The World Before Them Volume I Part 13

"What if she should see her apparition?" She stopped--irresolute what to do. Her own shadow in the moonlight made her start and scream. She tried to run past the spot, which lay in deep shadow to the right, but her feet seemed chained to the earth, and her eyes, as if under a terrible fascination, were fixed upon the clump of furze that crowned the little ridge above, that looked so black and shadowy when all around was bright as day.

While she stood, pale with horror, her eyes wide open, her quivering lips apart, the white teeth chattering together, and her limbs relaxed and trembling, a low wailing sound crept through the purple heath, the furze bushes s.h.i.+vered as if instinct with life, and the dog crawled to her feet moaning piteously.

Dorothy tried to rouse herself, to break, by speaking to the dog, the horrible spell in which her senses were bound up, but not a sound could she utter. In desperation she turned her head from the haunted spot.

She saw, what to her frenzied eye appeared a slight figure, shrouded in mist, through which the moon-beams flickered and played slowly, flitting along her path.

Again that wild unearthly sound rustled among the bushes, and the dog broke out into a long dismal howl. A cry, which heard, even at noon day, seldom fails to blanch the manliest cheek. Dorothy heard it not--with a sobbing moan she sank to the ground insensible to fear, or aught else beneath the wide canopy of heaven.

Pincher nestled close to his fainting mistress, hiding his s.h.a.ggy head upon her breast.

Whatever the dog suffered through the lonely watches of the night, Dorothy was happily unconscious of his terrors and her own.

She was so near to her old home, that had her senses been roused from that death-like stupor, she might have heard the clock in the great hall strike twelve. At that beautiful season of the year, day brightens in the east before three o'clock, and the rosy tints in the west seldom leave the horizon.

The sun had just risen over the sea, when Lawrence Rushmere went to water his horses at the brook in the sandy lane that ran in front of the house, sheltered beneath the steep ascent of the heath. At the gate which led from the court-yard, he encountered Pincher, whom he had not seen since Dorothy left.

"What, the old doorg," he cried, patting him with infinite satisfaction.

"The old doorg come home. I wonder what kept thee away so long. How is it with the poor wench?"

After the first salutation was over between master and dog, Pincher tried, in his dog fas.h.i.+on, to make him understand, by a thousand odd movements, that he wanted his special attention. He ran from the gate up the steep path leading to the heath, barking furiously, then returned to the farmer, and pulled him by the coat, as if he wished him to follow, and went through the same pantomime again and again.

"What can the doorg want wi' me," said Rushmere, at last struck by his odd behaviour, "I never saw him act in that fas.h.i.+on afore. Some of the cattle must have strayed upon the heath, and, mayhap, have fallen into a hole. Pincher was allers as wise as a Christian. I'll follow un, an' see what has happened."

He fastened his horses to the gate, and took the path that led to the heath. Pincher ran barking on before, evidently delighted with his success, and led his master to the spot where Dorothy lay, pale and drenched with the night-dews, upon the ground.

The sight of the poor girl, so thin and altered since he last saw her in the glow of life and health, brought vividly to his recollection the dead mother, and filled his mind with shame and remorse, for the manner in which she had been driven from her home.

His large frame trembled, and tears sprang into his eyes.

"She is not dead but sleeping," he said, as he remarked, with no small satisfaction, the regular heaving of her breast. "But what a place to choose for a bed, so near the spot where her mother died. Dorothy!" he cried, in a loud voice, "awake. It is I, the father who calls thee."

The girl unclosed her eyes, sat up, and gazed upon him with a vague unmeaning stare.

"Dorothy, la.s.s, don't you know the father?"

He sat down beside her, and took her cold little hand in his. "What brought you here, child? Thou hast lost thy senses sure, to be sleeping upon the cold damp ground. It is enough to kill thee."

The well-known voice, still more the kind words, recalled Dorothy to consciousness, and banished from her mind the horrors of the night.

"Father, dear father!" she whispered in a voice scarcely audible, as she nestled her head upon his broad shoulder, "how kind of you to come to find me."

"Nay, it was not I but the doorg you have to thank, Dolly, it was he that brought me here, or you might have lain on the wet heath till the day of judgment. But why did you not come to the house--were you afraid that I should turn you away from my door?"

"I was on my way home, father, but something dreadful happened to me last night. Oh, so dreadful, that only to think of it makes my flesh creep." She clung to the old man, and s.h.i.+vered in every limb.

"Speak out, la.s.s. What was it? What ails thee? Did any one insult thee?"

"No, no, it was not flesh and blood." Lowering her voice, and casting a timid glance around, she whispered in his ear, as if afraid of speaking it out. "I saw last night the ghost of my mother."

"Lord a mercy!" cried the farmer, springing to his feet, with the elasticity of a young man, and gazing upon Dorothy with a wild horror gleaming in his eyes. "Were you in your right mind. What did a' look like?"

"A shadow--a thin vapoury form, through which I saw the moon s.h.i.+ning."

"But how didst thou know the mother? Did it speak?"

Dolly shook her head.

"A low wailing, sobbing cry pa.s.sed along the ground, and shook the bushes It was like nothing human--so sad and wild. Pincher crept to my feet and howled back an answer."

"Aye, doorgs be wise--they see what we can't see--and what then, la.s.s?"

"A mortal fear came over me. I tried to run but fell. I remember nothing after that, until you woke me up just now."

"It wor strange," mused the old man. "I never did wholly believe in ghosts, but you are not the girl to tell a lie. You might have been mistaken--but I would bet ten to one on the doorg. And how do you feel, Dolly, arter lying so long in the dews?"

"Stiff and cold," said Dorothy, her teeth chattering in her head, and a deeper pallor settling on her face. "I shall soon get over that, when I am once more at home."

"And what brought thee out so late last night, child. Worn't thee afeard of pa.s.sing over the lonesome heath?"

"Father, I had been told a sad story--had been vexed by a cruel and false accusation against my character; and I could not remain where I was, and put up with their insults, or rest until I heard the truth of what they told me from your own lips." She stopped for a minute to gather courage to ask the dreadful question. "Has Gilbert enlisted for a soldier and gone to the wars?"

The old man burst into tears, and sobbed like a child.

Dorothy needed no stronger confirmation of her fears. She saw that the report was only too true, and her heart bled for the poor old man.

"Father," she cried, affectionately pressing his hand between her own, "is it _too late_ to buy him off?"

"It's na' use thinking o' that, Dorothy, we did not get his letter until the s.h.i.+p had sailed, that took him away ow'r seas wi' the rest. He's in Spain long afore this."

"Then he did write."

"Yea, a short bit o' a letter."

"Did he give any excuse for going?"

"Aye, the same old tale over agen. He had given up the girl he loved to please me, and he had listed for a soger to please himsel', and I alone wor to blame. The king wanted men, and he would go and fight for him and his country; his life were no better worth than another's, and he could not forget Dorothy while he remained at home."

Rushmere began to sob afresh. Dorothy's eager eyes were fixed imploringly on his face. She did not like to ask "Is that all? Is there no message, no word of comfort for me?" The longing desire to hear the whole of the letter, might be read in every feature of her expressive face.

"Ah, Dolly," cried the old man, wringing his hands as he spoke, "had I been kinder to thee, la.s.s, I should not have lost my son--my only son--the last man who bears my name on the earth, for aught I know to the contrary. It was only just of the Almighty to punish me for my pride. But 'tis almost more than I have strength to bear."

"All we can do now, father, is to bear the burthen with patience, and hope in G.o.d's mercy for the future. It is of no use turning despondingly to the past."

"Aye, girl, but conscience will turn our looks backward, whether we like it or no, an' will tell us of acts an' cruel words we would fain forget, an' that ow'r an' ow'r agen."

"Did Gilbert send any word or message for me, father?" said Dorothy, growing desperate with excitement.

"Did a'," returned Rushmere, looking blankly in Dorothy's agitated face, as if his own thoughts were far away beyond the sea, with his absent son.