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.
"Several years passed away. The only intercourse between the families
was through Sir Alexander and his cousin Robert, who, in spite of the
young Baronet's aversion, contrived to stick to him like a bur, until
he fairly wriggled himself into his favour. At thirty, Sir Alexander
still remained a bachelor, and seemed too general an admirer of the sex
to resign his liberty to any particular _belle_.
"About this period of my story one of Sir Alexander's game-keepers was
shot by a band of poachers, who infested the neighbourhood. Richard
North, the husband of Dinah, had made himself most obnoxious to these
lawless depredators, and thus fell a victim to his over-zeal.
"Sir Alexander considered himself bound in honour to provide for the
widow and her daughter of his faithful servant, particularly as the
former had been left without any means of support. Both mother and
daughter were received into his service--Dinah as housekeeper at the
Hall, and her daughter Rachel as upper chamber-maid.
"Dinah, at that period, was not more than thirty-four years of age, and
for a person of her class was well educated, and uncommonly handsome. I
see you smile, Geoffrey, but such was the fact.
"Rachel, who was just sixteen, was considered a perfect model of female
beauty, by all the young fellows who kept Bachelors' Hall with Sir
Alexander. The young Baronet fell desperately in love with his fair
dependent, and the girl and her mother entertained hopes that he would
make her his wife. Pride, however, hindered him from making her Lady
Moncton. In order to break the spell that bound him he gave the mother
a pretty cottage on the estate, and a few acres of land rent-free, and
went up to London to forget, amid its gay scenes, the bright eyes that
had sorely wounded his peace.
"Dinah North was not a woman likely to bear with indifference the pangs
of disappointed ambition. She bitterly reproached her daughter for
having played her cards so ill, and vowed vengeance on the proud lord
of the manor, in curses loud and deep.
"Rachel's character, though not quite so harshly defined, possessed too
much of the vindictive nature of the mother. She had loved Sir
Alexander with all the ardour of a first youthful attachment. His
wealth and station were nothing to her--it was the man alone she
prized. Had he been a peasant, she would have loved as warmly and as
well. Lost to her for ever, she overlooked the great pecuniary favours
just conferred upon her mother and herself, and only lived to be
revenged.
"It was while smarting under their recent disappointment that these
women were sought out and bribed by Robert Moncton to become his agents
in a deep-laid conspiracy, which he hoped to carry out against Sir
Alexander and his family.
"Robert Moncton was still unmarried, and Dinah took the charge of his
establishment, being greatly enraged with her beautiful daughter for
making a run-away match with Roger Mornington, Sir Alexander's
huntsman, who was a handsome man, and the finest rider in the county of
York.
"After an absence of five years, Sir Alexander suddenly returned to
Moncton Park, accompanied by a young and lovely bride. During that five
years, a great change had taken place in the young Baronet, who
returned a sincere Christian and an altered man.
"Devotedly attached to the virtuous and beautiful lady whom he had
wisely chosen for his mate, the whole study of his life was to please
her, and keep alive the tender affections of the noble heart he had
secured.
"They loved, as few modern couples love; and Sir Alexander's friends,
and he had many, deeply sympathized in his happiness.
"Two beings alone upon his estate viewed his felicity with jealous and
malignant eyes--two beings, who, from their lowly and dependent
situations, would have been thought incapable of marring the happiness
which excited their envy. Dinah North had been reconciled to her
daughter, and they occupied the huntsman's lodge, a beautiful cottage
within the precincts of the park. Dinah had secretly vowed vengeance on
the man who, from principle, had saved her child from the splendid
shame the avaricious mother coveted. She was among the first to offer
her services, and those of her daughter, to Lady Moncton. The pretty
young wife of the huntsman attracted the attention of the lady of the
Hall, and she employed her constantly about her person, while in cases
of sickness, for she was very fragile, Dinah officiated as nurse.
"A year passed away, and the lady of the manor and the wife of the
lowly huntsman were both looking forward with anxious expectation to
the birth of their first-born.
"At midnight, on the 10th of October, 1804, an heir was given to the
proud house of Moncton; a weak, delicate, puny babe, who nearly cost
his mother her life. At the same hour, in the humble cottage at the
entrance of that rich domain, your poor friend, George Harrison (or
Philip Mornington, which is my real name) was launched upon the stormy
ocean of life."
At this part of Harrison's narrative I fell back upon my pillow and
groaned heavily.
George flew to my assistance, raising me in his arms and sprinkling
my face with water.
"Are you ill, dear Geoffrey?"
"Not ill, George, but grieved: sick at heart, that you should be
grandson to that dreadful old hag."
"We cannot choose our parentage," said George, sorrowfully. "The
station in which we are born, constitutes fate in this world; it is the
only thing pertaining to man over which his will has no control. We can
destroy our own lives, but our birth is entirely in the hands of
Providence. Could I have ordered it otherwise, I certainly should have
chosen a different mother."
He smiled mournfully, and bidding me to lie down and keep quiet,
resumed his tale.
"The delicate state of Lady Moncton's health precluding her from
nursing her child, my mother was chosen as substitute, and the weakly
infant was entrusted to her care. The noble mother was delighted with
the attention which Rachel bestowed upon the child, and loaded her with
presents. As to me, I was given into Dinah's charge, who felt small
remorse in depriving me of my natural food, if anything in the shape of
money was to be gained by the sacrifice. The physicians recommended
change of air for Lady Moncton's health; and Sir Alexander fixed on
Italy as the climate most likely to benefit his ailing and beloved
wife.
"My mother was offered large sums to accompany them, which she
steadfastly declined. Lady Moncton wept and entreated, but Rachel
Mornington was resolute in her refusal. 'No money,' she said, 'should
tempt her to desert her husband and child, much as she wished to oblige
Lady Moncton.'
"The infant heir of Moncton was thriving under her care, and she seemed
to love the baby, if possible, better than she did her own. Sir
Alexander and the physician persuaded Lady Moncton, though she yielded
most reluctantly to their wishes, to overcome her maternal solicitude,
and leave her child with his healthy and affectionate nurse.
"She parted from the infant with many tears, bestowing upon him the
most passionate caresses, and pathetically urging Rachel Mornington not
to neglect the important duties she had solemnly promised to perform.
"Three months had scarcely elapsed before the young heir of Moncton was
consigned to the family vault; and Sir Alexander and his wife were duly
apprised by Robert Moncton, who was solicitor for the family, of the
melancholy event. That this child did not come fairly by his death I
have strong reasons for suspecting, from various conversations which I
overheard when a child, pass between Robert Moncton, Dinah North, and
my mother.
"The news of their son's death, as may well be imagined, was received by
Sir Alexander and Lady Moncton with the most poignant grief; and six
years elapsed before she and her husband revisited Moncton Park.
"My mother was just recovering from her confinement with a lovely
little girl--the Alice, to whom you have often heard me allude--when
Sir Alexander and Lady Moncton arrived at the Hall. They brought with
them a delicate and beautiful infant of three months old.
"I can well remember Lady Moncton's first visit to the Lodge, to learn
from my mother's own lips the nature of the disease which had consigned
her son to his early grave. I recollect my mother telling her that the
little George went to bed in perfect health, and died in a fit during
the night, before medical aid could be procured. She shed some tears
while she said this, and assured Lady Moncton that the baby's death had
occasioned her as much grief as if he had been her own--that she would
much rather that I had died than her dear nurse-child.
"I remember, as I leant against Dinah North's knees, thinking this very
hard of my mother, and wondering why she should prefer Lady Moncton's
son to me. But, from whatever cause her aversion sprang, she certainly
never had any maternal regard for me.
"Lady Moncton drew me to her, and with her sweet, fair face bathed in
tears, told my mother that I was a beautiful boy--that her darling
would have been just my age and size, and that she could not help
envying her her child. She patted my curly head, and kissed me
repeatedly, and said that I must come often to the Hall and see her,
and she would give me pretty toys, and teach me to read.
"Ah, how I loved her! Her kind, gentle voice was the first music I ever
heard. How I loved to sit at her feet when she came to the cottage, and
look up into her pale, calm face; and when she stooped down to kiss me,
and her glossy ringlets mingled with mine, I would fling my arms about
her slender neck, and whisper in a voice too low for my stern mother
and Dinah to hear:
"'I love you a thousand, thousand times better than anything else in
the world. Oh I how I wish I were your own little boy.'
"Then the bright tears would flow fast down her marble cheeks, and she
would sigh so deeply, as she returned with interest my childish
passionate caresses.
"Ah, Geoffrey, my childish heart spoke the truth. I loved that
high-born, noble woman, better than I have since loved aught in this
cold, bad world: at least, my affection for her was of a purer, holier
character.
"My mother was taken home to the Hall, to act as wet nurse to little
Margaret; and I remained at the cottage with my harsh, cross
grandmother, who beat me without the slightest remorse for the most
trifling faults, often cursing and wishing me dead, in the most
malignant manner.
"My father, whom I seldom saw (for his occupation took him often from
home, which was rendered too hot for comfort, by the temper of his
mother-in-law), was invariably kind to me. When he came in from the
stables he would tell me funny stories, and sing me jolly hunting
songs; and what I liked still better, would give me a ride before him
on the fine hunters he had under his care: promising that when I was
old enough, I should take them airing round the park, instead of him.
"My poor father! I can see him before me now, with his frank,
good-natured face, and laughing blue eyes: his stalwart figure, arrayed
in his green velvet hunting-coat, buckskin breeches and top-boots; and
the leather cap, round which his nut-brown hair clustered in thick
curls; and which he wore so jauntily on one side of his head. Roger
Mornington was quite a dandy in his way, and had belonged to a good old
stock; but his father ran away when a boy, and went to sea, and
disgraced his aristocratic friends; and Roger used to say, that he had
all the gentlemanly propensities, minus the cash.
"He doted upon me. 'His dear little jockey!' as he used to call me; and
I always ran out to meet him when he came home, with loud shouts of
joy. But there came a night, when Roger Mornington did not return; and
several days passed away, and he was at length found dead in a lonely
part of the park. The high-spirited horse he rode had thrown him, and
his neck was broken by the fall--and the horse not returning to the
stables, but making off to the high road, no alarm had been excited at
the absence of his rider.
"My mother was sincerely grieved for his death; he was a kind,
indulgent husband to her; and it was the first severe pang of sorrow
that my young heart had ever known.
"The day after his funeral, I was sitting crying beside the fire,
holding my untasted breakfast on my knee.
"'Don't take on so, child,' said my mother, wiping the tears from her
own eyes. 'All the tears in the world won't bring back the dead.'
"'And will dear daddy never come home again?' I sobbed. 'Ah, I have no
one to love me now, but the dear good lady up at the Hall!'
"'Don't I love you, Philip?'
"'No,' I replied scornfully, 'you don't love me, and you never did.'
"'How do you know that?'
"'Because you never kiss me, and take me up in your lap, as Lady
Moncton does, and look at me with kind eyes, and call me your dear boy.
No, no, when I come for you to love me, you push me away, and cry
angrily, 'Get away, you little pest! don't trouble me!' and grandmother
is always cursing me, and wishing me dead. Do you call _that_
love?'
"I never shall forget the ghastly smile that played about her beautiful
stern mouth, as she said unconsciously, aloud to herself: 'It is not
the child, but the voice of God that speaks through him. How can I
expect him to love me?'
"How I wondered what she meant. For years that mysterious sentence
haunted my dreams.
"I was soon called to endure a heavier grief. Lady Moncton's health
daily declined. She grew worse--was no longer able to go out in the
carriage, and the family physician went past our house many times
during the day on his way to the Hall.
"Old Dinah and my mother were constantly absent attending upon the sick
lady, and I was left in charge of a poor woman who came over to the
cottage to clean the house, and take care of little Alice, while my
mother was away.
"One day my mother came hastily in. She was flushed with walking fast,
and seemed much agitated. She seized upon me, washed my face and hands,
and began dressing me in my Sunday suit.
"'A strange whim this, in a dying woman,' said she, to the neighbour,
'to have such a craze for seeing other people's children. Giving all
this trouble for nothing.'
"After a good deal of pushing and shaking she dragged me off with her
to the Hall, and I was introduced into the solemn state chamber, where
my kind and noble friend was calmly breathing her last.
"Ah, Geoffrey, how well I can recall that parting hour, and the deep
impression it made on my mind. There, beneath that sumptuous canopy,
lay the young, the beautiful--still beautiful in death, with Heaven's
own smile lighted upon her pale serene face. God had set his holy seal
upon her brow. The Merciful, who delighteth in mercy, had marked her
for his own.
"Ah, what a fearful contrast to that angelic face was the dark fierce
countenance of Dinah North, scowling down upon the expiring saint, and
holding in her arms the sinless babe of that sweet mother.
"Rachel Mornington's proud handsome features wore their usual stern
expression, but her face was very pale, and her lips firmly compressed.
She held, or rather grasped me by the hand, as she led me up to the
bed.
"'Is that my little Philip?' said the dying woman in her usual sweet
tones. But the voice was so enfeebled by disease as to be scarcely
audible.
"'It is my son, my lady,' replied Rachel, and her voice slightly
faltered.
"'What says my love?' asked Sir Alexander, raising his head from the
bed-clothes in which his face had been buried to conceal his tears.
"'Lift the boy up to me, dearest Alick, that I may kiss him once more
before I die.'
"Sir Alexander lifted me into the bed beside her, and raised her up
gently with his other arm, so that both she and I were encircled in his
embrace. My young heart beat audibly. I heard Lady Moncton whisper to
her husband.
"'Alexander, he is your child. Ah, do not deny it now. You know, I love
you _too_ well to be jealous of you. Just tell me the honest truth?'
"A crimson glow spread over her husband's face, as, in the same hurried
whisper, he replied, 'Dearest Emilia, the likeness is purely
accidental. I pledge to you my solemn word, that he is not my son.'
"The poor lady looked doubtingly in his face. I saw a bitter scornful
smile pass over the rigid features of my mother; whilst I, foolish
child, was flattered with the presumption that I might possibly be Sir
Alexander's son.
"'Do not cry Philip, my darling boy!' said Lady Moncton, holding me
close to her breast. 'Sir Alexander will be a father to you for my
sake. I am very happy, my dear child; I am going to Heaven, where my
own sweet baby went before me; I shall meet him there. Be a good boy,
and love your mother, and your pretty little sister; and above all, my
dear child, love your Saviour, who can lead you through the dark valley
of the shadow of death, as gently as he is now leading me. Should you
live to be a man,' added she faintly, 'remember this hour, and the lady
who loved and adopted you as her son.'
"Then turning slowly towards her husband, she wound her thin transparent
hands about his neck; breathed a few words of love in his ear, unheard
by aught save him and me; and reclining her meek pale face upon his
manly breast, expired without a struggle.
"A deep solemn pause succeeded. I was too awe-struck to weep. The deep
convulsive sobs which burst from the heart of the bereaved husband
warned intruders to retire. My mother led me from the chamber of death,
and as we took our way in silence across the park, the solemn toll of
the death-bell floated through its beautiful glades.
"'Mother,' said I; clinging to her dress. 'What is that?'
"'The voice of death, Philip. Did you not hear that bell toll for your
father? It will one day toll for me--for you--for all.'
"'How I wish, mother, that that day would soon come.'
"'Silly boy! Do you wish us all dead?'
"'Not you mother, nor granny. You may both live as long as you like.
But when it tolls for me, I shall be in Heaven with dear Lady Moncton.'
"Rachel started, stopped suddenly, and fixed upon me a mournful gaze,
the only glance of tenderness which ever beamed upon me from those
brilliant, stern eyes.
"'Poor child! you may have your wish gratified only too soon. Did
Robert Moncton or Dinah North know of your existence, the green sod
would not lie long unpiled upon your head. You think I do not love you,
Philip!' she cried, passionately--'I do, I do, my poor child. I have
saved your life, though you think me so cross and stern.'
"She knelt down beside me on the grass, flung her arms round me, and
pressed me convulsively to her bosom, whilst big bright tears fell fast
over my wondering countenance.
"'Mother,' I sobbed, 'I do love you sometimes--always, when you speak
kindly, to me, as you do now; and I love dear little Alice--ah, so
much! my heart is full of love--I cannot tell you how much.'
"Rachel redoubled her weeping--a step sounded behind us--she sprang to
her feet, as Dinah North, with the little Margaret Moncton in her arms,
joined us.
"'What are you doing there, Rachel?' growled forth the hard-hearted
woman. 'Are you saying your prayers, or admiring the beauty of your
son. Hang the boy! though he is your child, I never can feel the least
interest in him.'
"'Is that his fault or yours?' said my mother, coldly.
"'Ah, mine, of course,' said Dinah, bitterly. 'We are not accountable
for our likes or dislikes. I hate the boy!'
"I looked at her with defiance in my eyes, and she answered my look
with a sharp blow on the cheek. 'Don't look at me, young dog, in that
insolent way. I have tamed prouder spirits than yours, and I'll tame
yours yet.'
"My mother gave her an angry glance, but said nothing, and we walked
slowly on. At last Dinah turned to her and said:
"'Rachel, this should be a proud and joyful day to you.'
"'In what respect, mother?'
"'Your rival's dead; you have gained your liberty, and Sir Alexander is
free to choose another wife. Do you understand me now?'
"'Perfectly; but that dream is past,' said my mother, mournfully. 'Sir
Alexander loved that dead angel too well, to place a woman of low
degree in her place. If he did not unite his destiny to mine when I was
young and beautiful, and he in the romance of life, don't flatter
yourself into the belief that he will do it now. I know human nature
better.'
"'You don't know your own power,' said Dinah; 'beauty is stronger than
rank and fortune, and you are still handsome enough to do a deal of
mischief among the men, if you only set about it in the right way.'
"'Peace! mother. I need none of your teaching. I learned to love
Mornington, and ceased to love Sir Alexander. Nay, I am really sorry
for the death of poor Lady Moncton, and should despise her husband if
he could forget her for one like me.'
"'Fool! idiot!' exclaimed Dinah, in a tone of exasperation. 'You have
ever stood in the way of your own fortune. Had you not been so over
squeamish you might have changed the children, and made your own son
the heir of the Moncton. Had I been at home, this surely would have
been done. This was all the good I got by leaving you to the guidance
of a handsome, good-natured fool like Mornington.'
"'Mother, speak more respectfully of the dead,' said Rachel. 'He was
_good_, at any rate, which we _are not_. It was my intention to have
changed the children, but God ordered it otherwise,' she continued,
with a convulsive laugh. 'However, I have had my revenge, but it has
cost me many a blighting thought.'
"'I don't understand you,' said Dinah, drawing close up before us, and
fixing a keen look of inquiry on her daughter.
"'Nor do I mean that you should,' coldly retorted Rachel. 'My secret is
worth keeping. You will know it one day too soon.'
"We had now reached home, and the presence of the strange woman put an
end to this mysterious conversation. Though only a boy of eight years
old, it struck me as so remarkable, that I could never forget it; and
now, when years have gone over me, I can distinctly recall every word
and look which passed between those sinful women. Alas, that one should
be so near to me.
"But you are sleepy, Geoffrey. The rest of my mournful history will
help to wile away the tedium of the long to-morrow."