DOROTHY'S FIRST LETTER.
Dorothy formed many plans for future usefulness during her walk home, nor had she the least suspicion of the different field in which her labours of love would be required.
Mrs. Rushmere had for several months complained of a sharp stinging pain between her shoulders, caused by a very small and apparently insignificant tumour. "Too small," the old lady said, "to make a fuss about." She had, however, several times lately remarked to Dorothy, "that the provoking thing caused her much inconvenience."
Always having enjoyed excellent health, Dorothy was very ignorant of the nature of diseases, but thinking that something must be wrong with her mother, she had urged her very strongly to show the cause of her uneasiness to Dr. Davy, the medical practitioner of Storby. This the old lady had promised to do, but had put it off from day to day. When Dorothy returned from her walk with Mr. Fitzmorris, she was greatly alarmed at finding Mrs. Rushmere in her bed, with traces of tears still wet upon her cheeks.
"My darling mother, what is the matter?" cried the affectionate girl, stooping over the bed and kissing her tenderly. "Are you ill?"
"More in mind than body," returned the good woman, trying to smile. "Oh, Dolly, dear, that tumour pained me so this afternoon, that I got father to drive me over to see the doctor."
"Well, and what did he say?" asked Dorothy, eagerly. Mrs. Rushmere's lips quivered.
"Dolly, I don't like to tell you. It will grieve you sore."
Dorothy looked alarmed, and turned very pale, as she clasped her mother's hand tighter in her own.
"He said it was a cancer." The old lady spoke slowly and with difficulty. "That it had been suffered to go too far, and at my age any operation in such a dangerous part was useless."
There was a long pause, only broken by the low sobbing of the two women.
"I don't mind dying, Dolly dear," continued Mrs. Rushmere, gathering courage to speak at last. "But oh, my pet! it is such a cruel death."
"May God give you strength to bear it, my dear mother," said Dorothy. "This is sad news; it cuts me to the heart."
"I hope I may be spared to see Gilly again," continued Mrs. Rushmere, for a moment forgetful of her sad fate. "The doctor said that I might live for months, or even for years; but I only want to live long enough to look into his face once more."
After lying very still for a few minutes, she turned piteously to Dorothy, and continued—
"Dolly, if Gilbert should repent of his unkindness to you, would you forgive him?"
"Dear mother, I have done that long ago. How could I ask God to forgive me, and harbour resentment against anyone?"
"But would you marry him, if he wished it?"
Dorothy was silent. She felt in her heart that she no longer wished to be Gilbert Rushmere's wife, yet she did not wish to agitate Mrs. Rushmere, by giving a flat negative to her question.
Her inward retrospection was interrupted by Mrs. Rushmere sinking back on her pillow, and gasping out, in a faint voice,
"Dorothy, you no longer love him?"
"Dear mother, these are useless and cruel questions. Gilbert will never put me to the trial of refusing him."
"But if a' did?"
"The answer to such an inquiry rightly belongs to the future. I know no more than you do how I might act. I trust in God that He would guide me to do what was right."
"And will you promise, Dorothy, not to leave me, till it is all over—till—till they have laid me in the clay?"
"That I can promise with my whole heart. Yes, dearest, best friend, set your mind at rest on that point. I will nurse you, and do everything that lies in my power to help you, and alleviate your sufferings. How could you imagine for a moment the possibility of your Dolly leaving you?"
"Ah, what a jewel that foolish boy threw recklessly way," sighed the good mother, as her adopted daughter left the room to make her a cup of tea.
A few days after this painful interview, the mail brought the news of the battle of Vittoria having been fought. Great was the public rejoicings on the occasion; a glad shout of triumph rang through the British Isles, proclaiming the victory their warlike sons had achieved. It was only in those homes to which the messenger of death brought evil tidings of the loved and lost, that the voice of joy was mute.
Dorothy ran over to Jonathan Sly's to borrow the paper to read to old Rushmere, and in the list of the killed and wounded, found that Lieutenant Gilbert Rushmere had lost his right arm.
"Oh, father!" she cried, and suddenly stopped.
"Well, girl, out wi't. Dost think I'm not a man, that I can't bear the worst? Is Gilly killed?"
"No, thank God! but—but—he has lost his right arm."
"Lost his right arm! He had better ha' lost his life than return a cripple from the wars. Don't you see, girl, that this will put a stop to his promotion, an' make an idle pensioner of him—when, in these stirring times, he might ha' risen to be a general officer. Dear—dear—dear! This is a terrible calamity. My boy—my brave boy!"
"Don't tell mother a word about it, father, it would kill her in her weak state," urged Dorothy.
"It won't vex her, Dorothy, as it does me. She has no ambition for her son. She would sooner ha' him sitting beside her with his one arm, so she had him safe at home, than know that he was commander o' the British army abroad. It will be as well to say nought about it, Dorothy, if you can keep it from her. My dear old woman—the loss o' her will be bad enough, wi'out this fresh trouble. Lost his right arm! Oh, my poor Gilly!"
Badly as Gilbert had behaved to her, Dorothy could better have borne the loss of her own arm. She still loved him well enough to feel truly grieved for his misfortune.
To a man of Gilbert's active habits, the want of that arm would be a dreadful calamity. She could not bear to think of the empty sleeve, hanging so uselessly beside his tall athletic figure. In all rural sports be had always been foremost, and never failed to carry off the prize. What would they do without him on the cricket ground—their best bat? What at the ploughing matches, where he had always turned the straightest furrow? In the hay and harvest fields, where he had no equal? Even in the boat races he had always pulled the best oar. And when his discarded love thought of these things, she retired to the solitude of her own chamber, and wept bitterly.
She thought that Lawrence Rushmere ought to have felt more grateful to God for sparing the life of his son. But the old man had been in the habit of speculating so much upon his rising to hold a high position in the army, that he could scarcely as yet realize the destruction of all his ambitious hopes.
This, together with the growing weakness of his wife, who, to do the old man justice, he loved better than anything in the world, tended much to sour his temper, and render it no easy matter to live at peace with him.
Directly Gerard Fitzmorris heard, through Mrs. Martin, of the troubles in the Rushmere family, he hastened to offer them the consolations of religion, and the sympathy of a true and benevolent heart. His pastoral visits were duly appreciated by the poor invalid and Dorothy, to whom they afforded the greatest comfort.
Mrs. Rushmere was a woman after the vicar's own heart. Her gentle resignation and genuine piety filled him with respect and admiration. He treated her as an affectionate son would do a beloved mother; soothing her in moments of intense suffering with his kind ministrations, and strengthening her mind with the blessed promises of the Gospel, to bear with submission the great burthen that had been laid upon her.
"The heavier the cross," he would say, "the brighter the crown. The more meekly it is borne, the sweeter will be the rest at the end of the journey."
Then he would join his fine mellow voice with Dorothy in singing the beautiful, though now forgotten, verse in the evening hymn: "For death is life, and labour rest." Even the blunt farmer's hard nature was softened by his touching prayers.
Mr. Fitzmorris did not exactly approve of Gilbert's loss being kept a profound secret from his mother.
"I hate all concealment," he cried. "The simple truth is always the best. You had better let me break it to her, than run the risk of her hearing it accidentally from another. The shock of seeing him with the empty sleeve, would give her more pain than if you were to make her acquainted with the facts."
Still, neither Dorothy nor Mr. Rushmere could be persuaded to follow his advice.
A very few days had elapsed before Dorothy deeply repented not adopting his judicious advice.
Though her disease was rapidly progressing, and Mrs. Rushmere was becoming daily weaker, she was still able to occupy the room below, propped up by pillows in her easy chair. The sight of all the household arrangements, and the inmates going to and fro, amused her, and often made her forgetful of the pain she was suffering.
One morning while Dorothy was absent in the outer kitchen, preparing some broth, Miss Watling, who had learned the extent of Gilbert's injuries, called upon Mrs. Rushmere to condole with her on the event, and pick up any bit of gossip she could with regard to Dorothy.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Rushmere!" she cried, hurrying up to the easy chair, in which the old lady was reclining half asleep. "I am so sorry to find you sick and confined to the house. But you must not fret about Gilbert, indeed you must not. Directly I was told the dreadful news, I said to Mrs. Barford, 'Lord a' mercy, it will kill his poor mother.'"
"What about Gilbert! What dreadful news?" cried Mrs. Rushmere, starting from her half conscious state, and grasping the thin bony arm of her visitor with convulsive energy.
"Why, surely they must have told you that he was badly wounded in the great battle of Vittoria."
"Badly wounded. A great battle. Oh, my son! my son!" and the distressed mother fell back in her chair in a swoon.
At this moment, Dorothy entered with the broth for the invalid. One glance at the death pale face of Mrs. Rushmere told the whole story. She put down the basin and hurried to her assistance.
"Oh, Miss Watling!" she said in a deprecating voice. "See what you have done?"
"And what have I done? told the woman what she ought to have known three weeks ago."
"We had been keeping it from her," said Dorothy, "because she was not strong enough to bear it."
"And pray, Dorothy Chance, if a lady may be permitted to ask the question, what is the matter with her?"
"She is dying," sobbed Dorothy, "of cancer in the back."
"How should I know that? I am not gifted with second sight."
"You know it now," said Dorothy, "and as she is coming to, it would be better for you to leave me to break the whole thing more gently to her."
"Oh, of course, you are the mistress here, and I am to leave the house at your bidding. I shall do no such thing without my old friend Mrs. Rushmere turns me out."
Dorothy cast a glance of mingled pity and contempt upon the speaker. Just then, Mrs. Rushmere opened her eyes, and met Dorothy's anxious sympathizing glance.
"Dorothy, is he dead?" she asked in a faint voice.
"No, dearest mother. Do compose yourself."
"But is he mortally wounded? Tell me, tell me, the whole truth!"
Dorothy sank on her knees beside the chair, and passed her arms round Mrs. Rushmere's waist, so that her head could rest upon her shoulder, while she whispered in her ear. "He lost his right arm in the battle."
"And you did not tell me?"
"We wished to spare you unnecessary pain, dear mother."
"I know you did it for the best, Dorothy—but all this time, I would have prayed for him. A mother's earnest prayers are heard in heaven."
"That's downright popery, Mrs. Rushmere," chimed in the hard woman.
"What does she say, Dorothy?"
"Oh, dear mother, it is a matter of no consequence. Do take your broth before it is cold. You have been greatly agitated. You know the worst now, and God will give you comfort."
Dorothy placed the broth on a little table before her, wishing in her heart that she could hit on some plan to get rid of their unfeeling visitor.
"Gilbert will have to leave the army now," said Miss Watling. "But I suppose he will retire on half pay, and have a good pension. But were the government to give him a fortune, it would scarcely repay a fine young fellow for the loss of a right arm." Mrs. Rushmere dropped her spoon upon the floor and shivered.
"For the love of charity, Miss Watling, don't refer to this terrible subject—you see how it agitates Mrs. Rushmere. There, she has fainted again. I will have to send off for the doctor."
"That is another hint for me to go. This is all one gets by trying to sympathize with vulgar, low people." And the angry spinster swept out of the room.
Her place was almost immediately filled by Mr. Fitzmorris. A look from Dorothy informed him how matters stood. He drew his chair beside Mrs. Rushmere's, and took her hand in his.
"Mother, this is a severe trial, but you know where to seek for help. There is one whose strength can be made perfect in human weakness. Come, dry these tears, and thank God for sparing the life of your son. Remember, that he might have died in his sins—and be thankful. Dorothy," he said, glancing up into the sweet face that rested on the top of her mother's chair, "fetch Mrs. Rushmere a glass of wine, and warm that broth again. I mean to have the pleasure of seeing her eat it."
"You are so good—so kind," said Mrs. Rushmere, a wintry smile passing over her pale face.
"Nonsense, my dear Madam. No living creature deserves the first term. Even our blessed Lord while in the flesh rejected it. 'There is none good but God,' was his answer to the young man who preferred his great possessions to that blessed invitation, 'Come and follow me.'
"But I really have good news for you; news which Lord Wilton kindly sent to cheer you. Gilbert's arm was amputated above the elbow, and he is doing very well. Is already out of the hospital, and on his way home. Now, have you not every reason to be thankful, when so many mothers have to mourn for sons left for the wolf and the vulture on the battle plain?"
"I do not complain," sighed Mrs. Rushmere. "Oh, God be thanked! I shall see him again."
A burst of tears relieved her oppressed heart, and when Dorothy returned with the broth, Mr. Fitzmorris watched the patient eat it with evident satisfaction.
"She is better now," he said; "I will read a few sentences and pray with her; and then, Dolly, dear, you had better put her to bed. She has had enough to harass her for one day."
The circumstance of Mr. Fitzmorris calling her "Dolly, dear," though it might only have been a slip of the tongue, trifling as it was, sent a thrill of joy to her heart.
When he rose to go, he beckoned her to the window, and put a very large letter into her hand. "This was enclosed to me by Lord Wilton. He is about to accompany his sick son to Madeira for change of air—the physician's last shift to get rid of a dying patient."
Dorothy put the letter in her pocket, secretly wondering what it could be about. She had no opportunity of reading it before she went to bed, as Mrs. Rushmere required her attendance far into the night, and the whole management of the house now devolved on her.
How eagerly she opened the letter, when, after a thousand petty hindrances, she at last found herself seated at the little table in her own chamber. Enclosed within the letter was a large sealed packet, upon which was written, "only to be opened, if I never return to England."
The letter ran thus:—
"My dear Dorothy,
"I cannot leave England without bidding you farewell. You are very dear to me, so dear that words could scarcely convey to you the depth and strength of my affection. Do not start, my child—I can see the look of profound astonishment in the dear black eyes—I am not in love with you. The passion that bears that name, the passion that a lover feels for the woman he adores, whom he desires to call his own before all others, has long been dead in my heart, and lies buried with the loved and lost in a nameless grave.
"The love that unites me to you, my dear Dorothy, though widely different, is not less holy in its nature, and flows out of the unutterable tenderness that a parent feels for a beloved child. Oh, that I could call you my child before the whole world.
"Here, while watching beside the sick bed of my only son, the heir of my titles and estates, who, I fondly hoped, would carry down my name to posterity, and knowing that his hours are already numbered, my heart turns, in its sore agony, to you, the daughter of my choice, for sympathy and consolation. Do not deny me this, my dear young friend: write and tell me so; write just as you think and feel. I long for the simple utterances of your pure and guileless heart, so refreshing to my weary spirit, tired with the unmeaning hollow professions of the world.
"We sail for Madeira to-morrow, I do not entertain the least hope that it will benefit Edward's health, but the change of scene and climate may amuse him on the one hand, and mitigate his sufferings on the other.
"Oh, Dorothy, how deeply I regret that you will never see this dear son. You who would have loved him so well, and who resemble him in many things so closely. Let us hope that we may all meet in another and better world.
"I am glad to hear that you have a friend in Gerard Fitzmorris. We have never been thrown much together, on account of the feuds and jealousies which, unfortunately, existed between the two families, but I have every reason to believe that, unlike his father and brother, the young vicar of Hadstone is an excellent man; one in whom, on any emergency, you may place the utmost confidence. I say this because I apprehend some trouble in store for you at home.
"I have learned from my son that Gilbert Rushmere, in order to secure a young lady of fortune whom he met in London, while on the recruiting service, married her before he went back with the regiment to Spain. It turns out that the young lady in question deceived her lover on this point, and it is more than probable that, on his return from abroad, he will go down to Heath Farm with his wife.
"I fear, my dear Dorothy, that this will be everything but an agreeable arrangement for you, and I have provided a home for you with Mrs. Martin in case you should find it so. I likewise enclose a draft on the county bank for fifty pounds of which I beg your acceptance, and which either my cousin Gerard or Mr. Martin can get cashed for you. The sealed packet you must lay by very carefully, as upon it may depend the recognition of your parentage. Perhaps it would be safer for you to deposit such important documents in the hands of Mr. Martin or Fitzmorris. Should I live to return, their contents will be of little importance, as you can then learn them from my own lips.
"Do not grieve over your lover's marriage, but believe with me that it is a providential thing, the very best that could happen in your position.
"And now, farewell, beloved child. Keep me in your thoughts, and remember me ever in your prayers. I have not forgotten our conversation on the heath. From reading daily that blessed volume to my dear Edward, I have derived more peace and comfort than my troubled spirit has known for years.
"Your attached friend,
"Edward Fitzmorris."London, July 14th."
Dorothy read the letter over several times. Bewildered and astonished, she scarcely knew what to make of its contents. Though it had informed her of the marriage of Gilbert, she had not shed a tear or felt the least regret. She could meet him without sorrow for the past, or hope for the future. He was far, far removed from her now. They were placed wide as the poles asunder. She could speak to him without hesitation, and answer him without a blush. He was no longer anything to her. He was the husband of another. But then his marriage. It seemed to have been one of deceit and trickery, and she felt sorrow for him. But after all, had he not been rightly served? He had married a woman without love, for her money, and had not obtained the wealth for which he had sacrificed himself and her.
Dorothy felt that there was a retributive justice even in this world; that if Gilbert had acted uprightly he would not have been punished; and when she thought of the misery such a disappointment must have inflicted on his proud heart, and the loss of the strong right arm, that might have won him an honourable and independent position, she fully realized how severe that punishment had been.
From the news of her lover's marriage, which to her was so unexpected, she turned to ponder over the contents of the Earl's letter, or those portions of it that related to herself and him. Inexperienced as Dorothy was in the conventionalisms of the world, she could not but feel that there was some strange mystery hidden under the terms of endearment, so profusely heaped upon her. A vague surmise leaped across her brain. Could it be possible that she was anything nearer to him than a friend? She laughed at her presumption in supposing such a thing, but the idea had made an impression on her mind that she could not banish.
Sudden and extraordinary as his attachment had been to her, she never had for a moment imagined him as a lover. She always thought that his regard was the pure offspring of benevolence, the interest he took in her story, when backed by the strong likeness she bore to his mother. Now she asked herself whence came that singular resemblance? Her own mother was a fair woman, every person that had seen her agreed in that. How came she with the straight features and dark eyes of the Earl and his mother? And then she turned the sealed packet over and longed with an intense desire, which amounted to pain, to read its contents and solve the strange mystery which was known only to him.
A keen sense of honour forbade her to break the seal. The temptation to do so was the strongest she had ever experienced in her life. She sat pondering over these things, heedless of the long hours that slipped by, until the first rays of the summer sun had converted into diamonds all the dewdrops on the heath. It was too late or rather too early then to go to bed, so changing her afternoon muslin for a calico working dress, she roused the prentice girl to go with her to the marshes and fetch home the cows.