"Don't bother me!" yawned Gilbert. "If there's anything worth hearing, can't you tell me without my having the trouble to read it."

"There--see for yourself," cries the other, flinging the paper at his head. "My eyes! but you lost a fine chance, if ever it was in your power to win it."

Gilbert mechanically picked up the paper, and went to a dresser under the only window in the room to find out what his companion meant.

The columns were filled with the termination of the famous suit that had p.r.o.nounced Dorothy Chance the legitimate daughter of Lord Wilton, and secured to her the acc.u.mulated wealth left by her grandmother, Mrs.

Knight.

Whether it was the liquor that had maddened him, the sense of his own degradation, or the full consciousness of all that he had lost, by his cruel desertion of Dorothy, the news contained in that paper rendered him furious. He raved and swore--cursing his own folly and his father's avarice, that had hindered him from being the fortunate possessor of all this wealth. For Dorothy herself he no longer cared. He had sunk too low in the mire of iniquity to love a pure and virtuous woman; but the idea of another possessing her, filled him with rage and envy, and he swore with a terrible oath that Dorothy Chance should never be the wife of Gerard Fitzmorris; that he would have his revenge or die in the attempt.

His vicious comrades laughed at him, and made fun of his awful imprecations, but the gloomy determination in his eyes proved that he at least was not in joke.

What a mercy it is that people are generally unconscious of the evils plotting against them, that the sorrows of the coming hour are hid beneath the folded wings of the future.

While her quondam lover was plotting all sorts of mischief against her, to disturb her peace, Dorothy had taken her first journey to London, in company with her father. Her presence was necessary to sign important papers, and to prepare a suitable outfit for her marriage, which was to take place the first of May.

A n.o.ble suite of apartments had been prepared at Heath Hall for the reception of the bride and bridegroom on their return to Hadstone, after their bridal tour, which, owing to Gerard's strict notions of the sacred obligations of his profession, and the little time that a faithful pastor can afford to devote to his own gratification, was to be of short duration,--embracing a brief visit to the Highlands of Scotland, and a glance at the English lakes on their homeward route.

To a young girl brought up in the seclusion of a very retired country life, who can catch but a faint echo from the great world to which she is an entire stranger, the metropolis, seen at a distance, through the dazzling medium of the imagination, is believed to be a wonderful place; a city full of enchantments, where beauty and wealth meet you at every turn, and cares and sorrows are forgotten in an endless round of dissipation and pleasure. The reality of those diversions and enjoyments soon makes them distasteful to a sensitive and reflective mind, who can discern the sharp thorns thickly studding the stem of the rose, and who will not sacrifice peace of mind and integrity to secure the fleeting flowers of popular applause.

Dorothy, whose tastes were all simple and natural, felt lonely and disappointed in the crowded streets of the great city. Their amus.e.m.e.nts and pursuits were so different to those to which she had been accustomed, that it required time and reflection to reconcile her to the change.

She cared very little for expensive jewels and magnificent attire, and did not feel at home in the splendid halls and saloons of the wealthy and high-born. When arrayed for the first time in a costume befitting her rank, to attend a great ball given by the beautiful d.u.c.h.ess of----, and led before the mirror to admire the charming image it reflected, the simple girl shocked her lady's maid--a very great lady indeed in her own estimation--by turning from the gla.s.s and bursting into tears.

Her romantic story had excited the greatest interest in the public mind.

Crowds collected round the Earl's town residence to catch a glimpse of his beautiful daughter when she took a drive in the carriage, and men and women vied with each other in extolling the charms of her person and the unaffected grace of her deportment. Songs were made and sung in her praise, and wherever she appeared she was forced to submit to the flatteries and adulations of a crowd of admirers.

This was all very painful to Dorothy; it oppressed her, restrained her natural freedom, and rendered her a silent pa.s.sive observer in the society in which she might have shone. She was not insensible to the admiration of the new friends, who had so graciously received her into their charmed circle, but she longed to get out of it, and find herself once more in the country.

She wrote daily to her lover an account of all she heard and saw, which helped to beguile the tedium of a separation. In answer to a paragraph in one of his letters, she said:--

"You are afraid, dear Gerard, that I may be induced to forget you, surrounded by so many admirers; that all this gaiety and ball-going may give me a taste for frivolous amus.e.m.e.nts, and spoil my heart. It cannot damage what it never touches--I hardly know I have a heart; it lies so still under this weight of jewels and brocade. It is only in the silence of my own chamber, when my thoughts flow back to you, that it awakes to life and happiness.

"Everything strikes me as hollow and false, in the life I am at present compelled to lead. People live for the world and its opinions, and not for each other, still less for G.o.d. They dare not be simple and natural, and love the truth for its own sake--the blessed truth that would set them free from all these conventional forms and ceremonies, that shackle the soul and deaden all its heavenward aspirations. You will laugh at me, Gerard, when I declare to you that I have experienced more real enjoyment in working among the new-mown hay, and inhaling its delicious perfume, when the skylark was warbling in the blue heaven above me, than I have ever known in these crowded palaces, following the dull routine of what my n.o.ble young friends term pleasure. You need not fear such gorgeous insipidities will ever wean me from the love of nature, or make me indifferent to the quiet happiness of a country life, the higher enjoyment of being useful and striving to benefit others."

On several occasions, when riding out with her father, Dorothy had been startled by observing a face in the crowd that bore a strong resemblance to Gilbert Rushmere, but haggard and degraded, regarding her with a fixed scowling stare of recognition, from which she shrunk with feelings of terror and disgust. Why did this person follow her whenever she appeared in public, glaring upon her with those wild bloodshot eyes, with unequivocal glances of hatred and ferocity.

It was impossible that it could be Gilbert, and yet the fear that the presence of this person never failed to inspire, convinced her, much as she repressed the ungenerous idea, that it was he, and no other. Once, when dismounting at her milliner's in Bond Street, she was so near to him, that they were almost face to face. He put his sole remaining hand hastily into the breast pocket of his coat, as if to deliver something to her, but was pushed back, and told to get out of the lady's way by the footman, and, with a glare of rage and disappointment, had shrunk back among the crowd.

This frightful apparition haunted her for several days, and disturbed her mind so much that she kept close in doors, pleading indisposition to avoid her usual drive.

CHAPTER XII.

IN CONCLUSION.

Her marriage, which took place a few days after this painful rencounter, banished all these vague fears and surmises, and made her the happy bride of the man she loved.

It was conducted in a very quiet manner, and, after partaking of the splendid _dejeuner_ prepared for the occasion, and receiving the congratulations of the n.o.ble guests who honoured it with their presence, she started with her husband in a private carriage for the north.

After a delightful tour of several weeks, she rejoined her father in London, received her bridal visits, and, full of hope and happiness, proceeded with him to take possession of the princely home that was to be her future residence.

Great were the preparations made by the good folks of Hadstone, to welcome their beloved pastor and his beautiful bride. The gardens and meadows had been rifled of their June blossoms to strew the path from the village to the park gates, where a triumphal arch of ever-greens crossed the road, from which gay silken banners floated forth upon the breeze, emblazoned with mottos of joyful welcome.

The road was lined with crowds of people in their holiday attire, to hail the approach of the bridal party, and when the _cortege_ came in sight, the air rang with deafening shouts and acclamations.

An elegant open carriage, drawn by four n.o.ble grey horses, contained the bridal party. The Earl and Lawrence Rushmere, whom they had taken up at Heath Farm, occupied the front seat. The old man had been provided with a dress suitable for the occasion, and his fine patriarchal face was lighted up with gratified pride and pleasure.

Lady Dorothy, dressed in a simple but elegant morning costume, was seated beside her husband in the body of the equipage, and received the congratulations of her rustic friends with smiles of undisguised pleasure. A charming incarnation she was of youth and beauty. Mr. and Mrs. Martin followed in a private carriage with the children.

If Gerard Fitzmorris was not a proud and happy man, his face belied him.

A public dinner was to be served in the park to the poor of the parish, and parents and children were dressed in their best attire, their smiling faces beaming with gladness.

The carriage drew up beneath the triumphal arch, and the Earl rose to thank the people for the hearty welcome they had given to him and his daughter.

He had scarcely raised his hat, and uttered the first sentence, when a tall haggard looking man, bare-headed and covered with dust, rushed from behind the arch to the door of the carriage, and fired a pistol with his left hand at the Lady Dorothy, who, uttering a faint cry, sank insensible into the arms of her husband.

All was now terror and confusion.

The Earl sprang from his seat to secure the a.s.sa.s.sin, amidst the groans and execrations of the excited mult.i.tude.

With a fiendish laugh the ruffian discharged the contents of another weapon into his own mouth, and fell a hideous corpse beneath the feet of the horses. He was instantly dragged out of sight by several men in the crowd, and the mangled remains conveyed to a neighbouring cottage.

The dreadful deed had been the work of a moment, and, pale and trembling with the sudden shock, the Earl grasped convulsively the door of the carriage. The sight of his daughter, her white dress stained with her blood, seemed to recall him to consciousness. "Is she dead?" he gasped.

"No, my lord," said Dr. Davy, who had been examining the nature of the injury she had received, and who now dismounted to a.s.sist the n.o.bleman into his carriage. "The wound is not a dangerous one. It was aimed at the lady's heart, but at the moment the ruffian fired, she providentially put up her arm to raise her veil, which has received the ball of the a.s.sa.s.sin. The sooner we can convey her home the better."

Gerard's handkerchief had formed a temporary bandage to stop the effusion of blood, and as he held his fair young wife in his arms his face was as pale and rigid as her own. "How quickly," he thought, "does sorrow tread in the footsteps of joy. How little of real happiness can be expected in a world on which rests the curse of sin, the shadows of the grave."

Dorothy did not recover from her fainting fit until after they reached the Hall, and she had been conveyed to bed. Then followed the painful operation of extracting the ball from her right arm, where it was lodged about four inches above the elbow, and dressing and bandaging the wound, which Dr. Davy a.s.sured the anxious father and husband, would only prove a temporary inconvenience of a few weeks at the farthest.

Dorothy bore the operation without a murmur, placing her left hand in that of her husband, and leaning her head upon his breast. When it was over she was gently laid back upon her pillow, and given a composing draught to induce sleep.

"Gerard," she whispered, "did you see that unhappy man?"

"No, my love."

"It was Gilbert Rushmere. Has he escaped?"

"From the punishment due to his crime? Yes."

"Thank G.o.d! I would not have him suffer death on my account. Oh, Gerard, if you had seen his eyes--the look he gave, when he fired. It was not Gilbert Rushmere but some demon in his shape."

"Hush, my precious wife. You must not talk and distress yourself. Your wound, though not dangerous, may be rendered so, by want of rest and excitement." But Dorothy was too much agitated to sleep.