"Did his poor father see him?"

"I think not. The whole thing was so sudden and unexpected, that Rushmere was not conscious of it until after it was all over."

"Try and keep him from knowing who the a.s.sa.s.sin was. Tell him that it was the act of a madman in the crowd."

"Dorothy, we must not do evil that good may come of it, or attempt to cover crime by uttering an untruth. Leave the sinner to his G.o.d, and speak of him no more."

"And the people, Gerard. You must not disappoint them of their dinner.

Tell them from me, that I shall soon be well. That I wish them all to be happy. Ah, me!" and she closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "This is a dismal ending to a day that dawned so pleasantly. That unhappy man. May G.o.d have mercy upon him, and bring him to repentance." She spoke no more, and to the infinite relief of her husband and Mrs. Martin, who had const.i.tuted herself as nurse, soon dropped into a profound sleep.

This sad affair threw a great damp upon the joy of the people. Their gay shouts were converted into sorrowful e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns. Though the roasted ox was eaten--the barrels of strong ale drank--and the children did ample justice to Mrs. Brand's excellent plum-pudding, they dispersed sadly and sorrowfully, when the meal was ended.

Lady Dorothy awoke in a high fever, and for several days was considered in imminent danger. This was not caused by the wound, the ball having penetrated only an inch beneath the skin, but from the severe shock her nervous system had sustained from witnessing a scene so terrible.

She still fancied herself in the carriage, surrounded by the gaping crowd, and encountered the frenzied gaze of the maniac, as he aimed at her the deadly weapon. Unconscious of his last desperate act, she would cling to her husband, and cry out in a tone of agonized earnestness.

"He is mad! Don't kill him. Let him escape. I loved him once. I cannot see him die."

As a natural antidote to this state of mental excitement, Gerard thought it best, during a brief interval of composure, to reveal to her the facts of the case, which calmed at once her agitation, by causing her to shed tears. He suffered her to weep for some time without disturbing her with any remark.

He had more than once experienced that the truth, however painful, is more endurable, and fraught with less danger to the human frame, than a state of suspense; that the natural elasticity of the mind, when the worst is known, and nothing remains to hope or fear, reconciles us to a blow that we cannot avert, and which becomes irrevocable as fate.

After lying quiet for some time, Dorothy opened her large black eyes, and, looking earnestly in her husband's face, said in a low voice, "Gerard, is there any harm in praying for the dead?"

"I should think not, darling. Nature herself prompts such prayers. Cold must that heart be who can witness the death of a parent or friend, or even of an enemy, without breathing an inward prayer for the salvation of his soul. This impulse is almost instinctive in the human heart, and few, I believe, could be found, except the hardened sinner, who have not uttered such prayers, when bending over the loved and lost. At the same time, sweet wife, I must add, that these prayers, however pious and natural, cannot do any good to the dead, or change the sentence of a just G.o.d. But they are of service to the living, in filling the soul with a gentle charity, and bringing it into solemn communion with Him who has extracted the sting from death, and risen victorious from the grave."

"Ah," sighed Dorothy, "how thankful we ought to be that the future is mercifully hidden from us. Who could endure all the trials of life, if they could see them in advance? Our moments of gladness are often more nearly allied to sorrow than those of grief. The terrible reverse is so hard to bear." Gerard fondly kissed the pale, earnest speaker, and, kneeling beside her bed, uttered a fervent prayer of thanksgiving that it had pleased G.o.d to restore his dear young wife to reason.

In a few weeks she was able to sit up, and receive the visits of sympathizing friends.

Little now remains for us to record of the eventful history of this truly n.o.ble woman.

The fortune she inherited from her grandmother was entirely devoted to charitable purposes. She caused to be erected at s...o...b.. an hospital for the sick, and a house of refuge for infirm and ship-wrecked mariners.

She built a comfortable almshouse for aged and dest.i.tute widows, and a school and asylum for orphan children, whom she made her especial care.

Her chief delight was in doing good, and contributing to the happiness of others, in which charitable occupation she enjoyed the hearty co-operation of a man, well worthy of being the husband and bosom friend of such an excellent wife.

Lady Dorothy became the mother of four n.o.ble promising boys, and one lovely girl named after her mother, Alice. The Earl, and her foster-father, who shared her home, lived to see her sons grow up to men, and to mingle their tears with hers, over the grave of her only daughter, who died in her innocent childhood.

The portrait of the soldier of the Covenant had been removed from Heath Farm, and placed among the pictures of the Earl's ancestors; and old Rushmere would rub his hands while contemplating it, and declare "that old Sir Lawrence was now in his proper place."

Dorothy had named her second son Lawrence Rushmere, after her foster-father, and the boy was the especial pet and darling of the venerable patriarch.

"Edward, and Gerard, and Thomas might be fine lads," he said, "but they were none of them, so clever and handsome as his own Larry."

The Earl erected a beautiful monument over the grave of his unfortunate countess, and resisted all Dorothy's earnest entreaties to cut down the melancholy yew that kept the sunbeams from visiting her mother's grave.

"The spot is holy ground, my Dorothy. The mournful tree, a fit emblem for love like ours, which was cradled in sorrow, and whose constancy survives the grave. There, too, I hope to sleep in peace, by the side of the beloved."

THE END.