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SPECIAL pec. Cop COLLECTIONS *;• ,' vV ■:JC-. '-•;*; ': i- » '(• r / '/ GEOFFREY MOSCTON OB, THB Fi^ITIUL-ESS aUA-RDIA-N. ■St 1» ". BT SUSANNA MOODIE, AUTHOR OF 1^"*?:^ i;^- "BOUOBINQ it in THB BUSH," "MARK BURDLRSTONI," " LirR IH THB OLBABMOa," ■'FLORA LTNDSAT," "MATRIMONIAL SPB0ULATION8," KTO., BTO. What-dott thou think I'll bend to tliee I The free in toul are ever free ; Nor force, nor poverty can bind The tabtle will— the thinking mind. KEW YORK: "^^ DE WITT & DAVENPORT, PUBLISHERS, 160 & 162 NASSAU STREET. /ill I/O- . r « '-f* ■■' > *■ ? J' = ) ■" ,!('> j'...:Li.]-ii Aij'^. .' ! X !W ' I- ft-rf *t ici , ».. EirtBBiD Mcording to Act of Congrtu, in th« y«»r 18S5, by DE WITT ft DAVENPORT. 'jx tha ClarK'i 00c« of tlte U. S. Dittriet Coart, for th« Sonthan Diitriot of New York. .S^ntr^ ii -<..•■-: ^ =( >s , : I I \.l ■ ^•.■'i >^r:^ v'l ;.'■ 1 J -^''tsJ-' mw^>i^ A<<^;'..;^; 5*ktiWi>tr! f»"t'^3 .?.i:«f"i;. W. & TINSON, ■TmiOTTPCB. B. OKAIOHCAD, PBINTKB. O. '*r. ALSXANDIB, BIMDKB. -s. TO // ■\ JOHN LOVELL, Esq., OF MONTREAL, WHO WAS ONE OF THE FIRST AND MOST SUCCESSFUL KOmSERS IN ESTABLISHINa A NATIONAL LITERATURE IN THE CANADIAN COLONIES, THIS VOLUME, WHICH OWES ITS EXISTENCE TO HIS GENEROUS CARE, BT HIS GRATEFUL AND OBLIGED FRIEND, SUSANNA MOODIB. SMwiUe, Upper Canada. .t^g-fi-it-ii.-i-'f »-:■ " r"~ m. ^- \ 8T?::iT / ^>:> Mi . Pi" . mi 9;^-f!T.'i^i i^f/ *r: ^ ' ''7* f ', -^i:. '- -|, . ■ \^ -. . V ' ' < , : , . I "»^'<»' I* .,a *^y * Ai%:i , CONTENTS.' LI^; ' ' ■'" "■■■ ' ' ' !i'X r, -r^ " '•■•'■'■ >% ,. .^ , *•• -,.■ „ ..-,,. .^f:m'r. cRAPTim riaa 1. My Grandfather and his Sons 9 II. My Mother's Fuaeral 14 III. My Aunt Rebecca 18 IV. The Tutor 22 y. A Change in my Prospects 28 yi. The Sorrows of Dependence . . . . . .32 yU. George Harrison 39 yin. Ungratified Cariosity 48 IX. A Portrait 55 X Dreams 68 XI. My First Love 77 XII. I forfeit my Independence 92 Xm. A yisit from the Great Man of the Family . . .103 XIV. Love and Hatred 115 Xy. George Harrison tells his History 133 Xyi. George Harrison continues his History .... 150 XVH. He finds a Friend in Need 162 XyiH. The Meeting 173 XIX. Light Come, Light Go ....... 186 XX. Alice 197 XXI. My yisit to Moncton Park 219 ^ XXIL xxm. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. xxvu. XXVIIL XXIX. XXX. XXXI. xxxn. I OONTSNTB. PAiK A Sad Event .. . . , 230 A Diacovery **• My Seoood Interview with Dinah North . . . . 24» An Eiplanation— Departure— Disappointment . . 26S Eln Grove 278 My Nurse and Who'she Waa . . . r • • 2*^ My Letters ; . . 298 A Welcome and Unwelcome Meeting . . . .820 Dinah's Conftwion . . . . *« • • '888 Retributive Justice *** The Double Bridal 868 :. mim^ism^''' '' , ■ ntfcr^'t -sigii^-' ■■#■*?**»* -S^^-- . : •*; !^!-.- .:.-.■• y^At..^ ---s-v - "' ■-■-■■■ :■•■--■ 'at)..- I Vf' '. ' J ■»' THE MONCTONS. fU ■1 '. '.♦' "^.i ,- >..„■' w t ..■ M ♦ . , i ^..w^«^, . «> v,M.JL. ■ >.r .> ..* «■.. 4, .V ' -■ • nK if.-;-/;' " « -*►- \i 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, that, 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 hospi- tality have decreased with the increase of modern luxury and exclusivenes.'^, 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 manoeuvering it 1* ,-,* - 10 THE MONOTONB. calls forth in these fortabate 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 domestio annoyances — A Poor Relation. My grandfather, Geoffrey Moucton, 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 antipathly to fighting. He refused point blank to bo a soldier. The Navy offered the same cause for objection, strength- ened by a natural aversion to the water, which made him decline going to sea. What was to be done with the incorrigible youth? Sir Bobert flew into a passion — called him a coward — a disgrace to the name of Moncton. *^ ■ . t .^v 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, had been a quiet, industri- ous boy at Fchool, a sober plodding student at college, minding bis 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 cata- logue of his demerits, which his angry progenitor poured fortli against him, with such stoical indifference, that it nearly drew upon him the corporeal punishment which at all times he so much dreaded. i;^',,^»M,.i.;|"st .- i„y*;^«A Sir Robert, at length named the Church, as the profession THK MONtiTONS. 11 best suited to a young man of hin peaceable disposition, and flew into a frc^li 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 80 sacred a calling. Besides, he had au 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." Honor to my grandfather. He did not want for mental courage, though Sir Robert, in the plenitude of his wisdom, had thought fit to brand him as a coward. . fr^--'^ -. The bar was next proposed for his consideration, but the lad replied firmly, " 1 doji't mean to be a lawyer." " Your reasons, sir ?" cried Sir Robert in a tone which seemed to forbid a liberty of choice, r " I have neither talent nor inclination for the profession." " And pray, sir, what have you talent or inclination for V " 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 J3aronet 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 iden- tity is with great difficulty denied to the world. Sir Robert vowed, that if the perverse lad persisted in his grovelling 6hoice, though he had but two sons, he would discard him altogether. Obstinacy is a family failing of the Monctons. My grand- father, wisely or nnwisely, 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 J which he was considered to have disgraced. •y .. 12 THE MONCTONS Geoffrey, however, succeeded ia 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 lealized, 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 sous, Edward and Robert, to both of whom he bequeathed an excel- lent 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 iu itself, if conducted with prudence and regularity. Robert had been early placed in the office of a lawyer of emi- nence, 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 riade a first rate country gentleman ; as he possessed a fine manly person, was frank and generous, and excelled in all athletic sports. " . . ■J i THE MONCTONS. 18 e My Uncle Robert was the very reverse of my father — stern, shrewd and secretive ; no one could see more of his pind 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 by name, used jocosely to say of him : " Had master Robert been born a beg- gar, 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 hLs class, as if he had been Lord Chancellor of England. He was called the honest lawyer — wherefore, I never could determine, except that ho 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 tlie 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 recon- cile the mind to the fact that they were so closely related. '^ ''^ My uncle had a subt'.e 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 philoso- pher's stone ; and that the other had ruined himself in endeavor- ing to find it out. The one was economical from choice, the other 14 THE MONOTONS. i extravagant from the me^e loye 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 neg- lected his business and became poor. In the hope of redeemiug 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 hoars 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 Imng upon the panes of glass like a gauze veil, intersected by innu- merable channels of water^ that looked like a pattern of open work left in the ulngy material. The shutters of our once I THE M0NCT0N3 15 I alous parlor ^ere half-closed ; and admitted into the large, ^\^,' f^^. r .."& CHAPTER III MT AUNT REBBOCA. 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, bat my boyish impression was that she was very plain. By the side of her tall, stern partner, she looked the most delicate, diminntive creature in the world ; and her gentle, timid manner made the contrast appear greater than it really was. " God bless you, my poor child," she said, lifting me up in her arms and wiping the tears from my face. "You are young, indeed, to be left an orphan." ? , ' T '^ _ V 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 his 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 ■^' W' THK M0N0T0N8. 19 obstinate as a male ; yet, she contriyed to live with him on fricQdly terms ; the only creature in the world, I am folly per- suaded, who did not hate him. Married, as she had been, for money, and possessing few personal advantages, it was wonder- ful 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, diferting 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. — j; *-r ^-^^^^t^j^^ With women he was no favorite. He had no respect for the sex, and I query whether he was ever in love in his life. If he had ever owned the 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 ancle'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 — f ao THB MONOTONS. but of him anon. Duriftg the winter, she alway sent for me into the parlor, during the dark hoar 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, that 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 the cheerful fire, in that large, dusky room, and hold your small white hand in mine, while I recounted to you all the beau- tiful 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" 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 I" The good woman caught me to her heart, tears were stream- ing 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 TU£ MUNCT0M8. H' I la y Le a tender recolleetioa of her kiadneBS. Since I arr'iTed at man's estate, I haye knelt beside her graye, and moistened the tnrf which enfolds that warm, noble heart with gratefnl tears, r^^ ^ She had, as I before stated, one son — the first born and only snTviyor of a large family. This boy was a great sonrce of anxiety to his mother ; a sullen, unmanageable, ill-tempered child. Cruel and cowardly, he united with the cold, selfish dis- position of the father, a jealous, proud and TindictiTe spirit peculiarly his own. It was impossible to keep on friendly terms with Theophilns Moucton ; 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 snrly 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 apxious to court the favor 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 tyranni- cal 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 ftunt to remonstrate with her son on his ungenerous conduct ; her authority with him was a mere cipher, ho had his father upon his side, and for my aunt's sake, I forbore to complain. *--- 22 TBK MONO TONS. ).,>♦«» > ij,* >A ,- :.,;fVt-H'.»- i. '^ ' '^''f --y'--- '•'. t* •»< jt^*« HV ^jW' •■'■•i'.< ,>+>. r. ( 1 H t » ' I » '( '• • .■'■■,•• f ■ (^K ,n-<.ii'H\:i,^< - ,,.... ,„ •/> i" *?•(•', 'V-* :,i ■'•J' ■ ■>'■ t : .- .;( V«, j'.C M-. v. ,Vn''. t!;-/,V j'> ^ »■'' . •' ■■''.. ■ - »■■ - ,■ '*-■'>. '■'*.::■ ..), .'i^' ■ ' ' -'? ' ■ "■•' ■»- ' ■' » , • "*'.- • : ^,-^ -' • ■ '^"r" *^:s5l*i- .i,v»i' . '•«' ■ ■ . • •■•• f, '*" CHAPTER IV. THE TUTOR. ^ \ My uncle did not send us to school, but engaged a youn/ man of mean birth, but good classical attainments, to act in the capacity of tutor to his son, and as an act of especial favor, 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 labors 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 a 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 that no att??ntion or asaiduity 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 despis- THE MUNOTUNS. 28 ed him accordingly. But Tbeophilus was vain and fond of ad- miration, and could not exist without satellites to moYo around him, and render him their homage as to a superior luminary. He was a magnificent pay-master to his sneaks ; and bound them to him with the strongest of all ties — his purse strings. Mr. Moncton, always 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 sou 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 in- forming him of circumstances regarding my birth and family, with which I never became acquainted until some years after- wards. At this distance of time, I can almost forgive Mr. Jpnes, 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 Ustening 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 ena- bled 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 mas- tered the first rudiments of Latin and Mathematics, and I could now teach myself all that I wanted to know." This boast was rather premature, I found the task of self- '■■^- 24 T 11 K M U N C T U N S instruction less easy than I anticipated. I was in Mr. Jones's power — and he meanly withheld from me the booice necessary to my further advanccmeut. ' '^ * * ^ I now found myself at a stand-still. I threatened Mr. Jonee 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 mo 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 ; 'od I thought that my aunt was afraid to back me in ^v'hat 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 troubi*. u,nd pain may be avoided, Geoffrey." '" " Aunt, I will aot Eubmit 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 ay v \ •< 'hey lik^ '^t is not so easy to deceive him ; he will juugo ior iiimself. 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. :.. ., . ,, *h , CHAPTER VI. *^ T^E S09BQWS OF DfyjINfiENpiSy ,. ^^,«..«, My heart sickens over this dreary portioa of my childhood. I have heard it called the happiest season of life. To me it bad few joys. It was a gloomy period of mental suffering and bodily fatigae j of unnatural restraint and painful probation. The cold, authoritative manner of my unclp, at all times irksome and repelling, after the death of his good wife became almost insupportable ; while the insolence aqd presumption of his artful son, goaded a free and irascible spirit like mine almost to madness. The moral force of bis mother's chayacter, though unappreciated by him, had been some restraint upon hi9 nnamiable, tyrannical temper. That restraint ^as now removed, and Theophilus considered that my dependent situation gave him a lawful right to my services, and had I been a work-house 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 eman- cipate 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 ^ k,i. Jw, * MUM I t 84 THE UONCTON 8. . ». -. t_. 1 1. unholy shadow, all that was bright and beautiful in this lower world. ^^ u..ii ^, , * ,.•,-'. , * " 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, that 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 persecu- tors 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 parch- ments and dusty records, and seldom permitted to mingle with the guests that 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 composi- tion 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 i 1 i.i fl I Ik THE MONOTONI, **i« day the thiDgs pertaining to thy peace. Thoa didst not suspect in thy innocence how the black brand of poverty -^-m deform the finest face, and dim the brightest intellect in w > eyes of the world. Among all my petty trials there were none that 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. A ' 'L ' " When you step into your cousin's shoes, Geoffrey, we hope they will suit you better than his clothes." *'-*f v^vw ,,;i*.,n «.>» I could have been happy in the coarsest fustian or corderoy garment that I knew was my own. I believe Robert Moucton felt a malicious pleasure in humbling me in the eyes of his people. ^. ,j,,.ii 4-»^ ^1 My uncle had fulfilled his promise, and I had been articled tc^ 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 overpowered 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 only chance of independence. , My cousin Theophilus w^as 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. ■"' ^ ' "" -•••• '■^^■'' v- --^-- . n*,^% l\ fin THE MONO TUNS. Thus time glided on until I was twenty years of age, and fuU siz feet in height, and I could lio 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 that was made expiiessly 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 per- ceived, with no small degree of trepidation, that the younger was regarding me with earnest attention ; and in spite of myru If my cheeks flushed and my hand trembled. After my part of the business was concluded Mr. Moncton told me to withdr&w. As I left the room, I heard Miss Mary Beaumont say, in a low voice to her sister — my uncle having stepped into the ac^oining apartment.— - ,. ,^, ^j ;j " What a handsome young man. Who is he ?'* ,f"Oh, the clerk, of course." " He looks a gentleman." " A person of no consequence, by his shabby drchis and awkward manners." ^^ •^**': ' ; - , ^ , y 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 ray 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 h^ should accuse me of vanity. But If i.i >-■ ;!V.";u;«' ■i^i E r 't .'■: ^9iti-^^f. ■■ ^*"; ^^ TUJB MONOTUMtl. ai ^ \ tl^ese were the first words of commcndaitioB that had e reached my ears from the lips of womao, and though I huv* gioce laughed heartily at the deep impression they made on iu> mind, they produced a beneficial effect at the time, and Uelped . to reconcile me to my lot. '^'' ' -— - — -- , .,, ^, .; It was about this period, that Mr. Bassett left the office, and went iuto the profession on his own account. The want of means, . and marrying imprudently 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, " Mode a man of him at last." Poor little man. I never shall forget his joy when he got that important letter. He sprang from nis desk, upsetting the high stool in his haste, ftnd shook hands with us all roand, laughing awl crying alternately. He was a great favorite in the ofiBce, and we all rcyoiced in his good fortune, though I felt sincerely grieved at parting with him. He had been a kind friend to me when X had no friends ; and X had spent some quietly happy evenings with him at his humble lodgings, in the company of a very pretty and, amiable wife. Going to visit him occasionally, was the only indulgence I had ever been allowed, and these visits were not permitted to be of too frequent recurrence. i-^t^a m?f!*s si * He saw how much I was affected at bidding him good-bye* ;^-y " Geoffrey," he said, taking me by the hand and drawing me { aside — " One word with you before we part. I know your attachment to me is sincere. Believe me, the feeling is recipro- cated 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 $ 88 TH K MONCTO Ng . see and learn much withoni 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 honr 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 mo and my uncle, but he refused to satisfy my earnest inquiries. The departure of Mr. Bassett, which I regarded as a cala> mity, 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^o wish to enter into the profession, but only sought to undertake the management of the office as head clerk. *-. >.^.n, ...^i^E^... ...... :•. ,.. . Mr. Moncton was a man that never associated himself with a partner, and regarded despotic rule as the only^one that deserved the name. ,**.«&},% ^^.i, .,,i,%4 -.^.ti-.u^.-,,. ^'.■xi....\. ..:?♦........; ? ...: i ■ When Mr. Harrison was introduced in proprid persond, 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 inter- esting individual that presented himself. But as he required only a moderate salary for his services, he was engaged on trial for the next three months, •-'•jajc »^*ti^ ihi<^i*ij3 ,n,i5«4=>«<, —\'f f'^ff^,i('^ 'i,.'''*^f^' '■i^^fh' !V'*,''"T* ■ ■. '^f'' • fiV^' "f '*■:''■,<•■■ 'f I, '■■J'''; ■ i' .''• • A T u k: u o n c t u n a . 80 9/ j_ - vfc^ fir/il b'jw- - ' ' ' ' ""-* iiiw*:^ «itf^.- ks. V.', J •/' 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." « ^.^ ,^. ,^^. i ,i;rf m., ., " The man has always been my enemy, and would you have me become a passive instrument in his hands ?" ,4 tkii&sA.^ si» ■t/' 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 dan- gerous enemy to contend with, one bound to you by nearer ties, who exercises a more pernicious influence over your mind." *; i' >: MMMI A ^ /• THE MONCTONS «f* " His sordid, seltish, counterpart— his wor% son ?*' " - '""^ T«^ George shook his head. ^ , .;^. -^ -'.>-/• ♦'iw'i*'^'v I looked inquiringly. *'^* '**^' ■?'^'**^' U"' t^jvii* '^^aafl«<'* 0*sui*^i^ , "A certain impetuous, willful, wrong-headed boy, yclept * Geoffrey Monctou." ,^ -,;.;.; , .. ^..,,;^„,.,.^; "Pish 1" I exclaimed, shrugging my shoulders ; "is this your ' friendship?" .. - - -^ ^,^-. ..... " The best proof I can give you of it." ' ' ; .ju : •. U -..^ * *' Become a villain ?" This was said with a very tragic air. ' •'' "" May heaven forbid I I would be sorry to see you so nearly resemble your uncle. But I would have you avoid use- lessly offending him ; for, by constantly inflaming his mind to anger, you may ruin your own prospects, and be driven, in des- peration, to adopt measures for obtaining a living, scarcely less dishonorable 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 spjScerings, or the painful humiliation I must daily endure." - ^' • ..^..^i-.i^^^-^-^ - He took my hand affectionately. ''i'^^nH t^^^ '^''' *' Geoffrey, how do you know all this ? Yours is not a pro- fession 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 I" . ;>*».i^v.-^ ^*" All things that ha^e 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 THE MONOTONS 46 in ife th and self-respect. I am williDg that yoa shoald profit by this ; and, haviDg made this confession, will you condescend to hear my lecture to an end ?" " Oh, tell me somethiDg more about yonrself. I woald 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. Yon have suffered this personal dislike to your uncle and his son,, to over- top — 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 rcstrit which might arise from your situation as elerk in this office. Is this wise?" I remained obstinately silent. r " You are lengthening the term of your bondage, and riveting the fetters you are so anxious to break. Does not your ancle 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 iree agent. Bat^ 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 ?" ' ■ -^ ■ .^ --^f " "Let the worst come to the worst^I could work for my bread." - - ^ .' -. - '- *, 4fiM^ ^4*H4m-:.imi^it^ " Not' such an easy thing as you imagine." ^^ "- ♦*-- ^ - " With health, strength and youth on my side, what shoald hinder me ?" "' «* ^«-.i ., .. ..i^t**.- " Your uncle's influence, which is very great. The world does not know him, as we know him. He' is considered an upright, honolable man. One word from him would blast your character, and keep you out of every office in London." ^^ *L^.^-^ I felt my cheeks grow pale. I had never seen matters in this ^ I m 45 THB MONGTONg X ';tw 1,4 re- light before. Still, I would not yield to the argaments of my frieud. The obstinate spiril of the Monctons was in active ope- ration just then, and would not submit to reason. ;r.j ^ " There are more ways of earning a livlDg 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 endeavors, 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 that 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 np-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 Cbvils and contradictions — for my temper \vas faulty and head- strong, and my uncle not always the aggressor — now asserted 1, Jkh^>.'^ I:i.., .' .;k^ THK MONCTONS. n%1*^ I own. 2i its own dignity, and furnished me with tlie 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 youf churlish, moroi^e temper, Geof- frey ?" he said to me one day, at dinner ; " why, boy, you are greatly changed of late. From a sulky, impertinent, vindictive lad, you have became 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. .lAhiii iy^.';V^M.' 'i^'m¥^%i k--.S i-.-i. .^iv« ;• •:■■■. i. ia^-isii'*^ l> 'TJ*.?.fH'v?t CHAPTER VIII UNGRATIFIED CURIOSITY. There is a period in every young man's first oatset in life, that gives a coloring 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. - ' "'^m* ' If this precious portion of existence is wasted in frivolous amusements, time gets the start of us, and no after-exertioii enables 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 that 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. ^ ^. K^^r-- -''.^^'-^^ ^'^''■''^'^■^■^r^^^'^v-ii Thus, I found that in serving my employer faithfully, I con- ferred the greatest benefit on myself ; and the hours devoted to study, while they formed a pleasant recreation from the day labors of the office, were among the happiest and most sinless of my life. V ' • " —- 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 soli- # k 1 THE MONCTONS, 49 li :^ «^ i;J ife, iot ir itt , or >l0U9 , rtion ' b era best made d my wbicli n as a stock often ad and X coa- sted to he day nless of ■)m, and ring the requent, My soli- tary 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 splendor, which bore no analogy to the dull realities ot my present life. I was a dreamer of wild dreams, and suflfered 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 instru- ment. Through this medium, Harrison became an adept at discover- ing 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 that I could not fathom ; a mental reservation that was tantalizing and inexplicable. • ' ■ -. - ^^ — He was a gentleman in education, appearance and manners, and possessed those high and honorable feelings, which if dis- played 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 remon- 3 50 THE HONOTONS. f strating with him on this undue reserve, wliicli appeared so foreign to his frank, open nature, but feelings of delicacy restrained me.- What right had / to pry into his secrets ? My impertinent curiosity might reopen wounds that time had closed. There were, doubtless, good reasons for his withholding the information I coveted. . > m Yet, I must confess that I had an intense curiosity — a burn- ing desire to knov 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 mo. Pride, however, withheld me from accepting the many pressing invitations I daily received from the clerks in the office, to join thera 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. Jf I could not go as a gen- tleman, and pay my own share of the entertainment, I deter- mined 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 «^ves 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 laborer does to earn bread for his family. He can acquire, but has not the t 's-iSi-s THE M0N0T0N8, «l jars ^yed the ruth all luch Is to the t heart to enjoy— while the bad disposition of Tlieophilfls 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 bo happy, a man must bo good. Religiously — morally — physically. lie must bear upon his heart the image of the Prince of Peace, before ho can truly value the glorious boon of life." " I wish I could see these things in the same calm unpre- judiced light," said I ; " but I find it a bitter mortification, after so many years of hard labor, 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. But I speak 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 cried. " 00 tell me something of your past life ?" This was the first allusion he had made to his former circum- stances ; 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 gen- eral terms — I cannot enter into particulars. I was bom poor, and unexpectedly became rich, and like many persons in like cir- cumstances, 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 that is not acquired by industry, is seldom retained by prudence ; I 4k 6$^ THE MON0TON8. and to those unacquainted with the real value of money, a largo sum always appears inexhaustible. So it was with me. I spent, without calculating the cost, and soon lost all. The worhl now wore a very ditl'erent aspect. I was deserted by all my gay associates, my most intimate companions i)as8ed 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 valu- able instructions. The hour that 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 com- panions 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 literal sense. " Good Heavens 1" 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 punishineut, 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 independ- ence by my own exertions. A friend, whom 1 had scarcely regarded as such, during my reckless career of folly, came unex- pectedly to my assistance, and offered to purchase for me a com- mission in the army, but I had private reasons for wishing to obtain a situation in this office ; writing a good band, and hav- ing been originally educated for the profession, together with # TUB MONOTONS. 63 tho recommendation of Mr. IJaasett who was related to my friend, procured nie tho place I now hold." " And your reoHona lor coming hero ?" I cried, burning with curiosity. " Pardon me, Geoffrey. That is my secret." lie Hpoko with the calmness of a i)hilosopher, but I saw tho tears in his eyes as ho turned mechanically to tho parchment ho was copying, and affected an air of cheerful resignation. Tho candid exposure of his past faults and follies raised, ratlier* than sunk him in my estimation ; but I was sadly disappointed at tho general terms in which they were revealed. I wanted to know every event of his private life, and this abridgment was very tantalizing. . > While 1 was pondering these things in my heart, the pen ho had grasped bo tightly was flung to some distance, and ho raised his fine eyes to my face. •• '* "Thank God, Geoffrey 1 — I have not, as yet, lost the faculty of feeling — that I can see and deplore tho errors of tho past. When I think of what I was — what I am —and what 1 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 ^" ^ i, 1 rise up in dread array against mo, and tho flood-gatt\- of the soul are broken up by bitter and remorseful regrets, hut see," he cried, dashing the thickening mist from his (yes, 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, ' , 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 X 64 THE MONCTONS. beyond these gloomy walls, in whose busy scenes I am forbidden to mingle." » ** Valliantly resolved, GeoflFrey. But how comes it, that you did not tell me the news this morning ?" " News — what news V " 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 ns 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." "Tushl" said George, resuming his pen, "you are talking sad nonsense But thereby hangs a tale." I looked up inquiringly. Harrison was hard at work. I saw a mischievous smile hovering about his lips. Ho turned his back abruptly to the door, and bent more closely over his parch- ment, as Theophilus Moncton entered the office equipped for a journey. TH E M ONCTONS. 55 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 i#age 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 just 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 dazzlingly white, but so long and nar- row that they looked as if they could bite you under the least pro- vocation, which gave a peculiarly sinister and malicious expres- sion 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 atirsotions. But my cousin had no personal attractions. There was no^yhing manly or decided about him. Smooth and insidious where he wished to please, his first appearance to strangers was always "tmmmim^ 56 THE MONCTONS 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 whisliers were of the palest tint of brown; but his complexion was grey and muddy, and his large sea-green eyes afforded not the least con- trast 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 that 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 subser- vient to his own. ' , . THE MONCTONS. 51 ice, It. 3sed the [ped lave Ike ; Iwho )ser- 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 fero- cious and hard a human biped as ever disgraced the name of man. " Well, Geoff 1" he said, 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 1 '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," he said, " 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 1 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." " Mi'. Theophilus I" I cried, reddening with indignation. " Did you come here on purpose to insult me ?" 8* .'" ,1 mm »mm ♦ 58 THE MONOTONS. ! -4 "*-.■ [ " 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 l ^ans to keep on at this rate, all d' ." He cast a peevish glance at the dusty ground-glass windows. " There's no catching a glimpse of heav on 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, that told me as plainly as words could have done, that he was highly amused at the seer 9, I felt irri- ated at Theophilus joking about a cir- cumstance which, to me, was a great privation and annoyance. " If you had a scat 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 tiJelong, satirical glances, " I should have too much to do in keeping the clerks at work and in their places, to havt luch time for look- ing out of the window. My fathtir would do well to hire an overseer for idle hands." Harrison's tremulous fit incr3ased, while I was burning with indignation, and rose passionately from my seat. "Geoffrey" — pronounced in au undertone, restrained mc THE liONCTONS ij» r\< ;•■// l\Q m Ith from committing an act of violence. I resomed my stool, mat- tering audibly between my teeth — " Contemptible puppy 1" ' I was quite, ready for a quarrel, but Theophilus, contrary to my expectations, did not choose to take any notice of my imprn- dent 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 aflFront. His forbear- ance 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 horse- back. I must take the coach, and leave the groom to foUow with the horses.'' " Dover I" I repeated, with an involuntary start, " are yon 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 bye." *' 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 con- tinued — . " Your time in this office expires when you reach your major- ity. Our paths in life are very different, and from that period I must insist upon our remaining perfect strangers to each other.'* od THE MONCTONS \ Before I had time to answer iiis ungracious speech, he turned upon his heel and left the office, and me literally foaming with passion. " Thank God he is gone I" cried Harrison. " My dear GeoflF, accept my sincere congratulations. It would indeed be a bless- ing did you never meet again." " Oh, that he had stayed another minute, that I might have demolished the foul biped of his gay plumes." " Don't be vindictive." " I'm so angry — so mortified, George, 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 dis- grace ; and if you are not a gainer by this change in the domes- tic arrangements, my name is not George Harrison." " Why do you think so ?" " Because I know more of Robert Moncton than yon do. To provoke his son to jealousy, he will take you into favor. If Theophilus has gone too far — he is so revengeful, so unforgiv- ing — he may, probably, make you his heir." " May God forbid !" cried I, vehemently. Ha^'rison laughed. " Gold is too bright to betray t} j 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 apart- ment 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. y I :? ^'rrr-^-' TT'-^r'' # THE HON OTONS. 61 I- 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 wort;, 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 Qshannelled into deep furrows that 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 perpetual sneer ; and in spite of her corrugated brow, long nose, and curved chin, which bore the unmistakable marks of age, her fine teeth gleamed white and ghastly, when she unclosed her fleshless, thin lips. A human creature with 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 gi.en 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 Erance, and will not return for several years." If << ", Gone ! — and I am too late," she muttered to herself. I cannot see the son, I viust and will speak to the father." " Your business then, was with Mr. Theophilus ?" said I, no 4ii ^i%-''H -.9' >i 62 THE MONO TONS. longer able to restrain my curiosity, for I was dying to learn something of the strange being whose presence had given my friend HarriJ^on's nervos such a sudden shock. " ImpertincLt boy I" she said with evident displeasure. " Who taught you to catechise your elders ? Go, and tell your employer that Di ,h North is here ; and miist see him imme- diately." 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 con- cerned in yon hag's commission. Read well Moncton's counte- nance, 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 inter- ruption, and reproved me in a stern voice for disobeying his posi- tive orders ; and, ty way of conciliation, I repeated my errand. " Tell that woman," he cried, in a voice hoarse with emotion, " that I will not see her 1 nor any one belonging to her." "The mystery thickens," thought I. "What can all this mean ?" hai of sac] and diffi ousl THEMONGTONS. 'W§ " Oa re-entoring the office, I found the old woman huddled up in her wet clothes, in the same dejected attitude in v hich I had itft 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 ^ith 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 lau^ifh. " By courtesy, I suppose ; I was not aware that there w,is another shoot of that accursed tree." I gazed upon her like one in a dream. The old woman drev a slip of paper from her bosom, bidding me convey thai to my worthy uncle, and a&k him, in her name, "whether he, or his son, dared to refuse admittance to thd bcrer." I took the billet from her withered hand, and once more pro- ceeded to the study. As I passed through the passage, an irre- sistible impulse of curiosity induced me to read the paper, which was neatly folded (although unsealed) together, and my eye glanced upon the following words, traced in characters of uncom- mon beauty and delicacy : ' " If Robert Moncton refuses to admit my claims, and to do me justice, I will expose his villainy, and bis sou's heartless desertion, to tbe world. "A.M." Ihis I had scarcely read the mysterious billet than I felt that 1 had done wrong — had acted basely ; that whatever the contents of the paper entrusted to my kee[ing might be, they were sacred, and I had no right to violate them. 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 omin- ously in my ears as the stroke of a death-bell, as he called me ^1 ( THE MON0TON8 sharply by name. Hastily J'e-folding the note, I went into his study, and placed it on the table before hira, with an averted glance and trembling li^nd. I dreaded lest his keen, clear eye should read guilt in my conscious face. Fortunately for me, ho was too much agitated himself to notice my confusion. He eagerly clutched the paper, and his aspect grew dark as ho perused it. "Geoffrey," he said, and his voice, generally so clear and passionless, sqnk 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 con- ceals its hottest fires. My uncle's cold exterior was but the icy crust that hid the fierce passions that burnt within his breast. He forgot my presence in the excitement of the moment, and that stern, unfeeling eye blazed with lurid fire. " Fool I — madman — insane idiot 1" 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 advance- ment 1" Suddenly he became conscious of my presence, and glancing at me with his usual iron gravity, said, with an expression of haughty indiifereuce, as if my opinion of his extraordinary con- duct was a 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 alac- rity to obey the summons, and for a person of her years, seemed to possess great activity of mind and body. I felt a secret « with THE MONOTONB. lancing lion of :y con- Ino. I finally til alac- I seemed secret loathinp: for the hag, nnd pitied my uncle the unpleasant confer- ence 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 tho purport of her visit. I was tortured with conjectures. I lingered in the passage. I applied my ear to the key-hole ; 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 ray place in the office. I found George at his desk ; his face was very pale, and I thought I could perceive the trace of tears on his swollen eye-lids. For some time he wrote on in silence, without asking a word about the secret that I was burning ^^ tell. I was the first to speak and lecid him to the subject. " Dear George, do you know that horrible old woman ?" " 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 1" I cried, " do speak out ; nor torture me with these dark hints. If you are a true friend, give mo your A6 THE MUNOTONS i whole couQdenco, uor lot your silonco giro riso to painful conjoc- turos nnd doubtH. I biiVo no concealments from you. Such mental reservation on your part m every thing but kind." ** I frankly acknowledge that you have just cause t» suspect me/' said George, with his usual sad, winning smile. " But this is not a safe i>laco 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 hero. But tell me : how did Monctoa receive this womau— this Dinah North ?" I related tlu) scene, without omitting the dishonorable part I had acted in it. 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 1 how could you bestow the allections of a warm, true heart on a despicable wretch like Tlieophilus 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 mo 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 men- tion Sir Alexander Moncton ?" *' Never." ti TM K MONCTO N H. 67 irable , true The -uio." 1 his with id has lilt for inaed, is own ther V great men- " Nor to whom hia long visits in Yorkshire were made V* '*IIow should I ? No conildonce oxistod between us. I was indiflfurent to all his movements ; not imagining that the^r could, in any degree, interest me." " 1 begin to see my way througii this tangled maze," returned George, musingly. " I now understand the secluded manner in which you have been brought up ; and tlieir reasons for keeping you a prisoner within those walls. They have an important game to play, in which they do not want you to act a conspicu- ous part. I can whisper a secret into your ears well worth the knowing — ay, and tho keeping, too. C :offrey 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, »r I had long accustomed myself to look only on the dark sid c' the picture. It was, I fear, revenge ; a burning desir ^o pay back the insults and injuries I had received from Theop ului; Moncton, and to frustrate the maua3uvres 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 crea- ture 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 vii't'.o ?" " That note was signed A M " " It was written by an unhappy, inratuated 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. 68 THE MONCTONS . !! " Hash, Geoffrey I tlic^e walls have ears. I, too, am tor- tared, 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 ges- ture, that you are in the 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 tho dark veil of futurity — to penetrate the mysteries that its folds concealed. -♦►■ CHAPTER X. DREAMS. ( I I WENT to bed early, and tried in vain to sleep. The events of the past day swam contiunally through my brain, and brought on a nervous headache. All the blood in my body seemed concentered 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 tho 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 THE MONCTONS 69 events )rouglit seemed ^ralyzed |)ped off among like tlio Insolved and if any person could explain the phenomena, the practical experienco 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 remark- able dreams and their fulfillment, 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 :n 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. Thfc 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 1 what have I not beheld in sleep ?" I have been shut up, a living sentient creature, in the cold, dark, 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 70 THE MONOTON S . 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 endeavored 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 evet whirling down — the hot flood rushed over mo. I felt the spas- modic grasp of death upon my throat, auJ 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, honored mental exercise ; and for some months, noted down what I could remember of the transactions of the mind, during its sleeping hours. So wild ana 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. T was haunted by a dream of more than ordinary wildness. THE MONCTONS. •II Javy of )nored hat I PS i*'^ the I was 1 iniglit Iten by by a I dreamt, that I stood in th-^ centre of a boundless plain of sand, that 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 dri- ven 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 increas- ed the velocity of my flight. ? v . > f^f.i « 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 mat- ted foliage ; my limbs lacerated and torn, and my hair tangled amid the thorny branches. Vainly I endeavored to cling to the twigs that impeded my passage, but they eluded my fren- zied 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 pri- son, 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 that 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 azifro deserts of air. A burning heat wns in my throat — my eyes I 1 % THE MONCTONS Becmed bursting from their sockets — confused sounds were mur- muring in my ears, and the very blackness of darkness swal- lowed me up. No longer earned 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, exclaun- ing with devotional fervor, " Thank God ! it is only a dream I" '' 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" I once more exclftkaed in an agony of grati- tude, " it is only a dream I'* ^ Then arose the question: "What was the import of this dream, the effects of which 1 still felt through all my trembling frame — iu 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, thi; manner in which they had been employed by the Almighty to communi- cate important truths to mankind, until I came to the conclu- sion that dreams were revelations from the spirit land, to warn us of dangers that threatened, oi* co punish us for crimes cona- mitedmthe flesh. ... ^ , . -. ^ .. ..;;., " What are the visions that 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 — n^' "" ■'■'^'-.■'' •;■,_ '™«' ■■ ■ .^; „ ^ " If dreams infest the grave, . ' > , , „ ,, , : ; Vj ^j ,j I wake emerging from a ee^ of dreams." "'""-^ \. What a terrible idea of future punishment is contained in el nui |:ti THE MONCTONS 13 r- iiy •th tak me jt\y lim- rxl" my tiead rrati- ibling bastly tunes Iner i^i muni- ;oncla- warn s com- )ed," I |ry aad 1?" IS, baa \. lined iu these words to one, whose sleep like mine is haunted by unutter- able terrors. Think of an eternity of dreaming horrors. A hell condensed within the narrow resting-place of the grave. My reveries were abruptly dispelled bj the sound of steps along the passage that 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 tallying 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 famihar 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 valu- able 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 ma-;} long years that had slowly intervened, I never recollected having seen it unclosed. My attention for the first time was drawn to its existence by bearing my uncle say to some one in the passage in a nurried uuder-tone. " Set your mind at rest, the paper is in the iron chest iu i^iat room. If you will not rely upon my promise to destroy it I \^ill burn it before your eyes." n 74 THE MONCTONS ** 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 cyU conscience." This last observation vas accompanied with a hw r^n ecastic laugh — and with an involuntary shiver, I recogiiized lit tho speaker, the mysterious old woman- 'ho had \auntea my dreams. "Conscience never troubles me, Dinah," luturueu Moncton, gloomily. "You first taujrUt me to d -own its warning voice, till my heart became callous and dead alike to God and man. Y<^s, you will laugh at me whei: I declare, that I would give all tbar. I possess in the world, to feel again the reUi^Tse I felt a'. ;r I joicied joc in tip cummission of that unholy deed. You. were the tempter. To ;ou I owe this moral death. This awful staguauou of hoaM, which I find worse to bear than the fiercest pain." "Yoa were n.n apt pupil," said the woman, "All vour natural tendencies were evil. I only fostered and called them out. Bat what is the use of recalling unj)lcasant truths. Why don't yoL silence memory, when you have ceased to foel remorse. But I tell you what it is, Moncton. The presence of the one |)roves the existence of the other. The serpent is sleeping in Lis coil, anu one of these days you will feel the strength of his fangs. Is this the door that leads to his chamber ? You have chosrn ft sorry dormitory for the heir of the proud house of *' Moncton," " Hush 1 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 c )Tel in such ignorance, Monct> ; '' i THE MONCTONS. 15 i< f bis Ihave le of lif he lintet letect sucb Hold your tongue, Dinah, and give me the light. Remem- ber 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 Bleep, 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, fol- lowed by his odious-looking companion, entered the room. My intention of watching all their movements was com- pletely frustrated by Mr. Moncton, who, advancing with cau- tious steps to my bed-side, held up the light in such a man- ner as not only to reveal my face, but the attitude in which " 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. Alex- ander ?" "His father, rather," sneered Moncton. "He's a second edition of Xed ; but has got more brains. Thanks to his grand- father, 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 win- dow-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 fa. e, with its dark, snaky eyes, bending over me, and ' "oiinv! It .impossible to maintain, with any appearance of *"'/' ity, the compj! ire I had a^'^umed. In order to conceal the excited state of my mind, a^d to Gonvinc'3 her of the certainty of my pretended slumber, I threw out my arms, and began to toss and turn, and mutter in iny sleep, putting on all the con- 76 THE M0N0TON3. tortious which generally conynlse 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 tqss 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 confi.- dence, assured me that he placed them here with his own hands. He in?y, Lowever, have destroyed them, and anticipated my wishes." "And you, with all your cautioL," sneered Dinah North, ** could trust an affair of such importance to another." " He was my creature, sworn to secresy, 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, especia)ly a low- born fellow like Walters ; and where," she continued, aLxiously, " 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 / merica did he emigrate ?" r*.C?JP THE MONCTUNS. n " 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 y&a 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." - •, /v. tm.' My uncle rosb irom his knees and locked the iron chest, then, extinguishing my lamp, he and the old woman left the room. '■ f' The sound of their retreating footsteps had scarcely died away, when, in spite of my wish to keep awake, 1 J'ropped off into a profound sleep, and did uot again unclose my eyes uo^ \ it was time to dress for breakfast. m w pcu ? -.urveying me attentively, with his clear, glittering eyeis, " I was haras;scd by frightful dreams, and only awoke from one fit of night-mare to fall into a worse." ^ '■' "Are you often troubled with bad 'Ir'^" ^s ?" said he, without removing his powerful gaze from my pule face. " Not often with such as disturbed ine last night." I deti . i»)d my uncle's drift in using this species of cro.ss-ques- tioning, >i.id I determined to increase his uneasiness without betraying my own. »... ..w " 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 remem- ber her both youn^- 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 inter- preters of dreams. Tut, I hope you lon'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 M Moncton's face. The glitter of his bright orbs almost dazzle J .ne. I thought, however, that his cheek paled for a moment, ard that I could perceive a slight tv^ etching movement about the muscles of the mouth. ■mmCL TUK MONCTUNil. «f . " Well," ho said, qu ^ calmly, " and what then ?" " For a long time I resisted her efforts to stab mo with a long knife, and I received severnl deep wounds in my hands, in endea- voring to ward ofiF 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." . i The dream was no invention of the moment, but had actually occurred, after Dinah North and Mr. Moucton had left my cham- ber. 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 nerv- ous, 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 1 How ready you are to take offence at triflea. 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 feitile 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 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." •% 4 80 THE MONCTUNB. -*^. This was a masterly stroke^ and those who knew Ff'^jr^j Monrton, in a moment would recognize the man. The adroit- ness with which he mingled truth with falsehood, almost made me doubt the evidence of ray senses, and to fancy that the events of the past night were a mental delusion. " Did you find the papers yoa wanted, sir ?" * '' ' His eye flashed, and his lip curled. " What business is that of yours, sir ? I don't allow an impertinent bo\r 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 orld. 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," he said, tapping me on my shoulder. " Be obedient to my orders, and attend to my inte- rest, and you shall not long want the means of gratifying your m IN?- s s f( -*i,^. r.« THE UONCTONS 81 It is my intention wishes. Mr. Tlarrlson has left the office that you supply ius place." " Harrison gone !" I cried in a tone of vexation and regret; " then I have lost my best friend." " Harrison was a clever, gcritlemauly young man," said Mr. Moncton, coldly; " but, to tell you the plain truth, Geoffrey, I did not like the close intimacy which e.\isted between you." " Why, it is to him thai I am indebted for all the know- ledge I have acquired. Uis 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 ray 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 undo for his offer, and left the room with the tears in my eyes. I had been so little accustomed to think for myself, that J relied upon George as my counsellor in all matters of impri- tance. Besides, I had an idea that he could throw some lir^l:! upon the mysterious events of the night, and I was fn.\',o.'^ to unburden to him the important secret. Having to obtain the signature of a gentleman who resit' 1 in Fleet street, to some legal documents, and knowing thai. 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 conde- scension. ,_, I was again doomed to disappointment. On reaching Harri- son's lodgings, I learned that he had left town that morning, for a visit of some weeks into the country, but to what part * 4* ™1 ^i 82 THE MONCTO^'S his landlady didn't know. At parting, he told her she might rent his rooms until he gave her notice of bis return. " Gone I without seeing or writing one line to inform me of his departure. It is cruel. Not like his general conduct," I mattered, as I turned from the door : ** If he can deceive, I will never trust in mortal man again." ^---^ With a heavy- heart I sauntered on unconscious of the path I had taken, until I found myself entangled among the crowds that 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, to seize the horses of either carriage by their bridles, and push them forcibly back, and, by so doing, hinder the young lady from being trampled to death beneath their hoofs. She, fortunately, was unconscious of her danger, and could not hj useless screams and struggles, frighten the horses, and frustra?;e my endeavors to save her. The coachmen belonging to the vehicles, succeeded in stop- ping 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. Fair she was, and exceedingly beautiful. Her rich, black, velvet pelisse, setting off to great advantage the dazzling whiteness of her skin, and the rich coloring of her sunny brown hair. ^: '^WK- THE MONCTONS. 83 My heart throbbed audibly beneath the lovely head that rested so placidly above it ; and the arm that supported her graceful form, trembled like the leaf on the aspen. The glorious ideal* of my youthful fancy had assumed a tangible form, had became a bright reality ; and as I looked down upon that cal^, gentle face, love took possession of my heart. The sorrows of the past — the difficulties of my present posi- tion — my recent vexations, all — all were forgotton. A new spirit had passed into me, I was only alive to the delicious rap- ture that thrilled through me. First passiou 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 tho. heart, the memory of those sudden and vivid impressions made upon it by the first electrical shocks of animal magnetism. . ^ How eagerly I watched the unclosing of those blue eyes ; yet, how timidly I shrunk from their first mild rays. Blushing, she rose from my arms, and shaking the long, sunny ringlets from her face, she thanked me with gentle dignity 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 grat'';ude 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 young gentleman's timely aid, wbQ risked his own life to save mine." # -fcS?- * ^. 1^7 <^5^ 84. THE MONOTONS. How shall we thank you — how shall we thank you, sir?" cried the elderly lady, seizing my hand, and all but embracing me in an extasy of gratitude. " You have rendered me a great service — a great service indeed. Without that dear giili life would be a blank to me. My Kate, my Katel" she cried, clasp- ing the young lady in her arms, and bursting into tears, "you don't know ho\^ dreadfully I felt when I saw you under the hoofs of those horses. My child! my child! — 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 flunkey closed the door, and they drove oflf, leaving me spell-bound, rooted to the door- sill of the shop. "Who are those ladies ?" asked the apothecary, looking com- placently 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 in- quiring 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, m;.^' Bb 1 THE MONCTONS. 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 felt indignant at the apothecary for alluding to such a vulgar necessary of life as money. 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." " And who would wish to degrade it to such a menial occu- pation." " Ha, ha, ha, young man. You give a literal meaning to the old proverb. You must be in love." 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 " ridicu- lous puppy I" 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 haugh- ty tone. " What did I say, sir ?" " You called me a ridiculous pappy." "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. Unable to check the passion that was boiling in my veins, I levelled a blow at my antagonist, but unfortunately, or rather fortunately I ought to say, m^'ssed my aim. The gentleman who was leaning on the counter, and who seemed highly amused by the scene, took me by the arm and led me into the street. " Do not you perceive I W' ^0 4 86 THE MONCTONS that you are making a fool of yourself, and giving the apothe- cary an advantage over you. Go home, and act more prudently for the time to come. I am the father of several lads about your age, and you must take ray advice in good part.-' Though I felt hurt and mortified, I cculd but thank my new acquaintance for saving me from committing greater absur- dities. ,. .,A\.lfr " My uncle is right," I said, 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 get- ting into such ridiculous scrapes." At dinner my uncle met me with a serious face. " What kept , ou from the office, Geoffrey, thir morning." I, willing to act openly with him, narrat>3d to him the adven- ture I had met with. " I think I know the lady," he said. " 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 1" 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, wofile, 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." i ■4/ % THE MONCTONS. 8t " By leading you to neglect Business, and by filling your head with hopes which could never be realized." >. - , .V2>: - ■-- " 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, industri- ous, 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," he said, calmly, *' and I admire your spirit, Geoffrey ; but nephew" (this was the first time I ever remem- ber his calling me so), " there are other diflScnlties in the way of your making a high and wealthy alliance, of which you have no idea." ■ h ^^f- I know not why — but a sudden tremor seized hxe as he said this. But mastering my agitation, I begged him to explain his meaning. " I have long wished to do so," he said, " 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 ray authority and resisted my will. Yet — you know not hall the debt of kindness you owe to me." I was about to speak. He held up his hand for me to main- tain silcuce ; 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 hard- ness of heart ; and construe into insults and injuries the necessary restraint imposed njon their actions for their good. ^. m^' tjf^tr U THE MONOTONS Yours, I admit, was a painful situation, which you rendered still more unpleasant by your obstinate and resentful disposition." " But, uncle I" 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 mdulged you, as she never did one of her own children." " My dear aunt I God bless her — she was the only creature iu the house that 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, re-filling his glass. '' As to Theophilus, it was natural for him to dislike the lad who had robbed him of his mother's afiFectious, and who left iiim 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 l^L. 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 hj angry. " There are circumstances connected with your birth, G-eof- frey, 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 exclain^ed, 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 lie ! — a base lie inventea to ruin me !" I cried, defiantly, and shaking my fist in his face. " 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." i^MiiLitUft^ THE MO>CT0Na 89 ** " Proofs /" I exclaimed, bitterly, " they are in your own possession — or you have destroyed them 1" ■" ' ■- - i-f-^ <» ?'*^<«5«i ' " What interest can I have in trying to make you a bastard ? Is the boy mad ?" . * < ■^^ • '';^^J*^**^ * " 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 1" His pretended calmness was all gone. His pale face crimsoned with rage. Yet it was wonderful how insthntane- ously ho mastered his passion. •■ " Who told you this prohahle story ? Who put such absurd notions Into your head ?" " One, upon whose word I can rely. My friend, Mr. Har- rison." " I would like to ask Mr. Harrison what he knows of our family aflfairs," 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. Robert Moncton," I cried, stand- ing, erect before him, " I will never part with it. I will main- tain my equality with you and your son to the last moment of my life 1" Overcome by excitement and agitation, I sank down into my chair, my head dropped upon the table and I sobbed couvul- gively. THE MONCTONS " Geoffrey," said my undo, 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." "The pity of the wolf for the lamb," muttered I. "Such , sympathy is worse than hate." " Well, believe me the author of all your wrongs, if it pleases you, Geoffrey ; but first listen to what 1 have to say." ^ I wa» too much exhausted b"^ the violence of my emotions to offer the least opposition, and ho 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 bril- liant 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 descretion, who loved unwisely and too well. Her father saw enough of my brother Edward's character, to awaken his sus- picions that his attentions to his daughter were not of an honorable 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 hoai't. Your mother went by the name of Moncton, and was intro- duced 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 produced, the world will look upon you as illegitimate. " You will soon be of age, Geoffrey, and if you are prepared tti0iiiimitmmmimiium t:^::^ \ » THE MO >• C T N 8 , with these indispensable do aments, I will assist, to the best of ray professional abilities, in helping; you to establish '.our claims. It is not in ray power to destroy or invalidate them. Why then these base suspicions — these unmerited reproaches — these hurric' . s of passion ? Why doubt my integrity at the very moment w''.* 1 1 am most anxious to serve you ?" - ..ju^, i,i " Bi jause in no instance have you ever proved yourself my friend, and I cannot help doubting your sincerity !" ■<. ; a^.h " A want of candor is certainly not among ypur failings," said Mr. Moncton, with a hil^h mv\ of his proud lip. " You have studied the law long enough to know the impolicy of such conduct." " I 'udge not from fair words but deeds. Sir, the change in y? r behavior to me is too sudden for me to belic»e it geiiUine." " Strange," mused Mr. Moncton, " so young and so su'spici- ous 1" then turning to me, he said, without tho least appearance of resentment at my violence, " Geoffrey, I know your fruity 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 neccbb^iry, 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 upou your own exertions to advance your position in society." " If your statement be true, w.iat have I to do with society ? What position could I obtain in u -yorld which already regards me as an outcast ?" " Not here, perhaps. But there are other countries, where the conventional rules that govern society in this, are regarded with indifference — America, for instance. He fixed his keen eye upon me. An el metric flash passed into 92 THE MONCTOiis. 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. ''' ,r jrieu ray plans in a moment, and deteiv luined to foil his scho,me:j by appearing to rountenr: i- them, until I could arrive ai the truth, and fathom his d< Li^iiS — and I answered him 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." ' • • ■ ■■<"' ^ ,M '■^t-\^.i^ " It is your only wise course. Hark you, Geoffrey 1 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." :* . ^ i , . The scoundrel ! how I longed to knock him down, but that would have done me no good, so I mastered my indignation and withdrew. -. •-; ; mU'^vt '^.■' . ^ ■•:..■■■; . . .rr , , .: ' ..— ^ - '■*vymiiVP.'<.'S /<■;jj,i i In the multitude of sorrows w'lich pressed sorely on my young heart, I more than ever stood ^d of the advice and consola- tion which the Christian religio ilone bestow. I left the presence of Rob- chamber. The lonely garret c usual. No one would disturb 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 in man's fallen nature was struggling for mastery, and the worst agony I was called upon to endure, was the hopeless, heart-crushing, downward tending madness of despau*. To die — to got rid of self — the dark consciousness of unmer- ited 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 that 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 honse of the oppressor. Did I follow the suggestions of my own J. '1 »r*- IMAGE EVALUATiON TEST TARGET (MT-3) w,./.o {./ 'J* Jit-, ^ *t %° A f/ 1.0 I.I If: liM IIM f ^ IS It fiis 1 2.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 <4 6" — ► Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 94 THE M0NCT0N8. heart, T should either destroy myself, or qait 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, fur- ther the sinister views of your uncle. If the second, you throw away seven years of hard labor, lose your indentures, and for ever place a bar to 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 conse- quence. • '^' He held out his hand as I took my seat at the desk. " Are we friends, Geofifrey ?" ^""" '^ " That depends upon circumstances." " . "How hard it is for you to give a gracious answer. It is your own fault that we ever were otherwise." 2 " 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 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 lips : " So would I serve the writer were he here 1" Then turning to me, and speaking in a low, confidential tone, he said : m ■-^^-;. / > T" y i- THE UONCTONS. 95 *' The writer of that letter is unconscionsly making your for- tane, Geoffrey. This soa of mine has acted in a base, ungrate- ful 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 I 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." - "■ -• - ^- - -• > " You surely are an exception, sir," and I tried in vain to suppress a sarcastic smile. • ; t He took no notice of this speech, but, starting from his seat, paced the room for some minutes, as if in deep communion with himself. " Geoffrey," he said 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 fashion- able 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 honors, they are not without their use to the professional student. The world judges so much by externals, that nothing is to be despised that 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 ;" for I could not believe him in earnest. ' -^^a " By the living God 1 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 '■^fc- *V.. ■...■, <■.-;■.. ,%: 96 THE MONOTONS. 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 favor. 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 freezmg me with their icy shine, b jt 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 forgive- ness 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 appro- priated entirely for that purpose, while the family occupied the floors above. My uncle seldom received visitors, excepting at .r THE UONCTONS 9^ ^Jl: AoM^^s wKn Theophllus returned from cdilege.* To theai parties, I,, as a matter of course, had never been admitted, Idf* 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 Gros-^ venor street, and that we were to remove thither. The of&cQ was still to be retained in Hatton Garden, but my hours of at- tendance 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 Lou* don, and had never viHited 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-lighted, 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 ren- dered 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 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 interetit the throng of car- riages passing and repassing ; hoping to catch a glance of the fair face, that had made such an impression gn my youthful fancy. A note from Mr. Moncton, kindly worded for him, conveyed to me the pleasing iutelligen'ce that the handsome pressfuU of^ fine linen, and fetshionably cut clothes, was meant for my use f to which he had generously added, a beautiful dressing-case, gold watch arid chain. ^' I should have been perfectly happy, had it not been for # vague, unpleasant sensation — a certain swelling of the hearty' a^^ ^P THE MONGTONS. > which silently seemed to reproach me for accepting all these favors from a person whom I neither loved nor respected, .'v '* Conscience whispered that it was far better to remain poor and independent, than compromise my integrity. ; ,, i.f ; j - Oh, that I had given more heed to that voice of the soul I That still, small voice, that never lies — that voice that no one can drown, without remorse and self-condemnation, -ir =^ *- Tiine bronght with it the punishment I deserved, convincing me then, and for ever, that no one can act against his own con- viction of right, without incurring the penalty due to his moral defalcation. ■• ' ^ jmu' i; i> I dined alone with Mr. Moncton. f -» t •».«< i*i^ ^^i-Mt-.^ > i'-iff*^ yjrT- ».teti*- -ai #05-s;«j|4**'.i After the cloth was drawn, he filled a bumper of wine, and pushed the bottle over to me. i'-joti-.^'^xxr^ fts'*' 4 *<*. i-*^-^i rvMs?* " Here's to your rising to the head of the profession, Geoff- rey. Fill your glass, my boy." ■ ' '-^'^ ^^'».|i^ifr. 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. '^'^■"" "£■"■"■«■ '""'" "" — '■■■" '■'" --"r^" ■ - ■". „,,.,.,..._ " I will not allow that, Geoffrey — you must honor my toast.*' "I have done so, uncle, as far as I am able. I have had enough wine." • . f " Nonsense, boy 1 Don't you like it ?" ''':*'■ '-;'f ''^' ^'^ " I hardly know. It makes me feel giddy and queer." ' *^ " Ha I ha 1 that's good" — chuckling, and rubbing his hands. " If I take more just now, I shall certainly Tse tipsy." , " What then ?" ^ ^ " /: ' ;\'^ ; ^ ^^J\ ; f'^f^\^ " It would be disgraceful. In your presence, too.^''^ ■.>-"^'^ "What — were you never drunk ?" „ " * ," IS ever, m my life." , ; - - stS* • :,V . , r.s :..;;-/ THK MONOTONS (i-i(t.>T|11 0} i**virt't*? 'jUr-}** t<'»isiw , ,..i . ., T .1, ■t ;■' ' " How old are you r '^ "Twenty." " "And never intoxicated — well, that's a good joke. Few young men of your age could say that. Would you not likia to increase your knowledge, and be as wise as others V I shook my head. ' ■*' *"' " Ridiculous prudery. Come, fill your glass, and I will tell you a droll anecdote of that pretty girl you fell in lore with the other day." The glass was instantly replenished, and I was wide awake in a moment. ^'*' ** That young lady had a very pretty cousin — a West Indian — a high-spirited, dashing girl, who had lost her parents, and was on a visit in England to her aunt — with whom the fair Catherine resides. The girls, among other things, were very curious to know how men felt when they were drunk. * It surely must be a very agreeable sensation,' said my little friend Kate, ' or they would not so often give way to it."* ri-ii f " ' Suppose we try ?' " said Miss Madcap. /.* « *< f^ t'ri t«. " ' Dear me, what would aunt think of us ?' " .*. j^n^ii^ | ^ •' ' We won't let her know a word about it. She goes out to- morrow, to spend a few days in the country. I will smuggle into our room a couple of bottles of champ9,gne — we'll lock the door, feign indisposition, and get glorious.'" *..*?? " And did they do it ?" " To be sure they did. * We drank one botljje between us,» said my little friend, * and I never was so ill in my life. I was only astonished after we got sober, how any one could try the experiment a second time.' Had they tried it a second time, GeoflFrey, all the difficulty would have been removed." 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. '-T,-Ti'i-""i-«--V?r, '_-^^f^ ■--■ -f 100 'rHE MONCTONS. My uncle's stern face began to relax from its usual cold severity, and I found that when warmed with wine, he could bo 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 por- traits. Perhaps you would like to keep them in your own possession." " No present you could make me, would be so valuable," I cried. "No heroics," he said, going to a beautiful inlaid cabinet. "I 'detest sentimental people. They are the greatest humbugs in the world." ' • ' Beturning to the table, he placed two large miniature cases in my hand, I eagerly seized them. ' - -^v"^ ' '•■ v '-^ m^^.*^ " Don't look at them now," he cried, " 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, Gcoflfrey," 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 eagle glance contradicted, " what has become of you 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." ^^ ' '^"^^ ':^ i^^f^n. ^! m^ My uncle's large dark eyes, were looking into my soul ; I ifelt that he doubted by word. " He has, I believe, been unfortunate and is reduced in his circumstances. His moral character, / know to be excellent." TU£ MONCTONS. 101 " And doubtlesa your are a capital judge," said Mr. Moucton. "Young men all imagine themselves as w n^--i\'.< loa THE UOMCTONd. 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 endeavored to make me intoxicated in the hope of extracting some informa- tion regarding poor George. If so, he has missed his mark.'' » f» I drew from my bosom the portraits he had given me, per* haps 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 spirii, 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 difi'erent the expression of the two faces. Mine was saddened and paled by early care, by close confine- ment 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 mark- ed 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 love- liness. 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 pic- ture recalled the far-off happy days of childhood, wlyBn I sat upon your knees, and saw my own joyous face reflected in those dov&-like eyes ; ttrhen, ending some nursery rhyme with a kiss, *\ ,.fcj&ir?£.r^=;--:^- .. 1 TUB UONOTOKS. 103 yoQ bowed *yoar velvet cheek upon my clastering curlgf ao^ bade God blesa and keep your darling boy. ;; ^ : Oh my mother I — would that I could become a child again, or that 1 could go to you, though you cannot return to me. I leant my head upon the table and wept. Those tears pro- duced 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 com- posed state of mind. The picture still lay there smiling upon me. " Is it of you, dearest mother," I said, " that bad men dare whisper hard things ? Who could look Q>t that pure lovely face and believe aught against your honor ? 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 1" ♦; 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, tsu i^r . i v i;i,^-, at ijvv>;j^Ui^ iif) l>l\) tu,* Jiji'\'.:,'4 .»:^iii/? i'^^iUi'-tjf Vi.i ; nil, CHAPTER XIII. ':^inUi j^ ^jgj^ pjjQjj ^gg QUEAT MAN OP THE FAMILY. -■it- »5 j-^ ^-.t j.^JA-w ** ':^ ij.ui ivMiJi>.5 ..!ni.\'.!6;.i''_^^ .'Jk'i*' From that day, I became Mr. Moncton^s factotum, his confi- dential clerk, and principal agent. In all matters that required prompt and skillful 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 profes- 104 THE UONCTONS. ,-4 siouul journeys, ond was present in every court in vA\k\i lie hud ftn important case. He was an admirable speaker, and liis cool, decided manner had great weight with both judge and jury. 1 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 ull 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 over- whelm me with civilities ; and, for a while, I was intoxicated witH'the adulation I received from the world and its smooth- i tongued votaries. ,? Three months glided rapidly away, and every day added to j my self-importance, and brought with it fresh opportunities of i enlarging the circle of my friends, and of acquiring a competent knowledge of the conventional rules of society. Though natu- rally fond of company, I hated dissipation, and those low vices which young men of common minds generally designate as , pleasure, in the pursuit of which they too often degrade their mental and physical powers. Mr. Moncton laughed at what he i> 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 ia me ; but I have often observed in my subsequent journey through life, that young men, whose know- ledge 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 pre-conceived 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 HWai TUE MONCTONS. 105 to solitudS as a refu^^o from pleasures, so-called, that I could not enjoy, and scenes in wliich I felt shuuio to bo an actor. Perhaps I was mulnly indebted to the passion I had coticelved for the beautiful Catherine, which acted as a secret talisman in securing me from tho contamiiiattng 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 fre- quented theatres, operas, and public balls, but to no purpose ; on this head I was still doomed to suffer the most provokiug disappointment. One evening I returned late from the office in Hatton Oar- den ; 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 tho hall, when one of the footmen, with whom I was a great favorite, 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 portman- teau from the hotel, and said that he would wait here till ueoster returned." , • ■ ** .....i. • "Thank you, Saunders, for your information," I cried, hurry- ing 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, j y ,^t rv,, .,'t j, ^w, >, ^ My uncle was from home, which would afford me an oppor- tunity of speaking for myself. I was anxious to make a favor- able impression on Sir Alexander, and took an unusual degree of pains with my toilet, but the more trouble I gave myself, the worse I succeeded. One suit, which was my very best, I fancied ' 5* 106 THE MONCTONS, too fine, and tliat it made me look vulgar, another was unbecom- ing. In short, no bride on her wedding morning, ever felt more diffident of the appearance she would make, than I did on this important occasion — which, hope whispered, was to prove the great epoch in my life. ,i, ;,!,.•. (•.!!-•!•« i-'-/ ^nuiAr.uih' The extravagance of youthful hope, is only equalled by youth- ful vanity ; and whilst standing before the polished mirror, con- templating my own person with the desire to appear to the best advantage, I forgot the stigma attached to my birth, my depen- dent situation, and the very proud man in whose presence I was about to appear. After pondering over for a few minutes, the manner in which I should address him, a sudden sense of the absurdity of my conduct struck me so forcibly, that my day-dreams vanished in a hearty fit of laughter. " Hang it 1" I exclaimed, " what a ridiculous puppy I am going to make of myself, .vith all this aflfectatioa and nonsense. Nature is the best guide in works of art, why should not our conversation and manners be governed by the same unerring rule ? Simplicity and truth possess a charm, that never can belong to studied airs and grimaces. It is better to appear as I am, with all my imperfections, than affect to be what I am not, even if by so doing, I could ensure the good opinion of thijs wealthy titled relation." With these wise reflections, I regained my composure, and 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 din- ner, and anxious to make up for lost time. "»r I did the honors as well as I could ; but not without com- mitting sundry awkward blunders ; greatly to the horror of THE HOMCTOKS. lot Saunders, who with toe and elbow, gave mo varions silent hints upon the snbject, as he glided noiselessly to and fro. This only increased my confusion, but fortunately, my worthy relative was too much engrossed with kis dinner, to notice the trifling omissions, which poor Saunders considered of such immense importance. -*< it- i " • . ^ ■ • • -1 • .«' •'^rs* -m* 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 sub- ject 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 — stili less that he left a son. It is strange, that I should have been kept in ignorance of this important fact." > i ' i > 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 — iuterested parties did their best to widen the breach. " Edward and I were school-fellows ; and though little har- mony existed betv/een the elder branches of the family, we loved like brothers. He was a handsome, generous, high-spirited fel- low, 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 particular- ize, took place — from which period, we never met, and all cor- 108 THE MONCTONS. respondence 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 wncle Robert ; and he did not inform me, that Edward had left a son — nor can I comprehend his motive for concealing the fact." ' ' ='' " ' ' f "■ " '*'^ '-'*'' Sir Alexander paused and looked earnestly in my face. I felt the blood rush to my temples. ' ■■.■<■-■ ^ jr • " 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?" ■ ■- ■:■ ' ■'•■■ ^ ■- . ■■• -. ■t;-^ " 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. " Docs 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 mea 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 reflec- tions, that I had leisure to examine his countenance minutely. A strong family likene?^- existed between him and my father, and uncle Robert; and as for me — I might have passed for his n k ^-^ THE MO NOTON S. 109 ^ son. He had the same hig-h ehead, aquiline nose, chestnut curling hair, and dark pierc; ,^ eyes ; but his face lacked the careless, frank, good nature of my father's, and was totally des- titute of the subtle, stern demeanor of my uncle's. The expres- sion 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 hand- some uncle's, was very pale, and an early accquaintance with grief might be traced in the lines that furrowed his ample white forehead. ■^it.-.yi ^Trb After a few turns through the room, he resumed his seat. ? -?*. *' Mr. Geoffrey Moncton," he said, grasping me warmly by the hand, " I wish sincerely that you could prove your legiti- macy. There is something about you thai/ 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 assf^rtion that will make me believe you a bastard. Tell me all you know about yourself ?" •>• « ... < , r. ' < n, -ivrv - I endeavored 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. ^ ": ^ ^s A loud knocking at the door, announced the arrival of Mr. Moncton. •■ -. ■-,-■■ •■' " ■' - r-.^/ - .. «:;,;.,. " That is my uncle's knock," I cried, 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 \mmm 110 THE UONOTONS. surprised and annoyed at finding me on such intimate terms with the baronet, to whom he gave a most cordial and flattering welcome. i /(,wj. :;•.,- .;:[ ^^uvl ■-• ^- ;^-'-i.?p'.i> '.fSMMir^MlHf' «<*; The other met his advances with cold and studied politeness ; it was evident to me that he, too, put a restraint upon his feel- " I am sorry, Sir Alexander, that I was from home when you arrived. This visit /row yow is such an i*?iea;j)6c/eti favor." " 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, j 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." . r . 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," he said, 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 pres- ence. I bowed to Sir Alexander, and reluctantly withdrew. It so happened, that Mr. Moncton's study opened into th© dining-room, and without meaning to do so, I left the door but partially closed. THE MOK0TON8 111 i :* ' A Bitting 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 gentle- men were conversing upon the current news of the day over their wine. The servant brought up coflFee, and I ceased to give any heed to what was passing in the next room. i"; I was drawing out a long deed of, settlement, when my atten- tion was aroused by the mention of my own name, and the fol- lowing dialogue caught my ear : ' ' *' '•i!..;i >'.n '-.{f -iip^t *- " This nephew of yours, Robert Moncton, is a fine lad. How is it that I never heard of him before ?" ' •" • '» -» •^»t. «■* . " 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 pro- fession out of charity." '• r :--•.; .. - . . V(Mf.i', fiUJ j " An act of benevolence hardly to be expected from you," said Sir Alexander, with a provoking laugh. " I suppose you expect to get the interest for your kindness out of the lad ?" ^; ■ " Why, yes. Ho 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 obli- gations 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 some- thing 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 112 THB MONOTONS liv care," and I flung the parchment from me. " That man is an infamous liar ! I will tell him so to his face." ^ ■>'-; ni;?.: : I was just about to burst into the room, when Sir Alexander resumed the conversation. ' ' " '■* .' « •* • M " 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 dissi- pated 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 inqniry 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 actl" " 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 answer able 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, Geoffrey, I should think, would prove rather a formi- dable rival to your son." " Comparisons are odious. Sir Alexander ; I should be sorry if my son resembled this base-born lad." THE MONCTONS. 113 " I can see no likeness between them," said Sir Alexander, drily, " not even a family one. By-thebye, what has become of Theophilus?" . • . < . ., , , , r .-^ f "He is travelling on the continent. His last letter was dated from Rome. He has been a great source of trouble and vexation to me, and is constantly getting into scrapes among the women, which you must allow, Sir Alexander, is a family failing of the Monctons." i iv r- . i " His conduct lately has been such," said the baronet, in an angry voice, " that it makes me blush ^hat 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 some allowances for youth and indiscretion. We were young men ourselves once. Sir Alexander." " Thank God 1 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 1 while a visitor beneath my roof, and a solicitor for the hand of my daughter, outraged all feelings of honor 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 1" " 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 I" " Please yourself, Sir Alexander. You will never bully me into giving ray consent to this disgraceful marriage," cried Moncton, stamping with rage. «. ' 114 THE MONCTONS, There was another long pause. I heard Sir Alexander' tra- yersiug 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 boyl rash, blind love ; but 1 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 Monc- ton shall never darken my doors until the grave closes over n 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. i; ^ ;, .* From that night, a marked alteration took place in his man- ner 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 de- prive 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 u 'I a I THE MONOTONB. 115 of eminence, to accept a place in his office, with promises of far- ther advancement ; this rendered my ancle's conduct a matter of indifference. The sudden and unexpected retorn of Theophi- lus, gave a very different aspect to my affairs. » , r^d it r^ut -#► I i , , , , CHAPTER XiV. . . * , a; . ti t n - LOVE AND HATRED. ^ '*^' 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, mnt<^ as a marble statue ; it was frightful to contemplate the glossy £tare of his glittering eye, the rigid immobility of his countenance, i ■ ^ » " God of Heaven 1" 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 the inso- lent wretch continued. - A ^ ,, " By heaven I 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 snea! 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 oui '»f his mouth, when I sprang ' THI MONCTONI. 119 from my chair, aad with a well-directed How, leTelled him at my feet. "Thuuk you, Oeoflfrcy 1" exclaimed Mr. Moacton, raising the crest fallen hero from the ground. " You have au8wur(L;d both for yourself and me." "I have been too rash," I said, seeing the blood stream copiously from my cousin's nose ; " but he ex isperated mo beyond endurance." " He provoked It Mmrelf," returned Mr. Moncton. " I never blame any per"" ^ v ini insulted, for taking his own part. You need be un '•"• no appehension of a hostile encounter — Theophi- lus is n 00.^ aril; dog, he can bark and snarl, but dares not fi„ht. <>o to your room, Geoffrey, you will be better friends after this." - - Ho said this in a tone of such bitter irony, that I hardly knew whether he was pleased with what I had done or offended, but who could fathom the mind of such a man ? I inst;|tutly complied with his request, and felt, however mortifying to my pride, that Theophilus Moncton had uttered the truth; <. •< > r.i " In another week," I cried, as I strode through the apart- ment — " 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 1" ^, . ... m- .,;»- *: 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 hiad been so gratifying to my vanity, and privon mo .juch an exalted idea of my own consequence. A\; tirst, I was at a loss to imagine what had produced this suddeq change. One simple sentence at length solved all these unpleasant queries, and pressed the unwelcome truth home to my heart. Robert Moncton had been reconciled to his son, and I was ouce more regaplod as only a poor relation. P 120 THE MONOTONS. 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 ovrn 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." : > rtii ■^■<:* tf^^-Mi . -i/^-v-'i ■'>;-.> ■;.■■■..;■ 'f^ t;.. ii rv:«.- ti-iijs ftvAnd 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 thankei im heartily for his attention to ray comfort, and being tired and hungry, did ample justice to the meal he had provided. " .•iy.-.i. ■ •: . '■ .;>^^ ; v/.:. ■;> .-.i* w-vi ifi}"*t v. .^. " " This party has been got up in a hurry, Saunders ?" ■xr^.^ovn '"Not at all, sir. I carried out the invitations four days ago." ■f^;--V .i r '■,::.■ -J .-r . ).-r # -.v ^ ■ , ■ ' u "^i^ KJfl ''' J*, "You surprise me 1" said I, dropping my knife and fork. " Four days ago — and I know nothing about it. That is some- thing new." '-rv '■ ,'*..- i^ A .--isC;":!' If. V-'i "fvn ji^U^Ui ;* ( THE MONOTONS 121 ' "It" is young Mr. Moncton's doings, sir. The party is giten in honor of his return. Says Mr. Theophilus to the Guv'nor, sayt he, ' I shall say nothing to Geoflfrcy, about it. What a capi- tal joke it will be, to see him bolt into the room without study- ing the Graces for an hour.' ' I think it was the Graces, he said, sir ; but whether its 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 1" 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 six- pences 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." " •- ■ -- m.I ^^>;.w5 \^^,■d ^txl'-.,, " And what has happened to prevent your marriage ?" said I, growing impatient and wishing to cut his long story down to the basement. • - ■ • ■ " •'^ -^ • ^rV' " 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 6 ■f 1 J W: I ^S^- 122 THE MONCTONS I 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 deceit- ful, but I have found it the reverse. Never trust in vimen, sir 1 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. Theo- philus. 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 I — there's the dining- room bell. More wine. The ladies have just left for the draw- ing-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 assem- bled. Persons who a few weeks before had courted my acquaint- ance and flattered my vanity, by saying and doing a thousand agreeable things, had not a friendly word to offer. i i ' 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 flashed 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 .1" f THE HON CTONS. 123 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 eflfect a quiet retreat, when the folding-doors were again thrown open, and Mrs. Hepborn 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, who I had for so many months sought for, and sought in vain. ' ■fMi'-^i^mi Yes it was her — my adored Catherine — no longer pale and agitatia 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. •-:;■ s.v^ .• - -- :, ■■ ' .- .^v ..v^Mz-iJm>, *• Miss Lee," was whispered among the ladies near me. " Mr. Moncton's ward ?" ^ : - " The rich heiress." ^ ■• < - * M' " 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.' " v .-.. . . -. :;i;f » « ^ --h^^-^ \ \ r ". ;•..*,. -4^ .& THE MONCTONS. I This last spiteful r6mark, I considered a compliment. MTy 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 aflfected 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 dibutante, 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 1 won't she make a noise in the gay world ?" " The beauty of the season." " A prize, independent of her large fortune." " And doubly a prize with." ^ • And thus the men prated of her among themselves. ^ The excitement at length subsided ; and favored 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 acc^ental, 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 # f % 1 THE MONGTOKS. 125 / « am not deceived — you are the gentleman who rescued me from that frightful situation in Oxford street?" , ..^^.^ -"^j^'^ntifu^n " The same," said I, with a smile. " How delighted I am to meet you once more, my brave preserver," she cried, 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. Mr. Geoffrey Moncton, 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 gen- tleman ? 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 Leo if she drew ?" "^ttle." ■•' " ' '■' ' " Let us examine these beautiful prints." 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 tLe malice of the wbole world. ^ "I am no judge of the merits or demerits of apicture," 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, thouj^h portrayed with matchless skill, that represent the heathen deities. With Jupiter, Mars and Yenus, I can feel •'.'^♦V. '■*! / i .m 196 THE MOJfCrONS. little sympathy, while the truthful and spirited delineations of Wilkie and Gainsborough, which have been 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 ^ see you here, Catherine — was afraid you would be too mucn fatigued, after dancing all night, to give us a look in this evening. Been admiring my prints? Splendid collec-' tion, 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. (!'i^ .; .; > " 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." ' ■"''■ '^' f- 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 paint- ing, 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. The fellow could talk well, when he pleased, on any subject, and '}Ossessed 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 leo- tnre came to an end, and then quietly resumed her s^^at at the m k: % «. I THE MONOTONS 12t. m % [ M fti table by me, with whom she entered into a lively conver- sation. The swarthy glow of indignation mounted to my coasin'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 honor 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 scat at the lower end of the table, and I found myself, once more, placed by her side. " I do detest upper seats at feasts and synagogues," 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." • ./,;?>.' r " It is only ambition in a small way," said I. i '^ " Yery 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." , .., > , . -. r; "Tie Monctous were there, father and son. But, perhaps you mix very little in the gaieties of the town." ; . , „„ _„.i >v i^ " 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 Wiltons 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 commuuity. 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, 128 THE MONOTONS aad are incapable of the conduct you deplore. I have met with warm hearts and kind friends amid the gay scenes you ccndemn. — young people, who like myself, are compelled by circumstances to mingle in society, while their thouj^hts and affuctions are far away." .. r» . . , . . ■; . " You have never experienced the frowns of the world," I said, " 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 that 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 Buffered. 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. Hepbuni; 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. . . *? -- ^ •!•; - .)' 'f^;' Jf ^ THE HONOTONS. 129 ** 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 o£8ce ; 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 — perhaps murder. I restrained my indignation, however, and appeared out- wardly 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 demonstra- tions. 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 ray services with a distant bow. I drew proudly back. '• This," I thought, " is their grati- tude. 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 bit- ter things, that had been better unsaid. He threatened to com- plain of me to his father. I dared him to do his worst — and left the room in a state of dreadful excitement. 6* 130 THE HON CTONS. j$ " 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 aboat to take place. " Geoffrey," he said, in a low, hoarse voice, which he vainly endeavored to make calm, " you have grossly insulted ray son, and spoken to him in the most disrespectful terms of me, yoar friend and benefactor. Without you will make a full and satis- factory apology to me for such intemperate language, and ask his pardon, you may dread ray just displeasure." " Ask his pardon I" I cried ; almost choking with passion — " for what ? For his treating me like a menial and a slave 1 — Never, Mr. Moncton, never I" 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 favors 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 dishon- est views — that I was fully aware of his motives, and appreci- ated 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 sar- castic tone ; and unlocking his desk he took out the indentures. A sudden terror seized me. Something in his look threatened - I il h I h THE MO NCTONB. 181 ^, danger — I drew a quicker breath, and advanced a few paces nearer. r i . All my hopes were centered in that sheet of parchment, to obtain which, I had endured seven years of cruel bondage. " No, no," I said, meutally — he cannot be such a villain — he dare not do it I" 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 shud- ders 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 curios'ty to the gaping crowds that followed me. 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 hap- pened 1 What is the matter — are you in your right senses 't 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" I exclaimed, throwing out my clenched hand, and hurrying on still faster. " Oh, that I could crush him with one blow of this fist !" '^^^.v, " Geoffrey, you are mad — do you know what you say ?" ,<*, " Perfectly well — ^stand back, and let me kill him I" He put his arm forcibly round me. " Calm yourself, dear Geoffrey, What has caused this dreadful excitement ? Good God I how you tremble. Lean upon me — heavier yet. The arm of a sincere friend supports you— one who jvill never desert you, let what will befall." ijiA-!i£iH^' 133 THI MONOTONS ■"w P *' Leave me, George, to my fato. I have been shamefully treated, and I don't care a what becomes of me 1" " If you are unable to take care of yourself, Geoffrey," he replied, clasping my hand fervently in his own, and directing ray steps down a less frequented street, " it is highly necessary that some one should, until your mind is 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 I 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 ?" . .. i ,; " This feverish state cannot last, my poor friend ; these furious bursts of passion must yield to exhaustion. Your knees bend under yon. In a few minutes we shall be beyond public observation, and can talk over the matter calmly." :r i >i ^ m 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 that 'T 'r«(H t held me in its grasp. • . • ••; •• fii/ ii jf : When I again opened my eyes, it was in the identical apothe- cary's shop into which, some months before, I had carried the fainting Catherine ^iee. My old enemy, 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. ' A*f . f >.*'• '.' I i 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 harboring this sinful passion, I yet wanted the moral courage and Christian forbearance, to over- come what reason and conscience united to condemn. "" '■•* • ^ Degraded in my own estimation, I longed, yet dreaded to con- fide to the generous Harrison, that the man he loved and attended with such devotion, was capable of such base degen- eracy — of entertaining sentiments only worthy of Robert Monc- ton 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 r * > 1 fit • \. 134 THE M0NCT0N3. / t? 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 melodious 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 in 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 I cannot do it 1" " Do what, dearest 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." ■r THE M0NCT0N3. 135 " Geoffrey," said Harrison, tenderly, " you can never recover yonr 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 go to for refusing. I feel as if I were already there." " No wonder," returned Harrison, sternly. " Hatred and its concomitant passion. Revenge, are feelings worthy of the dammed. 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 VK " I have done so under worse." " God in Heaven 1 — 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 weak- ness 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. 136 THE MONOTO NS. " Man's happiness depends in a great measure on the sym- pathy of others. His sufferings, by the same rule, are greatly alleviated when contrasted with the miseries of his neighbors, 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 V 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 grand- father 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 reputed iu his day ; and it is possible that the dying merchant found by experience, that he could place more reliance on the honor 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. . u . , " Sir Robert's eldest son had been dead for some years, and the present Baronet, who resided with his grandfather, was just THE MONCTONS. 13t 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 com- mitted 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 rny 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, who looked up to him as to a God, and by whom, in return, they were treated with a degree of familiarity, much beneath his dignity as a gentleman. " From this extravagant, kind-hearted, and popular young man, Edward Moncton contracted those habits that 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 con- cealed, 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. 138 THE MO NCTO NS. He had a game too to play, from which he hoped to rise np 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 Alex- ander Moncton came in for the estates and title. Your father and uncle, both being now of age, entered upon the great busi- ness 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 favor. " 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 neighborhood. 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 honor to pro- vide 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, an^ for a person of her class, was well educated and THE MONOTONS 189 uncommonly handsome. I see you smile, Geo£frey, but such was the fact. . •...,.-,;-, " llachel, 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. . , ) . . :-. •= " Great credit is due to Sir Alexander, that he never attempted to seduce the girl, who was so completely in his power. 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 indif- ence, 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, pos- sessed too much of the malignant and vindictive nature of the mother. She had loved Sir Alexander with all the ardor of a first youthful attachment. His wealth and station were nothi g to her, it was the man alone she prized. Had he been <. peasant, she would have loved as warmly and as well. Lost to her for ever, she overlooked the great pecuniary favors 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 Dmah took the 140 THE MONOTONS 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 Alexan- der's friends— and he had many — deeply sympathized in his happiness. r>= ; . ,, - ' ., .- » " Two beings alone upon his estate viewed his felicity with jealous and malignant eyes — two beings, who, from their lowly and dependent situations, you would have 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 THE MONOTONS 141 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 dVeadful old hag." " We cannot choose our parentage," said George, sorrow- fully. " 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, apd bidding me to lie down and keep quiet, resumed his tale. •■ " The delicate state of Lady Moncton's health precluded 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 that 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 oi air for Lady Moncton's health. Sir Alexander fixed on Italy as* the climate most likely to benefit his ailing and beloved wife. « . ,< .. f- "My mother was offered large sums to accompany them, which she steadfastly declined. Lady Moncton wept and 142 THE MONCTONS. eutreated, but Racliel Moriiington was resolute in her refusal. ' No money,' she said, * should tempt her to desert her husband _ aud child, much as she wislied to oblige Lady Moncton.' " The infant heir of Moncton was thriving under her care, and fihe seemed to love the baby, if possible, better than she did her own. Si;- Alexander and the physician persuaded Lady Mono- ton, 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 deUcate 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 THE MONOTONS. 143 ■^ to bed in perfect health, and died in a fit during the night, before medical aid from the town of could bo procured. She shed some tears while she said this, and assured Lady Monctou that the baby's death had occasioned her as much grief as if he had been her own. That sh . .f paid much rather that I had died than her dear nurse-child. " I remember, as I leant against Dinah North's knees, think- ing 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 any- thing else in the world. Oh, how I w'sh 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. % ^ 144 THE MO NOTO N S. " 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 ; '^nd 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 1 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 dis- graced his aristocratic friends ; and Roger used to say, that he had all the gentlemanly propensities, minus the cash. " He doated upon me. ' His dear little jockey 1' 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 sorcow that my young heart had ever known. THE M N C T N S . U5 U ' day after hi.i funeral, I was sitting crying beside tho iing my untasted breakfast on my knee, n't take on so, t.iild,' said my mother, wiping the tears from her own eyes. * All the tears in tho 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 1' " ' Don't I love you, Philip V " ' No !' I replied, sorrowfully, " you don't love mo, and you never did.** " * How do you know that V " ' 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 1 don't trouble me I' and grandmother is always cui*sing me, and wisliing me dead. Do you call that love ?' " I never shall forget the ghastly smile that played around 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 V " How I wondered what she meant. Tor years that myste- rious sentence haunted my dreams. " I was soon called to endure a heavier grief. Lady Monc- ton'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 HaJl. " Old Dinah and my mother were constantly absent attend- ing 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 httle Alice, while my mother was away. ^ 146 THE M0NCT0N8. II r- Ir V ;> One day my mother came hastily in. She was flushed with walking fast, and seetned mueii agitated. She seized upon luo, washed my face and liands, and began dressing me in my Sunday suit. " ' A strange whim this, in a dying woman/ she said, to the neighbor, ' 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 mo off with her to the Hall, and I was introduced into the solemn Btate chamber, where my kind and uoble 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 Korth, 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 only just audible." " ' It is my son, my lady,' replied Rachel, and her voice slightly faltered, " ' Wkat says my love V asked Sir Alexander, raising his head fromjJie bed-clothes in which bis face had been buried to conceal his tears. " * Lift the boy up to me, dearest Alick, that I my kiss him once more before I die.' ♦• T n K M O N C T O N B . in " Sir Alexander lifted mo into tho bed beside her, and raised hor up f^ently witli his other arm, so that both she and I were encircled in h'm 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 toll mo the honest truth V " A crimson glow spread over her husband's face, as, in the same harried 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 Bcornful 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 1' 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 mo ; 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 tl aark valley of the shadow of death, as gently as he is now ]pn»ling me. Should you live to be a man,' she added faintly, 'rt^mtiuber 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 anght save him and me ; and reclining her meek pale face upon his manly breast, expired withou. a struggle. " A deep solemn pause succeeded. I was too awestruck to weep. The deep convulsive sobs that burst from the heart of the bereaved husband warned intruders to retire. My mother led me from the chamber of death, and we took our way in .:.-*i ->•:?%: "•'/•- 148 rU E MON CTO N8. silence across the park ; the solemn toll of the death-bell floated through its beautiful glades. " ' Mother,' I said ; clinging to her dress. 'What is that V " ' 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 f Do you wisli 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 that 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, passion- ately — ' 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 counteuaHce. "'Mother,' I sobbed, *I do love you sometimes — always, when you speak kindly to me, as you do now ; and I love dear liblle 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 admir- ing the beauty of your son. Han[>; the boy 1 though he is your child, I never can feel the least interest in him I' k THE MONCTONS 149 I iv " ' Is that his fault or yours V said my mother, coldly. " ' Ah, mine, of course,' returned Dinah, bitterly. * We are not accountable for our likes or dislikes. I hate the boy 1' " 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, aad 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 V " ' 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 my 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 I need none of your teaching. I learned to love Mornington, and ceased to love Sir Alexander. Nay, I am really sorry for tlio 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.' Du- , 160 THE MONCTONS '* ' 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. " ' N"or 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 never could forget it ; and now, when years have gone over me, I can distinctly recall every word and look that passed between those sinful women. Alas, that one should have been so near to me. "But you are sleepy, Geoffrey. The rest of my mournful iiis- tory will help to wile away the tedium Of the long to-morrow." -*►— CHAPTERXVI. 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 labored, my gay, elastic spirit surmounted them all. •'***•' "Naturally fearless and fond of adventure, I never shrunk from difficulties, but felt a chivalrous pride in endeavoring to overcome them. If I could not readily do this at the moment, ■«r^- % THE MONCTONS. 151 V k I lived on in the hope that the day would arrive when by perse- verance and energy, I should ultimately conquer. " I have lived to prove that of which I early felt a proud conviction ; t^*».t it is no easy matter for a wicked person, let him be ever so clever and cunning, to subdue a strong mind, that 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 that 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 neighborhood, where I learned the first rudiments of my mother tongue, writ- ing, reading, and simple arithmetic. "The school closp<) at half-past four o'clock in the afternoon; when I returned t< Lodge, for so the cottage was called in which we resided, a ..c. ,^ nich 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 ray 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 h # 152 THE MONOTONS. 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 con- scious that she had a thousand faul^ 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 Mar- garet laugh J but when pleased, she had a most bewitching smile, which lighted up her calm countenance till every feature beamed with ai, 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 bad 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 jf his favor. " His manner to my mother was, at first, shy and reserved. This wore off by degrees, and before two years had expired, . THE M N C T N S 153 % V from the death of his wife, his visits became so constant, and hia attentions so raarkod, that Dinah once more began to entertaia 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 hjr complaint, Dinah ridiculed her fears. " ' You may laugh as you please, mother,' she said, the very day before she died, ' but I feel that this pain will be the death of me — and I so unfit to die,' she added, with a deep sigh. " ' Nonsense 1' 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 V grumbled the hard woman ; 'dis- turbing a body at this hour of the night.' " 'Be it, night or morning,' said ray mother, ' I am dying, and this hour will be my last.' " * Then, in the name of God ! send for the doctor.' " * It is too lato now. He can do me no good — I am going ■ ■Jfilai'; 154 THE M0NCT0N8. fast , bat there is lomething on my mind, mother, which I mast 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 yoa 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 oathr " ' What good will that do, Rachel ? no oath can bind me — I believe in no God, and fear no devil 1' "This confession was accompanied by a hideous, cackling laugh. Rachel groaned aloud. ' ■■' " ' Oh, mother I there is a God — an avenging God 1 Could you feel what I now fetjl, 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.' ft. " 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.' i -n- " * And did you not V 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.' ^^ "•■ .-• 'v.u . " "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 4 'i^ 1 THE MONGTONS. 155 ghost story, or any tale of horror, the beating of my own hear6 frustrated all my endeavors, ...;.. ,i »j " 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 spokt). " * Dinah ! make no ill use of my confidence, or there will come a day of vengeance for both yon and me. What shall we gain by being tools in the hands of a wicked man like Robert Monc- ton. 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 I 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 upper- most 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 V " ' Sleeping. Shall I bring her to you V " ' 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 tho sleeper never awoke again. " Her mysterious communications, which only came by halves m 156 THE »l N C T O N S to my ears, tilled my miud with vague conjectures, aud I cannot help thiukinff, to this hour, that the young heir of Moucton came to an untimely death, and she blamed herself so bitterly for not having made me supply his placi. " Stern as my mother had been during her life, her death was a severe blow to us all, especially to A'" -e 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 ot York. Here I made such good use of mj time, that before three years had elapsed I was second boy in the head class, and had won the respect of the master and ush- ers. My munificent patron was greatly pleased with the pro- gress I had made, and hinted at sending me to college, if I con- tinued 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 u 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 ardor, to the infinite delight of our admiring audience, Ivjargaret and Alice. The latter spent most of her time with Miss Moucton, 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 4' *. ir.. % THE MONCTONS. lot request for Alice to remain with her, and the young heiress and the huntsman's blooming daughter were seUiom apart Miss Moncton's governess, an amiable and highly acco: ;plished woman, took as much pains in teaching AUco as she did in superintending the educatic n of her high-born pupil. The beau- tiful girl acquired her tasks so rapidly, and with such an intense desire for improvement, that Sir Alexander declared, thai she beat his Madge hollow. "Diunh 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 — Ali'ie 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 reouiref" — 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 grandmotber. - . "Struck with the appearonce 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 M^ handsome, the coloring 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 158 THE MONCTONS. about qaietly to retire by a back door, when my uttentioa 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 V " 'Send him to college, I believe. He is very fond of him.' " * Humph 1 — 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, cack- ling 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 — bat this boy defies my power. I fear and hate him, but I cannot crush him. But huah I — 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 1 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 iu 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. , - / I THE MONCTONS. 159 i< I ii Brother I dear, darling brother ! welcome, welcome a tboQsaDd times.' " Oh, what a contrast to the dark, joyless countenance of Diij^h 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 witn kisses. " ' What news since I left, Alice V " ' 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 afifront 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 ver*^ angry and began to cry, and Sir Alexander came in and reproved the boy, and told me I had better return to grandmama until Mr. Monc- ton 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 that existed between me and my benefactor ; I was restless and unhappy, and determined not to go near the Hall, until Sir Alexander bade me to 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. IGO THE M O N C T N 8 . i '.«* f 'i ' ' It Wo were returning one evening through tlio fine avenue of ouks, that led to the front entrance of the demesne, when a pony rushed past us at full gallop, A boyish inii)ul.so, tempted nio 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. lie was in a towering passion, and coming up to u8, 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 mo endeavoring 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, ueithfcr are you. I shall do no such thing.' " ' Do it instantly I' stamping with his foot. " * Do it yourself. You look quite as fit foi 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 coUisiou was now impossible. " * You insolent young blackguard 1' he cried, ' do you know that you are speaking to a gentleman ?' " ' Indeed P 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 ray feet, and after bestowing upon him sundry hearty kicks, rejoined the terrified Alice, and left Mr. Thcophilua T 11 K M N C T N a . XM MoQcLcn, to gather up his fallun dit^tiity, and mako tho best (.f bis wuY home to the Uull. " Tills frolic cost mo far more than I expected, Tho next morning, Sir Alexander rode over to the Lodge, and Rcveroly 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 favor from mo for ever. "This, I proudly refused to do — and the Baronet as proudly told me, ' To see his face no more 1' " I looked sorrowfully up as he said this. The tears were in ray eyes, for I loved him very much — but my heart was too fill to speak. " He leant down from his horse, expecting my answer — I was silent — the color 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 V I cried. ' Curse the mean wretch, who robbed me of my friend ! I only regret I did not kill him 1' " Thus, for one boyish act of indiscretion I was flung friend- less upon the world. Yet, GeoflFrcy, 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 con- nection with us, and he gladly availed himself of the first plausible excuse to cast me off. Alice deeply lament»^.i r^y disgrace ; but the whole affair afforded mirth to my grandmotner, who seemed greatly to enjoy my unfortunate triumph over the boy with the hard name. tt a 162 THE MONCTONS. CHAPTER XVII. HARRISON FINDS A F R I E N D* I N 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 uni- versally esteemed as one of the most benevolent of men. He was present at one of the school ezaminations 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 favor, such as presenting rae 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. Morning- ton. " 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 pedes- trian 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 TUB MONCTONS. 163 « stone steps that led op to the house, horribly aepressed 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. Mak- ing a desperate effort, I sprang up the steps, an^ 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 doo:: ; and edging close to him of the red jacket, I asked in a tremulous voice — * If Mr. Mornington was at home V " ' Why, dearee me, master Philip, is that you V said the kind woman, elevating her spectacles — 'who would '.ave thought of seeing yon t'night ?" " * Who indeed. But, my dear Mrs. Jolly, is Mr. Mornington disengaged, and can I see him V •' ' 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 V 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 1' 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 V '" No sir. I fear play will soon tire of me. I am to go to school no more.' " * Sorry to bear 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.' It was my ambition, sir. But you know I am only a poor II I 164 THE MONCTOXS. L^ 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 wallied 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 im- prudently to do that, and he so kind to you. Walked all the M'ay from Moncton. Bless the boy, how tired and hungry you mnst be. Sit down, young Piiilip Mornington, and get your dii.ut • with old Philip Mornington ; and we will talk over these matters by and bye.' " 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 stop- ped and laughed heartily at my voracity. "'Well done, Pliilip ! 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 result. " Instead of blaming me, the whole afi^iir 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 fii.c fellow, from his favor ?' " ' He might have forgiven that. It was for refusing so posl- ^ tively his commands, in not asking young Moncton's pai^lon.' • , " 'If you had obeyed him in this instance, Philip,"^u ^ould have forfeited my good opinion for ever, .uid would^i^avo. ^^" ^.- -y THE M N C T K S 165 m--' * deserved to have been kicked by Sir Alexander's lackeys for your meanness. Don't look so cast down, boy. I hoijor yoo 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.' " JIow 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. , j . . . , " A boy that came from ou^* 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 per- sonal 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 allow- ance 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 science, where learning and vice walk hand in hand. " 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 whotn I associated. This reluctance, however, to do and countenance evil, gradually wore off, and I became as wild and dissipated as the rest. \\ • 1 % -»% 166 THE M0NCT0N8. " I formed many agreeable acquaintances at college, but one only who really deserved the name of a friend. Kind, gentle and studious, Cornelius Laurio (for so I shall call him) mingled very little with his fellow ctudents ; his health being delicate, he spent most of his Isisure hours in walking, an exercise of which he was particularly fond, and in which I 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, I was not pre- pared 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 per- fectly the power they gave her over the restless and inconstant heart of man, but she did not abuse it. " My passions, Qf'oWrej, by nature, are as warm and impetu- ous as your own, ar..i 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 pasaion she had inspired. But when I recalled my obscure paiintage, of which Cornelius was perfectly ignorant ; and the uncertainty of ray future prospects, 1 felt ) { "4 J IBS UONCTONS. 167 that it would be dishonorable in me to advance my salt 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. Monilngton, 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 hia sister. " On my way to York I called at my old home, and was received wjth 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 V " 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,' she said, .'was a good school for teaching people the art of falsehood.' " Her sarcasms made me very uncomfortable — for my con- science 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 neighborhood during the four years I had been absent. " * No,' said Alice ; ' we go on much as usual. Sir Alexan- der 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 Momington. Mr. Theophilus is often there; and he is so * >4 ■f V ' 168 T tl B M N i N S , much improved, Philip, you would never know b; n. He is no longer proud and disagreeable, but so affable and kind, and always sees me safe home to the Lodge. People sav 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 1;^ told me «o a few days ago ; and that he thought me a thousand times JMndsomer than his cousin !' " While Alice run on thus, I kept ray eyes fixed upon her beautiful face ; and from the lieightening of her color v.'hcu speaking of Theophilus, I was convinced, that young as sb-; was, she was not insensiltio to his flattery. Anxious to warn her of her danger, I dro w hor arm through mine, and we strolled together into the park. "'Dear Alice,' I «aid, affection:itely : *do you love your brother as well as you used to do in yours ^ong past V It '"Philip, do you doubt my love?' ile answered, reprcach- fally. " ' Not in the least, Alice. 1 Know your heart to be warm and true ; but years make great changes. Four y^ars have fled away since we met, and you are nearly grown into a woman. Perhaps you wili be angry with rae if I venture to give you a little brotherly advice.' " * Not without you soold me too much.' " * My lecture, Alice, I will coniine to a few v/ords. Do not listen, dear child, to the flattering speeches of Theophilus Monc- tom. He means you no good.' " ' How can you know that V she said, quickly. " ' From the general character which the man bears. From my own experience of him when a boy. Avoid his company ; he means to deceive you.' " * Philip, you wroii^ him, indeed, you do 1' she cried, with flashhig- eyes. ' He never talks to me of love, he only seeks to be my friend. I am too young to think 6f leipt.. lydoft't know "what being in love is — l it I do feel ver" grateful to one so i ^'■i THE MONCTONS. 109 om lie itli to low so I I 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 treat- mcMfc from a brother of mine.' " ' You surely do not mean what you say, Alice ?' " ' T. 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 m} ^nger, 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, 1, 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, a^ long as she lives. And let me tell you, Mr. Philip, I am as competent to manage my own affairs as you are I' " Could this be AUce ? "I looked at her, and looked rj^ain. The beauty of her countenance ' seemed chi-v/^d. "' turned from her with a deep sigh. " ' Oh, Alice^lsijr Alice 1 I tremble for you ; so'j^oung and 80 vindictive. This is not my Alicej the h?ppy, confiding Alice, who once I'^ved mo so tenderly.' o 170 THE MONCTONS.