"'Yes, but she did not see me.'

"'It is as well,' she returned coldly. 'Alice is no longer a simple-hearted child. The false position in which she has been placed has made her proud and vain. It would have been better for her to have remained with her cross, disagreeable grandmother, than to have been tolerated by the high born and wealthy.'

"I felt angry with my mother for speaking thus of Alice. I thought it harsh and unkind.

"The glimpse I had caught of her face had rekindled the old fire in my heart. She was a beautiful, elegant, fair woman. The very beau ideal of my long dream of love, and should yet be my wife, if it were possible for me to make her so.

"With some trepidation, I asked my mother what position she filled at the Hall, and whose child it was she held in her arms?

"'I cannot exactly answer your question,' she said. 'She is neither regarded as a servant, nor yet as one of the family. She is generally in attendance upon my lady, and takes care of her little grandson.'

"'To which of her sons does the child belong?'

"'To the youngest, Captain Edward, who is now at the Hall. His young wife died in child-bed, and people talk largely of his admiration for his mother's pretty _protegee_.'

"I sprung from my chair. 'Mother, mother!' I cried. 'Do you mean to drive me mad? This low village tattle is unworthy of you.'

"'I fear that there is some truth in these reports,' said my mother quietly. 'Alice used to speak to me when we met, and make affectionate inquiries about her old playfellow; but for the last three months, she pa.s.ses me without recognition.'

"'That looks strange. But however appearances may be against her, I cannot and I will not believe anything to her discredit even from your lips.'

"I seized my hat, and walked up the road at an excited pace, and never slackened my speed, till I reached a stile that led through the park.

"I don't know what took me in that direction. I was unconscious of the fact, until I found myself there. It was the last spot in the world in my then mood, to which I should have bent my steps. But once there, the place seemed congenial to my feelings.

"I crossed the stile and plunged into a wilderness of shade, glad to find myself in gloom and solitude.

"After a while, the dark grove widened, the sunlight pierced the branches and danced upon the ground, and leaving trees and shadows behind, I emerged into an open lawn-like s.p.a.ce as smooth and green, as velvet turf and moss could make it, and reclining under the one huge oak, that towered up like a giant in the centre, I saw her whom I least expected to see, and who at that moment occupied all my thoughts.

"The recognition was mutual. But when I called her by name and hurried forward to meet her, she started up like a frightened doe and fled.

"I did not follow; my mind was distracted with doubt. A jealous agony filled my soul. I staggered to the spot she had occupied, threw myself beneath the tree, and burying my face in my hands wept long and bitterly.

"In this abandonment of grief and love, a voice, a man's voice, whispered near me:

"'Alice, my dear Alice.'

"I raised my head and looked the speaker in the face. I did not know him personally then. I know him now. It was Lord Wilton. Captain Edward Fitzmorris, in those days. His faced kindled to a deep red. He muttered something about 'people intruding upon private property,' and walked hastily away, and I returned to my mother bearing in my heart the bitter conviction of the truth of her remarks.

"The next day I left S----.

"It was not long before I got a letter from my mother, which informed me that Alice had been dismissed from the Hall in disgrace, and had returned to her grandmother, who, finding that she was likely to become a mother, and that she obstinately refused to name the father of her child had driven her from the door, and the unfortunate girl had wandered away, no one knew whither.

"My mother had tried to discover her retreat, but could obtain no trace of her. It was the general report of the town that she had walked into the sea when the tide was coming in, and suffered the waves to flow over her.

"Her fate still remains a mystery.

"Suspicion pointed to Captain Fitzmorris as her probable seducer. For my own part, I never had any doubts upon the subject. He left England, as attache to a foreign emba.s.sy, a few months before her dismissal from the Hall, and never visited this part of the country until lately.

"Sir Thomas, his elder brother, was killed in battle; Earl Wilton, his uncle, died shortly after, and Captain Edward inherited, through his mother, his t.i.tle and immense wealth."

"But, my dear Henry, I do not see what connection all this has with Dorothy Chance," said Mrs. Martin.

"Well, wife, if you do not, I do, for I believe that Dorothy is the daughter of the Earl by Alice Knight. Her age agrees exactly with what would have been the age of that child. The description of the mother bears a strong resemblance to that unfortunate creature, and then her striking likeness to the Earl and his mother is something more than a coincidence. But you have not heard my story to the end.

"Mrs. Knight died some ten years ago. On her death-bed, she confessed to me that she had poisoned Maria in that bowl of gruel; that she believed that the poor vagrant found dead on the heath was Maria's child, for on the night of the storm she had seen her apparition, in a dream, and awoke in a terrible state of mental agony, in the firm conviction that her cruel conduct had been the cause of her grandchild's death.

"The next day she went with a crowd of neighbours to farmer Rushmere's to see the corpse of the poor woman; which though unrecognized by them, she was certain, after making due allowance for her dest.i.tute condition, was the body of Alice Knight. As a sort of atonement, for her crimes and barbarous cruelty to this unfortunate creature, she left the large fortune she had acc.u.mulated to the child of this vagrant, if it could be satisfactorily proved that it was the daughter of Alice Knight. If after the lapse of thirty years it remained unclaimed, it was to form a fund for the relief of mariners shipwrecked upon this coast."

"Now, Henry, this makes your story as clear to me as daylight," said Mrs. Martin, "can't you prove Dorothy's ident.i.ty and claim the fortune for her?"

"Ah, my dear wife, there lies the difficulty. Who is there to prove it?

It all rests on circ.u.mstantial evidence, which, though it can, and has brought many a neck to the gallows, is very insufficient when it relates to claiming fortunes.

"I don't think that it would conduce to Dorothy's happiness, the possession of a large fortune. The girl is much happier as she is.

While the money applied to the relief of the dest.i.tute seamen would do a great deal of good.

"I had always been haunted by a horrible suspicion," continued the curate, "that Mrs. Knight had murdered Alice. Her confession cleared up that doubt for ever. For though her harsh treatment, I have every reason to think, overwhelmed the poor girl in difficulties that led to her untimely death, it is a satisfaction to know that she did not actually perish by her hand."

"A poor satisfaction, Henry. Did the cruel old woman die penitent?"

"Her end was without hope. An agony of remorse. A presentiment of certain punishment, and no recognition of the Saviour. Rosina, it was an awful death. G.o.d is a G.o.d of mercy, but if his word is true it was impossible for that soul to be saved. A full conviction of guilt without repentance is the saddest state which a human creature can experience, and such was hers. If we wait patiently, time will bring to light the hidden things of darkness. The crimes committed by her in secret were revealed amid the shadows of the dark valley.

"I cannot repeat the ravings of that unhappy woman. They were too shocking to retain in one's memory; only to think about them, seemed like blasphemy. I never recall that night, when I watched and prayed beside her death-bed, without a shudder, and whispering to myself, But for G.o.d's grace I might have been like her. Oh, save me righteous Jesus from the death of the wicked. It is only thou that makest one sinner to differ from another. Without thee, we can indeed do nothing."

CHAPTER V.

DOROTHY BECOMES RECONCILED TO THE LOSS OF HER FIRST LOVE.

A fortnight had scarcely elapsed, before Gilbert wrote again to his parents. The letter contained a hurried farewell, penned a few hours before his regiment embarked for Spain. There was no message for Dorothy, her name was not mentioned, and the omission was evidently intentional.

How little Gilbert Rushmere suspected the share that Dorothy had had in his advancement, that but for her, he might have remained a private in the ---- regiment during the term of his military service. So short sighted are we poor mortals--that the very means adopted by Lord Wilton to secure Dorothy's union with the man she loved, by exciting his ambition and avarice, had brought about their separation, and that, too, more effectually than Mr. Rushmere's unreasonable objections to their marriage.

A few days after Gilbert left England, Dorothy accidentally encountered Lord Wilton on the heath.

She was thinking of Gilbert, but not with the sad tearful tenderness that his desertion had hitherto called forth. His marked neglect had caused a reaction. She felt indignant at his conduct. His silence was not only cruel, it was insulting, and implied that he no longer deemed her worthy of a thought.

In order to maintain her self-respect, she could view it in no other light, and would endeavour to meet it with the indifference and contempt it deserved.

Hate him she could not, nor did she wish to do so; but her love for him had subsided into a very tranquil stream; no longer leaping over every obstacle that impeded its course, with the headlong impetuosity of youthful pa.s.sion.

She could now speak of Gilbert to his parents without tears choking her voice, and think of him calmly when alone. The wound he had inflicted on her heart, however painful to bear in its first agony, was surely and slowly healing itself.

Nature is a great mental and bodily physician, if people would only let her perform her mysterious operations alone; injudicious interference causes all the danger, and often destroys the reason and life of the sufferer.