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  THE WORLD BEFORE THEM.

  A Novel.

  BY
  MRS. MOODIE,
  AUTHOR OF "ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH."


  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. II.


  LONDON:
  RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

  1868.




  LONDON:
  Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street.




THE WORLD BEFORE THEM.




CHAPTER I.

THE MARTINS.


The cottage, in which the Martins resided, was a quaint-looking
white-washed tenement, which opened into the burying-ground of the
small Gothic church, within whose walls the prayers of many generations
had been offered up. It stood in an isolated position, on the other side
of the heath, and was approached by the same deep sandy lane, which ran
in front of the farm, and round the base of the hill, commanding a fine
view of the sea.

A few old elms skirted the moss-covered stone-wall that surrounded the
churchyard, adding much picturesque beauty to the lonely spot, casting
their fantastic shadows in sunlight and moonlight upon the long rows of
nameless graves that clustered beneath them. These grassy tenements, so
green and quiet, looked the abodes of perfect peace, a fitting resting
place, after the turmoil of this sorrowful life, to the "rude
forefathers" of the little hamlet, which consisted of a few thatched mud
cottages, that clustered round the church, and formed a straggling
street,--the public-house in the centre, a building of more recent date,
being the most conspicuous dwelling in the place.

This was the evening resort of all the idlers in the neighbourhood; and
standing near the coast, and only two miles distant from a large
sea-port town, was much frequented by sailors and smugglers, who
resorted thither to drink and gamble, and hear Jonathan Sly, the
proprietor, read the weekly paper, and all the news of the war.
Dorothy, in her walks to and from the parsonage, generally avoided the
public thoroughfare, and turned off through a pathway field, which led
to the back of the house, having several times encountered a gang of
half-drunken sailors, and been terrified by their rude gaze, and still
more unwelcome expressions of admiration.

Dearly Dorothy loved the old church, in which she had listened with
reverence, from a child, to the word of God.

Her mother had found her last resting-place beneath the sombre shadow
of an old yew tree, that fronted the chancel window.

No sunbeam ever penetrated the dark, closely interwoven branches. No
violet opened its blue eyes amid the long grass and nettles that crowned
that nameless heap of "gathered dust."

Dorothy had often cleared away the weeds, and planted flowers upon the
spot. They drank in the poisonous exhalations of the melancholy tree,
and withered and died.

She tried rose bushes, but those flowers of love and light shared the
same fate. The dank prophetic-looking yew frowned them into death.

Dorothy regarded all these failures with a superstitious awe, and
glanced at that lonely grave, from a distance, with baited breath, and a
strange chill at her heart.

That giant tree, the child of past centuries, that stood watching over
it like a grim sentinel, seemed to her simple mind like an embodiment of
evil. It had no grace, no beauty in her eyes; she had even
sacrilegiously wished it levelled to the earth. It kept the sun from
shining on her mother's grave; the robin and linnet never warbled their
sweet hymns from among its heavy foliage. It had been planted by some
one in the very despair of grief, and the ghost of sorrow hovered under
its gloomy canopy.

In spite of this morbid feeling, a strange sympathy with the unknown
parent often drew Dorothy to the spot. A visit to the churchyard had
been a favourite evening ramble with her and her lover, and, when tired
of their seat on the low stone wall, they wandered hand in hand down to
the sea-shore, to watch the passing sails, and to bathe their feet in
the glad blue waters. Even in the churchyard, love, not divinity, formed
the theme of their conversation; the presence of the dead failing to
repress the hopes and joys of their young gushing life.

In her walks to the parsonage, Dorothy felt a pensive delight in
recalling every circumstance that had happened in these summer evening
walks with Gilbert Rushmere. They were of little moment at the time,
scarcely regarded; but absence had invested them with a twofold
interest.

First love stamps upon the memory of youth its undying image; and from
trifles light as the thistle's down can erect for itself a monument
more durable than granite.

What a halo of beauty it casts over the scenes in which