"To-night, or never!"
"Don't try to force or bully me into compliance, young man. At my own time, and in my own way alone, will I gratify your curiosity."
"Well, be it so—to-morrow. I will meet you at the Lodge at nine to-morrow."
She rose from her seat; regarded me with the same withering glance and cutting smile, and gliding past me, vanished among the trees.
Exulting in my success, I exclaimed—"Thank God I shall know all to-morrow!"
CHAPTER VII.
AN EXPLANATION—DEPARTURE—DISAPPOINTMENT.
I was so elated with the unexpected result of my meeting with Dinah North, that it was not until I missed the fairy figure of my sweet cousin at the supper-table, that my mind reverted to the conversation that had passed between us in the Park.
"Where is Miss Moncton?" I asked of Sir Alexander, in a tone and manner which would have betrayed the agitation I felt, to a stranger.
"She is not well, Geoffrey, has a bad headache, or is nervous, I forget which, and begged to be excused joining us to-night. These little female complaints are never dangerous, so don't look alarmed. My girl is no philosopher, and this double parting affects her spirits. She will be all right again when you come back."
I sighed involuntarily. The provoking old man burst into a hearty laugh.
"I am likely to have a dull companion to-night, Geoffrey. Hang it! boy, don't look so dismal. Do you think that you are the only man who ever was in love? I was a young man once. Ay, and a fine young man too, or the world and the ladies told great stories, but I never could enact the part of a sentimental lover. Fill your glass and drive away care. Success to your journey. Our journeys, I might have said—and a happy meeting with little Madge."
I longed to tell Sir Alexander the truth, and repeat to him my conversation with his daughter. But I could not bear to mortify his pride, for I could not fail to perceive that he contemplated a union between us with pleasure, and was doing his best to encourage me to make a declaration of my attachment to Margaret.
I was placed in a most unfortunate predicament, and in order to drown my own miserable feelings, I drank more wine than usual, and gaining an artificial flow of spirits, amused my generous patron with a number of facetious stories and anecdotes, until the night was far advanced, and we both retired to rest.
My brain was too much heated with the wine I had drank to sleep, and after making several ineffectual efforts, I rose from my bed—relighted my candle, and dressing myself, sat down to my desk, and wrote a long letter to Margaretta, in which I informed her of my first meeting with Catherine Lee; the interest which her beauty had created in my heart—the romantic attachment I had formed for her, and which, hopeless as it was, I could not wholly overcome. I assured Margaretta, that I felt for herself, the greatest affection and esteem—that but for the remembrance of the first passion, the idea that she loved me would have made me the happiest of men. That if she would accept the heart I had to offer, divided as I felt it was with another, and my legitimacy could be established, my whole life should be devoted to her alone.
I ended this long candid confession, by relating verbatim my interview with Dinah North, and begged, if possible, that I might exchange a few words with her before leaving the Hall.
I felt greatly relieved by thus unburdening my mind. I had told the honest truth, without fear and without disguise; and I knew that she, who was the mirror of truth, would value my sincerity as it deserved.
The sun was scarcely up when I dispatched my letter, and before the early breakfast, that had been ordered previous to our departure, was ready, I received the following answer—
"My dear Cousin Geoffrey,"Your invaluable letter has greatly raised you in my esteem; I cannot sufficiently admire the conscientious scruples which dictated it—and though we cannot meet as lovers, after the candid revelation you have confided to me, we may still remain, what all near relatives ought to be, firm and faithful friends."To you I can attach no blame whatever, and I feel proud that my affections, though fixed upon an object beyond their reach, were bestowed upon one so every way worthy of them."Let us therefore forget our private sorrows, and drown unavailing regrets in doing all we can to serve Philip and his sister. Farewell—with sincere prayers for the successful issue of your journey, believe me, now and ever, your faithful and loving friend,"Margaretta."
"My dear Cousin Geoffrey,
"Your invaluable letter has greatly raised you in my esteem; I cannot sufficiently admire the conscientious scruples which dictated it—and though we cannot meet as lovers, after the candid revelation you have confided to me, we may still remain, what all near relatives ought to be, firm and faithful friends.
"To you I can attach no blame whatever, and I feel proud that my affections, though fixed upon an object beyond their reach, were bestowed upon one so every way worthy of them.
"Let us therefore forget our private sorrows, and drown unavailing regrets in doing all we can to serve Philip and his sister. Farewell—with sincere prayers for the successful issue of your journey, believe me, now and ever, your faithful and loving friend,
"Margaretta."
"What a noble creature she is," said I, as I pressed the letter to my lips; "I am indeed unworthy of such a treasure."
Yet I felt happy at that moment; happy that she knew all—that I had not deceived her, but had performed an act of painful duty, though by so doing I had perhaps destroyed the brilliancy of my future prospects in life.
With mingled feelings of gratitude and pleasure I met my dear cousin at the breakfast-table. Her countenance, although paler than usual, wore a tranquil and even cheerful expression.
"Why, Madge, my darling," cried the Baronet, kissing her pale cheek, "you are determined to see the last of us: is your early rising in honour of Geoffrey or me?"
"Of both," she said, with her sweetest smile. "I never employ a proxy to bid farewell to my friends."
Several efforts were made at conversation during the meal, which proved eminently unsuccessful. The hour of parting came. The Baronet was safely stowed away into his carriage; the noble horses plunged forward, and the glittering equipage was soon lost among the trees. I lingered a moment behind.
"Dear Margaret, we part friends."
"The best of friends."
"God bless you! dearest and noblest of women," said I, faintly; for my lips quivered with emotion; I could scarcely articulate a word; "you have removed a load of anxiety from my heart. To have lost your friendship would have been a severer trial to me, than the loss of name or fortune."
"I believe you, Geoffrey. But never allude again to this painful subject, if you value my health and peace. We understand each other. If God wills it so, we may both be happy, though the attainment of it may not exactly coincide with our present wishes. Adieu! dear cousin. You have my heart-felt prayers for your success."
She raised her tearful eyes to mine. The next moment she was in my arms, pressed closely against my breast—a stifled sob—one kiss—one long lingering embrace—a heavy melancholy deep-drawn sigh, and she was gone.
I mounted my horse and rode quickly forward; my thoughts so occupied with Margaretta and that sad parting, that I nearly forgot the promised interview with Dinah North, until my proximity to the lodge brought it vividly to my remembrance.
Fastening my horse to the rustic railing which fronted the cottage, I crossed the pretty little flower-garden, and knocked rather impatiently at the door. My summons, though given in loud and authoritative tones, remained unanswered.
Again and again I applied my hand to the rusty iron knocker; it awoke no response from the tenant of the house. "She must be dead or out," said I, losing all patience; "I will stay here no longer," and lifting the latch, I very unceremoniously entered the cottage. All was silent within. The embers on the hearth were dead, and the culinary vessels were scattered over the floor. The white muslin curtains which shaded the rose-bound windows were undrawn. The door which led into the bedroom was open, the bed made and the room untenanted. It was evident that the old woman was not there. I called aloud:
"Dinah, Dinah North! Is any one within?"
No answer.
I proceeded to explore the rest of the dwelling. In the front room or parlour, the contents of a small chest of drawers had been emptied out on the floor, and some few articles of little value were strewn about. It was an evident fact, that the bird had flown; and all my high-raised expectations resolved themselves into air.
Whilst cursing the crafty old woman bitterly in my heart, my eye glanced upon a slip of paper lying upon a side table. I hastily snatched it up and read the following words traced in a bold hand:
"Geoffrey Moncton, when next we meet, your secret and mine will be of equal value."Dinah North."
"Geoffrey Moncton, when next we meet, your secret and mine will be of equal value.
"Dinah North."
I was bitterly disappointed, and crushing the paper in my hand, I flung it as far from me as I could.
"Curse the old fiend! We shall yet meet. I will trace her to the utmost bounds of earth to bring her to justice."
I left the house in a terrible ill-humour, and remounting my horse, pursued my journey, to Derbyshire.
It was late on the evening of the second day, when I reached the little village over which my grandfather Rivers had exercised the pastoral office for nearly fifty years. The good man had been gathered to his fathers a few months before I was born. It was not without feeling a considerable degree of interest that I rode past the humble church, surrounded by its lofty screen of elms, and glanced at the greensward beneath whose daisy-sprinkled carpet, the
"Rude forefathers of the village slept."
The rain had fallen softly but perseveringly the whole day, and I was wet, hungry and tired. I hailed therefore the neat little inn, with its gay sign-board, white-washed walls and green window-blinds, as the most welcome and picturesque object which had met my sight for the last three hours.
"Stay all night, sir?" said the brisk lad, from whose helmet-like leathern cap the water trickled in the most obtrusively impertinent manner over his rosy, freckled face, as he ran forward to hold my horse. "Good accommodation for man and beast—capital beds, sir."
"Yes, yes," I replied, somewhat impatiently, as I threw him the reins and entered the brick passage of the inn. "Where is the master of the house?"
"No master, sir," returned the officious lad, following me. "The master be a missus, sir. Here she come."
"What's your pleasure?" said a very pretty woman, about thirty years of age, advancing from an inner room. She was dressed in widow's weeds, which became her very fair face amazingly, and led by the hand a rosy, curly-headed urchin, whose claims to general admiration were by no means contemptible. The mother and her lovely boy would have made a charming picture; and I forgot, while contemplating the originals, that I was wet and hungry.
With the quickness of her sex, Mrs. Archer perceived that she had made a favourable impression on her new guest. And putting back the luxuriant curls from the white brow of her boy, she remarked, with a sigh:
"He's young to be an orphan—poor child!"
"He is, indeed," I replied, kissing the little fellow, as I spoke; "and his mother far too young and pretty to remain long a widow."
"La! sir; you don't say so," said Mrs. Archer, smiling and blushing most becomingly. "And you standing all this while in the drafty, cold passage in your wet clothes. You can have a private room and a fire, sir."
"And a good supper, I hope," said I, laughing. "I have ridden fifty miles to-day, and I feel desperately hungry."
"You shall have the best the house affords. Pray, walk this way."
I followed my conductress into a neat little room. A fat country girl was on her knees before the grate striving to kindle the fire; but the wood was wet, and in spite of the girl's exertions, who was supplying with her mouth the want of a pair of bellows, the fire refused to burn.
"It's of no manner of use: no it isn't," said the girl. "I may blow till I bust, an' it won't kindle."
"Try again, Betty," said her mistress, encouragingly. "You were always a first-rate hand at raising the fire."
"But the wood warn't wet," returned the fat girl, discontentedly. "I can't make it burn when it won't."
And getting up from her fat knees she retreated, scowling alternately at me and the refractory fire.
The room looked cold and comfortless. The heavy rain dashed drearily against the narrow window-panes; and I inquired if I could not dry my wet clothes and eat my supper by the kitchen-fire.
"Oh! yes. If such a gentleman as you will condescend to enter my humble kitchen," was the reply.
I did condescend—heaven only knows how gladly; and soon found myself comfortably seated before an excellent fire, in company with a stout, red-faced, jolly old farmer, and a thin, weazel-faced, undersized individual, dressed in a threadbare suit of pepper and salt, who kept his hat on, and wore it on one side with a knowing swagger, talked big, and gave himself a thousand consequential airs.
This person I discovered to be the barber, and great politician of the village; who talked continually of King George and the royal family; of the king's ministers; the war in Rooshia, the burning of Moscow, and the destruction of that monster Bonyparty.
The farmer, who was no scholar, and looked upon him of the strop and razor as a perfect oracle, was treating him to a pot of ale, for the sake of the news; the barber paying twopence a week for the sight of a second-hand newspaper.
Mrs. Archer went softly up to the maker of perukes, and whispered something in his ear. He answered with a knowing nod, and without moving, stared me full in the face.
"Not an inch will I budge, Mrs. Archer. One man's money is as good as another man's money. No offence to the gemman, 'A man's a man for a' that.' That's what I call real independence, neighbour Bullock."
And his long, lean fingers descended upon the fat knee of the farmer with a whack that rang through the kitchen.
"Deuce take you! Sheldrake. I wish you'd just show it in some other way," said the farmer, rubbing his knee. "Why, man, your fingers are as long and as lean as a crow's claws, and as hard as your own block, and sting like whip-cord. One would think that you had dabbled long enough in oil and pomatum, and such like messes, to make them as white as a lady's hand, and as soft as your own head."
"They have been made tough by handling such hard numskulls as yours, neighbour Bullock. That chin of yours, with its three days' growth of bristles, would be a fortune to a bricklayer, whilst it spoils my best razors, and never puts a penny into the pocket of the poor operator."
"Operator!" repeated the farmer, with a broad, quizzical grin, "is that your new-fangled name for a shaver? It's a pity you didn't put it on the board with the farrago of nonsense, by which you hope to attract the attention of all the fool bodies in the town."
"Don't speak disrespectfully of my sign, sir," quoth the little barber, waxing wroth. "My sign is an excellent sign—the admiration of the whole village; and let me tell you that it is not inspiteandenvyto put it down, let spite and envy try as hard as they can. The genius which suggested that sign is not destined to go unrewarded."
"Ha! ha! ha,!" roared the chewer of bacon.
"Mrs. Archer," said the offended shaver, turning to the pretty widow with an air of wounded dignity truly comic, "did you ever before hear a Bullock laugh like a hog?"
"Dang it! man, such conceit would make a cow caper a horn-pipe, or a Shelled Drake crow like a cock."
"I beg you,MisterBullock, to take no liberties with my name, especially in the presence of the fair sex," bowing gracefully to Mrs. Archer, who was leaning upon the back of my chair, half suffocated with suppressed laughter.
"What are you quarrelling about, Sheldrake?" said the good-natured widow. "Bullock, can't you let his sign alone? It is something new, I hear—something in praise of the ladies."
"I was always devoted to the ladies," said the barber, "having expended the best years of my life in their service."
"Well, well, if so be that you call that powetry over your door a compliment to the women-folk, I'll be shot!" said the farmer. "Now, sir," turning to me, "you are a stranger, and therefore unprejudiced; you shall be judge. Come, barber, repeat your verses, and hear what the gemman says of them."
"With all my heart;" and flinging his shoulders back and stretching forth his right arm, the barber repeated, in a loud theatrical tone—
"I, William, Sheldrake, shave for a penny,Ladies and gentlemen—there can't come too many—With heads and beards—I meant to sayThose who've got none may keep away."
"I, William, Sheldrake, shave for a penny,Ladies and gentlemen—there can't come too many—With heads and beards—I meant to sayThose who've got none may keep away."
"I, William, Sheldrake, shave for a penny,
Ladies and gentlemen—there can't come too many—
With heads and beards—I meant to say
Those who've got none may keep away."
A hearty burst of laughter from us all greatly disconcerted the barber, who looked as ruefully at us as a stuck pig.
"You hairy monster!" quoth Mrs. Archer, "what do you mean by shaving the ladies? You deserve to be ducked to death in a tub of dirty suds. Beards, forsooth!" and she patted, with evident complacency, her round, white, dimpled chin; "who ever saw a woman with a beard? Did you take us all for Lapland witches? I wonder what our pretty young lady up at Elm Grove would say to your absurd verses."
"That is no secret to me, Mrs. Archer. I do know what she thinks of it. Miss Lee is a young lady of taste, and knows how to appreciate fine poetry, which is more than some folks, not a hundred miles off, does. She rode past my shop yesterday on horseback, and I saw her point to my sign with her riding-whip, and heard her say to the London chap that is allers with her, 'Is not thatcapital?'
"And he says, 'Capital!If that does not draw custom to the shop, nothing will.' So now, neighbour Bullock, you may just leave off sneering at my sign."
"I did not think Miss Lee had been such a fool," said Bullock, "but there's no accounting for taste."
"Who is the gentleman that is staying at the Elms just now?" asked Mrs. Archer. "Do you know his name?"
"I've heard," said Suds, "but really I quite forget. It either begins with an M or an N."
"That's a wide landmark to sail by, Sheldrake. You might as well have added a P or a Q."
"Stop," said the barber, "I can give you a clue to it. Do you remember, Bullock, the name of the fine sporting gemman who ran off with Parson Rivers's daughter? I was a boy then, serving my time with Sam Strap."
I started from the contemplation of the fine well-grilled beef-steak which Mrs. Archer was dishing for my especial benefit.
"Well," said Sheldrake, "he is either a son or a nefy of his, and has the same name."
"The deuce he is! That was Moncton, if I mistake not. Yes, yes, Moncton was the name. I well remember it, for it was the means of our losing our good old pastor."
"How was that?" said I, trying to look indifferent.
"Why, sir, do you see. Mr. Rivers had been many years in the parish. He married my father and mother, and baptized me, when a babby. He did more than that. He married me to my old woman, when I was a man—but that was the worse job he ever done. Well, sir, as I was telling you. He was a good man and a Christian; but he had one little weakness. We have all our faults, sir. He loved his pretty daughter too well: wise men will sometimes play the fool, and 'tis a bad thing to make too much of woman-kind. Like servants they grow saucy upon it. They always gets the advantage, any how; and our old parson did pet and spoil Miss Ellen to her heart's content. There was some excuse too for him, for he was an old man and a widower. He had lost his wife and a large family. Parsons always have large families. My wife do say, that 'tis because they have nothing else to do. But I'se very sure, that I should find preaching and sermon-work hard enough."
"Lord! man, what a roundabout way you have of telling a story," cried Suds, who was impatient to hear his own voice again. "Get on a little quicker. Don't you see, the gemman's steak is a-getting cold—and he can't eat and listen to you at the same time, an art I learnt long ago."
"Mind your own business, Sheldrake," said the farmer: "I never trouble my head with the nonsense which is always frothing out of your mouth."
"Well, sir," turning again to me, "as I was saying; his wife and family had all died in the consumption, which made him so afraid of losing Miss Ellen, that he denied her nothing; and truly, she was as pretty a piece of God's workmanship as ever you saw—and very sweet-tempered and gentle, which beauties seldom are. I had the misfortune to marry a pretty woman, and I knows it to my cost. But I need not trouble you with my missus. It's bad enough to be troubled with her myself. So, sir, as I was telling you, there came a mighty fine gentleman down from London, to stay at the Elm Grove, with my old landlord Squire Lee, who's dead and gone. This Squire Lee was the son of old-Squire Lee."
"I dare say, Bullock, the gemman does not care a farthing whose son he was," cried the impatient barber. "You are so fond of genealogies, that it's a pity you don't begin with the last squire, and end with, 'which was the son of Seth, which was the son of Adam,' &c."
These interruptions were very annoying, as I was on the tenter-hooks to get out of the mountain of flesh, the head and tail of the story he found such difficulty in bringing forth.
"Pray go on with your story, friend," said I, very demurely, for fear of hurrying him into becoming more discursive, "I feel quite interested."
"Well, sir, this young man came to stay at the Grove, during the shooting-season; and he sees Miss Ellen at church, and falls desperately in love with her. This was all very natural. I was a youngster myself once, and a smart active chap, although I be clumsy enough now, and I remember feeling rather queerish, whenever I cast a sheep's eye into the parson's pew."
"But the young lady and her lover?" for I perceived that he was trotting off at full gallop in another direction, "how did they come on?"
"Oh, ay! As young folk generally do in such cases. From exchanging looks, they came to exchanging letters and then words. Stolen meetings and presents of hearts cut out of turnips, with a skewer put through them, to show the desperation of the case. That was the way at least that I went a courting my Martha, and it took amazingly."
"Hang you, and your Martha!" thought I, as I turned helplessly to the beef-steak, but I felt too much excited to do it the least justice. After deliberately knocking the ashes from his pipe, and taking a long draught of ale from the pewter-pot beside him, the old farmer went on of his own accord.
"I s'pose the young man told Miss Ellen that he could not live without her. We all tell 'em so, but we never dies a bit the sooner, for all that; and the pretty Miss told him to speak to her father, and he did speak, and to his surprise, old parson did not like it at all, and did not give him a very civil answer; and turned the young chap out of the house. He said that he did not approve of sporting characters for sons-in-law, and Miss Ellen should never get his consent to marry him. But as I told you before, sir, the women-folk will have their own way, especially when there is a sweet-heart or a new bonnet in the case; and the young lady gave him her own consent, and they took French leave and went off without saying a word to nobody. Next morning old parson was running about the village, asking everybody if they had seen his child, the tears running over his thin face, and he raving like a man out of his head."
"And were the young people ever married?" and in spite of myself I felt the colour flush my face to crimson.
"I never heard to the contrary. But it was not right to vex the poor old man: he took it so to heart, that it quite broke his spirit, and he lived but a very few months after she left him. His death was a great loss to the neighbourhood. We never had a parson that could hold a candle to him since. He was a father to the poor, and it was a thousand pities to see the good old man pining and drooping from day to day, and fretting himself after the spoilt gal who forsook him in his old age."
"You are too hard upon the young lady," said Suds: "it was but human nature after all, and small blame in her to prefer a young husband to an old snuffy superannuated parson."
"Did she ever return to ——?"
"She came to see her father in his dying illness, but too late to receive his forgiveness, for he died while her step was on the stairs. His last words—'Thank God, Ellen is come, I shall see her before I die.' But he did not, for he expired directly the words were out of his mouth. She and her husband followed the old man to his grave, and barring her grief, I never saw a handsomer couple."
"Do you know," said I, hesitatingly, "the church in which they were married?"
"I never heard, sir, not feeling curious to ask, as it did not concern me, but Mrs. Hepburn up at the Grove knows: she was Miss Lee then, and she and old parson's daughter went to school together, and were fast friends."
"Thank you," I replied carelessly, drawing my chair from the table, "you have satisfied my curiosity."
Though outwardly calm my heart was beating violently. Could it be true that I was in the immediate vicinity of Catherine and her aunt, and that the latter might be acquainted with the facts so important for me to procure?
The hopes and fears which this conversation had produced had the effect of destroying my appetite. It was in vain that the pretty widow tempted me with a number of delicacies in the shape of sweet home-made bread, delicious fresh butter, and humming ale, the power of mental excitement overpowered the mere gratification of the senses.
Before I retired for the night, I observed my loquacious companions doing ample justice to the savoury supper, from which I had risen with indifference.
I sought the solitude of my chamber, undressed, and flung myself into bed. To sleep was out of the question. Catherine Lee, Margaretta Moncton and my dear mother floated in a continual whirl through my heated brain. My mind was a perfect chaos of confused images and thoughts; nor could I reflect calmly on one subject for two minutes together. My head ached, my heart beat tumultuously, and in order to allay this feverish mental irritation, I took a large dose of laudanum, which produced the desired effect of lulling me into profound forgetfulness.
The day was far advanced when I shook off this heavy unwholesome slumber, but on endeavouring to rise, I felt so stupid and giddy, that I was fain to take a cup of coffee in bed. A table-spoonful of lime-juice administered by the white hand of Mrs. Archer, counteracted the unpleasant effects of the opiate.
CHAPTER VIII.
ELM GROVE.
On calmly reviewing the conversation of the past night, I determined to walk over to Elm Grove, and confide my situation to Mrs. Hepburn, who, as a friend of my mother's, might feel more interested in me, than she had done in Mr. Robert Moncton's poor dependent clerk.
I was so well pleased with this plan that I immediately put it into execution, and gave myself no time to alter my resolution, until I found myself waiting the appearance of the lady in an elegant drawing-room, which commanded the most beautiful prospect of hill and dale, in that most beautiful and romantic of English counties.
Mrs. Hepburn was past the meridian of life. Her countenance was by no means handsome, but the expression was gentle and agreeable, and her whole appearance lady-like and prepossessing. She had mingled a great deal in the world, which had given her such a perfect control over her features, that little could be read of the inward emotions of the mind, from the calm and almost immovable placidity of her face.
A slight look of surprise at the sight of a visitor so unexpected, and in all probability equally unwelcome, made me feel most keenly the awkwardness of the situation in which I was placed. The cold and courteous manner in which she asked to what cause she was indebted for the pleasure of a visit from Mr. Geoffrey Moncton, did not tend to diminish my confusion. I suffered my agitation so completely to master me, that for a few seconds I could find no words wherewith to frame the most common-place answer.
Observing my distress, she begged me to take a seat, and placing herself on the opposite side of the table, she continued to regard me with the most provokingnonchalance.
Making a desperate effort to break the oppressive silence, I contrived at last to stammer out, "I hope, madam, you will excuse the liberty I have taken by thus intruding myself upon your notice; but business of a very delicate and distressing nature induced me to apply to you, as the only person at all likely to befriend me in my present difficulty."
Her look of surprise increased; nor do I wonder at it, considering the ambiguity of my speech. What must she have thought? Nothing very favourable to me, I am sure. I could have bitten my tongue off for my want of tact, but the blunder was out, and she answered with some asperity:—"That we were almost strangers to each other, and that she could not imagine in what way she could serve me, without my request was a pecuniary one, in which case she owed me a debt of gratitude which she would gladly repay; that she had heard with sorrow from Mr. Theophilus Moncton, the manner in which I had been expelled from his father's office; that she bitterly lamented she or her niece should have directly or indirectly been the cause of my disgrace. She had been told, however, that the cause of Mr. Moncton's displeasure originated in my own rash conduct, and she feared that no application from her in my behalf, would be likely to effect a reconciliation between me and my uncle."
The colour burnt upon my cheek, and I answered with some warmth: "God forbid! that I should ever seek it at his hands! It is neither to solicit charity nor to complain to you, Mrs. Hepburn, of my past ill-treatment, that I sought an interview with you this morning. But—but"—and my voice faltered, and my eyes sought the ground, "I was told last night that you were the intimate friend of my mother."
"And who, sir, was your mother?"
"Her name was Ellen Rivers."
"Good Heavens! you the son of Ellen Rivers!" and the calm face became intensely agitated. "You, Geoffrey Moncton, the child of my first and dearest friend! I was told you were the natural son of her husband."
"But was he her husband?" and I almost gasped for breath.
"Who dares to doubt it?"
"This same honourable uncle of mine. He positively affirms that my mother was never lawfully the wife of Edward Moncton. He has branded the names of my parents with infamy, and destroyed every document which could prove my legitimacy. The only advantage which I derived from a niggardly destiny, my good name, has been wrenched from me by this cold-blooded villain!"
I was too much excited to speak with moderation; I trembled with passion.
"Be calm, Mr. Geoffrey," said Mrs. Hepburn, speaking in a natural and affectionate tone. "Let us go at length into the matter, and if I can in any way assist you, I will do so most cheerfully; although I must confess, that as matters stand between the families just now, it is rather an awkward piece of business. Your uncle, perhaps, never knew that I was acquainted with Miss Rivers, or felt any interest in her fate. These deep-seeing men often overreach themselves. But let me hear the tale you have to tell, and then I can better judge of its truth or falsehood."
Encouraged by the change in Mrs. Hepburn's tone and bearing, I gave her a brief statement of the events of my life, up to the hour in which I came to an open rupture with my uncle; and he basely destroyed my articles, and I found myself cast upon the world without the means of subsistence.
Mrs. Hepburn was greatly astonished at the narration, and often interrupted me to express her indignation.
"And this is the man, who bears such a fair character to the world. The friend of the friendless, and the guardian of innocence! Geoffrey Moncton, you make me afraid of the world, of myself—of every one. But what are you doing for a living, and what brings you into Derbyshire?"
"I am living at present in the family of Sir Alexander Moncton, who has behaved in the most generous manner to hispoor relation."
"You have in him a powerful protector."
"Yes, and I may add, without boasting, a sincere friend. It is at his expense, and on his instigation that I am here, in order to find out some clue by which I may trace the marriage of my dear mother, and establish a legitimate claim to the title and estates of Moncton, at the worthy Baronet's demise, an event, which may God keep far distant," I added with fervour. "If I fail in this object, the property devolves to Robert Moncton and his son."
"I see it, I see it all; but I fear, Mr. Geoffrey, that your uncle has laid his plans too deeply for us to frustrate. I feel no doubts, as to your mother's marriage, though I was not present when that event took place, but I can tell you the church in which the ceremony was performed. Your mother was just of age, and the consent of parents was unnecessary, as far as the legality of the marriage was concerned."
"God bless you!" cried I, taking the hand she extended to me, and pressing it heartily between my own. "My mother's son blesses you, for the kind sympathy you have expressed in his welfare. You are my good angel, and have inspired me with a thousand new and pleasing hopes."
"These will not, however, prove your legitimacy, my young friend," said she, with a smile, "so restrain your ardour for a more fortunate time. I have a letter from your mother, written the morning after her marriage, describing her feelings during the ceremony and the remorse which marred her happiness, for having disobeyed and abandoned her aged father. She mentions her old nurse, and her father's gardener, as being the only witnesses present, and remarks on the sexton giving her away, as a bad omen, that she felt superstitious about it, and that her husband laughed at her fears.
"The register of the marriage, you say, has been destroyed. The parties who witnessed it, are most likely gathered to their fathers. But the very circumstance of the register having been destroyed, and this letter of your mother's, will, I think, be greatly in your favour. At all events, the parish of —— is only a pleasant ride among the Derby hills; and you can examine the registers for a trifling donation to the clerk; and ascertain from him, whether Mr. Roche, the clergyman who then resided in the parish, or his sexton, are still living. I will now introduce you to my niece, who always speaks of you with interest, and refuses to believe the many things advanced by your cousin to your disadvantage."
"Just like Miss Lee," said I. "She is not one to listen to the slanders of an enemy, behind one's back. I heard in the village, that Mr. Theophilus was in this neighbourhood, and a suitor of Miss Lee's."
"A mere village gossip. He is staying with Mr. Thurton, who lives in the pretty old-fashioned house, you passed on the hill on your way hither, and is a frequent visitor here. Mr. Moncton is anxious to promote an alliance between his son and my niece. In birth and fortune they are equals, and the match, in a worldly point of view, unexceptional."
"And Theophilus?"
"Is the most devoted of lovers."
"Execrable villain! and his poor young wife dying at the Hall of a broken heart. Can such things be, and the vengeance of heaven sleep!"
"You don't mean to insinuate that Mr. Theophilus Moncton is a married man."
"I scorn insinuations, I speak of facts; which to his face, I dare him to deny."
"My dear Kate!" cried Mrs. Hepburn sinking back in her chair. "I have combated for several weeks with what I considered an unreasonable prejudice on her part against this marriage. And this very morning I was congratulating myself on the possibility of getting her to receive Mr. Moncton's suit more favourably. Ah, Mr. Geoffrey! doubly her preserver, your timely visit has saved the dear girl from unutterable misery."
I then informed Mrs. Hepburn of all the particulars of this unfortunate marriage. Of young Moncton's desertion and barbarous treatment of his wife—of her attempted suicide, and the providential manner in which she had been rescued by me from the grave.
This painful interview, which had lasted several hours, was at length terminated by the entrance of Miss Lee and Theophilus, who had been absent riding with some friends.
They entered from the garden, and Mrs. Hepburn and I were so deeply engaged in conversation that we did not notice their approach until Catherine called out in a tone of alarm:—"Mr. Geoffrey Moncton here, and my aunt in tears? What can have happened?"
"Yes, Kate, you will be glad to see an old friend," said her aunt. "To you, Mr. Moncton," turning to Theophilus, "he is the bearer of sad tidings."
"Anything happened to my father?" said Theophilus, looking towards me with an expression in his green eyes, of intense and hungry inquiry, which for a moment overcame his first glance of aversion and contempt.
I read the meaning of that look, and answered scorn for scorn.
"Of your father andhisaffairs I know nothing. The tie of kindred is broken between us. I wish that I knew as little of you and yours."
"What do you mean?" and his pale cheek flushed with crimson. "Is it to traduce my character, to insult me before ladies, that you dare to intrude yourself in my company? What brings you here? What message have you for me?"
"With you," I said, coldly, "I have no business, nor did I ever wish to see you again. My steps were guided here by that Providence which watches over the innocent, and avenges the wrongs of the injured. It is not my nature to stab even an enemy in the dark. What I have to say to you will be said openly and to your face."
"This is fine language," said he, bursting into a scornful laugh. "On what provincial theatre have you been studying, since you were expelled my father's office?"
"I have not yet learned to act the part of the hypocrite and betrayer, in the great drama of life; or by lying and deceit to exalt myself upon the ruin of others."
"Go on, go on," cried he, "I perceive your drift. You are a better actor than you imagine yourself. Such accusations as you can bring against me, will redound more to my credit than praise from such lips."
"Theophilus Moncton," I replied, calmly, "I did not invade the sanctity of this roof in order to meet and quarrel with you. What I have to say to you I will communicate elsewhere."
"Here, sir, if you please—here to my face. I am no coward, and that you know of old. I am certain that you cannot name anything to my disadvantage, but what I am able triumphantly to refute."
"Well—be it so then. I find you here a suitor for this lady's hand. Four days ago your wife attempted suicide, and was rescued from a watery grave by my arm."
"Liar! 'tis false! Do not listen, ladies, to this vile calumniator. He has a purpose of his own to serve, by traducing my character to my friends. Let him bring witnesses more worthy of credit than himself, before you condemn me."
"I condemn no one, Mr. Theophilus," said Mrs. Hepburn, gravely. "Sir Alexander Moncton is a person of credit, and your wife is at present under his protection. What can you say to this?"
She spoke in vain. Theophilus left the room without deigning to reply. We looked in silence at each other.
Miss Lee was the first who spoke:—"He is convicted by his own conscience. I thought him cold and selfish, but never dreamed that he was a villain. And the poor young woman, his wife, what is her name?"
"Alice Mornington."
A faint cry burst from the lips of Catherine. I caught her in my arms before she fell, and placed her in a chair: she had fainted. Mrs. Hepburn rang the bell for one of her female attendants, and amid the bustle and confusion of removing Miss Lee to her own apartment, I took the opportunity of retiring from the scene.
"What new mystery does this involve?" said I, half aloud, as I sauntered down the thick avenue which led from the house to the high-road. "Why did the mention of that name produce such an effect upon Catherine? She cannot be acquainted with the parties. Her agitation might be accidental. 'Tis strange—very strange"——
"Stop!" cried a loud voice near me; and pale and haggard, his hands fiercely clenched, and his eyes starting from his head, Theophilus confronted me.
"Geoffrey, this meeting must be our last."
"With all my heart;" and folding my arms I looked him steadfastly in the face.
Never shall I forget the expression of that countenance, transformed as it was with furious passion; livid, convulsed; every feature swollen and quivering with malice and despair. It was dreadful to contemplate—scarcely human.
How often since has it haunted me in dreams.
The desire of revenge had overcome his usual caution. In the mood he was then in, his puny figure would have been a match for a giant.
"I seek no explanation of your conduct," said he: "we hate each other;" he gnashed his teeth as he spoke. "I have ruined you, and you have done your best to return the compliment. But you shall not triumph in my disgrace: if we fall it shall be together."
He sprang upon me unawares. He wound his thin sinewy arms around me. I was taken by surprise, and before I could raise my arm to defend myself from his ferocious attack, I was thrown heavily to the ground. The last thing that I can distinctly recollect was his thin bony fingers grasping my throat.
CHAPTER IX.
MY NURSE, AND WHO SHE WAS.
The night was far advanced when I recovered my senses. The room I occupied was large and spacious; the bed on which I was lying such as wealth supplies to her most luxurious children. One watch-light with shaded rays, scarcely illuminated a small portion of the ample chamber, leaving the remote corners in intense shade. A female figure, in a long, loose, white wrapping-gown, was seated at the table reading. Her back was towards me, and my head was too heavy and my eyes too dim to recognize the person of the stranger.
I strove to lift my head from the pillow; the effort wrung from my lips a moan of pain. This brought the lady instantly to my side. It was Mrs. Hepburn's face, but it faded from my sight like the faces that look upon us in dreams. Recollection and sight failed me—I remember nothing more.
Many days passed unconsciously over me. Nearly three weeks elapsed before I was able to bear the light, or ask an explanation of the past.
Mrs. Hepburn and Miss Lee were my constant attendants, and a middle-aged, respectable man in livery, who slept in my apartment, and rendered me the most kind and essential services. Dan Simpson was an old servant of the family; had been born on the estate, and lived for thirty years under that roof. He was a worthy, pious man, and during my long, tedious illness we contracted a mutual friendship which lasted to the close of his life. Had it not been for the care and attention of those excellent women and honest Dan, I might never have lived to be the chronicler of these adventures.
As I recovered strength, Simpson informed me that the gamekeeper had witnessed from behind the hedge my encounter with Theophilus, and prevented further mischief by bursting suddenly upon my adversary, who had the dastardly meanness to give me several blows after I was insensible.
Theophilus left his victim with savage reluctance. The gamekeeper thought at first that I was dead, and he told him that he had better be off, or he would inform against him, and have him convicted for murder. This hint was enough, and Theophilus lost no time in quitting the neighbourhood.
I had fallen with the back of my head against the trunk of a large elm tree, which had caused concussion of the brain.
"You must be quite still, sir, and talk as little as possible, or 'twill be bad for you," said Simpson. "An' the ladies must come near you as seldom as they can. We may manage to keep you silent, sir, but I'll be dashed, if it be possible to keep women's tongues from wagging. They will talk—no matter the danger to themselves or others; an' 'tis 'most impossible for a man not to listen to them. They be so good and pretty. I'd advise you, Master Geoffrey, to shut your eyes, when our young lady comes in with the mistress to see you, an' then you'll no be tempted to open your ears."
There was a good deal of wholesome truth in honest Dan's advice, but I lacked the resolution to adopt it. My eyes and ears were always wide open when my fair nurse and her aunt approached my bed-side.
It was delightful to me, to listen to the soft tones of Kate Lee's musical voice, when her sweet fair face was bending over me, and she inquired in such an earnest and tender manner, "how I was, and how I had passed the night."
"Always the better for seeing and hearing you, charming Kate," I would have answered had I dared.
One afternoon, Kate was absent, and the dear old lady, her good aunt came to sit with me, and read to me while she was away. It was always good pious books she read, and I tried to feel interested; but they were dull, and never failed in putting me to sleep. Knowing the result, I always listened patiently, and in less than half an hour was certain to obtain my reward.
I have no doubt, that the soporific quality of these sermons, by quieting my mind and producing wholesome repose, did more to advance my recovery, than all the lotions and medicines administered by the family physician, who was another worthy but exceedingly prosy individual.
It so happened that this afternoon my kind old friend was inclined for a chat. She sat down near my bed, and after feeling my pulse, and telling me that I was going on nicely, she began to talk over my late misadventure.
"It is a mercy that your life was spared, Geoffrey. Who could have imagined that your cousin, with his smooth courteous manners and silken voice was such a ruffian."
"The snake is beautiful and graceful," said I, "yet the venom it conceals produces death. Theophilus has many qualities in common with the reptile. Smooth, insidious, and deadly; he always strikes to kill."
"His encounter with you, Geoffrey, has removed every doubt from our minds, as to his real character and the truth of your statements. I cannot think, without a shudder, of the bare possibility of my amiable Kate becoming the wife of such a villain."
"Could Miss Lee really entertain the least regard for such a man?" cried I, indignant at the bare supposition.
"Hush! Geoffrey. You must not talk above a whisper. You know Dr. Lake has forbidden you to do that. Kate never loved Theophilus. She might, however, have yielded to my earnest importunities for her to become his wife. Mr. Moncton is her guardian, and some difficulties attend the settlement of her property, which this union would in all probability have removed. You know the manner in which some lawyers cut out work for themselves, Mr. Moncton. I have no doubt, it is the only real obstacle in the way."
"More than probable," whispered I, for I wanted the old lady to go on talking about Kate; "but, dear Mrs. Hepburn, I have a perfect horror of these marriages without affection; they seldom turn out well. Poor as I am I would never sacrifice the happiness of a whole life by contracting such a marriage."
"Young people always think so, but a few years produce a great change in their sentiments. I am always sorry when I hear of a young man or woman being desperately in love, for it generally ends in disappointment. A heavy trial of this kind—a most unfortunate engagement in early youth, has rendered poor Catherine indifferent to the voice of love."
I felt humbled and mortified by this speech. I turned upon my pillow to conceal my face from my kind nurse. Good heavens! Could it be true, that I had only loved the phantom of a dream—had followed for so many weary months a creature of imagination—a woman who had no heart to bestow upon her humble worshipper?
I had flattered myself that I was not indifferent to Miss Lee: had even dared to hope that she loved me. What visions of future happiness in store for me, had these presumptuous hopes foretold. What stately castles had I not erected upon this sandy foundation, which I was now doomed to see perish, as it were within my grasp?
My bosom heaved, and my eyes became dim, but I proudly struggled with my feelings, and turning to Mrs. Hepburn, I inquired with apparent calmness, "If any letters had arrived for me?" She said she did not know, but would send to the post-office and inquire.
I then, by mere chance, remembered the name Sir Alexander had bestowed upon me, and told Simpson, who had just then entered, to ask for letters for Mr. Tremain.
I felt restless and unhappy, and feigned sleep, in order to be left alone; and when alone, if a few tears did come to my relief, to cool the fever in my heart and brain, the reader who has ever loved will excuse the weakness.
I could not forgive my charming Kate, for having loved another, when I felt that she ought to have loved me. Had I not saved her life at the risk of my own? had I not been true to her at the sacrifice of my best interests, and slighted the pure devoted affection of Margaretta Moncton, for the love of one who loved me not—who never had loved me, though I had worshipped her image in the innermost shrine of my heart? Alas! for poor human nature: this severe trial was more than my philosophy could bear.
From these painful and mortifying reflections, I was aroused by the light step of the beautiful delinquent, who, radiant in youth and loveliness, entered the room. I glanced at her from under my half-closed eyelids. I regarded her as a fallen angel. She had dared to love another, and half her beauty had vanished.
She came to my bed-side, and in accents of the tenderest concern, inquired after my health.
"What have you been doing, Geoffrey: not talking too much, I hope? You look ill and feverish. See, I have brought you a present—a nosegay of wild flowers, gathered in the woods. Are they not beautiful?"
To look into her sweet face, and entertain other feelings than those of respect and admiration, was impossible. I took the flowers from the delicate white hand that proffered them, and tried to thank her. My lips quivered. I sighed involuntarily, and turned away.
"You are out of spirits, Geoffrey, my dear friend," said she, sitting down by my bed-side, and placing her finger on the pulse of the emaciated hand which lay listlessly on the coverlid: "you must try and overcome these fits of depression, or you will never get well. I left you cheerful and hopeful. My dear aunt has been preaching one of her long sermons, I fear, and that has made you nervous and melancholy."
Another deep sigh and a shake of the head—I could neither look at her, nor trust myself to speak.
"Your long confinement in this dull room affects your mind, Geoffrey. It is hard to be debarred the glorious air of heaven during such lovely summer weather. But cheer up, brave heart, in a few days, the doctor says, that you may be removed into another room. From the windows you will then enjoy a delightful prospect, and watch the sun set every evening behind the purple hills."
"You and your kind aunt are too good to me, Miss Lee. To one in my unfortunate circumstances, it would have been better for me had I died."
"For shame! Geoffrey. Such sentiments are unworthy of you—are ungrateful to the merciful Father who saved you from destruction."
"Why, what inducements have I to live?"
"Many; if it be only to improve the talents which God has committed to your keeping. For this end your life has been spared, and the heavier will be your amount of guilt, if you neglect so great salvation. God has permitted you to assert your innocence—to triumph over your enemy; has saved you from the premeditated malice of that enemy; and do you feel no gratitude to Him for such signal mercies?"
"Indeed I have not thought of my preservation in this way before, nor have I been so grateful as I ought to have been. I have suffered human passions and affections to stand between me and heaven."
"We are all too prone to do that, Geoffrey. The mind, in its natural and unconverted state, cannot comprehend the tender mercies of the Creator. Human nature is so selfish, when left to its own guidance, that it needs the purifying influences of religion to lift the soul from grovelling in the dust. I am no bigot—no disputer about creeds and forms of worship, but I know that without God no one can be happy or contented in any station of life, under any circumstances."
Seeing that I did not answer, she released the hand that she had retained within her own, and said very gently:
"Forgive me, Geoffrey, if I have wounded your feelings."
"Go on—go on. I could hear you talk for ever, dear Miss Lee."
"You have grown very formal; Geoffrey—why Miss Lee? During your illness, I have been simple Kate."
"But I am getting well now," and I tried to smile; my heart was too sore. "Oh, Catherine," I cried, "forgive my waywardness, for I am very unhappy."
"You have been placed in very trying circumstances, but I feel an inward conviction that you will overcome them all."
"My grief, has nothing to do with that," said I, looking at her very earnestly.
I read in her countenance pity and surprise, but no tenderer emotion.
"May I—dare I, dearest Catherine, unburden my heart to you?"
"Speak freely and candidly, Geoffrey. If I cannot remove the cause of your distress, you maybe certain of my advice and sympathy."
"Heaven bless you for that!" I murmured, kissing the hand which disengaged itself gently from my grasp, and with a colour somewhat heightened, Catherine bent towards me in a listening attitude.
The ice once broken, I determined to tell her all; and in low and broken accents I proceeded to inform her of my boyish attachment, and the fond hopes I had dared to entertain, from the kind and flattering manner in which she had returned my attentions at Mr. Moncton's, and of the utter annihilation of these ardently cherished hopes, when informed by Mrs. Hepburn that afternoon, that her affections had been bestowed upon some more fortunate person.
During my incoherent confession, Miss Lee was greatly agitated. Her face was turned from me, but from the listless attitude of her figure, and the motionless repose of the white hand which fell over the arm of the chair in which she was seated, I saw that she was weeping.
Then came a long, painful pause. Catherine at length wiped away her tears, and broke the oppressive silence.
"Geoffrey," said she, solemnly, "I have been to blame in this. At the time you saved my life (a service for which I can never feel sufficiently grateful, for I value life and all its mercies) I was young and happy, engaged to one, who in many respects, though older by some years, resembled yourself.
"When I met you the second time at your uncle's, disappointment had flung a baleful shade over my first fond anticipations of life; but, young and sanguine, I still hoped for the best. By some strange coincidence, your voice and manner greatly resembled those of the man I loved, and whom I still fondly hoped to meet again. This circumstance attracted me towards you, and I felt great pleasure in conversing with you, as every look and tone reminded me of him. This, doubtless, gave rise to the attachment you have just revealed to me, and which I must unceasingly lament, as it is impossible for me to make you any adequate return."
"And is my rival still dear to you, Miss Lee?"
Her lips again quivered, and she turned weeping away.
"I read my fate in your silence. You love him yet?"
"And shall continue to love him whilst I have life, Geoffrey Moncton," slowly and suffocatingly broke from the pale lips of the trembling girl.
"And you would have been persuaded by your aunt to marry Theophilus Moncton."
"Never! Who told you that?" and her eye flashed proudly, almost scornfully upon me.
"Your good aunt."
"She knows nothing about it. I ceased to oppose her wishes in words, because I found that it might produce a rupture between us. Women of my aunt's age have outlived their sympathies in affairs of the heart. What they once felt they have forgotten, or look upon as a weakness which ought not to be tolerated in their conversations with the young. But look at that fine, candid face, Geoffrey; that open benevolent brow, and tell me, if having once loved the original, it is such an easy matter to forget or to find a substitute in such a being as Theophilus Moncton."
As she said this she took a portrait that was suspended by a gold chain from the inner folds which covered her beautiful bosom, and placed it in my hand.
"Good heavens!" cried I, sinking back upon the pillow, "my friend,George Harrison!"
"Who? I know no one of that name."
"True—true. George Harrison—Philip Mornington—they are the same. And his adored and lost Charlotte Laurie, and my beautiful Catherine Lee are identified. I see through it now. He hid the truth from me, fearing that it might destroy our friendship. Honesty in this, as in all other cases, would have been the best policy."
"Philip is still alive! Not hearing of him for so many months made me conclude that he was either dead or had left England in disgust."
"He still lives, and loves you, Kate, with all the fervour of a first attachment."
"I do not deserve it, Geoffrey. I dared to mistrust his honour, to base listen to calumnies propagated by Theophilus and his father, purposely, I now believe, to injure him in my estimation. But what young girl, ignorant of the world and the ways of designing men, could suspect such a grave, plausible man as Robert Moncton, who outwardly always manifested the most affectionate interest in my happiness? I much fear that my coldness had a very bad effect upon Philip's character, and was the means of leading him into excesses, which ultimately led to his ruin."
I was perplexed, and knew not what answer to make, for she had hit upon the plain truth. To tell her so, was to plunge an amiable creature into the deepest affliction, and to withhold it was not doing justice to the friend, whom, above all men I valued.
With the quick eye of love, and the tact of woman, Kate perceived my confusion, and guessed the cause; she broke into a fit of passionate weeping.
"Dear Kate," I began, with difficulty raising myself on the pillow, "control this violent emotion, and I will tell you all I know of my friend."
She looked eagerly up through her tears; but the task I had imposed upon myself was beyond my strength to fulfil. My nerves were so completely shattered by the agitating effects of the past scene, that I sank back exhausted and gasping on the pillow.
"Not now, not now, Geoffrey, you are unequal to the task. This conversation has tried you too much." And raising my head upon her arm, she bathed my temples with eau de Cologne, and hastened to administer a restorative from the phial that stood on the table.
"I shall be better now I know the worst," said I; and closing my eyes for a few moments, my head rested passively on her snow-white shoulder.
A few hours back, and the touch of those fair hands would have thrilled my whole frame with delight; but now it awoke in me little or no emotion. The beautiful dream had vanished. My adored Catherine Lee was the betrothed of my friend; and I could gaze upon her pale agitated face with calmness—with brotherly, platonic love. I was only now anxious to effect a reconciliation between George and his Kate, I rejoiced that the means were in all probability in my power.
The entrance of Mrs. Hepburn with letters, put an end to this painful scene; while their contents gave rise to other thoughts and feelings, hopes and fears.
"I cannot read them yet," said I, after having examined the handwriting in which the letters were directed. "My eyes are dim. I am too weak. The rest of an hour will restore me. The sight of these letters makes me nervous, and agitates me too much. They are from Sir Alexander and his daughter, and may contain important tidings."
"Let us go, dear aunt," whispered Kate, slipping her arm through Mrs. Hepburn's. "It will be better to leave Geoffrey for awhile alone."
They left the room instantly. I was relieved by their absence. My heart was oppressed with painful thoughts. I wanted to be alone—to commune with my own spirit, and be still.
A few minutes had scarcely elapsed, before I was sound asleep.
CHAPTER X.
MY LETTERS.
Day was waning into night, when I again unclosed my eyes. A sober calm had succeeded the burning agitation of the previous hours. I was no longer a lover—or at least the lover of Catherine Lee. My thoughts had returned to Moncton Park, and in dreams the fairy figure of Margaret had flitted beside me, through its green arcades. My heart was free to love her who so loved me, and by the light of the lamp I eagerly opened up the letters, which I had grasped during my slumbers tightly in my hand.
But before I could decipher a line, my worthy friend Dan came to the rescue. "I cannot permit that, Master Geoffrey," said he; "your eyes are too weak to read such fine penmanship."
"My good fellow, only a few lines. You must allow me to do that."
"Not a word. What is the use of all this nursing if you will have your own way? You will be dead at this rate in less than a week."
"What a deal of trouble that would save you!" said I, looking at him reproachfully.
"Who called it trouble? not I," said honest Dan. "The trouble is a pleasure, if you will only be tractable and obey those who mean you well. Now don't you see what comes of acting against reason and common sense. You would talk to the mistress the whole blessed afternoon. Several times I came to the door, and it was still talk, talk, talk; and when my young lady comes home and the old mistress was fairly tired, and walked out to give her tongue a rest, it was still the same with the young one—talk, talk, talk, and no end to the talk, till you well nigh fainted; and if it had not been for God's Providence that set you off fast asleep, you might have died of the talk fever."
"But I am better now, Daniel: you see the talking did me no harm, but good."
"Tout! tout! man, a bad excuse, you know, is better than none they say. But I think it's far worse, for 'tis generally an invented lie, just to cheat the Devil or one's own conscience; howsomever, I doubt much whether the Devil was ever cheated by such practices, but did not always win in the long run by that sort ofstale mate."
"Are you a chess player?" I asked in some surprise.
"Ay, just in a small way. Old Jenkins the butler and I often have a tuzzle together in his pantry, which sometimes ends in astale mate—he! he! he!—Jenkins, who is a dry stick, says that a stale mate is better than stale fish, or a glass of flat champagne—he! he! he!"
"I perfectly agree with Jenkins. But don't you see, my good Daniel, that you blame me for talking with the ladies, and wanting to read a love-letter; while you are making me act quite as imprudently, by laughing and talking with you."
"A love-letter did you say?" and he poked his long nose nearly into my face, and squinted down with a glance of intense curiosity at the open letter I still held in my hand. "Why that is rather a temptation to a young gentleman, I must own; cannot I read it for you, sir? I am as good a scholar as our clerk."
"I don't at all doubt your capabilities, Simpson. But you see, this is a thing I really can only do for myself. The young lady would not like her letter to be made public."
"Why, Lord, sir, you don't imagine that I would say a word about it. I have kept secrets before now; ay, and ladies' secrets too. I was the man who helped your father to carry off Miss Ellen. It was I held the horses at the corner of the lane, while he took her out of the chamber-window. I drove them to——church next morning, and waited at the doors till they were married; and your poor father gave me five golden guineas to drink the bride's health. Ah! she was a bride worth the winning. A prettier woman I never saw: she beat my young lady hollow, though some folks do think Miss Catherine a beauty."
"You did not witness the ceremony?"
"No, sir; but as I sat on the box of the carriage, I saw old Parson Roche go up to the aisle in his white gown, with a book in his hand, and if it were not to marry the young folks, what business had he there?"
"What, indeed!" thought I. "This man's evidence may be of great value to me."
I lay silent for some minutes thinking over these circumstances, and quite forgot my letter until reminded of it by Simpson.
"Well, sir, I'm thinking that I will allow you to read that letter; if you will just put on my spectacles to protect your eyes from the light."
"But I could not see with them, Simpson; spectacles, like wives, seldom suit anybody but the persons to whom they belong. Besides, you know, old eyes and young eyes never behold the same objects alike."
"Maybe," said the old man. "But do just wait patiently until I can prop you up in the bed, and put the lamp near enough for you to see that small writing. Tzet, tzet—what a pity it is that young ladies, now-a-days, are ashamed of writing a good, legible hand. You will require a double pair of specs to read yon."
The old man's curiosity was almost as great as his kindness; and I should have felt annoyed at his peeping and prying over my shoulder, had I not been certain that he could not decipher, without the aid of the said spectacles, a single word of the contents. I was getting tired of his loquacity, and was at last obliged to request him to go, which he did most reluctantly, begging me as he left the room to have mercy on my poor eyes.
There was some need of the caution; for the fever had left me so weak that it was with great difficulty I succeeded in reading Margaretta's letter.