"It was but a passing pang," said she, resuming her seat. "His ear is closed to all intelligible sounds."
I thought otherwise, but after rocking herself to and fro on her seat for a short space, she again fixed upon me her dark, searching, fiery eyes, and resumed her tale:—
"Robert Moncton bore the intelligence with more temper than I expected. Nor did he then propose any act of open violence towards the innocent object of our mutual hatred, but determined to destroy him in a more deliberate and less dangerous way. At that time I was not myself eager for his death, for my poor deluded, lost Alice, had not then formed the ill-fated attachment to Theophilus Moncton, which terminated in her broken heart and early grave—and which, in fact, has proved the destruction of all, and rendered the house of the destroyer as desolate as my own.
"At first I could not believe that the attachment of my poor girl to Theophilus was sincere, but when I was at length convinced that both were in earnest, my long withered hopes revived. I saw her in idea, already mistress of the Hall, and often in private called her Lady Moncton.
"I despised the surly wretch, whom unfortunately she only loved too well, and looked upon his union with my grandchild as a necessary evil, through which she could alone reach the summit of my ambitious wishes.
"In the meanwhile, Alice played her cards so well that she and her lover were privately married—she binding herself by a solemn promise, not to divulge the secret, even to me, until a fitting opportunity. After a few months, her situation attracted my attention; and I accused her of having been betrayed by her fashionable paramour.
"She denied the charge—was obstinate and violent, and much bitter language passed between us. Just at this period, young Mornington returned to us, a ruined man. He fell sick, and both Alice and myself hoped that his disease would terminate fatally. In this we were disappointed. He slowly and surely recovered in spite of our coldness and neglect.
"Before he was able to leave his bed, Robert Moncton, who had discovered his victim's retreat, paid us a visit. Me, he cajoled, by promising to give his consent to his son's marriage with Alice, but only on condition of our uniting to rid him for ever of the man who stood between him and the long-coveted estates and title of Moncton. I, for my part, was easily entreated, for our interests were too closely united in his destruction, for me to raise any objections.
"Alice, however, was a novice in crime, and she resisted his arguments with many tears, and it was not until he threatened to disinherit her husband, if he ever dared to speak to her again, that she reluctantly consented to administer the fatal draught which Robert prepared with his own hands."
There was a long pause; I thought I heard the sound of horses' hoofs in the distance. Dinah heard it too, and hastened to conclude her narrative.
"Yes, George Moncton died in the bloom of life, the victim of treachery from the very morning of his days. But the cry of the innocent blood has gone up to the throne of God, and terrible vengeance has pursued his murderers.
"When I discovered that Alice was the lawful wife of Theophilus Moncton, and that the child she carried, if it proved a son, would be Sir Alexander's heir, I made a journey to London, to communicate the fact to Robert Moncton, and to force him to acknowledge her publicly as his daughter-in-law.
"He would not believe me on my oath; and declared that it was only another method to extort money. I produced the proofs. He vowed that they were base forgeries, and tore the documents, trampling them under his feet; and it was only when I threatened to expose the murder of his cousin, that he condescended to listen to reason.
"It was then for the first time I heard of your existence, and a new and unforeseen enemy seemed to start up and defy me to my teeth.
"Robert Moncton laughed at my fears, and told me how ingeniously he had contrived to brand you with the stigma of illegitimacy. He could not however lull my fears to rest, until I was satisfied that Walters had really placed the stolen certificates in the iron chest in your garret—and late as it was, we went to assure ourselves of the fact."
"Oh, how well I remember that dreadful visit," said I—"and the horrible dream which preceded it."
"You were awake, then?"
"Yes—awake with my eyes shut—and heard all that passed."
"A true Moncton," and she shook her palsied head. "The devil is in you all. You know then, that our search was fruitless, and I returned to Moncton with the conviction, that we were destined to be defeated in our machinations.
"Six months after these events, Alice gave birth to a son, and was greatly cheered by the news, which reached her through one of the servants at the Hall, that her husband had returned from Italy, and was in London."
"The rest of her melancholy history is known to me," said I. "It was my arm that lifted her from the water when she attempted to destroy herself. Oh, miserable and guilty woman, what have you gained by all your deep-laid schemes of villainy? As to you, Dinah North, the gibbet awaits you—and your prospects beyond the grave are more terrible still."
"Dinah North will never die beneath the gaze of an insolent mob," said the old woman with a sullen laugh. "A few months ago, Geoffrey Moncton, and I would have suffered the rack, before I would have confessed to you aught that might render you a service, but the kindness you showed to my unhappy grandchild, awoke in my breast a feeling towards you foreign to my nature. I have been a terrible enemy to your house. But you, at least, should regard me as a friend. Had George Moncton lived, what would become of your claims to rank and fortune?"
"Dinah, he does live!" and the conviction that I was penniless, a poor dependent upon a noble house, instead of being the expectant heir, pressed at that moment painfully on my heart. "See," I continued, as the door opened, and George attended by several persons entered the house, "he is here to assert his lawful claims. The grave has given up its dead."
The same wild shriek which burst so frightfully on my ears, when George first addressed the old woman, ran through the apartment.
"Constables, do your duty," said George. "Instantly secure that woman."
As he spoke, the light was suddenly extinguished, and we were left in darkness. Before the hurry and bustle of rekindling it was over, Dinah North had disappeared, and all search after her proved fruitless.
CHAPTER XIII.
RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE.
Robert Moncton had lain in a stupor for the last hour. The surgeon whom George had brought with him from the village, after carefully examining the wound, to my surprise, declared that it was mortal, and that the sufferer could not be removed, as his life must terminate in a few hours. During the extraction of the bullet and the dressing of the wound, Robert Moncton recovered his senses and self-possession, and heard his doom with a glassy gaze of fixed despair. Then, with a deep sigh, he asked if a lawyer were present, as he wished to make his will, and set his affairs in order before he died.
George had brought with him a professional gentleman, the clergyman, and one of the chief magistrates in the village. He now introduced to his notice the Rev. Mr. Chapman, and Mr. Blake the solicitor.
"When I require your offices," he said, addressing the former gentleman, "I will send for you. Such comfort as you can give in the last hour, will not atone for the sins of a long life. This is one of the fallacies to which men cling when they can no longer help themselves. They will, however, find it a broken reed when called upon to pass through the dark valley.
"With you, sir," shaking hands with Mr. Blake, "my business lies. Clear the room till this matter is settled: I wish us to be alone."
The clergyman, finding that he would not be listened to, mounted his horse and rode away. George and I gladly availed ourselves of the opportunity of leaving for a while the gloomy chamber of death, and taking a turn in the fresh air. We wandered forth into the clear night; the blessed and benignant aspect of nature, forming, as it ever does, a solemn, holy contrast with the turbulent, restless spirit of man. Nature has her storms and awful convulsions, but the fruits are fertility, abundance, rest. The fruits of our malignant passions—sin, disease, mental and physical death.
My blighted prospects, in spite of all my boasted disinterestedness, weighed heavily on my heart. I tried to rejoice in my friend's good fortune, but human nature with all its sins and weaknesses prevailed. I was not then a Christian, and could scarcely be expected to prefer the good of my neighbour to my own.
Bowed down and humbled by the consciousness of all I had lost, I should had I been alone have shamed my manhood, and found relief in tears.
"Dear Geoffrey, why so silent?" said George, wringing my hand with his usual warmth: "Have you no word for your friend? This night has been one of severe trial. God knows how deeply I sympathize in your feelings! But cheer up, my dear fellow; better and brighter moments are at hand."
"No, no, not for me," returned I, almost choking. "I am one of the unlucky ones; no good can ever happen to me. My hopes are blighted for ever. It is only you, George Moncton, who, in this dark hour, have reason to rejoice."
He stopped and grasped my arm. "What do you mean, Geoffrey, when you call me by that name?"
"That it belongs to you."
"To me! Has Dinah made any confession?"
"She has. Have a little patience, George, till I can collect my scattered thoughts, and tell you all."
I then communicated to him the conversation that had passed between Dinah and myself, though my voice often trembled with emotion, and I could scarcely repress my tears.
He heard me silently to the end; then convulsively grasping my hands, was completely overcome by his feelings, and we wept together.
"Ah, Geoffrey, my cousin, my more than brother and friend," he said at last, "how gladly would I confer upon you, if it would increase your comfort and happiness, the envied wealth which has been the fruitful cause of such revolting crimes!
"Ah, mother!" continued he, looking up to the calm heavens, and raising his hands in a sort of ecstasy, "dear, sainted, angel mother, whom as a child I recognized and loved, it is only on your account that I rejoice—yes, with joy unspeakable, that I am indeed your son—that the boy you so loved and fondly cherished, was the child you sought in heaven, and wept on earth as lost. And that fine, generous, noble-hearted old man—how proud shall I feel to call him father, and recall all his acts of kindness to me when a nameless orphan boy. And Margaretta, my gentle sister, my best and earliest friend. Forgive me, dear Geoffrey, if thoughts like these render me happy in spite of myself. I only wish that you could participate in the fullness of my joy."
"I will—I do!" I exclaimed, ashamed of my past regrets. "The evil spirit of envy, George, cast a dark shadow over the sunshine of my heart. This will soon yield to better feelings. You know me to be a faulty creature of old, and must pity and excuse my weakness."
Unconsciously we had strolled to the top of a wild, heathery common, which overlooked the marshy meadows below, and was covered with dwarf oaks and elder-bushes.
Though close upon day-break, the moon was still bright, and I thought I discerned something which resembled the sharp outline of a human figure, suspended from the lower branch of a gnarled and leafless tree, the long hair and garments fluttering loosely in the wind. With silent horror I pointed it out to my companion. We both ran forward and soon reached the spot. Here, between us and the full, broad light of the moon, hung the skeleton-like figure of Dinah North, her hideous countenance rendered doubly so by the nature of her death!
Her long grey hair streamed back from her narrow contracted brow; her eyes wide open and staring, caught a gleam from the moon that heightened the malignant expression which had made them terrible to the beholder while in life.
We neither spoke, but looked at each other with eyes full of horror.
George sprang up the tree and cut down the body, which fell at my feet with a dull, heavy sound.
"She has but anticipated her fate, Geoffrey. Surely the hand of God is here."
"Miserable woman!" said I, as I turned with a shudder from the livid corpse—"is this the end of all your ambitious hopes? Your life a tissue of revolting crimes—your end despair!"
We hurried back to the cottage to give the alarm, and found Robert Moncton awake and in his senses, though evidently sinking fast. "Dinah North dead!" he said, "and by her own voluntary act. This is retributive justice. She has been my evil genius on earth, and has gone before me to our appointed place. Geoffrey Moncton, I have a few words to say to you before I follow on her track.
"I have injured you during my life. I have, however, done you justice now. I have made you my heir; the sole inheritor of the large fortune I have bartered my soul to realize."
"But, uncle, you have a son."
His face grew dark as night.
"None that I acknowledge as such. And mark me, Geoffrey," and he compressed his lips firmly and grasped my hand tightly as he spoke: "I have left you this property on one condition, that you never bequeath or share one copper of it with that rascal Theophilus Moncton, for in such case it will benefit neither party, but will revert to your cousin, Margaretta Moncton. Do you hear?" and he shook me vehemently.
"And what will become of Theophilus?"
He laughed bitterly. "He will yet meet with his deserts," he exclaimed. "What I have done may seem harsh to you, Geoffrey, but it is strictly just. My reasons for so doing may puzzle the world and astonish professional men, but it is a secret which never will be known until I meet the human monster, who calls himself my son, at the eternal bar. And may the curse of the great Judge of all flesh, and my curse, cleave to him for ever!"
I shrank back from him with feelings of disgust and horror, which I took no pains to conceal; but it was unnoticed by him. The hand relaxed its rigid grasp, the large icy eyes lost the glittering brilliancy which had marked them through life, the jaw fell, and the soul of Robert Moncton passed forth from those open portals to its drear and dread account.
"He is dead," said the lawyer.
I drew a long sigh.
"How did he come to his death, young gentleman?"
"He was shot from behind the hedge, as he rode through the pit at the end of the long plantation. He said, when we first found him, that he knew the person who shot him."
"He admitted the same thing to me, but would not mention the name of the assassin. I have my own suspicions."
I had mine, but I did not wish to hint at the probability of a fact that Robert Moncton had purposely, I have no doubt, left unrevealed. The cause of his death, and the hand which perpetrated the deed have never been discovered, but will remain open to conjecture as long as those live who feel the least interest in the subject. It was supposed, that important information could be obtained from his son, which might throw some light upon the mystery, but he had disappeared, and no trace of his whereabouts, could be discovered.
We were detained for several days at the village whilst the coroner's inquest sat on the bodies, and we had made a statement before the proper authorities of all we knew about this mysterious affair.
Before three days were at an end, the public journals were filled with accounts of the awful tragedy which had occurred at the village of ——, in Yorkshire; and the great talents and moral worth of the murdered lawyer were spoken of in terms of the highest praise, which certainly astonished his relations, and would have astonished himself. The only stain on his character, it was stated, was the extraordinary manner in which he had disinherited his only son, in order to place apoor relationwho had been brought up in his house, in his shoes. It was evident to all, the part this domestic sneak must have acted in the dreadful tragedy to ensure the property to himself.
Hints of a darker nature were thrown out, which deeply wounded my sensitive pride, and which drew a reply from Mr. Blake, who stated, that Mr. Moncton told him that the murderer was well known to him, but he never would reveal to any one who or what he was; that he left young Geoffrey Moncton and George at the inn, and they did not come up until after he was shot. That the assassin did not attempt to conceal himself, but exchanged words with him and met him face to face.
I had just taken up my pen to add my testimony to that of the worthy Mr. Blake, when the door of the room suddenly opened, and Sir Alexander and his lovely daughter, banished all other objects from my brain.
What an overflowing of eyes and hearts succeeded that unexpected meeting. How I envied George the hearty embrace with which the fine old man received his newly recovered son. The tearful joy which beamed in the dark eloquent eyes of his delighted sister as she flung herself with unrestrained freedom into the arms of that long-cherished friend, and now beloved brother.
My welcome was not wanting either: Sir Alexander received me as another son, and my own, my lovely Madge as something dearer to her than even a brother.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DOUBLE BRIDAL.
The first excitement of our meeting over, I was painfully struck with the great alteration that the absence of a few weeks had made in the face of Margaret.
Her eyes, always beautiful, gleamed with an unnatural brilliancy; and her pure, pale complexion, at times was flushed with a hectic glow, which, contrasting with the dazzling white teeth and jet-black hair, gave a fearful beauty to her charming face.
I took her hand in mine. It burned with fever.
"Dear Margaret, are you ill?"
She raised her eyes to mine, swimming in tears.
"Not ill, Geoffrey; only a little weak."
"No wonder, when you are in such a state of emaciation. You ought not to have let the death of Alice bring you so low as this."
"Your absence and long silence, dear Geoffrey, have had more to do with my poor health than the death of my unfortunate friend."
"How so, dearest?"
"Torturing anxiety, sleepless nights, and days of weeping, would produce this change in stronger frames than mine: But that is all past. I am quite well and happy now, and Margaret will soon be herself again."
This was accompanied by such a sad, moonlight smile, that it only served to increase my fears. I inquired earnestly if her father had consulted a medical man.
"Oh, yes—a dozen, at least."
"And what opinion did they give?"
"They told the plain truth—said that my illness was produced by mental excitement—that change of air and scene would soon bring me round."
I felt that I looked grave and sad. She put her arm round my shoulder, and whispered in my ear:
"You are mine, Geoffrey, and I shall soon get well in the society of those I love; so banish that gloomy frown, and try to participate in the general joy. I have procured an excellent flute for you, as a little present. You shall play, and I will sing, and Kate Lee (of whom I am no longer jealous) and George shall dance, and papa shall smoke his cigar beneath our favourite old tree and enjoy the fun; and we shall all be so happy."
Thus did my poor, fading, white rose strive to divert my thoughts into a brighter channel; and hope, ever attendant upon the young, cheated me into the belief that all would yet be well.
Instead of returning to Moncton Park, George proposed our accompanying him to Elm Grove. Sir Alexander thought the change would be beneficial to Margaretta, and we joyfully accepted his proposal. I exchanged my horse with Sir Alexander, and took his place by the side of Madge in the open carriage. The good Baronet rode with his son, who had a thousand revelations of his past life to communicate to his delighted father.
Madge and I were not without our histories and confessions; and long before we entered the avenue that led to Elm Grove, the dear girl had promised to become my wife, when returning health should remove the last barrier to our union.
Our reception at Elm Grove was such as might have been expected from its amiable possessors.
Accounts of Robert Moncton's and Dinah North's death had travelled there before us, and formed for the first few days the theme of general discussion. My kind friend, Mrs. Hepburn, warmly congratulated me on my accession of fortune, and Dan Simpson was almost beside himself with joy. Though I could no longer regard myself as Sir Alexander's successor, I found myself not a whit inferior in wealth and importance.
Sir Alexander received my proposal for his daughter with unfeigned satisfaction. He wrung my hand with hearty good-will. "Two sons, my dear Geoffrey. God has given me two sons in return for depriving me of one of them for so many years. Faith, my dear boy, I hardly know which is dearest of you to the old man. Madge, however, has found out which of the twain she loves best. I shall resign the Hall to George and his pretty bride, and will come and live with my dear girl and my adopted son—hey Madge! will you give the old man an easy place by your fireside?"
Margaret threw herself into his extended arms, parted the white wavy locks from his high forehead, and devoutly kissed it.
Thus did we suffer hope to weave bright garlands for the future, without reflecting how soon the freshest flowers of life are withered and scattered in the dust.
Cheered by the society and sympathy of her new friends, with a devoted lover ever at her side, Margaretta regained much of her former health and cheerfulness.
Hand in hand we roamed among the Derby hills, and visited every romantic spot in the neighbourhood, not forgetting the old parsonage where my mother was born, the spot where my good old grandfather was buried, the little inn over which Mrs. Archer presided, who was infinitely delighted with seeing me again, and hearing me introduce her lovely boy to Margaretta's especial notice.
Kate Lee did the honours of the house with the most bewitching grace, and she and Margaretta formed the most lively attachment to each other.
"Is she not beautiful, Geoffrey?" said Margaretta, as we sat together on the lawn beneath the shade of a large ash; and she watched her friend as she bounded past us down the grassy slope, to join Sir Alexander and his son in their evening walk.
"Yes, very beautiful, Madge."
"Don't you envy George the possession of such a charming wife?"
"I love George and admire his Kate, but I would not exchange my little fairy," and I pressed her fondly to my heart, "for his stately queen."
"Ah, flatterer! how can I believe you, who would prefer the pale, drooping snow-drop to the perfumed, glowing rose?"
"Let George keep his rose, the peerless among many sweets, but give me the pure solitary gem of early spring, which cheers with its modest grace the parting frowns of envious winter."
I pressed her small white hand with fervour to my lips and heart. The meek head of the gentle girl sunk drooping on my bosom. The long black lashes that veiled her matchless eyes were heavy with bright tears.
"Why do you weep, sweet Madge?"
"I am too happy. These are tears of joy: they relieve the fulness of my heart. After suffering so much bitter grief it is a luxury to weep in the arms of the beloved."
How often have I recalled those words when weeping in madness on her grave, and found no joy in grief—no peace in my distracted heart.
The harvest had been gathered in, and the ripe autumnal fruits hung heavily on the loaded trees when we returned to Moncton Park. The first of October had been named for the celebration of our double nuptials, and all was bustle and activity at the Hall, in making the necessary preparations for the important event. Margaretta appeared to take as much interest in the matrimonial arrangements as her lively friend, Kate.
Not a ribbon was selected or a dress purchased, but George and I were called to give our opinion of its beauty or becomingness; whilst the good old Baronet's whole time and attention were directed to the improvements and decorations which he had planned in the interior of the Hall. Thus all went merry as a marriage bell until the second week in September, which was ushered in by heavy gales and frequent showers.
Often, when returning from our accustomed rides and walks, Margaret would draw her shawl tightly round her, and clinging closely to my arm, would complain that she wascold—very cold.
One day in particular, when the deceitful beauty of the morning had induced us to extend our ride a few miles farther than usual, we all got drenched by a sudden shower of rain. The next morning my dear girl complained of a pain in her chest, sudden chills and weariness of mind and body. These symptoms were succeeded by a short, hacking cough, and sudden flushings of the face, which greatly alarmed us all. Medical advice was instantly called in, but Margaret's malady daily increased and her strength rapidly declined.
I dared not whisper to myself the fears which oppressed my heart, and was almost afraid of asking Dr. Wilson the nature of her complaint.
To my utter grief and despair he informed me that his patient was beyond human aid—that a few weeks, at the farthest, would terminate the existence of the gentlest and purest of human beings.
"It would be cruel to deceive you, Mr. Moncton," said he, as he announced the startling truth—for the dreadful communication had quite unmanned me. "Let this comfort you in your affliction, that I have anticipated this for years; that our dear patient has carried about her the seeds of this fatal malady from infancy; that it is better that she should thus fall in the budding season of youth, than leave hereafter a family of children to bewail their irreparable loss. I sorrow for her father and you, Mr. Geoffrey, more than for her. Death has few terrors to a sincere Christian, and such from childhood Margaret Moncton has been. A friend to the friendless, a sister of mercy to the poor and destitute."
Oh, reader! if you have ever known what it is to see your fondest hopes annihilated at the very moment of their apparent fulfilment, you can form some idea of my mental anguish whilst watching the decay of that delicate flower.
Margaret was now fully aware of her danger, a most uncommon circumstance in the victims of that insidious disease, on whom Death advances so softly that he always comes suddenly at last. She prepared herself to meet the mighty conqueror with a cheerful submission to the will of God, which surprised us all.
One thing she earnestly entreated, that the marriage of Catherine and George might not be postponed on account of her illness.
"I not only wish to witness their happiness before I go hence, but to share in it," she said to us, a few days before the one which had been appointed for the ceremony, as we were all sitting round the sofa on which she was reclining.
"And you, dearest Geoffrey, must give me a lawful claim to the tender care I receive from you. Though I can only be your wife in name, I shall die happy in hearing you address me by that coveted appellation."
I could in reply only press her wasted form in my arms and bathe her hands and face with my tears. How earnestly had I wished to call her mine, though I lacked the courage to make the proposal so dear to my peace.
Oh, what a melancholy day was that to us all. Margaret's sweet face alone wore a serene smile, as, supported by her father, she stood beside me at the altar.
How beautiful she looked in her white bridal dress. What a mockery was the ceremony to my tortured heart, whilst fancy, busy with my grief, converted those flowing garments into a snowy shroud.
One little week after that melancholy event I again bent before that altar, to partake of the last tokens of a Saviour's dying love; but I knelt alone. The grave had closed over my bright, my beautiful, my virgin bride, and my soul had vowed an eternal divorce from the vanities and lusts of earth.
Years have fled on in their silent and undeviating course. I am now an old, grey-headed man.
Sir Alexander Moncton has long been gathered to his fathers, and the old Hall is filled by a race of healthy, noble-looking young people, the children of Sir George Moncton and Catherine Lee. I, too, have a Geoffrey and a Margaret, the children of my adoption; for a large family Sir George willingly spared me these.
For years I have resided at the Lodge, formerly the residence of Dinah North, which I have converted into a pretty dwelling, surrounded by shrubberies and flower-gardens. I love to linger near the scenes where the happiest and saddest moments of my life were passed.
Behold me now, a cheerful and contented old man, surrounded by dear young faces, who lavish upon Uncle Geoffrey the redundant affections of warm and guileless hearts.
My wealth is the means of making many happy, of obviating the sorrows of the sorrowful, and smoothing with necessary comforts the couch of pain. When I first lost my beloved Margaret, I mourned as one without hope; but it pleased God to hallow and bless my afflictions, and by their instrumentality gently to lead me to a knowledge of the truth—that simple and holy truth, which has set me free from the chains of sin and the fear of death.
In what a different light I view all these trials now. How sincerely I can bless the munificent hand which wounds but to heal—punishes but to reform; who has poured upon the darkness of my soul the light of life, and exchanged the love of earth, which bound me grovelling in the dust, for the love of Christ; sorrow for the loss of one dear companion and friend, into compassion for the sorrows and sufferings of the whole human race.
A few words more, gentle reader, and we part for ever. These relate to the fate of Theophilus Moncton, and fully illustrate the awful text—"There is no peace," saith my God, "for the wicked;" and again, "The wicked have no hope in their death."
From the hour that Robert Moncton fell by the hand of the unknown midnight assassin, Theophilus Moncton was never seen or heard of again for upwards of twenty years, until his name was forgotten, and I, like the rest of the world, believed that he was dead, or had become a voluntary exile in a foreign land.
One day, while crossing the Strand, just below Somerset House, my charity was solicited by the dirty, ragged sweeper of the street.
The voice, though long unheard, was only too familiar to my ear, and looking earnestly at the suppliant, with mingled sensation of pity and horror, I recognized my long-lost cousin Theophilus Moncton.
He, too, recognized me, and dropping the tattered remains of his hat at my feet, muttered half aloud:
"Do not betray me, Geoffrey; I am a lost and miserable man. My punishment is already greater than flesh and blood can well bear."
"What assistance can I render you?" I asked, in a faltering voice, as I dropped my purse into his hat, for the sight of him recalled many painful recollections.
"You have rendered me the best in your power;" and flinging away his broom, he disappeared down a dirty, narrow alley, leaving me in a state of doubt and anxiety concerning him.
Wishing to convert this sinner from the error of his ways, and to elucidate if possible the mystery which involved his father's death, I repaired to the same place for several days in the hope of meeting with him again, but without success.
A week elapsed, and I found another son of want supplying his place at the crossing of the street. Dropping a shilling into his extended hand, I asked him what had become of the poor fellow that used to sweep there.
"Saving your honour's presence," returned the mendicant, in a broad Irish accent, "he was a big blackguard, and so he was, not over-honest neither, and always drunk. T'other day, some foolish body who had more money nor wit, took a fancy to his ugly, unwholesome phiz, and gave him a purseful of gould—or mayhap he stole it—an' he never quits the grip of the brandy-bottle till he dies. They carried the body to the poor-house and that's all I knows of the chap. 'Tis a lucky thing, yer honor, that the scamp has neither wife nor child."
I thought so, too, as with a heavy sigh I took my way to the inn, murmuring to myself as I walked along:
"And such is the end of the wicked."
THE END.
LONDON:Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.