DOROTHY DOES NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH THE VICAR AT FIRST SIGHT.
Dorothy was not long in retracing her steps to the parsonage. She found
Mrs. Martin up to her eyes in business, taking up carpets, shifting
furniture, and giving the house a thorough cleaning from top to bottom.
The curate, who was generally very helpless on such occasions, and
decidedly in everybody's way during these domestic ordeals, was busy
stowing away books and papers out of the reach of mops and brooms.
"Now, Dorothy, which do you think will be the best room to give Mr.
Fitzmorris for his study? The one over the parlour that looks to the
south, and has such a nice view of Lord Wilton's plantations, or the
east chamber, which has such a fine prospect of the sea? Men are always
fond of the sea."
"It looks bleak and cold over that long dreary stretch of flat salt
marshes," said Dorothy, examining the landscape from both windows with a
critical eye. "I think he will prefer the sunny room that looks to the
south. I know I should."
"We can but change it, Dorothy, if it should not be to his taste. But I
have thought of another difficulty, which cannot be so easily remedied.
What of the piano?" and she turned an anxious eye on Dorothy. "How will
he be able to write his sermons with the eternal thumping of the
children on the instrument? It will be enough to drive a nervous man
from the house."
"How, indeed?" said Dorothy. "We must move the piano."
"But where?"
"To the Farm."
"By no means. You provoking little puss! It is the only handsome piece
of furniture in the house."
"We can place it in the dining-room, and only practice when he is absent
on parish business. If he is such a good, kind man as he is represented,
he will do all in his power to accommodate the females of the
household."
"We will try that plan. But what about the noise of the children?"
"The children are very quiet, and always do as they are bid. I am sure
no reasonable person can find fault with them."
The women chatted and worked on merrily, and before the church bell
tolled six, the south room was arranged entirely to their own
satisfaction. The windows were draped in snowy white, the casements
shone clear as the air, and tables, and chairs, and book-stands had
received an extra polish from the indefatigable hands of Dorothy, and
she commenced the arrangement of two large boxes of books that had
arrived by the London carrier, in the cases which had been forwarded for
their reception.
This last labour of love she performed very slowly, stopping to peep
into every volume as she dusted it. The Latin and Greek authors were
quickly disposed of, and the huge tomes of divinity scarcely attracted
any notice, but some fine works on botany and natural history chained
her attention. The plates were so beautiful that, in spite of sundry
implied remonstrances from Mrs. Martin, who was fidgetty lest the vicar
should arrive before all was completed, she could not resist the
temptation of looking at them, and even called in Harry and little
Johnnie to share her delight.
"I like the lions best," said little Johnnie. "I don't care for that big
pussie-cat with the green eyes and the long tail. It looks as if it
could scratch," and he put his fat fingers vigorously down upon the
Bengal tiger.
"Yes, and eat you afterwards," said Harry. "I don't like lions and
tigers. I love these beautiful flowers, they make me think of the
angels, they look so pure and lovely, and darling Dorothy loves them
too," and he leaned his head back upon Dorothy's white arm, and looked
earnestly up into her smiling face. Dorothy pressed the little curly
head fondly against her breast.
"Harry, we will get Mr. Fitzmorris to tell us all about the pretty
flowers; I don't know our favourites with these hard names. Flowers are
among God's best gifts to man. They have wonderful secrets of their own,
and, besides the innocent pleasure they give to every true heart,
possess in themselves a remedy for almost every disease. That reminds me
that I have yet to fill the china vase for the table. Come and help me,
Harry, for your tastes and mine always agree."
The two happy children, for Dorothy was still a child in heart, ran down
into the garden, hand in hand, and soon selected a splendid bouquet of
sweet spring blossoms, which Dorothy grouped with artistic taste, and
left in the centre of the table. A beautiful object, which put the
finishing touch to the exquisitely neat adornments of the small
apartment. She did not wait for the arrival of its future occupant, but
took her way home through the lonely lane that wound round the heath to
the Farm.
"I wonder what sort of a man he is?" said Dorothy, thinking of the new
vicar, "whether he be old or young, plain or good-looking. If he
resembles the Earl, I cannot fail to like him. Lord Wilton, though
getting up in years, is the most interesting and the handsomest man I
have ever seen."
Her speculations were abruptly dispelled, by a large Newfoundland dog
brushing past her, and she looked up and blushed to find herself face
to face with a strange gentleman, whose clerical dress left no doubts in
her mind as to his identity.
The person she was thinking about was before her.
He was a man of middle stature, not stout, but with a strong muscular
frame and the unmistakable bearing of a gentleman, who stopping directly
in her path, asked in a very unromantic and practical manner, "if he was
in the right road that led to the parsonage?"
Dorothy answered with some confusion, as if she suspected that the
stranger had read her thoughts.
"That the next turn in the lane would bring him in sight of the house."
With a brief "Thank you," Mr. Fitzmorris raised his hat, and passed on.
Dorothy was dreadfully disappointed. Was this the man for whom she had
arranged that beautiful vase of flowers? Judging from appearances, he
would be more likely to throw them out of the window as a nuisance, than
see anything to admire in them. What a different person he was to the
picture she had drawn of him in her mind! He did not resemble the Earl
in the least. He was not handsome. His features were strongly marked and
even stern for his age, for he could not have counted more than thirty
years, if indeed he were as old.
His complexion was coldly fair, the blue tints predominating over the
red, which gave a general pallor to his face not at all relieved by the
flaxen hair that curled in short masses round his ample forehead. His
eyebrows of the same colour, were strongly defined and rather bushy,
beneath which flashed out glances of keen intelligence, from a pair of
large eyes, vividly blue--they were remarkable eyes, which seemed to
look you through at a glance, and which once seen, could not easily be
forgotten.
He took no particular notice of Dorothy, and scarcely waited for her
answer to his abrupt inquiry.
"I don't think I shall like him at all," said Dorothy, her natural
vanity rather piqued by his nonchalance. "He looks clever, but proud and
stern. A poor substitute, I fear, for our dear Henry Martin, with his
large heart and gentle benevolence. Mr. Fitzmorris looks as if he could
fight with other weapons than the sword of the spirit," and Dorothy
closed the farm gate very emphatically behind her.
"Well, Dorothy, what of our new vicar?" asked Mrs. Rushmere, like most
old folks eager for the news. "Have you seen him?"
"Yes," replied Dorothy, with a tone of great indifference.
"And what is he like?"
"No one I have ever seen."
"Is he handsome?"
"Decidedly not."
"Is he clever?"
"He looks intelligent, but I can't tell, I only saw him for a moment. He
stopped me in the lane to inquire his way to the parsonage; I should
scarcely know him again."
Dorothy tripped off to her own chamber, to avoid further questions, and
to take off her muslin dress, and substitute a more homely garb in which
to cook Mr. Rushmere's supper.
The next morning was the day for receiving her music lesson. Dorothy
felt very much disinclined to walk to the parsonage to take it; though
she knew that old Piper would be raging mad at her want of punctuality.
She had no wish to encounter Mr. Fitzmorris, or meet again the keen
glance of his wonderful eyes. It was evident that he considered her a
very inferior person, and Dorothy's pride had progressed with her
education, and she began to feel that she was not undeserving of a
certain degree of respect from persons who might happen to move in a
higher class than her own.
Not being able to frame a plausible excuse for her absence from the
cottage, she was compelled to put on her bonnet, and dare the ordeal she
so much dreaded.
It was a lovely morning in the middle of May, and she gathered some
branches of hawthorn in full blossom for the children as she went along.
On coming up to the small white gate, that opened into the lawn fronting
the parsonage, she saw Mr. Fitzmorris seated on the grass, under the
shade of the tall bowering sycamore tree that grew in the centre of it,
with all the little ones gathered about him, laughing and romping with
them to their hearts' content, his laugh as loud, and his voice as
merry and joyous as the rest.
Could this be the cold, proud looking man she met in the lane last
night? His hat lay tossed at a distance upon the grass, the noble head
was bare, and wee Mary was sticking bluebells and cowslips among the
fair curls that clustered over it. A glow was on the pale face, and the
eyes sparkled and danced with pleasure.
"Dorothy! Dorothy!" screamed all the little voices at once. "Here comes
our dear Dorothy! Do come and play with us under the tree."
Dorothy smiled and shook her head at them, and almost ran into the
house.
"And who is your dear Dorothy, Harry?" asked Mr. Fitzmorris, looking
after the pretty apparition as it vanished.
"Oh, she's such a darling, next to papa and mamma, I love her better
than anything in the world," said Harry with enthusiasm, "and I know
she loves me."
"I'm sure, Harry, we all love her as much as you do," said Rosina. "But
you always want to keep Dolly all to yourself. She does not love you a
bit more than she does me and Johnnie."
"That she don't," cried Johnnie. "She loves me more than you all, for I
sit on her lap while she tells us pretty stories, and Harry's too old to
do that."
"I should rather think so," said Mr. Fitzmorris, laughing and looking at
Harry, a tall boy of nine years. "I think Johnnie's plea is the best. At
any rate, he contrives to get nearest to the young lady's heart. But why
are you all so fond of her? Do you love her for her pretty face?"
"Not for that alone," returned Harry. "But she is so kind, she never
says or does a cross thing, and always tries to make us happy."
"Then she deserves all the love you can give her. It is a blessed thing
to try and make others happy."
Just at that moment the grand notes of the old hundredth floated forth
upon the breeze, and became a living harmony, accompanied by Dorothy's
delicious voice. Mr. Fitzmorris rose to his feet, and stood with
uncovered head: the smile that had recently played upon his lips giving
place to an expression of rapt devotion, as if his whole heart and soul
were wafted towards heaven in those notes of praise.
"It is Dorothy who is singing. She sings in our choir," said Harry.
"Hush," returned the vicar, placing his finger on his lip. "We are
'before Jehovah's awful throne.' Wherever you hear that name mentioned,
you are upon holy ground."
The boy drew back awe-struck, and for the first time in his young life,
realized the eternal presence of God in the universe.
After Dorothy's lessons were over, Mr. Fitzmorris asked Mrs. Martin to
introduce him to her young friend.
"I hope you are not vain of that fine voice?" he said, taking a seat
beside her.
"Why should I be? I can hardly call it mine, for I had no choice in the
matter. It was a free gift."
Mr. Fitzmorris regarded the youthful speaker with a look of surprise.
For the first time it struck him forcibly that her face was very
beautiful, while its earnest, truthful expression conveyed the more
pleasing impression that it was one of great integrity.
"A free gift," he said, repeating unconsciously her words. "To be used
freely, I hope, in the service of the glorious Giver, and not as a means
of obtaining the applause and admiration of the world?"
"Not very likely, sir. My world is confined to a small sphere. It was
only the other day that I found out that I had a voice worthy of being
used in the choir. I used to sing to please my father, and to lighten my
labour when at work in the field."
"At work in the field!" and Mr. Fitzmorris glanced at the elegant form
and taper fingers. "What business had you working in the fields?"
"I am poor and dependent," said Dorothy, laughing, though she felt a
great awe of her interrogator; "and the children of poverty are seldom
allowed the privilege of choosing their own employments."
"But your appearance, Miss Chance, your language, even the manner of
your singing, seems to contradict the humbleness of your origin."
"What I have said is true," returned Dorothy. "I should be sorry if you
thought me capable of misrepresentation."
"You must not be so quick to take offence where none is meant," said Mr.
Fitzmorris, quietly, as Dorothy, who felt rather wounded, rose to go.
"Sit down, my good little girl, and listen to reason."
Dorothy thought that he had no right to question her so closely; he
seemed to read her thoughts, and she neither resumed her seat nor spoke.
"You think me very impertinent, Miss Chance. You forget that, as your
future pastor, I feel no small interest in your welfare; that the care
of souls is my special business; that it is nothing to me whether you be
poor or rich--all are alike in the eyes of Him I serve, whose eternal
image is impressed, irrespective of rank or wealth, as strongly upon the
soul of the peasant as upon that of the prince. Those alone are poor in
whom sin has obliterated this Divine likeness. If you are rich in the
Master's love, you are doubly so in my eyes, for I love all those who
love the Lord Jesus with sincerity."
The smile that now lighted up the pale, stern features of the young
vicar, made them almost beautiful. Dorothy felt the power of that calm,
noble face, and reproached herself for the unjust prejudices she had
entertained for him.
"I have spoken very foolishly," she said, and the tears came to her
eyes. "Will you, sir, forgive my presumption?"
"I have nothing to forgive," and he looked amused.
"Oh, yes, you have. When I first saw you I thought you looked cold and
proud, and acting upon that supposition, I was determined not to like
you. This, you know, was very wrong."
"Not so wrong after all. You are a good physiognomist, Miss Chance. I
was once all that you imagined me to be, and it takes a long while to
obliterate the expression which the mind stamps upon the countenance in
our early years. What made you alter your opinion so quickly?"
"A light which passed over your face, which I believe can only come from
Heaven."
"I wish you may be a true prophet, Miss Chance."
"Oh, sir, don't call me by that ugly name. Let it be plain Dorothy."
"Well then, Dorothy, now there is peace between us, sit down and tell me
who first discovered that you had a fine voice."
"Lord Wilton."
"Lord Wilton!" Mr. Fitzmorris almost started to his feet.
"He met me one day upon the heath, and told me that he had learned from
Mrs. Martin that I had a good voice, and asked me to sing to him."
"And you complied with the request?"
"Certainly."
"Don't you think that it was a strange request for a nobleman to make to
a poor country girl? Do you know, Dorothy, what Lord Wilton is?"
"Yes, Mr. Fitzmorris, the best friend I ever had in the world."
"Dorothy, the friendship of such men is enmity to God. Lord Wilton is a
man of the world. A man without religion, who is haunted continually by
the stings of conscience. Such a man rarely seeks the acquaintance of a
young girl beneath him in rank, for any good purpose."
"Ah, you wrong him! indeed you do," cried Dorothy. "He wishes me to be
good and happy, and to look upon him as a friend and father; and I love
him as such. He placed me under Mrs. Martin's care, that I might be
instructed to help her in the Sunday-school. Would a bad man have done
that? For Mrs. Martin and her husband are among the excellent of the
earth!"
"A great change must have come over him. When I last saw him, but that
is some years ago, he was all that I have represented him."
Mr. Fitzmorris walked to the window, and stood with folded arms,
apparently in deep thought.
There had never been much intimacy between his branch of the family and
Lord Wilton's, though they were first cousins. Their mutual uncle had
left an immense fortune to the Earl, which Gerard's father thought
should have been equally divided. He did not consider that he had been
fairly treated in the matter, and accused the Earl of having undermined
him in the good graces of the titled millionaire.
These family quarrels are very bitter, and their pernicious effects are
often traceable through several generations.
It was not of this great family disappointment that General Fitzmorris
was thinking, for he was very indifferent about wealth, only regarding
it as a useful means of doing good. He was mentally glancing over
several passages in the Earl's life, in which his conduct had been
severely censured by the public, when the seduction and subsequent
suicide of a beautiful girl adopted by his mother, had formed the theme
of every tongue.
And who was this beautiful country girl, this Dorothy Chance, that he
should take such an interest in her education. He was afraid the old
leaven was again at work, and he was determined, if possible, to
frustrate his designs.
"Is your father one of my parishioners, Dorothy?" he said, again
addressing her.
"Yes, sir, my adopted father."
"Are you an orphan?"
"My mother is dead. My father, I never knew; I don't know whether he be
living or dead. But please, sir, don't ask me anything about it. Mrs.
Martin can tell you my strange history. I did not mind hearing about it
once, but now it gives me great pain."
"I should be sorry to distress you, Dorothy," he said, coming over to
where she was standing, her hand resting on the piano.
"I wish to be your friend."
"I believe you, Mr. Fitzmorris, but I cannot be your friend, if you
speak ill of Lord Wilton."
"I will only speak of him as he deserves. If he is a regenerated man, I
shall rejoice to give him the right hand of fellowship. And now, good
morning, Dorothy, I have much to do before the duties of the Sabbath. I
shall see you again shortly."
Mr. Fitzmorris left the room, and Dorothy returned to the farm.
On her way thither, she pondered much on what had passed between her and
Mr. Fitzmorris. His conversation had filled her mind with a thousand
painful doubts and fears. Could there really be any impropriety in her
intimacy with Lord Wilton? and was it possible that he could be such a
person as Mr. Fitzmorris described? Then she recalled the Earl's own
confession. The fearful manner in which he had accused himself of crimes
committed in his youth against some one, whom he had loved and injured,
and robbed of her fair name. But he had not spoken of her as his wife,
but as one whom he had been ashamed to own, and had deserted and left to
perish.
This was cruel and cowardly to say the least of it, but she, Dorothy,
had pitied him so much, had mingled her tears with his, and actually
wept in his arms.
Dorothy was frightened at having allowed her sympathy to carry her so
far. She had acted foolishly; she saw, when it was too late, the
imprudence of such conduct. If any one had passed them at the time, Miss
Watling, for instance, what a story she would have had to tell. Her
character would have been lost for ever. Was not this fancied
illustration of her indiscretion more conclusive than any argument that
Mr. Fitzmorris had used?
She felt miserably uncomfortable and ill at ease. In vain she repeated
St. Paul's words, "To the pure, all things are pure." There was another
text that seemed to answer that, "Avoid all appearance of evil." And
would not malicious people raise an evil report about her, if they saw
her frequently walking and talking with a man so far above her in rank
as Lord Wilton?
Dorothy had boundless faith in the purity of his motives, in the
sincerity of his friendship for her. But would the gossips of Hadstone
see him with her eyes, or judge him with her heart? Alas, no. Dorothy
shuddered at the danger which threatened her. But how could she avoid
it. Could she tell Lord Wilton that she would lose her character if she
was seen speaking to him? Would it not be base ingratitude to her noble
benefactor? No. She would let things take their course. She was certain
that his intentions were good and honourable, that it would all come
right at last. She wished that she had never seen Mr. Fitzmorris. He had
made her unhappy, and she had yet to learn that he was a better man than
the Earl.