A LONG CHAPTER.
The various plans formed by Gerard Fitzmorris for the future comfort of
Lawrence Rushmere, were temporarily suspended by the receipt of a letter
from Lord Wilton, who had just landed in Liverpool with his sad freight.
He earnestly requested his cousin to meet him in London, and join in the
melancholy cortège that would accompany the mortal remains of the young
viscount to their last resting-place, in the family vault in Hadstone
church.
"I have much to say to you, my dear Gerard," he wrote, "upon the
important subject which formed the leading topic in the letters received
from you and Dorothy just as I was about to sail for England. But while
the arrow rankles in my heart, for the death of a justly beloved son, I
cannot yet bring my mind to dwell upon marrying and giving in marriage.
This must suffice you both till time has cicatrized the wound. The
marriage of my daughter, Dorothy, with the last male representative of
our ancient house, cannot fail to be regarded by me with entire
satisfaction. I will explain everything when we meet."
Gerard folded the Earl's letter and sat for some minutes in deep
thought. Most men in his position would have felt more joy than sorrow
for the death of a relative they had scarcely known, which made them
heir to a title and vast wealth. Gerard Fitzmorris cared very little
for either distinction. He had for some time past felt a deep and
growing interest in Lord Wilton, and he sympathised with him most
sincerely in the loss of a noble and deserving son.
He was much struck by the decided manner in which he had avowed, without
entering into the particulars of the case, that Dorothy Chance was his
daughter. If legitimately he would have no claim to the earldom, which
came through a Granville, and would only be entitled to the baronetcy
held by his descent from Sir Thomas Fitzmorris, their mutual
grandfather. Dorothy would be Countess of Wilton in her own right.
He could not bring himself to believe, if this were the case, that the
Earl would have suffered her to remain so long ignorant of her just
position.
Time would explain all, but he could not fathom the mystery. He
instantly complied with the Earl's request to meet him in London.
Before he left Hadstone, Dorothy begged, as a great favour, that she
might accompany him on his journey as far as ---- to take Mr. Rushmere
out of gaol, and bring him back to Heath Farm.
"It would be better for me, Gerard, to break to him the elopement of his
son, and if he will return with me, to stay with him at the old place,
till you come back."
"Just like my own Dorothy," he cried, pressing her to his heart. "Go
like a good angel, as you are, and my blessing go with you."
During their journey, Gerard gave his betrothed the Earl's letter to
read, and watched her countenance during the perusal. There was no other
passenger inside the coach but themselves. They could talk to each other
without reserve. He saw her start, and her cheeks crimson, when she
came to the paragraph in which his lordship spoke of her as his
daughter.
"Oh, Gerard," she said, bursting into tears, as her head sank upon his
shoulder. "Had I not better go with you to London, to comfort him in his
sorrow? My father, my poor father! I can never supply to him the loss of
his dear son."
"Had he wished it, my sweet cousin, he would have made the request.
Public taste has dispensed with the presence of female mourners at the
funerals of relations and friends. The gentle hearts that loved the
truest and the best are denied by the tyrant fashion the blessed
privilege of seeing the last sad rites performed for the beloved dead.
After Lord Fitzmorris' funeral your presence will be more needed. It is
not until the earth closes her bars for ever on the loved and lost, that
we can fully realize the fact that they can no more return to us."
On reaching the county town, Dorothy and her lover parted--one to act as
chief mourner in a solemn and useless pageant, which the good sense of
mankind ought to banish from the earth, with all its artificial
trappings and hired mourners; the other to visit that grave of the
living, a prison, and carry hope and comfort to the care-worn heart of
the victim of a cruel and oppressive law, which demands of a man to pay
his debts, while it deprives him of the chance of doing so.
Following the directions she had received from Gerard, Dorothy went
first to Mr. Hodson, and learned from him that the debt for which her
foster-father was in gaol, had been settled by her lover; that
everything had been satisfactorily arranged with the other creditors,
Rushmere having concluded to sell Heath Farm to Mr. Fitzmorris for the
sum of two thousand pounds, which would pay all the demands upon the
estate, and leave the old man at liberty.
The dry man of business was much struck by the extraordinary beauty of
the young lady, who had deigned to visit his dusty office in behalf of
the prisoner, and being a widower of some years' standing, without any
incumbrance in the shape of children, it struck him that so charming a
girl would make him an excellent second wife.
With this wise project in his head, he cross-questioned her very
closely, on their way to the gaol, as to her parentage and station, to
all which questions she gave such frank and straightforward answers,
that he soon became acquainted with her private history.
Mr. Hodson had been employed to make old Mrs. Knight's will, and well
remembered the remarkable clause it contained with regard to the child
of the poor vagrant found on the Heath, which, if proofs could be
actually obtained that Dorothy was the daughter of Alice Knight, whether
legitimately or illegitimately, would entitle her to a fortune of thirty
thousand pounds, with all its immense accumulations of interest and
compound interest, for so many years.
It was a case worth looking into.
The old woman's death-bed confession, which had been made in his
presence, to Mr. Martin, fully established a fact only known to
them--that the conscience-stricken murderess of the mother had
discovered in the corpse of the poor vagrant, her grandchild; so that
all that was now required to entitle her child to inherit this large
fortune was the registration of its birth. If it had taken place in any
workhouse, or public charitable institution, this might be obtained
by offering suitable rewards, without the said Alice Knight had adopted
a fictitious name.
As the light began gradually to dawn upon his mind that this lovely girl
was no other than Mrs. Knight's heiress, he rubbed his hands gleefully
together, and told his fair visitor, that if she made him her friend, he
might be able to put her in the way of obtaining a handsome fortune.
Dorothy laughed, and looked incredulously at the plain, matter-of-fact
lawyer.
"How can I do that, sir? I have no money to give you."
"Not at present, my dear; but you can bestow upon me more than the worth
of money, this dear little white hand!"
"Oh!" said Dorothy, snatching her hand from him, before he could convey
it to his lips, and without adopting the affectation of pretending not
to understand his meaning, "I cannot do that, for it is given away
already."
The lawyer's fine castle of a moment's building evaporated slowly into
air, as he asked in a disconcerted tone:
"To whom?"
"A gentleman you know quite well. The Reverend Gerard Fitzmorris. It was
he that directed me to you."
"Oh, I see. The gentleman that was here a few days ago, Lord Wilton's
cousin, and successor to the titles and estates. That is, in case the
Earl does not marry again. Young lady, I offer you my sincere
congratulations, on your prospect of becoming a countess, and I hope,"
he continued, with great emphasis, "that you will forgive me, for
wishing to secure the affections of such a charming young lady."
"Oh, certainly. You are not much to be pitied, on so short an
acquaintance," and Dorothy laughed merrily. "Had not the fortune
something to do with it?" and she looked archly up in his face.
"No, upon my honour, I was struck with your appearance before you told
me who you were. But really, Miss Chance, or Knight, or whatever we can
prove your name to be, we must not lose sight of this fortune, and if
you will pay me say five thousand pounds provided I am able to establish
your claims, will you empower me to take the necessary steps?"
"But should you fail?"
"In that case, I should not claim a farthing."
"We will consult Gerard and Mr. Martin," said Dorothy, who thought that
this might bring about proofs of her identity, that would satisfy Lord
Wilton, and she felt in high spirits at the possible result of such a
legal inquiry. So, quite forgetful of the sly lawyer's proposal to make
her his second wife, she chatted with him during their way to the gaol,
in the most friendly and confidential manner.
She found Lawrence Rushmere, moping in the corner of the debtor's room,
looking pale and haggard, with beard unshaven, and his uncombed locks
falling round his face in tangled confusion. Running up to him, Dorothy
flung her arms about his neck and tenderly embraced him. Rushmere looked
up, and clasped her to his heart. "Dolly, is that you?"
"Yes, dear father."
"My dear girl, I be hearty glad to see thee. But what brought'ee, Dolly,
to this confounded place?"
"To take you out of it."
"Where's Gilbert?" he asked, lowering his voice, and looking cautiously
round lest the other debtors should hear him ask after his unworthy
son.
"Gone, father, no one knows whither. He went off with that bad girl,
Martha Wood, who, I believe, has been at the bottom of all the
mischief."
"The young limb of iniquity. A fit companion for my son. And what has
become of the wife?"
"Gone back to London."
"Joy go with her, she was a bad 'un. An' the cunning old witch, the
mother?"
"Has left Hadstone never to return."
"An' the old place. What have they done with it?"
"It is open to receive you, father, when you return with me. I will soon
make it bright and cosy again."
"Ah, well a day, Dolly. I hardly wish to see it again. It will only
remind me o' happier days, o' a wife that I loved with my whole heart,
o' a son that I can consider mine no longer. Who would ha' thought
that such an excellent mother could ha' been parent to such a graceless
bairn; that a good beginning should make such a sorry ending? Na,
Dorothy, I cannot go back; even the bright black eyed lass, who might
ha' been my daughter, but for my folly, is going to carry joy an'
sunshine into another home. Let me bide, Dorothy, where I be! I can die
as well here as in the old homestead."
"I cannot lose my dear old father yet. Where I am, there shall always be
a warm nook by the fireside for him."
"Dolly, my darling, thou art one in a thousand. Yes, I will go with you.
Reach me my hat and staff."
The shrewd man of business thought with the yeoman that Dorothy was one
in a thousand, and was not a little affected by her filial piety. He
then accompanied Dorothy and her charge to the inn, and ordered a good
dinner at his own expense, for the refreshments of the travellers. Over
a glass of excellent home brewed, he told Rushmere of the hopes he
entertained of securing Mrs. Knight's large bequest for the beautiful
foundling. This news, however gratifying to the old man, on Dorothy's
account, only served to increase the deep regret that was ever brooding
in his mind, that his unreasonable obstinacy had been the cause of
Gilbert's ruin and his own.
It was night when they got to Heath Farm.
Mrs. Martin and the good curate were there to welcome Rushmere back to
his old home.
With the assistance of Polly and Mrs. Sly, who had been at work all the
day, Mrs. Martin had succeeded in restoring the house to its original
order, the absence of which, during the misrule of Mrs. Gilbert's
brief reign, had been such an eye-sore to the sturdy yeoman. He was
perfectly astonished, and no less gratified, to find everything in its
accustomed place.
A bright fire was roaring up the huge chimney, as in the winter nights
long passed away. A comfortable hot supper was smoking on the oak table,
which was covered with a spotless cloth of Dorothy's own spinning. His
easy chair in its own place, at the head of the hospitable board,
fronting the portrait of his venerated ancestor, which had been cleaned
from dust and fly spots, by Mrs. Martin's own hands.
The grand old soldier of the covenant looked down from his lofty height,
and, by the glow of the genial fire, seemed to smile benignantly on his
care-worn descendant's sorrowful face.
The old yeoman fixed his eyes long and lovingly on the time-honoured
picture, then, stretching his large hands to the cheerful blaze,
muttered to himself,--"The last. Am I to be the last o' his race that
will leave the old place with an untarnished name? Oh, Gilbert! oh, my
son! I had expected better things o' thee."
The cheerful conversation of the good curate and his wife, and the
caresses of Dorothy, succeeded at last in winning Lawrence Rushmere from
his melancholy, and something of his former honest hearty expression
beamed forth from his clear blue eyes. He joined earnestly in Henry
Martin's beautiful evening prayer, which he declared had done him a
world of good, and refreshed his weary spirit. When Dorothy lighted him
up to bed, he whispered in her ear at parting, "I thought this morning,
Dorothy, that a' never could feel happy or comfortable agen."
It had been previously arranged by her friends that Dorothy was to
remain at the Farm, as mistress of the establishment, until after
Gerard's return, and do all she could to make her foster-father forget
his past sorrows and present desolate position. Though such a result
could hardly be expected at his age, she accomplished more than she had
anticipated.
She read to him the newspapers, sang to him the old ballads he loved so
well, in her clear dulcet voice, and talked to him cheerfully of his
future prospects,--of the pleasant days yet in store for him, if he
would resolutely abandon vain regrets, and trust in the goodness and
mercy of a loving God.
Several days glided tranquilly away before she received a letter from
Gerard, which informed her that the funeral procession would reach
Hadstone at noon on the following day, when the burial of the young
viscount would take place, Lord Wilton and himself being chief
mourners, and Mr. Martin reading the service for the dead. He told her
that he had found the Earl in better health and spirits than he
expected. That his son had died in such a happy frame of mind, that it
had done more to establish his belief in the great truths of the
Christian religion, than a thousand homilies.
We will pass over the funeral, with all its black and melancholy
details, which seem to have been invented by our progenitors to add
unnecessary horror to death. The pagan rites of Chinese idolaters have a
far more spiritual meaning than our dismal funereal processions. The
mourners wear robes of spotless white--young children strew beautiful
flowers along the path to the grave, and accompany the dead to their
peaceful rest with music and song, rejoicing in the birth of the
spirit to a better world.
The day after the funeral, Gerard Fitzmorris came in Lord Wilton's
carriage to bring Dorothy up to Heath Hall, as the Earl was impatient to
see her.
On arriving at the stately mansion, they were immediately ushered into
the noble library that had haunted Dorothy's dreams, since the day she
first met her titled father.
The Earl was standing, with folded arms, before the portrait of his
beautiful mother, the resemblance between her and Dorothy having been
rendered yet more striking by the air of refinement that education, and
the society of superior minds, had given to the latter.
At the sound of her light steps, the Earl held out his arms. Dorothy
sank upon his breast, only uttering the simple word, "Father!"
"My child, my beloved child!"
For a long while he held her where nature had placed her, next his
heart, and they mingled their tears together. Gerard walked to the
window not less affected by their emotion.
The Earl at length mastered his feelings, and, placing Dorothy on a
sofa, he called Gerard to him, and taking a seat between them, held
firmly a hand of each.
"My dear children," he said, in a voice that still trembled with
emotion, "the time for an explanation, of what must seem to you a
strange and needless mystery, has arrived; and while I reveal my past
sins and folly, I beg your earnest attention and forgiveness.
"You, Dorothy Chance, are my child, born in lawful wedlock, the only
fruit of my marriage with Alice Knight, the beautiful and unfortunate
young _protégée_ of my mother, Lady Dorothy Granville.
"You both know that I was a younger son. My eldest brother, Sir Thomas,
being a strong healthy young man, I never entertained the least
expectation of being called to fill his place. I was proud and poor,
depending solely for my future position on my mother's jointure at her
death, and my chance of rising in the army.
"I was always haunted by a terrible dread of poverty, not that I loved
money for its own sake, for I was reckless in the extravagant
expenditure of my limited means, but I valued it for the power and
_prestige_ that it always confers upon its fortunate possessors. To be
esteemed as a man of fortune by the world, was at that time the height
of my ambition, I was not aware of the little satisfaction that mere
wealth, unconnected with better things, confers.
"My grandfather, the late earl, had early singled me out as his future
heir. I was his godson, and had been called after him, Edward
Granville. He did not like my eldest brother, who was an honest,
generous fellow, frank and independent to a fault, the very beau ideal
of a soldier and a gentleman. He never would condescend to flatter the
avaricious old man for the sake of his money.
"My grandfather had a high veneration for rank, a feeling which my dear
mother shared with him in common; both had an unmitigated horror of a
mésalliance. This terror of mingling their pure old Norman blood with
any one of inferior degree took a strong possession of my own mind,
which was greatly strengthened by the often reiterated threat of the
proud old aristocrat, that if I married beneath my rank, I should never
possess a shilling of his vast wealth.
"This great fortune he inherited from an uncle, who for many years had
been governor of India, and died childless. I must confess that I was
dreadfully jealous of the infant sons of his youngest daughter, by a
second marriage. Not so much of you, Gerard, who, from an infant, shewed
a proud and independent spirit; you were a sturdy democrat from your
very cradle, and fearlessly urged the rights of man to the old earl, and
laughed at his absurd prejudices, as unworthy and truly ignoble.
"I entered hotly into all the vices and follies of a young man of
fashion. The Earl forgave all these peccadilloes, paid my gambling
debts, and excused every fault, so long as I flattered his weakness, and
held his opinions. My regiment was ordered to America, and I saw some
hot service, and soon acquired rank and position in the army. On my
return to England, the Earl used his great influence to get me into
Parliament. His wealth overcame all opposition, and I made no
insignificant figure in the house, and was considered a rising young man
of great promise.
"It was during this period, the brightest and best in my life, as far as
my worldly interests were concerned, that I married, with my
grandfather's consent, the Lady Lucia Montressor, who, though an earl's
daughter, was one of a large family of girls, who had no claims to
wealth, but were handsome, accomplished women, looking out for rich and
advantageous settlements. As the reputed favourite of the rich Earl
Wilton, and considered by the public a man of talent, mine was
considered a very eligible position.
"I was really attached to my young wife, and sincerely grieved when she
died in her beautiful girlhood, leaving me the father of a fine boy,
only a few hours old.
"My dear mother was much interested in my bereavement, and took home my
motherless infant, while I went abroad on a secret mission for the
Government. It was during my absence that lasted over two years, that
she saw the neglected grand-daughter of a woman by the name of Knight,
who kept a shop furnished with expensive foreign silks and laces, and
much frequented by ladies of rank in the town of Storby.
"Struck with the extraordinary beauty of the girl, who was in her
fifteenth year, she took her under her own protection, to be nursery
governess to my little Edward, and wait exclusively upon her person.
"When I returned to Heath Hall, I found this incomparable girl, high in
favour with Lady Dorothy, whom she accompanied with the child, in all
her walks and drives. In this way we were often thrown together, when I
found the charms of her mind equal to the graces of her person. I fell
madly in love with her, and it was only then that I realised the truth
that I had not loved before. My frantic passion absorbed my whole being.
Obliged to be wary, I could make no outward demonstration of my
admiration for my beautiful Alice, for fear of alarming the jealousy of
my mother, which restraint served only to increase the vehemence of my
attachment. To my infinite joy, I discovered that it was mutual.
"The fear of losing my grandfather's patronage and with it his fortune,
for a long while presented, as I supposed, an inseparable barrier to my
making her my wife. To my grief and shame be it spoken, if I could have
obtained her on less honourable terms, I should not have hesitated in
adopting such an infamous course, but I found the innocent girl as
virtuous as she was fair.
"Then the thought struck me of marrying her privately and enjoining upon
her the strictest secresy, until after the death of my rich relative
should leave me at liberty, to make a public acknowledgment that she was
my lawful wife. To this arrangement, Alice readily consented. An
opportunity was not long in presenting itself.
"Lady Dorothy spent a few weeks every summer at Bath. On this occasion I
went with her; and Alice, as a matter of course, accompanied us with my
child, of whom she was passionately fond, and I believe the little
fellow loved her with as much devotion as he did his father.
"There was a small retired old church, which, though belonging to the
parish in which we lodged, was never frequented by aristocratic
worshippers; my aunt having engaged seats in one situated in a more
fashionable quarter of the town, where a celebrated preacher drew
together large congregations.
"In the little church of St. Mary's, Alice and I were married by banns,
and the old superannuated incumbent delivered our names to his small
flock in such mumbling tones, that they were unrecognised among a long
string of unknown and unhonoured ones. Early one morning after the third
publication of the said banns we were united by the old clergyman, whom
I bribed pretty highly to keep our secret.
"And we were happy, blessed beyond measure in our boundless love. If she
had been dear to me before, she was doubly so now; if ever a man
worshipped a woman, I did her. Our stolen meetings used to take place in
a lonely unfrequented opening in the park, beneath the shade of a large
oak tree. There we were once nearly surprised by poor Henry Martin, who
had been brought up with Alice, and still entertained for her a violent
passion.
"Our dream of happiness vanished only too soon. My mother had gone to
make a visit to the seat of a nobleman, about thirty miles distant, and
could not return till next day, when I received a sudden notice from
Government that my services were required in a most important mission to
the court of Russia, and that I must leave for London without a moment's
delay.
"My uncle had been very active in obtaining for me this appointment,
which, if well conducted, might lead to the governorship of some
important colony among the British possessions. I dared not hesitate in
accepting a post from which such great future results were to be
expected. Even for her sake it behoved me to go.
"But how could I leave Heath Hall without one last embrace, one last
farewell to the beloved?
"I got this appointment by the evening mail, and had to appear in London
by ten o'clock the next morning, receive my dispatches, and sail
immediately for St. Petersburgh, where it is probable that I might be
detained for some months. I was, however, determined, if possible, to
see her before I went, and rode a noble horse to death to obtain that
object.
"When I arrived at ---- Hall, it was long past midnight, the family had
retired to rest, and the idea of obtaining an interview with my wife was
utterly preposterous. I had nothing for it but to return to the London
road, which skirted the park, and wait for the coming up of the night
mail, my impatience having out-ridden the coach.
"I was so dreadfully fatigued with my previous ride, that I had
scarcely taken my seat before I fell asleep, and did not awake until the
rumbling of the wheels upon the stones told me that I was in London.
"Though dreadfully pressed for time, I wrote a brief letter to Alice,
explaining the reason of my absence, and directing her to write to me
through my agent in town. In a postscript I charged her most solemnly to
keep our secret if she valued my peace and happiness. She had hidden
from me the important fact of her pregnancy.
"My poor darling kept our secret only too well. It was during that visit
to ---- Hall that some prying domestic discovered her situation, which
was whispered to other members of the household, till it reached my
mother's ears.
"I can well imagine Lady Dorothy's grief and indignation. A woman of
stern morality, she was not very likely to forgive a dependent to whom
she had been a sincere friend. Calling Alice into her presence, she
taxed her with her crime, and demanded of her to name the father of the
child. This the poor girl steadily refusing to do, my mother reproached
her with ingratitude, and dismissed her from her service before she
returned to Heath Hall.
"I can well imagine the despair of the dear young wife when she found,
upon reaching Storby, that I had left the country; no one could tell
whither, without letting her know the cause of my seeming desertion. She
never could have received my letter, though I paid a private messenger
highly to deliver it into her own hand.
"In this emergency she applied to her grandmother for protection, who,
at first, ignorant of her cause for leaving Lady Dorothy, received her
into the house. I have no doubt that had she taken the wise course of
making a confidant of this wicked old woman, her pride and avarice would
have been so highly gratified, that she would have given her a home
without paying any regard to the disgrace attached to her name.
"The discovery of her situation exasperated the old woman to fury. She
did not even ask for an explanation, but thrust her from her doors with
cruel words and coarse usage.
"Thus far, I was informed by a man who waited in the shop, who told me
that he was so much affected by the distressed looks of the affrighted
girl, that it moved him to tears. After the shop was closed, he sought
her through the town, but no one had seen or could give him any account
of her retreat.
"A report got into circulation, which made my mother very sorry for the
part she had played in this tragedy, that Alice Knight had walked into
the sea when the tide was coming in, and buried her shame and sorrow in
the waves. I never could believe this story. I felt in my soul that she
was still living, and loved me too well to have taken such a rash and
wicked step. From the hour she left Mrs. Knight's house, her fate
remained till very lately a mystery. How she passed the intervening
period between the birth of Dorothy and her own melancholy death while
in search of me will never be accurately known.
"I was retained at the Court of St. Petersburgh for nearly three years.
I wrote constantly under cover to my agent, to Alice, often sending her
large sums of money, and was astonished when my man of business informed
me after the lapse of twelve months, that all my letters had been
returned from the dead letter office, as no such person as Alice Knight
was to be found.
"I then wrote to Lady Dorothy, confessing to her that I was the father
of Alice Knight's child, and imploring her to tell me what had become of
the mother and her babe.
"Lady Dorothy died before this letter reached England, and her father,
the Earl of Wilton, only survived her a few weeks, leaving to me the
fortune for which I had sacrificed my wife and child, too late to afford
me any pleasure.
"The death of my eldest brother, which happened abroad, gave Lady
Dorothy such a shock that she never got over it. I thus suddenly and
unexpectedly became a wealthy and titled man.
"I had married in the summer of the year 1797, and returned to England
in July, 1800. On my way to Hadstone, I must have passed over the heath,
during that dreadful storm, unconscious that the beloved object whose
loss had plunged me into a state of incurable grief, was dying, exposed
to its pitiless fury, in the wet hollow beneath.
"From that hour until I met Dorothy, I could obtain no reliable
information concerning my poor wife. When this dear girl first presented
herself before me, and I saw in the glass the wonderful likeness, (which
you, Gerard, cannot fail to recognize) between the country girl and my
aristocratic mother, and through her to me, and heard the sound of her
voice, so like my lost wife's, I could hardly refrain from clasping her
in my arms, and telling her that she was my child.
"The story of her mother's sad fate, the sight of the ring with which we
were married, which belonged to my first wife, and had her initials and
my own engraved on the reverse side, and the tress of Alice's exquisite
golden brown hair, corresponding with a lock, which, at that moment, was
lying next my heart, removed all doubts, if such indeed had ever
existed, that the poor dead wanderer was my wife."
"Forgive me, my lord, for interrupting you," said Gerard. "But how could
you, being satisfied that this was the case, encourage an alliance
between Dorothy and Gilbert Rushmere, a person so inferior to her in
birth?"
"She loved him, Gerard; was quite unconscious of her real position, and
I thought the knowledge of it would not conduce to her happiness, if it
separated her from her lover. Rank and wealth had been the means of
destroying mine for ever. Besides my son was living, and likely to live,
and I had no wish to reveal to the world that sad and blotted page in my
life, for the sake of securing an heir.
"Had Alice lived, I should have owned her as my wife to the world,
exhibited the proofs of our marriage, and there the matter would have
ended. But in legally claiming Dorothy, I should subject myself to the
most painful and humiliating investigations, which going the rounds of
the public papers, would be bruited abroad throughout the land. My
children," he cried, in a tone of earnest entreaty, "it is in your power
to save me from this terrible degradation."
A frown was gathering upon Gerard's brow, and he said, with some
asperity:
"My lord, I do not quite understand your meaning. If you possess the
legal proofs of Dorothy's legitimacy, you surely would not rob her of
her birthright, to cover your own sin."
"What does it matter to her, Gerard? if she becomes your wife, she would
still be Countess of Wilton. I am certain by what I know of Dorothy's
unselfish character, that she would rather receive her title through her
husband than through a law process, which would make her father the most
miserable of men.
"What do you say, my daughter--will you insist upon the legal
restitution of your rights, or be contented to receive them through your
husband?"
Dorothy rose from the Earl's supporting arms, and stood up before him,
her eyes brightened, and a vivid flush crimsoned her cheeks, as she
said, with an air of decision, which admitted of no misinterpretation:
"My lord, I care neither for rank nor wealth. The vindication of my
mother's honour is dearer to me than either. I will not bear the title
of your daughter branded with an epithet I need not name."
"Dorothy is right," replied Gerard. "I would not purchase her birthright
on such dishonest terms. It would be a cruel injustice to both mother
and daughter to let them bear the brand of shame, which a small
sacrifice of personal vanity could remove."
The Earl remained for a long time leaning his head upon his clasped
hands, without speaking. At length, looking up with a deep sigh, he
said, "Gerard, you press me very sore. I declare to you that I would
rather die than expose my mental weakness in a court of justice."
"It will clear your character from a foul stigma, my lord, the seduction
of a beautiful young girl, and her supposed death in consequence of your
desertion. But have you positive proofs of Dorothy being her child?"
"I had not, until the day before I wrote to Dorothy, and I obtained them
by a most singular chance.
"When going up to London to meet my poor Edward, a wheel came off my
carriage, and it required the aid of a blacksmith to repair the damage.
I walked forward to the village, and went into a neat public house,
while my servants found a smith. I thought I recognized in the master of
the house an old tenant of mine, who had once kept a similar place of
entertainment at Thursten, the village on the north of Hadstone.
"Years had changed me so much, that he scarcely knew me again. After
talking for some time about indifferent subjects, he told me, that the
very day before, he had stumbled over a letter, that was given to him by
a poor, miserable, sickly young woman, who stopped at his house late one
July evening, eighteen years ago, and begged for a cup of milk and a bit
of bread for her child, a beautiful little black eyed girl, barely two
years old. 'My missus asked her,' he said, 'who she was, and where she
was going?' She replied,
"'That she had friends in Storby, whom she wanted to see. That she was
very ill, and was going home to them to die. But in case she was too
weak to get there, she wished me to send a letter she had in her pocket
to Lord Wilton, as she expected that if he were at the Hall he would
help her.'
"'I took the letter, and thought that it was only some begging petition,
and of little consequence, and our people were busy in the hay-field,
and I forgot all about it. In the autumn I removed with my family to
this place. I heard of the death of a young person answering to the
description of the poor young woman, who had been at my house on the
night of the tenth of July, who had been found on the heath by farmer
Rushmere, who had adopted the little girl, but did not trouble myself
to go and see the corpse.
"'A few weeks ago, my wife died, and in looking over some of her little
traps, to find a receipt, I stumbled on this letter, and though I
daresay it is of little consequence to your lordship, or to any one else
now, I may as well give it to you.'
"This long forgotten document, contained a few lines from my poor Alice,
enclosing the registration of the birth of Dorothy, in the lying-in
hospital in London. You will find it enclosed in the packet I sent to
Dorothy in case I should never return to England, and it fully
identifies her as my child, and heiress to the title and estate of
Wilton. There is, therefore, no difficulty in a legal point of view, and
if you are both determined not to spare my feelings in the matter, I
will immediately take the necessary steps for her recognition as my
daughter."
"I would, dearest father, willingly save you from any exposure, as far
as I am myself concerned," replied Dorothy. "But would it be just to my
poor mother? I am certain that your own good heart will acquiesce in my
decision, that when you come to reflect more deeply on the matter, you
will own that I am right. If this proof had been wanting, I think
another one could have been obtained."
She then related her interview with Mr. Hodson, and his proposal of
trying to gain legal evidence of her being the child of Alice Knight, in
order to put her in possession of the large fortune left to her by her
grandmother, which, if followed up, would likewise involve the discovery
of her title to the estates of Wilton.
"What I am to do with all this wealth puzzles me," she continued. "It is
a great trust placed in my hands by the Almighty, which will enable me,
if rightly applied, to do much good to my less fortunate fellow
creatures."
The Earl folded her in his arms.
"Dorothy, my beloved child! you have conquered, for you are more
righteous than your father. May the blessing of the merciful God, who
has watched over you all the days of your life, for ever rest upon your
head. I have been weak and cowardly. You have proved yourself great and
noble, and well worthy of your happy destiny."