"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.