The Monctons Volume Ii Part 10

"Margaret has no Mrs. Grundies," said I, rather indignantly. "She will not admit such vulgar, common-place wretches into her society. To the pure in heart all things are pure."

"Well done! young champion of dames. You will not suffer Margaretta to be blamed without taking her part, I see."

"Particularly, sir, when I know and feel that she is in the right."

"She and I must have a serious talk on this subject to-morrow, however. In the meantime, Geoffrey, bring here the chess-board, and let us get through a dull evening in the best way we can."

CHAPTER V.

A DISCOVERY.

The next morning I received from Margaretta, a circ.u.mstantial detail of what had pa.s.sed between Alice and her on the previous evening.

"After I undressed and got her to bed, she fell into a deep sleep, which lasted until midnight. I was reading by the table, not feeling at all inclined to rest. Hearing her moving, I went to her, and sat down on the bed, and asked how she felt herself.

"'Better in mind, Miss Moncton, but far from well. My head aches badly, and I have a dull pain in my chest.'

"'You have taken cold, Alice. I must send for the doctor.'

"'Oh! no, no. He could do me no good; mine is a malady of the heart.

If my mind were at ease, I should be quite well. I do not wish to get well. The sooner I die the better.'

"'Alice, you must not talk so. It is very sinful.'

"'You are right--I am a great sinner. I know it only too well. But I cannot repent. All is dark here,' and she laid her hand upon her head.

'I cannot see my way through this thick darkness--this darkness which can be felt. You know, Miss Moncton, what the Bible says "The light of the wicked shall be put out in obscure darkness." My light of life has been extinguished, and the night of eternal darkness has closed over me.'

"'We must pray to G.o.d, Alice, to enlighten this awful darkness.'

"'Pray!--I cannot pray. I am too hard--too proud to pray. G.o.d has forsaken and left me to myself. If I could discern one ray of light--one faint glimmer only, I might cherish hope.'

"There was something so truly melancholy, in this description of the state of her mind, Geoffrey, that I could not listen to her with dry eyes.

"Alice, for her part, shed no tears, but regarded my emotions with a look of mingled pity and surprise, while the latent insanity, under which I am sure she is labouring, kindled a glow on her death-pale face. Rising slowly in the bed, she grasped my arm--

"'Why do you weep?' said she. 'Do you dare to think me guilty of that nameless crime? Margaretta Moncton, you should know me better. Don't you remember the ballad we once learned to repeat, when we were girls together?--

"'Not mine to scowl a guilty eye, Or bear the brand of shame; Oh, G.o.d! to brook the taunting look Of Fillan's wedded dame.

"'But the lady bore the brand in spite of all her boasting. But I do not. I am a wife--_His_ lawful wedded wife, and my boy was no child of shame, and he dare not deny it. And yet,' she continued, falling back upon her pillow, and clutching the bed-clothes in her convulsive grasp, '_he_ spurned me from him--_me_, his wife--the mother of his child. Yes, Miss Moncton, spurned me from his presence, with hard words and bitter taunts. I could have borne the loss of his love, for I have long ceased to respect him. But this--this has maddened me.'

"I was perfectly astonished at this unexpected disclosure. Seeing doubt expressed in my face, she grew angry and vehement.

"'It is true. Why do you doubt my word? I scorn to utter a falsehood.

When, Miss Moncton, did I ever during our long friendship deceive you?'

"'Never, Alice. But your story seemed improvable. Like you, I am in the habit of speaking fearlessly my mind.'

"She drew from her bosom a plain gold ring, suspended by a black ribbon round her neck.

"'With this ring we were married in Moncton Church. Our banns were published there, in your father's hearing, but he took no heed of the parties named. I have the certificate of my marriage, and Mr. Selden, who married us under the promise of secresy, can prove the truth of what I say. The marriage was private, because Theophilus was afraid of incurring his father's anger.'

"'And what has become of your child, Alice?'

"'He is dead,' she said, mournfully. 'He caught cold, during a long journey to London, which I undertook unknown to my grandmother, in the hope of moving the hard heart of my cruel husband. It was of no earthly use. I lost my child, and the desolate heart of the forsaken, is now doubly desolate.'

"The allusion to her baby seemed to soften the iron obstinacy of her grief, and she gave way to a pa.s.sionate burst of tears. This, I have no doubt, tranquillized her mind. She grew calmer and more collected--consented to take some refreshments, and then unfolded to me at length, the tale of her wrongs.

"Oh, Geoffrey! what a monster that Theophilus Moncton must be. I may be wrong to say so, but I almost wish that poor Alice were not his wife, and so will you, after you have heard all that I have to tell you. Theophilus, it appears, from her statements, took a fancy to Alice, when she was a mere child, and his pa.s.sion strengthened for her at every visit he subsequently paid to the Hall. After using every inducement to overcome her integrity, rather than lose his victim, he proposed a private marriage. This gratified the ambition of the unfortunate girl, who knew, that in case of my father dying without male issue, her lover would be the heir of Moncton. She was only too glad to close with his offer, and they were married in the parish church by the Rev. Mr. Selden, all the parties necessary to the performance of the ceremony being sworn or bribed to secresy.

"For a few months Theophilus lavished on his young bride great apparent affection, and at this period his visits to the Hall were very frequent.

"Alice, who had always been treated like a sister by me, now grew pert and familiar. This alteration in her former respectful manner greatly displeased my father. 'These Morningtons,' he said, 'are unworthy of the kindness we have bestowed upon them, and like all low people, when raised above their station, they become insolent and familiar.'

"Rumour had always ascribed young Moncton's visits to the Hall, to an attachment he had formed for me. The gossips of the village changed their tone, and his amour with Alice became the scandal of the day.

"My father having ascertained that there was some truth in these infamous reports, sent me to spend my first winter in London, with Lady Gray, my mother's only sister, and told Dinah North that her granddaughter for the future would be considered as a stranger by his family. I wrote to Alice from London, telling her that I could not believe the evil things said of her; and begged her, as she valued my love and friendship, to lose no time in clearing up the aspersions cast upon her character.

"To my earnest and affectionate appeal, she returned no answer, and all intercourse between us ceased. Three months after this, she became a mother, and my father forbade me to mention her name.

"It appears, that from this period she saw little of her husband; that he, repenting bitterly of his sudden marriage, treated her with coldness and neglect.

"Dinah North, who was privy to her marriage, took a journey to London, to try and force Mr. Moncton to acknowledge her granddaughter as his son's wife; in case of his refusal threatening to expose conduct of his which would not bear investigation. Dinah failed in her mission--and my dear father, pitying the condition of the forlorn girl, sought himself an interview with Mr. Moncton on her behalf, in which he begged your uncle to use his influence with Theophilus, to make her his wife. The young man had been sent abroad, and Mr. Moncton received my father's proposition with indignation and contempt, and threatened to disinherit Theophilus if he dared to take such a step without his knowledge and consent.

"In the meanwhile, the unfortunate Alice, withering beneath the blighting influence of hope deferred, and unmerited neglect, lost her health, her beauty, and by her own account, at times her reason.

Hearing that her husband had returned to England, she wrote to him a letter full of forgiveness, and breathing the most devoted affection; and told him of the birth of his son, whom she described, with all a mother's doting love.

"To this letter she received, after a long and torturing delay, the following unfeeling answer. She gave me this precious doc.u.ment.

"Read it, Geoffrey. It puts me into a fever of indignation; I cannot read it a second time."

I took the letter from her hand.

How well I knew that scrupulously neat and feminine specimen of caligraphy. It was an autograph worthy of Queen Elizabeth, so regularly was each letter formed, the lines running in exact parallels; no flutter of the heart causing the least deviation from the exact rule. It ran as follows:

"Why do you continue to trouble me with letters which are not worth the postage? I hate to receive them, and from this time forward will return them unopened.

"Your best policy is to remain quiet, or I will disown the connection between us, and free myself from your importunity by consigning you to a mad-house.

"T---- M----."

"Unfeeling scoundrel!" I exclaimed; "surely this _affectionate_ billet must have destroyed the last spark of affection in the breast of the unhappy girl."

"Women are strange creatures, Geoffrey, and often cling with most pertinacity to those who care little for their regard, while they take a perverse pleasure in slighting those who really love them--so it is with Alice. The worse he treated her, the more vehemently she clung to him. To make a final appeal to his callous heart she undertook the journey to London alone, with her baby in her arms, and succeeded under a feigned name in getting admittance to her husband.

"You know the result. He spurned the wife and child from his presence.