The Monctons Volume Ii Part 25

It was my uncle who lay bleeding there, slain by some unknown hand. A horrible thought flashed through my brain; a ghastly sickness came over me and I stifled the unnatural supposition.

In the meanwhile Harrison had succeeded in raising Mr. Moncton into a sitting posture, and had partly ascertained the nature of his wound.

Whilst thus employed, the moon shone full upon his face, and my uncle, uttering a cry of terror, fell prostrate on the ground, whilst the blood gushed in a dark stream from his wounded shoulder.

"Geoffrey," exclaimed George, beckoning me to come to him, "don't stand shaking there like a person in an ague fit. Something must be done, and that immediately, or your uncle will die on the road. Mount the high bank, and see if you can discover any dwelling nigh at hand, to which he can be conveyed."

His voice broke the horrid trance in which my senses were bound. I sprang up the steep side of the gravel pit, and saw before me a marshy meadow, and not far from the road, a light glimmered from a cabin window. It was a wretched-looking place, but the only habitation in sight, nearer than the village, whose church spire, about two miles distant, glimmered in the moonbeams. Turning our horses loose to graze in the meadow, we lifted a gate from the hinges, and placing the now insensible man upon this rough litter, which we covered with our travelling-cloaks, we succeeded with much difficulty, and after a considerable lapse of time, in reaching the miserable hovel.

On the approach of footsteps, the persons within extinguished the light, and for some time we continued rapping at the door without receiving any answer.

I soon lost all patience, and began to hallo and shout in the hope of provoking attention.

Another long pause.

"Open the door," cried I, "a man has been shot on the road: he will die without a.s.sistance."

A window in the thatch slowly unclosed, and a hoa.r.s.e female voice croaked forth in reply: "What concern is that of mine? Who are you who disturb honest folk at this hour of the night with your drunken clamours? My house is my castle. Begone, I tell you! I will not come down to let you in."

"Dinah North," said Harrison, solemnly, "I have a message for you, which you dare not gainsay--I command you to unbar the door and receive us instantly."

This speech was answered by a wild shrill cry, more resembling the howl of a tortured dog than any human sound. I felt the blood freeze in my veins. Harrison whispered in my ear: "She will obey my summons, which she believes not one of earth. Stay with your uncle, while I ride forward to the village to procure medical aid, and make a deposition before the magistrate of what has occurred. Don't let the fiend know that I am alive. It is of the utmost importance to us all, that she should still believe me dead."

I tried to detain him, not much liking my present position; but he had vanished, and shortly after I heard the clatter of his horse's hoofs galloping at full speed towards the town.

What a fearful termination of my gloomy presentiments, thought I, as I looked down at the livid face and prostrate form of Robert Moncton.

"Where will this frightful scene end?" I exclaimed.

The gleam of a light flashed across the broken cas.e.m.e.nt; the next moment Dinah North stood before me.

"Geoffrey Moncton, is this you?" There was another voice that spoke to me--a voice from the grave. "Where is your companion?"

"I am alone with the dead," said I, pointing to the body. "Look there!"

She held up the light and bent over that insensible bleeding ma.s.s, and looked long, and I thought triumphantly, at the ghastly face of the accomplice in all her crimes. Then turning her hollow eyes on me, she said calmly:

"Did you murder him?"

"No, thank G.o.d! I am guiltless of his blood; but he seems to know the hand that dealt the blow."

"Ha, ha!" shrieked the hag, "my dream was true--my horrible dream.

Even so, last night, I saw Robert Moncton weltering in his blood, and my poor Alice was wiping the death-damps from his brow; and I saw more--more, but it was a sight for the d.a.m.ned--a sight which cannot be repeated to mortal ears. Yes, Robert Moncton, it is all up with you; we have sinned together and must both drink of that fiery cup. I know the worst now."

"Hus.h.!.+ he moves--he still lives. He may yet recover. Let us carry him into the house."

"He has troubled the earth and your father's house long enough, Geoffrey Moncton," said the strange woman, in a softened, and I thought, melancholy tone. "It is time that both he and I received the reward of our misdeeds."

She a.s.sisted me to carry the body into the house, and stripping off the clothes, we laid it upon a low flock bed, which occupied one corner of the miserable apartment, over which she threw a coa.r.s.e woollen coverlid.

She then examined the wound with a critical eye, and after was.h.i.+ng it with brandy she said that the ball could be extracted, and she thought that the wound was not mortal and might be cured.

Tearing his neckcloth into bandages, she succeeded in staunching the blood, and diluting some of the brandy with water, she washed the face of the wounded man, and forced a few spoonfuls down his throat.

Drawing a long, deep sigh, Robert Moncton unclosed his eyes. For some minutes, they rested unconsciously upon us. Recollection slowly returned, and recoiling from the touch of that abhorrent woman he closed them again and groaned heavily.

"We have met, Robert, in an evil hour. The friends.h.i.+p of the wicked brings no comfort in the hour of death or in the day of judgment."

"Avaunt witch! The sight of your hideous face is worse than the pangs of death. Death," he repeated slowly--"I am not near death--I will not die--I cannot die."

"You dare not!" said Dinah, in a low, malignant whisper. "Is this cowardly dastard, the proud, wealthy Robert Moncton, who thought to build up his house by murder and treachery? Methinks this is a n.o.ble apartment and a fitting couch for the body of Sir Robert Moncton to lie in state."

"Mocking fiend! what pleasure can you find in my misery?"

"Much, much--oh, how much! It is not fair that I should bear the tortures of the d.a.m.ned alone. Since the death of the only thing I ever loved I have had strange thoughts and terrible visions; restless, burning nights and fearful days. But I cannot repent or wish undone that which is done. I can neither weep nor pray; I can only curse--bitterly curse thee and thine! I rejoice to see this hour--to know that before I depart to your Master and mine, the vengeance of my soul will be satisfied."

"Geoffrey, I implore you to drive that beldame from the room. The sight of her hideous face and her ominous croaking will drive me mad."

"Uncle, do not exhaust your strength by answering her. She is not in her right senses. In a few minutes my friend will return with surgical aid, and we will get you removed to more comfortable lodgings in the village."

"Do not deceive yourselves," returned Dinah: "from the bed on which he now lies, the robber and murderer will never rise again. As he has sown so must he reap. He deserves small kindness at your hands, Geoffrey Moncton. You should rather rejoice that the sting of the serpent is drawn, and that he can hurt you and yours no more."

"Alas!" returned I, taking the hand of the wretched sufferer in mine, "how much rather would I see him turn from his evil deeds and live!"

"G.o.d bless you! Geoffrey," sobbed forth my miserable uncle, bursting into tears: perhaps the first he ever shed in his life. "Deeply have I sinned against you, n.o.ble, generous boy. Can you forgive me for my past cruelty?"

"I can--I do; and should it please G.o.d to restore you to health, I will prove the truth of what I say by deeds, not words."

"Do not look so like your father, Geoffrey. His soul speaks to me through your eyes. Your kindness heaps coals of fire upon my head. It would give me less torture to hear you curse than pray for me."

"Pray for yourself, uncle. I have never attended to these things as I ought to have done. I am punished now, when I have no word of comfort or instruction for you."

"Pray!" and he drew a long sigh. "My mother died when Ned and I were boys. We soon forgot the prayers she taught us. My father's G.o.d was Mammon. He taught me early to wors.h.i.+p at the same shrine. No, Geoffrey, no: it is too late to pray. I feel--I know that I am lost. I have no part or lot in the Saviour--no love for G.o.d, in whom I never believed until this fatal hour.

"I have injured you, Geoffrey, and am willing to make all the reparation in my power by restoring to you those rights which I have laboured so hard to set aside."

"Spare yourself, uncle, the painful relation. Let no thought on that score divert your mind from making its peace with G.o.d. Walters has returned, and the doc.u.ments necessary to prove my legitimacy are in Sir Alexander's hands."

"Walters returned!" shrieked my uncle. "Both heaven and h.e.l.l conspire against me. What a tale can he unfold."

"Ay, and what a sequel can I add to it," said Dinah, rising from her seat, and standing before him like one of the avenging furies. "Listen to me, Geoffrey Moncton, for it shall yet be told."

"Spare me! cruel woman, in mercy spare me. Is not your malice sufficiently gratified to see me humbled to the dust?"

"Ah! if your villainy had proved successful, and you were revelling in wealth and splendour, instead of grovelling there beneath the lash of an awakened conscience, where would be your repentance? What would _then_ become of Geoffrey Moncton's claims to legitimacy? I trow he would remain a b.a.s.t.a.r.d to the end of his days."

"Geoffrey, for G.o.d's sake bid that woman hold her venomous tongue. I feel faint and sick with her upbraidings."

"He is fainting," said I, turning to Dinah. "Allow him to die in peace."