HEATH FARM.
The farm-house was one of those quaint, picturesque old buildings, which
have long ago vanished from our public thoroughfares, and is only to be
found in remote rural districts, approached by narrow cross-roads. Its
high gables and chimneys, its bay windows, projecting several feet
beyond the wall, and filled with diamonded panes of glass set in lead,
and guarded by heavy iron stanchions, told a tale of past centuries, and
carried you back to the feudal times, when every man's house was
literally his castle, and presented a hostile front to the traveller.
A pointed porch, composed of very small dark red bricks, grey and rusty
looking from the lichens which encrusted them, sheltered the front
entrance from the bleak easterly winds, which swept over a long range of
salt marshes, from the sea. A massy oak door opened from the porch, into
a long square hall, paved with broad flag stones, in which the family
generally assembled to take their meals.
Through that ancient doorway a band of Cromwell's soldiers had once
passed, and been regaled at the huge oak table that held the centre of
the floor. Silver flagons had foamed with nut-brown ale; and "success to
the brave defenders of England's rights--and confusion to all
tyrants"--had been drank 'mid uproarious shouts, that made the old
rafters overhead, ring again.
Sir Lawrence Rushmere, the head of the family in those days, had been a
person of some importance during the great struggle that revolutionized
England, and laid the foundation of her present greatness.
A staunch adherent of the stern Protector, he had furnished a number of
horses and arms at his own cost, for the use of the Commonwealth, and
brought his own strong arm and stout heart to advocate the good cause.
For the active part he took in the contest, his descendants had to
suffer no small amount of robbery and wrong after the Restoration. The
larger portion of their estates were forfeited to the crown; and the old
house and two hundred acres of poor heathy waste land was all that
remained to the impoverished family.
The old dining-hall had shared in the general decay, and been shorn of
all its ancient honours. Like the cobbler's stall in the old song, it
served the present occupants for "kitchen and parlour and all." It was
the room of general resort, into which all the offices pertaining to
the farm opened, and in which all the lighter labours of the house,
such as spinning and weaving, were carried on.
A small, dark, highly-polished spinning-wheel, such as is used in the
eastern counties for converting the fine white flax into thread,
occupied a conspicuous place along the wall; and, during the short
winter days, kept up a perpetual whirring sound, which formed a pleasant
accompaniment to the gay blithe voice of Dorothy, as she sang some local
ditty, while the fine thread grew beneath her fingers.
The wide fire-place nearly extended across the upper end of the hall,
with its broad hearth-stone, huge iron crank, and hooks, bright brass
dogs, and white brick settles, telling of warm yule fires, and abundance
of country cheer.
A practical illustration of the same might be seen in the rows of fat
hams, and rounds of hung beef that dangled from the beams that crossed
the low ceiling: interspersed with strings of onions and savory
pot-herbs--and, as if by way of variety, separated by hanks of white and
coloured yarn.
A picture in oils, painted upon wood, and by no means a bad specimen of
the arts, hung over the carved oak mantel--the half-length portrait of a
fine soldierly looking man. This is the soldier of the covenant--the
grim Roundhead, Sir Lawrence Rushmere--for so his enemies called him.
Look at him well. His bold honest English face deserves a nearer
scrutiny. Examine his broad brows, his large clear blue eyes, his firm
nose, and resolute mouth, before you call that man a traitor.
He has drawn the sword he holds in his hand in what, after mature
consideration, he considers the right cause, and being once fully
convinced that it is so, has thrown his whole heart and soul into the
struggle. If you can overturn a rock whose roots are embedded in the
depths of ocean, you may hope to turn him from his purpose.
This old family portrait is held in great reverence by his last
descendant, who bears his name; and though degenerated into a rude half
educated tiller of the ancestral acres, Lawrence Rushmere thinks himself
a great man, while looking upon the noble portrait of his remote
progenitor.
The old high-backed arm-chair, so richly carved, in which the farmer
smokes his pipe after the labours of the day are over, is always placed
fronting that picture.
He sees a great resemblance between himself and the brave soldier of the
covenant, and draws the attention of every stranger that comes to the
house to the picture, by asking, "if they do not remark the likeness?" A
harmless vanity, which amuses without giving offence, and he generally
ends by saying,
"Yes, Sir. That brave knight was my great, great grandfather, and he has
often sat in this very chair in which I am sitting now. It shall never
go out of the family while there's a Rushmere left to fill his place."
Look at those long rows of pewter dishes and platters that grace the
shelves. These too are relics of a former age. No doubt the said Sir
Lawrence has taken many a good dinner off them. Yet no one points them
out as objects worthy of notice, though they are kept as bright and
clean as if required for daily use. They have been completely laid upon
the shelf half a century ago.
The rest of the furniture of the room is as old as the Protectorate;
especially that large Venetian mirror, in its beautiful frame of ebony.
What a prize for a modern antiquary.
Poor simple Mrs. Rushmere and Dorothy have not the most remote idea of
its value. The old lady thinks it a very becoming glass, which makes
people look much handsomer than they really are, and Dorothy
contemplates her sweet face in its mysterious depths, and speculates on
all who have done the same, and wishes that she could call the sleepers
from their graves, and make them pass in review before her.
What a multitude of strange faces, and still stranger fashions, they
would bring again to light!
Dorothy sometimes pursues this idea, till she grows afraid of her own
conceit, and turns away from the mirror, as if she really saw the
spectres she had conjured up.
But the crowning glory of the place is a large dome-shaped cupboard,
which fits into a corner of the spacious room, and fills it from the
floor to the ceiling. It opens with a single door, the outside of which
is a fine picture by some old master, representing the judgment of
Solomon. The reverse side, when the door is opened suddenly, calls forth
a cry of surprise, and not unusually of terror, from the spectator.
There stands our first father, in the naked deformity of sin, in the
very act of eating the forbidden fruit, with a face so full of remorse
and agony, that it chills the heart of the gazer with its unmitigated
horror.
Though used to this terrible picture from a child, Dorothy could never
look at it without a shudder. When Gilbert and she were children, and
behaved amiss, Mrs. Rushmere had only to threaten to shut them up in the
cupboard with father Adam, and it brought them instantly to their
senses.
The shelves of this mysterious piece of furniture were filled with Japan
china. Real "chaney"--as good Mrs. Rushmere called it--which, like the
ebony-framed mirror, had belonged to the family in its bygone days of
wealth and importance. These gorgeous tea-cups were never used but on
high-days and holidays, or on the advent of any particular visitors.
Such an unusual event had just taken place, and a mild looking old lady,
in a plaited cap and brown stuff gown, was going to and fro, from the
open cupboard to the table, arranging some of the exquisite china cups
and saucers on a carved wooden tray, and bringing sundry delicate cakes
and biscuits, of Dorothy's own making, from their hidden receptacles, to
do honour to the evening meal. The table was covered with a snow-white
damask cloth, manufactured by the same skilful hands, and boasted a good
supply of fine wheaten bread, and the fresh cheese and butter, for which
the Heath Farm had become famous, under the said damsel's
superintendence.
The guest for whose especial benefit all these preparations were made,
was a very great person indeed--at least, in the eyes of these simple
country folk--and Mrs. Rushmere was all fuss and excitement to set
before her the very best the house afforded.
Stephen Watling, a near neighbour and landed proprietor, whose farm
joined their own, had died suddenly, in the very prime of life, a few
weeks before, and his only sister had come into possession of the
property.
From keeping her brother's house, she had become the mistress of it in
her own right, and merged plain Nancy into Miss Watling, or as her
country neighbours said,
"Had put on her Sunday gown, and had nothing to do now but hold up her
head high, and sup her soup out of a silver spoon."
The heiress was not a very prepossessing looking individual. The sudden
acquirement of wealth had served to increase an innate vulgarity,
rendered more conspicuous by an arrogant assumption of superiority. She
affected airs of consequence, which made her company everything but
agreeable to those who had known her in a subordinate situation.
Miss Watling was on the wrong side of thirty, bony and sharp featured,
with small and snaky looking black eyes, a sallow complexion, loud
voice, and most repulsive manners. Her affectation of extreme youth was
so absurdly ridiculous, that it made her appear older and uglier than
she really was.
Ever since her unexpected good fortune, Mr. Rushmere had secretly
contemplated Miss Watling as a very eligible wife for his son. He had
not as yet dared to broach the subject to that refractory individual, as
he dreaded no small amount of opposition--or even to hint at it to his
wife, who, he well knew, favoured his attachment to Dorothy, and with
whom the rich spinster was no favourite; but he was thinking it over all
day long, and calculating the worldly advantages to be derived from the
union of the two estates.
It would make Gilbert a rich man at once. As to the difference of age,
that was a mere trifle, more than counterbalanced by the lady's superior
wealth.
True, she was very plain--he could not deny that--but beauty, after
all, was only skin deep, and would not, according to the homely adage,
"_buy beef_." His son was a handsome young fellow, and he felt certain
that Miss Watling was not indifferent to his personal attractions. It
would be a capital match, and his son would be a downright fool to let
such an opportunity of securing a rich wife slip through his fingers.
Thus age and avarice can always over-leap barriers which, to the young
and romantic, are insurmountable.
From the master of Heath Farm Miss Watling received the most cordial
welcome, and was easily persuaded to lay aside her bonnet and shawl, and
take tea with the family.
To judge of the lady's grief by the ultra blackness of her mourning
garments, you would have supposed that no gleam of joy could ever enter
her afflicted heart again. All crape and bombazine from head to foot,
she presented to the spectator a ghastly exterior of hopeless sorrow.
"And so poor Stephen is gone," said the simple Mrs. Rushmere. "Who would
have thought of his leaving us so suddenly? The last time he was here he
looked the picture of health and contentment. Well, well,--we must all
go some of these days. But the death of such as he--it seems so
shocking. A man in the very prime of life--it is surely a great loss to
the parish. You, Nancy, who were his only relative, must feel it sorely.
The house must be very lonesome to you, wanting the master."
"It was dreadful, Mrs. Rushmere, to be taken without a minute's warning,
to think of his poor neglected soul. He never cared about religion. He
was so entirely taken up with his worldly concerns, it makes me very
uncomfortable to think what may become of him in the other world," said
the bereaved sister.
"God is merciful," sighed the old lady.
"It is of no use trusting to mercy, without repentance," was the sharp
rejoinder, "and he had no time for that."
"He was a kind man to the poor, Nancy. A good neighbour and a regular
church-goer, honest and industrious--let us hope that these qualities
will be taken into account. It is not for sinful creatures like us to
condemn a man, because it pleased the Almighty to call him suddenly out
of the world."
"Works--mere works," and Miss Watling shrugged her shoulders
emphatically. "For my part, I have no hope of his salvation. If he had
faith, he put his light under a bushel, for no one in the house ever saw
it. But he is gone, and has left me, a young unprotected female, to
struggle alone in this wicked world."
"Why, surely, Nancy, you be old enough to take care of yourself?"
returned the good woman, with more truth in her look and accent than
was agreeable to her visitor. "You be some years older than he."
"You are mistaken, ma'am," said Miss Watling, "he was a grown up man
when I was a _little_ girl at school."
"Oh, my dear!" cried the provoking old lady, "it is of no use your
telling me that. Why, don't I know all about it. I was with your mother
when you were born. It is just thirty-five years ago, last May. You were
a sharp cross little thing, and you gave your mother a world of trouble.
I have often heard her say, that she never had the sound of your crying
out of her ears, or got a whole night's rest, for the two first years of
your life. You were turned of six before Stephen was born. You pouted
and sulked, and had a great fight with nurse, for bringing a nasty boy
into the house. Don't I remember it all, and how your father laughed at
your tantrums.
"'Little maid's jealous of boy,' he said, 'she won't have it all her
own way now.'"
Mrs. Rushmere had touched a tender point. She knew that her visitor was
dreadfully sensitive about her age; but she was so much disgusted with
the unfeeling piece of cant, in which she had just indulged about her
brother, that she did it to punish her for her cruelty and hypocrisy.
"You have an excellent memory," said Miss Watling, wincing under the
infliction. "Such reminiscences, however, are neither polite nor
agreeable. It would be unbecoming in me to contradict so old a woman as
you, for it is impossible for me to recall events which happened in my
infancy."
Miss Watling was angry, but she kept in her wrath. She had no intention
of quarrelling with the Rushmeres. She swallowed that bitter pill about
her age in the best way she could, and anxious to get rid of the
disagreeable dispute, in which she was sure to come off second best,
she asked Mrs. Rushmere how she liked her mourning.
"The bombazine," she observed, "is very fine--the crape, the best I
could procure in Storby. As I had to go into mourning for Stephen, I
thought I would do the thing genteelly. Besides, shabby black is so mean
and unbecoming."
Mrs. Rushmere glanced coldly at the crape scarf her visitor held up for
her inspection.
"It does well enough for those who wear their grief upon their sleeve.
One little bit of heart mourning is worth it all."
Before the wearer of the sables could frame a reply, Dorothy opened the
door and looked into the room, but quickly withdrew her head, when she
saw by whom it was occupied. Mrs. Rushmere followed her to the door.
"Where is Gilly?"
"Just cleaning himself up a bit, and changing his working slop. He will
be here in a minute. Don't wait for me, mother. I have the cows to milk.
I can get my supper by and by."
The owner of the bright face vanished, Mrs. Rushmere poured out the tea,
and the small party gathered about the table.
Gilbert came in presently--glanced coldly at the visitor, made a stiff
country bow, and took a seat by his mother, and as far from Miss Watling
as he possibly could. He never had liked her when plain Miss Nancy, but
since she had got a handle to her name, her airs and affectations had
filled him with disgust.
"Do you suffer that young person, Mrs. Rushmere, to call you mother?"
asked Miss Watling, with a sneer upon her thin upper lip. "Surely it is
taking too great a liberty."
"Oh, not at all. You forget, Nancy, that she is my adopted daughter,
that I look upon her as my own child. The dear knows I could not love
her better if she were."
"Well, my dear madam, there's no accounting for tastes." Nancy Watling
thought that it was her turn to say something spiteful. "I see nothing
to admire in that girl. Is she not the beggar's brat that Mr. Rushmere
picked up upon the heath?"
"So she be," muttered Lawrence, half aloud from his own chair.
"No fault of hers," said Gilbert, flushing up. "She has beauty and sense
enough to have been the daughter of a king."
"Rather a vulgar princess," giggled Miss Watling. "She looks what she
was born to be--a servant!"
His mother caught the flash of her son's eye, and pinched his knee under
the table, to keep him quiet; then finding that her hint was not likely
to cool down his rising passion, and hearing a pet cat mewing for a
morsel of the repast, she screamed out--
"Mind, Gilly! you great blundering fellow. You have trod on pussy's
tail, and she will be sure to scratch you."
"I'll take good care of that," said Gilbert, deceived by his mother's
innocent stratagem, "by turning her out of the room. Dolly has made such
a pet of that beast, she has become quite a nuisance."
He rose and put out the unoffending cat, and peace was once more
restored.
The farmer, who had been sitting upon thorns during the dispute,
inwardly cursing his wife's want of tact and plainness of speech, and
his son's rudeness, thought it high time to put in a word or two, and
direct the conversation into a new channel.
"What do you intend to do with the farm, Nancy? Will you let it, or
carry on the business yourself?"
"Well, my old friend," said Miss Watling, folding her hands in her lap,
and looking down demurely, "that is the difficulty. I am exceedingly
puzzled what to do. I came here this afternoon on purpose to consult
you, though I knew what a busy time it was with you during the hay
harvest. I am so young and inexperienced, and so ignorant of
agricultural matters, I should make a poor farmer. I know nothing about
cropping lands, milking, or churning. I was given an education quite
above such pursuits."
Gilbert glanced up from the tea-cup he held in his hand, a comical smile
passing over his face, though he said nothing. Miss Watling seemed to
interpret his thoughts, for she positively looked down and blushed.
Did she forget, at that moment, how often Gilbert had helped her, when a
boy, to drive home the cows from the salt marshes, and sat and whistled
on the meadow stile, while she milked them--or was she conscious of
uttering an untruth?
Gilbert was determined to plague her a little, by jogging her memory.
"Nancy," he said, "you do yourself great injustice. If you don't
understand the farm business, I don't know who does. Why, you were
always considered the best spinner and weaver in the parish. Remember
how often you used to scold me for tangling the yarn, when you were
spinning on the great wheel. I was mortally afraid of the big thrashings
you threatened me with, and trusted more to my heels than to your
generosity and forbearance. Those were jolly times. I wonder you can so
easily forget them, and try to thrust such nonsensical fibs down our
throats."
This sally drew forth a general laugh, in which Miss Watling joined as
heartily as the rest.
"Gilbert do you call that good manners, to contradict a lady? Where,
sir, did you get your schooling?" said the former sharply.
"Among simple country folk, father. I did not mean to contradict Nancy,
only to remind her of past times."
"Oh, I don't mind what he says, Mr. Rushmere. He was always a saucy
boy," returned the lady, striving to smile pleasantly.
"She takes it better than I expected," thought Gilbert. "It is as good
as a play to hear her attempt to act the fine lady. How polite father is
to her. I wonder what they are driving at?"
"You had better let the land, Nancy," said Rushmere, after a few minutes
thought, in answer to her protestations of ignorance as to agricultural
matters.
"I won't do that," said Miss Watling, briskly, "I should be sure to be
cheated by my tenants. A woman can't follow the plough, or go into the
stable, to see if horses are properly cared for, and they are deceived
and taken in by every one. Consider my youth and inexperience."
"Take a husband to help you out of the difficulty."
"Yes, if I could find a good one."
"I think I could recommend a smart, honest, good-looking fellow to your
notice," said Rushmere, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "One who can
work hard, and who would do justice to the land."
"Now I hope to goodness father does not mean me. His foolish joke has
actually brought colour into the old maid's face," thought Gilbert, who
listened with intense interest to the conversation, hardly knowing
whether to be affronted or amused.
The farmer knew very well what he was about, and did mean him; and was
rejoicing in the prospect of a successful negotiation on his behalf.
"I was not thinking of matrimony," said Miss Watling. "There is plenty
of time for that. It is not every one to whom I would trust myself and
my property. I assure you, Mr. Rushmere, that I shall be very particular
in my choice of a husband. But I was thinking that if I could get a
steady industrious young man to farm the place on shares, and look after
my private matters, it would answer my purpose better than letting it
upon lease."
Gilbert made a great clatter with his knife and fork, to conceal the
laugh that he could not repress. He now saw what Miss Watling was
driving at, and he felt certain that he was "the man."
"Does she think me a goose? She and her affairs may go to Jericho, for
what I care," whispered the unambitious young fellow to his mother.
"To be sure--to be sure, Nancy," said the farmer. "You are a woman of
sense, and see things in the right light. It would be an excellent
chance for Gilly. It is high time for him to be doing something for
himself. I can hire a labourer in his place, to work the farm. What do
you say, Gilbert, to Miss Nancy's proposal?" This was accompanied by a
shrewd look to his son, indicating plainly enough what he expected him
to say. "Can you and the lady agree?"
"I fear not, sir. I hate all partnership concerns. I have been too long
my own master to submit to a mistress. Besides," he added, with a droll
smile, that showed all his splendid white teeth, "I am _too young_ to
fill such a responsible situation."
"Oh, not at all, Mr. Gilbert," returned the anxious lady, looking full
into Gilbert's handsome face. "You need not let that stand in the way.
Brought up to the business all your life--born, I may say, to be a
farmer, you cannot want experience. I should only be too happy to
entrust the property to your care. You shall be your own master--have
everything your own way. Manage the land to please yourself. Any
interference on my part would be quite unnecessary. If you are not too
proud to accept my offer, I am sure that we shall get on famously
together."
"Thank you--thank you, Nancy--Miss Watling, I should say," returned
Gilbert, coldly. "In a pecuniary point of view, it might turn out a good
thing; and I know several young fellows who would jump at it. I have no
wish to enter into such an engagement, and must decline it altogether."
"Why, sir, why?" cried old Rushmere, in an angry tone. "Are you mad,
sir, or a fool?"
"I am my father's son," said Gilbert, turning to the door. "It does not
suit my inclinations. I have other reasons, which I do not choose to
discuss here."
"If you should change your mind, Mr. Gilbert, let me know," returned
Miss Watling, deeply mortified. "I will defer advertising in the papers
until next week."
"Thank you, Miss Nancy," said the farmer. "My son is a wilful young
man--he will think better of your liberal offer."
"There is little danger of my changing my mind," said Gilbert, sulkily.
"Miss Watling, you may advertise for a bailiff as soon as you like."
"Stop, Gilly," cried his mother, as he was about to leave the room, "it
is getting dark, you must see Miss Watling safe over the common."
Gilbert wished her at the bottom of the brook. He saw plainly that her
proposal boded him no good; that his refusal was highly displeasing to
his father, and would call forth a storm of anger against himself and
Dorothy; and with a very bad grace, he yielded to his mother's request,
to see the cause of the mischief safe to her own door.
"I wish these troublesome women would stay at home and mind their own
business," he muttered, as he stalked on ahead of the lady, who
diligently gathered up her glossy sables, to keep them out of the dust
of the lane. "What right had she to come and set father and me by the
ears together?"
At the farm-gate they met Dorothy, fresh and blooming as a rose, with a
pail in each hand foaming to the brim with milk. Gilbert nodded to her
as they passed on.
"You have excellent cows, Mr. Gilbert," remarked Miss Watling, scowling
at the pretty milk-maid, "and a capital dairywoman."
"Yes, everything depends upon that," said the young man.
"You, of course, consider her a treasure." Miss Watling had quickened
her steps, and was now at his side, and as she spoke she looked
spitefully back at Dorothy.
"Of course I do. We derive much profit from her skill. The farm yields
but a poor return in grain. We depend mainly on the flocks and herds.
How many cows do you milk now, Miss Nancy?"
"_I_ milk! what a question!"
"Ah, I suppose you have forgotten how to do it," and Gilbert looked
mischievously at her, from under the broad brim of his coarse straw hat,
which had been plaited and put together by Dorothy's dainty fingers. "I
remember the time when we were all young together,"--and he
laughed--"that is, before you came in for the big fortune, when you
thought it a great compliment to be called the best milker in the
parish. I should like to hear you talk like a sensible woman."
"But times are altered since then, Gilly," said Miss Watling
confidentially, and slipping her arm within his. "I can still milk the
cow, or act the lady, with old friends. But one has, you know, to assume
a little dignity, or no one would suspect me of being a rich lady."
"Still less with the dignity--which suits you as little as a court dress
would me. But I respect you now, Nancy, for speaking the honest truth.
I thought you had given yourself up to the other thing altogether. Look
you, Nancy. I believe you wish to be my friend. Will you be angry with
me, if I speak the honest truth?"
Miss Watling's heart fluttered a little.
"What can you want to say to me, Gilly--Is it any thing very
particular?"
"Yes--very particular, at least as far as I am concerned."
"About the proposal I made to your father?" with a smile.
"The same."
"You mean to accept it?" speaking joyfully, and pressing his arm
tenderly.
"Oh, no, no," cried Gilbert, shrinking from the caress, "quite the
reverse. I decline it at once, and for ever; and I beg, Nancy, that you
will never broach the subject to me, or to father, again. Old folks
don't see with our eyes, or feel as we feel; they always forget when
they were young themselves. The spring and summer of life is gone with
them, and the autumn with its golden fruit is all they care about, and
wish us to procure at any cost. What does a young fellow want with
money, while he is full of health and warm blood, and has enough to
enjoy himself?"
"But why should you refuse a good offer?" said Miss Watling, only half
comprehending the meaning of Gilbert's roundabout way of introducing a
disagreeable subject.
"Simply, because it is not a good one for me. I don't like it, and will
have none of it. I am happy where I am, and don't want to change my
situation." He stopped suddenly, and took Miss Watling's hand. "Will you
be my friend, Nancy?"
"Can you doubt it, Gilbert?"
"Well, then, I love Dorothy Chance."
Miss Watling dropped her hand, as if it had come in contact with a hot
coal.
"Love--Dorothy--Chance!" and the hard mouth writhed convulsively.
Gilbert's eyes were bent upon the ground; he did not see the twitching
of the malignant face; and was not even conscious that she had withdrawn
the black kidded hand from his own--or the conversation would have come
to a sudden stop.
"Yes," he continued, "I love Dorothy Chance with all my heart and soul,
and mean to make her my wife as soon as a good opportunity offers.
Father don't like the match, though he likes the girl. He loves money,
and he wants me to kneel down with him and worship the golden calf. I
won't do it. If I can't have Dolly, I'll have no one else. That's the
plain downright truth, Nancy Watling. Do you wish me to take your farm
on shares now?"
"Certainly not, Mr. Gilbert Rushmere," drawing herself up, with a
withering air of spurious dignity. "If you can forget your good old
family, and stoop so low as to marry a girl that your father picked out
of the dirt, you may stay at home with her. I don't want to have
anything to do with you. I don't wonder at Mr. Rushmere not giving his
consent to such a vulgar connection. It is enough to break the honest
heart of the poor old man. His only son, too--the last of his name. Mr.
Gilbert Rushmere, you astonish me!"
"I have heard all these arguments before," said Gilbert, sorry for his
misplaced confidence, when it was too late. "I consider them mere words,
and take them for what they are worth. I thought it would be best to act
like a man, and give you my real reasons for rejecting your kind offer.
I have satisfied my conscience, and I leave you to think of me as you
like. But here we are at your gate, Nancy, so I will wish you good
night."
Nancy Watling deigned no reply to his farewell salutation, but walked
indignantly across her moon-lighted lawn. She felt mortified,
disappointed, and decidedly belligerent. True, she had not made him an
offer of marriage, but it was tantamount to it; and he had despised
both her and her money, and all for a penniless black-eyed dairy-maid,
who might be his father's daughter for aught he knew to the contrary.
It was a strange story, at any rate, his finding the dead woman and the
child out on the heath. She remembered what the village gossips had
whispered about it, at the time, and she determined to publish a new
edition of the long-forgotten scandal.
She would be revenged on Gilbert, for the insult he had passed upon her,
let it cost what it might. As for Gilbert, what need she care about
him--if he did not accept her and her farm, another would. He was a rude
brute, a vulgar, low fellow, to treat any lady as he had that night
treated her. If he married that base-born creature Dorothy, no
respectable person would ever enter the house.
While such uncharitable thoughts were passing through Nancy Watling's
small, narrow mind, Gilbert, glad to be rid of his disagreeable charge,
took his homeward path across the heath. Sometimes he stopped--not to
admire the cloudless beauty of the sky--he was a careless observer of
the beauties of nature--but to put his hands to his sides, and laughed
with uncontrollable merriment.
He was amused at his own cleverness--rejoicing over the adroit manner in
which he had got rid of the odious woman, and her self-interested offers
of service.
"I am rid of her at last. I'm thinking she'll come after me no more. I
don't approve of women giving such broad hints to us men folk. It was as
good as asking me to be her husband. I can tell black Nancy that she's
no wife for Gilbert Rushmere. Does she think that I would sell myself to
age, ill-temper and ugliness, for all the money in the Bank of England?
I would rather go to church with Dolly in homespun, than ride in a
carriage beside that shrivelled piece of tanned leather. How Dolly will
laugh when I tell her how affectionately the old thing hugged my arm! A
partnership with her, ha, ha! is it not rare fun to disappoint her
matrimonial speculations?"
To Dorothy, this visit of Miss Watling's to the farm proved everything
but a laughing matter.