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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 its first sight
was breathed, its first vows fondly whispered, making the desert and
solitary places to blossom as the rose.

Even those bleak salt marshes bordering the sea, over which the sea-gull
flapped her heavy grey wings, and which resounded to the pewitt's
melancholy monotonous cry, possessed a charm for Dorothy.

From those marshes Gilbert and Dorothy drove up the cows to be milked.

On the banks of that sluggish river that lay like a dead thing between
its slimy mud banks until filled by the tide, in which few persons could
discover anything to interest the imagination, the twain, when boy and
girl, used to fish for crabs with a small hooped net, after the tide had
retired.

Those were happy times, full of sport and glee. How they used to laugh
and clap their hands, when the ugly spider-like creatures tumbled into
the trap, and fought and quarrelled over the bait that had lured them to
destruction.

The old haunts, the well-remembered objects, however repulsive to the
eye of taste, were dear to Dorothy; they brought her lover nearer, and
she forgot the long stretch of sea and land that divided them.

She never imagined that absence and the entire change that had taken
place in his mode of life could make any alteration in his views and
feelings with regard to herself; that it was possible that days and even
months could elapse without his casting one thought on her.

Fortunately for Dorothy, she had so much to employ her hands during the
day, in order to get leisure to study in the evening, that it was only
during these solitary walks that she could live in the past and build
castles for the future. Mr. Martin, the good curate, had welcomed his
wife's young pupil with parental kindness, and soon felt a deep interest
in her.

He was a slight feeble looking man, with a large head and still larger
heart. No sour gloomy fanatic, hiding disappointed ambition under the
mask of religion: but a cheerful, earnest Christian practically
illustrating his glorious faith, by making it the rule of life, both in
public and private.

His religious impressions had been formed at a very early period by a
pious parent, and he was an only child. Early deprived of a father's
care, the good providence of God had watched over the widow and her son,
uniting them by that most holy of all ties, the love of Jesus.

Before his mother was removed by death, she had the joy of beholding
Henry actively employed in the Divine Master's service; and she expired
in his arms, earnestly requesting him to hold fast his faith, and to
meet her in heaven.

He had promised, with God's help, to do this, and had struggled manfully
with overwhelming difficulties to obey that solemn injunction.

He had married in early manhood a woman he loved, without any reference
to worldly prudence; and though much physical suffering had resulted
from being poorly paid, and having to support a rapidly increasing
family on very inadequate means, Henry Martin was never heard to repine.
He was poor, but really a happy man. The cruse of oil and barrel of
meal, though often nearly exhausted, had still been supplied; and the
children, though meanly clad, and nourished on the most homely fare,
were healthy, loving and full of promise.

The good curate declared with a full and grateful heart, that his cup
overflowed with undeserved blessings. He lived within his humble means
and was satisfied. But sickness came, and took from him a noble dutiful
boy, the very pride of his eyes and the delight of his heart; and
doctors' bills and funeral expenses had curtailed their means; and the
morning that Mrs. Martin paid her visit to the Hall was the first that
had ever seen the worthy man and his family reduced to plain bread.

When Mrs. Martin communicated the unpleasant fact, he received it with
his usual trust in the providence of God. "We shall not be deserted,
Rosina; the Heavenly Father will give us daily bread. Have faith in
God."

With a heavy heart, the poor wife had set off on her visit to the Hall,
determined to ask the assistance of Lord Wilton in behalf of her
husband. In this she was prevented, by the munificence of the noble
gentleman. On her return, she flung herself upon the breast of her more
trusting partner, and communicated the happy intelligence; weeping in
the very joy of her heart, while she informed him of the better
prospects in store for them.

"Restrain these transports, my dear Rosina," he said, as he folded the
poor weeper to his kind heart, "or bring them as a thank offering to the
good God, who has so miraculously saved us from want. Let us kneel down
together, and while we return our sincere thanks for his great mercy,
let us beseech him to keep us humble in prosperity, lest this reverse of
fortune should render us proud and forgetful of our duty."

Dorothy soon found herself quite at home with the good pastor and his
amiable family. Dearly she loved the little ones. Her solitary life