The shades of night were closing fast around her, when Dorothy rose from her cold resting place, and returned home to perform her usual domestic labours. Her love was dead, but she had gained courage to bury it decently and sadly, and without uttering one wail, that might break upon the ears of the unsympathizing world. Her heart was the grave, into which she could retire at any moment to weep--the funeral lamp was ever burning--the sepulchre decked with flowers--and peace brooded there--a dove with folded wings.

CHAPTER III.

WHAT DOROTHY'S NEIGHBOURS SAID OF GILBERT'S DESERTION.

The news of Gilbert Rushmere's good fortune soon spread through the parish. The farmer told it to his men in the field, the men told it, as in duty bound, to their wives, and then it flew like wildfire from house to house.

Miss Watling invited her neighbours to tea, to talk it over, and have her say upon the subject.

In her front parlour, or tea room, as she called it, were a.s.sembled several old friends.

The first in place and dignity, Mrs. Barford, senior, to whom had been a.s.signed the large easy chair, with its commodious fringed cushion, and well padded elbows. For the special use of her feet a footstool, covered with a piece of coa.r.s.e worsted work, which had been the pride of Miss Watling's school days.

The old lady looked very dignified in her best black silk gown and cap of real French lace, and seemed to consider herself a person of no small importance.

Her daughter-in-law, who held a very subordinate position in the estimation of the public, sat near the window, as red, as plump, as much overdressed, and as vulgar looking as ever.

A rosy, curly-headed, blue-eyed boy was lounging over his mother's knees, pulling at her smart cap-ribbons, and beating all the stiffness out of her gay muslin dress, by pounding it with his head. He was a beautiful child, and seemed to have it all his own way. Mrs. Sly and her daughter, Sarah Ann, a coa.r.s.e black-browed la.s.s of eighteen, and Mrs. Martha Lane, who kept the small shop, and sold tapes, needles, and pins, and other small wares in the village, made up the party.

Neither Mrs. Rushmere, nor her adopted daughter, Dorothy Chance, had been included in the invitation.

Miss Watling looked round the room with a gracious smile, to ascertain that her guests were all comfortably seated, before she introduced the great topic, the discussion of which had formed the chief inducement in bringing them together.

"Well, ladies, I suppose you have heard the news? That Miss Dolly n.o.body won't be Mrs. Gilbert Rushmere after all."

"I never thought she wu'd," said Mrs. Joe, looking up from the child's sock she was knitting. "Gilbert know'd what he was about, when he run'd away. It was just to get quit o' her."

"I always said so from the first," returned Miss Watling, "but you all had such ideas of the girl, that I could get no one to believe me."

"I don't think Gilbert has behaved well," said Mrs. Barford, cautiously.

"Dorothy Chance is a good girl, and a pretty girl."

"Pretty," sneered Miss Watling, interrupting her friend very unceremoniously, "I could never see any beauty in the wench, with her round black eyes and skin as dark as a gipsy's. I don't believe Gilbert Rushmere cared a snap of his fingers for her."

"I know, Nancy, that he was very fond of her," suggested Mrs. Barford, "and you know it too; for I have been told that he made you his confidant, and begged you not to press upon him the offer you made him, of taking your farm on shares."

This was said very quietly, but it was a home-thrust. Miss Watling coloured up to the eyes.

"I guess who was your informant, Mrs. Barford. Gilbert left that very night, so you could not get it from him. The story is very worthy of credit, is it not, coming from such a source?"

"It is not true, then?" and the old lady put down her knitting, and looked Miss Watling full in the face.

"I did not say that," said Miss Watling, sharply. "It is partly true and partly false. He did refuse my offer, and gave me his reasons for so doing."

"What were they?" asked several eager voices.

"He wished to leave the country to get rid of his entanglement with Dorothy. 'He could not marry,' he said, 'a girl so much beneath him.'"

"And you advised him to go, Nancy?"

"Yes, I did. I thought that it was the best thing he could do. And you see that I was right."

Mrs. Barford took up her work and smiled.

"It was hard upon the poor old people for you to give him such counsel--still harder upon the poor girl. It nearly killed them, and went nigh to break Dorothy's heart. I cannot yet believe that he has cast her off. Did any of you hear Gilbert's letter?"

"Not read, but we heard the contents, ma'am," said little Mrs. Lane.

"Farmer Rushmere came into my shop yesterday for an ounce of tobaccy--he's a great smoker.

"'Mrs. Lane,' says he, 'my son Gilbert has been promoted for his gallant conduct. He's an officer now in His Majesty's service, and is going to marry a rich young lady in Lunnon, with a portion of six thousand pounds.' These were the very words he said. 'Lauk, sir,' says I, 'what will become of poor Dorothy?'"

"And what did he say?" again demanded the eager voices.

"'She must get over her disappointment the best way she can,' says he.

'The girl is no worse off than she wor; she will still have a home at our house.'"

"Very kind of him, I'm sure," said Miss Watling, "and she owes them so much."

"I think the debt is the other way," suggested Mrs. Barford. "Dorothy has repaid them a thousandfold. She has been a little fortune to them, and, besides her clothes, she receives no payment for her services. As to Gilbert marrying a lady of fortune, it may be true, it may not; these stories are always exaggerated. You all know that a great heap of chaff only contains a third of wheat."

"I have no doubt it's true," cried Letty. "I allers thought Gilly Rushmere a right handsome feller."

"I don't agree with you there, Mrs. Joseph," returned Miss Watling, to whom the grapes had become doubly sour, "he was too red and white to please my taste. His nose was turned up, and his hair decidedly carrotty."

The other women looked down in their laps and t.i.ttered; the same thought was uppermost in all their minds.

Mrs. Joe, who had no delicacy, and hated Nancy Watling, burst into a rude laugh, and gave utterance to her's with the greatest bluntness.

"All the parish said that you were over head and ears in love with Gilbert, Nancy; that you made him an offer of marriage yourself; and that he refused you point blank, for Dorothy Chance. Remember, I don't say it's true, but for all that I heard it, and that you have hated both of them like pison ever since."

Miss Watling rose indignantly from her seat; her stiff black silk gown rustling ominously; her skinny bony hand extended towards the insolent speaker in defiance, her small bugle eyes eating her up with scorn. For a moment her rage was too great for words; her wrath almost choked her.

The ferocious glare fell harmlessly upon little plump Letty, who continued to stuff her boy with rich plum cake. She meant to anger Miss Watling, and secretly enjoyed her discomfiture.

"You insignificant, vulgar thing," at length hissed out the offended lady. "How dare you insinuate such vile stories against my character?

Who and what are you, that you open your mouth against me? Every one knows the situation you were in, when Mr. Joseph married you, which he did to make an honest woman of you, and by so doing disgraced himself.

If I did not respect him and his mother, I would order you out of my house, I would, I would, I would!"

"Don't choke yourself, Nancy, and look so ugly at me. See how you frighten the child. Don't cry, Sammy, eat your cake. That's a good boy,"

patting his curly head. "Miss Watling won't bite you, child," and Letty faced the now clenched hand and scowling brow of the injured lady with an undaunted stare, and a most provoking smile on her red pouting lips.

"Ignorant creature," gasped Miss Watling, sinking into her chair; "but what can be expected of a dairy-maid? Mrs. Joe Barford, you are beneath contempt."

"Spit out your spite, Nancy. Hard words won't kill a body; I'm used to them. But what's the use of all this fuss? I just told you what folks said of you, and you can't take that, though you speak so hard of others. People will talk--you talk--I talk, and one's just as bad as t'other. In course you culdn't help Gilbert wishing to marry a young maid, instead of an old one. That wor do fault o'yourn; we'd all be young and handsum, if we could."

This allusion to her age and personal defects was the unkindest cut of all. Miss Watling put down her cup of tea, leant back in her chair, and cried hysterically.