MIDNIGHT ON THE HEATH.
Dorothy walked on at a rapid pace for upwards of an hour: the night had
now fairly closed in upon her; the moon shone bright, and the air was
warm and balmy, but the road was long and lonely; not one solitary
cottage was to be found beside her path, after she turned into the
upland road that led across the heath.
People of limited education, born and brought up in out of the way
country places, are apt to be superstitious. Dorothy was not above the
common weakness of her class. Ghost stories, dreams and presentiments,
not to say anything of bewitchments and distempers, caused by the
withering glance of the evil eye, were subjects that generally formed
the topic of conversation round the winter hearth, and were devoutly
believed as truths, by the simple narrators, who derived from them an
inexhaustible fund of amusement.
This fear of the invisible world, so inherent in simple natures, has
been implanted for a wise purpose. It keeps alive a consciousness of the
immortality of the soul, which otherwise might be disregarded by those
who are separated by poverty and distance from coming to the knowledge
of revealed truth.
As Dorothy hastened on, some of the wild legends she had heard from
childhood glanced through her mind. The tide of angry feeling that had
raised her above fear, was fast subsiding, and a thousand weird fancies
flitted through her brain. She began bitterly to repent having refused
the honest yeoman's blunt offer, to see her safe over the long lonely
upland waste, stretching out into the far distance, which lay so still
under the moonshine before her.
It was too late to go back. She could not think of that now--but she
could not help owning to herself that she was horribly afraid, and she
ran along the steep rugged path as fast as if she had been pursued by a
host of evil spirits.
Something sprang up against her. She gave a loud scream.
It was Pincher, who had missed her from the kitchen, and had followed
upon her track.
Dorothy kissed the dear old dog in her excess of gratitude--his presence
gave her courage. Who has not felt the comfort and companionship of a
faithful dog at night, and on a lonely road. Dorothy felt that she was
safe now, she had a trusty friend to protect her, who, if need be, would
lay down his life to defend her.
The girl and her four-footed companion walked on lovingly together
beneath the broad light of the moon, conversing to each other in their
own peculiar way.
They had now mounted the steep ridge of the heath that commanded a fine
view of the ocean, which lay heaving and gleaming like molten silver
against the horizon, sending up a deep, mysterious voice through the
stillness of the night.
How grand it would have appeared to Dorothy at any other time, for her
soul, simple and innocent as that of a little child, was steeped in the
poetry of nature, which the Divine Mother alone whispers to the good and
pure of heart. Now, the mournful music made by those coming and
retreating waves, breaking the death-like silence which reigned around,
filled her mind with a chilling dread.
She was fast approaching the deep hollow where her mother died, and the
terrible words that had dropped from Joe Barford, that it was haunted by
her ghost, rushed into her mind, filling it with an ungovernable fear.
"What if she should see her apparition?" She stopped--irresolute what to
do. Her own shadow in the moonlight made her start and scream. She tried
to run past the spot, which lay in deep shadow to the right, but her
feet seemed chained to the earth, and her eyes, as if under a terrible
fascination, were fixed upon the clump of furze that crowned the little
ridge above, that looked so black and shadowy when all around was bright
as day.
While she stood, pale with horror, her eyes wide open, her quivering
lips apart, the white teeth chattering together, and her limbs relaxed
and trembling, a low wailing sound crept through the purple heath, the
furze bushes shivered as if instinct with life, and the dog crawled to
her feet moaning piteously.
Dorothy tried to rouse herself, to break, by speaking to the dog, the
horrible spell in which her senses were bound up, but not a sound could
she utter. In desperation she turned her head from the haunted spot.
She saw, what to her frenzied eye appeared a slight figure, shrouded in
mist, through which the moon-beams flickered and played slowly, flitting
along her path.
Again that wild unearthly sound rustled among the bushes, and the dog
broke out into a long dismal howl. A cry, which heard, even at noon day,
seldom fails to blanch the manliest cheek. Dorothy heard it not--with a
sobbing moan she sank to the ground insensible to fear, or aught else
beneath the wide canopy of heaven.
Pincher nestled close to his fainting mistress, hiding his shaggy head
upon her breast.
Whatever the dog suffered through the lonely watches of the night,
Dorothy was happily unconscious of his terrors and her own.
She was so near to her old home, that had her senses been roused from
that death-like stupor, she might have heard the clock in the great hall
strike twelve. At that beautiful season of the year, day brightens in
the east before three o'clock, and the rosy tints in the west seldom
leave the horizon.
The sun had just risen over the sea, when Lawrence Rushmere went to
water his horses at the brook in the sandy lane that ran in front of the
house, sheltered beneath the steep ascent of the heath. At the gate
which led from the court-yard, he encountered Pincher, whom he had not
seen since Dorothy left.
"What, the old doorg," he cried, patting him with infinite satisfaction.
"The old doorg come home. I wonder what kept thee away so long. How is
it with the poor wench?"
After the first salutation was over between master and dog, Pincher
tried, in his dog fashion, to make him understand, by a thousand odd
movements, that he wanted his special attention. He ran from the gate up
the steep path leading to the heath, barking furiously, then returned to
the farmer, and pulled him by the coat, as if he wished him to follow,
and went through the same pantomime again and again.
"What can the doorg want wi' me," said Rushmere, at last struck by his
odd behaviour, "I never saw him act in that fashion afore. Some of the
cattle must have strayed upon the heath, and, mayhap, have fallen into a
hole. Pincher was allers as wise as a Christian. I'll follow un, an' see
what has happened."
He fastened his horses to the gate, and took the path that led to the
heath. Pincher ran barking on before, evidently delighted with his
success, and led his master to the spot where Dorothy lay, pale and
drenched with the night-dews, upon the ground.
The sight of the poor girl, so thin and altered since he last saw her
in the glow of life and health, brought vividly to his recollection the
dead mother, and filled his mind with shame and remorse, for the manner
in which she had been driven from her home.
His large frame trembled, and tears sprang into his eyes.
"She is not dead but sleeping," he said, as he remarked, with no small
satisfaction, the regular heaving of her breast. "But what a place to
choose for a bed, so near the spot where her mother died. Dorothy!" he
cried, in a loud voice, "awake. It is I, the father who calls thee."
The girl unclosed her eyes, sat up, and gazed upon him with a vague
unmeaning stare.
"Dorothy, lass, don't you know the father?"
He sat down beside her, and took her cold little hand in his. "What
brought you here, child? Thou hast lost thy senses sure, to be sleeping
upon the cold damp ground. It is enough to kill thee."
The well-known voice, still more the kind words, recalled Dorothy to
consciousness, and banished from her mind the horrors of the night.
"Father, dear father!" she whispered in a voice scarcely audible, as she
nestled her head upon his broad shoulder, "how kind of you to come to
find me."
"Nay, it was not I but the doorg you have to thank, Dolly, it was he
that brought me here, or you might have lain on the wet heath till the
day of judgment. But why did you not come to the house--were you afraid
that I should turn you away from my door?"
"I was on my way home, father, but something dreadful happened to me
last night. Oh, so dreadful, that only to think of it makes my flesh
creep." She clung to the old man, and shivered in every limb.
"Speak out, lass. What was it? What ails thee? Did any one insult thee?"
"No, no, it was not flesh and blood." Lowering her voice, and casting a
timid glance around, she whispered in his ear, as if afraid of speaking
it out. "I saw last night the ghost of my mother."
"Lord a mercy!" cried the farmer, springing to his feet, with the
elasticity of a young man, and gazing upon Dorothy with a wild horror
gleaming in his eyes. "Were you in your right mind. What did a' look
like?"
"A shadow--a thin vapoury form, through which I saw the moon shining."
"But how didst thou know the mother? Did it speak?"
Dolly shook her head.
"A low wailing, sobbing cry passed along the ground, and shook the
bushes It was like nothing human--so sad and wild. Pincher crept to my
feet and howled back an answer."
"Aye, doorgs be wise--they see what we can't see--and what then, lass?"
"A mortal fear came over me. I tried to run but fell. I remember nothing
after that, until you woke me up just now."
"It wor strange," mused the old man. "I never did wholly believe in
ghosts, but you are not the girl to tell a lie. You might have been
mistaken--but I would bet ten to one on the doorg. And how do you feel,
Dolly, arter lying so long in the dews?"
"Stiff and cold," said Dorothy, her teeth chattering in her head, and a
deeper pallor settling on her face. "I shall soon get over that, when I
am once more at home."
"And what brought thee out so late last night, child. Worn't thee afeard
of passing over the lonesome heath?"
"Father, I had been told a sad story--had been vexed by a cruel and
false accusation against my character; and I could not remain where I
was, and put up with their insults, or rest until I heard the truth of
what they told me from your own lips." She stopped for a minute to
gather courage to ask the dreadful question. "Has Gilbert enlisted for a
soldier and gone to the wars?"
The old man burst into tears, and sobbed like a child.
Dorothy needed no stronger confirmation of her fears. She saw that the
report was only too true, and her heart bled for the poor old man.
"Father," she cried, affectionately pressing his hand between her own,
"is it _too late_ to buy him off?"
"It's na' use thinking o' that, Dorothy, we did not get his letter until
the ship had sailed, that took him away ow'r seas wi' the rest. He's in
Spain long afore this."
"Then he did write."
"Yea, a short bit o' a letter."
"Did he give any excuse for going?"
"Aye, the same old tale over agen. He had given up the girl he loved to
please me, and he had listed for a soger to please himsel', and I alone
wor to blame. The king wanted men, and he would go and fight for him and
his country; his life were no better worth than another's, and he could
not forget Dorothy while he remained at home."
Rushmere began to sob afresh. Dorothy's eager eyes were fixed
imploringly on his face. She did not like to ask "Is that all? Is there
no message, no word of comfort for me?" The longing desire to hear the
whole of the letter, might be read in every feature of her expressive
face.
"Ah, Dolly," cried the old man, wringing his hands as he spoke, "had I
been kinder to thee, lass, I should not have lost my son--my only
son--the last man who bears my name on the earth, for aught I know to
the contrary. It was only just of the Almighty to punish me for my
pride. But 'tis almost more than I have strength to bear."
"All we can do now, father, is to bear the burthen with patience, and
hope in God's mercy for the future. It is of no use turning despondingly
to the past."
"Aye, girl, but conscience will turn our looks backward, whether we like
it or no, an' will tell us of acts an' cruel words we would fain forget,
an' that ow'r an' ow'r agen."
"Did Gilbert send any word or message for me, father?" said Dorothy,
growing desperate with excitement.
"Did a'," returned Rushmere, looking blankly in Dorothy's agitated face,
as if his own thoughts were far away beyond the sea, with his absent
son.
"Yes, a' did. He bade us, if we loved him--how could he doubt it--take
care of Dorothy, an' cherish her as our own flesh and blood, as she wor
the only child left to us now, an' not to punish the poor girl for his
fault."
"God bless him!" said Dorothy, sadly, her heart not quite satisfied, and
the tears coming fast into her eyes. "He sent no love, no kind
remembrance to his old playmate?"
"That was all, Dolly, except his duty to us."
Dorothy sighed, and for some minutes both were silent, at length the old
man said,
"Dorothy, do you heed what Gilly said. Will you come back to us, an' be
our daughter once more--the comfort of our old age. We ha' naught else
to cling to now?"
Dorothy met the request, so humbly made, with heart-felt expressions of
gratitude. She could not help thinking that Gilbert had acted selfishly,
in deserting his parents; that it was a poor way of proving his love to
her, by showing such a want of affection for them; but she crushed the
ungracious thought, and inquired how Mrs. Rushmere had borne this heavy
blow--ashamed of not having asked for her before.
"Alack, child, when she read the letter, she swoon'd dead away, an' when
the neighbours brought her round, she grew stark staring mad, raving and
crying, 'Gilly, Gilly, come back to your poor mother. Oh, my heart, my
heart, it will break a' wanting my son.' It was awful to hear the like,
an' she allers such a quiet creature. It was many days afore she grew
calm. She went one morn, an' she fetched the big Bible, and went down
upon her knees in the corner of the room, an' she cried an' crooned ow'r
it for hours, an' would na' take a morsel o' any thing to eat or to
drink. At last she gets up, and she clasps her hands thus--together--an'
she looks at me wi' her old pleasant kind face,
"'Lawrence,' she says, 'God has comforted my poor sore heart, and given
me his blessed peace. This trial is o' him. Let us kneel down together,
an' pray that He may bless it to our souls.'
"An' I did pray, Dolly, as I never did before in my life, an' we found
the word mighty to overcome grief.
"Then wife says, 'Larry,' she says to me, 'you must go an' bring our
Dolly back. God gave her to us, an' you ha' clean forgotten the trust.'
"'It's never too late to repent,' says I. 'I will go for the little maid
to-morrow evening, when I come from work.' What moved your heart,
Dorothy, to come alone?"
Dorothy did not like to mention the scandal which had roused her
indignation, lest it should increase the farmer's self-reproaches, which
were heavy enough. She merely said, and it was the truth,
"That she was suddenly told of Gilbert's enlistment, and she could not
believe it until further confirmation from them. That it was late when
she left Barford's, but the night was so clear that she never
apprehended any cause for alarm, that it must have been midnight when
she fancied she saw the apparition on the heath, but since the sun had
shone into her eyes she began to doubt the reality of the vision.
"She had been hard at work all day, and was greatly troubled in her mind
when she started on her lonely walk. She might have sat down to rest and
fallen asleep, and dreamt it, she no longer seemed to recall the
circumstances very distinctly. The horrible phantasy had faded from her
mind with the morning light, and she would try and think of it as a
mental delusion.
"But then, what made Pincher howl in that fearful manner?"
Dolly shuddered. "It must be true, the dog could not have been deceived,
though I might."
A severe attack of fever and ague was the result of Dorothy passing the
night upon the heath. For many weeks she was unable to leave her bed,
and for some time small hopes were entertained for her life. Mrs.
Rushmere received the poor wanderer with open arms, and thought little
of the additional trouble. She had suffered too much to murmur about
trifles. During the delirium of the fever, Dorothy raved continually
about her mother, and dared not be left a moment alone in the dark.
It was firmly believed in the house, and through the neighbourhood, that
she had seen her mother's ghost, who had threatened the Rushmeres with
unheard of calamities for turning her daughter out of doors. The wildest
reports were in circulation; and the wonderful tale was repeated with a
thousand exaggerations at church and at market.
The story reached Hadstone. The Barfords shook their heads. "It was
Dorothy's misdoings," they kindly suggested, "that had disturbed her
mother in her grave."
Miss Watling, whose malicious tongue had first given rise to the scandal
about Dorothy Gilbert, considered "that it was a judgment upon that vile
creature, and that Gilbert had acted like a wise man, in going away to
be rid of her. Time," she added, emphatically, "would prove, that all
that had been said about her was true." She went farther, and hinted
that her present illness had a very suspicious look.
Dorothy was annoyed that Mr. Rushmere had given publicity to her
midnight adventure on the heath, but the temptation of repeating a
veritable ghost story, in which he firmly believed, was too great for
the old man to resist. As to the other tales, they did not all come to
her ears; and such as did, she treated with a proud disdain. "God knew
her innocence," she said, "and in His own good time would disprove them
all."
The harvest was over before she was able to resume her household duties.
As her former health and strength returned, her fears gradually
diminished, and she could converse with calmness to Mrs. Rushmere of the
terrible vision, which she now attributed to an over-excited state of
mind combined with great bodily fatigue. About Gilbert and his future
prospects, she had learned to speak without betraying the real state of
her feelings; and had inspired the old people with the hope that he
would one day return from the wars an officer at least.
Things began to wear a brighter aspect, and the labours of the farm went
on peacefully and prosperously. The Rushmeres if not contented were
resigned, and both united in treating Dorothy with kindness and
consideration. The old family bible was in more constant use, and each
day was commenced and ended with prayer.
Time passed on. The winds of autumn had laid the heart of the forest
bare; short and gloomy days, and frequent storms of rain and hail, told
that the winter was at hand.