Dorothy Dovedale's Trials

Chapter I. The Old Prayer-house

There is a strange expression, somehow or somewhere, ahout the old timhered-tenement, which the Dovedales still inhabit, and have inherited through many generations. It is as difficult to tell, at a first glance, where it differs, so very much, from any other old house which you. may have seen, as it is to fix upon some one particular feature in a face that is striking, and say, " It is there." At first you imagine it is in the great arched beams that go curving and projecting over the two corner windows, like overhanging eyebrows, and you say, " The eyes of the house are there, but they do not give it the strange VOL. I. B expression which it ever seems to wear." Then yon look higher, at the ancient woodwork, that runs crosswise up to the attic window, in the great central gable, seaming it with strongly marked wrinkles, like a thoughtful forehead; and yet, when you again run your eye over the windows, and the gable, you say, " It is not here, nor it is not there, where the strange expression in the face of that old house, is to be found."

You drop your eye to where the wide oaken porch gapes hke an open mouth below — that porch which many centuries of weddings have whitened, and burials blackened, — and while you look and think, then turn to gaze again, you cannot help saying to yourself, " There is a very strange expression somehow or somewhere., about that old timber-and-plaster house, and yet, for the life of me, I cannot tell why, nor find out where." It is a thoughtful-looking house, seeming ever to wear an expression of strange intelligence ; to THE OLD PRAYER-HOUSE. be thinking of the many it has known who came in to the marriages and went out with the funerals, since that day when furniture was first placed within its newly-finished rooms, three long centuries ago. It seems to bear about it a remembrance of other years, and other things, removed too far back for us ever to have a right knowledge of, though they were but the events of common everyday life, differing, perhaps, but little from our own.

Bright eyes beamed in beauty on the forgotten passers-by, through the diamond-shaped window panes of those leaden lattices. Those walls have listened to the low whisperings of love, and the loud outbreak of angry passions in the years that have departed, like those who were borne out from under its shadowy porch, never to return any more. Time out of mind it has been called The Old Prayer-House. " 0 Lord, spare this House from Thunder, from Lightning, "Wind, Hail, and Rain," is deeply cut in black letters, on the huge oaken beam which runs the whole length, and supports the whole front of the house. From that pious sentence it derived its name, and thousands have prayed for the preservation of that old house, unawares, while reading those words, since the day they were first seen there, fresh from the carver's hands.

Carpenters and builders stop before that house, and hold long arguments as to whether those ponderous joists and beams and quarterings are fastened together by mortise and tenon, pinned with oak, or dovetailed, or clamped with iron ! But so many coats of whitewash have been laid on that old timber-and-plaster tenement, throughout the long years it has stood, no one can tell how that enduring and cumbrous woodwork is fastened together until it is denuded of its hard plaster walls, and the sky is seen peeping through its grey naked skeleton. THE OLD PRAYER-HOUSE. That house is also an old landmark. If you want to find any particular place, in that almost houseless part of the town, the unvarying answer from anyone well acquainted with tho neighbourhood, wiU be, so many fields, or gardens, or turnings, before you come to, or go past, the Old Prayer-House.

It stands by itself on that side of the way, where there is no regular foot path. The footway is on the opposite side of the road, so that the windows are not overlooked by passers-by, as but few cross over unless they have business there. Beyond the high road, which lies brown and hard and rutted before it, are pleasant fields, and gardens, and green lanes, backed by a long range of hills, which overlook the Old Prayer-House, and the little market town that spreads behind ; seeming almost to touch it, as seen from those gentle summits, which are so easily ascended. A large pond, supplied from a ground-spring close by, is divided from one end of the house, by a narrow road, that passes the large farmyard behind, and goes winding along, until it ends in an old gateway, that opens into the main street of the little town.

Children come up the lane to play beside the great pond, and pelt the ducks and geese, and watch the cones of sand dancing up and down in the clear stream, where the spring rises, throwing stones in and muddying the water, as they try to stop the spring, which dances as quickly and shines as clearly as it did before they disturbed it, if only left still for a minute or two. The fragment of a Roman mile-stone, brown and tinie-pohshed like marble, stands close beside the httle spring ; and it is pleasant to believe that those who first placed it there, may have knelt down to drink, and stood to watch those little pillars of grey sand rising and falling — as they have ever since done, — nearly two thousand years ago. The Roman mile-stone shows that the Old Prayer- THE OLD PRAYER-HOUSE. House, still stands beside a much more ancient road, than any of those forming the streets of the little market town behind.

A dreamy quietude reigns about the whole neighbourhood of the Old Prayer-House, which is rarely broken, saving by the voices of children when they come to play, and splash one another at the pond, unless it is at fair time or on market day. Then the Old Backway, as this ancient Roman road is called, is all alive ; sheep and cattle, hot and panting, bleat and low as they gather about the great pond to drink, and fill all the air around with those pleasant pastoral sounds, which but few are ever weary of listening to, when they are heard beside green fields and cheerful hills. Carriers' carts, farmers' laden waggons, people on foot and on horseback, then pass by on their way to the market place, preferring that old smooth well-worn road to the jolting they have to endure if they pass through the badly-paved streets which open into the town.

So the Old Prayer-House stood dreaming, and looking down on that ancient Roman road, seeing generation after generation coming in laden with country produce, and going out with such articles as the town supplied, carrying on the exchange until the young grew old, and then died, and others succeeded, like the leaves, growing and falling from the aged trees, under which they passed. The remembrance of these ever-passing and ever-changing generations, are somehow associated with the Old Prayer-House ; and when you recalled what it must have seen and heard, you no longer wondered that it was a thoughtful-looking house, and seemed ever to wear such an expression of strange intelligence. Here Josiah Dovedale, the last heir of a long line, with his wife, and his daughter Dorothy resided.

Chapter II. Josiah Dovedale

Like the patriarch who, in olden times, dwelt in the land of Uz, Josiah Dovedale had "his substance" in sheep, and cattle, and great possessions. He had, also, like Job, another treasure which the very same words only can describe, for " in all the land was no woman found so fair as the daughter of" Josiah. He had, besides, immense sums " out at use," as lending money is called, in the vernacular of that homely portion of England. Josiah had " a great household." Neither man-servant, nor maid-servant were per mitted to enter his gates unless they openly pro fessed to be of a serious. turn of mind; and they formed quite a procession on the Sabbath as they came out of the old oaken porch on their way to the Dissenter's chapel, in which Josiah was a chief pillar, and heralded the way with his hand some wife hanging on his arm, while Dorothy walked beside, bright and beautiful as a star.

Although he believed that his flocks and herds were attended by only good shepherds and faith ful herdsmen, a wolf in sheep's clothing would at times enter the fold, however carefully it seemed guarded, and give cause for much wrestling and many an exhortation. A curly-headed lad — the only son of a poor widow — who had been strongly recommended by one of the elect, was dis charged on the third day of his service, for sing ing " fal-the-ral-the-ri-do," while driving the sheep. Josiah came upon him unexpectedly at a sudden turning of the lane, and said, " My sheep must not listen to the voice of such a shepherd any more. Go thy ways, thou wilt lead them astray. I will fold them myself." His hand-maidens, as he mostly called them, were always very clean and very comely to look upon, for his wife had a great dislike to unplea sant faces, and looked more at times to prettiness than piety, as the ungodly said among themselves.

If you passed along the road that ran between the pond and his great farm-yard behind the house, and listened to his maidens sinoinoover their work, and remarked to Josiah how happy they seemed, he would say, " Yes friend, even while labouring here, they are on their way to Canaan, journeying towards the land that flows with milk and honey, for thitherwards I always endeavour to lead them." Now and then one of his pretty lambs got weary of being driven along the road that led to Jordan, so leaping the fold, showed the amazed shepherd only a pair of light heels, then set off into the wilderness. After such a loss the rest of the fair flock had a hard time of it for some days, for Josiah prayed " at " them morning and night, and he doubled the dose of brimstone in the exhortation he administered, in the hope of cleansing them and making them more pure.

Enemies said there were many more love feasts held in the Old Prayer-House than Josiah wotted of. Josiah's housewas always open to the preachers and leaders, and chief men of the sect of Dissen ters he belonged to, and many a hot subject came upon the board beside his excellent dinners. Crea ture comforts were no secondary matters in his household, for he was continually killing the fatted calf; and the wicked said that Josiah's well-spread table made more converts than all the wrestlings and prayers that took place and were offered up around it. Strong preachers with broad chests, huge appetites, and stentorian voices, who sweated again, while labouring to push heavyhanging sinners into the right path, he knew required great support, so Josiah clapped a solid pound of wholesome meat on their plates at a time, and they ate and wiped their shining foreheads, while thankful for the " good creatures " set be fore them, then sent up their plates for more.

Josiah was a tall well-made man of a grave aspect, whose smile was hke a faint glimpse of sunshine seen through a dull leaden-coloured sky, and just making a momentary brightness on the grey slate quarry it falls upon. Generally when alone, he walked with his hands behind him, holding the head of a stout walking-stick in his right hand, and continually lifting it up and down with the fingers of his left, so that, like the tail of some restless animal, it was ever in motion. Those who knew him well, judged the state of his temper by the movements of his stick, as they walked behind him; if it played up and down, and from side to side with a gentle motion, they knew he was in one of his gentlest moods ; but if switched about, with long rapid sweeps, they said Josiah was wrestling with the Evil One, and that at such times he was not " in a giving mood," and it was only a waste of words to ask a favour.

As those pious old manglers of metre, Strenhold and Hopkins, in their version of the Psalms, called upon the Lord to " be not slact, Put tafce thine hands from 'hind thy back, And fetch thy foes a rap," so had an occasional act of cruelty caused Josiah to take his hands from behind his back, and smite the aggressor with his staff; and a blow from his great long muscular arm, had been known to stop the career of an angry bull. Josiah had large dealings in flocks and herds, and as the Old Prayer-House stood beside the Great North Road, numbers of poor cattle that had been driven all the way from Scotland, passed his door, or stopped, dusty, tired, and panting, to drink of his great clear pond. He was well known to many of the old drovers, and although, when they had dealings, it was always with Simon his bailiff, yet they well knew it was Josiah him self who drove so hard a bargain.

While the herd were gathered round the pond, Josiah would come out from under the shadow of his ancient porch, and in his smooth pleasant way, inquire of the drovers how they had fared, hoping that the Lord had been with them on their way, running all the time his sharp practical eye over every horned head, and making up his mind what sum he would offer to the utmost farthing — through Simon — should he become the purchaser. Josiah knew to a week how long it would take to put good meat on their bony backs, in his rich pastures ; also the best markets and fairs for his herdsmen to drive them to after they had fattened on his fine grazing lands. Then, to all appearance, he was so hberal too, often getting the better of some raw drover by his generosity, though the old Scotchmen who had dealt with him beforetime, were not so easily got over.

When all negotia tions — through Simon — failed, and it was too late in the day to drive the cattle another stage, Josiah would come out and offer one of H3 large fields, free of charge, where the herd could bait and rest for the night ; and it rarely happened that they were driven further on the following day, for Simon would get the drover into his own room, and Josiah brewed very strong ale to be brought out only on rare occasions. Nor was he a loser if the bargain was broken off, for though the cattle remained all night without payment for baiting, was not his land enriched with the fulness thereof? Though honest and pious, Josiah was a shrewd man of business. Josiah had a great habit of humming portions of sacred tunes to himself, and also of groaning heavily at times when alone, as if his burthen was very heavy to bear.

But to those who were the most familiar with his ways, it was very plain that he hummed less, and groaned more, after he had driven a very hard bargain with those whom necessity compelled to sell. Nor did he ever seem himself again until a collection had been made in his chapel, to which he gave liberally. vol. I. C

Chapter III

Dorothy's first trial. That grave-looking old house had never echoed back more cheerful sounds of childish merriment than it was filled with during the happy years of Dorothy's girlhood, and almost up to the time of the death of her brother Josiah, who was born some two years before her. She was such a pretty httle innocent thing that no one could look at her without loving her, so that even the brows of the grim elders relaxed while their ears were filled with the sounds of her childish prattle. Not so with her brother, for if his voice was only heard above a whisper, while any of the staid brotherhood were in conversation, the word " Josiah !" would fall with a stern rebuke from his father's lips, causing him to be mute in a moment. Only during the delivery of an exhorta tion, or while reading, or when prayers were offered up, was she expected to remain silent ; and even on those occasions she would often creep out noiselessly and unperceived, if the door was left open.

Then, when she reached the garden, she would shout her loudest, as if it were a great relief to her to make all the noise she could after having been still so long, and she would run along the box-bordered gravel-walks, her arms spread out, and waving up and down like the wings of a bird, looking up at the old grey moss-covered wall, as if she longed to fly over it, and run to where there were no exhorta tions, wrestlings, readings, or prayers to com pel her to keep silent. Sometimes she would steal out at the front door, stooping her pretty head as she shot round the pillar of the porch, and reaching the pond clap her hands to startle the ducks and geese, or throw in a stone, and watch the expanding circles as they broadened out, or broke upon the edge of the pool. Then, with a sweep of her fingers, she would throw be hind her ears the long hair that had got loose, and fallen over her glowing face while romping, and steal in again, going up softly to her mother's chair, looking up archly into that fond mother's face, whose quiet smile [and brightening looks would tell her darling daughter that she knew all about it, and that she had not stolen away unno ticed by those affectionate eyes, though none be side had missed her.

And when she slipped her dear hand into her mother's, the warm, fond pressure told Dorothy that she was forgiven, no matter what she might have been doing while away. Her mother could not forget how in the days of her girlhood she herself, like little Doro thy, was glad to run anywhere out of the hearing of discussions on saving grace, and all the long array of arguments about winning the prize hereafter, which she was weary of listening to, as they were words conveying no meaning to her childish ears. Sometimes, though not very often, Dorothy got into disgrace, and received a sharp repri mand from her father, as she did one day when a tall, grave elder stood straddling wide at the entrance of the porch, enforcing some doctrinal point, not only by loud words, but by striking the back of his right hand on the palm of his left so loudly that the old porch cracked again as it echoed to the sound.

Dorothy wanted to get out, and stood watching behind like a little mouse waiting to make its escape, but the argument was so long, and she so eager to be off, that at last she cried out, " Boo," and darted so suddenly between his long, wide-spread legs, that she was out of sight before the astonished brother could make out what it was that had so unexpectedly cut short his argument. That night Dorothy, by her father's command, was sent to bed supperless ; though, had he looked next morning, he would have seen suspicious flakes as if from a rich tart crust, and stains of rare home-made wine on the coverlet of her pretty cot, showing that some kind fairy had visited her after she went sobbing up the old, wide oaken staircase. She was at that time as full of life and play as a lamb, and every way as innocent, but though she generally managed to keep a grave counte nance while serious subjects were discussed by her father's religious friends, her soft, laughing eyes seemed beautifully out of keeping with the demure expression she wore, and no sooner did the conversation relax than the curtain was withdrawn, and the whole sunshine of her happy heart came up, beaming into her face.

A good-natured Scotch drover, with whom her father had large dealings in cattle, made her a present of a pretty little Shetland pony that was not much higher than a large Newfoundland dog. This Dorothy made a pet of, and if allowed, it would follow the happy-hearted girl wherever she went, eat out of her hand, and find its way into the parlour in search of her. When she was mounted, her brother Josiah — who was never more delighted than when he contributed to her amusement — would lead the pony, his handker chief tied to a stick for a banner, which he waved over her dear head, while one of his happy school fellows marched before her, blowing some hollow reed, as a make-believe trumpet, for he was her herald, and she was a queen. And so she would ride along the pathways through her father's fields, her hair sometimes wreathed with wayside flowers, while her attendants stopped every here and there to gather daisies and buttercups for her to scatter on the grass as she rode along ; these were her treasures of silver and gold, which she threw for her imaginary subjects to pick up.

Never did human eye dwell upon a maiden queen seated on her royal palfrey more beautiful than Dorothy appeared on her shaggy pony, nor ever was crown placed on fairer brow than that which she enwreathed with simple wild flowers. But if the children chanced to see Josiah, down went the banner in a moment, the trumpet was thrown away, and the wreath pulled off, and cast aside, and all the queenly procession disarranged, while addressing his son, he would say, " Let me see no more of this mockery of foolish pomp, and empty vanity, but strive to win a crown of glory that fadeth not away." Dorothy's brother was a meek, delicate, amiable boy, almost without a vice, unless a weakness in yielding to the wishes of his pretty sister might be called by that too-severe name. Both were of a loving nature, and the fondness for one another was mutual.

The death of that beloved brother was Dorothy's first great trial. There was but one really good school in that little mar ket town, to which the gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who wished to keep the boys under then- -eyes, while they were very young, sent their sons. It was the Young Gentlemen's School, and a boy who was not considered by his school fellows to be the son of a real gentleman had a roughish time of it at first. To this school Josiah Dovedale sent his son, for although the master was a High Churchman, he was renowned for turning out such excellent scholars as rarely came from any other establishment conducted by Dis senters. The father's wealth was undeniable, but then he never went to church, nor allowed his boy to go there, and "on this hint they spake." They would get the lad into a corner of the play ground, hem him in, and give out mock hymns, offer up mock prayers, and preach mock sermons over him, all of which he was compelled to endure.

His blood got up at times, and he had courage enough to fight, but dare not for fear of his father. Only to Dorothy did he make known his troubles. Two or three kind-hearted youths were his friends at school, and never insulted him, one of these was Harold Oldershaw, the son of a gentleman who bore the title of esquire. The bully of the school was the son of a great grazier, a man of sharp business habits, too sharp at last for Josiah Dovedale to have anymore dealings with. This the son had found out somehow, and was always persecuting Dorothy's brother. One day he knocked the boy down in the playground. Then Harold spoke up, and said, "It was cowardly to strike a boy hke Josiah, who was far from being strong, who never offended anyone, whom his father would never forgive if he fought." And so one angry word called up another which ended in Harold fighting for Doro thy's brother, and giving the bully of the school such a thrashing as made all the rest of the scholars civil to the boy they had before made a butt of, for Harold not only thrashed the grazier's son, but on the battle-ground, openly declared himself Josiah's champion.

Perhaps winning the fight in only two rounds was a warning to the lookers on as to what they might get in case they ventured against such a combatant. When her brother told her all that had happened, Dorothy had a long cry, wishing that she were a boy, and big enough to fight his battles. " Father might say what he liked, but she would fight for him, that she would, if she were able." Then the httle maiden dried her eyes, and made Josiah tell her all about Harold Oldershaw, and how old and big he was, and what he was hke. And when her brother answered that he was the handsomest, kindest, and most gentleman-like boy in the school, a strange new light beamed through, and melted into her beautiful eyes, as her imagination pictured the brave, handsome boy, who had fought in defence of the brother she so fondly loved.

Dorothy was only twelve years old when she first saw Harold Oldershaw, for she let her brother have no peace until she got him to go with her to hide behind a hedge, so that she might see Harold as he passed by on his way home, without his knowing that she would be looking at him. The first time she met Harold openly with her brother, she went up to him with the tears in her eyes, and said, "May I kiss you for my brother." He bent his handsome, rosy, laughing face, and kissing her in return said, " If I had fought for you, I should have killed the blackguard." Dorothy told her mother all that had happened, and from that time Mrs. Dovedale took a strange liking to Harold, for she was not one to sacrifice every natural feeling for the sake of peace, like her husband. It was a long way from school to the Hall where Harold lived with his parents, though the Squire's residence looked from the hill down a valley, which terminated before the Old Prayer- House, so that in a direct line the distance between the two mansions did not exceed half a mile.

But the valley was Josiah's property, and as there was neither road nor right of way through it, Harold had to go home along the old Roman road, then turn off and climb a steep highway, with a terrace on one side for foot passengers, then double back again on the road above the hills, before he reached his father's hall. Except ing that the form was a little more elliptical, the road he traversed was like the letter C, from point to point, but by the way of the valley he had only to cross over the small opening in the letter, ascend a gentle slope, and he was at home. Dorothy was the first to hint what a saving of time, and a more pleasant walk it would be for Harold if he came and went by the way of the valley, and the suggestion of the maiden was readily adopted, to the great delight of their new acquaintance.

And rarely did a morning pass without Josiah and his sister walking up the beautiful valley to meet Harold, and in the afternoon Dorothy would be found waiting at the gate ready to accompany her brother and his friend, after they left school, along the same pleasant way, and these delightful walks in the company of that high-minded and gentlemanly youth, were numbered amongst the happiest hours that httle Dorothy and her brother had ever known. Mrs. Dovedale soon became strongly attached to Harold, for there was something very winning about the handsome and high-spirited boy, which she admired, and she could not help praising him at times before her religious friends, in spite of their depreciating shrugs, headshakings, and inward groanings. Harold's father, mother, and sister gave a warm welcome to Dorothy and her brother whenever they could be persuaded to enter the Hall, for the Squire's kind-hearted wife took quite a motherly liking to the pretty little daughter of the grave Dissenter.

As for Squire Oldershaw, he was a hberal-minded gentleman, and when some of his High Church friends hinted that Harold might fall from the faith of his fathers, ho only said, " The lad might meet with worse company than he is ever likely to find at our neighbour Josiah's, and as to his religious principles, I must leave them to the care of our worthy rector, who takes a great interest in Harold, and says it will soon be time to pack him up, and send him off to the University." But friendly as the children were, no intimacy took place between the parents on either side, though Harold's sister, Kate, on several occasions returned Dorothy's visit, and always met with a kindly welcome from Mrs. Dovedale at the Old Prayer-House. As for Josiah, he was civil to the Squire's son and daughter, and that was all, and offered no opposition to their making a footway through his valley.