"Oh, my God, I thank thee!" said Dorothy, raising her clasped hands. "Thou hast delivered me from a doom far worse than death!" Taking Gilbert's sole remaining hand, she pressed it warmly between her own. "How shall I thank you, dear brother, for saving your poor orphan sister from disgrace and ruin?"
"Remember me in your prayers, Dorothy. I can no longer pour out my heart to you, as in the old happy days, when we were all the world to each other; but there is no sin in asking you to pray for me, a disappointed and most unhappy man."
He left the room, and Dorothy's lips quivered, and tears again welled up in her eyes, as she caught a half smothered moan, that told more than words could do, the bitter anguish that was eating out his heart.
She found the old man moping on the stone bench in the court-yard, his head bowed upon his hands, his face completely hidden by the snow-white locks that fell over it in tangled confusion—the beautiful silky hair of which his wife had always been so proud, which she loved to brush over her fingers, before he went to church or market. Who was there to take pride in the handsome old man now? Gilbert had grown reserved and shy; there seemed little confidence or affection between the father and son. Dorothy's heart bled for the lonely old man, left so desolate and uncared for in his heavy affliction.
"Good-bye, dear father, don't fret yourself ill; I shall see you at church every Sunday, and we can have a nice walk together after service on the common, to talk over the good old times. You will be sure to come, won't you?"
"Yes, my darling, if only to see her grave. I know you can't bide here, Dorothy, that woman would be the death of us both. But if I wor sick or dying, would you come and nurse the old man who used you so ill?"
"Yes, that I would; if Mrs. Gilbert were to bar the door in my face, I would climb in at the window. But, cheer up, father, God is good, there may be many happy days in store for you yet. You must try and live for my sake."
She put the white locks back from the old man's ample forehead, and, kissing him tenderly, went her way without casting a backward glance on the old house.
Before we follow Dorothy to the pleasant home of her friend, Mrs. Martin, we will step into Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere's chamber, and hear what is passing there.
When, detected by her husband in her design to ruin Dorothy, she had borne the exposure of her cruel treachery with an air of insolent nonchalance, and left the room singing—a common artifice with low-bred people, who attempt to hide their malignity by an affectation of gaiety and perfect indifference. The snake hisses before he strikes his victim, perhaps to give him timely warning to make his escape. The human snake hisses to hide its disappointment, that it has shown its fangs in vain.