The Monctons: A Novel, Volume I

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THE MONCTONS:

A NOVEL.

BY

SUSANNA MOODIE,

AUTHOR OF

"ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH," "FLORA LINDSAY,"
"MATRIMONIAL SPECULATIONS," &c.

What--dost thou think I'll bend to thee?
The free in soul are ever free:
Nor force, nor poverty can bind
The subtle will--the thinking mind.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1856.

LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

TO JOHN LOVELL, ESQ., OF MONTREAL, WHO WAS ONE OF THE FIRST AND MOST
SUCCESSFUL PIONEERS IN ESTABLISHING A NATIONAL LITERATURE IN THE
CANADIAN COLONIES, THIS WORK, WHICH OWES ITS EXISTENCE TO HIS GENEROUS
CARE, IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY HIS GRATEFUL AND OBLIGED FRIEND,
SUSANNA MOODIE.

DECEMBER, 1855.

Transcriber's Note: The Table of Contents is not contained in the book
but has been created for the convenience of the reader of this etext.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. MY GRANDFATHER AND HIS SONS.
II. MY MOTHER'S FUNERAL.
III. MY AUNT REBECCA.
IV. THE TUTOR.
V. A CHANGE IN MY PROSPECTS.
VI. THE SORROWS OF DEPENDENCE.
VII. GEORGE HARRISON.
VIII. UNGRATIFIED CURIOSITY.
IX. A PORTRAIT.
X. DREAMS.
XI. MY FIRST LOVE.
XII. I FORFEIT MY INDEPENDENCE.
XIII. A VISIT FROM THE GREAT MAN OF THE FAMILY.
XIV. LOVE AND HATRED.
XV. GEORGE HARRISON AND HIS HISTORY.
XVI. GEORGE HARRISON CONTINUES HIS HISTORY.
XVII. HARRISON FINDS A FRIEND IN NEED.
XVIII. THE MEETING.

THE MONCTONS.

CHAPTER I.

MY GRANDFATHER AND HIS SONS.

There was a time--a good old time--when men of rank and fortune were
not ashamed of their poor relations; affording the protection of their
name and influence to the lower shoots of the great family tree, which,
springing from the same root, expected to derive support and
nourishment from the main stem.

That time is well-nigh gone for ever. Kindred love and hospitality have
decreased with the increase of modern luxury and exclusiveness, and the
sacred ties of consanguinity are now regarded with indifference; or if
recognized, it is only with those who move in the same charmed circle,
and who make a respectable appearance in the world: then, and then
only, are their names pronounced with reverence, and their relationship
considered an honor.

It is amusing to watch from a distance, the eagerness with which some
people assert their claims to relationship with wealthy and titled
families, and the intrigue and manoeuvring it calls forth in these
fortunate individuals, in order to disclaim the boasted connexion.

It was my fate for many years to eat the bitter bread of dependence,
as one of those despised and insulted domestic annoyances--_A Poor
Relation_.

My grandfather, Geoffrey Moncton, whose name I bear, was the youngest
son of a wealthy Yorkshire Baronet, whose hopes and affections entirely
centered in his first-born. What became of the junior scions of the
family-tree was to him a matter of secondary consideration. My
grandfather, however, had to be provided for in a manner becoming the
son of a gentleman, and on his leaving college, Sir Robert offered to
purchase him a commission in the army.

My grandfather was a lad of peaceable habits, and had a mortal
antipathy to fighting. He refused point blank to be a soldier. The Navy
offered the same cause for objection, strengthened by a natural
aversion to the water, which made him decline going to sea.

What was to be done with the incorrigible youth? Sir Robert flew into
a passion--called him a coward--a disgrace to the name of Moncton.

My grandfather, who was a philosopher in his way, pleaded guilty to the
first charge. From his cradle he had carefully avoided scenes of strife
and violence, and had been a quiet, industrious boy at school, a sober
plodding student at college, minding his own business, and troubling
himself very little with the affairs of others. The sight of blood made
him sick; he hated the smell of gunpowder, and would make any sacrifice
of time and trouble rather than come to blows. He now listened to the
long catalogue of his demerits, which his angry progenitor poured forth
against him, with such stoical indifference, that it nearly drew upon
him the corporeal punishment which at all times he so much dreaded.

Sir Robert at length named the Church, as the profession best suited to
a young man of his peaceable disposition, and flew into a fresh
paroxysm of rage, when the obstinate fellow positively refused to be a
parson.

"He had a horror," he said, "of making a mere profession of so sacred a
calling. Besides, he had an awkward impediment in his speech, and he
did not mean to stand up in a pulpit to expose his infirmity to the
ridicule of others."

Honour to my grandfather. He was not deficient in mental courage,
though Sir Robert, in the plenitude of his wisdom, had thought fit to
brand him as a coward.

The bar was next proposed for his consideration, but the lad replied
firmly, "I don't mean to be a lawyer."

"Your reasons, sir?" cried Sir Robert in a tone which seemed to forbid
a liberty of choice.

"I have neither talent nor inclination for the profession."

"And pray, sir, what have you talent or inclination for?"

"A merchant," returned Geoffrey calmly and decidedly, without appearing
to notice his aristocratic sire's look of withering contempt. "I have
no wish to be a poor gentleman. Place me in my Uncle Drury's
counting-house, and I will work hard and become an independent man."

Now this Uncle Drury was brother to the late Lady Moncton, who had been
married by the worthy Baronet for her wealth. He was one of Sir
Robert's horrors--one of those rich, vulgar connections which are not
so easily shaken off, and whose identity is with great difficulty
denied to the world. Sir Robert vowed, that if the perverse lad
persisted in his grovelling choice, though he had but two sons, he
would discard him altogether.

Obstinacy is a family failing of the Monctons. My grandfather, wisely,
or unwisely, as circumstances should afterwards determine, remained
firm to his purpose. Sir Robert realized his threat. The father and son
parted in anger, and from that hour, the latter was looked upon as an
alien to the old family stock; which he was considered to have
disgraced.

Geoffrey, however, succeeded in carrying out his great life object. He
toiled on with indefatigable industry, and soon became rich. He had
singular talents for acquiring wealth, and they were not suffered to
remain idle. The few pounds with which he commenced his mercantile
career, soon multiplied into thousands, and tens of thousands; and
there is no knowing what an immense fortune he might have realized, had
not death cut short his speculations at an early period of his life.

He had married uncle Drury's only daughter, a few years after he became
partner in the firm, by whom he had two sons, Edward and Robert, to
both of whom he bequeathed an excellent property.

Edward, the eldest, my father, had been educated to fill the mercantile
situation, now vacant by its proprietor's death, which was an ample
fortune in itself, if conducted with prudence and regularity.

Robert had been early placed in the office of a lawyer of eminence, and
was considered a youth of great talents and promise. Their mother had
been dead for some years, and of her little is known in the annals of
the family. When speculating upon the subject, I have imagined her to
have been a plain, quiet, matter-of-fact body, who never did or said
anything worth recording.

When a man's position in life is marked out for him by others, and he
is left no voice in the matter, in nine cases out of ten, he is totally
unfitted by nature and inclination for the post he is called to fill.
So it was with my father, Edward Moncton. A person less adapted to fill
an important place in the mercantile world, could scarcely have been
found. He had a genius for spending, not for making money; and was so
easy and credulous that any artful villain might dupe him out of it.
Had he been heir to the title and the old family estates, he would have
made a first rate country gentleman; for he possessed a fine manly
person, was frank and generous, and excelled in all athletic sports.

My Uncle Robert was the very reverse of my father--stern, shrewd, and
secretive; no one could see more of his mind than he was willing to
show; and, like my grandfather, he had a great love for money, and a
natural talent for acquiring it. An old servant of my grandfather's,
Nicholas Banks, used jocosely to say of him: "Had Master Robert been
born a beggar, he would have converted his ragged wrap-rascal into a
velvet gown. The art of making money was born in him."

Uncle Robert was very successful in his profession; and such is the
respect that men of common minds pay to wealth for its own sake, that
my uncle was as much courted by persons of his class, as if he had
been Lord Chancellor of England. He was called the _honest lawyer_:
wherefore, I never could determine, except that he was the _rich_
lawyer; and people could not imagine that the envied possessor of five
thousand per annum, could have any inducement to play the rogue, or
cheat his clients. The dependent slave who was chained all day to the
desk, in Robert Moncton's office, knew him to be a dishonest man; but
his practice daily increased, and his reputation and fortune increased
in proportion.

The habits and dispositions of these brothers were so different, so
utterly opposed to each other, that it was difficult to reconcile the
mind to the fact that they were so closely related.

My uncle had a subtle knowledge of character, which was rendered more
acute by his long acquaintance with the world; and he did not always
turn it to a righteous account. My father was a babe in these
matters--a cunning child might deceive him. While my uncle had a knack
of saving without appearing parsimonious, my father had an unfortunate
habit of frittering his money away upon trifles. You would have
imagined that the one had discovered the secret of the philosopher's
stone; and the other had ruined himself in endeavouring to find it out.
The one was economical from choice, the other extravagant from the mere
love of spending. My uncle married a rich merchant's daughter, for her
money. My father ran off with a poor curate's penniless girl, for love.
My father neglected his business and became poor. In the hope of
redeeming his fortune he frequented the turf and the gambling-table;
and died broken-hearted and insolvent in the prime of manhood; leaving
his widow and her orphan boy to the protection and guardianship of the
brother, who had drudged all his life to become a millionaire.

My dear mother only survived her handsome, reckless husband six short
months; and, bereaved of both my natural protectors, I was doomed at
the early age of eight years to drink the bitter cup of poverty and
dependence to its very dregs.

CHAPTER II.

MY MOTHER'S FUNERAL.

I never saw my Uncle Robert Moncton until the morning of my mother's
funeral; and the impression that first interview made upon my young
heart will never be forgotten. It cast the first dark shadow upon the
sunny dial of my life, and for many painful years my days and hours
were numbered beneath its gloomy influence.

It was a chill, murky November day, such a day as London or its
immediate vicinity can alone produce. The rain fell slowly and steadily
to the ground; and trickled from the window-frames in one continuous
stream. A thick mist hung upon the panes of glass like a gauze veil,
intersected by innumerable channels of water, which looked like a
pattern of open work left in the dingy material. The shutters of our
once populous parlour were half-closed; and admitted into the large,
deserted apartment only a portion of this obscure light. The hearse
destined to convey the remains of my dear mother to their last, long
resting-place, was drawn up at the door. I saw it looming through the
fog, with its tall, black shadowy plumes, like some ghostly and
monstrous thing. A hitherto unknown feeling of dread stole over me. My
life had been all sunshine up to the present moment--the sight of that
mournful funeral array swept like a dark cloud over the smiling sky,
blotting out all that was bright and beautiful from my eyes and heart.
I screamed in terror and despair, and hid my face in the lap of my old
nurse to shut out the frightful vision, and shed torrents of tears.

The good woman tried to soothe me while she adjusted my black dress, as
I was to form one in that doleful procession as chief mourner--I was my
mother's only child. The only real mourner there.

The door which led into the next room was partly open. I saw the
undertaker's people removing the coffin in order to place it in the
hearse. This was a fresh cause for anxiety. I knew that that black,
mysterious-looking box contained the cold, pale, sleeping form of my
mother; but I could not realize the fact, that the beautiful and
beloved being, who had so lately kissed and blessed me, was unconscious
of her removal from her home and weeping boy.

"Mamma!--dear mamma!" I cried, struggling violently with nurse. "Let me
go, nurse! those wicked men shall not take away mamma!"

Two gentlemen, attracted by my cries and struggles, entered the room.
The foremost was a tall, portly man, whom the world would call
handsome. His features were good, and his complexion darkly brilliant;
but there was a haughty, contemptuous expression in his large,
prominent, selfish-looking eyes, which sent a chill to my heart.
Glittering and glassy, they sparkled like ice--clear, sarcastic and
repelling--and oh, how cold! The glance of that eye made me silent in a
moment. It fascinated like the eye of a snake. I continued to shiver
and stare at him, as long as its scornful gaze remained riveted upon my
face. I felt a kindred feeling springing up in my heart--a feeling of
defiance and resistance which would fain return hatred for hatred,
scorn for scorn; and never in after-life could I meet the searching
look of that stern cold eye, without experiencing the same outward
abhorrence and inward revulsion.

He took my hand, and turning me round, examined my countenance with
critical minuteness, neither moved by my childish indignation nor my
tears. "A strong-limbed straight-made fellow, this. I did not think
that Edward could be the father of such an energetic-looking boy. He's
like his grandfather, and if I mistake not, will be just as obstinate
and self-sustained."

"A true Moncton," returned his companion, a coarse-featured,
vulgar-looking man, with a weak, undecided, but otherwise kindly
countenance. "You will not be able to bend that young one to your
purpose."

A bitter smile was the reply, and a fixed stare from those terribly
bright eyes.

"Poor child! He's very unfortunate," continued the same speaker. "I
pity him from my very soul!" He placed his large hand kindly upon my
head, and drawing me between his knees held up my face and kissed me
with an air of parental tenderness. Touched by the unexpected caress, I
clasped my arms about his neck, and hid my face in his bosom. He flung
himself into a large chair, and lifted me upon his knee.

"You seem to have taken a fancy to the boy," said my uncle, in the same
sarcastic tone. "Suppose you adopt him as _your_ son. I would gladly
be rid of him for ever; and would pay well for his change of name and
country. Is it a bargain?" and he grasped his companion by the
shoulder.

"No. I will not incur the responsibility. I have done too much against
the poor child already. Besides, a man with ten children has no need of
adopting the child of a stranger. Providence has thrown him into your
hands, Robert Moncton; and whether for good or evil, I beseech you to
treat the lad kindly for his father's sake."

"Well, well, I must, I see, make the best of a bad bargain. But,
Walters, you could so easily take him with you to America. He has no
friends by his mother's side, to make any stir about his disappearance.
Under your name his identity will never be recognized, and it would be
taking a thorn out of my side."

"To plant it in my own heart. The child must remain with you."

I did not pay very particular attention to this conversation at the
time, but after events recalled it vividly to my recollection.

The undertaker put an end to the conference by informing the gentlemen
that "all was ready, and the hearse was about to move forward." My
nurse placed me in a mourning coach, beside my uncle and his companion,
in order that I might form part of that dismal procession, to the
nearest cemetery. I shall never forget the impression that solemn scene
made on my mind. My first ideas of death and decay were formed whilst
standing beside my mother's grave. There my heart received its first
life-lesson; and owned its first acquaintanceship with grief--the
_ideal_ vanished, and the hard, uncompromising _real_ took its place.

After the funeral was over, I accompanied my Uncle Robert to his house
in Hatton Garden. At the door we parted with Mr. Walters, and many
years elapsed, before I saw his face again.

CHAPTER III.

MY AUNT REBECCA.

Mrs. Moncton welcomed the poor orphan with kindness. She was a little,
meek-looking woman; with a sweet voice, and a very pale face. She might
have been pretty when young, but my boyish impression was that she was
very plain. By the side of her tall, stern partner, she looked the most
delicate, diminutive creature in the world; and her gentle, timid
manner made the contrast appear greater than it really was.

"God bless you! my poor child," said she, lifting me up in her arms and
wiping the tears from my face. "You are young, indeed, to be left an
orphan."

I clasped her neck and sobbed aloud. The sound of her voice reminded me
of my mother, and I began to comprehend dimly all I had lost.

"Rebecca," said my uncle, in a deep, clear voice, "you must not spoil
the boy. There is no need of this display."

His wife seemed as much under the influence of his eye as myself. She
instantly released me from her arms, and quietly placed me in a chair
beside the fire, and in the presence of her husband, she took no more
notice of me than she would have done of one of the domestic animals
about the house. Yet, her eyes rested upon me with motherly kindness,
and she silently took care to administer liberally to all my wants; and
when she did speak, it was in such a soft, soothing tone, that I felt
that she was my friend, and loved her with my whole heart.

My uncle was a domestic tyrant--cruel, exacting, and as obstinate as a
mule; yet, she contrived to live with him on friendly terms; the only
creature in the world, I am fully persuaded, who did not hate him.
Married, as she had been, for money, and possessing few personal
advantages, it was wonderful the influence she had over him in her
quiet way. She never resisted his authority, however harshly enforced;
and often stood between him and his victims, diverting his resentment
without appearing to oppose his will. If there existed in his frigid
breast one sentiment of kindness for any human creature, I think it was
for her.

With women he was no favourite. He had no respect for the sex, and I
question whether he was ever in love in his life. If he had ever owned
a tender passion, it must have been in very early youth, before his
heart got hardened and iced in the world. My aunt seemed necessary to
his comfort, his convenience, his vanity: however he might be disliked
by others he was certain of her fidelity and attachment. His respect
for her was the one bright spot in his character, and even that was
tarnished by a refined system of selfishness.

The only comfort I enjoyed during my cheerless childhood, I derived
from her silent attention to my wants and wishes, which she gratified
as far as she dared, without incurring the jealous displeasure of her
exacting husband.

In private, Mrs. Moncton always treated me as her own child. She
unlocked the fountains of natural affection, which my uncle's harshness
had sealed, and love gushed forth. I dearly loved her, and longed to
call her mother; but she forbade all outward demonstration of my
attachment, which she assured me would not only be very offensive to
Mr. Moncton, but would draw down his displeasure upon us both.

The hours I spent with my good aunt were few: I only saw her at meals,
and on the Sabbath-day, when I accompanied her to church, and spent the
whole day with her and her only son--a cross, peevish boy, some four
years older than myself--but of him anon. During the winter, she always
sent for me into the parlour, during the dark hour between dinner and
tea, when I recited to her the lessons I had learned with my cousin's
tutor during the day. My uncle was always absent at that hour, and
these were precious moments to the young heart, which knew no
companionship, and pined for affection and sympathy.

My worthy aunt! it is with heartfelt gratitude I pay this slight
tribute to your memory. But for your gentle love and kind teachings, I
might have become as cold and tyrannical as your harsh lord--as selfish
and unfeeling as your unnatural son.

How I delighted to sit by your side, in the warm, red light of a
cheerful fire, in that large, dusky room, and hold your small white
hand in mine, while I recounted to you all the beautiful and shadowy
reminiscences of my happy infancy--to watch the pensive smile steal
over your lips, as I described the garden in which I played, the dear
little white bed in which I slept, and where my own dear mother nightly
knelt beside me, to hear me repeat my simple prayers and hymns, before
she kissed and blessed me, and left me to the protecting care of the
great Father in Heaven.

"Ah!" I exclaimed one evening, while sitting at my aunt's feet, "why
did she die and leave me for ever? I am nobody's child. Other little
boys have kind mothers to love them, but I am alone in the world. Aunt,
let me be your boy--your own dear little boy, and I will love you
almost as well as I did my poor mamma!"

The good woman caught me to her heart, tears were streaming down her
kind, benevolent face, she kissed me passionately, as she sobbed out,

"Geoffrey, you will never know how much I love you--more, my poor boy,
than I dare own. But rest assured that you shall never want a mother's
love while I live."

Well and conscientiously did she perform her promise. She has long been
dead, but time will never efface from my mind a tender recollection of
her kindness. Since I arrived at man's estate, I have knelt beside her
grave, and moistened the turf which enfolds that warm, noble heart with
grateful tears.

She had, as I before stated, one son--the first-born and only survivor
of a large family. This boy was a great source of anxiety to his
mother; a sullen, unmanageable, ill-tempered child. Cruel and cowardly,
he united with the cold, selfish disposition of the father, a jealous,
proud and vindictive spirit peculiarly his own. It was impossible to
keep on friendly terms with Theophilus Moncton: he was always taking
affronts, and ever on the alert to dispute and contradict every word or
opinion advanced by another. He would take offence at every look and
gesture, which he fancied derogatory to his dignity; and if you refused
to speak to him, he considered that you did not pay him proper
respect--that you slighted and insulted him.

He was afraid of his father, for whom he entertained little esteem or
affection; and to his gentle mother he was always surly and
disobedient; ridiculing her maternal admonitions, and thwarting and
opposing her commands, because he knew that his opposition pained and
annoyed her.

_Me_--he hated; and not only told me so to my face, both in public
and private, but encouraged the servants to treat me with insolence and
neglect. This class of individuals are seldom actuated by high and
generous motives; and anxious to court the favour of their wealthy
master's heir, they soon found that the best way to worm themselves
into his good graces, was to treat me with disrespect. The taunts and
blows of my tyrannical cousin, though hard to bear, never wounded me so
keenly as the sneers and whispered remarks of these worldly, low-bred
domestics. Their conduct clenched the iron of dependence into my very
soul.

It was vain for my aunt to remonstrate with her son on his ungenerous
conduct: her authority with him was a mere cipher, he had his father
upon his side, and for my aunt's sake, I forebore to complain.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TUTOR.

My uncle did not send us to school, but engaged a young man of humble
birth, but good classical attainments, to act in the capacity of tutor
to his son, and as an act of especial favour, which fact was duly
impressed upon me from day to day, I was allowed the benefit of his
instructions.

Mr. Jones, though a good practical teacher, was a weak, mean creature,
possessing the very soul of a sneak. He soon discovered that the best
way to please his elder pupil was to neglect and treat me ill. He had
been engaged on a very moderate salary to teach _one_ lad, and he was
greatly annoyed when Mr. Moncton introduced me into his presence,
coldly remarking, "that I was an orphan son of his brother--a lad
thrown upon his charity, and it would add very little to Mr. Jones's
labours to associate me with Theophilus in his studies."

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