The Monctons: A Novel, Volume I
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Susanna Moodie >> The Monctons: A Novel, Volume I
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Determined to adopt, and strictly to adhere to this line of conduct,
and leave the rest to Providence, I washed the traces of tears from my
face and returned to the private office.
Here I found Mr. Moncton engaged with papers of consequence.
He held out his hand as I took my seat at the desk. "Are we friends,
Geoffrey?"
"That depends upon circumstances" said I.
"How hard it is for you to give a gracious answer," he replied. "It is
your own fault that we ever were otherwise."
"I will try and think you my friend for the time to come."
He seemed more amused than surprised at this concession, and for some
time we both wrote on in silence.
A tap at the door, and one of the clerks handed in a letter.
Mr. Moncton examined the post-mark and eagerly opened it up. While
reading, his countenance underwent one of those remarkable changes I
had on several occasions witnessed of late, and which seemed so foreign
to his nature.
Suddenly crushing the letter tightly in his hand, he flung it from him
to the floor, and spurned it with his foot, exclaiming as he did so,
with a fiend-like curl of the lip: "So would I serve the writer were he
here!" Then turning to me, and speaking in a low confidential tone, he
said:
"The writer of that letter is unconsciously making your fortune,
Geoffrey. This son of mine has acted in a base, ungrateful manner to
me--in a manner which I can never forget or forgive. If you conduct
yourself prudently, you may become dearer to me than this wicked young
man."
"I should be sorry to rise on my cousin's ruin. I would rather gain
your respect on any other terms."
This remark made him wince.
"Foolish boy! How blind you are to your own interest. You belong to a
family famous for playing the fool. It runs in the blood of the
Monctons."
Starting from his seat, he paced the room for some minutes, as if in
deep communion with himself.
"Geoffrey," said he at last, "from this day I adopt you as my son. I
exempt you from the common drudgeries of the office, and will engage
masters to instruct you in the fashionable accomplishments which are
deemed necessary to complete the education of a gentleman."
I was mute with astonishment.
"Trifling as these things may appear to the man of science and the
candidate for literary honours, they are not without their use to the
professional student. The world judges so much by externals, that
nothing is despised which helps to flatter its prejudices and ensure
popularity. You are not too old to learn dancing, fencing and riding. I
should like you to excel in athletic sports and exercises."
"You are making game of me, uncle," said I, for I could not believe him
in earnest.
"By the living God! Geoffrey, I mean what I say."
I stood before him, gazing into his face like one in a dream. There was
a downright earnestness in his face which could not be mistaken. He was
no longer acting a part, but really meant what he said. Nor could I
doubt but that letter had wrought this sudden change in my favour.
Where, now, was all my high-souled resolutions? Human nature prevailed,
and I yielded to the temptation. There sat Robert Moncton, gazing
complacently upon me, from beneath those stern, dark brows, his
glittering eyes no longer freezing me with their icy shine, but
regarding me with a calm, approving smile: no longer the evil genius of
my childhood, but a munificent spirit intent to do me good.
Ah, I was young--very young, and the world in my narrow circle had
dealt hardly with me. I longed for freedom, for emancipation from
constant toil. This must plead an excuse for my criminal weakness.
Years of painful experience, in the ways and wiles of men, had not as
yet perfected the painful lesson taught me in after-years. Young,
ardent, and willing to believe the best I could of my species, I began
to think that I alone had been to blame; that I had wronged my uncle,
and thrust upon his shoulders the burden of injuries which I had
received from his son.
The evil influence of that son had been removed, and he was now willing
to be my friend; and I determined to bury the past in oblivion, and to
believe him really and truly so.
I shook him warmly by the hand, and entreated his forgiveness for the
hard thoughts I had entertained, and thanked him sincerely for his
offers of service.
The light faded from his eye. He looked gloomily, almost sadly into my
face, glowing, as it must have been, with generous emotions, marvelling
doubtlessly at my credulity.
Mr. Moncton up to this period had resided in the house which contained
his office; the basement having been appropriated entirely for that
purpose, while the family occupied the floors above. My uncle seldom
received visitors, excepting at those times when Theophilus returned
from college. To these parties, I as a matter of course had never been
admitted. My uncle's evenings were spent abroad, but I was unacquainted
with his habits, and totally ignorant of his haunts.
Judge then, of my surprise and satisfaction when informed by Mr.
Moncton, that he had purchased a handsome house in Grosvenor Street,
and that we were to remove thither. The office was still to be retained
in Hatton Garden, but my hours of attendance were not to commence
before ten in the morning; and were to terminate at four in the
afternoon.
I had lived the larger portion of my life in great, smoky London, and
had never visited the west end of the town. The change in my prospects
was truly delightful. I was transported as if by magic from my low,
dingy, ill-ventilated garret, to a well-appointed room on the second
story of an elegantly furnished house in an airy, fashionable part of
the town; the apartment provided for my especial benefit, containing
all the luxuries and comforts which modern refinement has rendered
indispensable.
A small, but well-selected library crowned the whole.
I did little else the first day my uncle introduced me to this charming
room, but to walk to and fro from the book-case to the windows; now
glancing at the pages of some long coveted treasure; now watching with
intense interest the throng of carriages passing and repassing; hoping
to catch a glance of the fair face, which had made such an impression
on my youthful fancy.
A note from Mr. Moncton, kindly worded for him, conveyed to me the
pleasing intelligence that the handsome pressful of fine linen, and
fashionably cut clothes, was meant for my use; to which he had
generously added, a beautiful dressing-case, gold watch and chain.
I should have been perfectly happy, had it not been for a vague,
unpleasant sensation--a certain swelling of the heart, which silently
seemed to reproach me for accepting all these favours from a person
whom I neither loved nor respected.
Conscience whispered that it was far better to remain poor and
independent, than compromise my integrity. Oh, that I had given more
heed to that voice of the soul! That still, small voice, which never
lies--that voice which no one can drown, without remorse and
self-condemnation.
Time brought with it the punishment I deserved, convincing me then, and
for ever, that no one can act against his own conviction of right,
without incurring the penalty due to his moral defalcation.
I dined alone with Mr. Moncton.
He asked me if I was pleased with the apartments he had selected for my
use. I was warm in my thanks, and he appeared satisfied.
After the cloth was drawn, he filled a bumper of wine, and pushed the
bottle over to me.
"Here's to your rising to the head of the profession, Geoffrey. Fill
your glass, my boy."
I drank part of the wine, and set the glass down on the table. It was
fine old Madeira. I had not been used to drink anything stronger than
tea and coffee, and I found it mounting to my head.
"I will not allow that, Geoffrey--you must honour my toast."
"I have done so, uncle, as far as I am able. I have had enough wine."
"Nonsense, boy! Don't you like it?"
"I hardly know. It makes me feel giddy and queer."
"Ha! ha! that's good"--chuckling and rubbing his hands.
"If I take more just now, I shall certainly be tipsy."
"What then?"
"It would be disgraceful. In your presence, too."
"What--were you never drunk?"
"Never, in my life."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty."
"And never intoxicated--well, that's a good joke. Few young men of your
age could say that. Would you not like to increase your knowledge, and
be as wise as others?"
I shook my head.
"Ridiculous prudery. Come, fill your glass."
He drank off several glasses in succession; and for fear I should be
thought deficient in spirit; I followed his example. But the Rubicon
once crossed, to my surprise, I found that the wine had no effect upon
my senses; only serving to elevate my spirits a little, and make me
more sociable and communicative.
My uncle's stern face began to relax from its usual cold severity, and
I found that when warmed with wine, he could be a most intelligent and
agreeable companion. After conversing for some time on indifferent
subjects, he said:
"You think you remember your parents. I have their portraits. Perhaps
you would like to keep them in your own possession."
"No present you could make me, would be so valuable," I replied.
"No heroics," he said, going to a beautiful inlaid cabinet. "I detest
sentimental people. They are the greatest humbugs in the world."
Returning to the table, he placed two large miniature cases in my hand.
I eagerly seized them.
"Don't look at them now," he resumed, "or we shall have a scene--wait
until you are alone. I found them among my brother's papers, and had
forgotten all about them, until I chanced to stumble over them in the
bustle of removing."
I hid away the precious relics in my bosom, and was about to quit the
room.
"Sit down, Geoffrey," he said, with a grim smile, "you are too sober to
go to bed yet."
I filled the glass mechanically, but it remained untasted before me.
"By the by," continued my uncle, in a careless tone, which his eager
glance contradicted, "what has become of your friend Harrison?"
"I wish I knew. His absence is a great loss to me."
"Who and what is this Harrison? You were his confidant, and, doubtless,
know."
"Of his private history, nothing."
My uncle's large dark eyes were looking into my soul. I felt that he
doubted my word. "He has, I believe, been unfortunate, and is reduced
in his circumstances. His moral character, _I know_ to be excellent."
"And doubtless you are a _capital judge_," said Mr. Moncton. "Young men
all imagine themselves as wise as Daniel or Socrates. I think, however,
friend Geoffrey, that this man deceived you."
"Impossible! Harrison is incapable of committing a mean or
dishonourable action. Nor does he attempt to spare himself from blame;
but frankly confesses, that to his own imprudence he is mainly indebted
for his misfortunes."
"_Imprudence_ is a respectable term for intemperance, dissipation, and
vice of every kind," sneered my uncle. "Your moral young gentleman
might preach against sins which had caused his own ruin. Believe me,
Geoffrey, the crimes and passions of most men are alike, with only this
difference, that some have greater art in concealing them."
"That would make virtue a mere name," said I, indignantly. "I cannot
believe _that_ ideal, which I have been used to worship as a
_reality_."
"All bosh. At your age men cling to the ideal, and resolutely close
their eyes to the true and rational. I was guilty of the same weakness
once."
"You, uncle!"
"Ay, you are astonished. But the time came, and too soon, when I
learned to wonder at my own credulity. I was in love once. You smile.
Yes, with that old witch, as you call her now. She was as beautiful as
an angel then. She is an incarnate devil now! Love has turned to
hate--admiration to execration--and I curse myself for ever having
thought her wise or good."
He flung himself into a chair, and groaned like one in acute pain; and
I, thinking he wished to be alone, slipped away before he raised his
head from between his clasped hands.
"What could he mean by asking me so many questions?" I cried, as I
threw myself into an easy chair in my luxurious apartment. "Were they
instigated by the wine he had drank, or suggested by idle curiosity? or
were my answers intended to answer some sinister purpose? God knows! He
is a strange, inexplicable man, whose words and actions the most
profound lawyer could scarcely fathom. I think he endeavoured to make
me intoxicated in the hope of extracting some information regarding
poor George. If so, he has missed his mark."
I drew from my bosom the portraits he had given me, perhaps, as a bait
to win my confidence; but I was thankful to him for the inestimable
gift, whatever the motives were which led to its bestowal.
The first case contained the miniature of my father. The gay, careless,
happy countenance, full of spirit and intelligence, seemed to smile
upon his unfortunate son.
I raised my eyes to the mirror--the same features met my glance: but
ah, how different the expression of the two faces. Mine was saddened
and paled by early care, and close confinement to a dark unhealthy
office; at twenty, I was but a faded likeness of my father.
I sighed as I pressed the portrait to my heart. In the marked
difference between us I read distinctly the history of two lives.
But how shall I describe my feelings whilst gazing on the picture of my
mother? The fast falling tears for a long while hid the fondly
remembered features from my sight; but they still floated before the
eyes of my soul in all their original loveliness.
Yes, there was the sweet calm face, the large soft confiding blue eyes,
the small rosy mouth with its gentle winning smile, and the modest
truthful expression of the combined features which gave such a charm to
the whole.
Oh, my mother! my dear lost, angel mother! how that picture recalled
the far-off happy days of childhood, when I sat upon your knees, and
saw my own joyous face reflected in those dove-like eyes! when, ending
some nursery rhyme with a kiss, you bowed your velvet cheek upon my
clustering curls, and bade God bless and keep your darling boy! Would
that I could become a child again, or that I could go to you, though
you cannot return to me!
I leant my head upon the table and wept. Those tears produced a
salutary effect upon my mind, and slipping down upon my knees, I poured
out the feelings of my oppressed heart in prayer, and after awhile rose
from the ground in a more composed state of mind. The picture still lay
there smiling upon me. "Is it of you, dearest mother," said I, "that
bad men dare whisper hard things? Who could look at that pure lovely
face and believe aught against your honour? I could despise my father,
though his only son, could I for an instant imagine him capable of
taking advantage of such youth and innocence. But no, it is a foul
slander invented by a villain to answer some base purpose; and may I
perish, when I believe it true!"
I locked the portraits carefully in my desk, and retired to bed. The
wine I had drank and the unusual excitement of my feelings for a long
time prevented sleep, and it was the dawn of day before I sank to rest.
CHAPTER XIII.
A VISIT FROM THE GREAT MAN OF THE FAMILY.
From that day I became Mr. Moncton's factotum, his confidential clerk,
and principal agent. In all matters that required prompt and skilful
management, he invariably employed me.
If he did not regard me with affection, for that was foreign to his
nature, he respected my abilities, and placed the greatest reliance
on my principles. I attended him in most of his professional journeys,
and was present in every court in which he had an important case. I
no sooner appeared with him in public than I became a person of
considerable consequence among his friends and acquaintances, and
invitations flowed in upon me from all quarters. One thing appeared
very certain, that the same persons who had despised the shabbily-dressed
lawyer's clerk, no longer regarded me with cold eyes as a _poor
relation_, but were among the first to overwhelm me with civilities;
and, for a while, I was intoxicated with the adulation I received from
the world and its smooth-tongued votaries.
Three months glided rapidly away, and every day added to my
self-importance, and brought with it fresh opportunities of enlarging
the circle of my friends, and of acquiring a competent knowledge of the
conventional rules of society. Though naturally fond of company, I
hated dissipation, and those low vices which many young men designate
as pleasure, in the pursuit of which they too often degrade their
mental and physical powers. Mr. Moncton laughed at what he termed my
affectation of moral integrity, and tried by every art to seduce me to
join in amusements, and visit scenes, from which my mind revolted; and
his own example served to strengthen my disgust. My resistance to such
temptations I do not ascribe to any inherent virtue in me; but I have
often observed in my subsequent journey through life, that young men,
whose knowledge of the world has chiefly been confined to books, and
who have never mingled much with persons of their own age, are guarded
from low vices by the romantic and beautiful ideal of life, which they
formed in solitude. The coarse reality is so shocking and degrading, so
repugnant to taste and good feeling, and all their preconceived notions
upon the subject, that they cannot indulge in it without remorse and a
painful sense of degradation. This was so completely my case, that I
often fled to solitude as a refuge from pleasures, so-called, which I
could not enjoy, and scenes in which I felt shame to be an actor.
Perhaps I was mainly indebted to the passion I had conceived for the
beautiful Catherine, which acted as a secret talisman in securing me
from the contaminating influences to which, in my new position, I was
often exposed. In the hope of meeting again the fair creature whose
image filled my soul, I had frequented theatres, operas, and mixed much
in society, but to no purpose; on this head I was still doomed to
suffer the most provoking disappointment.
One evening, I returned late from the office in Hatton Garden; my uncle
was from home, and a great press of business had detained me beyond the
usual dinner-hour, which was at six. The porter had scarcely admitted
me into the hall, when one of the footmen, with whom I was a great
favourite, addressed me with an air of mystery which I thought highly
amusing, he seemed so anxious to impress me with the importance of the
news he had to communicate.
"Mr. Geoffrey, Sir Alexander Moncton, my master's cousin, sir, is in
the dining-room, waiting to see you; and the dinner, sir, is waiting,
too. I told him, sir, that we expected Mr. Moncton home this evening,
and he bade his valet bring up his portmanteau from the hotel, and said
that he would wait here till master returned."
"Thank you, Saunders, for your information," cried I, hurrying off to
my chamber to dress for dinner.
I felt greatly excited at the prospect of the approaching interview
with the great man of the family, who might prove a powerful friend to
his friendless relative.
My uncle was from home, which would afford me an opportunity of
speaking for myself. I was anxious to make a favourable impression on
Sir Alexander, and took an unusual degree of pains with my toilet.
I joined Sir Alexander in the drawing-room, just as the footman
announced that dinner was on the table.
Sir Alexander received me, and my apologies for detention in the
office, with a mighty good grace, shook me warmly by the hand, and
accompanied me into the dining-room, with the air of a man who was
determined not to be cheated out of his dinner, and anxious to make up
for lost time.
I did the honours as well as I could; but not without committing sundry
awkward blunders; greatly to the horror of Saunders, who with toe and
elbow, gave me various silent hints upon the subject, as he glided
noiselessly to and fro. This only increased my confusion, but,
fortunately, my worthy relative was too much engrossed with his dinner,
to notice the trifling omissions, which poor Saunders considered of
such immense importance.
I was greatly relieved when the cloth was removed; and the wine and
glasses were placed upon the table, and Sir Alexander and I were left
alone to improve our acquaintance.
He commenced the conversation by introducing the very subject uppermost
in my mind.
"Did I mistake you, young gentleman, or did you tell me, that you were
a son of the late Edward Moncton?"
"His only son."
"I was not aware of his marriage--still less that he left a son. It is
strange, that I should have been kept in ignorance of this important
fact."
This was said half musingly. He then turned to me with a lively air.
"Your father, young gentleman, deeply offended me. It was a foolish
affair; but it effectually severed the friendship of years. We repent
of these things when it is too late. Had he been less violent, and less
obstinate, a reconciliation might have been brought about. As it
was--interested parties did their best to widen the breach.
"Edward and I were school-fellows; and though little harmony existed
between the elder branches of the family, we loved like brothers. He
was a handsome, generous, high-spirited fellow, but rash and
extravagant. While at school he was always in debt and difficulty, to
the great annoyance of his money-loving father, who looked upon me as
the aider and abettor in all his scrapes. We continued firm friends
until the night before he left college, when the quarrel, which I do
not mean to particularize, took place; from which period we never met,
and all correspondence ceased between us. I heard, that in after-years,
he made a love connexion; but I never learned the particulars from any
one but your uncle Robert; and he did not inform me, that Edward had
left a son--nor can I comprehend his motive for concealing the fact."
Sir Alexander paused and looked earnestly in my face. I felt the blood
rush to my temples.
"I do not doubt your veracity, young sir. You are too like the man I
loved so long and well, for me to question your origin. But are you
_certain_ that you are Edward Moncton's _legitimate_ son?"
"I feel no doubt upon the subject; my heart tells me that I am his
lawful representative; and I trust that heaven will one day enable me
to substantiate my claims." This was said with a vehemence that brought
the tears into my eyes.
"Does Robert Moncton admit them?"
"No."
"On what grounds?"
"He affirms, that no certificate of my mother's marriage can be found,
and without this important document, the law will not acknowledge me as
Edward Moncton's legitimate son."
"Or Alexander Moncton's heir," replied the Baronet. "But I do not judge
like the rest of the world, young man, and dare to think and act for
myself. This uncle of yours is a cunning man: I know him and his ways
of old. I know how he fomented the quarrel between his brother and me,
to gain his own ends; and this son of his--this Theophilus, is a
finished scoundrel! It is mortifying to the pride of an English
gentleman to acknowledge such men as his successors."
The old man rose from his seat, and paced the room for some time in
silence. He was so much occupied with his own reflections, that I had
leisure to examine his countenance minutely.
A strong family likeness existed between him and my father, and uncle
Robert; and as for me, I might have passed for his son. He had the same
high forehead, aquiline nose, chestnut curling hair, and dark piercing
eyes; but his face lacked the careless, frank, good-nature of my
father's, and was totally destitute of the subtle, stern demeanour of
my uncle's. The expression was more simple, and less worldly than
either. It was a thoughtful, intellectual, benevolent physiognomy,
which excited feelings of confidence and affection, at first sight.
While looking at him, I thought I had known and loved him for years.
His tall commanding figure was slightly bent in the shoulders, and his
hair was thickly sprinkled with grey; yet, his age could scarcely have
exceeded fifty. His complexion, unlike my handsome uncle's, was very
pale, and an early acquaintance with grief might be traced in the lines
which furrowed his ample white forehead.
After a few turns through the room, he resumed his seat.
"Mr. Geoffrey Moncton," said he, grasping me warmly by the hand, "I
wish sincerely that you could prove your legitimacy. There is something
about you that pleases and interests me. If ever you stand in need of
assistance you may rely upon me as your friend. It is not Robert
Moncton's bare assertion that will make me believe you a bastard. Tell
me all you know about yourself."
I endeavoured to speak, but I was so completely overwhelmed by his
unexpected kindness, that I could find no words to express my thanks,
or comply with his request.
A loud knocking at the door, announced the arrival of Mr. Moncton.
"That is my uncle's knock," cried I, breaking the spell that bound me.
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