I did little else the first day my uncle introduced me to this charming room, but to walk to and fro from the book-case to the windows; now glancing at the pages of some long coveted treasure; now watching with intense interest the throng of carriages passing and repassing; hoping to catch a glance of the fair face, which had made such an impression on my youthful fancy.
A note from Mr. Moncton, kindly worded for him, conveyed to me the pleasing intelligence that the handsome pressful of fine linen, and fashionably cut clothes, was meant for my use; to which he had generously added, a beautiful dressing-case, gold watch and chain.
I should have been perfectly happy, had it not been for a vague, unpleasant sensation—a certain swelling of the heart, which silently seemed to reproach me for accepting all these favours from a person whom I neither loved nor respected.
Conscience whispered that it was far better to remain poor and independent, than compromise my integrity. Oh, that I had given more heed to that voice of the soul! That still, small voice, which never lies—that voice which no one can drown, without remorse and self-condemnation.
Time brought with it the punishment I deserved, convincing me then, and for ever, that no one can act against his own conviction of right, without incurring the penalty due to his moral defalcation.
I dined alone with Mr. Moncton.
He asked me if I was pleased with the apartments he had selected for my use. I was warm in my thanks, and he appeared satisfied.
After the cloth was drawn, he filled a bumper of wine, and pushed the bottle over to me.
"Here's to your rising to the head of the profession, Geoffrey. Fill your glass, my boy."
I drank part of the wine, and set the glass down on the table. It was fine old Madeira. I had not been used to drink anything stronger than tea and coffee, and I found it mounting to my head.