"At twenty-one, I received from my grandfather a cadetship for India and went out as a soldier, to fight under the present Lord Wellington, who was then Sir Arthur Wellesley.

"You start, Dorothy. Your future husband a soldier! It is pleasant to read your astonishment in those large wondering eyes. I bear the marks of some hot service too, in sundry ugly scars which I regarded as badges of honour in those world-loving days. It was while suffering severely from one of these wounds, that I was sent home, to see if my native air could restore me to health.

"Before leaving India, I determined, if possible, to obtain an interview with my mother. I had never met her husband, though I had eagerly sought an opportunity to revenge upon him the death of my father.

"My mother, I found, had been dead several months, and her husband had been appointed to command a division in Spain. I was terribly disappointed that I could not shoot this man, who had been the best and kindest of husbands to the woman he had led astray from the path of duty, and was reported as almost inconsolable for her loss.

"When I returned to England, great changes had taken place. My grandfather was dead. My cousin Sir Thomas was likewise dead, and the present Earl, who had been for some years a widower, had come in for the title, and all the immense private fortune belonging to his grandfather.

"Of course, Francis and I felt ourselves very much aggrieved, that we were not mentioned in his will, and my brother who had been living a life of reckless extravagance, and hoping to pay off his debts with his share of the spoil, was terribly disappointed.

"My aunt, Lady Dorothy, for whom I had always felt the deepest regard, invited me to spend the time I remained in England, at her beautiful residence in Devonshire. It was here that I first met her charming cousin, Miss Julia Curzon, with whom I fell in love at first sight.

"Don't be jealous, little one, more episodes of this kind occur in the lives of men than women, and the first love, though remembered the longest, is not always the wisest or the best.

"I did love this fair accomplished girl with all the energy of youthful passion, and my love was not only returned, but accepted, and I looked forward to our union, as the consummation of my earthly happiness. I did not then suspect that she loved the world better than she did me, and was more afraid of incurring its censure than of rendering me miserable for life.

"Several months glided away in that earthly paradise, and in constant companionship with the woman I adored, I considered myself the happiest of men. I saw no clouds in my smiling horizon, and never anticipated a storm. The dark days came at length, that shrouded the sunbeams of hope in gloom and obscurity.

"The summer had set in with intense heat, and much sickness prevailed in the neighbourhood. A slight cold I had taken was succeeded by typhus fever of the most malignant type. When the nature of my malady was made known to the household, all the leading members becoming alarmed for their own safety, left the house, and fled to the sea-side. Julia deserted me without venturing to bid me farewell. Even my brother, who was on a visit with Lady Dorothy, abandoned me, as all supposed, on my death-bed, to the care of hirelings, who were indifferent about me, and more anxious that I should die than live, as in the former case, it would remove from them the sense of danger and responsibility.

"Oh, Dorothy, selfish and worldly as I had been, unguided by the holy precepts of religion, I hardly think that I could have deserted any one so near and dear to me as a betrothed wife and an only brother in such sore extremity. I was anxious to keep Julia and Francis out of danger, but their selfish conduct went home to my heart. I thought about it continually, and raved about their cruelty during the hours when fever and delirium were in the ascendant.

"One friend, however, remained constant to me in the hour of need, never deserting his post by my bed-side, a most tender and self-constituted nurse. He was the son of a small yeoman, who for the sake of good wages, with which he helped to maintain his widowed mother and her family, had undertaken the care of my horses, of which I possessed several splendid animals, being a keen sportsman.

"Charles Harley had formed a strong attachment to me, though I often laughed at him for his pious propensities. The young fellow, however, was so conscientious in the discharge of his duty, that he had won my respect, and, for his humble opportunities, was a man of superior endowments, possessing a fine intellect and strong good sense. In my rational mood he took great delight in reading the Scriptures to me. The monotony of his voice wearied me. I was so much indebted to him for his kind attention to me in my helpless state, that I did not like to wound his feelings by telling him to desist, that I wanted faith to believe in his dogmas, but I considered them a great bore, often pursuing my own train of thought without listening to him.

"The first night that the fever took a favourable turn, and my burning eyelids at last closed to sleep, I had an awful dream, or inspiration, I will call it, to rouse me from a state of careless indifference to the future, and set before me the urgent necessity of self-examination and repentance.

"I thought I was travelling with a gay and joyous set of companions, fellows to whom I was well-known, through a beautiful and highly cultivated country. My father and brother and my affianced bride formed part of the pleasure-seeking crowd. Some were on horseback, some on foot, and some in splendid carriages, but all intent on one object, and evidently bound to the same place.

"As I journeyed onward, somewhat behind the rest, there gradually rose before me in the east, the walls of a magnificent city, sloping back from the banks of a wide deep stream, in the depths of whose clear pellucid waters, towers and spires and majestic trees were reflected in golden splendour, the very sight of which created in me an intense desire, and impelled me forward to reach the height on which it stood.

"While feasting my eyes upon the novel spectacle, so different from anything I had ever before seen, a sudden halt took place in the foremost ranks of our jovial company, when noisy shouts and acclamations were changed into groans and shrieks and melancholy wailings.

"I hurried forward to ascertain the cause of the delay, and learn the reason of such frantic lamentations.

"It was then that I first discovered that, between us and the shining river that flowed beneath the walls of the golden city, extended a fearful gulf, of unknown depth, and shrouded in utter darkness, which completely intersected the country, precluding the possibility of any advance in that direction.

"From the yawning jaws of this frightful abyss, a lurid mist continually floated up, hiding the celestial city from my view. Into this hideous chasm, as if driven by an irresistible impulse or dire necessity, the crowd, so lately full of noisy merriment, slowly and surely disappeared. Some made desperate efforts to escape, and clung to the rocks and bushes, and called upon their comrades to save them from destruction; others plunged sullenly into the awful gulf, with stoical indifference to their fate, without asking assistance from their companions in misery, or uttering one prayer for mercy.

"I watched them one after another disappear, till my mind was overwhelmed with horror—till my hair stiffened on my head, and my limbs were paralyzed with fear.

"I could not utter a sound, or make an effort to escape from a doom which appeared inevitable. But my soul sent up a cry through that dense darkness, which reached, though unspoken, to the throne of the great Judge—'Save me, Lord, for I perish!'

"A flash of vivid lightning dispelled for a moment the black horrors of the scene, and revealed to me a cross towering above the dreadful abyss, and planted upon a rock, and one bound thereon like unto the Son of Man, pale, bleeding, and dewed with the death-agony, and written above his head, in characters of light, which revealed all the ghastly horrors of that dismal scene, I read these words: 'Look unto me and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.'

"That light pierced my soul like a two-edged sword, and pointed out the only way by which I could escape. I sprang forward. I toiled on hands and knees up the steep acclivity, and sank down gasping at the foot of the cross, embracing it with desperate energy in my arms.

"I awoke bedewed with a cold perspiration, and trembling in every limb.

"'Thank God, it is but a dream!' I cried, as I felt the clasp of Harley's hand, who had heard me scream in my sleep, and had hurried to my assistance. But such a dream—oh, such a frightful dream! So terrible—so real—it looked like truth.

"He gave me a composing draught, and, after a while, begged me to tell him what had frightened me so much in my sleep.

"I was ashamed to tell him my dream, for fear he should think me a coward for quailing before a mere vision of the night. But it haunted me continually. Waking or sleeping it was ever present to my mind. I still imagined myself standing upon the brink of that dreadful precipice—still heard the cries of my lost companions ringing in my ears, as the cloud received them in its sable folds, and the yawning gulf swallowed them up for ever.

"I no longer turned a deaf ear to Harley's prayers, or listened with indifference while he read to me the Word of Life. My heart responded to every petition, and I listened with intense interest to his simple exposition of passages of Holy Writ. My heart was now opened to conviction, and hungered and thirsted for a knowledge of divine truth with desperate eagerness. A horrible consciousness of guilt pressed so heavily upon my mind that it is a wonder my brain did not yield to the mental pressure.

"After a long struggle with pride, I revealed to Harley the state of my mind, and with many tears besought his advice and assistance. With what joy he embraced me, and mingled his tears with mine, and assured me that I was in the right path, that no man without repentance could ever hope to see God. That my dream was a solemn warning sent by Him, to show me the danger of delay, and called upon me to abandon my wicked courses, and lay down the burthen of my sins at the foot of the cross. He besought me, in the most eloquent language, not to neglect the heavenly vision, lest I should share the fate of those I had seen in my dream.

"I was still too weak to leave my bed or read for myself, and I fear I taxed the poor fellow's strength too much, in making him read to me for hours at a time. And then I prayed.

"Oh, Dorothy, have you ever experienced the mingled joy and agony of earnest, heartfelt prayer. When shocked at the cold indifference of your own heart, you have bowed your head in the dust as one bereft of all hope; when a sudden gleam of light has shot into your soul, revealing glimpses of heaven, and filling your mind with contentment and holy peace. Such a happy moment came for me at last, which repaid me a thousand fold for all my past sufferings, and the image of Christ was formed in my soul the hope of glory. I awoke to a new life—awoke to rejoice in Him for evermore, and cheerfully took up the cross to follow Him, and suffer—if called upon to do so—gladly for His sake.

"The first trial that awaited me after my recovery was the death of my dear friend, Harley, who took the fever from which a merciful God had suffered me to escape. I nursed him with the same devotion he had shown to me, and it was in my arms he passed from earth to heaven.

"If anything had been wanting to confirm my faith, and strengthen the resolution I had formed, of devoting myself to the Master's service, Harley's death-bed would have done it. His faith in Jesus was so perfect, his victory over the last enemy so triumphant, that it left no room for cavil or doubt.

"When my friends heard of my intention of leaving the army, and studying for the church, they pronounced me mad; and it was publicly reported through the country that I had lost my senses during the fever. My conversion was a standing joke among my gay companions, and my brother was never tired of quizzing me about it, and making it the subject of ribald jests. This was hard enough to bear; but when Julia Curzon whom I loved so truly, joined with the rest in ridiculing my absurd fanaticism, as she was pleased to call it, and declared that if I persisted in such folly she never would become my wife, I was sorely tempted to step back into the old path, and resign for her sake my new-born hopes of heaven. Fortunately for me I was saved from such wickedness by the young lady herself, who ran off with a rich country squire, with whom she had been flirting desperately at the sea-side during my illness.

"This ended my romance of life. I felt heartily ashamed of myself for having loved such a worldly-minded woman. My love for her was sincere, but I had no other basis to support it than mere beauty, and a certain amount of fashionable accomplishments. My castle was built upon the sands, and the foundations yielded readily to the first shock, and when it fell, though humbled and mortified, I regained my freedom. After this disappointment, I returned to college to redeem the time I had wasted there in the days of my reckless youth, and to study diligently for my profession. It was more than two years before I was satisfied with the sincerity of my belief, and my fitness for so sacred a calling, when I gladly accepted from Lord Wilton the parishes of Hadstone and Storby as Vicar under him.

"And now, little wife, you are acquainted with the leading points of my history, and nothing more remains to be told, so let us up and be walking home-wards, or we shall be too late for the school examination this evening."

Kissing the small hand that insinuated itself into his own, he lifted her from her lowly seat, and they returned to the parsonage in time for tea.

CHAPTER VIII.

That she was his daughter, he had little doubt. If a legitimate child, such a worldly-minded man, as he knew the Earl to have been in his younger days, would never have consented to see her the wife of Gilbert Rushmere, a man so much beneath him, in birth and education. The idea was preposterous, and fully convinced him that she was the offspring of some unfortunate connection, in which the Earl had suffered loss of honour, and perhaps a woman whom he had passionately loved.

Henry Martin represented him as a conscience stricken and unhappy man, who seemed anxious to make atonement for the evil acts of his past life, by deeds of benevolence and kindness.

"He has stumbled upon that great stumbling stone," said the good curate, "in thinking it possible to obtain the forgiveness of sins through acts of charity and self-sacrifice. If this could be done, there was no need of an atonement, and the cross would never have groaned beneath the weight of the Son of God."

Whatever was the nature of the tie that bound Dorothy to the Earl, it was involved in mystery, which Gerard Fitzmorris cared very little to solve. His love for Dorothy was so pure and disinterested, that had he found her begging along the highway, and been convinced of the noble qualities of heart and mind with which she was endowed, he would have thanked God, with all the fervour of his large heart, for giving him such a wife.

He made no allusion in his letter to these matters, but merely stated, that the admiration he felt for Dorothy Chance, and her unaffected piety, had kindled in his heart a sincere and ardent attachment, which had overcome the prejudices of education and caste, and induced him to make her his wife. That having lost her foster-mother, she had no place which she could properly call her home, or any legal protector to silence the shafts of calumny, that were already assailing her character in all directions. That he was happy in having secured the affections of the woman he loved, and he was certain that his noble kinsman as a friend to both parties, would rejoice in this happy union.

And Dorothy wrote to her absent friend all that was in her heart.

"Hadstone Parsonage.

"Dear Lord Wilton,

"I am no scribe, and never attempted to write a letter before in my life; so you must excuse the cramped hand, and all the other blunders and blots, which really I cannot help. I was in great trouble when I got your kind letter, for my poor mother was dying a cruel, painful death from cancer, and my heart was very sore with having to dress her wounds and witness her sufferings.

"I read your generous expressions of love and friendship, with the deepest gratitude, and entered into your sorrows with tears of true and heartfelt sympathy, wondering who I was to awaken such an interest in the mind of a great lord.

"Pondering this over and over in my own way, a sudden thought struck me. I will not mention it for I know it would pain you, perhaps, more than it did me. But it had reference to my unknown mother, and I felt very angry, and hoped that what I expected might not be the case, and that I might still continue to love and honour you, as heretofore, which indeed I could not do, if those wicked thoughts were true.

"They took such a hold of my mind, that I was going to tear your letter, and the draft you sent me to pieces, and trample them under my feet.

"I was saved from committing such an outrage, by my poor friend Mrs. Rushmere, who told me that I was acting very foolishly. You may know by this, that I am not so meek as I look, but a very vixen when bad thoughts get into my head.

"Oh, my good lord, you need not have told me that you were not my lover. Indeed, indeed, I never was so vain or presumptuous, to imagine such a thing, though if I had been such a little simpleton, it would not have been half so bad as the other crime of which I suspected you.

"I thank you much for your generous gift, but I have had no occasion to use it, and when you come back, I will return the draft to you.

"A great many things have happened since you went away. Gilbert came to visit his parents, and brought down with him his wife and her mother, and a very disagreeable servant girl, which put me sadly about, and mother so sick.

"When I saw Gilbert again, I wondered how I had ever loved him so much and made myself so miserable. He is far handsomer, is better dressed, and externally improved in every way, yet I felt glad that I could never be his wife.

"He was kind enough, but his women folk treated me very cruelly, and insulted me in every way they could. Their conduct was such, that if I had not promised dear mother to stay with her till all was over, I would have left the house the very day they entered it.

"They were not contented with insulting me themselves, but set the vulgar impudent girl they had with them to harass and annoy me in every way.

"These women called themselves ladies, but to me they seemed like ill-bred pretenders, who asserted their claims to respectability by treating with insolence and contempt those whom they considered inferiors.

"Oh, my lord, I was really ashamed of shedding so many tears about their unkind speeches and unwomanly remarks, but I found their conduct was making me as wicked as themselves.

"You knew my old dog, Pincher, the Scotch terrier, that you said should be called old Faithful, because he loved me so well. The vile girl, Martha Wood, actually murdered her mistress's pet poodle, that she might lay the blame upon poor Pincher. Tom, our farm servant, told me he saw her do it over the hedge. And Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere gave the wretch half a crown to hang my noble Pincher. I believe this treacherous girl would have betrayed our blessed Saviour for thirty pieces of copper. This, which will appear but a light matter to your lordship, caused me the keenest grief. When we have few friends to love us, the attachment of these simple creatures seems to me so touching.

"My dear mother was found dead in her bed on the tenth of last July. She had had a long conversation with me about her end, (which everybody saw was fast approaching) the night before, and was so tranquil and happy, and spoke so cheerfully of it, as a blessed release from great suffering, and of the perfect peace she enjoyed in the assurance of her Saviour's love, that it seemed an act of impiety any one wishing to detain her from her promised rest.

"I stayed until after the funeral to comfort the dear old man, and restore something of order to the house. While I was busy packing up my few things, to remove to dear Mrs. Martin's, young Mrs. Rushmere came into the room, and demanded of me the key of my trunk, that she might see if I had taken anything that did not belong to me! It made me feel dreadful. Oh, my lord, your good gentle Dorothy was turned into a fiend. But for the restraining hand of God, I believe I should have murdered her. Well, my lord, when she did examine my trunk—for I called up her husband, and made her do it before him, did she not produce the two large silver gravy spoons that belonged to the old covenanter, Sir Lawrence Rushmere, of whose picture father is so proud, as if by magic from the bottom of the box? Though I knew I was innocent, I am sure that I looked as if I was guilty. I could not have felt worse, if Satan himself had accused me before the throne of God.

"I was so bewildered, that I did not know how to defend myself, and when she told her husband to call in a constable, and send me to gaol, to be tried for theft, and I knew that the evidence might hang or transport me, I felt dumb with horror. Gilbert, however, suspected treachery, and proved my innocence past a doubt, through the evidence of Martha Wood, whom she had only partially made acquainted with her scheme to ruin me, and so a merciful Providence turned the tables against her.

"You may be certain that I was not long in leaving a house that contained such inmates, pitying Gilbert the possession of such a wife, and doubly pitying the poor forlorn old man, who must depend upon her for all his future comforts.

"And now, my lord, that I have wearied you with an account of all my troubles, I must tell you something that has made me very glad—so glad, that I consider myself the happiest woman in England.

"Mr. Fitzmorris loves me, and has asked me to be his wife. I know that I am not worthy to be the wife of such an excellent man, but if I am always with him, I cannot fail in becoming wiser and better, for I love him with all my heart, and feel in very truth that our union cemented on earth will last for ever.

"Mr. Fitzmorris has recently lost his brother, and our marriage will not take place before the spring. With sincere wishes for the speedy recovery of your son, and that your lordship may enjoy many years of health and happiness,

"I remain,

"Your grateful little friend,      

"Dorothy Chance."

Lord Wilton received this quaint and singularly candid letter a few days after the death of his son, and just as he was embarking for England, to carry the loved remains to their final resting place in the family vault.

This was not exactly the sort of letter Lord Wilton had waited so impatiently to receive. He had expected sentiment mingled with a dash of youthful romance, and he found only an unvarnished truthful statement of plain facts. One passage in Dorothy's epistle, however, instantly riveted his attention.

"Francis Fitzmorris dead!" he exclaimed, "and Dorothy's future husband heir to the earldom and estates. How strange! What an unexpected interposition of Providence to save me from exposure and disgrace, while she will lose nothing by that sad affair remaining an impenetrable secret."

What the Earl alluded to has yet to be explained.

Dorothy's engagement to the Vicar could not long be concealed in a small village like Hadstone; whether through servants, or the shrewd observation of neighbours, it soon leaked out.

Miss Watling was in arms in a moment, and stoutly denied the facts wherever she went. While old Mistress Barford insisted that the report was true, that she had heard it from the very best authority, from Mrs. Martin herself.

The dispute was at its height when the two women stepped into the hall at Heath Farm, in order to return a friendly visit from its present mistress.

"Have you heard the news, Mr. Rushmere?" said Mrs. Barford, addressing the old gentleman, who had greatly failed since his wife's death, and was composing himself for an afternoon nap in the great chair.

"What news?" quoth he, "there's very little news that can interest me now."

"Your old favourite, Dorothy Chance, is going to be married."

"Ay, that's summat, though," and he leaned eagerly forward, and quite wide awake. "She'll make an excellent wife whoever has the luck to get a'. Who's the man?"

"No less a person than the Vicar, young Mr. Fitzmorris. There's a chance for her."

"What our Dolly marry the parson!" and he rubbed his hands in great glee. "Good for her."

"I beg, Mr. Rushmere, that you will not believe a word of it," cried Miss Watling. "A very likely thing indeed, for a man of his condition to marry the child of some miserable vagabond. It's a story all got up, between Dorothy and Mrs. Martin, to throw discredit on Mr. Fitzmorris, who everybody knows, is not a marrying man."

"No discredit, I should think, to him or to any one," said Gilbert, turning with a flushed face from the window, where he was standing, "if marrying a beautiful virtuous woman can be a disgrace."

"That's right, Gilbert, speak up for your old love," sneered Nancy, unrestrained in venting her spleen by the lowering brow of Gilbert.

"But, ladies," she continued, "is it probable that this man, who is now Lord Wilton's heir, will ever make such a woman as that a countess?"

"Ah," said Mrs. Barford, "I told you more than a year ago, Nancy, that we might live to see Dorothy Chance ride to church in her carriage."

"I'll believe it when I see it," remarked Mrs. Rushmere; "I should as soon expect seeing Martha Wood a countess."

"The girl is very pretty," said Mrs. Rowly, "there is no denying that; but I don't believe that she is either virtuous or over honest. My daughter caught her stealing silver spoons."

"How—what's that, who dares to call Dorothy a thief?" cried old Rushmere, starting to his feet. "If it were Goliath of Gath, I would tell him he lied. That a' wud."

"My wife did," replied Gilbert sullenly, "and had to eat her words. I think, Sophia, considering the part you took in that infamous affair, it would have been better for you to have held your tongue."

"Always against your wife, sir. But I know the reason why you are so savage this afternoon. You don't like to hear that Dorothy Chance is going to marry a better man than yourself," replied Sophia, in her softest tone.

"She deserves it, as much as I did a better wife."

He left the room slamming the door after him. Miss Watling raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders, and cast a pitying look towards his wife. Sophia smiled, "that's a warning to all young unmarried ladies, Miss Watling, not to be too eager to get a husband. I can assure them, that it is far better to remain single."

"You may spare such advice, Mrs. Rushmere, it will never appear rational, except to the initiated," said Mrs. Barford. "From the time of Eve down-wards, old maids and young maids never will give up the hope of getting married. I had a maiden aunt of sixty, who put this proviso in her will: 'I leave all my personal property to my nephew, James Stanton; but in case of my marrying, an event not impossible, though rather improbable, I revoke the said bequest.'"

"If men are such bad folks," said old Rushmere, "I want to know, Mrs. Barford, why all the widdies are so anxious to thrust their heads again under the yoke?"

"They have met with one bad husband, and hope to get a better," returned Mrs. Rowly, thinking that in duty bound she ought to speak up for them. "There is one piece of advice, however, which I, who have been some years a widow, would give to both widows and maids. Never to marry a cross superannuated old man!" and she cast a scornful glance at the master of the house.

"Sour grapes," muttered the old Rushmere. "One she-fox is enough in a house, without having two to eat the grapes."

"What did you say about foxes, Mr. Rushmere?" asked Miss Watling, very innocently. "Have they been troubling your poultry lately?"

"Yes, Nancy, eating me out of house and home. I wish a' could get rid of such troublesome vermin."

"You must feel the loss of your wife very much?" remarked the same kind individual.

"More an' more every day. While Mary lived, I had a quiet comfortable home, but now, I am no longer master o' my own house. Ay, times are changed, but it won't be for long." And taking up his staff he hobbled out.

"The poor old man is failing very fast," said Mrs. Barford. "What a hale strong man he was a year ago."

"Oh, he frets, and fumes, and finds fault with everything," returned Mrs. Gilbert. "It's of no use attempting to please him—in fact, I now never try. A nice house it would be if I allowed him to interfere. Between him and his son I lead the life of a dog."

"How do you get on with the dairy, Mrs. Rushmere?" asked Mrs. Barford. "Heath Farm was always celebrated for its butter and cheese."

"I have given all that up," returned Mrs. Gilbert. "I can tell old Rushmere and his son that they won't make a dairy-maid of me."

"But how will you live without it? The farm is fit for nothing else?"

"I don't care. I just get Martha to make enough butter to supply the house. The old fellow grumbles and says, it's only fit for cart grease. But if I can eat it, I am sure he may. I won't put up with his airs."

"Poor old man!" sighed Mrs. Barford, as they left the house. "It's very plain to me how all this will end. Gilbert can't work, and this wife of his won't, and the old place will soon come to the hammer, if all we hear of Gilbert's constant visits to the ale-house be true."

"How dirty and untidy everything looks," said Miss Watling. "I was afraid the dusty chairs would spoil my black silk dress. How neat and clean the house used to be."

"In Dorothy's time," suggested Mrs. Barford. "Rushmere did a foolish thing, when he hindered Gilbert from marrying her. However, the poor girl will be much better off."

"Oh, don't talk about her. I hate her very name."

"Nancy, it is all envy," returned Mrs. Barford, laughing; "you will like her very much when she is Countess of Wilton."

What Mrs. Barford had hinted about Gilbert's visits to the public-house in the village, was but too true. The young man had no peace or happiness at home. His wife and her mother insulted and abused his old father, who gave way alternately to fits of passion and sullen gloom. He would appeal to Gilbert, when he felt himself unusually aggrieved, but for the sake of peace, for he was really afraid of his wife, Gilbert chose to remain neutral.

This enraged the old man, who would call him a poor hen-pecked coward, to stand by and see him ill-treated. Then Gilbert, roused in his turn, would tell him that it was his own fault, that if he had let him marry the woman he loved, they might have been all happy together.

One evening, when Dorothy and her lover were returning home through the lane, from visiting a sick man in the country, they observed a tall man staggering along before them, making very ludicrous efforts to keep his balance, which was greatly frustrated by the want of an arm.

"That's poor Rushmere," said Gerard. "Walk home, dear Dorothy. I must speak to him. I cannot see a fellow-creature in this state without attempting to warn him of his danger."

Directly Dorothy was out of sight, for she took the path over the heath, he followed Gilbert, and, laying his hand gently on his shoulder, said,

"My friend you are in the wrong path, take my advice and I will guide you into a better."

"Go to—!" was the awful rejoinder from the intoxicated soldier.

"No, my friend, I should be very sorry to travel one step in your road. It is to save you from the frightful termination of your journey, that I now address you."

"I neither care for your cant, nor your companionship. Begone, and leave me to pursue my own way," and Gilbert turned fiercely round, and struck Mr. Fitzmorris a heavy blow with his left hand. "Do you like that? You see," and he laughed bitterly, "though I am drunk and have only one hand, I have some strength left."

"Gilbert Rushmere," said Gerard very quietly, "I do not mean to resent your blow. Though now a canting parson, I was for five years a soldier. You lost your arm in one great battle. I have received wounds in four. I am no coward. Those who fight under the banner of the Prince of Peace must use other weapons than those wielded by the arm of flesh—patience, temperance and brotherly love. I cannot be angry with you, I pity you from my very heart, and would save you, if you would allow me to do so."

"If I had known you had been a soldier, Mr. Fitzmorris, and fought and bled for old England, I should have been the last man in the world to strike you. Can you forgive me?"

"With all my heart. There is my hand."

"The blow I gave you was a severe one."

"Rather, I could have returned it with interest. I was once a good boxer, but I wish to be your friend. Cannot I persuade you, Rushmere, to renounce this vile habit, and escape from the ruin which it involves."

"I cannot promise you, Mr. Fitzmorris even to try. It is the only relief I have. The only antidote to misery like mine. The sooner it kills me, the sooner I shall get rid of this wretched world. I hate and loathe my life, and want to die."

"That would be all very well, if you could kill your soul. But though you may sinfully abuse and destroy the machine in which it dwells, to destroy that, is beyond your power. It is only the God who made it, that can destroy both body and soul in hell. Suppose that you succeed in killing yourself, you will find the second state worse than the first, a whole eternity of misery, instead of a few years spent on earth. Don't push me off, Rushmere, I can't see you perish in this foolish way, without trying to convince you of your sin."

"I will listen to you some other time. I have heard enough for one night. If you could tell me how to get rid of my wife, I would listen to you patiently all day."

He brushed hastily past, his foot caught on a stone, and he measured his length upon the dusty road.

"See, you are not in a fit state to guide yourself." And Gerard once more set him on his feet.

"Go out of my way. I can get on without you. If you knew how jolly a glass makes me feel, you would get drunk too," and he staggered on singing at the top of his voice:

"Which is the properest day to drink? Sunday."

"That, parson, won't do for your shop. Good night."

"Unhappy man," said Gerard, "what good angel can arrest your downward course? if he will not be persuaded by me, I must try what Dorothy can do. I could almost love the fellow, for having had taste enough to love her."

CHAPTER IX.

Private quarrels had increased to public brawls, insulting language, and mutual recriminations, and the house was kept in such a miserable state, that few of the old friends and associates of the family ventured across the threshold. Lawrence Rushmere had cause enough to repent of his interference between Dorothy Chance and his son, and found, to his cost, that little peace or comfort remained for him in his old age.

The farm was going to ruin; Gilbert was never home until late at night, when he generally was conducted to the house by some neighbouring toper, as fond of losing his senses in the bowl, but in a lesser degree of brutal intoxication.

Mrs. Gilbert raved, and her mother reviled and scorned; and the wretched old man, if he attempted to make his voice heard in the domestic uproar, was silenced by Mrs. Gilbert telling him to hold his tongue, that she wanted no advice from such a superannuated dotard.

The report of these doings at Heath Farm were not long in reaching the ears of the Vicar, and gave great pain to Dorothy. What was to be done to rescue Gilbert from ruin? that was the great question.

Mr. Fitzmorris tried to obtain an interview with him, and for that purpose called several times at the house, but always received the same answer from Martha Wood, "that young Mr. Rushmere was not at home."

"Where was he to be found?"

"She did not know. Perhaps at Jonathan Sly's, at the 'Plough and Harrow,' may be at Storby, where he was looking for a man, to whom he had sold a team of horses."

So to Storby the Vicar went, and inquired of every likely and unlikely place in the town for Lieutenant Rushmere. At one low tavern the landlord told him that he had been there with a horse jockey, that they had some liquor, and went out again, he believed, to bet in the cock-pit.

"Where may that be? I did not know that you had such an abomination in the town," said Mr. Fitzmorris.

"Well, it's not zactly in the town, sir. There's a little low hedge ale house, by the road side, as you come in by the back way. A hole, kept by old Striker, that was a smuggler, and made to suffer some years agone. He keeps the 'Game Cock.' It is a bad place, only resorted to by thieves and swindlers; and a dreadful pity that the Leaftenant ha' got in with such a set. He'll soon bring the old man to a gaol, and hisself is going to the devil as fast as he can."

Mr. Fitzmorris perceived the great urgency of getting Gilbert out of the clutches of these men, and after thinking over the matter for some minutes, he proposed to the landlord to go with him to the "Game Cock," and tell young Rushmere that a friend wanted to speak to him on a matter of great importance.

"Na, na, I would not venture my nose in amongst them wild chaps for a crown piece. You see, sir, I'm but a little man of a quiet turn. I never could fight in my life, an' it's only farm labourers that ever frequents my tap, an' they have but little money to spend, and are too heavy and loompish to quarrel, and kick up a bobbery. They only laughs and grins, and jokes one with the tother, whiles they drinks a glass of beer or yeats a mouthful of bread an' cheese, on their way down with their teams to the wharf, where they ships loads of corn, an' then return with coals. These poor creturs are just harmless as lambs. The fellows that Rushmere has got in with are a set of noisy dare devils, who'll knock a man down as soon as look at him. I think yer Reverence had better not go near them."

"My duty lies in such places, and while in the performance of it, I feel afraid of no man. Can you give me directions as to the situation of the cock-pit, without the necessity of my going into the house?"

"Just beside the house there runs a high brick wall. Open a low door about the middle of it, and you'll find yourself in a shed, with a set of rude fellows swarming round it, looking down upon the pit with the cocks. It's exciting work, sir, that fighting with the bonnie birds," continued the little man, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. "But 'tis reckoned a vulgar, low pastime now. In my young days, lauk a mercy, sir, it was played by high and low, and fortins have been won an' lost on a game cock. Did your Reverence ever see a match?"

"I have seen, my friend, more than is good in my short life, when I foolishly thought more of the amusements of this world, than of the endless happiness and glory of the next."

"Ah, sir, a man can't allers be thinking of Heaven and reading the Bible, and saying prayers all the time. I'm sure if I were your Reverence I should find it very dull work."

Mr. Fitzmorris smiled good-naturedly.

"There are many ways, my friend, of serving God besides reading the Bible and praying. When we endeavour to follow our Blessed Lord's example, in trying to do good to our fellow-creatures, we award Him the best praise of which our nature is capable; and the man who loves Him, and does all for His sake, without claiming any merit for himself, enjoys in acts of love and charity the most exquisite pleasure."

Laying his hand emphatically on the little publican's shoulders, he continued, "Seek the Lord earnestly, diligently, and with your whole heart, and serve Him faithfully, and you will know the truth of what I say, and experience such joy and inward satisfaction as you never dreamed of before. The Heaven of a true Christian commences on earth. For where God is, there is Heaven. If His Spirit dwells in you, old things pass away, and all things become new."

Before he had finished the sentence, a farm-servant came up to the little tavern in hot haste.

"Hullo, Barnaby!" he cried, "can yer tell 'un aught o' young Measter Rushmere? The bully-bailiffs are in the house—old measter raging like a wild bull—mistress crying an' wringing her hands—the old 'un scolding and fussing; the blackguard of a servant-girl laughing in her sleeve, to hear what she calls the fun—an' the old man threatening to blow the fellows' brains out with the rusty old blunderbuss that has na' been fired off since King George came to the crown. If Measter Gilbert does na' come whome quick, there'll be the devil to pay an' no pitch hot."

"It seems hot enough, Joe, by your account already," returned Master Barnaby. "This will be a good excuse for your Reverence to get him away from that sink o' iniquity."

"Let us lose no time," said Mr. Fitzmorris, turning to the man who was standing gaping at him with open mouth and eyes. "My good fellow, can you show me the way to the 'Game Cock?'"

"Why, yees, sir. It's on our way whome, supposing yer goes round the back o' the Heath. Yer sartainly won't find Measter Gilbert there?"

"He is there." And Gerard swung his strong oak stick in the air, and followed his conductor at a rapid pace down a narrow footpath that led across the marshes to Hadstone.

It was a lonely, desolate tract, intersected with wide ditches, full of stagnant water, generally crossed by a single plank.

The sluggish river crept its lazy length to the sea, between high banks of mud, and when the tide was out, its dimensions contracted to a tiny stream, which flowed through a wide bed composed of the same alluvial deposit that filled the air for miles with a rank, fishy smell. A footpath ran along the top of the mud-bank, and Mr. Fitzmorris and his guide followed this till they came to a low stone bridge with one arch, of very ancient structure, which crossed the main-road to London, where the heath sank down to the level of the salt flats. A few paces from the bridge, and below the heath, a low dwelling, composed of wattle and daub, bore the ostentatious sign of a large, fiery, red game cock, in the act of crowing, as if to give notice to the tired pedestrian that he could get refreshments for man and beast, at the house kept by Jonas Striker.

"Well, Measter Fitzmorris, this be the place. An' yer wud know't by the uproar that's going on in the shed, without the help o' the bird that's allers crowing, but never do crow, outside the door. But don't yer hear the crowing an' clapping o' wings o' the bully birds within, an' the shouts o' the men that ha' won on the conqueror!"

Mr. Fitzmorris did not answer. He pushed open the door of which Barnaby had spoken, and entering the yard with a firm, decided step, walked up to the drunken and noisy crowd.

Some drew back as he advanced, as if ashamed of being caught by the parson in such a disreputable place, while others turned and faced him with an audacious stare. Gilbert Rushmere, who was leaning on the rail, cried out in a sneering tone:

"You are too late for the main, parson, but just in time to perform the funeral service over the black cock. There he lies—his last battle ended. As brave a knight as ever wore steel spurs. I'll be chief mourner, for I ventured upon him my last guinea."

Without taking the least notice of this speech, or the ribald crew by whom he was surrounded, Gerard went up to Gilbert, and drew him forcibly apart.

"Rushmere, I have bad news for you. Come home with me. The bailiffs are in the house, and everything in confusion at Heath Farm. You know what the feelings of the proud, independent old man must be in such circumstances. Leave this disgusting place and your vicious companions, and I will see what I can do to save your family from disgrace."

Gilbert looked in Gerard's face with a half-stupefied stare of blank incredulity.

"Now, parson, you are only funning me—this is one of your pious dodges to get me out of this. I know I'm a fool to be here—but having once passed the Rubicon, I don't mean to go back."

"What I tell you is perfectly true. Here is your man-servant, ask him. Surely, surely, Mr. Rushmere, you have enough of manhood left in you not to suffer your wife and poor old father to bear the weight of such a calamity alone?"

"As to father, let him take it. He deserves it all. But for him, you would not be in my shoes, rejoicing that the woman who ought to have been my wife will shortly be yours. You might be contented, I think, without following me like my shadow, to triumph over me."

"Gilbert Rushmere," said Mr. Fitzmorris, very gravely, "I never saw Dorothy until after you were the husband of another. Your desertion of her, when you knew how much she loved you, was no deed of your father's, but your own voluntary act, for he never knew of your marriage until a few days before you came down to Heath Farm. And let me tell you, that any man who could desert such a noble woman as Dorothy Chance for the sake of a few thousand pounds, was most unworthy to be her husband. But she has nothing to do with the matter now in hand. It is profanation to breathe her name in such an assemblage as this. Do you mean to come home with me, or not?"

"I won't go home in your company. I have nothing to say against you. I believe you to be an honourable man and a gentleman, but I hate you for supplanting me in the affections of the only woman I ever loved. The very sight of you makes me wish to break the sixth commandment."

"Why act the part of the dog in the manger? You cannot marry Dorothy yourself. Why entertain such uncharitable feelings towards me, because I have taste enough to prize a jewel that you cast from you. Come, Rushmere, let better feelings prevail, dismiss this unreasonable jealousy, and listen to the advice of one who sincerely wishes to be your friend. Can you tell me the amount of this execution? If it is within my power, I will try and settle it, for Dorothy's sake."

"You'll be a—fool for your pains if you do," and he laughed scornfully. "It is the first, but it will not be the last. I want no man, especially you of all men, to ruin himself for me. Every thing has gone wrong with me since I married that woman. If she would have put her shoulder to the wheel, and worked for me, I would have forgiven her the folly and wickedness of deceiving me. But she does nothing but run up bills, and make me miserable. She's not a bad looking woman, and I might have learned to love her in time, but there's no chance of that now. I'm not sorry for this business, for I hope it will be the means of my getting rid of her. Go home, I won't; they may fight it out the best way they can." And turning suddenly on his heel, he disappeared among the crowd. Full of grief at his want of success, Mr. Fitzmorris took the road that led to Heath Farm.

Here to his grief and indignation, he was informed by Martha Wood that the old man had been taken off to prison for debt, and the ladies were shut up in their own room, and could not receive visitors. Tired with a long fruitless walk, and feeling sad at heart, he determined to visit Lawrence Rushmere early the next morning, and, if possible, to pay the amount of his debt.

Anxious to save Dorothy from useless distress, he did not inform her of the cause that had kept him away so long. She only remarked, as he kissed her cheek, "My dear Gerard looks tired and paler than usual."

"Oh, Dolly," he replied. "It is a sad world; one is never allowed to feel happy in it long. If it were always the paradise that you have made it for the last few weeks, I should never like to leave it. All things, darling, are for the best. The purest pleasures are born in the lap of sorrow, as the brightest sunshine succeeds the darkest storm."

Directly after breakfast he ordered his horse and gig, and telling Mrs. Martin that he could not be home before night, drove over to the town of ----, in which the gaol was situated.

Before going to visit the old man, he went to the lawyer, at the suit of whose client he had been incarcerated, to discover the amount of the debt, which he found to be under three hundred pounds, including the law costs.

It was a large sum for Mr. Fitzmorris, having expended all he could well spare from his own income in settling his brother's affairs, paying funeral and law expenses, and other items. Any thought of his own comfort or convenience seldom stayed the too generous hand, that was never held back by selfish motives, if it could possibly relieve the necessity of a fellow creature. "It was only retrenching a few needless luxuries," he would say, "for a few months or years, and the interest would be amply repaid. There was no bank in which a man could invest his means, which made such ample returns, as the bank of Heaven, in which there was no fear of losing your capital, as it was chartered for eternity."

He wrote a check upon his banker for the sum, and received the release from Mr. Hodson, the man of business.

"I am afraid, Mr. Fitzmorris, that you have sacrificed this large sum of money to little purpose. This, though certainly the largest claim against the Rushmere estate, is not the only one. It would require more than a thousand pounds to keep the place from the hammer."

"I thought that Lawrence Rushmere had been a person who had saved money?"

"He had to the amount of a few hundred pounds, but the farm is a very poor one, which, for half a century past, has barely supplied the necessary outlay to continue its cultivation. When the lieutenant returned, the father sacrificed his little earnings, to enter into a speculation with his son, for furnishing horses to the Government, for the use of the army. Such a traffic requires large means, and constant attention. The young man who was the sole manager, got among dissipated companions, from buying horses, to betting upon them, and has not only lost all the money advanced by the father, but has involved himself irretrievably. The creditors thought it better to bring things to a crisis, as the sale of the property might possibly leave a small overplus, to keep the old man from the workhouse."

"He is such an impatient, obstinate creature," observed Mr. Fitzmorris, "that he may choose to remain in prison rather than pay these creditors, that he will be sure to regard not as the injured party, but as personal enemies to himself."

"In that case, you had better retain in your possession the draft you have just given me, until after you have seen and conversed with Lawrence Rushmere."

"Would it be possible to stay proceedings against the estate, until after Lord Wilton's return, which is expected daily, and remove the old man from prison? He is so proud and independent, the disgrace of having been inside a gaol will kill him."

"The creditors, who are all decent yeomen, might be inclined to serve the old man, who has always been respected in the county as an honest fellow. But being associated in this horse traffic with the son, whom they look upon as a great scoundrel, throws more difficulties in the way. The father was unprepared, nay, never expected this blow, or he might have arranged matters to save himself. I could, perhaps, stave off the other creditors, if this first claim were settled, for two or three months, and a bond were given that they should receive their money at the end of that term. The old man who is honest as daylight, might indemnify you by turning over to you the estate, and continue to farm it for your benefit."

"I will own, Mr. Hodson, that I do not exactly wish to sacrifice my money, for the benefit of Gilbert Rushmere, without he were a reformed character. If the estate were mine, I could give it to Lawrence Rushmere rent free for his life."

The lawyer promised to make all the necessary arrangements to secure Mr. Fitzmorris from unnecessary loss, and he left him to communicate to the prisoner the result of his morning's work, and to relieve him from durance.

He found the old man in the debtors' room, pacing to and fro with a restless stride, which proved how much vigour still remained in the tough heart of oak. On perceiving Mr. Fitzmorris, the caged lion suddenly came to a stand still, and confronted him with a gloomy brow, and proud defiant eye, as he said in a low voice,

"Are you come, Parson, to speak to Lawrence Rushmere in a den like this, to seek an honest man among felons an' thieves? I was allers laughed at for holding my head so high. I must carry it a foot higher here to look above a lawless set of ruffians and ragamuffins."

In spite of his affected bravado, the tears stood in the old man's eyes, and, staggering to a bench, he sunk down helplessly upon it, and covered his face with his hands.

"I came to seek a friend," said Gerard, laying his hand on the old man's shoulder, "one whom I esteem, or I should not be here."

"Oh, dang it," cried Rushmere. "Take off your hand, Mr. Fitzmorris. No offence, I hope, but it do put me in mind o' the tap that rascal gave me; he said, in the king's name, as if the king, God bless him, had ever a hand in sending a honest loyal subject like me to prison. I had the satisfaction, however, of knocking the fellow down. It did me good, I can tell you."

The cold, clear blue eye was lighted up with a gleam of fire, which cast an angry glare around, like a flash of summer lightning leaping from the dark clouds.

"The man was only in the performance of his duty. It was expending your wrath upon a wrong object."

"He just deserved what he got. None but a rascal would ever fill such a post, none but rascals ever do fill it, men far worse in moral character than the villains they take. An honest man would sweep the streets before he'd earn his living in such a mean way."

Gerard could scarcely forbear a smile at this tirade, when Rushmere asked him abruptly the cause of his visit.

"To take you out of this place, and carry you back to your own home."

"And who pays the debt?"

"I have agreed to do that."

"You! What business ha' you wi' paying my debts? If Lawrence Rushmere can't do that, he must content himsel' to stay here."

"You must not refuse me this great favour. Consider me as a son, willing and anxious to serve you."

At the mention of the word son, the old man sprang to his feet, and, clenching his fist, exclaimed,

"I have no son! The rascal who has brought me to this, wi' his drinking and gambling, is no son of mine. I disown him now and for ever—and may my curse—"

Mr. Fitzmorris put his hand before the old man's mouth, and, in a solemn voice that made him fall back a few paces, said,

"Who are you that dare curse a fellow creature, especially a son, though he has rebelled against you? It is committing an outrage against your own soul—against the excellent mother that bore him—against the most High God, who, through his blessed Son, has told us, that only as we forgive those that injure us can we ourselves hope to be forgiven."

"Oh, Mary, my wife. My dead angel! it is only for your sake I revoke my curse. He be your child, but oh, he has wounded me in the tenderest part."

Again the old man sank down upon the bench, and, for a few minutes, Gerard thought it best to leave him to his own thoughts. When he seemed more calm, he urged him more earnestly to accompany him back to Hadstone.

"To go back to that she-cat? No, a' won't, I tell you. Why, gaol is a paradise compared to living wi' her. You must not urge me, sir. If I don't curse the scamp that has brought me to this—I fear I should kill him if we met!"

"But you would not refuse to live with Dorothy?"

"Ah, Dolly—she was a good lass. I have naught to do wi' her now. It would ha' been well for me if a' had never set eyes on her."

"But Dorothy loves you so sincerely."

"What, after I have used her so ill? Howsomever, it was a great service I rendered her, when I hindered her from marrying that scoundrel."

"Unintentionally on your part, my friend. You can take no merit for that. Your son might have turned out a noble character but for that act."

It was of no use urging the old man to leave the gaol. His pride was offended at the idea of Mr. Fitzmorris paying his debts; he was hurt, too, that Gilbert had sent no message, to let him know how matters really stood, or if there remained any chance of paying the creditors by the sale of the property.

"You see, Mr. Fitzmorris, I trusted all to him. I never thought that my own son would neglect the business and ruin me. No, no, I deserve to be here for my folly, and here I will remain until all the creditors are paid."

Seeing that he was obstinately bent on adhering to his purpose, Gerard told him that he would send Mr. Hodson to talk the matter over with him, and he would come and see him again when he heard that he had come to a decision. He was willing to give him a fair price for the estate, and let him remain in it rent-free for his life.

The old man seemed struck with this last suggestion, and promised to listen to reason, and so they parted.

On Mr. Fitzmorris' return to Hadstone, the first news that met his ears was, that Gilbert Rushmere had gone off to parts unknown with Martha Wood, who had dexterously fomented the quarrels between him and his wife to further this object; and that Mrs. Gilbert and her mother had packed up and left for London, "never," they said, "to return to a beggarly place like Hadstone."