Several weeks pa.s.sed away, happily enough for Dorothy and her lover, who every day became better acquainted with each other, and more deeply sensible of the congeniality of character, which though different in many trifling points, yet harmonized so well together. While they advanced hand in hand, along that narrow path, whose steep ascent towards perfection no human being ever trod unrewarded or in vain, a very different line of conduct had been adopted by Gilbert Rushmere and his wife.

Private quarrels had increased to public brawls, insulting language, and mutual recriminations, and the house was kept in such a miserable state, that few of the old friends and a.s.sociates of the family ventured across the threshold. Lawrence Rushmere had cause enough to repent of his interference between Dorothy Chance and his son, and found, to his cost, that little peace or comfort remained for him in his old age.

The farm was going to ruin; Gilbert was never home until late at night, when he generally was conducted to the house by some neighbouring toper, as fond of losing his senses in the bowl, but in a lesser degree of brutal intoxication.

Mrs. Gilbert raved, and her mother reviled and scorned; and the wretched old man, if he attempted to make his voice heard in the domestic uproar, was silenced by Mrs. Gilbert telling him to hold his tongue, that she wanted no advice from such a superannuated dotard.

The report of these doings at Heath Farm were not long in reaching the ears of the Vicar, and gave great pain to Dorothy. What was to be done to rescue Gilbert from ruin? that was the great question.

Mr. Fitzmorris tried to obtain an interview with him, and for that purpose called several times at the house, but always received the same answer from Martha Wood, "that young Mr. Rushmere was not at home."

"Where was he to be found?"

"She did not know. Perhaps at Jonathan Sly's, at the 'Plough and Harrow,' may be at s...o...b.., where he was looking for a man, to whom he had sold a team of horses."

So to s...o...b.. the Vicar went, and inquired of every likely and unlikely place in the town for Lieutenant Rushmere. At one low tavern the landlord told him that he had been there with a horse jockey, that they had some liquor, and went out again, he believed, to bet in the c.o.c.k-pit.

"Where may that be? I did not know that you had such an abomination in the town," said Mr. Fitzmorris.

"Well, it's not zactly in the town, sir. There's a little low hedge ale house, by the road side, as you come in by the back way. A hole, kept by old Striker, that was a smuggler, and made to suffer some years agone.

He keeps the 'Game c.o.c.k.' It is a bad place, only resorted to by thieves and swindlers; and a dreadful pity that the Leaftenant ha' got in with such a set. He'll soon bring the old man to a gaol, and hisself is going to the devil as fast as he can."

Mr. Fitzmorris perceived the great urgency of getting Gilbert out of the clutches of these men, and after thinking over the matter for some minutes, he proposed to the landlord to go with him to the "Game c.o.c.k,"

and tell young Rushmere that a friend wanted to speak to him on a matter of great importance.

"Na, na, I would not venture my nose in amongst them wild chaps for a crown piece. You see, sir, I'm but a little man of a quiet turn. I never could fight in my life, an' it's only farm labourers that ever frequents my tap, an' they have but little money to spend, and are too heavy and loompish to quarrel, and kick up a bobbery. They only laughs and grins, and jokes one with the tother, whiles they drinks a gla.s.s of beer or yeats a mouthful of bread an' cheese, on their way down with their teams to the wharf, where they ships loads of corn, an' then return with coals. These poor creturs are just harmless as lambs. The fellows that Rushmere has got in with are a set of noisy dare devils, who'll knock a man down as soon as look at him. I think yer Reverence had better not go near them."

"My duty lies in such places, and while in the performance of it, I feel afraid of no man. Can you give me directions as to the situation of the c.o.c.k-pit, without the necessity of my going into the house?"

"Just beside the house there runs a high brick wall. Open a low door about the middle of it, and you'll find yourself in a shed, with a set of rude fellows swarming round it, looking down upon the pit with the c.o.c.ks. It's exciting work, sir, that fighting with the bonnie birds,"

continued the little man, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. "But 'tis reckoned a vulgar, low pastime now. In my young days, lauk a mercy, sir, it was played by high and low, and fortins have been won an' lost on a game c.o.c.k. Did your Reverence ever see a match?"

"I have seen, my friend, more than is good in my short life, when I foolishly thought more of the amus.e.m.e.nts of this world, than of the endless happiness and glory of the next."

"Ah, sir, a man can't allers be thinking of Heaven and reading the Bible, and saying prayers all the time. I'm sure if I were your Reverence I should find it very dull work."

Mr. Fitzmorris smiled good-naturedly.

"There are many ways, my friend, of serving G.o.d besides reading the Bible and praying. When we endeavour to follow our Blessed Lord's example, in trying to do good to our fellow-creatures, we award Him the best praise of which our nature is capable; and the man who loves Him, and does all for His sake, without claiming any merit for himself, enjoys in acts of love and charity the most exquisite pleasure."

Laying his hand emphatically on the little publican's shoulders, he continued, "Seek the Lord earnestly, diligently, and with your whole heart, and serve Him faithfully, and you will know the truth of what I say, and experience such joy and inward satisfaction as you never dreamed of before. The Heaven of a true Christian commences on earth.

For where G.o.d is, there is Heaven. If His Spirit dwells in you, old things pa.s.s away, and all things become new."

Before he had finished the sentence, a farm-servant came up to the little tavern in hot haste.

"Hullo, Barnaby!" he cried, "can yer tell 'un aught o' young Measter Rushmere? The bully-bailiffs are in the house--old measter raging like a wild bull--mistress crying an' wringing her hands--the old 'un scolding and fussing; the blackguard of a servant-girl laughing in her sleeve, to hear what she calls the fun--an' the old man threatening to blow the fellows' brains out with the rusty old blunderbuss that has na'

been fired off since King George came to the crown. If Measter Gilbert does na' come whome quick, there'll be the devil to pay an' no pitch hot."

"It seems hot enough, Joe, by your account already," returned Master Barnaby. "This will be a good excuse for your Reverence to get him away from that sink o' iniquity."

"Let us lose no time," said Mr. Fitzmorris, turning to the man who was standing gaping at him with open mouth and eyes. "My good fellow, can you show me the way to the 'Game c.o.c.k?'"

"Why, yees, sir. It's on our way whome, supposing yer goes round the back o' the Heath. Yer sartainly won't find Measter Gilbert there?"

"He is there." And Gerard swung his strong oak stick in the air, and followed his conductor at a rapid pace down a narrow footpath that led across the marshes to Hadstone.

It was a lonely, desolate tract, intersected with wide ditches, full of stagnant water, generally crossed by a single plank.

The sluggish river crept its lazy length to the sea, between high banks of mud, and when the tide was out, its dimensions contracted to a tiny stream, which flowed through a wide bed composed of the same alluvial deposit that filled the air for miles with a rank, fishy smell. A footpath ran along the top of the mud-bank, and Mr. Fitzmorris and his guide followed this till they came to a low stone bridge with one arch, of very ancient structure, which crossed the main-road to London, where the heath sank down to the level of the salt flats. A few paces from the bridge, and below the heath, a low dwelling, composed of wattle and daub, bore the ostentatious sign of a large, fiery, red game c.o.c.k, in the act of crowing, as if to give notice to the tired pedestrian that he could get refreshments for man and beast, at the house kept by Jonas Striker.

"Well, Measter Fitzmorris, this be the place. An' yer wud know't by the uproar that's going on in the shed, without the help o' the bird that's allers crowing, but never do crow, outside the door. But don't yer hear the crowing an' clapping o' wings o' the bully birds within, an' the shouts o' the men that ha' won on the conqueror!"

Mr. Fitzmorris did not answer. He pushed open the door of which Barnaby had spoken, and entering the yard with a firm, decided step, walked up to the drunken and noisy crowd.

Some drew back as he advanced, as if ashamed of being caught by the parson in such a disreputable place, while others turned and faced him with an audacious stare. Gilbert Rushmere, who was leaning on the rail, cried out in a sneering tone:

"You are too late for the main, parson, but just in time to perform the funeral service over the black c.o.c.k. There he lies--his last battle ended. As brave a knight as ever wore steel spurs. I'll be chief mourner, for I ventured upon him my last guinea."

Without taking the least notice of this speech, or the ribald crew by whom he was surrounded, Gerard went up to Gilbert, and drew him forcibly apart.

"Rushmere, I have bad news for you. Come home with me. The bailiffs are in the house, and everything in confusion at Heath Farm. You know what the feelings of the proud, independent old man must be in such circ.u.mstances. Leave this disgusting place and your vicious companions, and I will see what I can do to save your family from disgrace."

Gilbert looked in Gerard's face with a half-stupefied stare of blank incredulity.

"Now, parson, you are only funning me--this is one of your pious dodges to get me out of this. I know I'm a fool to be here--but having once pa.s.sed the Rubicon, I don't mean to go back."

"What I tell you is perfectly true. Here is your man-servant, ask him.

Surely, surely, Mr. Rushmere, you have enough of manhood left in you not to suffer your wife and poor old father to bear the weight of such a calamity alone?"

"As to father, let him take it. He deserves it all. But for him, you would not be in my shoes, rejoicing that the woman who ought to have been my wife will shortly be yours. You might be contented, I think, without following me like my shadow, to triumph over me."

"Gilbert Rushmere," said Mr. Fitzmorris, very gravely, "I never saw Dorothy until after you were the husband of another. Your desertion of her, when you knew how much she loved you, was no deed of your father's, but your own voluntary act, for he never knew of your marriage until a few days before you came down to Heath Farm. And let me tell you, that any man who could desert such a n.o.ble woman as Dorothy Chance for the sake of a few thousand pounds, was most unworthy to be her husband. But she has nothing to do with the matter now in hand. It is profanation to breathe her name in such an a.s.semblage as this. Do you mean to come home with me, or not?"

"I won't go home in your company. I have nothing to say against you. I believe you to be an honourable man and a gentleman, but I hate you for supplanting me in the affections of the only woman I ever loved. The very sight of you makes me wish to break the sixth commandment."

"Why act the part of the dog in the manger? You cannot marry Dorothy yourself. Why entertain such uncharitable feelings towards me, because I have taste enough to prize a jewel that you cast from you. Come, Rushmere, let better feelings prevail, dismiss this unreasonable jealousy, and listen to the advice of one who sincerely wishes to be your friend. Can you tell me the amount of this execution? If it is within my power, I will try and settle it, for Dorothy's sake."

"You'll be a--fool for your pains if you do," and he laughed scornfully.

"It is the first, but it will not be the last. I want no man, especially you of all men, to ruin himself for me. Every thing has gone wrong with me since I married that woman. If she would have put her shoulder to the wheel, and worked for me, I would have forgiven her the folly and wickedness of deceiving me. But she does nothing but run up bills, and make me miserable. She's not a bad looking woman, and I might have learned to love her in time, but there's no chance of that now. I'm not sorry for this business, for I hope it will be the means of my getting rid of her. Go home, I won't; they may fight it out the best way they can." And turning suddenly on his heel, he disappeared among the crowd. Full of grief at his want of success, Mr. Fitzmorris took the road that led to Heath Farm.

Here to his grief and indignation, he was informed by Martha Wood that the old man had been taken off to prison for debt, and the ladies were shut up in their own room, and could not receive visitors. Tired with a long fruitless walk, and feeling sad at heart, he determined to visit Lawrence Rushmere early the next morning, and, if possible, to pay the amount of his debt.

Anxious to save Dorothy from useless distress, he did not inform her of the cause that had kept him away so long. She only remarked, as he kissed her cheek, "My dear Gerard looks tired and paler than usual."

"Oh, Dolly," he replied. "It is a sad world; one is never allowed to feel happy in it long. If it were always the paradise that you have made it for the last few weeks, I should never like to leave it. All things, darling, are for the best. The purest pleasures are born in the lap of sorrow, as the brightest sunshine succeeds the darkest storm."

Directly after breakfast he ordered his horse and gig, and telling Mrs.

Martin that he could not be home before night, drove over to the town of ----, in which the gaol was situated.