England. -Then tears would cloud the beautiful black eyes, and the labours of the -long day fell more heavily from the willing hands. She could not cheer -the absentee with the home news, for which he craved so eagerly; she -could only prove her undying love, by infusing fresh hope into the -drooping hearts of his parents, and praying for his safety. - -In January, the battle of Corunna was fought, and the heroic Sir John -Moore found a soldier's grave upon the ramparts of the city. - -Lawrence Rushmere came home from market greatly excited. He had borrowed -the county paper of a farmer he knew, and Dorothy was called to read to -the old people the thrilling account of the battle, that had been dearly -bought by the loss of the gallant British leader. - -The ---- regiment was spoken of in the highest terms; it had been in the -heat of the action, and had been terribly cut up. - -The number, not the names of the private soldiers who had been killed, -was alone recorded. Captain Fitzmorris was mentioned as having been -severely wounded--the rest of the sad list were all strangers to them. - -There was a long pause. - -Dorothy softly put down the paper, and walked to the window. Her lips -were silent, but her heart poured forth an earnest prayer for her absent -lover. She heard the deep sobs of his mother, and her own tears gushed -forth, to relieve the intolerable anguish of suspense--that worst -torture of the human heart. - -Rushmere was the first to speak. His voice was husky and tremulous. "I'm -not a rich man," he said, "yet I would almost give all I have in the -world to know this hour that I have a living son." - -"Oh, my boy! my Gilly!" cried the fond mother, "we shall yet see him -again!" - -"Whether he be dead or living," continued the farmer, too much absorbed -by his own anxious fears to notice the words of his wife, "I am sartain -sure that he acquitted himself like a man. Aye, that a' did." His eyes -kindled as he raised them to the picture over the mantel-shelf. "An' no -thanks to him. Is he not a Briton, wi' the blood of brave men running in -his veins? To fight well for his country, an' to die for't, if need be, -was only what his fathers did afore him. Courage was born in 'em all." - -The burst of enthusiasm over, the old man closed his eyes, and sank back -in his chair, muttering, in a subdued voice. - -"Ah, it's very fine talking, but natur is natur after all. It doth not -remove the fear that's gnawing at my heart about the lad. What do'st -thou say, dame?" - -He opened his eyes wide, to keep back the fast coming tears, and fixed -them with an earnest gaze upon the meek pale face of his wife. - -She rose up slowly from her seat, came behind his chair, and pulling his -head back, bent reverently down and kissed his broad forehead. - -"God comfort thee, Lawrence. He knows what is best for us. I can't feel -that Gilly is dead. Something in my heart tells me that he is living. I -never mistrust that voice." - -"God bless you, mother dear, for the cheering hope," said Dorothy, -smiling through her tears. "You were a true prophet before. Why should -you be deceived now? How I wish," she continued in a sadder tone, "that -I had more faith. That I could really believe that Gilbert was safe and -well." - -"My heart seldom deceives me," said the old lady, "or I should say, that -mysterious something that speaks in my heart. While God gives us this -blessed hope, I don't think it right to look only on the dark side of -things. 'Tis mistrusting His providence." - -Mr. Rushmere had no such hope. Nothing would convince him that his son -was alive. The more his kind wife exerted herself to comfort him, the -more obstinately he persisted in maintaining his own sombre views. Mrs. -Rushmere thought that a good night's rest would restore his mind to its -usual serenity. She was mistaken. He never slept that night at all, but -kept lamenting for Gilbert, and calling upon him through the long hours -of darkness; accusing himself of being the cause of his death, by -refusing to santion his marriage with Dorothy. - -"And the poor little maid," he said, "it was piteous to look in her face -an' see her pining away for the loss o' her sweetheart. He had been a -cruel hard father. It was only just that he should be punished for his -pride and avarice." - -Dorothy tried to master her own mental sufferings, (for, like the old -man, she believed that Gilbert was dead,) in order to lessen his -sorrowful self-upbraidings, till she could bear the agonies of suspense -no longer, and determined to take a bold step to ascertain the truth. - -Lord Wilton had just returned to Heath Hall, and was the father of the -Captain Fitzmorris, under whom Gilbert served. She argued that it was -more than probable that he had heard from his wounded son, and through -him they might obtain some news of Gilbert. It was a forlorn hope, but -drowning people catch at straws. She would say nothing to the old -people, but go herself, and see Lord Wilton, and try if he would -interest himself in their behalf, and find out if their son had been -killed in the engagement. - -When once this idea had taken possession of her mind, she could not rest -until it was carried out. She had many fears and misgivings on the -subject, but love conquered them all, and she resolved to make the -effort as soon as her morning's work was over. - -The aristocracy in the present day are not regarded with the solemn -awe, that their very names inspired among the peasantry sixty years ago. -A great lord was a sort of demi-god in his own district; it would have -been sacrilege to imagine that he was made of the same flesh and blood -as his tenants and hirelings. - -People lowered their voice, and spoke of him in mysterious tones, when -they mentioned his name and told of his doings. If they met upon the -road, they stood with uncovered heads, till the majestic presence had -passed by, without daring to lift their eyes to his face, lest he should -feel annoyed by their vulgar gaze. - -They all knew that King George was their lawful sovereign, and every -fourth of June they met in the nearest town, to shout his name and drink -his health on his birth-day, and felt very loyal and very proud of their -sovereign. But they had never seen this famous king, and only knew of -him by hearsay. - -It was after all the great man of the parish, the lord of the manor, to -whom their real homage was given, whom they regarded as their legitimate -ruler. It was he who fixed their tithes and rent, and was the stern -magistrate before whom they appeared at the quarter sessions to answer -to complaints and misdemeanors. - -Dorothy had never seen Lord Wilton. He had inherited a very fine estate -in Devonshire through his mother. Preferring the climate and scenery of -that country to his own, he rarely visited Heath Hall, the genial -breezes of the south, agreeing much better with a shattered -constitution, than the rude gales of the bleak north-east coast. It was -only lately that he had returned to his native place, and had expressed, -in an eloquent speech, made at a public dinner given on the important -occasion, his determination of ending his days in the home of his -ancestors. - -Great had been the rejoicing of his tenantry at the return of their -long absent landlord. An insolent overbearing steward had reigned -absolute monarch of the soil, during a long period of fifteen years. A -most unpopular substitute, hard and exacting, who had carried things -with a high hand, extorting from the tenantry a fortune, at the expense -of his lord's reputation. - -But this was all changed. The unjust steward had been discharged, and -Lord Wilton had gained golden opinions from his poorer neighbours, by -listening kindly to their relation of grievances, and redressing them to -the best of his ability. - -His return had formed the nine day's wonder of Hanstone, his name was in -everybody's mouth, and people were never tired of talking about him, of -his personal appearance, his politics, his religious opinions, which -they observed were peculiar, his great wealth, and even his long -cherished grief for a wife, who had been dead upwards of twenty years, -and for whose sake he had remained a widower for the best period of his -life. - -Some called him proud, some called him cold and reserved, but all agreed -that he was a good man, though rather eccentric, and very kind to the -poor. - -He went very little into society, was seldom a day absent from the Hall, -but took great seeming delight in long rambles on foot, or on horseback, -about the parish, visiting the sick poor, and dispensing his charity -with his own hands. - -A pale, silent melancholy man, of temperate habits and literary tastes, -and scarcely likely to become popular among a set of rude -agriculturists, Lord Wilton was not only popular but beloved by all -classes, for he was alike gentlemanly and benevolent to all. - -He had been a soldier in his youth, and had fought bravely for his -country, but a serious wound, received during the American war, had -injured his health, and unfitted him for active service. He had -possessed great political influence, and had earned the reputation of -an eloquent speaker in the house; but he had withdrawn from the public -arena, as if tired with the world and all things in it, to end his days -in the quiet and retirement of the country. - -Dorothy had heard all these circumstances in his lordship's history -discussed at church and market, and she felt a great awe of the big man, -and the idea of appearing before him, in her rustic simplicity, troubled -her exceedingly. In vain she said to herself, - -"He is but a man. Is it not cowardly to feel afraid of him? If he does -not return me an answer, or refuses to listen to me, it won't kill me. I -can't see father pining and fretting himself to death about his son, -without doing something to relieve his mind. I will go, come what may. -Besides," she added, with charming candour, "I want to hear news of -Gilbert as badly as he does." - -Having arrived at this conclusion, Dorothy dared not wait to let her -courage cool, but dressing herself very neatly, slipped out at the -back-gate, and took her way over the fields to Heath Hall. - -Pincher met her in the lane, but she sternly told him "to go home," -fearing lest his rugged appearance, and countrified manners, might not -suit the high bred dogs at the Hall. - -It was a keen frosty morning, cold but cheery looking. Gleams of pale -sunshine rested upon the mossy trunks of the mighty oak trees, that -flanked the entrance to the park, and danced and quivered among the -fantastic shapes thrown by their leafless branches on the ground. The -air was clear and bracing, the crisp grass, with its coating of crystal, -rustled beneath her feet, as Dorothy walked briskly forward, in spite of -her trepidation and fears for the result of her visit, charmed by the -beauty of the scene. - -The carriage road to the Hall was a long gradual ascent, winding among -picturesque clumps of stately forest trees, the old building crowning -the height of the hill, a grand baronial edifice, built in the middle -ages, whose massy walls and towers seemed to bid defiance to decay. - -A flight of broad stone steps led to the entrance, but Dorothy knew that -that carved and ornamented door was never opened but to titled guests, -and she stole round, unobserved, to the back of the house, and rang at -the gate that led to the servants' hall. - -Her gentle summons was answered by a tall powdered footman in blue and -silver livery. - -"Miss Dorothy Chance! is that you? What has brought you out this cold -morning? Fresh butter and eggs, I suppose. Have you any with you to -sell?" - -"Not before the end of next week, Mr. Frisk," returned Dorothy, with a -curtsey. "Our cows have fallen off greatly since the winter set in, and -all the eggs I can get now are from a few March pullets, who began to -lay some days ago." - -She looked up and smiled pleasantly, then added, in a lower tone, "I -came on a little private business of my own. Can I speak with Mrs. -Brand?" - -Mrs. Brand was the housekeeper, and well-known to Dorothy, from whom she -generally bought most of her dairy produce, and one, whom Dorothy -commonly specified as "the dear old lady at the Hall." - -Mrs. Brand had filled the important place of housekeeper for two -generations, her own identity being completely merged in the superior -grandeur of the family with whom she served. In her own estimation there -was no such person as Mrs. Brand. The housekeeper to the great Lord -Wilton, was honour enough to satisfy her moderate ambition. - -She was a busy bustling little woman, in a lace cap and rich black silk -gown, who reigned in undisputed dignity over the domestics in the -establishment. Held in great esteem by her noble master, Mrs. Brand was -consulted by him on all matters of minor importance. Through her all his -orders were conveyed to the servants, from her they received their -wages, and were retained or discharged according to her pleasure. She -was treated by them with a certain degree of homage, little inferior to -that which they would have accorded to the legitimate mistress of the -house. - -The old lady knew her power, and exercised it wisely and well, and truly -deserved the character bestowed upon her by her lordly master. - -"An honest faithful woman, who had the interest of the family at heart, -and who saved him a deal of trouble in the management of his domestic -affairs." - -Dorothy Chance and her strange history were both well-known to Mrs. -Brand. She had often called at Heath Farm, to order supplies of fresh -butter and cream-cheese, and always spoke of the beauty and industry of -the foundling in terms of praise, which had made her name quite familiar -among the people at the Hall. - -Mrs. Brand was busy reckoning up her weekly accounts, in her own -pleasant little room, when Mr. Frisk rapped at the door, and putting in -his powdered head, said, in his blandest tones, - -"I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but here is Dorothy Chance from the -Farm, wishing to speak with you." - -Putting aside her papers, with rather a vexed air--(for the ordering of -her accounts was always a great task to the good housekeeper,)--she told -the tall footman to show the young woman in. - -"Well, Dorothy," she cried, holding out her hand to the bright girl, as -she stood all glowing and radiant from her walk before her, "what is -your business with me?" - -"Please, ma'am," returned Dorothy, blushing with pleasure at her kind -reception, "I came to ask of you a very great favour." - -"Indeed! What is it, child? Do you wish to go into respectable service? -Is it a character you require? If so I will give you a good one, with my -whole heart." - -"Oh, no, ma'am, I am not going to leave home again. I wanted to say a -few words in private to my lord." - -The old lady took off her spectacles, and looked sharply at Dorothy. - -"What can a young girl like you have to say to my lord? Will not saying -it to me do quite as well?" - -"Perhaps it would. But indeed, Mrs. Brand, I would rather, if you think -I am not too bold, say what I have to say to him myself." - -The housekeeper shook her head doubtingly-- - -"Did you ever speak to Lord Wilton before?" - -"Never. I don't even know him by sight." - -Mrs. Brand looked relieved. - -"Then what can you have to say to him, my dear?" - -"It is a little private business of my own." - -Mrs. Brand looked very serious. - -"Have any of the servants here been making love to you, Dorothy?" - -"No, no, nothing of the sort," and Dorothy laughed merrily, "I know as -little of them as I do of his lordship." - -"Lord Wilton is a single man," said Mrs. Brand, gravely. "Do you think -it quite prudent for a young girl to ask him questions?" - -Dorothy looked puzzled. She certainly did not comprehend Mrs. Brand's -prudery. - -"You see, ma'am," she continued, with the same charming frankness, "our -Gilbert is with the army in Spain, and serves in the same regiment with -Captain Fitzmorris, my lord's son. A great battle has been fought at -Corunna, and we don't know whether Gilbert has been killed or not. Mr. -Rushmere is fretting himself to death with anxiety about his son. I -thought that Lord Wilton might be able to give us some information -respecting him, and if I could but speak to himself, and tell him all -the anguish we are suffering, I feel certain, by the character for -benevolence that he bears, that he would either confirm or remove our -apprehensions, by writing to his son, whose servant Gilbert is." - -"Aye--now you talk sense, Dorothy. You should have told me this at -first. I have no doubt that his lordship will do what he can for you. -Poor dear man, he has been in great trouble about Viscount"--Mrs. Brand -placed a particular emphasis upon the title, as if to reprove Dorothy -for her omission of it--"Fitzmorris, ever since he saw in the papers -that he was badly wounded. He has shut himself up, and scarcely tasted -food since he got the news. It may be some relief to his mind to know -that a neighbour is fretting about an only son too. Sit down, Dorothy, I -will go to his study and see if my lord can speak with you." - -In a few minutes the good woman returned, and told Dorothy to follow her -to the library. - -"His lordship," she said, "was engaged just then finishing a letter, and -would see her presently." - -As they were leaving the housekeeper's room, Mr. Frisk again presented -himself, and with a low bow to Mrs. Brand, and a stare of intense -admiration at Dorothy, informed the elder female that Mrs. Martin, the -curate's wife, was waiting to speak to her. - -"Tell her to step in here, Frisk, I will be back directly. Something -about the Sunday-school, that my lord is about to establish," whispered -Mrs. Brand to Dorothy. "They cannot get on without consulting me. This -Mrs. Martin, our curate's wife, my lord wants to be superintendent of -the school. My lord says, she is a clever, well-educated person, and he -knows best; but between ourselves, I think her a poor, broken-spirited, -yea and forsooth, young woman, with a large small family, and a nursing -baby. She does not like the project at all. - -"'Mrs. Brand,' says she, 'these Sunday-schools may answer very well in -great cities, where the people are so wicked, but take my word for it, -they will never do in a country-place, where the houses are so far -apart, and the children have such a distance to come, and the winter -days are so short. Besides, what's the use of my lord making such a fuss -about teaching the poor. Does he want his servants to be as clever as -himself--to read his books and papers instead of dusting his library. -Learning and wealth make the only distinction between him and his -people. If he gives them the one, the other will soon follow. It's -little the poor folks will care for the title of my lord, when they find -out that their title of free men possesses more real dignity.' - -"Yes, my dear, she had the impudence to speak of the nobility in that -disrespectful manner, as if there was nothing at all in _blood_, or -superiority of race." - -"I thought it was the fine clothes and the money made the difference," -suggested Dorothy, whose feelings were not so decidedly aristocratic as -those of the well-paid domestic. "That, at least, in the church, the -rich and poor met together, and the Lord was the maker of them all." - -"And so He is, Dorothy, for the Bible says so; but it is after a -different fashion, as you will see, when you look at the pictures in -the library of my lord's ancestors." - -"Ancestors! what be they?" - -"Why, Dorothy, are you so ignorant? Did you never hear father Rushmere -talk of his ancestors? He comes of a good race. I have heard my lord -say, that in the old times the Rushmeres owned this grand house, and -nearly all the land in this and the neighbouring parish." - -Dorothy opened wide her large black eyes, full of surprise and wonder, -and she looked around the vast hall they had entered, with its marble -pavement and magnificent staircase of polished oak, in whose broad steps -she could see the reflection of her own sweet face, and the beautiful -carved railings presented fine specimens of mediæval art. - -"The Rushmeres don't look different now," she said, "from other folk. -What brought about the change?" - -"They fought against their lawful king. Traitors are always punished, -and so it has happened to them." - -"But could that change the _blood_?" asked Dorothy. - -"My dear, you have heard of wine turning sour when exposed to the common -air. A clear stream becomes impure when it flows into a muddy marsh." - -Dorothy, with her shrewd common sense, could not comprehend Mrs. Brand's -philosophy, and she thought it better not to contradict her, so -reverting back to the Sunday-school, she inquired when it was to go into -operation. - -"Directly my lord can get teachers to suit him. Mrs. Martin says, that -she can't attend to it after the service, on account of her baby, and -having to see to the other children, and she begged me to make her -excuses to my lord. I thought that he'd be terribly angry. But, God -bless him, he only laughed, and, says he, 'Mrs. Brand, the poor woman is -right. But I don't mean my school to be knocked on the head by Mrs. -Martin's baby. How many children have they?' - -"'Lots, my lord,' says I. 'Parsons have always large families. The -poorer they be, the more children.' Then he laughs again. 'Do they keep -a nurse-maid, Mrs. Brand?' - -"'Ah, my lord, they have barely enough to keep themselves. He has not -more than eighty pounds a year.' - -"Then he sighs, and says, 'Ah, that is sad. I must see to that. The poor -soul might well begrudge the time to be spent in attending to the -school. Her own children have the first claim upon a mother's heart. -When next Mrs. Martin calls, I must see her, Mrs. Brand.' - -"Now, Dorothy, this is my lord's library," continued the voluble -housekeeper, showing her young companion into a spacious apartment -fronting the park. "I must leave you here, while I go down to Mrs. -Martin. You can amuse yourself by looking at the pictures till my lord -comes." - -"And how am I to address him?" cried Dorothy, turning faint with fear. - -"Curtsey to him, when he comes into the room, and ask his pardon for the -liberty you take in venturing to speak to him, and then tell him your -business, in as few words as you can." - -"Am I to call him my lord every time I address him?" - -"Of course. But don't seem afraid of him. He says that he hates people -to worship him, as if he were an idol of flesh and blood. He likes a man -to speak out his mind like a man, which you know is very condescending -on his part. He will find very few men in the country that dare do it." - -Dorothy thought she knew one, as the good woman closed the door, and -left her alone in the magnificent apartment. Perhaps she was wrong in -her estimate. Time will prove. And then she drew an involuntary sigh, -when she recalled the housekeeper's words that the Rushmeres had, in the -old times, been the owners of Heath Hall, and had lost it, because they -could not bow down to idols of flesh and blood. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -DOROTHY AND LORD WILTON. - - -Was Dorothy dreaming--could she really be awake--when she first stepped -into that lofty room, and gazed upon her magnificent surroundings--was -she in fairy land--was that the every day sun, that was pouring a flood -of wintry light upon gilded cornice and carved panel--upon inlaid -tables, covered with miniature gems of art, collected at great expense -from distant lands? - -The best, the only oil paintings Dorothy had ever seen, were the -pictures on the door of the cupboard, in the hall at Heath Farm. She had -always thought them very terrible and beautiful--she did not know that -they once had formed a part of the collection, which now dazzled her -sight upon these walls. That persons competent to judge of their merit -would in after years pronounce them of priceless value. - -"Oh, what a beautiful place. It is too grand to be inhabited by people -who have to work for their daily bread--who have to wear mean clothes, -and soil their hands with disagreeable labour." - -A deep sigh--the first of unfeigned regret for her lowly -station--perhaps of envy--broke from the lips of the wondering girl. - -She was just then standing before a large mirror, which not only -reflected her full length figure, but almost every other object in the -room. - -Why does she start and gaze so intently into its magic depths. Is it the -reflection of that lovely face--so fresh and glowing from the hands of -the great life artist; which she has never beheld to such advantage -before; that brings the heightened colour to her cheeks and upon which -she gazes with such pride and pleasure? She stands spell bound. One hand -lightly raised, her eyes immoveably fixed upon the glass. - -"Well, my pretty girl," said a rich mellow voice at her side, "what do -you think of the picture?" This was said half in jest, half in earnest. - -Dorothy started. "It is very beautiful." - -"I think so too," returned the stranger, who was no other than Lord -Wilton himself, smiling at the simplicity of his charming young visitor. - -"Did you ever see it before?" - -"Never!" said Dorothy, without removing her eyes from the mirror. "Is -not the likeness wonderful? It makes me feel half afraid, as if the soul -of the lady had returned to earth in me." - -"I see, I see what you are looking at now; yes, it is the same face, the -same dark liquid eyes, the same rich wealth of raven hair," and he -pointed to one of the beautiful family portraits, suspended upon the -wall behind them; whose face was faithfully reflected in the glass, side -by side with that of the young country maiden. - -"What a strange coincidence! can this be a mere freak of nature!" he -continued musingly. "My good girl who are you, and what is your name?" - -There was an eager restless expression in the nobleman's melancholy dark -eyes, as he turned to Dorothy and gazed upon her with a glance which -penetrated to her inmost soul. - -Dorothy rightly surmised that the stranger was Lord Wilton. Her -attention had been so forcibly drawn to the picture, that she only now -began to recognize the fact. She thought that he was displeased by the -familiar manner in which she had addressed him, and turning pale, began -visibly to tremble. - -"Forgive me, my lord, for not calling you by your title; I meant to do -so, but indeed, you took me by surprise; I hardly knew to whom I was -speaking." - -And poor frightened Dorothy stopped, overwhelmed with the consciousness -of her rudeness and presumption, and made several low and, for her, very -graceful curtseys. - -Her companion regarded her with an amused but serious smile, "speak to -me as you would to any other gentleman, and now answer my question. What -is your name?" - -"Dorothy Chance, my lord." - -"Dorothy!" again he turned upon her that strange eager glance. "That -lady's name was Dorothy!" and he looked up at the picture with a sigh. -"She was the best of women. My dear and honoured mother--the Lady -Dorothy Granville. Who are your parents? Who in this neighbourhood bears -such an odd name as Chance?" - -"No one, my lord, saving myself, and I come by it oddly enough. I am the -child of whom your lordship may have heard, who farmer Rushmere found -upon the heath fifteen years ago, clinging to the bosom of her dead -mother, who, it was supposed, perished during the night in a fearful -storm. I could only just speak a few broken words, and could tell -nothing about my poor mother, only that she called me her Dolly; so the -good farmer had me christened Dorothy Chance, to signify that I came to -him by _chance_. His wife adopted me as her daughter, and I have lived -with them ever since." - -Lord Wilton listened with breathless attention. "Did your foster parents -ever find out who your mother was?" - -"She was a stranger in these parts, no one had ever seen her before." - -"Was there anything on her person, or in her appearance by which she -could be identified." - -"Nothing, my lord. Father has often told me that she must have been -very poor; that he never saw a body so wasted by starvation and misery. -Her clothing was very scanty and ragged, and composed of the coarsest -materials, begged, he supposed, from some poor creature, not quite so -destitute as herself. She was very young, and he thought, at one time, -must have been very pretty. He cut off a lock of her hair--I have it -here, my lord," and Dorothy took from her neck a black ribbon, to which -was suspended a large old-fashioned silver locket, and put it into Lord -Wilton's hand. It contained a thick tress of golden brown hair. - -He took the sad memento, all that remained to the poor girl of her -mother, with a trembling hand, and went to the window to examine it. - -Over his pale face a more deadly pallor stole. He looked at it with a -long earnest gaze, then returned it with a deep sigh to the wondering -girl. - -"And this is all." - -"All but a plain wedding ring which I have on my finger." - -"Oh! let me see that." - -"It is just like any other ring of the sort, my lord. It can tell -nothing." - -She held out her small sun-burnt hand. - -He clasped it eagerly in his own, and with some difficulty, drew the -ring from her finger. - -This underwent the same strict scrutiny that he had bestowed upon the -locket, but his countenance betrayed still deeper emotion. - -"Keep that ring!" he said solemnly, replacing it upon her finger. "Keep -it as you would your life. It may be the means of restoring you to him -who put it on your mother's finger. And the locket--was that hers?" - -"No, my lord; it was given to me by Mrs. Rushmere." - -"And these people--these Rushmeres--are they kind to you, Dorothy?" - -"Yes, very kind. The only friends I have in the world." - -"And what brought you to see me this morning?" - -"Oh, my lord, it was on their account I came. They have an only -son--Gilbert Rushmere. Last summer--it was just in the middle of the hay -tide, and we were very busy at the farm--Gilbert quarrelled with his -father about me." Dorothy looked down and blushed. - -"Go on, my good girl!" - -"We had loved each other from boy and girl; but the old man would not -give his consent to our marriage, and I would not marry Gilbert without. -Father was so angry that he told me to leave the house, and hoping to -make peace by so doing, I left and went to live at Hadstone with Mrs. -Barford. I did not stay away long. Gilbert went and listed for a -soldier, and I came back to comfort the old people in their trouble. -Father would have bought Gilbert off, but he did not get the bad news -until after he had sailed; and we have been so unhappy ever since." - -Here Dolly's voice, which had sank almost to a whisper, failed her -altogether, and she turned from Lord Wilton to wipe away the tears that -were streaming down her rosy cheeks. - -"Why did Mr. Rushmere object to his son marrying a good industrious girl -like you?" - -"Ah, my lord, can you wonder at it?" sobbed Dorothy. "From my heart I -never blamed him. The old man is proud--is come of a good stock; Gilbert -is his only son; he could not bear that he should take for his wife the -child of some nameless beggar. It was too much for me to ask or expect -at his hands. After Gilbert was gone he relented, but it was too late -then. Gilbert wrote some time ago, and told us that he was reconciled to -his new life, and was serving in the ---- regiment under your son, -Captain Fitzmorris, whose servant he was; that they were hourly -expecting an engagement with the French. Oh, my lord, the battle has -been fought, and we have not heard from Gilbert." - -Dorothy wrung her hands in uncontrollable anguish. "Mr. Rushmere is in -despair. He will believe that his son is killed; and I slipped away -unknown to him this morning to ask your lordship if you could tell me -anything about him." - -"My poor girl, I will make inquiries respecting him, and let you know. I -am just writing to my son. God knows if he be still alive. I can only -hope and trust in his mercy. My mind, Dorothy, is just now overwhelmed -by the same horrible anxiety which you find so hard to bear. This cruel -suspense, this hope, which keeps alive despair, is the most painful of -human maladies." - -He walked several times through the spacious apartment in deep thought, -then suddenly returning to the side of the weeping girl, he took her -hand and pressed it warmly between his own. - -"Dry your tears, Dorothy; you have deeply interested me in your sad -history. You shall never want a friend while I live. If Gilbert Rushmere -returns, and money be the only obstacle that separates you, tell Mr. -Rushmere that I will give you a wedding portion that shall more than -satisfy him." - -"My lord, I would rather you would not," said Dorothy, in a tone of -alarm, withdrawing her hand, and looking as proud as the lady whose -portrait she so strongly resembled. "If I am not worthy to be his -daughter, penniless as I am, money could never purchase the love and -respect I crave, and which could alone make me happy." - -"Bravo! my little heroine," cried Lord Wilton, the kindling cheeks and -flashing eyes of Dorothy filling him with surprise and admiration. "Your -nobility exceeds mine; I am only noble by birth, but your lofty spirit -springs from a greatness of mind inherent in your nature." - -"My lord!" said Dorothy, "you speak too highly of that which I only -consider my duty. I feel most grateful to you for your kindness, for -your generous sympathy in my sorrow, but I cannot accept your bounty. -And now I will leave you, and carry your gracious promise about Gilbert, -to his parents, which will dry their tears and make them very glad." - -With a low reverence, the country girl glided from the room. - -Lord Wilton remained standing by the table where she left him; his arms -folded, his eyes bent upon the ground, lost in profound thought. An -expression of intense mental suffering passed over his face; he clasped -his hands tightly together and spoke unconsciously aloud. - -"At last the long search is over. The hope deferred--the agony of doubt -and fear has culminated in the grave. Death--and such a death! Oh, my -God! I see--I feel it all. Destitute--forsaken--alone. Her sole -attendants, starvation and despair--perhaps crime. Who can tell the -straits to which misery may have reduced its unfortunate victim. To die -amidst storm and darkness with a helpless little one clasped to the fond -heart growing cold and unconscious, in the chill embrace of the -destroyer. Alice, my beloved, my lost darling, such then was your -fate. * * * - -"Were your last thoughts with me in that desolate hour? Did you forgive -me, for the sorrow and suffering which my selfish love had drawn down -upon that innocent head. If you can read my heart, pity me, oh pity me, -for I am desolate and in misery! Never, never can we meet again. Never -can I now make atonement for the wrongs I inflicted. Never hope for -peace or happiness again. The past irrevocable--the future a blank. -Remorse may punish--it cannot restore. The vain regrets--the unsatisfied -cravings of the tortured heart, have made earth a hell for the last -twenty years, and vengeance is now complete. Oh, my God, have mercy -upon me! I cry to Thee in the stilly night. I stretch my hands out to -Thee in the darkness, but no answer of peace comes to my agonized -prayers." - -He bowed his head upon his trembling hands. The storm of conscience -swept on--all its waves went surging over his soul, and broke forth in -stifled moans, wrung from the depths of the bruised and tortured heart. -At length he grew calmer, and began to reason on the facts of the case. - -"I may be mistaken. What proof have I that the nameless vagrant was my -lost love? A lock of sunny hair--a ring--the likeness of her child to me -and mine. The cold unfeeling men of the world would laugh such evidence -to scorn." - -He glanced up at his mother's picture, and his thoughts took a new turn. -"Yes, that lovely girl is her child. Did not my heart burn within me, -while she was talking with me? Did I not long to clasp her in my arms -and claim her as my own--the all that is left me of my beloved? - -"I will restrain my feelings. I will not take her from her happy -obscurity--separate her from the man she loves. The secret which her -mother kept so bravely for my sake, which she carried down with her to -the grave, shall rest there. I will keep down my swelling heart--will -chain my lips in eternal silence, and prove my love for her by -self-abnegation." - -A low rap at the door was several times repeated before it was noticed -by Lord Wilton. - -"My lord," said Mrs. Brand, presenting herself before him, with her -usual deep reverence, "Mrs. Martin is below, and wishes to speak with -you." Struck with the unusual paleness of her master's face, and its -melancholy expression, she said, with maternal anxiety. - -"My lord, you are ill. You must not give way about Lord Fitzmorris. His -wounds may not be so dangerous as they are represented. Newspapers do -not always tell the truth." - -"Mrs. Brand, he is my only son," returned the nobleman, not sorry to -find his grief attributed to a legitimate cause. "The uncertainty -respecting him depresses me greatly. If I knew the worst, I could bear -it like a man. Show Mrs. Martin up. I can speak to her now." - -Mrs. Martin was a thin delicate looking woman, very pale, and very -care-worn, with an expression of patient endurance in her face, painful -to behold. She was no worshipper of rank or wealth, though a perfect -lady in her appearance and manners. Experience had taught her that money -was an imperative want, by no means to be despised; that without an -adequate supply the necessaries of life could not be procured. That love -in a cottage was a pleasant dream. The waking reality by no means so -agreeable. - -"My lord," she said, addressing him with great candour and firmness, "I -have given your proposal the most careful consideration, and willing as -I am to oblige you, and to discharge a Christian duty, I find that I -cannot conscientiously undertake the management of your school. I have -six children. The eldest a boy of nine years old, the youngest a baby of -only three months." - -Her pale cheeks flushed. - -"We are too poor, my lord, to keep a servant. I take care of my own -children, and do the work of the house. Henry is too young to be -entrusted with the charge of so many little ones during my absence at -school, and my mind would be so full of anxiety about them, that I could -not attend to my scholars as I could wish. I hope you will take these -unfortunate circumstances as a sufficient apology for my declining the -situation." - -"We are all called upon to make sacrifices for the good of our -fellow-creatures, Mrs. Martin, but we must not do so at the expense of -more sacred duties. I should be sorry to lay upon you, my dear madam, a -burthen greater than the one you have already to bear. Now listen to -what I have to propose, and I think we can arrange the matter to our -mutual satisfaction. Mr. Conyers, the vicar, allows your husband eighty -pounds a year for his ministerial services. A small remuneration for a -well-educated man, and a good preacher, who has to support a large -family and pay rent for the cottage in which he resides. - -"The vicar draws from the parish an income of fifteen hundred per annum, -and could afford to give more. I now propose to allow you one hundred a -year for taking charge of my school. Will you accept my terms, and by so -doing confer upon me a great obligation?" - -Mrs. Martin burst into tears. "Oh, my lord, it would make our desert -blossom as the rose, and give the poor children bread and meat, where -they now only get a scanty supply of bread and milk. In our daily -prayers, we shall not forget to ask our Heavenly Father to bless you for -your munificence." - -"I am not quite so disinterested and benevolent as you think me," -returned the lord of the manor, deeply moved by her tears, for Mrs. -Martin was the last person in the world from whom he would have expected -such a display of feeling. - -"This school is a pet scheme of mine. I do not like to be disappointed. -The miserable ignorance of the peasantry is a disgrace to the landed -gentry, and loudly calls for reform. I want to lend a hand in washing -out this foul national blot, and the co-operation of the clergy and -their wives must be obtained, to do this in a proper Christian spirit. -Their example will provoke to emulation the wives and daughters of the -wealthy yeomanry; and after a few weeks you will find that we shall have -plenty of pupils and teachers to assist in the good work." - -Lord Wilton spoke with enthusiasm, for the subject was very near his -heart. Mrs. Martin who knew the poorer classes better than he did, and -their decided aversion to book learning, looked rather incredulous. This -was not the only difficulty to be overcome. The prejudice that existed -in the minds of the agricultural employers to their servants being -taught, was yet stronger than the indifference and apathy manifested by -the poor people themselves. - -"My lord, you have a harder battle to fight than you imagine. The -farmers prefer human machines to work for them, to rational thinking men -and women. They tell me it is none of your business to instruct the -poor. God made them so, and it is better for you to leave them as you -find them. They don't want their servants to know as much as they do -themselves." - -"They prefer slaves to freemen," suggested Lord Wilton. "It is strange -how deeply that accursed system is implanted in the human heart. We need -not go to the West Indies, or to the slave states of America, to see how -it degrades the mind, and reduces man to the level of the brute. I hope -the day is not far distant when both countries will abolish for ever -this disgraceful traffic." - -"It will not be in our day," said Mrs. Martin, who, in spite of her many -cares, possessed a considerable degree of humour, "without we should -attain to the age of Methuselah." - -"God forbid. I do not covet length of days," returned Lord Wilton, "but -I do hope to see that accomplished in my day, and during this -generation. But I am rambling from the school altogether. It may be -necessary for you to have an assistant to help you, and take charge of -the younger classes. There was a nice amiable young girl here a few -minutes ago, to inquire of me if I could tell whether young Rushmere had -been killed in the battle of Corunna. Could you not press her into the -service? She called herself Dorothy Chance. Do you know her?" - -"Everybody in the parish knows Dorothy Chance, my lord. She is rather a -remarkable person. Did you ever hear how she got her odd name?" - -"Yes, yes," cried his lordship impatiently, dreading a repetition of -what had occasioned him such intense pain. "It is not of that sad story, -but of the girl's capabilities as a teacher, I want to speak. Can she -read and write?" - -"Indifferently." - -"My dear Mrs. Martin," he now spoke with great earnestness, "will you -increase my obligations to you, by giving this young girl, this Dorothy -Chance, an hour's instruction daily in the usual branches of English -education. She is very intelligent, and will make an excellent -assistant, if properly trained for the work." - -"I respect Dorothy, and will do so with the greatest pleasure. When -shall her schooling commence?" - -"Directly you can make the necessary arrangements. You shall not be the -loser, Mrs. Martin, by the attention you may pay to this poor orphan -girl. I cannot think of her strange history without emotion." - -"Lord Wilton is an angel of goodness," thought Mrs. Martin, "the most -benevolent of men. It is seldom we meet with such in this hard world. -Dorothy Chance has lived in the parish from a baby, but who among her -neighbours ever thought of doing her a real service, uninfluenced by -interested motives?" - -Lord Wilton had made two people supremely happy that morning. Dorothy -had left his presence grateful for the kind sympathy he had expressed in -her welfare, and confident that he would perform his promise in -reference to Gilbert Rushmere; and Mrs. Martin felt the heavy load of -poverty, that was crushing her to the earth, suddenly removed. Visions -of peace and plenty, of warm clothing and sufficient food for her -family, cheered and elevated her heart. When once alone in the park, she -returned thanks to the Almighty for his goodness. - -"It is not in man," she cried, "to do acts of kindness and generosity -like this. It is of God, from whom all goodness, directly, or -indirectly, flows, who has influenced the mind of this noble gentleman -to help us in our present distress." - -The school project that had filled her with such dismay, now appeared in -the light of a blessing. She was glad that Dorothy had been selected for -her assistant. She knew the kindly disposition of the girl, who had -often left a roll of nice fresh butter, or a cream cheese, at her humble -dwelling, as a small token of her respect; and she had often wished she -had the power to show her some small favour in return, for her -offerings of love. - -At the park gates she overtook Dorothy, who had sauntered leisurely -homewards, recalling to memory every word that had passed between her -and Lord Wilton. Marvelling at the grandeur of the Hall, and still more -at the gracious reception he had given her-- - -"Mrs. Martin," she said, when that lady joined her, "is not Lord Wilton -a kind good man? I feel as if I could love him with my whole heart. I -felt so afraid of him before I saw him--and he treated me as politely as -if I had been a lady. How can people call him proud and cold? I shall -never think of him without coupling his name with a blessing." - -"He deserves it, Dorothy. He has made me very happy. He has promised to -give me a hundred a year for superintending his school. A hundred a -year--think of that. It appears quite a fabulous sum to me. It will -double our income. And do you know, Dorothy, he wants you to be my -assistant?" - -"But," and Dorothy stopped suddenly, "I am not qualified for undertaking -such an important situation. My knowledge is so limited, it would be the -blind leading the blind. I can read a chapter to father in the Bible, -but the hard names sadly puzzle me. I write a poor cramped hand, which I -can hardly make out myself, and know very little about figures. I can -cast up little sums in my own head better than I can on paper. It has -always been the cherished wish of my heart to get a little more -education. - -"There are a heap of old books in a closet at the Farm, upon which I -cast a longing eye, but they are all Greek and Hebrew to me. You know, -dear Mrs. Martin, how I am situated. I have all the work of the house -upon my hands; and when night comes, I am so tired and sleepy, that I am -glad to go to bed; and father, at any rate, would not allow me to set -up, and waste the candles in reading." - -"You must persuade the old people to hire a girl to help you, Dorothy. -They can well afford it. Lord Wilton wishes me to instruct you, and it -is too good a _chance_," she continued, laughing, "to let slip through -your fingers. If you do not like to speak to them on the subject, I -will. I shall feel only too happy to teach you, Dorothy, and Henry will -add his valuable instructions to mine. I feel quite excited by the good -news I have to tell him," she said, forgetting Dorothy, and once more -reverting to her own affairs. "I left him in such low spirits this -morning. We had not money to buy a loaf for breakfast, the children were -hungry and discontented with only potatoes, and it was difficult to -pacify them. I walked up to the Hall with such a heavy heart--but you -see, Dorothy, how sinful it was to doubt the mercy of the Heavenly -Father, who has almost miraculously supplied the daily bread my poor -husband prayed for so earnestly this morning, and which my good Henry -felt so certain would be provided to meet our wants." - -Dorothy's eyes were overflowing. As to Mrs. Martin, she sobbed aloud. - -The two women walked together in silence until they had crossed the -heath. Their path here separated, Mrs. Martin following the downward -course of the sandy lane, and Dorothy climbing the hill. They shook -hands warmly as they parted, the curate's wife promising to call at the -Farm next day, and have a talk with the old folks. - -"Poor thing," sighed Dorothy, looking after her, "we have our cares, but -we never know what it is to lack an abundant supply of wholesome food. -Now here is a lady, well educated and delicately nurtured, who is -destitute of the common necessaries of life. This ought to be a lesson -to me, to be contented with my lot." - -Dorothy did not feel quite satisfied with herself on this point. She -struggled hard to suppress a regretful sense of inferiority--a growing -disgust and aversion to her laborious life, which had stolen into her -mind since she had seen the interior of that lordly mansion, and beheld -the beautiful works of art it contained; the taste and elegance -displayed in the costly furniture, and the luxurious comfort which -reigned everywhere. - -She looked down upon her coarse garments and sun-burnt hands, and -contrasted them painfully with the regal beauty and costly apparel of -the titled lady whose portrait she so strangely resembled. - -Why should the mere accident of birth, which neither could command, make -such a startling difference? It was a mystery Dorothy could not -comprehend? It seemed to her unjust--that made of the same flesh and -blood, their situations should be so widely dissimilar, their lives lie -so far apart. Then the words of the wise St. Paul came in to comfort -her--"One star differeth from another star in glory,"--and she was -terrified at the presumption that dared to question the wisdom and -justice of the great Sovereign of the universe. - -"Still, it would be so pleasant to be a lady," thought Dorothy, "to have -leisure to acquire knowledge. To be able to read all those splendid -books I saw in my lord's library. To examine, whenever I liked, those -beautiful pictures, to play on that golden harp that stood in the corner -near one of the large windows, and to live surrounded by such -magnificence--never to be obliged to work in the fields, exposed to a -hot sun, or to be addressed familiarly by rude vulgar people, who -consider that they have a right to command your services." - -Poor Dorothy had unwittingly gathered that morning the fruit of the -forbidden tree, and found the knowledge it imparted very bitter and -indigestible. - -"This is downright wickedness!" she cried at last. "I am a foolish -ungrateful creature, to try and measure the wide gulf that lies between -the rich and educated, and the poor and ignorant by my feeble intellect. -God has apportioned to each their lot; and why should I feel envious and -discontented, that the best lot did not fall to my share? - -"What do I know of the joys and sorrows of these great people? I do not -see the poisonous serpent lurking among the flowers in their gay -gardens, or the shadows that may darken the glory of their day. Lord -Wilton's rank does not exempt him from care. His handsome face is full -of trouble and anxiety. Tears were in his eyes when he mentioned his -son. He felt just as uneasy about him, as father does about Gilbert. A -lord, after all, is but a man." - -Having arrived at this conclusion, the cloud passed from Dorothy's -bright face, her step grew lighter, and nature again smiled upon her -like a divine picture, fresh from the hands of the Creator. - -She found dinner over at the farm-house, and the old people growing -uneasy at her absence. - -"Where ha' ye been, Dorothy, lass?" asked Mr. Rushmere, in no gentle -tone. "The red cow ha' calved, an' no one here to see 'un, an' mother -had to carry her a hot mash hersel'." - -"I am sorry and glad," returned Dorothy, throwing her hat and shawl upon -the table. "Sorry, that dear mother had to go out in the cold, and glad -that old Cherry has got a calf. Is it a pretty one?" - -"A real fine heifer," said Mrs. Rushmere. "It's a mortal pity it came so -early in the winter. I fear we can never rear it--an' the mother such a -splendid cow, an' comes o' such a good stock." - -"Don't be afraid, I mean to try," cried Dorothy, laughing. "You remember -Ruby, what a fine beast he made, and father sold him for twenty pounds. -He was a January calf." - -"Please yoursel', Dorothy. But, bless me, child, where ha' ye been all -the while? I sought for you in the house and byre, and began to think -you had left us altogether." - -"I have been up to the Hall." - -There was a slight elation in Dorothy's voice, and her eyes sparkled in -anticipation of the surprise that she well knew her answer would call -forth. - -"The Hall! What did a' want at the Hall, Dorothy?" asked Rushmere, -taking the pipe from his mouth, while a dark cloud descended on his -brow. "Never dare to go to the Hall again without my leave." - -"It was on your account I went, father," said Dorothy, turning pale and -looking very much frightened, at the very different manner to that -which she expected, in which her announcement had been received. "I went -because I thought Lord Wilton could tell us something about Gilbert." - -"And did you see my lord?" asked Mrs. Rushmere, with a look of intense -curiosity mingled with awe upon her simple face. - -"My lord," said Rushmere, with an ironical smile, contemptuously -repeating his wife's words. "Surely he be no lord o' thine." - -"Lawrence, you always do speak so disrespectful of Lord Wilton. It does -not become poor folk like us to despise our betters." - -"I owe him no favour, wife. I want no favours from him. It vexes me that -the lass went to him on my affairs. As to his being better than me, I -ha' still to learn that. My name is as good as his--in what do we -differ? In the wealth, which by right belongs to me, of which a -rascally king robbed my brave ancestors to reward his unprincipled -favourite. It grieves my heart that a son of mine should be a servant to -his son--an' that girl must bring me still lower, by reminding Lord -Wilton of the degradation." - -When the blood of the old man waxed warm, and he felt wrathy, he forgot -half his provincialisms, and spoke and looked more like a gentleman. His -wife felt little sympathy in her good man's anger, still less in his -pride, which she was wont, behind his back, to speak of as perfectly -ridiculous. - -"Dorothy," she whispered, "what did my lord say about Gilbert?" - -"He promised to write to Lord Fitzmorris, and obtain all the information -he could respecting him. Oh, mother," she added, in a low voice, "he was -so kind." - -"But were you not afraid of speaking to a lord. I never spoke to a lord -in my life. Lawrence is listening to what I am saying. Come upstairs, -Dorothy, an' tell me all about it." - -Dorothy was not sorry to escape from the storm that was lowering upon -the yeoman's brow, to pour into Mrs. Rushmere's attentive ear all that -she had seen and heard at the Hall. - -She dwelt at great length upon the generous offer made by Lord Wilton, -through Mrs. Martin, to give her a good education, and fit her for an -assistant in his school. - -"Mr. Rushmere will never give his consent to that, Dorothy. It will -anger him more than your going to the Hall," said Mrs. Rushmere, shaking -her head. "If the proposal comes from Mrs. Martin, an' she does not go -to contradict any of his notions, he may, perhaps, listen to her, for he -thinks her a good woman, an' her husband an excellent preacher, though -little he profits by the parson's sermons, I must say that." - -"It would not be just to Lord Wilton not to give him the credit due to -his generosity." - -"I am sure he would prefer it, Dorothy. I don't think he likes to make -his charities public. If you are a wise child, you will keep his share -in the business a profound secret. Were it known, it would set all the -ill-natured tongues in the parish at work. Such women as Letty Barford -and Nancy Watling would neither spare you nor your noble patron." - -Dorothy thought over the matter for a few minutes. She had had a bitter -experience of what Mrs. Grundy could say, and felt a wholesome dread of -that slanderous individual. - -"You are right, dear mother, as you generally are. I will not mention -the subject to father, or any one else. Let him and Mrs. Martin fight it -out. She is such a sensible woman, she is very likely to get the better -of his prejudices; and I know him so well, that he would rather yield to -a stranger than to us." - -Mrs. Rushmere laughed heartily. - -"Aye, Dolly, he would call that our attempting to wear his breeches. -Good lack! I never tried to put them on in my life, but he'll come -fussing about my work, perking into pots and pans, and hunting up dust -in odd corners, but I durst not tell him that he has put on my -petticoats, which would be only fair, an' just as true as t'other -thing." - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -A DISCUSSION. - - -Mrs. Martin had not named the hour she had promised to call at the Farm. -Dorothy, however, kept a good look out for her new friend, while -pursuing her domestic avocations, and when she saw her coming down the -lane she ran to meet her. - -After discussing for some time the school matter, and her probable -chance of success, Mrs. Martin thought she could prevail upon Mr. -Rushmere to let Dorothy attend an evening school, for an hour, three -times during the week, without making any mystery about it. - -She was not aware, as Dorothy was, of the stubborn obstinacy of his -character, which, combined with old hereditary prejudices, made him a -very difficult person to deal with. - -She found the yeoman in the big hall, putting in rake handles, to be -ready against they were wanted, for the day was cold and rough without, -and the old man was one who always made a boast of taking time by the -forelock. - -He would have made a fine study for the pencil of Wilkie or -Gainsborough. His regular but strongly marked features, reflecting the -energy with which he pursued his employment; his cheeks ruddy with -exertion; and his snow-white hair falling in long wavy curls upon his -ample shoulders. - -Pincher was sitting erect upon his haunches beside him, dividing his -attention between his master and watching the progress he made in his -work; and the frisking of Dolly's kitten, Rory, who was playing with -the tail of his demure-looking mother, who lay sleeping upon the hearth. - -"Always busy, neighbour Rushmere," said Mrs. Martin, stepping briskly up -to the old man. "It would be a wonder to find you napping." - -"Aye, ma'am, lazy folk are no good," he replied, looking up and shaking -hands with her. "What brings you out this cold day? It's not weather for -women folk. Some money, I suppose, to be collected for the church. -Parsons are capital at that work. When they can't come themselves, they -send their wives." - -"They know how difficult it is for an Englishman to say nay to a woman," -and Mrs. Martin rubbed her cold hands and laughed. - -"You are just right, ma'am, I never could resist their sweet voices--not -I. From youth to age I have allers found women my best friends. God -bless 'em. But let us come to the point at once. What do you want o' -me? What am I expected to disburse?" - -"Neither silver nor gold this time." - -"Well, now, that's something uncommon. Surely you never came out this -wintry day for the pleasure o' seeing an old man at work." He looked at -her with a shrewd twinkle in his clear blue eyes, as if he suspected -that her visit was not wholly disinterested. - -"I want you to allow Dorothy Chance to assist me in teaching in the -Sunday-school, which is to go into operation in a few weeks. Her -industrious habits and good character, which is well-known to the -parish, eminently qualify her for instructing the young people of her -own class. Will you permit her to take a share in the good work?" - -"No, a' will not," said the old man, a frown gathering upon his broad -forehead; and he applied the spoke-shave with great vigour to the -rake-handle in his grasp. - -"Who is to do her work at home, while she is drumming the A B C into the -heads of children, whom God never meant to know B from a bull's foot. If -you want money, I'll gi' that, but not the time o' my servant, that's -more nor money's worth to me." - -Dorothy, who was standing on the hearth, from which she had been -diligently sweeping the pile of shavings the farmer had scattered over -it, winced at this. It was the first time she had ever heard the name of -servant applied to her, by her foster parents. She thought it unkind and -cruel, and her dark eyes flashed with a sudden fire, that dried up the -gathering tears. - -Mrs. Martin, however, nothing daunted by this rebuff, and beginning to -understand something of the character of the man with whom she had to -deal, replied with the greatest coolness. - -"I spoke to you, Mr. Rushmere as Dorothy's father, not as her master. I -thought that her welfare was as dear to you as that of your own child; -and if report says true, she has been a good dutiful daughter to you." - -"Yes, I ha' naught to complain of on that score." This was said with a -dogged air of sullen resistance. - -"Well, then, my friend, you surely will not deny her the privilege of -joining in a Christian duty, and deprive her of the advantage of -improving her scanty education. Such a course would be injurious to her, -and would reflect no credit on you." - -"I don't allow a parson's wife to preach to me about my duty, or to -interfere wi' my family matters," said Rushmere, dryly. "Politics and -religion are subjects which belong o' right to men; women allers make a -mess o' it, when they meddle wi' what they don't understand." - -Mrs. Martin, amused with the vehemence with which the old man spoke out -his mind, replied, with a smile. - -"You will allow, however, Mr. Rushmere, that women have souls to be -saved as well as men, and that a little education is necessary for them, -to enable them to teach their own children. The religious instruction -which a boy receives at his mother's knee, generally clings to him -through life; and often is the silent monitor restraining him from the -commission of great crimes in after years, when the most eloquent -preaching from the pulpit has produced little moral change in his -character. To teach poor ignorant children to read the Bible, to learn -their duty to God and man, and to be contented with the state of life in -which His good providence has placed them, is surely to confer upon them -a great benefit. I have visited dying people in this parish, who barely -knew their right hand from their left, who had never been taught to -pray, and lived without a knowledge of Christ or of God, in the world. -Now, it is not our intention to make scholars of such poor people, but -to teach them how to become good Christians." - -"That sounds sensible like," mused the farmer. "You're a clever woman, -Mrs. Martin. Aye, a cleverer woman than I thought you. But Dorothy wants -instruction in such matters herself. How can she teach others?" - -"I am willing and anxious to fit her for this task. Let her come to me -for an hour--only one short hour--three times during the week, and I -will spare no pains to improve her education, and make her an excellent -teacher." - -"Very kind o' you, ma'am, but who's to milk the cows, and attend to the -house, while she's away?" - -"Father, I promise you, faithfully, that nothing shall be neglected," -cried Dorothy, eagerly, who saw, by the subdued anger in his face, that -he was relenting. "I will rise an hour earlier, and will not study my -lessons until the evening, when my work is all done." - -"Well," said Rushmere, slowly conceding the point. "I will gi' my -permission only on one condition, and that is, Mrs. Martin, that you -teach the lass no fine airs, no apeing of rich ladies, no wish to dress -smarter, nor hold her head higher than her neighbours; nor to think -herself better an' wiser than those who ha' been at the expense o' -rearing her. When once a gal takes such notions into her head, she's -good for naught. As to making our Dolly a Christian, I think she be that -already. - -"And now, Mrs. Martin," he continued, with increasing energy, and -handling his rake in a most warlike manner, "that you ha' had your say, -and got your own way, which I 'spose you be used to with the goodman at -home, will you tell me who's to be at the expense of this -school--_school_?" repeating his own words with a sarcastic laugh. "What -time ha' poor folk for learning, who ha' to work fourteen hours out o' -the twenty-four, to earn bread for themselves and their children?" - -"I will tell you all about our plans the next time I come to see you," -said Mrs. Martin, who perceived she was treading upon dangerous ground, -and was very well satisfied with her present position. "I hope, Lawrence -Rushmere, you will become one of the best patrons of our institution." - -"Dorothy," turning to that individual, who was now beaming with smiles, -her face all good humour and sunshine, "I shall expect you on Monday -evening." - -"Ah, dear Mrs. Martin, Monday is our washing day. Will not Tuesday do as -well?" - -"Yes, perhaps better. Monday is always a busy day in all working -communities. We will say Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Will that -suit you?" - -"Perfectly." - -Mrs. Martin went away delighted with the success of her negotiations, -and so that matter was settled; though Rushmere, after the departure of -his visitor, grumbled terribly at his want of resolution, in not -sticking like a man to his first determination, and was very cross and -contradictory to Dorothy and his wife during the rest of the day. - -Dorothy bore it all with exemplary patience, and resumed her work in -such spirits, that she sang from the very joy of her heart. And such a -voice as the little damsel had, it only wanted cultivation to have made -her a fortune. Dorothy was not conscious of its surpassing excellence -and power, though Rushmere often remarked to his wife, "that it was -better than the best of music. It did his old heart good to hear the -girl sing. She sang like a _trush_, and made him feel like a boy again." - -In the lives of most individuals, whether brought up in the seclusion of -the country, or amid the turmoil of a great city, there is a turning -point, whether for good or ill, that determines their future position, -and either makes or mars their worldly prospects. A certain "tide," as a -great writer has expressed it, "which, taken at the flood, will lead to -fortune." - -This period had arrived in the hitherto obscure life of Dorothy Chance, -and without speculating at all on the probable result of the change that -a few days had made in her position, she embraced it with the ardour -peculiar to her character, in which strength of mind and a gentle loving -nature were blended most harmoniously together. - -Her visit to Heath Hall had kindled in her breast vague yearnings for -mental improvement. She had never felt any pleasure in vulgar -companionship, and always kept aloof from coarse scenes and unrefined -amusements. - -Her very language differed from the common dialect of those by whom she -was surrounded, and well-educated people marvelled at the grace and -simplicity with which she expressed herself. - -She had lived out of the world, a pure and useful life; her mind deeply -imbued with the poetry of nature--in fact, nature had been her only -teacher. Of books she knew little. The Bible, and a book of old ballads, -and some odd volumes of the "Spectator," comprised her literary lore; -but she was never tired of poring over these--they afforded the only -recreation of the few spare moments she could call her own, and their -diligent perusal had doubtless contributed, in no small degree, to the -improvement in her mind and manners. - -Beauty itself confers a certain air of dignity upon its humblest -possessor. Numbers of women, thus richly endowed by nature, when called -from a subordinate position to fill a higher station, have done so, with -as much ease and grace, as if it had been inherited from birth. - -The most delightful trait in Dorothy's character was its perfect -unselfishness; and what is still more rare, a deep and abiding sense of -gratitude to the friends who had protected her childhood, and saved her -from being brought up in the workhouse. This devotion had been expressed -in every act of her life, and had induced her to give up the first love -of a warm, truthful heart. - -Rushmere, though an honest, good man in his way, was incapable of -appreciating a sacrifice which few would have made under the same -circumstances. In a momentary impulse of generous feeling he had adopted -Dorothy, but even then, he had in view the services she might in future -render to his household. - -Having no daughter of his own, the beautiful little girl, and her -winning ways, had grown into his cold, stern heart, and forced him to -regard her with affection against his will. The idea of her becoming his -son's wife, however, he rejected with contempt, and though in another -fit of sudden benevolence, when the girl, by her courage and prudence, -had saved his life and property, he had given his consent to their -marriage, it was not without a settled conviction in his own mind, that -Gilbert, if living, no longer wished to claim her as such. - -Pride, and the love of money, were the old man's besetting sins. He had -toiled hard all his life, in accumulating the one, and had hoped that -his son, by a fortunate marriage, might be the means of gratifying the -other; and he viewed this sudden advancement in Dorothy's prospects with -a jealous eye, as a not improbable means of drawing her and Gilbert once -more together. - -Dorothy herself never had the least misgiving in her mind with regard to -her lover's fidelity--they were, indeed, _parted_, but, in her -estimation, not _divided_. - -How could Gilbert cease to love her, when her soul was devoted to him; -and had not the old man at last given his consent; and did not she long -to tell him that, and make him happy with the unexpected consummation of -their treasured hope? - -Dorothy was very ignorant of Gilbert's real character. She had yet to -learn that his mind was a reflex of his father's; that the same -deep-rooted obstinacy formed the base of her lover's character. With a -larger share of vanity, he also felt a deeper share of personal injury. -His animosity once aroused, was a demon very hard to quell. - -Rushmere was often hasty and contrary, and pugnacious as a bull-dog, but -at the same time, steady in his affections, and if unresisted in his -angry moods, he came round of himself, often expressing the deepest -regret for harsh or unreasonable conduct. - -He was honest and truthful, and a just master to his servants; and Dolly -loved and venerated the old man, for the sterling good qualities he -possessed, and willingly forgave all the faults, often remarking, when -her mother had been vexed by some blunt, fault-finding speech from her -stern husband, - -"Don't think of it, mother, you will always find some thistles among the -finest corn. Father will forget it all before night." - -This was true. Rushmere did not treasure his wrath, but his son Gilbert -did. - -The refusal Dorothy gave him to his father's face, was rankling still in -his heart. When he left his home, it was not with any desire to spite -his parents, especially his mother, to whom he was much attached, but -out of revenge to Dorothy; for he well knew that in her heart he could -not inflict a deeper wound. - -Mentally and morally, Gilbert Rushmere was quite unworthy of her love. -Dorothy was so blind to this fact, that her great wish for educational -improvement was in the hope that it might render her more deserving of -his regard. - -Her sensitive nature had been deeply hurt that morning, by the rough, -unfeeling manner in which Mr. Rushmere had called her _his servant_. She -tried her best to forget it, but the ungracious thought would again and -again intrude. - -"He might have spoken of me as his daughter, as he always calls me when -we are alone. It was hard to degrade me in my own eyes before Mrs. -Martin," argued poor Dorothy. "I am not a servant. I receive no -wages--ask for none. Their love I consider is sufficient reward. Perhaps -it is my ignorance that makes father so averse to my marriage with -Gilbert; but then," she continued, musingly, "if that were the case, he -would not be so much against my receiving instruction. I do not believe -that he really wishes us to come together, and it was cruel of Gilly to -write of me in that careless manner, as if it were a matter of -indifference to him my marriage with another. - -"However, I mean to study in real earnest, to give my whole mind to it, -and acquire all the knowledge I can. I feel a power within me, that has -never been called into action. A something that is always waking up, and -urging me to work out my own living, instead of depending on the charity -of others. I have always tried to silence this voice--it seemed -ungrateful in me to listen to it, but to-day it speaks to me in louder -tones, urging me to lead a holy and useful life, and I now know," she -cried, earnestly clasping her hands together, "that it is from God." - -With this conviction, deeply impressed upon her mind, Dorothy commenced -her studies with Mrs. Martin, who had conceived a deep attachment to her -young pupil. - -They got on swimmingly together. Dorothy's cheerful, hopeful temper and -great patience, with the addition of an excellent memory, made the task -of tuition light and agreeable to her friend, while the progress she -made astonished her worthy preceptress, as much as it did Dorothy -herself. - - -END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. - - - * * * * * - - -Transcriber's Note: Missing end of paragraph punctuation has been -inserted. Two printer's errors have been amended. Minntes is now -minutes and ungateful is now ungrateful. - - - - - - -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 42165-8.txt or 42165-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/1/6/42165/ - -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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