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Title: The Monctons: A Novel, Volume I

Author: Susanna Moodie

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Language: English

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THE MONCTONS:

A NOVEL.



BY


SUSANNA MOODIE,

AUTHOR OF

"ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH," "FLORA LINDSAY,"
"MATRIMONIAL SPECULATIONS," &c.


    What--dost thou think I'll bend to thee?
      The free in soul are ever free:
    Nor force, nor poverty can bind
      The subtle will--the thinking mind.



IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.



LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1856.


LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.



TO JOHN LOVELL, ESQ., OF MONTREAL, WHO WAS ONE OF THE FIRST AND MOST
SUCCESSFUL PIONEERS IN ESTABLISHING A NATIONAL LITERATURE IN THE
CANADIAN COLONIES, THIS WORK, WHICH OWES ITS EXISTENCE TO HIS GENEROUS
CARE, IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY HIS GRATEFUL AND OBLIGED FRIEND,
SUSANNA MOODIE.

DECEMBER, 1855.




Transcriber's Note: The Table of Contents is not contained in the book
but has been created for the convenience of the reader of this etext.



CONTENTS


CHAPTER

    I. MY GRANDFATHER AND HIS SONS.
   II. MY MOTHER'S FUNERAL.
  III. MY AUNT REBECCA.
   IV. THE TUTOR.
    V. A CHANGE IN MY PROSPECTS.
   VI. THE SORROWS OF DEPENDENCE.
  VII. GEORGE HARRISON.
 VIII. UNGRATIFIED CURIOSITY.
   IX. A PORTRAIT.
    X. DREAMS.
   XI. MY FIRST LOVE.
  XII. I FORFEIT MY INDEPENDENCE.
 XIII. A VISIT FROM THE GREAT MAN OF THE FAMILY.
  XIV. LOVE AND HATRED.
   XV. GEORGE HARRISON AND HIS HISTORY.
  XVI. GEORGE HARRISON CONTINUES HIS HISTORY.
 XVII. HARRISON FINDS A FRIEND IN NEED.
XVIII. THE MEETING.




THE MONCTONS.




CHAPTER I.

MY GRANDFATHER AND HIS SONS.


There was a time--a good old time--when men of rank and fortune were
not ashamed of their poor relations; affording the protection of their
name and influence to the lower shoots of the great family tree, which,
springing from the same root, expected to derive support and
nourishment from the main stem.

That time is well-nigh gone for ever. Kindred love and hospitality have
decreased with the increase of modern luxury and exclusiveness, and the
sacred ties of consanguinity are now regarded with indifference; or if
recognized, it is only with those who move in the same charmed circle,
and who make a respectable appearance in the world: then, and then
only, are their names pronounced with reverence, and their relationship
considered an honor.

It is amusing to watch from a distance, the eagerness with which some
people assert their claims to relationship with wealthy and titled
families, and the intrigue and manoeuvring it calls forth in these
fortunate individuals, in order to disclaim the boasted connexion.

It was my fate for many years to eat the bitter bread of dependence,
as one of those despised and insulted domestic annoyances--_A Poor
Relation_.

My grandfather, Geoffrey Moncton, whose name I bear, was the youngest
son of a wealthy Yorkshire Baronet, whose hopes and affections entirely
centered in his first-born. What became of the junior scions of the
family-tree was to him a matter of secondary consideration. My
grandfather, however, had to be provided for in a manner becoming the
son of a gentleman, and on his leaving college, Sir Robert offered to
purchase him a commission in the army.

My grandfather was a lad of peaceable habits, and had a mortal
antipathy to fighting. He refused point blank to be a soldier. The Navy
offered the same cause for objection, strengthened by a natural
aversion to the water, which made him decline going to sea.

What was to be done with the incorrigible youth? Sir Robert flew into
a passion--called him a coward--a disgrace to the name of Moncton.

My grandfather, who was a philosopher in his way, pleaded guilty to the
first charge. From his cradle he had carefully avoided scenes of strife
and violence, and had been a quiet, industrious boy at school, a sober
plodding student at college, minding his own business, and troubling
himself very little with the affairs of others. The sight of blood made
him sick; he hated the smell of gunpowder, and would make any sacrifice
of time and trouble rather than come to blows. He now listened to the
long catalogue of his demerits, which his angry progenitor poured forth
against him, with such stoical indifference, that it nearly drew upon
him the corporeal punishment which at all times he so much dreaded.

Sir Robert at length named the Church, as the profession best suited to
a young man of his peaceable disposition, and flew into a fresh
paroxysm of rage, when the obstinate fellow positively refused to be a
parson.

"He had a horror," he said, "of making a mere profession of so sacred a
calling. Besides, he had an awkward impediment in his speech, and he
did not mean to stand up in a pulpit to expose his infirmity to the
ridicule of others."

Honour to my grandfather. He was not deficient in mental courage,
though Sir Robert, in the plenitude of his wisdom, had thought fit to
brand him as a coward.

The bar was next proposed for his consideration, but the lad replied
firmly, "I don't mean to be a lawyer."

"Your reasons, sir?" cried Sir Robert in a tone which seemed to forbid
a liberty of choice.

"I have neither talent nor inclination for the profession."

"And pray, sir, what have you talent or inclination for?"

"A merchant," returned Geoffrey calmly and decidedly, without appearing
to notice his aristocratic sire's look of withering contempt. "I have
no wish to be a poor gentleman. Place me in my Uncle Drury's
counting-house, and I will work hard and become an independent man."

Now this Uncle Drury was brother to the late Lady Moncton, who had been
married by the worthy Baronet for her wealth. He was one of Sir
Robert's horrors--one of those rich, vulgar connections which are not
so easily shaken off, and whose identity is with great difficulty
denied to the world. Sir Robert vowed, that if the perverse lad
persisted in his grovelling choice, though he had but two sons, he
would discard him altogether.

Obstinacy is a family failing of the Monctons. My grandfather, wisely,
or unwisely, as circumstances should afterwards determine, remained
firm to his purpose. Sir Robert realized his threat. The father and son
parted in anger, and from that hour, the latter was looked upon as an
alien to the old family stock; which he was considered to have
disgraced.

Geoffrey, however, succeeded in carrying out his great life object. He
toiled on with indefatigable industry, and soon became rich. He had
singular talents for acquiring wealth, and they were not suffered to
remain idle. The few pounds with which he commenced his mercantile
career, soon multiplied into thousands, and tens of thousands; and
there is no knowing what an immense fortune he might have realized, had
not death cut short his speculations at an early period of his life.

He had married uncle Drury's only daughter, a few years after he became
partner in the firm, by whom he had two sons, Edward and Robert, to
both of whom he bequeathed an excellent property.

Edward, the eldest, my father, had been educated to fill the mercantile
situation, now vacant by its proprietor's death, which was an ample
fortune in itself, if conducted with prudence and regularity.

Robert had been early placed in the office of a lawyer of eminence, and
was considered a youth of great talents and promise. Their mother had
been dead for some years, and of her little is known in the annals of
the family. When speculating upon the subject, I have imagined her to
have been a plain, quiet, matter-of-fact body, who never did or said
anything worth recording.

When a man's position in life is marked out for him by others, and he
is left no voice in the matter, in nine cases out of ten, he is totally
unfitted by nature and inclination for the post he is called to fill.
So it was with my father, Edward Moncton. A person less adapted to fill
an important place in the mercantile world, could scarcely have been
found. He had a genius for spending, not for making money; and was so
easy and credulous that any artful villain might dupe him out of it.
Had he been heir to the title and the old family estates, he would have
made a first rate country gentleman; for he possessed a fine manly
person, was frank and generous, and excelled in all athletic sports.

My Uncle Robert was the very reverse of my father--stern, shrewd, and
secretive; no one could see more of his mind than he was willing to
show; and, like my grandfather, he had a great love for money, and a
natural talent for acquiring it. An old servant of my grandfather's,
Nicholas Banks, used jocosely to say of him: "Had Master Robert been
born a beggar, he would have converted his ragged wrap-rascal into a
velvet gown. The art of making money was born in him."

Uncle Robert was very successful in his profession; and such is the
respect that men of common minds pay to wealth for its own sake, that
my uncle was as much courted by persons of his class, as if he had
been Lord Chancellor of England. He was called the _honest lawyer_:
wherefore, I never could determine, except that he was the _rich_
lawyer; and people could not imagine that the envied possessor of five
thousand per annum, could have any inducement to play the rogue, or
cheat his clients. The dependent slave who was chained all day to the
desk, in Robert Moncton's office, knew him to be a dishonest man; but
his practice daily increased, and his reputation and fortune increased
in proportion.

The habits and dispositions of these brothers were so different, so
utterly opposed to each other, that it was difficult to reconcile the
mind to the fact that they were so closely related.

My uncle had a subtle knowledge of character, which was rendered more
acute by his long acquaintance with the world; and he did not always
turn it to a righteous account. My father was a babe in these
matters--a cunning child might deceive him. While my uncle had a knack
of saving without appearing parsimonious, my father had an unfortunate
habit of frittering his money away upon trifles. You would have
imagined that the one had discovered the secret of the philosopher's
stone; and the other had ruined himself in endeavouring to find it out.
The one was economical from choice, the other extravagant from the mere
love of spending. My uncle married a rich merchant's daughter, for her
money. My father ran off with a poor curate's penniless girl, for love.
My father neglected his business and became poor. In the hope of
redeeming his fortune he frequented the turf and the gambling-table;
and died broken-hearted and insolvent in the prime of manhood; leaving
his widow and her orphan boy to the protection and guardianship of the
brother, who had drudged all his life to become a millionaire.

My dear mother only survived her handsome, reckless husband six short
months; and, bereaved of both my natural protectors, I was doomed at
the early age of eight years to drink the bitter cup of poverty and
dependence to its very dregs.




CHAPTER II.

MY MOTHER'S FUNERAL.


I never saw my Uncle Robert Moncton until the morning of my mother's
funeral; and the impression that first interview made upon my young
heart will never be forgotten. It cast the first dark shadow upon the
sunny dial of my life, and for many painful years my days and hours
were numbered beneath its gloomy influence.

It was a chill, murky November day, such a day as London or its
immediate vicinity can alone produce. The rain fell slowly and steadily
to the ground; and trickled from the window-frames in one continuous
stream. A thick mist hung upon the panes of glass like a gauze veil,
intersected by innumerable channels of water, which looked like a
pattern of open work left in the dingy material. The shutters of our
once populous parlour were half-closed; and admitted into the large,
deserted apartment only a portion of this obscure light. The hearse
destined to convey the remains of my dear mother to their last, long
resting-place, was drawn up at the door. I saw it looming through the
fog, with its tall, black shadowy plumes, like some ghostly and
monstrous thing. A hitherto unknown feeling of dread stole over me. My
life had been all sunshine up to the present moment--the sight of that
mournful funeral array swept like a dark cloud over the smiling sky,
blotting out all that was bright and beautiful from my eyes and heart.
I screamed in terror and despair, and hid my face in the lap of my old
nurse to shut out the frightful vision, and shed torrents of tears.

The good woman tried to soothe me while she adjusted my black dress, as
I was to form one in that doleful procession as chief mourner--I was my
mother's only child. The only real mourner there.

The door which led into the next room was partly open. I saw the
undertaker's people removing the coffin in order to place it in the
hearse. This was a fresh cause for anxiety. I knew that that black,
mysterious-looking box contained the cold, pale, sleeping form of my
mother; but I could not realize the fact, that the beautiful and
beloved being, who had so lately kissed and blessed me, was unconscious
of her removal from her home and weeping boy.

"Mamma!--dear mamma!" I cried, struggling violently with nurse. "Let me
go, nurse! those wicked men shall not take away mamma!"

Two gentlemen, attracted by my cries and struggles, entered the room.
The foremost was a tall, portly man, whom the world would call
handsome. His features were good, and his complexion darkly brilliant;
but there was a haughty, contemptuous expression in his large,
prominent, selfish-looking eyes, which sent a chill to my heart.
Glittering and glassy, they sparkled like ice--clear, sarcastic and
repelling--and oh, how cold! The glance of that eye made me silent in a
moment. It fascinated like the eye of a snake. I continued to shiver
and stare at him, as long as its scornful gaze remained riveted upon my
face. I felt a kindred feeling springing up in my heart--a feeling of
defiance and resistance which would fain return hatred for hatred,
scorn for scorn; and never in after-life could I meet the searching
look of that stern cold eye, without experiencing the same outward
abhorrence and inward revulsion.

He took my hand, and turning me round, examined my countenance with
critical minuteness, neither moved by my childish indignation nor my
tears. "A strong-limbed straight-made fellow, this. I did not think
that Edward could be the father of such an energetic-looking boy. He's
like his grandfather, and if I mistake not, will be just as obstinate
and self-sustained."

"A true Moncton," returned his companion, a coarse-featured,
vulgar-looking man, with a weak, undecided, but otherwise kindly
countenance. "You will not be able to bend that young one to your
purpose."

A bitter smile was the reply, and a fixed stare from those terribly
bright eyes.

"Poor child! He's very unfortunate," continued the same speaker. "I
pity him from my very soul!" He placed his large hand kindly upon my
head, and drawing me between his knees held up my face and kissed me
with an air of parental tenderness. Touched by the unexpected caress, I
clasped my arms about his neck, and hid my face in his bosom. He flung
himself into a large chair, and lifted me upon his knee.

"You seem to have taken a fancy to the boy," said my uncle, in the same
sarcastic tone. "Suppose you adopt him as _your_ son. I would gladly
be rid of him for ever; and would pay well for his change of name and
country. Is it a bargain?" and he grasped his companion by the
shoulder.

"No. I will not incur the responsibility. I have done too much against
the poor child already. Besides, a man with ten children has no need of
adopting the child of a stranger. Providence has thrown him into your
hands, Robert Moncton; and whether for good or evil, I beseech you to
treat the lad kindly for his father's sake."

"Well, well, I must, I see, make the best of a bad bargain. But,
Walters, you could so easily take him with you to America. He has no
friends by his mother's side, to make any stir about his disappearance.
Under your name his identity will never be recognized, and it would be
taking a thorn out of my side."

"To plant it in my own heart. The child must remain with you."

I did not pay very particular attention to this conversation at the
time, but after events recalled it vividly to my recollection.

The undertaker put an end to the conference by informing the gentlemen
that "all was ready, and the hearse was about to move forward." My
nurse placed me in a mourning coach, beside my uncle and his companion,
in order that I might form part of that dismal procession, to the
nearest cemetery. I shall never forget the impression that solemn scene
made on my mind. My first ideas of death and decay were formed whilst
standing beside my mother's grave. There my heart received its first
life-lesson; and owned its first acquaintanceship with grief--the
_ideal_ vanished, and the hard, uncompromising _real_ took its place.

After the funeral was over, I accompanied my Uncle Robert to his house
in Hatton Garden. At the door we parted with Mr. Walters, and many
years elapsed, before I saw his face again.




CHAPTER III.

MY AUNT REBECCA.


Mrs. Moncton welcomed the poor orphan with kindness. She was a little,
meek-looking woman; with a sweet voice, and a very pale face. She might
have been pretty when young, but my boyish impression was that she was
very plain. By the side of her tall, stern partner, she looked the most
delicate, diminutive creature in the world; and her gentle, timid
manner made the contrast appear greater than it really was.

"God bless you! my poor child," said she, lifting me up in her arms and
wiping the tears from my face. "You are young, indeed, to be left an
orphan."

I clasped her neck and sobbed aloud. The sound of her voice reminded me
of my mother, and I began to comprehend dimly all I had lost.

"Rebecca," said my uncle, in a deep, clear voice, "you must not spoil
the boy. There is no need of this display."

His wife seemed as much under the influence of his eye as myself. She
instantly released me from her arms, and quietly placed me in a chair
beside the fire, and in the presence of her husband, she took no more
notice of me than she would have done of one of the domestic animals
about the house. Yet, her eyes rested upon me with motherly kindness,
and she silently took care to administer liberally to all my wants; and
when she did speak, it was in such a soft, soothing tone, that I felt
that she was my friend, and loved her with my whole heart.

My uncle was a domestic tyrant--cruel, exacting, and as obstinate as a
mule; yet, she contrived to live with him on friendly terms; the only
creature in the world, I am fully persuaded, who did not hate him.
Married, as she had been, for money, and possessing few personal
advantages, it was wonderful the influence she had over him in her
quiet way. She never resisted his authority, however harshly enforced;
and often stood between him and his victims, diverting his resentment
without appearing to oppose his will. If there existed in his frigid
breast one sentiment of kindness for any human creature, I think it was
for her.

With women he was no favourite. He had no respect for the sex, and I
question whether he was ever in love in his life. If he had ever owned
a tender passion, it must have been in very early youth, before his
heart got hardened and iced in the world. My aunt seemed necessary to
his comfort, his convenience, his vanity: however he might be disliked
by others he was certain of her fidelity and attachment. His respect
for her was the one bright spot in his character, and even that was
tarnished by a refined system of selfishness.

The only comfort I enjoyed during my cheerless childhood, I derived
from her silent attention to my wants and wishes, which she gratified
as far as she dared, without incurring the jealous displeasure of her
exacting husband.

In private, Mrs. Moncton always treated me as her own child. She
unlocked the fountains of natural affection, which my uncle's harshness
had sealed, and love gushed forth. I dearly loved her, and longed to
call her mother; but she forbade all outward demonstration of my
attachment, which she assured me would not only be very offensive to
Mr. Moncton, but would draw down his displeasure upon us both.

The hours I spent with my good aunt were few: I only saw her at meals,
and on the Sabbath-day, when I accompanied her to church, and spent the
whole day with her and her only son--a cross, peevish boy, some four
years older than myself--but of him anon. During the winter, she always
sent for me into the parlour, during the dark hour between dinner and
tea, when I recited to her the lessons I had learned with my cousin's
tutor during the day. My uncle was always absent at that hour, and
these were precious moments to the young heart, which knew no
companionship, and pined for affection and sympathy.

My worthy aunt! it is with heartfelt gratitude I pay this slight
tribute to your memory. But for your gentle love and kind teachings, I
might have become as cold and tyrannical as your harsh lord--as selfish
and unfeeling as your unnatural son.

How I delighted to sit by your side, in the warm, red light of a
cheerful fire, in that large, dusky room, and hold your small white
hand in mine, while I recounted to you all the beautiful and shadowy
reminiscences of my happy infancy--to watch the pensive smile steal
over your lips, as I described the garden in which I played, the dear
little white bed in which I slept, and where my own dear mother nightly
knelt beside me, to hear me repeat my simple prayers and hymns, before
she kissed and blessed me, and left me to the protecting care of the
great Father in Heaven.

"Ah!" I exclaimed one evening, while sitting at my aunt's feet, "why
did she die and leave me for ever? I am nobody's child. Other little
boys have kind mothers to love them, but I am alone in the world. Aunt,
let me be your boy--your own dear little boy, and I will love you
almost as well as I did my poor mamma!"

The good woman caught me to her heart, tears were streaming down her
kind, benevolent face, she kissed me passionately, as she sobbed out,

"Geoffrey, you will never know how much I love you--more, my poor boy,
than I dare own. But rest assured that you shall never want a mother's
love while I live."

Well and conscientiously did she perform her promise. She has long been
dead, but time will never efface from my mind a tender recollection of
her kindness. Since I arrived at man's estate, I have knelt beside her
grave, and moistened the turf which enfolds that warm, noble heart with
grateful tears.

She had, as I before stated, one son--the first-born and only survivor
of a large family. This boy was a great source of anxiety to his
mother; a sullen, unmanageable, ill-tempered child. Cruel and cowardly,
he united with the cold, selfish disposition of the father, a jealous,
proud and vindictive spirit peculiarly his own. It was impossible to
keep on friendly terms with Theophilus Moncton: he was always taking
affronts, and ever on the alert to dispute and contradict every word or
opinion advanced by another. He would take offence at every look and
gesture, which he fancied derogatory to his dignity; and if you refused
to speak to him, he considered that you did not pay him proper
respect--that you slighted and insulted him.

He was afraid of his father, for whom he entertained little esteem or
affection; and to his gentle mother he was always surly and
disobedient; ridiculing her maternal admonitions, and thwarting and
opposing her commands, because he knew that his opposition pained and
annoyed her.

_Me_--he hated; and not only told me so to my face, both in public
and private, but encouraged the servants to treat me with insolence and
neglect. This class of individuals are seldom actuated by high and
generous motives; and anxious to court the favour of their wealthy
master's heir, they soon found that the best way to worm themselves
into his good graces, was to treat me with disrespect. The taunts and
blows of my tyrannical cousin, though hard to bear, never wounded me so
keenly as the sneers and whispered remarks of these worldly, low-bred
domestics. Their conduct clenched the iron of dependence into my very
soul.

It was vain for my aunt to remonstrate with her son on his ungenerous
conduct: her authority with him was a mere cipher, he had his father
upon his side, and for my aunt's sake, I forebore to complain.




CHAPTER IV.

THE TUTOR.


My uncle did not send us to school, but engaged a young man of humble
birth, but good classical attainments, to act in the capacity of tutor
to his son, and as an act of especial favour, which fact was duly
impressed upon me from day to day, I was allowed the benefit of his
instructions.

Mr. Jones, though a good practical teacher, was a weak, mean creature,
possessing the very soul of a sneak. He soon discovered that the best
way to please his elder pupil was to neglect and treat me ill. He had
been engaged on a very moderate salary to teach _one_ lad, and he was
greatly annoyed when Mr. Moncton introduced me into his presence,
coldly remarking, "that I was an orphan son of his brother--a lad
thrown upon his charity, and it would add very little to Mr. Jones's
labours to associate me with Theophilus in his studies."

Mr. Jones was poor and friendless, and had to make his own way in the
world. He dared not resent the imposition, for fear of losing his
situation, and while outwardly he cheerfully acquiesced in Mr.
Moncton's proposition, he conceived a violent prejudice against me, as
being the cause of it.

He was spiteful, irritable, narrow-minded man; and I soon found that
any attempt to win his regard, or conciliate him, was futile: he had
made up his mind to dislike me, and he did so with a hearty good will
which no attention or assiduity on my part could overcome.

Theophilus, who, like his father, professed a great insight into
character, read that of his instructor at a glance; and despised him
accordingly. But Theophilus was vain and fond of admiration, and could
not exist without satellites to move around him, and render him their
homage as to a superior luminary. He was a magnificent paymaster to his
sneaks; and bound them to him with the strongest of all ties--his
purse-strings.

Mr. Moncton, allowed this lad a handsome sum monthly for his own
private expenses; and fond as he was of money, he never inquired of the
haughty arrogant boy, the manner in which he disposed of his
pocket-money. He might save or spend it as inclination prompted--he
considered it a necessary outlay to give his son weight and influence
with others; and never troubled himself about it again.

Theophilus soon won over Mr. Jones to his interest, by a few judicious
presents; while he fostered his dislike to me, by informing him of
circumstances regarding my birth and family, with which I never became
acquainted until some years afterwards. At this distance of time, I can
almost forgive Mr. Jones, for the indifference and contempt he felt for
his junior pupil.

Influenced by these feelings, he taught me as little as he could; but I
had a thirst for knowledge, and he could not hinder me from listening
and profiting by his instructions to my cousin. Fortunately for me,
Theophilus did not possess either a brilliant or inquiring mind.
Learning was very distasteful to him; and Mr. Jones had to repeat his
instructions so often, that it enabled me to learn them by heart. Mr.
Jones flattered and coaxed his indolent pupil; but could not induce him
to take any interest in his studies, so that I soon shot far ahead of
him, greatly to the annoyance of both master and pupil; the former
doing his best to throw every impediment in my way.

I resented the injustice of this conduct with much warmth, and told
him, "that I would learn in spite of him; I had mastered the first
rudiments of Latin and Mathematics, and I could now teach myself all I
wanted to know."

This boast was rather premature. I found the task of self-instruction
less easy than I anticipated. I was in Mr. Jones's power--and he meanly
withheld from me the books necessary to my further advancement. I now
found myself at a stand-still. I threatened Mr. Jones that I would
complain to my uncle of his unjustifiable conduct. The idea seemed
greatly to amuse him and my cousin--they laughed in my face, and dared
me to make the experiment.

I flew to my aunt.

She told me to be patient and conceal my resentment; and she would
supply the books and stationery I required, from her own purse.

I did not like this. I was a blunt straight-forward boy; and I thought
that my aunt was afraid to back me in what I knew to be right. I told
her so.

"True, Geoffrey. But in this house it is useless to oppose force to
force. Your only safe course is non-resistance."

"That plan I never can adopt. It is truckling to evil, aunt. No
ultimate good can spring from it."

"But great trouble and pain may be avoided, Geoffrey."

"Aunt, I will not submit to Mr. Jones's mean tyranny; I feel myself
aggrieved; I must speak out and have it off my mind. I will go this
instant to Mr. Moncton and submit the case to him."

"Incur his displeasure--no trifle at any time, Geoffrey--and have
Theophilus and Mr. Jones laughing at you. They can tell your uncle what
story they please: and which is he most likely to believe, your
statement or theirs?"

"He is a clever man. Let them say what they like, it is not so easy to
deceive him; he will judge for himself. He would know that I was in the
right, even if he did not choose to say so; and that would be some
satisfaction, although he might take their part."

My aunt was surprised at my boldness; she looked me long and earnestly
in the face.

"Geoffrey, your argument is the best. Honesty is the right policy,
after all. I wish I had moral courage to act up to it at all times.
But, my dear boy, when you are the slave of a violent and deceitful
man, your only chance for a quiet life is to fight him with his own
weapons."

"Wrong again, aunt," I cried vehemently. "That would make me as had as
him. No, no, that plan would not do for me. I should betray myself
every minute, and become contemptible in his eyes and my own. It
strikes me, although I am but a boy of twelve, and know little of the
world, that the only real chance you have with such men is, to show
them that you are not afraid of them. They are all cowards, aunt; they
will yield to courage which they feel to be superior to their own. So
much I have learnt from the experience of the last four years."

Aunt made no reply; she smiled sadly and kindly upon me, and her tacit
approval sent me directly to my uncle. He was in his private office. I
knocked gently at the door.

"Come in."

I did so; and there I stood, not a little confused and perplexed before
him, with flushed cheeks and a fast-throbbing heart. It was the first
complaint I had ever made to him in my life--the first time I had ever
dared to enter his _sanctum sanctorum_; and I remained tongue-tied
upon the threshold, without knowing how to begin. I thought he would
have looked me down. I felt the blood receding from my face beneath his
cold gaze, as he said--

"Geoffrey, what do you want here?"

"I came, sir," I at last faltered out, "to make a complaint against Mr.
Jones."

"I never listen to complaints brought by a pupil against his teacher,"
he cried, in a voice which made me recoil over the door-step. "Be gone,
sir! If you come into my presence again on such an errand, I will spurn
you from the room."

This speech, meant to intimidate me, restored my courage. I felt the
hot blood rush to my face in a fiery flood.

"Hear me, sir. Did not you place me under his care in order that I
might learn?"

"And you refuse to do so?"

"No, sir: the reverse is the case: he refuses to teach me, and deprives
me of my books, so that I cannot teach myself."

"A very _probable_ tale," sneered Mr. Moncton; then rising from the
table at which he was seated, he cried out hastily, "Is Mr. Jones in
the study?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, my new client, come along with me. I will soon learn the truth
of your case."

He clutched me by the arm, which he grasped so tightly that I could
scarcely resist a cry of pain, and hurried me out. In the study we
found Theophilus and Mr. Jones: the one lounging on two chairs, the
other smoking a cigar and reading a novel. Mr. Moncton stood for a
moment in the door-way, regarding the pair with his peculiar glance.

"Gentlemen, you seem _pleasantly_ and _profitably_ employed!"

"Our morning tasks are concluded," said Theophilus, returning the stare
of scrutiny with a steady lie. "'Too much work would make Jack a dull
boy.'"

His father smiled grimly. How well he understood the character of his
son.

"Here is a lad, Mr. Jones, who complains that you not only refuse to
teach him, but deprive him of his books."

"He tells the truth, sir," returned that worthy, casting upon me a
spiteful, sidelong glance, which seemed to say more eloquently than
words, "You shall see, master Geoffrey, what you'll get by tale-bearing.
I'll match you yet." "I have withheld his books, and refused my
instructions for the past week, as a punishment for his insolent and
disrespectful conduct to your son and me; to say nothing of his
impertinent speeches regarding _you_, sir, who are his guardian and
benefactor."

"Do you hear that--sir!" said my uncle, giving me a violent blow on my
cheek, and flinging me from him. "When next you come to me with such
tales, you shall not leave your bed for a week."

I sprang from the floor, where his blow had sent me; and stood erect
before him. It was a pigmy confronting a giant; but my blood was
boiling. I had lost all control over myself. "It's a lie!" I cried,
shaking my fist at Mr. Jones. "A monstrous falsehood! He knows it is.
Theophilus knows it is. I have been falsely accused and unjustly
punished; I will remember that blow to my dying day. I will never
forget nor forgive it."

"And who cares, my hero, for your impotent rage?" My uncle seized me by
my thick curling hair, and turned round my face, hot with passion and
streaming with tears of rage, to the gaze of my sneering enemies. "I
will make you know, that you are in my house and in my power--and you
_shall_ submit to my authority, and the authority of those I choose to
place over you."

I struggled desperately in his herculean grasp in order to free myself.
He laughed at my impotent rage and then threw me on the floor--and this
time, I was quiet enough.

When I recovered my senses, I found myself lying upon the bed in the
garret, allotted to my use. My aunt was sitting beside me, bathing my
temples with vinegar and water. "Oh, aunt," I sighed, closing my eyes,
"I wish I were dead!"

"Hush! Geoffrey. You brought this on yourself. I told you how it would
be."

"It was so unjust," I replied with bitterness.

"And you were so rash. You will be wiser another time."

"When I am as wicked as my persecutors."

"No need of quoting others, my son, while you suffer such violent
passions to master you. Listen to me, my child. I have known your uncle
for years--have seen him in his darkest and stormiest moods; and
contrived to live peaceably with him. Nay, he respects me more than he
does any one else in the world. But I never _opposed his will_. He is
not a man to be trifled with--tears and complaints are useless. You
cannot touch his heart. He _will_ be obeyed. Left to himself, he may
become your friend, and even treat you with a certain degree of
kindness and consideration. But if you anger him, he will never
forgive, and can be a dreadful enemy. If you love me, Geoffrey, follow
my advice and submit to his authority with a good grace."

"I will try not to hate him for your dear sake. I can promise no more!"

I kissed her hand and fell back exhausted on my pillow. My head ached
dreadfully from the ill-treatment I had received; and wounded pride
made my heart very sore. It was only on her account that I could
control the deadly and revengeful feelings I cherished against him.
Theophilus and Mr. Jones, I considered beneath contempt.




CHAPTER V.

A CHANGE IN MY PROSPECTS.


The next day, I was surprised at receiving a message from Mr. Moncton
desiring me to attend him in his private office. I went to him in fear
and trembling. I was ill, nervous and dispirited, and cared very little
as to what in future might become of me.

I found him all smiles and affability. "Geoffrey," said he, holding out
his hand, as I entered, "I trust you have received a useful lesson. You
will be wise to lay it to heart. Mr. Jones tells me that you write a
good bold hand. Give me a specimen of it. Sit down at the table, and
direct that letter to Messieurs Hanbury and Company, Liverpool."

I did as I was commanded, but my hand trembled with excitement: I found
some difficulty in steadying the pen. He took the letter and looked at
it carefully, muttering as he did so--

"How like my father's hand. Ay, and how like in obstinacy of purpose;
more like him in every respect than his own sons." Then turning to me,
who was lost in wonder at this sudden change in his manner towards me,
he said, "This is well; you write a fair, legible hand for a boy. I
want a lad in my office to copy writs and other law papers. I think you
will just do for that purpose. If you are diligent and industrious,
after two years trial, I will article you to myself. How old are you?"

"Thirteen, next August."

"It is young; but you are tall and manly for your age. You and
Theophilus are never likely to agree; it is best for you to be apart.
You have no fortune of your own. I will give you a profession, and make
an independent man of you, if you will try for the future to be a
docile and obedient boy."

I promised to do my best. He then bade me follow him, and leading the
way through a narrow arched passage, he introduced me into the public
office, where the large business in which he was engaged was carried
on. Though I had been four years in the house, I had never seen the
inside of this office before. It was a spacious, dark, dirty,
apartment, lighted by high, narrow windows of ground glass; so that no
time could be wasted by the junior clerks in looking out into the
street. Several pale, melancholy men were seated at desks, hard at
work. You heard nothing but the rapid scratching of their pens against
the parchment and paper on which they were employed. When Mr. Moncton
entered the office, a short, stout, middle-aged man swung himself round
on his high stool and fronted us; but the moment he recognized his
superior, he rose respectfully to receive him.

Mr. Moncton took him apart, and they entered into a deep and earnest
conversation: of which, I am certain, from the significant glances
which, from time to time, they directed towards me, I formed the
principal topic.

At length the conference was over, and my uncle left the office without
giving me a parting word or glance. When he was fairly out of hearing,
all the clerks gathered round me.

"Who is he?"

"Mr. Moncton's nephew," was the short man's reply to the eager
questioners.

"Is he sent here to be a spy?"

"To learn the profession."

"_That babe!_ Is the man mad. It will kill the child to chain _him_ to
the desk all day."

"Poor fellow; he is the orphan son of his brother," said another. "I
have seen him at church with Mrs. Moncton."

"Well, Robert Moncton is a hard man," said a third.

"Hush! gentlemen," interposed Mr. Bassett, the senior clerk. "It is not
right to make such remarks in the lad's hearing. Mr. Moncton doubtless
does for the best. Come, my little fellow, you and I must be good
friends. Your uncle has placed you under my charge, to initiate you
into all the mysteries of the law. I have no doubt we shall get on
famously together. But you must be diligent and work hard. Your uncle
hates idlers; he is a strict master, but one of the ablest lawyers in
London. Let me tell you, that to be articled to him is a fortune in
itself."

A far-off, indistinct hope of freedom through this channel, presented
itself to my bewildered mind. I thanked Mr. Bassett warmly for his
proffered aid, and told him that I would do my best to deserve his good
opinion.

From that day, I became an office drudge, condemned to copy the same
unintelligible, uninteresting law forms, from early morning until late
at night. Mr. Bassett, a quiet, methodical, business man, was kind in
his own peculiar way. He had a large family, and perhaps felt a
paternal sympathy in my early introduction to the labours and cares of
life. He often commended my diligence, and mentioned me in very
handsome terms to Mr. Moncton; but from that gentleman I never received
a word of praise--weeks and months often passed without his speaking to
me. I was even debarred from spending with my dear aunt that blessed
twilight-hour, which had proved the chief solace of my weary life.

Constant confinement to that close office preyed upon my health and
spirits. I became fretful and irritable, the colour left my cheeks, and
my eyes looked dull and heavy. The clerks, generally kind to me, all
pitied me, though they dared not openly show their regard. They brought
me presents of fruit and sweet-meats, and one who lived in the suburbs
used to delight my heart, every now and then, with a rich bouquet of
flowers. Their beauty and perfume brought back a glimpse of the old
times--dim visions of lawns and gardens, of singing-birds and
humming-bees; of a fair smiling creature who led me by the hand through
those bowers of enchantment, and called me her Geoffrey--her darling
boy.

When such thoughts came over me, my hand trembled, and I could not see
the parchment I was copying through my tears; but for all that, the
sight of the flowers was always inexpressibly dear, and I prized them
beyond every other gift.

I had been about eighteen months in the office, when my good Aunt
Rebecca died--an event sudden and unexpected by all. I was allowed to
see her in her last moments; to sob out my full heart by her death-bed.
Her last words were an earnest request to her husband to be kind to
poor Geoffrey, for her sake: she died--and I felt myself alone and
friendless in the world.




CHAPTER VI.

THE SORROWS OF DEPENDENCE.


My heart sickens over this dreary portion of my life. I have heard
childhood called the happiest season of life. To me it had few joys. It
was a gloomy period of mental suffering and bodily fatigue; of
unnatural restraint and painful probation.

The cold, authoritative manner of my uncle, at all times irksome and
repelling, after the death of his good wife became almost
insupportable; while the insolence and presumption of his artful son,
goaded a free and irascible spirit like mine almost to madness. The
moral force of his mother's character, though unappreciated by him, had
been some restraint upon his unamiable, tyrannical temper. That
restraint was now removed, and Theophilus considered that my dependent
situation gave him a lawful right to my services, and had I been a
workhouse apprentice in his father's house, he could not have given his
commands with an air of more pointed insolence. My obstinate resistance
to his authority, and my desperate struggles to emancipate myself from
his control, produced a constant war of words between us; and if I
appealed to my uncle, I was sure to get the worst of it. He did not
exactly encourage his son in this ungenerous line of conduct, but his
great maxim was to _divide and rule_; to exact from all who were
dependent upon him, the most uncompromising obedience to his arbitrary
will; and he laughed at my remonstrances, and turned my indignation
into ridicule.

I was daily reminded, particularly before strangers, of the domestic
calamities which had made me dependent upon his cold, extorted charity;
while I was reproached with my want of gratitude to a cruel master.

Passion and wounded pride drew from me burning tears. I felt that I was
growing fierce and hard like my persecutors, and my conscience, yet
tender, deplored the lamentable change. My heart, crushed beneath the
sense of injustice and unmerited neglect, was closed against the best
feelings of humanity, and I regarded my fellow men with aversion and
mistrust.

These bitter and desponding feelings deprived my nights of rest--my
days, of hope. When the morning came and I took my stand at the
accursed desk, I wished the day gone; and when night released me from
the abhorrent task, and I sought my humble garret, I sat for hours at
the open window, brooding over my wrongs.

The moonbeams glittered in the tears that anguish wrung from my
upturned eyes. The stars seemed to look down upon me with compassionate
earnestness. Sometimes my young spirit, carried away by the intense
love I felt for those beautiful eyes of heaven, forgot for awhile the
sorrows and cares of life and soared far, far away to seek for sympathy
and affection in those unknown regions of light and purity.

I had few opportunities of religious instruction in this truly Godless
household. My uncle never attended church when he could avoid the
obligation, and then, only to keep up appearances--a religion of the
world; in which the heart had no part. There was always a Bible in the
office, but it was never used but in the way of business to administer
oaths. Whenever I had a moment's leisure I had turned over the pages
with eager and mysterious curiosity, but the knowledge that should have
brought peace and comfort, and reconciled me to my dreary lot, not
being sought for in the right spirit, added to my present despondency,
the dread of future punishment.

Oh, that awful fear of Hell. How it darkened with its unholy shadow,
all that was bright and beautiful in the lower world. I had yet to
learn, that perfect love casteth out fear, that the great Father
punishes but to reform, and is ever more willing to save than to
condemn. I dared not seek Him, lest I should hear the terrible
denunciation thundered against the wicked: "Depart from me, ye cursed!"

A firm trust in His protecting care would have been a balm for every
wound which festered and rankled at my heart's core. Had the
Christian's hope been mine, I should no longer have pined under that
dreary sense of utter loneliness, which for many years paralyzed all
mental exertions, or nurtured in my breast the stern unforgiving temper
which made me regard my persecutors with feelings of determined hate.

Residing in the centre of the busy metropolis, and at an age when the
heart sighs for social communion with its fellows, and imagines, with
the fond sincerity of inexperienced youth, a friend in every agreeable
companion, I was immured among old parchments and dusty records, and
seldom permitted to mingle with the guests who frequented my uncle's
house, unless my presence was required to sign some official document.

Few persons suspected that the shabbily-dressed silent youth who obeyed
Mr. Moncton's imperious mandates was his nephew--the only son of an
elder brother; consequently I was treated as nobody by his male
visitors, and never noticed at all by the ladies.

This was mortifying enough to a tall lad of eighteen, who already
fancied himself a man: who, though meanly dressed, and sufficiently
awkward, had enough of vanity in his composition to imagine that his
person would create an interest in his behalf and atone for all other
deficiencies, at least in the eyes of the gentler sex--those angels,
who seen at a distance, were daily becoming objects of admiration and
worship.

Alas! Poor Geoffrey. Thou didst not know in that thy young day the
things pertaining to thy peace. Thou didst not suspect in thy innocence
how the black brand of poverty can deform the finest face, and dim the
brightest intellect in the eyes of the world.

Among all my petty trials there were none which I felt more keenly than
having to wear the cast-off clothes of my cousin. He was some years
older, but his frame was slighter and shorter than mine, and his
garments did not fit me in any way. The coat sleeves were short and
tight, and the trowsers came half-way up my legs. The figure I cut in
these unsuitable garments was so ludicrous that it was a standing joke
among the clerks in the office.

"When you step into your cousin's shoes, Geoffrey, we hope they will
suit you better than his clothes."

I could have been happy in the coarsest fustian or corderoy garment
which I knew was my own. I believe Robert Moncton felt a malicious
pleasure in humbling me in the eyes of his people.

My uncle had fulfilled his promise, and I had been articled to him when
I completed my fourteenth year; and I now eagerly looked forward to my
majority, when I should be free to quit his employ, and seek a living
in the world.

My time had been so completely engaged in copying law papers, that I
had not been able to pay much attention to the higher branches of the
profession; and when night came, and I was at length released from the
desk, I was so over-powered by fatigue that I felt no inclination to
curtail the blessed hours of sleep by reading dull law books. Yet, upon
this all-important knowledge, which I was neglecting, rested my chance
of independence.

My cousin Theophilus was pursuing his studies at Oxford, and rarely
visited home, but spent his vacations with some wealthy relatives in
Yorkshire. This was a happy time for me; for of all my many trials his
presence was the greatest. Even Mr. Moncton was more civil to me in the
absence of his hopeful heir.

Thus time glided on until I was twenty years of age, and full six feet
in height, and I could no longer wear the cast-off suits of my cousin.
Mr. Moncton, in common decency, was at length obliged to order my
clothes of his tailor; but he took good care that they should be of the
coarsest description, and of the most unfashionable cut. The first suit
which was made expressly for me, ridiculous as it must appear to my
readers, gave me infinite satisfaction. I felt proud and happy of the
acquisition.

The afternoon of that memorable day, my uncle sent for me into the
drawing-room to witness the transfer of some law papers. His clients
were two ladies, young and agreeable. While I was writing from Mr.
Moncton's dictation, I perceived, with no small degree of trepidation,
that the younger was regarding me with earnest attention; and in spite
of myself my cheeks flushed and my hand trembled. After my part of the
business was concluded Mr. Moncton told me to withdraw. As I left the
room, I heard Miss Mary Beaumont say, in a low voice to her sister--my
uncle having stepped into the adjoining apartment:

"What a handsome young man! Who is he?"

"Oh, the clerk, of course."

"He looks a gentleman."

"A person of no consequence, by his shabby dress and awkward manners."

I closed the door, and walked hastily away. How I despised the new
suit, of which a few minutes before I had felt so proud. The remarks of
the younger lady tingled in my ears for weeks. She had considered me
worth looking at, in spite of my unfashionable garments; and I blessed
her for the amiable condescension, and thought her in return as
beautiful as an angel. I never saw her again--but I caught myself
scribbling her name on my desk, and I covered many sheets of waste
paper with indifferent rhymes in her praise.

This confession may call up a smile on the lip of the reader, and I am
content that he should accuse me of vanity. But these were the first
words of commendation which had ever reached my ears from the lips of
woman, and though I have since laughed heartily at the deep impression
they made on my mind, they produced a beneficial effect at the time,
and helped to reconcile me to my lot.

It was about this period, that Mr. Bassett left the office, and went
into the profession on his own account. The want of means, and an
imprudent marriage in early life, had hindered him from entering it
sooner. For twenty years he had worked as a clerk, when he was fully
qualified to have been the head of the firm. The death of an uncle who
left him a small property unchained him from the oar, and as he said,
"made a man of him at last."

Poor little man. I shall never forget his joy when he got that
important letter. He sprang from his desk, upsetting the high stool in
his haste, and shook hands with us all round, laughing and crying
alternately.

He was a great favourite in the office, and we all rejoiced in his good
fortune, though I felt sincerely grieved at parting with him. He had
been a kind friend to me when I had no friends; and I had spent some
quiet, happy evenings with him at his humble lodgings, in the company
of a very pretty and amiable wife. My occasional visit to him was the
only indulgence I had ever been allowed, and these visits were not
permitted to be of too frequent recurrence.

He saw how much I was affected at bidding him good-by.

"Geoffrey," said he, taking me by the hand and drawing me aside: "one
word with you before we part. I know your attachment for me is sincere.
Believe me, the feeling is reciprocated in its fullest extent. Your
uncle is not your friend. Few men act wickedly without a motive. He has
his own reasons for treating you as he does. I cannot enter into
particulars here. Nor would I, even if time and opportunity warranted,
for it would do no good. Keep your eyes open, your head clear--your
temper cool, and your tongue silent, and you will see and learn much
without the interference of a second person. I am going to open an
office in Nottingham, my native town, and if ever you want a friend in
the hour of need, come to Josiah Bassett in the full confidence of
affection, and I will help you."

This speech roused all my curiosity. I pressed him eagerly to tell me
all he knew respecting me and my uncle, but he refused to satisfy my
earnest inquiries.

The departure of Mr. Bassett, which I regarded as a calamity, proved
one of the most fortunate events in my life.

His place was supplied by a gentleman of the name of Harrison, who was
strongly recommended to Mr. Moncton by his predecessor as an excellent
writer, a man well versed in the law, sober and industrious, and in
whose integrity he might place the utmost reliance. He had no wish to
enter into the profession, but only sought to undertake the management
of the office as head clerk.

Mr. Moncton was a man who never associated himself with a partner, and
regarded despotic rule as the only one that deserved the name.

When Mr. Harrison was introduced _in propria person�_ he did not seem
to realize his employer's expectations--who, from Mr. Bassett's
description, had evidently looked for an older and more methodical
person, and was disappointed in the young and interesting individual
who presented himself. But as he required only a moderate salary for
his services, he was engaged on trial for the next three months.




CHAPTER VII.

GEORGE HARRISON.


George Harrison was not distinguished by any remarkable talents; or
endowed with that aspiring genius which forces its way through every
obstacle, and places the possessor above the ordinary mass with whom he
is daily forced to associate. Yet, his was no common character; no
every-day acquaintance, with whom we may spend a pleasant hour, and
care not if we ever meet again in our journey through life.

The moment he entered the office my heart was drawn towards him by an
irresistible, mysterious impulse, so that looking upon him I became
attached to him, and felt confident that the friend whom I had ardently
wished to obtain for so many hopeless years, was now before me.

This impression was strengthened by the simple, unaffected, frank
manner in which he met the advances of the other clerks. There was a
charm in his smile, in the rich tones of his deep, mellow voice, which
made me anxious to catch the one, and hear the other again, though both
were marked by quiet, subdued sadness.

His face, strictly speaking, could not be called handsome; and his
general appearance was more remarkable for a refined and gentlemanly
demeanour, than for anything particularly striking in form or feature.
A good head, fine intelligent hazel eyes, and a profusion of curling
dark brown hair, redeemed his countenance from mediocrity; but its
careworn, anxious expression, showed too clearly, that some great
life-sorrow, had blighted the early promise of youth and hope.

It was some days before I had an opportunity of becoming better
acquainted with him. We were preparing for the spring assizes, and
there was work enough in the office to have employed twice the number
of hands. Nothing was heard but the scratching of pens upon paper, from
early day until midnight.

At last the hurry was over, and we had more leisure to look about us.
Mr. Moncton was attending a circuit in the country, and his watchful
eye was no longer upon us. The clerks were absent at dinner; Mr.
Harrison and I were alone in the office, which he never left till six,
when he returned to his lodgings in Charlotte Street to dine; and
unless there happened to be a great stress of business which required
his presence, we saw him no more that night.

After regarding me for some minutes with an earnest scrutiny which,
impulsive creature that I was, almost offended me, he said--

"Am I mistaken, or is your name _really_ Moncton?"

"_Really_ and truly, Geoffrey Moncton, at your service. What made you
doubt the fact?"

"I had always heard that Robert Moncton had but one son."

"Surely there is enough of the breed, without your wishing to affiliate
me upon him. I flatter myself that we do not in the least resemble each
other. And as to the name, I have so little respect for it, for his
sake, that I wish some one would leave me a fortune to change it; for,
between ourselves, I have small reason to love it. He is my uncle--my
father's younger brother--and I find the relationship near enough."

This explanation led to a brief sketch of my painful, though uneventful
history, to which Mr. Harrison listened with an air of such intense
interest that, though it flattered my vanity, not a little surprised
me. When I concluded, he grasped my hand firmly, muttering to himself--

"It is like him--just like him. The infernal scoundrel!"

"What do you know about him?" said I, astonished at the excited state
into which my revelations had thrown him.

"Only _too_ much," he responded, with a heavy sigh; and sinking back in
his chair, pressed his hands to his head, like one who wished to shut
out painful recollections, while I continued to grasp his arm and stare
at him in blank amazement. At length, rousing himself, he said with a
faint smile,--

"Don't make big eyes at me, Geoffrey. I cannot tell you all you wish to
know. At some other time, and in some other place, I will repay the
confidence you have reposed in me, and satisfy your queries; but not
here--not in the lion's den."

"For heaven's sake! don't keep silent now," I cried. "You have roused
my curiosity to such a pitch, that I shall go mad if you hold your
tongue. You _must_ speak out."

"I _must_ not, if, by so doing, I ruin your prospects and my own. Be
satisfied, Geoffrey, that I am your friend; that henceforth I will
regard you as a brother, and do all in my power to lighten and shorten
your present bondage."

The generous assurance he gave me of a warm and affectionate sympathy
in my destiny, nearly atoned for twenty years of sorrow and
degradation. The intense desire I felt to deserve his esteem, made me
anxious to cultivate my mind, which I had suffered to lie waste.
Harrison kindly offered his aid, and supplied me with books. I now
devoted myself with zeal to the task. For the first time I had a motive
for exertion; I no longer vegetated; I had a friend, and my real life
commenced from that day. I set apart two hours each night for reading
and study, and soon felt a keen relish for the employment.

"In these lie your best hope of independence, Geoffrey," said my kind
friend, laying his hand upon a pile of books, which, for lack of a
table, he placed upon the truck-bed in my mean garret. Then seating
himself beside me on the shabby couch, he proceeded to examine, by the
light of a miserable tallow-candle, a translation I had been making
from the Orations of Cicero.

"With your talents, Geoffrey, you need not fear the tyranny of any man.
It will be your own fault if you do not rise in the profession you have
chosen."

"The choice was none of mine."

"Then be grateful to your uncle for once, in having chosen it for you."

"Do not expect impossibilities!" and I smiled bitterly.

"Not exactly. Yet, Geoffrey, many things which appear at first sight
impossible, only require a series of persevering efforts to become both
easy and practicable. You might render your unpleasant position with
your uncle more tolerable, by yielding to his authority with a better
grace. The constant opposition you make to his wishes, is both useless
and dangerous. Though you neither love nor respect him, and I should be
sorry if you could do either, yet he is entitled to obedience and a
certain degree of deference as your guardian and master."

"I never can willingly obey him," I cried, angrily, "or bring my mind
to submit to his authority."

"In which, I assure you as a friend, you are wrong. As long as his
commands do not interfere with any moral obligation, you are bound to
listen to them with respect."

"The man has always been my enemy, and would you have me become a
passive instrument in his hands?"

"Certainly, as long as you remain his clerk, and he does not require
your aid in any villainous transaction. If his intentions towards you
are evil, you cannot frustrate them better than by doing your duty.
Believe me, Geoffrey, you have a more dangerous enemy to contend with,
one bound to you by nearer ties, who exercises a more pernicious
influence over your mind."

"His sordid, selfish, counterpart--his _worthy_ son?"

George shook his head.

I looked inquiringly.

"A certain impetuous, wilful, wrong-headed boy, yclept Geoffrey
Moncton."

"Pish!" I exclaimed, shrugging my shoulders: "is this your friendship?"

"The best proof I can give you of it."

I walked hastily to and fro, the narrow limits of the chamber, raising,
at every step, a cloud of dust from folds of old, yellow parchment and
musty rolls of paper, which had accumulated there for the last half
century, and lay in a pile upon the floor. I was in no humour to listen
to a lecture, particularly when my own faulty temper was to be the
principal subject, and form the text. Harrison watched my movements for
some time in silence, with a provokingly-amused air; not in the least
discouraged by my wayward mood; but evidently ready for another attack.

"Prithee, Geoffrey, leave off raising that cloud of dust, disturbing
the evil spirits which have long slumbered in yon forgotten pile of
professional rubbish, and sit down quietly and listen to reason."

I felt annoyed, and would not resume my place beside him, but, assuming
a very stately air, seated myself opposite to my tormentor on a huge
iron chest, which was the only seat, save the bed, in the room; and
then, fixing my eyes reproachfully upon him, I sat as stiff as a poker,
without relaxing a muscle of my face.

He laughed outright.

"You are displeased with my bluntness, Geoffrey, and I am amused with
your dignity. That solemn, proud face would become the Lord Chancellor
of England."

"Hold your tongue, you tormentor; I won't be laughed at in this absurd
manner. What have I done to deserve such a sermon?"

"'Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, saith the preacher,' and surely,
Geoffrey, your vanity exceeds all other vanity. I hint at a fault, and
point it out for correction. You imagine yourself perfection, and are
up in arms in a moment. Answer me, seriously: do you ever expect to
settle in life?"

"I have dared to cherish the forlorn hope."

"Forlorn as it is, you are taking the best method to destroy it."

"What would you have me do?"

"Yield to circumstances."

"Become a villain?" This was said with a very tragic air.

"May Heaven forbid! I should be sorry to see you so nearly resemble
your uncle. But I would have you avoid uselessly offending him; for, by
constantly inflaming his mind to anger, you may ruin your own
prospects, and be driven in desperation to adopt measures for obtaining
a living, scarcely less dishonourable than his own."

"Go on," I cried: "it is all very well for you to talk in this
philosophical strain. You have not been educated in the same bitter
school with me; you have not known what it is to writhe beneath the
oppressive authority of this cold, unfeeling man; you cannot understand
the nature of my sufferings, or the painful humiliation I must daily
endure."

He took my hand affectionately.

"Geoffrey," said he, "how do you know all this? Yours is not a
profession which allows men to jump at conclusions. What can you tell
of my past or present trials. What if I should say, they had been far
greater and worse to bear than your own?"

"Impossible!"

"All things that have reference to sorrow and trouble, in this world,
are only too possible. But I will have patience with you, my poor
friend; your heart is very sore. The deadly wounds in mine are
partially healed; yet, my experience of life has been bought with
bitter tears;--the loss of hope, health and self-respect. I am willing
that you should profit by this; and, having made this confession, will
you condescend to hear my lecture to an end?"

"Oh, tell me something more about yourself. I would rather listen to
your sorrows, than have my faults paraded before me."

A melancholy smile passed over his face.

"Geoffrey, what a child you are! Listen to me. You have suffered this
personal dislike to your uncle and his son to overtop, like some rank
weed, every better growth of your mind; to destroy your moral integrity
and mental advantages; to interfere with your studies, and prevent any
beneficial result which might arise from your situation as clerk in
this office. Is this wise?"

I remained obstinately silent.

"You are lengthening the term of your bondage, and riveting the fetters
you are so anxious to break. Does not your uncle know this? Does he not
laugh at your impotent efforts to break his yoke from off your neck? In
one short year your articles will expire, and you will become a free
agent. But, with the little knowledge you have gained of your
profession, what would liberty do for you? Would it procure for you a
better situation; establish your claims as a gentleman, or fill an
empty purse?"

"Let the worst come to the worst, I could work for my bread."

"Not such an easy thing as you imagine."

"With health, strength and youth on my side, what should hinder me?"

"Your uncle's influence, which is very great. The world does not know
him, as we know him. He is considered an upright, honourable man. One
word from him would blast your character, and keep you out of every
office in London."

I felt my cheeks grow pale. I had never seen matters in this light
before. Still, I would not yield to the arguments of my friend. The
obstinate spirit of the Monctons was in active operation just then, and
would not submit to reason.

"There are more ways of earning a living than by following the
profession of the law," said I doggedly.

"To all of which you have an apprenticeship to serve. Think, Geoffrey,
of the thousands of respectable young men who are looking for
employment in this vast metropolis, and how few are successful; and
then ask yourself, how you, without money, without friends, and with a
powerful enemy to crush all your honest endeavours, and render them
abortive, are likely to earn your own living."

I was struck speechless, and for the first time in my life became aware
of my utter inability to extricate myself out of the net of
difficulties which surrounded me.

"You are convinced at last. Look me steadily in the face, Geoffrey, and
own that you are beaten. Nay, smooth that frowning brow: it makes you
look like Robert Moncton. Your profession is a fortune in itself, if
you persevere in acquiring it. Be not discouraged by difficulties that
beset the path. A poor man's road to independence is always up-hill
work. Duty fences the path on either side, and success waves her flag
from the summit; but every step must be trod, often in ragged garments,
and with bare feet, if we would reach the top."

I pressed George Harrison's hand, silently within my own. He had won a
great victory over obstinacy and self-conceit.

From that hour my prospects brightened. I became a new creature, full
of hope, activity and trust. My legal studies engaged all my leisure
moments. I had no time left to brood over my wrongs. My mind had formed
an estimate of its own powers; the energetic spirit which had been
wasted in endless cavils and contradictions (for my temper was faulty
and headstrong, and my uncle not always the aggressor) now asserted its
own dignity, and furnished me with the weapon most needed in such petty
warfare--self-respect. Harrison had given me a motive for exertion, and
I was ashamed of having suffered my mental powers to remain so long
inactive. As my mind recovered a healthy tone, my spirits rose in
proportion. The thirst for improvement daily acquired new strength,
while my industry not only surprised, but drew forth the commendations
of my uncle.

"What has become of your churlish, morose temper, Geoffrey?" said he to
me one day, at dinner; "why, boy, you are greatly changed of late. From
a sulky, impertinent, vindictive lad, you have become an industrious,
agreeable, pleasant fellow."

"It is never too late to mend, uncle," said I, laughing, though I did
not much relish his portrait of what I had been. "My temper I found a
greater punishment to myself than to others, so I thought it high time
to change it for a better."

"You were perfectly right. I have a better hope for your future than I
once had. I shall be able to make something out of you yet."

This unlooked-for condescension on the part of Mr. Moncton, softened
the hard feelings I had long cherished against him into a more
Christian-like endurance of his peculiarities; and the conscientious
discharge of my own duty taught me to consider his interests as my own.




CHAPTER VIII.

UNGRATIFIED CURIOSITY.


There is a period in every young man's first outset in life, which
gives a colouring to his future destiny. It is the time for action, for
mental and moral improvement, and the manner in which it is applied or
neglected, will decide his character, or leave him weak and vacillating
all the days of his life.

If this precious portion of existence be wasted in frivolous
amusements, time gets the start of us, and no after-exertion will
enable us to overtake him in his flight. This important era was mine;
and I lost no opportunity of turning it to the best advantage. I worked
early and late in the office, and made myself master of the nature of
the work which employed my hands. I learned the philosophy of those law
forms, which hitherto I had only copied mechanically, and looked upon
as a weary task, and I soon reaped the benefit of my increased stock of
knowledge. Grave men, in the absence of my uncle, often applied to me
for information and advice, which I felt proud and happy in being able
to supply.

Thus, I found that in serving my employer faithfully, I conferred the
greatest benefit on myself; and the hours devoted to study, while they
formed a pleasant recreation from the day labours of the office, were
among the happiest and most sinless of my life.

I was seldom admitted into my uncle's drawing-room, and never allowed
to mingle with evening parties, which, during the brief visits of
Theophilus to his home, were not only frequent, but very brilliant.
This I felt as a great hardship. My solitary and companionless youth
had deeply imbued my mind with romance. I was fond of castle-building;
I pictured to myself the world as a paradise, and fancied that I was an
illustrious actor in scenes of imaginary splendour, which bore no
analogy to the dull realities of my present life.

I was a dreamer of wild dreams, and suffered my enthusiasm to get the
master of reason, and betray me into a thousand absurdities. My love
for poetry and music was excessive. I played upon the flute by ear, and
often when alone dissipated my melancholy thoughts by breathing them
into the instrument.

Through this medium, Harrison became an adept at discovering the state
of my feelings. "My flute told tales," he said. "It always spoke the
language of my heart." Yet from him I had few concealments. He was my
friend and bosom-counsellor, in whom I reposed the most unreserved
confidence. But strange to say, this confidence was not mutual. There
was a mystery about George which I could not fathom; a mental
reservation which was tantalizing and inexplicable.

He was a gentleman in education, appearance and manners, and possessed
those high and honourable feelings, which if displayed in a peasant
would rank him as one, and which are inseparable from all who really
deserve the title. He never spoke to me of his family--never alluded to
the events of his past life, or the scenes in which his childhood had
been spent. He talked of sorrow and sickness--of chastisements in the
school of adversity, in general terms; but he never revealed the cause
of these trials, or why a young man of his attainments was reduced to a
situation so far below the station he ought to have held in society.

I was half inclined to quarrel with him for so pertinaciously
concealing from me circumstances which I thought I had a right to know;
and in which, when known, I was fully prepared to sympathize. A
thousand times I was on the point of remonstrating with him on this
undue reserve, which appeared so foreign to his frank, open nature, but
feelings of delicacy restrained me.

What right had _I_ to pry into his secrets? My impertinent curiosity
might reopen wounds which time had closed. There were, doubtless, good
reasons for his withholding the information I coveted.

Yet, I must confess that I had an intense curiosity--a burning desire
to know the history of his past life. For many long months my wishes
remained ungratified.

At this time I felt an ardent desire to see something more of life, to
mingle in the gay scenes of the great world around me. Pride, however,
withheld me from accepting the many pressing invitations I daily
received from the clerks in the office, to join them in parties of
pleasure, to the theatres and other places of public amusement. Mr.
Moncton had strictly forbidden me to leave the house of an evening; but
as he was often absent of a night, I could easily have evaded his
commands; but I scorned to expose to strangers the meanness of my
wealthy relative, by confessing that mine was an empty purse; while the
thought of enjoying myself at the expense of my generous companions,
was not to be tolerated for an instant. If I could not go as a
gentleman, and pay my own share of the entertainment, I determined not
to go at all; and these resolutions met with the entire approbation of
my friend Harrison.

"Wait patiently, Geoffrey, and fortune will pay up the arrears of the
long debt she owes you. It is an old and hackneyed saying, 'That riches
alone, cannot confer happiness upon the possessor.'"

"My uncle and cousin are living demonstrations of the truth of the
proverb. Mr. Moncton is affluent, and might enjoy all the luxuries that
wealth can procure; yet he toils with as much assiduity to increase his
riches, as the poorest labourer does to earn bread for his family. He
can acquire, but has not the heart to enjoy--while the bad disposition
of Theophilus would render him, under any circumstances, a miserable
man. Yet, after all, George, in this bad world, money is power."

"Only, to a certain extent: to be happy, a man must be good;
religiously, morally, physically. He must bear upon his heart the image
of the Prince of Peace, before he can truly value the glorious boon of
life."

"I wish I could see these things in the same calm unprejudiced light,"
said I; "but I find it a bitter mortification, after so many years of
hard labour, to be without a penny to pay for seeing a raree-show."

Harrison laughed heartily, "You will perhaps say, that it is easy for
me to preach against riches; but like the Fox in the fable, the grapes
are sour. I speak, however, with indifference of the good that
Providence has placed beyond my reach. Geoffrey, I was once the envied
possessor of wealth, which in my case was productive of much evil."

"How did you lose such an advantage?" I eagerly exclaimed, "do tell me
something of your past life?"

This was the first allusion he had made to his former circumstances;
and I was determined not to let the opportunity pass unnoticed.

He seemed to guess my thoughts. "Are you anxious for a humiliating
confession, of vanity, folly and prodigality? Well, Geoffrey, you shall
have it; but mark me--it will only be in general terms--I cannot enter
into particulars. I was born poor, and unexpectedly became rich, and
like many persons in like circumstances, I was ashamed of my mean
origin; and thought, by making a dashing appearance and squandering
lavishly my wealth, to induce men to forget my humble birth. The world
applauds such madness as long as the money lasts, and for a short
period, I had friends and flatterers at will.

"My brief career terminated in ruin and disgrace: wealth which is not
acquired by industry, is seldom retained by prudence; and to those
unacquainted with the real value of money, a large sum always appears
inexhaustible. So it was with me. I spent, without calculating the
cost, and soon lost all. The world now wore a very different aspect. I
was deserted by all my gay associates; my most intimate companions
passed me in the streets without recognition. I knew that this would be
the result of my altered fortunes, yet the reality cut me to the heart.

"These are mortifying lessons, which experience, wisdom's best
counsellor, daily teaches us; and a man must either be very
self-conceited, or very insensible, who cannot profit by her valuable
instructions. The hour which brought to me the humiliating conviction,
that I was a person of no consequence; that the world could go on very
well without me; that my merry companions would not be one jot less
facetious, though I was absent from their jovial parties, was after all
not the most miserable of my life.

"I woke as from a dream. The scales had fallen from my eyes. I knew
myself--and became a wiser and better man. I called all my creditors
together, discharged my debts, and found myself free of the world in
the most liberal sense.

"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed. "How could you bear such a dreadful
reverse with such fortitude--such magnanimity?"

"You give me greater credit than I deserve, Geoffrey: my imprudent
conduct merited a severe punishment, and I had sense enough to discern
that it was just. After the first shock was over, I felt happier in my
poverty than I had ever done during my unmerited prosperity. I had
abused the gifts of fortune while they were mine, and I determined to
acquire an independence by my own exertions. A friend, whom I had
scarcely regarded as such, during my reckless career of folly, came
unexpectedly to my assistance, and offered to purchase for me a
commission in the army, but I had private reasons for wishing to obtain
a situation in this office. Writing a good hand, and having been
originally educated for the profession, together with the
recommendation of Mr. Bassett who was related to my friend, procured me
the place I now hold."

"And your reasons for coming here?" I cried, burning with curiosity.

"Pardon me, Geoffrey. That is my secret."

He spoke with the calmness of a philosopher, but I saw his emotion, as
his eyes turned mechanically to the parchment he was copying, and
affected an air of cheerful resignation.

The candid exposure of his past faults and follies raised, rather than
sunk him in my estimation; but I was sadly disappointed at the general
terms in which they were revealed. I wanted to know every event of his
private life, and this abridgment was very tantalizing.

While I was pondering these things in my heart, the pen he had grasped
so tightly was flung to some distance, and he raised his fine eyes to
my face.

"Thank God! Geoffrey; I have not as yet lost the faculty of
feeling--that I can see and deplore the errors of the past. When I
think what I was, what I am, and what I might have been, it brings a
cloud over my mind which often dissolves in tears. This is the weakness
of human nature. But the years so uselessly wasted rise up in dread
array against me, and the flood-gates of the soul are broken up by
bitter and remorseful regrets. But see," he exclaimed, dashing the
thickening mist from his eyes, and resuming his peculiarly benevolent
smile: "the dark cloud has passed, and George is himself again."

"You are happier than I. You can smile through your tears," I cried,
regarding his April face with surprise.

"And so would you, Geoffrey, if, like me, you had brought your passions
under the subjection of reason."

"It is no easy task, George, to storm a city, when your own subjects
defend the walls, and at every attack drive you back with your own
weapons, into the trenches. I will, however, commence the attack, by
striving to forget that there is a world beyond these gloomy walls, in
whose busy scenes I am forbidden to mingle."

"Valiantly resolved, Geoffrey. But how comes it, that you did not tell
me the news this morning?"

"News--what news?"

"Your cousin Theophilus returned last night."

"The devil he did! That's everything but good news to me. But are you
sure the news is true?"

"My landlady is sister to Mr. Moncton's housekeeper. I had my
information from her. She tells me that the father and son are on very
bad terms."

"I have seldom heard Mr. Moncton mention him of late. I wonder we have
not seen him in the office. He generally pays us an early visit to show
off his fine clothes, and to insult me."

"Talk of his satanic majesty, Geoff. You know the rest. Here comes the
heir of the house of Moncton."

"He does not belong to the elder branch," I cried, fiercely. "Poor as I
am, I consider myself the head of the house, and one of these days will
dispute his right to that title."

"Tush!" said George, resuming his pen, "you are talking sad nonsense.
But hereby hangs a tale."

I looked up inquiringly. Harrison was hard at work. I saw a mischievous
smile hovering about his lips. He turned his back abruptly to the door,
and bent more closely over his parchment, as Theophilus Moncton entered
the office equipped for a journey.




CHAPTER IX.

A PORTRAIT.


Two years had passed away since I last beheld my cousin, and during his
absence, there had been peace between his father and me. He appeared
before me like the evil genius of the house, prepared to renew the old
hostility, and I could not meet him with the least show of cordiality
and affection.

I am not a good hand at sketching portraits, but the person of my
cousin is so fresh in my memory, his image so closely interwoven with
all the leading events of my life, that I can scarcely fail in giving a
tolerably correct likeness of the original.

He was about the middle stature, his figure slender and exceedingly
well made: and but for a strong dash of affectation, which marred all
that he did and said, his carriage would have been easy and graceful.
His head was small and handsomely placed upon his shoulders, his
features sharply defined and very prominent. His teeth were remarkably
white, but so long and narrow, that they gave a peculiarly sinister and
malicious expression to his face--which expression was greatly
heightened by the ghastly contortion that was meant for a smile, and
which was in constant requisition, in order to show off the said teeth,
which Theophilus considered one of his greatest attractions. But my
cousin had no personal attractions. There was nothing manly or decided
about him. Smooth and insidious where he wished to please, his first
appearance to strangers was always unprepossessing; and few persons on
their first introduction had any great desire to extend their
acquaintance.

He ought to have been fair, for his hair and whiskers were of the
palest tint of brown; but his complexion was grey and muddy, and his
large sea-green eyes afforded not the least contrast to the uniform
smokiness of his skin. Those cold, selfish, deceitful eyes; his
father's in shape and expression, but lacking the dark strength--the
stern, determined look which at times lighted up Robert Moncton's
proud, cruel face.

Much as I disliked the father, he was in his worst moods more tolerable
to me than his son. Glimpses of his mind would at times flash out
through those unnaturally bright eyes; and betray somewhat of the hell
within; but Theophilus was close and dark--a sealed book which no man
could open and read. An overweening sense of his own importance was the
only trait of his character which lay upon the surface; and this, his
master-failing, was revealed by every look and gesture.

A servile flatterer to persons of rank, and insolent and tyrannical to
those whom he considered beneath him, he united in his character, the
qualifications of both tyrant and slave.

The most brilliant sallies of wit could not produce the least
brightening effect upon his saturnine countenance, or the most pathetic
burst of eloquence draw the least moisture to his eye, which only
became animated when contradicting some well-received opinion, or
discussing the merits of an acquaintance, and placing his faults and
follies in the most conspicuous light.

He was endowed with excellent practical abilities, possessed a most
retentive memory, and a thorough knowledge of the most intricate
windings of the human heart. Nothing escaped his observation. It would
have been a difficult matter to have made a tool of one, whose
suspicions were always wide awake; who never acted from impulse, or
without a motive, and who had a shrewd knack of rendering the passions
of others subservient to his own.

He was devoted to sensual pleasures, but the mask he wore, so
effectually concealed his vicious propensities, that the most cautious
parents would have admitted him without hesitation into their family
circle. Robert Moncton thought himself master of the mind of his son,
and fancied him a mere puppet in his hands; but his cunning was foiled
by the superior cunning of Theophilus, and he ultimately became the
dupe and victim of the being for whose aggrandizement he did not
scruple to commit the worst crimes.

Theophilus was extremely neat in his dress, and from the cravat to the
well-polished boot, his costume was perfect. An effeminate,
solemn-looking dandy outwardly--within, as ferocious and hard a human
biped as ever disgraced the name of man.

"Well, Geoff!" said he, condescendingly presenting his hand, "what have
you been doing for the last two years?"

"Writing, in the old place," said I, carelessly.

"A fixture!--ha, ha! 'A rolling stone,' they say, 'gathers no moss.'
How does that agree with your stationary position?"

"It only proves, that all proverbs have two sides to them," said I.
"You roll about the world and scatter the moss that I sit here to help
accumulate."

"What a lucky dog you are," said he, "to escape so easily from the
snares and temptations of this wicked world. While I am tormented with
ennui, blue-devils and dyspepsia, you sit still and grow in stature and
knowledge. By Jove! you are too big to wear my cast-off suits now. My
valet will bless the increase of your outward man, and I don't think
you have at all profited by the circumstance. Where the deuce did you
get that eccentric turn-out? It certainly does not remind one of Bond
Street."

"Mr. Theophilus!" I cried, reddening with indignation. "Did you come
here on purpose to insult me?"

"Sit still, now, like a good lad, and don't fly into heroics and give
us a scene. I am too lazy to pick a quarrel with you. What a confounded
wet morning! It has disarranged all my plans. I ordered the groom to
bring up my mare at eleven. The rain commenced at ten. I think it means
to keep on at this rate all day."

He cast a peevish glance at the dusty ground-glass windows.

"There's no catching a glimpse of heaven through these dim panes. My
father's clerks are not called upon to resist the temptation of looking
into the streets."

"They might not inappropriately be called the pains and penalties of
lawyer's clerks," said I, smothering my anger, as I saw by the motion
of Harrison's head, that he was suffering from an agony of suppressed
laughter.

"Not a bad idea that. The plan of grinding the glass was suggested by
me. An ingenious one, is it not? My father had the good sense to adopt
it. It's a pity that his example is not followed by all the lawyers and
merchants in London."

In spite of the spattering of Harrison's pen, which told me as plainly
as words could have done, that he was highly amused at the scene, I
felt irritated at Theophilus joking about a circumstance which, to me,
was a great privation and annoyance.

"If _you_ had a seat in this office, Mr. Theophilus," said I, laying a
strong stress upon the personal pronoun, "you would, I am certain, take
good care to keep a peep-hole, well-glazed, for your own convenience."

"If I were in the office," he replied, with one of his sidelong,
satirical glances, "I should have too much to do in keeping the clerks
at work and in their places, to have much time for looking out of the
window. My father would do well to hire an overseer for _idle_ hands."

Harrison's tremulous fit increased, while I was burning with
indignation, and rose passionately from my seat.

"Geoffrey"--pronounced in an undertone, restrained me from committing
an act of violence. I resumed my stool, muttering audibly between my
teeth--

"Contemptible puppy!"

I was quite ready for a quarrel, but Theophilus, contrary to my
expectations, did not choose to take any notice of my imprudent speech.
Not that he wanted personal courage. Like the wasp, he could, when
unprovoked, attack others, and sting with tenfold malice when he felt
or fancied an affront. His forbearance on the present occasion, I
attributed to the very handsome riding-dress in which he had encased
his slight and elegant form. A contest with a strong, powerful young
fellow like me, might have ended in its demolition:

Slashing his boot with his riding-whip, and glancing carelessly towards
the window, he said, with an air of perfect indifference,

"Well, if the rain means to pour in this way all day, it is certain
that I cannot prosecute my journey to Dover on horseback. I must take
the coach, and leave the groom to follow with the horses."

"Dover!" I repeated, with an involuntary start, "are you off for
France?"

"Yes" (with a weary yawn); "I shall not return until I have made the
tour of Europe, and I just stepped in for a moment to say good-by."

"_Unusually_ kind," said I, with a sneer.

He remained silent for a few minutes, and seemed slightly embarrassed,
as if he found difficulty in bringing out what he had to say.

"Geoffrey, I may be absent several years. It is just possible that we
may never meet again."

"I hope so," was the response in my heart, while he continued,

"Your time in this office expires when you reach your majority. Our
paths in life are very different, and from that period I must insist
upon our remaining perfect strangers to each other."

Before I had time to answer his ungracious speech, he turned upon his
heel and left the office, and me literally foaming with passion.

"Thank God he is gone!" cried Harrison. "My dear Geoff, accept my
sincere congratulations. It would indeed be a blessing did you never
meet again."

"Oh, that he had stayed another minute that I might have demolished his
gay plumes! I am so angry, so mortified, George, that I can scarcely
control myself."

"Nonsense! His departure is a fortunate event for you."

"Of course--the absence of one so actively annoying, must make my
bondage more tolerable."

"Listen to me, petulant boy! there is war in the camp. Theophilus
leaves the house under the ban of his father's anger. They have had a
desperate quarrel, and he quits London in disgrace; and if you are not
a gainer by this change in the domestic arrangements, my name is not
George Harrison."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because I know more of Robert Moncton than you do. To provoke his son
to jealousy, he will take you into favour. If Theophilus has gone too
far--he is so revengeful, so unforgiving--he may, probably, make you
his heir."

"May God forbid!" cried I, vehemently.

Harrison laughed.

"Gold is too bright to betray the dirty channels through which it
flows--and I feel certain, Geoffrey----"

A quick rap at the office-door terminated all further colloquy, and I
rose to admit the intruder.

Harrison and I generally wrote in an inner, room, which opened into the
public office; and a passage led from the apartment we occupied into
Mr. Moncton's private study, in which he generally spent the fore-part
of the day, and in which he received persons who came to consult him on
particular business.

On opening the door which led into the public office, a woman wrapped
closely in a black camblet cloak, glided into the room.

Her face was so completely concealed by the large calash and veil she
wore, and, but for the stoop in the shoulders, it would have been
difficult at a first glance to have determined her age.

"Is Mr. Moncton at home?" Her voice was harsh and unpleasant; it had a
hissing, grating intonation, which was painful to the ear.

The moment the stranger spoke, I saw Harrison start, and turn very
pale. He rose hastily from his seat and walked to a case of law-books
which stood in a dark recess, and taking down a volume, continued
standing with his back towards us, as if intently occupied with its
contents.

This circumstance made me regard the woman with more attention. She
appeared about sixty years of age. Her face was sharp, her eyes black
and snake-like, while her brow was channelled into deep furrows which
made you think it almost impossible that she had ever been young or
handsome. Her upper lip was unusually short, and seemed to writhe with
a constant sneer; and in spite of her corrugated brow, long nose, and
curved chin, which bore the unmistakable marks of age, her fine teeth
shone white and ghastly, when she unclosed her fleshless, thin lips. A
worse, or more sinister aspect, I have seldom, during the course of my
life, beheld.

In answer to her inquiry, I informed her that Mr. Moncton was at home,
but particularly engaged; and had given orders for no one to be
admitted to his study before noon.

With a look of bitter disappointment, she then asked to speak to Mr.
Theophilus.

"He has just left for France, and will not return for several years."

"Gone!--and I am too late," she muttered to herself. "If I cannot see
the son, I _must_ and _will_ speak to the father."

"Your business, then, was with Mr. Theophilus?" said I, no longer able
to restrain my curiosity; for I was dying to learn something of the
strange being whose presence had given my friend Harrison's nerves such
a sudden shock.

"Impertinent boy!" said she with evident displeasure. "Who taught you
to catechise your elders? Go, and tell your employer that _Dinah
North_ is here; and _must_ see him immediately."

As I passed the dark nook in which Harrison was playing at hide and
seek, he laid his hand upon my arm, and whispered in French, a language
he spoke fluently, and in which he had been giving me lessons for some
time, "My happiness is deeply concerned in yon hag's commission. Read
well Moncton's countenance, and note down his words, while you deliver
her message, and report your observations to me."

I looked up in his face with astonishment. His countenance was livid
with excitement and agitation, and his whole frame trembled. Before I
could utter a word, he had quitted the office. Amazed and bewildered, I
glanced back towards the being who was the cause of this emotion, and
whom I now regarded with intense interest.

She had sunk down into Harrison's vacant seat, her elbows supported on
her knees, and her head resting between the palms of her hands: her
face completely concealed from observation. "Dinah North," I whispered
to myself; "that is a name I never heard before. Who the deuce can she
be?" With a flushed cheek and hurried step, I hastened to my uncle's
study to deliver her message.

I found him alone: he was seated at the table, looking over a long roll
of parchment. He was much displeased at the interruption, and reproved
me in a stern voice for disobeying his positive orders; and, by way of
conciliation, I repeated my errand.

"Tell that woman," he cried, in a voice hoarse with emotion, "that I
_will not_ see her! nor any one belonging to her."

"The mystery thickens," thought I. "What can all this mean?"

On re-entering the office, I found the old woman huddled up in her wet
clothes, in the same dejected attitude in which I had left her. When I
addressed her, she raised her head with a fierce, menacing gesture. She
evidently mistook me for Mr. Moncton, and smiled disdainfully on
perceiving her error. When I repeated his answer, it was received with
a bitter and derisive laugh.

"He will not see me?"

"I have given you my uncle's answer."

"_Uncle!_" she cried, with a repetition of the same horrid laugh. "By
courtesy, I suppose; I was not aware that there was another shoot of
that accursed tree."

I gazed upon her like one in a dream. The old woman drew a slip of
paper from her bosom, bidding me convey _that_ to my _worthy_ uncle,
and ask him, in her name, "whether he, or his son, _dared_ to refuse
admittance to the bearer."

I took the billet from her withered hand, and once more proceeded to
the study. As I passed through the passage, an irresistible impulse of
curiosity induced me to glance at the paper, which was unsealed, and my
eye fell upon the following words, traced in characters of uncommon
beauty and delicacy:

    "If Robert Moncton refuses to admit my claims, and to do me
    justice, I will expose his villainy, and his son's heartless
    desertion, to the world.

    "A. M."

I had scarcely read the mysterious billet than I felt that I had done
wrong. I was humbled and abashed in my own eyes, and the riddle
appeared as difficult of solution as ever. My uncle's voice sounded as
ominously in my ears as the stroke of a death-bell, as he called me
sharply by name. Hastily refolding the note, I went into his study, and
placed it on the table before him, with an averted glance and trembling
hand. I dreaded lest his keen, clear eye should read guilt in my
conscious face. Fortunately for me, he was too much agitated himself to
notice my confusion. He eagerly clutched the paper, and his aspect grew
dark as he perused it.

"Geoffrey," said he, and his voice, generally so clear and passionless,
sunk into a choking whisper, "Is that woman gone?"

"No, uncle, she is still there, and dares you to refuse her
admittance."

I had thought Robert Moncton icy and immovable--that his blood never
flowed like the blood of other men. I had deceived myself. Beneath the
snow-capped mountain, the volcano conceals its hottest fires. My
uncle's cold exterior was but the icy crust that hid the fierce
passions which burnt within his breast. He forgot my presence in the
excitement of the moment, and the stern unfeeling eye blazed with lurid
fire.

"Fool!--madman--insane idiot!" he cried, tearing the note to pieces,
and trampling on the fragments in his ungovernable rage: "how have you
marred your own fortune, destroyed your best hopes, and annihilated all
my plans for your future advancement!"

Suddenly he became conscious of my presence, and glancing at me with
his usual iron gravity, said, with an expression of haughty
indifference, as if my opinion of his extraordinary conduct was matter
of no importance,

"Geoffrey, go and tell that mad-woman--But no. I will go myself."

He advanced to the door, seemed again irresolute, and finally bade me
show her into the study. Dinah North rose with alacrity to obey the
summons, and for a person of her years, seemed to possess great
activity of mind and body. I felt a secret loathing for the hag, and
pitied my uncle the unpleasant conference which I was certain awaited
him.

Mr. Moncton had resumed his seat in his large study chair, and he rose
with such calm dignity to receive his unwelcome visitor, that his late
agitation appeared a delusion of my own heated imagination.

Curiosity was one of my besetting sins. Ah, how I longed to know the
substance of their discourse; for I felt a mysterious presentiment that
in some way or another, my future destiny was connected with this
stranger. I recalled the distress of Harrison, the dark hints he had
thrown out respecting me, and his evident knowledge, not only of the
old woman, but of the purport of her visit.

I was tortured with conjectures. I lingered in the passage; but the
conversation was carried on in too low a tone for me even to
distinguish a solitary monosyllable; and ashamed of acting the part of
a spy, I stole back with noiseless steps to my place in the office. I
found George at his desk: his face was very pale, and I thought I could
perceive traces of strong emotion. For some time he wrote on in
silence, without asking a word about the secret that I was burning to
tell. I was the first to speak and lead him to the subject.

"Do you know that horrible old woman, George?"

"Too well: she is my grandmother, and nursed me in my infancy."

"Then, what made you so anxious to avoid a recognition?"

"I did not want her to know that I was living. She believes me dead:
nay more," he continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, "she thinks
she murdered me." His lips quivered as he murmured, in half-smothered
tones: "And she--the beautiful, the lost one--what will become of her?"

"Oh, Harrison," I cried, "do speak out; do not torture me with these
dark hints. If you are a true friend, give me your whole confidence,
nor let your silence give rise to painful conjectures and doubts. I
have no concealments from you. Such mental reservation on your part is
every thing but kind."

"I frankly acknowledge that you have just cause to suspect me," said
George, with his usual sad, winning smile. "But this is not a safe
place to discuss matters of vital interest to us both--matters which
involve life and death. I trust to clear up the mystery one of these
days, and for that purpose I am here. But tell me: how did Moncton
receive this woman--this Dinah North?"

I related the scene. When I repeated the contents of the note, his calm
face crimsoned with passion, his eyes flashed, and his lips quivered
with indignation.

"Yes, I thought it would come to that; unhappy, miserable Alice! how
could you bestow the affections of a warm, true heart on a despicable
wretch like Theophilus Moncton. The old fiend's ambition and this fatal
passion have been your ruin."

For some time he remained with his face bowed upon his hands. At
length, raising his head, and turning to me with great animation, he
asked if I knew any of my father's relations, besides Robert Moncton
and his son?

"I was not aware that I had any other relatives."

"They are by no means a prolific race, Geoffrey. And has your
insatiable curiosity never led you to make the inquiry?"

"I dared not ask my uncle. My aunt told me that, but for them, I should
be alone in the world. It was a subject never discussed before me," I
continued, after a long pause, in which George seemed busy with his own
thoughts. "I understood that my uncle had only one brother."

"True," said George, "but he has a cousin; a man of great wealth and
consequence. Did you never hear Theophilus mention Sir Alexander
Moncton?"

"Never."

"Nor to whom his long visits in Yorkshire were made?"

"How should I? No confidence existed between us. I was indifferent to
all his movements; not imagining that they could in any degree interest
me."

"I begin to see my way through this tangled maze," returned George,
musingly. "I now understand the secluded manner in which you have been
brought up; and their reasons for keeping you a prisoner within these
walls. They have an important game to play, in which they do not want
you to act a conspicuous part. I can whisper a secret into your ears
well worth the knowing--ay, and the keeping, too. Geoffrey Moncton, you
are this Sir Alexander's _heir_!"

A sudden thrill shot through my whole frame. It was not pleasure, for
at that moment I felt sad enough; nor hope, for I had long accustomed
myself to look only on the dark side of the picture. It was, I fear,
revenge; a burning desire to pay back the insults and injuries I had
received from Theophilus Moncton, and to frustrate the manoeuvres of
his designing father.

"Has Sir Alexander no children?"

"He has a daughter--an only daughter, a fair, fragile girl of sixteen;
the noblest, the most disinterested of her sex; a creature as talented
as she is beautiful. Margaretta Moncton is destined to be the wife of
her cousin Theophilus."

"Does he love her?"

"How can you ask that question, knowing the man, and after having read
the note addressed to your uncle?"

"That note was signed A---- M----."

"It was written by an unhappy, infatuated creature, whom Theophilus
_did_ love, if such a passion as his callous bosom can feel, deserves
the name; but he shall not escape my vengeance. The arrow is in the
bow, and a punishment as terrible as his crime, shall overtake him
yet."

"Oh, that you would enter more fully into these dark details. You are
ingenious at tormenting. I am bewildered and lost amid these half
disclosures."

"Hush, Geoffrey! these walls have ears. I, too, am tortured, maddened
by your questions. You are too imprudent--too impulsive, to trust with
matters of such vital importance; I have revealed too much already. Try
and forget the events of this morning; nor let your uncle discover by
look, word or gesture, that you are in possession of his secret. He is
deeply offended with his son, not on account of his base conduct to
this poor orphan girl, but because it is likely to hinder his marriage
with Miss Moncton, which has been for years the idol wish of his heart.
His morose spirit, once aroused, is deadly and implacable; and in order
to make Theophilus feel the full weight of his anger, he may call you
to fill his vacant place."

The sound of Mr. Moncton's step in the passage put a sudden stop to our
conversation, but enough had been said to rouse my curiosity to the
highest pitch; and I tried in vain to lift the dark veil of
futurity--to penetrate the mysteries that its folds concealed.




CHAPTER X.

DREAMS.


I went to bed early, and tried in vain to sleep. The events of the day
passed continually through my brain, and brought on a nervous headache.
All the blood in my body seemed concentrated in my head, leaving my
feet and hands paralyzed with cold. After tossing about for many hours,
I dropped off into a sort of mesmeric sleep, full of confused images,
among which the singular face of Dinah North haunted me like the genius
of the night-mare.

Dreams are one of the greatest mysteries in the unsolved problem of
life. I have been a dreamer from my cradle, and if any person could
explain the phenomena, the practical experience of a long life ought to
have invested me with that power.

Most persons, in spite of themselves, or what they consider to be their
better judgment, attach a superstitious importance to these visions of
the night; nor is the vague belief in the spiritual agency employed in
dreams, diminished by the remarkable dreams and their fulfilment, which
are recorded in Holy Writ, the verity of which we are taught to believe
as an article of faith.

My eyes are scarcely closed in sleep, before I become an actor in
scenes of the most ludicrous or terrific nature. All my mental and
physical faculties become intensified, and enjoy the highest state of
perfection; as if the soul centered in itself the qualities of its
mysterious triune existence.

Beautiful visions float before the sight, such as the waking eye never
beheld; and the ear is ravished with music which no earthly skill could
produce. The dreaming sense magnifies all sounds and sights which exist
in nature. The thunder deepens its sonorous tone, ocean sends up a
louder voice, and the whirlwind shakes the bending forest with tenfold
fury.

I have beheld in sleep the mountains reel; the yawning earth disclose
her hidden depths, and the fiery abyss swarm with hideous forms, which
no waking eye could contemplate, and the mind retain its rationality. I
have beheld the shrinking sea yield up the dead of ages, and have found
myself a guilty and condemned wretch, trembling at the bar of Eternal
Justice.

"Oh! what have I not beheld in sleep?"

I have been shut up, a living sentient creature in the cold, dank,
noisome grave; have felt the loathsome worm slide along my warm,
quivering limbs; the toad find a resting-place upon my breast; the
adder wreath her slimy folds round my swelling throat; have struggled
against the earthly weight that pressed out my soul and palsied my
bursting heart, with superhuman strength; but every effort to free
myself from my prison of clay was made in vain. My lips were
motionless; my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth and refused to send
forth a sound. Hope was extinct. I was beyond the reach of human aid;
and that mental agony rendered me as powerless, as a moth in the grasp
of a giant.

I have stood upon the edge of the volcano, and listened to the
throbbings of Nature's fiery heart; and heard the boiling blood of
earth, chafing and roaring far below; while my eyes vainly endeavoured
to explore its glowing depths. Anon, by some fatal necessity, I was
compelled to cross this terrible abyss--my bridge, a narrow plank
insecurely placed upon the rounded stems of two yielding, sapling
trees. Suddenly, frightful cries resounded on every side, and I was
pursued by fiend-like forms in the shape of animal life. I put my foot
upon the fearful bridge, I tried its strength, and felt a horrid
consciousness that I never could pass over it in safety; my
supernatural enemies drew nearer--I saw their blazing eyes--heard their
low muttered growls; the next moment I leaped upon the plank--with a
loud crash it severed--and with the velocity of thought, I was plunged
headlong into the boiling gulf--down--down--down--for ever whirling
down--the hot flood rushed over me. I felt the spasmodic grasp of death
upon my throat, and awoke struggling with eternity upon the threshold
of time.

Most persons of a reflective character, have kept a diary of the
ordinary occurrences of life. I reversed this time-honoured mental
exercise; and for some months, noted down what I could remember of the
transactions of the mind, during its sleeping hours.

So wild and strange were these records, so eccentric the vagaries of
the soul during its nocturnal wanderings, that I was induced to abandon
the task, lest some friend hereafter, might examine, the mystic scroll,
and conclude that it was written by a maniac.

It happened, that on the present night, I was haunted by a dream of
more than ordinary wildness.

I dreamt that I stood in the centre of a boundless plain of sand, which
undulated beneath my feet like the waves of the sea. Presently, I heard
the rushing of a mighty wind, and as the whirl-blast swept over the
desert, clouds of sand were driven before it, and I was lifted off my
feet, and carried along the tide of dust as lightly as a leaf is
whirled onward through the air. All objects fled as I advanced, and
each moment increased the velocity of my flight.

A vast forest extended its gloomy arms athwart the horizon; but did not
arrest my aerial journey. The thick boughs groaned and crashed beneath
me, as I was dragged through their matted foliage; my limbs lacerated
and torn, and my hair tangled amid the thorny branches. Vainly I
endeavoured to cling to the twigs which impeded my passage, but they
eluded my frenzied grasp, or snapped in my hands, while my cries for
help were drowned in the thundering sweep of the mighty gale.
Onward--onward. I was still flying onward without the aid of wings.
There seemed no end to that interminable flight.

At length, when I least expected a change, I was suddenly cast to the
bottom of a deep pit. The luxury of repose to my wounded and exhausted
frame, was as grateful and refreshing as the dews of heaven to the long
parched earth. I lay in a sort of pleasing helplessness, too glad to
escape from past perils to imagine a recurrence of the same evil.

While dreamily watching the swallows, tending their young in the holes
of the sandy bank that formed the walls of my prison, I observed the
sand at the bottom of the pit caught up in little eddies and whirling
round and round. A sickening feeling of dread stole over me, and I
crouched down in an agony of fear, and clung with all my strength to
the tufts of thorny shrubs which clothed the sides of the pit.

Again the wind-fiend caught me up on his broad pinions, and I was once
more traversing with lightning speed the azure deserts of air. A
burning heat was in my throat--my eyes seemed bursting from their
sockets; confused sounds were murmuring in my ears, and the very
blackness of darkness swallowed me up. No longer carried upward, I was
now rapidly descending from some tremendous height. I stretched forth
my hands to grasp some tangible substance in order to break the horrors
of that fall, but all above, around, and beneath me, was empty
air;--the effort burst the chains of that ghastly slumber, and I awoke
with a short stifled cry of terror, exclaiming with devotional fervour,
"Thank God! it is only a dream!"

The damp dews stood in large drops upon my brow, my hands were tightly
clenched, and every hair upon my head seemed stiffened and erect with
fear.

"Thank God!" I once more exclaimed in an agony of gratitude, "it is
only a dream!"

Then arose the question: "What was the import of this dream, the
effects of which I still felt through all my trembling frame, in the
violent throbbing of my heart, and the ghastly cessation of every
emotion save that of horror?"

Then I began to ponder, as I had done a thousand times before, over the
mysterious nature of dreams, the manner in which they had been employed
by the Almighty to communicate important truths to mankind, until I
came to the conclusion that dreams were revelations from the spirit
land, to warn us of dangers which threatened, or to punish us for
crimes committed in the flesh.

"What are the visions which haunt the murderer's bed," I thought, "but
phantoms of the past recalled by memory and conscience, and invested
with an actual presence in sleep?"

Dr. Young, that melancholy dreamer of sublime dreams, has said--

    "If dreams infest the grave,
    I wake emerging from a sea of dreams."

What a terrible idea of future punishment is contained in these words
to one, whose sleep like mine is haunted by unutterable terrors! Think
of an eternity of dreaming horrors. A hell condensed within the narrow
resting-place of the grave.

My reveries were abruptly dispelled by the sound of steps along the
passage which led to my chamber. My heart began to beat audibly. It was
the dead hour of the night--who could be waking at such an unusual
time? I sat up in the bed and listened.

I heard voices: two persons were talking in a loud tone in the passage,
that was certain. For a long time, I could not distinguish one word
from another, until my own name was suddenly pronounced in a louder
key; and in a voice which seemed perfectly familiar to my ears.

The garret in which I slept, was a long, low, dingy apartment which
formed a sort of repository for all the worn-out law books and waste
papers belonging to the office, and as I have before stated the only
furniture it possessed, was a mean truckle-bed on which I slept, and a
large iron chest, which Mr. Moncton had informed me, contained
title-deeds and other valuable papers, of which he himself kept the
key.

They were kept in my apartment for better security; as the stair which
led to the flat roof of the house opened into that chamber, and in case
of fire, the chest and its contents could be easily removed.

For a wonder, I had never felt the least curiosity about the chest and
its contents.

It stood in the old place, the day I first entered that dismal
apartment when a child; and during the many long years which had slowly
intervened, I never recollected having seen it unclosed. My attention
for the first time was drawn to its existence by hearing my uncle say
to some one in the passage in a hurried under tone.

"Set your mind at rest, the paper is in the iron chest in that room. If
you will not rely upon my promise to destroy it, I will burn it before
your eyes."

"That alone will satisfy my doubts," returned his companion. "Be
cautious how you open the door, or the lad will awake."

"Nonsense, young folks like him sleep well."

"Ay, Robert Moncton, they are not troubled with an evil conscience."

This last observation was accompanied with a low sarcastic laugh; and
with an involuntary shiver, I recognized in the mysterious speaker the
old woman who had haunted my dreams.

"Conscience never troubles me, Dinah," returned Moncton, gloomily. "You
first taught me to drown its warning voice."

"You were an apt pupil," said the woman. "All your natural tendencies
were evil. I only fostered and called them out. But what is the use of
recalling unpleasant truths. Why don't you silence memory, when you
have ceased to feel remorse. But I tell you what it is, Moncton. The
presence of the one proves the existence of the other. The serpent is
sleeping in his coil, and one of these days you will feel the strength
of his fangs. Is this the door that leads to his chamber? You have
chosen a sorry dormitory for the heir of the proud house of Moncton."

"Hush! I wish he slept with his fathers. But even if he should awake,
how could he guess, that our visit to his chamber could in any way
concern him?"

"He has a shrewd face, an intelligent eye--an eye to detect treachery,
and defy danger."

"On the contrary, a babe might deceive him."

"He has been educated in too hard a school to revel in such ignorance,
Moncton."

"Hold your tongue, Dinah, and give me the light. Remember how you were
deceived in his cousin Philip."

Mr. Moncton's hand was on the lock of the door: an almost irresistible
impulse urged me to spring from the bed and draw the bolt. On second
thoughts, however, I determined to feign sleep, and watch all that
passed.

Resistance on my part would have been utterly useless, and I was
anxious to find out if possible what connexion existed between my
uncle, George Harrison, and this strange woman.

All this darted through my mind on the instant; the rays of the candle
flashed upon the opposite wall; and my uncle, followed by his
odious-looking companion, entered the room.

My intention of watching all their movements was completely frustrated
by Mr. Moncton, who, advancing with cautious steps to my bed-side, held
up the light in such a manner as not only to reveal my face, but the
attitude in which I lay.

"Is he sleeping?" he whispered to his companion.

"He breathes like one in a profound slumber," was the reply. "'Tis a
fine lad. How much he resembles Sir Alexander."

"His father, rather," sneered Moncton. "He's a second edition of Ned;
but has got more brains. Thanks to his grandfather, Geoffrey, and his
own mother, who was a beautiful, talented creature. Stand by the bed,
Dinah, and keep watch over him while I light that lamp which he has
left on the window-sill, and search for the papers."

The old woman took the light from Mr. Moncton's hand, and his station
beside my bed. My too lively imagination pictured the witch-like face,
with its dark, snaky eyes, bending over me, and I found it impossible
to maintain, with any appearance of reality, the composure I had
assumed. In order to conceal the excited state of my mind, and to
convince her of the certainty of my pretended slumber, I threw out my
arms, and began to toss and turn, and mutter in my sleep, putting on
all the contortions which generally convulse the countenance of persons
while writhing under the influence of some terrible dream. A state of
perfect quiescence might have aroused suspicion; the noise I made
completely lulled theirs to sleep.

Meanwhile my uncle had unlocked the chest, and I heard him toss the
papers it contained, upon the floor; while, from time to time, he gave
utterance to expressions indicative of vexation and disappointment.

After examining the contents of the box thoroughly, and returning the
parchments to their original place, he said in a mortified tone:

"The papers are not here. How they have been abstracted I cannot
imagine, as I always keep the key in a private drawer of my cabinet,
which is known only to myself."

"Did you place them there yourself?" demanded the old woman, in a
hurried whisper.

"No, but Walters, in whom I placed the most implicit confidence,
assured me that he placed them here with his own hands. He may,
however, have destroyed them, and anticipated my wishes."

"And you, with all your caution," sneered Dinah North, "could trust an
affair of such importance to another."

"He was my creature, sworn to secrecy, and bought with my money, whose
interest was to serve, not to betray me."

"A person who is capable of receiving a bribe to perform a base action,
Moncton, is never to be trusted, especially a low-born fellow, like
Walters; and where," she continued, anxiously, "is this man to be
found?"

"He left twelve years ago for America, and took out with him, Michael
Alzure, my brother's old servant, and Mary Earl, the boy's nurse, who
were the only witnesses to the marriage. I wanted him to take the boy
himself, and adopt him into his own family, which would have saved us
all further trouble, but this to my surprise he positively refused to
do."

"To what part of America did he emigrate?"

"First to Boston, where he remained for three years. He then removed to
Philadelphia from the latter place. I twice received letters from him.
He had been successful in business, and talked of buying land in the
western States; for the last six years I have never heard of him or
from him. It is more than probable that he is long since dead."

"People whom you wish out of the way, never die when you want them,"
said Dinah, with her peculiar sneering laugh. "But I think you told me
that the--" I could not catch the word which she breathed into the ear
of Mr. Moncton--"had been destroyed."

"Yes--yes. I burnt it with my own hand; this was the only document of
any consequence, and it is a hundred chances to one, that he ever
recovers it, or meets with the people who could prove his identity."

My uncle rose from his knees and locked the iron chest, then,
extinguishing my lamp, he and the old woman left the room.

The sound of their retreating footsteps had scarcely died away, when,
in spite of my wish to keep awake, I dropped off into a profound sleep,
and did not again unclose my eyes until it was time to dress for
breakfast.




CHAPTER XI.

MY FIRST LOVE.


I found my uncle sipping his coffee, as if nothing of importance had
occurred during the night, to disturb his slumbers. I took my seat at
the table in silence. My heart was full to bursting, and I dared not
trust my voice, to offer him the common salutations of the morning.

My face, I have no doubt, betrayed the agitation which I endeavoured to
conceal.

"You are late this morning, Geoffrey."

"Yes, Sir--I passed a very restless night, and the result is a bad
headache."

"How did that happen?" surveying me attentively, with his clear,
glittering eyes.

"I was harassed by frightful dreams, and only awoke from one fit of
nightmare to fall into a worse."

"Are you often troubled with bad dreams?" said he, without removing his
powerful gaze from my pale face.

"Not often with such as disturbed me last night."

I detected my uncle's drift in using this species of cross-questioning,
and I determined to increase his uneasiness without betraying my own.

"I wish, uncle, I had never seen that old woman who visited the office
yesterday; she haunted me all night like my evil genius. Sir Matthew
Hale might have condemned her for a witch, with a safe conscience."

"She is not a very flattering specimen of the fair sex," said my uncle,
affecting a laugh, "but ugly as she now is, I remember her both young
and handsome. What was the purport of your dream?"

"That I should like to know. The Josephs and Daniels of these
degenerate modern days, are makers of money, not interpreters of
dreams. But, I hope you don't imagine that I place the least importance
on such things. My dream was simply this:

"I dreamed that that ugly old woman, whom you call Dinah North, came to
my bedside with an intent to murder me." I paused, and fixed my eyes
upon Mr. Moncton's face. The glitter of his bright orbs almost dazzled
me. I thought, however, that his cheek paled for a moment, and that I
could perceive a slight twitching movement about the muscles of the
mouth.

"Well," said he, quite calmly, "and what then?"

"For a long time I resisted her efforts to stab me with a long knife,
and I received several deep wounds in my hands, in endeavouring to ward
off her home-thrusts; till, faint with loss of blood, I gave up the
contest, and called aloud for aid. I heard steps in the passage--some
one opened the door--it was you, Sir, and I begged you to save my life,
and unloosen the fiend's grasp from my throat, but instead of the
assistance I expected, you seized the knife from the old woman's hand,
and with a derisive laugh, plunged it to the hilt in my heart. I awoke
with a scream of agony, and with the perspiration streaming from every
part of my body."

The dream was no invention of the moment, but had actually occurred,
after Dinah North and Mr. Moncton had left my chamber. I wished to see
what impression it would make upon him.

He leaned back in his chair with his eyes still fixed on my face. "It
was strange, very strange--enough to excite a nervous, irritable fellow
like you. Did you hear me come into your room last night?"

Taken by surprise, I gave an involuntary start, but regained my
presence of mind in a moment. "Did you suspect, sir, that I was in the
habit of leaving the house at night, that you thought it necessary to
ascertain that I was in my bed?"

"Petulant boy! How ready you are to take offence at trifles. How do you
expect to steer your way through the world? Business brought me into
your room last night. Some papers belonging to the woman, whom your
fertile imagination has converted into a witch or fiend, were in the
iron chest. Anxious to satisfy her that the papers were safe, I went to
look for them. You were making a sad noise in your sleep. I was half
inclined to waken you, but thought that my presence in your chamber at
that hour of the night would only increase your uneasiness. The sound
of my steps in the passage, I have no doubt, was the immediate cause of
your dream."

This was a masterly stroke, and those who knew Robert Moncton in a
moment would recognize the man. The adroitness with which he mingled
truth with falsehood, almost made me doubt the evidence of my senses,
and to fancy that the events of the past night were a mental delusion.

"Did you find the papers you wanted, Sir?"

His eye flashed, and his lip curled. "What business is that of yours,
Sir? I don't allow an impertinent boy to pry into my private affairs."

"My question was one of idle curiosity."

"Even as such, never dare to repeat it."

I was struck dumb, and concluded my breakfast without speaking to him
again. When the tea equipage was removed, I rose to leave the room, but
he motioned me to remain.

His anger had passed away, and his really handsome face wore a more
agreeable expression than usual.

"Sit down, Geoffrey. I have long wished to converse with you upon your
future prospects. What progress have you made in your profession?"

Astonished at his condescension, I told him candidly how I had of late
improved my time, and studied late and early to acquire a competent
knowledge of it in all its branches.

He was surprised, and appeared agreeably so.

"I had no idea of this, Geoffrey. Your industry has won for you a
higher position than an office drudge. You cannot, however, make an
able lawyer, without some knowledge of the world. To make a man of you
it is absolutely necessary for you to go more into society."

"You forget, Sir, that I have no means to indulge such a wish. I cannot
consent to go into company under existing circumstances."

"Oh, we can manage all that," said he, tapping me on my shoulder. "Be
obedient to my orders, and attend to my interest, and you shall not
long want the means of gratifying your wishes. Mr. Harrison has left
the office. It is my intention that you supply his place.

"Harrison gone!" cried I in a tone of vexation and regret; "then I have
lost my best friend."

"Harrison was a clever, gentlemanly young man," said Mr. Moncton,
coldly; "but, to tell you the plain truth, Geoffrey, I did not like the
close intimacy which existed between you."

"Why, it is to him that I am indebted for all the knowledge I have
acquired. His society was the only pleasure I had, and it seems hard to
be deprived of it, without any fault on his side."

"Geoffrey, it is of no consequence to me what your opinion may be on
the subject; I am master of my own actions, and please myself as to
whom I retain or employ. Clear up that scowling brow, and be very
thankful to obtain a handsome salary for services which I can command
without remuneration."

The loss of my friend, my only friend, was a dreadful blow. I was too
much overcome to thank my uncle for his offer, and left the room.

I had been so little accustomed to think for myself, that I relied upon
George as my counsellor in all matters of importance. Besides, I had an
idea that he could throw some light upon the mysterious events of the
night, and I was anxious to unburden to him the important secret.

Having to obtain the signature of a gentleman who resided in Fleet
Street, to some legal documents, and knowing that Harrison lodged in
the same street, I snatched up my hat and sallied forth, determined to
consult him with regard to the change in my prospects, as I felt
certain, that some sinister motive was concealed beneath my uncle's
unlooked-for condescension.

I was again doomed to disappointment. On reaching Harrison's lodgings,
I learned that he had left town that morning, for a visit of some weeks
into the country, but to what part his landlady did not know. At
parting, he told her she might let his rooms until he gave her notice
of his return.

"Gone! without seeing or writing one line to inform me of his
departure. That is not like his general conduct," I muttered, as I
turned from the door.

With a heavy heart, I sauntered on, almost unconscious of the path I
had taken, until I found myself entangled among the crowds which
thronged Oxford Street.

A scream, echoed by several voices from the crowd, "that the lady would
be crushed to death!" startled me from my unprofitable musings; and
following the direction of the general gaze, I saw that a young female,
in attempting to cross the street, had just fallen between the horses
of two carriages advancing in opposite directions.

It was but the impulse of the moment to dash across the intervening
space, and hinder the young lady from being trampled to death beneath
the horses' hoofs. She fortunately was unconscious of her danger, and
could not by useless screams and struggles frighten the horses, and
frustrate my endeavours to save her.

The coachmen belonging to the vehicles, succeeded in stopping the
horses, and I bore my insensible burden through the crowd to an
apothecary's shop, which happened to be near at hand. The gentleman in
attendance hastened to my assistance. We placed the young lady in a
chair, and he told me to remove her bonnet, while he applied
restoratives to her wrists and temples.

She was exceedingly fair; her rich, black, velvet pelisse, setting off
to great advantage the dazzling whiteness of her skin, and the rich
colouring of her sunny brown hair.

My heart throbbed beneath the lovely head that rested so placidly above
it; and the arm that supported her graceful form, trembled violently.
The glorious ideal of my youthful fancy had assumed a tangible form,
had become a bright reality; and as I looked down upon that calm,
gentle face, I felt that I loved for the first time. A new spirit had
passed into me, I was only alive to the delicious rapture that thrilled
through me.

First passion is instantaneous--electrical. It cannot be described, and
can only be communicated through the same mysterious medium.

People may rave as they like about the absurdity of love at first
sight; but the young and sensitive always love at first sight, and the
love of after-years, however better and more wisely bestowed, is never
able to obliterate from the heart the memory of those sudden and vivid
impressions made upon it by the first electrical shocks of love.

How eagerly I watched the unclosing of those blue eyes; yet, how
timidly I shrunk from their first mild rays.

Blushing, she disengaged herself from my arms, and shaking the long,
sunny ringlets from her face, thanked me with gentle reserve for the
service I had rendered.

"But for your prompt assistance, I must have lost my life, or at the
very least been seriously injured. My poor thanks will never convey to
you the deep gratitude I feel."

She gave me her hand with a charming frankness, and I touched the white
slender fingers with as much reverence as if she had been a saint.

At this moment, we were joined by a handsome elderly lady, who ran into
the shop, exclaiming in hurried tones:

"Where is she?--where is my child? Is she safe?"

"Yes, dear aunt, thanks to this gentleman's timely aid, who risked his
own life to save mine."

"How shall we thank you--how shall we thank you, Sir?" exclaimed the
elderly lady, seizing my hand, and all but embracing me in an ecstacy
of gratitude. "You have rendered me a great service--a great service
indeed. Without that dear girl, life would be a blank to me. My Kate,
my Kate!" she cried, clasping the young lady in her arms, and bursting
into tears, "you don't know how dreadfully I felt when I saw you under
the hoofs of those horses. My child! my child I--I can hardly yet
believe that you are safe."

The charming Kate tenderly kissed her weeping relative, and assured her
that she could realize it all--that she must not fret, for she was
quite herself again--not even hurt; only frightened a little.

And then she turned her lovely face to me, on which a tear rested, like
a dew-drop upon the heart of a rose, with such a sweet, arch smile, as
she said, "My aunt is very nervous, and is so fond of me that her fears
for my safety have quite upset her. The sooner we get her home the
better. Will you be so kind, Sir, as to tell me if a carriage is at the
door. Ours is blue, with white horses."

The carriage was there. How I wished it at Jericho. The old lady again
repeated her thanks in the warmest manner, and I assisted her and her
charming niece into the equipage. The young lady waved her hand and
smiled, the powdered footman closed the door, and they drove off,
leaving me spell-bound, rooted to the door-sill of the shop.

"Who are those ladies?" asked the apothecary, looking complacently down
upon the sovereign the elder lady had slipped into his hand.

"I was just going to ask that question of you," said I.

"How! not know them--and let them go away without inquiring their
names! Arn't you a simple young fellow? If it had been me now, I should
have done my best to improve such a golden opportunity. Gratitude you
know begets love, and I'll be sworn that the pretty young woman has a
good fortune, by the anxiety the old one felt in her behalf."

I was in the maddest heroics of love. "What do I care about her
property," said I disdainfully. "Such a beautiful, elegant creature is
a fortune in herself."

"Yes--to those who have enough of their own. But my dear young sir,
beauty won't boil the pot."

To joke me at the expense of the beautiful unknown was sacrilege, and
casting upon my tormentor, a look of unmitigated contempt, I left the
shop with a lofty step, and an air of offended dignity.

As I passed into the street, I fancied that the term "ridiculous
puppy!" was hissed after me.

I strode back into the shop. The apothecary was waiting upon a new
customer.

"Was that insult intended for me?" I demanded, in a haughty tone.

"What did I say, Sir?"

"You called me a ridiculous puppy," said I.

"You are mistaken, young man. I am not in the habit of speaking my
thoughts aloud."

I deserved this cut for my folly, and felt keenly that I had placed
myself in an absurd position.

"My uncle is right," said I, to myself, as I retraced my steps to
Hatton Garden. "I am a babe in my knowledge of the world. I must go
more into society, or I shall for ever be getting into such ridiculous
scrapes."

At dinner my uncle met me with a serious face.

"What kept you from the office, Geoffrey, this morning?"

I, willing to act openly with him, narrated to him the adventure I had
met with.

"I think I know the lady," said he. "She is not very tall--is fair
complexioned, with blue eyes and light brown hair. _Rather_ pretty
than otherwise."

"_Rather_ pretty. She is _beautiful_, Sir."

"Phew!" said Mr. Moncton. "_We_ see with other eyes. Young men are
always blind. The girl is well enough--and better still, she is very
rich. Did she tell you her name?"

"I did not ask her."

"Where was your curiosity?"

"I wished very much to put the question, for I was anxious to know; but
really, uncle, I had not the face to do it. But you can tell me."

"If she did not tell you herself, I am not going to betray her secret.
What use would the knowledge be to you?"

"It would be pleasant to know her name."

My uncle looked hard at me; and something like a sarcastic smile passed
over his lips.

"Boy, it would render you miserable."

"In what way?"

"By leading you to neglect business, and by filling your head with
hopes which could never be realized."

"And why not?" I demanded, rather fiercely.

"Young ladies in our days seldom commit matrimony with penniless
clerks."

This was said with a strong sneer.

"It may be so--and they are right not to involve themselves in misery.
I am penniless at present. But that is no reason that I am always to
remain so. I am young, healthy, industrious, with a mind willing and
able to work--why should I not make a fortune as others have done? As
my grandfather, for instance, did before me?"

"This is all true," said he, calmly, "and I admire your spirit,
Geoffrey; but, nephew" (this was the first time I ever remember his
calling me so), "there are other difficulties in the way of your making
a high and wealthy alliance, of which you have no idea."

I know not why--but a sudden tremor seized me as he said this. But
mastering my agitation, I begged him to explain his meaning.

"I have long wished to do so," said he, "but you were so violent and
unreasonable, that I thought it prudent to defer unpleasant
communications until you were older, and better able to take things
calmly. You have thought me a hard task-master, Geoffrey--a cruel
unfeeling tyrant, and from your earliest childhood have defied my
authority and resisted my will; yet you know not half the debt of
kindness you owe to me."

I was about to speak. He held up his hand for me to maintain silence;
which I did with a very bad grace; and he continued in the same cold
methodical way--

"Children are naturally averse to control, and are unable to discern
between sternness of manner, and a cold unfeeling hardness of heart;
and construe into insults and injuries the necessary restraint imposed
upon their actions for their good. Yours, I admit, was a painful
situation, which you rendered still more unpleasant by your obstinate
and resentful disposition."

"But, uncle!" I exclaimed, unable longer to hold my tongue, "you know I
was treated very ill."

"Who treated you so? I am very certain, that Rebecca indulged you, as
she never did one of her own children."

"My dear aunt! God bless her! she was the only creature in the house
who treated me with the least kindness. The very servants were
instructed to slight and insult me by your _amiable_ son, and his
servile tutor."

"He was a fool," said Mr. Moncton, refilling his glass. "As to
Theophilus, it was natural for him to dislike the lad who had robbed
him of his mother's affections, and who left him behind in his lessons.
You were strong enough, and bold enough to take your own part, and if I
mistake not, did take it. And pray, Sir, who was it that freed you from
the tyranny of Mr. Jones, when he found that the complaints you brought
against him were just?"

"But not until after I had been first condemned, and brutally
maltreated. The less said on that score, uncle, the better."

He laughed--his low, sarcastic, sneering laugh, but did not choose to
be angry.

"There are circumstances connected with your birth, Geoffrey, that
evidently were the cause of these slights. People will not pay the same
respect to a natural child, which they do to a legitimate one."

"Good God!" I exclaimed, starting from my chair. "You don't mean to
insinuate--you dare not say, that I am a bastard?"

"Such is the fact."

"It is a falsehood! invented to ruin me!" I exclaimed, defiantly. "One
of these days you shall be forced to prove it such."

"I shall be very happy to do so--if you will only give me the proofs."

"_Proofs!_" I exclaimed, bitterly, "they are in your own possession--or
you have destroyed them!"

"What interest can I have in trying to make you a bastard? Is the boy
mad?"

"You never act without a motive," I cried; "you know that I am heir to
a title, and property that you covet for yourself and your son!"

His pretended calmness was all gone. His pale face crimsoned with rage.
Yet it was wonderful how instantaneously he mastered his passion.

"Who told you this _probable_ story? Who put such absurd notions into
your head?"

"One, upon whose word I can rely. My friend, Mr. Harrison."

"I would like to ask Mr. Harrison what he knows of our family affairs,"
sneered Mr. Moncton. "He has proved himself a scoundrel by inventing
this pretty little romance to get up a quarrel between us, and rob you
of the only real friend you have. I will repay Mr. Harrison for this
base falsehood, one of these days."

I felt that I had, betrayed my friend, and perhaps by my foolish
rashness marred my own fortunes. Inwardly I cursed my imprudence, and
loaded myself with reproaches. Then the thought suggested itself,
"Could my uncle be right--was I indeed illegitimate?"

"No, no," I exclaimed, unconsciously aloud; "it is not true--I feel
that it is false. A base falsehood got up to rob me of my good
name--the only treasure left me by Providence when she deprived me of
my parents. Uncle," I exclaimed, standing erect before him, "I will
never part with it. I will maintain my equality with you and your son
to the last moment of my life."

Overcome by excitement and agitation, I sank down into a chair, my head
dropped upon the table and I sobbed convulsively.

"Geoffrey," said my uncle, in a low voice, in which an unusual touch of
kindness mingled, "calm down this furious passion. Poor lad! I pity and
excuse your indignation; both are natural in your case."

"Such sympathy is worse than hate," I muttered.

"Well, believe me the author of all your wrongs, if it pleases you,
Geoffrey; but first listen to what I have to say."

I was too much exhausted by the violence of my emotions to offer the
least opposition, and he had it entirely his own way--commencing his
remarks with a provoking coolness which cut me to the heart.

"When you lost your parents, Geoffrey, you were too young to have
formed a correct estimate of their characters."

"I have a very indistinct recollection of my father. I remember my
mother well."

"You may imagine that. Your father had a fine, manly face, and nature
had endowed him with those useless but brilliant qualities of mind,
which the world calls genius, and like many of the same class, he acted
more from impulse than from principle. Your mother was a beautiful
young woman, but with little discretion, who loved unwisely and too
well. Her father saw enough of my brother Edward's character, to awaken
his suspicions that his attentions to his daughter were not of an
honourable nature, and he forbade him the house.

"This impolitic step brought matters to a crisis. The young people
eloped together, and the old man died of a broken heart. Your mother
went by the name of Moncton, and was introduced to his sporting friends
as my brother's wife. But no evidence exists of a marriage having taken
place; and until such evidence can be procured, the world will look
upon you as illegitimate.

"You will soon be of age, Geoffrey, and if you are prepared with these
indispensable documents, I will assist, to the best of my professional
abilities, in helping you to establish your claims. It is not in my
power to destroy or invalidate them. Why then these base
suspicions--these unmerited reproaches--these hurricanes of passion?
Why doubt my integrity at the very moment when I am most anxious to
serve you?"

"Because in no instance have you ever proved yourself my friend, and I
cannot help doubting your sincerity!"

"A want of candour is certainly not among your failings," said Mr.
Moncton, with a slight curl of his proud lip. "You have studied the law
long enough to know the impolicy of such conduct."

"I judge, not from fair words but deeds. Sir, the change in your
behaviour to me is too sudden for me to believe it genuine."

"Strange," mused Mr. Moncton, "so young and so suspicious!" then
turning to me, he said, without the least appearance of resentment at
my violence,

"Geoffrey, I know your faulty temper, and forgive you for using such
insulting language. The communication I have just made was enough to
irritate your sensitive nature and mortify your pride; but it is not
reasonable that your anger should be directed against me. I considered
it absolutely necessary, to apprise you of these important facts, and
conveyed the knowledge of them to you, as gently as I could, just to
show you that you must depend upon your own exertions to advance your
position in society."

"If your statement be true, what have I to do with society?" said I.
"What position could I obtain in a world which already regards me as an
outcast?"

"Not here, perhaps. But there are other countries, where the
conventional rules which govern society in this, are regarded with
indifference--_America_, for instance."

He fixed his keen eye upon me. An electric flash passed into my mind. I
saw his drift. I recollected Harrison's advice that the only way to
obtain my rights and baffle my uncle's cunning, was _non-resistance_.
I formed my plans in a moment, and determined to foil his schemes, by
appearing to countenance them, until I could arrive at the truth, and
fathom his designs--and I answered with composure.

"Perhaps, I have done you injustice, Sir. The distracted state of my
mind must be my excuse. I will try and submit with patience to my hard
fate."

"It is your only wise course. Hark you, Geoffrey! I am rich, trust in
me, and the world shall never sneer at you as a _poor relation_. Those
whom Robert Moncton takes by the hand may laugh at doubtful birth and
want of fortune."

The scoundrel! how I longed to knock him down, but that would have done
me no good, so I mastered my indignation and withdrew.




CHAPTER XII.

I FORFEIT MY INDEPENDENCE.


"Be ye wise as serpents, and harmless as doves," was the advice of the
Divine Lawgiver, when he sent his disciples forth on their heavenly
mission to reform an evil world.

Religion, as I have before stated, had formed no part in my education.
I had read the sacred volume with fear and trembling, and derived no
consolation from its mystic pages. I had adopted the fatal idea, that I
was one of those pre-condemned beings, for whom the blackness of
darkness was reserved for ever, and that no effort on my part could
avert the terrible decree.

This shocking and blasphemous belief had taken such deep hold of my
mind, that looked upon all religious exercises as perfectly useless. I
could not fancy myself one of the elect, and so went from that extreme
to the other. If I were to be saved, I should be saved; if a vessel of
wrath, only fitted for destruction, it was folly to struggle against
fate, and I never suffered my mind to dwell upon the subject. In the
multitude of sorrows which pressed sorely on my young heart, I more
than ever stood in need of the advice and consolation which the
Christian religion can alone bestow.

I left the presence of my uncle, and sought my own chamber. The lonely
garret did not appear so repulsive as usual. No one would disturb its
gloomy solitude, or intrude upon my grief. There I had free liberty to
weep--to vent aloud, if I pleased, the indignant feelings of my heart.
My mind was overwhelmed with bitter and resentful thoughts; every evil
passion was struggling for mastery, and the worst agony I was called
upon to endure, was the hopeless, heart-crushing, downward tending
madness of despair.

To die--to get rid of self, the dark consciousness of unmerited
contempt and social degradation, was the temptation which continually
flitted through my excited brain. I have often since wondered how I
resisted the strong impulse which lured me onward to destruction.

My good angel prevailed. By mere accident, my Bible lay upon the iron
chest. I eagerly seized the volume, and sought in the first page I
should open, an omen that should decide my fate, and my eye glanced
upon the words already quoted--"Be ye, therefore, wise as serpents, and
harmless as doves."

I closed the book and sat down, and tried to shape the words to suit my
present state. What better advice could I follow? from what higher
authority could I derive sounder counsel? Did it not suit completely my
case?

Harrison had disappeared. I was alone and friendless in the house of
the oppressor. Did I follow the suggestions of my own heart, I should
either destroy myself, or quit the protection of Mr. Moncton's roof for
ever.

"But then," said reason, "if you take the first step, you are guilty of
an unpardonable sin, and by destroying yourself, further the sinister
views of your uncle. If the second, you throw away seven years of hard
labour, lose your indentures, and for ever place a bar on your future
advancement. In a few months you will be of age, and your own master.
Bear these evils patiently a little longer--wait and watch: you never
can regain your lost name and inheritance by throwing yourself
friendless upon the world."

Determined to adopt, and strictly to adhere to this line of conduct,
and leave the rest to Providence, I washed the traces of tears from my
face and returned to the private office.

Here I found Mr. Moncton engaged with papers of consequence.

He held out his hand as I took my seat at the desk. "Are we friends,
Geoffrey?"

"That depends upon circumstances" said I.

"How hard it is for you to give a gracious answer," he replied. "It is
your own fault that we ever were otherwise."

"I will try and think you my friend for the time to come."

He seemed more amused than surprised at this concession, and for some
time we both wrote on in silence.

A tap at the door, and one of the clerks handed in a letter.

Mr. Moncton examined the post-mark and eagerly opened it up. While
reading, his countenance underwent one of those remarkable changes I
had on several occasions witnessed of late, and which seemed so foreign
to his nature.

Suddenly crushing the letter tightly in his hand, he flung it from him
to the floor, and spurned it with his foot, exclaiming as he did so,
with a fiend-like curl of the lip: "So would I serve the writer were he
here!" Then turning to me, and speaking in a low confidential tone, he
said:

"The writer of that letter is unconsciously making your fortune,
Geoffrey. This son of mine has acted in a base, ungrateful manner to
me--in a manner which I can never forget or forgive. If you conduct
yourself prudently, you may become dearer to me than this wicked young
man."

"I should be sorry to rise on my cousin's ruin. I would rather gain
your respect on any other terms."

This remark made him wince.

"Foolish boy! How blind you are to your own interest. You belong to a
family famous for playing the fool. It runs in the blood of the
Monctons."

Starting from his seat, he paced the room for some minutes, as if in
deep communion with himself.

"Geoffrey," said he at last, "from this day I adopt you as my son. I
exempt you from the common drudgeries of the office, and will engage
masters to instruct you in the fashionable accomplishments which are
deemed necessary to complete the education of a gentleman."

I was mute with astonishment.

"Trifling as these things may appear to the man of science and the
candidate for literary honours, they are not without their use to the
professional student. The world judges so much by externals, that
nothing is despised which helps to flatter its prejudices and ensure
popularity. You are not too old to learn dancing, fencing and riding. I
should like you to excel in athletic sports and exercises."

"You are making game of me, uncle," said I, for I could not believe him
in earnest.

"By the living God! Geoffrey, I mean what I say."

I stood before him, gazing into his face like one in a dream. There was
a downright earnestness in his face which could not be mistaken. He was
no longer acting a part, but really meant what he said. Nor could I
doubt but that letter had wrought this sudden change in my favour.
Where, now, was all my high-souled resolutions? Human nature prevailed,
and I yielded to the temptation. There sat Robert Moncton, gazing
complacently upon me, from beneath those stern, dark brows, his
glittering eyes no longer freezing me with their icy shine, but
regarding me with a calm, approving smile: no longer the evil genius of
my childhood, but a munificent spirit intent to do me good.

Ah, I was young--very young, and the world in my narrow circle had
dealt hardly with me. I longed for freedom, for emancipation from
constant toil. This must plead an excuse for my criminal weakness.

Years of painful experience, in the ways and wiles of men, had not as
yet perfected the painful lesson taught me in after-years. Young,
ardent, and willing to believe the best I could of my species, I began
to think that I alone had been to blame; that I had wronged my uncle,
and thrust upon his shoulders the burden of injuries which I had
received from his son.

The evil influence of that son had been removed, and he was now willing
to be my friend; and I determined to bury the past in oblivion, and to
believe him really and truly so.

I shook him warmly by the hand, and entreated his forgiveness for the
hard thoughts I had entertained, and thanked him sincerely for his
offers of service.

The light faded from his eye. He looked gloomily, almost sadly into my
face, glowing, as it must have been, with generous emotions, marvelling
doubtlessly at my credulity.

Mr. Moncton up to this period had resided in the house which contained
his office; the basement having been appropriated entirely for that
purpose, while the family occupied the floors above. My uncle seldom
received visitors, excepting at those times when Theophilus returned
from college. To these parties, I as a matter of course had never been
admitted. My uncle's evenings were spent abroad, but I was unacquainted
with his habits, and totally ignorant of his haunts.

Judge then, of my surprise and satisfaction when informed by Mr.
Moncton, that he had purchased a handsome house in Grosvenor Street,
and that we were to remove thither. The office was still to be retained
in Hatton Garden, but my hours of attendance were not to commence
before ten in the morning; and were to terminate at four in the
afternoon.

I had lived the larger portion of my life in great, smoky London, and
had never visited the west end of the town. The change in my prospects
was truly delightful. I was transported as if by magic from my low,
dingy, ill-ventilated garret, to a well-appointed room on the second
story of an elegantly furnished house in an airy, fashionable part of
the town; the apartment provided for my especial benefit, containing
all the luxuries and comforts which modern refinement has rendered
indispensable.

A small, but well-selected library crowned the whole.

I did little else the first day my uncle introduced me to this charming
room, but to walk to and fro from the book-case to the windows; now
glancing at the pages of some long coveted treasure; now watching with
intense interest the throng of carriages passing and repassing; hoping
to catch a glance of the fair face, which had made such an impression
on my youthful fancy.

A note from Mr. Moncton, kindly worded for him, conveyed to me the
pleasing intelligence that the handsome pressful of fine linen, and
fashionably cut clothes, was meant for my use; to which he had
generously added, a beautiful dressing-case, gold watch and chain.

I should have been perfectly happy, had it not been for a vague,
unpleasant sensation--a certain swelling of the heart, which silently
seemed to reproach me for accepting all these favours from a person
whom I neither loved nor respected.

Conscience whispered that it was far better to remain poor and
independent, than compromise my integrity. Oh, that I had given more
heed to that voice of the soul! That still, small voice, which never
lies--that voice which no one can drown, without remorse and
self-condemnation.

Time brought with it the punishment I deserved, convincing me then, and
for ever, that no one can act against his own conviction of right,
without incurring the penalty due to his moral defalcation.

I dined alone with Mr. Moncton.

He asked me if I was pleased with the apartments he had selected for my
use. I was warm in my thanks, and he appeared satisfied.

After the cloth was drawn, he filled a bumper of wine, and pushed the
bottle over to me.

"Here's to your rising to the head of the profession, Geoffrey. Fill
your glass, my boy."

I drank part of the wine, and set the glass down on the table. It was
fine old Madeira. I had not been used to drink anything stronger than
tea and coffee, and I found it mounting to my head.

"I will not allow that, Geoffrey--you must honour my toast."

"I have done so, uncle, as far as I am able. I have had enough wine."

"Nonsense, boy! Don't you like it?"

"I hardly know. It makes me feel giddy and queer."

"Ha! ha! that's good"--chuckling and rubbing his hands.

"If I take more just now, I shall certainly be tipsy."

"What then?"

"It would be disgraceful. In your presence, too."

"What--were you never drunk?"

"Never, in my life."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"And never intoxicated--well, that's a good joke. Few young men of your
age could say that. Would you not like to increase your knowledge, and
be as wise as others?"

I shook my head.

"Ridiculous prudery. Come, fill your glass."

He drank off several glasses in succession; and for fear I should be
thought deficient in spirit; I followed his example. But the Rubicon
once crossed, to my surprise, I found that the wine had no effect upon
my senses; only serving to elevate my spirits a little, and make me
more sociable and communicative.

My uncle's stern face began to relax from its usual cold severity, and
I found that when warmed with wine, he could be a most intelligent and
agreeable companion. After conversing for some time on indifferent
subjects, he said:

"You think you remember your parents. I have their portraits. Perhaps
you would like to keep them in your own possession."

"No present you could make me, would be so valuable," I replied.

"No heroics," he said, going to a beautiful inlaid cabinet. "I detest
sentimental people. They are the greatest humbugs in the world."

Returning to the table, he placed two large miniature cases in my hand.
I eagerly seized them.

"Don't look at them now," he resumed, "or we shall have a scene--wait
until you are alone. I found them among my brother's papers, and had
forgotten all about them, until I chanced to stumble over them in the
bustle of removing."

I hid away the precious relics in my bosom, and was about to quit the
room.

"Sit down, Geoffrey," he said, with a grim smile, "you are too sober to
go to bed yet."

I filled the glass mechanically, but it remained untasted before me.

"By the by," continued my uncle, in a careless tone, which his eager
glance contradicted, "what has become of your friend Harrison?"

"I wish I knew. His absence is a great loss to me."

"Who and what is this Harrison? You were his confidant, and, doubtless,
know."

"Of his private history, nothing."

My uncle's large dark eyes were looking into my soul. I felt that he
doubted my word. "He has, I believe, been unfortunate, and is reduced
in his circumstances. His moral character, _I know_ to be excellent."

"And doubtless you are a _capital judge_," said Mr. Moncton. "Young men
all imagine themselves as wise as Daniel or Socrates. I think, however,
friend Geoffrey, that this man deceived you."

"Impossible! Harrison is incapable of committing a mean or
dishonourable action. Nor does he attempt to spare himself from blame;
but frankly confesses, that to his own imprudence he is mainly indebted
for his misfortunes."

"_Imprudence_ is a respectable term for intemperance, dissipation, and
vice of every kind," sneered my uncle. "Your moral young gentleman
might preach against sins which had caused his own ruin. Believe me,
Geoffrey, the crimes and passions of most men are alike, with only this
difference, that some have greater art in concealing them."

"That would make virtue a mere name," said I, indignantly. "I cannot
believe _that_ ideal, which I have been used to worship as a
_reality_."

"All bosh. At your age men cling to the ideal, and resolutely close
their eyes to the true and rational. I was guilty of the same weakness
once."

"You, uncle!"

"Ay, you are astonished. But the time came, and too soon, when I
learned to wonder at my own credulity. I was in love once. You smile.
Yes, with that old witch, as you call her now. She was as beautiful as
an angel then. She is an incarnate devil now! Love has turned to
hate--admiration to execration--and I curse myself for ever having
thought her wise or good."

He flung himself into a chair, and groaned like one in acute pain; and
I, thinking he wished to be alone, slipped away before he raised his
head from between his clasped hands.

"What could he mean by asking me so many questions?" I cried, as I
threw myself into an easy chair in my luxurious apartment. "Were they
instigated by the wine he had drank, or suggested by idle curiosity? or
were my answers intended to answer some sinister purpose? God knows! He
is a strange, inexplicable man, whose words and actions the most
profound lawyer could scarcely fathom. I think he endeavoured to make
me intoxicated in the hope of extracting some information regarding
poor George. If so, he has missed his mark."

I drew from my bosom the portraits he had given me, perhaps, as a bait
to win my confidence; but I was thankful to him for the inestimable
gift, whatever the motives were which led to its bestowal.

The first case contained the miniature of my father. The gay, careless,
happy countenance, full of spirit and intelligence, seemed to smile
upon his unfortunate son.

I raised my eyes to the mirror--the same features met my glance: but
ah, how different the expression of the two faces. Mine was saddened
and paled by early care, and close confinement to a dark unhealthy
office; at twenty, I was but a faded likeness of my father.

I sighed as I pressed the portrait to my heart. In the marked
difference between us I read distinctly the history of two lives.

But how shall I describe my feelings whilst gazing on the picture of my
mother? The fast falling tears for a long while hid the fondly
remembered features from my sight; but they still floated before the
eyes of my soul in all their original loveliness.

Yes, there was the sweet calm face, the large soft confiding blue eyes,
the small rosy mouth with its gentle winning smile, and the modest
truthful expression of the combined features which gave such a charm to
the whole.

Oh, my mother! my dear lost, angel mother! how that picture recalled
the far-off happy days of childhood, when I sat upon your knees, and
saw my own joyous face reflected in those dove-like eyes! when, ending
some nursery rhyme with a kiss, you bowed your velvet cheek upon my
clustering curls, and bade God bless and keep your darling boy! Would
that I could become a child again, or that I could go to you, though
you cannot return to me!

I leant my head upon the table and wept. Those tears produced a
salutary effect upon my mind, and slipping down upon my knees, I poured
out the feelings of my oppressed heart in prayer, and after awhile rose
from the ground in a more composed state of mind. The picture still lay
there smiling upon me. "Is it of you, dearest mother," said I, "that
bad men dare whisper hard things? Who could look at that pure lovely
face and believe aught against your honour? I could despise my father,
though his only son, could I for an instant imagine him capable of
taking advantage of such youth and innocence. But no, it is a foul
slander invented by a villain to answer some base purpose; and may I
perish, when I believe it true!"

I locked the portraits carefully in my desk, and retired to bed. The
wine I had drank and the unusual excitement of my feelings for a long
time prevented sleep, and it was the dawn of day before I sank to rest.




CHAPTER XIII.

A VISIT FROM THE GREAT MAN OF THE FAMILY.


From that day I became Mr. Moncton's factotum, his confidential clerk,
and principal agent. In all matters that required prompt and skilful
management, he invariably employed me.

If he did not regard me with affection, for that was foreign to his
nature, he respected my abilities, and placed the greatest reliance
on my principles. I attended him in most of his professional journeys,
and was present in every court in which he had an important case. I
no sooner appeared with him in public than I became a person of
considerable consequence among his friends and acquaintances, and
invitations flowed in upon me from all quarters. One thing appeared
very certain, that the same persons who had despised the shabbily-dressed
lawyer's clerk, no longer regarded me with cold eyes as a _poor
relation_, but were among the first to overwhelm me with civilities;
and, for a while, I was intoxicated with the adulation I received from
the world and its smooth-tongued votaries.

Three months glided rapidly away, and every day added to my
self-importance, and brought with it fresh opportunities of enlarging
the circle of my friends, and of acquiring a competent knowledge of the
conventional rules of society. Though naturally fond of company, I
hated dissipation, and those low vices which many young men designate
as pleasure, in the pursuit of which they too often degrade their
mental and physical powers. Mr. Moncton laughed at what he termed my
affectation of moral integrity, and tried by every art to seduce me to
join in amusements, and visit scenes, from which my mind revolted; and
his own example served to strengthen my disgust. My resistance to such
temptations I do not ascribe to any inherent virtue in me; but I have
often observed in my subsequent journey through life, that young men,
whose knowledge of the world has chiefly been confined to books, and
who have never mingled much with persons of their own age, are guarded
from low vices by the romantic and beautiful ideal of life, which they
formed in solitude. The coarse reality is so shocking and degrading, so
repugnant to taste and good feeling, and all their preconceived notions
upon the subject, that they cannot indulge in it without remorse and a
painful sense of degradation. This was so completely my case, that I
often fled to solitude as a refuge from pleasures, so-called, which I
could not enjoy, and scenes in which I felt shame to be an actor.
Perhaps I was mainly indebted to the passion I had conceived for the
beautiful Catherine, which acted as a secret talisman in securing me
from the contaminating influences to which, in my new position, I was
often exposed. In the hope of meeting again the fair creature whose
image filled my soul, I had frequented theatres, operas, and mixed much
in society, but to no purpose; on this head I was still doomed to
suffer the most provoking disappointment.

One evening, I returned late from the office in Hatton Garden; my uncle
was from home, and a great press of business had detained me beyond the
usual dinner-hour, which was at six. The porter had scarcely admitted
me into the hall, when one of the footmen, with whom I was a great
favourite, addressed me with an air of mystery which I thought highly
amusing, he seemed so anxious to impress me with the importance of the
news he had to communicate.

"Mr. Geoffrey, Sir Alexander Moncton, my master's cousin, sir, is in
the dining-room, waiting to see you; and the dinner, sir, is waiting,
too. I told him, sir, that we expected Mr. Moncton home this evening,
and he bade his valet bring up his portmanteau from the hotel, and said
that he would wait here till master returned."

"Thank you, Saunders, for your information," cried I, hurrying off to
my chamber to dress for dinner.

I felt greatly excited at the prospect of the approaching interview
with the great man of the family, who might prove a powerful friend to
his friendless relative.

My uncle was from home, which would afford me an opportunity of
speaking for myself. I was anxious to make a favourable impression on
Sir Alexander, and took an unusual degree of pains with my toilet.

I joined Sir Alexander in the drawing-room, just as the footman
announced that dinner was on the table.

Sir Alexander received me, and my apologies for detention in the
office, with a mighty good grace, shook me warmly by the hand, and
accompanied me into the dining-room, with the air of a man who was
determined not to be cheated out of his dinner, and anxious to make up
for lost time.

I did the honours as well as I could; but not without committing sundry
awkward blunders; greatly to the horror of Saunders, who with toe and
elbow, gave me various silent hints upon the subject, as he glided
noiselessly to and fro. This only increased my confusion, but,
fortunately, my worthy relative was too much engrossed with his dinner,
to notice the trifling omissions, which poor Saunders considered of
such immense importance.

I was greatly relieved when the cloth was removed; and the wine and
glasses were placed upon the table, and Sir Alexander and I were left
alone to improve our acquaintance.

He commenced the conversation by introducing the very subject uppermost
in my mind.

"Did I mistake you, young gentleman, or did you tell me, that you were
a son of the late Edward Moncton?"

"His only son."

"I was not aware of his marriage--still less that he left a son. It is
strange, that I should have been kept in ignorance of this important
fact."

This was said half musingly. He then turned to me with a lively air.

"Your father, young gentleman, deeply offended me. It was a foolish
affair; but it effectually severed the friendship of years. We repent
of these things when it is too late. Had he been less violent, and less
obstinate, a reconciliation might have been brought about. As it
was--interested parties did their best to widen the breach.

"Edward and I were school-fellows; and though little harmony existed
between the elder branches of the family, we loved like brothers. He
was a handsome, generous, high-spirited fellow, but rash and
extravagant. While at school he was always in debt and difficulty, to
the great annoyance of his money-loving father, who looked upon me as
the aider and abettor in all his scrapes. We continued firm friends
until the night before he left college, when the quarrel, which I do
not mean to particularize, took place; from which period we never met,
and all correspondence ceased between us. I heard, that in after-years,
he made a love connexion; but I never learned the particulars from any
one but your uncle Robert; and he did not inform me, that Edward had
left a son--nor can I comprehend his motive for concealing the fact."

Sir Alexander paused and looked earnestly in my face. I felt the blood
rush to my temples.

"I do not doubt your veracity, young sir. You are too like the man I
loved so long and well, for me to question your origin. But are you
_certain_ that you are Edward Moncton's _legitimate_ son?"

"I feel no doubt upon the subject; my heart tells me that I am his
lawful representative; and I trust that heaven will one day enable me
to substantiate my claims." This was said with a vehemence that brought
the tears into my eyes.

"Does Robert Moncton admit them?"

"No."

"On what grounds?"

"He affirms, that no certificate of my mother's marriage can be found,
and without this important document, the law will not acknowledge me as
Edward Moncton's legitimate son."

"Or Alexander Moncton's heir," replied the Baronet. "But I do not judge
like the rest of the world, young man, and dare to think and act for
myself. This uncle of yours is a cunning man: I know him and his ways
of old. I know how he fomented the quarrel between his brother and me,
to gain his own ends; and this son of his--this Theophilus, is a
finished scoundrel! It is mortifying to the pride of an English
gentleman to acknowledge such men as his successors."

The old man rose from his seat, and paced the room for some time in
silence. He was so much occupied with his own reflections, that I had
leisure to examine his countenance minutely.

A strong family likeness existed between him and my father, and uncle
Robert; and as for me, I might have passed for his son. He had the same
high forehead, aquiline nose, chestnut curling hair, and dark piercing
eyes; but his face lacked the careless, frank, good-nature of my
father's, and was totally destitute of the subtle, stern demeanour of
my uncle's. The expression was more simple, and less worldly than
either. It was a thoughtful, intellectual, benevolent physiognomy,
which excited feelings of confidence and affection, at first sight.
While looking at him, I thought I had known and loved him for years.

His tall commanding figure was slightly bent in the shoulders, and his
hair was thickly sprinkled with grey; yet, his age could scarcely have
exceeded fifty. His complexion, unlike my handsome uncle's, was very
pale, and an early acquaintance with grief might be traced in the lines
which furrowed his ample white forehead.

After a few turns through the room, he resumed his seat.

"Mr. Geoffrey Moncton," said he, grasping me warmly by the hand, "I
wish sincerely that you could prove your legitimacy. There is something
about you that pleases and interests me. If ever you stand in need of
assistance you may rely upon me as your friend. It is not Robert
Moncton's bare assertion that will make me believe you a bastard. Tell
me all you know about yourself."

I endeavoured to speak, but I was so completely overwhelmed by his
unexpected kindness, that I could find no words to express my thanks,
or comply with his request.

A loud knocking at the door, announced the arrival of Mr. Moncton.

"That is my uncle's knock," cried I, breaking the spell that bound me.

"We will talk over this matter again, Geoffrey. If we cannot get an
opportunity, you must write, and tell me all you know."

Before I could promise anything Mr. Moncton entered the room. He cast a
hurried, scrutinizing glance at me, and seemed surprised and annoyed at
finding me on such intimate terms with the baronet, to whom he gave a
most cordial and flattering welcome.

The other met his advances with cold and studied politeness. It was
evident to me that he, too, put a restraint upon his feelings.

"I am sorry, Sir Alexander, that I was from home when you arrived. This
visit _from you_ is such an _unexpected_ favour."

"Your absence, Robert Moncton, gave me an opportunity of making the
acquaintance of your nephew, whom I have found a very agreeable and
entertaining substitute, as well as a near relation."

Mr. Moncton regarded me with a haughty and contemptuous smile.

"I am happy to learn that your time was so agreeably spent. By-the-by,
Geoffrey," turning abruptly to me, and speaking in a hasty,
authoritative tone, "are those papers transcribed I gave you at
parting? They will be required in court early to-morrow."

He evidently expected a negative.

"They are ready, sir, and many others that have been placed in my hands
since. We have been hard at work in the office all day."

"I commend your diligence," said he, affecting a patronizing air; "I am
sorry to take you from such pleasant company, but business, you know,
cannot be neglected. This bundle of papers," (and he took a packet from
his wallet and placed in my hand), "must be transcribed to-night. You
need not go to the office. Step into the study, you will find all that
you require there."

This was but a stratagem to get rid of my unwelcome presence. I bowed
to Sir Alexander, and reluctantly withdrew.

It so happened, that Mr. Moncton's study opened into the dining-room,
and without meaning to do so, I left the door but partially closed.

Sitting down to the table, I trimmed the large shaded lamp that always
burnt there, and began mechanically to transcribe the uninteresting
papers. An hour passed away. The gentlemen were conversing upon the
current news of the day over their wine. The servant brought up coffee,
and I ceased to give any heed to what was passing in the next room.

I was drawing out a long deed of settlement, when my attention was
aroused by the mention of my own name, and the following dialogue
caught my ear:

"This nephew of yours, Robert Moncton, is a fine lad. How is it that I
never heard of him before?"

"I did not think it necessary to introduce him to your notice, Sir
Alexander. He has no legal claim upon our protection. He is a natural
son of Edward's, whom I educate for the profession out of charity."

"An act of benevolence hardly to be expected from you," said Sir
Alexander with a provoking sneer. "I suppose you expect to get the
interest for your kindness out of the lad?"

"Why, yes! He has excellent abilities, and might do much for himself,
but is too like the father, but with this difference, Edward was
good-natured and careless to a fault; this boy is haughty and petulant,
with the unmanageable obstinacy and self-will of old Geoffrey. He is
not grateful for the many obligations he owes to me, and gives me
frequent cause to regret that I ever adopted him into my family."

"When you are tired of him," said Sir Alexander, carelessly, "you may
turn him over to me. I am sure I could make something of him."

"You are not in earnest?" in a tone of surprise.

"Never more so."

A long silence ensued. My hand trembled with indignation. Was this Mr.
Moncton's pretended friendship? I tried in vain to write. "It is
useless," I said mentally. "The deed may go to the devil, and Robert
Moncton along with it, for what I care," and I flung the parchment from
me. "That man is an infamous liar! I will tell him so to his face."

I was just about to burst into the room, when Sir Alexander resumed the
conversation.

"Who was this lad's mother?"

"A young person of the name of Rivers; the only daughter of a poor
curate, in Derbyshire. You know my brother's dissipated habits. He
enticed the girl from her peaceful home, and grief for her loss brought
the old father to his grave. This boy was the sole fruit of the
connection. The parents were never married."

"Is that a fact?"

"I have made every legal inquiry upon the subject; but, no proofs are
in existence of such an union between the parties."

"I can scarcely believe Edward guilty of such a villainous act!"

"Extravagant men of unsettled principles are not much troubled with
qualms of conscience. On his death-bed Edward repented of this act, and
recommended the child to my especial care and protection. His letter,
which I have by me, was couched in such moving terms, that I considered
myself bound in duty to do what I could for the boy, as he was not
answerable for the fault of the parents. I took him home the day his
mother was buried, and he has been an inmate of my house ever since."

"When he is out of his time, what do you intend doing for him?"

"I have not yet determined; perhaps, associate him with myself in the
office. There is, however, one stumbling-block in the way--the dislike
which exists between him and Theophilus."

"Ay, that might prove a formidable barrier to their mutual welfare.
By-the-by, what has become of Theophilus?"

"He was travelling on the continent. His last letter is dated from
Rome. He has been a great source of trouble and vexation to me, and is
constantly getting into scrapes by his gallantries, which you must
allow, Sir Alexander, is a family failing of the Monctons."

"His conduct lately has been such," said the baronet, in an angry
voice, "that it makes me blush that we bear the same name. It was to
speak to you on this painful subject that brought me to London."

"I know the circumstance to which you allude," said Mr. Moncton, in a
humble tone; "nor can I defend him; but, we must make allowances for
youth and indiscretion. We were young men ourselves once, Sir
Alexander."

"Thank Heaven! bad as I might be, no poor girl could accuse me of being
the cause of her ruin," cried the baronet, striking his hand
emphatically upon the table. "But this young scoundrel! while a visitor
beneath my roof, and a solicitor for the hand of my daughter, outraged
all feelings of honour and decency, by seducing this poor girl, on our
own estate, at our very doors. It was mean, wicked, dastardly--and
without he marries his unhappy victim, he shall never enter my doors
again."

"_Marry!_" and Mr. Moncton hissed the words through his clenched teeth.
"Let him dare to marry her, and the sole inheritance he gets from me,
will be his father's curse!"

"Till he does this, and by so doing wipes off the infamous stain he has
brought upon our house, I must consider both father and son as
strangers!"

"Please yourself, Sir Alexander. You will never by menace induce me to
give my consent to this disgraceful marriage," cried Moncton, stamping
with rage.

There was another long pause. I heard Sir Alexander traversing the
apartment with hasty strides. At length, stopping suddenly before his
excited companion, he said; "Robert, you may be right. The wicked
woman, who sold her grandchild for money, was once in your service. You
best know what relationship exists between your son and his beautiful
victim."

A hollow laugh burst from Mr. Moncton's lips.

"You possess a lively imagination, Sir Alexander. I did love that
woman, though she was old enough then to have been my mother. It was a
boy's rash, blind love; but I was too proud to make her my wife, and
she was too cunning and avaricious to be mine on any other terms. Your
suspicions, on _that head_ at least, are erroneous."

"Be that as it may," said Sir Alexander, "Theophilus Moncton shall
never darken my doors until the grave closes over me."

He left the room while speaking. A few minutes later, a carriage dashed
from the door at a rapid rate, and I felt certain that he had quitted
the house. My uncle's step approached. I let my head drop upon the
table and feigned sleep, and without attempting to waken me, he
withdrew.

From that night a marked alteration took place in his manner towards
me. It was evident that the commendations bestowed upon me by Sir
Alexander had ruined me in his eyes, and he considered me in the light
of a formidable rival. He withdrew his confidence, and treated me with
the most pointed neglect. But he could not well banish me from his
table, or deprive me of the standing he had given me among his guests,
without insulting them, by having introduced to their notice a person
unworthy of it. On this head I was tolerably secure, as Mr. Moncton was
too artful a man to criminate himself. In a few days, I should now
become of age, when the term of my articles would expire. I should then
be my own master; and several private applications had been made to me
by a lawyer of eminence, to accept a place in his office, with promises
of further advancement; this rendered my uncle's conduct a matter of
indifference. The sudden and unexpected return of Theophilus gave a
very different aspect to my affairs.




CHAPTER XIV.

LOVE AND HATRED.


At first Mr. Moncton refused to see his son; but on the receipt of a
letter from Theophilus, his positive orders on that head were not only
reversed, but the worthy young gentleman was received with marked
attention by his father.

The contents of that letter I did not know then, but got a knowledge of
them in after years. The son had become acquainted with some villainous
transactions of the parent, which he threatened to expose to the world,
if any rigorous measures were adopted towards himself. These
revelations were of such a startling nature, that no alternative
remained to Mr. Moncton but to submit, which he did, and with a
wonderful good grace.

It would be no easy matter to describe the surprise and indignation of
Theophilus Moncton, when he discovered that the despised and insulted
Geoffrey had become a person of some consequence during his absence. I
shall never forget the studied air of indifference, the chilling
coldness, with which he met me on his return, and under the cover of
which he endeavoured to conceal his chagrin.

The long-cherished dislike that I had entertained for him, had lost
much of its bitter character during a separation of many months. I was
willing to believe that I might sometimes have been the aggressor, and
that time, and a more intimate knowledge of the world, might have
produced a favourable change in his surly and morose disposition. I had
still to learn that the world rarely improves the heart, but only
teaches both sexes more adroitly to conceal its imperfections. I could
perceive no alteration in Theophilus which gave the least promise of
mental improvement. After a few minutes spent in his company, I found
him more arrogant and conceited than when he left England. The
affectation of imitating foreign manners, and interlarding his
conversation with French and Italian, rendered him less attractive in
his assumed, than he had been in his natural, character.

I listened for the first week to his long, egotistical harangues, with
tolerable patience, hoping that the theme of self would soon be
exhausted, and the Frenchified dandy condescend to remember that he was
an Englishman; but finding him becoming more arrogant and assuming by
listening to his nonsense, I turned from him with feelings of aversion,
which I could but ill conceal. It must have been apparent even, to
himself, that I considered his company a bore.

The sympathy which exists between kindred minds, all have experienced
at some period of their lives; but the mysterious chords of feeling
which unite hearts formed by nature, to understand and appreciate each
other, are not more electrical in their operation than those which have
their origin in the darker passions of the human breast.

How repugnant to a sensitive mind is a forced association with persons
in whom we can find no affinity; and whose sentiments and pursuits are
at utter variance with our own. I was acutely alive to these impressions,
whenever I encountered the sidelong, watchful glance of my cousin.
There was nothing straightforward in him; he never looked friend or
enemy honestly in the face. We mutually understood each other. Though
he scrupulously avoided addressing his conversation to me, yet it was
chiefly intended for my edification; and was replete with satirical
observations.

I detest this covert manner of attack; it is mean and unfair in the
highest degree, as it deprives the person attacked from taking his own
part, and boldly defending himself. Theophilus was a perfect adept at
this dastardly species of warfare.

I tried to treat his conduct with silent contempt; but his provoking
remarks galled me exceedingly; and often, when I appeared unconscious
of their being levelled against me, and earnestly engaged in the
perusal of some dull law-book, I was listening to every word he
uttered, and quivering with indignation. Theophilus enjoyed my
discomfiture, and I found his powers of tormenting greater than I had
at first imagined.

The second day after his arrival, he sent a message up to my room, to
inform me that he required that apartment for his valet, and I could
remove to a chamber in the next story.

I returned for answer, "That I should not quit the occupation of the
room that had been allotted to my use by his father, until I received
positive orders from him to that effect. But I should only require it a
few days longer, and then he could do as he pleased."

This insolent demand was not seconded by Mr. Moncton, and I took no
further notice of it.

That my uncle had a game of his own to play, when he took me from the
obscurity of the office and introduced me into society, I was now more
than ever convinced. Whilst in the presence of his son he treated me
with marked attention and respect, which rendered my situation far more
trying and irksome, as I mistrusted the designs of the one and detested
the other.

I felt that Mr. Moncton acted thus, on purpose to annoy Theophilus, and
make him feel the weight of the resentment, which for good reasons he
dared not openly express; while he praised my talents and application
to business, on purpose to rouse the envy and hatred of my cousin.

One afternoon, as we were sitting over the dessert, Mr. Moncton as
usual addressed his conversation exclusively to me, which irritated
Theophilus to such a degree, that he turned suddenly to his father, and
exclaimed with much violence:

"You seem, sir, to forget you have a son?"

"Yes, when that son forgot what was due to himself, and to his father's
house."

"You have to thank yourself for _that_," was the insolent reply. "I
have trod too closely in your own footsteps, and followed too strictly
the honest principles of my father." He laughed bitterly. "It seems
strange, that you should be surprised, that such an example should have
produced corresponding effects upon the mind and character of your
son."

Shocked at this horrible speech (for in spite of its awful truth, it
seemed terrible from the mouth of a son,) I looked from Theophilus to
his father, expecting to see the dark eye of the latter alive with the
light of passion. But no--there he sat, mute as a marble statue; it was
frightful to contemplate the glossy stare of his glittering eye, the
rigid immobility of his countenance.

"Heavens!" I mentally exclaimed, "can he be insulted in this manner by
his only son, and remain thus calm?" But calm he was, without even
attempting a reply, whilst his insolent son continued.

"By heaven! if you think that advancing that puppy into my place will
bend me to your purpose, you grossly deceive yourself. I pity the
stupid puppet who can thus sneak to his bitterest enemy, to obtain a
position he could never rise to by his own merit. Silly boy!--I laugh
at his folly, our shallow policy, and his credulity."

The words were scarcely out his mouth, when I sprang from my chair, and
with a well-directed blow levelled him at my feet.

"Thank you, Geoffrey!" exclaimed Mr. Moncton, raising the crest-fallen
hero from the ground: "You have answered both for yourself and me."

"I have been too rash," said I, seeing the blood stream copiously from
my cousin's nose; "but he exasperated me beyond endurance."

"He provoked it himself," returned Mr. Moncton. "I never blame any
person when insulted, for taking his own part. You need be under no
apprehension of a hostile encounter: Theophilus is a cowardly dog--he
can bark and snarl, but dares not fight. Go to your room, Geoffrey, you
will be better friends after this."

He said this in a tone of such bitter irony, that I hardly knew whether
he was pleased with what I had done, or offended, for who could fathom
the mind of such a man? I instantly complied with his request, and
felt, however mortifying to my pride, that Theophilus Moncton had
uttered the truth.

"In another week," I exclaimed, as I strode through the
apartment--"yes, in less than a week, I shall obtain my majority: I
shall be free, and then farewell to this accursed house of bondage for
ever!"

Theophilus had not been home many days, before I perceived a decided
alteration in the once friendly greetings I had been accustomed to
receive from Mr. Moncton's guests. I was no longer invited to their
parties, or treated with those flattering marks of attention which had
been so gratifying to my vanity, and given me such an exalted idea of
my own consequence.

At first I was at a loss to imagine what had produced this sudden
change. One simple sentence at length solved all these unpleasant
doubts, and pressed the unwelcome truth home to my heart. Robert
Moncton had been reconciled to his son, and I was once more regarded as
only a _poor relation_.

The day I made this important discovery, I had been detained at the
office long after our usual dinner-hour, and meeting with a friend on
my way home, I sauntered with him several times up and down Regent
Street, before I returned to my uncle's house.

I was not aware that my uncle expected company that day, until informed
by Saunders in the hall, that a large party were assembled in the
dining-room.

I was a little provoked at not receiving any intimation of the event,
and in being too late for appearing at dinner, the third course having
been placed on the table; but I hurried away to my own apartment to
change my dress, and join the ladies in the drawing-room.

This important duty was scarcely effected, before Saunders entered with
a tray covered with dainties, which he had catered for my benefit.

"I was determined, Mr. Geoffrey, that they should not have all the good
things to themselves. Here is an excellent cut of salmon and
lobster-sauce; the plump breast of a partridge, and a slice of
delicious ham--besides, the sunkets. If you cannot make a good dinner
off these, why, I says, that you deserves to be hungry."

And throwing a snowy napkin over a small table near the fire, he
deposited the tray and its tempting contents thereon, placed my chair,
and stood behind it with beaming eyes, his jolly, rosy face radiant
with good-nature and benevolence.

I thanked him heartily for his attention to my comfort, and being tired
and hungry, did ample justice to the meal he had provided.

"This party has been got up in a hurry, Saunders?"

"Not at all, sir. I carried out the invitations four days ago."

"You surprise me!" said I, dropping my knife and fork. "Four days
ago--and I know nothing about it. That is something new."

"It is young Mr. Moncton's doings, sir. The party is given in honour of
his return. Says Mr. Theophilus to the Guv'nor, says he, 'I shall say
nothing to Geoffrey, about it. What a capital joke it will be, to see
him bolt into the room without studying the Graces for an hour.' I
think it was the Graces, he said, sir; but whether it's a law book, or
a book of fashions, sir, hang me if I can tell."

"But why did not you give me a hint of this, my good fellow?"

"Why, sir," said Saunders, hesitating and looking down, "everybody in
this world has his troubles, and I, sir, have mine. Trouble, sir, makes
a man forget every one's affairs but his own; and so, sir, the thing
slipped quite out of my 'ead."

"And what has happened to trouble such a light heart as yours,
Saunders?"

"Ah, sir!" sighing and shaking his head, "you remember Jemima, the
pretty chamber maid, who lives at Judge Falcon's, across the street; I
am sure you must, sir, for no one that saw Jemima once could forget
her; and it was your first praising her that made me cast an eye upon
her. Well, sir, I looked and loved, and became desperate about her, and
offered her my 'onest 'and and 'eart, sir, and she promised to become
my wife. Yes, indeed, she did; and we exchanged rings, and lucky
sixpences and all that; and I gave master warning for next week; and
took lodgings in a genteel country-looking cottage on the Deptford
road. But I was never destined to find love there with Jemima."

"And what has happened to prevent your marriage?" said I, growing
impatient and wishing to cut his long story down to the basement.

"Many a slip, sir, between the cup and the lip. There's truth in those
old saws howsomever. Mr. Theophilus's French valet, poured such a heap
of flummery into the dear girl's ears, that it turned her 'ead
altogether, and she run off with the haffected puppy last night; but
let him look well after himself, for I swear the first time I catch
him, I'll make cat's meat of him. Ah! sir, the song says, that it's the
men who is so cruelly deceitful, but I have found it the reverse. Never
trust in vimen, sir! I swear I'll hate 'em all from this day, for
Jemima's sake."

"Consider yourself a fortunate fellow," said I. "You have made a very
narrow escape."

"Ah, sir, it's all very well talking, when you don't feel the smart
yourself. I loved that false creter with my 'ole 'art. But there's one
thing," brightening up, "which consoles me under this great
haffliction, the annoyance that it has given to Mr. Theophilus. This
morning, there was no one to dress him--to flatter his vanity and tell
him what a fine gentleman he is: I had to carry up his boots and
shaving-water. It was rare fun to see him stamping and raving about the
room, and vishing all the vimen in the vorld at the devil. But hark!
there's the dining-room bell. More wine. The ladies have just left for
the drawing-room."

The blaze of lights, the gay assemblage of youth and beauty which
arrested my eyes as Saunders threw back the folding-doors, sent a
sudden thrill of joy to my heart. But these feelings were quickly
damped by the cold and distant salutations I received from the larger
portion of the company there assembled. Persons who a few weeks before
had courted my acquaintance and flattered my vanity, by saying and
doing a thousand agreeable things, had not a friendly word to offer.

The meaning glance which passed round the circle when I appeared among
them, chilled the warm glow of pleasure, which the sight of so many
fair and familiar faces had called up.

What could be the meaning of all this? A vague suspicion dashed into my
mind, that my cousin was the direct cause of this change in the aspect
of affairs, and, sick and disgusted with the world, I sat down at a
distant table and began mechanically to turn over a large portfolio of
splendid prints that I had not noticed before, and which I afterwards
discovered, had been brought by Theophilus from Paris.

A half suppressed titter from two young ladies near me, and which I
felt was meant for me, stung my proud heart to the quick. A dark mist
floated between me and the lights; and the next moment I determined to
leave the room in which I felt that my presence was not required, and
where I was evidently regarded as an intruder.

I had just risen from my seat to effect a quiet retreat, when the
folding-doors were again thrown open, and Mrs. Hepburn and Miss Lee
were announced.

What were these strangers to me? The new arrival appeared to make no
small sensation. A general bustle ensued, and my eyes unconsciously
followed the rest.

The blood receded from my cheeks, to flush them again to a feverish
glow, when I instantly recognized the lovely girl and her aunt, whom I
had for so many months sought for, and sought in vain.

Yes, it was she--my adored Catherine--no longer pale and agitated from
recent danger, but radiant in youth and beauty, her lovely person
adorned with costly jewels, and the rich garments that fashion has
rendered indispensable to her wealthy votaries.

"Miss Lee," was whispered among the ladies near me.

"Mr. Moncton's ward?"

"The rich heiress."

"Do you think her handsome?"

"Yes--passable."

"Too short."

"Her figure pretty--but insignificant."

"She is just out."

"So I hear. She will not make any great sensation. Too sentimental and
countrified. As Lord Byron says,--'Smells of bread and butter.'"

This last sneering remark, I considered a compliment. My charming Kate,
looked as fresh and natural as a new-blown rose with the morning dew
still fresh upon its petals. There was nothing studied or affected
about her--no appearance of display--no effort to attract admiration;
she was an unsophisticated child of nature, and the delightful
frankness, with which she received the homage of the male portion of
the company, was quite a contrast to the supercilious airs of the
fashionable belles.

The opinion of the gentlemen with regard to the fair _d�butante_, was
quite the reverse of those given by her own sex.

"What a lovely girl!"

"What an easy graceful carriage!"

"Did you ever see a more charming expression--a more bewitching smile?
A perfect lady from head to foot."

"I have lost _my_ heart already."

"By Jove! won't she make a noise in the gay world!"

"The beauty of the season."

"A prize, independent of her large for tune!"

"And doubly a prize with."

And thus the men prated of her among themselves.

The excitement at length subsided; and favoured by the obscurity of my
situation, I could watch at a distance all her movements, and never
tire of gazing upon that beaming face.

By some strange coincidence, I could hardly think it purely accidental,
Mrs. Hepburn and her niece came up to the table upon which I was
leaning.

I rose up in confusion, wondering if they would recognize me, and
offered the elder lady my chair.

In my hurry and agitation, the portfolio fell from my hand, and the
fine prints were scattered over the floor and table.

A general laugh arose at my expense; I felt annoyed, but laughed as
loudly as the rest. Miss Lee, very good-naturedly assisted me in
restoring the prints to their place, then looking earnestly in my face
for a few seconds, she said--"Surely, I am not deceived--you are the
gentleman who rescued me from that frightful situation in Oxford
Street."

"The same," said I, with a smile.

"How delighted I am to meet you once more," she exclaimed, giving me
her hand, and warmly shaking mine; "I was afraid that I should never
see you again. And your name--you must tell me your name."

"Geoffrey Moncton. But, Miss Lee, do not distress me by thinking so
much of a trifling service, which gave me so much pleasure."

"Trifling! do you call it? Sir, you saved my life, and I never can
forget the debt of gratitude I owe you. Aunt," turning to Mrs. Hepburn,
"do you remember this gentleman? How often we have talked that
adventure over, and wondered who my preserver was. It is such a
pleasure to see him here."

The old lady, though not quite so eloquent as her niece, was kind
enough in her way. Wishing to change the subject, I asked Miss Lee if
she drew?

"A little."

"Let us examine these beautiful prints," said I.

I gave her a chair, and leant over her. My heart fluttered with
delight. I forgot my recent mortification. I was near her, and, in the
rapture of the moment, could have defied the malice of the whole world.

"I am no judge of the merits or demerits of a picture," she said, in
her sweet, gentle voice. "I know what pleases me, and suffer my heart
to decide for my head."

"That is exactly my case, Miss Lee. A picture to interest me, must
produce the same effect upon my mind as if the object represented was
really there. This is the reason, perhaps, why I feel less pleasure in
examining those pictures by the ancient masters, though portrayed with
matchless skill, which represent the heathen deities. With Jupiter,
Mars and Venus, I can feel little sympathy, while the truthful and
spirited delineations of Wilkie and Gainsborough, which have beep
familiar from childhood, strike home to the heart."

Before Miss Lee could reply, Theophilus Moncton walked to the table at
which we were talking. He stared at me, without deigning a word of
recognition, and shook hands cordially with Miss Lee and her aunt.

"Happy to see you here, Catherine--was afraid you would be too much
fatigued, after dancing all night, to give us a look in this evening.
Been admiring my prints? Splendid collection, ain't they? By-the-by,
Mr. Geoffrey, I would thank you to be more careful in handling them.
Persons unaccustomed to fine drawings, are apt to injure them by rough
treatment."

A contemptuous glance was my reply, which was returned by a sidelong
withering glare of hate.

"That picture, on the opposite side of the room," continued my
tormentor, anxious to divert Miss Lee's attention from me, "is a fine
portrait, by Sir Thomas Lawrence. You are an admirer of his style; let
us examine the picture nearer; I want to have your opinion of it."

They crossed the room. In a few seconds, a large group gathered before
the picture of which Theophilus and Miss Lee formed the nucleus, and
half a dozen wax-lights were held up to exhibit it to the best
advantage.

Theophilus was eloquent in praising Lawrence's style of painting, and
entertained the company with an elaborate detail of all the celebrated
paintings he had seen abroad; the studios he had visited, and the
distinguished artists he had patronized. He could talk well, when he
pleased, on any subject, and possessed considerable talent and taste
for the arts; yet, I thought him more egotistical and affected than
usual, when standing beside the simple and graceful Catherine Lee.

She listened to him with politeness, until the gratuitous lecture came
to an end, and then quietly resumed her seat at the table by me, with
whom she entered into a lively conversation.

The swarthy glow of indignation mounted to my cousin's wan face. He
drew back, and muttered something inaudibly between his shut teeth,
while I secretly enjoyed his chagrin. When supper was announced I had
the honour of conducting Miss Lee down stairs, leaving my cousin to
take charge of the elder lady. Nor did my triumph end here. Catherine
insisted on taking a seat at the lower end of the table, and I found
myself once more placed by her side.

"I do detest upper seats at feasts," said she; "it exposes you to
observation, while in our pleasant obscurity we can enjoy a little
friendly chat. I never could understand why so many ladies quarrel so
much about taking precedence of each other."

"It is only ambition in a small way," said I.

"Very small, indeed," she continued, laughing. "But tell me, why you
were not at Mrs. Wilton's large party last night?"

"Simply, because I was not invited."

"The Monctons were there, father and son. But, perhaps you mix very
little in the gaieties of the town."

"Since Theophilus returned, I have been very little from home; and have
become a mere cipher with my old friends. A few weeks ago, these
Wilton's courted my acquaintance, and the young men vied with each
other, in paying me attention. To-night, we met as perfect strangers.
To me, the change is unaccountable. I am, however, a perfect novice in
the ways of the world. Such examples of selfish meanness often repeated
will render me a misanthrope."

"You must not condemn all, because you have experienced the unmerited
neglect of a few," said Catherine. "Selfish, interested people are
found in every community. It is a maxim with me, never to judge the
mass by individuals. Many of the persons we meet with in the world do
not live entirely for it, and are incapable of the conduct you deplore.
I have met with warm hearts and kind friends amid the gay scenes you
condemn--young people, who like myself, are compelled by circumstances
to mingle in society, while their thoughts and affections are far
away."

"You have never experienced the frowns of the world," said I; "I can
scarcely allow you to be a competent judge."

"I am prepared to meet them," she replied, quickly--then stopped--and
sighed deeply. I looked up inquiringly.

The expression of her fine face was changed from a cheerful to a
pensive cast. It was not actual sorrow which threw a shade over her
clear brow, but she looked as if she had encountered some unexpected
misfortune, and was prepared to meet it with resignation. She passed
her small white hand slowly across her forehead, and I thought I saw
tears trembling in her eyes. My interest was deeply excited, and I
loved her better for having suffered. I redoubled my attentions, and
before the company rose from table, I fancied that she no longer
regarded me with indifference.

From this happy dream, I too soon awoke to an agonizing consciousness
of my own insignificance. A Counsellor Sabine, who had been conversing
with my uncle during the greater part of the evening, beckoned me over
to a distant part of the room, and I reluctantly obeyed the summons. He
wanted me to settle a dispute between him and Mr. Moncton, relative to
some papers, which he said had been entrusted to my care.

My place by Catherine Lee's side was instantly filled by Theophilus.

Mrs. Hepburn, Catherine's aunt, asked him in a low voice, which,
occupied as I was with other matters, did not fail to reach my ears,
who I was, and the station I held in society, and ended her remarks by
passing sundry encomiums on my person and accomplishments.

"_Accomplishments!_" repeated Theophilus, with a sneer. "I know not how
he should be accomplished, Mrs. Hepburn. He is a poor clerk in my
father's office; and as to his standing in society, that is something
new to me. He is a natural son of my uncle Edward's, whom my father
adopted into the family, and brought him up out of charity. I was
surprised at him, an uninvited guest, daring to address his
conversation to Miss Lee."

It was well for the dastard, that he was protected by the presence of
ladies, and beyond the reach of my arm, or I certainly should have
committed an act of violence.

I restrained my indignation, however, and appeared outwardly
calm--received some instructions from the counsellor and noted them
down with stoical precision. My hand did not tremble, my passion was
too terrible for trifling demonstrations. I think I could have put a
pistol to his head, and seen him bleeding at my feet, without feeling
one pang of remorse.

Miss Lee's carriage was announced. I roused myself from a dream of
vengeance, and offered my arm to conduct her down stairs. She cast upon
me a look of sorrowful meaning, and her aunt refused my services with a
distant bow.

I drew proudly back "This," I thought, "is their gratitude. This is
like the rest of the world."

Mrs. Hepburn gave her hand to Theophilus, and with a grin of triumph he
led them out.

After the company had separated I went up to Theophilus, and demanded
an explanation of his ungentlemanly conduct. The answer I received was
an insolent laugh.

No longer able to restrain my feelings, I poured upon him the boiling
rage of my indignation, and did and said many bitter things, that had
been better unsaid. He threatened to complain of me to his father. I
dared him to do his worst--and left the room in a state of dreadful
excitement.

The next morning, while busy in the office, Mr. Moncton came in, and
closed the door carefully after him.

I rose as he entered and stood erect before him. I knew by the deadly
pallor of his face, that something decisive was about to take place.

"Geoffrey," he said, in a low, hoarse voice, which he vainly
endeavoured to make calm, "you have grossly insulted my son, and spoken
to him in the most disrespectful terms of me, your friend and
benefactor. Without you will make a full and satisfactory apology to me
for such intemperate language, and ask his pardon, you may dread my
just displeasure."

"Ask his pardon!" I cried; almost choking with passion--"for what? For
his treating me like a menial and a slave!--Never, Mr. Moncton, never!"

My uncle regarded me with the same icy glance which froze my blood when
a child, while I recapitulated my wrongs, with all the eloquence which
passion gives--passion which makes even the slow of speech act the part
of an orator.

He listened to me with a smile of derision.

Carried beyond the bounds of prudence, I told him, that I would no
longer be subjected to such degrading tyranny; that his deceitful
conduct had cancelled all ties of obligation between us; that the
favours lately conferred upon me, I now saw had only been bestowed to
effect my ruin; that he had been acting a base and treacherous game
with me to further his own dishonest views; that I was fully aware of
his motives, and appreciated them as they deserved; that he well knew
the story of my illegitimacy was a forgery, that I had the means to
prove it one, and would do it shortly; that the term of my articles
would expire on the following day, and I would then leave his house for
ever and seek my own living.

"You may do so to-day," he replied, in the same cool sarcastic tone;
and unlocking his desk he took out the indentures.

A sudden terror seized me. Something in his look threatened danger: I
drew a quicker breath, and advanced a few paces nearer.

All my hopes were centered in that sheet of parchment, to obtain which,
I had endured seven years of cruel bondage. "No, no," said I, mentally,
"he cannot be such a villain--he dare not do it!"

The next moment the fatal scroll lay torn and defaced at my feet. A cry
of despair burst from my lips: I sprang forward, and with one blow laid
him senseless at my feet, and fled from the house.

I saw Robert Moncton but once again. Recollection shudders when I
recall that dreadful meeting.

I walked rapidly down the street, perfectly unconscious that I was
without my hat, and that the rain was falling in torrents; or that I
was an object of curiosity to the passers-by.

Some one caught my arm.

I turned angrily round to shake off the intruder--it was my friend
Harrison.

"In the name of Heaven! Geoffrey, tell me what has happened? What is
the matter--are you in your right senses? Have you quarrelled with your
uncle? Let me return with you to the house," were questions he asked in
a breath.

"_My uncle!_ he is an infernal scoundrel!" I exclaimed, throwing out my
clenched hand, and hurrying on still faster. "Oh, that I could crush
him with one blow of this fist!"

"Geoffrey, you are mad--do you know what you say?"

"Perfectly well--stand back, and let me kill him!"

He put his arm forcibly round me. "Calm yourself, Geoffrey. What has
caused this dreadful excitement? Good Heavens! how you tremble. Lean
upon me--heavier yet. The arm of a sincere friend supports you--one who
will never desert you, let what will befall."

"Leave me, George, to my fate. I have been shamefully treated, and I
don't care what becomes of me."

"If you are unable to take care of yourself, Geoffrey," he replied,
clasping my hand fervently in his own, and directing my steps down a
less frequented street, "it is highly necessary that some one should,
until your mind a restored to its usual tranquillity. Return with me to
my lodgings; take a composing draught, and go to bed. Your eyes are
bloodshot, and starting from your head for want of sleep."

"Sleep! how is it possible for me to sleep, when the blood is boiling
in my veins, and my brain is on fire, and I am tempted every moment to
commit an act of desperation?"

"This feverish state cannot last, my poor friend; these furious bursts
of passion must yield to exhaustion. Your knees bend under you. In a
few minutes we shall be beyond public observation, and can talk over
the matter calmly."

As he ceased speaking, a deadly faintness stole over me--my head grew
giddy, the surrounding objects swam round me in endless circles and
with surprising rapidity, the heavens vanished from my sight, and
darkness, blank darkness closed me in, and I should have fallen to the
earth, but for the strong arm which held me in its grasp.

When I again opened my eyes, it was in the identical apothecary's shop
into which, some months before, I had carried the fainting Catherine
Lee. The little apothecary was preparing to open a vein in my arm. This
operation afforded me instant relief; my fury began to subside, and
tears slowly trickled down my cheeks.

George, who was anxiously watching every change in my countenance, told
the shop-boy to call a coach, which conveyed me in a few minutes to his
old lodgings in Fleet Street.




CHAPTER XV.

GEORGE HARRISON AND HIS HISTORY.


Many days passed over me of which I was totally unconscious. A violent
fever had set in, and I was not aware of my situation; scarcely of the
bodily sufferings I endured. My wants were ministered to by the
kindest, truest friend that ever soothed the miseries of the
unfortunate.

Fancying myself still under the control of Robert Moncton, and a
resident beneath his roof, I raved continually of my wrongs, and
exhausted myself by threats of vengeance. Long before the crisis of the
fever had passed, George had gathered from my impotent ravings the
story of my injuries. After fluctuating a long time between life and
death, youth and a naturally strong constitution conquered my malady,
and I once more thought and felt like a rational creature. My
indignation against my uncle and cousin subsided into a sullen,
implacable hatred, to overcome which I tried, and even prayed in vain.
Ashamed of harbouring this sinful passion, I yet wanted the moral
courage and Christian forbearance to overcome what reason and
conscience united to condemn.

Degraded in my own estimation, I longed, yet dreaded to confide to
Harrison, that the man he attended with such devotion was capable of
such base degeneracy--of entertaining sentiments only worthy of Robert
Moncton and his son.

The violence of my disorder had reduced me to such a state of weakness
that I imagined myself at the point of death, when I was actually out
of danger. My nervous system was so greatly affected that I yielded to
the most childish fears, and contemplated dying with indescribable
horror.

Harrison, who was unacquainted with the state of my mind, attributed
these feelings to the reaction produced by the fever; and thinking that
a state of quiescence was necessary for my recovery, seldom spoke to me
but at those times when, with tenderness almost feminine, he gave me
food and medicine, arranged my pillows, or made affectionate inquiries
about my bodily state. I often pretended to be asleep, while my mind
was actively employed in conjuring up a host of ghastly phantoms, which
prevented my recovery, and were effectually undermining my reason.

One afternoon, as I lay in a sort of dreamy state, between sleeping and
waking, and mournfully brooding over my perishing hopes and approaching
dissolution, I thought that a majestic figure, clothed in flowing
garments of glistening white, came to my bedside, and said to me in
tones of exquisite sweetness, "Poor, perishing, sinful child of earth!
if you wish to enter Heaven, you must first forgive your enemies. The
gate of Life is kept by Love, who is ready to open to every one who
first withdraws the bar which Hatred has placed before the narrow
entrance."

Overwhelmed with fear and astonishment, I started up in the bed,
exclaiming in tones of agonized entreaty, "Oh, God, forgive me! I
cannot do it!"

"Do what, dear Geoffrey?" said George, coming to the bedside, and
taking my hand in his.

"Forgive my enemies. Forgive those wretches who have brought me to this
state, and by their cruel conduct placed both life and reason in
jeopardy. I cannot do it, though He, the merciful, who dying forgave
his enemies, commands me to do so."

"Geoffrey," said Harrison, soothingly, "you can never recover your
health, or feel happy till you can accomplish this great moral victory
over sin and self."

"I cannot do it!" I responded, turning from him, and burying my face in
the bed-clothes while I hardened my heart against conviction. "No, not
if I perish for refusing. I feel as if I were already with the
condemned."

"No wonder," returned Harrison, sternly. "Hatred and its concomitant
passion, Revenge, are feelings worthy of the damned. I beseech you,
Geoffrey, by the dying prayer of that blessed Saviour, whom you profess
to believe, try to rise superior to these soul-debasing passions; and
not only forgive, but learn to pity, the authors of your sufferings."

"I have done my best. I have even prayed to do so."

"Not in a right spirit, or your prayers would have been heard and
accepted. What makes you dread death? Speak the truth out boldly. Does
not this hatred to your uncle and cousin stand between you and Heaven?"

"I confess it. But, Harrison, could you forgive them?"

"Yes."

"Not under the same provocation?"

"I have done so under worse."

"God in Heaven!--how is that possible?"

"It is true."

"I won't believe it," said I, turning angrily upon the pillow. "It is
not in human nature; and few can rise above the weakness of their
kind."

"Listen to me, Geoffrey," said Harrison, seating himself on the side of
the bed. "You wished very much at one time to learn from me the story
of my past life. I did not think it prudent at that time, and while
under Robert Moncton's roof, to gratify your curiosity. I will do so
now, in the hope of beguiling you out of your present morbid state of
feeling, while it may answer the purpose of teaching you a good, moral
lesson, which I trust you will not easily forget.

"Man's happiness depends in a great measure on the sympathy of others.
His sufferings, by the same rule, are greatly alleviated when
contrasted with the miseries of his neighbours, particularly if their
sorrows happen to exceed his own.

"Much of my history must remain in the shade, because time alone can
unravel the mystery by which I am surrounded; and many important
passages in my life, prudence forces me to conceal. But, my dear
fellow, if my trials and sufferings will in any way reconcile you to
your lot, and enable you to bear with fortitude your own, your friend
will not have suffered and sinned in vain."

George adjusted my pillows, and gave me my medicine, stirred the fire
to a cheerful blaze, and commenced the narrative that for so many
months I had so ardently longed to hear.

                    *      *      *      *      *

HARRISON'S STORY.


"Perhaps, Geoffrey, you are not aware that your grandfather left Sir
Robert Moncton, the father of the present Baronet, guardian and trustee
to his two sons, until they arrived at their majority; Edward at the
time of his death, being eighteen years of age, Robert a year and a
half younger.

"What tempted Geoffrey Moncton to leave his sons to the guardianship of
the aristocratic father, from whom he had parted in anger many years
before, no one could tell.

"The Baronet was a very old man, and was much respected in his day; and
it is possible that the dying merchant found by experience, that he
could place more reliance on the honour of a gentleman, than in a man
of business. Or it might be, that on his death-bed he repented of the
long family estrangement, and left his sons to the care of their
grandfather, as a proof that all feelings of animosity were buried in
his grave.

"Sir Robert's eldest son had been dead for some years, and the present
Baronet, who resided with his grandfather, was just two years older
than your father, and for several years the cousins lived very amicably
beneath the same roof--were sent to the same college in Oxford to
finish their studies and mingle in the same society.

"It was unfortunate for your father, who had too little ballast to
regulate his own conduct, that he contracted the most ardent friendship
for the young Alexander, who was a gay, reckless, dissipated fellow,
regarding his wealth as the source from which he derived all his
sensual pleasures, and not as a talent committed to his stewardship, of
which he must one day give an account.

"Sir Alexander's early career, though not worse than that of many young
men of the same class, was unmarked by any real moral worth. His
elegant person, good taste, and graceful manners, won for him the
esteem and affection of those around him. Frank, courteous, and ever
ready to use his influence with Sir Robert, in mitigating the distress
of his poor tenants, he was almost adored by the lower classes, and by
whom, in return, they were treated with a degree of familiarity, much
beneath his position as a gentleman. From this extravagant,
kind-hearted, and popular young man, Edward Moncton contracted those
habits which terminated in his ruin.

"Congeniality of mind strongly attached the cousins to each other; and
I am certain that Sir Alexander truly loved the frank, confiding,
careless Edward Moncton, while he equally disliked the cold,
calculating, money-getting propensities of his brother Robert. Robert
possessed a disposition not likely to forget or forgive a slight; and
he deeply resented the preference shown to his brother; and his hatred,
though carefully concealed, was actively employed in forming schemes of
vengeance.

"You well know, how Robert Moncton can hate; the depths of guile, and
the slow, smooth words, with which he can conceal the malignity of his
nature, and hide the purposes of his heart. He had a game too to play,
from which he hoped to rise up the winner; and to obtain this object he
alternately flattered and deceived his unconscious victims.

"The particulars of your father's quarrel with Sir Alexander I never
knew; it took place just before the young men left college and became
their own masters; but it was of such a nature that they parted in
anger, never to meet again.

"Shortly after this quarrel old Sir Robert died; and Alexander Moncton
came in for the estates and title. Your father and uncle, both being
now of age, entered upon the great business of life. Your father
resumed the business bequeathed to him by his father, and your uncle
entered into partnership with the firm, of which he now stands the head
and sole proprietor.

"Several years passed away. The only intercourse between the families
was through Sir Alexander and his cousin Robert, who, in spite of the
young Baronet's aversion, contrived to stick to him like a bur, until
he fairly wriggled himself into his favour. At thirty, Sir Alexander
still remained a bachelor, and seemed too general an admirer of the sex
to resign his liberty to any particular _belle_.

"About this period of my story one of Sir Alexander's game-keepers was
shot by a band of poachers, who infested the neighbourhood. Richard
North, the husband of Dinah, had made himself most obnoxious to these
lawless depredators, and thus fell a victim to his over-zeal.

"Sir Alexander considered himself bound in honour to provide for the
widow and her daughter of his faithful servant, particularly as the
former had been left without any means of support. Both mother and
daughter were received into his service--Dinah as housekeeper at the
Hall, and her daughter Rachel as upper chamber-maid.

"Dinah, at that period, was not more than thirty-four years of age, and
for a person of her class was well educated, and uncommonly handsome. I
see you smile, Geoffrey, but such was the fact.

"Rachel, who was just sixteen, was considered a perfect model of female
beauty, by all the young fellows who kept Bachelors' Hall with Sir
Alexander. The young Baronet fell desperately in love with his fair
dependent, and the girl and her mother entertained hopes that he would
make her his wife. Pride, however, hindered him from making her Lady
Moncton. In order to break the spell that bound him he gave the mother
a pretty cottage on the estate, and a few acres of land rent-free, and
went up to London to forget, amid its gay scenes, the bright eyes that
had sorely wounded his peace.

"Dinah North was not a woman likely to bear with indifference the pangs
of disappointed ambition. She bitterly reproached her daughter for
having played her cards so ill, and vowed vengeance on the proud lord
of the manor, in curses loud and deep.

"Rachel's character, though not quite so harshly defined, possessed too
much of the vindictive nature of the mother. She had loved Sir
Alexander with all the ardour of a first youthful attachment. His
wealth and station were nothing to her--it was the man alone she
prized. Had he been a peasant, she would have loved as warmly and as
well. Lost to her for ever, she overlooked the great pecuniary favours
just conferred upon her mother and herself, and only lived to be
revenged.

"It was while smarting under their recent disappointment that these
women were sought out and bribed by Robert Moncton to become his agents
in a deep-laid conspiracy, which he hoped to carry out against Sir
Alexander and his family.

"Robert Moncton was still unmarried, and Dinah took the charge of his
establishment, being greatly enraged with her beautiful daughter for
making a run-away match with Roger Mornington, Sir Alexander's
huntsman, who was a handsome man, and the finest rider in the county of
York.

"After an absence of five years, Sir Alexander suddenly returned to
Moncton Park, accompanied by a young and lovely bride. During that five
years, a great change had taken place in the young Baronet, who
returned a sincere Christian and an altered man.

"Devotedly attached to the virtuous and beautiful lady whom he had
wisely chosen for his mate, the whole study of his life was to please
her, and keep alive the tender affections of the noble heart he had
secured.

"They loved, as few modern couples love; and Sir Alexander's friends,
and he had many, deeply sympathized in his happiness.

"Two beings alone upon his estate viewed his felicity with jealous and
malignant eyes--two beings, who, from their lowly and dependent
situations, would have been thought incapable of marring the happiness
which excited their envy. Dinah North had been reconciled to her
daughter, and they occupied the huntsman's lodge, a beautiful cottage
within the precincts of the park. Dinah had secretly vowed vengeance on
the man who, from principle, had saved her child from the splendid
shame the avaricious mother coveted. She was among the first to offer
her services, and those of her daughter, to Lady Moncton. The pretty
young wife of the huntsman attracted the attention of the lady of the
Hall, and she employed her constantly about her person, while in cases
of sickness, for she was very fragile, Dinah officiated as nurse.

"A year passed away, and the lady of the manor and the wife of the
lowly huntsman were both looking forward with anxious expectation to
the birth of their first-born.

"At midnight, on the 10th of October, 1804, an heir was given to the
proud house of Moncton; a weak, delicate, puny babe, who nearly cost
his mother her life. At the same hour, in the humble cottage at the
entrance of that rich domain, your poor friend, George Harrison (or
Philip Mornington, which is my real name) was launched upon the stormy
ocean of life."

At this part of Harrison's narrative I fell back upon my pillow and
groaned heavily.

George flew to my assistance, raising me in his arms and sprinkling
my face with water.

"Are you ill, dear Geoffrey?"

"Not ill, George, but grieved: sick at heart, that you should be
grandson to that dreadful old hag."

"We cannot choose our parentage," said George, sorrowfully. "The
station in which we are born, constitutes fate in this world; it is the
only thing pertaining to man over which his will has no control. We can
destroy our own lives, but our birth is entirely in the hands of
Providence. Could I have ordered it otherwise, I certainly should have
chosen a different mother."

He smiled mournfully, and bidding me to lie down and keep quiet,
resumed his tale.

"The delicate state of Lady Moncton's health precluding her from
nursing her child, my mother was chosen as substitute, and the weakly
infant was entrusted to her care. The noble mother was delighted with
the attention which Rachel bestowed upon the child, and loaded her with
presents. As to me, I was given into Dinah's charge, who felt small
remorse in depriving me of my natural food, if anything in the shape of
money was to be gained by the sacrifice. The physicians recommended
change of air for Lady Moncton's health; and Sir Alexander fixed on
Italy as the climate most likely to benefit his ailing and beloved
wife.

"My mother was offered large sums to accompany them, which she
steadfastly declined. Lady Moncton wept and entreated, but Rachel
Mornington was resolute in her refusal. 'No money,' she said, 'should
tempt her to desert her husband and child, much as she wished to oblige
Lady Moncton.'

"The infant heir of Moncton was thriving under her care, and she seemed
to love the baby, if possible, better than she did her own. Sir
Alexander and the physician persuaded Lady Moncton, though she yielded
most reluctantly to their wishes, to overcome her maternal solicitude,
and leave her child with his healthy and affectionate nurse.

"She parted from the infant with many tears, bestowing upon him the
most passionate caresses, and pathetically urging Rachel Mornington not
to neglect the important duties she had solemnly promised to perform.

"Three months had scarcely elapsed before the young heir of Moncton was
consigned to the family vault; and Sir Alexander and his wife were duly
apprised by Robert Moncton, who was solicitor for the family, of the
melancholy event. That this child did not come fairly by his death I
have strong reasons for suspecting, from various conversations which I
overheard when a child, pass between Robert Moncton, Dinah North, and
my mother.

"The news of their son's death, as may well be imagined, was received by
Sir Alexander and Lady Moncton with the most poignant grief; and six
years elapsed before she and her husband revisited Moncton Park.

"My mother was just recovering from her confinement with a lovely
little girl--the Alice, to whom you have often heard me allude--when
Sir Alexander and Lady Moncton arrived at the Hall. They brought with
them a delicate and beautiful infant of three months old.

"I can well remember Lady Moncton's first visit to the Lodge, to learn
from my mother's own lips the nature of the disease which had consigned
her son to his early grave. I recollect my mother telling her that the
little George went to bed in perfect health, and died in a fit during
the night, before medical aid could be procured. She shed some tears
while she said this, and assured Lady Moncton that the baby's death had
occasioned her as much grief as if he had been her own--that she would
much rather that I had died than her dear nurse-child.

"I remember, as I leant against Dinah North's knees, thinking this very
hard of my mother, and wondering why she should prefer Lady Moncton's
son to me. But, from whatever cause her aversion sprang, she certainly
never had any maternal regard for me.

"Lady Moncton drew me to her, and with her sweet, fair face bathed in
tears, told my mother that I was a beautiful boy--that her darling
would have been just my age and size, and that she could not help
envying her her child. She patted my curly head, and kissed me
repeatedly, and said that I must come often to the Hall and see her,
and she would give me pretty toys, and teach me to read.

"Ah, how I loved her! Her kind, gentle voice was the first music I ever
heard. How I loved to sit at her feet when she came to the cottage, and
look up into her pale, calm face; and when she stooped down to kiss me,
and her glossy ringlets mingled with mine, I would fling my arms about
her slender neck, and whisper in a voice too low for my stern mother
and Dinah to hear:

"'I love you a thousand, thousand times better than anything else in
the world. Oh I how I wish I were your own little boy.'

"Then the bright tears would flow fast down her marble cheeks, and she
would sigh so deeply, as she returned with interest my childish
passionate caresses.

"Ah, Geoffrey, my childish heart spoke the truth. I loved that
high-born, noble woman, better than I have since loved aught in this
cold, bad world: at least, my affection for her was of a purer, holier
character.

"My mother was taken home to the Hall, to act as wet nurse to little
Margaret; and I remained at the cottage with my harsh, cross
grandmother, who beat me without the slightest remorse for the most
trifling faults, often cursing and wishing me dead, in the most
malignant manner.

"My father, whom I seldom saw (for his occupation took him often from
home, which was rendered too hot for comfort, by the temper of his
mother-in-law), was invariably kind to me. When he came in from the
stables he would tell me funny stories, and sing me jolly hunting
songs; and what I liked still better, would give me a ride before him
on the fine hunters he had under his care: promising that when I was
old enough, I should take them airing round the park, instead of him.

"My poor father! I can see him before me now, with his frank,
good-natured face, and laughing blue eyes: his stalwart figure, arrayed
in his green velvet hunting-coat, buckskin breeches and top-boots; and
the leather cap, round which his nut-brown hair clustered in thick
curls; and which he wore so jauntily on one side of his head. Roger
Mornington was quite a dandy in his way, and had belonged to a good old
stock; but his father ran away when a boy, and went to sea, and
disgraced his aristocratic friends; and Roger used to say, that he had
all the gentlemanly propensities, minus the cash.

"He doted upon me. 'His dear little jockey!' as he used to call me; and
I always ran out to meet him when he came home, with loud shouts of
joy. But there came a night, when Roger Mornington did not return; and
several days passed away, and he was at length found dead in a lonely
part of the park. The high-spirited horse he rode had thrown him, and
his neck was broken by the fall--and the horse not returning to the
stables, but making off to the high road, no alarm had been excited at
the absence of his rider.

"My mother was sincerely grieved for his death; he was a kind,
indulgent husband to her; and it was the first severe pang of sorrow
that my young heart had ever known.

"The day after his funeral, I was sitting crying beside the fire,
holding my untasted breakfast on my knee.

"'Don't take on so, child,' said my mother, wiping the tears from her
own eyes. 'All the tears in the world won't bring back the dead.'

"'And will dear daddy never come home again?' I sobbed. 'Ah, I have no
one to love me now, but the dear good lady up at the Hall!'

"'Don't I love you, Philip?'

"'No,' I replied scornfully, 'you don't love me, and you never did.'

"'How do you know that?'

"'Because you never kiss me, and take me up in your lap, as Lady
Moncton does, and look at me with kind eyes, and call me your dear boy.
No, no, when I come for you to love me, you push me away, and cry
angrily, 'Get away, you little pest! don't trouble me!' and grandmother
is always cursing me, and wishing me dead. Do you call _that_
love?'

"I never shall forget the ghastly smile that played about her beautiful
stern mouth, as she said unconsciously, aloud to herself: 'It is not
the child, but the voice of God that speaks through him. How can I
expect him to love me?'

"How I wondered what she meant. For years that mysterious sentence
haunted my dreams.

"I was soon called to endure a heavier grief. Lady Moncton's health
daily declined. She grew worse--was no longer able to go out in the
carriage, and the family physician went past our house many times
during the day on his way to the Hall.

"Old Dinah and my mother were constantly absent attending upon the sick
lady, and I was left in charge of a poor woman who came over to the
cottage to clean the house, and take care of little Alice, while my
mother was away.

"One day my mother came hastily in. She was flushed with walking fast,
and seemed much agitated. She seized upon me, washed my face and hands,
and began dressing me in my Sunday suit.

"'A strange whim this, in a dying woman,' said she, to the neighbour,
'to have such a craze for seeing other people's children. Giving all
this trouble for nothing.'

"After a good deal of pushing and shaking she dragged me off with her
to the Hall, and I was introduced into the solemn state chamber, where
my kind and noble friend was calmly breathing her last.

"Ah, Geoffrey, how well I can recall that parting hour, and the deep
impression it made on my mind. There, beneath that sumptuous canopy,
lay the young, the beautiful--still beautiful in death, with Heaven's
own smile lighted upon her pale serene face. God had set his holy seal
upon her brow. The Merciful, who delighteth in mercy, had marked her
for his own.

"Ah, what a fearful contrast to that angelic face was the dark fierce
countenance of Dinah North, scowling down upon the expiring saint, and
holding in her arms the sinless babe of that sweet mother.

"Rachel Mornington's proud handsome features wore their usual stern
expression, but her face was very pale, and her lips firmly compressed.
She held, or rather grasped me by the hand, as she led me up to the
bed.

"'Is that my little Philip?' said the dying woman in her usual sweet
tones. But the voice was so enfeebled by disease as to be scarcely
audible.

"'It is my son, my lady,' replied Rachel, and her voice slightly
faltered.

"'What says my love?' asked Sir Alexander, raising his head from the
bed-clothes in which his face had been buried to conceal his tears.

"'Lift the boy up to me, dearest Alick, that I may kiss him once more
before I die.'

"Sir Alexander lifted me into the bed beside her, and raised her up
gently with his other arm, so that both she and I were encircled in his
embrace. My young heart beat audibly. I heard Lady Moncton whisper to
her husband.

"'Alexander, he is your child. Ah, do not deny it now. You know, I love
you _too_ well to be jealous of you. Just tell me the honest truth?'

"A crimson glow spread over her husband's face, as, in the same hurried
whisper, he replied, 'Dearest Emilia, the likeness is purely
accidental. I pledge to you my solemn word, that he is not my son.'

"The poor lady looked doubtingly in his face. I saw a bitter scornful
smile pass over the rigid features of my mother; whilst I, foolish
child, was flattered with the presumption that I might possibly be Sir
Alexander's son.

"'Do not cry Philip, my darling boy!' said Lady Moncton, holding me
close to her breast. 'Sir Alexander will be a father to you for my
sake. I am very happy, my dear child; I am going to Heaven, where my
own sweet baby went before me; I shall meet him there. Be a good boy,
and love your mother, and your pretty little sister; and above all, my
dear child, love your Saviour, who can lead you through the dark valley
of the shadow of death, as gently as he is now leading me. Should you
live to be a man,' added she faintly, 'remember this hour, and the lady
who loved and adopted you as her son.'

"Then turning slowly towards her husband, she wound her thin transparent
hands about his neck; breathed a few words of love in his ear, unheard
by aught save him and me; and reclining her meek pale face upon his
manly breast, expired without a struggle.

"A deep solemn pause succeeded. I was too awe-struck to weep. The deep
convulsive sobs which burst from the heart of the bereaved husband
warned intruders to retire. My mother led me from the chamber of death,
and as we took our way in silence across the park, the solemn toll of
the death-bell floated through its beautiful glades.

"'Mother,' said I; clinging to her dress. 'What is that?'

"'The voice of death, Philip. Did you not hear that bell toll for your
father? It will one day toll for me--for you--for all.'

"'How I wish, mother, that that day would soon come.'

"'Silly boy! Do you wish us all dead?'

"'Not you mother, nor granny. You may both live as long as you like.
But when it tolls for me, I shall be in Heaven with dear Lady Moncton.'

"Rachel started, stopped suddenly, and fixed upon me a mournful gaze,
the only glance of tenderness which ever beamed upon me from those
brilliant, stern eyes.

"'Poor child! you may have your wish gratified only too soon. Did
Robert Moncton or Dinah North know of your existence, the green sod
would not lie long unpiled upon your head. You think I do not love you,
Philip!' she cried, passionately--'I do, I do, my poor child. I have
saved your life, though you think me so cross and stern.'

"She knelt down beside me on the grass, flung her arms round me, and
pressed me convulsively to her bosom, whilst big bright tears fell fast
over my wondering countenance.

"'Mother,' I sobbed, 'I do love you sometimes--always, when you speak
kindly, to me, as you do now; and I love dear little Alice--ah, so
much! my heart is full of love--I cannot tell you how much.'

"Rachel redoubled her weeping--a step sounded behind us--she sprang to
her feet, as Dinah North, with the little Margaret Moncton in her arms,
joined us.

"'What are you doing there, Rachel?' growled forth the hard-hearted
woman. 'Are you saying your prayers, or admiring the beauty of your
son. Hang the boy! though he is your child, I never can feel the least
interest in him.'

"'Is that his fault or yours?' said my mother, coldly.

"'Ah, mine, of course,' said Dinah, bitterly. 'We are not accountable
for our likes or dislikes. I hate the boy!'

"I looked at her with defiance in my eyes, and she answered my look
with a sharp blow on the cheek. 'Don't look at me, young dog, in that
insolent way. I have tamed prouder spirits than yours, and I'll tame
yours yet.'

"My mother gave her an angry glance, but said nothing, and we walked
slowly on. At last Dinah turned to her and said:

"'Rachel, this should be a proud and joyful day to you.'

"'In what respect, mother?'

"'Your rival's dead; you have gained your liberty, and Sir Alexander is
free to choose another wife. Do you understand me now?'

"'Perfectly; but that dream is past,' said my mother, mournfully. 'Sir
Alexander loved that dead angel too well, to place a woman of low
degree in her place. If he did not unite his destiny to mine when I was
young and beautiful, and he in the romance of life, don't flatter
yourself into the belief that he will do it now. I know human nature
better.'

"'You don't know your own power,' said Dinah; 'beauty is stronger than
rank and fortune, and you are still handsome enough to do a deal of
mischief among the men, if you only set about it in the right way.'

"'Peace! mother. I need none of your teaching. I learned to love
Mornington, and ceased to love Sir Alexander. Nay, I am really sorry
for the death of poor Lady Moncton, and should despise her husband if
he could forget her for one like me.'

"'Fool! idiot!' exclaimed Dinah, in a tone of exasperation. 'You have
ever stood in the way of your own fortune. Had you not been so over
squeamish you might have changed the children, and made your own son
the heir of the Moncton. Had I been at home, this surely would have
been done. This was all the good I got by leaving you to the guidance
of a handsome, good-natured fool like Mornington.'

"'Mother, speak more respectfully of the dead,' said Rachel. 'He was
_good_, at any rate, which we _are not_. It was my intention to have
changed the children, but God ordered it otherwise,' she continued,
with a convulsive laugh. 'However, I have had my revenge, but it has
cost me many a blighting thought.'

"'I don't understand you,' said Dinah, drawing close up before us, and
fixing a keen look of inquiry on her daughter.

"'Nor do I mean that you should,' coldly retorted Rachel. 'My secret is
worth keeping. You will know it one day too soon.'

"We had now reached home, and the presence of the strange woman put an
end to this mysterious conversation. Though only a boy of eight years
old, it struck me as so remarkable, that I could never forget it; and
now, when years have gone over me, I can distinctly recall every word
and look which passed between those sinful women. Alas, that one should
be so near to me.

"But you are sleepy, Geoffrey. The rest of my mournful history will
help to wile away the tedium of the long to-morrow."




CHAPTER XVI.

GEORGE HARRISON CONTINUES HIS HISTORY.


"The sorrows of my childhood were great," continued George, "but still
they were counterbalanced by many joys. In spite of the disadvantages
under which I laboured, my gay, elastic spirit surmounted them all.

"Naturally fearless and fond of adventure, I never shrunk from
difficulties, but felt a chivalrous pride in endeavouring to overcome
them. If I could not readily do this at the moment, I lived on in the
hope that the day would arrive when by perseverance and energy, I
should ultimately conquer.

"I have lived to prove that of which I early felt a proud conviction;
that it is no easy matter for a wicked person, let him be ever so
clever and cunning, to subdue a strong mind, which dares to be true to
itself.

"Dinah North felt my superiority even as a child, and the mortifying
consciousness increased her hatred. She feared the lofty spirit of the
boy whom her tyrannical temper could not tame; who laughed at her
threats, and defied her malice, and who, when freed from her control,
enjoyed the sweets of liberty in a tenfold degree.

"Sir Alexander put me to a school in the neighbourhood, where I learned
the first rudiments of my mother tongue, writing, reading, and simple
arithmetic. The school closed at half-past four o'clock in the
afternoon; when I returned to the Lodge, for so the cottage was called
in which we resided, and which stood just within the park at the head
of the noble avenue of old oaks and elms that led to the Hall. Two of
the loveliest, sweetest children nature ever formed were always at the
Park gates watching for my coming, when they ran to meet me with
exclamations of delight, and we wandered forth hand in hand to look for
wild fruit and flowers among the bosky dells and romantic uplands of
that enchanting spot.

"Alice Mornington and Margaretta Moncton were nearly the same age, born
at least within three months of each other, and were six years younger
than I. Strikingly different in their complexion, appearance and
disposition, the two little girls formed a beautiful contrast to each
other. Alice was exquisitely fair, with large, brilliant, blue eyes,
like my poor mother's, and long silken ringlets of sunny hair which
curled naturally upon her snow-white shoulders. She was tall and
stately for her age, and might have been a princess, for the noble
dignity of her carriage would not have disgraced a court.

"She was all life and spirit. The first in every sport, the last to
yield to fatigue or satiety. Her passions were warm and headstrong; her
temper irritable; her affections intense and constant, and her manners
so frank and winning that while conscious that she had a thousand
faults, you could but admire and love her.

"A stranger might have thought her capricious, but her love of variety
arose more from the exuberance of her fancy than from any love of
change. She was a fair and happy child, the idol of her fond brother's
heart, till one baneful passion marred what God and nature made so
beautiful.

"Margaret Moncton, outwardly, was less gifted than Alice Mornington,
but she far surpassed her foster-sister in mental endowments. Her
stature was small, almost diminutive. Her features neither regular nor
handsome except the dark eyes, the beauty of which I think I never saw
surpassed.

"Her complexion was pure but very pale, and her lofty, thoughtful brow
wore a serious expression from infancy. In our wildest revels on the
green sward, you seldom heard Margaret laugh; but when pleased, she had
a most bewitching smile, which lighted up her calm countenance till
every feature beamed with an inexpressible grace. Her face was the
mirror of purity and truth, and you felt, whilst looking upon it, that
it was impossible for Margaret to deceive.

"How could I be unhappy, while I had these two beautiful children for
my daily companions, and the most charming rural scenery at my
immediate command?

"Sir Alexander came every day to the Lodge to see his child, and always
lavished upon me the most flattering marks of his favour. His manner to
my mother was, at first, shy and reserved. This wore off by degrees,
and before two years had expired, from the death of his wife, his
visits became so constant, and his attentions so marked, that Dinah
once more began to entertain hopes that her ambitious schemes for her
daughter might yet be realized. These hopes were only frustrated by the
sudden death of the object for whom they were cherished. My mother, for
some weeks, had complained of an acute pain in her left side, just
under her breast, and the medicines she procured from the doctor
afforded her no relief. She grew nervous and apprehensive of the
consequences, but as her personal appearance was not at all injured by
her complaint, Dinah ridiculed her fears.

"'You may laugh as you please, mother,' said she, the very day before
she died, 'but I feel this pain will be the death of me--and I so unfit
to die,' she added, with a deep sigh.

"'Nonsense!' returned Dinah, 'you will wear your wedding clothes a
second time, before we put on your shroud.'

"My mother only answered with another deep-drawn sigh. She passed a
sleepless night--the doctor was sent for in the morning, gave her a
composing draught, and told her to make her mind easy, for she had
nothing to fear.

"I always slept in the same bed with my mother. That night I had a bad
cold and could not sleep; but knowing that she was not well, I lay
quite still, fearing to disturb her. She slept well during the early
part of the night. The clock had just struck twelve when she rose up in
the bed, and called Dinah to come to her quickly. Her voice sounded
hollow and tremulous.

"'What ails you, Rachel?' grumbled the hard woman; 'disturbing a body
at this hour of the night.'

"'Be it night or morning,' said my mother, 'I am dying, and this hour
will be my last.'

"'Then in the name of God! send for the doctor.'

"'It is too late now. He can do me no good: I am going fast; but there
is something on my mind, mother, which I must tell you before I go. Sit
down beside me on the bed, whilst I have strength left to do it, and
swear to me mother, that you will not abuse the confidence I am about
to repose in you.'

"Dinah nodded assent.

"'That will not do. I must have your solemn word--your oath!'

"'What good will that do, Rachel? no oath can bind me--I believe in no
God, and fear no devil!'

"This confession was accompanied by a hideous, cackling laugh. Rachel
groaned aloud.

"'Oh, mother! there is a God--an avenging God! Could you feel what I
now feel, and see what I now see, like the devils, you would believe
and tremble. You will know it one day, and like me, find out that
repentance comes too late. I will, however, tell the plain truth, and
your diabolical policy, will, doubtless, suggest the use which may be
made of such an important secret.'

"There was a long pause, after which some sentences passed between
them, in such a low voice, that I could not distinctly hear them; at
last I heard my mother say,

"'You never saw these children, or you would not wonder that my heart
so clave to that fair babe. You thought that I accepted Robert
Moncton's bribe, and put the other child out of the way.'

"'And did you not?' cried the eager old woman, breathless with
curiosity.

"'I took the bribe. But the child died a natural death, and I was saved
the commission of a frightful crime, which you and your master were
constantly writing to me, to urge me to commit. Now, listen, mother.'

"What she said was in tones so low, that, though I strained every nerve
to listen, as I should have done, had it been a ghost story, or any
tale of horror, the beating of my own heart frustrated all my
endeavours.

"Rachel's communication appeared to astonish her mother. Her dark,
wrinkled brows contracted until not a particle of the eyes were
visible, and she sat for a long while in deep thought, rocking herself
to and fro on the bed, whilst the dying woman regarded her with
expanded eyes and raised hands, locked tightly together. At last she
spoke.

"'Dinah! make no ill use of my confidence, or there will come a day of
vengeance for both you and me. What shall we gain by being tools in the
hands of a wicked man like Robert Moncton. Why should we sell our souls
for naught, to do his dirty work.'

"'Not to serve him will I do aught to injure the child. No, no. Dinah
North is not such a fool. If I do it to gratify my own revenge, that's
another thing. I have this bad, bold Robert in my power. This secret
will be a fortune in itself--will extort from his mean, avaricious
soul, a portion of his ill-gotten wealth. Ha, my child! you did well
and wisely, and may die in peace, without the stain of blood upon your
soul.'

"Rachel shook her head despondingly.

"'There is no peace, saith my God, for the wicked. My soul consented to
the crime, and whilst the thought was uppermost in my heart, the bolt
of the Almighty smote me, and my resolution wavered; but, the guilt, at
this moment, appears to me the same. It is a dreadful thing to die
without hope. Where is Alice?'

"'Sleeping. Shall I bring her to you?'

"'Let her sleep. I feel sleepy, too. Smooth my pillow, mother. Give me
a little water. I feel easy now. Perhaps, I shall awake in the morning
better.'

"The pillows were arranged--the draught given; but the sleeper never
awoke again.

"Her mysterious communications, which only came by halves to my ears,
filled my mind with vague conjectures, and I cannot help thinking, to
this hour, that the young heir of Moncton came to an untimely death,
and she blamed herself so bitterly for not having me supply his place.

"Stern as my mother had been during her life, her death was a severe
blow to us all, especially to Alice and me; as it removed from our
humble home an object most dear to us both, the little lady of the
manor, to whom we had ever given the endearing name of sister.

"After Margaret left us, how dull did all our pastimes appear. Alice
and I wandered sadly and silently among our old haunts; the song of the
birds cheered us no longer; the flowers seemed less fair; the murmur of
the willow-crowned brook less musical; the presiding genius of the
place had vanished; we felt that we were alone.

"I had now reached my fourteenth year, and Sir Alexander, true to the
promise made to his wife, sent me to an excellent school in the city of
York. Here I made such good use of my time, that before three years had
elapsed I was second boy in the head class, and had won the respect of
the master and ushers. My munificent patron was greatly pleased with
the progress I had made, and hinted at sending me to college, if I
continued to deserve his good opinion.

"Ah, Geoffrey! those were halcyon days, when I returned to spend the
vacations at the Lodge, and found myself ever a welcome visitor at the
Hall. With a proud heart I recounted to Sir Alexander, all my boyish
triumphs at school, and the good baronet listened to my enthusiastic
details with the most intense interest, and fought all his juvenile
battles over again, with boyish ardour, to the infinite delight of our
admiring audience, Margaret and Alice. The latter spent most of her
time with Miss Moncton, who was so much attached to her foster-sister,
and shed so many tears at parting from her, that Sir Alexander yielded
to her earnest request for Alice to remain with her, and the young
heiress and the huntsman's blooming daughter were seldom apart. Miss
Moncton's governess, an amiable and highly accomplished woman, took as
much pains in teaching Alice as she did in superintending the education
of her high-born pupil. The beautiful girl acquired her tasks so
rapidly, and with such an intense desire for improvement, that Sir
Alexander declared, that she beat his Madge hollow.

"Dinah North exulted in the growing charms of her grand-daughter. If
the old woman regarded anything on earth with affection, it was the
tall, fair girl so unlike herself. And Alice, too--I have often
wondered how it were possible--Alice loved with the most ardent
affection, that forbidding-looking, odious creature.

"To me, since the death of my mother, she had been civil but
reserved--never addressing me without occasion required--and I neither
sought nor cared for her regard.

"It was on the return of one of those holidays, when I returned home
full of eager anticipations of happiness, of joyous days spent at the
Park in company with Margaret and Alice, that I first beheld that
artful villain, Robert Moncton.

"It was a lovely July evening. The York coach set me down at the Park
gates, and I entered the pretty cottage with my scanty luggage on my
back, and found the lawyer engaged in earnest conversation with my
grandmother.

"Struck with the appearance of the man, which at first sight is very
remarkable, I paused for some minutes on the threshold, unobserved by
the parties. Like you, Geoffrey, I shall never forget the impression
his countenance made upon me. The features so handsome, the colouring
so fine, the person that of a finished gentleman; and yet, all this
pleasing combination of form and face marred by that cold, cruel,
merciless eye. Its expression so dead, so joyless, sent a chill through
my whole frame, and I shrank from encountering its icy gaze, and was
about quietly to retire by a back door, when my attention was arrested
by the following brief conversation.

"'I should like to see the lad.'

"'We expect him home from school by the coach to-night.'

"'What age is he?'

"'Just sixteen.'

"'What does Sir Alexander mean to do for him?'

"'Send him to college, I believe. He is very fond of him.'

"'Humph!--and then to London to make a lawyer of him. Leave him to me,
Dinah, I will make a solicitor of him in earnest. I have taught many a
bold heart and reckless hand to solicit the charity of others.'

"'Devil doubt you!' rejoined the fiend with a hollow, cackling laugh.
'But you may find the boy one too many for you, with all your cunning.
He'll not start at shadows, nor stumble over straws. I have tamed many
a proud spirit in my day, but this boy defies my power. I fear and hate
him, but I cannot crush him. But hush!--here he is.'

"I bustled forward and flung my portmanteau heavily to the ground. 'How
are you, grandmother? How's Alice? All well, I hope?'

"'Do you see the gentleman, Philip?'

"'Gentleman! I beg his pardon. A fine evening, sir; but very hot and
dusty travelling by the coach. I have not tasted anything since
breakfast, grandmother; and I am tired and hungry.'

"'Yours is the hungry age,' said the lawyer, staring me full in the
face, as if he was taking a proof impression for legal purposes. His
cold, searching look brought the blood to my cheeks, and I returned the
impertinent scrutiny with a glance of defiance.

"He rose; nodded meaningly to Dinah, bowed slightly to me, and left the
cottage.

"The next minute Alice was in my arms.

"'Brother! dear, darling brother! welcome, welcome a thousand times.'

"Oh, what a contrast to the dark, joyless countenance of Dinah North,
was the cherub face of Alice--laughing in the irresistible glee of her
young heart. I forgot my long, tiresome journey, dust, heat, and
hunger, as I pulled her on my knee, and covered her rosy cheeks with
kisses.

"'What news since I left, Alice?'

"'Sad news, Philip. Dear Madge is in London on a visit to her aunt; and
there is a dull, cross boy staying at the Hall, with a very hard
name--Theophilus Moncton--Margaret's cousin. But he is nothing like
her, though he calls her his little wife. But Madge says that she will
never have him, though his father is very rich.'

"'I am sure _you will_ hate him, Philip, for he calls us beggar's
brats, and wonders that Sir Alexander suffers his daughter to play with
us. I told him that he was very rude; and that he had better not
affront you, for you would soon teach him better manners. But he only
sneered at me, and said, "My father's a _gentleman_. He never suffers
me to associate with people _beneath_ us. Your brother had better keep
out of my way, or I will order my groom to horsewhip him." I felt very
angry and began to cry, and Sir Alexander came in and reproved the boy,
and told me I had better return to grandmamma until Mr. Moncton and his
son had left the Hall.'

"While little Alice, ran on thus to me, I felt stung to the quick; and
all the pride of my nature warring within. For the first time in my
life, I became painfully conscious of the difference of rank which
existed between me and my benefactor; I was restless and unhappy, and
determined not to go near the Hall, until Sir Alexander bade me do so
himself.

"But days passed, and I saw nothing of the good Baronet, and Alice and
I were obliged to content ourselves by roaming through all the old
beloved haunts, and talking of Margaret. We were returning one evening
through the fine avenue of oaks, which led to the front entrance of the
demesne, when a pony rushed past us at full gallop. A boyish impulse,
tempted me to give a loud halloo, in order to set the beautiful animal
off at its wildest speed. In a few minutes we met a lad of my own age,
booted and spurred, with a whip in his hand, running in the same
direction the pony had taken. He was in a towering passion, and coming
up to us, he cried out, with a menacing air--

"'You impudent rascal! how dared you to shout in that way, to frighten
my horse, when you saw me endeavouring to catch him?'

"'I saw no such thing,' I replied, drily. 'I admired the pony, and
shouted to see how much faster he could run.'

"'You deserve a good thrashing,' quoth he. 'Go and catch the horse for
me, or I will complain to Sir Alexander of your conduct.'

"'Sir Alexander is not my master, neither are you. I shall do no such
thing.'

"'Do it instantly!' stamping with his foot.

"'Do it yourself. You look quite as fit for a groom as I do.'

"I tried to pass him, but he stepped into the centre of the path, and
hindered me. To avoid a collision was now impossible.

"'You insolent young blackguard!' he cried, 'do you know that you are
speaking to a gentleman?'

"'_Indeed!_' I said, with a provoking smile. 'I ought to thank you
for the information, for I never should have suspected the fact.'

"With a yell of rage, he struck me in the face with the butt end of his
whip. I sprang upon him with the strength of a tiger, and seizing his
puny form in my arms, I dashed him beneath my feet, and after bestowing
upon him sundry hearty kicks, rejoined the terrified Alice, and left
Mr. Theophilus Moncton, to gather up his fallen dignity, and make the
best of his way home to the Hall.

"This frolic cost me far more than I expected. The next morning, Sir
Alexander rode over to the Lodge, and severely reprimanded me for my
conduct; and ended his lecture, by affirming in positive terms, that if
I did not beg his young relative's pardon, he would withdraw his favour
from me for ever.

"This, I proudly refused to do--and the Baronet as proudly told me, 'To
see his face no more!'

"I looked sorrowfully up as he said this. The tears were in my eyes,
for I loved him very much--but my heart was too full to speak.

"He leant down from his horse, expecting my answer. I was silent: the
colour mounted to his cheeks; he waited a few minutes longer; I made no
sign, and he struck the spurs into his horse, and rode quickly away.

"'There goes my only friend!' I cried. 'Curse the mean wretch, who
robbed me of my friend! I only regret that I did not kill him!'

"Thus for one boyish act of indiscretion I was flung friendless upon
the world. Yet, Geoffrey, were the thing to do again, I feel that I
could not, and would not, act otherwise.

"Time has convinced me that Robert Moncton, acting with his usual
policy, had made Sir Alexander ashamed of his connection with us, and
he gladly availed himself of the first plausible excuse to cast me off.
Alice deeply lamented my disgrace; but the whole affair afforded mirth
to my grandmother, who seemed greatly to enjoy my unfortunate triumph
over the boy with the _hard name_."




CHAPTER XVII.

HARRISON FINDS A FRIEND IN NEED.


"During my residence at school in York, my master was often visited by
a wealthy merchant who bore the same name with myself. This man was an
old bachelor, very eccentric, but universally esteemed as one of the
most benevolent of men. He was present at one of the school
examinations in which I took many prizes, and asking my name he found
out that he was related to my father, and bestowed upon me many marks
of favour, such as presenting me with useful books, and often asking me
over to his house to dine, or spend the evening.

"Flattered by his attentions to me, I had lost no opportunity of
increasing our friendship, and I determined to apply to him in my
present distress.

"I was a perfect novice in the art of letter-writing, never having
penned an epistle in my life, and after making several attempts with
which I was perfectly disgusted, I determined to walk over to the city
and make my application in person to Mr. Mornington.

"Without communicating my intentions to Alice, I carefully tied up a
change of linen in a silk handkerchief, and with the mighty sum of five
shillings in my pocket, commenced my pedestrian journey of thirty odd
miles.

"I started in the morning by day-break, and without meeting with any
particular adventures on the road, I arrived at six o'clock in the
evening, foot-sore and weary at the rich man's door. When there, my
heart, which had been as stout as a lion's on the road, failed me, and
I sat down upon the broad stone steps that led up to the house, sorely
depressed and uncertain what course to take.

"This I knew would not do: the night was coming on, and the rain, which
had threatened all day, now began to fall fast. Making a desperate
effort, I sprang up the steps, and gave a gentle knock, so gentle that
it was unheard; and unable to summon sufficient courage to repeat the
experiment, I resumed my seat until some more fortunate applicant
should seek admittance.

"Not many minutes elapsed before the quick loud rap of the postman
brought Mrs. Jolly, the housekeeper, to the door; and edging close to
him of the red jacket, I asked in a tremulous voice--'If Mr. Mornington
was at home?'

"'Why, dearee me, master Philip, is that you?' said the kind woman,
elevating her spectacles: 'who would have thought of seeing you
t'night?'

"'Who, indeed! But, my dear Mrs. Jolly, is Mr. Mornington disengaged,
and can I see him?'

"'He is t'home, and you can speak to him, but not just now. He's to his
dinner, and doan't like to be disturbed. But come this way, an I'll
tell him you are here.'

"'Who's that you are speaking to, Mrs. Jolly?' cried my worthy old
friend as we passed the dining-room door, through which the footmen
were carrying an excellent dinner to table.

"'Only Mr. Philip, sir.'

"'Mr. Philip!' and the next moment, the old man came out and grasped me
warmly by the hand. 'Why, lad, what brings you back to school so
soon--tired of play already, hey?'

"'No, sir. I fear play will soon tire of me. I am to go to school no
more.'

"'Sorry to hear that, Phil. Just the time when instruction would be of
the most service to you. You would learn more in the ensuing year, than
in all that have gone before it. Leave school! no, no, I must see you
the head boy in it yet.'

"'That was my ambition, sir. But you know I am only a poor orphan lad,
entirely dependent on the bounty of Sir Alexander Moncton. I have
offended this gentleman, and he will do no more for me; and I walked
from the Park to-day to ask your advice as to what course I had better
pursue, and in what way I am most likely to earn my own living.'

"The old gentleman looked grave.

"'Offended Sir Alexander? You must have acted very imprudently to do
that, and he so kind to you. Walked all the way from Moncton. Bless the
boy, how tired and hungry you must be! Sit down, young Philip
Mornington, and get your dinner with old Philip Mornington; and we will
talk over these matters by and by.'

"Gladly I accepted the dear old gentleman's hearty invitation. I had
not tasted food since early dawn, and was so outrageously hungry and
eat with such a right good will, that he often stopped and laughed
heartily at my voracity.

"'Well done, Philip! Don't be ashamed: hold in your plate for another
slice of beef. Thirty miles of hard walking at this season of the year,
may well give a boy of sixteen, strong and healthy like you, a good
appetite.'

"After the cloth was drawn, and the old gentleman had refreshed me with
a couple of glasses of excellent wine, obedient to his request I
related to him my adventure with Theophilus Moncton in the park, and
its unfortunate results.

"Instead of blaming me, the whole affair seemed greatly to amuse the
hearty old man. He fell back in his chair, and chuckled and laughed
until he declared that his sides ached.

"'And was it for punishing that arrogant puppy as he deserved, that Sir
Alexander cast you, my fine fellow, from his favour?'

"'He might have forgiven that. It was for refusing so positively his
commands, in not asking young Moncton's pardon.'

"'If you had obeyed him in this instance, Philip, you would have
forfeited my good opinion for ever, and would have deserved to have
been kicked by Sir Alexander's lackeys for your meanness. Don't look so
cast down, boy. I honour you for your self-respect and independence.
You have other friends besides Sir Alexander Moncton, who will not
forsake you for taking your own part like a man. You shall go to school
yet--ay, and become the head scholar in Dr. Trimmer's head class, and
finish your education at Oxford, or my name is not Philip Mornington.'

"How well did this excellent, warm-hearted, generous man perform his
promise; how ill I profited by the education he gave me, and the wealth
he bequeathed to me at his death, the subsequent portion of my history
will reveal.

"I went to school at the end of the vacation, but as a day-boarder; Mr.
Mornington, having told me to consider his house as my future home.

"A boy who came from our village to Dr. Trimmer's school, told me that
Sir Alexander's passion soon cooled, and he rode over to the Lodge a
week after I left, to inquire after his old pet, and was surprised and
exasperated to find the bird flown, and taken by the hand by a man for
whom he had a great personal antipathy; who had ever opposed him in
politics, and had twice carried an election against him.

"There was enough of revenge in my composition to feel glad that Sir
Alexander was annoyed at my good-fortune.

"The next year saw me at college, with a handsome allowance from my
generous patron, to enable me to establish my claims as a gentleman. I
will pass over the three years I spent at this splendid abode of
learning and science.

"The gratitude I felt for all Mr. Mornington had done for me, for a
long time restrained me from indulging in the wild excesses which
disgraced the conduct of most of the young men with whom I associated.
This reluctance, however, to do and countenance evil, gradually wore
off, and I became as wild and dissipated as my companions.

"I formed many agreeable acquaintances at college, but had only one who
really deserved the name of a friend. Kind, gentle and studious,
Cornelius Laurie (for so I shall call him) mingled very little with his
fellow students: his health being delicate, he spent most of his
leisure hours in walking, an exercise of which he was particularly
fond, and in which generally participated.

"His mild, intelligent countenance first won my regard. I sought his
acquaintance, found him easy of access, friendly and communicative, and
always anxious to oblige every one as far as lay in his power.
Commanding an excellent income, he was always ready to assist the
improvident who had expended theirs, and with such a disposition, you
may be certain that the calls upon his purse were by no means few. He
formed a strong attachment to me, and we usually spent most of our time
together.

"Cornelius invited me to pass the Christmas vacation with him in town.
When at home he resided with his aunt, a widow lady who had brought up
his only sister, who had been left an orphan at a very early age.
Charlotte Laurie was several years younger than her brother; and in
speaking of her he had always told me that she was a very pretty girl,
but I was not prepared to behold the beautiful and fascinating creature
to whom I was introduced.

"Charlotte Laurie was a child of nature, without display or
affectation; conscious of her great personal attractions only so far as
to render her more agreeable--for what beautiful woman was ever
ignorant of her charms? My pretty Lotty knew perfectly the power they
gave her over the restless and inconstant heart of man, but she did not
abuse it.

"My passions, Geoffrey, by nature, are as warm and impetuous as your
own, and they soon betrayed me into love; and I thought that the fair
girl to whom I had lost my heart was not insensible to the passion she
had inspired. But when I recalled my obscure parentage, of which
Cornelius was perfectly ignorant; and the uncertainty of my future
prospects, I felt that it would be dishonourable in me to advance my
suit to the young lady. To remain in the house and keep silent upon a
subject so important to my peace, I found would be impossible; and I
feigned a letter from Mr. Mornington, whom I called my uncle, requiring
my immediate presence in York.

"My departure caused great regret to the family. Cornelius
remonstrated; Mrs. H---- questioned the necessity of my journey;
Charlotte said nothing, but left the room in tears. Strongly tempted as
I was to stay, I remained firm to my original purpose, and bade adieu
to my amiable friends, without breathing a word even to Cornelius of my
attachment for his sister.

"On my way to York I called at my old home, and was received with the
most lively demonstrations of joy by Alice, whom I found a blooming
girl of fifteen. Old Dinah told me, as she scowled at my handsome dress
and improved appearance, 'That she supposed I was now too fine a
gentleman to call her grandmother, or Alice sister?'

"I assured her that my improved circumstances had not changed my heart,
nor made me ashamed of my old friends. Something, I fear, in my looks,
contradicted my words, for she turned from me with a scornful smile:

"'The world,' said she, 'was a good school for teaching people the art
of falsehood.'

"Her sarcasms made me very uncomfortable--for my conscience convicted
me of their truth--and turning to Alice I begged her to tell me the
news, for I was certain a great deal must have happened in the
neighbourhood during the four years I had been absent.

"'No,' said Alice; 'we go on much as usual. Sir Alexander and Margaret
are very kind to me, and I go every day up to the Hall. But she is Miss
Moncton now, and I am plain Alice Mornington. Mr. Theophilus is often
there; and he is so much improved, Philip, you would never know him. He
is no longer proud and disagreeable, but so affable and kind, and
always sees me safe home to the Lodge. People say that he is to marry
Miss Moncton; but I don't believe a word of it. He does not love her I
am certain; for he told me so a few days ago; and that he thought me a
thousand times handsomer than his cousin!'

"While Alice ran on thus, I kept my eyes fixed upon her beautiful face;
and from the heightening of her colour when speaking of Theophilus, I
was convinced that young as she was, she was not insensible to his
flattery. Anxious to warn her of her danger, I drew her arm through
mine, and we strolled together into the park.

"'Dear Alice,' said I, affectionately; 'do you love your brother as
well as you used to do in years long past?'

"'Philip, do you doubt my love?' she answered, reproachfully.

"'Not in the least, Alice. I know your heart to be warm and true; but
years make great changes. Four years have fled away since we met, and
you are nearly grown into a woman. Perhaps you will be angry with me if
I venture to give you a little brotherly advice.'

"'Not without you scold me too much.'

"'My lecture, Alice, I will confine to a few words. Do not listen, dear
child, to the flattering speeches of Theophilus Moncton. He means you
no good.'

"'How can you know that?' she said, quickly.

"'From the general character which the man bears. From my experience of
him when a boy. Avoid his company; he means to deceive you.'

"'Philip, you wrong him, indeed, you do!' she cried, with flashing
eyes. 'He never talks to me of love, he only seeks to be my friend. I
am too young to think of love. I don't know what being in love is--but
I do feel very grateful to one so much richer and better than me, and
who is heir to all these beautiful groves, and that fine old Hall,
taking such an interest in my welfare--particularly,' she added, with
great emphasis on her words, 'after he received such unworthy treatment
from a brother of mine.'

"'You surely do not mean what you say, Alice?'

"'I never say what I do not mean; and if you come back to us, Philip,
only to quarrel with us, you had better have stayed away.'

"For a few minutes I felt terribly annoyed; but when I recollected that
these words fell from the lips of a spoilt child, I restrained my
anger, in the hope of saving her from the ruin I feared might be
impending over her.

"'Alice, you are a simple, little girl; as such I forgive you. You are
not aware of the danger to which you are exposed. Young people are so
ignorant of the treachery of the world, and so confident in their own
strength to resist temptation, that they easily fall into the snares
laid for them by wicked and designing men. If you persist in receiving
the attentions of this man, who would consider it the utmost
degradation to make you his wife, I, as your brother and natural
protector, will consider it my duty to remove you from this place.'

"'I will not go!' she cried; stopping suddenly and looking me in the
face with an air of defiance. 'You are not your own master yet, much
less mine. I shall remain here with my dear, old grandmother, as long
as she lives. And let me tell you, Mr. Philip, I am as competent to
manage my own affairs as you are!'

"Could this be Alice?

"I looked at her, and looked again. The beauty of her countenance
seemed changed. I turned from her with a deep sigh.

"'Oh, Alice, sister Alice! I tremble for you; so young and so
self-willed. This is not my Alice, the happy, confiding Alice, who once
loved me so tenderly.'

"'I did love you, Philip, very much,' she replied, in a softened voice;
'but how was my love returned? You quarrelled with the only friend we
had in the world. One, too, who had done so much for us. To whose
bounty we were indebted for a home and daily bread; for the clothes we
wore, for the instruction we received--who treated us in every respect
more like his own children, than the poor recipients of his noble
generosity. You forgot all this. You insolently refused to apologize to
his young relative, the heir of his title and wealth, for having
grossly insulted him, and left your home and his protection without
bidding this dear sister, for whose well-doing you are so deeply
concerned, and who shared in your disgrace, one short farewell.'

"'Alice--Alice!'

"'Hush, sir; hear me to the end, if you please. You acted more
ungratefully still, when you sought employment from one of Sir
Alexander's bitterest enemies; and never wrote a single line either to
your injured patron or to us. Was this love? Young as I am, Philip
Mornington, I could not have been guilty of such baseness. I despise
your conduct; and advice comes very ill from a person who could be
guilty of such.'

"She turned haughtily away; and I, Geoffrey, I stood overwhelmed with
confusion and remorse. I had never seen my conduct in this light
before. I had all along imagined myself the injured party, and looked
upon Sir Alexander as an unreasonable persecutor. But I felt at that
moment, as I stood humbled before that proud girl, that I had not acted
right--that some concession was due on my part to the man from whom I
had received so many benefits; and but for very shame I would have
sought his presence, acknowledged my error, and entreated his pardon.

"Oh, why does this stubborn pride so often stand between us and our
best intentions. I let the moment pass, and my heart remained true to
its stern determination, not to yield one inch of what I falsely termed
independence. My reverie was dispelled by Alice. She took my hand
kindly.

"'You look grave, Philip. I have put these serious thoughts into your
head, and you feel sorry for the past. My anger is all gone. I forgive
you from my very heart. So give me a kiss, and let us be friends; but
no more lectures if you please for the future. I will not stand a
scolding--not even from you. You need not fear that I shall disgrace
you: I am too proud to place myself in the power of any one. I like,
yes, I love Theophilus Moncton, but he will never make a fool of me, or
any one else. But--hush--here is Miss Moncton.'

"The blood crimsoned my face as a sudden turning in the woodland path,
brought me within a few paces of one whom at that moment I would gladly
have shunned. To retreat was impossible. I raised my hat, and with, her
usual frankness, Margaret held out her hand.

"I pressed it respectfully between my own without venturing to raise my
eyes to her face. She perceived my confusion, and doubtless defined the
cause.

"'You have been a sad truant, Philip. But you are welcome home. I, for
one, rejoice to see my dear foster-brother again.'

"'Is that possible?' I stammered out--'Dear Miss Moncton, I am only too
happy to be allowed to plead for myself--I feel that I have sinned
against my good and generous benefactor; that this kindness on your
part, is wholly undeserved. What shall I do to regain your good
opinion.'

"'Say nothing at all about it, Geoffrey. It was a boyish fault, and my
father has often repented that he treated it so seriously. For my own
part, I do not blame you for thrashing Theophilus; had I been provoked
in the same manner, and a lad of your age, I would have done it myself.
My quarrel with you, is for leaving the Park, and deserting us all,
before a reconciliation could take place. You knew that my father's
anger was like dew upon the grass, evaporated by the first sunbeam, and
that we loved you dearly--so that your conduct appears inexcusable and
heartless.'

"'Oh, do not say that, Miss Moncton. What I did was perfectly
impulsive, without thought or premeditation. I could not imagine that I
was in the wrong, and Sir Alexander's conduct appeared to me cruel and
unjust.'

"'Come with me to the Hall, Mr. Mornington, and I will plead your case
to this cruel tyrant. My eloquence with papa is quite irresistible; and
he, poor dear, is more ready to forgive, than you are to ask
forgiveness.'

"This was said, with one of her bewitching smiles, which lighted up
like a passing sunbeam her calm, pale face.

"'You are too good, Miss Moncton. I would gladly avail myself of your
invitation, but I must proceed on my journey to York immediately. I
hope, however, soon to visit Moncton again; when I will, with Sir
Alexander's permission, explain my conduct, and ask his pardon.'

"'I hate procrastination in these matters, which pertain to the heart
and conscience,' said Margaret. 'My motto, when prompted by either, to
perform an act of duty, is--_now_; when we seek forgiveness from God,
or from a friend, we should never defer it to the future, for the
opportunity once neglected may never again be ours.'

"This was said with some severity. A sort of mental cowardice kept me
back and hindered me effectually from profiting by her advice. Just
then, I felt it was out of my power to meet Sir Alexander. I had not
courage to enter his presence in my present mood.

"'Alice,' said Margaret, turning from me with a disappointed air, 'what
has kept _you_ so long away from the Hall?'

"'I grow too proud to visit my rich friends,' returned Alice, in a tone
between sarcasm and raillery.

"'There is only one species of pride, that I tolerate,' said Margaret,
calmly--'the pride of worth. That pride which enables a good man to
struggle successfully against the arrogance of the world.'

"I turned to the speaker with admiration. Had she been born a peasant,
Margaret Moncton would have possessed the dignity of a lady, and the
little lecture she thought fit to bestow upon my beautiful wayward
sister, was dictated by the same noble spirit.

"'We should never be proud, Alice, of the gifts of nature, or fortune,
which depend upon no merit of our own. Beauty and wealth have their due
influence in the world, where their value is greatly overrated; but
they add little in reality to the possessor. Deprived of both, persons
of little moral worth, would relapse into their original
insignificance; while those, who improve the talents entrusted to their
care by Providence, possess qualities which defy the power of change.
Such persons can alone afford to be proud, yet these of all others make
the least display and think most humbly of themselves.'

"This was said playfully, but Alice did not at all relish the reproof;
which, though, disregarded by her, made a deep impression upon me."




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MEETING.


"The next morning I arrived in York, and hastened to the house of Mr.
Mornington. I found the dear old gentleman ill in bed, but in his usual
excellent spirits.

"On expressing my concern for his illness, he laughed at my long face;
told me it was a trifle, and he should soon be well again. Alas, he was
not a true prophet! In a few weeks I followed my worthy friend to his
grave; and found myself at the age of one-and-twenty, my own master,
and sole heir to his large property.

"The joy felt at this unexpected good fortune was more than
counterbalanced by the loss of the generous donor. Gladly would I have
resigned the wealth he so nobly bequeathed me, if by so doing I could
have recalled the dear old man to life. I was detained for several
months in York, settling my affairs. I lost no time, however, in
acquainting Cornelius, by letter, of my good fortune. I took this
opportunity of mentioning my attachment to his sister, and urged him,
if he valued my happiness, to plead with her in my behalf. His answer,
though kind, was far from satisfactory to a young and ardent lover.

"He informed me that Charlotte was not insensible to my passion; and
that he knew that she entertained from me a sincere esteem; but it was
entirely out of her power to accept any offer of marriage without the
consent of her guardian; or she would lose the property bequeathed to
her by her father; who had left this stringent clause in his will.

"For himself, he continued, nothing would give him greater pleasure,
than to see his beloved sister united to a man whom he loved, and whom
he considered worthy of her regard; particularly, as he found his own
health daily declining, and was about to take a journey to the south of
France, in the hope of deriving some benefit from change of climate and
scene.

"He urged me to return immediately to London; to plead my own cause
with Charlotte, and to spend a few days with him, before he left
England; as he felt, that it was more than probable, that we might
never meet again.

"The last mournful sentence decided me, and the next morning found me
on the road to London; and I determined to take Moncton Park in my
route, and seek a reconciliation with Sir Alexander. After what had
passed between me and Miss Moncton, I flattered myself that this would
be an easy matter.

"I was no longer a poor orphan boy, dependent upon his bounty; but a
well-educated, wealthy man, whose fortune was equal, if not greater
than his own. There was no favour I could ask, or that he could bestow,
beyond the renewal of that friendship which formed the delight of my
boyhood, and of which I had been so suddenly deprived.

"As I rode up the noble avenue of oaks which led to the Hall, I felt so
confident of success, so vain of my altered fortunes, so proud of the
noble horse I rode, that my spirits grew buoyant, and my cheeks glowed
with anticipated pleasure.

"'Is Sir Alexander at home?' I eagerly demanded of the liveried servant
that opened the door.

"'He is, sir. What name shall I send up?' I gave him my card, and was
shown into the library, while he carried it up to his master.

"Years had fled away, since I last stood within that room, a happy
thoughtless boy. How vividly did every book and picture recall the
blessed hours I had passed there, with Margaret and Alice, when the
weather was wet, and we could not play abroad! It was in this
apartment, with its carved oak wainscoting and antique windows of
stained glass, in which we generally held our revels, turning over the
huge folios in search of pictures.

"There was the Book of Martyrs, with all its revolting details of human
bigotry; and its dreadful exhibitions of human endurance amidst scorn
and agony. On these we gazed in mysterious awe; and as we turned over
the horrible pages, we said to one another, 'that we were glad we were
not Christians in those days.'

"Then, there was Descartes' ancient philosophy. A huge tome, full of
quaint pictures of gods and goddesses, and angels and devils, on which
we were never tired or gazing; infinitely preferring the latter, with
their curious tails and horns, to the former; whom we called, 'Fat
lazy-looking children with wings.' 'Goldsmith's World,' 'Buffon's
Natural History,' and the whole family of Encyclopedias, with their
numerous prints, were among our chief favourites, and helped to beguile
the long wet day. Sir Alexander often assisted himself at these
exhibitions, and seemed as much pleased with showing us the pictures as
we were in looking at them.

"From the cherished memories of former years, I was recalled by the
entrance of the servant, who, with an air of rude familiarity, told
me--'that Sir Alexander Moncton would never be at home to _Mister
Philip Mornington_.'

"Thunder-struck with this unexpected blow, and writhing under a bitter
sense of humiliation, I affected an air of contemptuous indifference
and turned to depart; when a light grasp was laid upon my arm, and I
encountered the dark soul-lighted eyes of Margaret Moncton, moistened
with tears, and fixed upon me with a gaze of mournful interest,

"'Stay, Mr. Mornington. Dear, Philip! stay, I beseech you, for one
little moment.'

"'Let me go, Miss Moncton. You deceived me into the belief that my
reception would have been very different--I feel that I have no
business here.'

"'That was your own fault, in deferring the _now_ of to-day, to the
_future_ of the unknown to-morrow,' said Margaret, sadly. 'But you must
stay; I insist upon your hearing me speak a few words before you leave
this house.'

"I remained silent and passive, and she continued--'There was a time,
Philip, when your sister Margaret would not have asked anything of you
in vain.' The tears flowed fast down her pale cheeks, and I felt the
small hand which lay on mine tremble violently.

"'Dear Miss Moncton,' said I, gently leading her to a seat, and taking
one beside her, 'you must make some allowance for mortified pride and
wounded feelings. Time has not in the least diminished the affection
and respect I have ever felt for you, and which your present kindness
is not at all likely to lessen. I should, however, be deeply concerned,
if your condescension should draw down upon you the displeasure of your
father.'

"'Philip, I never do aught which I should be ashamed of my father
witnessing. Nothing would give me greater pleasure, than to see him
enter this room; and it is to lead you to him, that brought me here.'

"'He has once forbidden me his presence,' cried I, rising from my seat;
'I shall seek an interview with him no more.'

"'Let me seek it for you.'

"'What good would it answer?'

"Can you ask that question, Mr. Mornington? Remember all you owe to my
father's kindness. I do not want to reproach you with benefits which he
felt pleasure in conferring. But surely some feeling of gratitude is
due from one whom he loved for so many years as a son; whom I am
certain he still loves; whom, if he could once see, would be as dear to
him as ever.'

"'Could I feel that his anger was just, there is no concession, however
great, Miss Moncton, that I would hesitate to make: I love and revere
Sir Alexander, but he has taken up idle prejudices against me, and I am
too proud--obstinate, if you will--to ask his forgiveness for what I
never can look upon as a fault.'

"'One would think, Philip, that you were a Moncton, so hard and
obdurate are their hearts,' said Margaret, weeping afresh. 'How gladly
would I be the peacemaker, and reconcile you to each other, but you
love strife for its own sake--are too proud to acknowledge an error.
Philip,' she cried, passionately, 'do you remember my mother?'

"She had struck a chord which always vibrated intensely in my heart.
'How can I ever forget her? And yet, Miss Moncton, dear Miss Moncton, I
do not wonder at your asking the question.'

"As I said this tears rushed to my own eyes, as a thousand sad
recollections crowded into my mind. The mournful chamber--the bed of
death--the calm, sweet face of the expiring saint; and her last solemn
injunction, for me to look upon her grave when I came to be a man, and
remember her who had loved me as a son. Had I done this? Oh, no! The
world had obliterated her pure and holy image from my mind, and all her
tenderness and love had been forgotten.

"I stood there before her daughter, whose mind was a perfect transcript
of her own, a stricken, self-condemned creature, overcome by emotions
which I struggled in vain to repress.

"Margaret perceived the advantage she had gained, and taking my passive
hand led me from the room.

"Slowly we paced, up the marble staircase into the drawing-room, where
we found Sir Alexander reading at a table. He did not raise his head as
we entered; and I could not help remarking the great change which a few
years had effected in his appearance. His fine chestnut hair was nearly
gray, his cheeks had lost the rich vermilion tint which had always
given such lustre to his fine dark eyes, and clear olive complexion. He
was much thinner, and his lofty figure had taken a decided stoop
between the shoulders. The handsome, generous baronet was but the wreck
of what he once had been.

"'Papa,' said Margaret, stepping forward, and laying her small white
hand upon his shoulder, 'I have taken the liberty of introducing a very
old friend.'

"The baronet raised his eyes. The blood rushed into his pale face, as
he replied with great asperity of look and tone, 'Margaret, you have
taken an unfair advantage, and abused the confidence I reposed in you;
I did not expect this from you.'

"'Dearest father, you have suffered my cousin Theophilus to prejudice
you against one whom you once loved--whom my dear mother loved: let him
speak for himself.'

"'Well, sir,' said the Baronet, holding out his hand, 'what have you to
say in extenuation of your past conduct? You found it convenient, no
doubt, to forget an old friend.'

"'My excellent, kind benefactor,' I cried, pressing his hand warmly
between my own, 'how can you imagine me guilty of such base
ingratitude?'

"'I judge your feelings, young man, by deeds, not by words. It is not
for a boyish act of indiscretion I blame you. You thrashed an insolent
lad of your own age for insulting you; and in your place I would have
done the same. To appease his wounded pride, I demanded of you an
apology, as the lad was my guest and near kinsman--no very great
sacrifice of pride, one would have thought, to a penniless pensioner on
my bounty. This, you audaciously refused, and, without waiting for my
anger to cool (for I was not acquainted at the time with the real
circumstances of the case) you abandoned your home, and sought
protection in the house of my enemy--a man who had thwarted me in every
way which lay in his power. His favour you gained by traducing your
benefactor and friend; and you now come to me, after the lapse of
years, to make a boast of your wealth. Philip Mornington!' he cried,
rising from his seat, and drawing himself up to his full height, 'I
loved you as a spirited, independent boy: I despise you, as a wealthy,
treacherous, vain-glorious man!'

"'Dear papa,' said Margaret, greatly agitated, 'you cannot mean what
you say.'

"'I do mean what I say. My words are plain and straightforward; let him
refute them if he can.'

"'To such accusations as you have brought against me, Sir Alexander,
there can be but one answer: they are false! I will not, however,
lessen myself by attempting to vindicate my conduct from such base
calumnies, but leave it to time to convince you of your error, and
prove my integrity.'

"Without waiting for his reply, I left the room, with a bearing as
haughty and inflexible as his own, and flinging myself into the saddle,
rode from the Hall. Disgusted with myself for having yielded to the
entreaties of my amiable foster-sister, I could not master my
indignation sufficiently to call at the Lodge, but pursued my journey
to town with a heavy heart.

"From Cornelius and his sister I received the most cordial and
affectionate welcome; but my pleasure was greatly damped by the bad
state of my friend's health: he looked so thin and consumptive, that I
apprehended the worst. This impression gradually wore off; but a few
months confirmed my fears. He was to commence his journey to Dover
early the next morning; and after passing a delightful evening in
company with his aunt and Charlotte, I rose to take leave, as I well
knew that my invalid friend retired at an early hour to bed.

"'Do not go to-night, Philip,' said he. 'It is the last we shall spend
for a long time together. I wish to have a friendly chat with you in my
dressing-room. Charlotte will make one of the party.'

"In a few minutes we were comfortably seated in the snug little room,
before a cheerful fire. My friend in his easy-chair, wrapped in his
dressing-gown, and my own beautiful Charlotte seated on a
gaily-embroidered ottoman at his feet.

"'Here, I feel myself at home,' said Cornelius, taking a hand of each,
pressing them warmly between his own. 'How much I dread this journey!
how painful it is to part with all we love on earth!'

"'Dearest brother, you will return to us quite strong and well after
breathing the warm air of the south,' said Charlotte, who could never
be brought to consider her brother in any danger. 'When we meet in the
spring, you win laugh at your present fears, and we shall be so happy
together.'

"Cornelius smiled faintly. 'I hope it may be so, my sweet Charlotte; to
that hope I cling, though I feel it daily becoming more feeble. Nor
would I leave England, did I not consider it my duty to embrace every
means which may tend to restore me to health and usefulness. But if I
should never return, my little Lady Bird, the world will run on as
merrily as heretofore. I should only be missed by a few faithful
hearts.'

"Poor Charlotte did not answer. Her head sank upon his knee; and I
thought I heard the tears, one by one, fall upon her rich silk dress.

"'Do not anticipate grief, my little sister,' said he, laying his hand
caressingly upon her drooping head. 'Let us be happy to-night, for we
know not what the morrow may bring forth. I wanted to speak to you and
Philip upon a subject very near my heart.'

"After a short pause, he continued with a lively, cheerful voice--'You
and Philip love one another; nay, do not turn away, Charlotte; there
ought to be no shame in confessing a virtuous attachment to a worthy
object.'

"Charlotte raised her eyes, moist with tears, and tried to smile; but
her head sank back to its resting place, and her blushing face was
hidden on his knee.

"'Now I am perfectly satisfied of the warmth and sincerity of your
affections, and will do all in my power to bring them to a happy issue;
but there are some difficulties in the way which must first be
surmounted, before you can hope to realize your wishes. You have
wealth, Philip, and moral worth; these ought to be sufficient to
satisfy the objections of the most fastidious. But your birth is
obscure, and your connexions not such as most old families would wish
to incorporate with their own. You will ask me how I came by this
knowledge. It does not matter; for these worldly objections have no
weight with me. It was, however, told to me by one well acquainted with
your history--who, as a guardian to Charlotte, will, I fear, never
consent to your marriage.'

"'There are few persons with whom I am sufficiently intimate to obtain
this knowledge,' I cried. 'His name--tell me his name.'

"'Robert Moncton--Sir Alexander's cousin and man of business.'

"I felt a cold shudder thrill through me. The hopes lately so gay and
buoyant shrunk back faded and blackened to my heart. 'Yet why should I
fear this man?' I argued; but I did fear him--like the ghost of the
dead C�sar in the camp of Brutus: he was my evil genius. I turned very
faint and asked for a glass of water.

"Charlotte gave it to me with a trembling hand. The brother and sister
exchanged glances of surprise; suspicion was aroused by my emotion.

"'Strange!' said Charlotte, musingly: 'he was always kind to my brother
and me. What have you to say against him?'

"'Not much; but I have a secret antipathy, a horror of this man, though
I never saw him but once, and that when quite a boy. I had a quarrel
with his son when a lad, which produced a rupture between Sir Alexander
and me, and neither father nor son ever forgave the imagined injury.'

"Charlotte looked thoughtful. It was evident that she was fond of her
guardian; while Cornelius continued the conversation, which was to me
both painful and embarrassing.

"I know Mr. Moncton to be implacable when he takes a dislike, and
considers himself ill-used, but we always have regarded him as a just
and honest man. The circumstances at which you have hinted, and which I
am rather surprised, that with all our brotherly intercourse, you never
mentioned before, will not increase your chance of success in gaining
him over to your wishes. But if I live, Philip, you will have little to
fear from his opposition. Charlotte and myself are both above the
common prejudices of the world, and prize you for your worth, which we
consider more than places you on an equality with us, and my little
sister here (and he fondly patted her head) has too high a sense of
honour to encourage hopes which she never meant to realize.'

"I took Charlotte's hand--our eyes met. Her face was again hidden on
her brother's knee; but my drooping heart began to revive, and I turned
to listen to the long harangue of my good friend with more interest and
attention, especially, as Charlotte's small white hand remained firmly
clasped in mine, to repay me for its dullness and prolixity.

"Now, my advice to you both is, not to enter into any engagement, and
to keep the matter of your affections known only to yourselves.
Confidence reposed in a third party is always hazardous, and generally
betrayed. This will lull Moncton's suspicions, for he can greatly annoy
you, should you marry Charlotte without his consent, before her
minority expires. Her property, which is considerable, would then go to
a distant relation.'

"'I have enough to support us both handsomely--why should our union be
delayed on that score?' I cried.

"'Softly, my dear friend. Lovers always talk in that strain--husbands
think differently. Why should Charlotte lose her just inheritance to
gratify the ardour of your passion? You are both young: Charlotte far
too young to marry. Four years is not such a great while to wait. At
the expiration of that time you can meet on equal terms, without making
such an enormous sacrifice. Am I not right?'

"We said he was, and tried to think so; but I am certain that in the
estimation of both his listeners, that that four years which seemed to
him so short, with us spread over a period as long as the life of
Methusalah. We tried to look forward, but shrunk back to the present.
Everything in prospective looked cold, blank--nay, even ugly and old,
at the end of the long vista of four years.

"We promised, however, to abide by his advice. I was sad and
low-spirited; and Charlotte, pleading a bad head-ache, kissed her
brother, received one from me, or, what in _his_ estimation, only
passed for _one_, and retired in tears, and I felt that the joy of my
heart had vanished.

"'Do not look so grave, Philip,' said my worthy friend: 'you will
overcome all these difficulties.'

"I shook my head, and sighed doubtfully.

"'I am sure you will. I have a presentiment to that effect. I saw you
in a dream last night, surrounded by a thousand dangers. As fast as you
got out of some trouble, you fell into a worse, and after I had given
you up for lost, you were rescued from the fangs of a tiger by a mere
lad, who led you back to Charlotte, and joined your hands.'

"He told this with such earnestness, that I, who was no believer in
signs and omens, laughed outright.

"He looked serious--almost offended.

"'You forget,' he said, 'that when man draws near his end, God often
opens the eyes of the soul, and reveals not only what is, but what
shall be. Oh, Philip, you who are so eager to win the affections of a
timid girl, how can you be so indifferent to the love of God?'

"'Nervous debility has rendered you superstitious, Cornelius. I have no
faith in the religious cant of the present day, in priests or
priestcraft.'

"This was my case two years ago. I was young and strong then. In the
possession of wealth and all those temporal blessings, for which wiser
and better men have to toil through a long life, and seldom obtain. The
world was before me, and death far distant, in my thoughts. But now,
the world is receding, and death is very near. You start! Have not you
discovered that truth before? Soon, very soon, nothing will remain for
me, but that blessed hope which I now prize as the only true riches. I
am happy in the prospect which I know awaits me, and consider those
only miserable to whom God is a stranger, and the love of the Saviour
unknown.'

"His words affected me strangely, and yet I felt that they were
distasteful. Sorrow had not taught me the knowledge of self. I had yet
to learn that religion alone can do that. My soul was grovelling in the
dust; my thoughts wholly engrossed by the world. Religion was to me a
well-invented fable, skillfully constructed, and admirably told, being
beautiful and artistic in a literary point of view, but altogether too
shallow to satisfy the reason of a clever fellow like me. Oh! how
repugnant are its pure precepts to those whose hearts are blinded by
vanity; who live but for the pleasures of the day, and never heed the
to-morrow in the skies.

"I sat down at a table near my friend, and began hastily to turn over
the pages of a volume which lay before me. It contained the admirable
writings of the Rev. Robert Hall. I pettishly closed the book, and
pushed it from me.

"As I raised my head, our eyes met. He evidently read my thoughts.

"'I do not wish to lecture you, Philip, nor do I condemn you. Your
mind, in its present unawakened state, cannot understand the sublime
truths you affect to despise. The blind see not; they cannot comprehend
the light, and we are not surprised that they stumble and fall. But I
love you too well, Philip, to wish you to remain in this state of
mental darkness. Read the Bible with the eyes of faith; think and pray,
and the true light will dawn upon your soul, as it has on mine. Let not
the ravings of fanaticism, nor the vulgarity of low cant, frighten you
from the enjoyment of the highest and noblest privilege granted to
man--the capacity of holding converse with his God. And, now, farewell,
my dear friend. I shall see you again in the morning; think over twice
what I have said to you before you go to sleep.'

"I retired to my chamber, but not to rest. I sat before the fire,
musing over, and trying to feel an interest in, the advice of my
friend; I knew it was good; I felt it was right and very natural, for
Cornelius, in his diseased state, to regard it as a subject of vital
importance, to cherish it as the last hope which could beguile his
mind, and reconcile him, to the awful and mysterious change which
awaited him. 'Poor Cornelius,' said I, 'dying men catch at straws! Will
your straw float you safely across the waves of the dark river? I fear
not.' And in this mood I went to bed, dreamt of Charlotte, and awoke in
the morning to regret the long years which must intervene before she
could be mine."


END OF VOL. I.


LONDON:
Printed by Shulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.





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