DOROTHY'S FIRST LETTER.
Dorothy formed many plans for future usefulness during her walk home,
nor had she the least suspicion of the different field in which her
labours of love would be required.
Mrs. Rushmere had for several months complained of a sharp stinging pain
between her shoulders, caused by a very small and apparently
insignificant tumour. "Too small," the old lady said, "to make a fuss
about." She had, however, several times lately remarked to Dorothy,
"that the provoking thing caused her much inconvenience."
Always having enjoyed excellent health, Dorothy was very ignorant of
the nature of diseases, but thinking that something must be wrong with
her mother, she had urged her very strongly to show the cause of her
uneasiness to Dr. Davy, the medical practitioner of Storby. This the old
lady had promised to do, but had put it off from day to day. When
Dorothy returned from her walk with Mr. Fitzmorris, she was greatly
alarmed at finding Mrs. Rushmere in her bed, with traces of tears still
wet upon her cheeks.
"My darling mother, what is the matter?" cried the affectionate girl,
stooping over the bed and kissing her tenderly. "Are you ill?"
"More in mind than body," returned the good woman, trying to smile. "Oh,
Dolly, dear, that tumour pained me so this afternoon, that I got father
to drive me over to see the doctor."
"Well, and what did he say?" asked Dorothy, eagerly. Mrs. Rushmere's
lips quivered.
"Dolly, I don't like to tell you. It will grieve you sore."
Dorothy looked alarmed, and turned very pale, as she clasped her
mother's hand tighter in her own.
"He said it was a cancer." The old lady spoke slowly and with
difficulty. "That it had been suffered to go too far, and at my age any
operation in such a dangerous part was useless."
There was a long pause, only broken by the low sobbing of the two women.
"I don't mind dying, Dolly dear," continued Mrs. Rushmere, gathering
courage to speak at last. "But oh, my pet! it is such a cruel death."
"May God give you strength to bear it, my dear mother," said Dorothy.
"This is sad news; it cuts me to the heart."
"I hope I may be spared to see Gilly again," continued Mrs. Rushmere,
for a moment forgetful of her sad fate. "The doctor said that I might
live for months, or even for years; but I only want to live long enough
to look into his face once more."
After lying very still for a few minutes, she turned piteously to
Dorothy, and continued--
"Dolly, if Gilbert should repent of his unkindness to you, would you
forgive him?"
"Dear mother, I have done that long ago. How could I ask God to forgive
me, and harbour resentment against anyone?"
"But would you marry him, if he wished it?"
Dorothy was silent. She felt in her heart that she no longer wished to
be Gilbert Rushmere's wife, yet she did not wish to agitate Mrs.
Rushmere, by giving a flat negative to her question.
Her inward retrospection was interrupted by Mrs. Rushmere sinking back
on her pillow, and gasping out, in a faint voice,
"Dorothy, you no longer love him?"
"Dear mother, these are useless and cruel questions. Gilbert will never
put me to the trial of refusing him."
"But if a' did?"
"The answer to such an inquiry rightly belongs to the future. I know no
more than you do how I might act. I trust in God that He would guide me
to do what was right."
"And will you promise, Dorothy, not to leave me, till it is all
over--till--till they have laid me in the clay?"
"That I can promise with my whole heart. Yes, dearest, best friend, set
your mind at rest on that point. I will nurse you, and do everything
that lies in my power to help you, and alleviate your sufferings. How
could you imagine for a moment the possibility of your Dolly leaving
you?"
"Ah, what a jewel that foolish boy threw recklessly way," sighed the
good mother, as her adopted daughter left the room to make her a cup
of tea.
A few days after this painful interview, the mail brought the news of
the battle of Vittoria having been fought. Great was the public
rejoicings on the occasion; a glad shout of triumph rang through the
British Isles, proclaiming the victory their warlike sons had achieved.
It was only in those homes to which the messenger of death brought evil
tidings of the loved and lost, that the voice of joy was mute.
Dorothy ran over to Jonathan Sly's to borrow the paper to read to old
Rushmere, and in the list of the killed and wounded, found that
Lieutenant Gilbert Rushmere had lost his right arm.
"Oh, father!" she cried, and suddenly stopped.
"Well, girl, out wi't. Dost think I'm not a man, that I can't bear the
worst? Is Gilly killed?"
"No, thank God! but--but--he has lost his right arm."
"Lost his right arm! He had better ha' lost his life than return a
cripple from the wars. Don't you see, girl, that this will put a stop to
his promotion, an' make an idle pensioner of him--when, in these
stirring times, he might ha' risen to be a general officer.
Dear--dear--dear! This is a terrible calamity. My boy--my brave boy!"
"Don't tell mother a word about it, father, it would kill her in her
weak state," urged Dorothy.
"It won't vex her, Dorothy, as it does me. She has no ambition for her
son. She would sooner ha' him sitting beside her with his one arm, so
she had him safe at home, than know that he was commander o' the British
army abroad. It will be as well to say nought about it, Dorothy, if you
can keep it from her. My dear old woman--the loss o' her will be bad
enough, wi'out this fresh trouble. Lost his right arm! Oh, my poor
Gilly!"
Badly as Gilbert had behaved to her, Dorothy could better have borne the
loss of her own arm. She still loved him well enough to feel truly
grieved for his misfortune.
To a man of Gilbert's active habits, the want of that arm would be a
dreadful calamity. She could not bear to think of the empty sleeve,
hanging so uselessly beside his tall athletic figure. In all rural
sports be had always been foremost, and never failed to carry off the
prize. What would they do without him on the cricket ground--their best
bat? What at the ploughing matches, where he had always turned the
straightest furrow? In the hay and harvest fields, where he had no
equal? Even in the boat races he had always pulled the best oar. And
when his discarded love thought of these things, she retired to the
solitude of her own chamber, and wept bitterly.
She thought that Lawrence Rushmere ought to have felt more grateful to
God for sparing the life of his son. But the old man had been in the
habit of speculating so much upon his rising to hold a high position in
the army, that he could scarcely as yet realize the destruction of all
his ambitious hopes.
This, together with the growing weakness of his wife, who, to do the old
man justice, he loved better than anything in the world, tended much to
sour his temper, and render it no easy matter to live at peace with him.
Directly Gerard Fitzmorris heard, through Mrs. Martin, of the troubles
in the Rushmere family, he hastened to offer them the consolations of
religion, and the sympathy of a true and benevolent heart. His pastoral
visits were duly appreciated by the poor invalid and Dorothy, to whom
they afforded the greatest comfort.
Mrs. Rushmere was a woman after the vicar's own heart. Her gentle
resignation and genuine piety filled him with respect and admiration. He
treated her as an affectionate son would do a beloved mother; soothing
her in moments of intense suffering with his kind ministrations, and
strengthening her mind with the blessed promises of the Gospel, to bear
with submission the great burthen that had been laid upon her.
"The heavier the cross," he would say, "the brighter the crown. The more
meekly it is borne, the sweeter will be the rest at the end of the
journey."
Then he would join his fine mellow voice with Dorothy in singing the
beautiful, though now forgotten, verse in the evening hymn: "For death
is life, and labour rest." Even the blunt farmer's hard nature was
softened by his touching prayers.
Mr. Fitzmorris did not exactly approve of Gilbert's loss being kept a
profound secret from his mother.
"I hate all concealment," he cried. "The simple truth is always the
best. You had better let me break it to her, than run the risk of her
hearing it accidentally from another. The shock of seeing him with the
empty sleeve, would give her more pain than if you were to make her
acquainted with the facts."
Still, neither Dorothy nor Mr. Rushmere could be persuaded to follow his
advice.
A very few days had elapsed before Dorothy deeply repented not adopting
his judicious advice.
Though her disease was rapidly progressing, and Mrs. Rushmere was
becoming daily weaker, she was still able to occupy the room below,
propped up by pillows in her easy chair. The sight of all the household
arrangements, and the inmates going to and fro, amused her, and often
made her forgetful of the pain she was suffering.
One morning while Dorothy was absent in the outer kitchen, preparing
some broth, Miss Watling, who had learned the extent of Gilbert's
injuries, called upon Mrs. Rushmere to condole with her on the event,
and pick up any bit of gossip she could with regard to Dorothy.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Rushmere!" she cried, hurrying up to the easy chair,
in which the old lady was reclining half asleep. "I am so sorry to find
you sick and confined to the house. But you must not fret about Gilbert,
indeed you must not. Directly I was told the dreadful news, I said to
Mrs. Barford, 'Lord a' mercy, it will kill his poor mother.'"
"What about Gilbert! What dreadful news?" cried Mrs. Rushmere, starting
from her half conscious state, and grasping the thin bony arm of her
visitor with convulsive energy.
"Why, surely they must have told you that he was badly wounded in the
great battle of Vittoria."
"Badly wounded. A great battle. Oh, my son! my son!" and the distressed
mother fell back in her chair in a swoon.
At this moment, Dorothy entered with the broth for the invalid. One
glance at the death pale face of Mrs. Rushmere told the whole story. She
put down the basin and hurried to her assistance.
"Oh, Miss Watling!" she said in a deprecating voice. "See what you have
done?"
"And what have I done? told the woman what she ought to have known three
weeks ago."
"We had been keeping it from her," said Dorothy, "because she was not
strong enough to bear it."
"And pray, Dorothy Chance, if a lady may be permitted to ask the
question, what is the matter with her?"
"She is dying," sobbed Dorothy, "of cancer in the back."
"How should I know that? I am not gifted with second sight."
"You know it now," said Dorothy, "and as she is coming to, it would be
better for you to leave me to break the whole thing more gently to her."
"Oh, of course, you are the mistress here, and I am to leave the house
at your bidding. I shall do no such thing without my old friend Mrs.
Rushmere turns me out."
Dorothy cast a glance of mingled pity and contempt upon the speaker.
Just then, Mrs. Rushmere opened her eyes, and met Dorothy's anxious
sympathizing glance.
"Dorothy, is he dead?" she asked in a faint voice.
"No, dearest mother. Do compose yourself."
"But is he mortally wounded? Tell me, tell me, the whole truth!"
Dorothy sank on her knees beside the chair, and passed her arms round
Mrs. Rushmere's waist, so that her head could rest upon her shoulder,
while she whispered in her ear. "He lost his right arm in the battle."
"And you did not tell me?"
"We wished to spare you unnecessary pain, dear mother."
"I know you did it for the best, Dorothy--but all this time, I would
have prayed for him. A mother's earnest prayers are heard in heaven."
"That's downright popery, Mrs. Rushmere," chimed in the hard woman.
"What does she say, Dorothy?"
"Oh, dear mother, it is a matter of no consequence. Do take your broth
before it is cold. You have been greatly agitated. You know the worst
now, and God will give you comfort."
Dorothy placed the broth on a little table before her, wishing in her
heart that she could hit on some plan to get rid of their unfeeling
visitor.
"Gilbert will have to leave the army now," said Miss Watling. "But I
suppose he will retire on half pay, and have a good pension. But were
the government to give him a fortune, it would scarcely repay a fine
young fellow for the loss of a right arm." Mrs. Rushmere dropped her
spoon upon the floor and shivered.
"For the love of charity, Miss Watling, don't refer to this terrible
subject--you see how it agitates Mrs. Rushmere. There, she has fainted
again. I will have to send off for the doctor."
"That is another hint for me to go. This is all one gets by trying to
sympathize with vulgar, low people." And the angry spinster swept out of
the room.
Her place was almost immediately filled by Mr. Fitzmorris. A look from
Dorothy informed him how matters stood. He drew his chair beside Mrs.
Rushmere's, and took her hand in his.
"Mother, this is a severe trial, but you know where to seek for help.
There is one whose strength can be made perfect in human weakness. Come,
dry these tears, and thank God for sparing the life of your son.
Remember, that he might have died in his sins--and be thankful.
Dorothy," he said, glancing up into the sweet face that rested on the
top of her mother's chair, "fetch Mrs. Rushmere a glass of wine, and
warm that broth again. I mean to have the pleasure of seeing her eat
it."
"You are so good--so kind," said Mrs. Rushmere, a wintry smile passing
over her pale face.
"Nonsense, my dear Madam. No living creature deserves the first term.
Even our blessed Lord while in the flesh rejected it. 'There is none
good but God,' was his answer to the young man who preferred his great
possessions to that blessed invitation, 'Come and follow me.'
"But I really have good news for you; news which Lord Wilton kindly sent
to cheer you. Gilbert's arm was amputated above the elbow, and he is
doing very well. Is already out of the hospital, and on his way home.
Now, have you not every reason to be thankful, when so many mothers have
to mourn for sons left for the wolf and the vulture on the battle
plain?"
"I do not complain," sighed Mrs. Rushmere. "Oh, God be thanked! I shall
see him again."
A burst of tears relieved her oppressed heart, and when Dorothy returned
with the broth, Mr. Fitzmorris watched the patient eat it with evident
satisfaction.
"She is better now," he said; "I will read a few sentences and pray with
her; and then, Dolly, dear, you had better put her to bed. She has had
enough to harass her for one day."
The circumstance of Mr. Fitzmorris calling her "Dolly, dear," though it
might only have been a slip of the tongue, trifling as it was, sent a
thrill of joy to her heart.
When he rose to go, he beckoned her to the window, and put a very large
letter into her hand. "This was enclosed to me by Lord Wilton. He is
about to accompany his sick son to Madeira for change of air--the
physician's last shift to get rid of a dying patient."
Dorothy put the letter in her pocket, secretly wondering what it could
be about. She had no opportunity of reading it before she went to bed,
as Mrs. Rushmere required her attendance far into the night, and the
whole management of the house now devolved on her.
How eagerly she opened the letter, when, after a thousand petty
hindrances, she at last found herself seated at the little table in her
own chamber. Enclosed within the letter was a large sealed packet, upon
which was written, "only to be opened, if I never return to England."
The letter ran thus:--
"My dear Dorothy,
"I cannot leave England without bidding you farewell. You are very
dear to me, so dear that words could scarcely convey to you the
depth and strength of my affection. Do not start, my child--I can
see the look of profound astonishment in the dear black eyes--I am
not in love with you. The passion that bears that name, the passion
that a lover feels for the woman he adores, whom he desires to call
his own before all others, has long been dead in my heart, and lies
buried with the loved and lost in a nameless grave.
"The love that unites me to you, my dear Dorothy, though widely
different, is not less holy in its nature, and flows out of the
unutterable tenderness that a parent feels for a beloved child.
Oh, that I could call you my child before the whole world.
"Here, while watching beside the sick bed of my only son, the
heir of my titles and estates, who, I fondly hoped, would carry
down my name to posterity, and knowing that his hours are
already numbered, my heart turns, in its sore agony, to you, the
daughter of my choice, for sympathy and consolation. Do not deny
me this, my dear young friend: write and tell me so; write just
as you think and feel. I long for the simple utterances of your
pure and guileless heart, so refreshing to my weary spirit,
tired with the unmeaning hollow professions of the world.
"We sail for Madeira to-morrow, I do not entertain the least
hope that it will benefit Edward's health, but the change of
scene and climate may amuse him on the one hand, and mitigate
his sufferings on the other.
"Oh, Dorothy, how deeply I regret that you will never see this
dear son. You who would have loved him so well, and who
resemble him in many things so closely. Let us hope that we may
all meet in another and better world.
"I am glad to hear that you have a friend in Gerard Fitzmorris.
We have never been thrown much together, on account of the feuds
and jealousies which, unfortunately, existed between the two
families, but I have every reason to believe that, unlike his
father and brother, the young vicar of Hadstone is an excellent
man; one in whom, on any emergency, you may place the utmost
confidence. I say this because I apprehend some trouble in store
for you at home.
"I have learned from my son that Gilbert Rushmere, in order to
secure a young lady of fortune whom he met in London, while on
the recruiting service, married her before he went back with the
regiment to Spain. It turns out that the young lady in question
deceived her lover on this point, and it is more than probable
that, on his return from abroad, he will go down to Heath Farm
with his wife.
"I fear, my dear Dorothy, that this will be everything but an
agreeable arrangement for you, and I have provided a home for
you with Mrs. Martin in case you should find it so. I likewise
enclose a draft on the county bank for fifty pounds of which I
beg your acceptance, and which either my cousin Gerard or Mr.
Martin can get cashed for you. The sealed packet you must lay by
_very carefully_, as upon it may depend the recognition of your
parentage. Perhaps it would be safer for you to deposit such
important documents in the hands of Mr. Martin or Fitzmorris.
Should I live to return, their contents will be of little
importance, as you can then learn them from my own lips.
"Do not grieve over your lover's marriage, but believe with me
that it is a providential thing, the very best that could happen
in your position.
"And now, farewell, beloved child. Keep me in your thoughts, and
remember me ever in your prayers. I have not forgotten our
conversation on the heath. From reading daily that blessed volume
to my dear Edward, I have derived more peace and comfort than my
troubled spirit has known for years.
"Your attached friend,
"EDWARD FITZMORRIS.
"London, July 14th."
Dorothy read the letter over several times. Bewildered and astonished,
she scarcely knew what to make of its contents. Though it had informed
her of the marriage of Gilbert, she had not shed a tear or felt the
least regret. She could meet him without sorrow for the past, or hope
for the future. He was far, far removed from her now. They were placed
wide as the poles asunder. She could speak to him without hesitation,
and answer him without a blush. He was no longer anything to her. He was
the husband of another. But then his marriage. It seemed to have been
one of deceit and trickery, and she felt sorrow for him. But after all,
had he not been rightly served? He had married a woman without love, for
her money, and had not obtained the wealth for which he had sacrificed
himself and her.
Dorothy felt that there was a retributive justice even in this world;
that if Gilbert had acted uprightly he would not have been punished; and
when she thought of the misery such a disappointment must have inflicted
on his proud heart, and the loss of the strong right arm, that might
have won him an honourable and independent position, she fully realized
how severe that punishment had been.
From the news of her lover's marriage, which to her was so unexpected,
she turned to ponder over the contents of the Earl's letter, or those
portions of it that related to herself and him. Inexperienced as Dorothy
was in the conventionalisms of the world, she could not but feel that
there was some strange mystery hidden under the terms of endearment, so
profusely heaped upon her. A vague surmise leaped across her brain.
Could it be possible that she was anything nearer to him than a friend?
She laughed at her presumption in supposing such a thing, but the idea
had made an impression on her mind that she could not banish.
Sudden and extraordinary as his attachment had been to her, she never
had for a moment imagined him as a lover. She always thought that his
regard was the pure offspring of benevolence, the interest he took in
her story, when backed by the strong likeness she bore to his mother.
Now she asked herself whence came that singular resemblance? Her own
mother was a fair woman, every person that had seen her agreed in that.
How came she with the straight features and dark eyes of the Earl and
his mother? And then she turned the sealed packet over and longed with
an intense desire, which amounted to pain, to read its contents and
solve the strange mystery which was known only to him.
A keen sense of honour forbade her to break the seal. The temptation to
do so was the strongest she had ever experienced in her life. She sat
pondering over these things, heedless of the long hours that slipped by,
until the first rays of the summer sun had converted into diamonds all
the dewdrops on the heath. It was too late or rather too early then to
go to bed, so changing her afternoon muslin for a calico working dress,
she roused the prentice girl to go with her to the marshes and fetch
home the cows.