"Gilbert," said Mrs. Rushmere, sorrowfully, "it is Dorothy who is going to leave us."

"Where is she going?"

"To see service."

"Good G.o.d! Mother, are you all mad? What will you do without her? How can you suffer her to go?"

"I cannot prevent it, Gilbert. It is your father's doing. Ask him."

Gilbert turned wrathfully, and faced the old man. They glared upon each other like two angry wild beasts.

"So, this is your doing, sir. You thrust an unprotected young girl out of your house, because she happens to be dear to me! Now, mark my words, for I mean to abide by what I say. If Dorothy is driven from her home on my account, I leave it also--leave it, never to return while you live.

Don't cry, mother. Don't shake your head, Dorothy. I am in earnest--so help me G.o.d!"

"What do you say to that, Lawrence?" cried Mrs. Rushmere. "Do end this disgraceful scene and listen to reason."

"I say," and Rushmere spoke in a voice of thunder, "that he is an undutiful son, a disgrace to his family; that he may go as soon as he likes; the sooner the better; that I never wish to set my eyes upon him again. That's what I say, dame!"

He shook his fist in Gilbert's face, and his brow grew dark with violent pa.s.sion.

Dorothy glided round to the back of the chair. She was afraid of his falling down in a fit. She now fronted her angry lover, and she silently pointed down to his agitated father, and made imploring gesture for him to leave the room.

Gilbert read her meaning in her terrified eyes. He was determined not to go, but to tell his father a bit more of his mind.

"Speak to him, dear mother; he will heed what you say."

Mrs. Rushmere shook her head sorrowfully.

"It is of no use attempting to reason with angry men. It only makes matters worse. To contradict an obstinate man in a rage, is to add fuel to the fire. Go to your bed, Gilbert, your father will forget all about it to-morrow."

"I don't care whether he does or not. My mind is made up. If he is indifferent to my happiness, and unjust to the woman I love, I will no longer work like a slave for him. From this hour I am my own master."

He turned and held out his hands to Dorothy.

"Come, Dorothy, darling, come with me. Let us seek our fortunes in the world together. Here we have no longer a home. See if this strong arm cannot win one for you."

"I have been the cause of all the trouble, Gilbert. Be reconciled to your father, and let me go my way in peace."

"How! Do you reject my offer, Dorothy?" He spoke in tones of suppressed anger. "You surely will not refuse to become my wife!"

"Yes--under existing circ.u.mstances. I will never bring sorrow under the roof that has sheltered me," said Dorothy, firmly, without daring to raise her eyes to her lover's face.

"Look at me, Dorothy. Look at me straight in the eyes, and then tell me that you mean what you say."

Dorothy raised her eyes to his, swimming in tears, her lips quivered, but she replied, in a voice more decided than before.

"Gilbert Rushmere, I cannot be your wife. It is cruel to ask me, in the face of your father's anger."

"It is enough." He folded his arms and smiled disdainfully. "I shall not ask you again. I have sacrificed everything for you--and this is my reward."

He went up to Mr. Rushmere, and held out his hand. He was desperately angry with Dorothy.

"You hear her, father. She has refused to be my wife."

"She's a sensible girl," said the farmer.

"Perhaps she is," and Gilbert laughed bitterly. "May she never have cause to repent of her decision. A different course, however, might have made us happy."

"You have agreed to give him up then, Dorothy?" said Rushmere, eagerly eyeing the trembling girl.

Dorothy did not speak. Words rose to her lips, but to have given them utterance would have choked her. Gilbert answered in her stead.

"Yes, sir. She has yielded to your wishes--and we have nothing more to say to each other. Are you satisfied?"

"Quite, quite, my son," and the old man grasped his hand warmly. A slight sound, like a suppressed sob, broke the stillness of the great hall. Gilbert looked round. Dorothy stood firm and erect behind his father's chair, her right hand grasping the frame, her large eyes wide open and fixed on vacancy, her features rigid, her face as white as that of a stone statue.

His heart smote him. He knew the purity of her motives, he saw how she suffered, but his pride and vanity were alike wounded;--he would not yield an inch--he would punish her for the decided manner in which she had rejected his offer. He did not doubt her love, but in that evil mood he had ceased to love her himself.

"Gilbert, I am glad you acknowledge the folly of your conduct," said the farmer, breaking the painful silence. "When you don't see the girl, you will soon forget her, take my word for it. Out of sight out of mind.

There's much truth in those old proverbs."

Gilbert again glanced up at Dorothy, to see how this speech affected her.

She was no longer in the room.

A few minutes later, the tramp of a horse's hoofs sounded on the pavement of the court-yard. Dorothy had sought refuge in her own chamber from a scene she was no longer able to endure. She had sunk down beside the bed, her head was buried in the pillow; she was sobbing wildly. That sound broke painfully upon her ear--it was the climax of her agony. She started to her feet. She sprang to the window, and flung wide the cas.e.m.e.nt, stretching out her arms with a despairing gesture, as she caught a glimpse of Gilbert's retreating figure.

"Gilly, Gilly!" she cried, "come back and speak to me. Tell me that we do not part in anger. That you will forgive your poor broken-hearted Dolly!"

The gate swung back on its hinges--the figure had vanished into the night.

"He is gone--he does not hear me," sobbed the distracted girl. "I shall never, never see him again."

She threw herself on the floor, and prayed that G.o.d would end her life--that she might die in the old house and never see the light of another day. This was her first great life-trial. She had tried to bear up against it, to submit with patience to her bitter grief, but her fort.i.tude had all deserted her now, and she wept with such an abandonment of sorrow, as if her whole being would dissolve in tears.

This could not last long. After awhile she sat upon the floor, and tried to comprehend the misery that had overwhelmed her; to think more calmly of her situation, and the forlorn prospects of the morrow; to hope, that her fears respecting Gilbert were unfounded; that he had ridden out on pleasure or business; perhaps, to get over his pa.s.sion by violent exercise. She had known him to try that remedy before. It was foolish of her to look only at the dark side of things.

"He could not leave her in that way if he loved her as she loved him.

No, no, it was cruel of her to imagine such a thing. It was not to be wondered at that he was vexed with her for refusing him, before his parents, as she had done. But how could she help it, without breaking her promise to his father. Surely he must remember that, and exonerate her for her seeming indifference."

And then, her mind wandered away to her mother; and she wondered why she should stand between her and her marriage with Gilbert.

She had often heard the farmer tell the story--and a sad story it was, and never failed to bring the tears into her eyes; but she had never connected the tale with disgrace or infamy, or thought it possible that she could be blamed for the poverty, or even guilt, of parents she had never known.

How could any one prove that her mother was a bad woman, or that she was base born? Was not that mother's wedding ring, at that moment, pressing her finger? She, Dorothy, might be the child of sorrow, but who should dare to say that she was the offspring of shame?

The poor girl's heart began to warm towards this mysterious unknown mother; all her womanly instincts were aroused to defend her memory; and she felt indignant that Mr. Rushmere, who had acted so n.o.bly by her, and her orphan child, should be the first to cast a reproach upon her.