The World Before Them: A Novel. Volume 3 (of 3)

After a pause of some minutes, he looked up from the dead wife to his son, who was leaning against the bed-post, his face covered with his sole remaining hand.

"You may well mourn for your mother, Gilbert, many a salt tear she shed for you. The grief she felt for your cruel desertion broke down her constitution, and brought her to this."

"Father, I was not alone to blame," said Gilbert, in a hoarse voice.

"Yes—yes, lay the fault on the old man, he has no one now to take his part, but that poor lass whose heart he nearly broke."

"Father," whispered Dorothy, gently taking his hand. "Mother forgot and forgave that long ago. She loved you and Gilbert too well to cherish animosity against either. We are all human and prone to err. If she could speak, she would tell you to banish all these sinful heart-burnings, these useless recriminations, and prepare to follow her to the better land, where she has found peace and assurance for ever."

"I will, I will, if so be I could only find the way," responded Rushmere, with a heavy sigh. "Oh, God forgive me! I am a sinful man. I wish I could follow her dear steps, for I am a' weary o' my life."

He laid his head upon the pillow beside his wife, and the tears streamed from his closed eyelids down his pale cheeks.

"Come, let us leave him," said Dorothy. "He will feel calmer soon. And here is dear Mr. Martin, who can better soothe him in his grief than we can. Oh, I am so glad you are come," she whispered to the good curate, as she followed the rest of the family from the room. "He is dreadfully afflicted. Poor old father, he loved her so much."

The four days that intervened between Mrs. Rushmere's death and the funeral were very trying to Dorothy. She had to receive so many visitors, and listen to so many unfeeling remarks and questions regarding her future position in the Rushmere family, put to her with the coarse bluntness of uneducated people, who could not realize her grief for the loss of one who was not a blood relation. "Was she going," they asked, "to remain at the farm, or to take service elsewhere?" and they expressed great surprise that young Mrs. Rushmere had suffered her to remain there so long. Then, she was asked to give minute particulars regarding the terrible disease of which her foster-mother had died; of how she bore her sufferings, what doctor she employed, and what remedies had been applied? All this was trying enough to a sensitive mind; but they went further still, and utterly regardless of the wounds they were inflicting, demanded of the weeping girl, "If Mrs. Rushmere had left her anything, and who was to get her clothes?"

This important piece of information, was urged by no less a personage than Letty Barford, who in company with her mother-in-law and Miss Watling, called to look at the corpse.

"I think Mrs. Rushmere has done enough for her," said Miss Watling as they descended the stairs, "keeping her for so many years after all the trouble she has made in the family."

This was not said in Dorothy's hearing, but addressed to Mrs. Gilbert and her mother, to whom the party were offering their condolence.

"These interlopers are always a nuisance in families," said Mrs. Rowly. "This Dorothy Chance is a good enough girl, but my daughter will be very glad to get rid of her. It does not do to have two mistresses in a house, and she has been used to have her own way in everything."

"It was but natural," suggested the elder Mrs. Barford. "She was more than a daughter to them, and it must have been trying to Dorothy to give up the place she had held for so many years, with such credit to herself, to strangers. I pity her with all my heart; when does she leave you Mrs. Gilbert?"

"As soon after the funeral as possible. It is only on the old man's account that I allowed her to remain here so long. She is the only creature in the house that can manage him, but it is high time that all this should be put a stop to."

"You are perfectly right, Mrs. Gilbert," cried Miss Watling. "I think you have shown great forbearance in tolerating the presence of such a dangerous person in the house so long. While she was kept in her place as servant of all work, it was all very well; but since the Earl has taken her under his especial patronage, there is no bounds to her assumption and insolence. Would you believe it, ladies, he is paying for her education, and is actually having her taught to play upon the piano."

"Strange, that we never heard a word of this before," cried both the ladies in a breath. "Is she his mistress?"

"That's the inference which most people have drawn from such strange conduct on his part," and Miss Watling shrugged her shoulders significantly.

"I don't believe a word of it," cried the elder Mrs. Barford. "I heard just now, that Dorothy was going to live with Mrs. Martin, and she is too good a woman to tolerate such doings in her house."

"It is an easy thing for a man of Lord Wilton's rank and wealth to bribe people to hold their tongues," sneered Miss Watling. "It is nothing to me what she is, I shall never give my countenance to a person of doubtful character, and one so every way my inferior. It is a good thing for you, Mrs. Gilbert, that it has pleased God to take the old woman, or this artful girl might make mischief between you and your husband."

"Oh ma'am, I have no fears on that head," replied Sophia tartly. "I am not afraid of such a mischance. I saw very little of Mrs. Rushmere, and considering the nature of her complaint, I think her death a happy release; and if the old man were to follow his wife, it would not break my heart—"

"Sophia, you should not speak your mind so freely," said her mother shaking her head. "But indeed, ladies, my daughter has been treated with so little respect by the whole family, that you must not wonder at her indifference at the death of a mother-in-law, who hardly said a civil thing to her since she came into the house. Of course it was the interest of this girl, Chance, to set the old folk against us, in the hope, which I have every reason to believe she entertained, that they would leave her all their personal property."

"Has the old woman left her a legacy?" demanded Letty, with breathless interest.

"Not a thing. Her sudden death prevented that. The old man wanted to give her all his wife's clothes and some of the fine linen, which he said belonged to Dorothy; but Sophia lifted up her voice against it, and the creature refused to accept the least thing, when she found that she could not get all."

"Just like such domestic sneaks," cried Miss Watling. "I am so glad she was disappointed. It will serve as a warning to others like her."

Shaking hands with Mrs. Gilbert in the most affectionate manner, and hoping that they would soon become excellent friends, Miss Watling and the two Barfords took their leave, all but the elder of the twain, delighted with Mrs. Rowly and her daughter, whom Miss Watling pronounced, a very sweet, lady-like young person.

Until the morning appointed for the funeral, the poor old yeoman had confined himself entirely to his own room, beside the coffin which contained the mortal remains of his wife. On that morning, however, he rose early; washed his pale, haggard face, and shaved himself, and put on with unusual care, the mourning suit his son had provided for the melancholy occasion. Kissing with reverence the cold brow of his wife, he screwed down the lid of the coffin with his own hands, "that no one," he said, "should see her again, or rob him of that last look. It was now time for him to gird up his loins and act like a man."

Dorothy hearing him stirring, brought up his breakfast, for he had tasted nothing but bread and water for the last four days, and she knew that he must be weak and faint from his long fast. She found him standing behind the closed curtains of the window, looking mournfully into the court below. At the sound of the light well known footsteps, he turned to her and held out his hand. Dorothy threw her arms about his neck, and for some minutes they mingled their tears together. At length, rousing himself, Rushmere placed his large hand upon her bent head, and solemnly blessed her.

"Dolly," he said, "Dolly, my dear child, had I only known the woman that now fills the place in this house that you ought to have held, I would ha' seen my right hand struck from my body afore I would ha' refused my consent to your marriage with Gilbert. I ha' been punished, terribly punished for my folly and sin, ever since yon deceitful woman came into my house to lord it over me and mine. Night and day I hear Mary's voice, repeating to me over an' over again, the words she said to me on that sorrowful morn that Gilly first left his home, an' I turned you out friendless upon the pitiless world. You, who I ought to ha' protected to the last hour o' my life. 'Larry, as a man sows, so must he reap.' Oh, my daughter, what sort o' a crop am I likely to reap with these women when you be gone?"

"They will be kinder to you, father, when I am away."

"Not a bit, not a bit. It is not in their natur, child. People cannot act agen natur. The only thing that reconciles me to my Mary's death, is, that she will not have to put up with their evil tempers, and that you, Dolly, will be removed from their malice."

"Dear father, don't vex your mind with anticipating troubles; they always come soon enough without opening the door to call them in. Come with me into the next room and eat a bit of breakfast. You have been fasting too long, and look as weak as a child. I have cooked the steak with my own hands that you might have it nice."

"Ay, Dolly, you wor allers a first-rate hand at making good cheer. Yon Lunnon fine lady wu'd starve a body with her dirty ways."

"Don't think of her, father," said Dorothy, leading him by the hand like a child into the adjoining room, where she had a small table neatly spread, and his breakfast all ready. "You must do justice to my cooking. It is the last meal your poor Dolly will ever cook for you in the old house."

"Oh, that it wor the last a' would ever want to eat," sighed Rushmere, wiping his eyes, and consenting to partake of the meal so temptingly spread before him.

After moving the dishes, Dorothy entreated him to go down stairs, and take a turn in the open air, to revive him after his confinement in the close atmosphere of the death-chamber. But this the old man could not be persuaded to do.

"I wu'd not ha' minded, Dorothy, had the day been wet." And he looked sadly toward the window, where the gay sunbeams were glancing through the closed white drapery, "but such a fine morn as this, wi' the birds singing gaily, as if they never knew sorrow or care, an' the blessed beams o' the young sun laughing in the glistening drops o' dew, an' all things o' God's making, but man, looking so bright and cheery, just maddens me wi' grief, to think that my Mary will never look upon this beautiful world again. It doth seem grievous to the wounded heart, that natur is allers happy; an' to-day I can't stand the smile on her gladsome face; it wu'd comfort me to see it covered up in storm and cloud. You know the old saying, Dolly, 'Happy is the corpse that the rain rains on.'"

If there was any truth in the old rhyme, Lawrence Rushmere's wish was gratified. The beautiful morning rapidly clouded over, and just as the funeral procession left the house, the storm burst over the melancholy train in awful thunder-claps, accompanied by floods of rain. Every one was drenched and looked uncomfortable, but the chief mourner. He held up his sad, pale face to the pitiless shower, as if its desolating progress was in unison with his own sad heart; nor did the tempest abate its fury until the sods were piled upon the narrow bed which separated him from the love of his youth.

CHAPTER V.

"I cannot recognize the presence of God in this place, as I once did," she thought, "where every word spoken to me is a provocative to evil, to do as they do, not to do as I would be done by. I have daily prayed to be delivered from evil, and kept from temptation, and have too often yielded to the snares laid to entrap my soul. It is hard to dwell with the scorner, and escape free from contamination."

She was just cording her trunk, ready for its removal to the parsonage, when Mrs. Gilbert suddenly entered the attic.

"I wish to look into that trunk before you take it away."

"May I ask why, Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere?"

"To see that you have taken nothing but what belongs to you."

"Certainly, if you are mean enough to suspect me of such baseness," and the hot blood rushed into Dorothy's cheeks, and her dark eyes flashed with a bright light, that made the cold flaxen haired woman recoil before them. "But hold," she cried (as Mrs. Gilbert laid her hand on the trunk,) "I shall not give you the key, except in the presence of competent witnesses, lest the heart that conceived such an insult should belie me also."

Springing down stairs, and scarcely feeling them beneath her feet, she encountered Gilbert in the hall.

"Come with me upstairs, Mr. Gilbert."

"Dorothy, what ails you? Why are you so dreadfully excited? Have you seen anything?" He had heard of her encounter with the supernatural on the heath, and for a moment was possessed with the idea that she had seen the apparition of his mother.

"It is no risen angel," cried the excited girl, "but a human fiend! I want you to see. Follow me, Gilbert, if you ever loved me, and vindicate my honour."

Alarmed, for he had never seen Dorothy in such a passion before, and anxious to learn the cause of her distress, he followed her swift footsteps into the attic, where he found his wife still standing beside the half-corded trunk, tapping the floor with her foot, and humming the tune of a country dance.

She smiled disdainfully, as Dorothy put the key into Gilbert's hand.

"Here is the key of my trunk; will you please to open it, and empty the contents upon the floor?"

"What for Dorothy? you amaze me—what have I to do with it?"

"To satisfy the suspicions of that woman, I cannot call her lady, the lie would choke me. She has demanded the inspection of its contents, lest I should leave the home of my childhood, on the night of my beloved mother's funeral, with stolen goods in my possession."

At the mention of Mrs. Rushmere's name, who had so loved and trusted her, the hot fire of anger was quenched, and she turned so faint, she had to lean against the low wall of the attic for support.

"What a fine piece of acting," sneered Sophia, "it's a pity the girl had not been brought up for the stage."

"Is it possible, Mrs. Rushmere," and Gilbert looked and spoke sternly, "that you can have disgraced yourself and me in this outrageous manner, and cruelly insulted a noble girl, whose shoe latchet you are not worthy to unloose."

"Open the trunk. Don't talk in that style to me; I have my doubts as to this fine young lady's honour, and I don't mean to leave the room until they are satisfied."

"Mr. Gilbert, do what she requires, or, after I am gone, she may accuse me of theft, when I am not here to defend my character."

"That cannot be recovered, that was lost long ago," said the cold-hearted woman.

Gilbert reluctantly opened the trunk, and his wife, coolly kneeling down upon the floor, proceeded to toss over its neatly arranged contents; presently she dived down among the clothes, and, quickly withdrawing her hand, held up two silver table spoons.

"Who do these belong to?" she cried with a laugh of fiendish triumph.

"They are not mine," said Dorothy, trembling from head to foot. "They were never placed there by me."

"Oh, of course not. Every thief is honest till they are found out. I suppose you never saw these spoons before."

"I have cleaned them a thousand times," said Dorothy calmly, for she saw that she was in her enemy's power. "They were on the dinner table to-day. I have not seen them since. In what manner you have contrived to produce them out of my trunk, God only knows. This I can declare in His holy presence, that I never placed them there."

"You need not assert your innocence, Dorothy," replied Gilbert, who had seen an expression on his wife's face that convinced him that she was the incendiary. "I know you too well to believe you guilty for a moment."

"That's all very fine, Lieutenant Rushmere, but facts are stubborn things. I like to unmask hypocrisy, I would therefore thank you to send one of the men to town for a constable, to convey this virtuous, honest Miss Chance to jail."

"I want further conviction of her having committed an act deserving such rigorous measures," said Gilbert.

"What farther do you need? This is no case of circumstantial evidence. You have the proofs in your hand. Do you think, sir, that I would condescend to deceive you?"

"'S death! Madam," cried Gilbert in a towering passion, "it would not be the first time;" and, still keeping the spoons which he had taken from her in his hand, he went to the door and called Martha Wood. The girl came up stairs on hearing her master's voice. He went into the passage to meet her, so that no eye telegraphing could take place between her and her mistress.

"Martha, did you wash the two large silver gravy spoons after dinner?"

"Yes, sir. What do you want with them?"

"That's nothing to you. Did you put them into the plate-box?"

"No, sir, I gave them to Mrs. Gilbert: she said she wanted them for a particular purpose. I need not be so nice in cleaning them, she said she would have a good joke to tell me about them before night."

"Woman, do you hear what this girl says?" asked Gilbert, stepping back into the room. "Who deserves to be sent to prison now?"

His wife only answered by recommencing the same tune in a louder strain, as she glided snake like from the room.

"Oh, my God, I thank thee!" said Dorothy, raising her clasped hands. "Thou hast delivered me from a doom far worse than death!" Taking Gilbert's sole remaining hand, she pressed it warmly between her own. "How shall I thank you, dear brother, for saving your poor orphan sister from disgrace and ruin?"

"Remember me in your prayers, Dorothy. I can no longer pour out my heart to you, as in the old happy days, when we were all the world to each other; but there is no sin in asking you to pray for me, a disappointed and most unhappy man."

He left the room, and Dorothy's lips quivered, and tears again welled up in her eyes, as she caught a half smothered moan, that told more than words could do, the bitter anguish that was eating out his heart.

She found the old man moping on the stone bench in the court-yard, his head bowed upon his hands, his face completely hidden by the snow-white locks that fell over it in tangled confusion—the beautiful silky hair of which his wife had always been so proud, which she loved to brush over her fingers, before he went to church or market. Who was there to take pride in the handsome old man now? Gilbert had grown reserved and shy; there seemed little confidence or affection between the father and son. Dorothy's heart bled for the lonely old man, left so desolate and uncared for in his heavy affliction.

"Good-bye, dear father, don't fret yourself ill; I shall see you at church every Sunday, and we can have a nice walk together after service on the common, to talk over the good old times. You will be sure to come, won't you?"

"Yes, my darling, if only to see her grave. I know you can't bide here, Dorothy, that woman would be the death of us both. But if I wor sick or dying, would you come and nurse the old man who used you so ill?"

"Yes, that I would; if Mrs. Gilbert were to bar the door in my face, I would climb in at the window. But, cheer up, father, God is good, there may be many happy days in store for you yet. You must try and live for my sake."

She put the white locks back from the old man's ample forehead, and, kissing him tenderly, went her way without casting a backward glance on the old house.

Before we follow Dorothy to the pleasant home of her friend, Mrs. Martin, we will step into Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere's chamber, and hear what is passing there.

When, detected by her husband in her design to ruin Dorothy, she had borne the exposure of her cruel treachery with an air of insolent nonchalance, and left the room singing—a common artifice with low-bred people, who attempt to hide their malignity by an affectation of gaiety and perfect indifference. The snake hisses before he strikes his victim, perhaps to give him timely warning to make his escape. The human snake hisses to hide its disappointment, that it has shown its fangs in vain.

It was terrible when alone to witness the rage that disfigured the countenance of Sophia Rushmere when she found herself baffled in her cold-blooded treachery. The tune was changed to curses loud and deep, and threats of vengeance against the innocent object of her jealous hatred. She rated Martha Wood in no measured terms for the defeat of her well laid plot. That individual answered her with corresponding insolence.

"How should I know what you were after with the spoons? If you had told me, I could have sworn that I saw Dorothy steal them. What's the use of making a mystery about your doings to me? I should think I knew too much about your affairs before your marriage for that."

"But you must have been very obtuse, Martha," said her mistress, softening down, "not to perceive what I had in hand."

"I should, if I had got a sight of your face. In the manner that Mr. Gilbert stood in the open doorway, I did not see that you were in the room until the blunder was out."

"Do you know what he said about it after I left?"

"No, but I saw Dorothy go up to him and take his hand, and he bent down and kissed her. I saw that through a crack in the door!"

"The shameless wretch!" cried Sophy, stamping with passion. "But for your folly, I should have had her transported. Thank God! she's gone. I have got her out of the house at last, and I'll take good care that she never comes into it again."

"She is too near at hand, I should think, Mrs. Gilbert, for your peace. If your husband is as fond of her, as I hear folks say, that he once was, it is a very easy matter for them to meet on that lonely heath, even in broad day, and no one be a whit the wiser."

The artful girl was heaping fresh fuel on the fire she had kindled in the breast of her weak employer, and when she had nearly maddened her with her base insinuations, she went away laughing at her as a consummate simpleton.

Mrs. Rushmere did not go to bed. She sat up nursing her wrath, and waiting for her husband. The venom of Martha's poisoned arrows was rankling in her breast. She considered herself the injured party now, and no longer dreaded the indignant expression of his displeasure at her conduct to Dorothy. She would begin the battle first, accuse him of infidelity, and bear him down with a torrent of words.

Following out this idea, a terrible scene of mutual recrimination took place between the husband and wife, which ended, as such scenes generally do, in total alienation on his part, and frantic jealousy on her's.

Gilbert Rushmere had endeavoured to make the best of a bad bargain, and though he could not respect the woman who had tricked him into making her his wife, he had treated her with more consideration and kindness than she deserved.

The consciousness of having married her for money, involved a moral sense of degradation, which made him more lenient in his judgment, of the deceit practised against him; for had it not been mutual, he could not blame her without including himself in the same condemnation.

For a long time he listened in silence to her maddening speeches, trusting that the heat of her passion would wear out, that her tongue would grow tired with continual motion, and that, not meeting with any opposition, she would give it up as a useless task, and go to sleep. He was fully aware of her weakness, but not of her obstinate strength of will.

"Sophia," he said, when utterly wearied with her reproaches for imaginary injuries, "after the disgraceful scene this afternoon in the attic, it would be wiser in you to hold your tongue and go to sleep. If you wish me to retain any affection for you, let me never have a repetition of such conduct again."

"I shall not keep silence, sir, because you dare to tell me to hold my tongue. I shall speak when I please, and as I please, without asking your leave."

"Well, don't expect me to listen to such nonsense. My heart is overwhelmed with grief for the death of a dear mother. You surely take a strange time to distress me with your foolish and groundless jealousy."

"And you to show your preference for that vile woman, that hired mistress of your patron, Lord Wilton!"

"Good heavens! Sophia, what do you mean?"

"I mean what I say, what all the world knows but yourself. Do you think that I will condescend to be placed below this infamous creature in my husband's estimation, to be told that I am not worthy to untie her shoes. You don't know Sophia Rowly, if you can imagine that I will submit to such an indignity for a moment. I, who was born a lady, received the education of a lady, and was always treated as such, until I became the wife of Gilbert Rushmere, the son of an ignorant illiterate tiller of the soil."

"Who has given you a home when you had none, madam, when the debts you dishonestly incurred during my absence had made beggars of us all. This illiterate tiller of the soil made you mistress of his house, and placed you at the head of his table; and this is the way you abuse his generosity. It was an evil day for him, and those dear to him, when your foot crossed his threshold."

"You would rather have seen Dorothy Chance at the head of the table?"

"She would be the ornament of any table. You cannot make me believe the vile scandals propagated against Dorothy by such women as Nancy Watling. They are just as true, madam, as your accusations against her this afternoon, when nothing would appease your hatred to this beautiful girl, but sending her to prison, or getting her transported. It was murder, however you may disguise the fact; and in perjuring your soul to ruin her, you dared the wrath of God to damn yourself."

"Fine language, this, to address to your wife," said Sophy, cowering before her husband's withering and contemptuous glance.

"You deserve it!" he cried, in a voice of thunder.

"I scorn it!" she returned, with a faint laugh, and pointing at him with her finger.

"It is time, Sophia, that you and I came to an understanding," said Gilbert, becoming suddenly calm. "If you mean to persevere in this line of conduct, we must part!"

"The sooner the better!" she said in the same taunting tone, though inwardly terrified lest he should carry out his unlooked-for proposal; for, cold and selfish as she was, she entertained for him a passion that shed a vivifying heat into her torpid nature; it would have been love, had she been capable of the devotion and self-sacrifice that are the leading characteristics of that glorious sentiment. She saw the gulf that yawned at her feet, but was too obstinate to yield. Gilbert now spoke in a more earnest and decided manner.

"Sophia, do you really mean what you say?" There was something in the look and manner that was startling; he, at any rate, meant what he said. She would not retract, but remained obstinately silent. "Will you answer me?"

"Can you give me a separate maintenance?" she sobbed out at length. "Will you turn me and my mother out to starve?"

This difficulty had not occurred to him before. It was insurmountable. He had no means but what he derived from his father, and though as perfectly divorced in affection as the sanction of a legal tribunal could have effected, he was compelled, by a dire necessity, to wear the chain that avarice and ambition had rivetted.

They might henceforth sleep in the same bed, eat from the same board, and in public act towards each other as husband and wife, but they were as much divided in heart and confidence as if the wide ocean flowed between them. Gilbert kept his own secret. Sophia Rushmere gave hers to Martha Wood, who told it, as a greater secret, to Mrs. Rowly.

CHAPTER VI.

She pitied him because he was miserable, but he had brought his sufferings upon himself in a manner that she could neither excuse nor justify, and her compassion was of that mixed sort that made her feel ashamed of its object.

The insults she had received from his wife were still rankling in her breast; their low, base character made them unendurable to a sensitive mind, and she thought less of her former lover when associated with this woman whom he had accepted in her place for six thousand pounds. His bargain would have been a dead loss to him at treble that sum. He had ventured his all upon it, and had lost everything which makes life desirable: the love of a true heart, his own self-respect, and the fair prospect of domestic happiness. Dorothy felt it painful to witness his degradation, and the situation in which she had been placed precluded any attempt on her part to elevate his mind, and inspire hopes of a more exalted nature. She had a sad foreboding that this false step, though the first, was not likely to be the last, in a rapid downward career. What better could be expected from constant association with such a partner as he had chosen?

The mother, whose loss at that moment was pressing heavily on her heart, to whom Gilbert had always been an earthly idol, had been mercifully taken from the evil to come, and, much as Dorothy had loved her, she no longer wished to recall her to life, to preside over a home that Mrs. Gilbert's temper would render a domestic hell.

Dorothy was thankful for her emancipation from that house of misrule. She breathed more freely in the fresh air, and her heart once more expanded to the genial influences of nature. The evening was warm and balmy after the thunderstorm, and the golden sunset shed upon wet leaves and dewy grass a glory as from heaven. The birds sang in the glistening bushes by the roadside, and the air was rife with delicious odours, as if an angel had scattered his censor over the rebaptized earth.

The holy tranquillity of the scene chased away the dark shadows that, like spirits of evil, had been brooding for several weeks upon her mind, thoughts which were not of heaven, the remembrance of all those injuries that had been heaped upon her, making her angry and resentful, and anxious that her tormentors might be paid in their own coin.

Nature's vesper song to her Creator, poured from a thousand warbling throats, once more attuned Dorothy's sad heart to prayer and praise. Her soul fell prostrate to the earth, the green footstool of His glorious throne, and was gently raised by ministering spirits, and lifted towards heaven.

Near the parsonage, she met Mrs. Martin and the children coming to meet her. With what joy she kissed and embraced them all. What charming little tales they had to tell her of domestic life. Their rabbits had multiplied, their pigeons had all accessions to their families. Harry had discovered that very morning a nest of young kittens in the stable, belonging to Mrs. Prowler, the cat, and they were not to be killed or sent away, until dear Dolly had picked out the prettiest for little Arthur, who was going to name it Dolly, in honour of their dear friend. Then they told her that Johnnie had been ill, but was able to sit up now, and he wanted to hear all the nice stories she used to tell him, and sing to him his favourite hymns; and Dorothy's weary heart overflowed with happiness to find herself once more among faithful and loving hearts.

After having taken her the round of the garden, to look at all the flowers she had helped them in sowing and planting, and pointing out the prettiest blossoms, and gathering her a choise nosegay, they went gamboling before her into the house, wild with joy that she had come to live with them never to go away again.

"There is another friend very anxious to see you, Dorothy," said Mrs. Martin, as they passed the well known study door. "Mr. Fitzmorris arrived by the mid-day coach. He looked ill and fatigued, and I persuaded him to lie down for an hour or two, until Henry returned from Storby, where he had to attend a vestry meeting after poor Mrs. Rushmere's funeral. I wonder if he is awake." She gave a low rap at the door, and Dorothy's heart leaped to the sound of the gentle voice that bade them come in.

"Go and speak to him, Dorothy. The sight of you will do him good, and help to dissipate his melancholy."

At that moment the door opened, and Gerard received them with his usual frank kindness. Dorothy's black dress informed him of what had happened. He took her hand and led her into the room, making her sit down in the study chair while he drew his seat beside her.

"My dear friend, I see how it is. You have lost that excellent mother. I did hope I should see her again, and administer to her the glorious symbols of Christ's undying love, before she sank to rest. God has ordered it otherwise. Did she suffer much in that last conflict, which all foolishly dread and shrink from?"

"She was spared all its terrors, Mr. Fitzmorris; she died in sleep. To judge from the beautiful serenity of her face, her waking was in heaven."

"I too have looked on death since last we met. In death itself there is nothing terrible; it is but the returning wave of life flowing back to Him, and may be regarded as the birth of spirit to its higher destiny. But oh, Dorothy, the death that I lament, that I would have given my own life to avert, was one of such a painful nature, so sudden, so unlooked for, by the dear thoughtless being, who cared not for his soul, scarcely knew that he possessed one, that I can feel little hope in his case. Struck down in a moment in the vigour of manhood; of all the wasted years of a misspent life, he could not redeem one hour from time, to prepare for eternity. It is terrible, heart-crushing, but it is God's will, and what am I that I should dare to murmur at a just decree!"

"But did you ever warn him of his danger?" asked Dorothy.

"I have nothing to reproach myself with on that head. After my own conversion, I besought him with tears and prayers, with all the eloquence which conviction can give, to turn from the errors of his ways. He laughed at my enthusiasm, and called me a madman and a fool, refused to listen to my earnest appeals, and finally shunned my company. I loved him too dearly to be baffled thus. I wrote constantly to him, and laid my own heart bare, in the hope of winning his, but he refused to answer my letters, and at length returned them to me unopened. I had no other resource left, but to pray for him. But my prayers have returned into my own bosom, and my brother went down to his grave, and gave no sign. He lived two days after his accident, but was never conscious for a moment."

"It may be better with him than you suppose," suggested Dorothy. "Though unconscious to you, his soul may have been vividly awake to its spiritual danger; and petitions for mercy which he could not utter in the hearing of man may have been heard and answered in heaven."

"Thank you for that thought, dear girl, it is suggestive of some comfort. The thief on the cross might have been as regardless of his duty to God and his fellow men, as my poor brother; yet, his petition received a gracious hearing and a blessed promise. We cannot judge others as the great Searcher of hearts judges them. Many a criminal in our estimation may shine hereafter a gem in His crown."

There was a pause for some minutes, and Gerard Fitzmorris continued pacing the study with rapid steps, so wrapt up in his own thoughts, that he had almost forgotten the figure in black that sat so pale and still in his easy chair.

"Come and take a turn with me in the open air," he said, suddenly returning to her side. "The atmosphere of this place is close and stifling, the evening excessively warm. I can always think and speak more freely beneath the canopy of heaven."

Dorothy had not removed her bonnet and shawl, and they strolled out upon the heath. During their ramble, he made her recount all that had happened since Gilbert's return, and was shocked at the manner in which she had been treated.

"There is only one way to punish such people," he said, "to return good for evil. It is not only the best, but the easiest way, and the peace and satisfaction it confers, repays the injury a thousand fold. I have tried it in many instances, and have experienced its happy results."

"It sounds excellent in theory," said Dorothy, "but I find it a hard doctrine to reduce to practice."

"Nay, Dorothy, it is the theory which is difficult; for our sinful human nature with its perverted reason, rebels against it, the other course being more in unison with its vindictive feelings, and the spirit of retaliation by which we are more or less governed. If, however, we make the slightest effort on the side of mercy and forgiveness, the Spirit of God working with our spirit, makes it not only easy, but brings with it the utmost peace and satisfaction, verifying even the old pagan maxim, 'that virtue is its own reward.' Our blessed Lord would never have promulgated a doctrine which could not be reduced to practice, and which he carried fully out in his own person."

"But then, He was so different from us."

"Not while He partook of our nature. He was subjected to temptations as great, or even greater than those that He taught us by precept and example to shun. If there had been no conflict with evil, there would have been no victory. Remember He fought the battle for us alone and single handed, without praying for the legion of angels to assist Him in the awful struggle. We have not only His example to help us, but the powerful aid He promised to all who would take up the cross and follow Him. Our very weakness constitutes our strength when upheld by His saving arm."

After a walk of some minutes in silence, he said in a more lively manner. "Dorothy, you must forgive this cruel woman, and only indulge the God-like revenge of doing her good for the evil she has done to you. Take her conduct as a life trial, and bear it with the courage of a Christian."

"I will endeavour to do so," returned Dorothy, "and when you are near to advise and strengthen me, I do not feel it so hard to restrain these resentful feelings; but, directly, I am left to myself, I grow fierce and angry, and wish that my persecutors may meet with the punishment they deserve."

"Dorothy!" said Mr. Fitzmorris, stopping and looking earnestly into her face. "Will you answer me truly, a simple and straightforward question?" His companion looked up with a wondering smile. "Would you like to remain always with me, Dorothy? Will you become my bosom friend—my faithful counsellor—my beloved wife, bound to me by that blessed and holy tie, 'the love of Christ.' One with me in heart and purpose, in the bond of faith and love and charity with all mankind. Answer me, Dorothy, fully and freely, with the beautiful candour which makes you so charming in my eyes. Can you love me, as well as you loved Gilbert Rushmere?"

"Yes better than anything on earth," whispered Dorothy, without venturing to lift her eyes, or wipe away the tears she was unable to restrain, and sinking into the arms which were held out to receive her. "I never knew what it was to love truly, devotedly and with my whole heart until now."

"We are one, my own Dorothy, my beloved, in heart and soul, and henceforth I trust for ever," and he sealed the contract of their engagement with a kiss as pure from the dross of passion, as the young mother bestows upon her firstborn child.

"Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, I am not worthy of your love;" sobbed Dorothy. "A highly connected man like you should seek out a fitter mate than me."

"You should have thought of that before you gave your sanction to my proposal, little wife." And the old beautiful smile lighted up his face. "It is too late to draw back now. If I did not love you better than the world and its foolish conventionalisms, I should not have asked you to be mine. I value the gift that God has bestowed upon me, too highly, to give it up for the prejudices that belong to wealth and caste. You have made me very happy, Dorothy darling, as little Henry calls you. Poor little fellow, I am afraid that he will feel very jealous of his big rival."

And Dorothy was happy, too happy to waste her joy in words. As she leaned upon the strong arm of her noble protector, she realized the delightful consciousness, that she was no longer alone in the world.

The lovers lingered upon the heath talking over their future prospects, until the moon rose and shed her melancholy loveliness on ocean and heath.

They were not to marry until after Lord Wilton's return, and Gerard thought it advisable, that both should write to him and make him acquainted with their engagement. He did not wish it to be kept secret. He thought that Dorothy's claim upon his protection would prevent unpleasant scandal, silence the foolish tattling of her former acquaintance, and conduce to her own peace and comfort. His character stood too high for his conduct to be attributed to base and dishonourable motives; and as his affianced wife, Dorothy would rise in the estimation of her worldly neighbours.

They found Mrs. Martin waiting tea for them, and wondering what had detained them so long from the social meal. The shy, conscious look on Dorothy's face revealed the mystery, which Gerard wholly cleared up, when he pleasantly introduced her to his old friends as his future wife.

"Lady Dorothy Fitzmorris," said the curate, rubbing his hands with great glee, "I wish you much joy."

"The title is rather premature," returned Gerard, gravely, "though it may fall to her only too soon. You know, Henry, that Gallio careth for none of these things. For the last three years I have been looking for a wife that would answer Solomon's description, 'A woman whose price is above rubies,' and I am fully persuaded that I have found my ideal in the dear girl before you. It little matters to me whether she be a peasant or a princess. The highest of all titles is comprised in that of a Christian."

"Mr. Fitzmorris, I honour you for your choice!" cried Mrs. Martin, "and rejoice at the good fortune of our young friend."

Dorothy, overwhelmed with the unexpected turn that her affairs had taken, sat with downcast eyes and averted head, in order to conceal her quivering lips and fast-coming tears; yet she was happy, far too happy to speak, and would gladly have left the table, to escape observation and commune with her own heart in the solitude of her chamber.

Gerard saw her confusion, and in order to restore her self-possession, called out gaily, "I hope, Mrs. Martin, you have reserved for us a good cup of tea, and have not been guilty of destroying Henry's nerves by giving him the strength of the pot. I assure you, I feel viciously hungry after a long day's fast, and am not yet sufficiently spiritualized to live wholly upon love."

Strangely enough, this speech, which was meant to raise Dorothy's spirits, recalled forcibly to her memory the conversation between herself and Gilbert Rushmere at the stile, when she had rallied him for saying, in such passionate terms, "That if she refused to marry him, he would die of love." And now she was the betrothed of another, with a heart overflowing with joy and gratitude that she could never be Gilbert's wife, while he had united his destiny with a woman whom he could neither love nor honour, and was more likely to die the victim of avarice than love. "How inscrutable," she thought, "are the ways of Providence. How little human wisdom could predict such a result."

Dorothy was no longer banished from the sacred study. Gerard insisted on her taking possession of the great leathern chair, while he composed those heart-searching sermons that were making his name known as an eloquent preacher.

When absorbed in his own meditations, the pale, fair-haired priest seemed scarcely conscious of her presence; but if, by chance, he encountered her look of devotional tenderness, the wonderful eyes responded with an earnest gaze of love and peace—their owner sometimes observing, with a sigh, "Dorothy, darling, I am too happy." Then Dorothy would creep to his side, or sit down on the stool at his feet, just to feel the pressure of his large white hand on her ebon ringlets, and hear him say, in his rich, deep voice, "God bless you, my dear girl."

And when the writing was laid aside for the day, and she accompanied him in his visits to the poor and suffering, she enjoyed with unspeakable delight the walk over the heath, and the share he allotted to her in his ministrations of charity.

Poor old Francis died during Mr. Fitzmorris' absence, but he still continued his visits to Hog Lane, to read and pray with its half-heathen inhabitants. He had made slow progress in the conversion of old Mrs. Bell, but her grandson, Ben, had become a reformed character, and was a monitor in Storby Sunday-school. Speaking of the grandmother, he said:

"It was difficult to make any religious impression upon minds whose feelings and faculties were deadened and rendered indifferent by age and infirmity. If they do not seek God in youth or middle life, they seldom draw near to Him after reaching the appointed age of man."

Returning from one of these parochial visits, Dorothy reminded her lover of a promise he had once made to her, of telling her some of the events of his former life, and the circumstances that had led to his conversion, and induced him to become a minister of the Gospel.

"I am glad you have asked me, Dorothy, I feel quite in a communicative mood this evening. You have made me acquainted with every page in your short eventful history; it is not fair that you should be kept in ignorance of mine, uninteresting as it may appear."

They sat down upon a sloping bank, crowned with a screen of tall furze bushes, among whose honeyed blossoms, bees and butterflies were holding a carnival. The sun had not yet set, and his slanting rays gleaming over the wide heath, obscured every object with their golden radiance.

"It is a shame to turn our backs upon that glorious sunshine," said Dorothy, "but my eyes are dazzled and blinded by excess of light."

"What a type of the beautiful but fallacious visions of youth," said Gerard, "when we behold everything through a false medium, coloured by fancy to suit our own taste. Truth lies at the bottom of the picture, like the ragged landscape that the golden sunset hides from our view. While attracted by the brilliancy of his beams and building castles among the clouds, we forget the barren soil and the bare rocks beneath our feet. Mine is no tale of romance, gentle wife, though I have been a great dreamer in my day, but one of sad reality; and that I may avoid trespassing too much upon your patience, I will endeavour to be as brief as possible."

CHAPTER VII.

"My father, Colonel Gerard Fitzmorris, was brother to Sir Thomas, the father of the present Earl of Wilton. Gerard was many years younger than his brother; a large family having died between their respective births. He held the rank of colonel in the army, and served the whole of the American War of Independence, and had gained the reputation of a brave and distinguished officer. After the termination of the struggle, he returned to England, and married Lady Charlotte Granville, sister to the Lady Dorothy Fitzmorris. These beautiful and accomplished women, were the only children of the late Earl of Wilton.

"This was an excellent match for my father, in the common parlance of the world; but was one entirely of convenience on his part. He was a handsome dashing soldier, and was held in great esteem by men of his own class, who considered him the model of a perfect gentleman and a leader in the ranks of fashion, where he shone as a star of the first magnitude. In short, he was one of those easy-going reckless men, who are known among their companions as excellent fellows. Men, whose hearts are in the right place, who spend their money freely and are only enemies to themselves. They may drink, and swear, and gamble, and break God's commandments with impunity; drawing others into the same maddening vortex by their vile example; but the world, for which they live, excuses all their faults. They are of it, have sworn allegiance to it body and soul, and as long as they retain wealth and influence, it will continue to make idols of them.

"Colonel Fitzmorris, in addition to all these conventional advantages, possessed the act of pleasing in an eminent degree, and was admired and courted by the other sex as the beau ideal of manly beauty and elegance. Doubtless it was these external graces that captivated and won the heart of my mother.

"People wondered that the proud Earl should give his consent to the marriage of his daughter, with a man of moderate fortune and dissipated habits; but she was the child of his old age, the sole fruit of a second marriage; another petted idol of his heart. From a baby she had been used to have her own way, and the doting father could not withstand her passionate appeals to his parental affection, to be allowed to marry the man of her own choice.

"The Earl, in this case, appears reluctantly to have yielded to her wishes; and delayed the marriage until after she had attained her majority; hoping that time and the gaieties of London would divert her affections from my father, and concentrate them upon a more eligible object. She, however, remained firm to her attachment, and their marriage was celebrated with unusual magnificence. A prince of the blood royal gave away the bride, who inherited a fine fortune from her mother, which, I fear, was the sole inducement my father had in making her his wife.

"My poor deceived mother, I have every reason to believe, was passionately fond of her husband; but retiring in her habits, she lacked the art to secure the affection of a man of the world, and such a general lover as Colonel Fitzmorris was known to be.

"She was his legal wife, but not the mistress of his heart. In public he treated her with marked attention and politeness, which he considered due to a woman of her rank; in private she was neglected altogether, or regarded with cool indifference; and having no inclination for the ostentatious show of a life spent in public, my dear mother passed most of her time in the country with her infant sons, at the beautiful seat which had formed a part of her noble dower.

"While she continued to love my father, his conduct must have occasioned her great anguish of mind. A faithful female attendant has since informed me that most of her solitary nights were spent in tears. After every tender feeling had been torn and estranged, and indifference succeeded to love, she, unfortunately, transferred the affections which had never been reciprocated by her faithless partner, to a man who, had she known previous to her ill-starred marriage, would have been worthy of her love.

"General Halstead commanded the brigade in which my father was colonel, and was a constant visitor at the house. He was a man in middle life, with a fine, gentlemanly presence, frank, brave, and independent, had read and travelled much, and could talk well on most subjects. He was very kind to us boys, and we both loved him, for we saw a great deal more of him than of our father, who never kissed or played with us as General Halstead did.

"But to hasten a sad story. General Halstead sought and won the heart my father had trampled and spurned, and my mother eloped with her seducer to France. I have often since wondered how she could leave her two young sons, who were rendered worse than orphans by her rash desertion.

"I can just remember my mother. She was always gentle and kind to Francis and me. We so seldom saw our father that we loved her with the most ardent affection. I recollect the fatal night of her departure as well as if it were but yesterday. The weather was July, and oppressively warm, and Mrs. Starling, the nurse, put us early to bed, that we might not disturb Lady Charlotte, who was dressing to go to a large party, she said, 'and could not play with us that night.'

"I was a nervous, irritable boy. I could not sleep for the heat, and lay awake watching the moon, and the strange shadows thrown by the vine-leaves that encircled the window, upon the white curtains of my bed. At last I grew frightened by the grotesque shapes, which my too active imagination endowed with life and motion, when the summer breeze from the open window stirred the drapery.

"I began to cry piteously.

"A figure glided into the room, and sat down beside me on the bed. It was my mother. She was dressed for a journey, and wore a dark cloth riding habit, and a broad black velvet hat and white feathers. She was a tall, elegant-looking woman, more remarkable, I have been told, for her exquisite form than for her face. She was, if anything, too fair, with dark blue eyes and flaxen hair like my own. She used to call me her dear, white-headed boy, and congratulate herself on my being a Granville—her maiden name—and not a Fitzmorris. That night she looked very pale and sad, and seen in the white moon-light, appeared more like a ghost than a creature of warm flesh and blood.

"'What ails my darling boy?' she said, and took me out of the bed into her lap, pressing me tightly to her breast, and kissing the tears from my wet cheeks.

"'I am afraid, mamma.' I trembled and looked timidly towards the curtains.

"'Afraid of what?' and her eyes followed mine with a startled expression.

"'Of those things dancing on the bed curtains. Don't you see the black, ugly creatures, mamma?'

"'They are only shadows; they cannot hurt you, Gerard.'

"'Oh, yes, they can. They are coming for me. Don't let them carry me away.' I clung to her, and hid my face in her bosom. 'Oh, do stay with me, dear mamma, until I go to sleep! Don't leave me alone!'

"I felt her warm tears falling fast over my face. She kissed me over and over again, then tried to lay me down quietly in the bed. I did not want to go to bed, and I flung my arms round her neck, and held her with desperate energy.

"'Don't go! If you love me, mamma, don't go!'

"'I must go, my dear boy.'

"'What, to-night, mamma!'

"'Yes to-night, the carriage is waiting.'

"Her lips quivered, she wrung her hands with an impatient gesture. 'Don't ask any more questions, Gerard, I am going a long journey with a friend. Now lie down like a good boy, and go to sleep.'

"'And when will you come back?'

"She was weeping passionately, and didn't answer.

"'To-morrow?'

"She shook her head.

"'Then take me, too. I will be a good boy—indeed I will. But don't go away and leave me.'

"'I can't take you, Gerard. Where I am going, you cannot come.' She tried to unclasp my clinging arms, but it was some time before she succeeded, I held her so fast.

"'Oh my poor little boys! my poor little boys!' she cried, in an agony of grief, as she bent over me and kissed my sleeping brother. 'What a wretch I am to leave you to the care of such a father. Gerard,' she said softly, 'if I never come back, will you sometimes think of me, and continue to love your poor mother?'

"I was growing sleepy, and was too young to comprehend the terrible truth concealed by those words. I dimly remember, as in a dream, a tall man leaning over us, and extricating my mother from my clinging arms.

"'He is going to sleep, Charlotte, dearest, you should have spared yourself this trying scene.'

"'How can I live without them, Charles?' she sobbed, and stretched her arms towards us.

"'You must now live for me, Charlotte. We have ventured too far to go back. Come away, my love, it is time we were on board.'

"That was the last time I ever saw my mother. Before she left the room I was asleep, in blissful ignorance of the great calamity that had befallen me.

"Though guilty of a terrible crime, I have never been able to banish her from my heart—where she must ever remain, as one of the most beautiful visions of childhood.

"Poor, gentle, affectionate, ill-used mother, with a heart brimful of love and kindness, how dreadful the conflict must have been, between duty to a husband who never loved her, and fidelity to the man by whom she was passionately loved. Terrible must have been her mental struggles, before she resolved to burst those sacred ties asunder, and leave for ever the children so dear to her.

"Was she more guilty than the husband, who in defiance of his marriage vows, lived in open adultery with another woman, on whose children he bestowed the parental love he withheld from those born in lawful wedlock, wasting the noble fortune he obtained through his injured wife among disreputable companions, in low scenes of debauchery and vice.

"The world can always extenuate the fault of the male offender, and lay the blame solely upon his unhappy partner; insinuating that faults of temper, and a want of sympathy in his tastes and pursuits, was most probably the cause of his estrangement—unscrupulously branding her name with scorn and infamy.

"There is One, however, who weighs in an equal balance the cause and the effects produced by it in the actions of men, who will judge her more leniently. The merciful Saviour who said to the erring woman, dragged into His presence to be made a public example and put to a cruel death, 'Woman where are those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee? Neither do I condemn thee, go and sin no more.'

"Oh, how my bosom thrilled and my heart burned within me, when I read that text seriously for the first time, and thought of my poor mother, and was comforted with the blessed hope that she, too, might be forgiven."

Gerard's voice faltered, and Dorothy felt the strong frame tremble with emotion, but the stronger will conquered the human weakness, and he continued:

"My father's sense of honour, in the world's acceptation of the term, was stung by the desertion of his neglected wife. He learned that the fugitives had been seen in Paris, and lost no time in tracing them out. A duel was the result, in which my father received a mortal wound. His body was brought home and buried with due pomp in the family vault. My brother was seven years of age; myself a little chubby boy in frocks and trowsers; and we had to act as chief mourners in that melancholy pageant. We saw the coffin that contained the mortal remains of our father, the once handsome and admired Colonel Fitzmorris, placed in due form among the forgotten members of his ancient house; and after the nine days wonder was over, he was as much forgotten by his fashionable associates as if he had never been. The night before my father died by the hand of the man who had dishonoured him, he made a will leaving everything he possessed to my brother Francis. The settlement made from my mother's property on younger children, alone falling to my share. As there were no other younger children, and the property was considerable, I was nearly as independent as my brother.

"We were left to the guardianship of the Earl of Wilton, who you will remember was our maternal grandfather. The brothers Fitzmorris having married two daughters of that noble house, and females not being excluded from the succession, Sir Thomas Fitzmorris, the present Earl's elder brother, was the heir presumptive to the title and estates.

"Lord Wilton was a cold proud man of the world, and the slur that my mother's elopement, and subsequent marriage with General Halstead, had cast upon the family, did not enhance his love for her children.

"He took more to Frank than he did to me, though he said that he greatly resembled his rascally father. He was a handsome dashing boy, with the same winning popular manners that had contributed to the ruin of Colonel Fitzmorris. Fond of money, but only with the intent to spend it, from a child he paid great court to his wealthy grandfather, in the hope of becoming heir to the immense private fortune he had the power to bestow. In this fortune hunting, Edward Fitzmorris, the present Earl, was quite as much interested as my brother, but he pursued his object with a great deal more tact. The Fitzmorrises, though an old family, and highly connected, were not a wealthy family, and Captain Fitzmorris was a younger son, with little more to depend upon than a very handsome person, and his commission in the army.

"He watched us lads with a very jealous eye, giving us very little cause to regard him with affection. He was many years our senior, his father having married early, and ours late in life—in fact, he was a man, when we were noisy boys, not yet in our teens. It was only during the holidays that we ever met, as we were sent to Eton and then to college.

"It is of no use to tell you, Dorothy, of all the thoughts and follies, which too often mark a schoolboy's and a student's life. Suffice it to say that your grave Gerard was no better than the rest. A more frolicsome mischievous imp, never drew the breath of life, always in trouble and difficulties of some sort or another, and when at Oxford, the most daring leader of the wildest and most reckless set of young fellows that ever threw away fortune, health and respectability, at that famous seat of learning. How little I thought of religion in those days, still less of ever mounting a pulpit, or teaching the poor and ignorant.