The Monctons Part 23

I could have hugged the dear old man in my arms. Fortunately my being on horseback prevented such an excess. I turned to him to speak my thanks, but a choking in my throat prevented my uttering a word. He caught the glance of my moist eye, and dashed the dew, with his hard hand, from his own.

"I know what you would say, Mr. Geoffrey. But you need not say it--it would only make me feel bad."

"I shall never forget your kindness, Dan; but will always reckon you among my best friends."

"That's enough, sir: I'm satisfied, overpaid," and the true-hearted fellow rode close up to me and held out his hand. I shook it warmly.

He turned his horse quickly round, and the sharp ringing of his hoofs on the rocky road told me that he was gone.

I rode slowly on; the day was oppressively warm, not a breath of air stirred the bushes by the road-side, or shook the dust from the tawny leaves which already had lost their tender green, and were embrowned beneath the hot gaze of the August noonday sun. Overcome by the heat, and languid from my long confinement to a sick room, I often checked my horse and sauntered slowly along, keeping the shady side of the road, and envying the cattle in the meadows standing mid leg in the shallow streams.

"There will surely be a storm before night," said I, looking wistfully up to the cloudless sky, which very much resembled Job's description of a molten looking-gla.s.s. "I feel the breath of the tempest in this scorching air. A little rain would lay the dust, and render to-morrow's journey less fatiguing."

My soliloquy was interrupted by the sharp click of a horse's hoofs behind me, and presently his rider pa.s.sed me at full speed. A transient glance at the stranger's face made me suddenly recoil.

It was Robert Moncton.

He looked pale and haggard, and his countenance wore an unusual appearance of anxiety and care. He did not notice me, and checking my horse, I felt relieved when a turning in the road hid him from my sight.

His presence appeared like a bad omen. A heavy gloom sunk upon my spirits, and I felt half inclined to halt at the small village I was approaching and rest until the heat of the day had subsided, and I could resume my journey in the cool of the evening.

Ashamed of such weakness, I resolutely turned my face from every house of entertainment I pa.s.sed, and had nearly cleared the long straggling line of picturesque white-washed cottages, which composed the larger portion of the village, when the figure of a gentleman pacing to and fro, in front of a decent-looking inn, arrested my attention. There was something in the air and manner of this person, which appeared familiar to me. He raised his head as I rode up to the door. The recognition was mutual.

"Geoffrey Moncton!"

"George Harrison! Who would have thought of meeting you in this out of the way place?"

"There is an old saying, Geoffrey--talk of the Devil and he is sure to appear. I was thinking of you at the very moment, and raising my eyes saw you before me."

"Ay, that is one of the mysteries of mind, which has still to be solved," said I, as I dismounted from my horse and followed George into the house. "I am so heartily glad to see you, old fellow," cried I, directly we were alone: "I have a thousand things to say to you, which could not be crowded into the short compa.s.s of a letter."

"Hush! don't speak so loud," and he glanced suspiciously round. "These walls may have ears. I know, that they contain one, whom you would not much like to trust with your secrets."

"How--is _he_ here?"

"You know whom I mean?"

"Robert Moncton? He pa.s.sed me on the road."

"Did he recognize you?"

"I think not. His hat was slouched over his forehead; his eyes bent moodily on the ground. Besides, George, I am so greatly altered by my long illness; I am surprised that you knew me again."

"Love and hatred, are great sharpeners of the memory. It is as hard to forget an enemy as a friend. But to tell you the truth, Geoffrey, I had to look at you twice before I knew who you were. But come up-stairs--I have a nice snug room, where we can chat in private whilst dinner is preparing."

"I should like to know what brings Robert Moncton this road," said I, flinging my weary length upon a crazy old sofa, which occupied a place in the room more for ornament than use, and whose gay chintz cover, like charity, hid a mult.i.tude of defects. "No good I fear."

"I cannot exactly tell. There is some new scheme in the wind. Harry Bell, who fills my old place in his office, informed me that a partial reconciliation had taken place between father and son. This was by letter, for no personal interview had brought them together.

Theophilus was on his way to Moncton, and appointed the old rascal to meet him somewhere on the road. What the object of their meeting may be, time alone can discover. Perhaps, to discover Dinah North's place of concealment, or to ascertain if the old hag be dead. Her secresy on some points of their history is a matter of great moment."

"They are a pair of precious scoundrels, and their confederation portends little good to me."

"You need not care a rush for them now, Geoffrey, you are beyond the reach of their malice. Moncton is not aware of the return of Walters.

This circ.u.mstance will be a death-blow to his ambitious hopes. How devoutly they must have wished you in Heaven during your illness."

"At one time, I almost wished myself there."

"You were not too ill to forget your friend, Geoffrey," and he rose and pressed my hand warmly between his own. "How can I thank you sufficiently for your disinterested kindness. By your generous sacrifice of self you have made me the happiest of men. I am now on my way to Elm Grove to meet one, whom I never hoped to meet in this world again."

"Say nothing about it, George. The sacrifice may be less disinterested than you imagine: I no longer regret it, and am heartily glad that I have been instrumental to this joyful change in your prospects. But why, my good fellow, did you conceal from me the name of the beloved.

Had you candidly told me who the lady was, I should not have wounded by my coldness a dear and faithful heart."

"Your mind was so occupied by the image of Kate Lee that I dared not."

"It would have saved me a deal of misery."

"And destroyed our friendship."

"You don't know me, George; honesty would have been the best policy, as it always is, in all cases. I could have given up Kate when I knew that she loved, and was beloved by my friend. Your want of candour and confidence may have been the means of destroying Margaretta Moncton."

"Do not look so dreadfully severe, Geoffrey. I admit that truth is the best guide of all our actions. It was my love for you, however, which led me to disguise the name of Catherine Lee. You don't know what a jealous fellow you are, and at that time you were too much excited and too ill to hear the truth. What I did for the best has turned out, as it sometimes does, quite contrary to my wishes. You must forgive me, Geoffrey. It is the first time I ever deceived you, and it will be the last."

He took my hand and looked earnestly into my face, with those mild, melancholy eyes. To be angry long with him was impossible. It was far more easy to be angry with myself; so, I told him that I forgave him from my very heart, and would no longer harbour against him an unkind thought.

I was still far from well, low-spirited and out of humour with myself and the whole world. I felt depressed with the mysterious and unaccountable dejection of mind, which often precedes some unlooked-for calamity.

In vain were all my efforts to rouse myself from this morbid lethargy.

The dark cloud which weighed down my spirits would not be dispelled. I strove to be gay; the laugh died upon my lips or was choked by involuntary sighs. George, who was anxiously watching my countenance, rose and walked to the window; and, tired of my uneasy position on the hard, crazy, old sofa, and willing to turn the current of my thoughts from flowing in such a turbid bed, I followed his example.

We stood for a while in silence, watching the groups which occasionally gathered beneath the archway of the little inn, to discuss the news of the village.

"You are not well, Geoffrey. Your journey has fatigued you. Lie down and rest for a few hours."

"Sleep is out of the question in my present feverish state. I will resume my journey."

"What, in the face of the storm which is rapidly gathering! Do you see that heavy cloud in the north-west?"

"I am not afraid of thunder."

"It has a particular effect upon some people. It gives me an intolerable headache, hours before it is even apparent in the heavens.

To this cause I attribute your sudden depression of spirits."

I shook my head sceptically.

"Then, do tell me, dear Geoffrey, what it is that disturbs you?"

"My own thoughts. Do not laugh, George. These things to the sufferer are terrible realities. I am oppressed by melancholy antic.i.p.ations of evil. A painful consciousness of approaching sorrow. I have experienced this often before, but never to such an extent as to-day.

Let me have my own way. It is good for me to combat with the evil genius alone."

"I think not. Duty compels us to combat with such feelings. The indulgence of them tends to shake our reliance on the mercy of G.o.d, and to render us unhappy and discontented."