A PROPOSAL.
Dorothy felt like a captive long incarcerated in prison who has just got his release, and awakes once more to life and liberty. A year ago, and she would have considered it impossible for her to feel glad at leaving Heath Farm, or any place that Gilbert Rushmere called his home. Gilbert she had ceased to respect, and where he was could no longer be a home for her.
She pitied him because he was miserable, but he had brought his sufferings upon himself in a manner that she could neither excuse nor justify, and her compassion was of that mixed sort that made her feel ashamed of its object.
The insults she had received from his wife were still rankling in her breast; their low, base character made them unendurable to a sensitive mind, and she thought less of her former lover when associated with this woman whom he had accepted in her place for six thousand pounds. His bargain would have been a dead loss to him at treble that sum. He had ventured his all upon it, and had lost everything which makes life desirable: the love of a true heart, his own self-respect, and the fair prospect of domestic happiness. Dorothy felt it painful to witness his degradation, and the situation in which she had been placed precluded any attempt on her part to elevate his mind, and inspire hopes of a more exalted nature. She had a sad foreboding that this false step, though the first, was not likely to be the last, in a rapid downward career. What better could be expected from constant association with such a partner as he had chosen?
The mother, whose loss at that moment was pressing heavily on her heart, to whom Gilbert had always been an earthly idol, had been mercifully taken from the evil to come, and, much as Dorothy had loved her, she no longer wished to recall her to life, to preside over a home that Mrs. Gilbert's temper would render a domestic hell.
Dorothy was thankful for her emancipation from that house of misrule. She breathed more freely in the fresh air, and her heart once more expanded to the genial influences of nature. The evening was warm and balmy after the thunderstorm, and the golden sunset shed upon wet leaves and dewy grass a glory as from heaven. The birds sang in the glistening bushes by the roadside, and the air was rife with delicious odours, as if an angel had scattered his censor over the rebaptized earth.
The holy tranquillity of the scene chased away the dark shadows that, like spirits of evil, had been brooding for several weeks upon her mind, thoughts which were not of heaven, the remembrance of all those injuries that had been heaped upon her, making her angry and resentful, and anxious that her tormentors might be paid in their own coin.
Nature's vesper song to her Creator, poured from a thousand warbling throats, once more attuned Dorothy's sad heart to prayer and praise. Her soul fell prostrate to the earth, the green footstool of His glorious throne, and was gently raised by ministering spirits, and lifted towards heaven.
Near the parsonage, she met Mrs. Martin and the children coming to meet her. With what joy she kissed and embraced them all. What charming little tales they had to tell her of domestic life. Their rabbits had multiplied, their pigeons had all accessions to their families. Harry had discovered that very morning a nest of young kittens in the stable, belonging to Mrs. Prowler, the cat, and they were not to be killed or sent away, until dear Dolly had picked out the prettiest for little Arthur, who was going to name it Dolly, in honour of their dear friend. Then they told her that Johnnie had been ill, but was able to sit up now, and he wanted to hear all the nice stories she used to tell him, and sing to him his favourite hymns; and Dorothy's weary heart overflowed with happiness to find herself once more among faithful and loving hearts.
After having taken her the round of the garden, to look at all the flowers she had helped them in sowing and planting, and pointing out the prettiest blossoms, and gathering her a choise nosegay, they went gamboling before her into the house, wild with joy that she had come to live with them never to go away again.
"There is another friend very anxious to see you, Dorothy," said Mrs. Martin, as they passed the well known study door. "Mr. Fitzmorris arrived by the mid-day coach. He looked ill and fatigued, and I persuaded him to lie down for an hour or two, until Henry returned from Storby, where he had to attend a vestry meeting after poor Mrs. Rushmere's funeral. I wonder if he is awake." She gave a low rap at the door, and Dorothy's heart leaped to the sound of the gentle voice that bade them come in.
"Go and speak to him, Dorothy. The sight of you will do him good, and help to dissipate his melancholy."
At that moment the door opened, and Gerard received them with his usual frank kindness. Dorothy's black dress informed him of what had happened. He took her hand and led her into the room, making her sit down in the study chair while he drew his seat beside her.
"My dear friend, I see how it is. You have lost that excellent mother. I did hope I should see her again, and administer to her the glorious symbols of Christ's undying love, before she sank to rest. God has ordered it otherwise. Did she suffer much in that last conflict, which all foolishly dread and shrink from?"
"She was spared all its terrors, Mr. Fitzmorris; she died in sleep. To judge from the beautiful serenity of her face, her waking was in heaven."
"I too have looked on death since last we met. In death itself there is nothing terrible; it is but the returning wave of life flowing back to Him, and may be regarded as the birth of spirit to its higher destiny. But oh, Dorothy, the death that I lament, that I would have given my own life to avert, was one of such a painful nature, so sudden, so unlooked for, by the dear thoughtless being, who cared not for his soul, scarcely knew that he possessed one, that I can feel little hope in his case. Struck down in a moment in the vigour of manhood; of all the wasted years of a misspent life, he could not redeem one hour from time, to prepare for eternity. It is terrible, heart-crushing, but it is God's will, and what am I that I should dare to murmur at a just decree!"
"But did you ever warn him of his danger?" asked Dorothy.
"I have nothing to reproach myself with on that head. After my own conversion, I besought him with tears and prayers, with all the eloquence which conviction can give, to turn from the errors of his ways. He laughed at my enthusiasm, and called me a madman and a fool, refused to listen to my earnest appeals, and finally shunned my company. I loved him too dearly to be baffled thus. I wrote constantly to him, and laid my own heart bare, in the hope of winning his, but he refused to answer my letters, and at length returned them to me unopened. I had no other resource left, but to pray for him. But my prayers have returned into my own bosom, and my brother went down to his grave, and gave no sign. He lived two days after his accident, but was never conscious for a moment."
"It may be better with him than you suppose," suggested Dorothy. "Though unconscious to you, his soul may have been vividly awake to its spiritual danger; and petitions for mercy which he could not utter in the hearing of man may have been heard and answered in heaven."
"Thank you for that thought, dear girl, it is suggestive of some comfort. The thief on the cross might have been as regardless of his duty to God and his fellow men, as my poor brother; yet, his petition received a gracious hearing and a blessed promise. We cannot judge others as the great Searcher of hearts judges them. Many a criminal in our estimation may shine hereafter a gem in His crown."
There was a pause for some minutes, and Gerard Fitzmorris continued pacing the study with rapid steps, so wrapt up in his own thoughts, that he had almost forgotten the figure in black that sat so pale and still in his easy chair.
"Come and take a turn with me in the open air," he said, suddenly returning to her side. "The atmosphere of this place is close and stifling, the evening excessively warm. I can always think and speak more freely beneath the canopy of heaven."
Dorothy had not removed her bonnet and shawl, and they strolled out upon the heath. During their ramble, he made her recount all that had happened since Gilbert's return, and was shocked at the manner in which she had been treated.
"There is only one way to punish such people," he said, "to return good for evil. It is not only the best, but the easiest way, and the peace and satisfaction it confers, repays the injury a thousand fold. I have tried it in many instances, and have experienced its happy results."
"It sounds excellent in theory," said Dorothy, "but I find it a hard doctrine to reduce to practice."
"Nay, Dorothy, it is the theory which is difficult; for our sinful human nature with its perverted reason, rebels against it, the other course being more in unison with its vindictive feelings, and the spirit of retaliation by which we are more or less governed. If, however, we make the slightest effort on the side of mercy and forgiveness, the Spirit of God working with our spirit, makes it not only easy, but brings with it the utmost peace and satisfaction, verifying even the old pagan maxim, 'that virtue is its own reward.' Our blessed Lord would never have promulgated a doctrine which could not be reduced to practice, and which he carried fully out in his own person."
"But then, He was so different from us."
"Not while He partook of our nature. He was subjected to temptations as great, or even greater than those that He taught us by precept and example to shun. If there had been no conflict with evil, there would have been no victory. Remember He fought the battle for us alone and single handed, without praying for the legion of angels to assist Him in the awful struggle. We have not only His example to help us, but the powerful aid He promised to all who would take up the cross and follow Him. Our very weakness constitutes our strength when upheld by His saving arm."
After a walk of some minutes in silence, he said in a more lively manner. "Dorothy, you must forgive this cruel woman, and only indulge the God-like revenge of doing her good for the evil she has done to you. Take her conduct as a life trial, and bear it with the courage of a Christian."
"I will endeavour to do so," returned Dorothy, "and when you are near to advise and strengthen me, I do not feel it so hard to restrain these resentful feelings; but, directly, I am left to myself, I grow fierce and angry, and wish that my persecutors may meet with the punishment they deserve."
"Dorothy!" said Mr. Fitzmorris, stopping and looking earnestly into her face. "Will you answer me truly, a simple and straightforward question?" His companion looked up with a wondering smile. "Would you like to remain always with me, Dorothy? Will you become my bosom friend—my faithful counsellor—my beloved wife, bound to me by that blessed and holy tie, 'the love of Christ.' One with me in heart and purpose, in the bond of faith and love and charity with all mankind. Answer me, Dorothy, fully and freely, with the beautiful candour which makes you so charming in my eyes. Can you love me, as well as you loved Gilbert Rushmere?"
"Yes better than anything on earth," whispered Dorothy, without venturing to lift her eyes, or wipe away the tears she was unable to restrain, and sinking into the arms which were held out to receive her. "I never knew what it was to love truly, devotedly and with my whole heart until now."
"We are one, my own Dorothy, my beloved, in heart and soul, and henceforth I trust for ever," and he sealed the contract of their engagement with a kiss as pure from the dross of passion, as the young mother bestows upon her firstborn child.
"Oh, Mr. Fitzmorris, I am not worthy of your love;" sobbed Dorothy. "A highly connected man like you should seek out a fitter mate than me."
"You should have thought of that before you gave your sanction to my proposal, little wife." And the old beautiful smile lighted up his face. "It is too late to draw back now. If I did not love you better than the world and its foolish conventionalisms, I should not have asked you to be mine. I value the gift that God has bestowed upon me, too highly, to give it up for the prejudices that belong to wealth and caste. You have made me very happy, Dorothy darling, as little Henry calls you. Poor little fellow, I am afraid that he will feel very jealous of his big rival."
And Dorothy was happy, too happy to waste her joy in words. As she leaned upon the strong arm of her noble protector, she realized the delightful consciousness, that she was no longer alone in the world.
The lovers lingered upon the heath talking over their future prospects, until the moon rose and shed her melancholy loveliness on ocean and heath.
They were not to marry until after Lord Wilton's return, and Gerard thought it advisable, that both should write to him and make him acquainted with their engagement. He did not wish it to be kept secret. He thought that Dorothy's claim upon his protection would prevent unpleasant scandal, silence the foolish tattling of her former acquaintance, and conduce to her own peace and comfort. His character stood too high for his conduct to be attributed to base and dishonourable motives; and as his affianced wife, Dorothy would rise in the estimation of her worldly neighbours.
They found Mrs. Martin waiting tea for them, and wondering what had detained them so long from the social meal. The shy, conscious look on Dorothy's face revealed the mystery, which Gerard wholly cleared up, when he pleasantly introduced her to his old friends as his future wife.
"Lady Dorothy Fitzmorris," said the curate, rubbing his hands with great glee, "I wish you much joy."
"The title is rather premature," returned Gerard, gravely, "though it may fall to her only too soon. You know, Henry, that Gallio careth for none of these things. For the last three years I have been looking for a wife that would answer Solomon's description, 'A woman whose price is above rubies,' and I am fully persuaded that I have found my ideal in the dear girl before you. It little matters to me whether she be a peasant or a princess. The highest of all titles is comprised in that of a Christian."
"Mr. Fitzmorris, I honour you for your choice!" cried Mrs. Martin, "and rejoice at the good fortune of our young friend."
Dorothy, overwhelmed with the unexpected turn that her affairs had taken, sat with downcast eyes and averted head, in order to conceal her quivering lips and fast-coming tears; yet she was happy, far too happy to speak, and would gladly have left the table, to escape observation and commune with her own heart in the solitude of her chamber.
Gerard saw her confusion, and in order to restore her self-possession, called out gaily, "I hope, Mrs. Martin, you have reserved for us a good cup of tea, and have not been guilty of destroying Henry's nerves by giving him the strength of the pot. I assure you, I feel viciously hungry after a long day's fast, and am not yet sufficiently spiritualized to live wholly upon love."
Strangely enough, this speech, which was meant to raise Dorothy's spirits, recalled forcibly to her memory the conversation between herself and Gilbert Rushmere at the stile, when she had rallied him for saying, in such passionate terms, "That if she refused to marry him, he would die of love." And now she was the betrothed of another, with a heart overflowing with joy and gratitude that she could never be Gilbert's wife, while he had united his destiny with a woman whom he could neither love nor honour, and was more likely to die the victim of avarice than love. "How inscrutable," she thought, "are the ways of Providence. How little human wisdom could predict such a result."
Dorothy was no longer banished from the sacred study. Gerard insisted on her taking possession of the great leathern chair, while he composed those heart-searching sermons that were making his name known as an eloquent preacher.
When absorbed in his own meditations, the pale, fair-haired priest seemed scarcely conscious of her presence; but if, by chance, he encountered her look of devotional tenderness, the wonderful eyes responded with an earnest gaze of love and peace—their owner sometimes observing, with a sigh, "Dorothy, darling, I am too happy." Then Dorothy would creep to his side, or sit down on the stool at his feet, just to feel the pressure of his large white hand on her ebon ringlets, and hear him say, in his rich, deep voice, "God bless you, my dear girl."
And when the writing was laid aside for the day, and she accompanied him in his visits to the poor and suffering, she enjoyed with unspeakable delight the walk over the heath, and the share he allotted to her in his ministrations of charity.
Poor old Francis died during Mr. Fitzmorris' absence, but he still continued his visits to Hog Lane, to read and pray with its half-heathen inhabitants. He had made slow progress in the conversion of old Mrs. Bell, but her grandson, Ben, had become a reformed character, and was a monitor in Storby Sunday-school. Speaking of the grandmother, he said:
"It was difficult to make any religious impression upon minds whose feelings and faculties were deadened and rendered indifferent by age and infirmity. If they do not seek God in youth or middle life, they seldom draw near to Him after reaching the appointed age of man."
Returning from one of these parochial visits, Dorothy reminded her lover of a promise he had once made to her, of telling her some of the events of his former life, and the circumstances that had led to his conversion, and induced him to become a minister of the Gospel.
"I am glad you have asked me, Dorothy, I feel quite in a communicative mood this evening. You have made me acquainted with every page in your short eventful history; it is not fair that you should be kept in ignorance of mine, uninteresting as it may appear."
They sat down upon a sloping bank, crowned with a screen of tall furze bushes, among whose honeyed blossoms, bees and butterflies were holding a carnival. The sun had not yet set, and his slanting rays gleaming over the wide heath, obscured every object with their golden radiance.
"It is a shame to turn our backs upon that glorious sunshine," said Dorothy, "but my eyes are dazzled and blinded by excess of light."
"What a type of the beautiful but fallacious visions of youth," said Gerard, "when we behold everything through a false medium, coloured by fancy to suit our own taste. Truth lies at the bottom of the picture, like the ragged landscape that the golden sunset hides from our view. While attracted by the brilliancy of his beams and building castles among the clouds, we forget the barren soil and the bare rocks beneath our feet. Mine is no tale of romance, gentle wife, though I have been a great dreamer in my day, but one of sad reality; and that I may avoid trespassing too much upon your patience, I will endeavour to be as brief as possible."