MY SECOND INTERVIEW WITH DINAH NORTH.
An hour had scarcely elapsed, when I received a message from Miss
Moncton, requesting my presence in the drawing-room, where I found her
engaged in an earnest conversation with Alice, who looked more like a
resuscitated corpse, than a living creature; so pale and death-like
were her beautiful features.
She held out her hand, as I approached the sofa on which she was
reclining; and thanked me in low and earnest tones for saving her
life. There was an expression of pride, almost aristocratical, on her
finely cut lips, which seemed to contradict the gratitude she
expressed.
"I was not in my right mind, Mr. Geoffrey; no one is, I have read and
been told, who makes an attempt upon his own life. I had suffered a
great calamity, and wanted moral courage to bear it. I trust God will
forgive me."
I told her that I deeply sympathized with her unfortunate situation,
and would gladly do anything in my power to serve her.
"That is more than Theophilus would do for you. If there is a person
whom he hates more than me, it is yourself. You can serve me very
materially. Miss Moncton tells me that you know my brother Philip
intimately."
I nodded assent.
"Write to him, and tell him from me, how sincerely I repent my past
conduct to him--that I am not quite the guilty creature he took me
for; though swayed by minds more daringly wicked to commit evil. Tell
him not to avenge my wrongs on Theophilus. There is one in heaven who
will be my Avenger--who never lets the thoroughly bad escape
unpunished; and tell him," and she drew a deep sigh--"that Alice
Moncton died blessing him."
"Shall I go to London, and bring him down to see you?"
"No, no!" she cried, in evident alarm, "he must not be seen in this
neighbourhood."
"That would be bringing the dead to life," said I, pointedly. She gave
me a furtive look.
"Yes, Alice, Philip told me that dreadful story. I do not wonder at
your repugnance to his coming here; and were it not for your share in
the business, I would commit that atrocious woman to take her trial at
the next assizes."
"Horrible!" muttered Alice, hiding her face in the sofa pillows. "I
did not think that Philip would betray me, after all I did to save his
life."
"Your secret is safe with me. I would to God, that other family
secrets known to you and Dinah were in my keeping."
"I wish they were, Mr. Geoffrey, for I have too much upon my
conscience, overburdened as it is with the crimes of others. But I
cannot tell you many things important for you to know, for my lips are
sealed with an oath too terrible to be broken."
"Then I must go to Dinah," I said, angrily, "and wrest the truth from
her."
Alice burst into a wild laugh: "Rack and faggot would not do it, if
she were determined to hold her tongue; nay, she would suffer that
tongue to be torn out of her head, before she would confess a crime,
unless indeed she were goaded on by revenge. Listen, Mr. Geoffrey, to
the advice of a dying woman. Leave Dinah North to God and her own
conscience. Before many months are over, her hatred to Robert Moncton
and his son will tear the reluctant secret from her. Had my son
lived," another heavy sigh, "it would have been different. Her
ambition, like my love, has become dust and ashes."
"Alice," said I, solemnly, "you have no right to withhold knowledge
which involves the happiness of others; even for your oath's sake."
"It may be so, but that oath involves an eternal penalty which I dare
not bring upon my soul."
"God can absolve all rash vows."
"Ay, those who believe in Him, who love and trust Him. I believe,
simply because I fear. But love and trust--alas, the comfort, the
assurance which springs from faith, was never felt by me."
"Dinah may die, and the secret may perish with her," cried I, growing
desperate to obtain information on a subject of such vital importance
to my friend--perhaps to me.
"That is nothing to me," she replied, coldly.
"Selfish, ungenerous woman!"
She smiled scornfully. "The world, and your family especially, have
given me great encouragement to be liberal."
"Is Philip your brother?" cried I, vehemently, determined to storm the
secret out of her.
"What is that to you? Yet, perhaps, if the truth were told, you would
be the first to wish it buried in oblivion."
There was a lurking fire in her eye as she said this, which startled
me.
"Do you wish to prosecute the inquiry?" added she, with the bitter
smile which made her face, though beautiful, very repulsive.
A glance of contempt was my sole answer.
"Well, once for all, I will tell you, Mr. Geoffrey, lawyer though you
be, that your cross-questioning is useless. What I know about you and
yours shall remain unknown, as far as I am concerned; and shall go
down with me to the grave. The memory of my mother is too dear to me
for any words of yours to drag from me the trust she reposed in me.
You have had your answer. Go--I wish to be alone."
In vain I argued, entreated, and even threatened. There was too much
of the leaven of Old Dinah in her granddaughter's character for her to
listen to reason.
She became violent and obstinate, and put an end to this strange
conference by rising, and abruptly leaving the room. I looked after
her with feelings less tinctured with compassion than annoyance and
contempt.
"Forgive her! Geoffrey," said Margaretta, who had listened in silent
astonishment to the conversation; "her reason is disordered; she does
not know what she says."
"The madness of wickedness," I said, sharply. "She is as wide awake as
a fox. It may seem harsh to say so, but I feel little pity for her.
She is artful and selfish in the extreme, and deserves her fate. Just
review, for a moment, her past life."
"It will not bear investigation, Geoffrey. Yet, with all these faults,
I loved her so fondly--love her still, and will never desert her while
a hope remains, that through my instrumentality her mind may be
diverted to the contemplation of better things."
"She is not worthy of the trouble you take about her," said I,
shrugging my shoulders. "Have you informed your father of her marriage
with Theophilus?"
"Yes, and he was astonished. Theophilus was the last person in the
world, he thought, who would commit himself in that way. Papa said,
that he would write to Robert Moncton, and make a statement of the
facts. I could almost pity him; this news will throw him into such a
transport of rage."
"When Robert Moncton feels the most, he says little. He acts with
silent, deadly force. He seldom speaks. He will curse Theophilus in
his heart, but speak fair of him to his enemies. I am anxious to know
how all this will end."
"My father wanted to see you in the library," said Margaretta. "Your
conversation with Alice put it entirely out of my head."
I found Sir Alexander seated at a table, surrounded with papers. If
there was one thing my good old friend hated more than another, it was
writing letters. "Wise men speak--fools write their thoughts," was a
favourite saying of his. He flung the pen pettishly from him as I
entered the room.
"Zounds! Geoffrey. I cannot defile paper with writing to that
scoundrel. I will see him myself. Who knows, but in the heat of his
displeasure, he may say something that will afford a clue to unravel
his treachery towards yourself. At all events, I am determined to make
the experiment."
"He will make no sign. Robert Moncton never betrays himself."
"To think that his clever Theophilus could make such a low marriage;
not but that the girl is far too good for him, and I think the
degradation is entirely on her side."
"The pair are worthy of each other," said I.
"You are unjust to Alice, Geoffrey. The girl was a beauty, and so
clever, till he spoilt her."
"The tiger is a beautiful animal, and the fox is clever; but we hate
the one, and despise the other."
The Baronet gave me a curious look.
"How came you to form this character of the girl?"
"Partly from observation; partly from some previous knowledge,
obtained from a reliable source, before I left London. But what of
this journey," said I, anxious to turn the conversation. "Do you
seriously contemplate again going up to town?"
"It is already decided. I have ordered the carriage to be at the door
by eight to-morrow morning. I do not ask you to accompany me,
Geoffrey. I have business cut out for you during my absence. You must
start to-morrow for Derbyshire, and visit the parish in which your
grandfather resided for many years as curate, under the Rev. James
Brownson; and where your mother was born. I will supply the necessary
funds for the journey.
"And the object of this visit?" cried I, eagerly.
"To take lodgings in ----, or in the neighbourhood, and, under a
feigned name, prosecute inquiries respecting your mother's marriage.
There must still be many persons living to whom Ellen Rivers and her
father were well-known, who might give you much valuable information
respecting her elopement with your father, and what was said about it
by the gossips at the time. If you find the belief general that they
were married, ascertain the church in which the ceremony was said to
have been performed--the name of the clergyman who officiated, and the
witnesses who were present. All these particulars are of the greatest
importance for us to know. Take the best riding-horse in the stable,
and if your money fails you, draw upon me for more. You may adopt, for
the time being, my mother's family name, and: call yourself Mr.
Tremain, to which address, all letters from the Hall will be sent.
Should Robert Moncton drop any hints, which can in any way further the
object of your search, I will not fail to write you word. We will, if
you please, start at the same hour to-morrow; each on our different
mission; and may God grant us success, and a happy meeting. And, now,
you may go and prepare for your adventure."
I had long wished to prosecute this inquiry. Yet, now the moment had
arrived, I felt loath to leave the Hall.
The society and presence of Margaretta had become necessary to my
happiness. Yet inconsistently enough, I fancied myself desperately in
love with Catherine Lee: I never suspected that my passion for the one
was ideal--the first love of a boy; while that for the latter, was
real and tangible.
How we suffer youth and imagination to deceive us in affairs of the
heart! We love a name, and invest the person who bears it with a
thousand perfections, which have no existence in reality. The object
of our idolatry is not a child of nature, but a creation of fancy,
fostered in solitude by ignorance and self-love. Marriages, which are
the offspring of first-love, are proverbially unhappy from this very
circumstance, which leads us to overrate, during the period of
courtship, the virtues of the beloved in the most extravagant manner;
and this species of adoration generally ends in disappointment--too
often in disgust.
Boys and girls in their teens, are beings without much reflection.
Their knowledge of character, with regard to themselves and others, is
too limited and imperfect to enable them to make a judicious choice.
They love the first person who pleases the eye and charms the
fancy--for love is a matter of necessity at that age. Time divests
their idol of all its imaginary perfections, and they feel, too late,
that they have made a wrong choice. Though love may laugh at the cold
maxims of prudence and reason, yet it requires the full exercise of
both qualities to secure for any length of time domestic happiness.
I can reason calmly now, on this exciting subject. But I reasoned not
calmly then. I was a creature of passion, and passionate impulses. The
woman I loved had no fault in my eyes. To have supposed her liable to
the common errors and follies of her sex would have been an act of
treason against the deity I worshipped.
I retired to my chamber, and finished my letter to Harrison.
The day wore slowly away, as it always does when you expect any
important event on the morrow.
The evening was bright and beautiful as an evening in June could well
be. Margaretta had only been visible at dinner, her time having been
occupied between Alice and making preparations for her father's
journey. At tea, she looked languid and paler than usual, and when we
rose from the table I proposed a stroll in the Park. She consented
with a smile of pleasure, and we were soon wandering side by side
beneath our favourite trees.
"You will feel very lonely during your father's absence, my little
cousin?"
"Then you must exert all your powers of pleasing, Geoffrey, to supply
his place."
"But I am going too: I leave Moncton at the same time, for an
indefinite period."
"Worse and worse," and she tried to smile. It would not do. The tears
were in her beautiful eyes. That look of tender inquiry caused a
strange swelling at my heart.
"You will not forget me, Margaret?"
"Do you think it such an easy matter, that you deem it necessary to
make such a request."
"I am but a poor relation, whom few persons would regard with other
feelings than those of indifference. This I know is not the case with
your excellent father and you. I shall ever regard both with gratitude
and veneration--and I feel certain, that should we never meet again, I
should always be remembered with affectionate kindness."
"You know not how deservedly dear you are to us both. How much we love
you, Geoffrey--and I would fain hope that these sentiments are
reciprocal."
Though this was said in perfect simplicity, the flushed cheek, and
down-cast eye, revealed the state of the speaker's heart, I felt--I
knew--she loved me. But, madman that I was, out of mere contradiction,
I considered myself bound by a romantic attachment, which had never
been declared by word or sign, to Catherine Lee.
"You love me, dear Margaret," cried I, as I clasped her hand in mine,
and kissed it with more warmth than the disclosure I was about to
make, warranted.
"God knows! how happy this blessed discovery would have made me, had
not my affections been pre-engaged."
A deep blush mantled over her face--she trembled violently as she
gently drew her hand from mine--and answered with a modest dignity,
which was the offspring of purity and truth.
"I will not deny, Geoffrey, that I love you. What you have said gives
me severe pain. We are not accountable for our affections: I am sorry
that I suffered my foolish heart to betray me. Yet, I must love you
still, cousin," she said, weeping. "Your very misfortunes endear you
to me. Forget this momentary weakness, and only think of me as a
loving friend and kinswoman."
Mastering her feelings with a strong effort, she bade me good night,
and slowly walked back to the Hall.
I was overwhelmed with confusion and remorse. I had wantonly sported
with the affections of one of the gentlest and noblest of human
beings, which a single hint, dropped as if accidentally, of a previous
passion might have prevented.
Between Catherine and me, no words of love had been exchanged. She
might be the love of another--might be a wife, for anything I knew to
the contrary. I had neither seen nor heard anything regarding her for
some months, I had sacrificed the peace and happiness of the generous,
confiding Margaretta, to an idol, which might only exist in my own
heated imagination.
Bitterly I cursed my folly when repentance came too late.
I was too much vexed and annoyed with myself to return to the Hall,
and I rambled on until I found myself opposite to the fishing-house.
The river lay before me gleaming in the setting sun. Everything around
was calm, peaceful, and beautiful; but there was no rest, no peace in
my heart.
As I approached the rustic bridge from which the wretched Alice had
attempted suicide, I perceived a human figure seated on a stone on the
bank of the river, in a crouching, listless attitude. This excited my
curiosity, and catching at anything that might divert my thoughts from
the unpleasant train in which they had been running for the last hour,
I struck off the path I had been pursuing, which led directly to the
public road, and soon reached the object in question.
Wrapped in an old grey mantle, with a red silk handkerchief tied over
her head, her chin resting between her long bony hands, and her eyes
shut, or bent intently on the ground, I recognized, with a shudder of
aversion and disgust, the remarkable face of Dinah North.
Her grizzled locks had partly escaped from their bandage, and fell in
thin, straggling lines over her low, wrinkled forehead. The fire of
her deep-seated dark eyes was hidden beneath their drooping lids, and
she was muttering to herself some strange unintelligible gibberish.
She did not notice me until I purposely placed myself between her and
the river which rolled silently and swiftly at her feet.
Without manifesting the least surprise at the unceremonious manner in
which I had disturbed her reverie, she slowly raised her witch-like
countenance, and for a few seconds surveyed me with a sullen stare. As
if satisfied with my identity, she accosted me with the same sarcastic
writhing of the upper lip, which on our first interview had given me
the key to her character.
"You, too, are a Moncton, and like the rest of that accursed race, are
fair and false. Your dark eyes all fire--your heart as cold as ice.
Proud as Lucifer--inexorable as the grave; woe to those who put any
trust in a Moncton! they are certain of disappointment--sure to be
betrayed. Pass by, young sir, I have no doubt that you are like the
rest of your kin. I wish them no good, but evil, so you had better not
cross my path."
"Your hatred, Dinah, is more to be coveted than your friendship. To
incur the first, augurs some good in the person thus honoured; to
possess the last, would render us worthy of your curse."
"Ha, ha!" returned the grim fiend, laughing ironically, "your
knowledge of the world has given you a bitter spirit. I wish you joy
of the acquisition. Time will increase its acrimony. But I like your
bluntness of speech, and prophesy from it that you are born to
overcome the malignity of your enemies."
"And you," and I fixed my eyes steadily on her hideous countenance,
"for what end were you born?"
"To be the curse of others," she answered, with a grim smile, which
displayed those glittering white teeth within her faded, fleshless
lips, which looked like a row of pearls in a Death's head; and there
flashed from her swart eye a red light which made the blood curdle in
my veins, as she continued in the same taunting strain--
"I have been of use, too, in my day and generation. I have won many
souls, but not for heaven. I have served my master well, and shall
doubtless receive my reward."
"This is madness, Dinah North, but without excuse. It is the madness
of guilt."
"It is a quality I possess in common with my kind. The world is made
up of madmen and fools. It is better to belong to the first than to
the latter class--to rule, than to be ruled. Between those two parties
the whole earth is divided. Knowledge is power, whether it be the
knowledge of evil or of good. I heard that sentence when a girl; it
never left my mind, and I have acted upon it through life."
"It must have been upon the knowledge of evil--as your deeds can too
well testify."
"You have guessed right, young sir. By it, the devil lost heaven, but
he gained hell. By it tyrants rule, and mean men become rich--virtue
is overcome, and vice triumphs."
"And what have you gained by it?"
"Much: it has given me an influence in the world, which without it,
never could have belonged to one of my degree. By it, I have swayed
the destinies of those whom fortune had apparently placed beyond my
reach. It has given me, Geoffrey Moncton, power over thee and thine,
and at this very moment, the key of your future fortune is in my
keeping."
"And your life in mine, vain boaster! The hour is at hand which shall
make even a hardened sinner like you acknowledge that there is a
righteous God who judges in the earth. I ask you not for the secret
which you possess, and which, after all, may be a falsehood, in unison
with the deceit and treachery that has marked your whole life--a lie,
invented to extort money, or to gratify the spite of your malignant
heart. The power which punishes the guilty and watches over the
innocent, will vindicate the good name of which a wretch like you
would fain deprive me."
"Don't be too sure of _celestial_ aid," said she, with a sneer,
"but, 'make to yourself friends of the mammon of unrighteousness,' as
the wisest policy. Flatter from your Uncle Robert the ill-gotten
wealth that his dastardly son, Theophilus, shall never possess."
"This advice comes well from the sordid woman who sold her innocent
grandchild to this same Theophilus, in the hope that she might enjoy
the rank and fortune which belonged to the good and noble, and by this
unholy act sacrificed the peace--perhaps the eternal happiness of that
most wretched creature."
The countenance of the old woman grew dark--dark as night. She fixed
upon me a wild, inquiring gaze.
"You speak of Alice. In the name of God, tell me what has become of
her!"
"Upon one condition," said I, laying my hand upon her shoulder and
whispering the words into her ear. "Tell me what has become of Philip
Mornington."
"Ha!" said the old woman, trying to shake off my grasp; "what do you
know of him?"
"Enough to hang you--something that the grave in the dark shrubbery
can reveal."
"Has she told you _that_? The fool! the idiot! in so doing she
betrayed herself."
"_She_ told me nothing. The eye that witnessed the deed confided
to me that secret. The earth will not conceal the stain of blood. Did
you never hear that fact before? Is not my secret as good as yours,
Dinah North? Are you willing to make an exchange?"
The old woman crouched herself together, and buried her face between
her knees. Her hands opened and shut with a convulsive motion, as if
they retained something in their grasp with which she was unwilling to
part. At length, raising her head, she said in a decided manner:
"The law has lost in you a _worthy_ member; but I accept the terms.
Come to me to-morrow at nine o'clock."
"To-night, or never!"
"Don't try to force or bully me into compliance, young man. At my own
time, and in my own way alone, will I gratify your curiosity."
"Well, be it so--to-morrow. I will meet you at the Lodge at nine
to-morrow."
She rose from her seat; regarded me with the same withering glance and
cutting smile, and gliding past me, vanished among the trees.
Exulting in my success, I exclaimed--"Thank God I shall know all
to-morrow!"