"If dreams infest the grave,I wake emerging from a sea of dreams."
"If dreams infest the grave,I wake emerging from a sea of dreams."
"If dreams infest the grave,
I wake emerging from a sea of dreams."
What a terrible idea of future punishment is contained in these words to one, whose sleep like mine is haunted by unutterable terrors! Think of an eternity of dreaming horrors. A hell condensed within the narrow resting-place of the grave.
My reveries were abruptly dispelled by the sound of steps along the passage which led to my chamber. My heart began to beat audibly. It was the dead hour of the night—who could be waking at such an unusual time? I sat up in the bed and listened.
I heard voices: two persons were talking in a loud tone in the passage, that was certain. For a long time, I could not distinguish one word from another, until my own name was suddenly pronounced in a louder key; and in a voice which seemed perfectly familiar to my ears.
The garret in which I slept, was a long, low, dingy apartment which formed a sort of repository for all the worn-out law books and waste papers belonging to the office, and as I have before stated the only furniture it possessed, was a mean truckle-bed on which I slept, and a large iron chest, which Mr. Moncton had informed me, contained title-deeds and other valuable papers, of which he himself kept the key.
They were kept in my apartment for better security; as the stair which led to the flat roof of the house opened into that chamber, and in case of fire, the chest and its contents could be easily removed.
For a wonder, I had never felt the least curiosity about the chest and its contents.
It stood in the old place, the day I first entered that dismal apartment when a child; and during the many long years which had slowly intervened, I never recollected having seen it unclosed. My attention for the first time was drawn to its existence by hearing my uncle say to some one in the passage in a hurried under tone.
"Set your mind at rest, the paper is in the iron chest in that room. If you will not rely upon my promise to destroy it, I will burn it before your eyes."
"That alone will satisfy my doubts," returned his companion. "Be cautious how you open the door, or the lad will awake."
"Nonsense, young folks like him sleep well."
"Ay, Robert Moncton, they are not troubled with an evil conscience."
This last observation was accompanied with a low sarcastic laugh; and with an involuntary shiver, I recognized in the mysterious speaker the old woman who had haunted my dreams.
"Conscience never troubles me, Dinah," returned Moncton, gloomily. "You first taught me to drown its warning voice."
"You were an apt pupil," said the woman. "All your natural tendencies were evil. I only fostered and called them out. But what is the use of recalling unpleasant truths. Why don't you silence memory, when you have ceased to feel remorse. But I tell you what it is, Moncton. The presence of the one proves the existence of the other. The serpent is sleeping in his coil, and one of these days you will feel the strength of his fangs. Is this the door that leads to his chamber? You have chosen a sorry dormitory for the heir of the proud house of Moncton."
"Hush! I wish he slept with his fathers. But even if he should awake, how could he guess, that our visit to his chamber could in any way concern him?"
"He has a shrewd face, an intelligent eye—an eye to detect treachery, and defy danger."
"On the contrary, a babe might deceive him."
"He has been educated in too hard a school to revel in such ignorance, Moncton."
"Hold your tongue, Dinah, and give me the light. Remember how you were deceived in his cousin Philip."
Mr. Moncton's hand was on the lock of the door: an almost irresistible impulse urged me to spring from the bed and draw the bolt. On second thoughts, however, I determined to feign sleep, and watch all that passed.
Resistance on my part would have been utterly useless, and I was anxious to find out if possible what connexion existed between my uncle, George Harrison, and this strange woman.
All this darted through my mind on the instant; the rays of the candle flashed upon the opposite wall; and my uncle, followed by his odious-looking companion, entered the room.
My intention of watching all their movements was completely frustrated by Mr. Moncton, who, advancing with cautious steps to my bed-side, held up the light in such a manner as not only to reveal my face, but the attitude in which I lay.
"Is he sleeping?" he whispered to his companion.
"He breathes like one in a profound slumber," was the reply. "'Tis a fine lad. How much he resembles Sir Alexander."
"His father, rather," sneered Moncton. "He's a second edition of Ned; but has got more brains. Thanks to his grandfather, Geoffrey, and his own mother, who was a beautiful, talented creature. Stand by the bed, Dinah, and keep watch over him while I light that lamp which he has left on the window-sill, and search for the papers."
The old woman took the light from Mr. Moncton's hand, and his station beside my bed. My too lively imagination pictured the witch-like face, with its dark, snaky eyes, bending over me, and I found it impossible to maintain, with any appearance of reality, the composure I had assumed. In order to conceal the excited state of my mind, and to convince her of the certainty of my pretended slumber, I threw out my arms, and began to toss and turn, and mutter in my sleep, putting on all the contortions which generally convulse the countenance of persons while writhing under the influence of some terrible dream. A state of perfect quiescence might have aroused suspicion; the noise I made completely lulled theirs to sleep.
Meanwhile my uncle had unlocked the chest, and I heard him toss the papers it contained, upon the floor; while, from time to time, he gave utterance to expressions indicative of vexation and disappointment.
After examining the contents of the box thoroughly, and returning the parchments to their original place, he said in a mortified tone:
"The papers are not here. How they have been abstracted I cannot imagine, as I always keep the key in a private drawer of my cabinet, which is known only to myself."
"Did you place them there yourself?" demanded the old woman, in a hurried whisper.
"No, but Walters, in whom I placed the most implicit confidence, assured me that he placed them here with his own hands. He may, however, have destroyed them, and anticipated my wishes."
"And you, with all your caution," sneered Dinah North, "could trust an affair of such importance to another."
"He was my creature, sworn to secrecy, and bought with my money, whose interest was to serve, not to betray me."
"A person who is capable of receiving a bribe to perform a base action, Moncton, is never to be trusted, especially a low-born fellow, like Walters; and where," she continued, anxiously, "is this man to be found?"
"He left twelve years ago for America, and took out with him, Michael Alzure, my brother's old servant, and Mary Earl, the boy's nurse, who were the only witnesses to the marriage. I wanted him to take the boy himself, and adopt him into his own family, which would have saved us all further trouble, but this to my surprise he positively refused to do."
"To what part of America did he emigrate?"
"First to Boston, where he remained for three years. He then removed to Philadelphia from the latter place. I twice received letters from him. He had been successful in business, and talked of buying land in the western States; for the last six years I have never heard of him or from him. It is more than probable that he is long since dead."
"People whom you wish out of the way, never die when you want them," said Dinah, with her peculiar sneering laugh. "But I think you told me that the—" I could not catch the word which she breathed into the ear of Mr. Moncton—"had been destroyed."
"Yes—yes. I burnt it with my own hand; this was the only document of any consequence, and it is a hundred chances to one, that he ever recovers it, or meets with the people who could prove his identity."
My uncle rose from his knees and locked the iron chest, then, extinguishing my lamp, he and the old woman left the room.
The sound of their retreating footsteps had scarcely died away, when, in spite of my wish to keep awake, I dropped off into a profound sleep, and did not again unclose my eyes until it was time to dress for breakfast.
CHAPTER XI.
MY FIRST LOVE.
I found my uncle sipping his coffee, as if nothing of importance had occurred during the night, to disturb his slumbers. I took my seat at the table in silence. My heart was full to bursting, and I dared not trust my voice, to offer him the common salutations of the morning.
My face, I have no doubt, betrayed the agitation which I endeavoured to conceal.
"You are late this morning, Geoffrey."
"Yes, Sir—I passed a very restless night, and the result is a bad headache."
"How did that happen?" surveying me attentively, with his clear, glittering eyes.
"I was harassed by frightful dreams, and only awoke from one fit of nightmare to fall into a worse."
"Are you often troubled with bad dreams?" said he, without removing his powerful gaze from my pale face.
"Not often with such as disturbed me last night."
I detected my uncle's drift in using this species of cross-questioning, and I determined to increase his uneasiness without betraying my own.
"I wish, uncle, I had never seen that old woman who visited the office yesterday; she haunted me all night like my evil genius. Sir Matthew Hale might have condemned her for a witch, with a safe conscience."
"She is not a very flattering specimen of the fair sex," said my uncle, affecting a laugh, "but ugly as she now is, I remember her both young and handsome. What was the purport of your dream?"
"That I should like to know. The Josephs and Daniels of these degenerate modern days, are makers of money, not interpreters of dreams. But, I hope you don't imagine that I place the least importance on such things. My dream was simply this:
"I dreamed that that ugly old woman, whom you call Dinah North, came to my bedside with an intent to murder me." I paused, and fixed my eyes upon Mr. Moncton's face. The glitter of his bright orbs almost dazzled me. I thought, however, that his cheek paled for a moment, and that I could perceive a slight twitching movement about the muscles of the mouth.
"Well," said he, quite calmly, "and what then?"
"For a long time I resisted her efforts to stab me with a long knife, and I received several deep wounds in my hands, in endeavouring to ward off her home-thrusts; till, faint with loss of blood, I gave up the contest, and called aloud for aid. I heard steps in the passage—some one opened the door—it was you, Sir, and I begged you to save my life, and unloosen the fiend's grasp from my throat, but instead of the assistance I expected, you seized the knife from the old woman's hand, and with a derisive laugh, plunged it to the hilt in my heart. I awoke with a scream of agony, and with the perspiration streaming from every part of my body."
The dream was no invention of the moment, but had actually occurred, after Dinah North and Mr. Moncton had left my chamber. I wished to see what impression it would make upon him.
He leaned back in his chair with his eyes still fixed on my face. "It was strange, very strange—enough to excite a nervous, irritable fellow like you. Did you hear me come into your room last night?"
Taken by surprise, I gave an involuntary start, but regained my presence of mind in a moment. "Did you suspect, sir, that I was in the habit of leaving the house at night, that you thought it necessary to ascertain that I was in my bed?"
"Petulant boy! How ready you are to take offence at trifles. How do you expect to steer your way through the world? Business brought me into your room last night. Some papers belonging to the woman, whom your fertile imagination has converted into a witch or fiend, were in the iron chest. Anxious to satisfy her that the papers were safe, I went to look for them. You were making a sad noise in your sleep. I was half inclined to waken you, but thought that my presence in your chamber at that hour of the night would only increase your uneasiness. The sound of my steps in the passage, I have no doubt, was the immediate cause of your dream."
This was a masterly stroke, and those who knew Robert Moncton in a moment would recognize the man. The adroitness with which he mingled truth with falsehood, almost made me doubt the evidence of my senses, and to fancy that the events of the past night were a mental delusion.
"Did you find the papers you wanted, Sir?"
His eye flashed, and his lip curled. "What business is that of yours, Sir? I don't allow an impertinent boy to pry into my private affairs."
"My question was one of idle curiosity."
"Even as such, never dare to repeat it."
I was struck dumb, and concluded my breakfast without speaking to him again. When the tea equipage was removed, I rose to leave the room, but he motioned me to remain.
His anger had passed away, and his really handsome face wore a more agreeable expression than usual.
"Sit down, Geoffrey. I have long wished to converse with you upon your future prospects. What progress have you made in your profession?"
Astonished at his condescension, I told him candidly how I had of late improved my time, and studied late and early to acquire a competent knowledge of it in all its branches.
He was surprised, and appeared agreeably so.
"I had no idea of this, Geoffrey. Your industry has won for you a higher position than an office drudge. You cannot, however, make an able lawyer, without some knowledge of the world. To make a man of you it is absolutely necessary for you to go more into society."
"You forget, Sir, that I have no means to indulge such a wish. I cannot consent to go into company under existing circumstances."
"Oh, we can manage all that," said he, tapping me on my shoulder. "Be obedient to my orders, and attend to my interest, and you shall not long want the means of gratifying your wishes. Mr. Harrison has left the office. It is my intention that you supply his place.
"Harrison gone!" cried I in a tone of vexation and regret; "then I have lost my best friend."
"Harrison was a clever, gentlemanly young man," said Mr. Moncton, coldly; "but, to tell you the plain truth, Geoffrey, I did not like the close intimacy which existed between you."
"Why, it is to him that I am indebted for all the knowledge I have acquired. His society was the only pleasure I had, and it seems hard to be deprived of it, without any fault on his side."
"Geoffrey, it is of no consequence to me what your opinion may be on the subject; I am master of my own actions, and please myself as to whom I retain or employ. Clear up that scowling brow, and be very thankful to obtain a handsome salary for services which I can command without remuneration."
The loss of my friend, my only friend, was a dreadful blow. I was too much overcome to thank my uncle for his offer, and left the room.
I had been so little accustomed to think for myself, that I relied upon George as my counsellor in all matters of importance. Besides, I had an idea that he could throw some light upon the mysterious events of the night, and I was anxious to unburden to him the important secret.
Having to obtain the signature of a gentleman who resided in Fleet Street, to some legal documents, and knowing that Harrison lodged in the same street, I snatched up my hat and sallied forth, determined to consult him with regard to the change in my prospects, as I felt certain, that some sinister motive was concealed beneath my uncle's unlooked-for condescension.
I was again doomed to disappointment. On reaching Harrison's lodgings, I learned that he had left town that morning, for a visit of some weeks into the country, but to what part his landlady did not know. At parting, he told her she might let his rooms until he gave her notice of his return.
"Gone! without seeing or writing one line to inform me of his departure. That is not like his general conduct," I muttered, as I turned from the door.
With a heavy heart, I sauntered on, almost unconscious of the path I had taken, until I found myself entangled among the crowds which thronged Oxford Street.
A scream, echoed by several voices from the crowd, "that the lady would be crushed to death!" startled me from my unprofitable musings; and following the direction of the general gaze, I saw that a young female, in attempting to cross the street, had just fallen between the horses of two carriages advancing in opposite directions.
It was but the impulse of the moment to dash across the intervening space, and hinder the young lady from being trampled to death beneath the horses' hoofs. She fortunately was unconscious of her danger, and could not by useless screams and struggles frighten the horses, and frustrate my endeavours to save her.
The coachmen belonging to the vehicles, succeeded in stopping the horses, and I bore my insensible burden through the crowd to an apothecary's shop, which happened to be near at hand. The gentleman in attendance hastened to my assistance. We placed the young lady in a chair, and he told me to remove her bonnet, while he applied restoratives to her wrists and temples.
She was exceedingly fair; her rich, black, velvet pelisse, setting off to great advantage the dazzling whiteness of her skin, and the rich colouring of her sunny brown hair.
My heart throbbed beneath the lovely head that rested so placidly above it; and the arm that supported her graceful form, trembled violently. The glorious ideal of my youthful fancy had assumed a tangible form, had become a bright reality; and as I looked down upon that calm, gentle face, I felt that I loved for the first time. A new spirit had passed into me, I was only alive to the delicious rapture that thrilled through me.
First passion is instantaneous—electrical. It cannot be described, and can only be communicated through the same mysterious medium.
People may rave as they like about the absurdity of love at first sight; but the young and sensitive always love at first sight, and the love of after-years, however better and more wisely bestowed, is never able to obliterate from the heart the memory of those sudden and vivid impressions made upon it by the first electrical shocks of love.
How eagerly I watched the unclosing of those blue eyes; yet, how timidly I shrunk from their first mild rays.
Blushing, she disengaged herself from my arms, and shaking the long, sunny ringlets from her face, thanked me with gentle reserve for the service I had rendered.
"But for your prompt assistance, I must have lost my life, or at the very least been seriously injured. My poor thanks will never convey to you the deep gratitude I feel."
She gave me her hand with a charming frankness, and I touched the white slender fingers with as much reverence as if she had been a saint.
At this moment, we were joined by a handsome elderly lady, who ran into the shop, exclaiming in hurried tones:
"Where is she?—where is my child? Is she safe?"
"Yes, dear aunt, thanks to this gentleman's timely aid, who risked his own life to save mine."
"How shall we thank you—how shall we thank you, Sir?" exclaimed the elderly lady, seizing my hand, and all but embracing me in an ecstacy of gratitude. "You have rendered me a great service—a great service indeed. Without that dear girl, life would be a blank to me. My Kate, my Kate!" she cried, clasping the young lady in her arms, and bursting into tears, "you don't know how dreadfully I felt when I saw you under the hoofs of those horses. My child! my child I—I can hardly yet believe that you are safe."
The charming Kate tenderly kissed her weeping relative, and assured her that she could realize it all—that she must not fret, for she was quite herself again—not even hurt; only frightened a little.
And then she turned her lovely face to me, on which a tear rested, like a dew-drop upon the heart of a rose, with such a sweet, arch smile, as she said, "My aunt is very nervous, and is so fond of me that her fears for my safety have quite upset her. The sooner we get her home the better. Will you be so kind, Sir, as to tell me if a carriage is at the door. Ours is blue, with white horses."
The carriage was there. How I wished it at Jericho. The old lady again repeated her thanks in the warmest manner, and I assisted her and her charming niece into the equipage. The young lady waved her hand and smiled, the powdered footman closed the door, and they drove off, leaving me spell-bound, rooted to the door-sill of the shop.
"Who are those ladies?" asked the apothecary, looking complacently down upon the sovereign the elder lady had slipped into his hand.
"I was just going to ask that question of you," said I.
"How! not know them—and let them go away without inquiring their names! Arn't you a simple young fellow? If it had been me now, I should have done my best to improve such a golden opportunity. Gratitude you know begets love, and I'll be sworn that the pretty young woman has a good fortune, by the anxiety the old one felt in her behalf."
I was in the maddest heroics of love. "What do I care about her property," said I disdainfully. "Such a beautiful, elegant creature is a fortune in herself."
"Yes—to those who have enough of their own. But my dear young sir, beauty won't boil the pot."
To joke me at the expense of the beautiful unknown was sacrilege, and casting upon my tormentor, a look of unmitigated contempt, I left the shop with a lofty step, and an air of offended dignity.
As I passed into the street, I fancied that the term "ridiculous puppy!" was hissed after me.
I strode back into the shop. The apothecary was waiting upon a new customer.
"Was that insult intended for me?" I demanded, in a haughty tone.
"What did I say, Sir?"
"You called me a ridiculous puppy," said I.
"You are mistaken, young man. I am not in the habit of speaking my thoughts aloud."
I deserved this cut for my folly, and felt keenly that I had placed myself in an absurd position.
"My uncle is right," said I, to myself, as I retraced my steps to Hatton Garden. "I am a babe in my knowledge of the world. I must go more into society, or I shall for ever be getting into such ridiculous scrapes."
At dinner my uncle met me with a serious face.
"What kept you from the office, Geoffrey, this morning?"
I, willing to act openly with him, narrated to him the adventure I had met with.
"I think I know the lady," said he. "She is not very tall—is fair complexioned, with blue eyes and light brown hair.Ratherpretty than otherwise."
"Ratherpretty. She isbeautiful, Sir."
"Phew!" said Mr. Moncton. "Wesee with other eyes. Young men are always blind. The girl is well enough—and better still, she is very rich. Did she tell you her name?"
"I did not ask her."
"Where was your curiosity?"
"I wished very much to put the question, for I was anxious to know; but really, uncle, I had not the face to do it. But you can tell me."
"If she did not tell you herself, I am not going to betray her secret. What use would the knowledge be to you?"
"It would be pleasant to know her name."
My uncle looked hard at me; and something like a sarcastic smile passed over his lips.
"Boy, it would render you miserable."
"In what way?"
"By leading you to neglect business, and by filling your head with hopes which could never be realized."
"And why not?" I demanded, rather fiercely.
"Young ladies in our days seldom commit matrimony with penniless clerks."
This was said with a strong sneer.
"It may be so—and they are right not to involve themselves in misery. I am penniless at present. But that is no reason that I am always to remain so. I am young, healthy, industrious, with a mind willing and able to work—why should I not make a fortune as others have done? As my grandfather, for instance, did before me?"
"This is all true," said he, calmly, "and I admire your spirit, Geoffrey; but, nephew" (this was the first time I ever remember his calling me so), "there are other difficulties in the way of your making a high and wealthy alliance, of which you have no idea."
I know not why—but a sudden tremor seized me as he said this. But mastering my agitation, I begged him to explain his meaning.
"I have long wished to do so," said he, "but you were so violent and unreasonable, that I thought it prudent to defer unpleasant communications until you were older, and better able to take things calmly. You have thought me a hard task-master, Geoffrey—a cruel unfeeling tyrant, and from your earliest childhood have defied my authority and resisted my will; yet you know not half the debt of kindness you owe to me."
I was about to speak. He held up his hand for me to maintain silence; which I did with a very bad grace; and he continued in the same cold methodical way—
"Children are naturally averse to control, and are unable to discern between sternness of manner, and a cold unfeeling hardness of heart; and construe into insults and injuries the necessary restraint imposed upon their actions for their good. Yours, I admit, was a painful situation, which you rendered still more unpleasant by your obstinate and resentful disposition."
"But, uncle!" I exclaimed, unable longer to hold my tongue, "you know I was treated very ill."
"Who treated you so? I am very certain, that Rebecca indulged you, as she never did one of her own children."
"My dear aunt! God bless her! she was the only creature in the house who treated me with the least kindness. The very servants were instructed to slight and insult me by youramiableson, and his servile tutor."
"He was a fool," said Mr. Moncton, refilling his glass. "As to Theophilus, it was natural for him to dislike the lad who had robbed him of his mother's affections, and who left him behind in his lessons. You were strong enough, and bold enough to take your own part, and if I mistake not, did take it. And pray, Sir, who was it that freed you from the tyranny of Mr. Jones, when he found that the complaints you brought against him were just?"
"But not until after I had been first condemned, and brutally maltreated. The less said on that score, uncle, the better."
He laughed—his low, sarcastic, sneering laugh, but did not choose to be angry.
"There are circumstances connected with your birth, Geoffrey, that evidently were the cause of these slights. People will not pay the same respect to a natural child, which they do to a legitimate one."
"Good God!" I exclaimed, starting from my chair. "You don't mean to insinuate—you dare not say, that I am a bastard?"
"Such is the fact."
"It is a falsehood! invented to ruin me!" I exclaimed, defiantly. "One of these days you shall be forced to prove it such."
"I shall be very happy to do so—if you will only give me the proofs."
"Proofs!" I exclaimed, bitterly, "they are in your own possession—or you have destroyed them!"
"What interest can I have in trying to make you a bastard? Is the boy mad?"
"You never act without a motive," I cried; "you know that I am heir to a title, and property that you covet for yourself and your son!"
His pretended calmness was all gone. His pale face crimsoned with rage. Yet it was wonderful how instantaneously he mastered his passion.
"Who told you thisprobablestory? Who put such absurd notions into your head?"
"One, upon whose word I can rely. My friend, Mr. Harrison."
"I would like to ask Mr. Harrison what he knows of our family affairs," sneered Mr. Moncton. "He has proved himself a scoundrel by inventing this pretty little romance to get up a quarrel between us, and rob you of the only real friend you have. I will repay Mr. Harrison for this base falsehood, one of these days."
I felt that I had, betrayed my friend, and perhaps by my foolish rashness marred my own fortunes. Inwardly I cursed my imprudence, and loaded myself with reproaches. Then the thought suggested itself, "Could my uncle be right—was I indeed illegitimate?"
"No, no," I exclaimed, unconsciously aloud; "it is not true—I feel that it is false. A base falsehood got up to rob me of my good name—the only treasure left me by Providence when she deprived me of my parents. Uncle," I exclaimed, standing erect before him, "I will never part with it. I will maintain my equality with you and your son to the last moment of my life."
Overcome by excitement and agitation, I sank down into a chair, my head dropped upon the table and I sobbed convulsively.
"Geoffrey," said my uncle, in a low voice, in which an unusual touch of kindness mingled, "calm down this furious passion. Poor lad! I pity and excuse your indignation; both are natural in your case."
"Such sympathy is worse than hate," I muttered.
"Well, believe me the author of all your wrongs, if it pleases you, Geoffrey; but first listen to what I have to say."
I was too much exhausted by the violence of my emotions to offer the least opposition, and he had it entirely his own way—commencing his remarks with a provoking coolness which cut me to the heart.
"When you lost your parents, Geoffrey, you were too young to have formed a correct estimate of their characters."
"I have a very indistinct recollection of my father. I remember my mother well."
"You may imagine that. Your father had a fine, manly face, and nature had endowed him with those useless but brilliant qualities of mind, which the world calls genius, and like many of the same class, he acted more from impulse than from principle. Your mother was a beautiful young woman, but with little discretion, who loved unwisely and too well. Her father saw enough of my brother Edward's character, to awaken his suspicions that his attentions to his daughter were not of an honourable nature, and he forbade him the house.
"This impolitic step brought matters to a crisis. The young people eloped together, and the old man died of a broken heart. Your mother went by the name of Moncton, and was introduced to his sporting friends as my brother's wife. But no evidence exists of a marriage having taken place; and until such evidence can be procured, the world will look upon you as illegitimate.
"You will soon be of age, Geoffrey, and if you are prepared with these indispensable documents, I will assist, to the best of my professional abilities, in helping you to establish your claims. It is not in my power to destroy or invalidate them. Why then these base suspicions—these unmerited reproaches—these hurricanes of passion? Why doubt my integrity at the very moment when I am most anxious to serve you?"
"Because in no instance have you ever proved yourself my friend, and I cannot help doubting your sincerity!"
"A want of candour is certainly not among your failings," said Mr. Moncton, with a slight curl of his proud lip. "You have studied the law long enough to know the impolicy of such conduct."
"I judge, not from fair words but deeds. Sir, the change in your behaviour to me is too sudden for me to believe it genuine."
"Strange," mused Mr. Moncton, "so young and so suspicious!" then turning to me, he said, without the least appearance of resentment at my violence,
"Geoffrey, I know your faulty temper, and forgive you for using such insulting language. The communication I have just made was enough to irritate your sensitive nature and mortify your pride; but it is not reasonable that your anger should be directed against me. I considered it absolutely necessary, to apprise you of these important facts, and conveyed the knowledge of them to you, as gently as I could, just to show you that you must depend upon your own exertions to advance your position in society."
"If your statement be true, what have I to do with society?" said I. "What position could I obtain in a world which already regards me as an outcast?"
"Not here, perhaps. But there are other countries, where the conventional rules which govern society in this, are regarded with indifference—America, for instance."
He fixed his keen eye upon me. An electric flash passed into my mind. I saw his drift. I recollected Harrison's advice that the only way to obtain my rights and baffle my uncle's cunning, wasnon-resistance. I formed my plans in a moment, and determined to foil his schemes, by appearing to countenance them, until I could arrive at the truth, and fathom his designs—and I answered with composure.
"Perhaps, I have done you injustice, Sir. The distracted state of my mind must be my excuse. I will try and submit with patience to my hard fate."
"It is your only wise course. Hark you, Geoffrey! I am rich, trust in me, and the world shall never sneer at you as apoor relation. Those whom Robert Moncton takes by the hand may laugh at doubtful birth and want of fortune."
The scoundrel! how I longed to knock him down, but that would have done me no good, so I mastered my indignation and withdrew.
CHAPTER XII.
I FORFEIT MY INDEPENDENCE.
"Be ye wise as serpents, and harmless as doves," was the advice of the Divine Lawgiver, when he sent his disciples forth on their heavenly mission to reform an evil world.
Religion, as I have before stated, had formed no part in my education. I had read the sacred volume with fear and trembling, and derived no consolation from its mystic pages. I had adopted the fatal idea, that I was one of those pre-condemned beings, for whom the blackness of darkness was reserved for ever, and that no effort on my part could avert the terrible decree.
This shocking and blasphemous belief had taken such deep hold of my mind, that looked upon all religious exercises as perfectly useless. I could not fancy myself one of the elect, and so went from that extreme to the other. If I were to be saved, I should be saved; if a vessel of wrath, only fitted for destruction, it was folly to struggle against fate, and I never suffered my mind to dwell upon the subject. In the multitude of sorrows which pressed sorely on my young heart, I more than ever stood in need of the advice and consolation which the Christian religion can alone bestow.
I left the presence of my uncle, and sought my own chamber. The lonely garret did not appear so repulsive as usual. No one would disturb its gloomy solitude, or intrude upon my grief. There I had free liberty to weep—to vent aloud, if I pleased, the indignant feelings of my heart. My mind was overwhelmed with bitter and resentful thoughts; every evil passion was struggling for mastery, and the worst agony I was called upon to endure, was the hopeless, heart-crushing, downward tending madness of despair.
To die—to get rid of self, the dark consciousness of unmerited contempt and social degradation, was the temptation which continually flitted through my excited brain. I have often since wondered how I resisted the strong impulse which lured me onward to destruction.
My good angel prevailed. By mere accident, my Bible lay upon the iron chest. I eagerly seized the volume, and sought in the first page I should open, an omen that should decide my fate, and my eye glanced upon the words already quoted—"Be ye, therefore, wise as serpents, and harmless as doves."
I closed the book and sat down, and tried to shape the words to suit my present state. What better advice could I follow? from what higher authority could I derive sounder counsel? Did it not suit completely my case?
Harrison had disappeared. I was alone and friendless in the house of the oppressor. Did I follow the suggestions of my own heart, I should either destroy myself, or quit the protection of Mr. Moncton's roof for ever.
"But then," said reason, "if you take the first step, you are guilty of an unpardonable sin, and by destroying yourself, further the sinister views of your uncle. If the second, you throw away seven years of hard labour, lose your indentures, and for ever place a bar on your future advancement. In a few months you will be of age, and your own master. Bear these evils patiently a little longer—wait and watch: you never can regain your lost name and inheritance by throwing yourself friendless upon the world."
Determined to adopt, and strictly to adhere to this line of conduct, and leave the rest to Providence, I washed the traces of tears from my face and returned to the private office.
Here I found Mr. Moncton engaged with papers of consequence.
He held out his hand as I took my seat at the desk. "Are we friends, Geoffrey?"
"That depends upon circumstances" said I.
"How hard it is for you to give a gracious answer," he replied. "It is your own fault that we ever were otherwise."
"I will try and think you my friend for the time to come."
He seemed more amused than surprised at this concession, and for some time we both wrote on in silence.
A tap at the door, and one of the clerks handed in a letter.
Mr. Moncton examined the post-mark and eagerly opened it up. While reading, his countenance underwent one of those remarkable changes I had on several occasions witnessed of late, and which seemed so foreign to his nature.
Suddenly crushing the letter tightly in his hand, he flung it from him to the floor, and spurned it with his foot, exclaiming as he did so, with a fiend-like curl of the lip: "So would I serve the writer were he here!" Then turning to me, and speaking in a low confidential tone, he said:
"The writer of that letter is unconsciously making your fortune, Geoffrey. This son of mine has acted in a base, ungrateful manner to me—in a manner which I can never forget or forgive. If you conduct yourself prudently, you may become dearer to me than this wicked young man."
"I should be sorry to rise on my cousin's ruin. I would rather gain your respect on any other terms."
This remark made him wince.
"Foolish boy! How blind you are to your own interest. You belong to a family famous for playing the fool. It runs in the blood of the Monctons."
Starting from his seat, he paced the room for some minutes, as if in deep communion with himself.
"Geoffrey," said he at last, "from this day I adopt you as my son. I exempt you from the common drudgeries of the office, and will engage masters to instruct you in the fashionable accomplishments which are deemed necessary to complete the education of a gentleman."
I was mute with astonishment.
"Trifling as these things may appear to the man of science and the candidate for literary honours, they are not without their use to the professional student. The world judges so much by externals, that nothing is despised which helps to flatter its prejudices and ensure popularity. You are not too old to learn dancing, fencing and riding. I should like you to excel in athletic sports and exercises."
"You are making game of me, uncle," said I, for I could not believe him in earnest.
"By the living God! Geoffrey, I mean what I say."
I stood before him, gazing into his face like one in a dream. There was a downright earnestness in his face which could not be mistaken. He was no longer acting a part, but really meant what he said. Nor could I doubt but that letter had wrought this sudden change in my favour. Where, now, was all my high-souled resolutions? Human nature prevailed, and I yielded to the temptation. There sat Robert Moncton, gazing complacently upon me, from beneath those stern, dark brows, his glittering eyes no longer freezing me with their icy shine, but regarding me with a calm, approving smile: no longer the evil genius of my childhood, but a munificent spirit intent to do me good.
Ah, I was young—very young, and the world in my narrow circle had dealt hardly with me. I longed for freedom, for emancipation from constant toil. This must plead an excuse for my criminal weakness.
Years of painful experience, in the ways and wiles of men, had not as yet perfected the painful lesson taught me in after-years. Young, ardent, and willing to believe the best I could of my species, I began to think that I alone had been to blame; that I had wronged my uncle, and thrust upon his shoulders the burden of injuries which I had received from his son.
The evil influence of that son had been removed, and he was now willing to be my friend; and I determined to bury the past in oblivion, and to believe him really and truly so.
I shook him warmly by the hand, and entreated his forgiveness for the hard thoughts I had entertained, and thanked him sincerely for his offers of service.
The light faded from his eye. He looked gloomily, almost sadly into my face, glowing, as it must have been, with generous emotions, marvelling doubtlessly at my credulity.
Mr. Moncton up to this period had resided in the house which contained his office; the basement having been appropriated entirely for that purpose, while the family occupied the floors above. My uncle seldom received visitors, excepting at those times when Theophilus returned from college. To these parties, I as a matter of course had never been admitted. My uncle's evenings were spent abroad, but I was unacquainted with his habits, and totally ignorant of his haunts.
Judge then, of my surprise and satisfaction when informed by Mr. Moncton, that he had purchased a handsome house in Grosvenor Street, and that we were to remove thither. The office was still to be retained in Hatton Garden, but my hours of attendance were not to commence before ten in the morning; and were to terminate at four in the afternoon.
I had lived the larger portion of my life in great, smoky London, and had never visited the west end of the town. The change in my prospects was truly delightful. I was transported as if by magic from my low, dingy, ill-ventilated garret, to a well-appointed room on the second story of an elegantly furnished house in an airy, fashionable part of the town; the apartment provided for my especial benefit, containing all the luxuries and comforts which modern refinement has rendered indispensable.
A small, but well-selected library crowned the whole.
I did little else the first day my uncle introduced me to this charming room, but to walk to and fro from the book-case to the windows; now glancing at the pages of some long coveted treasure; now watching with intense interest the throng of carriages passing and repassing; hoping to catch a glance of the fair face, which had made such an impression on my youthful fancy.
A note from Mr. Moncton, kindly worded for him, conveyed to me the pleasing intelligence that the handsome pressful of fine linen, and fashionably cut clothes, was meant for my use; to which he had generously added, a beautiful dressing-case, gold watch and chain.
I should have been perfectly happy, had it not been for a vague, unpleasant sensation—a certain swelling of the heart, which silently seemed to reproach me for accepting all these favours from a person whom I neither loved nor respected.
Conscience whispered that it was far better to remain poor and independent, than compromise my integrity. Oh, that I had given more heed to that voice of the soul! That still, small voice, which never lies—that voice which no one can drown, without remorse and self-condemnation.
Time brought with it the punishment I deserved, convincing me then, and for ever, that no one can act against his own conviction of right, without incurring the penalty due to his moral defalcation.
I dined alone with Mr. Moncton.
He asked me if I was pleased with the apartments he had selected for my use. I was warm in my thanks, and he appeared satisfied.
After the cloth was drawn, he filled a bumper of wine, and pushed the bottle over to me.
"Here's to your rising to the head of the profession, Geoffrey. Fill your glass, my boy."
I drank part of the wine, and set the glass down on the table. It was fine old Madeira. I had not been used to drink anything stronger than tea and coffee, and I found it mounting to my head.
"I will not allow that, Geoffrey—you must honour my toast."
"I have done so, uncle, as far as I am able. I have had enough wine."
"Nonsense, boy! Don't you like it?"
"I hardly know. It makes me feel giddy and queer."
"Ha! ha! that's good"—chuckling and rubbing his hands.
"If I take more just now, I shall certainly be tipsy."
"What then?"
"It would be disgraceful. In your presence, too."
"What—were you never drunk?"
"Never, in my life."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty."
"And never intoxicated—well, that's a good joke. Few young men of your age could say that. Would you not like to increase your knowledge, and be as wise as others?"
I shook my head.
"Ridiculous prudery. Come, fill your glass."
He drank off several glasses in succession; and for fear I should be thought deficient in spirit; I followed his example. But the Rubicon once crossed, to my surprise, I found that the wine had no effect upon my senses; only serving to elevate my spirits a little, and make me more sociable and communicative.
My uncle's stern face began to relax from its usual cold severity, and I found that when warmed with wine, he could be a most intelligent and agreeable companion. After conversing for some time on indifferent subjects, he said:
"You think you remember your parents. I have their portraits. Perhaps you would like to keep them in your own possession."
"No present you could make me, would be so valuable," I replied.
"No heroics," he said, going to a beautiful inlaid cabinet. "I detest sentimental people. They are the greatest humbugs in the world."
Returning to the table, he placed two large miniature cases in my hand. I eagerly seized them.
"Don't look at them now," he resumed, "or we shall have a scene—wait until you are alone. I found them among my brother's papers, and had forgotten all about them, until I chanced to stumble over them in the bustle of removing."
I hid away the precious relics in my bosom, and was about to quit the room.
"Sit down, Geoffrey," he said, with a grim smile, "you are too sober to go to bed yet."
I filled the glass mechanically, but it remained untasted before me.
"By the by," continued my uncle, in a careless tone, which his eager glance contradicted, "what has become of your friend Harrison?"
"I wish I knew. His absence is a great loss to me."
"Who and what is this Harrison? You were his confidant, and, doubtless, know."
"Of his private history, nothing."
My uncle's large dark eyes were looking into my soul. I felt that he doubted my word. "He has, I believe, been unfortunate, and is reduced in his circumstances. His moral character,I knowto be excellent."
"And doubtless you are acapital judge," said Mr. Moncton. "Young men all imagine themselves as wise as Daniel or Socrates. I think, however, friend Geoffrey, that this man deceived you."
"Impossible! Harrison is incapable of committing a mean or dishonourable action. Nor does he attempt to spare himself from blame; but frankly confesses, that to his own imprudence he is mainly indebted for his misfortunes."
"Imprudenceis a respectable term for intemperance, dissipation, and vice of every kind," sneered my uncle. "Your moral young gentleman might preach against sins which had caused his own ruin. Believe me, Geoffrey, the crimes and passions of most men are alike, with only this difference, that some have greater art in concealing them."
"That would make virtue a mere name," said I, indignantly. "I cannot believethatideal, which I have been used to worship as areality."
"All bosh. At your age men cling to the ideal, and resolutely close their eyes to the true and rational. I was guilty of the same weakness once."
"You, uncle!"
"Ay, you are astonished. But the time came, and too soon, when I learned to wonder at my own credulity. I was in love once. You smile. Yes, with that old witch, as you call her now. She was as beautiful as an angel then. She is an incarnate devil now! Love has turned to hate—admiration to execration—and I curse myself for ever having thought her wise or good."
He flung himself into a chair, and groaned like one in acute pain; and I, thinking he wished to be alone, slipped away before he raised his head from between his clasped hands.
"What could he mean by asking me so many questions?" I cried, as I threw myself into an easy chair in my luxurious apartment. "Were they instigated by the wine he had drank, or suggested by idle curiosity? or were my answers intended to answer some sinister purpose? God knows! He is a strange, inexplicable man, whose words and actions the most profound lawyer could scarcely fathom. I think he endeavoured to make me intoxicated in the hope of extracting some information regarding poor George. If so, he has missed his mark."
I drew from my bosom the portraits he had given me, perhaps, as a bait to win my confidence; but I was thankful to him for the inestimable gift, whatever the motives were which led to its bestowal.
The first case contained the miniature of my father. The gay, careless, happy countenance, full of spirit and intelligence, seemed to smile upon his unfortunate son.
I raised my eyes to the mirror—the same features met my glance: but ah, how different the expression of the two faces. Mine was saddened and paled by early care, and close confinement to a dark unhealthy office; at twenty, I was but a faded likeness of my father.
I sighed as I pressed the portrait to my heart. In the marked difference between us I read distinctly the history of two lives.
But how shall I describe my feelings whilst gazing on the picture of my mother? The fast falling tears for a long while hid the fondly remembered features from my sight; but they still floated before the eyes of my soul in all their original loveliness.
Yes, there was the sweet calm face, the large soft confiding blue eyes, the small rosy mouth with its gentle winning smile, and the modest truthful expression of the combined features which gave such a charm to the whole.
Oh, my mother! my dear lost, angel mother! how that picture recalled the far-off happy days of childhood, when I sat upon your knees, and saw my own joyous face reflected in those dove-like eyes! when, ending some nursery rhyme with a kiss, you bowed your velvet cheek upon my clustering curls, and bade God bless and keep your darling boy! Would that I could become a child again, or that I could go to you, though you cannot return to me!
I leant my head upon the table and wept. Those tears produced a salutary effect upon my mind, and slipping down upon my knees, I poured out the feelings of my oppressed heart in prayer, and after awhile rose from the ground in a more composed state of mind. The picture still lay there smiling upon me. "Is it of you, dearest mother," said I, "that bad men dare whisper hard things? Who could look at that pure lovely face and believe aught against your honour? I could despise my father, though his only son, could I for an instant imagine him capable of taking advantage of such youth and innocence. But no, it is a foul slander invented by a villain to answer some base purpose; and may I perish, when I believe it true!"
I locked the portraits carefully in my desk, and retired to bed. The wine I had drank and the unusual excitement of my feelings for a long time prevented sleep, and it was the dawn of day before I sank to rest.
CHAPTER XIII.
A VISIT FROM THE GREAT MAN OF THE FAMILY.
From that day I became Mr. Moncton's factotum, his confidential clerk, and principal agent. In all matters that required prompt and skilful management, he invariably employed me.
If he did not regard me with affection, for that was foreign to his nature, he respected my abilities, and placed the greatest reliance on my principles. I attended him in most of his professional journeys, and was present in every court in which he had an important case. I no sooner appeared with him in public than I became a person of considerable consequence among his friends and acquaintances, and invitations flowed in upon me from all quarters. One thing appeared very certain, that the same persons who had despised the shabbily-dressed lawyer's clerk, no longer regarded me with cold eyes as apoor relation, but were among the first to overwhelm me with civilities; and, for a while, I was intoxicated with the adulation I received from the world and its smooth-tongued votaries.
Three months glided rapidly away, and every day added to my self-importance, and brought with it fresh opportunities of enlarging the circle of my friends, and of acquiring a competent knowledge of the conventional rules of society. Though naturally fond of company, I hated dissipation, and those low vices which many young men designate as pleasure, in the pursuit of which they too often degrade their mental and physical powers. Mr. Moncton laughed at what he termed my affectation of moral integrity, and tried by every art to seduce me to join in amusements, and visit scenes, from which my mind revolted; and his own example served to strengthen my disgust. My resistance to such temptations I do not ascribe to any inherent virtue in me; but I have often observed in my subsequent journey through life, that young men, whose knowledge of the world has chiefly been confined to books, and who have never mingled much with persons of their own age, are guarded from low vices by the romantic and beautiful ideal of life, which they formed in solitude. The coarse reality is so shocking and degrading, so repugnant to taste and good feeling, and all their preconceived notions upon the subject, that they cannot indulge in it without remorse and a painful sense of degradation. This was so completely my case, that I often fled to solitude as a refuge from pleasures, so-called, which I could not enjoy, and scenes in which I felt shame to be an actor. Perhaps I was mainly indebted to the passion I had conceived for the beautiful Catherine, which acted as a secret talisman in securing me from the contaminating influences to which, in my new position, I was often exposed. In the hope of meeting again the fair creature whose image filled my soul, I had frequented theatres, operas, and mixed much in society, but to no purpose; on this head I was still doomed to suffer the most provoking disappointment.
One evening, I returned late from the office in Hatton Garden; my uncle was from home, and a great press of business had detained me beyond the usual dinner-hour, which was at six. The porter had scarcely admitted me into the hall, when one of the footmen, with whom I was a great favourite, addressed me with an air of mystery which I thought highly amusing, he seemed so anxious to impress me with the importance of the news he had to communicate.
"Mr. Geoffrey, Sir Alexander Moncton, my master's cousin, sir, is in the dining-room, waiting to see you; and the dinner, sir, is waiting, too. I told him, sir, that we expected Mr. Moncton home this evening, and he bade his valet bring up his portmanteau from the hotel, and said that he would wait here till master returned."
"Thank you, Saunders, for your information," cried I, hurrying off to my chamber to dress for dinner.
I felt greatly excited at the prospect of the approaching interview with the great man of the family, who might prove a powerful friend to his friendless relative.
My uncle was from home, which would afford me an opportunity of speaking for myself. I was anxious to make a favourable impression on Sir Alexander, and took an unusual degree of pains with my toilet.
I joined Sir Alexander in the drawing-room, just as the footman announced that dinner was on the table.
Sir Alexander received me, and my apologies for detention in the office, with a mighty good grace, shook me warmly by the hand, and accompanied me into the dining-room, with the air of a man who was determined not to be cheated out of his dinner, and anxious to make up for lost time.
I did the honours as well as I could; but not without committing sundry awkward blunders; greatly to the horror of Saunders, who with toe and elbow, gave me various silent hints upon the subject, as he glided noiselessly to and fro. This only increased my confusion, but, fortunately, my worthy relative was too much engrossed with his dinner, to notice the trifling omissions, which poor Saunders considered of such immense importance.
I was greatly relieved when the cloth was removed; and the wine and glasses were placed upon the table, and Sir Alexander and I were left alone to improve our acquaintance.
He commenced the conversation by introducing the very subject uppermost in my mind.
"Did I mistake you, young gentleman, or did you tell me, that you were a son of the late Edward Moncton?"
"His only son."
"I was not aware of his marriage—still less that he left a son. It is strange, that I should have been kept in ignorance of this important fact."
This was said half musingly. He then turned to me with a lively air.
"Your father, young gentleman, deeply offended me. It was a foolish affair; but it effectually severed the friendship of years. We repent of these things when it is too late. Had he been less violent, and less obstinate, a reconciliation might have been brought about. As it was—interested parties did their best to widen the breach.
"Edward and I were school-fellows; and though little harmony existed between the elder branches of the family, we loved like brothers. He was a handsome, generous, high-spirited fellow, but rash and extravagant. While at school he was always in debt and difficulty, to the great annoyance of his money-loving father, who looked upon me as the aider and abettor in all his scrapes. We continued firm friends until the night before he left college, when the quarrel, which I do not mean to particularize, took place; from which period we never met, and all correspondence ceased between us. I heard, that in after-years, he made a love connexion; but I never learned the particulars from any one but your uncle Robert; and he did not inform me, that Edward had left a son—nor can I comprehend his motive for concealing the fact."
Sir Alexander paused and looked earnestly in my face. I felt the blood rush to my temples.
"I do not doubt your veracity, young sir. You are too like the man I loved so long and well, for me to question your origin. But are youcertainthat you are Edward Moncton'slegitimateson?"
"I feel no doubt upon the subject; my heart tells me that I am his lawful representative; and I trust that heaven will one day enable me to substantiate my claims." This was said with a vehemence that brought the tears into my eyes.
"Does Robert Moncton admit them?"
"No."
"On what grounds?"
"He affirms, that no certificate of my mother's marriage can be found, and without this important document, the law will not acknowledge me as Edward Moncton's legitimate son."
"Or Alexander Moncton's heir," replied the Baronet. "But I do not judge like the rest of the world, young man, and dare to think and act for myself. This uncle of yours is a cunning man: I know him and his ways of old. I know how he fomented the quarrel between his brother and me, to gain his own ends; and this son of his—this Theophilus, is a finished scoundrel! It is mortifying to the pride of an English gentleman to acknowledge such men as his successors."
The old man rose from his seat, and paced the room for some time in silence. He was so much occupied with his own reflections, that I had leisure to examine his countenance minutely.
A strong family likeness existed between him and my father, and uncle Robert; and as for me, I might have passed for his son. He had the same high forehead, aquiline nose, chestnut curling hair, and dark piercing eyes; but his face lacked the careless, frank, good-nature of my father's, and was totally destitute of the subtle, stern demeanour of my uncle's. The expression was more simple, and less worldly than either. It was a thoughtful, intellectual, benevolent physiognomy, which excited feelings of confidence and affection, at first sight. While looking at him, I thought I had known and loved him for years.
His tall commanding figure was slightly bent in the shoulders, and his hair was thickly sprinkled with grey; yet, his age could scarcely have exceeded fifty. His complexion, unlike my handsome uncle's, was very pale, and an early acquaintance with grief might be traced in the lines which furrowed his ample white forehead.
After a few turns through the room, he resumed his seat.
"Mr. Geoffrey Moncton," said he, grasping me warmly by the hand, "I wish sincerely that you could prove your legitimacy. There is something about you that pleases and interests me. If ever you stand in need of assistance you may rely upon me as your friend. It is not Robert Moncton's bare assertion that will make me believe you a bastard. Tell me all you know about yourself."
I endeavoured to speak, but I was so completely overwhelmed by his unexpected kindness, that I could find no words to express my thanks, or comply with his request.
A loud knocking at the door, announced the arrival of Mr. Moncton.
"That is my uncle's knock," cried I, breaking the spell that bound me.
"We will talk over this matter again, Geoffrey. If we cannot get an opportunity, you must write, and tell me all you know."
Before I could promise anything Mr. Moncton entered the room. He cast a hurried, scrutinizing glance at me, and seemed surprised and annoyed at finding me on such intimate terms with the baronet, to whom he gave a most cordial and flattering welcome.
The other met his advances with cold and studied politeness. It was evident to me that he, too, put a restraint upon his feelings.
"I am sorry, Sir Alexander, that I was from home when you arrived. This visitfrom youis such anunexpectedfavour."
"Your absence, Robert Moncton, gave me an opportunity of making the acquaintance of your nephew, whom I have found a very agreeable and entertaining substitute, as well as a near relation."
Mr. Moncton regarded me with a haughty and contemptuous smile.
"I am happy to learn that your time was so agreeably spent. By-the-by, Geoffrey," turning abruptly to me, and speaking in a hasty, authoritative tone, "are those papers transcribed I gave you at parting? They will be required in court early to-morrow."
He evidently expected a negative.
"They are ready, sir, and many others that have been placed in my hands since. We have been hard at work in the office all day."
"I commend your diligence," said he, affecting a patronizing air; "I am sorry to take you from such pleasant company, but business, you know, cannot be neglected. This bundle of papers," (and he took a packet from his wallet and placed in my hand), "must be transcribed to-night. You need not go to the office. Step into the study, you will find all that you require there."
This was but a stratagem to get rid of my unwelcome presence. I bowed to Sir Alexander, and reluctantly withdrew.
It so happened, that Mr. Moncton's study opened into the dining-room, and without meaning to do so, I left the door but partially closed.
Sitting down to the table, I trimmed the large shaded lamp that always burnt there, and began mechanically to transcribe the uninteresting papers. An hour passed away. The gentlemen were conversing upon the current news of the day over their wine. The servant brought up coffee, and I ceased to give any heed to what was passing in the next room.
I was drawing out a long deed of settlement, when my attention was aroused by the mention of my own name, and the following dialogue caught my ear:
"This nephew of yours, Robert Moncton, is a fine lad. How is it that I never heard of him before?"
"I did not think it necessary to introduce him to your notice, Sir Alexander. He has no legal claim upon our protection. He is a natural son of Edward's, whom I educate for the profession out of charity."
"An act of benevolence hardly to be expected from you," said Sir Alexander with a provoking sneer. "I suppose you expect to get the interest for your kindness out of the lad?"
"Why, yes! He has excellent abilities, and might do much for himself, but is too like the father, but with this difference, Edward was good-natured and careless to a fault; this boy is haughty and petulant, with the unmanageable obstinacy and self-will of old Geoffrey. He is not grateful for the many obligations he owes to me, and gives me frequent cause to regret that I ever adopted him into my family."
"When you are tired of him," said Sir Alexander, carelessly, "you may turn him over to me. I am sure I could make something of him."
"You are not in earnest?" in a tone of surprise.
"Never more so."
A long silence ensued. My hand trembled with indignation. Was this Mr. Moncton's pretended friendship? I tried in vain to write. "It is useless," I said mentally. "The deed may go to the devil, and Robert Moncton along with it, for what I care," and I flung the parchment from me. "That man is an infamous liar! I will tell him so to his face."
I was just about to burst into the room, when Sir Alexander resumed the conversation.
"Who was this lad's mother?"
"A young person of the name of Rivers; the only daughter of a poor curate, in Derbyshire. You know my brother's dissipated habits. He enticed the girl from her peaceful home, and grief for her loss brought the old father to his grave. This boy was the sole fruit of the connection. The parents were never married."
"Is that a fact?"
"I have made every legal inquiry upon the subject; but, no proofs are in existence of such an union between the parties."
"I can scarcely believe Edward guilty of such a villainous act!"