This was cruel and cowardly to say the least of it, but she, Dorothy, had pitied him so much, had mingled her tears with his, and actually wept in his arms.
Dorothy was frightened at having allowed her sympathy to carry her so far. She had acted foolishly; she saw, when it was too late, the imprudence of such conduct. If any one had passed them at the time, Miss Watling, for instance, what a story she would have had to tell. Her character would have been lost for ever. Was not this fancied illustration of her indiscretion more conclusive than any argument that Mr. Fitzmorris had used?
She felt miserably uncomfortable and ill at ease. In vain she repeated St. Paul's words, "To the pure, all things are pure." There was another text that seemed to answer that, "Avoid all appearance of evil." And would not malicious people raise an evil report about her, if they saw her frequently walking and talking with a man so far above her in rank as Lord Wilton?
Dorothy had boundless faith in the purity of his motives, in the sincerity of his friendship for her. But would the gossips of Hadstone see him with her eyes, or judge him with her heart? Alas, no. Dorothy shuddered at the danger which threatened her. But how could she avoid it. Could she tell Lord Wilton that she would lose her character if she was seen speaking to him? Would it not be base ingratitude to her noble benefactor? No. She would let things take their course. She was certain that his intentions were good and honourable, that it would all come right at last. She wished that she had never seen Mr. Fitzmorris. He had made her unhappy, and she had yet to learn that he was a better man than the Earl.
CHAPTER VII.
MR. FITZMORRIS.
The next morning the parish church was thronged to overflowing, to hear Mr. Fitzmorris go through the ceremony of reading himself into the office of vicar. This he did in an earnest and impressive manner, as one deeply conscious of the responsible situation he had been called to fill. He read the articles of the church in a clear, calm natural voice, without the least tinge of affectation or display.
In the sermon that followed, he addressed his congregation, with the affectionate earnestness of a brother anxious to guide them into the paths of righteousness and peace. "He'll do. That he will," said old Rushmere to Joe Barford, as they left the church together. "He talks like a sensible man and a Christian. I shan't begrudge paying the small tythes to the like o' him."