"Mr. Gerard Fitzmorris, a first cousin of my lord's."

"I knew his father," said Rushmere, "when he was raising a regiment here, to fight the rebels in Ireland. He was a bad man. A drunkard an' a gambler, and got killed in a duel. His wife ran away with another officer. He followed them to France, challenged her seducer, an' got the worst of it. His death was no loss to the world, or to his family. So, so, this is his son. Poor stuff to make a man o' G.o.d out on' one would think."

"Children do not always inherit their parents' vices," suggested Mrs.

Rushmere.

"It would be bad for the world if they did. But somehow I ha' found that they often bear a strong family likeness," muttered the farmer.

"Well, girl, an' when do the new parson commence his work?"

"He will read himself in next Sunday morning. Mr. Martin says that he is an excellent preacher, and a real Christian. Not one made so by education, and from having been born and brought up in a Christian land, but from conversion, and an earnest desire to be of use in the church."

"Humph," said Rushmere, "this is the way they generally cant about every new parson. In a little while, they find out that these converted sinners are no better nor the rest on us, only they think themselves more G.o.dly. And you girl, don't you go to pull long faces and cant like them. It is not by words but by deeds, that a man will be justified at the last."

"Both would prove insufficient, father," suggested Dorothy, "without the grace of G.o.d. If men could save themselves, our blessed Lord's death was a useless sacrifice."

"Oh in course, you know better nor me, Dolly. If you go on at this rate, you'll be able to teach parson his duty."

Dorothy laughed, and seeing him once more in a good humour again, put in her plea, of helping Mrs. Martin prepare for her guest. "If not a good act, it would be a neighbourly one," she said, "I will be back in time father, to get your supper."

"But don't let these pious folk spoil you, la.s.s. Dorothy Chance will soon be too great a lady, wi' her musical nonsense and book larning, to step across father Rushmere's threshold."

Dolly ran back and kissed the old man.

"What's that for, Doll?" and the yeoman laughed and opened his eyes wide.

"For calling yourself my father. You have not spoken of me as your child for so long. I thought you meant to disown me altogether."

Dorothy looked so sweetly and spoke so pleasantly, that the old man's anger vanished in her smile.

"Go thy ways, Dolly, thou art a good wench. I love thee well, and thou know'st it. If I be crusty, it's no new thing to thee, who know'st my nature far better, nor I do mysel'. Like old Pincher, my bark is a great deal worse nor my bite."

CHAPTER VI.

DOROTHY DOES NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH THE VICAR AT FIRST SIGHT.

Dorothy was not long in retracing her steps to the parsonage. She found Mrs. Martin up to her eyes in business, taking up carpets, shifting furniture, and giving the house a thorough cleaning from top to bottom.

The curate, who was generally very helpless on such occasions, and decidedly in everybody's way during these domestic ordeals, was busy stowing away books and papers out of the reach of mops and brooms.

"Now, Dorothy, which do you think will be the best room to give Mr.

Fitzmorris for his study? The one over the parlour that looks to the south, and has such a nice view of Lord Wilton's plantations, or the east chamber, which has such a fine prospect of the sea? Men are always fond of the sea."

"It looks bleak and cold over that long dreary stretch of flat salt marshes," said Dorothy, examining the landscape from both windows with a critical eye. "I think he will prefer the sunny room that looks to the south. I know I should."

"We can but change it, Dorothy, if it should not be to his taste. But I have thought of another difficulty, which cannot be so easily remedied.

What of the piano?" and she turned an anxious eye on Dorothy. "How will he be able to write his sermons with the eternal thumping of the children on the instrument? It will be enough to drive a nervous man from the house."

"How, indeed?" said Dorothy. "We must move the piano."

"But where?"

"To the Farm."

"By no means. You provoking little puss! It is the only handsome piece of furniture in the house."

"We can place it in the dining-room, and only practice when he is absent on parish business. If he is such a good, kind man as he is represented, he will do all in his power to accommodate the females of the household."

"We will try that plan. But what about the noise of the children?"

"The children are very quiet, and always do as they are bid. I am sure no reasonable person can find fault with them."

The women chatted and worked on merrily, and before the church bell tolled six, the south room was arranged entirely to their own satisfaction. The windows were draped in snowy white, the cas.e.m.e.nts shone clear as the air, and tables, and chairs, and book-stands had received an extra polish from the indefatigable hands of Dorothy, and she commenced the arrangement of two large boxes of books that had arrived by the London carrier, in the cases which had been forwarded for their reception.

This last labour of love she performed very slowly, stopping to peep into every volume as she dusted it. The Latin and Greek authors were quickly disposed of, and the huge tomes of divinity scarcely attracted any notice, but some fine works on botany and natural history chained her attention. The plates were so beautiful that, in spite of sundry implied remonstrances from Mrs. Martin, who was fidgetty lest the vicar should arrive before all was completed, she could not resist the temptation of looking at them, and even called in Harry and little Johnnie to share her delight.

"I like the lions best," said little Johnnie. "I don't care for that big p.u.s.s.ie-cat with the green eyes and the long tail. It looks as if it could scratch," and he put his fat fingers vigorously down upon the Bengal tiger.

"Yes, and eat you afterwards," said Harry. "I don't like lions and tigers. I love these beautiful flowers, they make me think of the angels, they look so pure and lovely, and darling Dorothy loves them too," and he leaned his head back upon Dorothy's white arm, and looked earnestly up into her smiling face. Dorothy pressed the little curly head fondly against her breast.

"Harry, we will get Mr. Fitzmorris to tell us all about the pretty flowers; I don't know our favourites with these hard names. Flowers are among G.o.d's best gifts to man. They have wonderful secrets of their own, and, besides the innocent pleasure they give to every true heart, possess in themselves a remedy for almost every disease. That reminds me that I have yet to fill the china vase for the table. Come and help me, Harry, for your tastes and mine always agree."

The two happy children, for Dorothy was still a child in heart, ran down into the garden, hand in hand, and soon selected a splendid bouquet of sweet spring blossoms, which Dorothy grouped with artistic taste, and left in the centre of the table. A beautiful object, which put the finishing touch to the exquisitely neat adornments of the small apartment. She did not wait for the arrival of its future occupant, but took her way home through the lonely lane that wound round the heath to the Farm.

"I wonder what sort of a man he is?" said Dorothy, thinking of the new vicar, "whether he be old or young, plain or good-looking. If he resembles the Earl, I cannot fail to like him. Lord Wilton, though getting up in years, is the most interesting and the handsomest man I have ever seen."

Her speculations were abruptly dispelled, by a large Newfoundland dog brushing past her, and she looked up and blushed to find herself face to face with a strange gentleman, whose clerical dress left no doubts in her mind as to his ident.i.ty.

The person she was thinking about was before her.

He was a man of middle stature, not stout, but with a strong muscular frame and the unmistakable bearing of a gentleman, who stopping directly in her path, asked in a very unromantic and practical manner, "if he was in the right road that led to the parsonage?"

Dorothy answered with some confusion, as if she suspected that the stranger had read her thoughts.

"That the next turn in the lane would bring him in sight of the house."

With a brief "Thank you," Mr. Fitzmorris raised his hat, and pa.s.sed on.

Dorothy was dreadfully disappointed. Was this the man for whom she had arranged that beautiful vase of flowers? Judging from appearances, he would be more likely to throw them out of the window as a nuisance, than see anything to admire in them. What a different person he was to the picture she had drawn of him in her mind! He did not resemble the Earl in the least. He was not handsome. His features were strongly marked and even stern for his age, for he could not have counted more than thirty years, if indeed he were as old.

His complexion was coldly fair, the blue tints predominating over the red, which gave a general pallor to his face not at all relieved by the flaxen hair that curled in short ma.s.ses round his ample forehead. His eyebrows of the same colour, were strongly defined and rather bushy, beneath which flashed out glances of keen intelligence, from a pair of large eyes, vividly blue--they were remarkable eyes, which seemed to look you through at a glance, and which once seen, could not easily be forgotten.

He took no particular notice of Dorothy, and scarcely waited for her answer to his abrupt inquiry.

"I don't think I shall like him at all," said Dorothy, her natural vanity rather piqued by his nonchalance. "He looks clever, but proud and stern. A poor subst.i.tute, I fear, for our dear Henry Martin, with his large heart and gentle benevolence. Mr. Fitzmorris looks as if he could fight with other weapons than the sword of the spirit," and Dorothy closed the farm gate very emphatically behind her.