THE DOUBLE BRIDAL.
The first excitement of our meeting over, I was painfully struck with
the great alteration that the absence of a few weeks had made in the
face of Margaret.
Her eyes, always beautiful, gleamed with an unnatural brilliancy; and
her pure, pale complexion, at times was flushed with a hectic glow,
which, contrasting with the dazzling white teeth and jet-black hair,
gave a fearful beauty to her charming face.
I took her hand in mine. It burned with fever.
"Dear Margaret, are you ill?"
She raised her eyes to mine, swimming in tears.
"Not ill, Geoffrey; only a little weak."
"No wonder, when you are in such a state of emaciation. You ought not
to have let the death of Alice bring you so low as this."
"Your absence and long silence, dear Geoffrey, have had more to do
with my poor health than the death of my unfortunate friend."
"How so, dearest?"
"Torturing anxiety, sleepless nights, and days of weeping, would
produce this change in stronger frames than mine: But that is all
past. I am quite well and happy now, and Margaret will soon be herself
again."
This was accompanied by such a sad, moonlight smile, that it only
served to increase my fears. I inquired earnestly if her father had
consulted a medical man.
"Oh, yes--a dozen, at least."
"And what opinion did they give?"
"They told the plain truth--said that my illness was produced by
mental excitement--that change of air and scene would soon bring me
round."
I felt that I looked grave and sad. She put her arm round my shoulder,
and whispered in my ear:
"You are mine, Geoffrey, and I shall soon get well in the society of
those I love; so banish that gloomy frown, and try to participate in
the general joy. I have procured an excellent flute for you, as a
little present. You shall play, and I will sing, and Kate Lee (of whom
I am no longer jealous) and George shall dance, and papa shall smoke
his cigar beneath our favourite old tree and enjoy the fun; and we
shall all be so happy."
Thus did my poor, fading, white rose strive to divert my thoughts into
a brighter channel; and hope, ever attendant upon the young, cheated
me into the belief that all would yet be well.
Instead of returning to Moncton Park, George proposed our accompanying
him to Elm Grove. Sir Alexander thought the change would be beneficial
to Margaretta, and we joyfully accepted his proposal. I exchanged my
horse with Sir Alexander, and took his place by the side of Madge in
the open carriage. The good Baronet rode with his son, who had a
thousand revelations of his past life to communicate to his delighted
father.
Madge and I were not without our histories and confessions; and long
before we entered the avenue that led to Elm Grove, the dear girl had
promised to become my wife, when returning health should remove the
last barrier to our union.
Our reception at Elm Grove was such as might have been expected from
its amiable possessors.
Accounts of Robert Moncton's and Dinah North's death had travelled
there before us, and formed for the first few days the theme of
general discussion. My kind friend, Mrs. Hepburn, warmly congratulated
me on my accession of fortune, and Dan Simpson was almost beside
himself with joy. Though I could no longer regard myself as Sir
Alexander's successor, I found myself not a whit inferior in wealth
and importance.
Sir Alexander received my proposal for his daughter with unfeigned
satisfaction. He wrung my hand with hearty good-will. "Two sons, my
dear Geoffrey. God has given me two sons in return for depriving me of
one of them for so many years. Faith, my dear boy, I hardly know which
is dearest of you to the old man. Madge, however, has found out which
of the twain she loves best. I shall resign the Hall to George and his
pretty bride, and will come and live with my dear girl and my adopted
son--hey Madge! will you give the old man an easy place by your
fireside?"
Margaret threw herself into his extended arms, parted the white wavy
locks from his high forehead, and devoutly kissed it.
Thus did we suffer hope to weave bright garlands for the future,
without reflecting how soon the freshest flowers of life are withered
and scattered in the dust.
Cheered by the society and sympathy of her new friends, with a devoted
lover ever at her side, Margaretta regained much of her former health
and cheerfulness.
Hand in hand we roamed among the Derby hills, and visited every
romantic spot in the neighbourhood, not forgetting the old parsonage
where my mother was born, the spot where my good old grandfather was
buried, the little inn over which Mrs. Archer presided, who was
infinitely delighted with seeing me again, and hearing me introduce
her lovely boy to Margaretta's especial notice.
Kate Lee did the honours of the house with the most bewitching grace,
and she and Margaretta formed the most lively attachment to each
other.
"Is she not beautiful, Geoffrey?" said Margaretta, as we sat together
on the lawn beneath the shade of a large ash; and she watched her
friend as she bounded past us down the grassy slope, to join Sir
Alexander and his son in their evening walk.
"Yes, very beautiful, Madge."
"Don't you envy George the possession of such a charming wife?"
"I love George and admire his Kate, but I would not exchange my little
fairy," and I pressed her fondly to my heart, "for his stately queen."
"Ah, flatterer! how can I believe you, who would prefer the pale,
drooping snow-drop to the perfumed, glowing rose?"
"Let George keep his rose, the peerless among many sweets, but give me
the pure solitary gem of early spring, which cheers with its modest
grace the parting frowns of envious winter."
I pressed her small white hand with fervour to my lips and heart. The
meek head of the gentle girl sunk drooping on my bosom. The long black
lashes that veiled her matchless eyes were heavy with bright tears.
"Why do you weep, sweet Madge?"
"I am too happy. These are tears of joy: they relieve the fulness of
my heart. After suffering so much bitter grief it is a luxury to weep
in the arms of the beloved."
How often have I recalled those words when weeping in madness on her
grave, and found no joy in grief--no peace in my distracted heart.
The harvest had been gathered in, and the ripe autumnal fruits hung
heavily on the loaded trees when we returned to Moncton Park. The
first of October had been named for the celebration of our double
nuptials, and all was bustle and activity at the Hall, in making the
necessary preparations for the important event. Margaretta appeared to
take as much interest in the matrimonial arrangements as her lively
friend, Kate.
Not a ribbon was selected or a dress purchased, but George and I were
called to give our opinion of its beauty or becomingness; whilst the
good old Baronet's whole time and attention were directed to the
improvements and decorations which he had planned in the interior of
the Hall. Thus all went merry as a marriage bell until the second week
in September, which was ushered in by heavy gales and frequent
showers.
Often, when returning from our accustomed rides and walks, Margaret
would draw her shawl tightly round her, and clinging closely to my
arm, would complain that she was _cold_--_very cold_.
One day in particular, when the deceitful beauty of the morning had
induced us to extend our ride a few miles farther than usual, we all
got drenched by a sudden shower of rain. The next morning my dear girl
complained of a pain in her chest, sudden chills and weariness of mind
and body. These symptoms were succeeded by a short, hacking cough, and
sudden flushings of the face, which greatly alarmed us all. Medical
advice was instantly called in, but Margaret's malady daily increased
and her strength rapidly declined.
I dared not whisper to myself the fears which oppressed my heart, and
was almost afraid of asking Dr. Wilson the nature of her complaint.
To my utter grief and despair he informed me that his patient was
beyond human aid--that a few weeks, at the farthest, would terminate
the existence of the gentlest and purest of human beings.
"It would be cruel to deceive you, Mr. Moncton," said he, as he
announced the startling truth--for the dreadful communication had
quite unmanned me. "Let this comfort you in your affliction, that I
have anticipated this for years; that our dear patient has carried
about her the seeds of this fatal malady from infancy; that it is
better that she should thus fall in the budding season of youth, than
leave hereafter a family of children to bewail their irreparable loss.
I sorrow for her father and you, Mr. Geoffrey, more than for her.
Death has few terrors to a sincere Christian, and such from childhood
Margaret Moncton has been. A friend to the friendless, a sister of
mercy to the poor and destitute."
Oh, reader! if you have ever known what it is to see your fondest
hopes annihilated at the very moment of their apparent fulfilment, you
can form some idea of my mental anguish whilst watching the decay of
that delicate flower.
Margaret was now fully aware of her danger, a most uncommon
circumstance in the victims of that insidious disease, on whom Death
advances so softly that he always comes suddenly at last. She prepared
herself to meet the mighty conqueror with a cheerful submission to the
will of God, which surprised us all.
One thing she earnestly entreated, that the marriage of Catherine and
George might not be postponed on account of her illness.
"I not only wish to witness their happiness before I go hence, but to
share in it," she said to us, a few days before the one which had been
appointed for the ceremony, as we were all sitting round the sofa on
which she was reclining.
"And you, dearest Geoffrey, must give me a lawful claim to the tender
care I receive from you. Though I can only be your wife in name, I
shall die happy in hearing you address me by that coveted
appellation."
I could in reply only press her wasted form in my arms and bathe her
hands and face with my tears. How earnestly had I wished to call her
mine, though I lacked the courage to make the proposal so dear to my
peace.
Oh, what a melancholy day was that to us all. Margaret's sweet face
alone wore a serene smile, as, supported by her father, she stood
beside me at the altar.
How beautiful she looked in her white bridal dress. What a mockery was
the ceremony to my tortured heart, whilst fancy, busy with my grief,
converted those flowing garments into a snowy shroud.
One little week after that melancholy event I again bent before that
altar, to partake of the last tokens of a Saviour's dying love; but I
knelt alone. The grave had closed over my bright, my beautiful, my
virgin bride, and my soul had vowed an eternal divorce from the
vanities and lusts of earth.
Years have fled on in their silent and undeviating course. I am now an
old, grey-headed man.
Sir Alexander Moncton has long been gathered to his fathers, and the
old Hall is filled by a race of healthy, noble-looking young people,
the children of Sir George Moncton and Catherine Lee. I, too, have a
Geoffrey and a Margaret, the children of my adoption; for a large
family Sir George willingly spared me these.
For years I have resided at the Lodge, formerly the residence of Dinah
North, which I have converted into a pretty dwelling, surrounded by
shrubberies and flower-gardens. I love to linger near the scenes where
the happiest and saddest moments of my life were passed.
Behold me now, a cheerful and contented old man, surrounded by dear
young faces, who lavish upon Uncle Geoffrey the redundant affections
of warm and guileless hearts.
My wealth is the means of making many happy, of obviating the sorrows
of the sorrowful, and smoothing with necessary comforts the couch of
pain. When I first lost my beloved Margaret, I mourned as one without
hope; but it pleased God to hallow and bless my afflictions, and by
their instrumentality gently to lead me to a knowledge of the
truth--that simple and holy truth, which has set me free from the
chains of sin and the fear of death.
In what a different light I view all these trials now. How sincerely I
can bless the munificent hand which wounds but to heal--punishes but
to reform; who has poured upon the darkness of my soul the light of
life, and exchanged the love of earth, which bound me grovelling in
the dust, for the love of Christ; sorrow for the loss of one dear
companion and friend, into compassion for the sorrows and sufferings
of the whole human race.
* * * * *
A few words more, gentle reader, and we part for ever. These relate to
the fate of Theophilus Moncton, and fully illustrate the awful
text--"There is no peace," saith my God, "for the wicked;" and again,
"The wicked have no hope in their death."
From the hour that Robert Moncton fell by the hand of the unknown
midnight assassin, Theophilus Moncton was never seen or heard of again
for upwards of twenty years, until his name was forgotten, and I, like
the rest of the world, believed that he was dead, or had become a
voluntary exile in a foreign land.
One day, while crossing the Strand, just below Somerset House, my
charity was solicited by the dirty, ragged sweeper of the street.
The voice, though long unheard, was only too familiar to my ear, and
looking earnestly at the suppliant, with mingled sensation of pity and
horror, I recognized my long-lost cousin Theophilus Moncton.
He, too, recognized me, and dropping the tattered remains of his hat
at my feet, muttered half aloud:
"Do not betray me, Geoffrey; I am a lost and miserable man. My
punishment is already greater than flesh and blood can well bear."
"What assistance can I render you?" I asked, in a faltering voice, as
I dropped my purse into his hat, for the sight of him recalled many
painful recollections.
"You have rendered me the best in your power;" and flinging away his
broom, he disappeared down a dirty, narrow alley, leaving me in a
state of doubt and anxiety concerning him.
Wishing to convert this sinner from the error of his ways, and to
elucidate if possible the mystery which involved his father's death, I
repaired to the same place for several days in the hope of meeting
with him again, but without success.
A week elapsed, and I found another son of want supplying his place at
the crossing of the street. Dropping a shilling into his extended
hand, I asked him what had become of the poor fellow that used to
sweep there.
"Saving your honour's presence," returned the mendicant, in a broad
Irish accent, "he was a big blackguard, and so he was, not over-honest
neither, and always drunk. T'other day, some foolish body who had more
money nor wit, took a fancy to his ugly, unwholesome phiz, and gave
him a purseful of gould--or mayhap he stole it--an' he never quits the
grip of the brandy-bottle till he dies. They carried the body to the
poor-house and that's all I knows of the chap. 'Tis a lucky thing, yer
honor, that the scamp has neither wife nor child."
I thought so, too, as with a heavy sigh I took my way to the inn,
murmuring to myself as I walked along:
"And such is the end of the wicked."
THE END.
LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.