The Monctons | Page 4

tall, portly man, whom the world would call
handsome. His features were good, and his complexion darkly brilliant;
but there was a haughty, contemptuous expression in his large,
prominent, selfish-looking eyes, which sent a chill to my heart.
Glittering and glassy, they sparkled like ice--clear, sarcastic and
repelling--and oh, how cold! The glance of that eye made me silent in a
moment. It fascinated like the eye of a snake. I continued to shiver and
stare at him, as long as its scornful gaze remained riveted upon my face.
I felt a kindred feeling springing up in my heart--a feeling of defiance
and resistance which would fain return hatred for hatred, scorn for
scorn; and never in after-life could I meet the searching look of that
stern cold eye, without experiencing the same outward abhorrence and
inward revulsion.
He took my hand, and turning me round, examined my countenance

with critical minuteness, neither moved by my childish indignation nor
my tears. "A strong-limbed straight-made fellow, this. I did not think
that Edward could be the father of such an energetic-looking boy. He's
like his grandfather, and if I mistake not, will be just as obstinate and
self-sustained."
"A true Moncton," returned his companion, a coarse-featured,
vulgar-looking man, with a weak, undecided, but otherwise kindly
countenance. "You will not be able to bend that young one to your
purpose."
A bitter smile was the reply, and a fixed stare from those terribly bright
eyes.
"Poor child! He's very unfortunate," continued the same speaker. "I pity
him from my very soul!" He placed his large hand kindly upon my
head, and drawing me between his knees held up my face and kissed
me with an air of parental tenderness. Touched by the unexpected
caress, I clasped my arms about his neck, and hid my face in his bosom.
He flung himself into a large chair, and lifted me upon his knee.
"You seem to have taken a fancy to the boy," said my uncle, in the
same sarcastic tone. "Suppose you adopt him as your son. I would
gladly be rid of him for ever; and would pay well for his change of
name and country. Is it a bargain?" and he grasped his companion by
the shoulder.
"No. I will not incur the responsibility. I have done too much against
the poor child already. Besides, a man with ten children has no need of
adopting the child of a stranger. Providence has thrown him into your
hands, Robert Moncton; and whether for good or evil, I beseech you to
treat the lad kindly for his father's sake."
"Well, well, I must, I see, make the best of a bad bargain. But, Walters,
you could so easily take him with you to America. He has no friends by
his mother's side, to make any stir about his disappearance. Under your
name his identity will never be recognized, and it would be taking a
thorn out of my side."

"To plant it in my own heart. The child must remain with you."
I did not pay very particular attention to this conversation at the time,
but after events recalled it vividly to my recollection.
The undertaker put an end to the conference by informing the
gentlemen that "all was ready, and the hearse was about to move
forward." My nurse placed me in a mourning coach, beside my uncle
and his companion, in order that I might form part of that dismal
procession, to the nearest cemetery. I shall never forget the impression
that solemn scene made on my mind. My first ideas of death and decay
were formed whilst standing beside my mother's grave. There my heart
received its first life-lesson; and owned its first acquaintanceship with
grief--the ideal vanished, and the hard, uncompromising real took its
place.
After the funeral was over, I accompanied my Uncle Robert to his
house in Hatton Garden. At the door we parted with Mr. Walters, and
many years elapsed, before I saw his face again.
CHAPTER III.
MY AUNT REBECCA.
Mrs. Moncton welcomed the poor orphan with kindness. She was a
little, meek-looking woman; with a sweet voice, and a very pale face.
She might have been pretty when young, but my boyish impression was
that she was very plain. By the side of her tall, stern partner, she looked
the most delicate, diminutive creature in the world; and her gentle,
timid manner made the contrast appear greater than it really was.
"God bless you! my poor child," said she, lifting me up in her arms and
wiping the tears from my face. "You are young, indeed, to be left an
orphan."
I clasped her neck and sobbed aloud. The sound of her voice reminded
me of my mother, and I began to comprehend dimly all I