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.