RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE.
Robert Moncton had lain in a stupor for the last hour. The surgeon
whom George had brought with him from the village, after carefully
examining the wound, to my surprise, declared that it was mortal, and
that the sufferer could not be removed, as his life must terminate in
a few hours. During the extraction of the bullet and the dressing of
the wound, Robert Moncton recovered his senses and self-possession,
and heard his doom with a glassy gaze of fixed despair. Then, with a
deep sigh, he asked if a lawyer were present, as he wished to make his
will, and set his affairs in order before he died.
George had brought with him a professional gentleman, the clergyman,
and one of the chief magistrates in the village. He now introduced to
his notice the Rev. Mr. Chapman, and Mr. Blake the solicitor.
"When I require your offices," he said, addressing the former
gentleman, "I will send for you. Such comfort as you can give in the
last hour, will not atone for the sins of a long life. This is one of
the fallacies to which men cling when they can no longer help
themselves. They will, however, find it a broken reed when called upon
to pass through the dark valley.
"With you, sir," shaking hands with Mr. Blake, "my business lies.
Clear the room till this matter is settled: I wish us to be alone."
The clergyman, finding that he would not be listened to, mounted his
horse and rode away. George and I gladly availed ourselves of the
opportunity of leaving for a while the gloomy chamber of death, and
taking a turn in the fresh air. We wandered forth into the clear
night; the blessed and benignant aspect of nature, forming, as it ever
does, a solemn, holy contrast with the turbulent, restless spirit of
man. Nature has her storms and awful convulsions, but the fruits are
fertility, abundance, rest. The fruits of our malignant passions--sin,
disease, mental and physical death.
My blighted prospects, in spite of all my boasted disinterestedness,
weighed heavily on my heart. I tried to rejoice in my friend's good
fortune, but human nature with all its sins and weaknesses prevailed.
I was not then a Christian, and could scarcely be expected to prefer
the good of my neighbour to my own.
Bowed down and humbled by the consciousness of all I had lost, I
should had I been alone have shamed my manhood, and found relief in
tears.
"Dear Geoffrey, why so silent?" said George, wringing my hand with his
usual warmth: "Have you no word for your friend? This night has been
one of severe trial. God knows how deeply I sympathize in your
feelings! But cheer up, my dear fellow; better and brighter moments
are at hand."
"No, no, not for me," returned I, almost choking. "I am one of the
unlucky ones; no good can ever happen to me. My hopes are blighted for
ever. It is only you, George Moncton, who, in this dark hour, have
reason to rejoice."
He stopped and grasped my arm. "What do you mean, Geoffrey, when you
call me by that name?"
"That it belongs to you."
"To me! Has Dinah made any confession?"
"She has. Have a little patience, George, till I can collect my
scattered thoughts, and tell you all."
I then communicated to him the conversation that had passed between
Dinah and myself, though my voice often trembled with emotion, and I
could scarcely repress my tears.
He heard me silently to the end; then convulsively grasping my hands,
was completely overcome by his feelings, and we wept together.
"Ah, Geoffrey, my cousin, my more than brother and friend," he said at
last, "how gladly would I confer upon you, if it would increase your
comfort and happiness, the envied wealth which has been the fruitful
cause of such revolting crimes!
"Ah, mother!" continued he, looking up to the calm heavens, and
raising his hands in a sort of ecstasy, "dear, sainted, angel mother,
whom as a child I recognized and loved, it is only on your account
that I rejoice--yes, with joy unspeakable, that I am indeed your
son--that the boy you so loved and fondly cherished, was the child you
sought in heaven, and wept on earth as lost. And that fine, generous,
noble-hearted old man--how proud shall I feel to call him father, and
recall all his acts of kindness to me when a nameless orphan boy. And
Margaretta, my gentle sister, my best and earliest friend. Forgive me,
dear Geoffrey, if thoughts like these render me happy in spite of
myself. I only wish that you could participate in the fullness of my
joy."
"I will--I do!" I exclaimed, ashamed of my past regrets. "The evil
spirit of envy, George, cast a dark shadow over the sunshine of my
heart. This will soon yield to better feelings. You know me to be a
faulty creature of old, and must pity and excuse my weakness."
Unconsciously we had strolled to the top of a wild, heathery common,
which overlooked the marshy meadows below, and was covered with dwarf
oaks and elder-bushes.
Though close upon day-break, the moon was still bright, and I thought
I discerned something which resembled the sharp outline of a human
figure, suspended from the lower branch of a gnarled and leafless
tree, the long hair and garments fluttering loosely in the wind. With
silent horror I pointed it out to my companion. We both ran forward
and soon reached the spot. Here, between us and the full, broad light
of the moon, hung the skeleton-like figure of Dinah North, her hideous
countenance rendered doubly so by the nature of her death!
Her long grey hair streamed back from her narrow contracted brow; her
eyes wide open and staring, caught a gleam from the moon that
heightened the malignant expression which had made them terrible to
the beholder while in life.
We neither spoke, but looked at each other with eyes full of horror.
George sprang up the tree and cut down the body, which fell at my feet
with a dull, heavy sound.
"She has but anticipated her fate, Geoffrey. Surely the hand of God is
here."
"Miserable woman!" said I, as I turned with a shudder from the livid
corpse--"is this the end of all your ambitious hopes? Your life a
tissue of revolting crimes--your end despair!"
We hurried back to the cottage to give the alarm, and found Robert
Moncton awake and in his senses, though evidently sinking fast.
"Dinah North dead!" he said, "and by her own voluntary act. This is
retributive justice. She has been my evil genius on earth, and has
gone before me to our appointed place. Geoffrey Moncton, I have a few
words to say to you before I follow on her track.
"I have injured you during my life. I have, however, done you justice
now. I have made you my heir; the sole inheritor of the large fortune
I have bartered my soul to realize."
"But, uncle, you have a son."
His face grew dark as night.
"None that I acknowledge as such. And mark me, Geoffrey," and he
compressed his lips firmly and grasped my hand tightly as he spoke: "I
have left you this property on one condition, that you never bequeath
or share one copper of it with that rascal Theophilus Moncton, for in
such case it will benefit neither party, but will revert to your
cousin, Margaretta Moncton. Do you hear?" and he shook me vehemently.
"And what will become of Theophilus?"
He laughed bitterly. "He will yet meet with his deserts," he
exclaimed. "What I have done may seem harsh to you, Geoffrey, but it
is strictly just. My reasons for so doing may puzzle the world and
astonish professional men, but it is a secret which never will be
known until I meet the human monster, who calls himself my son, at the
eternal bar. And may the curse of the great Judge of all flesh, and my
curse, cleave to him for ever!"
I shrank back from him with feelings of disgust and horror, which I
took no pains to conceal; but it was unnoticed by him. The hand
relaxed its rigid grasp, the large icy eyes lost the glittering
brilliancy which had marked them through life, the jaw fell, and the
soul of Robert Moncton passed forth from those open portals to its
drear and dread account.
"He is dead," said the lawyer.
I drew a long sigh.
"How did he come to his death, young gentleman?"
"He was shot from behind the hedge, as he rode through the pit at the
end of the long plantation. He said, when we first found him, that he
knew the person who shot him."
"He admitted the same thing to me, but would not mention the name of
the assassin. I have my own suspicions."
I had mine, but I did not wish to hint at the probability of a fact
that Robert Moncton had purposely, I have no doubt, left unrevealed.
The cause of his death, and the hand which perpetrated the deed have
never been discovered, but will remain open to conjecture as long as
those live who feel the least interest in the subject. It was
supposed, that important information could be obtained from his son,
which might throw some light upon the mystery, but he had disappeared,
and no trace of his whereabouts, could be discovered.
We were detained for several days at the village whilst the coroner's
inquest sat on the bodies, and we had made a statement before the
proper authorities of all we knew about this mysterious affair.
Before three days were at an end, the public journals were filled with
accounts of the awful tragedy which had occurred at the village of
----, in Yorkshire; and the great talents and moral worth of the
murdered lawyer were spoken of in terms of the highest praise, which
certainly astonished his relations, and would have astonished himself.
The only stain on his character, it was stated, was the extraordinary
manner in which he had disinherited his only son, in order to place a
_poor relation_ who had been brought up in his house, in his
shoes. It was evident to all, the part this domestic sneak must have
acted in the dreadful tragedy to ensure the property to himself.
Hints of a darker nature were thrown out, which deeply wounded my
sensitive pride, and which drew a reply from Mr. Blake, who stated,
that Mr. Moncton told him that the murderer was well known to him, but
he never would reveal to any one who or what he was; that he left
young Geoffrey Moncton and George at the inn, and they did not come up
until after he was shot. That the assassin did not attempt to conceal
himself, but exchanged words with him and met him face to face.
I had just taken up my pen to add my testimony to that of the worthy
Mr. Blake, when the door of the room suddenly opened, and Sir
Alexander and his lovely daughter, banished all other objects from my
brain.
What an overflowing of eyes and hearts succeeded that unexpected
meeting. How I envied George the hearty embrace with which the fine
old man received his newly recovered son. The tearful joy which beamed
in the dark eloquent eyes of his delighted sister as she flung herself
with unrestrained freedom into the arms of that long-cherished friend,
and now beloved brother.
My welcome was not wanting either: Sir Alexander received me as
another son, and my own, my lovely Madge as something dearer to her
than even a brother.