I FORFEIT MY INDEPENDENCE.
"Be ye wise as serpents, and harmless as doves," was the advice of the
Divine Lawgiver, when he sent his disciples forth on their heavenly
mission to reform an evil world.
Religion, as I have before stated, had formed no part in my education.
I had read the sacred volume with fear and trembling, and derived no
consolation from its mystic pages. I had adopted the fatal idea, that I
was one of those pre-condemned beings, for whom the blackness of
darkness was reserved for ever, and that no effort on my part could
avert the terrible decree.
This shocking and blasphemous belief had taken such deep hold of my
mind, that looked upon all religious exercises as perfectly useless. I
could not fancy myself one of the elect, and so went from that extreme
to the other. If I were to be saved, I should be saved; if a vessel of
wrath, only fitted for destruction, it was folly to struggle against
fate, and I never suffered my mind to dwell upon the subject. In the
multitude of sorrows which pressed sorely on my young heart, I more
than ever stood in need of the advice and consolation which the
Christian religion can alone bestow.
I left the presence of my uncle, and sought my own chamber. The lonely
garret did not appear so repulsive as usual. No one would disturb its
gloomy solitude, or intrude upon my grief. There I had free liberty to
weep--to vent aloud, if I pleased, the indignant feelings of my heart.
My mind was overwhelmed with bitter and resentful thoughts; every evil
passion was struggling for mastery, and the worst agony I was called
upon to endure, was the hopeless, heart-crushing, downward tending
madness of despair.
To die--to get rid of self, the dark consciousness of unmerited
contempt and social degradation, was the temptation which continually
flitted through my excited brain. I have often since wondered how I
resisted the strong impulse which lured me onward to destruction.
My good angel prevailed. By mere accident, my Bible lay upon the iron
chest. I eagerly seized the volume, and sought in the first page I
should open, an omen that should decide my fate, and my eye glanced
upon the words already quoted--"Be ye, therefore, wise as serpents, and
harmless as doves."
I closed the book and sat down, and tried to shape the words to suit my
present state. What better advice could I follow? from what higher
authority could I derive sounder counsel? Did it not suit completely my
case?
Harrison had disappeared. I was alone and friendless in the house of
the oppressor. Did I follow the suggestions of my own heart, I should
either destroy myself, or quit the protection of Mr. Moncton's roof for
ever.
"But then," said reason, "if you take the first step, you are guilty of
an unpardonable sin, and by destroying yourself, further the sinister
views of your uncle. If the second, you throw away seven years of hard
labour, lose your indentures, and for ever place a bar on your future
advancement. In a few months you will be of age, and your own master.
Bear these evils patiently a little longer--wait and watch: you never
can regain your lost name and inheritance by throwing yourself
friendless upon the world."
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.