MR. FITZMORRIS READS A TEMPERANCE LECTURE.
Mr. Fitzmorris lost no time in writing to Lord Wilton, and informing him
of his engagement with Dorothy Chance, not because he considered that
the Earl had any power to influence her choice, but as a matter of
courtesy, he having proved himself a kind friend to the orphan girl.
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."