The Monctons: A Novel, Volume I
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Susanna Moodie >> The Monctons: A Novel, Volume I
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The opinion of the gentlemen with regard to the fair _debutante_, was
quite the reverse of those given by her own sex.
"What a lovely girl!"
"What an easy graceful carriage!"
"Did you ever see a more charming expression--a more bewitching smile?
A perfect lady from head to foot."
"I have lost _my_ heart already."
"By Jove! won't she make a noise in the gay world!"
"The beauty of the season."
"A prize, independent of her large for tune!"
"And doubly a prize with."
And thus the men prated of her among themselves.
The excitement at length subsided; and favoured by the obscurity of my
situation, I could watch at a distance all her movements, and never
tire of gazing upon that beaming face.
By some strange coincidence, I could hardly think it purely accidental,
Mrs. Hepburn and her niece came up to the table upon which I was
leaning.
I rose up in confusion, wondering if they would recognize me, and
offered the elder lady my chair.
In my hurry and agitation, the portfolio fell from my hand, and the
fine prints were scattered over the floor and table.
A general laugh arose at my expense; I felt annoyed, but laughed as
loudly as the rest. Miss Lee, very good-naturedly assisted me in
restoring the prints to their place, then looking earnestly in my face
for a few seconds, she said--"Surely, I am not deceived--you are the
gentleman who rescued me from that frightful situation in Oxford
Street."
"The same," said I, with a smile.
"How delighted I am to meet you once more," she exclaimed, giving me
her hand, and warmly shaking mine; "I was afraid that I should never
see you again. And your name--you must tell me your name."
"Geoffrey Moncton. But, Miss Lee, do not distress me by thinking so
much of a trifling service, which gave me so much pleasure."
"Trifling! do you call it? Sir, you saved my life, and I never can
forget the debt of gratitude I owe you. Aunt," turning to Mrs. Hepburn,
"do you remember this gentleman? How often we have talked that
adventure over, and wondered who my preserver was. It is such a
pleasure to see him here."
The old lady, though not quite so eloquent as her niece, was kind
enough in her way. Wishing to change the subject, I asked Miss Lee if
she drew?
"A little."
"Let us examine these beautiful prints," said I.
I gave her a chair, and leant over her. My heart fluttered with
delight. I forgot my recent mortification. I was near her, and, in the
rapture of the moment, could have defied the malice of the whole world.
"I am no judge of the merits or demerits of a picture," she said, in
her sweet, gentle voice. "I know what pleases me, and suffer my heart
to decide for my head."
"That is exactly my case, Miss Lee. A picture to interest me, must
produce the same effect upon my mind as if the object represented was
really there. This is the reason, perhaps, why I feel less pleasure in
examining those pictures by the ancient masters, though portrayed with
matchless skill, which represent the heathen deities. With Jupiter,
Mars and Venus, I can feel little sympathy, while the truthful and
spirited delineations of Wilkie and Gainsborough, which have beep
familiar from childhood, strike home to the heart."
Before Miss Lee could reply, Theophilus Moncton walked to the table at
which we were talking. He stared at me, without deigning a word of
recognition, and shook hands cordially with Miss Lee and her aunt.
"Happy to see you here, Catherine--was afraid you would be too much
fatigued, after dancing all night, to give us a look in this evening.
Been admiring my prints? Splendid collection, ain't they? By-the-by,
Mr. Geoffrey, I would thank you to be more careful in handling them.
Persons unaccustomed to fine drawings, are apt to injure them by rough
treatment."
A contemptuous glance was my reply, which was returned by a sidelong
withering glare of hate.
"That picture, on the opposite side of the room," continued my
tormentor, anxious to divert Miss Lee's attention from me, "is a fine
portrait, by Sir Thomas Lawrence. You are an admirer of his style; let
us examine the picture nearer; I want to have your opinion of it."
They crossed the room. In a few seconds, a large group gathered before
the picture of which Theophilus and Miss Lee formed the nucleus, and
half a dozen wax-lights were held up to exhibit it to the best
advantage.
Theophilus was eloquent in praising Lawrence's style of painting, and
entertained the company with an elaborate detail of all the celebrated
paintings he had seen abroad; the studios he had visited, and the
distinguished artists he had patronized. He could talk well, when he
pleased, on any subject, and possessed considerable talent and taste
for the arts; yet, I thought him more egotistical and affected than
usual, when standing beside the simple and graceful Catherine Lee.
She listened to him with politeness, until the gratuitous lecture came
to an end, and then quietly resumed her seat at the table by me, with
whom she entered into a lively conversation.
The swarthy glow of indignation mounted to my cousin's wan face. He
drew back, and muttered something inaudibly between his shut teeth,
while I secretly enjoyed his chagrin. When supper was announced I had
the honour of conducting Miss Lee down stairs, leaving my cousin to
take charge of the elder lady. Nor did my triumph end here. Catherine
insisted on taking a seat at the lower end of the table, and I found
myself once more placed by her side.
"I do detest upper seats at feasts," said she; "it exposes you to
observation, while in our pleasant obscurity we can enjoy a little
friendly chat. I never could understand why so many ladies quarrel so
much about taking precedence of each other."
"It is only ambition in a small way," said I.
"Very small, indeed," she continued, laughing. "But tell me, why you
were not at Mrs. Wilton's large party last night?"
"Simply, because I was not invited."
"The Monctons were there, father and son. But, perhaps you mix very
little in the gaieties of the town."
"Since Theophilus returned, I have been very little from home; and have
become a mere cipher with my old friends. A few weeks ago, these
Wilton's courted my acquaintance, and the young men vied with each
other, in paying me attention. To-night, we met as perfect strangers.
To me, the change is unaccountable. I am, however, a perfect novice in
the ways of the world. Such examples of selfish meanness often repeated
will render me a misanthrope."
"You must not condemn all, because you have experienced the unmerited
neglect of a few," said Catherine. "Selfish, interested people are
found in every community. It is a maxim with me, never to judge the
mass by individuals. Many of the persons we meet with in the world do
not live entirely for it, and are incapable of the conduct you deplore.
I have met with warm hearts and kind friends amid the gay scenes you
condemn--young people, who like myself, are compelled by circumstances
to mingle in society, while their thoughts and affections are far
away."
"You have never experienced the frowns of the world," said I; "I can
scarcely allow you to be a competent judge."
"I am prepared to meet them," she replied, quickly--then stopped--and
sighed deeply. I looked up inquiringly.
The expression of her fine face was changed from a cheerful to a
pensive cast. It was not actual sorrow which threw a shade over her
clear brow, but she looked as if she had encountered some unexpected
misfortune, and was prepared to meet it with resignation. She passed
her small white hand slowly across her forehead, and I thought I saw
tears trembling in her eyes. My interest was deeply excited, and I
loved her better for having suffered. I redoubled my attentions, and
before the company rose from table, I fancied that she no longer
regarded me with indifference.
From this happy dream, I too soon awoke to an agonizing consciousness
of my own insignificance. A Counsellor Sabine, who had been conversing
with my uncle during the greater part of the evening, beckoned me over
to a distant part of the room, and I reluctantly obeyed the summons. He
wanted me to settle a dispute between him and Mr. Moncton, relative to
some papers, which he said had been entrusted to my care.
My place by Catherine Lee's side was instantly filled by Theophilus.
Mrs. Hepburn, Catherine's aunt, asked him in a low voice, which,
occupied as I was with other matters, did not fail to reach my ears,
who I was, and the station I held in society, and ended her remarks by
passing sundry encomiums on my person and accomplishments.
"_Accomplishments!_" repeated Theophilus, with a sneer. "I know not how
he should be accomplished, Mrs. Hepburn. He is a poor clerk in my
father's office; and as to his standing in society, that is something
new to me. He is a natural son of my uncle Edward's, whom my father
adopted into the family, and brought him up out of charity. I was
surprised at him, an uninvited guest, daring to address his
conversation to Miss Lee."
It was well for the dastard, that he was protected by the presence of
ladies, and beyond the reach of my arm, or I certainly should have
committed an act of violence.
I restrained my indignation, however, and appeared outwardly
calm--received some instructions from the counsellor and noted them
down with stoical precision. My hand did not tremble, my passion was
too terrible for trifling demonstrations. I think I could have put a
pistol to his head, and seen him bleeding at my feet, without feeling
one pang of remorse.
Miss Lee's carriage was announced. I roused myself from a dream of
vengeance, and offered my arm to conduct her down stairs. She cast upon
me a look of sorrowful meaning, and her aunt refused my services with a
distant bow.
I drew proudly back "This," I thought, "is their gratitude. This is
like the rest of the world."
Mrs. Hepburn gave her hand to Theophilus, and with a grin of triumph he
led them out.
After the company had separated I went up to Theophilus, and demanded
an explanation of his ungentlemanly conduct. The answer I received was
an insolent laugh.
No longer able to restrain my feelings, I poured upon him the boiling
rage of my indignation, and did and said many bitter things, that had
been better unsaid. He threatened to complain of me to his father. I
dared him to do his worst--and left the room in a state of dreadful
excitement.
The next morning, while busy in the office, Mr. Moncton came in, and
closed the door carefully after him.
I rose as he entered and stood erect before him. I knew by the deadly
pallor of his face, that something decisive was about to take place.
"Geoffrey," he said, in a low, hoarse voice, which he vainly
endeavoured to make calm, "you have grossly insulted my son, and spoken
to him in the most disrespectful terms of me, your friend and
benefactor. Without you will make a full and satisfactory apology to me
for such intemperate language, and ask his pardon, you may dread my
just displeasure."
"Ask his pardon!" I cried; almost choking with passion--"for what? For
his treating me like a menial and a slave!--Never, Mr. Moncton, never!"
My uncle regarded me with the same icy glance which froze my blood when
a child, while I recapitulated my wrongs, with all the eloquence which
passion gives--passion which makes even the slow of speech act the part
of an orator.
He listened to me with a smile of derision.
Carried beyond the bounds of prudence, I told him, that I would no
longer be subjected to such degrading tyranny; that his deceitful
conduct had cancelled all ties of obligation between us; that the
favours lately conferred upon me, I now saw had only been bestowed to
effect my ruin; that he had been acting a base and treacherous game
with me to further his own dishonest views; that I was fully aware of
his motives, and appreciated them as they deserved; that he well knew
the story of my illegitimacy was a forgery, that I had the means to
prove it one, and would do it shortly; that the term of my articles
would expire on the following day, and I would then leave his house for
ever and seek my own living.
"You may do so to-day," he replied, in the same cool sarcastic tone;
and unlocking his desk he took out the indentures.
A sudden terror seized me. Something in his look threatened danger: I
drew a quicker breath, and advanced a few paces nearer.
All my hopes were centered in that sheet of parchment, to obtain which,
I had endured seven years of cruel bondage. "No, no," said I, mentally,
"he cannot be such a villain--he dare not do it!"
The next moment the fatal scroll lay torn and defaced at my feet. A cry
of despair burst from my lips: I sprang forward, and with one blow laid
him senseless at my feet, and fled from the house.
I saw Robert Moncton but once again. Recollection shudders when I
recall that dreadful meeting.
I walked rapidly down the street, perfectly unconscious that I was
without my hat, and that the rain was falling in torrents; or that I
was an object of curiosity to the passers-by.
Some one caught my arm.
I turned angrily round to shake off the intruder--it was my friend
Harrison.
"In the name of Heaven! Geoffrey, tell me what has happened? What is
the matter--are you in your right senses? Have you quarrelled with your
uncle? Let me return with you to the house," were questions he asked in
a breath.
"_My uncle!_ he is an infernal scoundrel!" I exclaimed, throwing out my
clenched hand, and hurrying on still faster. "Oh, that I could crush
him with one blow of this fist!"
"Geoffrey, you are mad--do you know what you say?"
"Perfectly well--stand back, and let me kill him!"
He put his arm forcibly round me. "Calm yourself, Geoffrey. What has
caused this dreadful excitement? Good Heavens! how you tremble. Lean
upon me--heavier yet. The arm of a sincere friend supports you--one who
will never desert you, let what will befall."
"Leave me, George, to my fate. I have been shamefully treated, and I
don't care what becomes of me."
"If you are unable to take care of yourself, Geoffrey," he replied,
clasping my hand fervently in his own, and directing my steps down a
less frequented street, "it is highly necessary that some one should,
until your mind a restored to its usual tranquillity. Return with me to
my lodgings; take a composing draught, and go to bed. Your eyes are
bloodshot, and starting from your head for want of sleep."
"Sleep! how is it possible for me to sleep, when the blood is boiling
in my veins, and my brain is on fire, and I am tempted every moment to
commit an act of desperation?"
"This feverish state cannot last, my poor friend; these furious bursts
of passion must yield to exhaustion. Your knees bend under you. In a
few minutes we shall be beyond public observation, and can talk over
the matter calmly."
As he ceased speaking, a deadly faintness stole over me--my head grew
giddy, the surrounding objects swam round me in endless circles and
with surprising rapidity, the heavens vanished from my sight, and
darkness, blank darkness closed me in, and I should have fallen to the
earth, but for the strong arm which held me in its grasp.
When I again opened my eyes, it was in the identical apothecary's shop
into which, some months before, I had carried the fainting Catherine
Lee. The little apothecary was preparing to open a vein in my arm. This
operation afforded me instant relief; my fury began to subside, and
tears slowly trickled down my cheeks.
George, who was anxiously watching every change in my countenance, told
the shop-boy to call a coach, which conveyed me in a few minutes to his
old lodgings in Fleet Street.
CHAPTER XV.
GEORGE HARRISON AND HIS HISTORY.
Many days passed over me of which I was totally unconscious. A violent
fever had set in, and I was not aware of my situation; scarcely of the
bodily sufferings I endured. My wants were ministered to by the
kindest, truest friend that ever soothed the miseries of the
unfortunate.
Fancying myself still under the control of Robert Moncton, and a
resident beneath his roof, I raved continually of my wrongs, and
exhausted myself by threats of vengeance. Long before the crisis of the
fever had passed, George had gathered from my impotent ravings the
story of my injuries. After fluctuating a long time between life and
death, youth and a naturally strong constitution conquered my malady,
and I once more thought and felt like a rational creature. My
indignation against my uncle and cousin subsided into a sullen,
implacable hatred, to overcome which I tried, and even prayed in vain.
Ashamed of harbouring this sinful passion, I yet wanted the moral
courage and Christian forbearance to overcome what reason and
conscience united to condemn.
Degraded in my own estimation, I longed, yet dreaded to confide to
Harrison, that the man he attended with such devotion was capable of
such base degeneracy--of entertaining sentiments only worthy of Robert
Moncton and his son.
The violence of my disorder had reduced me to such a state of weakness
that I imagined myself at the point of death, when I was actually out
of danger. My nervous system was so greatly affected that I yielded to
the most childish fears, and contemplated dying with indescribable
horror.
Harrison, who was unacquainted with the state of my mind, attributed
these feelings to the reaction produced by the fever; and thinking that
a state of quiescence was necessary for my recovery, seldom spoke to me
but at those times when, with tenderness almost feminine, he gave me
food and medicine, arranged my pillows, or made affectionate inquiries
about my bodily state. I often pretended to be asleep, while my mind
was actively employed in conjuring up a host of ghastly phantoms, which
prevented my recovery, and were effectually undermining my reason.
One afternoon, as I lay in a sort of dreamy state, between sleeping and
waking, and mournfully brooding over my perishing hopes and approaching
dissolution, I thought that a majestic figure, clothed in flowing
garments of glistening white, came to my bedside, and said to me in
tones of exquisite sweetness, "Poor, perishing, sinful child of earth!
if you wish to enter Heaven, you must first forgive your enemies. The
gate of Life is kept by Love, who is ready to open to every one who
first withdraws the bar which Hatred has placed before the narrow
entrance."
Overwhelmed with fear and astonishment, I started up in the bed,
exclaiming in tones of agonized entreaty, "Oh, God, forgive me! I
cannot do it!"
"Do what, dear Geoffrey?" said George, coming to the bedside, and
taking my hand in his.
"Forgive my enemies. Forgive those wretches who have brought me to this
state, and by their cruel conduct placed both life and reason in
jeopardy. I cannot do it, though He, the merciful, who dying forgave
his enemies, commands me to do so."
"Geoffrey," said Harrison, soothingly, "you can never recover your
health, or feel happy till you can accomplish this great moral victory
over sin and self."
"I cannot do it!" I responded, turning from him, and burying my face in
the bed-clothes while I hardened my heart against conviction. "No, not
if I perish for refusing. I feel as if I were already with the
condemned."
"No wonder," returned Harrison, sternly. "Hatred and its concomitant
passion, Revenge, are feelings worthy of the damned. I beseech you,
Geoffrey, by the dying prayer of that blessed Saviour, whom you profess
to believe, try to rise superior to these soul-debasing passions; and
not only forgive, but learn to pity, the authors of your sufferings."
"I have done my best. I have even prayed to do so."
"Not in a right spirit, or your prayers would have been heard and
accepted. What makes you dread death? Speak the truth out boldly. Does
not this hatred to your uncle and cousin stand between you and Heaven?"
"I confess it. But, Harrison, could you forgive them?"
"Yes."
"Not under the same provocation?"
"I have done so under worse."
"God in Heaven!--how is that possible?"
"It is true."
"I won't believe it," said I, turning angrily upon the pillow. "It is
not in human nature; and few can rise above the weakness of their
kind."
"Listen to me, Geoffrey," said Harrison, seating himself on the side of
the bed. "You wished very much at one time to learn from me the story
of my past life. I did not think it prudent at that time, and while
under Robert Moncton's roof, to gratify your curiosity. I will do so
now, in the hope of beguiling you out of your present morbid state of
feeling, while it may answer the purpose of teaching you a good, moral
lesson, which I trust you will not easily forget.
"Man's happiness depends in a great measure on the sympathy of others.
His sufferings, by the same rule, are greatly alleviated when
contrasted with the miseries of his neighbours, particularly if their
sorrows happen to exceed his own.
"Much of my history must remain in the shade, because time alone can
unravel the mystery by which I am surrounded; and many important
passages in my life, prudence forces me to conceal. But, my dear
fellow, if my trials and sufferings will in any way reconcile you to
your lot, and enable you to bear with fortitude your own, your friend
will not have suffered and sinned in vain."
George adjusted my pillows, and gave me my medicine, stirred the fire
to a cheerful blaze, and commenced the narrative that for so many
months I had so ardently longed to hear.
* * * * *
HARRISON'S STORY.
"Perhaps, Geoffrey, you are not aware that your grandfather left Sir
Robert Moncton, the father of the present Baronet, guardian and trustee
to his two sons, until they arrived at their majority; Edward at the
time of his death, being eighteen years of age, Robert a year and a
half younger.
"What tempted Geoffrey Moncton to leave his sons to the guardianship of
the aristocratic father, from whom he had parted in anger many years
before, no one could tell.
"The Baronet was a very old man, and was much respected in his day; and
it is possible that the dying merchant found by experience, that he
could place more reliance on the honour of a gentleman, than in a man
of business. Or it might be, that on his death-bed he repented of the
long family estrangement, and left his sons to the care of their
grandfather, as a proof that all feelings of animosity were buried in
his grave.
"Sir Robert's eldest son had been dead for some years, and the present
Baronet, who resided with his grandfather, was just two years older
than your father, and for several years the cousins lived very amicably
beneath the same roof--were sent to the same college in Oxford to
finish their studies and mingle in the same society.
"It was unfortunate for your father, who had too little ballast to
regulate his own conduct, that he contracted the most ardent friendship
for the young Alexander, who was a gay, reckless, dissipated fellow,
regarding his wealth as the source from which he derived all his
sensual pleasures, and not as a talent committed to his stewardship, of
which he must one day give an account.
"Sir Alexander's early career, though not worse than that of many young
men of the same class, was unmarked by any real moral worth. His
elegant person, good taste, and graceful manners, won for him the
esteem and affection of those around him. Frank, courteous, and ever
ready to use his influence with Sir Robert, in mitigating the distress
of his poor tenants, he was almost adored by the lower classes, and by
whom, in return, they were treated with a degree of familiarity, much
beneath his position as a gentleman. From this extravagant,
kind-hearted, and popular young man, Edward Moncton contracted those
habits which terminated in his ruin.
"Congeniality of mind strongly attached the cousins to each other; and
I am certain that Sir Alexander truly loved the frank, confiding,
careless Edward Moncton, while he equally disliked the cold,
calculating, money-getting propensities of his brother Robert. Robert
possessed a disposition not likely to forget or forgive a slight; and
he deeply resented the preference shown to his brother; and his hatred,
though carefully concealed, was actively employed in forming schemes of
vengeance.
"You well know, how Robert Moncton can hate; the depths of guile, and
the slow, smooth words, with which he can conceal the malignity of his
nature, and hide the purposes of his heart. He had a game too to play,
from which he hoped to rise up the winner; and to obtain this object he
alternately flattered and deceived his unconscious victims.
"The particulars of your father's quarrel with Sir Alexander I never
knew; it took place just before the young men left college and became
their own masters; but it was of such a nature that they parted in
anger, never to meet again.
"Shortly after this quarrel old Sir Robert died; and Alexander Moncton
came in for the estates and title. Your father and uncle, both being
now of age, entered upon the great business of life. Your father
resumed the business bequeathed to him by his father, and your uncle
entered into partnership with the firm, of which he now stands the head
and sole proprietor.
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