A DISCOVERY.
The next morning I received from Margaretta, a circumstantial detail
of what had passed between Alice and her on the previous evening.
"After I undressed and got her to bed, she fell into a deep sleep,
which lasted until midnight. I was reading by the table, not feeling
at all inclined to rest. Hearing her moving, I went to her, and sat
down on the bed, and asked how she felt herself.
"'Better in mind, Miss Moncton, but far from well. My head aches
badly, and I have a dull pain in my chest.'
"'You have taken cold, Alice. I must send for the doctor.'
"'Oh! no, no. He could do me no good; mine is a malady of the heart.
If my mind were at ease, I should be quite well. I do not wish to get
well. The sooner I die the better.'
"'Alice, you must not talk so. It is very sinful.'
"'You are right--I am a great sinner. I know it only too well. But I
cannot repent. All is dark here,' and she laid her hand upon her head.
'I cannot see my way through this thick darkness--this darkness which
can be felt. You know, Miss Moncton, what the Bible says "The light
of the wicked shall be put out in obscure darkness." My light of life
has been extinguished, and the night of eternal darkness has closed
over me.'
"'We must pray to God, Alice, to enlighten this awful darkness.'
"'Pray!--I cannot pray. I am too hard--too proud to pray. God has
forsaken and left me to myself. If I could discern one ray of
light--one faint glimmer only, I might cherish hope.'
"There was something so truly melancholy, in this description of the
state of her mind, Geoffrey, that I could not listen to her with dry
eyes.
"Alice, for her part, shed no tears, but regarded my emotions with a
look of mingled pity and surprise, while the latent insanity, under
which I am sure she is labouring, kindled a glow on her death-pale
face. Rising slowly in the bed, she grasped my arm--
"'Why do you weep?' said she. 'Do you dare to think me guilty of that
nameless crime? Margaretta Moncton, you should know me better. Don't
you remember the ballad we once learned to repeat, when we were girls
together?--
"'Not mine to scowl a guilty eye,
Or bear the brand of shame;
Oh, God! to brook the taunting look
Of Fillan's wedded dame.
"'But the lady bore the brand in spite of all her boasting. But I do
not. I am a wife--_His_ lawful wedded wife, and my boy was no child of
shame, and he dare not deny it. And yet,' she continued, falling back
upon her pillow, and clutching the bed-clothes in her convulsive
grasp, '_he_ spurned me from him--_me_, his wife--the mother of his
child. Yes, Miss Moncton, spurned me from his presence, with hard
words and bitter taunts. I could have borne the loss of his love, for
I have long ceased to respect him. But this--this has maddened me.'
"I was perfectly astonished at this unexpected disclosure. Seeing
doubt expressed in my face, she grew angry and vehement.
"'It is true. Why do you doubt my word? I scorn to utter a falsehood.
When, Miss Moncton, did I ever during our long friendship deceive
you?'
"'Never, Alice. But your story seemed improvable. Like you, I am in
the habit of speaking fearlessly my mind.'
"She drew from her bosom a plain gold ring, suspended by a black
ribbon round her neck.
"'With this ring we were married in Moncton Church. Our banns were
published there, in your father's hearing, but he took no heed of the
parties named. I have the certificate of my marriage, and Mr. Selden,
who married us under the promise of secresy, can prove the truth of
what I say. The marriage was private, because Theophilus was afraid of
incurring his father's anger.'
"'And what has become of your child, Alice?'
"'He is dead,' she said, mournfully. 'He caught cold, during a long
journey to London, which I undertook unknown to my grandmother, in the
hope of moving the hard heart of my cruel husband. It was of no
earthly use. I lost my child, and the desolate heart of the forsaken,
is now doubly desolate.'
"The allusion to her baby seemed to soften the iron obstinacy of her
grief, and she gave way to a passionate burst of tears. This, I have
no doubt, tranquillized her mind. She grew calmer and more
collected--consented to take some refreshments, and then unfolded to
me at length, the tale of her wrongs.
"Oh, Geoffrey! what a monster that Theophilus Moncton must be. I may
be wrong to say so, but I almost wish that poor Alice were not his
wife, and so will you, after you have heard all that I have to tell
you. Theophilus, it appears, from her statements, took a fancy to
Alice, when she was a mere child, and his passion strengthened for her
at every visit he subsequently paid to the Hall. After using every
inducement to overcome her integrity, rather than lose his victim, he
proposed a private marriage. This gratified the ambition of the
unfortunate girl, who knew, that in case of my father dying without
male issue, her lover would be the heir of Moncton. She was only too
glad to close with his offer, and they were married in the parish
church by the Rev. Mr. Selden, all the parties necessary to the
performance of the ceremony being sworn or bribed to secresy.
"For a few months Theophilus lavished on his young bride great
apparent affection, and at this period his visits to the Hall were
very frequent.
"Alice, who had always been treated like a sister by me, now grew pert
and familiar. This alteration in her former respectful manner greatly
displeased my father. 'These Morningtons,' he said, 'are unworthy of
the kindness we have bestowed upon them, and like all low people, when
raised above their station, they become insolent and familiar.'
"Rumour had always ascribed young Moncton's visits to the Hall, to an
attachment he had formed for me. The gossips of the village changed
their tone, and his amour with Alice became the scandal of the day.
"My father having ascertained that there was some truth in these
infamous reports, sent me to spend my first winter in London, with
Lady Gray, my mother's only sister, and told Dinah North that her
granddaughter for the future would be considered as a stranger by his
family. I wrote to Alice from London, telling her that I could not
believe the evil things said of her; and begged her, as she valued my
love and friendship, to lose no time in clearing up the aspersions
cast upon her character.
"To my earnest and affectionate appeal, she returned no answer, and
all intercourse between us ceased. Three months after this, she became
a mother, and my father forbade me to mention her name.
"It appears, that from this period she saw little of her husband; that
he, repenting bitterly of his sudden marriage, treated her with
coldness and neglect.
"Dinah North, who was privy to her marriage, took a journey to London,
to try and force Mr. Moncton to acknowledge her granddaughter as his
son's wife; in case of his refusal threatening to expose conduct of
his which would not bear investigation. Dinah failed in her
mission--and my dear father, pitying the condition of the forlorn
girl, sought himself an interview with Mr. Moncton on her behalf, in
which he begged your uncle to use his influence with Theophilus, to
make her his wife. The young man had been sent abroad, and Mr. Moncton
received my father's proposition with indignation and contempt, and
threatened to disinherit Theophilus if he dared to take such a step
without his knowledge and consent.
"In the meanwhile, the unfortunate Alice, withering beneath the
blighting influence of hope deferred, and unmerited neglect, lost her
health, her beauty, and by her own account, at times her reason.
Hearing that her husband had returned to England, she wrote to him a
letter full of forgiveness, and breathing the most devoted affection;
and told him of the birth of his son, whom she described, with all a
mother's doting love.
"To this letter she received, after a long and torturing delay, the
following unfeeling answer. She gave me this precious document.
"Read it, Geoffrey. It puts me into a fever of indignation; I cannot
read it a second time."
I took the letter from her hand.
How well I knew that scrupulously neat and feminine specimen of
caligraphy. It was an autograph worthy of Queen Elizabeth, so
regularly was each letter formed, the lines running in exact
parallels; no flutter of the heart causing the least deviation from
the exact rule. It ran as follows:
"Why do you continue to trouble me with letters which are not
worth the postage? I hate to receive them, and from this time
forward will return them unopened.
"Your best policy is to remain quiet, or I will disown the
connection between us, and free myself from your importunity by
consigning you to a mad-house.
"T---- M----."
"Unfeeling scoundrel!" I exclaimed; "surely this _affectionate_
billet must have destroyed the last spark of affection in the breast
of the unhappy girl."
"Women are strange creatures, Geoffrey, and often cling with most
pertinacity to those who care little for their regard, while they take
a perverse pleasure in slighting those who really love them--so it is
with Alice. The worse he treated her, the more vehemently she clung to
him. To make a final appeal to his callous heart she undertook the
journey to London alone, with her baby in her arms, and succeeded
under a feigned name in getting admittance to her husband.
"You know the result. He spurned the wife and child from his presence.
The infant was taken sick on its homeward journey, and died shortly
after she reached her grandmother's cottage; and she, poor creature,
will soon follow it to the grave, for I am convinced that she is dying
of a broken heart."
Margaret was quite overcome with this sad relation. Wiping the tears
from her eloquent black eyes, and looking me sadly in the face, she
said, with great earnestness:
"And now, Geoffrey, what can we do to serve her?"
"Inform Sir Alexander of these particulars. Let him obtain from Alice
the legal proofs of her marriage, and force this base Theophilus--this
disgrace to the name of a man, and of Moncton, to acknowledge her
publicly as his wife. In the meanwhile, I will write to her brother,
and inform him of this important discovery."
"Her brother!" and Margaretta turned as pale as death; "what do you
know of Philip Mornington?"
"He is my friend--my dearest, most valued friend."
"Thank God he is alive!"
"And likely to live," said I, leading her to a chair; for we had been
standing during our long conversation in the deep recess of the
library window. "Margaret, will you be offended if I ask you one
question?"
"Not in the least, cousin."
"And will you answer me with your usual candour?"
"Why should you doubt it, Geoffrey?" said she, trembling with
agitation.
"Do you love Philip Mornington?"
"I do, Geoffrey--I have loved him from a child, but not in the way you
mean--not such love as a girl feels for her lover. I could not think
of him for one moment as my husband. No, it is a strange interest I
feel in his destiny: I feel as if he were a part of me, as if I had a
natural right to love him. He is so like my father, only milder and
less impetuous, that I have thought it possible that he might be his
natural son--and if so, my brother."
What a relief was this declaration to my mind. I could not for a
moment doubt its sincerity, and I rejoiced that the dear
tender-hearted creature before me, was not likely to wreck her peace
in loving one whom she could not wed. Yet, that she did love some one
I felt certain; and though I dared not prosecute the inquiry, it was a
problem that I was very anxious to solve.
I left my fair cousin, to write a long letter to George Harrison, in
which I duly informed him of all that had taken place since I left
London.