This could not last long. After awhile she sat upon the floor, and tried to comprehend the misery that had overwhelmed her; to think more calmly of her situation, and the forlorn prospects of the morrow; to hope, that her fears respecting Gilbert were unfounded; that he had ridden out on pleasure or business; perhaps, to get over his passion by violent exercise. She had known him to try that remedy before. It was foolish of her to look only at the dark side of things.
"He could not leave her in that way if he loved her as she loved him. No, no, it was cruel of her to imagine such a thing. It was not to be wondered at that he was vexed with her for refusing him, before his parents, as she had done. But how could she help it, without breaking her promise to his father. Surely he must remember that, and exonerate her for her seeming indifference."
And then, her mind wandered away to her mother; and she wondered why she should stand between her and her marriage with Gilbert.
She had often heard the farmer tell the story—and a sad story it was, and never failed to bring the tears into her eyes; but she had never connected the tale with disgrace or infamy, or thought it possible that she could be blamed for the poverty, or even guilt, of parents she had never known.
How could any one prove that her mother was a bad woman, or that she was base born? Was not that mother's wedding ring, at that moment, pressing her finger? She, Dorothy, might be the child of sorrow, but who should dare to say that she was the offspring of shame?
The poor girl's heart began to warm towards this mysterious unknown mother; all her womanly instincts were aroused to defend her memory; and she felt indignant that Mr. Rushmere, who had acted so nobly by her, and her orphan child, should be the first to cast a reproach upon her.
In spite of her simple reasoning, Dorothy keenly felt that the dubious circumstances in which she had been found, must give a colouring to her future life; and would not prove a letter of recommendation in helping her on in the world.
While she was pondering these things in her heart, there came a gentle tap at the door, and Mrs. Rushmere, in her night-cap and bed-gown entered.
"What, Dorothy, darling, not abed yet. Alack, I cannot sleep a wink myself, so as sorrow loves sympathy, I came to have a chat with you. Do you know that Gilbert is gone? He took his own young horse, and rode off at full speed. What can he be after at this time o'night? Still, child, I am right glad that he is gone, and given father time to get over his anger. When he comes back, which he will early in the morning, the old man will have forgotten it all—for he dearly loves his son, though he be cross with him, and with us all, now and then."