DOROTHY MAKES A "CONFIDANT" OF MR. FITZMORRIS.
Dorothy was undecided in what manner to break the news of Gilbert's
marriage to his mother, to whom she well knew the intelligence would be
everything but welcome. Fortunately she was spared what she foolishly
considered a humiliating task.
The walking post from the village beyond Hadstone in the shape of a very
spare wrinkled old woman, whom all the boys in the neighbourhood
considered a witch, left a letter at the door on her way to Storby, for
Mrs. Rushmere.
"This is from Gilbert," said Dorothy, as she examined the seal and
superscription. "But no, the hand is not his. Some one must have written
it for him, (and she remembered the lost arm), his wife perhaps." The
writing was that of a woman, and the letter was neatly folded and
sealed. Gilbert's letters were short and ill-shaped, and closed with a
great blotch of discoloured wax pressed down with a regimental button.
The epistle was evidently none of his.
She had left Mrs. Rushmere in the easy chair, talking with her husband
about Gilbert's misfortune. They were still pursuing the same theme,
when she reentered the room.
"A letter for you, dear mother, with the London post-mark. One shilling
postage. The old woman is waiting for it at the door."
Mrs. Rushmere gave her the money, bidding her quickly return, and read
the letter. It was, as Dorothy suspected, from Gilbert's wife.
"Dear Madam,
"I write at the desire of my husband, your son, Lieutenant
Rushmere."
"Hold!" cried the farmer. "Gilbert married. I'll not believe a word
on't. He'd never get married without telling us about it, or giving us a
jollification at the wedding. Tut, tut, girl, 'tis all a hoax."
"Go on with the letter, Dorothy, and let us hear what the woman says for
hersel'," said Mrs. Rushmere. "It may be true after all."
"I think you will find it so," returned Dorothy, who had been glancing
over the first page.
"You will be sorry to hear that he lost his right arm in the
battle of Vittoria, but is now in a fair way of recovery, and as
well in health as could be expected. He is very anxious to visit
his home and his parents again, and if nothing happens to
prevent our journey, we shall be with you the day after to-morrow
by the London mail. Mr. Rushmere need not trouble himself to
send a conveyance to meet us at the coach. My mother will
accompany us. I bring my own servant, and the luggage
consequently will be heavy. Lieutenant Rushmere proposes to hire
a post-chaise to carry us on to Hadstone. Hoping, dear madam, to
meet you and Mr. Rushmere in good health,
"I remain, yours truly,
"SOPHIA RUSHMERE."
Dorothy folded the letter, and the three exchanged glances. "His wife,
and mother, and servant. Where are they all to be stowed?" asked
Dorothy, who did not like the formal tone of the letter, and the cool
manner in which the lady had included her mother and servant in the
visit. "Well, Dolly, dear, we must contrive to make them comfortable,"
cried the good mother, rubbing her hands, and rejoicing in the near
prospect of beholding her son. "Gilbert has taken us by surprise, both
in regard to his marriage and this visit; but the mother and daughter
may turn out very agreeable people, and be willing to submit to a little
inconvenience."
"I hope it may be so, dear mother, for your sake; I will do my best to
accommodate the party, but I want to know how it is to be done. There
are only three sleeping rooms, and the attic, in the old house."
"The servant gals can sleep together," said Rushmere, "in the attic.
Gilbert and his wife can occupy his own room; and the old missus may
share your bed."
"The good lady may not approve of sleeping with a stranger."
"Oh, dang the old mother! she might ha' waited till she was invited.
What the dickens did they want to bring her for?"
"I can stay with Mrs. Martin during their visit," suggested Dorothy. "As
they bring their own servant, and our Polly is a very willing creature,
my service will no longer be required."
"It is natural, Dorothy, that you should object to meet Gilbert's wife,"
said Mrs. Rushmere, thoughtfully; "and if we could possibly do without
you, I would advise it strongly."
"And who's to wait upon you, Mary," asked Rushmere, angrily. "Gilbert's
naught to Dorothy now. I don't see the necessity of her running away
just when she be most wanted."
"I could sleep and take my meals at Mrs Martin's, and attend to dear
mother's requirements as well as I do now. But, indeed, indeed, I should
feel much happier away. At least," she added, in a broken voice, "for
the first few days."
"Let it be so," said Mrs. Rushmere, kindly pressing her hands.
"Thank you, dearest mother, for the permission; I will go, but not
until I have arranged everything for their comfort. And one thing I must
request of you, father, that you never treat me as a servant before
Gilbert's wife."
"Oh, if you mean to take yourself off, Dolly, you may as well go
altogether. Gilbert's wife's a lady; she won't put up with airs from the
like o' you."
"Ah, there it is, father, you are kind enough when we are alone, but the
moment any one comes into the house you treat me as an object of
charity, especially if you think them rich and well-born. But I tell you
candidly that I have too much self-respect to bear it any longer. If you
cannot value my love and faithful services, I have friends who stand as
high in the world's estimation, who do. You may find Gilbert's wife a
woman more to your taste, but she will never be a better daughter to you
than I have been."
"Nobody found fault with you, girl, that you should go off in a tantrum
about naught. It's only just your envy of Gilly's rich wife, that makes
you saucy to me. In course, as my son's wife, she must be a person of
more consequence in the house than ever you can be. It's neither kind
nor grateful o' you to be talking of leaving your mother when she be
unable to help herself."
Mrs. Rushmere cast a pleading look at Dorothy, to take no notice of this
ungracious speech. He had an ugly habit, she often said, of undervaluing
his best friends before strangers which sprang out of an overweening
sense of his own importance, and a wish to exalt himself at the expense
of others.
Dorothy took Mrs. Rushmere's hint, and left the room to prepare for the
arrival of the bridal party. She was vexed with herself for resenting
Mr. Rushmere's coarse speeches, and pressed Lord Wilton's letter which
she had in her bosom, more closely against her heart. While she
possessed the esteem of such men as the Earl, Henry Martin, and Gerard
Fitzmorris, why need she mind the ungenerous sarcasm of an illiterate
man.
Calling Polly, the parish apprentice, to her aid, she set diligently to
work, and before the dinner hour arrived, their united efforts had made
the two chambers fit for the reception of their expected inmates.
Dorothy did not mean to share her bed with Gilbert's mother-in-law, and
though she felt much regret in leaving the dear little room she had
occupied for so many years, she greatly preferred sleeping alone in the
attic. Thither she removed her little store of books, her pots of
geraniums and fuchsias, the small trunk that held her clothes, and a few
keepsakes she had been given by the kind Martins. What to do with the
check she had received from Lord Wilton, she did not know. She was
astonished that such a small slip of paper could stand for such a large
sum of money. She felt dreadfully afraid of losing it, and determined
to show it to Mr. Fitzmorris, and ask him to keep it for her, together
with the mysterious sealed packet, which she had a great longing to
read. "And I am afraid I shall do it, if it remains in my own
possession," she said, "though I know it would be very wicked."
When the rooms were put in order, and everything looked as clean and
bright as new pins, as Polly said, Dorothy led Mrs. Rushmere upstairs to
inspect them, and see if they were entirely to her satisfaction.
"They look like yourself, my darling Dorothy," said Mrs. Rushmere,
falling on her neck and kissing her. "Neat and beautiful. Oh! my beloved
child, you don't know how I feel for you. How much I dread the coming of
these strange women. It do seem to me so odd that he should marry all on
a suddent, an' never tell us a word about it. An' he so weak an' ill,
from the loss o' his arm."
"Oh, but he was married before he left England the last time, which
accounts for his sending no message to me in his letter."
"Why, Dolly, did the wife write that? I never heard you read a word on't
in her letter?"
Dorothy was dumb-foundered, she had quite forgotten that Lord Wilton was
her informant, and to get out of the scrape into which she had fallen,
for she abhorred all concealment, she thought it best to show Mrs.
Rushmere the Earl's letter.
Sending Polly downstairs to prepare the dinner, she made her mother take
a seat on a lounge by the window, while she read the important document,
and shewed her the mysterious sealed packet, and the draft for the
money.
Mrs. Rushmere made her read it twice over. It was a long time before she
spoke. She sat lost in a profound reverie.
"Mother," said Dorothy, "you will not mention what I have read to any
one. Neither to father nor Gilbert."
"Poor Gilly," sighed the mother, "how blind he has been to reject the
gold and take up with the dross, and exchange a real lady for a cunning
impostor. He ha' given himself away for a brass farthing. Well, Dorothy,
you have had your revenge, and bitterly will father and son repent o'
their obstinate folly."
"We will talk no more of that, mother. It was a painful experience, but
it is past and gone. The Lord did not intend me to be Gilbert's wife.
'The lot is cast into the lap, but the choosing of it is from Him.' I
feel this day happy and grateful that it is so."
"You may well do that, Dorothy. Your fortunes, will, indeed, lie far
apart. Oh! my child, when I think of all that he has lost, of all that
might have been his, it is enough to break my heart."
"Mother, I don't understand you."
"No, nor is it fit you should. But I see, I know it all. Time will
bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and when I am in the dust,
Dorothy, and you are a great lady, remember how dearly I loved you.
Loved you while poor and friendless, and gathered you into my heart as
my own."
Mrs. Rushmere's head was now resting upon Dorothy's bosom, and she was
weeping bitterly.
"Mother, I am so sorry I showed you that letter, it has grieved you so
much; but I have never kept anything from you. I did not like to conceal
my correspondence with the Earl. Do you think it would be improper in me
to answer his letter, and accept that money?"
"You must do both, Dorothy. You owe him both love and obedience. You
have given me your confidence, I will give you mine. I feel certain that
you be his daughter."
"Mother!"
"Whether by marriage or imprudent love, remains yet to be told. But
time will prove that I be right."
"Ah, how could that poor starved creature be an Earl's wife?" and
Dorothy shuddered, as if an arrow had suddenly pierced her heart.
"How, indeed?" continued Mrs. Rushmere.
"There was a wild story afloat some years agone, of his having seduced a
beautiful girl adopted by his mother. She went home to her grandmother
in consequence, and the cruel old woman turned her into the streets, an'
she was never heard of again--folks did say that she walked into the sea
when the tide was coming in, an' destroyed hersel'. No one but God
knows."
"But I could not love Lord Wilton if I were that miserable lost
creature's daughter," cried Dorothy, wringing her hands. "Oh mother!
mother! it would be worse than being called the beggar's brat that
farmer Rushmere picked up on the heath. If I thought that I were his
child through that infamous connection, I would spurn him and his gift
from me as accursed things!"
She took the packet from her bosom, and was about to put her threat into
execution. Mrs. Rushmere stayed her hand.
"Dorothy, what be you about? Supposing your mother to have been his
wife, you may be destroying the proofs of your legitimacy. As Lawrence
would say, 'cutting your own throat.'"
"True," said Dorothy, frightened at her own rashness. "How wrong it is
of any one to act without thinking. This wedding-ring, after all, may be
a true witness that my poor mother was an honest woman."
"At any rate, Dorothy, it is useless for you to try and puzzle out the
truth; even if so be that you hit upon it, without farther evidence you
could not satisfy yoursel' that it was so. But be sartin sure o' this,
that mystery and concealment are generally used to cover crime. If Lord
Wilton had acted rightly, he would not have been afraid of owning his
wife to the world. Selfishness and sin must lie at some one's door, and
women--the poor creatures--when they love, generally fling their all
into the scale, regardless of consequences.
"But there's the dinner-bell, my pet, father will be rampaging if he
comes in and finds us talking here."
After Dorothy had given Mrs. Rushmere her tea that evening, and got her
comfortably to bed, she tripped across the dreary heath by the light of
the July moon to see Mrs. Martin, and tell her all that had transpired.
She found no one at home but Mr. Fitzmorris, who was walking up and down
the lawn, with a closed book in his hand, in which he could no longer
see to read. He looked up, as the little gate swung to, and came forward
to meet her. "Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, you are the very person I wanted to
see. I am so glad to find you alone."
He looked into the sweet face with an inquiring glance, but seemed
suddenly struck with its unusual pallor.
"Dorothy, something has happened to annoy you. I can read that face of
yours like an open book. _You_ could not deceive any one."
"I hope I may never be tempted to try. But oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, I was
sorely tempted last night to do a very dishonourable thing."
"And did the tempter succeed, Dorothy?"
"No, though I had not the courage to say 'get thee behind me Satan.' But
if you will sit down under this tree, I will tell you all about it, and
the many anxious thoughts that are passing through my mind."
"I am hardly old enough, Dorothy, to be a father confessor."
"But I have as much confidence in you, Mr. Fitzmorris, as though you
were as old as Methuselah."
Gerard laughed heartily.
"As you have inducted me into this office, Dorothy, make a clean breast
of it."
"But it is no laughing matter," quoth Dorothy, "I found it sad and
serious enough."
She then informed him of the contents of Lord Wilton's letter, and
showed him the check for the fifty pounds, and the mysterious sealed
packet. He listened very attentively.
"It is too dark under the trees, Dorothy, to examine these important
papers. Come with me into my study. There we shall be free from
interruption."
When once in the sanctum sanctorum, into which no one ever intruded but
Mrs. Martin, and that only once-a-week, to dust the furniture and
arrange his books and papers, the vicar lighted his candles, and
bidding Dorothy take a seat in the big leather arm-chair, he went to the
table and read Lord Wilton's letter.
To Dorothy's great surprise, he made no comment on its contents.
"You wish me to take charge of this packet?" he asked.
"If you will be troubled with it. But what do you think of the letter,
Mr. Fitzmorris?"
"A great deal, Dorothy, but the contents are too sacred to be lightly
talked about. Have you any idea of the relation in which this man stands
to you, my young friend?"
"I scarcely dare guess," and Dorothy, bowed her head on her hands and
burst into tears.
"That he is your father there can be no doubt."
"Oh, sir, how can I love him as a father, if I be the child of sin and
dishonour?"
"Still, Dorothy, he is your father," said Gerard, solemnly taking the
hand that trembled in his own, "the author of your being; as such,
however erring, he has a right to claim from you the love and duty of a
child. That he truly loves you, and is anxious to repair, as far as now
lies in his power, the injury he has inflicted upon you and your poor
mother, is touchingly evident. My dear little cousin, (what a thrill of
joy shot through Dorothy's heart as he called her so,) it is not for us,
who are all sinners in the sight of a holy God, lightly to condemn
another. No one knows how they would themselves act when placed in
situations of strong temptation. The best of us are so much the
creatures of circumstances, that we ought to pity rather than pronounce
harsh judgment against the fallen.
"Take this unhappy father to your heart, Dorothy, and cherish him there.
You may be an instrument in the hands of God for the salvation of his
soul."
"I do love him," sobbed Dorothy, "but I want to respect, to venerate
him, to look upon him as the dearest living tie next to God in my soul.
The first time I ever saw him, when he was so kind to me, a poor,
uneducated country girl, I felt drawn towards him by a strong,
mysterious instinct--if I may so call it--and whenever I have met him
since, my love for him, and the deep interest I felt in his sorrow,
although perfectly unconscious of the cause, acquired new strength."
"The voice of nature asserting her solemn claims upon your heart. To
drown this voice, Dorothy, would be to close your ears to the
commandment which tells us to honour our father and mother."
"What shall I do? Oh, tell me, how to act towards him;" and the
supplicating black eyes were raised to his, gleaming through tears.
"Write to him, Dorothy, freely, fully, confidentially. Let there be no
secrets between you. He claims your sympathy; give it to him with your
whole heart. Think how much he needs it, watching day by day the sick
bed of his only son. Hoping, fearing, still praying for his recovery,
yet inwardly conscious that the feeble flame of life flickers to its
close. Remember, that in a few weeks at the farthest, you will be all
that remains to him in the world."
"Oh, I feel ashamed of having felt any bitterness against him," said
Dorothy. "It was cruel, it was sinful. How I wish I could console him
for the loss of that dear son. The brother," he says, "that is so like
me, whom now, I shall never see."
"Oh, yes, Dorothy, you will see him. His life is but one act in the vast
drama of Eternity. But we will turn from this sad subject, and speak of
Lord Wilton's kindness and forethought for your comfort, in providing a
home for you with Mrs. Martin, in case you should find the company of
these strange women, who are coming to the farm to-morrow,
disagreeable."
"It was very good."
Both remained silent some minutes. Mr. Fitzmorris took Dorothy's hand,
and said with deep earnestness:--
"Dare I ask my young friend how she bore the news of Gilbert's
marriage?"
"You will think me very unfeeling, Mr. Fitzmorris; I felt glad--felt
that I could meet him with perfect composure. That it was God's will
that it should be so, and I was satisfied. But the thought of meeting
his wife was really painful. This you will consider foolish pride on my
part. But to me such a meeting is humiliating."
"If she be the woman that the Earl represents, you need not feel humbled
by her bad, or exalted by her good opinion. Treat her with Christian
benevolence, and avoid all discussions that may lead to angry words. I
think it would be hard for any one to quarrel with you, Dorothy."
"But you don't know me, Mr. Fitzmorris. All black-eyed people are
naturally fierce. I was on the eve of quarrelling this very morning
with father."
"A very hard matter, I should think, to keep from quarrelling with him,"
said Mr. Fitzmorris, laughing. "But, Dorothy, if you can live in peace
with these people, until Lord Wilton's return, I see no actual necessity
for your leaving the farm, while your doing so might give rise to
unpleasant scandal. Besides, what would that sweet woman, your dear
mother, do without you? Keep at the post of duty, little cousin, as long
as you can."
"Then you think I had better return."
"Decidedly, I shall call and see Mrs. Rushmere, whenever I can command a
spare moment, and you can let me know from time to time, how you get on.
Now, put on your bonnet, and I will see you home."