The Monctons Volume I Part 22

"I can well remember Lady Moncton's first visit to the Lodge, to learn from my mother's own lips the nature of the disease which had consigned her son to his early grave. I recollect my mother telling her that the little George went to bed in perfect health, and died in a fit during the night, before medical aid could be procured. She shed some tears while she said this, and a.s.sured Lady Moncton that the baby's death had occasioned her as much grief as if he had been her own--that she would much rather that I had died than her dear nurse-child.

"I remember, as I leant against Dinah North's knees, thinking this very hard of my mother, and wondering why she should prefer Lady Moncton's son to me. But, from whatever cause her aversion sprang, she certainly never had any maternal regard for me.

"Lady Moncton drew me to her, and with her sweet, fair face bathed in tears, told my mother that I was a beautiful boy--that her darling would have been just my age and size, and that she could not help envying her her child. She patted my curly head, and kissed me repeatedly, and said that I must come often to the Hall and see her, and she would give me pretty toys, and teach me to read.

"Ah, how I loved her! Her kind, gentle voice was the first music I ever heard. How I loved to sit at her feet when she came to the cottage, and look up into her pale, calm face; and when she stooped down to kiss me, and her glossy ringlets mingled with mine, I would fling my arms about her slender neck, and whisper in a voice too low for my stern mother and Dinah to hear:

"'I love you a thousand, thousand times better than anything else in the world. Oh I how I wish I were your own little boy.'

"Then the bright tears would flow fast down her marble cheeks, and she would sigh so deeply, as she returned with interest my childish pa.s.sionate caresses.

"Ah, Geoffrey, my childish heart spoke the truth. I loved that high-born, n.o.ble woman, better than I have since loved aught in this cold, bad world: at least, my affection for her was of a purer, holier character.

"My mother was taken home to the Hall, to act as wet nurse to little Margaret; and I remained at the cottage with my harsh, cross grandmother, who beat me without the slightest remorse for the most trifling faults, often cursing and wishing me dead, in the most malignant manner.

"My father, whom I seldom saw (for his occupation took him often from home, which was rendered too hot for comfort, by the temper of his mother-in-law), was invariably kind to me. When he came in from the stables he would tell me funny stories, and sing me jolly hunting songs; and what I liked still better, would give me a ride before him on the fine hunters he had under his care: promising that when I was old enough, I should take them airing round the park, instead of him.

"My poor father! I can see him before me now, with his frank, good-natured face, and laughing blue eyes: his stalwart figure, arrayed in his green velvet hunting-coat, buckskin breeches and top-boots; and the leather cap, round which his nut-brown hair cl.u.s.tered in thick curls; and which he wore so jauntily on one side of his head. Roger Mornington was quite a dandy in his way, and had belonged to a good old stock; but his father ran away when a boy, and went to sea, and disgraced his aristocratic friends; and Roger used to say, that he had all the gentlemanly propensities, minus the cash.

"He doted upon me. 'His dear little jockey!' as he used to call me; and I always ran out to meet him when he came home, with loud shouts of joy. But there came a night, when Roger Mornington did not return; and several days pa.s.sed away, and he was at length found dead in a lonely part of the park. The high-spirited horse he rode had thrown him, and his neck was broken by the fall--and the horse not returning to the stables, but making off to the high road, no alarm had been excited at the absence of his rider.

"My mother was sincerely grieved for his death; he was a kind, indulgent husband to her; and it was the first severe pang of sorrow that my young heart had ever known.

"The day after his funeral, I was sitting crying beside the fire, holding my untasted breakfast on my knee.

"'Don't take on so, child,' said my mother, wiping the tears from her own eyes. 'All the tears in the world won't bring back the dead.'

"'And will dear daddy never come home again?' I sobbed. 'Ah, I have no one to love me now, but the dear good lady up at the Hall!'

"'Don't I love you, Philip?'

"'No,' I replied scornfully, 'you don't love me, and you never did.'

"'How do you know that?'

"'Because you never kiss me, and take me up in your lap, as Lady Moncton does, and look at me with kind eyes, and call me your dear boy.

No, no, when I come for you to love me, you push me away, and cry angrily, 'Get away, you little pest! don't trouble me!' and grandmother is always cursing me, and wishing me dead. Do you call _that_ love?'

"I never shall forget the ghastly smile that played about her beautiful stern mouth, as she said unconsciously, aloud to herself: 'It is not the child, but the voice of G.o.d that speaks through him. How can I expect him to love me?'

"How I wondered what she meant. For years that mysterious sentence haunted my dreams.

"I was soon called to endure a heavier grief. Lady Moncton's health daily declined. She grew worse--was no longer able to go out in the carriage, and the family physician went past our house many times during the day on his way to the Hall.

"Old Dinah and my mother were constantly absent attending upon the sick lady, and I was left in charge of a poor woman who came over to the cottage to clean the house, and take care of little Alice, while my mother was away.

"One day my mother came hastily in. She was flushed with walking fast, and seemed much agitated. She seized upon me, washed my face and hands, and began dressing me in my Sunday suit.

"'A strange whim this, in a dying woman,' said she, to the neighbour, 'to have such a craze for seeing other people's children. Giving all this trouble for nothing.'

"After a good deal of pushing and shaking she dragged me off with her to the Hall, and I was introduced into the solemn state chamber, where my kind and n.o.ble friend was calmly breathing her last.

"Ah, Geoffrey, how well I can recall that parting hour, and the deep impression it made on my mind. There, beneath that sumptuous canopy, lay the young, the beautiful--still beautiful in death, with Heaven's own smile lighted upon her pale serene face. G.o.d had set his holy seal upon her brow. The Merciful, who delighteth in mercy, had marked her for his own.

"Ah, what a fearful contrast to that angelic face was the dark fierce countenance of Dinah North, scowling down upon the expiring saint, and holding in her arms the sinless babe of that sweet mother.

"Rachel Mornington's proud handsome features wore their usual stern expression, but her face was very pale, and her lips firmly compressed.

She held, or rather grasped me by the hand, as she led me up to the bed.

"'Is that my little Philip?' said the dying woman in her usual sweet tones. But the voice was so enfeebled by disease as to be scarcely audible.

"'It is my son, my lady,' replied Rachel, and her voice slightly faltered.

"'What says my love?' asked Sir Alexander, raising his head from the bed-clothes in which his face had been buried to conceal his tears.

"'Lift the boy up to me, dearest Alick, that I may kiss him once more before I die.'

"Sir Alexander lifted me into the bed beside her, and raised her up gently with his other arm, so that both she and I were encircled in his embrace. My young heart beat audibly. I heard Lady Moncton whisper to her husband.

"'Alexander, he is your child. Ah, do not deny it now. You know, I love you _too_ well to be jealous of you. Just tell me the honest truth?'

"A crimson glow spread over her husband's face, as, in the same hurried whisper, he replied, 'Dearest Emilia, the likeness is purely accidental. I pledge to you my solemn word, that he is not my son.'

"The poor lady looked doubtingly in his face. I saw a bitter scornful smile pa.s.s over the rigid features of my mother; whilst I, foolish child, was flattered with the presumption that I might possibly be Sir Alexander's son.

"'Do not cry Philip, my darling boy!' said Lady Moncton, holding me close to her breast. 'Sir Alexander will be a father to you for my sake. I am very happy, my dear child; I am going to Heaven, where my own sweet baby went before me; I shall meet him there. Be a good boy, and love your mother, and your pretty little sister; and above all, my dear child, love your Saviour, who can lead you through the dark valley of the shadow of death, as gently as he is now leading me. Should you live to be a man,' added she faintly, 'remember this hour, and the lady who loved and adopted you as her son.'

"Then turning slowly towards her husband, she wound her thin transparent hands about his neck; breathed a few words of love in his ear, unheard by aught save him and me; and reclining her meek pale face upon his manly breast, expired without a struggle.

"A deep solemn pause succeeded. I was too awe-struck to weep. The deep convulsive sobs which burst from the heart of the bereaved husband warned intruders to retire. My mother led me from the chamber of death, and as we took our way in silence across the park, the solemn toll of the death-bell floated through its beautiful glades.

"'Mother,' said I; clinging to her dress. 'What is that?'

"'The voice of death, Philip. Did you not hear that bell toll for your father? It will one day toll for me--for you--for all.'

"'How I wish, mother, that that day would soon come.'

"'Silly boy! Do you wish us all dead?'

"'Not you mother, nor granny. You may both live as long as you like.

But when it tolls for me, I shall be in Heaven with dear Lady Moncton.'

"Rachel started, stopped suddenly, and fixed upon me a mournful gaze, the only glance of tenderness which ever beamed upon me from those brilliant, stern eyes.

"'Poor child! you may have your wish gratified only too soon. Did Robert Moncton or Dinah North know of your existence, the green sod would not lie long unpiled upon your head. You think I do not love you, Philip!' she cried, pa.s.sionately--'I do, I do, my poor child. I have saved your life, though you think me so cross and stern.'

"She knelt down beside me on the gra.s.s, flung her arms round me, and pressed me convulsively to her bosom, whilst big bright tears fell fast over my wondering countenance.