The Monctons Volume I Part 15

"Twenty."

"And never intoxicated--well, that's a good joke. Few young men of your age could say that. Would you not like to increase your knowledge, and be as wise as others?"

I shook my head.

"Ridiculous prudery. Come, fill your gla.s.s."

He drank off several gla.s.ses in succession; and for fear I should be thought deficient in spirit; I followed his example. But the Rubicon once crossed, to my surprise, I found that the wine had no effect upon my senses; only serving to elevate my spirits a little, and make me more sociable and communicative.

My uncle's stern face began to relax from its usual cold severity, and I found that when warmed with wine, he could be a most intelligent and agreeable companion. After conversing for some time on indifferent subjects, he said:

"You think you remember your parents. I have their portraits. Perhaps you would like to keep them in your own possession."

"No present you could make me, would be so valuable," I replied.

"No heroics," he said, going to a beautiful inlaid cabinet. "I detest sentimental people. They are the greatest humbugs in the world."

Returning to the table, he placed two large miniature cases in my hand.

I eagerly seized them.

"Don't look at them now," he resumed, "or we shall have a scene--wait until you are alone. I found them among my brother's papers, and had forgotten all about them, until I chanced to stumble over them in the bustle of removing."

I hid away the precious relics in my bosom, and was about to quit the room.

"Sit down, Geoffrey," he said, with a grim smile, "you are too sober to go to bed yet."

I filled the gla.s.s mechanically, but it remained untasted before me.

"By the by," continued my uncle, in a careless tone, which his eager glance contradicted, "what has become of your friend Harrison?"

"I wish I knew. His absence is a great loss to me."

"Who and what is this Harrison? You were his confidant, and, doubtless, know."

"Of his private history, nothing."

My uncle's large dark eyes were looking into my soul. I felt that he doubted my word. "He has, I believe, been unfortunate, and is reduced in his circ.u.mstances. His moral character, _I know_ to be excellent."

"And doubtless you are a _capital judge_," said Mr. Moncton. "Young men all imagine themselves as wise as Daniel or Socrates. I think, however, friend Geoffrey, that this man deceived you."

"Impossible! Harrison is incapable of committing a mean or dishonourable action. Nor does he attempt to spare himself from blame; but frankly confesses, that to his own imprudence he is mainly indebted for his misfortunes."

"_Imprudence_ is a respectable term for intemperance, dissipation, and vice of every kind," sneered my uncle. "Your moral young gentleman might preach against sins which had caused his own ruin. Believe me, Geoffrey, the crimes and pa.s.sions of most men are alike, with only this difference, that some have greater art in concealing them."

"That would make virtue a mere name," said I, indignantly. "I cannot believe _that_ ideal, which I have been used to wors.h.i.+p as a _reality_."

"All bosh. At your age men cling to the ideal, and resolutely close their eyes to the true and rational. I was guilty of the same weakness once."

"You, uncle!"

"Ay, you are astonished. But the time came, and too soon, when I learned to wonder at my own credulity. I was in love once. You smile.

Yes, with that old witch, as you call her now. She was as beautiful as an angel then. She is an incarnate devil now! Love has turned to hate--admiration to execration--and I curse myself for ever having thought her wise or good."

He flung himself into a chair, and groaned like one in acute pain; and I, thinking he wished to be alone, slipped away before he raised his head from between his clasped hands.

"What could he mean by asking me so many questions?" I cried, as I threw myself into an easy chair in my luxurious apartment. "Were they instigated by the wine he had drank, or suggested by idle curiosity? or were my answers intended to answer some sinister purpose? G.o.d knows! He is a strange, inexplicable man, whose words and actions the most profound lawyer could scarcely fathom. I think he endeavoured to make me intoxicated in the hope of extracting some information regarding poor George. If so, he has missed his mark."

I drew from my bosom the portraits he had given me, perhaps, as a bait to win my confidence; but I was thankful to him for the inestimable gift, whatever the motives were which led to its bestowal.

The first case contained the miniature of my father. The gay, careless, happy countenance, full of spirit and intelligence, seemed to smile upon his unfortunate son.

I raised my eyes to the mirror--the same features met my glance: but ah, how different the expression of the two faces. Mine was saddened and paled by early care, and close confinement to a dark unhealthy office; at twenty, I was but a faded likeness of my father.

I sighed as I pressed the portrait to my heart. In the marked difference between us I read distinctly the history of two lives.

But how shall I describe my feelings whilst gazing on the picture of my mother? The fast falling tears for a long while hid the fondly remembered features from my sight; but they still floated before the eyes of my soul in all their original loveliness.

Yes, there was the sweet calm face, the large soft confiding blue eyes, the small rosy mouth with its gentle winning smile, and the modest truthful expression of the combined features which gave such a charm to the whole.

Oh, my mother! my dear lost, angel mother! how that picture recalled the far-off happy days of childhood, when I sat upon your knees, and saw my own joyous face reflected in those dove-like eyes! when, ending some nursery rhyme with a kiss, you bowed your velvet cheek upon my cl.u.s.tering curls, and bade G.o.d bless and keep your darling boy! Would that I could become a child again, or that I could go to you, though you cannot return to me!

I leant my head upon the table and wept. Those tears produced a salutary effect upon my mind, and slipping down upon my knees, I poured out the feelings of my oppressed heart in prayer, and after awhile rose from the ground in a more composed state of mind. The picture still lay there smiling upon me. "Is it of you, dearest mother," said I, "that bad men dare whisper hard things? Who could look at that pure lovely face and believe aught against your honour? I could despise my father, though his only son, could I for an instant imagine him capable of taking advantage of such youth and innocence. But no, it is a foul slander invented by a villain to answer some base purpose; and may I perish, when I believe it true!"

I locked the portraits carefully in my desk, and retired to bed. The wine I had drank and the unusual excitement of my feelings for a long time prevented sleep, and it was the dawn of day before I sank to rest.

CHAPTER XIII.

A VISIT FROM THE GREAT MAN OF THE FAMILY.

From that day I became Mr. Moncton's factotum, his confidential clerk, and princ.i.p.al agent. In all matters that required prompt and skilful management, he invariably employed me.

If he did not regard me with affection, for that was foreign to his nature, he respected my abilities, and placed the greatest reliance on my principles. I attended him in most of his professional journeys, and was present in every court in which he had an important case. I no sooner appeared with him in public than I became a person of considerable consequence among his friends and acquaintances, and invitations flowed in upon me from all quarters. One thing appeared very certain, that the same persons who had despised the shabbily-dressed lawyer's clerk, no longer regarded me with cold eyes as a _poor relation_, but were among the first to overwhelm me with civilities; and, for a while, I was intoxicated with the adulation I received from the world and its smooth-tongued votaries.

Three months glided rapidly away, and every day added to my self-importance, and brought with it fresh opportunities of enlarging the circle of my friends, and of acquiring a competent knowledge of the conventional rules of society. Though naturally fond of company, I hated dissipation, and those low vices which many young men designate as pleasure, in the pursuit of which they too often degrade their mental and physical powers. Mr. Moncton laughed at what he termed my affectation of moral integrity, and tried by every art to seduce me to join in amus.e.m.e.nts, and visit scenes, from which my mind revolted; and his own example served to strengthen my disgust. My resistance to such temptations I do not ascribe to any inherent virtue in me; but I have often observed in my subsequent journey through life, that young men, whose knowledge of the world has chiefly been confined to books, and who have never mingled much with persons of their own age, are guarded from low vices by the romantic and beautiful ideal of life, which they formed in solitude. The coa.r.s.e reality is so shocking and degrading, so repugnant to taste and good feeling, and all their preconceived notions upon the subject, that they cannot indulge in it without remorse and a painful sense of degradation. This was so completely my case, that I often fled to solitude as a refuge from pleasures, so-called, which I could not enjoy, and scenes in which I felt shame to be an actor.

Perhaps I was mainly indebted to the pa.s.sion I had conceived for the beautiful Catherine, which acted as a secret talisman in securing me from the contaminating influences to which, in my new position, I was often exposed. In the hope of meeting again the fair creature whose image filled my soul, I had frequented theatres, operas, and mixed much in society, but to no purpose; on this head I was still doomed to suffer the most provoking disappointment.

One evening, I returned late from the office in Hatton Garden; my uncle was from home, and a great press of business had detained me beyond the usual dinner-hour, which was at six. The porter had scarcely admitted me into the hall, when one of the footmen, with whom I was a great favourite, addressed me with an air of mystery which I thought highly amusing, he seemed so anxious to impress me with the importance of the news he had to communicate.

"Mr. Geoffrey, Sir Alexander Moncton, my master's cousin, sir, is in the dining-room, waiting to see you; and the dinner, sir, is waiting, too. I told him, sir, that we expected Mr. Moncton home this evening, and he bade his valet bring up his portmanteau from the hotel, and said that he would wait here till master returned."

"Thank you, Saunders, for your information," cried I, hurrying off to my chamber to dress for dinner.

I felt greatly excited at the prospect of the approaching interview with the great man of the family, who might prove a powerful friend to his friendless relative.