I found the old woman huddled up in her wet
clothes, in the same dejected attitude in which I had left her. When I
addressed her, she raised her head with a fierce, menacing gesture. She
evidently mistook me for Mr. Moncton, and smiled disdainfully on
perceiving her error. When I repeated his answer, it was received with
a bitter and derisive laugh.

"He will not see me?"

"I have given you my uncle's answer."

"_Uncle!_" she cried, with a repetition of the same horrid laugh. "By
courtesy, I suppose; I was not aware that there was another shoot of
that accursed tree."

I gazed upon her like one in a dream. The old woman drew a slip of
paper from her bosom, bidding me convey _that_ to my _worthy_ uncle,
and ask him, in her name, "whether he, or his son, _dared_ to refuse
admittance to the bearer."

I took the billet from her withered hand, and once more proceeded to
the study. As I passed through the passage, an irresistible impulse of
curiosity induced me to glance at the paper, which was unsealed, and my
eye fell upon the following words, traced in characters of uncommon
beauty and delicacy:

"If Robert Moncton refuses to admit my claims, and to do me
justice, I will expose his villainy, and his son's heartless
desertion, to the world.

"A. M."

I had scarcely read the mysterious billet than I felt that I had done
wrong. I was humbled and abashed in my own eyes, and the riddle
appeared as difficult of solution as ever. My uncle's voice sounded as
ominously in my ears as the stroke of a death-bell, as he called me
sharply by name. Hastily refolding the note, I went into his study, and
placed it on the table before him, with an averted glance and trembling
hand. I dreaded lest his keen, clear eye should read guilt in my
conscious face. Fortunately for me, he was too much agitated himself to
notice my confusion. He eagerly clutched the paper, and his aspect grew
dark as he perused it.

"Geoffrey," said he, and his voice, generally so clear and passionless,
sunk into a choking whisper, "Is that woman gone?"

"No, uncle, she is still there, and dares you to refuse her
admittance."

I had thought Robert Moncton icy and immovable--that his blood never
flowed like the blood of other men. I had deceived myself. Beneath the
snow-capped mountain, the volcano conceals its hottest fires. My
uncle's cold exterior was but the icy crust that hid the fierce
passions which burnt within his breast. He for