GILBERT'S GOOD FORTUNE.
Lord Wilton had been absent in London for several weeks. The Rushmeres had received no tidings of Gilbert, and the time would have passed drearily enough for Dorothy, but for her lessons and the increasing work at the school.
One bright March morning, Dorothy was alone in the big room at the Farm spinning, and, as usual, pondering over the fate of her absent lover, when her day-dream was disturbed by a sharp rap at the door from the butt end of a riding-whip.
The whirr of the wheel ceased, and Dorothy opened the door. It was Lord Wilton himself, looking thinner and paler than when she had before seen him. He raised his hat with a melancholy smile, as Dorothy stood blushing and awe-struck on the threshold.
"I bring you good news of your lover, Dorothy, and here is a letter from the youth himself to his father, which came enclosed in one I have just received from my son."
Dorothy's colour went and came, as she took the letter from the nobleman's outstretched hand.
"Will your lordship be pleased to alight?"
"Not to-day. My presence would spoil the delight of reading that letter, which you will be sure to do the moment I am out of sight. But I must tell you," he continued, bending down kindly from his horse, and addressing Dorothy in a most earnest manner, "what, perhaps, Gilbert Rushmere may omit to do in that letter, and which I know will please you all."
Dorothy raised her lustrous eyes to Lord Wilton's face, with a look of eager inquiry, as he went on.
"Tell Mr. Rushmere that his son behaved most gallantly in that terrible battle. The —— Regiment was in the very thick of the fight, and suffered tremendously. When my son received the wound that struck him down, young Rushmere bestrode the body, and finally carried it off on his shoulders, under a heavy fire from the enemy. For this noble act he has been promoted to the rank of a sergeant, but his advancement will not end there.
"What, in tears, Dorothy?" he added, in a softer tone, and regarding the young girl with an air of melancholy interest. "I thought my news would make you so happy."
"So it does—so it does," sobbed Dorothy. "Oh, my lord, there are tears of joy as well as of sorrow. If I did not cry my heart would burst," and covering her face with her apron, Dorothy retreated into the house.
"Happy girl," said Lord Wilton, as she disappeared, "how I envy her this honest burst of natural feeling."
"How rude Lord Wilton must have thought me," said Dorothy, when she regained her composure. "Never once to inquire after the health of his wounded son. And he so kind, as to take the trouble of riding up himself to bring us Gilbert's letter."
She looked wistfully at the precious document she still held in her hand. "How I wish that father and mother were in. How I long to know all that he has written in the letter." Here, she kissed it passionately.
"His hand has been just there, when he wrote the direction. What joy to know that he is alive and well—has acted like a brave man, and received a brave man's reward. God has been very good to us, to cover the dear one's head in the day of battle."
The old clock struck twelve. Dorothy hurried to cover the table for dinner.
Rushmere and his man were in the field sowing barley, the boy following with the harrows; her mother absent at the house of a sick neighbour. She knew that dinner must be ready to a minute. Her mind was in such a flutter of excitement, that she found the every day task very difficult to perform.
Every thing seemed to go wrong—the fire would not burn, or the pot boil as quickly as usual, and Dorothy was hot and tired, when Mrs. Rushmere came in.
"You are late, my child," she said, throwing her bonnet and shawl upon a side table, "hurry with the dinner. Father is washing his hands at the pump, and the men are coming in. You must have been thinking of something besides your work."
"Oh, mother," returned Dorothy, as she placed the large round of boiled beef upon the table. "Lord Wilton has been here, and gave me this letter from Gilbert. I have such good news to tell you. It was that that put me into such fluster, that I hardly knew what I was about. Had I not better wait to read the letter until after the men are gone, and father is comfortably smoking his pipe?"
"Yes, certainly. A letter from Gilly! Lord Wilton brought it himself! How kind—how good of his lordship. Quick, Dolly, with the potatoes and dumplings. I will draw the ale. Let us get the dinner over as fast as possible. I feel in such a tremor I shall not be able to eat a morsel."
Never did a meal seem so long. The men, hungry with their work, ate with a will, and when their appetite began to slacken, they discussed the state of the land they had been seeding, and the probable chances of a good crop.
Dorothy and Mrs. Rushmere could scarcely control their impatience, and thought that they meant to sit at the table for ever. At last they gave over from sheer inability to eat more.
"Well, master," said Sam Boyden, rising, "you'll be wi' us presently?"
"Ay, by the time the horses have had their feed. By God's blessing, we must finish putting in the crop afore night. It looks for rain, an' that heavy clay wu'd be too claggy to harrow to-morrow."
"I 'spect yer right, master," and hitching up his nether garments, and lighting his short black pipe, honest Sam and his boy departed.
Without waiting to clear the table, Dorothy drew the letter from her bosom. "From Gilly, father," and she held it up before the old man, with an air of triumph.
The unlighted pipe dropped from the farmer's hand.
"The Lord be praised! Then my dear boy is alive. Let us hear what he has to say o' himsel.'"
Dorothy broke the seal and read as follows:
"My dear father and mother,
"You will be surprised to find that I am in England once more, and have not been to see you. But I have duties to perform that will not allow me to quit my post. You will have read in the papers a full account of the battle of Corunna, and the death of our gallant commander, Sir John Moore. I was one of the soldiers who helped to lay him in his grave. It was a sad sight. We all shed tears. We had not time to make a coffin, we wrapped him up in the glorious flag we had defended with our lives, which was stained with the heart's blood of as brave a man as ever died fighting for his country.
"I have not time to tell you all our sufferings during our retreat to the coast. The fighting was nothing to the hardships we endured. But, thanks be to God, we are once more in dear old England.
"Our regiment was among the first that charged upon the enemy. I felt a little cowardly, when the order was given for us to advance. I thought of you and mother, and the tears were in my eyes. When we got into the thick of it, and I saw my comrades falling around me, it made a man of me at once. I could have fought the devil.
"In leading his troop to the charge, Lord Fitzmorris was in advance of the men, and got surrounded by the enemy. We rushed to the rescue, and put the rascals to flight, but not before the Captain had fallen from his horse severely wounded. I saw that he was still alive, and carried him to the rear on my shoulders amidst a heavy fire. The men cheered—it was the proudest moment of my life. I nursed him during the voyage home, and he is now out of danger. For this act, which was prompted by the love and esteem I had for him, I was made sergeant, in the place of Tom Johnson, who fell in the battle. He was a fine jolly good-tempered fellow—a great favourite in the regiment. I felt sorry that I was a gainer by the loss of a valuable life. But this is not all. When we arrived in England, I was presented with a lieutenant's commission, purchased by Lord Wilton, as a reward for the service I had rendered his son. I am now a gentleman—an officer in His Majesty's service, and have been congratulated on my promotion by all the officers in the regiment. Our colonel himself was the first to shake hands with me, and Lord Fitzmorris introduced me at the mess. I hope you and dear mother will feel proud of your son. It was the best thing I ever did, when I quarrelled with you all and left home. I might have remained all my life a country hawbuck, trudging at the cart tail.
"The folks here make quite a lion of me, and say that I am a handsome dashing fellow. I shall look out for a rich wife by and by, when the war is over, and try to restore the fallen fortunes of the old house. I have a young lady in my eye, to whom I was introduced last night. She will have a fortune of six thousand pounds when her uncle dies. She paid me many compliments, and danced with me several times during the evening."
A thick mist floated before Dorothy's eyes. She was seized with an universal tremour, and made a convulsive grasp at the table to keep herself from falling.
"Why do you stop, girl?" cried Rushmere, impatiently, too much engrossed by his own exultant feelings to notice the change that the last few lines had produced on the poor reader.
"Hush, Lawrence," said Mrs. Rushmere, who saw it all, and hastened to pour out a glass of water for the pale, gasping, heart-stricken creature, "you see she cannot help it." Then, in her kind, considerate voice, she addressed Dorothy. "Go to your room, my dear child, and compose yourself. I will try and read the rest of the letter to your father."
The shock had been electrical, thrilling through every nerve of her body. It was so unexpected—such a reverse to the joyous feelings with which she had opened the letter, that Dorothy was stunned, and as yet hardly conscious of the extent of her misery.
She took the glass of water mechanically, and drank the whole of the contents. Pride came to her assistance. She could not bear that Mr. Rushmere, whose stern eye was fixed upon her, should read all the anguish of her heart. Choking down that bitter pang was not done without a tremendous effort, but it was done and successfully. Her hands ceased to tremble, and her voice became steady, as she read to the end of the fatal letter.
"We are busy raising recruits to fill up the blanks in the regiment, and I am ordered on this service. Directly our complement is complete, we embark for Spain, under the command of Sir Arthur Wellesley. I shall not be able to run down to see you; but remember me kindly to all the Storby and Hadstone folks, and believe me to remain, your affectionate son,
"Gilbert Rushmere."
The dreadful task was ended. Dorothy quietly put down the letter on the table, and left the room.
"Wife," cried the old man, rubbing his hands, "that be glorious news."
"It is a great mercy, Lawrence, that his life was spared," returned the mother, thoughtfully.
"Spared—his life spared. My woman, is that all you ha' to say at the good fortin of our son? Think o' him as an officer—a brave man—and a gentleman!" Wishing to flatter her female vanity, he added, with a shrewd smile, "He wor a handsome, straight-built feller—he will look well in his grand uniform."
"Not dearer to me, Lawrence, than he was in his farm slop. I suppose his promotion is all for the best," she continued with a sigh. "I shall be satisfied if he brings back to us the same warm heart. King George may have got a good soldier, and we may have lost an affectionate son. His letter is not like my Gilbert—it does not make me feel so happy as I expected."
"You are thinking o' the lass now, Mary. You ought to rejoice, woman, that he has given up all thoughts o' her. Such low notions wu'd not suit him now. He seems determined to marry a lady, and build up the old house."
"The house is good enough for the old inhabitants, Lawrence. As to Dorothy, she would be no disgrace to a richer family than ours."
"It was kind o' presumptuous, dame, in her, to think o' marrying wi' our son. But I see how the wind blows. You think a deal more o' the lass than you do o' your brave son."
"I should have thought better of Gilbert had he sent a kind word to Dorothy, knowing, as he does, how much she loves him. The poor young thing, my heart aches for her. I hope, Lawrence, you will have the sense not to talk of him before her. It would be jagging a painful wound, while it is yet fresh and bleeding."
"Whist, woman, hold up, don't be arter telling me what to do, or not to do. I'm master o'v my own house any how—an' o'v my own tongue, to boot. I'm glad, right heartily glad that 'tis all off atween Gilbert an' Dolly. Bless me," and he rose hastily from his chair, "I ha' quite forgotten the barley—an' I hear Sam hollowing for me. Well, well, this be the best news that ha' come to the house for many a long day."
He left the room rubbing his hands, a fashion he had, whistling and singing alternately a stave of a harvest song.
"I'm ashamed of Lawrence," said his kind wife, looking after him with the tears in her eyes. "To hear him singing like a boy, when he knows how the little maid is suffering. Ah, well," wiping her eyes with her apron, "it's no use talking—men never did, and never will understand the feelings of us poor women. It's not in their hard rough nature, so it's no use expecting any sympathy from them." And with a heavy heart, in spite of the good news about her darling son, Mrs. Rushmere commenced clearing the table of the empty platters.
And what had become of Dorothy? She left the room scarcely conscious of what she was doing, and, without hat or shawl, wandered out upon the heath. Instinct guided her steps to the lonely hollow, in which had been unfolded the first page in her life's history. There she was sure to be alone. No curious eye would venture there, to mark her grief or probe the anguish of her heart—the spot was haunted ground.
There she sat down—not to weep—her sorrow had not as yet found the blessed relief of tears. She could only press her hands tightly over her heart, and from time to time moan piteously—"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
Every thing felt so blank and strange. There was such dull emptiness, where a few minutes before there had been such bounding joy.
It was long before a wave of thought broke in upon that deep dead calm; or her mind awoke to the painful conviction of her utter bereavement—a loss never again to be recovered in this cold unsympathizing world.
Had Gilbert been dead—had he fallen in his first battle, with the blessed consciousness that his last thoughts had been of her, the bitter pang would have been endurable. He still lived, but was dead to her. Nay, worse—he had ceased to love her—had forgotten her—did not trouble himself even to mention her name, or send one kind word of remembrance.
This was no casual omission—it was evidently designed. The blow was meant to strike home—to convince her that he had cast her off as a thing not worth remembering, or only as a stumbling block in his path to fortune. Had she deserved this? How full of bitterness was the thought. She could not dismiss it from her mind—it was graven there with a pen of iron. The reality was too certain to admit of excuse or palliation. It had become fact.
When he left his home in anger, she never imagined that it was with her—that he really meant what he said. When she remained firm to her duty—to the solemn promise she had given to his father, it was with the idea that she was serving him, and she had sufficient faith in his affection for her, to believe that he appreciated the heroic sacrifice.
He had cast her off there and then—had relinquished her for ever. He had asked her to leave the house with him, to become his wife, in the very face of his father's anger; she had refused to accede to his request, and he had taken it as a final decision. She realized it all now.
But who was to blame in the matter? Had it not been her own act? She had stood firm to her word, and he had proved to her, bitterly proved to her, that he could as obstinately adhere to his.
But she had loved him—so faithfully, so well—had been so confident of his fidelity, that she could not as yet bring herself to believe, that he would part with her in that cold heartless manner. That he had left his parents, his country, his home, all the happy associations of his boyhood and youth, to be revenged on her.
She who had sacrificed her own feelings to do what she considered to be her duty. It was hard to think so meanly of Gilbert Rushmere. But he deserved it. The bitterest pang of her grief lay there.
He was no more worthy of her love. She must learn to forget.
Even in these moments of humiliation Dorothy felt that she had acted right, nor did she for an instant regret the course she had pursued. This sense of rectitude was the only prop upon which she could lean in her hour of desolation, but she found it, as every one will find it, a column of strength.
Hiding her crushed affections deep down in the silent chambers of her soul, she bowed her knees to the Heavenly Father, and in solemn earnest tones, besought the assistance of the Divine Comforter, to help her in her hour of need, and teach her resignation.
Who ever sought a healing draught from that life-giving fountain, and turned empty away? If their faith was too small to receive the full cup, some healing drops would reach the parched lips, to cool the burning thirst, and reconcile them to a sorrowful lot.
With Dorothy it was but a softening mist, a dew scattered by the spray of a fountain, that reached the arid desert of her heart—but ah, how magical were the effects. The hard resentful feelings which had been gathering against her ungrateful lover, gradually melted, and she wept.
Wept and prayed for the broken reed on which she had so long leant—the idol of clay, at whose feet she had so long worshipped; and while she forgave his desertion, she entreated of Heaven to bless him—to make him a wise, good man, useful in his day and generation.
The shades of night were closing fast around her, when Dorothy rose from her cold resting place, and returned home to perform her usual domestic labours. Her love was dead, but she had gained courage to bury it decently and sadly, and without uttering one wail, that might break upon the ears of the unsympathizing world. Her heart was the grave, into which she could retire at any moment to weep—the funeral lamp was ever burning—the sepulchre decked with flowers—and peace brooded there—a dove with folded wings.