THE MONCTONS.

CHAPTER I.

"The next day, my friend bade us adieu. Had he expressed the least wish to that effect, I would have accompanied him to the South—but he did not, and we parted, never to meet again. He died abroad, and Charlotte became the inheritor of his large fortune. Her grief for the loss of her brother affected her health and spirits to such an alarming degree, that instant change of air and scene was recommended by her physician, and she left London to spend some months with her aunt on the Continent. I would have gladly made one in their party, but this she forbade me to do in the most positive terms.

"I fancied that her manner to me had grown cold and distant during the separation which had intervened between her brother's death and the severe illness that followed the announcement of that melancholy event. These fears were confirmed by a long and very prudential letter from her aunt, entreating me, as a mutual friend, not to follow them to Italy, as it might be attended by unpleasant results to Miss Laurie, who was still very young—too young, in her estimation, to acknowledge publicly an accepted lover; that as no actual engagement existed between us, she thought it most advisable for both parties only to regard each other in the light of friends, until the expiration of the time which would make Miss Laurie the mistress of her hand and fortune. It was impossible to mistake the purport of this letter, which I felt certain must have been sanctioned by her niece. Then, and not until then was I fully aware of all that I had lost by the death of my poor friend.

"Charlotte had repented of her affection for the low-born Philip Mornington. She was a great heiress now, and a match for the first nobleman in the kingdom. I crushed the letter beneath my feet, and felt within my breast the extinction of hope.

"I suspected that Robert Moncton and his son were at the bottom of this unexpected movement; nor was I mistaken. It was strange, that among the whole range of my acquaintance, I had never been introduced to this rascal and his son, or met him accidentally at any place of public resort. They effectually worked my ruin, but it was in the dark.

"The loss of Charlotte made me reckless of the future. I plunged headlong into all sorts of dissipation: wine, women, the turf, the gaming-table, by turns intoxicated my brain, and engrossed my time and thoughts, until repeated losses to an alarming amount, made me restless and miserable, without in the least checking the growing evil. I had forfeited self-respect, and with it the moral courage to resist temptation.

"I was goaded on in my career of guilt by a young man of fascinating person and manners, but of depraved habits and broken fortunes. From the first night that I was introduced to William Howard, he expressed for me the deepest respect and friendship, and haunted me subsequently like my shadow. He flattered my vanity by the most sedulous attentions, echoed my sentiments, hung upon my words, copied my style of dress, and imitated my manners.

"These arts might have failed in producing the desired effect, had he not wound himself into my confidence, by appearing to sympathize in my mental sufferings. He talked of Charlotte, and endeavoured to soothe my irritated feelings, by expressing the most sanguine hopes of my ultimate success; and, to dissipate the melancholy that preyed upon my health and spirits, he led me by degrees to mix with the reckless and profligate, and to find pleasure in the society of individuals whom I could not respect, and from whose proximity a few months before I should have shrunk with disgust and aversion.

"A young fellow just beyond his minority is easily led astray, particularly, when he has wealth at his command, and no settled employment or profession to engage his time and thoughts, and worse still, with no religious principles to guide him in his perilous voyage across the treacherous ocean of life.

"Alas! Geoffrey; I chose for my pilot one who had not only ruined himself, but caused the shipwreck of others, superior in prudence and intelligence; to the man who now trusted to his advice and believed him a friend.

"When I look back to that disastrous period of my life, my soul shrinks within itself, and I lament my madness with unceasing bitterness. All that I have since suffered, appears but a just retribution for those three years of vice and folly. Little did I then suspect, that my quondam friend was an infamous sharper, bribed by the still more infamous Robert Moncton to lure me to destruction.

"In spite of her aunt's prohibition, I had continued to write to Miss Laurie; at first, frequently, seldom many days elapsing between letter and letter, but to my surprise and indignation, not one of my communications had been answered, although breathing the most ardent attachment, and dictated by a passion as sincere as ever animated a human breast. What could be the cause of this cruel neglect? I called repeatedly at Mrs. ——'s house in town, but was constantly told by the old housekeeper, who received me very coldly, that Miss Laurie and her aunt were still on the continent.

"As long as this miserable state of uncertainty continued, I clung to hope, and maintained the character of a man of honour and a gentleman. But the insidious tempter was ever at hand, to exaggerate my distress, and to weaken my good resolutions. Howard laughed at my constancy to a false mistress, and by degrees, led me to consider myself as a very ill-used man, and Miss Laurie as a heartless coquette.

"Two years had elapsed since the death of Cornelius; and I was just ready to accompany a party of gay young fellows to Newmarket, when I was told accidentally, that Miss Laurie, the great heiress, had arrived in town, and the young men were laughing and speculating upon the chance of winning her and her fortune.

"'They say she's a beauty!' cried one.

"'Beauty won't pay debts,' said another. 'I can't afford to marry for love.'

"'A plain girl with her property is sure to be handsome. Beauty and gold are too much to fall to the share of one person. I dare say, she's only passable.'

"'Sour grapes, Hunter,' said Howard. 'You know that you are such a —— ugly fellow, that no woman, with or without a fortune would take you for better or worse.'

"'Better is out of the question, Howard, and he can't be well worse,' said the first speaker. 'But I should like to know if Miss Laurie is really the beauty they say she is. Money is a thing to possess—to enjoy—to get rid of. But beauty is a divinity. I may covet the one—I adore the other.'

"'You may do both then, at a humble distance, George. But here's Philip Mornington, can satisfy all your queries—he knows, and used to feel an interest in the young lady.'

"To hear her name in such company, was to me profanation. I made some ungracious reply to what I considered an impertinent observation of Howard's, and feigning some improbable excuse for absenting myself from the party, I turned my horse's head and rode back to my lodgings, in spite of several large bets that I had pending upon a favorite horse.

"Charlotte was in London, and I could not rest until I had learned my fate from her own lips. I hastened to her aunt's residence; and, contrary to my expectations, on sending up my card, I was instantly admitted to her presence.

"She was alone in the drawing-room. The slight girl of seventeen was now a beautiful and graceful woman; intelligence beaming from her eyes, and the bloom of health upon her cheek. As I approached the table at which she was seated, she rose to meet me, and the colour receded so fast from her face that I feared she would faint, and instead of addressing me with her usual frankness, she turned away her head and burst into tears.

"You may imagine my distress: I endeavoured to take her hand, but she drew proudly back.

"'Is this Charlotte?'

"'Rather let me ask—is this Philip Mornington, my brother's friend?' she spoke with a degree of severity which astonished me—'the man for whom I once entertained the deepest respect and affection.'

"'Which implies that you do so no longer?'

"'You have rightly guessed.'

"'And may I ask Miss Laurie why she has seen fit to change the opinion she once entertained?'

"'Mr. Mornington,' said she, firmly, repressing the emotion which convulsed her lips and glistened in her eyes, 'I have long wished to see you, to hear from your own lips an explanation of your extraordinary conduct, and though this meeting must be our last, I could not part with you for ever, until I had convinced you that the separation was effected by yourself.'

"'It will be difficult to prove that,' said I, 'if you really sanctioned your aunt's letter, and were privy to its contents.'

"'It was written at my request,' she replied, with provoking coldness. 'Mr. Moncton's suspicions were aroused, and your following us to the continent would have confirmed them, and rendered us both miserable. But my motives for requesting a temporary separation, were fully discussed in my letter which accompanied the one written by my aunt. To this reasonable request you returned no answer, nor, in fact, to several subsequent letters which were written during our absence abroad.'

"I trembled with agitation while she was speaking, and I fear that she misinterpreted my emotion.

"'Good Heavens!' I exclaimed at last, 'how grossly have I deceived myself into the belief that you never wrote to me—that you cast me from you without one word of pity or remorse. I never got a line from you, Charlotte. Your aunt's cruel letter came only too soon, and was answered too promptly; and to the many I have written to you since, you did not deign a reply.'

"'They never reached us, Mr. Mornington; and it is strange that these letters (which to me were, at least, matters of no small importance) should be the only ones among the numbers addressed to us by other friends, which miscarried.'

"I was stung by the incredulous air with which she spoke: it was so unlike my own simple, frank-hearted Charlotte.

"'Miss Laurie, you doubt my word?'

"'A career of vice and folly, Mr. Mornington, has made me doubt your character. While I could place confidence in the one, I never suspected deceit in the other.'

"'Your silence, Charlotte, drove me to desperation, and involved me in the dissipation to which you allude.'

"'A man of integrity could not so easily be warped from the path of duty:' she said this proudly. 'I can no longer love one whom I have ceased to respect, whose conduct, for the last two years, has made me regret that we ever met.'

"'You are too severe, Miss Laurie,' and I felt the blood rush to my face. 'You should take into account all I have suffered for your sake.'

"'You found a strange method of alleviating those sufferings, Philip.' This was said sadly, but with extreme bitterness. 'Had you loved or cherished me in your memory, you never could have pursued a course of conduct so diametrically opposite to my wishes.'

"This was a home-thrust. I felt like a guilty and condemned creature, debased in my own eyes, and humbled before the woman I adored.

"I felt that it was useless to endeavour to defend myself against her just accusations; yet, I could not part with her, without one struggle more for forgiveness, and while I acknowledged and bitterly lamented my past errors, I pleaded for mercy with the most passionate eloquence. I promised to abjure all my idle companions and vicious habits, and devote the rest of my life entirely to her.

"She listened to me with tearful earnestness, but remained firm to her purpose, that we were to part there for ever, and only remember each other as strangers.

"Her obstinacy rendered me desperate. I forgot the provocation I had given her by my wicked and reckless course. I reproached her as the cause of all my crimes. Accused her of fickleness and cruelty, and called Heaven to witness, how little I merited her displeasure.

"Her gentle feminine brow was overcast; her countenance was dark and stern.

"'These are awful charges, Mr. Mornington. Permit me to ask you a few questions, in my turn, and answer them briefly and without evasion.'

"I gazed in silent astonishment upon her kindling face.

"'Are you in the habit of frequenting the gaming-table? Yes, or no.'

"My eyes involuntarily shrunk from hers.

"'The race-course?'

"'I must confess to both these charges,' I stammered out. 'But'——

"'For such conduct there can be no excuse. It is not amid such scenes that I would look for the man I love.'

"'Cease, Charlotte, in mercy cease, if you do not mean to drive me mad. Some enemy has poisoned your mind against me. Left to yourself, you could not condemn me in this cold, pitiless manner.'

"'Your own lips have condemned you, Philip.' She stopped, passed her hand across her brow, as if in sudden pain, and sighed deeply.

"'When will these reproaches end, Charlotte? Of what else do you accuse me?'

"'Is what I have said, false or true?' she cried, turning suddenly towards me, and grasping my arm. 'If false, clear yourself. If true, what more can I have to do with you?'

"'Alas!' I cried, 'it is but too true!'

"'And can you expect, Mr. Mornington, that any virtuous, well-educated woman could place her happiness in the keeping of one who has shown such little self-government; who chooses for his associates men of loose morals and bad character. Your constant companion and bosom friend is a notorious gambler, a man whose society is scouted by all honourable men. I pity you, Philip; weep for you; pray for you; and God only knows the agony which this hour has cost me; but we must meet as lovers and friends no more.'

"She glided from the room, and I stood for some minutes stupidly staring after her, with the horrible consciousness of having exchanged a pearl of great price, for the base coin in which pleasure pays her deluded followers, and only felt the inestimable value of the treasure I had lost, when it was no longer in my power to recover it.

"I returned to the company I had quitted. I betted and lost; plunged madly on; staked my whole property on a desperate chance, and returned from the races, forsaken by my gay companions, a heart-broken and ruined man!

"It was night when I reached London. Not wishing to encounter any of my late associates, I entered a coffee-house seldom frequented by men of their class, and called for a bottle of wine.

"The place was ill-lighted and solitary. I threw myself into a far corner of my box, and, for the first time (for I never was a drinker) tried to drown care in the intoxicating bowl.

"The wine, instead of soothing, only increased the fever of my spirit, and I began to review with bitterness the insanity of my conduct for the last few months. With a brain on fire with the wine, I continued eagerly to swallow, and a heart as dull and cold as ice from recent mortification and disappointment, I sank with my head upon the table into a sort of waking trance, conscious of surrounding objects, but unable to rouse myself from the stupor which held every faculty in its leaden grasp.

"Two men entered the box. I heard one say to the other, in a voice which seemed familiar.

"'This place is occupied, we had better go to another.'

"'The fellow's drunk,' returned his companion, and may be considered as non compos. He has lost all knowledge of himself, and therefore can take no notice of us.'

"Feeling little interest in anything beyond my own misery, I gave no signs of life or motion, beyond pressing my burning brow more tightly against my folded hands, which rested on the table.

"'So, Mornington's career is ended at last, and he is a ruined man,' said the elder of the twain.

"'Yes, I have settled his business for you; and as my success has been great, I expect my reward should be proportionately so.'

"'I am ready to fulfil my promise, but expect nothing more. You have been well paid by your dupe. He has realized the old proverb—Light come, light go. I thought he would have given you more trouble. Yours, Howard, has been an easy victory.'

"'Hang the foolish fellow!' cried my quondam friend; 'I feel some qualms of conscience about him; he was so warm-hearted and generous—so unsuspicious, that I feel as if I had been guilty of a moral murder. And what, Mr. Moncton, must be your feelings: your hatred to the poor young man is almost gratuitous, when it appears that you are personally unknown to each other.'

"'He is the son of my worst enemy, and I will pursue him to death.'

"'He will spare you the trouble, if I read my man rightly. He will not submit to this sudden change of fortune with stoical indifference, but will finish a career of folly with an act of madness.'

"'Commit suicide?'

"'Ay, put a pistol to his head. He is an infidel, and will not be scared from his purpose by any fear of an hereafter.'

"'Bring me that piece of news to-morrow, Howard, and it will be something to stake at hazard before night.'

"He left the box; I rose to prevent him, but the opportunity of revenge was lost. The younger scoundrel remained behind to settle with the waiter; as he turned round I confronted and stared him full in the face. He pretended not to know I who was.

"'Fellow, let me pass!'

"'Never! until you have received the just reward of your treachery. You are a mean, contemptible wretch: the base hireling of a baser villain. I will prosecute you both for entering into a conspiracy against me.'

"'You had better let it alone,' said he, in a hoarse whisper. 'You are a disappointed and desperate man. No sensible person will listen to complaints made by a drunken, broken-down spendthrift and gambler.'

"'Liar!' I cried, losing all self-control, 'when did you ever see me drunk, or knew me guilty of one dishonourable act?'

"'You were always too great a fool, Mornington, to take care of yourself, and you are not able, at this moment, to stand steady. Be that, however, as it may, I never retract my words; if you require satisfaction, you know where to find me.'

"'I will neither meet nor treat you as a gentleman. You are beneath contempt.'

"'The son of a drunken huntsman has a greater claim to gentility,' sneered the sharper, bursting into an insulting laugh. 'Your mother may, perhaps, have given you an indirect claim to a higher descent.'

"This taunt stung me to madness, and sobered me in a moment. I flung myself headlong upon him. I was young and strong—the attack unexpected, he fell heavily to the ground. In my fury I spat upon him, and trampled him beneath my feet. Death, I felt was too honourable a punishment for such a contemptible villain. I would not have killed him though certain that no punishment would follow the act.

"The people of the house interfered. I was taken into custody and kept in durance vile until the following morning; but as no one appeared to make any charge against me, I was released, with a severe reprimand from the police magistrate, and suffered to return home.

"Home! I had now no home: about one hundred pounds was all that remained to me of my fine property when my debts, falsely termed debts of honour, were paid, my lodgings settled for, and my servant discharged.

"My disgrace had not yet reached the home of my childhood. A state of mental suffering brought on a low fever. I was seized with an indescribable longing, an aching of the heart to end my days in my native village.

"Pride in vain combated this feeling. It resisted all the arguments of reason and common sense. Nature triumphed—and a few days saw me once more under the shadow of the great oak which canopied our lowly dwelling."

CHAPTER II.

ALICE.

"As I approached the cottage door, my attention was arrested by a low, mournful voice, singing in sad and subdued tones, a ditty which seemed the spontaneous outpouring of a wounded spirit. The words were several times repeated, and I noted them down as I leant upon the trunk of the old tree. Out of sight, but within a few feet of the songstress, whose face was hidden from me by the thick foliage of the glorious old tree, in whose broad-spreading branches, I had played and frolicked when a boy.

"The voice ceased. I stepped from my hiding-place. Alice rose from the bench beside the door; the work on which she was employed fell from her hand, and she stood before me wild and wan—the faded spectre of past happiness and beauty.

"'Good heavens! Alice, Can this be you?'

"'I may return the compliment,' she said, with a ghastly smile. 'Can this be Philip? Misery has not been partial, or your brow wears its mark in vain.'

"'Unhappy sister of an unhappy brother!' I cried, folding her passive form to my heart, 'I need not ask why you are altered thus.'

"The fire which had been burning in my brain for some weeks, yielded to softer emotions. My head sunk upon her shoulder, and I wept long and bitterly.

"Alice regarded me with a curious and mournful glance, but shed no tears.

"'Alice! That villain has deceived you?'

"She shook her head.

"'It is useless to deny facts so apparent. Do you love him still?'

"She sighed deeply. 'Yes, Philip. But he has ceased to love me.'

"'Deserted you?'

"Her lip quivered. She was silent.

"'The villain! his life shall answer for the wrong he has done you!'

"The blood rushed to her pale, wasted cheeks, her eyes flashed upon me with unnatural brilliancy, and grasping my arm, she fiercely and vehemently replied—

"'Utter that threat but once again, and we become enemies for life. If he has injured me and made me the wreck you see—it is not in the way you think. To destroy him would drive me to despair. It would force me to commit an act of desperation. I will suffer no one to interfere between me and the man I love. I am strong enough to take my own part—to avenge myself, if need be. I can bear my own grief in silence, and therefore beg that you will spare your sympathy for those who weep and pule over misfortune. I would rather be reproached than pitied for sorrows that I draw upon myself.'

"She sat down trembling with excitement, and tried to resume her former occupation. Presently the needle dropped from her hand, and she looked wistfully up in my face:—

"'Philip, what brought you here?'

"'An unwelcome visitor, I fear.'

"'Perhaps so. People always come at the worst times, and when they are least wanted.'

"'Do you include your brother in that sweeping common-place term—has he become to you as one of the people? Ah, Alice.'

"'We have been no more to each other for the last three years, Philip. Your absence and long silence made me forget that I had a brother. Few could suppose it, from the little interest you ever expressed for me.'

"'I did not think of you, or love you the less.'

"'Mere words. Love cannot brook long separation from the object beloved. It withers beneath neglect, and without personal intercourse droops and dies. While you were happy and prosperous you never came near us; and I repeat again—what brings you now?'

"'I have been unfortunate, Alice; the dupe of villains who have robbed me of my property, while my own folly has deprived me of self-respect and peace of mind. Ill and heart-sick, I could not resist the strong desire to return to my native place to die.'

"'There is no peace here, Philip,' said she, in a low soft voice. 'I too, would fain lie down on the lap of mother earth and forget my misery. But we are too young—too wretched to die. Death comes to the good and happy, and cuts down the strong man like the flower of the field; but flies the wretch who courts it, and grins in ghastly mockery on the couch of woe. Take my advice, Philip Mornington, lose no time in leaving this place. Here, danger besets you on every side.'

"'Why, Alice, do you think I fear the puny arm of Theophilus Moncton—the base betrayer of innocence.'

"'Why Theophilus. Spare your reproaches, Philip; we shall quarrel seriously if you mention that name with disrespect to me—I cannot, and will not bear it. It was not him I meant. You have offended our grandmother by your long absence, Dinah loves you not. It is her anger I would warn you to shun.'

"'And do you think I am such a coward, as to tremble and fly from the malice of a peevish old granny?'

"'You laugh at my warning, Philip. You may repent rashness when too late. The fang of the serpent is not deadened by age, and the rancour in the human heart seldom diminishes, with years. Dinah never loved you, and absence has not increased the strength of her affection.'

"'I am not come to solicit charity, Alice. I have still enough to pay the old woman handsomely for board and lodging until my health returns, or death terminates my sufferings. If Dinah takes me—a fact I do not doubt—she loves money. Where is she now?'

"'In the village, I expect her in every minute.'

"'And Miss Moncton?' I said, hesitating, and lowering my voice. 'How is she?'

"'I don't know,' returned Alice, carelessly, 'the Hall is no longer open to me.'

"'That tells its own tale,' said I sorrowfully.

"'The tale may be false, in spite of probability,' returned she fiercely. 'No one should dare openly condemn another without sufficient evidence.'

"'They need not go far for that,' said I.

"'That is your opinion.'

"'On most conclusive evidence.'

"'How charitable.'

"'How true, Alice.'

"'False as the world. As you, as every one is to the unfortunate,' she cried, with indignation in her eyes and scorn upon her lip, 'but here is Dinah—Dinah, whom you consider unfeeling and cruel. She knows me, and loves me better than you do. She does not join with a parcel of conventional hypocrites to condemn me.'

"As she ceased speaking, Dinah entered with a basket on her arm. After the first surprise at my unexpected and unwelcome appearance was over, she accosted me with more amenity of look and manner than I ever before knew her to assume.

"'How are you, Philip? you look ill. Suppose you have got into some trouble, or we should not be honoured by a visit?'

"'You are right, in part, grandmother. I have been sick for some days, and have come home for change of air and good nursing.'

"I put a handful of gold in her lap. 'You see I am willing and able to pay for the trouble I give. When this is gone, you can have more.'

"'Money is always welcome—more welcome often than those that bring it. All things considered, however, I am glad to see you. When relatives are too long separated, they become strangers to each other. Alice and I had concluded that you only regarded us as such. The sight of you will renew the old tie of kindred, and make you one of us again. Quick, Alice, get your brother some supper; he must be hungry after his long journey.'

"'I am in no need; Alice, do not trouble yourself; I feel too ill to eat; I will go to bed if you please. All I want at present is rest.'

"Dinah, who was passing the gold from one hand to the other, and gazing upon it with infinite satisfaction, suddenly looked up and repeated the last word after me, with peculiar emphasis.

"'Rest! Who rests in this world? Even sleep is not rest; the body sleeps, but the soul toils on, on, on, for ever. There is no such thing as rest. If I thought so, I would put an end to my existence to-morrow—I would; and meet death as a liberator from the vexatious turmoils of life.'

"There was something in these words which filled my mind with an indescribable horror—a perfect dread of endless duration. I had always looked upon the grave as a place of rest—a haven of peace from the cares of life. That old raven, with her dismal croaking, had banished the pleasing illusion, and made me nervously sensitive to the terrors of a living, conscious eternity. Whilst undressing to go to bed, I was seized with violent shivering fits, and before morning was delirious, and in a high fever.

"I had never suffered from severe illness before; I had often been afflicted in mind, but not in body. I now had to endure the horrors of both combined. For the first fortnight I was too ill to think. I was in the condition of the unfortunate patriarch, who in the morning exclaimed, 'Would God it were night!' and when night came, reversed the feverish hope.

"There were moments, however, during the burning hours of these sleepless nights, when the crimes of the past, and the uncertainty of the future, rushed before me in terrible distinctness; when I tried to pray and could not, and sought comfort from the Word of God, and found every line a condemnation. Oh, those dreadful days and nights, when I lay a hopeless, self-condemned expectant of misery, shuddering on the awful brink of eternity, shrieking to the Almighty Father for peace, and finding none; seeking for rest with strong cries and tears, and being repaid with ten-fold agony. May I never again suffer in flesh and spirit what I then endured!

"The poor lost girl who watched my bed, beheld the fierce tossings of pain, the agonies of remorse, the icy apathy. She could neither direct nor assist my mind in its struggles to obtain one faint glimmer of light through the dense gloom caused by infidelity and sin.

"Death—natural death—the mere extinction of animal life, I did not dread. Had the conflict ended with annihilation, I might have welcomed it with joy. But death unaccompanied by total extinction was horrible. To be deprived of moral life—to find the soul for ever separated from God, all its high and noble faculties destroyed, while all that was infamous and debasing remained to form a hell of memory, an eternity of despair, was a conviction so dreadful, so appalling to my mind, that my reason for a time bowed before it, and for some days I was conscious of nothing else.

"This fiery trial yielded at last. I became more tractable, and could think more calmly upon the awful subject ever uppermost in my mind. I felt a strong desire to pray, to acknowledge my guilt to Almighty God, and sue for pardon, and restoration to peace and happiness. I could not express my repentance in words, I could only sigh and weep, but He who looks upon the naked human heart, knew that my contrition was sincere, and accepted the unformed petition.

"As the hart panteth for the water brooks, so did my thirsty soul pant for the refreshing waters of life. In feeble tones I implored Alice to read to me from the New Testament. My eyes were so much affected by the fever, that I could scarcely distinguish the objects round me.

"The request was distasteful, and she evaded it for many days—at last, replied testily.

"'There is not such a book in the house—never was; and you know that quite well.'

"'You can borrow one from the schoolmaster in the village.'

"'I will do no such thing. A pretty story truly, to go the rounds of Moncton. That the Morningtons were such godless people they had no Bible in the house, and had to borrow one. They say that Dinah is a witch, and that would confirm it.'

"'Send the boy that cuts sticks in the wood. Let him ask it as if for his mother. I know Mr. Ludd will lend it for a good purpose; and tell the boy I will give him half a sovereign for his pains.'

"'Nonsense! Why that would buy the book.'

"'Oh, do buy it, Alice, my good angel; for the love of God! send and buy it. You will find my purse in my coat-pocket. It will be the best money that was ever laid out by me.'

"'You had better be still and go to sleep, Philip; you are too ill to bear the fatigue of reading yet.'

"This was dreadfully tantalizing, but I was forced to submit. The next morning she brought me a cup of tea. I looked wistfully in her face.

"'Dear Alice, you could give me something that would do me more good than this.'

"'Some broth, perhaps; sick people always fancy everything that is not at hand.'

"'That book.'

"'Are you thinking about that still?'

"'I long for the bread of life.'

"'Do you want to turn Methodist?'

"'I wish to become a Christian.'

"'Are you not one already?'

"'Oh, no, no, Alice! All my life long I have denied the word of God and the power of salvation; and now, I would give the whole world, if I possessed it, to obtain the true riches. Do, dear sister, grant my earnest request, and may the God of all mercy bring you to a knowledge of the truth.'

"'I hate cant,' said Alice, discontentedly, 'but I will see what I can do for you.'

"She took some money from my purse and left the room.

"Hours passed away. I listened for her returning footsteps until I fell asleep. It was night when I again unclosed my eyes. Alice was sitting by the little table reading. Oh, blessed sight. The Bible lay open before her.

"'I dreamt it,' I cried joyfully. 'I dreamt that you got it, and God has brought it to pass. Oh, dear Alice you have made me so happy.'

"'What shall I read?

"I was puzzled; so much had I become a stranger to the sacred volume, that though it had formed a portion of my school and college studies, the little interest then felt in its contents, had made me almost a stranger to them.

"'Read the Gospel of St. John.'

"'A chapter you mean.'

"'As much as you can. Until you are tired.'

"She began at the opening chapter of that sublime gospel, in which we have so much of the mind of Jesus, though less of his wondrous parables and miracles; but matter which is higher, more mysterious, spiritual and satisfying to the soul. Nor could I suffer her to lay aside the book until it was concluded.

"How eagerly I drank in every word, and long after every eye was closed in sleep I continued in meditation and prayer. A thousand times I repeated to myself, 'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free,' What a glorious emancipation from the chains of sin and death! Oh, how I longed for a knowledge of that truth, and the answer came:—'O Lord thy word is truth;' and the problem in my soul was satisfied, and with a solemn thanksgiving I devoted myself to the service of God. A calm and holy peace came down upon my soul, and that night I enjoyed the first refreshing sleep I had known for many weeks.

"In the morning I was much better, but still too weak to leave my bed.

"I spent most of the day in reading the Bible. Alice had relaxed much of her attention and I only saw her during the brief periods when she administered medicine, or brought me broth or gruel.

"I felt hurt at her coldness; but it was something more than mere coldness. Her manner had become sullen and disagreeable. She answered me abruptly and in monosyllables, and appeared rather sorry than glad, that I was in a fair way of recovering.

"I often heard her and Dinah hold confused whispering conversations, in the outer room into which mine opened, the cottage being entirely on the ground floor, and one evening I thought I recognized the deep tones of a man's voice. I tried to catch a part of their discourse, but the sounds were too low and guarded to make anything out. A short time after I heard the sound of horses' hoofs upon the gravel walk which led past the cottage into the park. I sat up in the bed which was opposite the window, which commanded a view of the road, and perceived, to my dismay, that the stranger was no other than Robert Moncton, who was riding towards the village.

"A dread of something—I scarcely knew what—took possession of my mind, and remembering my weak, helpless state, and how completely I was in the power of Dinah North, I gave myself up to vague apprehensions of approaching evil.

"Ashamed of my weakness, I took the sacred volume from under my pillow, and soon regained my self-possession. I felt that I was in the hands of God, and that all things regarding me would be ordered for the right. Oh, what a blessing is this trust in the care of an overruling Providence! how it relieves one from brooding over the torturing fears of what may accrue on the morrow, verifying the divine proverb: 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof!'

"A thick, dark, rainy night had closed in, when my chamber door opened, and Alice glided in. She held in her hand a small tray, on which was a large tumbler of mulled wine and some dry toast. I had not tasted food since noon, and I felt both faint and hungry. A strange, ghastly expression flitted over my sister's face, which was unusually pale, as she sat down on the side of the bed.

"'You have been a long time away,' said I, with the peevish fretfulness of an invalid. 'If you were ill and incapable of helping yourself, Alice, I would not neglect you, and leave you for hours in this way. I might have died during your absence.'

"'No fear of that, Philip. You are growing cross, which is always a good sign. I would have come sooner, but had so many things to attend to, that it was impossible. Dinah is too old to work, and all the household work falls on me. But, how are you?'

"'Better, but very hungry.'

"'I don't doubt it. It is time you took something. I have got a little treat for you—some fine mulled sherry—it will do you good and strengthen you.'

"'I don't care for it,' said I, with an air of disgust. 'I am very thirsty. Give me a cup of tea.'

"'We got tea hours ago, when you were asleep, and there is not a drop of hot water in the kettle. The wine is more nourishing. The doctor recommended it. Do taste it, and see how good it is!'

"'I tried to comply with her request. A shudder came over me as I put the tumbler to my lips. 'It's of no use,' I said, putting it back on to the tray. 'I cannot drink it.'

"'If you love me, Philip, try. Drink a little, if you can, I made it on purpose to please you.'

"She bent her large bright eyes on me with an anxious, dubious expression—a strange, wild look, such as I never saw her face wear before.

"I looked at her in return, with a curious, searching gaze. I did not exactly suspect her of any evil intention towards me, but her manner was mysterious, and excited surprise.

"She changed colour, and turned away.

"A sudden thought darted through my brain. Robert Moncton had been there. He coveted my death, for what reason I could not fathom. I only knew the fact. What if that draught were poison!—and suspicion, once aroused, whispered it is poison.

"I rose slowly in the bed, and grasped her firmly by the wrist.

"'Alice! we will drink of that glass together. You look faint and pale. The contents will set you all right. Take half and I will drink the rest.'

"'I never drink wine.'

"'You dare not drink that wine,' said I.

"'If I liked it, what should hinder me?'

"'You could not like it, Alice. It is poison!'

"A faint cry burst from her lips.

"'God of heaven! who told you that?'

"'Flesh and blood did not reveal it to me. Alice, Alice, how could I imagine such a thing of you?'

"'How, indeed!' murmured the wretched girl, weeping passionately. 'She persuaded me to bring it to you. He mixed the wine. I—I had nothing else to do with it.'

"'Yet to you, as a willing instrument of evil, they entrusted the most important part of their hellish mission.'

"She flung herself on her knees beside the bed, and raising her clasped hands and streaming eyes to Heaven implored God to forgive her for the crime she had premeditated against my life, binding herself in an awful curse, not only to devise means to save my life, but to remove me from the cottage.

"'As to you, Philip, I dare not ask you to forgive me: I only implore you not to curse me.'

"'I should entertain a very poor opinion of myself, if I should refuse to do the one, or attempt such an act of wickedness as is involved in the other. But, Alice, do not think that I can excuse the commission of such a dreadful crime as murder—and upon whom? A brother who loved you tenderly—who, to his own knowledge, never injured you in word, thought or deed.'

"'Philip, you are not my brother, or the deed had never been attempted.'

"'Not your brother! Who am I then?'

"'I cannot—dare not tell you. At least not now. Escape from this dreadful place, and some future time may reveal it.'

"'You talk of escape as a thing practicable and easy. I am so weak I can scarcely stand, much less walk ten paces from the house. How can I get away unknown to Dinah?'

"'Listen to me—I will tell you.' She rose from her knees, and gliding to the door which led to the outer room, she gently unclosed it, and leaning forward looked cautiously into the outer space. Satisfied that it was vacant, she returned stealthily to my bed-side.

"'I must make Dinah believe that you have drank this wine. In less than two hours you will, in her estimation, be dead. Not a creature knows of your return. For our own sakes, we have kept your being here a profound secret. Robert Moncton, however, was duly informed by Dinah of your visit. He came this morning to the house, and they concocted this scheme between them. She is now absent looking for a convenient spot for a grave for your body when dead. She talked of the dark shrubbery. That spot is seldom visited by any one, because the neighbours fancy that it is haunted. You know how afraid we were of going near those dark, shadowy yews when we were children. Margaret used to call it the valley of the shadow of death.'

"'And it was there,' said I, with a shudder, 'that you meant to bury me?'

"'There—I have promised to drag your body to the spot in a sack, and help Dinah to make your grave. But hist! I thought I heard a step. We have no time to waste in idle words.'

"'She cannot bury me, you know, without my consent, before I am dead,' said I, with a faint smile. 'Nor can I imagine how you will be able to deceive her. She will certainly discover the difference between an empty sack and a full one.'

"'I have hit on a plan, which, if well managed, will lull her suspicions to sleep. You know the broken statue of Apollo, that lies at the entrance of the Lodge? It is about your size. It once belonged to the Hall gardens, and Sir Alexander gave it to me for a plaything years ago. I did not care for such a huge doll, and it has lain there ever since. I will convey this to your chamber, and dress it in your night-clothes. The sack will cover the mutilated limbs, and by the dim, uncertain light of the dark lantern, she will never discover the cheat.'

"'But if she should insist on inspecting the body?'

"'I will prevent it. In the meanwhile you must be prepared to leave the house when I come to fetch the body.'

"I felt very sick, and buried my face in the pillows.

"'I do not care to go; let me stay here and die.'

"'You must live for my sake,' cried the unhappy girl, clasping my cold hand to her heart, and covering it with kisses. 'If you fail me now, we are both lost. Dinah would never forgive me for betraying her and Moncton. Do you doubt that what I have told you is true?'

"'Not in the least, Alice; but I am so weak and ill—so forsaken and unhappy, that I no longer care for the life you offer.'

"'It was the gift of God. You must not throw it away. He may have work on the earth which he requires you to do.'

"These words saved me. I no longer hesitated to take the chance she offered me, though I entertained small hopes of its success. Yet if the hand of Providence was stretched out to rescue me from destruction, it was only right for me to yield to its guidance with obedient gratitude and praise.

"Alice was about to leave the room: she once more returned to my side.

"'Say that you forgive me, Philip.'

"I folded her in my thin wasted arms, and imprinted a kiss on her rigid brow.

"'From my very heart!'

"'God bless you! Philip. I will love and cherish your memory to my dying hour.'

"The house-door opened suddenly; she tore herself from my embrace. 'Dinah is coming—lie quite still—moan often, as if in pain, and leave me to manage the rest.'

"She left the chamber, and the door purposely ajar, that I might be guided in my conduct by what passed between them.

"'Did he drink it?' whispered the dreadful woman.

"'He did.'

"'And how does it agree with his stomach?' she laughed—her low, horrid laugh.

"'As might be expected—he feels rather qualmish.'

"'Ha, ha,!' cried the old fiend, rubbing her withered long hands together, 'you came Delilah over him. Our pretty Samson is caught at last. Let me see—how long will it be before the poison takes effect—about two hours—when did he take it?'

"'About an hour ago. He is almost insensible. Don't you hear him groan. The struggle will soon be over.'

"'And then my bonny bird will have no rival to wealth and power. What your mother, by her obstinate folly, lost, your wit and prudence, my beauty, will regain.'

"This speech of Dinah's was to me perfectly inexplicable. I heard Alice sigh deeply, but she did not reply.

"The old woman left the cottage but quickly returned.

"'I want the spade.'

"'You will find it in the out-house; the mattock is there, too; you will need it to break the hard ground.'

"'No, no; my arm is strong yet—stronger than you think, for a woman of my years. The heavy rain has moistened the earth. The spade will do the job; we need not make a deep grave. No one will ever look for him there.'

"'The place was always haunted, and it will be doubly so now.'

"'Pshaw! who believes in ghosts. The dead are dead—lost—gone for ever; grass springs from them, and their juices go to fatten worms and nourish the weeds of the earth. Light me the lantern and I will defy all the ghosts and demons in the world; and hark you, Alice, the moment he is dead put the body in a sack, and call me to help to drag it to the grave. I shall have it ready in no time.'

"'Monster!' I muttered to myself, 'the pit you are preparing for me, ere long, may open beneath your own feet.'

"I heard the old woman close the front door after her, and presently Alice re-entered my chamber.

"'Well, thank God she is gone on her unholy task. Now, Philip! now—lose no time—rise, dress yourself, and get off as fast as you can!'

"I endeavoured to obey, but exhausted by long sickness I fell back fainting upon the bed.

"'Stay,' said Alice, 'you are weak for the want of nourishment. I will get you food and drink.'

"She brought me a glass of port wine, and some sandwiches. I drank the wine eagerly, but I could not touch the food. The wine gave me a fictitious strength. After making several efforts I was able to rise and dress, the excitement of the moment and the hope of escape acting as powerful stimulants. I secured all that remained of my small fund of money, tied up a change of linen in a pocket-handkerchief, kissed the pale girl who stood cold and tearless at my side, and committing myself to the care of God, stole out into the dark night.

"I breathed again the fresh air, and my former vigour of mind returned. I felt like one just freed from prison, after having had sentence of death pronounced against him, I was once more free; I had miraculously escaped from death and danger, and silently and fervently I offered up a grateful prayer to the Heavenly Father, to whom I was indebted for such a signal act of mercy.

"You will think it strange, Geoffrey—the whim of a madman—but I felt an insatiable curiosity to witness the interment of my supposed body, to see how Alice would carry out the last act of the tragic drama.

"The wish was no sooner formed, than I prepared to carry it into execution.

"The yew shrubbery lay at the north end of the cottage, and was divided from the road, by a clipped holly hedge. A large yew tree grew out of the centre of this hedge, which had been clipped to represent a watch tower. Open spaces having been left for loop-holes. Through these square green apertures, I had often, when a boy, made war upon the blackbirds and sparrows, unseen by my tiny game.

"By creeping close to the hedge, and looking through one of these loop-holes, I could observe all that was passing within the shrubbery, without being observed by Dinah or Alice. Cautiously stealing along, for the night was intensely dark, and guiding my steps by the thick hedge, which resembled a massy green wall, I reached the angle where it turned off into the park. In this corner stood the green tower I was seeking, and climbing softly the gate which led into the spacious domain of the Monctons, I stepped upon a stone block used by the domestics for mounting horses, and thus raised several feet from the ground, I could distinctly observe, through the opening in the tree, all that was passing below.

"A faint light directly beneath me, gleamed up in the dense drizzly darkness, and shone on the hideous features of that abhorred old woman, who was leaning over a shallow grave she had just scooped out of the wet dank soil. Her arms rested on the top of the spade, and she scowled down into the pit that yawned at her feet, with a smile of derision on her thin sarcastic lips.

"'It's deep enough to hide him from the light of day. There's neither a shroud nor coffin to take up the room, and he is worn to a skeleton by his long sickness. Yes; there let him rest till the judgment-day! the worm for his mate and the cold clay for his pillow; I wish the same bed held all his accursed race. And his pale-faced, dainty mother—where is she? Does her spirit hover near, to welcome her darling to the land of dreams?'

"A light step sounded on the narrow path which led from the shrubbery to the cottage, accompanied by a dull lumbering sound.

"Dinah raised the lantern from the side of the grave, and held it up into the dark night.

"'Alice?'

"'Dinah!'

"'Is he dead?'

"'Yes. Here, lend a hand. The body is dreadfully heavy. I am almost killed with dragging it hither.'

"'You did not bring it alone!'

"'Who could I ask to help me? and I was so afraid of discovery, I dared not leave it to come for you.'

"The old woman put down the light, and went to help her granddaughter.

"'Let us roll the body into the grave, mother.'

"'Not yet—I must look at him.'

"'He makes a dreadful corpse.'

"'Death is no flatterer, child. Hold up the light.'

"'No, no!—You must not—you shall not triumph over him now. Let the dead rest, I dare not look upon that blue cold face, those staring eyes again.'

"'Who wants you, foolish child? I wish to satisfy myself that my enemy is dead.'

"A scuffle ensued, in which the light was extinguished, and the supposed body rolled heavily over into the grave.

"'Oh, mother, mother! the light is out, and we're alone with the corpse in this dreadful darkness.'

"'Nonsense! how timid you are! Go back to the house, and re-light the candle.'

"'I dare not go alone.'

"'Then let me go?'

"'And leave me with him? Oh, not for worlds. Mother, mother! I hear him moving in the grave. He is going to rise and drag me down into it. Look—look! I see his eyes glaring in the dark hole. There, mother—there!'

"'Curse you for a weak fool! You make even my flesh creep.'

"'Cover it up—cover it up!' cried Alice, pushing with her hands and feet some of the loose earth into the grave. 'That ghastly face will rise and condemn us at the Last Day. It will haunt me as long as I live. Oh, 'tis terrible, terrible, to feel the stain of blood on your soul, and to know that all the waters of the great ocean could never wash it out.'

"'I will go home with you, Alice, and return and close the grave myself,' said Dinah, in a determined tone. 'If you stay here much longer, you will make me as great a coward as yourself.'

"I heard the sound of their retreating steps, and leaving my place of concealment, slowly pursued my way to the next village. Entering a small tavern, I asked for a supper and a bed. The innkeeper and his wife were both known to me, but I was so much altered by sickness that they did not recognize me. After taking a cup of tea, I retired to rest, and was so overcome by mental and bodily fatigue, that I slept soundly until noon the next day, when I breakfasted, and took a seat in the mail coach for London.

"During my journey I calmly pondered over my situation, and formed a plan for the future, future, which I lost no time in putting into practice.

"From what had fallen from the lips of Alice, I was convinced that some mystery was connected with my birth, and the only means which I could devise to fathom it, was to gain more insight into the character and private history of Robert Moncton.

"At times the thought would present itself to my mind that this man might be my father. My mother was a strange creature—a woman whose moral principles could not have ranked very high. I scarcely knew, from my own experience, whether she possessed any—at all events I determined to get a place in his office, if possible, and wait patiently until something should turn up, which might satisfy my doubts, and expose the tissue of villainy which an untoward destiny had woven around me. While at college, I had gained an extensive knowledge in the jurisprudence of my country—in which I took great delight, and which I had intended to follow as a profession; when, unfortunately, the death of Mr. Mornington rendered me an independent man. At school I had learned to write all sorts of hands, and could engross with great beauty and accuracy.

"As a man, I was personally unknown to Robert Moncton, whom I never beheld but once, and for a few minutes only, when a boy, and time and sickness had so altered me, that it was not very likely that he would recognize me again.

"Two years previous to the time of which I am now speaking, I had saved the eldest son of Mr. Moncton's head clerk from drowning, at the risk of my own life. Mr. Bassett was overwhelming in his expressions of gratitude, and as to his poor little wife, she never mentioned the circumstance with dry eyes. The boy, who was about ten years of age, was a very noble, handsome little fellow, and I often walked to their humble lodgings to see him and his good parents, who always received me with the most lively demonstrations of joy.

"To these good people I determined to apply for advice and assistance. Fortunately my application was made in a lucky moment. Mr. Bassett was about to leave your uncle's office, and he strongly recommended me to his old master, as a person well known to him; of excellent character, and who was every way competent to fill his place.

"I was accepted. You know the rest."

"Our friendship, dear Geoffrey," said Harrison, concluding the narrative of his life, "rendered my situation far from irksome, while it enabled me to earn a respectable living. At present, I have learned little which can throw any additional light upon my sad history. Alice Mornington still lives, and is about to become a mother. Theophilus, the dastardly author of her wrongs, is playing the lover to the beautiful Catherine Lee, who is a ward of his father's.

"From the conversation which passed between Dinah North and Mr. Moncton in your chamber, I suspect that my poor Alice is less guilty than she appears. Dinah has some deeper motive than merely obliging Robert Moncton, in wishing to make you illegitimate. I feel confident that this story has been recently got up, and is an infamous falsehood. If true, you would have heard of it before, and I advise you to leave no stone unturned to frustrate their wicked conspiracy."

"But what can I do?" said I. "I have neither money nor friends; and my uncle will take precious good care that no one in this city shall give me employment."

"Go to Sir Alexander. He expressed an interest in your situation. Tell him the story of your wrongs, and, depend upon it, he will not turn a deaf ear to your complaint. I know that he hates both father and son, and will befriend you to oppose and thwart them."

My heart instantly caught at this proposal.

"I will go!" I cried. "But I want the means."

"I can supply you with the necessary funds," said George Harrison—for I must still call him by his old name. "And my offer is not wholly disinterested. Perhaps, Geoffrey, you may be the means of reconciling your friend to his old benefactor. But this must be done cautiously. Dinah North must not know that I am alive. Her ignorance of this fact places this wicked woman in our power, and may hereafter force her to reveal what we want to know."

I promised implicit obedience to these injunctions, and thanked him warmly for his confidence and advice. His story had made a deep impression on my mind. I longed to serve him. Indeed, I had become very warmly attached to him; regarding him in the light of a beloved brother.

In a fortnight, I was able to walk abroad, and was quite impatient to undertake my Yorkshire journey. Harrison was engaged as a writer in the office of a respectable solicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and we promised to correspond regularly with each other during my absence. He generously divided with me the little money he possessed, and bidding God bless and prosper my journey, bade me farewell. I mounted the York stage, and for the first time in my life, bade adieu to London and its environs.

CHAPTER III.

MY VISIT TO MONCTON PARK.

It was a fine, warm, balmy evening in May—green delicious May. With what delight I gazed abroad upon the face of Nature. Every scene was new to me, and awakened feelings of curiosity and pleasure.

Just out of a sick-bed, and after having been confined for weeks in a dusky, badly-ventilated and meanly-furnished garret, my heart actually bounded with rapture, and, I drank in health and hope from the fresh breeze which swept the hair from my pale brow and hollow cheeks.

Ah, glorious Nature! beautiful, purest of all that is pure and holy! Thou visible perfection of the invisible God. I was young then, and now am old, but never did I find a genuine love of thee, dwelling in the heart of a deceitful, wicked man. To love thee, we must adore the God who made thee; and however sin may defile what originally He pronounced good, when we return with child-like simplicity to thy breast, we find the happiness and peace which a loving parent can alone bestow.

Nothing remarkable occurred during my journey. The coach in due time deposited me at the gates of the Lodge, in which my poor friend Harrison had first seen the light. An involuntary shudder ran through me, when I recognized old Dinah North, standing within the porch of the cottage.

She instantly knew me, and drew back with a malignant scowl.

Directing the coachman to leave my portmanteau at the village inn until called for, I turned up the broad avenue of oaks that led to the Hall.

The evening was calm and lovely. The nightingale was pouring his first love-song to the silent dewy groves. The perfume of the primrose and violet made every swelling knoll redolent of sweets. I paused often, during my walk, to admire the beauty of a scene so new to me. Those noble hills and vales; that bright-sweeping river; those towering woods, just bursting into verdure, and that princely mansion, rising proudly into the blue air—all would be mine, could I but vindicate my mother's honour, and prove to the world that I was the offspring of lawful wedlock.

I felt no doubt myself upon the subject. Truth may be obscured for a while, but cannot long remain hid. The innate consciousness of my mother's moral rectitude never for a moment left my mind—a proud conviction of her innocence, which, I was certain, time would make clear.

Full of these reflections, I approached the Hall. It was an old-fashioned building, which had been created during the wars of York and Lancaster, now venerable with the elemental war of ages, and might in its day have stood the shock of battle and siege. It was a fine old place, and associated as it was with the history of the past sent a thrill of almost superstitious awe through my heart.

For upwards of three hundred years it had been the birth-place of my family. Here they had lived and flourished as Lords of the soil; here, too, most of them had died, and been gathered into one common burial-place, in the vault of the picturesque gothic church, which stood embosomed in trees not far from the old feudal mansion.

And I, the rightful heir of the demesne, with a soul as large,—with heart and hand equal to do and dare, all that they in their day and generation had accomplished—approached the old home, poor and friendless, with a stigma upon the good name, which legally I might never be able to efface.

But, courage, Geoffrey Moncton! He who first added the appendage of Sir to that name, rode among the victors at the battle of Cressy, and the war-shout of one of his descendants rang out defiantly on the bloody field of Agincourt! Why need you despair? England wants soldiers yet, and if you fail in establishing your claims to that name and its proud memories, win one, as others have done before you, at the cannon's mouth.

I sent up my card, which gained me instant admittance. I was shown into the library, which Harrison had so often described. A noble old room panelled to the ceiling, with carved oak now almost black with age. Here I found the Baronet engaged with his daughter in a game at chess. He rose to meet me with evident marks of pleasure, and introduced me to Miss Moncton, as a young cousin, in whom he felt much interested, and one with whom he hoped to see her better acquainted.

With a soft blush, and a smile of inexpressible sweetness, the little fairy, for she was almost as diminutive in stature, bade me welcome.

Her face, though very pleasing, was neither striking nor beautiful. It was, however, exquisitely feminine, and beaming with intelligence, dignity and truth. Her large, dark, soul-lighted eyes were singularly beautiful. Her complexion, too fair and pale for health; the rich ruby-coloured full lips and dazzling teeth, forming a painful contrast with the pure white cheeks, shaded by a dark cloud of raven tresses, which, parting on either side of her lofty brow, flowed in rich curls down her snowy neck, and over her marble shoulders to her waist.

Her figure in miniature comprised all that was graceful and lovely in woman; and her frank, unsophisticated manners rendered her, in spite of a faulty mouth, very attractive.

After exchanging a few sentences, Miss Moncton withdrew, and I lost no time in explaining to her father the cause of my visit; the manner in which I had been treated by my uncle, my recent illness, and the utter friendlessness of my position. "You told me, sir, to come to you at any crisis of difficulty, for advice and assistance. I have done so, and shall feel most grateful for your counsels in the present emergency. I am willing and able to work for my bread; I only want an opening to be made in order to get my own living."

"Your profession, Geoffrey; why not stick to that?"

"Most gladly would I do so, had not Robert Moncton put the finishing stroke to his tyranny, by tearing my indentures, and by this malicious act destroyed the labour of seven years."

"The scoundrel! the mean, cowardly scoundrel!" cried Sir Alexander, striking the table with such violence with his clenched hand, that kings, queens, knights, bishops and commoners made a general movement to the other side of the chess-board. "Never mind, Geoffrey, my boy, give me your hand—I will be your friend. I will restore you to your rights, if it costs me the last shilling in my purse—ay, or the last drop in my veins. Let the future for a short time take care of itself. Make this your home; look upon me as your father, and we shall yet live to see this villain reap the reward of his evil deeds."

"Generous, noble man!" I cried, while tears of joy and gratitude rolled down my cheeks: "how can I ever hope to repay you for such disinterested goodness?"

"By never alluding to the subject, Geoffrey. Give me back the love your father once felt for me, and I shall be more than repaid. Besides, my lad, I am neither so good nor so disinterested as you give me credit for. I detest, despise that uncle of yours, and I know the best way to annoy him is to befriend you, and get you safe out of his villainous clutches. This is hardly doing as I would be done by, but I can't help it. No one blames another for taking a fly out of a spider's web, when the poor devil is shrieking for help, although he be the spider's lawful prey; but who does not applaud a man for rescuing his fellow man from the grasp of a scoundrel! By-the-by, Geoffrey," added he, "have you dined?"

"At the last inn we stopped at on the road."

"The Hart; a place not very famous for good cheer. Their beef is generally as hard as their deer's horns. Let me order up refreshments."

"By no means. You forget, Sir Alexander, that of late I have not been much used to good living. The friend on whose charity I have been boarding is a poor fellow like myself."

"Well, we must have our chat over a glass of old wine."

He rang the bell. The wine was soon placed upon the table, and most excellent wine it proved. I was weak from my long confinement to a sick chamber, and tired with my long journey; I never enjoyed a glass of wine so much in my life.

"What do you think of Moncton, Geoffrey?"

"It is a glorious old place."

"Wish it were yours—don't you? Confess the truth, now."

"Some fifty years hence," said I, laughing.

"You would then be too old to enjoy it, Geoffrey; but wait patiently God's good time, and it may be yours yet. There was a period in my life," and he sighed a long, deep, regretful sigh, "when I hoped that a son of mine would be master here, but as that cannot be, I am doomed to leave no male heir to my name and title, I know no one whom I would rather see in the old place than my cousin Edward's son."

"Your attachment to my father must have been great, when, after so many years, you extend it to his son."

"Yes, Geoffrey, I loved that wild, mad-cap father of yours better than I ever loved any man; but I suffered one rash action to separate hearts formed by nature to understand and appreciate each other. You are not acquainted with this portion of the family history. Pass the bottle this way, and I will enlighten your ignorance."

"When your grandfather, in the plenitude of his worldly wisdom (for he had a deal of the fox in his character), left the guardianship of his sons to his aged father, it was out of no respect for the old gentleman, whom had cast him off rather unceremoniously, when his plebeian tastes led him to prefer being a rich citizen, rather than a poor gentleman; but he found, that though he amassed riches, he had lost caste, and he hoped by this act to restore his sons, for whom he had acquired wealth, to their proper position in society.

"My grandfather, Sir Robert, grumbled a good deal at being troubled with the guardianship of the lads in his old age. But when he saw those youthful scions of his old house, he was so struck with their beauty and talents, that from that hour they held an equal place in his affections with myself, the only child of his eldest son, and heir to his estates.

"I was an extravagant, reckless young fellow of eighteen, when my cousins first came to live at Moncton; and I hailed their advent with delight. Edward, I told you before, had been an old chum of mine at school; and when Robert was placed in a lawyer's office, he accompanied me to college to finish my education. He was intended to fill his father's place in the mercantile world, but he had little talent or inclination for such a life. All his tastes were decidedly aristocratic, and I fear that my expensive and dissipated habits operated unfavourably on his open, generous, social disposition.

"With a thousand good qualities, and possessing excellent qualities, Edward Moncton was easily led astray by the bad example of others. He was a fine musician, had an admirable voice, a brilliant wit, and great fluency of speech, which can scarcely be called advantageous gifts, to those who don't know how to make a proper use of them. He was the life of the society in which we moved, courted and admired wherever he went, and a jolly time we had of it, I can tell you, in those classical abodes of learning, and frequently of sin.

"Edward gave me his whole heart, and I loved him with the most entire affection. But, though I saw that my example acted most perniciously on his easy disposition, I wanted the moral courage to give up a course of gaiety, in order to save him from ruin.

"Poor Edward!—I would give worlds to recall the past. But the bad seed was sown, and in time we reaped the bitter fruits.

"With all my faults, I was never a gambler; women, wine, and extravagant living, were my chief derelictions from the paths of rectitude. But even while yielding to these temptations, I was neither an habitual drunkard nor a profligate, though I frequented haunts, where both characters were constantly found, and ranked many such men among my chosen friends and associates. My moral guilt, was perhaps as great as theirs; for it is vain for a man to boast of his not being intemperate, because nature has furnished him with nerves which enable him to drink, in defiance to reason, quantities which would deprive the larger portion of men of their senses.

"Your father thought, boy like (for he was full three years my junior), to prove his title to manhood by following closely in my steps, and too soon felt the evil effects of such a leader. He wasted his health in debauchery, and wine maddened him. The gaming-table held out its allurements, he wanted fortitude to resist its temptation, and was the loser to a considerable amount. He kept this a secret from me. He was a minor, and he feared that it might reach my grandfather's ears, and that Sir Robert would stop the supplies, until his debts were paid. I heard of it through a mutual friend, and very consistently imagined the crime far greater than any that I had committed.

"The night before we left college, I followed him to his favourite rendezvous, held in the rooms of a certain young nobleman, unknown to the authorities, where students who were known to belong to wealthy parents, met to play hazard and écarté, and lose more money at a sitting, than could be replaced by the economy of years.

"I was not one of Lord ——'s clique, and I sent my card to Edward by a friend, requesting to speak to him on a matter of importance. After some delay, he came out to me. He was not pleased at being disturbed, and was much flushed with wine.

"'What do you want, Alick?' said he, in no very gentle tones.

"'I want you to come and help me prepare for our journey to-morrow.'

"'There will be plenty of time for that, by-and-by. I am engaged, and don't choose to be dictated to like a school-boy.'

"'You are mad,' said I, taking hold of his arm, 'to go there at all. Those fellows will cheat you out of every penny you have.'

"'That's my own look-out. I tell you once for all, Alick, I don't choose you to ride rough-shod over me, because you fancy yourself superior. I will do as I please. I have lost a deal of money to-night, and I mean to play on until I win it back.'

"You will only lose more. You are not in a fit state to deal with sharpers. You are so tipsy now, you can hardly stand.'

"As I said this, I put my arm around him to lead him away, when he, maddened I suppose by drink and his recent losses, burst from me, and turning sharp round, struck me a violent blow on the face. 'Let that satisfy you, whether I am drunk or sober,' he exclaimed, and with a bitter laugh, returned to the party he had quitted.

"Geoffrey, I felt that blow in my heart. The disgrace was little in comparison to the consciousness that it came from his hand—the hand of the friend I loved. I could have returned the injury with ten-fold interest; but I did nothing of the sort. I stood looking after him with dim eyes and a swelling heart, repeating to myself—

"'Is it possible that Edward struck me?'

"That blow, however, achieved a great moral reformation. It led me to think—to examine my past life, and to renounce for ever those follies, which I now felt were debasing to both soul and body, and unworthy the pursuit of any rational creature.

"The world expected me, as a gentleman, to ask satisfaction of Edward for the insult I had received.

"I set the, world and its false laws at defiance.

"I returned to my lodgings and wrote him a brief note, telling him that I forgave him, and gently remonstrating with him on the violence of his conduct.

"Instead of answering, or apologizing for what he had done, he listened to the advice of a pack of senseless idiots, who denounced me as a coward, and lauded his rash act to the skies.

"To seek a reconciliation, would be to lose his independence, they said, and prove to the world that he had been in the wrong. I, on my part, was too proud to solicit his friendship, and left London before the effort of mutual friends had effected a change in his feelings.

"Perhaps, as the injurer, he never forgave me for being the originator of the quarrel: be that as it may, we never met again. My grandfather died shortly after. I formed an unfortunate attachment to a person far beneath me in rank, and but for the horror of entailing upon myself her worthless mother, would certainly have made her my wife. To avoid falling into this snare, I went abroad for several years, and ultimately married a virtuous and lovely woman, and became a happy husband and father, and I hope a better man."

The Baronet ceased speaking for a few minutes, then said with a half smile.

"Geoffrey, men are sad fools. After losing that angel, I came very near marrying my old flame, who was a widow at the time, and as handsome as ever. She died most opportunely, I am now convinced, for my comfort and respectability, and I gave up all idea of taking a second wife."

This account tallied exactly with Harrison's story, which had given me a key to the Baronet's history. I inquired, rather anxiously, if he and my father remained unreconciled up to the period of his death.

"'I wrote to him frequently, Geoffrey,' he replied, 'when time had healed the wound he inflicted on my heart, but he never condescended to reply to any of my communications. I have since thought that he did write, and that his brother Robert, who was always jealous of our friendship, destroyed the letters. I assure you, that this unnatural estrangement formed one of the saddest events in my life; and for the love I still bear his memory, I will never desert his orphan son.'"

I thanked the worthy Baronet again and again, for the generous treatment I had received from him, and we parted at a late hour, mutually pleased with each other.

CHAPTER IV.

A SAD EVENT.

A few weeks' residence found me quite at home at the Hall. My new-found relatives treated me with the affectionate familiarity which exists between old and long-tried friends. I ceased to feel myself the despised poor relation; a creature rarely loved and always in the way, expected to be the recipient of all the kicks and cuffs of the family to whom his ill-fortune has made him an attaché, and to return the base coin with smiles and flattering speeches.

Of all lots in this hard world, the hardest to bear must be that of a domestic drudge; war, war to the knife is better than such humiliating servitude. I could neither fawn nor cringe, and the Baronet, who was a high-spirited man himself, loved me for my independence.

The summer had just commenced. No hunting, no shooting to while away an idle hour. But Sir Alexander was as fond of old Izaak Walton's gentle craft, as that accomplished piscator, and we often rose at early dawn to stroll through the dewy pastures to the stream which crossed the park, which abounded with trout, and I soon became an excellent angler, hooking my fish in the most scientific manner.

When the days were not propitious for our sport, I accompanied Sir Alexander in his rides, in visiting his model farms, examining the progress of his crops, the making of hay, the improved breeds of sheep and cattle, and all such healthy and rural employments, in which he took a patriarchal delight.

Margaretta generally accompanied us on these expeditions. She was an excellent equestrian, and managed her high-bred roan with much skill and ease, never disturbing the pleasure of the ride by nervous or childish fears.

"Madge is a capital rider!" would the old Baronet exclaim. "I taught her myself. There is no affectation—no show-off airs in her riding. She does that as she does everything else, in a quiet, natural way."

The enjoyment of our country life was seldom disturbed by visitors. All the great folks were in London; the beauties of nature possessing far less attractions for them than the sophisticated gaieties of the season in town. If his youth had been dissipated, Sir Alexander courted retirement in age, and was perfectly devoted to the quiet happiness of a domestic life.

Margaretta, who shared all his tastes, and whose presence appeared necessary to his existence, had spent one season in London, but cared so little for the pleasures of the metropolis, that she resisted the urgent entreaties of her female friends to accompany them to town a second time.

"I hate London, Cousin Geoffrey. There is no room in its crowded scenes for nature and truth. Every one seems intent upon acting a lie, and living in defiance of their reason and better feelings. I never could feel at home there. I mistrusted myself and every one else, and never knew what true happiness was, until I returned to the unaffected simplicity of a country life."

These sentiments were fully reciprocated by me, who had passed, within the smoky walls of the huge metropolis the most unhappy period of my life.

Same hours, every day, were devoted by Sir Alexander to business, during which he was closely closeted with Mr. Hilton, his steward, and to disturb him at such times was regarded by him as an act of high treason.

During these hours, Margaretta and I were left to amuse ourselves in the best manner we could. She was a fine pianist. I had inherited my father's passion for music, and was never tired of listening to her while she played. If the weather was unfavourable for a ride or stroll in the Park, I read aloud to her, while she painted groups of flowers from nature, for which she had an exquisite taste. The time fled away only too fast, and this mingling of amusement and mental occupation was very delightful to me, whose chief employment for years had been confined to musty parchments in a dull, dark office.

Our twilight rambles through the glades of the beautiful park, at that witching hour when both eye and heart are keenly alive to sights and sounds of beauty, possessed for me the greatest charm.

I loved—but only as a brother loves—the dear, enthusiastic girl, who leaned so confidingly on my arm, whose glorious eyes, lighted up from the very fountain of passion and feeling, were raised to mine as if to kindle in my breast the fire of genius which emanated from her own.

Her vivid imagination, fostered in solitude, seized upon everything bright and beautiful in nature, and made it her own.

At such moments it was impossible to regard Margaretta with indifference. I could have loved, nay, adored, had not my mind been preoccupied with a fairer image.

Margaretta was too great a novice in affairs of the heart, to notice the guarded coolness of my homage. My society afforded her great pleasure, and she wanted the common-place tact of her sex to disguise it from me.

Dear, lovely, confiding Margaretta, how beautiful does your simple truth and disinterested affection appear, as I look back through the long vista of years, and find in the world so few who resemble thee!

Towards the close of a hot day in June we visited the fragrant fields of new-mown hay, and Margaretta tired herself by chasing a pair of small, coquettish blue butterflies, who hovered along the hedge, which bounded the dusty highway, like living gems, and not succeeding in capturing the shy things, she proposed leaving the road, and returning home through the Park.

"With all my heart," said I. "We will rest under your favourite beech, while you, dear Madge, sing with your sweet voice, the

"Drowsy world to rest."

We crossed a stile, and entered one of the broad, green arcades of the glorious old Park.

For some time we reposed upon the velvet sward, beneath Margaretta's favourite tree. The slanting red beams of the setting sun scarcely forced their way through the thickly interlaced boughs of the forest. The sparkling wavelets of the river ran brawling at our feet, fighting their way among the sharp rocks that opposed a barrier to their downward course. We bathed our temples in the cool, clear waters. Margaretta forgot the dusty road, the independent blue butterflies, and her recent fatigue.

"There is no music after all like the music of nature, Geoffrey," she said, untying her straw bonnet, and throwing it on the grass beside her, while she shook a shower of glossy black ringlets back from her small oval face.

"Not that it is the instrument, but the soul that breathes through it, which makes the music. And Nature, pouring her soul into these waves, and stirring with her plaintive sighs these branches above us, awakens sounds which find an echo in the heart of all her children, who remain true to the teachings of the divine mother." Then turning suddenly to me, she said, "Geoffrey, do you sing?"

"To please myself. I play upon the flute much better than I sing. During the last half year I remained with my uncle I took lessons of an excellent master, and having a good ear, and being passionately fond of music, I gained considerable proficiency. I had been an amateur performer for years."

"And you never told me one word of this before."

"I did not wish to display all my trifling stock of accomplishments at once," said I, with a smile. "Those who possess but little are wise to reserve a small portion of what they have. You shall test its value the next rainy day."

"In the absence of the flute, Geoffrey, you must give me a song. A song that harmonizes with this witching hour and holiday time o' the year."

"Then it must necessarily be a love song," said I; "youth and spring being the best adapted to inspire the joyousness of love."

"Call not love joyous, Geoffrey; it is a sad and fearful thing to love. Love that is sincere is a hidden emotion of the heart; it shrinks from vain laughter, and is most eloquent when silent, or only revealed by tears."

I started, and turned an anxious gaze upon her pale, spiritual face.

What right had I to be jealous of her? I who was devoted to another. Yet jealous I was, and answered rather pettishly:

"You talk feelingly, fair cousin, as if you had experienced the passion you describe. Have you tasted the bitter sadness of disappointed love?"

"I did not say that." And she blushed deeply. "You chose to infer it."

I did not reply. The image of Harrison rose in my mind. For the first time I saw a strong likeness between them. Such a likeness as is often found between persons who strongly assimilate—whose feelings, tastes, and pursuits are the same.

Was it possible that she had loved him? I was anxious to find out if my suspicions were true; and without any prelude or apology commenced singing a little air that Harrison had taught me, both music and words being his own.

I sang my best, and was accounted by all the young men of my acquaintance, to have a fine manly voice. But I was not rewarded by a single word or encouraging smile.

Margaretta's head was bowed upon her hands, and tears were streaming fast through her slender fingers.

"Margaret, dearest Margaret!" for in speaking to her, I always dropped the Italianized termination of her name. "Are you ill. Do speak to me."

She still continued to weep.

"I wish I had not sung that foolish song."

"It was only sung too well, Geoffrey." And she slowly raised her head and put back the hair from her brow. "Ah, what sad, what painful recollections does that song call up. But with these, you have nothing to do. I will not ask you how you became acquainted with that air; but I request as a great favour, that you will never sing or play it to me again."

She relapsed into silence, which I longed to break but did not know how. At length she rose from the bank on which we had been seated, resumed her bonnet, and expressed a wish to return to the Hall.

"The night has closed in very fast," said she, "or is the gloom occasioned by the shadow of the trees?"

"It is only a few minutes past seven," I replied, looking at my watch. "The hay-makers have not yet left their work." We had followed the course of the stream, on our homeward path, and now emerged into an open space in the Park. The sudden twilight which had descended upon us was caused by a heavy pile of thunder clouds which hung frowning over the woods, and threatened to overtake us before we could reach the Hall.

"How still and deep the waters lie," said Margaretta. "There is not a breath of wind to ruffle them or stir the trees. The awful stillness which precedes a storm inspires me with more dread, than when it launches forth with all its terrific powers."

"Hark! There's the first low peal of thunder, and the trees are all trembling and shivering in the electric blast which follows it. How sublimely beautiful, is this magnificent war of elements."

"It is very true, dear cousin, but if you stand gazing at the clouds, we shall both get wet."

"Geoffrey," said Margaretta, laughing, "there is nothing poetical about you."

"I have been used to the commonest prose all my life, Madge. But here we are at the fishing-house: we had better stow ourselves away with your father's nets and tackles until this heavy shower is over."

No sooner said than done. We crossed a rustic bridge which spanned the stream, and ascending a flight of stone steps, reached a small rough-cast building, open in front, with a bench running round three sides of it, and a rude oak table in the middle, which was covered with fishing-rods, nets, and other tackle belonging to the gentle craft.

From this picturesque shed Sir Alexander, in wet weather, could follow his favourite sport, as the river ran directly below, and it was considered the best spot for angling, the water expanding here into a deep still pool, much frequented by the finny tribes.

We were both soon seated in the ivy-covered porch, the honey-suckle hanging its perfumed tassels, dripping with the rain, above our heads, while the clematis and briar-rose gave out to the shower a double portion of delicate incense.

The scene was in unison with Margaretta's poetical temperament. She enjoyed it with her whole heart; her beautiful eyes brimful of love and adoration.

The landscape varied every moment. Now all was black and lowering; lightnings pierced with their arrowy tongues the heavy foliage of the frowning woods, and loud peals of thunder reverberated among the distant hills; and now a solitary sunbeam struggled through a rift in the heavy cloud, and lighted up the gloomy scene with a smile of celestial beauty.

Margaretta suddenly grasped my arm; I followed the direction of her eye, and beheld a tall female figure, dressed in deep mourning, pacing too and fro on the bridge we had just crossed. Her long hair, unconfined by cap or bandage, streamed in wild confusion round her wan and wasted features, and regardless of the pelting of the pitiless storm, she continued to hurry backwards and forwards, throwing her hands into the air, and striking her breast like one possessed.