When once in the sanctum sanctorum, into which no one ever intruded but Mrs. Martin, and that only once-a-week, to dust the furniture and arrange his books and papers, the vicar lighted his candles, and bidding Dorothy take a seat in the big leather arm-chair, he went to the table and read Lord Wilton's letter.
To Dorothy's great surprise, he made no comment on its contents.
"You wish me to take charge of this packet?" he asked.
"If you will be troubled with it. But what do you think of the letter, Mr. Fitzmorris?"
"A great deal, Dorothy, but the contents are too sacred to be lightly talked about. Have you any idea of the relation in which this man stands to you, my young friend?"
"I scarcely dare guess," and Dorothy, bowed her head on her hands and burst into tears.
"That he is your father there can be no doubt."
"Oh, sir, how can I love him as a father, if I be the child of sin and dishonour?"
"Still, Dorothy, he is your father," said Gerard, solemnly taking the hand that trembled in his own, "the author of your being; as such, however erring, he has a right to claim from you the love and duty of a child. That he truly loves you, and is anxious to repair, as far as now lies in his power, the injury he has inflicted upon you and your poor mother, is touchingly evident. My dear little cousin, (what a thrill of joy shot through Dorothy's heart as he called her so,) it is not for us, who are all sinners in the sight of a holy God, lightly to condemn another. No one knows how they would themselves act when placed in situations of strong temptation. The best of us are so much the creatures of circumstances, that we ought to pity rather than pronounce harsh judgment against the fallen.
"Take this unhappy father to your heart, Dorothy, and cherish him there. You may be an instrument in the hands of God for the salvation of his soul."