"Extravagant men of unsettled principles are not much troubled with qualms of conscience. On his death-bed Edward repented of this act, and recommended the child to my especial care and protection. His letter, which I have by me, was couched in such moving terms, that I considered myself bound in duty to do what I could for the boy, as he was not answerable for the fault of the parents. I took him home the day his mother was buried, and he has been an inmate of my house ever since."
"When he is out of his time, what do you intend doing for him?"
"I have not yet determined; perhaps, associate him with myself in the office. There is, however, one stumbling-block in the way—the dislike which exists between him and Theophilus."
"Ay, that might prove a formidable barrier to their mutual welfare. By-the-by, what has become of Theophilus?"
"He was travelling on the continent. His last letter is dated from Rome. He has been a great source of trouble and vexation to me, and is constantly getting into scrapes by his gallantries, which you must allow, Sir Alexander, is a family failing of the Monctons."
"His conduct lately has been such," said the baronet, in an angry voice, "that it makes me blush that we bear the same name. It was to speak to you on this painful subject that brought me to London."
"I know the circumstance to which you allude," said Mr. Moncton, in a humble tone; "nor can I defend him; but, we must make allowances for youth and indiscretion. We were young men ourselves once, Sir Alexander."
"Thank Heaven! bad as I might be, no poor girl could accuse me of being the cause of her ruin," cried the baronet, striking his hand emphatically upon the table. "But this young scoundrel! while a visitor beneath my roof, and a solicitor for the hand of my daughter, outraged all feelings of honour and decency, by seducing this poor girl, on our own estate, at our very doors. It was mean, wicked, dastardly—and without he marries his unhappy victim, he shall never enter my doors again."
"Marry!" and Mr. Moncton hissed the words through his clenched teeth. "Let him dare to marry her, and the sole inheritance he gets from me, will be his father's curse!"
"Till he does this, and by so doing wipes off the infamous stain he has brought upon our house, I must consider both father and son as strangers!"
"Please yourself, Sir Alexander. You will never by menace induce me to give my consent to this disgraceful marriage," cried Moncton, stamping with rage.
There was another long pause. I heard Sir Alexander traversing the apartment with hasty strides. At length, stopping suddenly before his excited companion, he said; "Robert, you may be right. The wicked woman, who sold her grandchild for money, was once in your service. You best know what relationship exists between your son and his beautiful victim."
A hollow laugh burst from Mr. Moncton's lips.
"You possess a lively imagination, Sir Alexander. I did love that woman, though she was old enough then to have been my mother. It was a boy's rash, blind love; but I was too proud to make her my wife, and she was too cunning and avaricious to be mine on any other terms. Your suspicions, onthat headat least, are erroneous."
"Be that as it may," said Sir Alexander, "Theophilus Moncton shall never darken my doors until the grave closes over me."
He left the room while speaking. A few minutes later, a carriage dashed from the door at a rapid rate, and I felt certain that he had quitted the house. My uncle's step approached. I let my head drop upon the table and feigned sleep, and without attempting to waken me, he withdrew.
From that night a marked alteration took place in his manner towards me. It was evident that the commendations bestowed upon me by Sir Alexander had ruined me in his eyes, and he considered me in the light of a formidable rival. He withdrew his confidence, and treated me with the most pointed neglect. But he could not well banish me from his table, or deprive me of the standing he had given me among his guests, without insulting them, by having introduced to their notice a person unworthy of it. On this head I was tolerably secure, as Mr. Moncton was too artful a man to criminate himself. In a few days, I should now become of age, when the term of my articles would expire. I should then be my own master; and several private applications had been made to me by a lawyer of eminence, to accept a place in his office, with promises of further advancement; this rendered my uncle's conduct a matter of indifference. The sudden and unexpected return of Theophilus gave a very different aspect to my affairs.
CHAPTER XIV.
LOVE AND HATRED.
At first Mr. Moncton refused to see his son; but on the receipt of a letter from Theophilus, his positive orders on that head were not only reversed, but the worthy young gentleman was received with marked attention by his father.
The contents of that letter I did not know then, but got a knowledge of them in after years. The son had become acquainted with some villainous transactions of the parent, which he threatened to expose to the world, if any rigorous measures were adopted towards himself. These revelations were of such a startling nature, that no alternative remained to Mr. Moncton but to submit, which he did, and with a wonderful good grace.
It would be no easy matter to describe the surprise and indignation of Theophilus Moncton, when he discovered that the despised and insulted Geoffrey had become a person of some consequence during his absence. I shall never forget the studied air of indifference, the chilling coldness, with which he met me on his return, and under the cover of which he endeavoured to conceal his chagrin.
The long-cherished dislike that I had entertained for him, had lost much of its bitter character during a separation of many months. I was willing to believe that I might sometimes have been the aggressor, and that time, and a more intimate knowledge of the world, might have produced a favourable change in his surly and morose disposition. I had still to learn that the world rarely improves the heart, but only teaches both sexes more adroitly to conceal its imperfections. I could perceive no alteration in Theophilus which gave the least promise of mental improvement. After a few minutes spent in his company, I found him more arrogant and conceited than when he left England. The affectation of imitating foreign manners, and interlarding his conversation with French and Italian, rendered him less attractive in his assumed, than he had been in his natural, character.
I listened for the first week to his long, egotistical harangues, with tolerable patience, hoping that the theme of self would soon be exhausted, and the Frenchified dandy condescend to remember that he was an Englishman; but finding him becoming more arrogant and assuming by listening to his nonsense, I turned from him with feelings of aversion, which I could but ill conceal. It must have been apparent even, to himself, that I considered his company a bore.
The sympathy which exists between kindred minds, all have experienced at some period of their lives; but the mysterious chords of feeling which unite hearts formed by nature, to understand and appreciate each other, are not more electrical in their operation than those which have their origin in the darker passions of the human breast.
How repugnant to a sensitive mind is a forced association with persons in whom we can find no affinity; and whose sentiments and pursuits are at utter variance with our own. I was acutely alive to these impressions, whenever I encountered the sidelong, watchful glance of my cousin. There was nothing straightforward in him; he never looked friend or enemy honestly in the face. We mutually understood each other. Though he scrupulously avoided addressing his conversation to me, yet it was chiefly intended for my edification; and was replete with satirical observations.
I detest this covert manner of attack; it is mean and unfair in the highest degree, as it deprives the person attacked from taking his own part, and boldly defending himself. Theophilus was a perfect adept at this dastardly species of warfare.
I tried to treat his conduct with silent contempt; but his provoking remarks galled me exceedingly; and often, when I appeared unconscious of their being levelled against me, and earnestly engaged in the perusal of some dull law-book, I was listening to every word he uttered, and quivering with indignation. Theophilus enjoyed my discomfiture, and I found his powers of tormenting greater than I had at first imagined.
The second day after his arrival, he sent a message up to my room, to inform me that he required that apartment for his valet, and I could remove to a chamber in the next story.
I returned for answer, "That I should not quit the occupation of the room that had been allotted to my use by his father, until I received positive orders from him to that effect. But I should only require it a few days longer, and then he could do as he pleased."
This insolent demand was not seconded by Mr. Moncton, and I took no further notice of it.
That my uncle had a game of his own to play, when he took me from the obscurity of the office and introduced me into society, I was now more than ever convinced. Whilst in the presence of his son he treated me with marked attention and respect, which rendered my situation far more trying and irksome, as I mistrusted the designs of the one and detested the other.
I felt that Mr. Moncton acted thus, on purpose to annoy Theophilus, and make him feel the weight of the resentment, which for good reasons he dared not openly express; while he praised my talents and application to business, on purpose to rouse the envy and hatred of my cousin.
One afternoon, as we were sitting over the dessert, Mr. Moncton as usual addressed his conversation exclusively to me, which irritated Theophilus to such a degree, that he turned suddenly to his father, and exclaimed with much violence:
"You seem, sir, to forget you have a son?"
"Yes, when that son forgot what was due to himself, and to his father's house."
"You have to thank yourself forthat," was the insolent reply. "I have trod too closely in your own footsteps, and followed too strictly the honest principles of my father." He laughed bitterly. "It seems strange, that you should be surprised, that such an example should have produced corresponding effects upon the mind and character of your son."
Shocked at this horrible speech (for in spite of its awful truth, it seemed terrible from the mouth of a son,) I looked from Theophilus to his father, expecting to see the dark eye of the latter alive with the light of passion. But no—there he sat, mute as a marble statue; it was frightful to contemplate the glossy stare of his glittering eye, the rigid immobility of his countenance.
"Heavens!" I mentally exclaimed, "can he be insulted in this manner by his only son, and remain thus calm?" But calm he was, without even attempting a reply, whilst his insolent son continued.
"By heaven! if you think that advancing that puppy into my place will bend me to your purpose, you grossly deceive yourself. I pity the stupid puppet who can thus sneak to his bitterest enemy, to obtain a position he could never rise to by his own merit. Silly boy!—I laugh at his folly, our shallow policy, and his credulity."
The words were scarcely out his mouth, when I sprang from my chair, and with a well-directed blow levelled him at my feet.
"Thank you, Geoffrey!" exclaimed Mr. Moncton, raising the crest-fallen hero from the ground: "You have answered both for yourself and me."
"I have been too rash," said I, seeing the blood stream copiously from my cousin's nose; "but he exasperated me beyond endurance."
"He provoked it himself," returned Mr. Moncton. "I never blame any person when insulted, for taking his own part. You need be under no apprehension of a hostile encounter: Theophilus is a cowardly dog—he can bark and snarl, but dares not fight. Go to your room, Geoffrey, you will be better friends after this."
He said this in a tone of such bitter irony, that I hardly knew whether he was pleased with what I had done, or offended, for who could fathom the mind of such a man? I instantly complied with his request, and felt, however mortifying to my pride, that Theophilus Moncton had uttered the truth.
"In another week," I exclaimed, as I strode through the apartment—"yes, in less than a week, I shall obtain my majority: I shall be free, and then farewell to this accursed house of bondage for ever!"
Theophilus had not been home many days, before I perceived a decided alteration in the once friendly greetings I had been accustomed to receive from Mr. Moncton's guests. I was no longer invited to their parties, or treated with those flattering marks of attention which had been so gratifying to my vanity, and given me such an exalted idea of my own consequence.
At first I was at a loss to imagine what had produced this sudden change. One simple sentence at length solved all these unpleasant doubts, and pressed the unwelcome truth home to my heart. Robert Moncton had been reconciled to his son, and I was once more regarded as only apoor relation.
The day I made this important discovery, I had been detained at the office long after our usual dinner-hour, and meeting with a friend on my way home, I sauntered with him several times up and down Regent Street, before I returned to my uncle's house.
I was not aware that my uncle expected company that day, until informed by Saunders in the hall, that a large party were assembled in the dining-room.
I was a little provoked at not receiving any intimation of the event, and in being too late for appearing at dinner, the third course having been placed on the table; but I hurried away to my own apartment to change my dress, and join the ladies in the drawing-room.
This important duty was scarcely effected, before Saunders entered with a tray covered with dainties, which he had catered for my benefit.
"I was determined, Mr. Geoffrey, that they should not have all the good things to themselves. Here is an excellent cut of salmon and lobster-sauce; the plump breast of a partridge, and a slice of delicious ham—besides, the sunkets. If you cannot make a good dinner off these, why, I says, that you deserves to be hungry."
And throwing a snowy napkin over a small table near the fire, he deposited the tray and its tempting contents thereon, placed my chair, and stood behind it with beaming eyes, his jolly, rosy face radiant with good-nature and benevolence.
I thanked him heartily for his attention to my comfort, and being tired and hungry, did ample justice to the meal he had provided.
"This party has been got up in a hurry, Saunders?"
"Not at all, sir. I carried out the invitations four days ago."
"You surprise me!" said I, dropping my knife and fork. "Four days ago—and I know nothing about it. That is something new."
"It is young Mr. Moncton's doings, sir. The party is given in honour of his return. Says Mr. Theophilus to the Guv'nor, says he, 'I shall say nothing to Geoffrey, about it. What a capital joke it will be, to see him bolt into the room without studying the Graces for an hour.' I think it was the Graces, he said, sir; but whether it's a law book, or a book of fashions, sir, hang me if I can tell."
"But why did not you give me a hint of this, my good fellow?"
"Why, sir," said Saunders, hesitating and looking down, "everybody in this world has his troubles, and I, sir, have mine. Trouble, sir, makes a man forget every one's affairs but his own; and so, sir, the thing slipped quite out of my 'ead."
"And what has happened to trouble such a light heart as yours, Saunders?"
"Ah, sir!" sighing and shaking his head, "you remember Jemima, the pretty chamber maid, who lives at Judge Falcon's, across the street; I am sure you must, sir, for no one that saw Jemima once could forget her; and it was your first praising her that made me cast an eye upon her. Well, sir, I looked and loved, and became desperate about her, and offered her my 'onest 'and and 'eart, sir, and she promised to become my wife. Yes, indeed, she did; and we exchanged rings, and lucky sixpences and all that; and I gave master warning for next week; and took lodgings in a genteel country-looking cottage on the Deptford road. But I was never destined to find love there with Jemima."
"And what has happened to prevent your marriage?" said I, growing impatient and wishing to cut his long story down to the basement.
"Many a slip, sir, between the cup and the lip. There's truth in those old saws howsomever. Mr. Theophilus's French valet, poured such a heap of flummery into the dear girl's ears, that it turned her 'ead altogether, and she run off with the haffected puppy last night; but let him look well after himself, for I swear the first time I catch him, I'll make cat's meat of him. Ah! sir, the song says, that it's the men who is so cruelly deceitful, but I have found it the reverse. Never trust in vimen, sir! I swear I'll hate 'em all from this day, for Jemima's sake."
"Consider yourself a fortunate fellow," said I. "You have made a very narrow escape."
"Ah, sir, it's all very well talking, when you don't feel the smart yourself. I loved that false creter with my 'ole 'art. But there's one thing," brightening up, "which consoles me under this great haffliction, the annoyance that it has given to Mr. Theophilus. This morning, there was no one to dress him—to flatter his vanity and tell him what a fine gentleman he is: I had to carry up his boots and shaving-water. It was rare fun to see him stamping and raving about the room, and vishing all the vimen in the vorld at the devil. But hark! there's the dining-room bell. More wine. The ladies have just left for the drawing-room."
The blaze of lights, the gay assemblage of youth and beauty which arrested my eyes as Saunders threw back the folding-doors, sent a sudden thrill of joy to my heart. But these feelings were quickly damped by the cold and distant salutations I received from the larger portion of the company there assembled. Persons who a few weeks before had courted my acquaintance and flattered my vanity, by saying and doing a thousand agreeable things, had not a friendly word to offer.
The meaning glance which passed round the circle when I appeared among them, chilled the warm glow of pleasure, which the sight of so many fair and familiar faces had called up.
What could be the meaning of all this? A vague suspicion dashed into my mind, that my cousin was the direct cause of this change in the aspect of affairs, and, sick and disgusted with the world, I sat down at a distant table and began mechanically to turn over a large portfolio of splendid prints that I had not noticed before, and which I afterwards discovered, had been brought by Theophilus from Paris.
A half suppressed titter from two young ladies near me, and which I felt was meant for me, stung my proud heart to the quick. A dark mist floated between me and the lights; and the next moment I determined to leave the room in which I felt that my presence was not required, and where I was evidently regarded as an intruder.
I had just risen from my seat to effect a quiet retreat, when the folding-doors were again thrown open, and Mrs. Hepburn and Miss Lee were announced.
What were these strangers to me? The new arrival appeared to make no small sensation. A general bustle ensued, and my eyes unconsciously followed the rest.
The blood receded from my cheeks, to flush them again to a feverish glow, when I instantly recognized the lovely girl and her aunt, whom I had for so many months sought for, and sought in vain.
Yes, it was she—my adored Catherine—no longer pale and agitated from recent danger, but radiant in youth and beauty, her lovely person adorned with costly jewels, and the rich garments that fashion has rendered indispensable to her wealthy votaries.
"Miss Lee," was whispered among the ladies near me.
"Mr. Moncton's ward?"
"The rich heiress."
"Do you think her handsome?"
"Yes—passable."
"Too short."
"Her figure pretty—but insignificant."
"She is just out."
"So I hear. She will not make any great sensation. Too sentimental and countrified. As Lord Byron says,—'Smells of bread and butter.'"
This last sneering remark, I considered a compliment. My charming Kate, looked as fresh and natural as a new-blown rose with the morning dew still fresh upon its petals. There was nothing studied or affected about her—no appearance of display—no effort to attract admiration; she was an unsophisticated child of nature, and the delightful frankness, with which she received the homage of the male portion of the company, was quite a contrast to the supercilious airs of the fashionable belles.
The opinion of the gentlemen with regard to the fairdébutante, was quite the reverse of those given by her own sex.
"What a lovely girl!"
"What an easy graceful carriage!"
"Did you ever see a more charming expression—a more bewitching smile? A perfect lady from head to foot."
"I have lostmyheart already."
"By Jove! won't she make a noise in the gay world!"
"The beauty of the season."
"A prize, independent of her large for tune!"
"And doubly a prize with."
And thus the men prated of her among themselves.
The excitement at length subsided; and favoured by the obscurity of my situation, I could watch at a distance all her movements, and never tire of gazing upon that beaming face.
By some strange coincidence, I could hardly think it purely accidental, Mrs. Hepburn and her niece came up to the table upon which I was leaning.
I rose up in confusion, wondering if they would recognize me, and offered the elder lady my chair.
In my hurry and agitation, the portfolio fell from my hand, and the fine prints were scattered over the floor and table.
A general laugh arose at my expense; I felt annoyed, but laughed as loudly as the rest. Miss Lee, very good-naturedly assisted me in restoring the prints to their place, then looking earnestly in my face for a few seconds, she said—"Surely, I am not deceived—you are the gentleman who rescued me from that frightful situation in Oxford Street."
"The same," said I, with a smile.
"How delighted I am to meet you once more," she exclaimed, giving me her hand, and warmly shaking mine; "I was afraid that I should never see you again. And your name—you must tell me your name."
"Geoffrey Moncton. But, Miss Lee, do not distress me by thinking so much of a trifling service, which gave me so much pleasure."
"Trifling! do you call it? Sir, you saved my life, and I never can forget the debt of gratitude I owe you. Aunt," turning to Mrs. Hepburn, "do you remember this gentleman? How often we have talked that adventure over, and wondered who my preserver was. It is such a pleasure to see him here."
The old lady, though not quite so eloquent as her niece, was kind enough in her way. Wishing to change the subject, I asked Miss Lee if she drew?
"A little."
"Let us examine these beautiful prints," said I.
I gave her a chair, and leant over her. My heart fluttered with delight. I forgot my recent mortification. I was near her, and, in the rapture of the moment, could have defied the malice of the whole world.
"I am no judge of the merits or demerits of a picture," she said, in her sweet, gentle voice. "I know what pleases me, and suffer my heart to decide for my head."
"That is exactly my case, Miss Lee. A picture to interest me, must produce the same effect upon my mind as if the object represented was really there. This is the reason, perhaps, why I feel less pleasure in examining those pictures by the ancient masters, though portrayed with matchless skill, which represent the heathen deities. With Jupiter, Mars and Venus, I can feel little sympathy, while the truthful and spirited delineations of Wilkie and Gainsborough, which have beep familiar from childhood, strike home to the heart."
Before Miss Lee could reply, Theophilus Moncton walked to the table at which we were talking. He stared at me, without deigning a word of recognition, and shook hands cordially with Miss Lee and her aunt.
"Happy to see you here, Catherine—was afraid you would be too much fatigued, after dancing all night, to give us a look in this evening. Been admiring my prints? Splendid collection, ain't they? By-the-by, Mr. Geoffrey, I would thank you to be more careful in handling them. Persons unaccustomed to fine drawings, are apt to injure them by rough treatment."
A contemptuous glance was my reply, which was returned by a sidelong withering glare of hate.
"That picture, on the opposite side of the room," continued my tormentor, anxious to divert Miss Lee's attention from me, "is a fine portrait, by Sir Thomas Lawrence. You are an admirer of his style; let us examine the picture nearer; I want to have your opinion of it."
They crossed the room. In a few seconds, a large group gathered before the picture of which Theophilus and Miss Lee formed the nucleus, and half a dozen wax-lights were held up to exhibit it to the best advantage.
Theophilus was eloquent in praising Lawrence's style of painting, and entertained the company with an elaborate detail of all the celebrated paintings he had seen abroad; the studios he had visited, and the distinguished artists he had patronized. He could talk well, when he pleased, on any subject, and possessed considerable talent and taste for the arts; yet, I thought him more egotistical and affected than usual, when standing beside the simple and graceful Catherine Lee.
She listened to him with politeness, until the gratuitous lecture came to an end, and then quietly resumed her seat at the table by me, with whom she entered into a lively conversation.
The swarthy glow of indignation mounted to my cousin's wan face. He drew back, and muttered something inaudibly between his shut teeth, while I secretly enjoyed his chagrin. When supper was announced I had the honour of conducting Miss Lee down stairs, leaving my cousin to take charge of the elder lady. Nor did my triumph end here. Catherine insisted on taking a seat at the lower end of the table, and I found myself once more placed by her side.
"I do detest upper seats at feasts," said she; "it exposes you to observation, while in our pleasant obscurity we can enjoy a little friendly chat. I never could understand why so many ladies quarrel so much about taking precedence of each other."
"It is only ambition in a small way," said I.
"Very small, indeed," she continued, laughing. "But tell me, why you were not at Mrs. Wilton's large party last night?"
"Simply, because I was not invited."
"The Monctons were there, father and son. But, perhaps you mix very little in the gaieties of the town."
"Since Theophilus returned, I have been very little from home; and have become a mere cipher with my old friends. A few weeks ago, these Wilton's courted my acquaintance, and the young men vied with each other, in paying me attention. To-night, we met as perfect strangers. To me, the change is unaccountable. I am, however, a perfect novice in the ways of the world. Such examples of selfish meanness often repeated will render me a misanthrope."
"You must not condemn all, because you have experienced the unmerited neglect of a few," said Catherine. "Selfish, interested people are found in every community. It is a maxim with me, never to judge the mass by individuals. Many of the persons we meet with in the world do not live entirely for it, and are incapable of the conduct you deplore. I have met with warm hearts and kind friends amid the gay scenes you condemn—young people, who like myself, are compelled by circumstances to mingle in society, while their thoughts and affections are far away."
"You have never experienced the frowns of the world," said I; "I can scarcely allow you to be a competent judge."
"I am prepared to meet them," she replied, quickly—then stopped—and sighed deeply. I looked up inquiringly.
The expression of her fine face was changed from a cheerful to a pensive cast. It was not actual sorrow which threw a shade over her clear brow, but she looked as if she had encountered some unexpected misfortune, and was prepared to meet it with resignation. She passed her small white hand slowly across her forehead, and I thought I saw tears trembling in her eyes. My interest was deeply excited, and I loved her better for having suffered. I redoubled my attentions, and before the company rose from table, I fancied that she no longer regarded me with indifference.
From this happy dream, I too soon awoke to an agonizing consciousness of my own insignificance. A Counsellor Sabine, who had been conversing with my uncle during the greater part of the evening, beckoned me over to a distant part of the room, and I reluctantly obeyed the summons. He wanted me to settle a dispute between him and Mr. Moncton, relative to some papers, which he said had been entrusted to my care.
My place by Catherine Lee's side was instantly filled by Theophilus.
Mrs. Hepburn, Catherine's aunt, asked him in a low voice, which, occupied as I was with other matters, did not fail to reach my ears, who I was, and the station I held in society, and ended her remarks by passing sundry encomiums on my person and accomplishments.
"Accomplishments!" repeated Theophilus, with a sneer. "I know not how he should be accomplished, Mrs. Hepburn. He is a poor clerk in my father's office; and as to his standing in society, that is something new to me. He is a natural son of my uncle Edward's, whom my father adopted into the family, and brought him up out of charity. I was surprised at him, an uninvited guest, daring to address his conversation to Miss Lee."
It was well for the dastard, that he was protected by the presence of ladies, and beyond the reach of my arm, or I certainly should have committed an act of violence.
I restrained my indignation, however, and appeared outwardly calm—received some instructions from the counsellor and noted them down with stoical precision. My hand did not tremble, my passion was too terrible for trifling demonstrations. I think I could have put a pistol to his head, and seen him bleeding at my feet, without feeling one pang of remorse.
Miss Lee's carriage was announced. I roused myself from a dream of vengeance, and offered my arm to conduct her down stairs. She cast upon me a look of sorrowful meaning, and her aunt refused my services with a distant bow.
I drew proudly back "This," I thought, "is their gratitude. This is like the rest of the world."
Mrs. Hepburn gave her hand to Theophilus, and with a grin of triumph he led them out.
After the company had separated I went up to Theophilus, and demanded an explanation of his ungentlemanly conduct. The answer I received was an insolent laugh.
No longer able to restrain my feelings, I poured upon him the boiling rage of my indignation, and did and said many bitter things, that had been better unsaid. He threatened to complain of me to his father. I dared him to do his worst—and left the room in a state of dreadful excitement.
The next morning, while busy in the office, Mr. Moncton came in, and closed the door carefully after him.
I rose as he entered and stood erect before him. I knew by the deadly pallor of his face, that something decisive was about to take place.
"Geoffrey," he said, in a low, hoarse voice, which he vainly endeavoured to make calm, "you have grossly insulted my son, and spoken to him in the most disrespectful terms of me, your friend and benefactor. Without you will make a full and satisfactory apology to me for such intemperate language, and ask his pardon, you may dread my just displeasure."
"Ask his pardon!" I cried; almost choking with passion—"for what? For his treating me like a menial and a slave!—Never, Mr. Moncton, never!"
My uncle regarded me with the same icy glance which froze my blood when a child, while I recapitulated my wrongs, with all the eloquence which passion gives—passion which makes even the slow of speech act the part of an orator.
He listened to me with a smile of derision.
Carried beyond the bounds of prudence, I told him, that I would no longer be subjected to such degrading tyranny; that his deceitful conduct had cancelled all ties of obligation between us; that the favours lately conferred upon me, I now saw had only been bestowed to effect my ruin; that he had been acting a base and treacherous game with me to further his own dishonest views; that I was fully aware of his motives, and appreciated them as they deserved; that he well knew the story of my illegitimacy was a forgery, that I had the means to prove it one, and would do it shortly; that the term of my articles would expire on the following day, and I would then leave his house for ever and seek my own living.
"You may do so to-day," he replied, in the same cool sarcastic tone; and unlocking his desk he took out the indentures.
A sudden terror seized me. Something in his look threatened danger: I drew a quicker breath, and advanced a few paces nearer.
All my hopes were centered in that sheet of parchment, to obtain which, I had endured seven years of cruel bondage. "No, no," said I, mentally, "he cannot be such a villain—he dare not do it!"
The next moment the fatal scroll lay torn and defaced at my feet. A cry of despair burst from my lips: I sprang forward, and with one blow laid him senseless at my feet, and fled from the house.
I saw Robert Moncton but once again. Recollection shudders when I recall that dreadful meeting.
I walked rapidly down the street, perfectly unconscious that I was without my hat, and that the rain was falling in torrents; or that I was an object of curiosity to the passers-by.
Some one caught my arm.
I turned angrily round to shake off the intruder—it was my friend Harrison.
"In the name of Heaven! Geoffrey, tell me what has happened? What is the matter—are you in your right senses? Have you quarrelled with your uncle? Let me return with you to the house," were questions he asked in a breath.
"My uncle!he is an infernal scoundrel!" I exclaimed, throwing out my clenched hand, and hurrying on still faster. "Oh, that I could crush him with one blow of this fist!"
"Geoffrey, you are mad—do you know what you say?"
"Perfectly well—stand back, and let me kill him!"
He put his arm forcibly round me. "Calm yourself, Geoffrey. What has caused this dreadful excitement? Good Heavens! how you tremble. Lean upon me—heavier yet. The arm of a sincere friend supports you—one who will never desert you, let what will befall."
"Leave me, George, to my fate. I have been shamefully treated, and I don't care what becomes of me."
"If you are unable to take care of yourself, Geoffrey," he replied, clasping my hand fervently in his own, and directing my steps down a less frequented street, "it is highly necessary that some one should, until your mind a restored to its usual tranquillity. Return with me to my lodgings; take a composing draught, and go to bed. Your eyes are bloodshot, and starting from your head for want of sleep."
"Sleep! how is it possible for me to sleep, when the blood is boiling in my veins, and my brain is on fire, and I am tempted every moment to commit an act of desperation?"
"This feverish state cannot last, my poor friend; these furious bursts of passion must yield to exhaustion. Your knees bend under you. In a few minutes we shall be beyond public observation, and can talk over the matter calmly."
As he ceased speaking, a deadly faintness stole over me—my head grew giddy, the surrounding objects swam round me in endless circles and with surprising rapidity, the heavens vanished from my sight, and darkness, blank darkness closed me in, and I should have fallen to the earth, but for the strong arm which held me in its grasp.
When I again opened my eyes, it was in the identical apothecary's shop into which, some months before, I had carried the fainting Catherine Lee. The little apothecary was preparing to open a vein in my arm. This operation afforded me instant relief; my fury began to subside, and tears slowly trickled down my cheeks.
George, who was anxiously watching every change in my countenance, told the shop-boy to call a coach, which conveyed me in a few minutes to his old lodgings in Fleet Street.
CHAPTER XV.
GEORGE HARRISON AND HIS HISTORY.
Many days passed over me of which I was totally unconscious. A violent fever had set in, and I was not aware of my situation; scarcely of the bodily sufferings I endured. My wants were ministered to by the kindest, truest friend that ever soothed the miseries of the unfortunate.
Fancying myself still under the control of Robert Moncton, and a resident beneath his roof, I raved continually of my wrongs, and exhausted myself by threats of vengeance. Long before the crisis of the fever had passed, George had gathered from my impotent ravings the story of my injuries. After fluctuating a long time between life and death, youth and a naturally strong constitution conquered my malady, and I once more thought and felt like a rational creature. My indignation against my uncle and cousin subsided into a sullen, implacable hatred, to overcome which I tried, and even prayed in vain. Ashamed of harbouring this sinful passion, I yet wanted the moral courage and Christian forbearance to overcome what reason and conscience united to condemn.
Degraded in my own estimation, I longed, yet dreaded to confide to Harrison, that the man he attended with such devotion was capable of such base degeneracy—of entertaining sentiments only worthy of Robert Moncton and his son.
The violence of my disorder had reduced me to such a state of weakness that I imagined myself at the point of death, when I was actually out of danger. My nervous system was so greatly affected that I yielded to the most childish fears, and contemplated dying with indescribable horror.
Harrison, who was unacquainted with the state of my mind, attributed these feelings to the reaction produced by the fever; and thinking that a state of quiescence was necessary for my recovery, seldom spoke to me but at those times when, with tenderness almost feminine, he gave me food and medicine, arranged my pillows, or made affectionate inquiries about my bodily state. I often pretended to be asleep, while my mind was actively employed in conjuring up a host of ghastly phantoms, which prevented my recovery, and were effectually undermining my reason.
One afternoon, as I lay in a sort of dreamy state, between sleeping and waking, and mournfully brooding over my perishing hopes and approaching dissolution, I thought that a majestic figure, clothed in flowing garments of glistening white, came to my bedside, and said to me in tones of exquisite sweetness, "Poor, perishing, sinful child of earth! if you wish to enter Heaven, you must first forgive your enemies. The gate of Life is kept by Love, who is ready to open to every one who first withdraws the bar which Hatred has placed before the narrow entrance."
Overwhelmed with fear and astonishment, I started up in the bed, exclaiming in tones of agonized entreaty, "Oh, God, forgive me! I cannot do it!"
"Do what, dear Geoffrey?" said George, coming to the bedside, and taking my hand in his.
"Forgive my enemies. Forgive those wretches who have brought me to this state, and by their cruel conduct placed both life and reason in jeopardy. I cannot do it, though He, the merciful, who dying forgave his enemies, commands me to do so."
"Geoffrey," said Harrison, soothingly, "you can never recover your health, or feel happy till you can accomplish this great moral victory over sin and self."
"I cannot do it!" I responded, turning from him, and burying my face in the bed-clothes while I hardened my heart against conviction. "No, not if I perish for refusing. I feel as if I were already with the condemned."
"No wonder," returned Harrison, sternly. "Hatred and its concomitant passion, Revenge, are feelings worthy of the damned. I beseech you, Geoffrey, by the dying prayer of that blessed Saviour, whom you profess to believe, try to rise superior to these soul-debasing passions; and not only forgive, but learn to pity, the authors of your sufferings."
"I have done my best. I have even prayed to do so."
"Not in a right spirit, or your prayers would have been heard and accepted. What makes you dread death? Speak the truth out boldly. Does not this hatred to your uncle and cousin stand between you and Heaven?"
"I confess it. But, Harrison, could you forgive them?"
"Yes."
"Not under the same provocation?"
"I have done so under worse."
"God in Heaven!—how is that possible?"
"It is true."
"I won't believe it," said I, turning angrily upon the pillow. "It is not in human nature; and few can rise above the weakness of their kind."
"Listen to me, Geoffrey," said Harrison, seating himself on the side of the bed. "You wished very much at one time to learn from me the story of my past life. I did not think it prudent at that time, and while under Robert Moncton's roof, to gratify your curiosity. I will do so now, in the hope of beguiling you out of your present morbid state of feeling, while it may answer the purpose of teaching you a good, moral lesson, which I trust you will not easily forget.
"Man's happiness depends in a great measure on the sympathy of others. His sufferings, by the same rule, are greatly alleviated when contrasted with the miseries of his neighbours, particularly if their sorrows happen to exceed his own.
"Much of my history must remain in the shade, because time alone can unravel the mystery by which I am surrounded; and many important passages in my life, prudence forces me to conceal. But, my dear fellow, if my trials and sufferings will in any way reconcile you to your lot, and enable you to bear with fortitude your own, your friend will not have suffered and sinned in vain."
George adjusted my pillows, and gave me my medicine, stirred the fire to a cheerful blaze, and commenced the narrative that for so many months I had so ardently longed to hear.
HARRISON'S STORY.
"Perhaps, Geoffrey, you are not aware that your grandfather left Sir Robert Moncton, the father of the present Baronet, guardian and trustee to his two sons, until they arrived at their majority; Edward at the time of his death, being eighteen years of age, Robert a year and a half younger.
"What tempted Geoffrey Moncton to leave his sons to the guardianship of the aristocratic father, from whom he had parted in anger many years before, no one could tell.
"The Baronet was a very old man, and was much respected in his day; and it is possible that the dying merchant found by experience, that he could place more reliance on the honour of a gentleman, than in a man of business. Or it might be, that on his death-bed he repented of the long family estrangement, and left his sons to the care of their grandfather, as a proof that all feelings of animosity were buried in his grave.
"Sir Robert's eldest son had been dead for some years, and the present Baronet, who resided with his grandfather, was just two years older than your father, and for several years the cousins lived very amicably beneath the same roof—were sent to the same college in Oxford to finish their studies and mingle in the same society.
"It was unfortunate for your father, who had too little ballast to regulate his own conduct, that he contracted the most ardent friendship for the young Alexander, who was a gay, reckless, dissipated fellow, regarding his wealth as the source from which he derived all his sensual pleasures, and not as a talent committed to his stewardship, of which he must one day give an account.
"Sir Alexander's early career, though not worse than that of many young men of the same class, was unmarked by any real moral worth. His elegant person, good taste, and graceful manners, won for him the esteem and affection of those around him. Frank, courteous, and ever ready to use his influence with Sir Robert, in mitigating the distress of his poor tenants, he was almost adored by the lower classes, and by whom, in return, they were treated with a degree of familiarity, much beneath his position as a gentleman. From this extravagant, kind-hearted, and popular young man, Edward Moncton contracted those habits which terminated in his ruin.
"Congeniality of mind strongly attached the cousins to each other; and I am certain that Sir Alexander truly loved the frank, confiding, careless Edward Moncton, while he equally disliked the cold, calculating, money-getting propensities of his brother Robert. Robert possessed a disposition not likely to forget or forgive a slight; and he deeply resented the preference shown to his brother; and his hatred, though carefully concealed, was actively employed in forming schemes of vengeance.
"You well know, how Robert Moncton can hate; the depths of guile, and the slow, smooth words, with which he can conceal the malignity of his nature, and hide the purposes of his heart. He had a game too to play, from which he hoped to rise up the winner; and to obtain this object he alternately flattered and deceived his unconscious victims.
"The particulars of your father's quarrel with Sir Alexander I never knew; it took place just before the young men left college and became their own masters; but it was of such a nature that they parted in anger, never to meet again.
"Shortly after this quarrel old Sir Robert died; and Alexander Moncton came in for the estates and title. Your father and uncle, both being now of age, entered upon the great business of life. Your father resumed the business bequeathed to him by his father, and your uncle entered into partnership with the firm, of which he now stands the head and sole proprietor.
"Several years passed away. The only intercourse between the families was through Sir Alexander and his cousin Robert, who, in spite of the young Baronet's aversion, contrived to stick to him like a bur, until he fairly wriggled himself into his favour. At thirty, Sir Alexander still remained a bachelor, and seemed too general an admirer of the sex to resign his liberty to any particularbelle.
"About this period of my story one of Sir Alexander's game-keepers was shot by a band of poachers, who infested the neighbourhood. Richard North, the husband of Dinah, had made himself most obnoxious to these lawless depredators, and thus fell a victim to his over-zeal.
"Sir Alexander considered himself bound in honour to provide for the widow and her daughter of his faithful servant, particularly as the former had been left without any means of support. Both mother and daughter were received into his service—Dinah as housekeeper at the Hall, and her daughter Rachel as upper chamber-maid.
"Dinah, at that period, was not more than thirty-four years of age, and for a person of her class was well educated, and uncommonly handsome. I see you smile, Geoffrey, but such was the fact.
"Rachel, who was just sixteen, was considered a perfect model of female beauty, by all the young fellows who kept Bachelors' Hall with Sir Alexander. The young Baronet fell desperately in love with his fair dependent, and the girl and her mother entertained hopes that he would make her his wife. Pride, however, hindered him from making her Lady Moncton. In order to break the spell that bound him he gave the mother a pretty cottage on the estate, and a few acres of land rent-free, and went up to London to forget, amid its gay scenes, the bright eyes that had sorely wounded his peace.
"Dinah North was not a woman likely to bear with indifference the pangs of disappointed ambition. She bitterly reproached her daughter for having played her cards so ill, and vowed vengeance on the proud lord of the manor, in curses loud and deep.
"Rachel's character, though not quite so harshly defined, possessed too much of the vindictive nature of the mother. She had loved Sir Alexander with all the ardour of a first youthful attachment. His wealth and station were nothing to her—it was the man alone she prized. Had he been a peasant, she would have loved as warmly and as well. Lost to her for ever, she overlooked the great pecuniary favours just conferred upon her mother and herself, and only lived to be revenged.
"It was while smarting under their recent disappointment that these women were sought out and bribed by Robert Moncton to become his agents in a deep-laid conspiracy, which he hoped to carry out against Sir Alexander and his family.
"Robert Moncton was still unmarried, and Dinah took the charge of his establishment, being greatly enraged with her beautiful daughter for making a run-away match with Roger Mornington, Sir Alexander's huntsman, who was a handsome man, and the finest rider in the county of York.
"After an absence of five years, Sir Alexander suddenly returned to Moncton Park, accompanied by a young and lovely bride. During that five years, a great change had taken place in the young Baronet, who returned a sincere Christian and an altered man.
"Devotedly attached to the virtuous and beautiful lady whom he had wisely chosen for his mate, the whole study of his life was to please her, and keep alive the tender affections of the noble heart he had secured.
"They loved, as few modern couples love; and Sir Alexander's friends, and he had many, deeply sympathized in his happiness.
"Two beings alone upon his estate viewed his felicity with jealous and malignant eyes—two beings, who, from their lowly and dependent situations, would have been thought incapable of marring the happiness which excited their envy. Dinah North had been reconciled to her daughter, and they occupied the huntsman's lodge, a beautiful cottage within the precincts of the park. Dinah had secretly vowed vengeance on the man who, from principle, had saved her child from the splendid shame the avaricious mother coveted. She was among the first to offer her services, and those of her daughter, to Lady Moncton. The pretty young wife of the huntsman attracted the attention of the lady of the Hall, and she employed her constantly about her person, while in cases of sickness, for she was very fragile, Dinah officiated as nurse.
"A year passed away, and the lady of the manor and the wife of the lowly huntsman were both looking forward with anxious expectation to the birth of their first-born.
"At midnight, on the 10th of October, 1804, an heir was given to the proud house of Moncton; a weak, delicate, puny babe, who nearly cost his mother her life. At the same hour, in the humble cottage at the entrance of that rich domain, your poor friend, George Harrison (or Philip Mornington, which is my real name) was launched upon the stormy ocean of life."
At this part of Harrison's narrative I fell back upon my pillow and groaned heavily.
George flew to my assistance, raising me in his arms and sprinkling my face with water.
"Are you ill, dear Geoffrey?"
"Not ill, George, but grieved: sick at heart, that you should be grandson to that dreadful old hag."
"We cannot choose our parentage," said George, sorrowfully. "The station in which we are born, constitutes fate in this world; it is the only thing pertaining to man over which his will has no control. We can destroy our own lives, but our birth is entirely in the hands of Providence. Could I have ordered it otherwise, I certainly should have chosen a different mother."
He smiled mournfully, and bidding me to lie down and keep quiet, resumed his tale.
"The delicate state of Lady Moncton's health precluding her from nursing her child, my mother was chosen as substitute, and the weakly infant was entrusted to her care. The noble mother was delighted with the attention which Rachel bestowed upon the child, and loaded her with presents. As to me, I was given into Dinah's charge, who felt small remorse in depriving me of my natural food, if anything in the shape of money was to be gained by the sacrifice. The physicians recommended change of air for Lady Moncton's health; and Sir Alexander fixed on Italy as the climate most likely to benefit his ailing and beloved wife.
"My mother was offered large sums to accompany them, which she steadfastly declined. Lady Moncton wept and entreated, but Rachel Mornington was resolute in her refusal. 'No money,' she said, 'should tempt her to desert her husband and child, much as she wished to oblige Lady Moncton.'
"The infant heir of Moncton was thriving under her care, and she seemed to love the baby, if possible, better than she did her own. Sir Alexander and the physician persuaded Lady Moncton, though she yielded most reluctantly to their wishes, to overcome her maternal solicitude, and leave her child with his healthy and affectionate nurse.
"She parted from the infant with many tears, bestowing upon him the most passionate caresses, and pathetically urging Rachel Mornington not to neglect the important duties she had solemnly promised to perform.
"Three months had scarcely elapsed before the young heir of Moncton was consigned to the family vault; and Sir Alexander and his wife were duly apprised by Robert Moncton, who was solicitor for the family, of the melancholy event. That this child did not come fairly by his death I have strong reasons for suspecting, from various conversations which I overheard when a child, pass between Robert Moncton, Dinah North, and my mother.
"The news of their son's death, as may well be imagined, was received by Sir Alexander and Lady Moncton with the most poignant grief; and six years elapsed before she and her husband revisited Moncton Park.
"My mother was just recovering from her confinement with a lovely little girl—the Alice, to whom you have often heard me allude—when Sir Alexander and Lady Moncton arrived at the Hall. They brought with them a delicate and beautiful infant of three months old.
"I can well remember Lady Moncton's first visit to the Lodge, to learn from my mother's own lips the nature of the disease which had consigned her son to his early grave. I recollect my mother telling her that the little George went to bed in perfect health, and died in a fit during the night, before medical aid could be procured. She shed some tears while she said this, and assured Lady Moncton that the baby's death had occasioned her as much grief as if he had been her own—that she would much rather that I had died than her dear nurse-child.
"I remember, as I leant against Dinah North's knees, thinking this very hard of my mother, and wondering why she should prefer Lady Moncton's son to me. But, from whatever cause her aversion sprang, she certainly never had any maternal regard for me.
"Lady Moncton drew me to her, and with her sweet, fair face bathed in tears, told my mother that I was a beautiful boy—that her darling would have been just my age and size, and that she could not help envying her her child. She patted my curly head, and kissed me repeatedly, and said that I must come often to the Hall and see her, and she would give me pretty toys, and teach me to read.
"Ah, how I loved her! Her kind, gentle voice was the first music I ever heard. How I loved to sit at her feet when she came to the cottage, and look up into her pale, calm face; and when she stooped down to kiss me, and her glossy ringlets mingled with mine, I would fling my arms about her slender neck, and whisper in a voice too low for my stern mother and Dinah to hear:
"'I love you a thousand, thousand times better than anything else in the world. Oh I how I wish I were your own little boy.'
"Then the bright tears would flow fast down her marble cheeks, and she would sigh so deeply, as she returned with interest my childish passionate caresses.
"Ah, Geoffrey, my childish heart spoke the truth. I loved that high-born, noble woman, better than I have since loved aught in this cold, bad world: at least, my affection for her was of a purer, holier character.
"My mother was taken home to the Hall, to act as wet nurse to little Margaret; and I remained at the cottage with my harsh, cross grandmother, who beat me without the slightest remorse for the most trifling faults, often cursing and wishing me dead, in the most malignant manner.
"My father, whom I seldom saw (for his occupation took him often from home, which was rendered too hot for comfort, by the temper of his mother-in-law), was invariably kind to me. When he came in from the stables he would tell me funny stories, and sing me jolly hunting songs; and what I liked still better, would give me a ride before him on the fine hunters he had under his care: promising that when I was old enough, I should take them airing round the park, instead of him.
"My poor father! I can see him before me now, with his frank, good-natured face, and laughing blue eyes: his stalwart figure, arrayed in his green velvet hunting-coat, buckskin breeches and top-boots; and the leather cap, round which his nut-brown hair clustered in thick curls; and which he wore so jauntily on one side of his head. Roger Mornington was quite a dandy in his way, and had belonged to a good old stock; but his father ran away when a boy, and went to sea, and disgraced his aristocratic friends; and Roger used to say, that he had all the gentlemanly propensities, minus the cash.
"He doted upon me. 'His dear little jockey!' as he used to call me; and I always ran out to meet him when he came home, with loud shouts of joy. But there came a night, when Roger Mornington did not return; and several days passed away, and he was at length found dead in a lonely part of the park. The high-spirited horse he rode had thrown him, and his neck was broken by the fall—and the horse not returning to the stables, but making off to the high road, no alarm had been excited at the absence of his rider.
"My mother was sincerely grieved for his death; he was a kind, indulgent husband to her; and it was the first severe pang of sorrow that my young heart had ever known.
"The day after his funeral, I was sitting crying beside the fire, holding my untasted breakfast on my knee.
"'Don't take on so, child,' said my mother, wiping the tears from her own eyes. 'All the tears in the world won't bring back the dead.'
"'And will dear daddy never come home again?' I sobbed. 'Ah, I have no one to love me now, but the dear good lady up at the Hall!'
"'Don't I love you, Philip?'
"'No,' I replied scornfully, 'you don't love me, and you never did.'
"'How do you know that?'
"'Because you never kiss me, and take me up in your lap, as Lady Moncton does, and look at me with kind eyes, and call me your dear boy. No, no, when I come for you to love me, you push me away, and cry angrily, 'Get away, you little pest! don't trouble me!' and grandmother is always cursing me, and wishing me dead. Do you callthatlove?'
"I never shall forget the ghastly smile that played about her beautiful stern mouth, as she said unconsciously, aloud to herself: 'It is not the child, but the voice of God that speaks through him. How can I expect him to love me?'
"How I wondered what she meant. For years that mysterious sentence haunted my dreams.
"I was soon called to endure a heavier grief. Lady Moncton's health daily declined. She grew worse—was no longer able to go out in the carriage, and the family physician went past our house many times during the day on his way to the Hall.
"Old Dinah and my mother were constantly absent attending upon the sick lady, and I was left in charge of a poor woman who came over to the cottage to clean the house, and take care of little Alice, while my mother was away.
"One day my mother came hastily in. She was flushed with walking fast, and seemed much agitated. She seized upon me, washed my face and hands, and began dressing me in my Sunday suit.
"'A strange whim this, in a dying woman,' said she, to the neighbour, 'to have such a craze for seeing other people's children. Giving all this trouble for nothing.'
"After a good deal of pushing and shaking she dragged me off with her to the Hall, and I was introduced into the solemn state chamber, where my kind and noble friend was calmly breathing her last.
"Ah, Geoffrey, how well I can recall that parting hour, and the deep impression it made on my mind. There, beneath that sumptuous canopy, lay the young, the beautiful—still beautiful in death, with Heaven's own smile lighted upon her pale serene face. God had set his holy seal upon her brow. The Merciful, who delighteth in mercy, had marked her for his own.
"Ah, what a fearful contrast to that angelic face was the dark fierce countenance of Dinah North, scowling down upon the expiring saint, and holding in her arms the sinless babe of that sweet mother.
"Rachel Mornington's proud handsome features wore their usual stern expression, but her face was very pale, and her lips firmly compressed. She held, or rather grasped me by the hand, as she led me up to the bed.
"'Is that my little Philip?' said the dying woman in her usual sweet tones. But the voice was so enfeebled by disease as to be scarcely audible.
"'It is my son, my lady,' replied Rachel, and her voice slightly faltered.
"'What says my love?' asked Sir Alexander, raising his head from the bed-clothes in which his face had been buried to conceal his tears.
"'Lift the boy up to me, dearest Alick, that I may kiss him once more before I die.'
"Sir Alexander lifted me into the bed beside her, and raised her up gently with his other arm, so that both she and I were encircled in his embrace. My young heart beat audibly. I heard Lady Moncton whisper to her husband.
"'Alexander, he is your child. Ah, do not deny it now. You know, I love youtoowell to be jealous of you. Just tell me the honest truth?'
"A crimson glow spread over her husband's face, as, in the same hurried whisper, he replied, 'Dearest Emilia, the likeness is purely accidental. I pledge to you my solemn word, that he is not my son.'
"The poor lady looked doubtingly in his face. I saw a bitter scornful smile pass over the rigid features of my mother; whilst I, foolish child, was flattered with the presumption that I might possibly be Sir Alexander's son.
"'Do not cry Philip, my darling boy!' said Lady Moncton, holding me close to her breast. 'Sir Alexander will be a father to you for my sake. I am very happy, my dear child; I am going to Heaven, where my own sweet baby went before me; I shall meet him there. Be a good boy, and love your mother, and your pretty little sister; and above all, my dear child, love your Saviour, who can lead you through the dark valley of the shadow of death, as gently as he is now leading me. Should you live to be a man,' added she faintly, 'remember this hour, and the lady who loved and adopted you as her son.'
"Then turning slowly towards her husband, she wound her thin transparent hands about his neck; breathed a few words of love in his ear, unheard by aught save him and me; and reclining her meek pale face upon his manly breast, expired without a struggle.
"A deep solemn pause succeeded. I was too awe-struck to weep. The deep convulsive sobs which burst from the heart of the bereaved husband warned intruders to retire. My mother led me from the chamber of death, and as we took our way in silence across the park, the solemn toll of the death-bell floated through its beautiful glades.
"'Mother,' said I; clinging to her dress. 'What is that?'
"'The voice of death, Philip. Did you not hear that bell toll for your father? It will one day toll for me—for you—for all.'
"'How I wish, mother, that that day would soon come.'
"'Silly boy! Do you wish us all dead?'
"'Not you mother, nor granny. You may both live as long as you like. But when it tolls for me, I shall be in Heaven with dear Lady Moncton.'
"Rachel started, stopped suddenly, and fixed upon me a mournful gaze, the only glance of tenderness which ever beamed upon me from those brilliant, stern eyes.
"'Poor child! you may have your wish gratified only too soon. Did Robert Moncton or Dinah North know of your existence, the green sod would not lie long unpiled upon your head. You think I do not love you, Philip!' she cried, passionately—'I do, I do, my poor child. I have saved your life, though you think me so cross and stern.'
"She knelt down beside me on the grass, flung her arms round me, and pressed me convulsively to her bosom, whilst big bright tears fell fast over my wondering countenance.
"'Mother,' I sobbed, 'I do love you sometimes—always, when you speak kindly, to me, as you do now; and I love dear little Alice—ah, so much! my heart is full of love—I cannot tell you how much.'
"Rachel redoubled her weeping—a step sounded behind us—she sprang to her feet, as Dinah North, with the little Margaret Moncton in her arms, joined us.
"'What are you doing there, Rachel?' growled forth the hard-hearted woman. 'Are you saying your prayers, or admiring the beauty of your son. Hang the boy! though he is your child, I never can feel the least interest in him.'
"'Is that his fault or yours?' said my mother, coldly.
"'Ah, mine, of course,' said Dinah, bitterly. 'We are not accountable for our likes or dislikes. I hate the boy!'
"I looked at her with defiance in my eyes, and she answered my look with a sharp blow on the cheek. 'Don't look at me, young dog, in that insolent way. I have tamed prouder spirits than yours, and I'll tame yours yet.'
"My mother gave her an angry glance, but said nothing, and we walked slowly on. At last Dinah turned to her and said:
"'Rachel, this should be a proud and joyful day to you.'
"'In what respect, mother?'
"'Your rival's dead; you have gained your liberty, and Sir Alexander is free to choose another wife. Do you understand me now?'
"'Perfectly; but that dream is past,' said my mother, mournfully. 'Sir Alexander loved that dead angel too well, to place a woman of low degree in her place. If he did not unite his destiny to mine when I was young and beautiful, and he in the romance of life, don't flatter yourself into the belief that he will do it now. I know human nature better.'
"'You don't know your own power,' said Dinah; 'beauty is stronger than rank and fortune, and you are still handsome enough to do a deal of mischief among the men, if you only set about it in the right way.'
"'Peace! mother. I need none of your teaching. I learned to love Mornington, and ceased to love Sir Alexander. Nay, I am really sorry for the death of poor Lady Moncton, and should despise her husband if he could forget her for one like me.'
"'Fool! idiot!' exclaimed Dinah, in a tone of exasperation. 'You have ever stood in the way of your own fortune. Had you not been so over squeamish you might have changed the children, and made your own son the heir of the Moncton. Had I been at home, this surely would have been done. This was all the good I got by leaving you to the guidance of a handsome, good-natured fool like Mornington.'
"'Mother, speak more respectfully of the dead,' said Rachel. 'He wasgood, at any rate, which weare not. It was my intention to have changed the children, but God ordered it otherwise,' she continued, with a convulsive laugh. 'However, I have had my revenge, but it has cost me many a blighting thought.'
"'I don't understand you,' said Dinah, drawing close up before us, and fixing a keen look of inquiry on her daughter.
"'Nor do I mean that you should,' coldly retorted Rachel. 'My secret is worth keeping. You will know it one day too soon.'
"We had now reached home, and the presence of the strange woman put an end to this mysterious conversation. Though only a boy of eight years old, it struck me as so remarkable, that I could never forget it; and now, when years have gone over me, I can distinctly recall every word and look which passed between those sinful women. Alas, that one should be so near to me.