DOROTHY BECOMES RECONCILED TO THE LOSS OF HER FIRST LOVE.
A fortnight had scarcely elapsed, before Gilbert wrote again to his
parents. The letter contained a hurried farewell, penned a few hours
before his regiment embarked for Spain. There was no message for
Dorothy, her name was not mentioned, and the omission was evidently
intentional.
How little Gilbert Rushmere suspected the share that Dorothy had had in
his advancement, that but for her, he might have remained a private in
the ---- regiment during the term of his military service. So short
sighted are we poor mortals--that the very means adopted by Lord Wilton
to secure Dorothy's union with the man she loved, by exciting his
ambition and avarice, had brought about their separation, and that, too,
more effectually than Mr. Rushmere's unreasonable objections to their
marriage.
A few days after Gilbert left England, Dorothy accidentally encountered
Lord Wilton on the heath.
She was thinking of Gilbert, but not with the sad tearful tenderness
that his desertion had hitherto called forth. His marked neglect had
caused a reaction. She felt indignant at his conduct. His silence was
not only cruel, it was insulting, and implied that he no longer deemed
her worthy of a thought.
In order to maintain her self-respect, she could view it in no other
light, and would endeavour to meet it with the indifference and contempt
it deserved.
Hate him she could not, nor did she wish to do so; but her love for him
had subsided into a very tranquil stream; no longer leaping over every
obstacle that impeded its course, with the headlong impetuosity of
youthful passion.
She could now speak of Gilbert to his parents without tears choking her
voice, and think of him calmly when alone. The wound he had inflicted on
her heart, however painful to bear in its first agony, was surely and
slowly healing itself.
Nature is a great mental and bodily physician, if people would only let
her perform her mysterious operations alone; injudicious interference
causes all the danger, and often destroys the reason and life of the
sufferer.
But it was to describe Dorothy's interview with Lord Wilton, and not to
moralize on love and disappointment that we commenced this chapter.
The nobleman dismounted from his horse, and accosted his _protégée_ with
his usual kindness, and inquired with great earnestness of look and
tone, "If Gilbert Rushmere had been down to see her, and if she was
pleased with his promotion."
The first question she promptly replied to in the negative. His lordship
seemed surprised and annoyed. "With regard to his promotion," she said,
"his parents could but be pleased and gratified, and the young soldier
spoke of it with the deepest gratitude."
"But what do you think of it, Dorothy? Will his good fortune make you
happy?"
The young girl's lips quivered. She grew very red, then turned as pale
as ashes, but mastering her emotion, she answered with tolerable
self-command.
"I hope so for his parents' sake."
"Not for your own, Dorothy."
Dorothy's voice dropped almost to a whisper, as she stammered out: "Oh,
my lord, don't ask me, I have really not the courage to speak about it."
"But, my dear girl, I must know the reason of this distress. I thought
you and Gilbert were one?"
"I thought so once." She looked down and pressed her hands tightly over
her breast. "My lord, Gilbert Rushmere has forgotten me."
"The traitor."
"Do not blame him too severely, my lord. Perhaps I have been too harsh
in my condemnation. It is not his fault that I placed too high an
estimate on his character, was too confident in his love. He has only
acted according to his nature. He has not deceived me, I have suffered
my affection for him to blind my eyes to his faults."
"My noble girl, I cannot suffer you to excuse him by taking the blame of
such selfish, heartless conduct on yourself."
"Ah, my lord, we are all more or less selfish and the creatures of
circumstance; while I continued to love Gilbert, his desertion seemed to
me very dreadful; the anguish it gave me was almost more than I could
bear, but now when it is all over, and I can think of it calmly, I see
it in a very different light. While we lived in the same house, learned
from the same books, and worked together in the same fields, there was a
natural equality between us. But since Gilbert has acquired a higher
position, associated with well educated people, and seen more of the
great world, he feels a superiority over me, of which he was before
entirely ignorant. He has advanced, while I remain in the same position
in which he left me, a servant, in his father's house."
Lord Wilton winced. "An adopted daughter, I thought."
"Ah, my lord! truth is truth. I may deserve to be so considered, and as
far as dear Mrs. Rushmere is concerned I enjoy the love and confidence
of a child. With the old man I am only his servant."
Lord Wilton sighed heavily. Dorothy's speech evidently pained him, but
he made no comment upon it. He walked on by her side for some minutes in
silence. "And what led you to conclude that Gilbert Rushmere had
forgotten you?"
"Simply, my lord, because he has ceased to mention me in his letters,
and talks of marrying some one else."
"Very conclusive reasons, my poor child. But are you certain that this
is no jealous freak on your part, but really a deliberate act of
desertion on his?"
"I never was jealous of Gilbert in my life," and Dorothy drew herself up
with no little dignity, "my faith in his love was too great for that."
"Which makes your present disappointment harder to bear."
"Yes, my lord," and Dorothy drew a long sigh, "but I feel it less than I
did a month ago. The heart knows its own bitterness; a stranger cannot
enter into its joys or sorrows. So the Scriptures say. I do not quote
the passage correctly, but it is something to that effect. My mind has
been more tranquil, since I knew for certain that I could never be
Gilbert Rushmere's wife."
"He may see his folly, Dorothy, and return to his first love."
"My lord, that is impossible. Love is a stream that always flows onward;
it never returns to fill the channel that it has deserted and left dry.
You might as well try to collect the shower that the thirsty earth drank
up yesterday. Love once dead, can never revive again or wear the same
aspect that it did at first, for the spirit that kindled it is gone, and
what you once adored is only a silent corpse."
"You are resigned to the loss of your lover?"
"My lord, it is all for the best. Gilbert was the idol to whom I gave
the undivided worship of my whole heart. God in his mercy saw fit to
dash it in pieces. Let us leave the fragments in the dust, and speak of
them no more."
"So young and so wise," mused the Earl, regarding his companion with
intense interest. "How have you learned to bear so great a sorrow with
such heroic fortitude?"
"I employed my hands constantly in useful labour, which kept me from
pondering continually over painful thoughts. There is no better remedy
for acute sorrow. I have always found it so; it gives strength both to
the body and mind. But it was not this alone, my lord, which reconciled
me to my grief." She paused a moment. Lord Wilton waved his hands
impatiently.
"Go on, Dorothy, I am listening intently. What was your next step?"
"I sought the advice and assistance of a higher power than my own. I
laid my poor broken heart in the dust at His feet, and poured the
anguish of my soul before Him. He heard my bitter cry, 'Save me Lord,
for I perish,' and lifted me out of the deep waters as they closed over
me. From that hour, I have clung to Him for help with the same
confidence that a little child clings to the bosom of its mother. I know
and feel that all He does is right, and that He does not causelessly
afflict the children of men."
"The difficulty is in recognizing that our trials and sufferings are
from God," said the Earl, "God the all merciful. I fear, Dorothy, that I
should find your remedy very inefficient when applied to an incurable
sorrow."
"Ah, do try it, my lord," said Dorothy, with great earnestness. "It may
be slow in its operations, but in the end it never fails. There is no
sorrow that is _incurable_, if you will only bring it to the foot of the
cross, and lay it down there. It will melt away from your soul, like the
mist before the rising sun--and when you contemplate the blessed Saviour
in His terrible death agony, and remember that He bore it all for such
as you, your sufferings will appear light indeed when compared with His,
and you will learn from Him the truth--the glorious truth that will set
you free from the bondage of sin and the fear of death. That makes
slaves and cowards of us all."
"Softly, my dear girl. I want the faith to realize all this. Do you
speak from your own experience, or only repeat the lessons taught you by
Henry Martin?"
"I speak of that which I have known and felt," said Dorothy,
emphatically. "Of that which has taught me to bear patiently a great
affliction, that has reconciled me to a hard lot, and brought me nearer
to God. I can now bless Him for my past trials. If I had never known
trouble, I should never have exchanged it for His easy yoke, or felt a
divine peace flowing out of grief."
"I do not doubt your word, Dorothy. I am a miserable man, overwhelmed
with the consciousness of guilt, without the power to repent."
"Oh, my lord, this cannot be, and you so good and kind. If you are a
bad man, where in this world shall we look for a righteous one?"
"My poor child, you know little of the world, and still less of me. You
esteem me happy, because I am rich and high-born, deriving from my
wealth and position the means of helping others who are destitute of
these advantages. There is no real merit in this. I cannot bear to
witness physical suffering; and give from my abundance that I may be
relieved from the sight of it."
"But you confer a benefit upon the poor by relieving their necessities,
which must be acceptable in the sight of God."
"I fear not. Infinite wisdom looks deeper into these things than
short-sighted men, and the motive which induces the act is of more value
in His sight than the mere act. I have more money than I can use, and
possess every luxury and comfort that gold can buy. It is no sacrifice
to me giving to the poor. I really lose nothing, and my vanity is
pleased by the admiration they express at my generosity; I often feel
deeply humiliated by the self-approbation induced by these trifling
donations."
"I wish there were more people in the world like your lordship."
"Dorothy, Dorothy! you see before you a wretched conscience-stricken
creature, who would gladly give all that he has in the world for the
peace of mind you say that you enjoy. You, like the rest of my
neighbours, think me little short of perfection, for to most people the
outward and tangible is always the real. But, alas, I know myself
better. Listen to me, Dorothy, while I give you a page from my life's
history, which will show your benefactor in a new light."
Dorothy looked wonderingly up into her companion's face. His brow was
knitted, his lips firmly compressed, and the sorrowful expression of his
pale face almost bordered on despair. She shuddered, and tears
involuntarily filled her eyes. Was this new idol going to resolve itself
into a mere image of clay? If he were no better than other men, where in
this world would she find truth? Dorothy was grieved and perplexed, but
she walked on in silence till the Earl again spoke.
"I confide more willingly in you, Dorothy, because, like me you
have realized the great agony of having loved and lost. Yes, I loved as
my own soul a young girl as pure and artless as yourself. She held a
dependent and subordinate situation, and was far beneath me in rank. But
beauty is a great equalizer, and I never for a moment considered that
noble creature my inferior. I sought her love, and won her whole heart,
but circumstances prevented me from taking her by the hand, and publicly
acknowledging her as my wife to the world, and I sacrificed to the
Moloch of wealth and power her happiness and my own, and blasted for
ever the only wealth she possessed, a pure and unsullied name."
"Oh, my lord, how could you do so?"
"Ah! how indeed. I ask myself a thousand times a-day the same torturing
question. The fear of what people would say, Dorothy--the dread of
poverty--of loss of caste--for I was not at that time an elder son, made
me a coward and a fool. I left her--left the woman I adored to struggle
through the difficulty in which I had placed her, single-handed and
alone.
"I was appointed _attaché_ to a foreign embassy, and left England for
several years, and was only recalled to inherit my present title, and
all the large property that fell to me by the death of an uncle, and
that of my eldest brother. No longer deterred from doing her justice by
the base fear of losing these advantages, I sought her in her old home,
my mother having dismissed her in disgrace from her service. Here I
found that her cruel grandmother had driven her forth into the streets,
and all traces of her had been lost. For seventeen years I have sought
her sorrowing through the world, to make reparation for my selfishness
and cruelty; but her fate remains a mystery, and the only clue that I
have obtained of her probable history, fills my mind with shame and
remorse. I can no longer wipe this foul stain from her memory if I
would.
"You look at me in surprise and horror, Dorothy. Can you still think me
a good and great man. See how you have been deceived in your
estimate of me."
Tears were in the Earl's eyes and on his pale cheeks. Dorothy looked
down to hide her own.
"My lord," she said, in a soft low voice, "you have been very
unfortunate, and perhaps are less guilty than you think yourself, and
oh, I pity you with my whole heart."
Involuntarily she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, and he
caught her in his arms and clasped her to his heart, his tears falling
over her like rain.
"My dear child, my only friend, God bless you for your kind sympathy. Is
there any hope for a sinner like me?"
"My lord," she whispered, "there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner
that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons that need no
repentance. Receive this great truth into your heart, and you will find
the peace you need." She spoke with such earnestness, that a gleam of
hope shot into the sad eyes of the Earl.
"Dorothy, I will think over your words."
"Pray over them, my lord; we must not only will, but do the thing that
is right."
"Will you pray for me, Dorothy?"
"I have always done so, my lord, since the first hour we met, and you
expressed such a kind interest in a poor friendless orphan girl."
"Look upon me always as a friend--a father, Dorothy; you know not the
strong tie that unites my destiny with yours. Perhaps you will know one
day, and pity and forgive me for the injury you have received at my
hands."
"My lord, you did your best to serve me. How could you imagine that
Gilbert could act as he has done? The blame, if there is any, rests
entirely with him. It cannot cancel the vast debt of gratitude I owe to
you."
"You owe me nothing, Dorothy. My earnest desire is to see you good and
happy."
A look of wondering curiosity stole over the young girl's face. He spoke
to her in riddles, but she knew the difference in their respective
stations to ask him questions.
He evidently read her thoughts, and suddenly turning the conversation,
spoke to her in more cheerful tones. He inquired about her studies, and
what progress she had made in them. How she liked the books he had
provided for her instruction, and what sort of reading she preferred.
She answered with enthusiasm:
"That the books had but one fault, they made the labours of the house
and field less agreeable, for she would like to be reading them all
day."
"I expected as much," said the Earl, with his usual sweet smile. "I wish
to give you the means of earning your living in a more refined and
useful manner. There are plenty of hands to work in the world that
belong to people who have little or no brains in their heads, and such
people make the most profitable farm servants. Nature has bestowed upon
you a quick intellect, and to labour in the fields is to bury the
talents entrusted to your care, in the dust. By the way," he continued,
"Mrs. Martin tells me that you have a fine ear for music, and a powerful
melodious voice. It would gratify me highly to hear you sing."
"Oh, my lord," said Dorothy, blushing rosy red, "what pleasure could
such a voice as mine give a gentleman like you? I only sing to amuse the
children, and wile away the time when I am at work."
"You must leave me to be the best judge of that. If you feel timid,
which is but natural, just sit down on this sloping green bank, and
consider me a child, while you sing some little simple air."
Dorothy felt all in a tremor, but he looked so kind that she did not
like to refuse, so she did as she was bid, and sat down on the grass at
his feet, and with her eyes fixed intently upon the daisies, sang a
little ballad very popular in those days, commencing with "Over the
mountains and over the moor."
Her voice, at first tremulous with emotion, soon gained strength, and
she sang with a sweetness and pathos that would have drawn down
tremendous applause from a public audience. The Earl listened with rapt
attention.
"Excellent!" he cried. "Mrs. Martin was right. Here is an admirable
talent that must be cultivated. Should you like to learn to play upon
the piano?"
Dorothy's eyes literally shone with delight. "Oh, my lord, it would make
me so happy."
"That is enough. I will order a good instrument from London. It will be
your property. Mrs. Martin will give it a place in her house, and when
you gain any proficiency, you can repay her kindness by teaching her
children. A good pianist can always command a comfortable
independence."
"And who will instruct me?" asked Dorothy.
"That matter is easily settled. You know old Piper, who plays the organ
in the church. He has but one idea, and that is music, which absorbs his
whole intellect. A fool in almost everything else, he is yet a splendid
musician. He will rejoice in such a promising pupil."
"He is a strange, odd creature," said Dorothy. "If he is to be my
master, it will be hard to keep from laughing. He came one day to Mr.
Rushmere, to get him to buy tickets for a concert. Father was making a
riddle to separate some large peas from a different sort that were much
smaller, that had got accidentally mixed in the granary, and spoiled the
sample of both. The old man stood and looked at him for some time, then
said so innocently,
"'Now, sir, can't you make that 'ere machine to let out all the large
peas, and keep the little 'uns behind?'
"How father laughed, and told him that his idea was so clever, that he
advised him to take out a patent for his invention. He took the joke as
a great compliment, and went away rubbing his hands, highly delighted
with his mechanical skill."
"You must try to listen to his wise speeches, Dorothy, with a grave
face. Odd as he is, the old man is a great favourite of mine, for he
taught me, when I was a lad, to play on the violin, and put up with all
my wild tricks with the greatest good humour. One day he requested me to
pay more attention to time, as I was apt to trust too much to my ear.
"'What is time?' I demanded very pertly, and purposely to quiz him.
"'Time,' said he, repeating my words with a look of bewildered
astonishment, as if he doubted my sanity. 'Why, Master Edward, time is
time. When a person has played a piece in time, he feels so neat, so
clean, and so satisfied with himself.' I did not attempt to keep my
gravity, but ran laughing out of the room.
"Time has not changed the queer old man a bit. The other day I sent him
a fine hare: two hours after, I was riding with another nobleman through
Storby, when, who should turn the corner of Market Street but old Piper,
bearing in his hands a great red earthenware dish, covered in with
paste. When he saw me, he stopped just before our horses, and, making me
a profound bow, tapped the dish with his hand, calling out in a jocular
voice:
"'Thank you, my lord, for pussie! she is safe here, under _cover_, and I
am now going to dine like a prince.'
"The bystanders laughed. How could they help it; my friend fairly
roared, and I felt rather mortified at the old man making such a public
demonstration of his gratitude for such a small gift."
Dorothy enjoyed the anecdote, and laughed too. "I have no doubt we shall
get on famously together, for I will set my whole heart to the work."
The Earl shook her heartily by the hand, and rode off in good spirits.
The little episode of the music, and the eccentricities of Dorothy's
future master, had won him from his melancholy. A week had scarcely
elapsed before Mrs. Martin brought Dorothy the joyful intelligence that
the piano had arrived; that Mr. Piper was tuning it, and had pronounced
it a first rate instrument, and the children were all wild with delight.
This was a new epoch in Dorothy's life. She employed every spare moment
in mastering the difficulties of the science, and enchanted old Piper
with the attention she gave to his prosaical instructions. "Her face,"
he said, "might make a fortune, but her voice was sure to do it. He was
no great judge of beauty, had never courted a woman in his life, and was
too old to think of it now. But he was a judge of music, and he was
pretty sure that she could not fail in that."
Mr. Rushmere did not approve of this new encroachment on what he
considered his natural right in Dorothy; though for some months he was
kept in profound ignorance of the turn her studies had taken, and even
when he at last made the discovery, he was not aware that Lord Wilton
was the delinquent that had robbed him of her time. Lord Wilton had
furnished Dorothy with money to pay for the hire of a girl, to take
charge of the coarser domestic drudgery; still Lawrence Rushmere
grumbled and was not satisfied. He wondered where and how the girl
obtained her funds, and whether she came honestly by them. Mrs.
Rushmere, who was in the secret--for Dorothy kept nothing from her--told
him "that it was part of the salary paid by the Earl to Dorothy for
teaching in the Sunday school." This was the truth; "and that he ought,
instead of constantly finding fault with the poor girl, to rejoice in
her good fortune. Dorothy was growing more like a lady every day, and
was so good and clever that he should consider her a credit to the
house."
"I thought a deal more on her," quoth the old man, "when she was dressed
in homespun and was not above her business. Those silly people are
making a fule o' the girl, turning her head with vanity and conceit.
Wife, you can't make a purse out o' a sow's ear, or a real lady out o'
one not born a lady. They are spoiling the girl an' quite unfitting her
for an honest labourer's wife."
At this moment the object under dispute came tripping into the room,
dressed in a simple muslin gown with a neat coarse straw bonnet tied
closely under her soft round chin. Mrs. Rushmere glanced up at the
lovely smiling girl, so graceful in all her movements, so artless and
winning in her unaffected simplicity, and quite realized her husband's
idea, that she was not fit for a ploughman's help-mate.
"Well, Doll, lass, what's up at the parsonage?" cried the farmer. "Your
face is all of a glow and brimful of summat."
"Our old vicar is dead, father; Mr. Martin has just got the news."
"Bless my soul, Mr. Conyers gone? Why he be a young man to me," and he
pushed his hands through his gray locks. "What did a' die of, lass?"
"Apoplexy--it was quite sudden. He had just eaten a hearty dinner, when
he fell down in a fit, and never spoke again."
"Ah, them parsons generally die o' that. They be great yeaters, and the
stomach, they do say, affects the head. It seems like putting the cart
afore the horse, don't it, dame?"
"I ran up to tell you," continued Dorothy, "that Mrs. Martin sends her
best compliments to you, father, and would esteem it a great favour if
you would allow me to stay all day at the parsonage, to help her prepare
rooms for the use of the new vicar, who is going to board with her, and
is expected down to-night."
"Whew," cried Rushmere, snapping his fingers. "I think Mrs. Martin had
better keep you altogether. She's a clever woman to make use of other
people's servants. I have a great mind to send you back to tell her that
I won't let you go."
Dorothy was silent. Experience had taught her that it was the best
policy never to answer her father in these moods. Left to himself his
better nature generally prevailed.
"And who be the new vicar, Dolly?" asked her mother, who seldom failed
in getting her adopted child out of these scrapes, by diverting her
husband's attention to another object.
"Mr. Gerard Fitzmorris, a first cousin of my lord's."
"I knew his father," said Rushmere, "when he was raising a regiment
here, to fight the rebels in Ireland. He was a bad man. A drunkard an' a
gambler, and got killed in a duel. His wife ran away with another
officer. He followed them to France, challenged her seducer, an' got the
worst of it. His death was no loss to the world, or to his family. So,
so, this is his son. Poor stuff to make a man o' God out on' one would
think."
"Children do not always inherit their parents' vices," suggested Mrs.
Rushmere.
"It would be bad for the world if they did. But somehow I ha' found that
they often bear a strong family likeness," muttered the farmer.
"Well, girl, an' when do the new parson commence his work?"
"He will read himself in next Sunday morning. Mr. Martin says that he is
an excellent preacher, and a real Christian. Not one made so by
education, and from having been born and brought up in a Christian land,
but from conversion, and an earnest desire to be of use in the church."
"Humph," said Rushmere, "this is the way they generally cant about every
new parson. In a little while, they find out that these converted
sinners are no better nor the rest on us, only they think themselves
more godly. And you girl, don't you go to pull long faces and cant like
them. It is not by words but by deeds, that a man will be justified at
the last."
"Both would prove insufficient, father," suggested Dorothy, "without the
grace of God. If men could save themselves, our blessed Lord's death was
a useless sacrifice."
"Oh in course, you know better nor me, Dolly. If you go on at this rate,
you'll be able to teach parson his duty."
Dorothy laughed, and seeing him once more in a good humour again, put in
her plea, of helping Mrs. Martin prepare for her guest. "If not a good
act, it would be a neighbourly one," she said, "I will be back in time
father, to get your supper."
"But don't let these pious folk spoil you, lass. Dorothy Chance will
soon be too great a lady, wi' her musical nonsense and book larning, to
step across father Rushmere's threshold."
Dolly ran back and kissed the old man.
"What's that for, Doll?" and the yeoman laughed and opened his eyes
wide.
"For calling yourself my father. You have not spoken of me as your child
for so long. I thought you meant to disown me altogether."
Dorothy looked so sweetly and spoke so pleasantly, that the old man's
anger vanished in her smile.
"Go thy ways, Dolly, thou art a good wench. I love thee well, and thou
know'st it. If I be crusty, it's no new thing to thee, who know'st my
nature far better, nor I do mysel'. Like old Pincher, my bark is a great
deal worse nor my bite."