DOROTHY GAINS FURTHER KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD.
The next morning, Mr. Rushmere and his hired man, tracked the robbers by
their foot-prints in the snow; and the marks of blood that stained its
new fallen whiteness, over the low meadows in front of the house down to
the sea shore. At the water's edge, all trace of them was lost. It was
evident, however, by many foot marks on the sand at one particular spot,
that a boat during the night had been put off from the beach, in which
the robbers, in all probability, had effected their escape; and that
they formed a portion of a notorious gang of smugglers that infested the
coast.
Before noon, Dorothy's adventure was known all over the parish, and
formed the theme of conversation, in the dwellings of both rich and
poor. Some applauded her courage and coolness, and lauded the generous
self-devotion she had shewn to her foster parents, in hazarding her own
life, in the attempt to save them.
But the number of those capable of appreciating the heroism of the young
girl was few. The larger portion of the community were the envious
detractors and slanderers, who never can see any merit in noble actions,
of which they are themselves incapable.
Dorothy in this, as in other matters, had her enemies as well as her
friends.
"Only think of that horrible, bold creature--that Dorothy Chance," said
Nancy Watling, addressing a knot of gossips, gathered round the small
shop in the village, to retail the news, and procure, on the sly, a
little smuggled tea, from the mistress of the establishment. "She has
actually gone and shot a man, or next thing to it. Such a wicked
unwomanly act. If I were Mr. Rushmere I'd be afraid of her robbing and
shooting me."
"Bless me! Miss Nancy, do tell us how it all happened," cried Mrs. Lane,
the vendor in small wares. "I thought that girl looked as meek as a
lamb. I'll never trust in good looks again."
"Pray don't, ma'am, or you'll be sure to be deceived. She's a wolf--a
perfect wolf. She shot the fellow in cold blood, after he had left the
house, and the door was secured against him. I never heard of such a
piece of diabolical cruelty."
"She desarves to be hanged, she do," cried Letty Barford. "She'd think
as little of coaxing a woman's husband from her, as she wu'd of shooting
a thief like a doorg."
"And did the poor man really die?" asked a pale young woman, hugging a
very small red-haired baby closer to her breast, as if she expected
this ferocious Dorothy Chance to come and shoot it.
"The goodness knows!" continued Nancy, "it will not be her fault if he
escaped."
"Nonsense, Nancy Watling, how spiteful you be," remarked the elder Mrs.
Barford, joining the group. "Perhaps it's all false. A tale got up for
the nonce, in order to frighten away thieves from the house. I would not
like to live in such a lonesome place, and old Rushmere, the only man on
the premises of a night. After this I hope they will let the servant
board with them."
"Aha," cries Letty, "mother's now just let it out. Doan't I begin to
smell a fox. Dolly played this trick on the old folks to get a young
feller into the house. Well, she be a deep un, she be."
"You may be right, Mrs. Letty," returned Nancy Watling, "that artful
creature is capable of anything."
Thus her neighbours talked of Dorothy, suggesting the worst motives as
the cause of her recent adventure. Fortunately that much abused
individual was not conscious of the cruel manner in which her conduct
was misrepresented by these worthies, or the envy and malice with which
they sought to traduce her. She had little time to listen to the idle
tale-bearers, who are ever ready to fetch and carry from house to house
ill-natured reports, which, if they do not invent, they never fail to
exaggerate, and leave worse than they found them.
Mrs. Rushmere's health had greatly declined since Gilbert left them, and
the entire management of the house now devolved on Dorothy, who, without
grudge or grumbling, put out all her strength of body and mind to meet
the emergency.
Gilbert had always worked the farm in conjunction with his father, but
since he left his home a man had been hired to fulfil the duties which
he had recklessly abandoned. This involved considerable trouble and
much additional expense. Every exertion was necessary to make the poor
farm pay for the extra hand employed.
A larger dairy was necessary, the greatest industry and the strictest
economy were called into requisition, to make both ends meet, and lay by
a little for the future.
Dorothy was up with the dawn, and the night was often far advanced,
before the labours of the day were finished. Her board and clothing, the
latter of the very plainest description--was all that the noble-hearted
girl received for her unremitting toil.
Weary and overtasked, she never repined. The Rushmeres had protected her
friendless childhood; they were Gilbert's parents, and that was enough
to satisfy the warm loving heart, that only lived for him and them--her
unselfish nature needed no stronger stimulus for exerting herself in
their behalf.
She was often told by busy tattlers that she was a fool for working so
hard for such poor wages, that she would earn a better living for
herself elsewhere; but she always silenced these mischief-makers, by
coldly telling them "to mind their own business, that she was
comfortable and contented, and stood in no need of their advice and
assistance."
She would have found a great consolation in writing to Gilbert, and
telling him all the troubles that had befallen her since they parted;
but on a careful examination of his letter, she perceived that he had
omitted to give them his direction, or the slightest clue to discover
his whereabouts, and she was forced to abandon the idea. He had written
once--it was more than probable that he would soon write to them again.
But then--that terrible battle that was to be fought, haunted her mind
like a waking nightmare. He might be killed, and those to whom he was so
dear might never learn his fate till the regiment returned to England.
Then tears would cloud the beautiful black eyes, and the labours of the
long day fell more heavily from the willing hands. She could not cheer
the absentee with the home news, for which he craved so eagerly; she
could only prove her undying love, by infusing fresh hope into the
drooping hearts of his parents, and praying for his safety.
In January, the battle of Corunna was fought, and the heroic Sir John
Moore found a soldier's grave upon the ramparts of the city.
Lawrence Rushmere came home from market greatly excited. He had borrowed
the county paper of a farmer he knew, and Dorothy was called to read to
the old people the thrilling account of the battle, that had been dearly
bought by the loss of the gallant British leader.
The ---- regiment was spoken of in the highest terms; it had been in the
heat of the action, and had been terribly cut up.
The number, not the names of the private soldiers who had been killed,
was alone recorded. Captain Fitzmorris was mentioned as having been
severely wounded--the rest of the sad list were all strangers to them.
There was a long pause.
Dorothy softly put down the paper, and walked to the window. Her lips
were silent, but her heart poured forth an earnest prayer for her absent
lover. She heard the deep sobs of his mother, and her own tears gushed
forth, to relieve the intolerable anguish of suspense--that worst
torture of the human heart.
Rushmere was the first to speak. His voice was husky and tremulous. "I'm
not a rich man," he said, "yet I would almost give all I have in the
world to know this hour that I have a living son."
"Oh, my boy! my Gilly!" cried the fond mother, "we shall yet see him
again!"
"Whether he be dead or living," continued the farmer, too much absorbed
by his own anxious fears to notice the words of his wife, "I am sartain
sure that he acquitted himself like a man. Aye, that a' did." His eyes
kindled as he raised them to the picture over the mantel-shelf. "An' no
thanks to him. Is he not a Briton, wi' the blood of brave men running in
his veins? To fight well for his country, an' to die for't, if need be,
was only what his fathers did afore him. Courage was born in 'em all."
The burst of enthusiasm over, the old man closed his eyes, and sank back
in his chair, muttering, in a subdued voice.
"Ah, it's very fine talking, but natur is natur after all. It doth not
remove the fear that's gnawing at my heart about the lad. What do'st
thou say, dame?"
He opened his eyes wide, to keep back the fast coming tears, and fixed
them with an earnest gaze upon the meek pale face of his wife.
She rose up slowly from her seat, came behind his chair, and pulling his
head back, bent reverently down and kissed his broad forehead.
"God comfort thee, Lawrence. He knows what is best for us. I can't feel
that Gilly is dead. Something in my heart tells me that he is living. I
never mistrust that voice."
"God bless you, mother dear, for the cheering hope," said Dorothy,
smiling through her tears. "You were a true prophet before. Why should
you be deceived now? How I wish," she continued in a sadder tone, "that
I had more faith. That I could really believe that Gilbert was safe and
well."
"My heart seldom deceives me," said the old lady, "or I should say, that
mysterious something that speaks in my heart. While God gives us this
blessed hope, I don't think it right to look only on the dark side of
things. 'Tis mistrusting His providence."
Mr. Rushmere had no such hope. Nothing would convince him that his son
was alive. The more his kind wife exerted herself to comfort him, the
more obstinately he persisted in maintaining his own sombre views. Mrs.
Rushmere thought that a good night's rest would restore his mind to its
usual serenity. She was mistaken. He never slept that night at all, but
kept lamenting for Gilbert, and calling upon him through the long hours
of darkness; accusing himself of being the cause of his death, by
refusing to santion his marriage with Dorothy.
"And the poor little maid," he said, "it was piteous to look in her face
an' see her pining away for the loss o' her sweetheart. He had been a
cruel hard father. It was only just that he should be punished for his
pride and avarice."
Dorothy tried to master her own mental sufferings, (for, like the old
man, she believed that Gilbert was dead,) in order to lessen his
sorrowful self-upbraidings, till she could bear the agonies of suspense
no longer, and determined to take a bold step to ascertain the truth.
Lord Wilton had just returned to Heath Hall, and was the father of the
Captain Fitzmorris, under whom Gilbert served. She argued that it was
more than probable that he had heard from his wounded son, and through
him they might obtain some news of Gilbert. It was a forlorn hope, but
drowning people catch at straws. She would say nothing to the old
people, but go herself, and see Lord Wilton, and try if he would
interest himself in their behalf, and find out if their son had been
killed in the engagement.
When once this idea had taken possession of her mind, she could not rest
until it was carried out. She had many fears and misgivings on the
subject, but love conquered them all, and she resolved to make the
effort as soon as her morning's work was over.
The aristocracy in the present day are not regarded with the solemn
awe, that their very names inspired among the peasantry sixty years ago.
A great lord was a sort of demi-god in his own district; it would have
been sacrilege to imagine that he was made of the same flesh and blood
as his tenants and hirelings.
People lowered their voice, and spoke of him in mysterious tones, when
they mentioned his name and told of his doings. If they met upon the
road, they stood with uncovered heads, till the majestic presence had
passed by, without daring to lift their eyes to his face, lest he should
feel annoyed by their vulgar gaze.
They all knew that King George was their lawful sovereign, and every
fourth of June they met in the nearest town, to shout his name and drink
his health on his birth-day, and felt very loyal and very proud of their
sovereign. But they had never seen this famous king, and only knew of
him by hearsay.
It was after all the great man of the parish, the lord of the manor, to
whom their real homage was given, whom they regarded as their legitimate
ruler. It was he who fixed their tithes and rent, and was the stern
magistrate before whom they appeared at the quarter sessions to answer
to complaints and misdemeanors.
Dorothy had never seen Lord Wilton. He had inherited a very fine estate
in Devonshire through his mother. Preferring the climate and scenery of
that country to his own, he rarely visited Heath Hall, the genial
breezes of the south, agreeing much better with a shattered
constitution, than the rude gales of the bleak north-east coast. It was
only lately that he had returned to his native place, and had expressed,
in an eloquent speech, made at a public dinner given on the important
occasion, his determination of ending his days in the home of his
ancestors.
Great had been the rejoicing of his tenantry at the return of their
long absent landlord. An insolent overbearing steward had reigned
absolute monarch of the soil, during a long period of fifteen years. A
most unpopular substitute, hard and exacting, who had carried things
with a high hand, extorting from the tenantry a fortune, at the expense
of his lord's reputation.
But this was all changed. The unjust steward had been discharged, and
Lord Wilton had gained golden opinions from his poorer neighbours, by
listening kindly to their relation of grievances, and redressing them to
the best of his ability.
His return had formed the nine day's wonder of Hanstone, his name was in
everybody's mouth, and people were never tired of talking about him, of
his personal appearance, his politics, his religious opinions, which
they observed were peculiar, his great wealth, and even his long
cherished grief for a wife, who had been dead upwards of twenty years,
and for whose sake he had remained a widower for the best period of his
life.
Some called him proud, some called him cold and reserved, but all agreed
that he was a good man, though rather eccentric, and very kind to the
poor.
He went very little into society, was seldom a day absent from the Hall,
but took great seeming delight in long rambles on foot, or on horseback,
about the parish, visiting the sick poor, and dispensing his charity
with his own hands.
A pale, silent melancholy man, of temperate habits and literary tastes,
and scarcely likely to become popular among a set of rude
agriculturists, Lord Wilton was not only popular but beloved by all
classes, for he was alike gentlemanly and benevolent to all.
He had been a soldier in his youth, and had fought bravely for his
country, but a serious wound, received during the American war, had
injured his health, and unfitted him for active service. He had
possessed great political influence, and had earned the reputation of
an eloquent speaker in the house; but he had withdrawn from the public
arena, as if tired with the world and all things in it, to end his days
in the quiet and retirement of the country.
Dorothy had heard all these circumstances in his lordship's history
discussed at church and market, and she felt a great awe of the big man,
and the idea of appearing before him, in her rustic simplicity, troubled
her exceedingly. In vain she said to herself,
"He is but a man. Is it not cowardly to feel afraid of him? If he does
not return me an answer, or refuses to listen to me, it won't kill me. I
can't see father pining and fretting himself to death about his son,
without doing something to relieve his mind. I will go, come what may.
Besides," she added, with charming candour, "I want to hear news of
Gilbert as badly as he does."
Having arrived at this conclusion, Dorothy dared not wait to let her
courage cool, but dressing herself very neatly, slipped out at the
back-gate, and took her way over the fields to Heath Hall.
Pincher met her in the lane, but she sternly told him "to go home,"
fearing lest his rugged appearance, and countrified manners, might not
suit the high bred dogs at the Hall.
It was a keen frosty morning, cold but cheery looking. Gleams of pale
sunshine rested upon the mossy trunks of the mighty oak trees, that
flanked the entrance to the park, and danced and quivered among the
fantastic shapes thrown by their leafless branches on the ground. The
air was clear and bracing, the crisp grass, with its coating of crystal,
rustled beneath her feet, as Dorothy walked briskly forward, in spite of
her trepidation and fears for the result of her visit, charmed by the
beauty of the scene.
The carriage road to the Hall was a long gradual ascent, winding among
picturesque clumps of stately forest trees, the old building crowning
the height of the hill, a grand baronial edifice, built in the middle
ages, whose massy walls and towers seemed to bid defiance to decay.
A flight of broad stone steps led to the entrance, but Dorothy knew that
that carved and ornamented door was never opened but to titled guests,
and she stole round, unobserved, to the back of the house, and rang at
the gate that led to the servants' hall.
Her gentle summons was answered by a tall powdered footman in blue and
silver livery.
"Miss Dorothy Chance! is that you? What has brought you out this cold
morning? Fresh butter and eggs, I suppose. Have you any with you to
sell?"
"Not before the end of next week, Mr. Frisk," returned Dorothy, with a
curtsey. "Our cows have fallen off greatly since the winter set in, and
all the eggs I can get now are from a few March pullets, who began to
lay some days ago."
She looked up and smiled pleasantly, then added, in a lower tone, "I
came on a little private business of my own. Can I speak with Mrs.
Brand?"
Mrs. Brand was the housekeeper, and well-known to Dorothy, from whom she
generally bought most of her dairy produce, and one, whom Dorothy
commonly specified as "the dear old lady at the Hall."
Mrs. Brand had filled the important place of housekeeper for two
generations, her own identity being completely merged in the superior
grandeur of the family with whom she served. In her own estimation there
was no such person as Mrs. Brand. The housekeeper to the great Lord
Wilton, was honour enough to satisfy her moderate ambition.
She was a busy bustling little woman, in a lace cap and rich black silk
gown, who reigned in undisputed dignity over the domestics in the
establishment. Held in great esteem by her noble master, Mrs. Brand was
consulted by him on all matters of minor importance. Through her all his
orders were conveyed to the servants, from her they received their
wages, and were retained or discharged according to her pleasure. She
was treated by them with a certain degree of homage, little inferior to
that which they would have accorded to the legitimate mistress of the
house.
The old lady knew her power, and exercised it wisely and well, and truly
deserved the character bestowed upon her by her lordly master.
"An honest faithful woman, who had the interest of the family at heart,
and who saved him a deal of trouble in the management of his domestic
affairs."
Dorothy Chance and her strange history were both well-known to Mrs.
Brand. She had often called at Heath Farm, to order supplies of fresh
butter and cream-cheese, and always spoke of the beauty and industry of
the foundling in terms of praise, which had made her name quite familiar
among the people at the Hall.
Mrs. Brand was busy reckoning up her weekly accounts, in her own
pleasant little room, when Mr. Frisk rapped at the door, and putting in
his powdered head, said, in his blandest tones,
"I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but here is Dorothy Chance from the
Farm, wishing to speak with you."
Putting aside her papers, with rather a vexed air--(for the ordering of
her accounts was always a great task to the good housekeeper,)--she told
the tall footman to show the young woman in.
"Well, Dorothy," she cried, holding out her hand to the bright girl, as
she stood all glowing and radiant from her walk before her, "what is
your business with me?"
"Please, ma'am," returned Dorothy, blushing with pleasure at her kind
reception, "I came to ask of you a very great favour."
"Indeed! What is it, child? Do you wish to go into respectable service?
Is it a character you require? If so I will give you a good one, with my
whole heart."
"Oh, no, ma'am, I am not going to leave home again. I wanted to say a
few words in private to my lord."
The old lady took off her spectacles, and looked sharply at Dorothy.
"What can a young girl like you have to say to my lord? Will not saying
it to me do quite as well?"
"Perhaps it would. But indeed, Mrs. Brand, I would rather, if you think
I am not too bold, say what I have to say to him myself."
The housekeeper shook her head doubtingly--
"Did you ever speak to Lord Wilton before?"
"Never. I don't even know him by sight."
Mrs. Brand looked relieved.
"Then what can you have to say to him, my dear?"
"It is a little private business of my own."
Mrs. Brand looked very serious.
"Have any of the servants here been making love to you, Dorothy?"
"No, no, nothing of the sort," and Dorothy laughed merrily, "I know as
little of them as I do of his lordship."
"Lord Wilton is a single man," said Mrs. Brand, gravely. "Do you think
it quite prudent for a young girl to ask him questions?"
Dorothy looked puzzled. She certainly did not comprehend Mrs. Brand's
prudery.
"You see, ma'am," she continued, with the same charming frankness, "our
Gilbert is with the army in Spain, and serves in the same regiment with
Captain Fitzmorris, my lord's son. A great battle has been fought at
Corunna, and we don't know whether Gilbert has been killed or not. Mr.
Rushmere is fretting himself to death with anxiety about his son. I
thought that Lord Wilton might be able to give us some information
respecting him, and if I could but speak to himself, and tell him all
the anguish we are suffering, I feel certain, by the character for
benevolence that he bears, that he would either confirm or remove our
apprehensions, by writing to his son, whose servant Gilbert is."
"Aye--now you talk sense, Dorothy. You should have told me this at
first. I have no doubt that his lordship will do what he can for you.
Poor dear man, he has been in great trouble about Viscount"--Mrs. Brand
placed a particular emphasis upon the title, as if to reprove Dorothy
for her omission of it--"Fitzmorris, ever since he saw in the papers
that he was badly wounded. He has shut himself up, and scarcely tasted
food since he got the news. It may be some relief to his mind to know
that a neighbour is fretting about an only son too. Sit down, Dorothy, I
will go to his study and see if my lord can speak with you."
In a few minutes the good woman returned, and told Dorothy to follow her
to the library.
"His lordship," she said, "was engaged just then finishing a letter, and
would see her presently."
As they were leaving the housekeeper's room, Mr. Frisk again presented
himself, and with a low bow to Mrs. Brand, and a stare of intense
admiration at Dorothy, informed the elder female that Mrs. Martin, the
curate's wife, was waiting to speak to her.
"Tell her to step in here, Frisk, I will be back directly. Something
about the Sunday-school, that my lord is about to establish," whispered
Mrs. Brand to Dorothy. "They cannot get on without consulting me. This
Mrs. Martin, our curate's wife, my lord wants to be superintendent of
the school. My lord says, she is a clever, well-educated person, and he
knows best; but between ourselves, I think her a poor, broken-spirited,
yea and forsooth, young woman, with a large small family, and a nursing
baby. She does not like the project at all.
"'Mrs. Brand,' says she, 'these Sunday-schools may answer very well in
great cities, where the people are so wicked, but take my word for it,
they will never do in a country-place, where the houses are so far
apart, and the children have such a distance to come, and the winter
days are so short. Besides, what's the use of my lord making such a fuss
about teaching the poor. Does he want his servants to be as clever as
himself--to read his books and papers instead of dusting his library.
Learning and wealth make the only distinction between him and his
people. If he gives them the one, the other will soon follow. It's
little the poor folks will care for the title of my lord, when they find
out that their title of free men possesses more real dignity.'
"Yes, my dear, she had the impudence to speak of the nobility in that
disrespectful manner, as if there was nothing at all in _blood_, or
superiority of race."
"I thought it was the fine clothes and the money made the difference,"
suggested Dorothy, whose feelings were not so decidedly aristocratic as
those of the well-paid domestic. "That, at least, in the church, the
rich and poor met together, and the Lord was the maker of them all."
"And so He is, Dorothy, for the Bible says so; but it is after a
different fashion, as you will see, when you look at the pictures in
the library of my lord's ancestors."
"Ancestors! what be they?"
"Why, Dorothy, are you so ignorant? Did you never hear father Rushmere
talk of his ancestors? He comes of a good race. I have heard my lord
say, that in the old times the Rushmeres owned this grand house, and
nearly all the land in this and the neighbouring parish."
Dorothy opened wide her large black eyes, full of surprise and wonder,
and she looked around the vast hall they had entered, with its marble
pavement and magnificent staircase of polished oak, in whose broad steps
she could see the reflection of her own sweet face, and the beautiful
carved railings presented fine specimens of mediæval art.
"The Rushmeres don't look different now," she said, "from other folk.
What brought about the change?"
"They fought against their lawful king. Traitors are always punished,
and so it has happened to them."
"But could that change the _blood_?" asked Dorothy.
"My dear, you have heard of wine turning sour when exposed to the common
air. A clear stream becomes impure when it flows into a muddy marsh."
Dorothy, with her shrewd common sense, could not comprehend Mrs. Brand's
philosophy, and she thought it better not to contradict her, so
reverting back to the Sunday-school, she inquired when it was to go into
operation.
"Directly my lord can get teachers to suit him. Mrs. Martin says, that
she can't attend to it after the service, on account of her baby, and
having to see to the other children, and she begged me to make her
excuses to my lord. I thought that he'd be terribly angry. But, God
bless him, he only laughed, and, says he, 'Mrs. Brand, the poor woman is
right. But I don't mean my school to be knocked on the head by Mrs.
Martin's baby. How many children have they?'
"'Lots, my lord,' says I. 'Parsons have always large families. The
poorer they be, the more children.' Then he laughs again. 'Do they keep
a nurse-maid, Mrs. Brand?'
"'Ah, my lord, they have barely enough to keep themselves. He has not
more than eighty pounds a year.'
"Then he sighs, and says, 'Ah, that is sad. I must see to that. The poor
soul might well begrudge the time to be spent in attending to the
school. Her own children have the first claim upon a mother's heart.
When next Mrs. Martin calls, I must see her, Mrs. Brand.'
"Now, Dorothy, this is my lord's library," continued the voluble
housekeeper, showing her young companion into a spacious apartment
fronting the park. "I must leave you here, while I go down to Mrs.
Martin. You can amuse yourself by looking at the pictures till my lord
comes."
"And how am I to address him?" cried Dorothy, turning faint with fear.
"Curtsey to him, when he comes into the room, and ask his pardon for the
liberty you take in venturing to speak to him, and then tell him your
business, in as few words as you can."
"Am I to call him my lord every time I address him?"
"Of course. But don't seem afraid of him. He says that he hates people
to worship him, as if he were an idol of flesh and blood. He likes a man
to speak out his mind like a man, which you know is very condescending
on his part. He will find very few men in the country that dare do it."
Dorothy thought she knew one, as the good woman closed the door, and
left her alone in the magnificent apartment. Perhaps she was wrong in
her estimate. Time will prove. And then she drew an involuntary sigh,
when she recalled the housekeeper's words that the Rushmeres had, in the
old times, been the owners of Heath Hall, and had lost it, because they
could not bow down to idols of flesh and blood.