UNGRATIFIED CURIOSITY.
There is a period in every young man's first outset in life, which
gives a colouring to his future destiny. It is the time for action, for
mental and moral improvement, and the manner in which it is applied or
neglected, will decide his character, or leave him weak and vacillating
all the days of his life.
If this precious portion of existence be wasted in frivolous
amusements, time gets the start of us, and no after-exertion will
enable us to overtake him in his flight. This important era was mine;
and I lost no opportunity of turning it to the best advantage. I worked
early and late in the office, and made myself master of the nature of
the work which employed my hands. I learned the philosophy of those law
forms, which hitherto I had only copied mechanically, and looked upon
as a weary task, and I soon reaped the benefit of my increased stock of
knowledge. Grave men, in the absence of my uncle, often applied to me
for information and advice, which I felt proud and happy in being able
to supply.
Thus, I found that in serving my employer faithfully, I conferred the
greatest benefit on myself; and the hours devoted to study, while they
formed a pleasant recreation from the day labours of the office, were
among the happiest and most sinless of my life.
I was seldom admitted into my uncle's drawing-room, and never allowed
to mingle with evening parties, which, during the brief visits of
Theophilus to his home, were not only frequent, but very brilliant.
This I felt as a great hardship. My solitary and companionless youth
had deeply imbued my mind with romance. I was fond of castle-building;
I pictured to myself the world as a paradise, and fancied that I was an
illustrious actor in scenes of imaginary splendour, which bore no
analogy to the dull realities of my present life.
I was a dreamer of wild dreams, and suffered my enthusiasm to get the
master of reason, and betray me into a thousand absurdities. My love
for poetry and music was excessive. I played upon the flute by ear, and
often when alone dissipated my melancholy thoughts by breathing them
into the instrument.
Through this medium, Harrison became an adept at discovering the state
of my feelings. "My flute told tales," he said. "It always spoke the
language of my heart." Yet from him I had few concealments. He was my
friend and bosom-counsellor, in whom I reposed the most unreserved
confidence. But strange to say, this confidence was not mutual. There
was a mystery about George which I could not fathom; a mental
reservation which was tantalizing and inexplicable.
He was a gentleman in education, appearance and manners, and possessed
those high and honourable feelings, which if displayed in a peasant
would rank him as one, and which are inseparable from all who really
deserve the title. He never spoke to me of his family--never alluded to
the events of his past life, or the scenes in which his childhood had
been spent. He talked of sorrow and sickness--of chastisements in the
school of adversity, in general terms; but he never revealed the cause
of these trials, or why a young man of his attainments was reduced to a
situation so far below the station he ought to have held in society.
I was half inclined to quarrel with him for so pertinaciously
concealing from me circumstances which I thought I had a right to know;
and in which, when known, I was fully prepared to sympathize. A
thousand times I was on the point of remonstrating with him on this
undue reserve, which appeared so foreign to his frank, open nature, but
feelings of delicacy restrained me.
What right had _I_ to pry into his secrets? My impertinent curiosity
might reopen wounds which time had closed. There were, doubtless, good
reasons for his withholding the information I coveted.
Yet, I must confess that I had an intense curiosity--a burning desire
to know the history of his past life. For many long months my wishes
remained ungratified.
At this time I felt an ardent desire to see something more of life, to
mingle in the gay scenes of the great world around me. Pride, however,
withheld me from accepting the many pressing invitations I daily
received from the clerks in the office, to join them in parties of
pleasure, to the theatres and other places of public amusement. Mr.
Moncton had strictly forbidden me to leave the house of an evening; but
as he was often absent of a night, I could easily have evaded his
commands; but I scorned to expose to strangers the meanness of my
wealthy relative, by confessing that mine was an empty purse; while the
thought of enjoying myself at the expense of my generous companions,
was not to be tolerated for an instant. If I could not go as a
gentleman, and pay my own share of the entertainment, I determined not
to go at all; and these resolutions met with the entire approbation of
my friend Harrison.
"Wait patiently, Geoffrey, and fortune will pay up the arrears of the
long debt she owes you. It is an old and hackneyed saying, 'That riches
alone, cannot confer happiness upon the possessor.'"
"My uncle and cousin are living demonstrations of the truth of the
proverb. Mr. Moncton is affluent, and might enjoy all the luxuries that
wealth can procure; yet he toils with as much assiduity to increase his
riches, as the poorest labourer does to earn bread for his family. He
can acquire, but has not the heart to enjoy--while the bad disposition
of Theophilus would render him, under any circumstances, a miserable
man. Yet, after all, George, in this bad world, money is power."
"Only, to a certain extent: to be happy, a man must be good;
religiously, morally, physically. He must bear upon his heart the image
of the Prince of Peace, before he can truly value the glorious boon of
life."
"I wish I could see these things in the same calm unprejudiced light,"
said I; "but I find it a bitter mortification, after so many years of
hard labour, to be without a penny to pay for seeing a raree-show."
Harrison laughed heartily, "You will perhaps say, that it is easy for
me to preach against riches; but like the Fox in the fable, the grapes
are sour. I speak, however, with indifference of the good that
Providence has placed beyond my reach. Geoffrey, I was once the envied
possessor of wealth, which in my case was productive of much evil."
"How did you lose such an advantage?" I eagerly exclaimed, "do tell me
something of your past life?"
This was the first allusion he had made to his former circumstances;
and I was determined not to let the opportunity pass unnoticed.
He seemed to guess my thoughts. "Are you anxious for a humiliating
confession, of vanity, folly and prodigality? Well, Geoffrey, you shall
have it; but mark me--it will only be in general terms--I cannot enter
into particulars. I was born poor, and unexpectedly became rich, and
like many persons in like circumstances, I was ashamed of my mean
origin; and thought, by making a dashing appearance and squandering
lavishly my wealth, to induce men to forget my humble birth. The world
applauds such madness as long as the money lasts, and for a short
period, I had friends and flatterers at will.
"My brief career terminated in ruin and disgrace: wealth which is not
acquired by industry, is seldom retained by prudence; and to those
unacquainted with the real value of money, a large sum always appears
inexhaustible. So it was with me. I spent, without calculating the
cost, and soon lost all. The world now wore a very different aspect. I
was deserted by all my gay associates; my most intimate companions
passed me in the streets without recognition. I knew that this would be
the result of my altered fortunes, yet the reality cut me to the heart.
"These are mortifying lessons, which experience, wisdom's best
counsellor, daily teaches us; and a man must either be very
self-conceited, or very insensible, who cannot profit by her valuable
instructions. The hour which brought to me the humiliating conviction,
that I was a person of no consequence; that the world could go on very
well without me; that my merry companions would not be one jot less
facetious, though I was absent from their jovial parties, was after all
not the most miserable of my life.
"I woke as from a dream. The scales had fallen from my eyes. I knew
myself--and became a wiser and better man. I called all my creditors
together, discharged my debts, and found myself free of the world in
the most liberal sense.
"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed. "How could you bear such a dreadful
reverse with such fortitude--such magnanimity?"
"You give me greater credit than I deserve, Geoffrey: my imprudent
conduct merited a severe punishment, and I had sense enough to discern
that it was just. After the first shock was over, I felt happier in my
poverty than I had ever done during my unmerited prosperity. I had
abused the gifts of fortune while they were mine, and I determined to
acquire an independence by my own exertions. A friend, whom I had
scarcely regarded as such, during my reckless career of folly, came
unexpectedly to my assistance, and offered to purchase for me a
commission in the army, but I had private reasons for wishing to obtain
a situation in this office. Writing a good hand, and having been
originally educated for the profession, together with the
recommendation of Mr. Bassett who was related to my friend, procured me
the place I now hold."
"And your reasons for coming here?" I cried, burning with curiosity.
"Pardon me, Geoffrey. That is my secret."
He spoke with the calmness of a philosopher, but I saw his emotion, as
his eyes turned mechanically to the parchment he was copying, and
affected an air of cheerful resignation.
The candid exposure of his past faults and follies raised, rather than
sunk him in my estimation; but I was sadly disappointed at the general
terms in which they were revealed. I wanted to know every event of his
private life, and this abridgment was very tantalizing.
While I was pondering these things in my heart, the pen he had grasped
so tightly was flung to some distance, and he raised his fine eyes to
my face.
"Thank God! Geoffrey; I have not as yet lost the faculty of
feeling--that I can see and deplore the errors of the past. When I
think what I was, what I am, and what I might have been, it brings a
cloud over my mind which often dissolves in tears. This is the weakness
of human nature. But the years so uselessly wasted rise up in dread
array against me, and the flood-gates of the soul are broken up by
bitter and remorseful regrets. But see," he exclaimed, dashing the
thickening mist from his eyes, and resuming his peculiarly benevolent
smile: "the dark cloud has passed, and George is himself again."
"You are happier than I. You can smile through your tears," I cried,
regarding his April face with surprise.
"And so would you, Geoffrey, if, like me, you had brought your passions
under the subjection of reason."
"It is no easy task, George, to storm a city, when your own subjects
defend the walls, and at every attack drive you back with your own
weapons, into the trenches. I will, however, commence the attack, by
striving to forget that there is a world beyond these gloomy walls, in
whose busy scenes I am forbidden to mingle."
"Valiantly resolved, Geoffrey. But how comes it, that you did not tell
me the news this morning?"
"News--what news?"
"Your cousin Theophilus returned last night."
"The devil he did! That's everything but good news to me. But are you
sure the news is true?"
"My landlady is sister to Mr. Moncton's housekeeper. I had my
information from her. She tells me that the father and son are on very
bad terms."
"I have seldom heard Mr. Moncton mention him of late. I wonder we have
not seen him in the office. He generally pays us an early visit to show
off his fine clothes, and to insult me."
"Talk of his satanic majesty, Geoff. You know the rest. Here comes the
heir of the house of Moncton."
"He does not belong to the elder branch," I cried, fiercely. "Poor as I
am, I consider myself the head of the house, and one of these days will
dispute his right to that title."
"Tush!" said George, resuming his pen, "you are talking sad nonsense.
But hereby hangs a tale."
I looked up inquiringly. Harrison was hard at work. I saw a mischievous
smile hovering about his lips. He turned his back abruptly to the door,
and bent more closely over his parchment, as Theophilus Moncton entered
the office equipped for a journey.