I sent up my card, which gained me instant admittance. I was shown into the library, which Harrison had so often described. A noble old room panelled to the ceiling, with carved oak now almost black with age. Here I found the Baronet engaged with his daughter in a game at chess. He rose to meet me with evident marks of pleasure, and introduced me to Miss Moncton, as a young cousin, in whom he felt much interested, and one with whom he hoped to see her better acquainted.
With a soft blush, and a smile of inexpressible sweetness, the little fairy, for she was almost as diminutive in stature, bade me welcome.
Her face, though very pleasing, was neither striking nor beautiful. It was, however, exquisitely feminine, and beaming with intelligence, dignity and truth. Her large, dark, soul-lighted eyes were singularly beautiful. Her complexion, too fair and pale for health; the rich ruby-coloured full lips and dazzling teeth, forming a painful contrast with the pure white cheeks, shaded by a dark cloud of raven tresses, which, parting on either side of her lofty brow, flowed in rich curls down her snowy neck, and over her marble shoulders to her waist.
Her figure in miniature comprised all that was graceful and lovely in woman; and her frank, unsophisticated manners rendered her, in spite of a faulty mouth, very attractive.
After exchanging a few sentences, Miss Moncton withdrew, and I lost no time in explaining to her father the cause of my visit; the manner in which I had been treated by my uncle, my recent illness, and the utter friendlessness of my position. "You told me, sir, to come to you at any crisis of difficulty, for advice and assistance. I have done so, and shall feel most grateful for your counsels in the present emergency. I am willing and able to work for my bread; I only want an opening to be made in order to get my own living."
"Your profession, Geoffrey; why not stick to that?"
"Most gladly would I do so, had not Robert Moncton put the finishing stroke to his tyranny, by tearing my indentures, and by this malicious act destroyed the labour of seven years."
"The scoundrel! the mean, cowardly scoundrel!" cried Sir Alexander, striking the table with such violence with his clenched hand, that kings, queens, knights, bishops and commoners made a general movement to the other side of the chess-board. "Never mind, Geoffrey, my boy, give me your hand—I will be your friend. I will restore you to your rights, if it costs me the last shilling in my purse—ay, or the last drop in my veins. Let the future for a short time take care of itself. Make this your home; look upon me as your father, and we shall yet live to see this villain reap the reward of his evil deeds."
"Generous, noble man!" I cried, while tears of joy and gratitude rolled down my cheeks: "how can I ever hope to repay you for such disinterested goodness?"
"By never alluding to the subject, Geoffrey. Give me back the love your father once felt for me, and I shall be more than repaid. Besides, my lad, I am neither so good nor so disinterested as you give me credit for. I detest, despise that uncle of yours, and I know the best way to annoy him is to befriend you, and get you safe out of his villainous clutches. This is hardly doing as I would be done by, but I can't help it. No one blames another for taking a fly out of a spider's web, when the poor devil is shrieking for help, although he be the spider's lawful prey; but who does not applaud a man for rescuing his fellow man from the grasp of a scoundrel! By-the-by, Geoffrey," added he, "have you dined?"
"At the last inn we stopped at on the road."
"The Hart; a place not very famous for good cheer. Their beef is generally as hard as their deer's horns. Let me order up refreshments."
"By no means. You forget, Sir Alexander, that of late I have not been much used to good living. The friend on whose charity I have been boarding is a poor fellow like myself."
"Well, we must have our chat over a glass of old wine."
He rang the bell. The wine was soon placed upon the table, and most excellent wine it proved. I was weak from my long confinement to a sick chamber, and tired with my long journey; I never enjoyed a glass of wine so much in my life.
"What do you think of Moncton, Geoffrey?"
"It is a glorious old place."
"Wish it were yours—don't you? Confess the truth, now."
"Some fifty years hence," said I, laughing.
"You would then be too old to enjoy it, Geoffrey; but wait patiently God's good time, and it may be yours yet. There was a period in my life," and he sighed a long, deep, regretful sigh, "when I hoped that a son of mine would be master here, but as that cannot be, I am doomed to leave no male heir to my name and title, I know no one whom I would rather see in the old place than my cousin Edward's son."
"Your attachment to my father must have been great, when, after so many years, you extend it to his son."
"Yes, Geoffrey, I loved that wild, mad-cap father of yours better than I ever loved any man; but I suffered one rash action to separate hearts formed by nature to understand and appreciate each other. You are not acquainted with this portion of the family history. Pass the bottle this way, and I will enlighten your ignorance."
"When your grandfather, in the plenitude of his worldly wisdom (for he had a deal of the fox in his character), left the guardianship of his sons to his aged father, it was out of no respect for the old gentleman, whom had cast him off rather unceremoniously, when his plebeian tastes led him to prefer being a rich citizen, rather than a poor gentleman; but he found, that though he amassed riches, he had lost caste, and he hoped by this act to restore his sons, for whom he had acquired wealth, to their proper position in society.
"My grandfather, Sir Robert, grumbled a good deal at being troubled with the guardianship of the lads in his old age. But when he saw those youthful scions of his old house, he was so struck with their beauty and talents, that from that hour they held an equal place in his affections with myself, the only child of his eldest son, and heir to his estates.
"I was an extravagant, reckless young fellow of eighteen, when my cousins first came to live at Moncton; and I hailed their advent with delight. Edward, I told you before, had been an old chum of mine at school; and when Robert was placed in a lawyer's office, he accompanied me to college to finish my education. He was intended to fill his father's place in the mercantile world, but he had little talent or inclination for such a life. All his tastes were decidedly aristocratic, and I fear that my expensive and dissipated habits operated unfavourably on his open, generous, social disposition.
"With a thousand good qualities, and possessing excellent qualities, Edward Moncton was easily led astray by the bad example of others. He was a fine musician, had an admirable voice, a brilliant wit, and great fluency of speech, which can scarcely be called advantageous gifts, to those who don't know how to make a proper use of them. He was the life of the society in which we moved, courted and admired wherever he went, and a jolly time we had of it, I can tell you, in those classical abodes of learning, and frequently of sin.
"Edward gave me his whole heart, and I loved him with the most entire affection. But, though I saw that my example acted most perniciously on his easy disposition, I wanted the moral courage to give up a course of gaiety, in order to save him from ruin.
"Poor Edward!—I would give worlds to recall the past. But the bad seed was sown, and in time we reaped the bitter fruits.
"With all my faults, I was never a gambler; women, wine, and extravagant living, were my chief derelictions from the paths of rectitude. But even while yielding to these temptations, I was neither an habitual drunkard nor a profligate, though I frequented haunts, where both characters were constantly found, and ranked many such men among my chosen friends and associates. My moral guilt, was perhaps as great as theirs; for it is vain for a man to boast of his not being intemperate, because nature has furnished him with nerves which enable him to drink, in defiance to reason, quantities which would deprive the larger portion of men of their senses.
"Your father thought, boy like (for he was full three years my junior), to prove his title to manhood by following closely in my steps, and too soon felt the evil effects of such a leader. He wasted his health in debauchery, and wine maddened him. The gaming-table held out its allurements, he wanted fortitude to resist its temptation, and was the loser to a considerable amount. He kept this a secret from me. He was a minor, and he feared that it might reach my grandfather's ears, and that Sir Robert would stop the supplies, until his debts were paid. I heard of it through a mutual friend, and very consistently imagined the crime far greater than any that I had committed.
"The night before we left college, I followed him to his favourite rendezvous, held in the rooms of a certain young nobleman, unknown to the authorities, where students who were known to belong to wealthy parents, met to play hazard and écarté, and lose more money at a sitting, than could be replaced by the economy of years.
"I was not one of Lord ——'s clique, and I sent my card to Edward by a friend, requesting to speak to him on a matter of importance. After some delay, he came out to me. He was not pleased at being disturbed, and was much flushed with wine.
"'What do you want, Alick?' said he, in no very gentle tones.
"'I want you to come and help me prepare for our journey to-morrow.'
"'There will be plenty of time for that, by-and-by. I am engaged, and don't choose to be dictated to like a school-boy.'
"'You are mad,' said I, taking hold of his arm, 'to go there at all. Those fellows will cheat you out of every penny you have.'
"'That's my own look-out. I tell you once for all, Alick, I don't choose you to ride rough-shod over me, because you fancy yourself superior. I will do as I please. I have lost a deal of money to-night, and I mean to play on until I win it back.'
"You will only lose more. You are not in a fit state to deal with sharpers. You are so tipsy now, you can hardly stand.'
"As I said this, I put my arm around him to lead him away, when he, maddened I suppose by drink and his recent losses, burst from me, and turning sharp round, struck me a violent blow on the face. 'Let that satisfy you, whether I am drunk or sober,' he exclaimed, and with a bitter laugh, returned to the party he had quitted.
"Geoffrey, I felt that blow in my heart. The disgrace was little in comparison to the consciousness that it came from his hand—the hand of the friend I loved. I could have returned the injury with ten-fold interest; but I did nothing of the sort. I stood looking after him with dim eyes and a swelling heart, repeating to myself—
"'Is it possible that Edward struck me?'
"That blow, however, achieved a great moral reformation. It led me to think—to examine my past life, and to renounce for ever those follies, which I now felt were debasing to both soul and body, and unworthy the pursuit of any rational creature.
"The world expected me, as a gentleman, to ask satisfaction of Edward for the insult I had received.
"I set the, world and its false laws at defiance.
"I returned to my lodgings and wrote him a brief note, telling him that I forgave him, and gently remonstrating with him on the violence of his conduct.
"Instead of answering, or apologizing for what he had done, he listened to the advice of a pack of senseless idiots, who denounced me as a coward, and lauded his rash act to the skies.
"To seek a reconciliation, would be to lose his independence, they said, and prove to the world that he had been in the wrong. I, on my part, was too proud to solicit his friendship, and left London before the effort of mutual friends had effected a change in his feelings.
"Perhaps, as the injurer, he never forgave me for being the originator of the quarrel: be that as it may, we never met again. My grandfather died shortly after. I formed an unfortunate attachment to a person far beneath me in rank, and but for the horror of entailing upon myself her worthless mother, would certainly have made her my wife. To avoid falling into this snare, I went abroad for several years, and ultimately married a virtuous and lovely woman, and became a happy husband and father, and I hope a better man."
The Baronet ceased speaking for a few minutes, then said with a half smile.
"Geoffrey, men are sad fools. After losing that angel, I came very near marrying my old flame, who was a widow at the time, and as handsome as ever. She died most opportunely, I am now convinced, for my comfort and respectability, and I gave up all idea of taking a second wife."
This account tallied exactly with Harrison's story, which had given me a key to the Baronet's history. I inquired, rather anxiously, if he and my father remained unreconciled up to the period of his death.
"'I wrote to him frequently, Geoffrey,' he replied, 'when time had healed the wound he inflicted on my heart, but he never condescended to reply to any of my communications. I have since thought that hedidwrite, and that his brother Robert, who was always jealous of our friendship, destroyed the letters. I assure you, that this unnatural estrangement formed one of the saddest events in my life; and for the love I still bear his memory, I will never desert his orphan son.'"
I thanked the worthy Baronet again and again, for the generous treatment I had received from him, and we parted at a late hour, mutually pleased with each other.
CHAPTER IV.
A SAD EVENT.
A few weeks' residence found me quite at home at the Hall. My new-found relatives treated me with the affectionate familiarity which exists between old and long-tried friends. I ceased to feel myself the despisedpoor relation; a creature rarely loved and always in the way, expected to be the recipient of all the kicks and cuffs of the family to whom his ill-fortune has made him an attaché, and to return the base coin with smiles and flattering speeches.
Of all lots in this hard world, the hardest to bear must be that of a domestic drudge; war, war to the knife is better than such humiliating servitude. I could neither fawn nor cringe, and the Baronet, who was a high-spirited man himself, loved me for my independence.
The summer had just commenced. No hunting, no shooting to while away an idle hour. But Sir Alexander was as fond of old Izaak Walton's gentle craft, as that accomplished piscator, and we often rose at early dawn to stroll through the dewy pastures to the stream which crossed the park, which abounded with trout, and I soon became an excellent angler, hooking my fish in the most scientific manner.
When the days were not propitious for our sport, I accompanied Sir Alexander in his rides, in visiting his model farms, examining the progress of his crops, the making of hay, the improved breeds of sheep and cattle, and all such healthy and rural employments, in which he took a patriarchal delight.
Margaretta generally accompanied us on these expeditions. She was an excellent equestrian, and managed her high-bred roan with much skill and ease, never disturbing the pleasure of the ride by nervous or childish fears.
"Madge is a capital rider!" would the old Baronet exclaim. "I taught her myself. There is no affectation—no show-off airs in her riding. She does that as she does everything else, in a quiet, natural way."
The enjoyment of our country life was seldom disturbed by visitors. All the great folks were in London; the beauties of nature possessing far less attractions for them than the sophisticated gaieties of the season in town. If his youth had been dissipated, Sir Alexander courted retirement in age, and was perfectly devoted to the quiet happiness of a domestic life.
Margaretta, who shared all his tastes, and whose presence appeared necessary to his existence, had spent one season in London, but cared so little for the pleasures of the metropolis, that she resisted the urgent entreaties of her female friends to accompany them to town a second time.
"I hate London, Cousin Geoffrey. There is no room in its crowded scenes for nature and truth. Every one seems intent upon acting a lie, and living in defiance of their reason and better feelings. I never could feel at home there. I mistrusted myself and every one else, and never knew what true happiness was, until I returned to the unaffected simplicity of a country life."
These sentiments were fully reciprocated by me, who had passed, within the smoky walls of the huge metropolis the most unhappy period of my life.
Same hours, every day, were devoted by Sir Alexander to business, during which he was closely closeted with Mr. Hilton, his steward, and to disturb him at such times was regarded by him as an act of high treason.
During these hours, Margaretta and I were left to amuse ourselves in the best manner we could. She was a fine pianist. I had inherited my father's passion for music, and was never tired of listening to her while she played. If the weather was unfavourable for a ride or stroll in the Park, I read aloud to her, while she painted groups of flowers from nature, for which she had an exquisite taste. The time fled away only too fast, and this mingling of amusement and mental occupation was very delightful to me, whose chief employment for years had been confined to musty parchments in a dull, dark office.
Our twilight rambles through the glades of the beautiful park, at that witching hour when both eye and heart are keenly alive to sights and sounds of beauty, possessed for me the greatest charm.
I loved—but only as a brother loves—the dear, enthusiastic girl, who leaned so confidingly on my arm, whose glorious eyes, lighted up from the very fountain of passion and feeling, were raised to mine as if to kindle in my breast the fire of genius which emanated from her own.
Her vivid imagination, fostered in solitude, seized upon everything bright and beautiful in nature, and made it her own.
"The lips of song burst openAnd the words of fire rushed out."
"The lips of song burst openAnd the words of fire rushed out."
"The lips of song burst open
And the words of fire rushed out."
At such moments it was impossible to regard Margaretta with indifference. I could have loved, nay, adored, had not my mind been preoccupied with a fairer image.
Margaretta was too great a novice in affairs of the heart, to notice the guarded coolness of my homage. My society afforded her great pleasure, and she wanted the common-place tact of her sex to disguise it from me.
Dear, lovely, confiding Margaretta, how beautiful does your simple truth and disinterested affection appear, as I look back through the long vista of years, and find in the world so few who resemble thee!
Towards the close of a hot day in June we visited the fragrant fields of new-mown hay, and Margaretta tired herself by chasing a pair of small, coquettish blue butterflies, who hovered along the hedge, which bounded the dusty highway, like living gems, and not succeeding in capturing the shy things, she proposed leaving the road, and returning home through the Park.
"With all my heart," said I. "We will rest under your favourite beech, while you, dear Madge, sing with your sweet voice, the
"Drowsy world to rest."
We crossed a stile, and entered one of the broad, green arcades of the glorious old Park.
For some time we reposed upon the velvet sward, beneath Margaretta's favourite tree. The slanting red beams of the setting sun scarcely forced their way through the thickly interlaced boughs of the forest. The sparkling wavelets of the river ran brawling at our feet, fighting their way among the sharp rocks that opposed a barrier to their downward course. We bathed our temples in the cool, clear waters. Margaretta forgot the dusty road, the independent blue butterflies, and her recent fatigue.
"There is no music after all like the music of nature, Geoffrey," she said, untying her straw bonnet, and throwing it on the grass beside her, while she shook a shower of glossy black ringlets back from her small oval face.
"Not that it is the instrument, but the soul that breathes through it, which makes the music. And Nature, pouring her soul into these waves, and stirring with her plaintive sighs these branches above us, awakens sounds which find an echo in the heart of all her children, who remain true to the teachings of the divine mother." Then turning suddenly to me, she said, "Geoffrey, do you sing?"
"To please myself. I play upon the flute much better than I sing. During the last half year I remained with my uncle I took lessons of an excellent master, and having a good ear, and being passionately fond of music, I gained considerable proficiency. I had been an amateur performer for years."
"And you never told me one word of this before."
"I did not wish to display all my trifling stock of accomplishments at once," said I, with a smile. "Those who possess but little are wise to reserve a small portion of what they have. You shall test its value the next rainy day."
"In the absence of the flute, Geoffrey, you must give me a song. A song that harmonizes with this witching hour and holiday time o' the year."
"Then it must necessarily be a love song," said I; "youth and spring being the best adapted to inspire the joyousness of love."
"Call not love joyous, Geoffrey; it is a sad and fearful thing to love. Love that is sincere is a hidden emotion of the heart; it shrinks from vain laughter, and is most eloquent when silent, or only revealed by tears."
I started, and turned an anxious gaze upon her pale, spiritual face.
What right had I to be jealous of her? I who was devoted to another. Yet jealous I was, and answered rather pettishly:
"You talk feelingly, fair cousin, as if you had experienced the passion you describe. Have you tasted the bitter sadness of disappointed love?"
"I did not say that." And she blushed deeply. "You chose to infer it."
I did not reply. The image of Harrison rose in my mind. For the first time I saw a strong likeness between them. Such a likeness as is often found between persons who strongly assimilate—whose feelings, tastes, and pursuits are the same.
Was it possible that she had loved him? I was anxious to find out if my suspicions were true; and without any prelude or apology commenced singing a little air that Harrison had taught me, both music and words being his own.
SONG.I loved you long and tenderly,I urged my suit with tears;But coldly and disdainfullyYou crushed the hope of years.I gazed upon your glowing cheek,I met your flashing eye;The words I strove in vain to, speakWere smothered in a sigh.I swore to love you faithfully,Till death should bid us part;But proudly and reproachfully,You spurned a loyal heart.Despair is bold—you turned away,And wished we ne'er had met,Through many a long and weary dayThat parting haunts me yet.Nor think that chilling apathy,Can passion's tide repress—Ah, no! with fond idolatry,I would not love thee less.Your image meets me in the crowd,Like some fair beam of light,That bursting through its sombre cloudMakes glad the brow of night.Then turn my hard captivity,Nor let me sue in vain,Whilst with unshaken constancy,I seek your feet again.One smile of thine can cheer the heart,That only beats to beUnited, ne'er again to part—My life! my soul!—from thee.
SONG.
SONG.
I loved you long and tenderly,I urged my suit with tears;But coldly and disdainfullyYou crushed the hope of years.I gazed upon your glowing cheek,I met your flashing eye;The words I strove in vain to, speakWere smothered in a sigh.
I loved you long and tenderly,
I urged my suit with tears;
But coldly and disdainfully
You crushed the hope of years.
I gazed upon your glowing cheek,
I met your flashing eye;
The words I strove in vain to, speak
Were smothered in a sigh.
I swore to love you faithfully,Till death should bid us part;But proudly and reproachfully,You spurned a loyal heart.Despair is bold—you turned away,And wished we ne'er had met,Through many a long and weary dayThat parting haunts me yet.
I swore to love you faithfully,
Till death should bid us part;
But proudly and reproachfully,
You spurned a loyal heart.
Despair is bold—you turned away,
And wished we ne'er had met,
Through many a long and weary day
That parting haunts me yet.
Nor think that chilling apathy,Can passion's tide repress—Ah, no! with fond idolatry,I would not love thee less.Your image meets me in the crowd,Like some fair beam of light,That bursting through its sombre cloudMakes glad the brow of night.
Nor think that chilling apathy,
Can passion's tide repress—
Ah, no! with fond idolatry,
I would not love thee less.
Your image meets me in the crowd,
Like some fair beam of light,
That bursting through its sombre cloud
Makes glad the brow of night.
Then turn my hard captivity,Nor let me sue in vain,Whilst with unshaken constancy,I seek your feet again.One smile of thine can cheer the heart,That only beats to beUnited, ne'er again to part—My life! my soul!—from thee.
Then turn my hard captivity,
Nor let me sue in vain,
Whilst with unshaken constancy,
I seek your feet again.
One smile of thine can cheer the heart,
That only beats to be
United, ne'er again to part—
My life! my soul!—from thee.
I sang my best, and was accounted by all the young men of my acquaintance, to have a fine manly voice. But I was not rewarded by a single word or encouraging smile.
Margaretta's head was bowed upon her hands, and tears were streaming fast through her slender fingers.
"Margaret, dearest Margaret!" for in speaking to her, I always dropped the Italianized termination of her name. "Are you ill. Do speak to me."
She still continued to weep.
"I wish I had not sung that foolish song."
"It was only sung too well, Geoffrey." And she slowly raised her head and put back the hair from her brow. "Ah, what sad, what painful recollections does that song call up. But with these, you have nothing to do. I will not ask you how you became acquainted with that air; but I request as a great favour, that you will never sing or play it to me again."
She relapsed into silence, which I longed to break but did not know how. At length she rose from the bank on which we had been seated, resumed her bonnet, and expressed a wish to return to the Hall.
"The night has closed in very fast," said she, "or is the gloom occasioned by the shadow of the trees?"
"It is only a few minutes past seven," I replied, looking at my watch. "The hay-makers have not yet left their work." We had followed the course of the stream, on our homeward path, and now emerged into an open space in the Park. The sudden twilight which had descended upon us was caused by a heavy pile of thunder clouds which hung frowning over the woods, and threatened to overtake us before we could reach the Hall.
"How still and deep the waters lie," said Margaretta. "There is not a breath of wind to ruffle them or stir the trees. The awful stillness which precedes a storm inspires me with more dread, than when it launches forth with all its terrific powers."
"Hark! There's the first low peal of thunder, and the trees are all trembling and shivering in the electric blast which follows it. How sublimely beautiful, is this magnificent war of elements."
"It is very true, dear cousin, but if you stand gazing at the clouds, we shall both get wet."
"Geoffrey," said Margaretta, laughing, "there is nothing poetical about you."
"I have been used to the commonest prose all my life, Madge. But here we are at the fishing-house: we had better stow ourselves away with your father's nets and tackles until this heavy shower is over."
No sooner said than done. We crossed a rustic bridge which spanned the stream, and ascending a flight of stone steps, reached a small rough-cast building, open in front, with a bench running round three sides of it, and a rude oak table in the middle, which was covered with fishing-rods, nets, and other tackle belonging to the gentle craft.
From this picturesque shed Sir Alexander, in wet weather, could follow his favourite sport, as the river ran directly below, and it was considered the best spot for angling, the water expanding here into a deep still pool, much frequented by the finny tribes.
We were both soon seated in the ivy-covered porch, the honey-suckle hanging its perfumed tassels, dripping with the rain, above our heads, while the clematis and briar-rose gave out to the shower a double portion of delicate incense.
The scene was in unison with Margaretta's poetical temperament. She enjoyed it with her whole heart; her beautiful eyes brimful of love and adoration.
The landscape varied every moment. Now all was black and lowering; lightnings pierced with their arrowy tongues the heavy foliage of the frowning woods, and loud peals of thunder reverberated among the distant hills; and now a solitary sunbeam struggled through a rift in the heavy cloud, and lighted up the gloomy scene with a smile of celestial beauty.
Margaretta suddenly grasped my arm; I followed the direction of her eye, and beheld a tall female figure, dressed in deep mourning, pacing too and fro on the bridge we had just crossed. Her long hair, unconfined by cap or bandage, streamed in wild confusion round her wan and wasted features, and regardless of the pelting of the pitiless storm, she continued to hurry backwards and forwards, throwing her hands into the air, and striking her breast like one possessed.
"Who is she?" I whispered.
"The wreck of all that once was beautiful," sighed Margaretta, "It is Alice Mornington, the daughter of one of my father's tenants."
"Alice Mornington! Good Heavens! is that poor mad woman Alice Mornington?"
Margaretta looked surprised.
"Do you know this poor girl?"
I felt that I had nearly betrayed myself, and stammered out, "Not personally; I know something of her private history, which I heard accidentally before I came here."
"Geoffrey, no sister ever loved another more devotedly than I loved that poor girl—than I love her still. After she forsook the path of virtue, my father forbade me having the least intercourse with her. My heart bleeds to see her thus. I cannot stand calmly by and witness her misery. Stay here, while I go and speak to her."
With noiseless tread she glided down the stone steps, and gained the bridge. The quick eye of the maniac (for such she appeared to be) however, had detected the movement, and with a loud shriek she flung herself into the water.
To spring to the bank, to plunge into the stream, and as she rose to the surface, to bear the wretched girl to the shore, was but the work of a moment. Brief as the time was that had elapsed between the rash act and her rescue, she was already insensible, and with some difficulty I succeeded in carrying her up the steep steps to the fishing-house. It was some seconds before suspended animation returned, and when at length the large blue eyes unclosed, Alice awoke to consciousness on the bosom of the fond and weeping Margaretta.
"Oh, Miss Moncton!" sobbed the poor girl, "why did you save me—why did you recall me to a life of misery—why did you not let me die, when the agony of death was already over?"
"Dear Alice!" said Margaret, soothingly, "what tempted you to drown yourself?"
"I was driven to desperation by the neglect and cruelty of those whom I love best on earth."
"Do not reproach me, dear Alice," said Margaret, almost choking with emotion. "It is not in my nature to desert those I love. My heart has been with you in all your sorrows, but I dared not disobey my father."
"Oh, Miss Moncton, it was not of you I spoke. I could not expect you to countenance one whom the whole neighbourhood joined to condemn. If others had only treated me half as well, I should not have been reduced to such straits."
"Alice, you must not stay here in this sad state. You will get your death. Lean on my arm. I will take you home."
"Home! I have no home. I dare not go home.Sheis there! and she will taunt me with this, and drive me mad again."
"Then come to the Hall, Alice; I will talk to you there, and no one shall hear us but your own Margaret."
"God bless you! Miss Moncton, for all your kindness. It would, indeed, be a great relief to tell you all the grief which fills my heart. Yes, I will go with you to-night. The morrow may take care of the things which belong to it. Now, or never. There may be no to-morrow on earth for me."
"Cheer up, poor heart! There may be happiness in store for you yet," said Margaret.
"For me?" and Alice looked up with an incredulous smile; so sad, so dreary, it was enough to make you weep, that wild glance passing over her wan features. "Oh, never again for me."
She suffered herself to be led between us to the Hall; Margaret directing me by a path which led through the gardens to a private entrance at the back of the house. Alice was completely exhausted by her former violence. I had to put my arm round her slender waist, to support her up the marble stair-case. I left her with Margaret, at her chamber-door, and retired to my own apartment, to change my wet clothes.
Miss Moncton did not come down to tea.
Sir Alexander was in the fidgets about her. "Where's Madge? What the deuce is the matter with the girl? She went out with you, Geoffrey, as fresh as a lark. I will hold you responsible for her non-appearance."
I thought it best to relate what had happened. He looked very grave.
"A sad business! A very sad business! I wish Madge would keep her hands clear of that girl. I am sorry for her, too. But you know, Geoffrey, we cannot set the opinion of the world entirely at defiance. And what a man can do with impunity, a young lady must not."
"Miss Moncton has acted with true Christian charity, sir. It is sad that such examples are so rare."
"Don't think I blame Madge, Geoffrey. She is a dear, good girl, a little angel. But it is rather imprudent of her to bring the mistress of Theophilus home to the house. What will Mrs. Grundy say?"
"Margaret has no Mrs. Grundies," said I, rather indignantly. "She will not admit such vulgar, common-place wretches into her society. To the pure in heart all things are pure."
"Well done! young champion of dames. You will not suffer Margaretta to be blamed without taking her part, I see."
"Particularly, sir, when I know and feel that she is in the right."
"She and I must have a serious talk on this subject to-morrow, however. In the meantime, Geoffrey, bring here the chess-board, and let us get through a dull evening in the best way we can."
CHAPTER V.
A DISCOVERY.
The next morning I received from Margaretta, a circumstantial detail of what had passed between Alice and her on the previous evening. "After I undressed and got her to bed, she fell into a deep sleep, which lasted until midnight. I was reading by the table, not feeling at all inclined to rest. Hearing her moving, I went to her, and sat down on the bed, and asked how she felt herself.
"'Better in mind, Miss Moncton, but far from well. My head aches badly, and I have a dull pain in my chest.'
"'You have taken cold, Alice. I must send for the doctor.'
"'Oh! no, no. He could do me no good; mine is a malady of the heart. If my mind were at ease, I should be quite well. I do not wish to get well. The sooner I die the better.'
"'Alice, you must not talk so. It is very sinful.'
"'You are right—I am a great sinner. I know it only too well. But I cannot repent. All is dark here,' and she laid her hand upon her head. 'I cannot see my way through this thick darkness—this darkness which can be felt. You know, Miss Moncton, what the Bible says "The light of the wicked shall be put out in obscure darkness." My light of life has been extinguished, and the night of eternal darkness has closed over me.'
"'We must pray to God, Alice, to enlighten this awful darkness.'
"'Pray!—I cannot pray. I am too hard—too proud to pray. God has forsaken and left me to myself. If I could discern one ray of light—one faint glimmer only, I might cherish hope.'
"There was something so truly melancholy, in this description of the state of her mind, Geoffrey, that I could not listen to her with dry eyes.
"Alice, for her part, shed no tears, but regarded my emotions with a look of mingled pity and surprise, while the latent insanity, under which I am sure she is labouring, kindled a glow on her death-pale face. Rising slowly in the bed, she grasped my arm—
"'Why do you weep?' said she. 'Do you dare to think me guilty of that nameless crime? Margaretta Moncton, you should know me better. Don't you remember the ballad we once learned to repeat, when we were girls together?—
"'Not mine to scowl a guilty eye,Or bear the brand of shame;Oh, God! to brook the taunting lookOf Fillan's wedded dame.
"'Not mine to scowl a guilty eye,Or bear the brand of shame;Oh, God! to brook the taunting lookOf Fillan's wedded dame.
"'Not mine to scowl a guilty eye,
Or bear the brand of shame;
Oh, God! to brook the taunting look
Of Fillan's wedded dame.
"'But the lady bore the brand in spite of all her boasting. But I do not. I am a wife—Hislawful wedded wife, and my boy was no child of shame, and he dare not deny it. And yet,' she continued, falling back upon her pillow, and clutching the bed-clothes in her convulsive grasp, 'hespurned me from him—me, his wife—the mother of his child. Yes, Miss Moncton, spurned me from his presence, with hard words and bitter taunts. I could have borne the loss of his love, for I have long ceased to respect him. But this—this has maddened me.'
"I was perfectly astonished at this unexpected disclosure. Seeing doubt expressed in my face, she grew angry and vehement.
"'It is true. Why do you doubt my word? I scorn to utter a falsehood. When, Miss Moncton, did I ever during our long friendship deceive you?'
"'Never, Alice. But your story seemed improvable. Like you, I am in the habit of speaking fearlessly my mind.'
"She drew from her bosom a plain gold ring, suspended by a black ribbon round her neck.
"'With this ring we were married in Moncton Church. Our banns were published there, in your father's hearing, but he took no heed of the parties named. I have the certificate of my marriage, and Mr. Selden, who married us under the promise of secresy, can prove the truth of what I say. The marriage was private, because Theophilus was afraid of incurring his father's anger.'
"'And what has become of your child, Alice?'
"'He is dead,' she said, mournfully. 'He caught cold, during a long journey to London, which I undertook unknown to my grandmother, in the hope of moving the hard heart of my cruel husband. It was of no earthly use. I lost my child, and the desolate heart of the forsaken, is now doubly desolate.'
"The allusion to her baby seemed to soften the iron obstinacy of her grief, and she gave way to a passionate burst of tears. This, I have no doubt, tranquillized her mind. She grew calmer and more collected—consented to take some refreshments, and then unfolded to me at length, the tale of her wrongs.
"Oh, Geoffrey! what a monster that Theophilus Moncton must be. I may be wrong to say so, but I almost wish that poor Alice were not his wife, and so will you, after you have heard all that I have to tell you. Theophilus, it appears, from her statements, took a fancy to Alice, when she was a mere child, and his passion strengthened for her at every visit he subsequently paid to the Hall. After using every inducement to overcome her integrity, rather than lose his victim, he proposed a private marriage. This gratified the ambition of the unfortunate girl, who knew, that in case of my father dying without male issue, her lover would be the heir of Moncton. She was only too glad to close with his offer, and they were married in the parish church by the Rev. Mr. Selden, all the parties necessary to the performance of the ceremony being sworn or bribed to secresy.
"For a few months Theophilus lavished on his young bride great apparent affection, and at this period his visits to the Hall were very frequent.
"Alice, who had always been treated like a sister by me, now grew pert and familiar. This alteration in her former respectful manner greatly displeased my father. 'These Morningtons,' he said, 'are unworthy of the kindness we have bestowed upon them, and like all low people, when raised above their station, they become insolent and familiar.'
"Rumour had always ascribed young Moncton's visits to the Hall, to an attachment he had formed for me. The gossips of the village changed their tone, and his amour with Alice became the scandal of the day.
"My father having ascertained that there was some truth in these infamous reports, sent me to spend my first winter in London, with Lady Gray, my mother's only sister, and told Dinah North that her granddaughter for the future would be considered as a stranger by his family. I wrote to Alice from London, telling her that I could not believe the evil things said of her; and begged her, as she valued my love and friendship, to lose no time in clearing up the aspersions cast upon her character.
"To my earnest and affectionate appeal, she returned no answer, and all intercourse between us ceased. Three months after this, she became a mother, and my father forbade me to mention her name.
"It appears, that from this period she saw little of her husband; that he, repenting bitterly of his sudden marriage, treated her with coldness and neglect.
"Dinah North, who was privy to her marriage, took a journey to London, to try and force Mr. Moncton to acknowledge her granddaughter as his son's wife; in case of his refusal threatening to expose conduct of his which would not bear investigation. Dinah failed in her mission—and my dear father, pitying the condition of the forlorn girl, sought himself an interview with Mr. Moncton on her behalf, in which he begged your uncle to use his influence with Theophilus, to make her his wife. The young man had been sent abroad, and Mr. Moncton received my father's proposition with indignation and contempt, and threatened to disinherit Theophilus if he dared to take such a step without his knowledge and consent.
"In the meanwhile, the unfortunate Alice, withering beneath the blighting influence of hope deferred, and unmerited neglect, lost her health, her beauty, and by her own account, at times her reason. Hearing that her husband had returned to England, she wrote to him a letter full of forgiveness, and breathing the most devoted affection; and told him of the birth of his son, whom she described, with all a mother's doting love.
"To this letter she received, after a long and torturing delay, the following unfeeling answer. She gave me this precious document.
"Read it, Geoffrey. It puts me into a fever of indignation; I cannot read it a second time."
I took the letter from her hand.
How well I knew that scrupulously neat and feminine specimen of caligraphy. It was an autograph worthy of Queen Elizabeth, so regularly was each letter formed, the lines running in exact parallels; no flutter of the heart causing the least deviation from the exact rule. It ran as follows:
"Why do you continue to trouble me with letters which are not worth the postage? I hate to receive them, and from this time forward will return them unopened."Your best policy is to remain quiet, or I will disown the connection between us, and free myself from your importunity by consigning you to a mad-house."T—— M——."
"Why do you continue to trouble me with letters which are not worth the postage? I hate to receive them, and from this time forward will return them unopened.
"Your best policy is to remain quiet, or I will disown the connection between us, and free myself from your importunity by consigning you to a mad-house.
"T—— M——."
"Unfeeling scoundrel!" I exclaimed; "surely thisaffectionatebillet must have destroyed the last spark of affection in the breast of the unhappy girl."
"Women are strange creatures, Geoffrey, and often cling with most pertinacity to those who care little for their regard, while they take a perverse pleasure in slighting those who really love them—so it is with Alice. The worse he treated her, the more vehemently she clung to him. To make a final appeal to his callous heart she undertook the journey to London alone, with her baby in her arms, and succeeded under a feigned name in getting admittance to her husband.
"You know the result. He spurned the wife and child from his presence. The infant was taken sick on its homeward journey, and died shortly after she reached her grandmother's cottage; and she, poor creature, will soon follow it to the grave, for I am convinced that she is dying of a broken heart."
Margaret was quite overcome with this sad relation. Wiping the tears from her eloquent black eyes, and looking me sadly in the face, she said, with great earnestness:
"And now, Geoffrey, what can we do to serve her?"
"Inform Sir Alexander of these particulars. Let him obtain from Alice the legal proofs of her marriage, and force this base Theophilus—this disgrace to the name of a man, and of Moncton, to acknowledge her publicly as his wife. In the meanwhile, I will write to her brother, and inform him of this important discovery."
"Her brother!" and Margaretta turned as pale as death; "what do you know of Philip Mornington?"
"He is my friend—my dearest, most valued friend."
"Thank God he is alive!"
"And likely to live," said I, leading her to a chair; for we had been standing during our long conversation in the deep recess of the library window. "Margaret, will you be offended if I ask you one question?"
"Not in the least, cousin."
"And will you answer me with your usual candour?"
"Why should you doubt it, Geoffrey?" said she, trembling with agitation.
"Do you love Philip Mornington?"
"I do, Geoffrey—I have loved him from a child, but not in the way you mean—not such love as a girl feels for her lover. I could not think of him for one moment as my husband. No, it is a strange interest I feel in his destiny: I feel as if he were a part of me, as if I had a natural right to love him. He is so like my father, only milder and less impetuous, that I have thought it possible that he might be his natural son—and if so, my brother."
What a relief was this declaration to my mind. I could not for a moment doubt its sincerity, and I rejoiced that the dear tender-hearted creature before me, was not likely to wreck her peace in loving one whom she could not wed. Yet, that she did love some one I felt certain; and though I dared not prosecute the inquiry, it was a problem that I was very anxious to solve.
I left my fair cousin, to write a long letter to George Harrison, in which I duly informed him of all that had taken place since I left London.
CHAPTER VI.
MY SECOND INTERVIEW WITH DINAH NORTH.
An hour had scarcely elapsed, when I received a message from Miss Moncton, requesting my presence in the drawing-room, where I found her engaged in an earnest conversation with Alice, who looked more like a resuscitated corpse, than a living creature; so pale and death-like were her beautiful features.
She held out her hand, as I approached the sofa on which she was reclining; and thanked me in low and earnest tones for saving her life. There was an expression of pride, almost aristocratical, on her finely cut lips, which seemed to contradict the gratitude she expressed.
"I was not in my right mind, Mr. Geoffrey; no one is, I have read and been told, who makes an attempt upon his own life. I had suffered a great calamity, and wanted moral courage to bear it. I trust God will forgive me."
I told her that I deeply sympathized with her unfortunate situation, and would gladly do anything in my power to serve her.
"That is more than Theophilus would do for you. If there is a person whom he hates more than me, it is yourself. You can serve me very materially. Miss Moncton tells me that you know my brother Philip intimately."
I nodded assent.
"Write to him, and tell him from me, how sincerely I repent my past conduct to him—that I am not quite the guilty creature he took me for; though swayed by minds more daringly wicked to commit evil. Tell him not to avenge my wrongs on Theophilus. There is one in heaven who will be my Avenger—who never lets the thoroughly bad escape unpunished; and tell him," and she drew a deep sigh—"that Alice Moncton died blessing him."
"Shall I go to London, and bring him down to see you?"
"No, no!" she cried, in evident alarm, "he must not be seen in this neighbourhood."
"That would be bringing the dead to life," said I, pointedly. She gave me a furtive look.
"Yes, Alice, Philip told me that dreadful story. I do not wonder at your repugnance to his coming here; and were it not for your share in the business, I would commit that atrocious woman to take her trial at the next assizes."
"Horrible!" muttered Alice, hiding her face in the sofa pillows. "I did not think that Philip would betray me, after all I did to save his life."
"Your secret is safe with me. I would to God, that other family secrets known to you and Dinah were in my keeping."
"I wish they were, Mr. Geoffrey, for I have too much upon my conscience, overburdened as it is with the crimes of others. But I cannot tell you many things important for you to know, for my lips are sealed with an oath too terrible to be broken."
"Then I must go to Dinah," I said, angrily, "and wrest the truth from her."
Alice burst into a wild laugh: "Rack and faggot would not do it, if she were determined to hold her tongue; nay, she would suffer that tongue to be torn out of her head, before she would confess a crime, unless indeed she were goaded on by revenge. Listen, Mr. Geoffrey, to the advice of a dying woman. Leave Dinah North to God and her own conscience. Before many months are over, her hatred to Robert Moncton and his son will tear the reluctant secret from her. Had my son lived," another heavy sigh, "it would have been different. Her ambition, like my love, has become dust and ashes."
"Alice," said I, solemnly, "you have no right to withhold knowledge which involves the happiness of others; even for your oath's sake."
"It may be so, but that oath involves an eternal penalty which I dare not bring upon my soul."
"God can absolve all rash vows."
"Ay, those who believe in Him, who love and trust Him. I believe, simply because I fear. But love and trust—alas, the comfort, the assurance which springs from faith, was never felt by me."
"Dinah may die, and the secret may perish with her," cried I, growing desperate to obtain information on a subject of such vital importance to my friend—perhaps to me.
"That is nothing to me," she replied, coldly.
"Selfish, ungenerous woman!"
She smiled scornfully. "The world, and your family especially, have given me great encouragement to be liberal."
"Is Philip your brother?" cried I, vehemently, determined to storm the secret out of her.
"What is that to you? Yet, perhaps, if the truth were told, you would be the first to wish it buried in oblivion."
There was a lurking fire in her eye as she said this, which startled me.
"Do you wish to prosecute the inquiry?" added she, with the bitter smile which made her face, though beautiful, very repulsive.
A glance of contempt was my sole answer.
"Well, once for all, I will tell you, Mr. Geoffrey, lawyer though you be, that your cross-questioning is useless. What I know about you and yours shall remain unknown, as far as I am concerned; and shall go down with me to the grave. The memory of my mother is too dear to me for any words of yours to drag from me the trust she reposed in me. You have had your answer. Go—I wish to be alone."
In vain I argued, entreated, and even threatened. There was too much of the leaven of Old Dinah in her granddaughter's character for her to listen to reason.
She became violent and obstinate, and put an end to this strange conference by rising, and abruptly leaving the room. I looked after her with feelings less tinctured with compassion than annoyance and contempt.
"Forgive her! Geoffrey," said Margaretta, who had listened in silent astonishment to the conversation; "her reason is disordered; she does not know what she says."
"The madness of wickedness," I said, sharply. "She is as wide awake as a fox. It may seem harsh to say so, but I feel little pity for her. She is artful and selfish in the extreme, and deserves her fate. Just review, for a moment, her past life."
"It will not bear investigation, Geoffrey. Yet, with all these faults, I loved her so fondly—love her still, and will never desert her while a hope remains, that through my instrumentality her mind may be diverted to the contemplation of better things."
"She is not worthy of the trouble you take about her," said I, shrugging my shoulders. "Have you informed your father of her marriage with Theophilus?"
"Yes, and he was astonished. Theophilus was the last person in the world, he thought, who would commit himself in that way. Papa said, that he would write to Robert Moncton, and make a statement of the facts. I could almost pity him; this news will throw him into such a transport of rage."
"When Robert Moncton feels the most, he says little. He acts with silent, deadly force. He seldom speaks. He will curse Theophilus in his heart, but speak fair of him to his enemies. I am anxious to know how all this will end."
"My father wanted to see you in the library," said Margaretta. "Your conversation with Alice put it entirely out of my head."
I found Sir Alexander seated at a table, surrounded with papers. If there was one thing my good old friend hated more than another, it was writing letters. "Wise men speak—fools write their thoughts," was a favourite saying of his. He flung the pen pettishly from him as I entered the room.
"Zounds! Geoffrey. I cannot defile paper with writing to that scoundrel. I will see him myself. Who knows, but in the heat of his displeasure, he may say something that will afford a clue to unravel his treachery towards yourself. At all events, I am determined to make the experiment."
"He will make no sign. Robert Moncton never betrays himself."
"To think that his clever Theophilus could make such a low marriage; not but that the girl is far too good for him, and I think the degradation is entirely on her side."
"The pair are worthy of each other," said I.
"You are unjust to Alice, Geoffrey. The girl was a beauty, and so clever, till he spoilt her."
"The tiger is a beautiful animal, and the fox is clever; but we hate the one, and despise the other."
The Baronet gave me a curious look.
"How came you to form this character of the girl?"
"Partly from observation; partly from some previous knowledge, obtained from a reliable source, before I left London. But what of this journey," said I, anxious to turn the conversation. "Do you seriously contemplate again going up to town?"
"It is already decided. I have ordered the carriage to be at the door by eight to-morrow morning. I do not ask you to accompany me, Geoffrey. I have business cut out for you during my absence. You must start to-morrow for Derbyshire, and visit the parish in which your grandfather resided for many years as curate, under the Rev. James Brownson; and where your mother was born. I will supply the necessary funds for the journey.
"And the object of this visit?" cried I, eagerly.
"To take lodgings in ——, or in the neighbourhood, and, under a feigned name, prosecute inquiries respecting your mother's marriage. There must still be many persons living to whom Ellen Rivers and her father were well-known, who might give you much valuable information respecting her elopement with your father, and what was said about it by the gossips at the time. If you find the belief general that they were married, ascertain the church in which the ceremony was said to have been performed—the name of the clergyman who officiated, and the witnesses who were present. All these particulars are of the greatest importance for us to know. Take the best riding-horse in the stable, and if your money fails you, draw upon me for more. You may adopt, for the time being, my mother's family name, and: call yourself Mr. Tremain, to which address, all letters from the Hall will be sent. Should Robert Moncton drop any hints, which can in any way further the object of your search, I will not fail to write you word. We will, if you please, start at the same hour to-morrow; each on our different mission; and may God grant us success, and a happy meeting. And, now, you may go and prepare for your adventure."
I had long wished to prosecute this inquiry. Yet, now the moment had arrived, I felt loath to leave the Hall.
The society and presence of Margaretta had become necessary to my happiness. Yet inconsistently enough, I fancied myself desperately in love with Catherine Lee: I never suspected that my passion for the one was ideal—the first love of a boy; while that for the latter, was real and tangible.
How we suffer youth and imagination to deceive us in affairs of the heart! We love a name, and invest the person who bears it with a thousand perfections, which have no existence in reality. The object of our idolatry is not a child of nature, but a creation of fancy, fostered in solitude by ignorance and self-love. Marriages, which are the offspring of first-love, are proverbially unhappy from this very circumstance, which leads us to overrate, during the period of courtship, the virtues of the beloved in the most extravagant manner; and this species of adoration generally ends in disappointment—too often in disgust.
Boys and girls in their teens, are beings without much reflection. Their knowledge of character, with regard to themselves and others, is too limited and imperfect to enable them to make a judicious choice. They love the first person who pleases the eye and charms the fancy—for love is a matter of necessity at that age. Time divests their idol of all its imaginary perfections, and they feel, too late, that they have made a wrong choice. Though love may laugh at the cold maxims of prudence and reason, yet it requires the full exercise of both qualities to secure for any length of time domestic happiness.
I can reason calmly now, on this exciting subject. But I reasoned not calmly then. I was a creature of passion, and passionate impulses. The woman I loved had no fault in my eyes. To have supposed her liable to the common errors and follies of her sex would have been an act of treason against the deity I worshipped.
I retired to my chamber, and finished my letter to Harrison.
The day wore slowly away, as it always does when you expect any important event on the morrow.
The evening was bright and beautiful as an evening in June could well be. Margaretta had only been visible at dinner, her time having been occupied between Alice and making preparations for her father's journey. At tea, she looked languid and paler than usual, and when we rose from the table I proposed a stroll in the Park. She consented with a smile of pleasure, and we were soon wandering side by side beneath our favourite trees.
"You will feel very lonely during your father's absence, my little cousin?"
"Then you must exert all your powers of pleasing, Geoffrey, to supply his place."
"But I am going too: I leave Moncton at the same time, for an indefinite period."
"Worse and worse," and she tried to smile. It would not do. The tears were in her beautiful eyes. That look of tender inquiry caused a strange swelling at my heart.
"You will not forget me, Margaret?"
"Do you think it such an easy matter, that you deem it necessary to make such a request."
"I am but a poor relation, whom few persons would regard with other feelings than those of indifference. This I know is not the case with your excellent father and you. I shall ever regard both with gratitude and veneration—and I feel certain, that should we never meet again, I should always be remembered with affectionate kindness."
"You know not how deservedly dear you are to us both. How much we love you, Geoffrey—and I would fain hope that these sentiments are reciprocal."
Though this was said in perfect simplicity, the flushed cheek, and down-cast eye, revealed the state of the speaker's heart, I felt—I knew—she loved me. But, madman that I was, out of mere contradiction, I considered myself bound by a romantic attachment, which had never been declared by word or sign, to Catherine Lee.
"You love me, dear Margaret," cried I, as I clasped her hand in mine, and kissed it with more warmth than the disclosure I was about to make, warranted.
"God knows! how happy this blessed discovery would have made me, had not my affections been pre-engaged."
A deep blush mantled over her face—she trembled violently as she gently drew her hand from mine—and answered with a modest dignity, which was the offspring of purity and truth.
"I will not deny, Geoffrey, that I love you. What you have said gives me severe pain. We are not accountable for our affections: I am sorry that I suffered my foolish heart to betray me. Yet, I must love you still, cousin," she said, weeping. "Your very misfortunes endear you to me. Forget this momentary weakness, and only think of me as a loving friend and kinswoman."
Mastering her feelings with a strong effort, she bade me good night, and slowly walked back to the Hall.
I was overwhelmed with confusion and remorse. I had wantonly sported with the affections of one of the gentlest and noblest of human beings, which a single hint, dropped as if accidentally, of a previous passion might have prevented.
Between Catherine and me, no words of love had been exchanged. She might be the love of another—might be a wife, for anything I knew to the contrary. I had neither seen nor heard anything regarding her for some months, I had sacrificed the peace and happiness of the generous, confiding Margaretta, to an idol, which might only exist in my own heated imagination.
Bitterly I cursed my folly when repentance came too late.
I was too much vexed and annoyed with myself to return to the Hall, and I rambled on until I found myself opposite to the fishing-house. The river lay before me gleaming in the setting sun. Everything around was calm, peaceful, and beautiful; but there was no rest, no peace in my heart.
As I approached the rustic bridge from which the wretched Alice had attempted suicide, I perceived a human figure seated on a stone on the bank of the river, in a crouching, listless attitude. This excited my curiosity, and catching at anything that might divert my thoughts from the unpleasant train in which they had been running for the last hour, I struck off the path I had been pursuing, which led directly to the public road, and soon reached the object in question.
Wrapped in an old grey mantle, with a red silk handkerchief tied over her head, her chin resting between her long bony hands, and her eyes shut, or bent intently on the ground, I recognized, with a shudder of aversion and disgust, the remarkable face of Dinah North.
Her grizzled locks had partly escaped from their bandage, and fell in thin, straggling lines over her low, wrinkled forehead. The fire of her deep-seated dark eyes was hidden beneath their drooping lids, and she was muttering to herself some strange unintelligible gibberish. She did not notice me until I purposely placed myself between her and the river which rolled silently and swiftly at her feet.
Without manifesting the least surprise at the unceremonious manner in which I had disturbed her reverie, she slowly raised her witch-like countenance, and for a few seconds surveyed me with a sullen stare. As if satisfied with my identity, she accosted me with the same sarcastic writhing of the upper lip, which on our first interview had given me the key to her character.
"You, too, are a Moncton, and like the rest of that accursed race, are fair and false. Your dark eyes all fire—your heart as cold as ice. Proud as Lucifer—inexorable as the grave; woe to those who put any trust in a Moncton! they are certain of disappointment—sure to be betrayed. Pass by, young sir, I have no doubt that you are like the rest of your kin. I wish them no good, but evil, so you had better not cross my path."
"Your hatred, Dinah, is more to be coveted than your friendship. To incur the first, augurs some good in the person thus honoured; to possess the last, would render us worthy of your curse."
"Ha, ha!" returned the grim fiend, laughing ironically, "your knowledge of the world has given you a bitter spirit. I wish you joy of the acquisition. Time will increase its acrimony. But I like your bluntness of speech, and prophesy from it that you are born to overcome the malignity of your enemies."
"And you," and I fixed my eyes steadily on her hideous countenance, "for what end were you born?"
"To be the curse of others," she answered, with a grim smile, which displayed those glittering white teeth within her faded, fleshless lips, which looked like a row of pearls in a Death's head; and there flashed from her swart eye a red light which made the blood curdle in my veins, as she continued in the same taunting strain—
"I have been of use, too, in my day and generation. I have won many souls, but not for heaven. I have served my master well, and shall doubtless receive my reward."
"This is madness, Dinah North, but without excuse. It is the madness of guilt."
"It is a quality I possess in common with my kind. The world is made up of madmen and fools. It is better to belong to the first than to the latter class—to rule, than to be ruled. Between those two parties the whole earth is divided. Knowledge is power, whether it be the knowledge of evil or of good. I heard that sentence when a girl; it never left my mind, and I have acted upon it through life."
"It must have been upon the knowledge of evil—as your deeds can too well testify."
"You have guessed right, young sir. By it, the devil lost heaven, but he gained hell. By it tyrants rule, and mean men become rich—virtue is overcome, and vice triumphs."
"And what have you gained by it?"
"Much: it has given me an influence in the world, which without it, never could have belonged to one of my degree. By it, I have swayed the destinies of those whom fortune had apparently placed beyond my reach. It has given me, Geoffrey Moncton, power over thee and thine, and at this very moment, the key of your future fortune is in my keeping."
"And your life in mine, vain boaster! The hour is at hand which shall make even a hardened sinner like you acknowledge that there is a righteous God who judges in the earth. I ask you not for the secret which you possess, and which, after all, may be a falsehood, in unison with the deceit and treachery that has marked your whole life—a lie, invented to extort money, or to gratify the spite of your malignant heart. The power which punishes the guilty and watches over the innocent, will vindicate the good name of which a wretch like you would fain deprive me."
"Don't be too sure ofcelestialaid," said she, with a sneer, "but, 'make to yourself friends of the mammon of unrighteousness,' as the wisest policy. Flatter from your Uncle Robert the ill-gotten wealth that his dastardly son, Theophilus, shall never possess."
"This advice comes well from the sordid woman who sold her innocent grandchild to this same Theophilus, in the hope that she might enjoy the rank and fortune which belonged to the good and noble, and by this unholy act sacrificed the peace—perhaps the eternal happiness of that most wretched creature."
The countenance of the old woman grew dark—dark as night. She fixed upon me a wild, inquiring gaze.
"You speak of Alice. In the name of God, tell me what has become of her!"
"Upon one condition," said I, laying my hand upon her shoulder and whispering the words into her ear. "Tell me what has become of Philip Mornington."
"Ha!" said the old woman, trying to shake off my grasp; "what do you know of him?"
"Enough to hang you—something that the grave in the dark shrubbery can reveal."
"Has she told youthat? The fool! the idiot! in so doing she betrayed herself."
"Shetold me nothing. The eye that witnessed the deed confided to me that secret. The earth will not conceal the stain of blood. Did you never hear that fact before? Is not my secret as good as yours, Dinah North? Are you willing to make an exchange?"
The old woman crouched herself together, and buried her face between her knees. Her hands opened and shut with a convulsive motion, as if they retained something in their grasp with which she was unwilling to part. At length, raising her head, she said in a decided manner:
"The law has lost in you aworthymember; but I accept the terms. Come to me to-morrow at nine o'clock."