ELM GROVE.
On calmly reviewing the conversation of the past night, I determined
to walk over to Elm Grove, and confide my situation to Mrs. Hepburn,
who, as a friend of my mother's, might feel more interested in me,
than she had done in Mr. Robert Moncton's poor dependent clerk.
I was so well pleased with this plan that I immediately put it into
execution, and gave myself no time to alter my resolution, until I
found myself waiting the appearance of the lady in an elegant
drawing-room, which commanded the most beautiful prospect of hill and
dale, in that most beautiful and romantic of English counties.
Mrs. Hepburn was past the meridian of life. Her countenance was by no
means handsome, but the expression was gentle and agreeable, and her
whole appearance lady-like and prepossessing. She had mingled a great
deal in the world, which had given her such a perfect control over her
features, that little could be read of the inward emotions of the
mind, from the calm and almost immovable placidity of her face.
A slight look of surprise at the sight of a visitor so unexpected, and
in all probability equally unwelcome, made me feel most keenly the
awkwardness of the situation in which I was placed. The cold and
courteous manner in which she asked to what cause she was indebted for
the pleasure of a visit from Mr. Geoffrey Moncton, did not tend to
diminish my confusion. I suffered my agitation so completely to master
me, that for a few seconds I could find no words wherewith to frame
the most common-place answer.
Observing my distress, she begged me to take a seat, and placing
herself on the opposite side of the table, she continued to regard me
with the most provoking _nonchalance_.
Making a desperate effort to break the oppressive silence, I contrived
at last to stammer out, "I hope, madam, you will excuse the liberty I
have taken by thus intruding myself upon your notice; but business of
a very delicate and distressing nature induced me to apply to you, as
the only person at all likely to befriend me in my present
difficulty."
Her look of surprise increased; nor do I wonder at it, considering the
ambiguity of my speech. What must she have thought? Nothing very
favourable to me, I am sure. I could have bitten my tongue off for my
want of tact, but the blunder was out, and she answered with some
asperity:--"That we were almost strangers to each other, and that she
could not imagine in what way she could serve me, without my request
was a pecuniary one, in which case she owed me a debt of gratitude
which she would gladly repay; that she had heard with sorrow from Mr.
Theophilus Moncton, the manner in which I had been expelled from his
father's office; that she bitterly lamented she or her niece should
have directly or indirectly been the cause of my disgrace. She had
been told, however, that the cause of Mr. Moncton's displeasure
originated in my own rash conduct, and she feared that no application
from her in my behalf, would be likely to effect a reconciliation
between me and my uncle."
The colour burnt upon my cheek, and I answered with some warmth: "God
forbid! that I should ever seek it at his hands! It is neither to
solicit charity nor to complain to you, Mrs. Hepburn, of my past
ill-treatment, that I sought an interview with you this morning.
But--but"--and my voice faltered, and my eyes sought the ground, "I
was told last night that you were the intimate friend of my mother."
"And who, sir, was your mother?"
"Her name was Ellen Rivers."
"Good Heavens! you the son of Ellen Rivers!" and the calm face became
intensely agitated. "You, Geoffrey Moncton, the child of my first and
dearest friend! I was told you were the natural son of her husband."
"But was he her husband?" and I almost gasped for breath.
"Who dares to doubt it?"
"This same honourable uncle of mine. He positively affirms that my
mother was never lawfully the wife of Edward Moncton. He has branded
the names of my parents with infamy, and destroyed every document
which could prove my legitimacy. The only advantage which I derived
from a niggardly destiny, my good name, has been wrenched from me by
this cold-blooded villain!"
I was too much excited to speak with moderation; I trembled with
passion.
"Be calm, Mr. Geoffrey," said Mrs. Hepburn, speaking in a natural and
affectionate tone. "Let us go at length into the matter, and if I can
in any way assist you, I will do so most cheerfully; although I must
confess, that as matters stand between the families just now, it is
rather an awkward piece of business. Your uncle, perhaps, never knew
that I was acquainted with Miss Rivers, or felt any interest in her
fate. These deep-seeing men often overreach themselves. But let me
hear the tale you have to tell, and then I can better judge of its
truth or falsehood."
Encouraged by the change in Mrs. Hepburn's tone and bearing, I gave
her a brief statement of the events of my life, up to the hour in
which I came to an open rupture with my uncle; and he basely destroyed
my articles, and I found myself cast upon the world without the means
of subsistence.
Mrs. Hepburn was greatly astonished at the narration, and often
interrupted me to express her indignation.
"And this is the man, who bears such a fair character to the world.
The friend of the friendless, and the guardian of innocence! Geoffrey
Moncton, you make me afraid of the world, of myself--of every one. But
what are you doing for a living, and what brings you into Derbyshire?"
"I am living at present in the family of Sir Alexander Moncton, who
has behaved in the most generous manner to his _poor relation_."
"You have in him a powerful protector."
"Yes, and I may add, without boasting, a sincere friend. It is at his
expense, and on his instigation that I am here, in order to find out
some clue by which I may trace the marriage of my dear mother, and
establish a legitimate claim to the title and estates of Moncton, at
the worthy Baronet's demise, an event, which may God keep far
distant," I added with fervour. "If I fail in this object, the
property devolves to Robert Moncton and his son."
"I see it, I see it all; but I fear, Mr. Geoffrey, that your uncle has
laid his plans too deeply for us to frustrate. I feel no doubts, as to
your mother's marriage, though I was not present when that event took
place, but I can tell you the church in which the ceremony was
performed. Your mother was just of age, and the consent of parents was
unnecessary, as far as the legality of the marriage was concerned."
"God bless you!" cried I, taking the hand she extended to me, and
pressing it heartily between my own. "My mother's son blesses you, for
the kind sympathy you have expressed in his welfare. You are my good
angel, and have inspired me with a thousand new and pleasing hopes."
"These will not, however, prove your legitimacy, my young friend,"
said she, with a smile, "so restrain your ardour for a more fortunate
time. I have a letter from your mother, written the morning after her
marriage, describing her feelings during the ceremony and the remorse
which marred her happiness, for having disobeyed and abandoned her
aged father. She mentions her old nurse, and her father's gardener, as
being the only witnesses present, and remarks on the sexton giving her
away, as a bad omen, that she felt superstitious about it, and that
her husband laughed at her fears.
"The register of the marriage, you say, has been destroyed. The
parties who witnessed it, are most likely gathered to their fathers.
But the very circumstance of the register having been destroyed, and
this letter of your mother's, will, I think, be greatly in your
favour. At all events, the parish of ---- is only a pleasant ride
among the Derby hills; and you can examine the registers for a
trifling donation to the clerk; and ascertain from him, whether Mr.
Roche, the clergyman who then resided in the parish, or his sexton,
are still living. I will now introduce you to my niece, who always
speaks of you with interest, and refuses to believe the many things
advanced by your cousin to your disadvantage."
"Just like Miss Lee," said I. "She is not one to listen to the
slanders of an enemy, behind one's back. I heard in the village, that
Mr. Theophilus was in this neighbourhood, and a suitor of Miss Lee's."
"A mere village gossip. He is staying with Mr. Thurton, who lives in
the pretty old-fashioned house, you passed on the hill on your way
hither, and is a frequent visitor here. Mr. Moncton is anxious to
promote an alliance between his son and my niece. In birth and fortune
they are equals, and the match, in a worldly point of view,
unexceptional."
"And Theophilus?"
"Is the most devoted of lovers."
"Execrable villain! and his poor young wife dying at the Hall of a
broken heart. Can such things be, and the vengeance of heaven sleep!"
"You don't mean to insinuate that Mr. Theophilus Moncton is a married
man."
"I scorn insinuations, I speak of facts; which to his face, I dare him
to deny."
"My dear Kate!" cried Mrs. Hepburn sinking back in her chair. "I have
combated for several weeks with what I considered an unreasonable
prejudice on her part against this marriage. And this very morning I
was congratulating myself on the possibility of getting her to receive
Mr. Moncton's suit more favourably. Ah, Mr. Geoffrey! doubly her
preserver, your timely visit has saved the dear girl from unutterable
misery."
I then informed Mrs. Hepburn of all the particulars of this
unfortunate marriage. Of young Moncton's desertion and barbarous
treatment of his wife--of her attempted suicide, and the providential
manner in which she had been rescued by me from the grave.
This painful interview, which had lasted several hours, was at length
terminated by the entrance of Miss Lee and Theophilus, who had been
absent riding with some friends.
They entered from the garden, and Mrs. Hepburn and I were so deeply
engaged in conversation that we did not notice their approach until
Catherine called out in a tone of alarm:--"Mr. Geoffrey Moncton here,
and my aunt in tears? What can have happened?"
"Yes, Kate, you will be glad to see an old friend," said her aunt. "To
you, Mr. Moncton," turning to Theophilus, "he is the bearer of sad
tidings."
"Anything happened to my father?" said Theophilus, looking towards me
with an expression in his green eyes, of intense and hungry inquiry,
which for a moment overcame his first glance of aversion and contempt.
I read the meaning of that look, and answered scorn for scorn.
"Of your father and _his_ affairs I know nothing. The tie of kindred
is broken between us. I wish that I knew as little of you and yours."
"What do you mean?" and his pale cheek flushed with crimson. "Is it to
traduce my character, to insult me before ladies, that you dare to
intrude yourself in my company? What brings you here? What message
have you for me?"
"With you," I said, coldly, "I have no business, nor did I ever wish
to see you again. My steps were guided here by that Providence which
watches over the innocent, and avenges the wrongs of the injured. It
is not my nature to stab even an enemy in the dark. What I have to say
to you will be said openly and to your face."
"This is fine language," said he, bursting into a scornful laugh. "On
what provincial theatre have you been studying, since you were
expelled my father's office?"
"I have not yet learned to act the part of the hypocrite and betrayer,
in the great drama of life; or by lying and deceit to exalt myself
upon the ruin of others."
"Go on, go on," cried he, "I perceive your drift. You are a better
actor than you imagine yourself. Such accusations as you can bring
against me, will redound more to my credit than praise from such
lips."
"Theophilus Moncton," I replied, calmly, "I did not invade the
sanctity of this roof in order to meet and quarrel with you. What I
have to say to you I will communicate elsewhere."
"Here, sir, if you please--here to my face. I am no coward, and that
you know of old. I am certain that you cannot name anything to my
disadvantage, but what I am able triumphantly to refute."
"Well--be it so then. I find you here a suitor for this lady's hand.
Four days ago your wife attempted suicide, and was rescued from a
watery grave by my arm."
"Liar! 'tis false! Do not listen, ladies, to this vile calumniator. He
has a purpose of his own to serve, by traducing my character to my
friends. Let him bring witnesses more worthy of credit than himself,
before you condemn me."
"I condemn no one, Mr. Theophilus," said Mrs. Hepburn, gravely. "Sir
Alexander Moncton is a person of credit, and your wife is at present
under his protection. What can you say to this?"
She spoke in vain. Theophilus left the room without deigning to reply.
We looked in silence at each other.
Miss Lee was the first who spoke:--"He is convicted by his own
conscience. I thought him cold and selfish, but never dreamed that he
was a villain. And the poor young woman, his wife, what is her name?"
"Alice Mornington."
A faint cry burst from the lips of Catherine. I caught her in my arms
before she fell, and placed her in a chair: she had fainted. Mrs.
Hepburn rang the bell for one of her female attendants, and amid the
bustle and confusion of removing Miss Lee to her own apartment, I took
the opportunity of retiring from the scene.
"What new mystery does this involve?" said I, half aloud, as I
sauntered down the thick avenue which led from the house to the
high-road. "Why did the mention of that name produce such an effect
upon Catherine? She cannot be acquainted with the parties. Her
agitation might be accidental. 'Tis strange--very strange"----
"Stop!" cried a loud voice near me; and pale and haggard, his hands
fiercely clenched, and his eyes starting from his head, Theophilus
confronted me.
"Geoffrey, this meeting must be our last."
"With all my heart;" and folding my arms I looked him steadfastly in
the face.
Never shall I forget the expression of that countenance, transformed
as it was with furious passion; livid, convulsed; every feature
swollen and quivering with malice and despair. It was dreadful to
contemplate--scarcely human.
How often since has it haunted me in dreams.
The desire of revenge had overcome his usual caution. In the mood he
was then in, his puny figure would have been a match for a giant.
"I seek no explanation of your conduct," said he: "we hate each
other;" he gnashed his teeth as he spoke. "I have ruined you, and you
have done your best to return the compliment. But you shall not
triumph in my disgrace: if we fall it shall be together."
He sprang upon me unawares. He wound his thin sinewy arms around me. I
was taken by surprise, and before I could raise my arm to defend
myself from his ferocious attack, I was thrown heavily to the ground.
The last thing that I can distinctly recollect was his thin bony
fingers grasping my throat.