"But not until after I had been first condemned, and brutally maltreated. The less said on that score, uncle, the better." He laughed--his low, sarcastic, sneering laugh, but did not choose to be angry. "There are circumstances connected with your birth, Geoffrey, that evidently were the cause of these slights. People will not pay the same respect to a natural child, which they do to a legitimate one." "Good God!" I exclaimed, starting from my chair. "You don't mean to insinuate--you dare not say, that I am a bastard?" "Such is the fact." "It is a falsehood! invented to ruin me!" I exclaimed, defiantly. "One of these days you shall be forced to prove it such." "I shall be very happy to do so--if you will only give me the proofs." "_Proofs!_" I exclaimed, bitterly, "they are in your own possession--or you have destroyed them!" "What interest can I have in trying to make you a bastard? Is the boy mad?" "You never act without a motive," I cried; "you know that I am heir to a title, and property that you covet for yourself and your son!" His pretended calmness was all gone. His pale face crimsoned with rage. Yet it was wonderful how instantaneously he mastered his passion. "Who told you this _probable_ story? Who put such absurd notions into your head?" "One, upon whose word I can rely. My friend, Mr. Harrison." "I would like to ask Mr. Harrison what he knows of our family affairs," sneered Mr. Moncton. "He has proved himself a scoundrel by inventing this pretty little romance to get up a quarrel between us, and rob you of the only real friend you have. I will repay Mr. Harrison for this base falsehood, one of these days." I felt that I had, betrayed my friend, and perhaps by my foolish rashness marred my own fortunes. Inwardly I cursed my imprudence, and loaded myself with reproaches. Then the thought suggested itself, "Could my uncle be right--was I indeed illegitimate?" "No, no," I exclaimed, unconsciously aloud; "it is not true--I feel that it is false. A base falsehood got up to rob me of my good name--the only treasure left me by Providence when she deprived me of my parents. Uncle," I exclaimed, standing erect before him, "I will never part with it. I will maintain my equality with you and your son to the last moment of my life." Overcome by excitement and agitation, I sank down into a chair, my head dropped upon the table and I sobbed convulsively. "Geoffrey," said my uncle, in a low voice, in which an unusual touch of kindness mingled, "calm down this furious passion. Poor lad! I pity and excuse your indignation; both are natural in your case." "Such sympathy is worse than hate," I muttered. "Well, believe me the author of all your wrongs, if it pleases you, Geoffrey; but first listen to what I have to say." I was too much exhausted by the violence of my emotions to offer the least opposition, and he had it entirely his own way--commencing his remarks with a provoking coolness which cut me to the heart.