The Monctons Part 11

Margaret was quite overcome with this sad relation. Wiping the tears from her eloquent black eyes, and looking me sadly in the face, she said, with great earnestness:

"And now, Geoffrey, what can we do to serve her?"

"Inform Sir Alexander of these particulars. Let him obtain from Alice the legal proofs of her marriage, and force this base Theophilus--this disgrace to the name of a man, and of Moncton, to acknowledge her publicly as his wife. In the meanwhile, I will write to her brother, and inform him of this important discovery."

"Her brother!" and Margaretta turned as pale as death; "what do you know of Philip Mornington?"

"He is my friend--my dearest, most valued friend."

"Thank G.o.d he is alive!"

"And likely to live," said I, leading her to a chair; for we had been standing during our long conversation in the deep recess of the library window. "Margaret, will you be offended if I ask you one question?"

"Not in the least, cousin."

"And will you answer me with your usual candour?"

"Why should you doubt it, Geoffrey?" said she, trembling with agitation.

"Do you love Philip Mornington?"

"I do, Geoffrey--I have loved him from a child, but not in the way you mean--not such love as a girl feels for her lover. I could not think of him for one moment as my husband. No, it is a strange interest I feel in his destiny: I feel as if he were a part of me, as if I had a natural right to love him. He is so like my father, only milder and less impetuous, that I have thought it possible that he might be his natural son--and if so, my brother."

What a relief was this declaration to my mind. I could not for a moment doubt its sincerity, and I rejoiced that the dear tender-hearted creature before me, was not likely to wreck her peace in loving one whom she could not wed. Yet, that she did love some one I felt certain; and though I dared not prosecute the inquiry, it was a problem that I was very anxious to solve.

I left my fair cousin, to write a long letter to George Harrison, in which I duly informed him of all that had taken place since I left London.

CHAPTER VI.

MY SECOND INTERVIEW WITH DINAH NORTH.

An hour had scarcely elapsed, when I received a message from Miss Moncton, requesting my presence in the drawing-room, where I found her engaged in an earnest conversation with Alice, who looked more like a resuscitated corpse, than a living creature; so pale and death-like were her beautiful features.

She held out her hand, as I approached the sofa on which she was reclining; and thanked me in low and earnest tones for saving her life. There was an expression of pride, almost aristocratical, on her finely cut lips, which seemed to contradict the grat.i.tude she expressed.

"I was not in my right mind, Mr. Geoffrey; no one is, I have read and been told, who makes an attempt upon his own life. I had suffered a great calamity, and wanted moral courage to bear it. I trust G.o.d will forgive me."

I told her that I deeply sympathized with her unfortunate situation, and would gladly do anything in my power to serve her.

"That is more than Theophilus would do for you. If there is a person whom he hates more than me, it is yourself. You can serve me very materially. Miss Moncton tells me that you know my brother Philip intimately."

I nodded a.s.sent.

"Write to him, and tell him from me, how sincerely I repent my past conduct to him--that I am not quite the guilty creature he took me for; though swayed by minds more daringly wicked to commit evil. Tell him not to avenge my wrongs on Theophilus. There is one in heaven who will be my Avenger--who never lets the thoroughly bad escape unpunished; and tell him," and she drew a deep sigh--"that Alice Moncton died blessing him."

"Shall I go to London, and bring him down to see you?"

"No, no!" she cried, in evident alarm, "he must not be seen in this neighbourhood."

"That would be bringing the dead to life," said I, pointedly. She gave me a furtive look.

"Yes, Alice, Philip told me that dreadful story. I do not wonder at your repugnance to his coming here; and were it not for your share in the business, I would commit that atrocious woman to take her trial at the next a.s.sizes."

"Horrible!" muttered Alice, hiding her face in the sofa pillows. "I did not think that Philip would betray me, after all I did to save his life."

"Your secret is safe with me. I would to G.o.d, that other family secrets known to you and Dinah were in my keeping."

"I wish they were, Mr. Geoffrey, for I have too much upon my conscience, overburdened as it is with the crimes of others. But I cannot tell you many things important for you to know, for my lips are sealed with an oath too terrible to be broken."

"Then I must go to Dinah," I said, angrily, "and wrest the truth from her."

Alice burst into a wild laugh: "Rack and f.a.ggot would not do it, if she were determined to hold her tongue; nay, she would suffer that tongue to be torn out of her head, before she would confess a crime, unless indeed she were goaded on by revenge. Listen, Mr. Geoffrey, to the advice of a dying woman. Leave Dinah North to G.o.d and her own conscience. Before many months are over, her hatred to Robert Moncton and his son will tear the reluctant secret from her. Had my son lived," another heavy sigh, "it would have been different. Her ambition, like my love, has become dust and ashes."

"Alice," said I, solemnly, "you have no right to withhold knowledge which involves the happiness of others; even for your oath's sake."

"It may be so, but that oath involves an eternal penalty which I dare not bring upon my soul."

"G.o.d can absolve all rash vows."

"Ay, those who believe in Him, who love and trust Him. I believe, simply because I fear. But love and trust--alas, the comfort, the a.s.surance which springs from faith, was never felt by me."

"Dinah may die, and the secret may perish with her," cried I, growing desperate to obtain information on a subject of such vital importance to my friend--perhaps to me.

"That is nothing to me," she replied, coldly.

"Selfish, ungenerous woman!"

She smiled scornfully. "The world, and your family especially, have given me great encouragement to be liberal."

"Is Philip your brother?" cried I, vehemently, determined to storm the secret out of her.

"What is that to you? Yet, perhaps, if the truth were told, you would be the first to wish it buried in oblivion."

There was a lurking fire in her eye as she said this, which startled me.

"Do you wish to prosecute the inquiry?" added she, with the bitter smile which made her face, though beautiful, very repulsive.

A glance of contempt was my sole answer.

"Well, once for all, I will tell you, Mr. Geoffrey, lawyer though you be, that your cross-questioning is useless. What I know about you and yours shall remain unknown, as far as I am concerned; and shall go down with me to the grave. The memory of my mother is too dear to me for any words of yours to drag from me the trust she reposed in me.

You have had your answer. Go--I wish to be alone."

In vain I argued, entreated, and even threatened. There was too much of the leaven of Old Dinah in her granddaughter's character for her to listen to reason.