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قراءة كتاب The Monctons: A Novel. Volume 2 (of 2)
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foliage of the glorious old tree, in whose broad-spreading branches, I had played and frolicked when a boy.
"'THE SONG.
I once was happy, blithe and gay,
No maiden's heart was half so light;
I cannot sing, for well a-day!
My morn of bliss is quenched in night.
I cannot weep—my brain is dry,
Deep woe usurps the voice of mirth
The sunshine of youth's cloudless sky
Has faded from this goodly earth.
My soul is wrapped in midnight gloom,
And all that charmed my heart before,
Droops earthward to the silent tomb,
Where darkness dwells for evermore.'
"The voice ceased. I stepped from my hiding-place. Alice rose from the bench beside the door; the work on which she was employed fell from her hand, and she stood before me wild and wan—the faded spectre of past happiness and beauty.
"'Good heavens! Alice, Can this be you?'
"'I may return the compliment,' she said, with a ghastly smile. 'Can this be Philip? Misery has not been partial, or your brow wears its mark in vain.'
"'Unhappy sister of an unhappy brother!' I cried, folding her passive form to my heart, 'I need not ask why you are altered thus.'
"The fire which had been burning in my brain for some weeks, yielded to softer emotions. My head sunk upon her shoulder, and I wept long and bitterly.
"Alice regarded me with a curious and mournful glance, but shed no tears.
"'Alice! That villain has deceived you?'
"She shook her head.
"'It is useless to deny facts so apparent. Do you love him still?'
"She sighed deeply. 'Yes, Philip. But he has ceased to love me.'
"'Deserted you?'
"Her lip quivered. She was silent.
"'The villain! his life shall answer for the wrong he has done you!'
"The blood rushed to her pale, wasted cheeks, her eyes flashed upon me with unnatural brilliancy, and grasping my arm, she fiercely and vehemently replied—
"'Utter that threat but once again, and we become enemies for life. If he has injured me and made me the wreck you see—it is not in the way you think. To destroy him would drive me to despair. It would force me to commit an act of desperation. I will suffer no one to interfere between me and the man I love. I am strong enough to take my own part—to avenge myself, if need be. I can bear my own grief in silence, and therefore beg that you will spare your sympathy for those who weep and pule over misfortune. I would rather be reproached than pitied for sorrows that I draw upon myself.'
"She sat down trembling with excitement, and tried to resume her former occupation. Presently the needle dropped from her hand, and she looked wistfully up in my face:—
"'Philip, what brought you here?'
"'An unwelcome visitor, I fear.'
"'Perhaps so. People always come at the worst times, and when they are least wanted.'
"'Do you include your brother in that sweeping common-place term—has he become to you as one of the people? Ah, Alice.'
"'We have been no more to each other for the last three years, Philip. Your absence and long silence made me forget that I had a brother. Few could suppose it, from the little interest you ever expressed for me.'
"'I did not think of you, or love you the less.'
"'Mere words. Love cannot brook long separation from the object beloved. It withers beneath neglect, and without personal intercourse droops and dies. While you were happy and prosperous you never came near us; and I repeat again—what brings you now?'
"'I have been unfortunate, Alice; the dupe of villains who have robbed me of my property, while my own folly has deprived me of self-respect and peace of mind. Ill and heart-sick, I could not resist the strong desire to return to my native place to die.'
"'There is no peace here, Philip,' said she, in a low soft voice. 'I too, would fain lie down on the lap of mother earth and forget my misery. But we are too young—too wretched to die. Death comes to the good and happy, and cuts down the strong man like the flower of the field; but flies the wretch who courts it, and grins in ghastly mockery on the couch of woe. Take my advice, Philip Mornington, lose no time in leaving this place. Here, danger besets you on every side.'
"'Why, Alice, do you think I fear the puny arm of Theophilus Moncton—the base betrayer of innocence.'
"'Why Theophilus. Spare your reproaches, Philip; we shall quarrel seriously if you mention that name with disrespect to me—I cannot, and will not bear it. It was not him I meant. You have offended our grandmother by your long absence, Dinah loves you not. It is her anger I would warn you to shun.'
"'And do you think I am such a coward, as to tremble and fly from the malice of a peevish old granny?'
"'You laugh at my warning, Philip. You may repent rashness when too late. The fang of the serpent is not deadened by age, and the rancour in the human heart seldom diminishes, with years. Dinah never loved you, and absence has not increased the strength of her affection.'
"'I am not come to solicit charity, Alice. I have still enough to pay the old woman handsomely for board and lodging until my health returns, or death terminates my sufferings. If Dinah takes me—a fact I do not doubt—she loves money. Where is she now?'
"'In the village, I expect her in every minute.'
"'And Miss Moncton?' I said, hesitating, and lowering my voice. 'How is she?'
"'I don't know,' returned Alice, carelessly, 'the Hall is no longer open to me.'
"'That tells its own tale,' said I sorrowfully.
"'The tale may be false, in spite of probability,' returned she fiercely. 'No one should dare openly condemn another without sufficient evidence.'
"'They need not go far for that,' said I.
"'That is your opinion.'
"'On most conclusive evidence.'
"'How charitable.'
"'How true, Alice.'
"'False as the world. As you, as every one is to the unfortunate,' she cried, with indignation in her eyes and scorn upon her lip, 'but here is Dinah—Dinah, whom you consider unfeeling and cruel. She knows me, and loves me better than you do. She does not join with a parcel of conventional hypocrites to condemn me.'
"As she ceased speaking, Dinah entered with a basket on her arm. After the first surprise at my unexpected and unwelcome appearance was over, she accosted me with more amenity of look and manner than I ever before knew her to assume.
"'How are you, Philip? you look ill. Suppose you have got into some trouble, or we should not be honoured by a visit?'
"'You are right, in part, grandmother. I have been sick for some days, and have come home for change of air and good nursing.'
"I put a handful of gold in her lap. 'You see I am willing and able to pay for the trouble I give. When this is gone, you can have more.'
"'Money is always welcome—more welcome often than those that bring it. All things considered, however, I am glad to see you. When relatives are too long separated, they become strangers to each other. Alice and I had concluded that you only regarded us as such. The sight of you will renew the old tie of kindred, and make you one of us again. Quick, Alice, get your brother some supper; he must be hungry after his long journey.'
"'I am in no need; Alice, do not trouble yourself; I feel too ill to eat; I will go to bed if you please. All I want at present is rest.'
"Dinah, who was passing the gold from one hand to the other, and gazing upon it with infinite satisfaction, suddenly looked up and repeated the last word after me, with peculiar emphasis.
"'Rest! Who rests in this world? Even sleep is not rest; the body sleeps, but the soul toils on, on, on, for ever. There is no such thing as rest. If I