THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 
 
 \i -
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING 
 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OP " RIENZI," " EUGENE ARAM," 
 &c. &c, 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 
 1841.
 
 LON DON : 
 
 nv MOVES AND BARCLAY, CASIM r STREET, 
 
 LEICESTER SQl'ARK.
 
 SfacK- 
 Annex 
 
 A! 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 in meineg SebenS Senje 
 9Bar id) unb td^ roanbert' aug/ 
 Unb ber Sugenb frofye 
 t^ in beg 
 
 SCHILLER : Der Pilgrim. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 
 RESERVE
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 Now rests our vicar. They who knew him best, 
 Proclaim his life to hare been entirely rest ; 
 Nor one so old has left this world of sin, 
 More like the being that he entered in." CRABBE. 
 
 IN one of the Welsh counties is a small village 
 
 called A . It is somewhat removed from 
 
 the high road, and is, therefore, but little 
 known to those luxurious amateurs of the 
 Picturesque who view Nature through the 
 windows of a carriage and four. Nor, indeed, 
 is there any thing, whether of scenery or asso- 
 ciation, in the place itself, sufficient to allure 
 the more sturdy enthusiast from the beaten 
 tracks which tourists and guide-books pre- 
 scribe to those who search the Sublime and
 
 4 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 Beautiful amidst the mountain homes of the 
 ancient Britons. Still, on the whole, the 
 village is not without its attractions. It is 
 placed in a small valley, through which winds 
 and leaps, down many a rocky fall a clear, 
 babbling, noisy rivulet, that affords excellent 
 sport to the brethren of the angle. Thither, 
 accordingly, ui the summer season occasionally 
 resort the Waltons of the neighbourhood 
 young farmers, I'etired traders, with now and 
 then a stray artist, or a roving student from 
 one of the Universities. Hence the solitary 
 hostelry of A , being somewhat more fre- 
 quented, is also more clean and comfortable 
 than could be reasonably anticipated from the 
 insignificance and remoteness of the village. 
 
 At the time in which my narrative opens, the 
 village boasted a sociable, agreeable, careless, 
 half-starved parson, who never failed to intro- 
 duce himself to any of the anglers who, during 
 the summer months, passed a day or two in 
 the little valley. The Reverend Mr. Caleb 
 Price had been educated at the University of
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 Cambridge, where he had contrived, in three 
 years, to run through a little fortune of 3,500/., 
 without gaining in return any more valuable 
 mental acquisitions than those of making the 
 most admirable milk-punch, and becoming the 
 most redoubted boxer in his college ; or any 
 more desirable reputation than that of being 
 one of the best-natured, rattling, open-hearted 
 companions whom you could desire by your side 
 in a tandem to Newmarket, or in a row with 
 the bargemen. He had not failed, by the help 
 of these gifts and accomplishments, to find 
 favour, while his money lasted, with the young 
 aristocracy of the " Gentle Mother." And, 
 though the very reverse of an ambitious or 
 calculating man, he had certainly nourished 
 the belief that some one of the hats or tinsel 
 gowns i. e. young lords or fellow-commoners, 
 with whom he was on such excellent terms, 
 and who supped with him so often would do 
 something for him in the way of a living. 
 But it so happened that when Mr. Caleb 
 Price had, with a little difficulty, scrambled
 
 6 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 through his degree, and found himself a Bache- 
 lor of Arts and at the end of his finances, his 
 grand acquaintances parted from him to their 
 various posts in the State -Militant of Life. 
 And, with the exception of one, joyous and 
 reckless as himself, Mr. Caleb Price found that 
 when Money makes itself wings it flies away 
 with our friends. As poor Price had earned no 
 academical distinction, so he could expect no 
 advancement from his college ; no fellowship ; 
 no tutorship leading hereafter to livings, stalls, 
 and deaneries. Poverty began already to stare 
 him in the face, when the only friend who, 
 having shared his prosperity, remained true to 
 his adverse fate a friend, fortunately for him, 
 of high connexions and brilliant prospects 
 succeeded in obtaining for him the humble 
 
 living of A . To this primitive spot the 
 
 once jovial royster cheerfully retired con- 
 trived to live contented upon an income some- 
 what less than he had formerly given to his 
 groom preached very short sermons to a 
 very scanty and ignorant congregation, some
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 7 
 
 of whom only understood Welsh did good 
 to the poor and sick in his own careless, 
 slovenly way and, uncheered, or un vexed 
 by wife and children, he rose in summer 
 with the lark, and in winter went to bed 
 at nine precisely, to save coals and candles. 
 For the rest, he was the most skilful angler 
 in the whole county ; and so willing to 
 communicate the results of his experience as 
 to the most taking colour of the flies, and the 
 most favoured haunts of the trout that he 
 had given especial orders at the inn, that when- 
 ever any strange gentleman came to fish, Mr. 
 Caleb Price should be immediately sent for. 
 In this, to be sure, our worthy pastor had his 
 usual recompense. First, if the stranger were 
 tolerably liberal, Mr. Price was asked to dinner 
 at the inn ; and, secondly, if this failed, from 
 the poverty or the churlishness of the obliged 
 party, Mr. Price still had an opportunity to 
 hear the last news to talk about the Great 
 World in a word, to exchange ideas, and
 
 8 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 perhaps to get an old newspaper, or an odd 
 number of a magazine. 
 
 Now, it so happened that one afternoon in 
 October, when the periodical excursions of 
 the anglers, becoming rarer and more rare, 
 had altogether ceased, Mr. Caleb Price was 
 summoned from his parlour, in which he had 
 been employed in the fabrication of a net for 
 his cabbages, by a little white-headed boy, 
 who came to say there was a gentleman at the 
 inn who wished immediately to see him a 
 strange gentleman, who had never been there 
 before. 
 
 Mr. Price threw down his net, seized his 
 hat, and, in less than five minutes, he was in 
 the best room of the little inn. 
 
 The person there awaiting him was a man 
 who, though plainly clad in 'a velveteen 
 shooting -jacket, had an air and mien greatly 
 above those common to the pedestrian visitors 
 
 of A . He was tall, and of one of those 
 
 athletic forms in which vigour in youth is
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 9 
 
 too often purchased by corpulence in age. At 
 this period, however, in the full prime of 
 manhood the ample chest and sinewy limbs, 
 seen to full advantage in their simple and manly 
 dress could not fail to excite that popular 
 admiration which is always given to strength 
 in the one sex as to delicacy in the other. 
 The stranger was walking impatiently to and 
 fro the small apartment when Mr. Price en- 
 tered ; and then, turning to the clergyman a 
 countenance handsome and striking, but yet 
 more prepossessing from its expression of frank- 
 ness than from the regularity of its features, 
 he stopped short, held out his hand, and said, 
 with a gay laugh, as he glanced over the 
 parson's threadbare and slovenly costume, 
 "My poor Caleb! what a metamorphosis! 
 I should not have known you again!" 
 
 " What ! you ! Is it possible, my dear 
 fellow ? how glad I am to see you ! What 
 on earth can bring you to such a place? No! 
 not a soul would believe me if I said I had 
 seen you in this miserable hole." 
 
 B2
 
 10 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 " That is precisely the reason why I am 
 here. Sit down, Caleb, and we'll talk over 
 matters as soon as our landlord has brought 
 up the materials for ' 
 
 " The milk-punch," interrupted Mr. Price, 
 rubbing his hands. " Ah, that will bring us 
 back to old times, indeed ! " 
 
 In a few minutes the punch was prepared, 
 and after two or three preparatory glasses, the 
 stranger thus commenced : 
 
 " My dear Caleb, I am in want of your as- 
 sistance, and, above all, of your secrecy." 
 
 " I promise you both beforehand. It will 
 make me happy the rest of my life to think 1 
 have served my patron my benefactor the 
 only friend I possess." 
 
 " Tush, man! don't talk of that: we shall 
 do better for you one of these days. But now 
 to the point : I have come here to be married 
 married, old boy! married!" 
 
 And the stranger threw himself back in 
 his chair, and chuckled with the glee of a 
 school-boy.
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 11 
 
 " Humph !" said the parson, gravely. " It 
 is a serious thing to do, and a very odd place 
 to come to." 
 
 " I admit both propositions : this punch is 
 superb. To proceed. You know that my 
 uncle's immense fortune is at his own disposal ; 
 if I disobliged him he would be capable of 
 leaving all to my brother. I should disoblige 
 him irrevocably if he knew that I had married 
 a tradesman's daughter. I am going to marry 
 a tradesman's daughter a girl in a million! 
 the ceremony must be as secret as possible. 
 And in this church, with you for the priest, I 
 do not see a chance of discovery." 
 
 " Do you marry by license ?" 
 
 " No ; my intended is not of age : and we 
 keep the secret even from her father. In this 
 village you will mumble over the Bans without 
 one of your congregation ever taking heed 
 of the name. I shall stay here a month for 
 the purpose. She is in London, on a visit to 
 a relation in the city. The Bans on her side 
 will be published with equal privacy in a little
 
 12 NTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 church near the Tower, where my name will 
 be no less unknown than here. Oh, I've 
 contrived it famously !" 
 
 " But my dear fellow, consider what you 
 risk." 
 
 " I have considered all, and I find every 
 chance in my favour. The bride will arrive 
 here on the day of our wedding : my servant 
 will be one witness ; some stupid old Welsh- 
 man, as antediluvian as possible I leave it to 
 you to select him shall be the other. My 
 servant I shall dispose of, and the rest I can 
 depend on." 
 
 But " 
 
 " I detest buts ; if I had to make a 
 language, I would not admit such a word in 
 it. And now, before I run on upon Catherine, 
 a subject quite inexhaustible, tell me, my dear 
 friend, something about yourself." 
 
 ***** 
 * # * * * 
 
 Somewhat more than a month had elapsed 
 since the arrival of the stranger at the village
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 13 
 
 inn. He had changed his quarters for the 
 Parsonage went out but little, and then chiefly 
 on foot-excursions among the sequestered hills 
 in the neighbourhood : he was therefore but 
 partially known by sight even in the village ; 
 
 and the visit of some old college friend to the 
 
 i 
 
 minister, though indeed it had never chanced 
 before, was not, in itself, so remarkable an event 
 as to excite any particular observation. The 
 Bans had been duly, and half inaudibly, hurried 
 over, after the service was concluded, and while 
 the scanty congregation were dispersing down 
 the little aisle of the church, when one morn- 
 ing a chaise and pair arrived at the Parsonage. 
 A servant out of livery leaped from the box. 
 The stranger opened the door of the chaise, 
 and , uttering a joyous exclamation, gave his arm 
 to a lady, who, trembling and agitated, could 
 scarely, even with that stalwart support, 
 descend the steps. "Ah!" she said, in a 
 voice choked with tears, when they found 
 themselves alone in the little parlour, " ah ! 
 if you knew how I have suffered !"
 
 14 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 How is it that certain words, and those the 
 homeliest, which the hand writes and the eye 
 reads, as trite and commonplace expressions 
 when spoken, convey so much, so many mean- 
 ings complicated and refined ? " Ah ! if you 
 knew how I have suffered !" 
 
 When the lover heard these words, his 
 gay countenance fell ; he drew back his 
 conscience smote him : in that complaint was 
 the whole history of a clandestine love, not 
 for both the parties, but for the woman the 
 painful secrecy the remorseful deceit the 
 shame the fear the sacrifice. She who 
 uttered those words was scarcely sixteen. It 
 is an early age to leave Childhood behind for 
 ever! 
 
 " My own love ! you have suffered, indeed ; 
 but it is over now." 
 
 " Over ! And what will they say of me 
 what will they think of me at home? Over! 
 Ah!" 
 
 " It is but for a short time ; in the course of 
 Nature, my uncle cannot live long : all then
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 15 
 
 will be explained. Our marriage once made 
 public, all connected with you will be proud 
 to own you. You will have wealth, station 
 a name among the first in the gentry of 
 England. But, above all, you will have the 
 happiness to think that your forbearance for a 
 time has saved me, and, it may be, our child- 
 ren, sweet one ! from poverty and " 
 
 "It is enough," interrupted the girl ; and 
 the expression of her countenance became 
 serene and elevated. " It is for you for your 
 sake. I know what you hazard : how much 
 I must owe you ! Forgive rne, this is the last 
 murmur you shall ever hear from these lips." 
 
 An hour after those words were spoken, the 
 marriage ceremony was concluded. 
 
 " Caleb," said the bridegroom, drawing the 
 clergyman aside as they were about to re-enter 
 the house, " you will keep your promise, I 
 know ; and you think I may depend implicitly 
 upon the good faith of the witness you have 
 selected ?"
 
 16 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 "Upon his good faith? no," said Caleb, 
 smiling; " but upon his deafness, his ignorance, 
 and his age. My poor old clerk ! he will have 
 forgotten all about it before this day three 
 mouths. Now I have seen your lady, I no 
 longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. 
 I never beheld so lovely a countenance. You 
 will be happy !" And the village priest sighed, 
 and thought of the coming winter and his 
 own lonely hearth. 
 
 " My dear friend, you have only seen her 
 beauty it is her least charm. Heaven knows 
 how often I have made love ; and this is the 
 only woman I have ever really loved. Caleb, 
 there is an excellent living that adjoins my 
 uncle's house. The rector is old ; when the 
 house is mine, you will not be long without the 
 living. We shall be neighbours, Caleb, and 
 then you shall try and find a bride for your- 
 self. Smith," and the bridegroom turned to 
 the servant who had accompanied his wife, and 
 served as a second witness to the marriage, 
 
 O '
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 17 
 
 " tell the post-boy to put-to the horses imme- 
 diately." 
 
 "Yes, sir. May .1 speak a word with 
 you?" 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 " Your uncle, sir, sent for me to come to 
 him, the day before we left town." 
 
 "Aha! indeed!" 
 
 " And I could just pick up among his ser- 
 vants that he had some suspicion at least, 
 that he had been making inquiries and 
 seemed very cross, sir." 
 
 " You went to him ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I was afraid. He has such a way 
 with him ; whenever his eye is fixed on mine, 
 I always feel as if it was impossible to tell a 
 lie; and and in short, I thought it was 
 best not to go." 
 
 "You did right. Confound this fellow!" 
 muttered the bridegroom, turning away; "he 
 is honest, and loves me : yet, if my uncle sees 
 him, he is clumsy enough to betray all. Well,
 
 18 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 I always meant to get him out of the way 
 the sooner the better. Smith ! " 
 
 "Yes, sir!" 
 
 " You have often said that you should like, 
 if you had some capital, to settle in Australia ; 
 your father is an excellent farmer ; you are 
 above the situation you hold with me; you 
 are well educated, and have some knowledge 
 
 * o 
 
 of agriculture ; you can scarcely fail to make 
 a fortune as a settler, and if you are of the same 
 mind still, why look you, I have just 1000Z. 
 at my bankers : you shall have half, if you like 
 to sail by the first packet." 
 
 " Oh, sir, you are too generous." 
 
 " Nonsense no thanks I am more pru- 
 dent than generous ; for I agree with you 
 that it is all up with me if my uncle gets hold 
 of you. I dread my prying brother, too; in 
 fact, the obligation is on my side : only stay 
 abroad till I am a rich man, and my marriage 
 made public, and then you may ask of me 
 what you will. It's agreed, then; order the
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 19 
 
 horses, we'll go round by Liverpool, and learn 
 about the vessels. By the way, my good 
 fellow, I hope you see nothing now of that 
 good-for-nothing brother of yours?" 
 
 " No, indeed, sir. It 's a thousand pities he 
 has turned out so ill, for he was the cleverest 
 of the family, and could always twist me 
 round his little finger." 
 
 "That's the very reason I mentioned him. 
 If he learned our secret, he would take it to 
 an excellent market. Where is he?" 
 
 " Hiding, I suspect, sir." 
 
 " Well, we shall put the sea between you : 
 so now all 's safe." 
 
 Caleb stood by the porch of his house as 
 the bride and bridegroom entered their humble 
 vehicle. Though then November, the day 
 was exquisitely mild and calm, the sky with- 
 out a cloud, and even the leafless trees seemed 
 to smile beneath the cheerful sun. And the 
 young bride wept no more ; she was with him 
 she loved she was his for ever. She forgot
 
 20 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 the rest. The hope the heart of sixteen 
 spoke brightly out through the blushes that 
 mantled over her fair cheeks. The bride- 
 groom's frank and manly countenance was 
 radiant with joy. As he waved his hand to 
 Caleb from the window, the postboy cracked 
 his whip, the servant settled himself on the 
 dickey, the horses started off in a brisk trot, 
 the clergyman was left alone ! 
 
 To be married is certainly an event in 
 life; to marry other people is, for a priest, a 
 very ordinary occurrence ; and yet, from that 
 day, a great change began to operate in the 
 spirits and the habits of Caleb Price. Have 
 you ever, my gentle reader, buried yourself for 
 some time quietly in the lazy ease of a dull 
 country life? have you ever become gradually 
 accustomed to its monotony, and inured to 
 its solitude ; and, just at the time when you 
 have half forgotten the great world that mare 
 magnum that frets and roars in the distance 
 have you ever received in your calm retreat
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 21 
 
 some visitor, full of the busy and excited life 
 which you imagined yourself contented to relin- 
 quish? If so, have you not perceived ; that 
 in proportion as his presence and communi- 
 cation either revived old memories, or brought 
 before you new pictures of" the bright tumult " 
 of that existence of which your guest made a 
 part, you began to compare him curiously 
 with yourself; you began to feel that what 
 before was to rest, is now to rot ; that your 
 years are gliding from you unenjoyed and 
 wasted ; that the contrast between the animal 
 life of passionate civilisation and the vege- 
 table torpor of motionless seclusion is one 
 that, if you are still young, it tasks your phi- 
 losophy to bear, feeling all the while that 
 the torpor may be yours to your grave ? And 
 when your guest has left you, when you are 
 again alone, is the solitude the same as it 
 was before? 
 
 Our poor Caleb had for years rooted his 
 thoughts to his village. His guest had been,
 
 22 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 like the Bird in the Fairy Tale, settling upon 
 the quiet branches, and singing so loudly and 
 so gladly of the enchanted skies afar, that, 
 when it flew away, the tree pined, nipped and 
 withering in the sober sun in which before it 
 had basked contented. The guest was, in- 
 deed, one of those men whose animal spirits 
 exercise upon such as come within their circle 
 the influence and power usually ascribed only 
 to intellectual qualities. During the month 
 he had sojourned with Caleb, he had brought 
 back to the poor parson all the gaiety of 
 the brisk and noisy novitiate that preceded 
 the solemn vow and the dull retreat the 
 social parties, the merry suppers, the open- 
 handed, open-hearted fellowship of riotous, 
 delightful, extravagant, thoughtless YOUTH. 
 And Caleb was not a bookman not a scho- 
 lar ; he had no resources in himself, no occu- 
 pation but his indolent and ill-paid duties. 
 The emotions, therefore, of the Active Man 
 were easily aroused within him. But if this
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 23 
 
 comparison between his past and present life 
 rendered him restless and disturbed, how 
 much more deeply and lastingly was he af- 
 fected by a contrast between his own future 
 and that of his friend ! not in those points 
 where he could never hope equality, wealth, 
 and station the conventional distinctions to 
 which, after all, a man of ordinary sense must 
 sooner or later reconcile himself but in that 
 one respect wherein all, high and low, pretend 
 to the same rights, rights which a man of 
 moderate warmth of feeling can never will- 
 ingly renounce, viz. a partner in a lot, how- 
 ever obscure; a kind face by a hearth, no 
 matter how mean it be ! And his happier 
 friend, like all men full of life, was full of 
 himself full of his love, of his future, of the 
 blessings of home, and wife, and children. 
 Then, too, the young bride seemed so fair, so 
 confiding, and so tender ; so formed to grace 
 the noblest, or to cheer the humblest home ! 
 And both were so happy, so all in all each to 
 each other, as they left that barren threshold !
 
 24 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 And the priest felt all this as, melancholy and 
 envious, he turned from the door in that No- 
 vember day, to find himself thoroughly alone. 
 He now began seriously to muse upon those 
 fancied blessings which men wearied with 
 celibacy see springing, heavenward, behind the 
 altar. A few weeks afterwards a notable 
 change was visible in the good man's exterior. 
 He became more careful of his dress, he shaved 
 every morning, he purchased a crop-eared 
 Welsh cob; and it was soon known in the 
 neighbourhood, that the only journey the cob 
 was ever condemned to take was to the house 
 of a certain squire, who, amidst a family of all 
 ages, boasted two very pretty marriageable 
 daughters. That was the second holyday-time 
 of poor Caleb the love-romance of his life: it 
 soon closed. On learning the amount of the 
 pastor's stipend, the squire refused to receive his 
 addresses ; and, shortly after, the girl to whom 
 he had attached himself made what the world 
 calls a happy match. And perhaps it was one, 
 for I never heard that she regretted the for-
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 25 
 
 saken lover. Perhaps Caleb was not one of 
 those whose place in a woman's heart is never 
 to be supplied. The lady married, the world 
 went round as before, the brook danced as 
 merrily through the village, the poor worked 
 the week-days, and the urchins gambolled 
 round the grave-stones on the Sabbath, and 
 the curate's heart was broken. He languished 
 gradually and silently away. The villagers ob- 
 served that he had lost his old good-humoured 
 smile, that he did not stop every Saturday 
 evening at the carrier's gate to ask if there 
 were any news stirring in the town which the 
 carrier weekly visited; that he did not come 
 to borrow the stray newspapers that now and 
 then found their way into the village; that, 
 as he sauntered along the brook-side, his 
 clothes hung loose on his limbs, and that he 
 no longer "whistled as he went;" alas, he 
 was no longer "in want of thought!" By 
 degrees, the walks themselves were suspended ; 
 the parson was no longer visible : a stranger 
 performed his duties. 
 
 VOL. i. c
 
 26 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 One day, it might be some three years after 
 the fatal visit I have commemorated one 
 very wild, rough day in early March, the 
 postman, who made the round of the dis- 
 trict, rung at the parson's bell. The single 
 female servant, her red hair loose on her neck, 
 replied to the call. 
 
 " And how is the master?" 
 
 " Very bad ;" and the girl wiped her eyes. 
 
 " He should leave you something hand- 
 some," remarked the postman, kindly, as he 
 pocketed the money for the letter. 
 
 The Pastor was in bed the boisterous wind 
 rattled down the chimney and shook the ill- 
 fitting casement in its rotting frame. The 
 clothes he had last worn were thrown care- 
 lessly about, unsmoothed, unbrushed ; the 
 scanty articles of furniture were out of their 
 proper places : slovenly discomfort marked 
 the death-chamber. And by the bedside stood 
 a neighbouring clergyman, a stout, rustic, 
 homely, thoroughly Welsh priest, who might 
 have sat for the portrait of Parson Adams.
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 27 
 
 " Here's a letter for you," said the visitor. 
 
 " For me!" echoed Caleb feebly. " Ah- 
 well is it not very dark, or are my eyes 
 failing?" The clergyman and the servant 
 drew aside the curtains and propped the 
 sick man up : he read as follows, slowly, 
 and with difficulty : 
 
 " DEAR CALEB, At last I can do some- 
 thing for you. A friend of mine has a living 
 in his gift just vacant, worth, I understand, 
 from three to four hundred a-year : pleasant 
 neighbourhood small parish. And my friend 
 keeps the hounds! just the thing for you. 
 He is, however, a very particular sort of per- 
 son wants a companion, and has a horror 
 of any thing evangelical ; wishes, therefore, 
 to see you before he decides. If you can 
 meet me in London, some day next month, 
 I'll present you to him, and I have no doubt 
 it will be settled. . You must think it strange 
 I never wrote to you since we parted, but
 
 28 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 you know I Dever was a very good corre- 
 spondent ; and as I had nothing to communi- 
 cate advantageous to you, I thought it a sort 
 of insult to enlarge on my own happiness, 
 and so forth. All I shall say on that score 
 is, that I've sown my wild oats ; and that 
 you may take my word for it, there's nothing 
 that can make a man know how large the 
 heart is, and how little the world, till he 
 comes home (perhaps after a hard day's hunt- 
 ing) and sees his own fire-side, and hears one 
 dear welcome; and oh, by the way, Caleb, 
 if you could but see my boy, the sturdiest 
 little rogue ! But enough of this. All that 
 vexes me is, that I've never yet been able to 
 declare my marriage : my uncle, however, 
 suspects nothing : my wife bears up against 
 all, like an angel as she is; still, in case of 
 any accident, it occurs to me, now I'm writing 
 to you, especially if you leave the place, that 
 it may be as well to send me an examined 
 copy of the Register. In those remote places
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 29 
 
 registers are often lost or mislaid ; and it may 
 be useful hereafter, . when I proclaim the 
 marriage, to clear up all doubt as to the 
 fact. 
 
 " Good by, old fellow. 
 
 " Yours most truly, 
 
 &c. &c." 
 
 " It comes too late," sighed Caleb, heavily, 
 and the letter fell from his hands. There was 
 a long pause. " Close the shutters," said the 
 sick man, at last ; " I think I could sleep : 
 and and pick up that letter." 
 
 With a trembling, but eager gripe, he 
 seized the paper, as a miser would seize the 
 deeds of an estate on which he has a mort- 
 gage. He smoothed the folds, looked com- 
 placently at the well-known hand, smiled 
 a ghastly smile! and then placed the letter 
 under his pillow and sank down : they left 
 him alone. He did not wake for some hours, 
 and that good - clergyman, poor as himself, 
 was again at his post. The only friendships
 
 30 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 that are really with us in the hour of need, 
 are those which are cemented by equality of 
 circumstance. In the depth of home, in 
 the hour of tribulation, by the bed of death, 
 the rich and the poor are seldom found side 
 by side. Caleb was evidently much feebler, 
 but his sense seemed clearer than it had been, 
 and the instincts of his native kindness were 
 the last that left him. " There is something 
 he wants me to do for him," he muttered. 
 " Ah! I remember: Jones, will you send 
 for the parish register? It is somewhere 
 in the vestry-room. I think but nothing's 
 kept properly. Better go yourself it's im- 
 portant." 
 
 Mr. Jones nodded, and sallied forth. The 
 register was not in the vestry ; the church- 
 wardens knew nothing about it; the clerk 
 a new clerk, who was also the sexton, 
 and rather a wild fellow, had gone ten 
 miles off to a wedding : every place was 
 searched ; till, at last, the book was found, 
 amidst a heap of old magazines and dusty
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 31 
 
 papers, in the parlour of Caleb himself. By 
 the time it was brought to him, the sufferer 
 was fast declining ; with some difficulty his 
 dim eye discovered the place where, amidst 
 the clumsy pot-hooks of the parishioners, 
 the large clear hand of his old friend, and 
 the trembling characters of the bride, looked 
 forth, distinguished. 
 
 " Extract this for me, will you?" said Caleb. 
 
 Mr. Jones obeyed. 
 
 " Now, just write above the extract : 
 
 " SIR, By Mr. Price's desire I send you 
 the enclosed. He is too ill to write himself. 
 But he bids me say that he has never been 
 quite the same man since you left him ; arid 
 that, if he should not get well again, still 
 your kind letter has made him easier in his 
 mind." 
 
 Caleb stopped. 
 *' Go on." 
 
 " That is all I have to say : sign your 
 name, and put the address here it is. Ah,
 
 32 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 the letter (he muttered) must not lie about! 
 If anything happen to me, it may get him 
 into trouble." 
 
 And as Mr. Jones sealed his communica- 
 tion, Caleb feebly stretched his wan hand, 
 and held the letter which had " come too 
 late" over the flame of the candle. As the 
 paper dropped on the carpetless floor, Mr. 
 Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole of 
 his top-boot, and the maid servant brushed it 
 into the grate. 
 
 " Ah, trample it out ; hurry it amongst 
 the ashes. The last as the rest," said Ca- 
 leb, hoarsely. " Friendship, fortune, hope, 
 love, life, a little flame, and then and 
 
 then " 
 
 " Don't be uneasy it's quite out!" said 
 Mr. Jones. 
 
 Caleb turned his face to the wall. He 
 lingered till the next day, when he passed in- 
 sensibly from sleep to death. As soon as the 
 breath was out of his body, Mr. Jones felt that 
 his duty was discharged, that other duties 
 called him home. He promised to return to
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 33 
 
 read the burial service over the deceased, gave 
 some hasty orders about the plain funeral, and 
 was turning from the room, when he saw the 
 letter he had written by Caleb's wish, still on the 
 table. " I pass the post-office I'll put it in," 
 said he to the weeping servant ; " and just give 
 me that scrap of paper." So he wrote on the 
 scrap, " P.S. He died this morning at half-past 
 twelve, without pain. R. J ; " and, without 
 the trouble of breaking the seal, thrust the 
 final bulletin into the folds of the letter, 
 which he then carefully placed in his vast 
 pocket and safely transferred to the post. 
 And that was all that the jovial and happy 
 man, to whom the letter was addressed, ever 
 heard of the last days of his college friend. 
 
 The living, vacant by the death of Caleb 
 Price, was not so valuable as to plague the 
 patron with many applications. It continued 
 vacant nearly the whole of the six months 
 prescribed by law. And the desolate parson- 
 age was committed to the charge of one of the 
 villagers who had occasionally assisted Caleb 
 c 2
 
 34 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 in the care of his little garden. The villager, 
 his wife, and half-a-dozen noisy, ragged child- 
 ren, took possession of the quiet bachelor's 
 abode. The furniture had been sold to pay 
 the expenses of the funeral and a few trifling 
 bills ; and, save the kitchen and the two 
 attics, the empty house, uninhabited, was sur- 
 rendered to the sportive mischief of the idle 
 urchins, who prowled about the silent cham- 
 bers in fear of the silence, and in ecstasy at the 
 space. The bedroom in which Caleb had died 
 was, indeed, long held sacred by infantine 
 superstition. But one day the eldest boy 
 having ventured across the threshold, two 
 cupboards, the doors standing ajar, attracted 
 the child's curiosity. He opened one, and his 
 exclamation soon brought the rest of the child- 
 ren round him. Have you ever, reader, when 
 a boy, suddenly stumbled on that El Dorado, 
 called by the grown-up folks a lumber room ? 
 Lumber, indeed ! what Virtii double-locks in 
 cabinets is the real lumber to the boy ! Lumber, 
 reader! to thee it was a treasury! Now this
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 35 
 
 cupboard had been the lumber-room in Caleb's 
 household. In an instant the whole troop had 
 thrown themselves on the motley contents. 
 Stray joints of clumsy fishing-rods ; artificial 
 baits ; a pair of worn-out top-boots, in which 
 one of the urchins, whooping and shouting, 
 buried himself up to the middle; moth-eaten, 
 stained, and ragged, the collegian's gown 
 relic of the dead man's palmy time ; a bag of 
 carpenter's tools, chiefly broken ; a cricket-bat ; 
 an odd boxing-glove ; a fencing-foil, snapped 
 in the middle ; and, more than all, some half- 
 finished attempts at rude toys : a boat, a cart, 
 a doll's house, in which the good-natured 
 Caleb had busied himself for the younger ones 
 of that family in which he had found the fatal 
 ideal of his trite life. One by one were these 
 lugged forth from their dusty slumber pro- 
 fane hands struggling for the first right of 
 appropriation. And now, revealed against the 
 wall, glared upon the startled violators of the 
 sanctuary, with glassy eyes and horrent visage, 
 a grim monster. They huddled back one
 
 36 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 upon the other, pale and breathless, till the 
 eldest seeing that the creature moved not, 
 took heart, approached on tip-toe twice re- 
 ceded and twice again advanced, and finally 
 drew out, daubed, painted, and tricked forth 
 in the semblance of a griffin, a gigantic Kite! 
 The children, alas! were not old and wise 
 enough to know all the dormant value of that 
 imprisoned aeronaut, which had cost poor 
 Caleb many a dull evening's labour the in- 
 tended gift to the false one's favourite brother. 
 But they guessed that it was a thing or spirit 
 appertaining of right to them ; and they re- 
 solved, after mature consultation, to impart 
 the secret of their discovery to an old wooden- 
 legged villager who had served in the army, 
 who was the idol of all the children of the 
 place, and who they firmly believed knew 
 every thing under the sun, except the mystical 
 arts of reading and writing. Accordingly, 
 having seen that the coast was clear for 
 they considered their parents (as the children 
 of the hard-working often do), the natural
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 37 
 
 foes to amusement they carried the monster 
 into an old out-house, and ran to the veteran 
 to beg him to come up slily and inspect its 
 properties. 
 
 Three months after this memorable event, 
 arrived the new pastor. A slim, prim, orderly, 
 and starch young man, framed by nature and 
 trained by practice to bear a great deal of so- 
 litude and starving. Two loving couples had 
 waited to be married till his Reverence should 
 arrive. The ceremony performed, where was 
 the registry-book ? The vestry was searched 
 the churchwardens interrogated ; the gay clerk 
 who, on the demise of his deaf predecessor, 
 had come into office a little before Caleb's last 
 illness, had a dim recollection of having taken 
 the registry up to Mr. Price at the time 
 the vestry-room was whitewashed. The house 
 was searched the cupboard, the mysterious 
 cupboard, was explored. "Here it is, sir!" 
 cried the clerk ; and he pounced upon a pale 
 parchment volume. The thin clergyman
 
 38 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 opened it, and recoiled in dismay more than 
 three-fourths of the leaves had been torn out. 
 
 " It is the moths, sir," said the gardener's 
 wife, who had not yet removed from the house. 
 
 The clergyman looked round ; one of the 
 children was trembling. " What have you 
 done to this book, little one ?" 
 
 " That book ? the hi ! hi ! - 
 
 " Speak the truth, and you sha'n't be 
 punished." 
 
 " I did not know it was any harm hi! 
 hi! " 
 
 "Well, and " 
 
 " And old Ben helped us." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And and and hi! hi! The tail of 
 the kite, sir ! 
 
 "Where is the kite?" 
 
 Alas! the kite and its tail were long ago 
 gone to that undiscovered limbo, where all 
 things lost, broken, vanished, and destroyed ; 
 things that lose themselves for servants are
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 39 
 
 too honest to steal ; things that break them- 
 selves for servants are too careful to break ; 
 find an everlasting and impenetrable refuge. 
 
 " It does not signify a pin's head," said the 
 clerk ; " the parish must find a new 'un ! 
 
 "It is no fault of mine," said the pastor. 
 " Are my chops ready?"
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Aud soothed with idle dreams the 
 Frowning fate." CRABBE. 
 
 " WHY does not my father come back? what a 
 time he has been away !" 
 
 " My dear Philip, business detains him : 
 but he will be here in a few days perhaps, 
 to-day !" 
 
 " I should like him to see how much I 
 am improved." 
 
 " Improved in what, Philip?" said the mo- 
 ther with a smile. " Not Latin, I am sure ; for 
 I have not seen you open a book since you 
 insisted on poor Todd's dismissal." 
 
 " Totld ! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke 
 through his nose : what could he know of 
 Latin?" 
 
 " More than you ever will, I fear, unless " 
 
 and here there was a certain hesitation in the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 41 
 
 mother's voice, " unless your father consents to 
 your going to school." 
 
 " Well, I should like to go to Eton ! That's 
 the only school for a gentleman. I've heard 
 my father say so. " 
 
 " Philip, you are too proud." 
 
 "Proud! you often call me proud; but, 
 then, you kiss me when you do so. Kiss me 
 now, mother !" 
 
 The lady drew her son to her breast, put 
 aside the clustering hair from his forehead, 
 and kissed him ; but the kiss was sad, and a 
 moment after she pushed him away gently, 
 and muttered, unconscious that she was 
 overheard, 
 
 " If, after all, my devotion to the father 
 should wrong the children ! " 
 
 The boy started, and a cloud passed over his 
 brow ; but he said nothing. A light step entered 
 the room through the French casements that 
 opened on the lawn, and the mother turned to 
 her youngest-born, and her eye brightened. 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma ! here is a letter for you.
 
 42 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 I snatched it from John: it is papa's hand- 
 writing." 
 
 The lady uttered a joyous exclamation, 
 and seized the letter. The younger child nestled 
 himself on a stool at her feet, looking up while 
 she read it ; the elder stood apart, leaning on 
 his gun, and with something of thought, even 
 of gloom, upon his countenance. 
 
 There was a strong contrast in the two 
 children. The elder, who was about fifteen, 
 seemed older than he was, not only from his 
 height, but from the darkness of his complexion, 
 and a certain proud, nay imperious, expression 
 upon features that, without having the soft and 
 fluent graces of childhood, were yet regular and 
 striking. His dark green shooting-dress, with 
 the belt and pouch, the cap with its gold tassel 
 set upon his luxuriant curls, which had the 
 purple gloss of the raven's plume, blended per- 
 haps something prematurely manly in his own 
 tastes, with the love of the fantastic and the 
 picturesque which bespeaks the presiding genius 
 of the proud mother. The younger son had
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 43 
 
 scarcely told his ninth year ; and the soft, au- 
 burn ringlets, descending half-way down the 
 shoulders ; the rich and delicate bloom that ex- 
 hibits at once the hardy health and the gentle 
 fostering ; the large, deep, blue eyes; the flexile 
 and almost effeminate contour of the harmo- 
 nious features ; altogether made such an 
 ideal of childlike beauty as Lawrence had 
 loved to paint or Chantry model. 
 
 And the daintiest cares of a mother, who 
 as yet, has her darling all to herself her toy, 
 her plaything were visible in the large fall- 
 ing collar of finest cambric, and the blue 
 velvet dress with its filigree buttons and 
 embroidered sash. Both the boys had about 
 them the air of those whom Fate ushers blandly 
 into life the air of wealth, and birth, and 
 luxury, spoiled and pampered as if earth had 
 no thorn for their feet, and Heaven not a wind 
 to visit their young cheeks too roughly. The 
 mother had been extremely handsome, and 
 though the first bloom of youth was now gone, 
 she had still the beauty that might captivate
 
 44 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 new love an easier task than to retain the old. 
 Both her sons, though differing from each other, 
 resembled her : she had the features of the 
 younger, and probably any one who had seen 
 her in her own earlier youth would have re- 
 cognised in that child's gay, yet gentle coun- 
 tenance, the mirror of the mother when a 
 girl. Now, however, especially when silent 
 or thoughtful, the expression of her face was 
 rather that of the elder boy ; the cheek, once 
 so rosy, was now pale, though clear, with 
 something which time had given, of pride and 
 thought, in the curved lip and the high forehead. 
 They who could have looked on her in her more 
 lonely hours, might have seen that the pride 
 had known shame, and the thought was the 
 shadow of the passions of fear and sorrow. 
 
 But now as she read those hasty, brief, but 
 well-remembered characters read as one 
 whose heart was in her eyes joy and triumph 
 alone were visible in that eloquent countenance. 
 Her eyes flashed, her breast heaved ; and at 
 length, clasping the letter to her lips, she kissed
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 45 
 
 it again and again with passionate transport. 
 Then, as her eyes met the dark, inquiring, 
 earnest gaze of her eldest born, she flung her 
 arms round him, and wept vehemently. 
 
 " What is the matter, mamma, dear mam- 
 ma ? " said the youngest, pushing himself be- 
 tween Philip and his mother. 
 
 " Your father is coming back, this day this 
 very hour; and you you child you Phi- 
 lip " Here sobs broke in upon her words, 
 
 and left her speechless. 
 
 The letter that had produced this effect ran 
 as follows : 
 
 To MRS. MORTON, Fernside Cottage. 
 DEAREST KATE, My last letter prepared you 
 for the news I have now to relate my poor uncle 
 is no more. Though I had seen so little of him, 
 especially of late years, his death sensibly af- 
 fected me : but I have at least the consolation 
 of thinking, that there is nothing now to pre- 
 vent my doing justice to you. I am the sole 
 heir to his fortune I have it in my power,
 
 46 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 dearest Kate, to offer you a tardy recompense 
 for all you have put up with for my sake ; a 
 sacred testimony to your long forbearance, your 
 unreproachful love, your wrongs, and your 
 devotion. Our children, too my noble Phi- 
 lip! kiss them, Kate kiss them for me a 
 thousand times. 
 
 " I write in great haste theburial is just over, 
 and my letter will only serve to announce my 
 return. My darling Catherine, I shall be with 
 you almost as soon as these lines meet your 
 eyes those dear eyes, that, for all the tears 
 they have shed for my faults and follies, have 
 never looked the less kind. 
 
 " Yours, ever as ever, 
 
 PHILIP BEAUFORT." 
 
 This letter has told its tale, and little remains 
 to explain. Philip Beaufort was one of those 
 men of whom there are many in his peculiar class 
 of society easy, thoughtless, good-humoured, 
 generous, with feelings infinitely better than 
 his principles.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 47 
 
 Inheriting himself hut a moderate fortune, 
 which was three parts in the hands of the 
 Jews before he was twenty-five, he had the 
 most brilliant expectations from his uncle ; an 
 old bachelor, who, from a courtier, had turned 
 a misanthrope cold shrewd penetrating 
 worldly sarcastic and imperious; and from 
 this relation he received, meanwhile, a hand- 
 some, and, indeed, munificent allowance. About 
 sixteen years before the date at which this 
 narrative opens, Philip Beaufort had " run 
 off," as the saying is, with Catherine Morton, 
 then little more than a child a motherless 
 child educated at a boarding-school to no- 
 tions and desires far beyond her station ; for 
 she was the daughter of a provincial trades- 
 man. And Philip Beaufort, in the prime of 
 life, was possessed of most of the qualities that 
 dazzle the eyes, and many of the arts that 
 betray the affections. It was suspected by 
 some that they were privately married : if so, 
 the secret had been closely kept, and baffled 
 all the inquiries of the stern old uncle. Still
 
 48 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 there was much, not only in the manner, at 
 once modest and dignified, but in the cha- 
 racter of Catherine, which was proud and 
 high-spirited, to give colour to the suspicion. 
 Beaufort, a man naturally careless of forms, 
 paid her a marked and punctilious respect; 
 and his attachment was evidently one, not 
 only of passion, but of confidence and esteem. 
 Time developed in her, mental qualities far 
 superior to those of Beaufort ; and for these 
 she had ample leisure of cultivation. To the 
 influence derived from her mind and person 
 she added that of a frank, affectionate, and 
 winning disposition ; their children cemented 
 the bond between them. Mr. Beaufort was 
 passionately attached to field-sports. He lived 
 the greater part of the year with Catherine at 
 the beautiful cottage, to which he had built 
 hunting stables that were the admiration of 
 the county ; and, though the cottage was near 
 to London, the pleasures of the metropolis 
 seldom allured him for more than a few 
 days generally but a few hours at a time ;
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 49 
 
 and he always hurried back with renewed re- 
 lish to what he considered his home. 
 
 Whatever the connexion between Catherine 
 and himself, (and of the true nature of that 
 connexion, the Introductory Chapter has made 
 the reader more enlightened than the world,) 
 her influence had, at least, weaned from all 
 excesses, and many follies, a man who, before 
 he knew her, had seemed likely, from the ex- 
 treme joviality and carelessness of his nature, 
 and a very imperfect education, to contract 
 whatever vices were most in fashion as pre- 
 servatives against ennui. And if their union 
 had been openly hallowed by the church, Phi- 
 lip Beaufort had been universally esteemed the 
 model of a tender husband and a fond father. 
 Ever, as he became more and more acquainted 
 with Catherine's natural good qualities, and 
 more and more attached to his home, had Mr. 
 Beaufort, with the generosity of true affection, 
 desired to remove from her the pain of an 
 equivocal condition by a public marriage. 
 But Mr. Beaufort, though generous, was not 
 
 VOL. i. D
 
 50 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 free from the worldliness which had met him 
 every where, amidst the society in which his 
 youth had been spent. His uncle, the head of 
 one of those families which yearly vanish from 
 the commonalty into the peerage, but which 
 once formed a distinguished peculiarity in the 
 aristocracy of England families of ancient 
 birth, immense possessions, at once noble and 
 untitled held his estates by no other tenure 
 than his own caprice. Though he professed to 
 like Philip, yet he saw but little of him. 
 When the news of the illicit connexion his 
 nephew was reported to have formed reached 
 him, he at first resolved to break it off; but 
 observing that Philip no longer gambled, nor 
 run in debt, and had retired from the turf to 
 the safer and more economical pastimes of the 
 field, he contented himself with inquiries which 
 satisfied him that Philip was not married ; 
 and, perhaps, he thought it, on the whole, 
 more prudent to wink at an error that was 
 not attended by the bills which had heretofore 
 characterised the human infirmities of his
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 51 
 
 reckless nephew. He took care, however, in- 
 cidentally, and in reference to some scandal of 
 the day, to pronounce his opinion, not upon 
 the fault, but upon the only mode of repairing 
 it. 
 
 " If ever,'' said he, and he looked grimly at 
 Philip while he spoke, " a gentleman were to 
 disgrace his ancestry by introducing into his 
 family one whom his own sister could not 
 receive at her house, why, he ought to sink to 
 her level, and wealth would but make his 
 disgrace the more notorious. If I had an only 
 son, and that son were booby enough to do 
 any thing so discreditable as to marry beneath 
 him, I would rather have my footman for my 
 successor. You understand, Phil?" 
 
 Philip did understand, and looked round at 
 the noble house and the stately park, and 
 his generosity was not equal to the trial. 
 Catherine so great was her power over 
 him might, perhaps, have easily triumphed 
 over his more selfish calculations; but her love 
 was too delicate ever to breathe, of itself, the
 
 52 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 hope that lay deepest at her heart. And her 
 children! ah! for them she pined, but for 
 them she also hoped. Before them was a 
 long future; and she had all confidence in 
 Philip. Of late, there had been considerable 
 doubts how far the elder Beaufort would 
 realize the expectations in which his nephew 
 had been reared. Philip's younger brother 
 had been much with the old gentleman, and 
 appeared to be in high favour : this brother 
 was a man in every respect the opposite to 
 Philip ; sober, supple, decorous, ambitious, 
 with a face of smiles and a heart of ice. 
 
 But the old gentleman was taken dangerously 
 ill, and Philip was summoned to his bed of 
 death. Robert, the younger brother, was there 
 also, with his wife (for he had married pru- 
 dently) and his children (he had two, a 
 son and a daughter). Not a word did the 
 uncle say as to the disposition of his property 
 till an hour before he died. And then, turning 
 in his bed, he looked first at one nephew, then 
 at the other, and faltered out
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 53 
 
 " Philip, you are a scapegrace, but a gen- 
 tleman : Robert, you are a careful, sober, 
 plausible man ; and it is a great pity you were 
 not in business : you would have made a for- 
 tune ! you won't inherit one, though you 
 think it : I have marked you, sir. Philip, 
 beware of your brother. Now, let me see the 
 parson." 
 
 The old man died ; the will was read ; and 
 Philip succeeded to a rental of 20,000/. a-year: 
 Robert, to a diamond ring, a gold repeater, 
 5000/., and a curious collection of bottled 
 snakes.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Stay, delightful Dream ; 
 Let him within his pleasant garden walk ; 
 Give him her arm of blessings let them talk." 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 " THERE, Robert, there! now you can see 
 the new stables. By Jove, they are the com- 
 pletest thing in the three kingdoms ! " 
 
 " Quite a pile ! But is that the house ? 
 You lodge your horses more magnificently 
 than yourself." 
 
 " But is it not a beautiful cottage? to be 
 sure, it owes every thing to Catherine's taste. 
 Dear Catherine ! " 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort, for this colloquy took 
 place between the brothers, as their britska 
 rapidly descended the hill, at the foot of 
 which lay Fernside Cottage and its miniature 
 demesnes Mr. Robert Beaufort pulled his
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 55 
 
 travelling - cap over his brows, and his 
 countenance fell, whether at the name of 
 Catherine, or the tone in which the name 
 was uttered ; and there was a pause, broken 
 by a third occupant of the britska, a youth 
 of about seventeen, who sat opposite the 
 brothers. 
 
 " And who are those boys on the lawn, 
 uncle ? " 
 
 " Who are those boys?" It was a simple 
 question, but it grated on the ear of Mr. 
 Robert Beaufort it struck discord at his 
 heart. "Who were those boys?" as they 
 ran across the sward, eager to welcome their 
 father home ; the westering sun shining full 
 on their joyous faces their young forms so 
 lithe and so graceful their merry laughter 
 ringing in the still air. " Those boys," 
 thought Mr. Robert Beaufort, " the sons of 
 shame, rob mine of his inheritance." The 
 elder brother turned round at his nephew's 
 question, and saw the expression on Robert's 
 face. He bit his lip, and answered, gravely
 
 56 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Arthur, they are my children." 
 
 " I did not know you were married," re- 
 plied Arthur, bending forward to take a 
 better view of his cousins. 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and 
 Philip's brow grew crimson. 
 
 The carriage stopped at the little lodge. 
 Philip opened the door, and jumped to the 
 ground ; the brother and his son followed. 
 A moment more, and Philip was locked in 
 Catherine's arms, her tears falling fast upon 
 his breast ; his children plucking at his coat ; 
 and the younger one crying, in his shrill 
 impatient treble, " Papa! papa! you don't see 
 Sidney, papa ! " 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort placed his hand on 
 his son's shoulder, and arrested his steps, 
 as they contemplated the group before them. 
 
 " Arthur," said he, in a hollow whisper, 
 '* those children are our disgrace and your 
 supplanters ; they are bastards ! bastards ! 
 and they are to be his heirs ! " 
 
 Arthur made no answer, but the smile
 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 57 
 
 with which he had hitherto gazed on his 
 new relations vanished. 
 
 " Kate," said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned 
 from Mrs. Morton, and lifted his youngest- 
 born in his arms, " this is my brother and 
 his son : they are welcome, are they not?" 
 
 Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his 
 hand, with stiff affability, to Mrs. Morton, 
 muttering something equally complimentary 
 and inaudible. 
 
 The party proceeded towards the house. 
 Philip and Arthur brought up the rear. 
 
 " Do you shoot ?" asked Arthur, observing 
 the gun in his cousin's hand. 
 
 " Yes. I hope this season to bag as many 
 head as my father : he is a famous shot. But 
 this is only a single barrel, and an old- 
 fashioned sort of detonator. My father must 
 get me one of the new guns. I can't afford it 
 myself." 
 
 " I should think not," said Arthur, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, as to that," resumed Philip, quickly, 
 and with a heightened colour, " I could have 
 
 D2
 
 58 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 managed it very well, if I had not given 
 thirty guineas for a brace of pointers the 
 other day : they are the best dogs you ever 
 saw." 
 
 " Thirty guineas!" echoed Arthur, looking 
 with naive surprise at the speaker ; " why, how 
 old are you ? " 
 
 "Just fifteen last birth-day. Holla, John! 
 John Green ! " cried the young gentleman, in 
 an imperious voice, to one of the gardeners, 
 who was crossing the lawn, " see that the 
 nets are taken down to the lake to-morrow, 
 and that my tent is pitched properly, by the 
 lime-trees, by nine o'clock. I hope you will 
 understand me this time : Heaven knows 
 you take a deal of telling before you under- 
 stand any thing ! " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Philip," said the man, bowing 
 obsequiously ; and then muttered, as he went 
 off, " Drat the nat'rel ! he speaks to a poor 
 man as if he warn't flesh and blood." 
 
 " Does your father keep hunters?" asked 
 Philip.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 59 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why?" 
 
 " Perhaps one reason may be, that he is 
 not rich enough." 
 
 " Oh ! that's a pity. Never mind, we'll 
 mount you, whenever you like to pay us a 
 visit." 
 
 Young Arthur drew himself up, and his 
 air, naturally frank and gentle, became 
 haughty and reserved. Philip gazed on him, 
 and felt offended ; he scarce knew why, but 
 from that moment he conceived a dislike to 
 his cousin.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " For a man is helpless and Tain, of a condition so exposed 
 to calamity that a raisin is able to kill him : any trooper ont 
 of the Egyptian army a fly can do it, when it goes on God'a 
 errand." JEREMY TAYLOR : OH the Deceitfulness of the Heart. 
 
 THE two brothers sat at their wine after 
 dinner. Robert sipped claret, the sturdy 
 Philip quaffed his more generous port. 
 Catherine and the boys might be seen at 
 a little distance, and by the light of a soft 
 August moon, among the shrubs and bosquets 
 of the lawn. 
 
 Philip Beaufort was about five and forty, 
 tall, robust, nay, of great strength of frame 
 and limb ; with a countenance extremely 
 winning, not only from the comeliness of 
 its features, but its frankness, manliness, 
 and good -nature. His was the bronzed,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 61 
 
 rich complexion, the inclination toward em- 
 bonpoint, the athletic girth of chest, which 
 denote redundant health, and mirthful tem- 
 per, and sanguine blood. Robert, who had 
 lived the life of cities, was a year younger 
 than his brother; nearly as tall, but pale, 
 meagre, stooping, and with a care-worn, 
 anxious, hungry look, which made the 
 smile that hung upon his lips seem hollow 
 and artificial. His dress, though plain, was 
 neat and studied ; his manner, bland and 
 plausible ; his voice, sweet and low : there 
 was that about him which, if it did not win 
 liking, tended to excite respect a certain 
 decorum, a nameless propriety of appearance 
 and bearing, that approached a little to for- 
 mality : his every movement, slow and 
 measured, was that of one who paced in 
 the circle that fences round the habits and 
 usages of the world. 
 
 " Yes," said Philip, " I had always decided 
 to take this step, whenever my poor uncle's 
 death should allow me to do so. You have
 
 62 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 seen Catherine, but you do not know half 
 her good qualities : she would grace any 
 station *: '*tad, besides, she nursed me so 
 carefully last year, when I broke my collar- 
 bone in that cursed steeple -chase. Egad, I 
 am getting too heavy, and growing too old, 
 for such schoolboy pranks." 
 
 " I have no doubt of Mrs. Morton's excel- 
 lence, and I honour your motives ; still, 
 when you talk of her gracing any station, 
 you must not forget, my dear brother, that 
 she will be no more received as Mrs. Beaufort 
 than she is now as Mrs. Morton." 
 
 " But I tell you, Robert, that I am really 
 married to her already ; that she would never 
 have left her home but on that condition ; that 
 we were married the very day we met after 
 her flight." 
 
 Robert's thin lips broke into a slight sneer 
 of incredulity. 
 
 ** My dear brother, you do right to say 
 this any man in your situation would. But 
 I know that my uncle took every pains to
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 63 
 
 ascertain if the report of a private marriage 
 were true." 
 
 " And you helped him in the search. Eh, 
 Bob?" 
 
 Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on, 
 " Ha, ha, to be sure you did ; you knew that 
 such a discovery would have done for me in 
 the old gentleman's good opinion. But I 
 blinded you both, ha, ha ! The fact is, that 
 we were married with the greatest privacy ; 
 that even now, I own, it would be difficult 
 for Catherine herself to establish the fact, 
 unless I wished it. I am ashamed to think 
 that I have never even told her where I keep 
 the main proof of the marriage. I induced 
 one witness to leave the country, the other must 
 be long since dead : my poor friend too, who 
 officiated, is no more. Even the register, Bob, 
 the register itself has been destroyed : and 
 yet, notwithstanding, I will prove the cere- 
 mony and clear up poor Catherine's fame ; 
 for I have the attested copy of the register
 
 64 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 safe and sound. Catherine not married ! why, 
 look at her, man ! " 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window 
 for a moment, but his countenance was still 
 that of one unconvinced. 
 
 " Well, brother," said he, dipping his 
 fingers in the water glass, " it is not for me 
 to contradict you. It is a very curious tale 
 parson dead witnesses missing. But still, 
 as I said before, if you are resolved on a 
 public marriage, you are wise to insist that 
 there has been a previous private one. Yet, 
 believe me, Philip," continued Robert, with 
 solemn earnestness, " the world ' 
 
 " D the world ! What do I care for 
 
 the world ? We don't want to go to routs 
 and balls, and give dinners to fine people. 
 I shall live much the same as I have always 
 done; only, I shall now keep the hounds 
 they are very indifferently kept at present 
 and have a yacht ; and engage the best mas- 
 ters for the boys. Phil wants to go to Eton,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 65 
 
 but I know what Eton is : poor fellow ! his 
 feelings might be hurt there, if others are as 
 sceptical as yourself. I suppose my old friends 
 will not be less civil, now I have 20,OOOJ. a-year. 
 And as for the society of women, between you 
 and me, I don't care a rush for any woman 
 but Catherine : poor Katty ! " 
 
 " Well, you are the best judge of your own 
 affairs : you don't misinterpret my motives ? " 
 
 " My dear Bob, no. I am quite sensible 
 how kind it is in you a man of your starch 
 habits and strict views, coming here to pay a 
 mark of respect to Kate (Mr. Robert turned 
 uneasily in his chair), even before you knew 
 of the private marriage, and I am sure I don't 
 blame you, for never having done it before. 
 You did quite right to try your chance with 
 my uncle." 
 
 Mr. Robert turned in his chair again, still 
 more uneasily, and cleared his voice as if to 
 speak. But Philip tossed off his wine, and 
 proceeded, without heeding his brother, 
 
 " And though the poor old man does not
 
 66 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 seem to have liked you the better for consulting 
 his scruples, yet we must make up for the 
 partiality of his will. Let me see what, with 
 your wife's fortune, you muster 2000/. a-year?" 
 
 " Only 1500Z., Philip, and Arthur's education 
 is growing expensive. Next year he goes to 
 college. He is certainly very clever, and I 
 have great hopes " 
 
 " That he will do honour to us all so have 
 I. He is a noble young fellow ; and I think 
 my Philip may find a great deal to learn from 
 him, Phil is a sad, idle dog, but with a devil 
 of a spirit, and sharp as a needle. I wish you 
 could see him ride. Well, to return to Arthur. 
 Don't trouble yourself about his education 
 that shall be my care. He shall go to Christ 
 Church a gentleman-commoner, of course 
 and when he 's of age we'll get him into par- 
 liament. Now for yourself, Bob. I shall sell 
 the town-house in Berkeley Square, and what- 
 ever it brings you shall have. Besides that, 
 I'll add 1500/. a-year to your 1500/. so that's 
 said and done. Pshaw ! brothers should be
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 67 
 
 brothers. Let's come out and play with the 
 boys ! " 
 
 The two Beauforts stepped through the open 
 casement into the lawn. 
 
 "You look pale, Bob all you London 
 fellows do. As for me, I feel as strong as a 
 horse ; much better than when I was one of 
 your gay dogs straying loose about the town ! 
 'Gad I have never had a moment's ill health, 
 except a fall now and then : I feel as if I 
 should live for ever, and that 's the reason why 
 I could never make a will." 
 
 " Have you never, then, made your will?" 
 
 " Never as yet. Faith, till now, I had little 
 enough to leave. But now that all this great 
 Beaufort property is at my own disposal, I 
 must think of Kate's jointure. By Jove ! 
 now I speak of it, 1 will ride to ***** to-mor- 
 row, and consult the lawyer there both about 
 the will and the marriage. You will stay for 
 the wedding?" 
 
 " Why, I must go into shire to-morrow 
 
 evening to place Arthur with his tutor. But
 
 68 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 I'll return for the wedding, if you particularly 
 wish it : only Mrs. Beaufort is a woman of 
 very strict " 
 
 "I do particularly wish it," interrupted Philip, 
 gravely ; " for I desire, for Catherine's sake, 
 that you, my sole surviving relation, may not 
 seem to withhold your countenance from an 
 act of justice to her. And as for your wife, I 
 fancy 1500Z. a-year would reconcile her to my 
 marrying out of the Penitentiary." 
 
 Mr. Robert bowed his head, coughed 
 huskily, and said, " I appreciate your gene- 
 rous affection, Philip." 
 
 The next morning, while the elder parties 
 were still over the breakfast-table, the young 
 people were in the grounds: it was a lovely 
 day, one of the last of the luxuriant August 
 and Arthur, as he looked round, thought he 
 had never seen a more beautiful place. It was, 
 indeed, just the spot to captivate a youthful 
 and susceptible fancy. The village of Fern- 
 side, though in one of the counties adjoining 
 Middlesex, and as near to London as the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 69 
 
 owner's passionate pursuits of the field would 
 permit, was yet as rural and sequestered as if 
 an hundred miles distant from the smoke of 
 the huge City. Though the dwelling was 
 called a cottage, Philip had enlarged the 
 original modest building into a villa of some 
 pretensions. On either side a graceful and 
 well-proportioned portico stretched verandahs, 
 covered with roses and clematis ; to the right 
 extended a range of costly conservatories, 
 terminating in vistas of trellis -work which 
 formed those elegant allies called roseries, and 
 served to screen the more useful gardens from 
 view. The lawn, smooth and even, was studded 
 with American plants and shrubs in flower, 
 and bounded on one side by a small lake, on 
 the opposite bank of which limes and cedars 
 threw their shadows over the clear waves. 
 On the other side a light fence separated the 
 grounds from a large paddock, in which three 
 or four hunters grazed in indolent enjoyment. 
 It was one of those cottages which bespeak 
 the ease and luxury not often found in more
 
 70 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ostentatious mansions an abode which the 
 visitor of sixteen contemplates with vague 
 notions of poetry and love which at forty he 
 might think dull and d d expensive which 
 at sixty he would pronounce to be damp in 
 winter, and full of earwigs in the summer. 
 Master Philip was leaning on his favourite 
 gun ; Master Sidney was chasing a peacock 
 butterfly ; Arthur was silently gazing on 
 the shining lake and the still foliage that 
 drooped over its surface. In the countenance 
 of this young man there was something that 
 excited a certain interest. He was less hand- 
 some than Philip, but the expression of his 
 face was more prepossessing. There was some- 
 thing of pride in the forehead ; but of good- 
 nature, not unmixed with irresolution and 
 weakness, in the curves of the mouth. He 
 was more delicate of frame than Philip ; and 
 the colour of his complexion was not that of 
 a robust constitution. His movements were 
 graceful and self-possessed, and he had his 
 father's sweetness of voice.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 71 
 
 " This is really beautiful ! I envy you, 
 cousin Philip." 
 
 " Has not your father got a country-house?" 
 
 ** No : we live either in London or at some 
 hot, crowded, watering-place." 
 
 " Yes; this is very nice during the shooting 
 and hunting season. But my old nurse says 
 we shall have a much finer place now. I liked 
 this very well till I saw Lord Belville's place. 
 But it is very unpleasant not to have the finest 
 house in the county : aut Ccesar out nihil 
 that's my motto. Ah! do you see that 
 swallow ? I'll bet you a guinea I hit it." 
 
 " No, poor thing! don't hurt it." But, ere 
 the remonstrance was uttered, the bird lay 
 quivering on the ground. 
 
 "It is just September, and one must keep 
 one's hand in," said Philip, as he reloaded 
 his gun. 
 
 To Arthur this action seemed a wanton 
 cruelty ; it was rather the wanton recklessness 
 which belongs to a wild boy accustomed to 
 gratify the impulse of the moment the reck-
 
 72 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 lessness which is not cruelty in the boy, but 
 which prosperity may pamper into cruelty in 
 the man. And scarce had he reloaded his gun 
 before the neigh of a young colt came from the 
 neighbouring paddock, and Philip bounded to 
 the fence. " He calls me, poor fellow ; you 
 shall see him feed from my hand. Run in for 
 a piece of bread a large piece, Sidney." 
 The boy and the animal seemed to understand 
 each other. " I see you don't like horses," he 
 said to Arthur. " As for me, I love dogs, 
 horses every dumb creature." 
 
 " Except swallows!" said Arthur, with a 
 half smile, and a little surprised at the incon- 
 sistency of the boast. 
 
 "Oh! that is sport all fair: it is not to 
 hurt the swallow it is to obtain skill," said 
 Philip, colouring; and then, as if not quite 
 easy with his own definition, he turned away 
 abruptly. 
 
 " This is dull work suppose we fish. By 
 Jove ! (he had caught his father's expletive,) 
 that blockhead has put the tent on the wrong
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 73 
 
 side of the lake, after all. Holla, you, sir!" 
 and the unhappy gardener looked up from his 
 flower-beds ; " what ails you? I have a great 
 mind to tell my father of you you grow 
 stupider every day. I told you to put the 
 tent under the lime-trees." 
 
 " We could not manage it, sir ; the boughs 
 were in the way." 
 
 "And why did not you cut the boughs, 
 blockhead ? " 
 
 " I did not dare do so, sir, without master's 
 orders," said the man, doggedly. 
 
 " My orders are sufficient, I should think : so 
 none of your impertinence," cried Philip, with 
 a raised colour; and lifting his hand, in which 
 he held his ramrod, he shook it menacingly over 
 the gardener's head, " I've a great mind 
 to- " 
 
 " What's the matter, Philip?" cried the 
 good-humoured voice of his father, " Fie ! " 
 
 " This fellow does not mind what I say, 
 sir." 
 
 " I did not like to cut the boughs of the 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 lime-trees without your orders, sir," said the 
 gardener. 
 
 " No, it would be a pity to cut them. You 
 should consult me there, Master Philip ;" and 
 the father shook him by the collar with a good- 
 natured, and affectionate, but rough sort of 
 caress. 
 
 " Be quiet, father!" said the boy, petulantly 
 and proudly ; " or," he added, in a lower voice, 
 but one which shewed emotion, " my cousin 
 may think you mean less kindly than you 
 always do, sir." 
 
 The father was touched: "Go and cut 
 the lime-boughs, John ; and always do as Mr. 
 Philip tells you." 
 
 The mother was behind, and she sighed 
 audibly, " Ah! dearest, I fear you will spoil 
 him." 
 
 " Is he not your son and do we not owe 
 him the more respect for having hitherto 
 allowed others to " 
 
 He stopped and the mother could say no 
 more. And thus it was, that this boy of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 75 
 
 powerful character and strong passions, had, 
 from motives the most amiable, been pam- 
 pered from the darling into the despot. - 
 
 " And now, Kate, I will, as I told you last 
 
 night, ride over to and fix the earliest 
 
 day for our marriage. I will ask the lawyer 
 to dine here, to talk about the proper steps for 
 proving the private one." 
 
 "Will that be difficult?" asked Catherine, 
 with natural anxiety. 
 
 " No, for if you remember I had the pre- 
 caution to get an examined copy of the register; 
 otherwise, I own to you, I should have been 
 alarmed. I don't know what has become of 
 Smith. I heard some time since from his 
 father that he had left the colony; and (I 
 never told you before it would have made 
 you uneasy) once, a few years ago, when my 
 uncle again got it into his head that we might 
 be married, I was afraid poor Caleb's successor 
 might, by chance, betray us. So I went over 
 
 to A myself, being near it when I was 
 
 staying with Lord C , in order to see how
 
 76 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 far it might be necessary to secure the parson ; 
 and, only think ! I found an accident had 
 happened to the register so, as the clergy- 
 man could know nothing, I kept my own 
 council. How lucky I have the copy! No 
 doubt the lawyer will set all to rights; and, 
 while I am making settlements, I may as well 
 make my will. I have plenty for both boys, 
 but the dark one must be the heir. Does he 
 not look born to be an eldest son ?" 
 "Ah, Philip!" 
 
 " Pshaw ! one don't die the sooner for 
 making a will. Have I the air of a man in a 
 consumption?" and the sturdy sportsman 
 glanced complacently at the strength and 
 symmetry of his manly limbs. " Come, 
 Phil, let's go to the stables. Now, Robert, I 
 will shew you what is better worth seeing 
 than those miserable flower-beds." So saying, 
 Mr. Beaufort led the way to the court-yard 
 at the back of the Cottage. Catherine, and 
 Sidney remained on the lawn, the rest fol- 
 lowed the host. The grooms, of whom Beau-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 77 
 
 fort was the idol, hastened to shew how well 
 the horses had thriven in his absence. 
 
 " Do see how Brown Bess has come on, 
 sir : but, to be sure, Master Philip keeps 
 her in exercise. Ah, sir, he will be as 
 good a rider as your honour, one of these 
 days." 
 
 " He ought to be, Torn ; for I think he'll 
 never have my weight to carry. Well, saddle 
 Brown Bess for Mr. Philip. What horse 
 shall I take ? Ah ! here 's my old friend 
 Puppet !" 
 
 " I don't know what's come to Puppet, 
 sir ; he's off his feed and turned sulky. I tried 
 him over the bar yesterday, but he was quite 
 restive like." 
 
 "The devil he was! So, so, old boy, you 
 shall go over the six-barred gate to-day, or 
 we'll know why." And Mr. Beaufort patted 
 the sleek neck of his favourite hunter. " Put 
 the saddle on him, Tom." 
 
 " Yes, your honour. I sometimes think he 
 is hurt in the loins somehow he don't take
 
 78 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 to his leaps kindly, and he always tries to bite 
 when we bridles him. Be quiet, sir !" 
 
 " Only his airs," said Philip. " I did not 
 know this, or / would have taken him over 
 the gate. Why did not you tell me, Tom?" 
 
 " Lord love you, sir ! because you have such 
 a spurret ; and if any thing had come to 
 you " 
 
 "Quite right; you are not weight enough 
 for Puppet, my boy ; and he never did like 
 any one to back him but myself. What say 
 you, brother, will you ride with us ? " 
 
 " No, I must go to to-day with Arthur. 
 
 I have engaged the post-horses at two o'clock ; 
 but I shall be with you to-morrow or the day 
 after. You see his tutor expects him ; and as 
 he is backward in his mathematics, he has no 
 time to lose." 
 
 "Well, then, good-by, nephew!" and 
 Beaufort slipped a pocket-book into the boy's 
 hand. " Tush ! whenever you want money, 
 don't trouble your father write to me we 
 shall be always glad to see you ; and you must
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 79 
 
 teach Philip to like his book a little better 
 eh, Phil ?" 
 
 " No, father, / shall be rich enough to do 
 without books," said Philip, rather coarsely ; 
 but then observing the heightened colour of his 
 cousin, he went up to him, and with a gene- 
 rous impulse said, " Arthur, you admired this 
 gun ; pray accept it. Nay, don't be shy I 
 can have as many as I like for the asking : 
 you're not so well off, you know." 
 
 The intention was kind, but the manner 
 was so patronising, that Arthur felt offended. 
 He put back the gun, and said drily, " I shall 
 have no occasion for a gun, thank you." 
 
 If Arthur was offended by the offer, Philip 
 was much more offended by the refusal. " As 
 you like ; I hate pride," said he ; and he gave 
 the gun to the groom as he vaulted into his 
 saddle, with the lightness of a young Mercury. 
 "Come, father!" 
 
 Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favourite 
 hunter a large, powerful horse, well known 
 for its prowess in the field. The rider trotted
 
 80 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 him once or twice through the spacious 
 yard. 
 
 " Nonsense, Tom : no more hurt in the loins 
 than I am. Open that gate ; we will go 
 across the paddock, and take the gate yonder 
 the old six-bar eh, Phil?" 
 
 " Capital! to be sure ! " 
 
 The gate was opened the grooms stood 
 watchful to see the leap, and a kindred 
 curiosity arrested Robert Beaufort and his 
 son. 
 
 How well they looked, those two horse- 
 men ; the ease, lightness, spirit of the one, 
 with the fine-limbed and fiery steed that 
 literally " bounded beneath him as a barb" 
 seemingly as gay, as ardent, and as haughty 
 as the boy-rider. And the manly, and almost 
 herculean, form of the elder Beaufort, which, 
 from the buoyancy of its movements, and the 
 supple grace that belongs to the perfect master- 
 ship of any athletic art, possessed an elegance 
 and dignity, especially on horseback, which 
 rarely accompanies proportions equally sturdy
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 81 
 
 and robust. There was indeed something 
 knightly and chivalrous in the bearing of the 
 elder Beaufort in his handsome aquiline 
 features, the erectness of his mien, the very 
 wave of his hand, as he spurred from the 
 yard. 
 
 "What a fine-looking fellow my uncle 
 is!" said t Arthur, with involuntary admira- 
 tion. 
 
 " Ay, an excellent life amazingly strong !" 
 returned the pale father, with a slight sigh. 
 
 " Philip," said Mr. Beaufort, as they can- 
 tered across the paddock, " I think the gate 
 is too much for you. I will just take Puppet 
 over, and then we will open it for you." 
 
 "Pooh, my dear father! you don't know 
 how I'm improved!" And slackening the rein, 
 and touching the side of his horse, the young 
 rider darted forward and cleared the gate, 
 which was of no common height, with an ease 
 that extorted a loud bravo from the proud 
 father." 
 
 "Now, Puppet," said Mr. Beaufort, spur- 
 E 2
 
 82 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ring his own horse. The animal cantered 
 towards the gate, and then suddenly turned 
 round with an impatient and angry snort. 
 "For shame, Puppet! for shame, old boy!" 
 said the sportsman, wheeling him again to the 
 barrier. The horse shook his head, as if in 
 remonstrance ; but the spur vigorously applied, 
 shewed him that his master would not listen to 
 his mute reasonings. He bounded forward 
 made at the gate struck his hoofs against the 
 top-bar fell forward, and threw his rider head 
 foremost on the road beyond. The horse rose 
 instantly not so the master. The son dis- 
 mounted, alarmed and terrified. His father 
 was speechless ! and blood gushed from the 
 mouth and nostrils, as the head drooped 
 heavily on the boy's breast. The bystanders 
 had witnessed the fall they crowded to 
 the spot they took the fallen man from 
 the weak arms of the son the head groom 
 examined him with the eye of one who had 
 picked up science from his experience in such 
 casualties.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 83 
 
 "Speak, brother! where are you hurt?" 
 exclaimed Robert Beaufort. 
 
 " He will never speak more !" said the 
 groom, bursting into tears. " His neck is 
 broken !" 
 
 " Send for the nearest surgeon," cried Mr. 
 Robert. " Good God ! boy! don't mount that 
 devilish horse !" 
 
 But Arthur had already leaped on the 
 unhappy steed, which had been the cause of 
 this appalling affliction. " Which way?" 
 
 "Straight on to ***** only two miles 
 every one knows Mr. Powis's house. God 
 bless you!" said the groom. 
 
 Arthur vanished. 
 
 " Lift him carefully, and take him to the 
 house," said Mr. Robert. " My poor brother! 
 my dear brother!" 
 
 He was interrupted by a cry, a single, 
 shrill, heart-breaking cry ; and Philip fell 
 senseless to the ground. 
 
 No one heeded him at that hour no one
 
 84 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 heeded the fatherless BASTARD. " Gently, 
 gently," said Mr. Robert, as he followed the 
 servants and their load. And he then muttered 
 to himself, and his sallow cheek grew bright, 
 and his breath came short : "He has made 
 no will ! he never made a will !"
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Constance. O boy, then where art thou 1 
 
 . . . What becomes of me ? " King John. 
 
 IT was three days after the death of Philip 
 Beaufort for the surgeon arrived only to 
 confirm the judgment of the groom : In the 
 drawing-room of the cottage, the windows 
 closed, lay the body, in its coffin, the lid not 
 yet nailed down. There, prostrate on the 
 floor, tearless, speechless, was the miserable 
 Catherine ; poor Sidney, too young to com- 
 prehend all his loss, sobbing at her side ; while 
 Philip apart, seated beside the coffin, gazed 
 abstractedly on that cold, rigid face, which 
 had never known one frown for his boyish 
 follies. 
 
 In another room, that had been appro- 
 priated to the late owner, called his study,
 
 86 MIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 sat Robert Beaufort. Every thing in this 
 room spoke of the deceased. Partially sepa- 
 rated from the rest of the house, it com- 
 municated by a winding staircase, with a 
 chamber above, to which Philip had been 
 wont to betake himself whenever he returned 
 late, and over-exhilarated, from some rural 
 feast crowning a hard day's hunt. Above a 
 quaint old-fashioned bureau of Dutch work- 
 manship (which Philip had picked up at 
 a sale in the earlier years of his marriage) 
 was a portrait of Catherine taken in the 
 bloom of her youth. On a peg on the door 
 that led to the staircase still hung his rough 
 driving-coat. The window commanded the 
 view of the paddock, in which the worn- 
 out hunter or the unbroken colt grazed at 
 will. Around the walls of the " study" 
 (a strange misnomer!) hung prints of cele- 
 brated fox-hunts and renowned steeple-chases : 
 Guns, fishing-rods, and foxes' brushes, ranged 
 with a sportsman's neatness, supplied the place 
 of books. On the mantel-piece lay a cigar-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 87 
 
 case, a well-worn volume on the Veterinary 
 Art, and the last No. of The Sporting Magazine. 
 And in that room thus witnessing of the 
 
 o 
 
 hardy, masculine, rural life, that had passed 
 away sallow, stooping, town-worn, sat, 
 I say, Robert Beaufort, the heir-at-law, 
 alone : For the very day of his death he 
 had remanded his son home with the letter 
 that announced to his wife the change in their 
 fortunes, and directed her to send his lawyer 
 post-haste to the house of death. The bureau, 
 and the drawers, and the boxes which con- 
 tained the papers of the deceased, were open ; 
 their contents had been ransacked; no cer- 
 tificate of the private marriage, no hint of such 
 an event ; not a paper found to signify the last 
 wishes of the rich dead man. He had died, 
 and made no sign. Mr. Robert Beaufort's 
 countenance was still and composed. 
 
 A knock at the door was heard ; the lawyer 
 entered. 
 
 " Sir. the undertakers are here, and Mr.
 
 88 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Greaves has ordered the bells to be rung : at 
 three o'clock he will read the service." 
 
 " I am obliged to you, Blackwell, for taking 
 these melancholy offices on yourself. My 
 poor brother ! it is so sudden ! But the 
 funeral, you say, ought to take place to- 
 day?" 
 
 " The weather is so warm ! " said the lawyer, 
 wiping his forehead. As he spoke, the Death* 
 Bell was heard. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " It would have been a terrible shock to 
 Mrs. Morton if she had been his wife," ob- 
 served Mr. Blackwell. " But I suppose 
 persons of that kind have very little feel- 
 ing. I must say, that it was fortunate for 
 the family, that the event happened before 
 Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into so improper 
 a marriage." 
 
 " It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you 
 ordered the post-horses? I shall start imme- 
 dately after the funeral."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 89 
 
 " What is to be done with the cottage, 
 sir?" 
 
 " You may advertise it for sale." 
 
 " And Mrs. Morton and the boys ? " 
 
 " Hum we will consider. She was a 
 tradesman's daughter. I think I ought to 
 provide for her suitably, eh ? " 
 
 "It is more than the world could expect 
 from you, sir: it is very different from a 
 wife." 
 
 " Oh, very ! very much so, indeed ! Just 
 ring for a lighted candle, we will seal up these 
 boxes. And I think 1 could take a sandwich. 
 Poor Philip!" 
 
 The funeral was over; the dead shovelled 
 away. What a strange thing it does seem, 
 that that very form which we prized so 
 charily, for which we prayed the winds to 
 be gentle, which we lapped from the cold 
 in our arms, from whose footstep we would 
 have removed a stone, should be suddenly 
 thrust out of sight an abomination that the 
 earth must not look upon a despicable loath-
 
 90 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 someness, to be concealed and to be for- 
 gotten ! And this same composition of bone 
 and muscle that was yesterday so strong 
 which men respected, and women loved, and 
 children clung to to-day so lamentably pow- 
 erless, unable to defend or protect those who 
 lay nearest to its heart; its riches wrested 
 from it, its wishes spat upon, its influence 
 expiring with its last sigh! A breath from 
 its lips making all that mighty difference be- 
 tween what it was and what it is ! 
 
 The post-horses were at the door as the 
 funeral procession returned to the house. 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. 
 Morton, and said, with his pocket-handkerchief 
 still before his eyes, 
 
 " I will write to you in a few days, ma'am ; 
 you will find that I shall not forget you. The 
 cottage will be sold ; but we sba'n't hurry you. 
 Good by, ma'am j good by, my boys ; " and 
 he patted his nephews on the head. 
 
 Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily 
 at his uncle, who muttered to himself, " That
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 91 
 
 boy will come to no good !" Little Sidney put 
 his hand into the rich man's, and looked up, 
 pleadingly, into his face : " Can't you say 
 something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle 
 Robert?" 
 
 Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily and en- 
 tered the britska it had been his brother's : 
 the lawyer followed, and they drove away. 
 
 A week after the funeral, Philip stole from 
 the house into the conservatory, to gather 
 some fruit for his mother; she had scarcely 
 touched food since Beaufort's death. She was 
 worn to a shadow ; her hair had turned grey. 
 Now she had at last found tears, and she wept 
 noiselessly but unceasingly. 
 
 The boy had plucked some grapes, and 
 placed them carefully in his basket : he was 
 about to select a nectarine that seemed riper 
 than the rest, when his hand was roughly 
 seized ; and the gruff voice of John Green, the 
 gardener, exclaimed, 
 
 " What are you about, Master Philip? you 
 must not touch them 'ere fruit!"
 
 92 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " How dare you, fellow!" cried the young 
 gentleman, in a tone of equal astonishment 
 and wrath. 
 
 " None of your airs, Master Philip! What 
 I means is, that some great folks are coming 
 to look at the place to-morrow ; and I won't 
 have my show of fruit spoiled by being pawed 
 about by the like of you : so, that's plain, 
 Master Philip!" 
 
 The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. 
 The gardener, delighted to retaliate the in- 
 solence he had received, continued 
 
 " You need not go for to look so spiteful, 
 master ; you are not the great man you 
 thought you were ; you are nobody now, and 
 so you will find ere long. So, march out. 
 if you please : I wants to lock up the 
 glass." 
 
 As he spoke, he took the lad roughly by 
 the arm ; but Philip, the most irascible of 
 mortals, was strong for his years, and fearless 
 as a young lion. He caught up a watering- 
 pot, which the gardener had deposited while
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 93 
 
 he expostulated with his late tyrant, and 
 struck the man across the face with it so 
 violently and so suddenly, that he fell back 
 over the beds, and the glass crackled and 
 shivered under him. Philip did not wait for 
 the foe to recover his equilibrium ; but, taking 
 up his grapes, and possessing himself quietly 
 of the disputed nectarine, quitted the spot ; 
 and the gardener did not think it prudent to 
 pursue him. To boys, under ordinary circum- 
 stances boys who have buffeted their way 
 through a scolding nursery, a wrangling fa- 
 mily, or a public school there would have 
 been nothing in this squabble to dwell on 
 the memory or vibrate on the nerves, after the 
 first burst of passion ; but to Philip Beaufort 
 it was an era in life ; it was the first insult he 
 had ever received; it was his initiation into 
 that changed, rough, and terrible career, to 
 which the spoiled darling of vanity and love 
 was henceforth condemned. His pride and 
 his self-esteem had incurred a fearful shock. 
 He entered the house, and a sickness came
 
 94 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 over him ; his limbs trembled ; he sat down 
 in the hall, and, placing the fruit beside him, 
 covered his face with his hands, and wept. 
 Those were not the tears of a boy, drawn from 
 a shallow source ; they were the burning, 
 agonising, reluctant tears, that men shed, 
 wrung from the heart as if it were its blood. 
 He had never been sent to school, lest he 
 should meet with mortification. He had had 
 various tutors, trained to shew, rather than to 
 exact, respect; one succeeding another at his 
 own whim and caprice. His natural quick- 
 ness, and a very strong, hard, inquisitive turn 
 of mind, had enabled him, however, to pick 
 up more knowledge, though of a desultory 
 and miscellaneous nature, than boys of his age 
 generally possess ; and his roving, independ- 
 ent, out-of-door existence, had served to ripen 
 his understanding. He had certainly, in spite 
 of every precaution, arrived at some, though not 
 very distinct, notion, of his peculiar position ; 
 but none of its inconveniences had visited him 
 till that day. He began now to turn his eyes
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 95 
 
 to the future ; and vague and dark fore- 
 bodings a consciousness of the shelter, the 
 protector, the station he had lost in his fa- 
 ther's death crept coldly over him. While 
 thus musing, a ring was heard at the bell ; 
 he lifted his head ; it was the postman with a 
 letter. Philip hastily rose, and, averting his 
 face, on which the tears were not yet dried, 
 took the letter ; and then, snatching up his 
 little basket of fruit, repaired to his mother's 
 room. 
 
 The shutters were half closed on the bright 
 
 O 
 
 day oh, what a mockery is there in the 
 smile of the happy sun when it shines on 
 the wretched ! Mrs. Morton sat, or rather 
 crouched, in a distant corner ; her streaming 
 eyes fixed on vacancy; listless, drooping; a 
 very image of desolate woe : and Sidney was 
 weaving flower-chains at her feet. 
 
 "Mamma! mother!" whispered Philip, 
 as he threw his arms round her neck; " look 
 up! look up! my heart breaks to see you. 
 Do taste this fruit: you will die too, if you go
 
 96 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 on thus ; and what will become of us of 
 Sidney?" 
 
 Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his 
 face, and strove to smile. 
 
 " See, too, I have brought you a letter ; 
 perhaps good news : shall I break the seal ? " 
 
 Mrs. Morton shook her head gently, and took 
 the letter alas ! how different from that one 
 which Sidney had placed in her hands not two 
 short weeks since it was Mr. Robert Beau- 
 fort's hand-writing. She shuddered, and laid it 
 down. And then there suddenly, and, for the 
 first time, flashed across her the sense of her 
 strange position the dread of the future. 
 What were her sons to be henceforth ? What 
 herself? Whatever the sanctity of her marriage, 
 the law might fail her. At the disposition of 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort the fate of three lives 
 might depend. She gasped for breath ; again 
 took up the letter ; and hurried over the con- 
 tents : they ran thus : 
 
 " DEAR MADAM, Knowing that you must
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 97 
 
 naturally be anxious as to the future prospects 
 of your children and yourself, left, by my poor 
 brother, destitute of all provision, I take the 
 earliest opportunity which it seems to me that 
 propriety and decorum allow, to apprize you 
 of my intentions. I need not say that, pro- 
 perly speaking, you can have no kind of claim 
 upon the relations of my late brother; nor 
 will I hurt your feelings by those moral re- 
 flections which at this season of sorrow can- 
 not, I hope, fail involuntarily to force them- 
 selves upon you. Without more than this 
 mere allusion to your peculiar connexion with 
 my brother, I may, however, be permitted to 
 add, that that connexion tended very mate- 
 rially to separate him from the legitimate 
 branches of his family ; and in consulting with 
 them as to a provision for you and your child- 
 ren, I find that, besides scruples that are to 
 be respected, some natural degree of soreness 
 exists upon their minds. Out of regard, how- 
 ever, to my poor brother (though I saw very 
 little of him of late years), I ana willing to 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 98 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 waive those feelings which, as a father and 
 a husband, you may conceive that I share 
 with the rest of my family. You will pro- 
 bably now decide on living with some of your 
 own relations ; and that you may not be 
 entirely a burden to them, I beg to say that 
 I shall allow you a hundred a-year ; paid, 
 if you prefer it, quarterly. You may also 
 select certain articles of linen and plate, of 
 which I inclose a list. With regard to your 
 sons, I have no objection to place them at 
 a grammar-school, and, at a proper age, to 
 apprentice them to any trade suitable to their 
 future station, in the choice of which your 
 own family can give you the best advice. If 
 they conduct themselves properly, they may 
 always depend on my protection. I do not 
 wish to hurry your movements ; but it will 
 probably be painful to you to remain longer 
 than you can help in a place crowded with 
 unpleasant recollections ; and as the cottage 
 is to be sold indeed my brother-in-law, 
 Lord Lilburne, thinks it would suit him you
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 99 
 
 will be liable to the interruption of strangers 
 to see it; and indeed your prolonged resi- 
 dence at Fernside, you must be sensible, is 
 rather an obstacle to the sale. I beg to inclose 
 you a draft for 100Z. to pay any present ex- 
 penses ; and to request, when you are settled, 
 to know where the first quarter shall be paid. 
 
 " I shall write to Mr. Jackson (who, I think, 
 is the bailiff), to detail my instructions as to 
 selling the crops, &c., and discharging the ser- 
 vants; so that you may have no further trouble. 
 " I am, Madam, 
 
 " Your obedient Servant, 
 
 " ROBERT BEAUFORT." 
 
 " Berkeley Square, September Itth, 18 ." 
 
 The letter fell from Catherine's hands. Her 
 grief was changed to indignation and scorn. 
 
 " The insolent!" she exclaimed, with flash- 
 ing eyes. " This to me ! to me ! the wife, 
 the lawful wife of his brother ! the wedded 
 mother of his brother's children!" 
 
 " Say that again, mother! again again!"
 
 100 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 cried Philip, in a loud voice. "His wife! 
 wedded ! " 
 
 " I swear it," said Catherine, solemnly. 
 " I kept the secret for your father's sake. 
 Now, for yours, the truth must be pro- 
 claimed." 
 
 "Thank God! thank God!" murmured 
 Philip, in a quivering voice, throwing his 
 arms round his brother. " We have no brand 
 on our names, Sidney." 
 
 At those accents, so full of supposed joy 
 and pride, the mother felt at once all that 
 her son had suspected and concealed. She 
 felt that beneath his haughty and wayward 
 character there had lurked delicate and gene- 
 rous forbearance for her ; that from his equi- 
 vocal position his very faults might have 
 arisen ; and a pang of remorse for her long 
 sacrifice of the children to the father shot 
 through her heart. It was followed by a fear, 
 an appalling fear, more painful than the re- 
 morse. The proofs that were to clear herself 
 and them ! The words of her husband, that last
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 101 
 
 awful morning, rang in her ear. The minister 
 dead ;. the witness absent ; the register lost ! 
 But the copy of that register! the copy! 
 might not that suffice ? She groaned, and 
 closed her eyes as if to shut out the future : 
 then starting up, she hurried from the room, 
 and went straight to Beaufort's study. As 
 she laid her hand on the latch of the door, 
 she trembled and drew back. But care for 
 the living was stronger at that moment than 
 even anguish for the dead : she entered the 
 apartment; she passed with a firm step to the 
 bureau. It was locked ; Robert Beaufort's 
 seal upon the lock: on every cupboard, every 
 box, every drawer, the same seal that spoke 
 of rights more valued than her own. But 
 Catherine was not daunted : she turned and 
 saw Philip by her side ; she pointed to the 
 bureau in silence ; the boy understood the 
 appeal. He left the room, and returned in 
 a few moments with a chisel. The lock was 
 broken : tremblingly and eagerly Catherine 
 ransacked the contents ; opened paper after
 
 102 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 paper, letter after letter, in vain : no cer- 
 tificate, no will, no memorial. Could the 
 brother have abstracted the fatal proof? A 
 word safficed to explain to Philip what she 
 sought for ; and his search was more minute 
 than hers. Every possible receptacle for 
 papers in that room, in the whole house, was 
 explored, and still the search was fruitless. 
 
 Three hours afterwards they were in the 
 same room in which Philip had brought Ro- 
 bert Beaufort's letter to his mother. Cathe- 
 rine was seated, tearless, but deadly pale with 
 heart-sickness and dismay. 
 
 " Mother," said Philip, may I now read 
 the letter?" 
 
 " Yes, boy; and decide for us all." She 
 paused, and examined his face as he read. 
 He felt her eye was upon him, and restrained 
 his emotions as he proceeded. When he had 
 done, he lifted his dark gaze upon Catherine's 
 watchful countenance. 
 
 " Mother, whether or not we obtain our 
 rights, you will still refuse this man's charity.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 103 
 
 I am young a boy; but I am strong and 
 active. I will work for you day and night. 
 I have it in me I feel it; any thing rather 
 than eating his bread." 
 
 " Philip! Philip! you are indeed my son; 
 your father's son ! And have you no reproach 
 for your mother, who so weakly, so criminally, 
 concealed your birthright, till, alas ! discovery 
 may be too late ? Oh ! reproach me, reproach 
 me! it will be kindness. No ! do not kiss me ! 
 I cannot bear it. Boy ! boy ! if, as my heart 
 tells me, we fail in proof, do you understand 
 what, in the world's eye, I am ; what you 
 are?" 
 
 " I do!" said Philip firmly; and he fell 
 on his knees at her feet. "Whatever others 
 call you, you are a mother, and I your son. 
 You are, in the judgment of Heaven, my 
 father's Wife, and I his Heir." 
 
 Catherine bowed her head, and, with a 
 gush of tears, fell into his arms. Sidney crept 
 up to her, and forced his lips to her cold
 
 104 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 cheek. " Mamma! what vexes you ? Mamma, 
 mamma!" 
 
 " Ob, Sidney ! Sidney ! How like his father ! 
 Look at him, Philip ! Shall we do right to 
 refuse even this pittance? Must he be a beggar 
 too ?" 
 
 " Never a beggar ! " said Philip, with a 
 pride that shewed what hard lessons he had 
 yet to learn. " The lawful sons of a Beaufort 
 were not born to beg their bread ! " '
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " The storm above, and frozen world below. 
 
 The olive bough 
 
 Faded and cast upon the common wind, 
 And earth a doveless ark." LAM AN BLANCH A RD. 
 
 Mr. ROBERT BEAUFORT was generally con- 
 sidered by the world a very worthy man- 
 He had never committed any excess never 
 gambled or incurred debt or fallen into the 
 warm errors most common with his sex. He 
 was a good husband a careful father an 
 agreeable neighbour rather charitable, than 
 otherwise, to the poor. He was honest and 
 methodical in his dealings, and had been 
 known to behave handsomely in different re- 
 lations of life. Mr. Robert Beaufort, indeed, 
 always meant to do what was right in the 
 
 F2
 
 106 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 eyes of the world ! He had no other rule of 
 action but that which the world supplied : 
 his religion was decorum his sense of honour 
 was regard to opinion. His heart was a dial 
 to which the world was the sun : when the 
 great eye of the public fell on it, it answered 
 every purpose that a heart could answer ; but 
 when that eye was invisible, the dial was 
 mute a piece of brass and nothing more. 
 
 It is just to Rqbert Beaufort to assure 
 the reader that he wholly disbelieved his 
 brother's story of a private marriage. He 
 considered that tale, when heard for the first 
 time, as the mere invention (and a shallow 
 one) of a man wishing to make the imprudent 
 step he was about to take as respectable as he 
 could. The careless tone of his brother when 
 speaking upon the subject his confession 
 that of such a marriage there were no distinct 
 proofs, except a copy of a register (which copy 
 Robert had not found) made his incredulity 
 natural. He therefore deemed himself under 
 no obligation of delicacy, or respect, to a
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 107 
 
 woman through whose means he had very 
 nearly lost a noble succession a woman who 
 had not even borne his brother's name a 
 woman whom nobody knew. Had Mrs. Mor- 
 ton been Mrs. Beaufort, and the natural sons 
 legitimate children, Robert Beaufort, suppos- 
 ing their situation of relative power and de- 
 pendence to have been the same, would have 
 behaved with careful and scrupulous gene- 
 rosity. The world would have said, " Nothing 
 could be handsomer than Mr. Robert Beau- 
 fort's conduct!" Nay, if Mrs. Morton had 
 been some divorced wife of birth and con- 
 nexions, he would have made very different 
 dispositions in her favour : he would not have 
 allowed the connexions to have called him 
 shabby. But here he felt that, all circum- 
 stances considered, the world, if it spoke at all 
 (which it would scarcely think it worth while 
 to do), would be on his side. An artful wo- 
 man low-born, and, of course, low-bred 
 who wanted to inveigle the rich and careless 
 paramour into marriage ; what could be ex-
 
 108 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 pected from the man she had sought to injure 
 the rightful heir? Was it not very good in 
 him to do any thing for her, and, if he pro- 
 vided for the children suitably to the original 
 station of the mother, did he not go to the 
 very utmost of reasonable expectation ? He 
 certainly thought in his conscience, such as it 
 was, that he had acted well not extrava- 
 gantly, not foolishly ; but well. He was sure 
 the world would say so if it knew all : he 
 was not bound to do any thing. He was 
 not, therefore, prepared for Catherine's short, 
 haughty, but temperate reply to his letter: a 
 reply which conveyed a decided refusal of his 
 offers asserted positively her own marriage, 
 and the claims of her children intimated 
 legal proceedings and was signed in the 
 name of Catherine Beaufort! Mr. Beaufort 
 put the letter in his bureau, labelled " Im- 
 pertinent answer from Mrs. Morton, Sept. 14," 
 and was quite contented to forget the ex- 
 istence of the writer, until his lawyer, Mr. 
 Blackwell, informed him that a suit had been
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 109 
 
 instituted by Catherine. Mr. Robert turned 
 pale, but Blackvvell composed bim. 
 
 " Pooh, sir ! you have nothing to fear. It 
 is but an attempt to extort money : the at- 
 torney is a low practitioner, accustomed to get 
 up bad cases : they can make nothing of it." 
 
 This was true : whatever the rights of the 
 case, poor Catherine had no proofs no evi- 
 dence which could justify a respectable lawyer 
 to advise her proceeding to a suit. She named 
 two witnesses of her marriage one dead, the 
 other could not be heard of. She selected for 
 the alleged place in which the ceremony was 
 performed a very remote village, in which it 
 appeared that the register had been destroyed. 
 No attested copy thereof was to be found, and 
 Catherine was stunned on hearing that, even 
 if found, it was doubtful whether it could be 
 received as evidence, unless to corroborate 
 actual personal testimony. It so happened that 
 when Philip, many years ago, had received 
 the copy, he had not shewn it to Catherine, 
 nor mentioned Mr. Jones's name as the copyist.
 
 110 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 In fact, then only three years married to Ca- 
 therine, his worldly caution had not yet been 
 conquered by confident experience of her gene- 
 rosity. As for the mere moral evidence de- 
 pendent on the publication of her bans in 
 London, that amounted to no proof what- 
 ever ; nor, on inquiry at A , did the 
 
 Welsh villagers remember any thing further 
 than that, some fifteen years ago, a handsome 
 gentleman had visited Mr. Price, and one or 
 two rather thought that Mr. Price had married 
 him to a lady from London ; evidence quite 
 inadmissible against the deadly, damning fact, 
 that, for fifteen years, Catherine had openly 
 borne another name, and lived with Mr. Beau- 
 fort ostensibly as his mistress. Her generosity 
 in this destroyed her case. Nevertheless she 
 found a low practitioner, who took her money 
 and neglected her cause; so her suit was heard 
 and dismissed with contempt. Henceforth, 
 then, indeed, in the eyes of the law and the 
 public, Catherine was an impudent adventurer, 
 and her sons were nameless outcasts.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. Ill 
 
 And now, relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert 
 Beaufort entered upon the full enjoyment of 
 his splendid fortune. The house in Berkeley 
 Square was furnished anew. Great dinners 
 and gay routs were given in the ensuing 
 spring. Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort became per- 
 sons of considerable importance. The rich 
 man had, even when poor, been ambitious ; 
 his ambition now centered in his only son. 
 Arthur had always been considered a boy of 
 talents and promise to what might he not 
 now aspire? The term of his probation with 
 the tutor was abridged, and Arthur Beaufort 
 was sent at once to Oxford. 
 
 Before he went to the university, during a 
 short preparatory visit to his father, Arthur 
 spoke to him of the Mortons. 
 
 " What has become of them, sir? and what 
 have you done for them ?" 
 
 " Done for them!" said Mr. Beaufort, open- 
 ing his eyes. " What should I do for persons 
 who have just been harassing me with the 
 most unprincipled litigation ? My conduct to
 
 112 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 them has been too generous; that is, all .things 
 considered. But when you are my age you 
 will find there is very little gratitude in the 
 world, Arthur." 
 
 " Still, sir," said Arthur, with the good- 
 nature that belonged to him ; " still, my 
 uncle was greatly attached to them ; and the 
 boys, at least, are guiltless." 
 
 "Well, well!" replied Mr. Beaufort, a 
 little impatiently. " I believe they want 
 for nothing : I fancy they are with the 
 mother's relations. Whenever they address 
 me in a proper manner, they shall not find 
 me revengeful or hard-hearted; but, since 
 we are on this topic," continued the father, 
 smoothing his shirt -frill with a care that 
 shewed his decorum even in trifles, " I hope 
 yon see the results of that kind of connexion, 
 and that you will take warning by your poor 
 uncle's example. And now let us change the 
 subject; it is not a very pleasant one, and, at 
 your age, the less your thoughts turn on such 
 matters the better."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 113 
 
 Arthur Beaufort, with the careless gene- 
 rosity of youth, that gauges other men's con- 
 duct by its own sentiments, believed that his 
 father, who had never been niggardly to him- 
 self, had really acted as his words implied ; 
 and, engrossed by the pursuits of the new and 
 brilliant career opened, whether to his plea- 
 sures or his studies, suffered the objects of his 
 inquiries to pass from his thoughts. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Morton, for by that name 
 we must still call her, and her children, were 
 settled in a small lodging in a humble suburb ; 
 situated on the high road between Fernside 
 and the metropolis. She saved from her 
 hopeless law-suit, after the sale of her jewels 
 and ornaments, a sufficient sum to enable 
 her, with economy, to live respectably for 
 a year or two at least, during which time 
 she might arrange her plans for the future. 
 She reckoned, as a sure resource, upon the 
 assistance of her relations ; but it was one to 
 which she applied with natural shame and 
 reluctance. She had kept up a correspondence 
 with her father during his life. To him,
 
 114 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 she never revealed the secret of her marriage, 
 though she did not write like a person con- 
 scious of error. Perhaps, as she always said 
 to her son, she had made to her husband 
 a solemn promise never to divulge or even 
 hint that secret until he himself should 
 authorise its disclosure. For neither he nor 
 Catherine ever contemplated separation or 
 death. Alas! how all of us, when happy, sleep 
 secure in the dark shadows which ought to 
 warn us of the sorrows that are to come ! Still 
 Catherine's father, a man of coarse mind and 
 not rigid principles, did not take much to 
 heart that connexion which he assumed to be 
 illicit. She was provided for, that was some 
 comfort : doubtless Mr. Beaufort would act 
 like a gentleman, perhaps at last make her 
 an honest woman and a lady. Meanwhile, 
 she had a fine house, and a fine carriage, and 
 fine servants ; and so far from applying to 
 him for money, was constantly sending him 
 little presents. But Catherine only saw, in 
 his permission of her correspondence, kind, 
 forgiving, and trustful affection, and she loved
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 115 
 
 him tenderly : when he died, the link that 
 bound her to her family was broken. Her 
 brother succeeded to the trade ; a man of 
 probity and honour, but somewhat hard and 
 unainiable. In the only letter she had re- 
 ceived from him the one announcing her 
 father's death he told her plainly, and very 
 properly, that he could not countenance the 
 life she led : that he had children growing 
 up that all intercourse between them was at 
 an end, unless she left Mr. Beaufort ; when, if 
 she sincerely repented, he would still prove 
 her affectionate brother. 
 
 Though Catherine had at the time resented 
 this letter as unfeeling now, humbled and 
 sorrow-stricken, she recognised the propriety 
 of principle from which it emanated. Her 
 brother was well off for his station she would 
 explain to him her real situation he would 
 believe her story. She would write to him, 
 and beg him, at least, to give aid to her poor 
 children. 
 
 But this step she did not take till a consider-
 
 116 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 able portion of her pittance was consumed till 
 nearly three parts of a year since Beaufort's 
 death had expired and till sundry warnings, 
 not to be lightly heeded, had made her fore- 
 bode the probability of an early death for herself. 
 From the age of sixteen, when she had been 
 placed by Mr. Beaufort at the head of his 
 household, she had been cradled, not in extra- 
 vagance, but in an easy luxury, which had 
 not brought with it habits of economy and 
 thrift. She could grudge any thing to her- 
 self, but to her children his children, whose 
 every whim had been anticipated, she had not 
 the heart to be saving. She could have starved 
 in a garret had she been alone ; but she could 
 not see them wanting a comfort while she 
 possessed a guinea. Philip, to do him jus- 
 tice, evinced a consideration not to have been 
 expected from his early and arrogant reckless- 
 ness. But Sidney, who could expect consider- 
 ation from such a child ? What could he 
 know of the change of circumstances of the 
 value of money ? Did he seem dejected,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 117 
 
 Catherine would steal out and spend a week's 
 income on the lapful of toys which she brought 
 home. Did he seeui a shade more pale did 
 he complain of the slightest ailment, a doctor 
 must be sent for. Alas ! her own ailments, 
 neglected and unheeded, were growing beyond 
 the reach of medicine. Anxious fearful 
 gnawed by regret for the past the thought of 
 famine in the future she daily fretted and 
 wore herself away. She had cultivated her 
 mind during her secluded residence with Mr. 
 Beaufort, but she had learned none of the 
 arts by which decayed gentlewomen keep the 
 wolf from the door ; no little holyday accom- 
 plishments, which, in the day of need, turn to 
 useful trade ; no water-colour drawings, no 
 
 7 O 7 
 
 paintings on velvet, no fabrication of pretty 
 gewgaws, no embroidery and fine needlework. 
 She was helpless utterly helpless not strong 
 enough even for a servant ; and, even in that 
 capacity, could she have got a character? 
 A great change, at this time, was apparent 
 in Philip. Had he fallen, then, into kind
 
 ] 18 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 hands, and under guiding eyes, his passions 
 and energies might have ripened into rare 
 qualities and great virtues. But perhaps, as 
 Goethe has somewhere said, * Experience, after 
 all, is the best Teacher.' He kept a constant 
 guard on his vehement temper his wayward 
 will ; he would not have vexed his mother for 
 the world. But, strange to say (it was a great 
 mystery in the woman's heart), in proportion 
 as he became more amiable, it seemed that 
 his mother loved him less. Perhaps she did 
 not, in that change, recognise so closely the 
 darling of the old time ; perhaps the very 
 weaknesses and importunities of Sidney, the 
 hourly sacrifices the child entailed upon her, 
 endeared him more to her from that natural 
 sense of dependence and protection which 
 forms the great bond between mother and 
 child ; perhaps, too, as Philip had been one 
 to inspire as much pride as affection, so the 
 pride faded away with the expectations that 
 had fed it, and carried off in its decay some 
 of the affection that was intertwined with it.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 1 19 
 
 However this be, Philip had formerly appeared 
 the more spoiled and favoured of the two ; and 
 now Sidney seemed all in all. Thus, beneath 
 the younger son's caressing gentleness, there 
 grew up a certain regard for self; it was 
 latent, it took amiable colours; it had even 
 a certain charm and grace in so sweet a child, 
 but selfishness it was not the less : in this he 
 differed from his brother. Philip was self- 
 willed : Sidney, self-loving. A certain timidity 
 of character, endearing perhaps to the anxious 
 heart of a mother, made this fault in the 
 younger boy more likely to take root. For, 
 in bold natures, there is a lavish and uncal- 
 culating recklessness which scorns self uncon- 
 sciously : and what is fear, but, when physical, 
 the regard for one's own person ; when moral, 
 the anxiety for one's own interests ? 
 
 It was in a small room, in a lodging-house 
 
 in the suburb of H that Mrs. Morton was 
 
 seated by the window, anxiously awaiting the 
 knock of the postman, who was expected to 
 bring her brother's reply to her letter. It
 
 120 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 was, therefore, between ten and eleven o'clock 
 a morning in the merry month of June. It 
 was hot and sultry, which is rare in an English 
 June. A flytrap, red, white, and yellow, sus- 
 pended from the ceiling, swarmed with flies; 
 flies were on the ceiling, flies buzzed at the 
 windows ; the sofa and chairs of horse-hair 
 seemed stuffed with flies. There was an air 
 of heated discomfort in the thick, solid moreen 
 curtains, in the gaudy paper, in the bright- 
 staring carpet, in the very looking-glass over 
 the chimney-piece, where a strip of mirror lay 
 imprisoned in an embrace of frame covered 
 with yellow muslin. We may talk of the 
 dreariness of winter; and winter, no doubt, is 
 desolate. But what in the world is more 
 dreary to eyes inured to the verdure and bloom 
 of Nature " the pomp of groves and garniture 
 of fields" than a close room in a suburban 
 lodging-house ; the sun piercing every corner ; 
 nothing fresh, nothing cool, nothing fragrant 
 to be seen, felt, or inhaled ; all dust, glare, 
 noise, with a chandler's shop, perhaps, next
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 121 
 
 door? Sidney, armed with a pair of scissors, 
 was cutting the pictures out of a story-book, 
 which his mother had bought him the day 
 before. Philip, who, of late, had taken much 
 to rambling about the streets it may be, in 
 hopes of meeting one of those benevolent, 
 eccentric, elderly gentlemen, he had read of in 
 old novels, who suddenly come to the relief of 
 distressed virtue ; or, more probably, from the 
 restlessness that belonged to his adventurous 
 temperament ; Philip had left the house since 
 breakfast. 
 
 " Oh! how hot this nasty room is!" ex- 
 claimed Sidney, abruptly, looking up from his 
 employment. " Sha'n't we ever go into the 
 country again, mamma?" 
 
 " Not at present, my love." 
 
 " I wish I could have my pony: why can't 
 I have my pony, mamma?" 
 
 "Because because the pony is sold, 
 Sidney." 
 
 " Who sold it ?" 
 
 " Your uncle." 
 
 VOL. i. o
 
 122 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " He is a very naughty man, my uncle : is 
 not he? But can't I have another pony? It 
 would be so nice, this fine weather!" 
 
 " Ah ! my dear, I wish I could afford it : but 
 you shall have a ride this week ! Yes," con- 
 tinued the mother, as if reasoning with herself, 
 in excuse of the extravagance, " he does not 
 look well: poor child! he must have exercise." 
 
 " A ride ! oh ! thflt is my own kind 
 mamma ! " exclaimed Sidney, clapping his 
 hands. " Not on a donkey, you know ! a 
 pony. The man down the street, there, lets 
 ponies. I must have the white pony with the 
 long tail. But, I say, mamma, don't tell 
 Philip, pray don't ; he would be jealous." 
 
 " No, not jealous, my dear; why do you 
 think so?" 
 
 " Because he is always angry when I ask 
 you for any thing. It is very unkind in him, 
 for I don't care if he has a pony, too, only 
 not the white one." 
 
 Here the postman's knock, loud and sudden, 
 startled Mrs. Morton from her seat. She
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 123 
 
 pressed her hands tightly to her heart, as if to 
 still its beating, and went nervously to the 
 door ; thence to the stairs, to anticipate the 
 lumbering step of the slipshod maid-servant. 
 
 " Give it me, Jane ; give it me ! " 
 
 " One shilling and eightpence charged 
 double \iyou please, ma'am! Thank you." 
 
 " Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the 
 pony?" 
 
 " Not now, my love; sit down; be quiet: 
 I I am not well." 
 
 Sidney, who was affectionate and obedient, 
 crept back peaceably to the window, and, 
 after a short, impatient sigh, resumed the 
 scissors and the story-book. I do not apo- 
 logise to the reader for the various letters I 
 am obliged to lay before him ; for character 
 often betrays itself more in letters than in 
 speech. Mr. Roger Morton's reply was couched 
 in these terms : 
 
 " DEAR CATHERINE, I have received your 
 letter of the 14th inst., and write per return.
 
 124 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 I am very much grieved to hear of your af- 
 flictions ; but, whatever you say, I cannot 
 
 think the late Mr. Beaufort acted like a con- 
 
 
 scientious man, in forgetting to make his will, 
 
 and leaving his little ones destitute. It is all 
 very well to talk of his intentions ; but the 
 proof of the pudding is in the eating. And it 
 is hard upon me, who have a large family of 
 my own, and get my livelihood by honest 
 industry, to have a rich gentleman's children 
 to maintain. As for your story about the 
 private marriage, it may or not be. Perhaps 
 you were taken in by that worthless man, for 
 a real marriage it could not be. And, as you 
 say, the law has decided that point ; therefore, 
 the less you say on the matter the better. It 
 all comes to the same thing. People are not 
 bound to believe what can't be proved. And 
 even if what you say is true, you are more to 
 be blamed than pitied for holding your tongue 
 so many years, and discrediting an honest 
 family as ours has always been considered. I 
 am sure my wife would not have thought of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 125 
 
 such a thing for the finest gentleman that ever 
 wore shoe leather. However, I don't want to 
 hurt your feelings; and I am sure I am ready 
 to do whatever is right and proper. You 
 cannot expect that I should ask you to my 
 house. My wife, you know, is a very religious 
 woman what is called evangelical; but that's 
 neither here nor there : I deal with all people, 
 churchmen and dissenters even Jews, and 
 don't trouble my head much about differences 
 in opinion. I dare say there are many ways 
 to heaven ; as I said, the other day, to Mr. 
 Thwaites, our member. But it is right to say 
 my wife will not hear of your coming here ; 
 and, indeed, it might do harm to my business, 
 for there are several elderly single gentle- 
 women, who buy flannel for the poor at my 
 shop, and they are very particular ; as they 
 ought to be, indeed : for morals are very strict 
 in this county, and particularly in this town, 
 where we certainly do pay very high church- 
 rates. Not that I grumble; for, though I am 
 as liberal as any man, I am for an established
 
 126 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 church ; as I ought to be, since the dean is my 
 best customer. With regard to yourself, I will 
 inclose you 10A, and you will let me know 
 when it is gone, and I will see what more I 
 can do. You say you are very poorly, which 
 I am sorry to hear ; but you must pluck up 
 your spirits, and take in plain work ; and I 
 really think you ought to apply to Mr. Robert 
 Beaufort. He bears a high character; and, 
 notwithstanding your lawsuit, which I cannot 
 approve of, I dare say he might allow you 40/. 
 or 50/. a-year, if you apply properly, which 
 would be the right thing in him. So much 
 for you. As for the boys poor, fatherless 
 creatures! it is very hard that they should be 
 so punished for no fault of their own ; and my 
 wife, who, though strict, is a good -hearted 
 woman, is ready and willing to do what I wish 
 about them. You say the eldest is near sixteen, 
 and well come on in his studies. I can get 
 him a very good thing in a light, genteel way. 
 My wife's brother, Mr. Christopher Plaskwith, 
 is a bookseller and stationer, with pretty prac-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 127 
 
 tice, in R . He is a clever man, and has 
 
 a newspaper, which he kindly sends me 
 every week ; and, though it is not my county, 
 it has some very sensible views, and is often 
 noticed in the London papers, as ' our pro- 
 vincial contemporary.' Mr. Plaskwith owes 
 me some money, which I advanced him when 
 he set up the paper ; and he has several times 
 most honestly offered to pay me, in shares in 
 the said paper. But, as the thing might 
 break, and I don't like concerns I don't un- 
 derstand, I have not taken advantage of his 
 very handsome proposals. Now Plaskwith 
 wrote me word, two days ago, that he wanted 
 a genteel, smart lad, as assistant and 'prentice, 
 and offered to take my eldest boy ; but we 
 can't spare him. I write to Christopher by 
 this post ; and if your youth will run down 
 on the top of the coach, and inquire for Mr. 
 Plaskwith the fare is trifling I have no 
 doubt he will be engaged at once. But you' 
 will say, ' There's the premium to consider ! 
 No such thing ; Kit will set off the premium
 
 128 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 against his debt to me ; so you will hare 
 nothing to pay. Tis a very pretty business; 
 and the lad's education will get him on ; so 
 that's off your mind. As to the little chap, 
 Til take him at once. You say he is a pretty 
 boy ; and a pretty boy is always a help in a 
 linen-draper's shop. He shall share and share 
 with my own young folks; and Mrs. Morton 
 will take care of his washing and morals. I 
 conclude (this is Mrs. M.'s suggestion) that 
 he has had the measles, cowpock, and hoop- 
 ing-cough, which please let me know. If he 
 behave well, which, at his age, we can easily 
 break him into, he is settled for life. So now 
 you have got rid of two mouths to feed, and 
 have nobody to think of but yourself, which 
 must be a great comfort. Don't forget to 
 write to Mr. Beaufort ; and if he don't do 
 something for you, he's not the gentleman I 
 take him for : but you are my own flesh and 
 blood, and sha'n't starve ; for, though I don't 
 think it right in a man in business to encou- 
 rage what 's wrong, yet, when a person 's down
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 129 
 
 in the world, I think an ounce of help is 
 better than a pound of preaching. My wife 
 thinks otherwise, and wants to send you some 
 tracts ; hut every body can't be as correct as 
 some folks. However, as I said before, that 's 
 neither here nor there. Let me know when 
 your boy comes down, and also about the 
 measles, cowpock, and hooping-cough ; also if 
 all's right with Mr. Plaskwith. So now I hope 
 you will feel more comfortable ; and remain, 
 
 " Dear Catherine, 
 
 " Your forgiving and affectionate 
 brother, 
 
 " ROGER MORTON." 
 
 " High Street, N , June 13." 
 
 " P. S. Mrs. M. says that she will be a 
 mother to your little boy, and that you had 
 better mend up all his linen before you send 
 him." 
 
 As Catherine finished this epistle, she
 
 130 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 lifted up her eyes and beheld Philip. He 
 had entered noiselessly, and he remained si- 
 lent, leaning against the wall, and watching 
 the face of his mother, which crimsoned with 
 painful humiliation while she read. Philip 
 was not now the trim and dainty stripling 
 first introduced to the reader. He had 
 outgrown his faded suit of funereal mourn- 
 ing ; his long neglected hair hung elf-like 
 and matted down his cheeks; there was a 
 gloomy look in his bright dark eyes. Poverty 
 never betrays itself more than in the features 
 and form of Pride. It was evident that his 
 spirit endured, rather than accommodated itself 
 to, his fallen state ; and, notwithstanding his 
 soiled and threadbare garments, and a hag- 
 gardness that ill becomes the years of palmy 
 youth, there was about his whole mien and 
 person a wild and savage grandeur more im- 
 pressive than his former ruffling arrogance of 
 manner. 
 
 " Well, mother/' said he, with a strange
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 131 
 
 mixture of sternness in his countenance, and 
 pity in his voice ; " well, mother, and what 
 says your brother?" 
 
 " You decided for us once before, decide 
 again. But I need not ask you ; you would 
 never " 
 
 " I don't know," interrupted Philip, vaguely; 
 " let me see what we are to decide on." 
 
 Mrs. Morton was naturally a woman of high 
 courage and spirit, but sickness and grief had 
 worn down both ; and, though Philip was but 
 sixteen, there is something in the very nature of 
 woman especially in trouble which makes 
 her seek to lean on some other will than her 
 own. She gave Philip the letter, and went 
 quietly to sit down by Sidney. 
 
 " Your brother means well," said Philip, 
 when he had concluded the epistle. 
 
 " Yes, but nothing is to be done ; I cannot, 
 
 cannot send poor Sidney to to " and 
 
 Mrs. Morton sobbed. 
 
 " No, my dear, dear mother, no; it would 
 be terrible, indeed, to part you and him. But
 
 132 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 this bookseller Plaskwith perhaps I shall 
 be able to support you both." 
 
 " Why you do not think, Philip, of being an 
 apprentice! you who have been so brought 
 up you who are so proud ! " 
 
 " Mother, I would sweep the crossings for 
 your sake! Mother, for your sake, I would 
 go to my uncle Beaufort with my hat in my 
 hand, for halfpence. Mother, I am not 
 proud I would be honest, if I can but 
 when I see you pining away, and so changed, 
 the devil comes into me, and I often shudder 
 lest I should commit some crime what, I 
 don't know ! " 
 
 "Come here, Philip ray own Philip 
 my son, my hope, my first-born!" and the 
 mother's heart gushed forth in all the fondness 
 of early days. " Don't speak so terribly, you 
 frighten me ! " 
 
 She threw her arms round his neck, and 
 kissed him soothingly. He laid his burning 
 temples on her bosom, and nestled himself to 
 her, as he had been wont to do, after some
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 133 
 
 stormy paroxysm of his passionate and way- 
 ward infancy. So there they remained their 
 lips silent, their hearts speaking to each 
 other each from each taking strange suc- 
 cour and holy strength till Philip rose, 
 calm, and with a quiet smile, "Good-by, 
 mother ; I will go at once to Mr. Plaskwith." 
 
 "But you have no money for the coach- 
 fare ; here, Philip," and she placed her purse 
 in his hand, from which he reluctantly se- 
 lected a few shillings. " And mind, if the 
 man is rude, and you dislike him mind, you 
 must not subject yourself to insolence and 
 mortification." 
 
 "Oh, all will go well, don't fear," said 
 Philip, cheerfully, and he left the house. 
 
 Towards evening he had reached his des- 
 tination. The shop was of goodly exterior, 
 with a private entrance ; over the shop was 
 written, " Christopher Plaskwith, Bookseller 
 and Stationer ; " on the private door a brass 
 
 plate, inscribed with " R and * 
 
 Mercury Office, Mr. Plaskwith." Philip ap-
 
 134 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 plied at the private entrance, and was shewn 
 by a " neat-handed Phillis" into a small office- 
 room. In a few minutes the door opened, and 
 the bookseller entered. 
 
 Mr. Christopher Plaskwith was a short, 
 stout man, in drab-coloured breeches, and 
 gaiters to match ; a black coat and waistcoat ; 
 a large watch-chain, with a prodigious bunch 
 of seals, alternated by small keys and old- 
 fashioned mourning- rings. His complexion 
 was pale and sodden, and his hair short, dark, 
 and sleek. The bookseller valued himself on 
 a likeness to Buonaparte ; and affected a short, 
 brusque, peremptory manner, which he meant 
 to be the indication of the vigourous and de- 
 cisive character of his prototype. 
 
 " So you are the young gentleman Mr. 
 Roger Morton recommends?" Here Mr. 
 Plaskwith took out a huge pocket-book, 
 slowly unclasped it, staring hard at Philip, 
 with what he designed for a piercing and 
 penetrative survey. 
 
 " This is the letter no ! this is Sir Thomas
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 135 
 
 Champerdown's order for fifty copies of the 
 last Mercury, containing his speech at the 
 county meeting. Your age, young man? 
 only sixteen! look older; that's not it 
 that's not it and this is it! sit down. 
 Yes, Mr. Roger Morton recommends you 
 a relation unfortunate circumstances well- 
 educated hum ! Well, young man, what 
 have you to say for yourself?" 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "Can you cast accounts? know book- 
 keeping ? " 
 
 " I know something of algebra, sir." 
 
 " Algebra ! oh, what else ? " 
 
 " French and Latin." 
 \ 
 
 "Hum! may be useful. Why do you 
 wear your hair so long? look at mine. What' s 
 your name ? " 
 
 " Philip Morton." 
 
 " Mr. Philip Morton, you have an intelli<- 
 gent countenance I go a great deal by 
 countenances. You know the terms? most 
 favourable to you. No premium I settle
 
 136 MIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 that with Roger. I give board and bed 
 find your own washing. Habits regular 
 'prenticeship only five years ; when over, must 
 not set up in the same town. I will see to the 
 indentures. When can you come ?" 
 
 " When you please, sir." 
 
 " Day after to-morrow, by six o'clock 
 coach." 
 
 " But, sir," said Philip, " will there be no 
 salary ? something, ever so small, that I 
 could send to my mother?" 
 
 " Salary, at sixteen! board and bed no 
 premium! Salary! what for? 'Prentices have 
 no salary! you will have every comfort." 
 
 " Give me less comfort, that I may give my 
 mother more; a little money, ever so little, 
 and take it out of my board : I can do with 
 one meal a-day, sir." 
 
 The bookseller was moved ; he took a huge 
 pinchful of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, 
 and mused a moment. He then said, as he 
 re-examined Philip, 
 
 " Well, young man, I '11 tell you what we
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 137 
 
 will do. You shall come here first upon trial ; 
 see if we like each other before we sign the in- 
 dentures; allow you, meanwhile, 5s. a-week. 
 If you shew talent, will see if I and Roger can 
 settle about some little allowance. That do, eh?" 
 
 " I thank you, sir, yes," said Philip, grate- 
 fully. 
 
 " Agreed, then. Follow me present you to 
 Mrs. P." 
 
 Thus saying, Mr. Plaskwith returned the 
 letter to the pocket-book, and the pocket-book 
 to the pocket; and, putting his arms behind 
 his coat tails, threw up his chin, and strode 
 through the passage into a small parlour, that 
 looked upon a small garden. Here, seated 
 round the table, were a thin lady, with a 
 squint, Mrs. Plaskwith, two little girls, the 
 Misses Plaskwith, also with squints, and pina- 
 fores ; a young man of three or four-and- 
 twenty, in nankeen trowsers, a little the worse 
 for washing, and a black velveteen jacket and 
 waistcoat. This young gentleman was very 
 much freckled ; wore his hair, which was dark
 
 138 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 and wiry, up at one side, down at the other ; 
 had a short, thick nose ; full lips ; and, when 
 close to him, smelt of cigars. Such was Mr. 
 Plimmins, Mr. Plaskwith's/actotam, foreman 
 in the shop, assistant-editor to the Mercury. 
 Mr. Plaskwith formally went the round of the 
 introduction ; Mrs. P. nodded her head ; the 
 Misses P. nudged each other, and grinned ; 
 Mr. Plimmins passed his hand through his 
 hair, glanced at the glass, and bowed very 
 politely. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. P., my second cup, and give 
 Mr. Morton his dish of tea. Must be tired, 
 sir hot day. Jemima, ring no, go to the 
 stairs, and call out, * More buttered toast.' 
 That 's the shorter way promptitude is my 
 rule in life, Mr. Morton. Pray hum, hum, 
 have you ever, by chance, studied the bio- 
 graphy of the great Napoleon Buonaparte?" 
 
 Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and 
 kicked Philip under the table. Philip looked 
 fiercely at the foreman, and replied, sullenly, 
 " No, sir."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 139 
 
 " That 's a pity. Napoleon Buonaparte was 
 a very great man, very ! You have seen his 
 cast? there it is, on the dumb waiter! Look 
 at it ! see a likeness, eh ?" 
 
 " Likeness, sir? I never saw Napoleon 
 Buonaparte." 
 
 " Never saw him ! No ! just look round 
 the room. Who does that bust put you in 
 mind of? who does it resemble?" 
 
 Here Mr. Plaskwith rose, and placed himself 
 in an attitude ; his hand in his waistcoat, and 
 his face pensively inclined towards the tea- 
 table. " Now fancy me at St. Helena ; this 
 table is the ocean. Now then, who is that 
 cast like, Mr. Philip Morton?" 
 
 " I suppose, sir, it is like you!" 
 
 " Ah, that it is ! strikes every one ! Does it 
 not, Mrs. P., does it not ? And when you have 
 known me longer, you will find a moral simi- 
 litude a moral, sir! Straightforward short 
 to the point bold determined !" 
 
 " Bless me, Mr. P.!" said Mrs. Plaskwith, 
 very querulously, " do make haste with your
 
 140 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 tea ; the young gentleman, I suppose, wants 
 to go home, and the coach passes in a quarter 
 of an hour." 
 
 " Have you seen Kean in Richard the 
 Third, Mr. Morton?" asked Mr. Plim- 
 mins. 
 
 " I have never seen a play." 
 
 " Never seen a play ! How very odd !" 
 
 " Not at all odd, Mr. Plimmins," said the 
 stationer. " Mr. Morton has known troubles, 
 so hand him the hot toast." 
 
 Silent and morose, but rather disdainful 
 than sad, Philip listened to the babble round 
 him, and observed the ungenial characters 
 with which he was to associate. He cared not 
 to please (that, alas ! had never been especially 
 his study) ; it was enough for him if he could 
 see, stretching to his mind's eye beyond the 
 walls of that dull room, the long vistas into 
 fairer fortune. At sixteen, what sorrow can 
 freeze the Hope, or what prophetic fear whisper 
 " Fool " to the Ambition ? He would bear back 
 into ease and prosperity, if not into affluence
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 141 
 
 and station, the dear ones left at home. From 
 the eminence of five shillings a-week, he 
 looked over the Promised Land. 
 
 At length, Mr. Plaskwith, pulling out his 
 watch, said, " Just in time to catch the coach ; 
 make your bow and he off Smart's the 
 word ! " Philip rose, took up his hat, made a 
 stiff bow that included the whole group, and 
 vanished with his host. 
 
 Mrs. Plaskwith breathed more easily when 
 he was gone. 
 
 " I never seed a more odd, fierce, ill-bred- 
 looking young man ! I declare I am quite 
 afraid of him. What an eye he has!" 
 
 " Uncommonly dark ; what, I may say, 
 gipsy-like," said Mr. Plimmins. 
 
 "He! he! You always do say such good 
 things, Plimmins. Gipsy-like ! he ! he ! So 
 he is. I wonder if he can tell fortunes?" 
 
 " He'll be long before he has a fortune of 
 his own to tell. Ha! ha!" said Plimmins. 
 
 "He! he! how very good! you are so 
 pleasant, Plimmins."
 
 142 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 While these strictures on his appearance 
 were still going on, Philip had already as- 
 cended the roof of the coach ; and, waving his 
 hand, with the condescension of old times, to 
 his future master, was carried away by the 
 " Express " in a whirlwind of dust. 
 
 " A very warm evening, sir," said a pas- 
 senger seated at his right ; puffing, while he 
 spoke, from a short German pipe, a volume of 
 smoke into Philip's face. 
 
 " Very warm. Be so good as to smoke into 
 the face of the gentleman on the other side of 
 you," returned Philip, petulantly. 
 
 "Ho, ho!" replied the passenger, with a 
 loud, powerful laugh the laugh of a strong 
 man. " You don't take to the pipe yet ; you 
 will by and by, when you have known the 
 cares and anxieties that I have gone through. 
 A pipe! it is a great soother! a pleasant 
 comforter ! Blue devils fly before its honest 
 breath! It ripens the brain it opens the 
 heart ; and the man who smokes, thinks like a 
 sage and acts like a Samaritan ! "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 143 
 
 Roused from his reverie by this quaint and 
 unexpected declamation, Philip turned his 
 quick glance at his neighbour. He saw 
 a man, of great bulk, and immense phy- 
 sical power broad-shouldered deep-chested 
 not corpulent, but taking the same girth 
 from bone and muscle that a corpulent man 
 does from flesh. He wore a Liue coat 
 frogged, braided, and buttoned to the throat. 
 A broad -brimmed straw -hat, set on one 
 side, gave a jaunty appearance to a counte- 
 nance which, notwithstanding its jovial com- 
 plexion and smiling mouth, had, in repose, a 
 bold and decided character. It was a face 
 well suited to the frame, inasmuch as it be- 
 tokened a mind capable of wielding and mas- 
 tering the brute physical force of body. Light 
 eyes of piercing intelligence ; rough, but reso- 
 lute and striking features, and a jaw of iron. 
 There was thought, there was power, there 
 was passion, in the shaggy brow, the deep- 
 ploughed lines, the dilated nostril, and the 
 restless play of the lips. Philip looked hard
 
 144 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 and gravely, and the man returned his 
 look. 
 
 " What do you think of me, young gentle- 
 man?" asked the passenger, as he replaced the 
 pipe in his mouth. " I am a fine-looking man, 
 am I not?" 
 
 " You seem a strange one." 
 
 "Strange! Ay, I puzzle you, as I have 
 done, and shall do, many. You cannot read 
 me as easily as I can read you. Come, shall 
 I guess at your character and circumstances ? 
 You are a gentleman, or something like it, 
 by birth ; that the tone of your voice tells me. 
 You are poor, devilish poor ; that the hole in 
 your coat assures me. You are proud, fiery, 
 discontented, and unhappy; all that I see 
 in your face. It was because I saw those signs 
 that I spoke to you. I volunteer no acquaint- 
 ance with the happy." 
 
 " I dare say not ; for if you know all the 
 unhappy you must have a sufficiently large 
 acquaintance," returned Philip. 
 
 " Your wit is beyond your years ! What is
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 145 
 
 your calling, if the question does not offend 
 you ?" 
 
 " I have none as yet," said Philip, with a 
 slight sigh and a deep blush. 
 
 " More 's the pity!" grunted the smoker, 
 with a long, emphatic, nasal intonation. " I 
 should have judged that you were a raw recruit 
 in the camp of the enemy." 
 
 " Enemy ! I don't understand you." 
 
 " In other words, a plant growing out of 
 a lawyer's desk. I will explain. There is one 
 class of spiders, industrious, hardworking octo- 
 pedes, who, out of the sweat of their brains 
 (I take it, by the by, that a spider must have 
 a fine craniological developement), make their 
 own webs and, catch their own flies. There is 
 another class of spiders who have no stuff in 
 them wherewith to make webs ; they, there- 
 fore, wander about, looking out for food pro- 
 vided by the toil of their neighbours. When- 
 ever they come to the web of a smaller spider, 
 whose larder seems well supplied, they rush 
 upon his domain pursue him to his hole eat 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 him up if they can reject him if he is too 
 tough for their maws, and quietly possess 
 themselves of all the legs and wings they find 
 dangling in his meshes : these spiders I call 
 enemies the world calls them lawyers!" 
 
 Philip laughed : "And who are the first class 
 of spiders?" 
 
 " Honest creatures who openly confess that 
 they live upon flies. Lawyers fall foul upon 
 them, under pretence of delivering flies from 
 their clutches. They are wonderful blood- 
 suckers these lawyers, in spite of all their 
 hypocrisy. Ha ! ha ! Ho ! ho ! " 
 
 And with a loud, rough chuckle, more 
 expressive of malignity than mirth, the man 
 turned himself round, applied vigorously to 
 his pipe, and sank into a silence which, as 
 mile after mile glided past the wheels, he 
 did not seem disposed to break. Neither was 
 Philip inclined to be communicative. Con- 
 siderations for his own state and prospects 
 swallowed up the curiosity he might otherwise 
 have felt as to his singular neighbour. He
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 147 
 
 had not touched food since the early morning. 
 Anxiety had made him insensible to hunger, 
 till he arrived at Mr. Plaskwith's ; and then, 
 feverish, sore, and sick at heart, the sight of 
 the luxuries gracing the tea-table only revolted 
 him. He did not now feel hunger, but he 
 was fatigued and faint. For several nights, 
 the sleep which youth can so ill dispense with 
 had been broken and disturbed ; and now, the 
 rapid motion of the coach, and the free current 
 of a fresher and more exhausting air than he 
 had been accustomed to for many months, 
 began to operate on his nerves like the intoxi- 
 cation of a narcotic. His eyes grew heavy ; 
 indistinct mists, through which there seemed 
 to glare the various squints of the female 
 Plaskwiths, succeeded the gliding road and the 
 dancing trees. His head fell on his bosom ; 
 and thence, instinctively seeking the strongest 
 support at hand, inclined towards the stout 
 smoker, and finally nestled itself composedly 
 on that gentleman's shoulder. The passenger, 
 feeling this unwelcome and unsolicited weight,
 
 148 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 took the pipe, which he had already thrice 
 refilled, from his lips, and emitted an angry 
 and impatient snort ; finding that this produced 
 no effect, and that the load grew heavier as 
 the boy's sleep grew deeper, he cried, in a 
 loud voice, " Holla! I did not pay my fare to 
 be your bolster, young man ! " and shook 
 himself lustily. Philip started, and would 
 have fallen sidelong from the coach if his 
 neighbour had not griped him hard with a 
 hand that could have kept a young oak from 
 falling. 
 
 " Rouse yourself! you might have had an 
 ugly tumble." 
 
 Philip muttered something inaudible, be- 
 tween sleeping and waking, and turned his 
 dark eyes towards the man; in that glance 
 there was so much unconscious, but sad 
 and deep reproach, that the passenger felt 
 touched and ashamed. Before, however, he 
 could say any thing in apology or conciliation, 
 Philip had again fallen asleep. But this time, 
 as if he had felt and resented the rebuff he had
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 149 
 
 received, he inclined his head away. from his 
 neighbour, against the edge of a box on the 
 roof a dangerous pillow, from which any 
 sudden jolt might transfer him to the road 
 below. 
 
 "Poor lad! he looks pale!" muttered the 
 man, and he knocked the weed from his pipe, 
 and placed it gently in his pocket. " Perhaps 
 the smoke was too much for him he seems 
 ill and thin?" and he took the boy's long 
 lean fingers in his own. " His cheek is 
 hollow! what do I know but it may be with 
 fasting? Pooh ! I was a brute. Hush, coachee, 
 hush ! don't talk so loud, and be d d to you 
 he will certainly be off; " and the man softly 
 and creepingly encircled the boy's waist with 
 his huge arm. l< Now, then, to shift his head ; 
 so so, that's right." Philip's sallow cheek 
 and long hair were now tenderly lapped on the 
 soliloquist's bosom. "Poor wretch ! he smiles ; 
 perhaps he is thinking of home, and the butter- 
 flies he ran after when he was an urchin they 
 never come back, those days ; never never
 
 150 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 never! I think the wind veers to the east, he 
 may catch cold;" and with that, the man, 
 gliding the head for a moment, and with the 
 tenderness of a woman, from his breast to his 
 shoulder, unbuttoned his coat (as he replaced 
 the weight, no longer unwelcome, in its former 
 part), and drew the lappets closely round the 
 slender frame of the sleeper, exposing his 
 own sturdy breast for he wore no waistcoat 
 to the sharpening air. Thus cradled on that 
 stranger's bosom, wrapped from the present, 
 and dreaming, perhaps while a heart scorched 
 by fierce and terrible struggles with life and 
 sin made his pillow of a fair and unsullied 
 future, slept the fatherless and friendless boy.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Constance. My life, my joy, my food, my all the world, 
 My widow-comfort." King John. 
 
 AMIDST the glare of the lamps the rattle of 
 carriages the lumbering of carts and waggons 
 the throng, the clamour, the reeking life 
 and dissonant roar of London, Philip woke 
 from his happy sleep. He woke, uncertain 
 and confused, and saw strange eyes bent on 
 him kindly and watchfully. 
 
 " You have slept well, my lad !" said the 
 passenger, in the deep ringing voice which 
 made itself heard above all the noises round. 
 
 " And you have suffered me to incommode 
 you thus?" said Philip, with more gratitude 
 in his voice and look than, perhaps, he had 
 shewn to any one out of his own family since 
 his birth. 
 
 " You have had but little kindness shewn
 
 152 NIGUT AND MORNING. 
 
 you, iny poor boy, if you think so much of 
 this?" 
 
 "No all people were very kind to me 
 once. I did not value it then." Here the 
 coach rolled heavily down the dark arch of the 
 inn-yard. 
 
 "Take care of yourself, my boy! You 
 look ill ; " and in the dark the man slipped 
 a sovereign into Philip's hand. 
 
 " I don't want money. Though I thank you 
 heartily all the same ; it would be a shame at 
 my age to be a beggar. But, can you think of 
 an employment where I can make something ? 
 what they offer me is so trifling. I have a 
 mother and a brother a mere child, sir at 
 home." 
 
 "Employment!" repeated the man; and 
 as the coach now stopped at the tavern door, 
 the light from the lamp fell full on his marked 
 face. "Ay, I know of employment ; but you 
 should apply to some one else to obtain it 
 for you ! As for me, it is not likely that we 
 shall meet again !"
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 153 
 
 " I am sorry for that ! What and who are 
 you ? " asked Philip, with rude and blunt 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Me!" returned the passenger, with his 
 deep laugh ; " Oh ! I know some people who 
 call me an honest fellow. Take the employ- 
 ment offered you, no matter how trifling 
 keep out of harm's way. Good night to 
 you ! " 
 
 So saying, he quickly descended from the 
 roof; and, as he was directing the coachman 
 where to look for his carpet bag, Philip saw 
 three or four well-dressed-looking men make 
 up to him, shake him heartily by the handy 
 and welcome him with great seeming cordiality. 
 
 Philip sighed. " He has friends," he mut- 
 tered to himself; and, paying his fare, he turned 
 from the bustling yard, and took his solitary 
 way home. 
 
 A week after his visit to R , Philip was 
 
 settled on his probation at Mr. Plaskwith's, and 
 Mrs. Morton's health was so decidedly worse, 
 that she resolved to know her fate, and consult
 
 154 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 a physician. The oracle was at first ambiguous 
 in its response. But when Mrs. Morton said 
 firmly, " I have duties to perform ; upon your 
 candid answer rest my plans with respect to 
 my children left, if I die suddenly, destitute 
 in the world," the doctor looked hard in her 
 face, saw its calm resolution, and replied 
 frankly, 
 
 " Lose no time, then, in arranging your 
 plans: life is uncertain with all with you, 
 especially ; you may live some time yet, but 
 your constitution is much shaken I fear there 
 is water on the chest. No, ma'am no fee. I 
 will see you again." 
 
 The physician turned to Sidney, who played 
 with his watch-chain, and smiled up in his 
 face. 
 
 "And that child, sir?" said the mother, 
 wistfully, forgetting the dread fiat pronounced 
 against herself, " he is so delicate ! " 
 
 ** Not at all, ma'am, a very fine little fel- 
 low," and the doctor patted the boy's head, 
 and abruptly vanished.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 155 
 
 "Ah! mamma, I wish you would ride 
 I wish you would take the white pony ! " 
 
 "Poor boy! poor boy!" muttered the 
 mother : " I must not be selfish." She 
 covered her face with her hands, and began 
 to think ! 
 
 Could she, thus doomed, resolve on declin- 
 ing her brother's offer? Did it not, at least, 
 secure bread and shelter to her child ? When 
 she was dead, might not a tie, between the 
 uncle and nephew, be snapped asunder ? 
 Would he be as kind to the boy as now 
 when she could commend him with her own 
 lips to his care when she could place that 
 precious charge into his hands ? With these 
 thoughts, she formed one of those resolutions 
 which have all the strength of self-sacrificing 
 love. She would put the boy from her, her 
 last solace and comfort ; she would die alone, 
 alone !
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Constance. When I shall meet him in the court of heaven, 
 I shall not know him." King John. 
 
 ONE evening the shop closed and the business 
 done, Mr. Roger Morton and his family 
 sat in that snug and comfortable retreat 
 which generally backs the ware - rooms of an 
 English tradesman. Happy often, and indeed 
 happy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet 
 remote from, the toil and care of the busy 
 mart from which its homely ease and peaceful 
 security are drawn. Glance down those rows 
 of silenced shops in a town at night, and 
 picture the glad and quiet groups gathered 
 within, over that nightly and social meal 
 which custom has banished from the more 
 indolent tribes, who neither toil nor spin. 
 Placed between the two extremes of life, the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 157 
 
 tradesman, who ventures not beyond his means, 
 and sees clear books and sure gains, with 
 enough of occupation to give healthful excite- 
 ment, enough of fortune to greet each new- 
 born child without a sigh, might be envied 
 alike by those above and those below his 
 state if the restless heart of man ever envied 
 Content! 
 
 " And so the little boy is not to come?" 
 said Mrs. Morton, as she crossed her knife 
 and fork, and pushed away her plate, in token 
 that she had done supper. 
 
 "I don't know. Children, go to bed; 
 there there that will do. Goodnight! 
 Catherine does not say either yes or no. She 
 wants time to consider." 
 
 " It was a very handsome offer on our part ; 
 some folks never know when they are well off." 
 
 " That is very true, my dear, and you are 
 a very sensible person. Kate herself might 
 have been an honest woman, and, what is 
 more, a very rich woman, by this time. She
 
 158 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 might have married Spencer, the young 
 brewer an excellent man, and well to do !" 
 " Spencer! I don't remember him." 
 " No : after she went off, he retired from 
 business, and left the place. I don't know 
 what's become of him. He was mightily 
 taken with her, to be sure. She was uncom- 
 monly handsome, my sister Catherine." 
 
 ** Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. 
 
 * 
 
 Morton," said the wife, who was very much 
 marked with the small-pox. " We all have 
 our temptations and trials ; this is a vale of 
 tears, and without grace we are whited 
 sepulchres." 
 
 Mr. Morton mixed his brandy and water, 
 and moved his chair into its customary corner. 
 
 " You saw your brother's letter," said he, 
 after a pause ; " he gives young Philip a very 
 good character." 
 
 " The human heart is very deceitful," re- 
 plied Mrs. Morton, who, by the way, spoke 
 through her nose. " Pray Heaven he may be
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 159 
 
 what he seems ; but what's bred in the bone 
 comes out in the flesh." 
 
 " We must hope the best," said Mr. Morton, 
 mildly; "and put another lump into the 
 grog, my dear." 
 
 " It is a mercy, I'm thinking, that we didn't 
 have the other little boy. I dare say he has 
 never even been taught his catechism : them 
 people don't know what it is to be a mother. 
 And, besides, it would have been very awk- 
 ward, Mr. M., we could never have said who 
 he was: and I've no doubt Miss Pryinall 
 would have been very curious." 
 
 "Miss Pryinall be !" Mr. Morton 
 
 checked himself, took a large draught of the 
 brandy and water, and added, " Miss Pry- 
 inall wants to have a finger in every body's 
 pie." 
 
 " But she buys a deal of flannel, and does 
 great good to the town ; it was she who found 
 out that Mrs. Giles was no better than she 
 should be."
 
 160 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Giles! she came to the work- 
 house." 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Giles, indeed ! I wonder, Mr. 
 Morton, that you, a married man with a 
 family, should say, poor Mrs. Giles ! " 
 
 " My dear, when people who have been 
 well off come to the workhouse, they may 
 be called poor: but that's neither here nor 
 there ; only, if the boy does come to us, we 
 must look sharp upon Miss Pryinall." 
 
 " I hope he won't come, it will be very 
 unpleasant. And when a man has a wife and 
 family, the less he meddles with other folks 
 and their little ones, the better. For as the 
 Scripture says, ' A man shall cleave to his 
 wife, and " 
 
 Here a sharp, shrill ring at the bell was 
 heard, and Mrs. Morton broke off into 
 
 " Well! I declare! at this hour; who can 
 that be ? And all gone to bed ! Do go and see, 
 Mr. Morton." 
 
 Somewhat reluctantly and slowly, Mr.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 161 
 
 Morton rose; and, proceeding to the passage, 
 unbarred the door. A brief and muttered 
 conversation followed, to the great irritability 
 of Mrs. Morton, who stood in the passage 
 the candle in her hand. 
 
 " What is the matter, Mr. M. ? " 
 
 Mr. Morton turned back, looking agitated. 
 
 " Where's my hat? oh, here. My sister is 
 come, at the inn." 
 
 " Gracious me ! She does not go for to say 
 she is your sister ? " 
 
 " No, no : here's her note calls herself a 
 lady that's ill. I shall be back soon." 
 
 " She can't come here she sha'n't come 
 here, Mr. M. I'm an honest woman she 
 can't come here. You understand " 
 
 Mr. Morton had naturally a stern counten- 
 ance, stern to every one but his wife. The 
 shrill tone to which he was so long accustomed 
 jarred then on his heart as well as ear. He 
 frowned, 
 
 "Pshaw! woman, you have no feeling!"
 
 162 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 said he, and walked out of the house, pulling 
 his hat over his brows. 
 
 That was the only rude speech Mr. Mor- 
 ton had ever made to his better half. She 
 treasured it up in her heart and memory ; it 
 was associated with the sister and the child; 
 and she was not a woman who ever forgave. 
 
 Mr. Morton walked rapidly through the 
 still, moon-lit streets, till he reached the inn. 
 A cluo was held that night in one of the rooms 
 below; and as he crossed the threshold, the 
 sound of" hip hip hurrah!" mingled with 
 the stamping of feet and the jingling of 
 glasses, saluted his entrance. He was a stiff, 
 sober, respectable man, a man who, except at 
 elections he was a great politician mixed 
 in none of the revels of his more boisterous 
 town's-men. The sounds, the spot, were un- 
 genial to him. He paused, and the colour of 
 shame rose to his brow. He was ashamed to 
 be there ashamed to meet the desolate and, 
 as he believed, erring sister.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 163 
 
 A pretty maid-servant, heated and flushed 
 with orders and compliments, crossed his path, 
 with a tray full of glasses. 
 
 " There's a lady come by the Telegraph ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, up-stairs, No. 2, Mr. Morton." 
 
 Mr. Morton! He shrunk at the sound of his 
 own name. " My wife's right," he muttered. 
 " After all, this is more unpleasant than I 
 thought fpr." 
 
 The slight stairs shook under his hasty 
 tread. He opened the door of No. 2, and that 
 Catherine, whom he had last seen at her age 
 of gay sixteen radiant with bloom, and, but 
 for her air of pride, the model for a Hebe, 
 that Catherine, old ere youth was gone, pale, 
 faded, the dark hair silvered over, the cheeks 
 hollow, and the eye dim, that Catherine fell 
 upon his breast ! 
 
 " God bless you, brother ! How kind to 
 come ! How long since we have met ! " 
 
 " Sit down, Catherine, my dear sister. You 
 are faint you are very much changed 
 very. I should not have known you."
 
 164 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 *' Brother, I have brought my boy : it is 
 painful to part from him very very paiuful : 
 but it is right, and God's will be done." She 
 turned, as she spoke, towards a little, de- 
 formed, rickety dwarf of a sofa, that seemed 
 to hide itself in the darkest corner of the low, 
 gloomy room ; and Morton followed her. 
 With one hand she removed the shawl that 
 she had thrown over the child, and placing 
 the fore-finger of the other upon her lips 
 lips that smiled then she whispered, " We 
 will not wake him, he is so tired. But I 
 would not put him to bed till you had seen 
 him." 
 
 And there slept poor Sidney, his fair cheek 
 pillowed on his arm ; the soft, silky ringlets 
 thrown from the delicate and unclouded brow ; 
 the natural bloom increased by warmth and 
 travel ; the lovely face so innocent and hushed ; 
 the breathing so gentle and regular, as if never 
 broken by a sigh. 
 
 Mr. Morton drew his hand across his eyes. 
 
 There was something very touching in the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 165 
 
 contrast between that wakeful, anxious, for- 
 lorn woman, and the slumber of the uncon- 
 scious boy. And in that moment, what breast 
 upon which the light of Christian pity of 
 natural affection, had ever dawned, would, 
 even supposing the world's judgment were 
 true, have recalled Catherine's reputed error? 
 There is so divine a holiness in the love of a 
 mother, that, no matter how the tie that binds 
 her to the child was formed, she becomes, as 
 it were, consecrated and sacred ; and the past 
 is forgotten, and the world and its harsh 
 verdicts swept away, when that love alone is 
 visible ; and the God, who watches over the 
 little one, sheds his smile over the human 
 deputy, in whose tenderness there breathes 
 His own ! 
 
 " You will be kind to him will you not?" 
 said Mrs. Morton, and the appeal was made 
 with that trustful, almost cheerful tone which 
 implies, ' Who would not be kind to a thing so 
 fair and helpless?' " He is very sensitive and 
 very docile ; you will never have occasion to
 
 166 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 say a hard word to him never! you have 
 children of your own, brother!" 
 
 " He is a beautiful boy beautiful. I will be 
 a father to him !" 
 
 As he spoke, the recollection of his wife 
 sour, querulous, austere came over him, but 
 he said to himself: " She must take to such a 
 child, women always take to beauty." 
 
 He bent down, and gently pressed his lips 
 to Sidney's forehead : Mrs. Morton replaced 
 the shawl, and drew her brother to the other 
 end of the room. 
 
 " And now," she said, colouring as she 
 spoke, " I must see your wife, brother : there 
 is so much to say about a child that only a 
 woman will recollect. Is she very good-tem- 
 pered and kind, your wife? You know I never 
 saw her ; you married after after I left." 
 
 " She is a very worthy woman," said Mr. 
 Morton, clearing his throat, " and brought me 
 some money ; she has a will of her own as 
 most women have ; but that's neither here nor 
 there she is a good wife as wives go ; and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 167 
 
 prudent and painstaking I don't know what 
 I should do without her." 
 
 " Brother, I have one favour to request a 
 great favour." 
 
 " Any thing I can do in the way of money ?" 
 
 11 It has nothing to do with money. I can't 
 live long don't shake your head I can't live 
 long. I have no fear for Philip, he has so much 
 spirit such strength of character but that 
 child ! I cannot bear to leave him altogether : 
 let me stay in this town I can lodge any 
 where ; but to see him sometimes to know I 
 shall be in reach if he is ill let me stay here 
 let me die here !" 
 
 " You must not talk so sadly you are young 
 yet younger than I am I don't think of 
 dying." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! but " 
 
 " Well well," interrupted Mr. Morton, who 
 began to fear his feelings would hurry him into 
 some promise which his wife would not suffer him 
 to keep ; " you shall talk to Margaret, that is, 
 Mrs. Morton I will get her to see you yes, I
 
 168 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 think I can contrive that ; and if you can ar- 
 range with her to stay, but, you see, as she 
 brought the money, and is a very particular 
 woman " 
 
 "I will see her; thank you thank you; 
 she cannot refuse me." 
 
 " And, brother," resumed Mrs. Morton, after 
 a short pause, and speaking in a firm voice 
 " and is it possible that you disbelieve my story 
 that you, like all the rest, consider my 
 children the sons of shame ?" 
 
 There was an honest earnestness in Cathe- 
 rine's voice, as she spoke, that might have con- 
 vinced many. But Mr. Morton was a man of 
 facts, a practical man a man who believed 
 that law was always right, and that the impro- 
 bable was never true. 
 
 He looked down as he answered, " I think 
 you have been a very ill-used woman, Catherine, 
 and that is all I can say on the matter; let us 
 drop the subject." 
 
 "No! I was not ill used; my husband 
 yes, my husband was noble and generous from
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 169 
 
 first to last. It was for the sake of his children's 
 prospects for the expectations they, through 
 him, might derive from his proud uncle, that 
 he concealed our marriage. Do not blame 
 Philip do not condemn the dead." 
 
 " I don't want to blame any one," said Mr. 
 Morton, rather angrily ; " I am a plain man a 
 tradesman, and can only go by what in my 
 class seems fair and honest, which I can't think 
 Mr. Beaufort's conduct was, put it how you 
 will ; if he marries you as you think, he gets 
 rid of a witness, he destroys a certificate, and he 
 dies without a will. However, all that's neither 
 here nor there. You do quite right not to take 
 the name of Beaufort, since it is an uncommon 
 name, and would always make the story public. 
 Least said, soonest mended. You must always 
 consider that your children will be called natu- 
 ral children, and have their own way to make. 
 No harm in that ! Warm day for your journey." 
 Catherine sighed, and wiped her eyes ; she no 
 longer reproached the world, since the son of 
 her own mother disbelieved her. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 The relations talked together for some mi- 
 nutes on the past the present; hut there was 
 embarrassment and constraint on both sides- 
 it was so difficult to avoid one subject ; and 
 after sixteen years of absence, there is little left 
 in common, even between those who once 
 played together round their parents' knees. 
 Mr. Morton was glad at last to find an excuse 
 in Catherine's fatigue to leave her. " Cheer 
 up, and take a glass of something warm before 
 you go to bed. Good night!" these were his 
 parting words. 
 
 Long was the conference, and sleepless the 
 couch, of Mr. and Mrs. Morton. At first, that 
 estimable lady positively declared she would 
 not and could not visit Catherine : as to receiv- 
 ing her, that was out of the question. But she 
 secretly resolved to give up that point in order 
 to insist with greater strength upon another, 
 viz. the impossibility of Catherine remaining in 
 the town. Such concession for the purpose of 
 resistance being a very common and sagacious 
 policy with married ladies. Accordingly, when
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 171 
 
 suddenly, and with a good grace, Mrs. Morton 
 appeared affected by her husband's eloquence, 
 and said, "Well, poor thing! if she is so ill, 
 and you wish it so much, I will call to-morrow ;" 
 Mr. Morton felt his heart softened towards 
 the many excellent reasons which his wife 
 urged against allowing Catherine to reside 
 in the town. He was a political character 
 he had many enemies ; the story of his 
 seduced sister, now forgotten, would certainly 
 be raked up, it would affect his comfort, per- 
 haps his trade, certainly his eldest daughter, 
 who was now thirteen ; it would be impos- 
 sible then to adopt the plan hitherto resolved 
 upon of passing off Sidney as the legitimate 
 orphan of a distant relation ; it would be made 
 a great handle for gossip by Miss Pryiuall . 
 Added to all these reasons, one not less strong 
 occurred to Mr. Morton himself, the uncom- 
 mon and merciless rigidity of his wife would 
 render all the other women in the town very 
 glad of any topic that would humble her own 
 sense of immaculate propriety. Moreover, he
 
 172 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 saw that if Catherine did remain, it would be a 
 perpetual source of irritation in his own home ; 
 he was a man, who liked an easy life, and 
 avoided, as far as possible, all food for domestic 
 worry. And thus, when at length the wedded 
 pair turned back to back, and composed them- 
 selves to sleep, the conditions of peace were 
 settled, and the weaker party, as usual in diplo- 
 macy, sacrificed to the interests of the united 
 powers. 
 
 After breakfast the next morning, Mrs. 
 Morton sallied out on her husband's arm. 
 Mr. Morton was rather a handsome man, with 
 an air and look grave, composed, severe, that 
 had tended much to raise his character in the 
 town. Mrs. Morton was short, wiry, and 
 bony. She had won her husband by making 
 desperate love to him, to say nothing of a dower 
 that enabled him to extend his business, new 
 paint, as well as new-stock, his shop, and rise 
 into the very first rank of tradesmen in his 
 native town. He still believed that she was 
 excessively fond of him a common delusion of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 173 
 
 husbands, especially when henpecked. Mrs. 
 Morton was, perhaps, fond of him in her own 
 way ; for though her heart was not warm, 
 there may be a great deal of fondness with 
 very little feeling. The worthy lady was now 
 clothed in her best. She had a proper pride 
 in shewing the rewards that belong to female 
 virtue. Flowers adorned her Leghorn bonnet, 
 and her green silk gown boasted four flounces, 
 such, then, was, I am told, the fashion. She 
 wore, also, a very handsome black shawl, ex- 
 tremely heavy, though the day was oppressively 
 hot, and with a deep border; a smart sevigne 
 broach of yellow topazes glittered in her breast ; 
 a huge gilt serpent glared from her waistband ; 
 her hair, or more properly speaking her front, 
 was tortured into very tight curls, and her feet 
 into very tight half-laced boots, from which 
 the fragrance of new leather had not yet 
 departed. It was this last infliction, for il 
 faut souffrir pour ttre belle, which somewhat 
 yet more acerbated the ordinary acid of Mrs. 
 Morton's temper. The sweetest disposition is
 
 174 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ruffled when the shoe pinches ; and it so hap- 
 pened that Mrs. Roger Morton was one of 
 those ladies who always have chilblains in the 
 winter and corns in the summer. 
 
 " So you say your sister is a beauty?" 
 " Was a beauty, Mrs. M., was a beauty. 
 People alter." 
 
 " A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is " 
 
 " My dear, can't you -walk faster?" 
 <: If you had my corns, Mr. Morton, you 
 would not talk in that way!" 
 
 The happy pair sank into silence, only broken 
 by sundry " How d' ye do's?" and " Good morn- 
 ing's!" interchanged with their friends, till they 
 arrived at the inn. 
 
 " Let us go up quickly," said Mrs. Morton. 
 And quiet quiet to gloom, did the inn, so 
 noisy overnight, seem by morning. The shut- 
 ters partially closed to keep out the sun the 
 taproom deserted the passage smelling of 
 stale smoke an elderly dog, lazily snapping 
 at the flies, at the foot of the staircase not a 
 soul to be seen at the bar. The husband and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 175 
 
 wife, glad to be unobserved, crept on tiptoe 
 up the stairs, and entered Catherine's apart- 
 ment. 
 
 Catherine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney 
 dressed, like Mrs. Roger Morton, to look his 
 prettiest, nor yet aware of the change that 
 awaited his destiny, but pleased at the ex- 
 citement of seeing new friends, as handsome 
 children sure of praise and petting usually 
 are stood by her side. 
 
 " My wife, Catherine," said Mr. Morton. 
 Catherine rose eagerly, and gazed searchingly 
 on her sister-in-law's hard face. She swallowed 
 the convulsive rising at her heart as she gazed, 
 and stretched out both her hands, not so much 
 to welcome as to plead. Mrs. Roger Morton 
 drew herself up, and then dropped a courtesy 
 it was an involuntary piece of good breeding 
 it was extorted by the noble countenance, the 
 matronly mien of Catherine, different from 
 what she had anticipated she dropped the 
 courtesy, and Catherine took her hand and 
 pressed it. 
 
 " This is my son ;" she turned away her head.
 
 176 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Sidney advanced towards his protectress who 
 was to be, and Mrs. Roger muttered, 
 
 " Come here, my dear! A fine little boy !" 
 
 " As fine a child as ever I saw ! " said Mr. 
 Morton, heartily, as he took Sidney on his lap, 
 and stroked down his golden hair. 
 
 This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, but she 
 sat herself down, and said it was "very warm." 
 
 " Now go to that lady, my dear," said Mr. 
 Morton. " Is she not a very nice lady? don't 
 you think you shall like her very much ?" 
 
 Sidney, the best - mannered child in the 
 world, went boldly up to Mrs. Morton, as' 
 he was bid. Mrs. Morton was embarrassed. 
 Some folks are so with other folk's children : 
 a child either removes all constraint from a 
 party, or it increases the constraint tenfold. 
 Mrs. Morton, however, forced a smile, and 
 said, "I have a little boy at home about 
 your age." 
 
 " Have you ?" exclaimed Catherine, eagerly ; 
 and as if that confession made them friends at 
 once, she drew a chair close to her sister-in- 
 law's, " My brother has told you all ?"
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 177 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " And I shall stay here in the town some- 
 where and see him sometimes?" 
 
 Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husband 
 her husband glanced at the door and Ca- 
 therine's quick eye turned from one to the 
 other. 
 
 " Mr. Morton will explain, ma'am," said 
 the wife. 
 
 " E-hem ! Catherine, my dear, I am afraid 
 that is out of the question," began Mr. Mor- 
 ton, who, when fairly put to it, could be business- 
 like enough. " You see bygones are bygones, 
 and it is no use raking them up. But many 
 people in the town will recollect you." 
 
 " No one will see me no one, but you and 
 Sidney." 
 
 '.' It will be sure to creep out ; won't it, Mrs. 
 Morton?" 
 
 " Quite sure. Indeed, ma'am, it is impos- 
 sible. Mr. Morton is so very respectable, and 
 his neighbours pay so much attention to all he 
 does; and then, if we have an election in the 
 i2
 
 178 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 autumn, you see, ma'am, he has a great stake 
 in the place, and is a public character." 
 
 " That 's neither here nor there," said Mr. 
 Morton. " But I say, Catherine, can your little 
 boy go into the other room for a moment ? 
 Margaret, suppose you take him and make 
 friends." 
 
 Delighted to throw on her husband the bur- 
 den of explanation, which she had originally 
 meant to have all the importance of giving her- 
 self in her most proper and patronising manner, 
 Mrs. Morton twisted her fingers into the boy's 
 hand, and opening the door that communicated 
 with the bedroom, left the brother and sister 
 alone. And then Mr. Morton, with more tact 
 and delicacy than might have been expected 
 from him, began to soften to Catherine the hard- 
 ship of the separation he urged. He dwelt 
 principally on what was best for the child. 
 Boys were so brutal in their intercourse with 
 each other. He had even thought it better to 
 represent Philip to Mr. Plaskwith as a more 
 distant relation than he was ; and he begged,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 179 
 
 by the by, that Catherine would tell Philip to 
 take the hint. But as for Sidney, sooner or 
 later, lie would go to a day-school have com- 
 panions of his own age if his birth were known, 
 he would be exposed to many mortifications 
 so much better, and so very easy, to bring him 
 up as the lawful, that is the legal, offspring of 
 some distant relation. 
 
 " And," cried poor Catherine, clasping her 
 hands, " when I am dead, is he never to know 
 that I was his mother?" 
 
 The anguish of that question thrilled the 
 heart of the listener. He was affected below 
 all the surface that worldly thoughts and 
 habits had laid, stratum by stratum, over the 
 humanities within. He threw his arms round 
 Catherine, and strained her to his breast, 
 
 " No, my sister my poor sister he shall 
 know it when he is old enough to understand, 
 and to keep his own secret. He shall know, 
 too, how we all loved and prized you once ; how 
 young you were, how flattered and tempted ; 
 how you were deceived, for I know that on 
 my soul I do I know it was not your fault.
 
 180 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 He shall know, too, how fondly you loved your 
 child, and how you sacrificed, for his sake, 
 the very comfort of being near him. He shall 
 know it all all!" 
 
 "My brother my brother, I resign him 
 1 am content. God reward you. I will go 
 go quickly. I know you will take care of 
 him now." 
 
 " And you see," resumed Mr. Morton, re- 
 settling himself, and wiping his eyes, "it is 
 best, between you and me, that Mrs. Morton 
 should have her own way in this. She is a 
 very good woman very ; but it 's prudent 
 not to vex her. You may come in now, Mrs. 
 Morton." 
 
 Mrs. Morton and Sidney reappeared. 
 
 " We have settled it all," said the husband. 
 " When can we have him?" 
 
 " Not to-day," said Mrs. Roger Morton; "you 
 see, ma'am, we must get his bed ready, and his 
 sheets well-aired : I am very particular." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly. Will he sleep alone? 
 pardon me." 
 
 " He shall have a room to himself," said
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 181 
 
 Mr. Morton. " Eh, my dear ? Next to 
 Martha's. Martha is our parlour-maid very 
 good-natured girl, and fond of children." 
 
 Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, 
 and said, " Yes, he can have that room." 
 
 " Who can have that room ?" asked Sidney, 
 innocently. 
 
 " You, my dear," replied Mr. Morton. 
 
 "And where will mamma sleep? I must 
 sleep near mamma." 
 
 " Mamma is going away," said Catherine, 
 in a firm voice, in .which the despair would 
 only have been felt by the acute ear of sym- 
 pathy, " going away for a little time; but 
 this gentleman and lady will be very very kind 
 to you." 
 
 " We will do our best, ma'am," said Mrs. 
 Morton. 
 
 And as she spoke, a sudden light broke on 
 the boy's mind he uttered a loud cry, broke 
 from his aunt, rushed to his mother's breast, 
 and hid his face there, sobbing bitterly. 
 
 " I am afraid he has been very much spoiled,"
 
 182 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 whispered Mrs. Roger Morton. " I don't 
 think we need stay longer it will look sus- 
 picious^ Good morning, ma'am ; we shall be 
 ready to-morrow." 
 
 " Good-by, Catherine," said Mr. Morton : 
 and he added as he kissed her, " Be of good 
 heart, I will come up by myself and spend the 
 evening with you." 
 
 It was the night after this interview. Sidney 
 had gone to his new home ; they had been all 
 kind to him Mr. Morton, the children, Martha 
 the parlour-maid. Mrs. Roger herself had 
 given him a large slice of bread and jam, but 
 had looked gloomy all the rest of the evening ; 
 because, like a dog in a strange place, he 
 refused to eat. His little heart was full, and 
 his eyes, swimming with tears, were turned at 
 every moment to the door. But he did not 
 shew the violent grief that might have been 
 expected. He was naturally timid, and his 
 very desolation, amidst the unfamiliar faces, 
 awed and chilled him. But when Martha took 
 him to bed, and undressed him, and he knelt
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 183 
 
 down to say his prayers, and came to the 
 words, " Pray God bless dear mamma, and 
 make me a good child," his heart could con- 
 tain its load no longer, and he sobbed with a 
 passion that alarmed the good-natured servant. 
 She had been used, however, to children, and 
 she soothed and caressed him, and told him of 
 all the nice things he would do, and the nice 
 toys he would have ; and at last, silenced, if 
 not convinced, his eyes closed, and, the tears 
 yet wet on their lashes, fell asleep. 
 
 It had been arranged that Catherine should 
 return home that night by a late coach, which 
 left the town at twelve. It was already past 
 eleven. Mrs. Morton had retired to bed ; and 
 her husband, who had, according to his wont, 
 lingered behind to smoke a cigar over his last 
 glass of brandy and water, had just thrown 
 aside the stump, and was winding up his 
 watch, when he heard a low tap at his window. 
 He stood mute and alarmed, for the window 
 opened on a back lane, dark and solitary at 
 night, and, from the heat of the weather, the
 
 184 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ironcased shutter was not yet closed ; the sound 
 was repeated, and he heard a faint voice. He 
 glanced at the poker, and then cautiously moved 
 to the window, and looked forth, "Who's 
 there?" 
 
 " It is I it is Catherine! I cannot go 
 without seeing my boy. I must see him 
 I must once more!" 
 
 " My dear sister, the place is shut up it is 
 impossible. God bless me, if Mrs. Morton 
 should hear you !" 
 
 " I have walked before this window for 
 hours I have waited till all is hushed in your 
 house, till no one, not even a menial, need 
 see the mother stealing to the bed of her child. 
 Brother ! by the memory of our own mother, I 
 command you to let me look, for the last time, 
 upon my boy's face ! " 
 
 As Catherine said this, standing in that 
 lonely street darkness and solitude below, 
 God and the stars above there was about her 
 a majesty which awed the listener. Though 
 she was so near, her features were not very
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 185 
 
 clearly visible; but her attitude her hand 
 raised aloft the outline of her wasted, but 
 still commanding, form, were more impressive 
 from the shadowy dimness of the air. 
 
 " Come round, Catherine," said Mr. Morton, 
 after a pause ; " I will admit you." 
 
 He shut the window, stole to the door, 
 unbarred it gently, and admitted his visitor. 
 He bade her follow him ; and, shading the 
 light with his hand, crept up the stairs. 
 Catherine's step made no sound. 
 
 They passed, unmolested and unheard, the 
 room in which the wife was drowsily reading, 
 according to her custom, before she tied her 
 nightcap and got into bed, a chapter in some 
 pious book. They ascended to the chamber 
 where Sidney lay; Morton opened the door 
 cautiously, and stood at the threshold, so hold- 
 ing the candle, that its light might not wake 
 the child, though it sufficed to guide Catherine 
 to the bed. The room was small, perhaps 
 close, but scrupulously clean ; for cleanliness
 
 186 MGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 was Mrs. Roger Morton's capital virtue. The 
 mother, with a tremulous hand, drew aside the 
 white curtains, and checked her sobs as she 
 gazed on the young quiet face that was turned 
 towards her. She gazed some moments in 
 passionate silence; who shall say, beneath 
 that silence, what thoughts, what prayers, 
 moved and stirred ? Then bending down, 
 with pale, convulsive lips she kissed the little 
 hands thrown so listlessly on the coverlid of the 
 pillow on which the head lay. After this, she 
 turned her face to her brother, with a mute 
 appeal in her glance, took a ring from her 
 finger a ring that had never till then left it 
 the ring which Philip Beaufort had placed 
 there the day after that child was born. " Let 
 him wear this round his neck," said she, and 
 stopped, lest she should sob aloud, and disturb 
 the boy. In that gift she felt as if she invoked 
 the father's spirit to watch over the friendless 
 orphan ; and then, pressing together her own 
 hands firmly, as we do in some paroxysm
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 187 
 
 of great pain, she turned from the room, 
 descended the stairs, gained the street, and 
 muttered to her brother, " I am happy now ; 
 peace be on these thresholds!" Before he 
 could answer she was gone.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Thus things are strangely wrought, 
 
 While joyful May doth last; 
 Take May in time when May is gone 
 
 The pleasant time is past." 
 RICHARD EDWARDS : from the Paradise of Dainty Devices. 
 
 IT was that period of the year when, to those 
 who look on the surface of society, London 
 wears its most radiant smile ; when shops are 
 gayest, and trade most brisk ; when down the 
 thoroughfares roll and glitter the countless 
 streams of indolent and voluptuous life ; when 
 the upper class spend, and the middle class 
 make ; when the ball-rooin is the Market of 
 Beauty, and the club-house the School for Scan- 
 dal ; when the hells yawn for their prey, and 
 opera-singers and fiddlers creatures hatched 
 from gold, as the dung-flies from the dung
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 189 
 
 swarm, and buzz, and fatten, round the hide of 
 the gentle Public. In the cant phrase, it was 
 " the London season." And happy, take it 
 altogether, happy above the rest of the year, 
 even for the hapless, is that period of ferment 
 and fever. It is not the season for duns, and 
 the debtor glides about with a less anxious 
 eye ; and the weather is warm, and the va- 
 grant sleeps, unfrozen, under the starlit por- 
 tico ; and the beggar thrives, and the thief 
 rejoices, for the rankness of the civilisation 
 has superfluities clutched by all. And out 
 of the general corruption things sordid and 
 things miserable crawl forth to bask in the 
 common sunshine things that perish when the 
 first autumn-winds whistle along the melan- 
 choly city. It is the gay time for the heir and 
 the beauty, and the statesman and the lawyer, 
 and the mother with her young daughters, and 
 the artist with his fresh pictures, and the poet 
 with his new book. It is the gay time, too, 
 for the starved journeyman, and the ragged 
 outcast that with long stride and patient eyes
 
 190 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 follows, for pence, the equestrian, who bids him 
 go and be d d in vain. It is a gay time 
 for the painted harlot in a crimson pelisse; and 
 a gay time for the old hag that loiters about 
 the thresholds of the gin-shop, to buy back, in 
 a draught, the dreams of departed youth. It is 
 gay, in fine, as the fulness of a vast city is ever 
 gay for Vice as for Innocence, for Poverty as 
 for Wealth. And the wheels of every single 
 destiny wheel on the merrier, no matter whe- 
 ther they are bound to Heaven or to Hell. 
 
 Arthur Beaufort, the young heir, was at his 
 father's house. He was fresh from Oxford, 
 where he had already discovered that learning 
 is not better than house and land. Since the 
 new prospects opened to him, Arthur Beaufort 
 was greatly changed. Naturally studious and 
 prudent, had his fortunes remained what they 
 had been before his uncle's death, he would 
 probably have become a laborious and distin- 
 guished man. But though his abilities were 
 good, he had not those restless impulses which 
 belong to Genius often not only its glory but
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 191 
 
 its curse. The Golden Rod cast his energies 
 asleep at once. Good-natured to a fault, and 
 somewhat vacillating in character, he adopted 
 the manner and the code of the rich young 
 idlers who were his equals at College. He 
 became, like them, careless, extravagant, and 
 fond of pleasure. This change, if it deterio- 
 rated his mind, improved his exterior. It was 
 a change that could not but please women ; 
 and of all women, his mother the most. Mrs. 
 Beaufort was a lady of high birth ; and in 
 marrying her, Robert had hoped much from 
 the interest of her connexions ; but a change 
 in the ministry had thrown her relations out of 
 power; and, beyond her dowry, he obtained 
 no worldly advantage with the lady of his 
 mercenary choice. Mrs. Beaufort was a wo- 
 man whom a word or two will describe. She 
 was thoroughly commonplace neither bad 
 nor good, neither clever nor silly. She was 
 what is called well-bred ; that is, languid, 
 silent, perfectly dressed, and insipid. Of her 
 two children, Arthur was almost the exclusive
 
 192 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 favourite, especially after he became the heir 
 to such brilliant fortunes. For she was so 
 much the mechanical creature of the world, 
 that even her affection was warm or cold in 
 proportion as the world shone on it. With- 
 out being absolutely in love with her husband, 
 she liked him they suited each other; and, 
 (in spite of all the temptations that had beset her 
 in their earlier years, for she had been esteem- 
 ed a beauty and lived, as worldly people must 
 do, in circles where examples of unpunished 
 gallantry are numerous and contagious,) her 
 conduct had ever been scrupulously correct. 
 She had little or no feeling for misfortunes 
 with which s^e had never come into contact ; 
 for those with which she had such as the 
 distresses of younger sons, or the errors of 
 fashionable women, or the disappointments of 
 "a proper ambition" she had more sym- 
 pathy than might have been supposed, and 
 touched on them with all the tact of well-bred 
 charity and ladylike forbearance. Thus, though 
 she was regarded as a strict person in point of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 193 
 
 moral decorum, yet in society she was popular 
 as women, at once pretty and inoffensive, 
 generally are. 
 
 To do Mrs. Beaufort justice, she had not 
 been privy to the letter her husband wrote to 
 Catherine, although not wholly innocent of it. 
 The fact is, that Robert had never mentioned 
 to her the peculiar circumstances that made 
 Catherine an exception from ordinary rules 
 the generous propositions of his brother to him 
 the night before his death ; and, whatever his 
 incredulity as to the alleged private marriage, 
 the perfect loyalty and faith that Catherine had 
 borne to the deceased, he had merely observed, 
 " I must do something, I suppose, for that 
 woman : she very nearly entrapped my poor 
 brother into marrying her ; and he would 
 then, for what I know, have cut Arthur out of 
 the estates. Still, I must do something for 
 her eh?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so. What was she? very 
 low?" 
 
 " A tradesman's daughter." 
 
 VOL. i. K
 
 194 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "The children should be provided for ac- 
 cording to the rank of the mother ; that 's the 
 general rule in such cases : and the mother 
 should have about the same provision she 
 might have looked for if she had married a 
 tradesman and been left a widow. I dare say 
 she was a very artful kind of person, and don't 
 deserve any thing ; but it is always handsomer, 
 in the eyes of the world, to go by the general 
 rules people lay down as to money matters." 
 
 So spoke Mrs. Beaufort. She concluded 
 her husband had settled the matter, and never 
 again recurred to it. Indeed, she had never 
 liked the late Mr. Beaufort, whom she con- 
 sidered mauvais ton. 
 
 In the breakfast-room at Mr. Beaufort's, the 
 mother and son were seated ; the former at 
 work, the latter lounging by the window : they 
 were not alone. In a large elbow-chair sat a 
 middle-aged man, listening, or appearing to 
 listen, to the prattle of a beautiful little girl 
 Arthur Beaufort's sister. This man was not 
 handsome, but there was a certain elegance in
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 195 
 
 his air, and a certain intelligence in his coun- 
 tenance, which made his appearance pleasing. 
 He had that kind of eye which is often seen with 
 red hair an eye of a reddish hazel, with very 
 long lashes ; the eyebrows were dark and 
 clearly defined ; and the short hair shewed to 
 advantage the contour of a small well-shaped 
 head. His features were irregular ; the 
 complexion had been sanguine, but was now 
 faded, and a yellow tinge mingled with the 
 red. His face was more wrinkled, especially 
 round the eyes which, when he laughed, were 
 scarcely visible than is usual even in men ten 
 years older. But his teeth were still of a daz- 
 zling whiteness ; nor was there any trace of 
 decayed health in his countenance. He seemed 
 one who had lived hard, but who had much 
 yet left in the lamp wherewith to feed the 
 wick. At the first glance, he appeared slight, 
 as he lolled listlessly in his chair almost 
 fragile. But, at a nearer examination, you 
 perceived that, in spite of the small extremities 
 and delicate bones, his frame was constitu-
 
 196 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 tionally strong. Without being broad in the 
 shoulders, he was exceedingly deep in the 
 chest deeper than men who seemed giants 
 by his side ; and his gestures had the ease of 
 one accustomed to an active life. He had, 
 indeed, been celebrated in his youth for his 
 skill in athletic exercises, but a wound, received 
 in a duel many years ago, had rendered him 
 lame for life a misfortune which interfered 
 with his former habits, and was said to have 
 soured his temper. This personage, whose 
 position and character will be described here- 
 after, was Lord Lilburne, the brother of Mrs. 
 Beaufort. 
 
 " So, Camilla," said Lord Lilburne to his 
 niece, as carelessly, not fondly, he, stroked 
 down her glossy ringlets, " you don't like 
 Berkeley Square as much as you did Glou- 
 cester Place." 
 
 "Oh, no! not half as much! You see I 
 never walk out in the fields,* nor make daisy- 
 
 * Now the Regent's Park.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 197 
 
 chains at Primrose Hill. I don't know what 
 mamma means," added the child, in a whisper, 
 " in saying we are better off here." 
 
 Lord Lilburne smiled, but the smile was a 
 half sneer. 
 
 " You will know quite soon enough, Ca- 
 milla; the understandings of young ladies grow 
 up very quickly on this side of Oxford Street. 
 Well, Arthur, and what are your plans 
 to-day ? " 
 
 " Why," said Arthur, suppressing a yawn, 
 " I have promised to ride out with a friend 
 of mine, to see a horse that is for sale, some- 
 where in the suburbs." 
 
 As he spoke, Arthur rose, stretched himself, 
 looked in the glass, and then glanced im- 
 patiently at the window. 
 
 " He ought to be here by this time." 
 
 " He! who?" said Lord Lilburne, "the horse 
 or the other animal I mean the friend ?" 
 
 " The friend," answered Arthur, smiling, 
 but colouring while he smiled, for he half 
 suspected the quiet sneer of his uncle.
 
 198 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Who is your friend, Arthur?" asked Mrs. 
 Beaufort, looking up from her work. 
 
 " Watson, an Oxford man. ' By the by, I 
 must introduce him to you." 
 
 "Watson! what Watson? what family of 
 Watson? Some Watsons are good and some 
 are bad," said Mrs. Beaufort, musingly. 
 
 " Then they are very unlike the rest of 
 mankind," observed Lord Lilburne, drily. 
 
 " Oh! my Watson is a very gentlemanlike 
 person, I assure you," said Arthur, half-laugh- 
 ing, " and you need not be ashamed of him." 
 Then, rather desirous of turning the convers- 
 ation, he continued, " So my father will be 
 back from Beaufort Court to-day." 
 
 " Yes; he writes in excellent spirits. He 
 says the rents will bear raising at least ten per 
 cent, and that the house will not require much 
 repair." 
 
 Here Arthur threw open the window. 
 
 " Ah, Watson ! how are you ? How d'ye 
 <lo, Marsden ? Danvers, too ! that's capital ! 
 the more the merrier! I will be down in
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 199 
 
 an instant. But would you not rather come 
 in?" 
 
 " An agreeable inundation," murmured Lord 
 Lilburne. " Three at a time : he takes your 
 house for Trinity College." 
 
 A loud clear voice, however, declined the 
 invitation ; the horses were heard pawing 
 without. Arthur seized his hat and whip, and 
 glanced to his mother and uncle, smilingly. 
 " Good-by ! I shall be out till dinner. Kiss 
 me, my pretty 'Milly !" And as his sister, who 
 had run to the window, sickening for the fresh 
 air and exercise he was about to enjoy, now 
 turned to him wistful and mournful eyes, the 
 kind-hearted young man took her in his arms 
 and whispered while he kissed her, 
 
 " Get up early to-morrow, and we '11 have 
 such a nice walk together." 
 
 Arthur was gone ; his mother's gaze had 
 followed his young and graceful figure to the 
 door. 
 
 " Own that he is handsome, Lilburne. May 
 I not say more : has he not the proper air ?"
 
 200 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " My dear sister, your son will be rich. As 
 for his air, he has plenty of airs, but wants 
 graces." 
 
 "Then who could polish him like yourself?" 
 
 " Probably no one. But had I a son 
 which Heaven forbid! he should not have 
 me for his Mentor. Place a young man 
 (go and shut the door, Camilla !) between two 
 vices women and gambling, if you want to 
 polish him into the fashionable smoothness. 
 Between you and me, the varnish is a little 
 expensive ! " 
 
 Mrs. Beaufort sighed. Lord Lilburne smiled. 
 He had a strange pleasure in hurting the feel- 
 ings of others. Besides, he disliked youth : 
 in his own youth he had enjoyed so much that 
 he grew sour when he saw the young. 
 
 Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort and his friends, 
 careless of the warmth of the day, were laugh- 
 ing merrily, and talking gaily, as they made 
 for the suburb of H . 
 
 " It is an out-of-the-way place for a horse, 
 too," said Sir Harry Danvers.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 201 
 
 " But I assure you," insisted Mr. Watson, 
 earnestly, " that my groom, who is a capital 
 judge, says it is the cleverest hack he ever 
 mounted. It has won several trotting matches. 
 It belonged to a sporting tradesman, now done 
 up. The advertisement caught me." 
 
 ** Well," said Arthur, gaily, " at all events, 
 the ride is delightful. What weather! You 
 must all dine with me at Richmond to-morrow 
 we will row back." 
 
 "And a little chicken hazard, at the M , 
 
 afterwards," said Mr. Marsden, who was an 
 elder not a better man than the rest a hand- 
 some, saturnine man who had just left Oxford, 
 and was already known on the turf. 
 
 " Any thing you please," said Arthur, mak- 
 ing his horse curvet. 
 
 Oh, Mr. Robert Beaufort! Mr. Robert 
 Beaufort ! could your prudent, scheming, 
 worldly heart but feel what devil's tricks your 
 wealth was playing with a son who if poor 
 had been the pride of the Beauforts! On one 
 side of our pieces of gold we see the saint
 
 202 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 trampling down the dragon false emblem ! 
 Reverse it on the coin ! In the real use of 
 the gold, it is the dragon who tramples down 
 the saint! But on on! the day is bright 
 and your companions merry ; make the best 
 of your green years, Arthur Beaufort ! 
 
 The young men had just entered the suburb 
 
 of H , and were spurring on four abreast 
 
 at a canter. At that time an old man, feeling 
 his way before him with a stick, for, though 
 not quite blind, he saw imperfectly, was cross- 
 ing the road. Arthur and his friends, in loud 
 converse, did not observe the poor passenger. 
 He stopped abruptly, for his ear caught the 
 sound of danger it was too late: Mr. Mars- 
 den's horse, hard-mouthed and high-stepping, 
 came full against him. Mr. Marsden looked 
 down 
 
 " Hang these old men ! always in the way," 
 said he plaintively, and in the tone of a much- 
 injured person, and, with that, Mr. Marsden 
 rode on. But the others who were younger 
 who were not gamblers who were not yet
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 203 
 
 grinded down into stone by the world's wheels 
 the others halted. Arthur Beaufort leaped 
 from his horse and the old man was already 
 in his arms ; but he was severely hurt. The 
 blood trickled from his forehead ; he com- 
 plained of pain in his side and limbs. 
 
 " Lean on me, my poor fellow ! I will take 
 you home. Do you live far off?" 
 
 " Not many yards. This would not have 
 happened if I had had my dog. Never mind, 
 sir, go your way. It is only an old man 
 what of that? I wish I had my dog." 
 
 " I will join you," said Arthur to his friends; 
 " my groom has the direction. I will just 
 take the poor old man home, and send for a 
 surgeon. I shall not be long." 
 
 " So like you, Beaufort : the best fellow 
 in the world ! " said Mr. Watson, with some 
 emotion. "And there's Marsden positively 
 dismounted and looking at his horse's knees as 
 if they could be hurt ! Here 's a sovereign 
 for you, my man." 
 
 " And here's another," said Sir Harry ; " so
 
 204 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 that 's settled. Well, you will join us, Beaufort? 
 You see the yard yonder. We '11 wait twenty 
 minutes for you. Come on, Watson." 
 
 The old man had not picked up the sove- 
 reigns thrown at his feet, neither had he 
 thanked the donors. And on his countenance 
 there was a sour, querulous, resentful expression. 
 
 " Must a man be a heggar because he is 
 run over, or because he is half blind ? " said he, 
 turning his dim, wandering eyes painfully to- 
 wards Arthur. " Well, I wish I had my dog ! " 
 
 " I will supply his place," said Arthur, 
 soothingly. " Come, lean on me heavier ; 
 that 's right. You are not so bad, eh ? " 
 
 " Um ! the sovereigns! it is wicked to 
 leave them in the kennel ! " 
 
 Arthur smiled. " Here they are, sir." 
 
 The old man slid the coins into his pocket, 
 and Arthur continued to talk, thougli he got 
 but short answers, and those only in the way 
 of direction, till at last the old man stopped at 
 the door of a small house, near the churchyard. 
 
 After twice ringing the bell, the door was
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 205 
 
 opened by a middle-aged woman, whose 
 appearance was above that of a common 
 menial ; dressed, somewhat gaily for her 
 years, in a cap seated very far back on a blaek 
 toupee, and decorated with red ribands, an 
 apron made out of an Indian silk handker- 
 chief, a puce - coloured sarcenet gown, black 
 silk-stockings, long gilt earrings, and a watch 
 at her girdle. 
 
 " Bless us, and save us, sir! What has 
 happened?" exclaimed this worthy personage, 
 holding up her hands. 
 
 " Pish ! I am faint : let me in. I don't 
 want your aid any more, sir. Thank you. 
 Good day ! " 
 
 JNot discouraged by this farewell, the churl- 
 ish tone of which fell harmless on the in- 
 vincibly sweet temper of Arthur, the young 
 man continued to assist the sufferer along the 
 narrow passage into a little old-fashioned par- 
 lour ; and no sooner was the owner deposited 
 on his worm-eaten leather chair than he 
 fainted away. On reaching the house, Arthur 
 had sent his servant (who had followed him
 
 206 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 with the horses) for the nearest surgeon ; 
 and while the old lady was still employed, 
 after taking off the sufferer's cravat, in burn- 
 ing feathers under his nose, there was heard 
 a sharp rap and a shrill ring. Arthur opened 
 the door, and admitted a smart little man in 
 nankeen breeches and gaiters. He bustled 
 into the room. 
 
 "What's this bad accident rode over? 
 Sad thing, very sad. Open the window A 
 glass of water a towel. So so : I see 
 I see no fracture contusion. Help him 
 off with his coat. Another chair, ma'am ; 
 put up his poor legs. What age is he, 
 ma'am? Sixty-eight! Too old to bleed. 
 Thank you. How is it, sir? Poorly, to be 
 sure : will be comfortable presently faintish 
 still ? Soon put all to rights." 
 
 " Tray ! Tray ! Where 's Tray ? Where 's 
 my dog, Mrs. Boxer ? " 
 
 " Lord, sir! what do you want with your 
 dog now? He is in the back-yard." 
 
 '" And what business has my dog in the 
 back-yard?" almost screamed the sufferer, in
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 207 
 
 accents that denoted no diminution of vigour. 
 " I thought as soon as my back was turned 
 my dog would be ill-used ! Why did I go 
 without my dog? Let in my dog directly, 
 Mrs. Boxer!" 
 
 " All right you see, sir," said the apothecary, 
 turning to Beaufort, " no cause for alarm 
 very comforting that little passion does him 
 good sets one's mind easy. How did it hap- 
 pen? Ah, I understand! knocked down 
 might have been worse. Your groom (sharp 
 fellow !) explained in a trice, sir. Thought it 
 was my old friend here by the description. 
 Worthy man settled here a many year very 
 odd eccentric (this in a whisper). Came off 
 instantly just at dinner cold lamb and salad. 
 ' Mrs. Perkins,' says I, ' if any one calls for 
 me, I shall be at No. 4 Prospect Place.' 
 Your servant observed the address, sir. Oh, 
 very sharp fellow! See how the old gentle- 
 man takes to his dog fine little dog what 
 a stump of a tail! Deal of practice expect 
 two accouchements every hour. Hot weather
 
 208 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 for child-birth. So says I to Mrs. Perkins, * If 
 Mrs. Plummer is taken, or Mrs. Everat, or 
 if old Mr. Grub has another fit, send off at 
 once to No. 4.' Medical men should be always 
 in the way that's my maxim. Now, sir, 
 where do you feel the pain?" 
 
 " In my ears, sir." 
 
 " Bless me, that looks bad. How long have 
 you felt it?" 
 
 " Ever since you have been in the room." 
 
 " Oh, I take. Ha! ha! very eccentric 
 very!" muttered the apothecary, a little discon- 
 certed. " Well, let him lie down, ma'am. I '11 
 send him a little quieting draught to be taken 
 directly pill at night, aperient in the 
 morning. If wanted, send for me always 
 to be found. Bless me, that's my boy Bob's 
 ring! Please to open the door, ma'am. Know 
 his ring very peculiar knack of his own. 
 Lay ten to one it is Mrs. Plummer, or, 
 perhaps, Mrs. Everat her ninth child in 
 eight years in the grocery line. A woman 
 in a thousand, sir!"
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 209 
 
 Here a thin boy, with very short coat- 
 sleeves, and very large hands, burst into the 
 room with his mouth open. 
 
 " Sir Mr. Perkins sir!" 
 
 " I know I know coming. Mrs. Plum- 
 mer or Mrs. Everat?" 
 
 " No, sir ; it be the poor lady at Mrs. 
 Lacy's ; she be taken desperate. Mrs. Lacy's 
 girl has just been over to the shop, and 
 made me run here to you, sir." 
 
 " Mrs. Lacy's ! oh, I know. Poor Mrs. 
 Morton! Bad case very bad must be off. 
 Keep him quiet, ma'am. Good day! Look in 
 to-morrow nine o'clock. Put a little lint 
 with the lotion on the head, ma'am. Mrs. 
 Morton ! Ah ! bad job that." 
 
 Here the apothecary had shuffled himself 
 off to the street door, when Arthur laid his 
 hand on his arm. 
 
 "Mrs. Morton! Did you say Morton, 
 sir ? What kind of a person is she very 
 ill?" 
 
 " Hopeless case, sir general break-up.
 
 '210 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Nice woman quite the lady known better 
 days, I 'm sure." 
 
 " Has she any children sons?" 
 
 "Two both away now fine lads quite 
 wrapped up in them youngest especially." 
 
 "Good heavens! it must be she ill, and 
 dying, and destitute, perhaps" exclaimed 
 Arthur, with real and deep feeling; " I will 
 go with you, sir. I fancy that I know this 
 lady that (he added generously) I am related 
 to her." 
 
 " Do you? glad to hear it. Come along 
 then; she ought to have some one near her 
 besides servants : not but what Jenny, the 
 
 maid, is uncommonly kind. Dr. , who 
 
 attends her sometimes, said to me, says 
 he, ' It is the mind, Mr. Perkins; I wish 
 we could get back her boys/ " 
 
 " And where are they?" 
 
 " 'Prenticed out, I fancy. Master Sid- 
 ney " 
 
 "Sidney!" 
 
 "Ah! that was his name pretty name.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 211 
 
 D'ye know Sir Sidney Smith? extraordinary 
 man, sir! Master Sidney was a beautiful 
 child quite spoiled. She always fancied him 
 ailing always sending for me. ' Mr. Per- 
 kins,' said she, ' there 's something the matter 
 with my child ; I 'in sure there is, though 
 he won't own it. He has lost his appetite 
 had a headach last night.' ' Nothing the 
 matter, ma'am,' says I, 'wish you'd think 
 more of yourself.' These mothers are silly, 
 anxious, poor creatures. Nater, sir, nater 
 wonderful thing nater! Here we are." 
 And the apothecary knocked at the private 
 door of a milliner and hosier's shop.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished." 
 
 Titus Andrmricus. 
 
 As might be expected, the excitement and fa- 
 tigue of Catherine's journey to N had con- 
 siderably accelerated the progress of disease. 
 And when she reached home, and looked round 
 the cheerless rooms, all solitary, all hushed 
 Sidney gone, gone from her for ever; she 
 felt, indeed, as if the last reed on which she 
 had leaned was broken, and her business upon 
 earth was done. Catherine was not condemned 
 to absolute poverty the poverty which grinds 
 and gnaws, the poverty of rags and famine. 
 She had still left nearly half of such portion 
 of the little capital, realised by the sale of her 
 trinkets, as had escaped the clutch of the law ;
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 213 
 
 and her brother had forced into her bands a 
 note for 2Q/. with an assurance that the same 
 sum should be paid to her half-yearly. Alas ! 
 there was little chance of her needing it again ! 
 She was not, then, in want of means to procure 
 the common comforts of life. But now a new 
 passion had entered into her breast the 
 passion of the miser ; she wished to hoard 
 every sixpence as some little provision for her 
 children. What was the use of her feeding 
 a lamp nearly extinguished, and which was 
 fated to be soon broken up and cast amidst the 
 vast lumber-house of Death ? She would will- 
 ingly have removed into a more homely lodg- 
 ing, but the servant of the house had been 
 so fond of Sidney so kind to Mm. She 
 clung to one familiar face on which there 
 seemed to live the reflection of her child's. 
 But she relinquished the first floor for the 
 second ; and there, day by day, she felt her 
 eyes grow heavier and heavier beneath the 
 clouds of the last sleep. Besides the aid of 
 Mr. Perkins, a kind enough man in his way,
 
 214 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 the good physician, whom she had before con- 
 sulted, still attended her, and refused his 
 fee. Shocked at perceiving that she rejected 
 every little alleviation of her condition, and 
 wishing at least to procure for her last hours 
 the society of one of her sons, he had inquired 
 the address of the elder ; and on the day pre- 
 ceding the one in which. Arthur discovered her 
 abode, he despatched to Philip the following 
 letter : 
 
 " SIR, Being called in to attend your 
 mother in a lingering illness, which I fear may 
 prove fatal, I think it my duty to request you 
 to come to her as soon as you receive this. 
 Your presence cannot but be a great comfort 
 to her. The nature of her illness is such that 
 it is impossible to calculate exactly how long 
 she may be spared to you ; but I am sure that 
 her fate might be prolonged, and her remain- 
 ing days more happy, if she could be induced 
 to remove into a better air and a more quiet 
 neighbourhood, to take more generous suste-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 215 
 
 nance, and, above all, if her mind could be 
 set more at ease as to your and your brother's 
 prospects. You must pardon me if I have 
 seemed inquisitive ; but I have sought to draw 
 from your mother some particulars as to 
 her family and connexions, with a wish to 
 represent to them her state of mind. She is, 
 however, very reserved on these points. If, 
 however, you have relations well to do in the 
 world, I think some application to them should 
 be made. I fear the state of her affairs weighs 
 much upon your poor mother's mind ; and I 
 must leave you to judge how far it can be 
 relieved by the good feeling of any persons 
 upon whom she may have legitimate claims. 
 At all events, I repeat my wish that you should 
 come to her forthwith. 
 
 " I am, &c. 
 
 After he had despatched this letter, a 
 sudden and marked alteration for the worse
 
 216 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 took place in his patient's disorder; and in the 
 visit he had paid that morning, he saw cause 
 to fear that her hours on earth would be much 
 fewer than he had before anticipated. He 
 had left her, however, comparatively better; 
 but two hours after his departure the symp- 
 toms of her disease had become very alarm- 
 ing, and the good-natured servant girl, her 
 sole nurse, and who had, moreover, the whole 
 business of the other lodgers to attend to, had, 
 as we have seen, thought it necessary to sum- 
 mon the apothecary in the interval that must 
 elapse before she could reach the distant part 
 
 of the metropolis in which Dr. resided. 
 
 On entering the chamber, Arthur felt all 
 the remorse, which of right belonged to his 
 father, press heavily on his soul. What a con- 
 trast, that mean and solitary chamber, and its 
 comfortless appurtenances, to the graceful 
 and luxurious abode, where full of health and 
 hope he had last beheld her, the mother of 
 Philip Beaufort's children ! He remained
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 217 
 
 silent till Mr. Perkins, after a few questions, 
 retired to send his drugs. He tlien approached 
 the bed ; Catherine, though very weak and 
 suffering much pain, was still sensible. She 
 turned her dim eyes on the young man ; but 
 she did not recognise his features. 
 
 " You do not remember me?" said he, in a 
 voice struggling with tears: "I am Arthur 
 Arthur Beaufort." 
 
 Catherine made no answer. 
 
 " Good God! Why do I see you here ? I 
 believed you with your friends your children ; 
 provided for as became my father to do. 
 He assured me that you were so." 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 And then the young man, overpowered with 
 the feelings of a sympathising and generous 
 nature, forgetting for awhile Catherine's weak- 
 ness, poured forth a torrent of inquiries, regrets, 
 and self-upbraidings, which Catherine at first 
 little heeded. But the name of her children., 
 repeated again and again, struck upon that 
 chord which, in a woman's heart, is the last 
 
 VOL, i. L
 
 218 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 to break ; and she raised herself in her bed, 
 and looked at her visitor wistfully. 
 
 " Your father," she said, then "your father 
 was unlike my Philip : but I see things dif- 
 ferently now. For me, all bounty is too late ; 
 but niy children to-morrow they may have 
 no mother. The law is with you, but not 
 justice ! You will be rich and powerful ; 
 will you befriend my children?" 
 
 " Through life, so help me Heaven ! " ex- 
 claimed Arthur, falling on his knees beside the 
 bed. 
 
 What then passed between them it is need- 
 less to detail ; for it was little, save broken re- 
 petitions of the same prayer and the same re- 
 sponse. But there was so much truth and 
 earnestness in Arthur's voice and countenance, 
 that Catherine felt as if an angel had come 
 there to administer comfort. And when fate 
 in the day the physician entered, he found his 
 patient leaning on the breast of her young 
 visitor and looking on his face with a happy 
 smile.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 21J> 
 
 The physician gathered enough from the 
 appearance of Arthur and the gossip of Mr. 
 Perkins, to conjecture that one of the rich rela- 
 tions he had attributed to Catherine was ar- 
 rived. Alas for her, it was now too late !
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "D'ye stand amazed? Look o'er thy head, Maximinian ! 
 Look to the terror which overhangs thee." 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCIJER : The Prophetess. 
 
 PHILIP had been five weeks in his new home : 
 in another week, he was to enter on his articles 
 of apprenticeship. With a stern, unbending- 
 gloom of manner, he had entered on the 
 duties of his novitiate. He submitted to all 
 that was enjoined him. He seemed to have 
 lost for ever the wild and unruly waywardness 
 that had stamped his boyhood ; but he was 
 never seen to smile he scarcely ever opened, 
 his lips. His very soul seemed to have quitted 
 him with its faults ; and he performed all the 
 Tunctions of his situation with the quiet, list- 
 less regularity of a machine. Only when
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 221 
 
 the work was done and the shop closed, in- 
 stead of joining the family circle in the back- 
 parlour, he would stroll out in the dusk of 
 evening, away from the town, and not return 
 till the hour at which the family retired to 
 rest. Punctual in all he did, he never ex- 
 ceeded that hour. He had heard once a-week 
 from his mother; and only on the mornings 
 in which he expected a letter did he seem rest- 
 less and agitated. Till the postman entered 
 the shop, he was pale as death his hands 
 trembling his lips compressed. When he 
 read the letter he became composed ; for 
 Catherine sedulously concealed from her son 
 the state of her health : she wrote cheerfully, 
 besought him to content himself with the 
 state into which he had fallen, and expressed 
 her joy that in his letters he intimated that 
 content : for the poor boy's letters were not 
 less considerate than her own. On her return 
 from her brother, she had so far silenced or 
 concealed her misgivings as to express satis- 
 faction at the home she had provided for
 
 222 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Sidney ; and she even held out hopes of 
 some future, when, their probation finished 
 and their independence secured, she might 
 reside with her sons alternately. These hopes 
 redoubled Philip's assiduity, and he saved 
 every shilling of his weekly stipend ; and 
 sighed as he thought that in another week 
 his term of apprenticeship would commence 
 and the stipend cease. 
 
 Mr. Plaskwith could not but be pleased 
 on the whole with the diligence of his as- 
 sistant, but he was chafed and irritated by 
 the sullenness of his manner. As for Mrs. 
 Plaskwith, poor woman ! she positively de- 
 tested the taciturn and moody boy, who never 
 mixed in the jokes of the circle, nor played 
 with the children, nor complimented her, nor 
 added, in short, any thing to the sociability of 
 the house. Mr. Plimmins, who had at first 
 sought to condescend, next sought to bully ; 
 but the gaunt frame and savage eye of Philip 
 awed the smirk youth, in spite of himself ; and 
 he confessed to Mrs. Plaskwith that he should
 
 MGHT AND MORNING. 223 
 
 not like to meet " the gipsy " alone, on a dark 
 night; to which Mrs. Plaskwith replied, as 
 usual, " that Mr. Plimmins always did say 
 the best things in the world !" 
 
 One morning, Philip was sent some miles 
 into the country, to assist in cataloguing some 
 books in the library of Sir Thomas Champer- 
 clown that gentleman, who was a scholar, 
 having requested that some one acquainted 
 with the Greek character might be sent to 
 him, and Philip being the only one in the 
 shop who possessed such knowledge. 
 
 It was evening before he returned. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Plaskwith were both in the shop as 
 he entered in fact, they had been employed 
 in talking him over. 
 
 " I can't abide him ! " cried Mrs. Plaskwith. 
 " If you choose to take him for good, I sha'n't 
 have an easy moment. I 'm sure the 'prentice 
 that cut his master's throat at Chatham, last 
 week, was just like him." 
 
 "Pshaw, Mrs. P.!" said the bookseller, 
 taking a huge pinch of snuff, as usual, from
 
 224 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 his waistcoat pocket.. " I myself was re- 
 served when I was young ; all reflective 
 people are. I may observe, by the by, that 
 it was the case with Napoleon Buonaparte : 
 still, however, I must own he is a disagreeable 
 youth, though he attends to his business." 
 
 " And how fond of his money he is ! " re- 
 marked Mrs. Plaskwith : "he won't buy him- 
 self a new pair of shoes ! quite disgraceful ! 
 And did you see what a look he gave Plim- 
 mins, when he joked about his indifference 
 to his sole? Plimniins always does say such 
 good things!" 
 
 " He is shabby, certainly," said the book- 
 seller; "but the value of a book does not 
 always depend on the binding." 
 
 " I hope he is honest ! " observed Mrs. 
 Plaskwith; and here Philip entered. 
 
 "Hum," said Mr. Plaskwith; "you have 
 had a long day's work : but I suppose it will 
 take a week to finish ?" 
 
 " I am to go again to-morrow morning, 
 sir : two days more will conclude the task."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 225 
 
 " There's a letter for you," cried Mrs. Plask- 
 with ; " you owes me for it." 
 
 " A letter ! " It was not his mother's hand 
 it was a strange writing he gasped for 
 breath as he broke the seal. It was the letter 
 of the physician . 
 
 His mother then was ill dying wanting, 
 perhaps, the necessaries of life. She would 
 have concealed from him her illness and her 
 poverty. His quick alarm exaggerated the 
 last into utter want ; he uttered a cry that 
 rang through the shop, and rushed to Mr. 
 Plaskwith. 
 
 "Sir, sir ! my mother is dying ! She is 
 poor, poor perhaps, starving ; money, 
 money ! lend me money ! ten pounds ! 
 five ! I will work for you all my life for 
 nothing, but lend me the money!" 
 
 "Hoity-toity!" said Mrs. Plaskwith, nudg- 
 ing her husband "I told you what would 
 come of it : it will be * money or life ' next 
 time." 
 
 Philip did not heed or hear this address, 
 
 L2
 
 223 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 but stood immediately before the bookseller, 
 his hands clasped wild impatience in his 
 eyes. Mr. Plaskwith, somewhat stupified, 
 remained silent. 
 
 "Do you hear me? are you human?" 
 exclaimed Philip, his emotion revealing at 
 once all the fire of his character. " I tell 
 you my mother is dying ; I must go to her ! 
 Shall I go empty-handed? Give me money !" 
 
 Mr. Plaskwith was not a bad-hearted man ; 
 but he was a formal man and an irritable 
 one. The tone his shopboy (for so he con- 
 sidered Philip) assumed to him, before his 
 own wife too (examples are very dangerous), 
 rather exasperated than moved him. 
 
 " That 's not the way to speak to your 
 master ; you forget yourself, young man ! " 
 
 "Forget! But, sir, if she has not neces- 
 saries if she is starving ? " 
 
 "Fudge!" said Mr. Plaskwith. "Mr. 
 Morton writes me word that he has provided 
 for your mother! Does not he, Hannah?" 
 
 " More fool he, I 'm sure, with such a fine
 
 NIGHT ANI} MORNING. 227 
 
 family of his own! Don't look at me in 
 that way, young man; I won't take it that 
 I won't! I declare my blood friz to see 
 you!" 
 
 "Will you advance me money? five 
 pounds only five pounds, Mr. Plaskwith?" 
 
 " Not five shillings ! Talk to me in this 
 style! not the man for it, sir! highly im- 
 proper. Come, shut up the shop, and recollect 
 yourself; and, perhaps, when Sir Thomas's 
 library is done, I may let you go to town. 
 You can't go to-morrow. All a sham, per- 
 haps ; eh, Hannah ?" 
 
 "Very likely! Consult Plimmins. Better 
 come away now, Mr. P. He looks like a 
 young tiger." 
 
 Mrs. Plaskwith quitted the shop for the par- 
 lour. Her husband, putting his hands behind 
 his back, and throwing back his chin, was about 
 to follow her. Philip, who had remained for 
 the last moment mute and white as stone, 
 turned abruptly ; and his grief taking rather
 
 228 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 the tone of rage than supplication, he threw 
 himself before his master, and, laying his haud 
 on his shoulder, said: 
 
 " I leave you do not let it he with a curse. 
 I conjure you, have mercy on me ! " 
 
 Mr. Plaskwith stopped ; and, had Philip 
 then taken but a milder tone, all had been 
 well. But, accustomed from childhood to 
 command all his fierce passions loose within 
 him despising the very man he thus implored 
 the boy ruined his own cause. Indignant 
 at the silence of Mr. Plaskwith, and too 
 blinded by his emotions to see that in that 
 silence there was relenting, he suddenly shook 
 the little man with a vehemence that almost 
 overset him, and cried : 
 
 " You, who demand for five years my bones 
 and blood my body and soul a slave to your 
 vile trade do you deny me bread for a 
 mother's lips?" 
 
 Trembling with anger and, perhaps, fear, 
 Mr. Plaskwith extricated himself from the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 229 
 
 gripe of Philip, and, hurrying from the shop, 
 said, as he banged the door: 
 
 " Beg my pardon for this to-night, or out 
 you go to-morrow, neck and crop ! Zounds! a 
 pretty pass the world's come to ! I don't be- 
 lieve a word about your mother. Baugh ! " 
 
 Left alone, Philip remained for some mo- 
 ments struggling with his wrath and agony. 
 He then seized his hat, which he had thrown 
 off on entering pressed it over his brows 
 turned to quit the shop when his eye fell 
 upon the till. Plaskwith had left it open, and 
 the gleam of the coin struck his gaze that 
 deadly smile of the arch tempter. Intellect, 
 reason, conscience all, in that instant, were 
 confusion and chaos. He cast a hurried 
 glance round the solitary and darkening 
 room plunged his hand into the drawer, 
 clutched he knew not what silver or gold, 
 as it came uppermost and burst into a loud 
 and bitter laugh. That laugh itself startled 
 him it did not sound like his own. His 
 cheek turned white, and his knees knocked
 
 230 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 together his hair bristled he felt as if the 
 very fiend had uttered that yell of joy 'over a 
 fallen soul. 
 
 "No no no!" he muttered; "no, my 
 mother not even for thee!" And, dashing 
 the money to the ground, he fled, like a 
 maniac, from the house. 
 
 At a later hour that same evening, Mr. 
 Robert Beaufort returned from his country 
 mansion to Berkeley Square. He found his 
 wife very uneasy and nervous about the non- 
 appearance of their only son. He had sent 
 home his groom and horses about seven 
 o'clock, with a hurried scroll, written in 
 pencil on a blank page torn from his pocket- 
 book, and containing only these words : 
 
 " Don't wait dinner for me I may not be 
 home for some hours. I have met with a me- 
 lancholy adventure. You will approve what I 
 have done when we meet." 
 
 This note a little perplexed Mr. Beaufort ; 
 but, as he was very hungry, he turned a deaf 
 ear, both to his wife's conjectures and his own
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 231 
 
 surmises, till he had refreshed himself; and 
 then he sent for the groom, and learned 
 that, after the accident to the blind man, 
 Mr. Arthur had been left at a hosier's in 
 H . This seemed to him extremely mys- 
 terious ; and, as hour after hour passed away, 
 and still Arthur came not, he began to imbibe 
 his wife's fears, which were now wound up 
 almost to hysterics; and just at midnight he 
 ordered his carriage, and taking with him the 
 groom as a guide, set off to the suburban 
 region. Mrs. Beaufort had wished to accom- 
 pany him ; but the husband observing that 
 young men would be young men, and that 
 there might possibly be a lady in the case, 
 Mrs. Beaufort, after a pause of thought, pass- 
 ively agreed that, all things considered, she 
 had better remain at home. No lady of 
 proper decorum likes to run the risk of find- 
 ing herself in a false position. Mr. Beaufort 
 accordingly set out alone. Easy was the 
 carriage swift were the steeds and luxuri- 
 ously the wealthy man was whirled alon-.
 
 232 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Not a suspicion of the true cause of Arthur's 
 detention crossed him ; but he thought of the 
 snares of London of artful females in distress; 
 "a melancholy adventure" generally implies 
 love for the adventure, and money for the 
 melancholy ; and Arthur was young generous 
 with a heart and a pocket equally open to 
 imposition. Such scrapes, however, do not 
 terrify a father when he is a man of the world, 
 so much as they do an anxious mother; and 
 with more curiosity than alarm, Mr. Beaufort, 
 after a short doze, found himself before the 
 shop indicated. 
 
 Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, 
 the door to the private entrance was ajar, a 
 circumstance which seemed very suspicious to 
 Mr. Beaufort. He pushed it open with cau- 
 tion and timidity a candle placed upon a 
 chair in the narrow passage threw a sickly 
 light over the flight of stairs, till swallowed up 
 by the deep shadow thrown from the sharp 
 angle made by the ascent. Robert Beaufort 
 stood a moment in some doubt whether to call,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 233 
 
 to knock, to recede, or to advance, when a 
 step was heard upon the stairs above it came 
 nearer and nearer a figure emerged from 
 the shadow of the last landing-place, and 
 Mr. Beaufort, to his great joy, recognised 
 his son. 
 
 Arthur did not, however, seem to perceive 
 his father ; and was about to pass him, when 
 Mr. Beaufort laid his hand on his arm. 
 
 "What means all this, Arthur? What 
 place are you in? How you have alarmed 
 us!" 
 
 Arthur cast a look upon his father of sad- 
 ness and reproach. 
 
 " Father," he said, in a tone that sounded 
 stern almost commanding "I will shew 
 you where I have been : follow me nay, I 
 say, follow." 
 
 He turned, without another word reascended 
 the stairs ; and Mr. Beaufort, surprised and 
 awed into mechanical obedience, did as his son 
 desired. At the landing-place of the second 
 floor, another long-wicked, neglected, ghastly 
 candle, emitted its cheerless ray. It gleamed
 
 234 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 through the open door of a small bedroom to 
 the left, through which Beaufort perceived the 
 forms of two women. One (it was the kindly 
 inaid-servant) was seated on a chair, and 
 weeping bitterly ; the other (it was a hireling 
 nurse, in the first and last day of her attend- 
 ance) was unpinning her dingy shawl before 
 she lay down to take a nap. She turned her 
 vacant, listless face upon the two men, put on 
 a doleful smile, and decently closed the door. 
 
 "Where are we, I say, Arthur?" repeated 
 Mr. Beaufort. 
 
 Arthur took his father's hand drew him 
 into a room to the right and, taking up the 
 candle, placed it on a small table beside a 
 bed, and said, " Here, sir in the Presence 
 of Death!" 
 
 Mr. Beaufort cast a hurried and fearful 
 glance on the still, wan, serene face beneath 
 his eyes, and recognised in that glance the 
 features of the neglected and the once-adored 
 Catherine. 
 
 " Yes she, whom your brother so loved 
 the mother of his children died in this
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 235 
 
 squalid room, and far from her sons, in po- 
 verty, in sorrow ! died of a broken heart ! 
 Was that well, father? Have you in this 
 nothing to repent ?" 
 
 Conscience-stricken and appalled, the worldly 
 man sank down on a seat beside the bed, and 
 covered his face with his hands. 
 
 " Ay," continued Arthur, almost bitterly 
 "ay, we, his nearest of kin we, who 
 have inherited his lands and gold we have 
 been thus heedless of that great legacy your 
 brother bequeathed to us : the things dearest 
 to him the woman he loved the children 
 his death cast, nameless and branded, on the 
 world. Ay, weep, father; and while you weep, 
 think of the future, of reparation. I have sworn 
 to that clay to befriend her sons; join you, who 
 have all the power, to fulfil the promise join 
 in that vow : and may Heaven not visit on us 
 both the woes of this bed of death." 
 
 " I did not know I I " faltered Mr. 
 
 Beaufort. 
 
 " But we should have known," interrupted
 
 236 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Arthur, mournfully. " Ah, my dear father ! 
 do not harden your heart by false excuses. 
 The dead still speaks to yon, and commends 
 to your care her children. My task here is 
 done : oh, sir ! yours is to come. I leave you 
 alone with the dead." 
 
 So saying, the young man, whom the tra- 
 gedy of the scene had worked into a passion 
 and a dignity above his usual character, un- 
 willing to trust farther to his emotions, turned 
 abruptly from the room, fled rapidly down the 
 stairs, and left the house. As the carriage and 
 liveries of his father met his eye, he groaned, 
 for their evidences of comfort and wealth 
 seemed a mockery to the deceased : he averted 
 his face and walked on. Nor did he perceive or 
 heed a form that at that instant rushed by him 
 pale, haggard, breathless towards the house 
 which he had quitted, and the door of which he 
 left open, as he had found it open, as the phy- 
 sician had left it when hurrying, ten minutes 
 before the arrival of Mr. Beaufort, from the 
 spot where his skill was impotent. Wrapped in
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 237 
 
 gloomy thought, alone, and on foot at that 
 dreary hour, and in that remote suburb 
 the heir of the Beauforts sought his splendid 
 home. Anxious, fearful, hopirfg, the out- 
 cast orphan flew on to the death-room of his 
 mother. 
 
 Mr. Beaufort, who had but imperfectly 
 heard Arthur's parting accents, lost and be- 
 wildered by the strangeness of his situation, 
 did not at first perceive that he was left alone. 
 Surprised, and chilled Jby the sudden silence 
 of the chamber, he rose, withdrew his hands 
 from his face, and again he saw that counte- 
 nance so mute and solemn. He cast his gaze 
 round the dismal room for Arthur ; he called 
 his name no answer came; a superstitious 
 tremor seized upon him ; his limbs shook ; 
 he sunk once more on his seat, and closed 
 his eyes ; muttering, for the first time, per- 
 haps, since his childhood, words of penitence 
 and prayer. He was roused from this bitter 
 self-abstraction by a deep groan. It seemed 
 to come from the bed. Did his ears deceive
 
 238 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 him? had the dead found a voice? He started 
 up in an agony of dread, and saw opposite to 
 him the livid countenance of Philip Morton ; 
 the Son of the Corpse had replaced the Son 
 of the Living Man ! The dim and solitary 
 light fell upon that countenance. There, all the 
 hloom and freshness natural to youth seemed 
 blasted ! There, on those wasted features, 
 played all the terrible power and glare of 
 precocious passions, rage, woe, scorn, de- 
 spair. Terrible is it to see upon the face of 
 a boy the storm and whirlwind that should 
 visit only the strong heart of a man ! 
 
 "She is dead! dead! and in your pre- 
 sence ! " shouted Philip, with his wild eyes 
 fixed upon the cowering uncle ; " dead with 
 care, perhaps with famine. And you have 
 come to look upon your work!" 
 
 " Indeed," said Beaufort, deprecatingly, 
 " I have but just arrived : I did not know 
 she had been ill, or in want, upon my honour. 
 This is all a a mistake: I I came in 
 search of of another "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 239 
 
 "You did not, then, corne to relieve her?" 
 said Philip, very calmly. "You had not 
 learned her suffering and distress, and flown 
 hither in the hope that there was yet time to 
 save her? You did not do this? Ha! ha! 
 why did I think it ? " 
 
 "Did any one call, gentlemen?" said a 
 whining voice at the door; and the nurse 
 put in her head. 
 
 " Yes yes you may come in," said 
 Beaufort, shaking with nameless and cow- 
 ardly apprehension ; but Philip had flown 
 to the door, and, gazing on the nurse, said, 
 
 " She is a stranger! see, a stranger!. The 
 son now has assumed his post. Begone, 
 woman ! " And he pushed her away, and 
 drew the bolt across the door. 
 
 And then there looked upon him, as there 
 had looked upon his reluctant companion r 
 calm and holy, the face of the peaceful corpse. 
 He burst into tears, and fell on his knees so 
 close to Beaufort that he touched him ; he
 
 240 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 took up the heavy hand, and covered it with 
 burning kisses. 
 
 " Mother! mother! do not leave me ! wake, 
 smile once more on your son ! I would have 
 brought you money, but I could not have 
 asked for your blessing, then; mother, I ask 
 it now ! " 
 
 " If I had but known if you had but writ- 
 ten to me, my dear young gentleman but 
 my offers had been refused, and " 
 
 "Offers of a hireling's pittance to her; to 
 her for whom my father would have coined his 
 heart's blood into gold ! My father's wife ! 
 his wife ! offers ! " 
 
 He rose suddenly, folded his arms, and, 
 facing Beaufort, with a fierce, determined 
 brow, said, 
 
 " Mark me, you hold the wealth that I was 
 trained from my cradle to consider my he- 
 ritage. I have worked with these hands for 
 bread, and never complained, except to my 
 own heart and soul. I never hated, and- never
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 241 
 
 cursed you robber as you were yes, robber! 
 For, even were there no marriage save in the 
 sight of God, neither my father, nor Nature, 
 jior Heaven, meant that you should seize all, 
 and that there should be nothing due to the 
 claims of affection and blood. He was not the 
 less my father, even if the church spoke not 
 on my side. Despoiler of the orphan, and 
 derider of human love, you are not the less a 
 robber, though the law fences you round, and 
 men call you honest! But I did not hate you 
 for this. Now, in the presence of my dead 
 mother dead far from both her sons now I 
 abhor and curse you. You may think yourself 
 safe when you quit this room safe, and from 
 my hatred ; you may be so : but do not de- 
 ceive yourself, the curse of the widow and the 
 orphan shall pursue it shall cling to you and 
 yours it shall gnaw your heart in the midst 
 of splendour it shall cleave to the heritage of 
 your son! There shall be a de-ath-bed yet, 
 beside which you shall see the spectre of her, 
 now so calm, rising for retribution from the 
 
 VOL. 1. M
 
 242 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 grave ! These words no, you never shall 
 forget them years hence they shall ring in 
 your ears, and freeze the marrow of your 
 bones ! And now begone, my father's brother 
 begone from my mother's corpse to your 
 luxurious home!" 
 
 He opened the door, and pointed to the 
 stairs. Beaufort, without a word, turned from 
 the room, and departed. He heard the door 
 closed and locked as he descended the stairs ; 
 but he did not hear the deep groans and vehe- 
 ment sobs in which the desolate orphan gave 
 vent to the anguish which succeeded to the 
 less sacred paroxysm of revenge and wrath. 
 
 END OF BOOK I.
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 ttbenb roarb'S unb rourbe 
 
 nimmer gtanb icfy 6tiU , " 
 
 SCHILLER : Der Pilgrim.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Incubo, Look to the cavalier. What ails he ? 
 
 Hostess. And in such good clothes, too ! " 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER : Love's Pilgrimage, 
 
 " Theod, I have a brother there mj last hope ! 
 
 Thus as you find me, without fear or wisdom, 
 I now am only child of Hope and Danger." Ibid. 
 
 THE time employed by Mr. Beaufort in reach- 
 ing his home was haunted by gloomy and 
 confused terrors. He felt inexplicably as if 
 the denunciations of Philip were to visit less 
 himself than his son. He trembled at the 
 thought of Arthur meeting this strange, wild, 
 exasperated scatterling perhaps on the mor- 
 row in the very height of his passions. 
 And yet, after the scene between Arthur and 
 himself, he saw cause to fear that he might 
 not be able to exercise a sufficient authority
 
 246 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 over his son, however naturally facile and 
 obedient, to prevent his return to the house 
 of death. In this dilemma he resolved, as is 
 usual with cleverer men, even when yoked to 
 yet feebler helpmates, to hear if his wife had 
 any thing comforting or sensible to say upon 
 the subject. Accordingly, on reaching Berkeley 
 Square, he went straight to Mrs. Beaufort, 
 and having relieved her mind as to Arthur's 
 safety, related the scene in which he had been 
 go unwilling an actor. With that more lively 
 susceptibility which belongs to most women, 
 however comparatively unfeeling, Mrs. Beau- 
 fort made greater allowance than her husband 
 for the excitement Philip had betrayed. Still 
 Beaufort's description of the dark manaces, 
 the fierce countenance, the brigand-like form, 
 of the bereaved son, gave her very consider- 
 able apprehensions for Arthur, should the young 
 men meet ; and she willingly coincided with her 
 husband in the propriety of using all means 
 of parental persuasion or command to guard 
 against such an encounter. But, in the mean-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 247 
 
 while, Arthur returned not, and new fears 
 seized the anxious parents. He had gone 
 forth alone, in a remote suburb of the metro- 
 polis, at a late hour, himself under strong 
 excitement. He might have returned to the 
 house, or have lost his way amidst some dark 
 haunts of violence and crime ; they knew not 
 where to send, or what to suggest. Day 
 already began to dawn, and still he came 
 not. At length, towards five o'clock, a loud 
 rap was heard at the door, and Mr. Beaufort, 
 hearing some bustle in the hall, descended. 
 He saw his son borne into the hall from a 
 hackney-coach by two strangers, pale, bleed- 
 ing, and apparently insensible. His first 
 thought was that he had been murdered by 
 Philip. He uttered a feeble cry, and sank 
 down beside his son. 
 
 " Don't be darnted, sir," said one of the 
 strangers, who seemed an artisan ; "I don't 
 think he be much hurt. -You sees he was cross- 
 ing the street, and the coach ran against him ; 
 but it did not go over his head ; it be only the
 
 248 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 stones that make him bleed so : and that 's a 
 mercy." 
 
 " A providence, sir," said the other man ; 
 " but Providence watches over us all, night 
 and day, sleep or wake. Hem ! We were 
 passing at the time from the meeting the 
 Odd Fellows, sir and so we took him, and 
 got him a coach ; for we found his card in his 
 pocket. He could not speak just then ; but 
 the rattling of the coach did him a deal of 
 good, for he groaned my eyes ! how he 
 groaned ; did not he, Burrows?" 
 
 " It did one's heart good to hear him." 
 
 " Run for Astley Cooper you go to 
 Brodie. Good God ! he is dying. Be quick 
 quick!" cried Mr. Beaufort to his servants, 
 while Mrs. Beaufort, who had now gained the 
 spot, with greater presence of mind, had Ar- 
 thur conveyed into his room. 
 
 " It is a judgment upon me!" groaned 
 Beaufort, rooted to the stone of his hall, and 
 left alone with the strangers. 
 
 " No, sir, it is not a judgment, it is a pro-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 249 
 
 vidence," said the more sanctimonious and 
 better dressed of the two men : " for, put the 
 question, if it had been a judgment, the wheel 
 would have gone over him ; and, whether he 
 dies or not, I shall always say that if that 's 
 not a providence, I don't know what is. We 
 have come a long way, sir; and Burrows is a 
 poor man, though I'm well to do." 
 
 This hint for money restored Beaufort to 
 his recollection ; he put his purse into the 
 nearest hand outstretched to clutch it, and 
 muttered out something like thanks. 
 
 " Sir, may the Lord bless you ! and I hope 
 the young gentleman will do well. I am sure 
 you have cause to be thankful that he was 
 within an inch of the wheel ; was not he, 
 Burrows? Well, it's enough to convert a 
 heathen. But the ways of Providence are 
 mysterious, and that's the truth of it. Good 
 night, sir." 
 
 Certainly it did seem as if the curse of 
 Philip was already at its work. An acci- 
 dent almost similar to that which, in the ad- 
 
 M2
 
 250 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 venture of the blind man, had led Arthur to 
 the clue of Catherine, within twenty-four hours 
 stretched Arthur himself upon his bed. The 
 sorrow Mr. Beaufort had not relieved was 
 now at his own hearth. But there, were pa- 
 rents and nurses, and great physicians and 
 skilful surgeons, and all the Army that com- 
 bine against Death, and there, were ease, and 
 luxury, and kind eyes, and pitying looks, and 
 all that can take the sting from pain. And 
 thus, the very night on which Catherine had 
 died, broken down and worn-out, upon a 
 strange breast, with a feeless doctor, and by 
 the ray of a single candle, the heir to the 
 fortunes once destined to her son wrestled 
 also with the grim Tyrant, that seemed, how- 
 ever, scared from his prey by the arts and 
 luxuries which the world of rich men raises up 
 in defiance of the grave. 
 
 Arthur was, indeed, very seriously injured; 
 one of his ribs broken, and two severe con- 
 tusions on the head. To insensibility suc- 
 ceeded fever, followed by delirium. He was
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 251 
 
 in imminent danger for several days. If any 
 thing could have consoled his parents for such 
 an affliction, it was the thought that, at least, 
 he was saved from the chance of meeting 
 Philip. Mr. Beaufort, in the instinct of that 
 capricious and fluctuating conscience which 
 belongs to weak minds, which remains still, 
 and drooping, and lifeless, as a flag on a mast- 
 head during the calm of prosperity, but flut- 
 ters, and flaps, and tosses when the wind 
 blows and the wave heaves, thought very 
 acutely and remorsefully of the condition of 
 the Mortons, during the danger of his own 
 son. So far, indeed, from his anxiety for 
 Arthur monopolising all his care, it only 
 sharpened his charity towards the orphans ; 
 for many a man becomes devout and good 
 when he fancies he has an immediate interest 
 in appeasing Providence. The morning after 
 Arthur's accident, he sent for Mr. Blackwell. 
 He commissioned him to see that Catherine's 
 funeral rites were performed with all due care 
 and attention ; he bade him obtain an inter-
 
 252 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 view with Philip, and assure the youth of 
 Mr. Beaufort's good and friendly disposition 
 towards him, and to offer to forward his views 
 in any course of education he might prefer, or 
 any profession he might adopt ; and he ear- 
 nestly counselled the lawyer to employ all his 
 tact and delicacy in conferring with one of so 
 proud and fiery a temper. Mr. Black well, 
 however, had no tact or' delicacy to employ : 
 he went to the house of mourning, forced his 
 way to Philip, and the very exordium of his 
 harangue, which was devoted to praises of the 
 extraordinary generosity and benevolence of 
 his employer, mingled with condescending ad- 
 monitions towards gratitude from Philip, so 
 exasperated the boy, that Mr. Blackwell was 
 extremely glad to get out of the house with a 
 whole skin. He, however, did not neglect the 
 more formal part of his mission ; but com- 
 municated immediately with a fashionable un- 
 dertaker, and gave orders for a very genteel 
 funeral. He thought after the funeral that 
 Philip would be in a less excited state of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 253 
 
 mind, and more likely to hear reason ; he, 
 therefore, deferred a second interview with the 
 orphan till after that event ; and, in the mean- 
 while, despatched a letter to Mr. Beaufort, 
 stating that he had attended to his instruc- 
 tions ; that the orders for the funeral were 
 given ; but that at present Mr. Philip Mor- 
 ton's mind was a little disordered, and that he 
 could not calmly discuss, just at present, the 
 plans for the future suggested by Mr. Beaufort. 
 He did not doubt, however, that in another 
 interview all would be arranged according to 
 the wishes his client had so nobly conveyed 
 to him. Mr. Beaufort's conscience on this 
 point was therefore set at rest. 
 
 It was a dull, close, oppressive morning, 
 upon which the remains of Catherine Morton 
 were consigned to the grave. With the pre- 
 parations for the funeral Philip did not inter- 
 fere; he did not inquire by whose orders all 
 that solemnity of mutes, and coaches, and 
 black plumes, and crapebands, was appointed. 
 If his vague and undeveloped conjecture
 
 254 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ascribed this last and vain attention to Robert 
 Beaufort, it neither lessened the sullen re- 
 sentment he felt against his uncle, nor, on the 
 other hand, did he conceive that he had a 
 right to forbid respect to the dead, though he 
 might reject service for the survivor. He had 
 remained in a sort of apathy or torpor since 
 Mr. Blackwell's visit, which seemed to the 
 people of the -house to partake rather of indif- 
 ference than woe. 
 
 The funeral was over; and Philip had re- 
 turned to the apartments occupied by the de- 
 ceased ; and now, for the first time, he set 
 himself to examine what papers, &c. she had 
 left behind. In an old escritoire, he found, 
 first, various packets of letters in his father's 
 handwriting, the characters in many of them 
 faded by time. He opened a few ; they were 
 the earliest love-letters. He did not dare to 
 read above a few lines ; so much did their 
 living tenderness and breathing, frank, hearty 
 passion, contrast with the fate of the adored 
 one. In these letters, the very heart of the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 255 
 
 writer seemed to beat ! Now both hearts alike 
 were stilled ! And GHOST called vainly unto 
 GHOST ! 
 
 He came, at length, to a letter in his mo- 
 ther's hand, addressed to himself, and dated 
 two days before her death. He went to the 
 window and gasped in the mists of the sultry 
 air for breath. Below, were heard the noises 
 of London ; the shrill cries of itinerant ven- 
 ders, the rolling carts, the whoop of boys 
 returned for awhile from school ; amidst 
 all these rose one loud, merry peal of 
 laughter, which drew his attention mecha- 
 nically to the spot whence it came ; it was at 
 the threshold of a public-house, before which 
 stood the hearse that had conveyed his mo- 
 ther's coffin, and the gay undertakers, halting, 
 there to refresh themselves. He closed the 
 window with a groan, retired to the farthest 
 corner of the room, and read as follows : 
 
 "My DEAREST PHILIP, When you read 
 this I shall be no more. You and poor Sidney
 
 256 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 will have neither father nor mother, nor for- 
 tune nor name. Heaven is more just than 
 man, and in haaven is my hope for you. 
 You, Philip, are already past childhood ; 
 your nature is one formed, I think, to wrestle 
 successfully with the world. Guard' against 
 your own passions, and you may bid defiance 
 to the obstacles that will beset your path in 
 life. And lately, in our reverses, Philip, you 
 have so subdued these passions, so schooled 
 the pride and impetuosity of your childhood, 
 that I have contemplated your prospects with 
 less fear than I used to do, even when they 
 seemed so brilliant. Forgive me, my dear 
 child, if I have concealed from you my state 
 of health, and if my death be a sudden and 
 unlooked-for shock. Do not grieve for me too 
 long. For myself, my release is indeed escape 
 from the prison-house and the chain from 
 bodily pain and mental torture, which may, 
 I fondly hope, prove some expiation for the 
 errors of a happier time. For I did err, when, 
 even from the least selfish motives, I suffered
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 257 
 
 my union with your father to remain concealed, 
 and thus ruined the hopes of those who had 
 rights upon me equal even to his. But, oh ! 
 Philip, beware of the first false steps into 
 deceit ; beware, too, of the passions, which 
 do not betray their fruit till years and years 
 after the leaves that look so green and the 
 blossoms that seem so fair. 
 
 "I repeat my solemn injunction, Do not 
 grieve for me, but strengthen your mind and 
 heart to receive the charge that I now confide 
 to you my Sidney, my child, your brother! 
 He is so soft, so gentle ; he has been so 
 dependent for very life upon me, and we are 
 parted now for the first and last time. He is 
 with strangers; and and O Philip, Philip, 
 watch over him for the love you bear, not only 
 to him but to me ! Be to him a father as well 
 as brother. Put your stout heart against the 
 world so that you may screen him, the weak 
 child, from its malice. He has not your talents 
 nor strength of character ; without you he is 
 nothing. Live, toil, rise for his sake not less
 
 258 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 than your own. If you knew how this heart 
 beats as I write to you, if you could conceive 
 what comfort I take for him from my confidence 
 in you, you would feel a new spirit my spirit 
 my mother-spirit of love, and forethought, 
 and vigilance, enter into you while you read. 
 See him when I am gone comfort and soothe 
 him. Happily he is too young yet to know all 
 his loss ; and do not let him think unkindly of 
 me in the days to come, for he is a child now, 
 and they may poison his mind against me more 
 easily than they can yours. Think, if he is 
 unhappy hereafter, he may forget how I loved 
 him, he may curse those who gave him birth. 
 Forgive me all this, Philip my son, and heed 
 it well. 
 
 " And now, where you find this letter you 
 will see a key ; it opens a well in the bureau 
 in which I have hoarded my little savings. 
 You will see that I have not died in poverty. 
 Take what there is, young as you are you may 
 want it more now than hereafter. But hold it 
 in trust for your brother as well as yourself.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 259 
 
 If he is harshly treated (and you will go and 
 see him, and you will remember that he would 
 writhe under what you might scarcely feel), or 
 if they overtask him, he is so young to work 
 yet, it may find him a home near you. God 
 watch over and guard you both. You are 
 orphans now. But HE has told even the 
 orphans to call him ' Father ! ' " 
 
 When he had read this letter, Philip Morton 
 fell upon his knees, and prayed.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " His curse ! Dost comprehend what that word means ? 
 Shot from a father's angry breath." 
 
 JAMES SHIRLEY : The Brothert. 
 
 " This term is fatal, and affrights me." Ibid. 
 
 " Those fond philosophers that magnify 
 
 Our human nature ' 
 
 Conversed but little with the world they knew not 
 The fierce vexation of community !" Ibid. 
 
 AFTER he had recovered his self-possession, 
 Philip opened the well of the bureau, and was 
 astonished and affected to find that Catherine 
 had saved more than 100Z. Alas ! how much 
 must she have pinched herself to have hoarded 
 this little treasure. After burning his father's 
 love-letters, and some other papers, Avhich he 
 deemed useless, he made up a little bundle of 
 those trifling effects belonging to the deceased, 
 which he valued as memorials and relics of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 261 
 
 her, quitted the apartment, and descended to 
 the parlour behind the shop. On the way he 
 met with the kind servant, and recalling the 
 grief that she had manifested for his mother 
 since he had been in the house, he placed two 
 sovereigns in her hand, and bade her keep the 
 scanty wardrobe poor Catherine had left be- 
 hind. " And now," said he, as the servant 
 wept while he spoke, "now I can bear to ask 
 you what I have not before done. How did 
 my poor mother die? Did she suffer much 
 or or " 
 
 " She went off like a lamb, sir," said the 
 girl, drying her eyes. " You see the gentle- 
 man had been with her all the day, and she 
 was much more easy and comfortable in her 
 mind after he came." 
 
 " The gentleman ! Not the gentleman I 
 found here?" 
 
 "Oh, dear no! Not the pale middle-aged 
 gentleman nurse and I saw go down as the 
 clock struck two. But the young, soft-spoken 
 gentleman who came in the morning, and said
 
 262 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 as how he was a relation. He stayed with her 
 till she slept; and, when she woke, she smiled 
 in his face I shall never forget that smile 
 for I was standing on the other side, as it 
 might be here, and the doctor was by the 
 window, pouring out the doctor's stuff in the 
 glass ; and so she looked on the young gentle- 
 man, and then looked round at us all, and 
 shook her head very gently, but did not speak. 
 And the gentleman asked her how she felt, 
 and she took both his hands and kissed them ; 
 and then he put his arms round and raised her 
 up, to take the physic, like, and she said then, 
 
 * You will never forget them ? ' and he said, 
 
 * Never.' I don't know what that meant, sir!" 
 
 " Well, well go on." 
 
 " And her head fell back on his buzzom, 
 and she looked so happy ; and, when the 
 doctor came to the bedside, she was quite 
 gone.'' 
 
 " And the stranger had my post! No 
 matter; God bless him God bless him. 
 Who was he? what was his name?"
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 263 
 
 "I don't know, sir; he did not say. He 
 stayed after the doctor went, and cried very 
 bitterly; he took on more than you did, sir." 
 
 " Ay." 
 
 " Arid the other gentleman came just as he 
 was a-going, and they did not seem to like 
 each other; for I heard him through the 
 wall, as nurse and I were in the next room, 
 speak as if he was scolding, hut he did not 
 stay long." 
 
 " And has never heen since?" 
 
 " No, sir ! Perhaps missus can tell you 
 more about him. But won't you take some- 
 thing, sir? Do you look so pale." 
 
 Philip, without speaking, pushed her gently 
 aside, and went slowly down the stairs. He 
 entered the parlour, where two or three child- 
 ren were seated, playing at dominoes ; he de- 
 spatched one for their mother, the mistress of 
 the shop, who came in, and dropped him a 
 courtesy, with a very grave, sad face, as was 
 proper. 
 
 " I am going to leave your house, ma'am ;
 
 264 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 and I wish to settle any little arrears of rent, 
 &c." 
 
 " Oh ! sir, don't mention it," said the land- 
 lady; and, as she spoke, she took a piece of 
 paper from her bosom, very neatly folded, and 
 laid it on the table. " And here, sir," she 
 added, taking from the same depository a card, 
 "here is the card left by the gentleman who 
 saw to the funeral. He called half an hour ago, 
 and bade me say, with his compliments, that he 
 would wait on you to-morrow at eleven o'clock. 
 So I hope you won't go yet : for I think he 
 means to settle every thing for you, he said 
 as much, sir." 
 
 Philip glanced over the card, and read, 
 " Mr. George Blackwell, Lincoln's Inn." His 
 brow grew dark he let the card fall on the 
 ground, put his foot on it with a quiet scorn, 
 and muttered to himself, " The lawyer shall 
 not bribe me out of my curse ! " He turned to 
 the total of the bill not heavy, for poor 
 Catherine had paid regularly for her scanty 
 maintenance and humble lodging paid the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 265 
 
 money, and, as the landlady wrote the receipt, 
 he asked, " Who was the gentleman the 
 younger gentleman who called in the morn- 
 ing of the day my mother died?" 
 
 " Oh, sir! I am so sorry I did not get his 
 name. Mr. Perkins said that he was some 
 relation. Very odd he has never been since. 
 But he'll be sure to call again, sir ; you had 
 better much stay here." 
 
 " No : it does not signify. All that he 
 could do is done. But stay, give him this note, 
 if he should call." 
 
 Philip, taking the pen from the landlady's 
 hand, hastily wrote (while Mrs. Lacy went 
 to bring him sealing-wax and a light) these 
 words : 
 
 " I cannot guess who you are : they say 
 that you call yourself a relation ; that must be 
 some mistake. I knew not that my poor 
 mother had relations so kind. But, whoever 
 you be, you soothed her last hours she died 
 in your arms ; and if ever years, long years 
 
 VOL. i. N
 
 266 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 hence we should chance to meet, and I can 
 do any thing to aid another, my blood, and my 
 life, and my heart, and my soul, all are slaves 
 to your will. If you be really of her kindred, 
 
 I commend to you my brother ; he is at 
 
 with Mr. Morton. If you can serve him, 
 my mother's soul will watch over you as a 
 guardian angel. As for me, I ask no help 
 from any one : I go into the world and will 
 carve out my own way. So much do I shrink 
 from the thought of charity from others, that 
 I do not believe I could bless you as I do now 
 if your kindness to me did not close with the 
 stone upon my mother's grave. 
 
 " PHILIP." 
 
 He sealed this letter, and gave it to the 
 woman. 
 
 " Oh, by the by," said she, " I had forgot ; 
 the Doctor said that if you would send for 
 him, he would be most happy to call on you 
 and give you any advice." 
 
 " Very well."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 267 
 
 " And what shall I say to Mr. Black- 
 well?" 
 
 " That he may tell his employer to re- 
 member our last interview." 
 
 With that Philip took up his bundle and 
 strode from the house. He went first to the 
 churchyard, where his mother's remains had 
 been that day interred. It was near at hand, 
 a quiet, almost a rural, spot. The gate stood 
 ajar, for there was a public path through the 
 churchyard, and Philip entered with a noise- 
 less tread. It was then near evening ; the 
 sun had broke out from the mists of the earlier 
 day, and the westering rays shone bright and 
 holy upon the solemn place. 
 
 "Mother! mother!" sobbed the orphan, 
 as he fell prostrate before that fresh green 
 mound: "here here I have come to repeat 
 my oath, to swear again that I will be faithful 
 to the charge you have intrusted to your 
 wretched son ! And at this hour, I dare ask 
 if there be on this earth one more miserable 
 and forlorn ! "
 
 268 NIGHT AND MORMNG. 
 
 As words to this effect struggled from his 
 lips, a loud, shrill voice the cracked, painful 
 voice of weak age wrestling with strong 
 passion, rose close at hand. 
 
 "Away, reprobate! thou art accursed!" 
 Philip started, and shuddered as if the 
 words were addressed to himself, and from 
 the grave. But, as he rose on his knee, and 
 tossing the wild hair from his eyes looked 
 confusedly round, he saw, at a short distance, 
 and in the shadow of the wall, two forms ; 
 the one, an old man with grey hair, who was 
 seated on a crumbling wooden tomb, facing 
 the setting sun ; the other, a man apparently 
 yet in the vigour of life, who appeared bent as 
 in humble supplication. The old man's hands 
 were out - stretched over the head of the 
 younger, as if suiting terrible action to the 
 terrible words, and, after a moment's pause 
 a moment, but it seemed far longer to Philip 
 there was heard a deep, wild, ghastly howl 
 from a dog that cowered at the old man's feet ; 
 a howl, perhaps, of fear at the passion of his
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 269 
 
 master, which the animal might associate with 
 danger. 
 
 " Father! father!" said the suppliant, re- 
 proachfully, " your very dog rebukes your 
 curse." 
 
 " Be dumb ! My dog ! What hast thou left 
 me on earth but him? Thou hast made me 
 loathe the sight of friends, for thou hast made 
 me loathe mine own name. Thou hast 
 covered it with disgrace, thou hast made 
 mine old age a byeword, thy crimes leave 
 me solitary in the midst of my shame !" 
 
 " It is many years since we met, father; 
 we may never meet again shall we part 
 thus?" 
 
 " Thus, aha!" said the old man, in a tone 
 of withering sarcasm; " I comprehend, you 
 are come for money ! " 
 
 At this taunt the son started as if stung by 
 a serpent ; raised his head to its full height, 
 folded his arms, and replied, 
 
 " Sir, you wrong me : for more than twenty 
 vears I have maintained mvself no matter
 
 270 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 how, but without taxing you and now, I felt 
 remorse for having suffered you to discard 
 me, now, when you are old and helpless, 
 and, I heard, blind ; and you might want aid 
 even from your poor, good-for-nothing son. 
 But I have done. Forget not my sins, but 
 this interview. Repeal your curse, father, 
 I have enough on my head without yours ; 
 
 and so let the son at least bless the father 
 
 **. 
 
 who curses him. Farewell!" 
 
 The speaker turned as he thus said, with a 
 voice that trembled at the close, and brushed 
 rapidly by Philip, whom he did not, however, 
 appear to perceive j but Philip, by the last 
 red beam of the sun, saw again that marked 
 storm-beaten face which it was <Jiffi cu lt> once 
 seen, to forget, and recognised the stranger 
 on whose breast he had slept the night of his 
 first fatal visit to R . 
 
 The old man's imperfect vision did not 
 detect the departure of his son, but his face 
 changed and softened as the latter strode 
 silently through the rank grass.
 
 NIGHT AND MORXIKG. 271 
 
 " William ! " he said at last, gently ; 
 " William ! " and the tears rolled down his 
 furrowed cheeks ; " my son ! " but that son 
 was gone the old man listened for reply 
 none came. " He has left me poor William ! 
 we shall never meet again ;" and he sank 
 once more on the old tombstone, dumb, rigid, 
 motionless an image of Time himself in his 
 own Domain of Graves. The dog crept closer 
 to his master and licked his hand. Philip 
 stood for a moment in thoughtful silence : his 
 exclamation of despair had been answered as 
 by his better angel. There was a being more 
 miserable than himself; and the Accursed 
 would have envied the Bereaved! 
 
 The twilight had closed in ; the earliest 
 star the star of Memory and Love, the Hes- 
 perus hymned by every poet since the world 
 began was fair in the arch of heaven, as 
 Philip quitted the spot, with a spirit more 
 reconciled to the future, more softened, chast- 
 ened, attuned to gentle and pious thoughts, 
 than perhaps ever yet had made his soul 
 dominant over the deep and dark tide of
 
 272 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 his gloomy passions. He went thence to a 
 neighbouring sculptor, and paid beforehand 
 for a plain tablet to be placed above the 
 grave he had left. He had just quitted that 
 shop, in the same street, not many doors re- 
 moved from the house in which his mother 
 had breathed her last. He was pausing by 
 a crossing, irresolute whether to repair at once 
 to the home assigned to Sidney, or to seek 
 some shelter in town for that night, when 
 three men who were on the opposite side of 
 the way suddenly caught sight of him. 
 
 "There he is there he is; stop, sir! 
 stop!" 
 
 Philip heard these words, looked up and 
 recognised the voice and the person of Mr. 
 Plaskwith ; the bookseller was accompanied 
 by Mr. Plinimins and a sturdy, ill-favoured 
 stranger. 
 
 A nameless feeling of fear, rage, and dis- 
 gust seized the unhappy boy, and at the same 
 moment a ragged vagabond whispered to him, 
 " Stump it, my cove; that's a Bow-Street 
 runner."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 273 
 
 Then, there shot through Philip's head the 
 recollection of the money he had seized, though 
 but to dash away : was he now he, still to 
 his own conviction, the heir of an ancient and 
 spotless name to be hunted as a thief; or, 
 at the best, what right over his person and 
 his liberty had he given to this taskmaster? 
 Ignorant of the law the law only seemed to 
 him, as it ever does to the ignorant and the 
 friendless a Foe. Quicker than lightning 
 these thoughts, which it takes so many words 
 to describe, flashed through the storm and 
 darkness of his breast; and at the very in- 
 stant that Mr. Plirnmins had laid hands on 
 his shoulder his resolution was formed. The 
 instinct of self beat loud at his heart. With 
 a bound a spring, that sent Mr. Plimmiris 
 sprawling in the kennel, he darted across the 
 road, and fled down an opposite lane. 
 
 " Stop him ! stop ! " cried the book- 
 seller, and the officer rushed after him with 
 almost equal speed. Lane after lane, alley 
 after alley, fled Philip ; dodging, winding, 
 
 N2
 
 274 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 breathless, panting ; and lane after lane, alley 
 after alley, thickened at his heel the crowd 
 that pursued. The idle, and the curious, and 
 the officious, ragged boys, ragged meu, from 
 stall and from cellar, from corner and from 
 crossing, joined in that delicious chase, which 
 runs down young error till it sinks, too often, 
 at the door of the gaol or the foot of the 
 gallows. But Philip slackened not his pace ; 
 he began to distance his pursuers. He was 
 now in a street which they had not yet entered 
 a quiet street, with few, if any, shops. 
 Before the threshold of a better kind of public- 
 house, or rather tavern, to judge by its appear- 
 ance, lounged two men; and as Philip flew 
 on, the cry of " Stop him ! " had changed as the 
 shout passed to new voices, into " Stop the 
 thief!" that cry yet howled in the distance. 
 One of the loungers seized him ; Philip, de- 
 sperate and ferocious, struck at him with all his 
 force ; but the blow was scarcely felt by that 
 herculean frame. 
 
 " Pish !" said the man, scornfully; " I am
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 275 
 
 uo spy; if you run from justice, I would help 
 you to a sign-post." 
 
 Struck by the voice, Philip looked hard at 
 the speaker. It was the voice of the Accursed 
 Son. 
 
 " Save me ! you remember me?" said the 
 orphan, faintly. 
 
 " Ah ! I think I do ; poor lad ! Follow me 
 this way ! " 
 
 The stranger turned within the tavern, 
 passed the hall through a sort of corridor that 
 led into a back-yard which opened upon a nest 
 of courts or passages. 
 
 " You are safe for the present ; I will take 
 you where you can tell me all at your ease 
 See!" As he spoke they emerged into an 
 open street, and the guide pointed to a row of 
 hackney-coaches. " Be quick get in. Coach- 
 man, drive fast to ." Philip did not hear 
 
 the rest of the direction. 
 
 Our story returns to Sidney.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Nous vous mettrons a couvert 
 Repondit le pot de fer, 
 Si quelque matiere dure 
 Vous menace d'aventure, 
 Entre deux je passerai, 
 Et du coup vons sauverai 
 
 Le pot de terre en souffre !" LA FONTAINE. 
 
 " SIDNEY, come here, sir ! What have you been 
 at ? you have torn your frill into tatters ! How 
 did you do this ? Come, sir, no lies." 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, it was not my fault. I 
 just put my head out of the window to see the 
 coach go by, and a nail caught me here." 
 
 " Why, you little plague ! you have scratched 
 yourself you are always in mischief. What 
 business had you to look after the coach?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Sidney, hanging his 
 head ruefully.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 277 
 
 " La, mother!" cried the youngest of the 
 cousins, a square-built, ruddy, coarse- featured 
 urchin, about Sidney's age, " La, mother, 
 he never see a coach in the street when we are 
 at play but he runs arter it." 
 
 " After, not arter," said Mr. Roger Morton, 
 taking the pipe from his mouth. 
 
 " Why do you go after the coaches, Sidney?" 
 said Mrs. Morton ; " it is very naughty, you 
 will be run over some day." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Sidney, who during the 
 whole colloquy had been trembling from head 
 to foot. 
 
 " ' Yes, ma'am,' and ' no, ma'am : ' you have 
 no more manners than a cobbler's boy." 
 
 " Don't tease the child, my dear; he is 
 crying," said Mr. Morton, more authoritatively 
 than usual. " Come here, my man !" and the 
 worthy uncle took him in his lap and held his 
 glass of brandy-and-water to his lips ; Sidney, 
 too frightened to refuse, sipped hurriedly, 
 keeping his large eyes fixed on his aunt, as 
 children do when they fear a cuff. 
 
 " You spoil the bpy more than you do your
 
 278 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 own flesh and blood/*" said Mrs. Morton, 
 greatly displeased. 
 
 Here Tom, the youngest -horn before de- 
 scribed, put his mouth to his mother's ear, and 
 whispered loud enough to be heard by all , 
 '* He runs arter the coach 'cause he thinks his 
 ma may be in it. Who's home-sick I should 
 like to know ? Ba ! Baa ! " 
 
 The boy pointed his finger over his mother's 
 shoulder, and the other children burst into a 
 loud giggle. 
 
 " Leave the room, all of you, leave the 
 room!" said Mr. Morton, rising angrily and 
 stamping his foot. 
 
 The children, who were in great awe of their 
 father, huddled and hustled each other to the 
 door ; but Tom, who went last, bold in his mo- 
 ther's favour, popped his head through the door- 
 way, and cried, " Good-by, little home-sick!" 
 
 A sudden slap in the face from his father 
 changed his chuckle into a very different kind 
 of music, and a loud indignant sob was heard 
 without for some moments after the door was 
 closed.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 279 
 
 " If that's the way you behave to your 
 children, Mr. Morton, I vow you slia'n't 
 have any more if I can help it. Don't coine 
 near me don't touch me!" and Mrs. Mor- 
 ton assumed the resentful air of offended 
 beauty. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " growled the spouse, and he re- 
 seated himself and resumed his pipe. There 
 was a dead silence. Sidney crouched near his 
 uncle, looking very pale. Mrs. Morton, who 
 was knitting, knitted away with the excited 
 energy of nervous irritation. 
 
 " Ring the bell, Sidney," said Mr. Morton. 
 The boy obeyed the parlour -maid entered. 
 " Take Master Sidney to his room ; keep the 
 boys away from him, and give him a large 
 slice of bread and jam, Martha." 
 
 " Jam indeed ! treacle," said Mrs. Morton. 
 
 "Jam, Martha!" repeated the uncle au- 
 thoritatively. 
 
 " Treacle!" reiterated the aunt. 
 
 " Jam, I say!" 
 
 " Treacle, you hear : and for that matter 
 Martha has no jam to give!"
 
 280 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 The husband had nothing more to say. 
 
 " Good night, Sidney; there's a good hoy, 
 go and kiss your aunt and make your bow ; 
 and, I say, my lad, don't mind those plagues. 
 I'll talk to them to-morrow, that I will ; no 
 one shall be unkind to you in my house." 
 
 Sidney muttered something, and went 
 timidly up to Mrs. Morton. His look, so 
 gentle and subdued ; his eyes full of tears ; 
 his pretty mouth which, though silent, pleaded 
 so eloquently ; his willingness to forgive and 
 his wish to be forgiven, might have melted 
 many a heart harder, perhaps, than Mrs. 
 Morton's. But, there, reigned what is worse 
 than hardness, prejudice and wounded vanity 
 maternal vanity. His contrast to her own 
 rough, coarse children grated on her, and set 
 the teeth of her mind on edge. 
 
 " There, child, don't tread on my gown ; 
 you are so awkward : say your prayers, and 
 don't throw off the counterpane ! I don't like 
 slovenly boys." 
 
 Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped, 
 and vanished.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 281 
 
 " Now, Mrs. M." said Mr. Morton abruptly, 
 and knocking out the ashes of his pipe ; " now, 
 Mrs. M., one word for all : I have told you 
 that I promised poor Catherine to be a father 
 to that child, and it goes to my heart to see 
 him so snubbed. Why you dislike him I can't 
 guess for the life of me ; I never saw a sweeter- 
 tempered child." 
 
 " Go on, sir, go on: make your personal 
 reflections on your own lawful -wife. They 
 don't hurt me oh no, not at all! Sweet- 
 tempered, indeed ; I suppose your own child- 
 ren are not sweet-tempered?" 
 
 " That's neither here nor there," said Mr. 
 Morton: " my own children are such as God 
 made them, and I am very well satisfied." 
 
 " Indeed you may be proud of such a 
 family ; and to think of the pains I have taken 
 with them, and how I have saved you in 
 nurses, and the bad times I have had ; and* 
 now, to find their noses put out of joint by 
 that little mischief- making interloper it is 
 too bad of you, Mr. Morton ; you will break 
 iny heart, that you will ! "
 
 282 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Mrs. Morton put her handkerchief to her 
 eyes and sobbed. 
 
 The husband was moved : he got up and 
 attempted to take her hand. " Indeed, Mar- 
 garet, I did not mean to vex you." 
 
 " And I who have been such a fa fai 
 faithful wi wi wife, and brought you such 
 a deal of mon mon money, and always 
 stud stud studied your interests ; many's 
 the time when you have been fast asleep, 
 that I have sat up half the night men men 
 mending the house linen ; and you have not 
 been the same man, Roger, since that boy 
 came!" 
 
 "Well, well!" said the good man, quite 
 overcome, and fairly taking her round the 
 waist and kissing her ; " no words between us ; 
 it makes life quite unpleasant. If it pains you 
 to have Sidney here, I will put him to some 
 school in the town, where they'll be kind to 
 him. Only, if you would, Margaret, for my 
 sake, old girl! come now! there's a darling! 
 just be more tender with him. You see he 
 frets so after his mother. Think how little
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 283 
 
 Tom would fret if he was away from you I 
 Poor little Tom ! " 
 
 "La! Mr. Morton, you are such a man! 
 there 's no resisting your ways ! You know 
 how to come over me, don't you ?" 
 
 And Mrs. Morton smiled benignly, as she 
 escaped from his conjugal arms and smoothed 
 her cap. 
 
 Peace thus restored, Mr. Morton refilled his 
 pipe, and the good lady, after a pause, re- 
 sumed, in a very mild, conciliatory tone, 
 
 "I'll tell you what it is, Roger, that vexes 
 me with that there child. He is so deceitful, 
 and he does tell such fibs!" 
 
 "Fibs! that is a very bad fault," said Mr. 
 Morton, gravely. " That must be corrected." 
 
 " It was but the other day that I saw him 
 break a pane of glass in the shop ; and when I 
 taxed him Avith it he denied it; and with 
 such a face ! I can't abide story-telling." 
 
 " Let me know the next story he tells; I'll 
 cure him," said Mr. Morton, sternly. " You 
 know how I broke Tom of it. Spare the rod 
 and spoil the child. And when I promised to
 
 284 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 be kind to the boy, of course I did not mean 
 that I was not to take care of his morals, and 
 see that he grew up an honest man. Tell 
 truth and shame the devil that's my motto." 
 
 "Spoke like yourself, Roger!" said Mrs. 
 Morton, with great animation. " But you see 
 he has not had the advantage of such a father 
 as you. I wonder your sister don't write to 
 you. Some people make a great fuss about 
 their feelings ; but out of sight out of mind." 
 
 " I hope she is not ill. Poor Catherine ! 
 she looked in a very bad way when she was 
 here," said Mr. Morton, and he turned uneasily 
 to the fireplace and sighed. 
 
 Here the servant entered with the supper- 
 tray, and the conversation fell upon other 
 topics. 
 
 Mrs. Roger Morton's charge against Sidney 
 was, alas! too true. He had acquired, under 
 that roof, a terrible habit of telling stories. 
 He had never incurred that vice with his mo- 
 ther, because then and there he had nothing 
 to fear ; Jiow, he had every thing to fear ; 
 the grim aunt even the quiet, kind, cold,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 285 
 
 austere uncle the apprentices the strange 
 servants and, oh! more than all, those hard- 
 eyed, loud-laughing tormentors, the boys of his 
 own age ! Naturally timid, severity made him 
 actually a coward ; and "when the nerves 
 tremble, a lie sounds as surely as, when I 
 vibrate that wire, the bell at the end of it will 
 ring. Beware of the man who has been 
 roughly treated as a child. 
 
 The day after the conference just narrated, 
 Mr. Morton, who was subject to erysipelas, had 
 taken a little cooling medicine. He break- 
 fasted, therefore, later than usual after the 
 rest of the family ; and at this meal pour lui 
 soulac/er he ordered the luxury of a muffin. 
 Now it so chanced, that he had only finished 
 half the muffin, and drank one cup of tea, 
 when he was called into the shop by a cus- 
 tomer of great importance, a prosy old lady,, 
 who always gave her orders with remarkable 
 precision, and who valued herself on a cha- 
 racter for affability, which she maintained by 
 never buying a penny riband without asking 
 the shopman how all his family were, and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 talking news about every other family in the 
 place. At the time Mr. Morton left the parlour, 
 Sidney and Master Tom were therein, seated 
 on two stools, and casting up division sums 
 on their respective slates ; a point of education 
 to which Mr. Morton attended with great care. 
 As soon as his father's back was turned, Mas- 
 ter Tom's eyes wandered from the slate to the 
 muffin, as it leered at him from the slop-basin. 
 Never did Pythian sibyl, seated above the bub- 
 bling spring, utter more oracular eloquence to 
 her priest, than did that muffin at least the 
 parts of it yet extant utter to the fascinated 
 senses of Master Tom. First he sighed ; then 
 he moved round on his stool ; then he got up ; 
 then he peered at the muffin from a respectful 
 distance; then he gradually approached, and 
 walked round, and round, and round it his 
 eyes getting bigger and bigger ; then he peeped 
 through the glass-door into the shop, and saw 
 his father busily engaged with the old lady ; 
 then he began to calculate and philosophise, 
 perhaps his father had done breakfast ; per- 
 haps he would not come back at all ; if he
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 287 
 
 came back he would not miss one corner of the 
 muffin, and if he did miss it, why should Tom 
 be supposed to have taken it ? As he thus 
 communed with himself, he drew nearer into 
 the fatal vortex, and at last, with a desperate 
 plunge, he seized the triangular temptation : 
 
 '.' And ere a man had power to say ' Behold !' 
 The jaws of Thomas had devoured it up." 
 
 Sidney, disturbed from his studies by the 
 agitation of his companion, witnessed this pro- 
 ceeding with great and conscientious alarm. 
 "O Tom!" said he, "what will your papa 
 say ? " 
 
 "Look at that!" said Tom, putting his fist 
 under Sidney's reluctant nose. " If father 
 misses it, you '11 say the cat took it. If you 
 don't my eye ! what a wapping I'll give 
 you!" 
 
 Here Mr. Morton's voice was heard, wishina 
 
 ' O 
 
 the lady " Good morning !" and Master Tom, 
 thinking it better to leave the credit of the 
 invention solely to Sidney, whispered "Say 
 I'm gone up-stairs for my pocket-hanker," and 
 hastily absconded.
 
 288 NIGHT AND MORNING. . 
 
 Mr. Morton, already in a very bad humour, 
 partly at the effects of the cooling medicine, 
 partly at the suspension of his breakfast, stalked 
 into the parlour. His tea the second cup 
 already poured out was cold. He turned 
 towards the muffin, and missed the lost piece 
 at a glance. 
 
 " Who has been at my muffin?" said he, in 
 a voice that seemed to Sidney like the voice 
 he had always supposed an ogre to possess. 
 " Have you, Master Sidney ?" 
 "N n no, sir; indeed, sir!" 
 " Then Tom has. Where is he ?" 
 " Gone up-stairs for his handkerchief, sir." 
 " Did he take my muffin ? Speak the 
 truth!" 
 
 " No, sir; it was the it was the the cat, 
 sir!" 
 
 "O you wicked, wicked boy!" cried Mrs. 
 Mortor, who had followed her husband into 
 the shop; "the cat kittened last night, and is 
 locked up in the coal-cellar ! " 
 
 "Come here, Master Sidney! No! first 
 go down, Margaret, and see if the cat is in the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 289 
 
 cellar : it might have got out, Mrs. M.," said 
 Mr. Morton, just even in his wrath. 
 
 Mrs. Morton went, and there was a dead 
 silence, except indeed in Sidney's heart, 
 which beat louder than a clock ticks. Mr. 
 Morton, meanwhile, went to a little cupboard ; 
 while still there, Mrs. Morton returned : the 
 cat was in the cellar the key turned on her 
 in no mood to eat muffins, poor thing ! she 
 would not even lap her milk! like her mis- 
 tress, she had had a very bad time ! 
 
 " Now come here, sir !" said Mr. Morton, 
 withdrawing himself from the cupboard, with 
 a small horsewhip in his hand. " I will teach 
 you how to speak the truth in future ! Confess 
 that you have told a lie ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir, it was a lie! Pray pray forgive 
 me ; but Tom made me ! " 
 
 "What! when poor Tom is upstairs? worse 
 and worse ! " said Mrs. Morton, lifting up her 
 hands and eyes. " What a viper !" 
 
 " For shame, boy, for shame ! Take that 
 and that and that " 
 
 VOL. i. o
 
 290 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Writhing shrinking, still more terrified than 
 hurt, the poor child cowered beneath the lash. 
 
 " Mamma! mamma!" he cried at last, "Oh 
 why why did you leave me?" 
 
 At these words Mr. Morton stayed his 
 hand, the whip fell to the ground. 
 
 " Yet it is all for the boy's good," he mut- 
 tered. "There, child, I hope this is the last 
 time. There, you are not much hurt. 
 Zounds, don't cry so ! " 
 
 " He will alarm the whole street," said 
 Mrs. Morton; "I never see such a child! 
 Here, take this parcel to Mrs. Birnie's you 
 know the house only next .street, and dry 
 your eyes before you get there. Don't go 
 through the shop, this way out." 
 
 She pushed the child, still sobbing with a 
 vehemence that she could not comprehend, 
 through the private passage into the street, 
 and returned to her husband. 
 
 " You are convinced now, Mr. M. ? " 
 
 "Pshaw! ma'am; don't talk. But, to be 
 sure, that 's how I cured Tom of fibbing. 
 The tea 's as cold as a stone ! "
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Le bien nous le faisons : le mal c'est la Fortune, 
 On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort." 
 
 LA FONTAINE. 
 
 Upon the early morning of the day comme- 
 morated by the historical events of our lasfe 
 chapter, two men were deposited by a branch 
 coach at the inn of a hamlet about ten miles 
 distant from the town in which Mr. Roger 
 Morton resided. Though the hamlet was 
 small, the inn was large, for it was placed 
 close by a huge finger-post that pointed to 
 three great roads : one led to the town before 
 mentioned ; another, to the heart of a manu- 
 facturing district ; and a third, to a populous 
 seaport. The weather was fine, and the two 
 travellers ordered breakfast to be taken into*
 
 292 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 an arbour in the garden, as well as the basins 
 and towels necessary for ablution. The elder 
 of the travellers appeared to be unequivocally 
 foreign ; you would have guessed him at once 
 for a German. He wore what was - then very 
 uncommon in this country, a loose, brown linen 
 blouse, buttoned to the chin, with a leathern 
 belt, into which were stuck a German meer- 
 schaum and a tobacco-pouch. He had very long 
 flaxen hair, false or real, that streamed halfway 
 down his back, large light mustachios, and a 
 rough, sunburnt complexion, which made the 
 fairness of the hair more remarkable. He 
 wore an enormous pair of green spectacles, 
 and complained much, in broken English, of 
 the weakness of his eyes. All about him, 
 even to the smallest minutiae, indicated the 
 German ; not only the large, muscular frame, 
 the broad feet, and vast though well-shaped 
 hands, but the brooch evidently purchased of 
 a Jew in some great fair stuck ostentatiously 
 and superfluously into his stock ; the quaint, 
 droll-looking carpet-bag, which he refused to
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 293 
 
 trust to the boots; and the great, massive, 
 dingy ring which he wore on his fore-finger. 
 The other was a slender, remarkably up- 
 right and sinewy youth, in a blue frock, 
 over which was thrown a large cloak, a 
 travelling cap, with a shade that concealed all 
 of the upper part of his face, except a dark 
 quick eye, of uncommon fire, and a shawl 
 handkerchief, which was equally useful in 
 concealing the lower part of the countenance. 
 On descending from the coach, the German, 
 with some difficulty, made the hostler under- 
 stand that he wanted a post-chaise in a quarter 
 of an hour ; and then, -without entering the 
 house, he and his friend strolled to the arbour. 
 While the maid-servant was covering the table 
 with bread, butter, tea, eggs, and a huge 
 round of beef, the German was busy in wash- 
 ing his hands, and talking in his national 
 tongue to the young man, who returned no 
 answer. But as soon as the servant had com- 
 pleted her operations, the foreigner turned 
 round, and observing her eyes fixed on his
 
 294 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 brooch with much female admiration, he made 
 one stride to her. 
 
 " Der Teufel, mein goot rnadchen but you 
 are von var pretty vat you call it ; " and he 
 gave her, as he spoke, so hearty a smack that 
 the girl was more flustered than flattered by 
 the courtesy. 
 
 " Keep yourself to yourself, sir!" said she, 
 very tartly, for chambermaids never like to 
 be kissed by a middle-aged gentleman when a 
 younger one is by : whereupon the German replied 
 by a pinch, it is immaterial to state the exact 
 spot to which that delicate caress was directed. 
 But this last oifence was so inexpiable, that 
 the " madchen " bounced off with a face of 
 scarlet, and a " Sir, you are no gentleman, 
 that 's what you arn't ! " The German thrust 
 his head out of the arbour, and followed her 
 with a loud laugh ; then, drawing himself in 
 again, he said, in quite another accent and in 
 excellent English, " There, Master Philip, we 
 have got rid of the girl for the rest of the 
 morning, and that's exactly what I wanted to
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 295 
 
 do women's wits are confoundedly sharp. 
 Well, did I not tell you right, we have baffled 
 all the bloodhounds ! " 
 
 " And here then, Gawtrey, we are to part," 
 said Philip, mournfully. 
 
 " I wish you would think better of it, my 
 boy," returned Mr. Gawtrey, breaking an 
 egg ; " how can you shift for yourself, no 
 kith nor kin, not even that important ma- 
 chine for giving advice called a friend 
 no, not a friend, when I am gone? I fore- 
 see how it must end. [D it, salt butter, 
 by Jove!"] 
 
 " If I were alone in the world, as I have 
 told you again and again, perhaps I might 
 pin my fate to yours. But my brother ! " 
 
 " There it is, always wrong when we act 
 from our feelings. My whole life, which some 
 day or other I will tell you, proves that. Your 
 brother bah ! Is he not very well off with 
 his own uncle and aunt? plenty to eat and 
 drink, I dare say. Come, man, you must be 
 as hungry as a hawk a slice of the beef. Let
 
 296 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 well alone, and shift for yourself. What good 
 can you do your brother?" 
 
 " I don't know, but I must see him ; I have 
 sworn it." 
 
 "Well, go and see him, and then strike 
 across the country to me. I will wait a day 
 for you, there now ! " 
 
 " But tell me first," said Philip, very ear- 
 nestly, and fixing his dark eyes on his com- 
 panion ; " tell me yes, I must speak frankly 
 tell me, you who would link my fortune 
 with your own, tell me, what and who are 
 you?" 
 
 Gawtrey looked up. 
 
 " What do you suppose ? " said he, drily. 
 
 " I fear to suppose any thing, lest I wrong 
 you : but the strange place to which you took 
 me the evening on which you saved me from 
 pursuit, the persons I met there " 
 
 " Well-dressed, and very civil to you ? " 
 
 " True ; but with a certain wild looseness in 
 
 their talk that But / have no right to 
 
 judge others by mere appearance. Nor is it
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 297 
 
 this that has made me anxious, and, if you 
 will, suspicious." 
 
 4 'What then?" 
 
 " Your dress your disguise." 
 
 " Disguised yourself! ^ ha ! ha ! Behold 
 the world's charity! You fly from some dan- 
 ger, some pursuit, disguised you, who hold 
 yourself guiltless I do the same, and you 
 hold me criminal a robber, perhaps a mur- 
 derer, it may be ! I will tell you what I am, 
 I am a son of Fortune, an adventurer, I live 
 by my wits so do poets and lawyers, and all 
 the charlatans of the world ; I am a charlatan 
 a chameleon. * Each man in his time plays 
 many parts ; ' I play any part in which the 
 Manager of the Vast Boards Money pro- 
 mises me a livelihood. Are you satisfied?" 
 
 " Perhaps," answered the boy, sadly, "when 
 I know more of the world, I shall understand 
 you better. Strange strange, that you out 
 of all men should have been kind to me in 
 distress!" 
 
 " Xot at all strange. Ask the beggar 
 o2
 
 298 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 whom he gets the most pence from the fine 
 lady in her carriage the beau smelling of 
 Eau de Cologne? Pish! the people nearest 
 to being beggars themselves keep the beggar 
 alive. You were friendless, and the man who 
 has all earth for a foe befriends you. It is 
 the way of the world, sir, the way of the 
 world. Come, eat while you can, this time next 
 year you may have no beef to your bread." 
 
 Thus masticating and moralising at the 
 same time, Mr. Gawtrey at last finished a 
 breakfast that would have astonished the whole 
 Corporation of London ; and then taking out a 
 large old watch, with an enamelled back 
 doubtless, more German than its master he 
 said, as he lifted up his carpet-bag, " I must 
 be off tempus fugit, and I must arrive just in 
 time to nick the vessels. Shall get to Ostend, 
 or Rotterdam, safe and snug; thence to Paris. 
 How my pretty Fan will have grown ! Ah, you 
 don't know Fan make you a nice little wife 
 one of these days ! Cheer up, man, we shall 
 meet again. Be sure of it; and hark ye, that
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 299 
 
 strange place, as you call it, where I took you, 
 
 you can find it again ? " 
 " Not I." 
 
 " Here, then, is the address. Whenever 
 you want me, go there, ask to see Mr. Gregg 
 
 old fellow with one eye, you recollect 
 shake him by the hand just so you catch 
 the trick practise it again. No, the fore- 
 finger thus, that's right. Say 'blater,' no 
 more ' blater ; ' stay, I will write it down for 
 you ; and then ask for William Gawtrey's 
 direction. He will give it you at once, with- 
 out questions these signs understood ; and if 
 you want money for your passage, he will give 
 you that, also, with advice into the bargain. 
 Always a warm welcome with me. And so 
 take care of yourself, and good-by. I see my 
 chaise is at the door." 
 
 As he spoke, Gawtrey shook the young 
 man's hand with cordial vigour, and strode off 
 to his chaise, muttering, " Money well laid 
 out fee money; I shall have him, and, Gad, 
 I like him, poor devil!"
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " He is a cunning coachman that can turn well in a narrow 
 room." .OW Play: from LAMB'S Specimens. 
 
 " Here are two pilgrims, 
 And neither knows one footstep of the way." 
 
 HEY WOOD'S Duchess of Suffolk. Ibid. 
 
 THE chaise bad scarce driven from the inn- 
 door, when a coach stopped to change horses 
 on its last stage to the town to which Philip 
 was bound. The name of the destination, in 
 gilt letters on the coach-door, caught his eye, 
 as he walked from the arbour towards the 
 road, and in a few moments he was seated as 
 the fourth passenger in the " Nelson Slow and 
 Sure." From under the shade of his cap, he 
 darted that quick, quiet glance, which a man 
 who hunts, or is hunted in other words, who 
 observes, or shuns, soon acquires. At his left 
 hand sat a young woman in a cloak lined
 
 NIGHT AKD MORNING, 301 
 
 with yellow ; she had taken off her bonnet 
 and pinned it to the roof of the coach, and 
 looked fresh and pretty in a silk handkerchief, 
 which she had tied round her head, probably 
 to serve as a nightcap during the drowsy 
 length of the journey. Opposite to her was 
 a middle-aged man of pale complexion, and a 
 grave, pensive, studious expression of face; 
 and vis-a-vis to Philip, sat an overdressed, 
 showy, very good-looking man of about two 
 or three - and - forty. This gentleman wore 
 auburn whiskers, which met at the chin; a 
 foraging cap, with a gold tassel ; a velvet 
 waistcoat, across which, in various folds, hung 
 a golden chain, at the end of which dangled an 
 eve-;lass, that from time to time he screwed, 
 
 o 
 
 as it were, into his right eye ; he wore, also, a 
 blue silk stock, with a frill much crumpled; 
 dirty kid gloves ; and over his lap lay a cloak 
 lined with red silk. As Philip glanced to- 
 wards this personage, the latter fixed his glass 
 also at him, with a scrutinising stare, which 
 drew fire from Philip's dark eyes. The man
 
 302 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 dropped his glass, and said in a half provincial, 
 half Jiaw-liaw tone, like the stage-exquisite of a 
 minor theatre, " Pawdon me, and split legs!" 
 therewith stretching himself between Philip's 
 limbs, in the approved fashion of inside passen- 
 gers] A young man in a white-great coat now 
 came to the door with a glass of warm sherry 
 and water. 
 
 " You must take this you must now ; it will 
 keep the cold out" (the day was broiling), said 
 he, to the young woman. 
 
 " Gracious me!" was the answer, "but I 
 never drink wine of a morning, James ; it will 
 get into my head." 
 
 " To oblige me!" said the young man, senti- 
 mentally ; whereupon the young lady took the 
 glass, and looking very kindly at her Gany- 
 mede, said, " Your health !" and sipped, and 
 made a wry face then she looked at the pas- 
 sengers, tittered, and said, " I can't bear 
 wine !" and so, very slowly and daintily, supped 
 up the rest. A silent and expressive squeeze of 
 the hand, on returning the glass, rewarded the
 
 NIGHT AND MOHNING. 303 
 
 young man, and proved the salutary effect of 
 his prescription. 
 
 " All right!" cried the coachman : the hostler 
 
 O 
 
 twitched the cloths from the leaders, and away 
 went the " Nelson Slow and Sure," with as much 
 pretension as if it had meant to do the ten miles 
 in an hour. The pale gentleman took from 
 his waistcoat-pocket a little box containing 
 gum Arabic, and having inserted a couple of 
 morsels between his lips, he next drew forth a 
 little thin volume, which from the manner the 
 lines were printed was evidently devoted to 
 poetry. 
 
 The smart gentleman, who since the episode 
 of the sherry and water had kept his glass fixed 
 upon the young lady, now said, with a genteel 
 smirk, " That young gentleman seems very 
 auttentive, miss !" 
 
 " He is a very good young man, sir, and 
 takes great care of me." 
 
 " Not your brother, miss, eh?" 
 
 "La, sir! why not?" 
 
 " No faumily likeness noice-looking fellow
 
 304 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 enough ! But your oiyes and mouth ah, 
 miss ! " 
 
 Miss turned away her head, and uttered, 
 with pert vivacity, 
 
 "I never likes compliments, sir! But the 
 young man is not my brother." 
 
 "A sweetheart, eh? Oh fie, miss! Haw! 
 haw !" and the auburn-whiskered Adonis poked 
 Philip in the knee with one hand, arid the 
 pale gentleman in the ribs with the other. 
 The latter looked up, and reproachfully; the 
 former drew in his legs, and uttered an angry 
 ejaculation. 
 
 " Well, sir, there is no harm in a sweetheart, 
 is there ?" 
 
 " None in the least, ina'am ; I advoise you to 
 double the dose. We often hear of two strings 
 to a boiv. Daun't you think it would be noicer 
 to have two beaux to your string ? " 
 
 As he thus wittily expressed himself, the 
 gentleman took off his cap, and thrust his fin- 
 gers through a very curling and comely head 
 of hair ; the young lady looked at him with evi-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 305 
 
 dent coquetry, and said, " How you do run on, 
 you gentlemen ! " 
 
 " I may well run on, miss, as long as I run 
 aufter you," was the gallant reply. 
 
 Here the pale gentleman, evidently annoyed 
 by being talked across, shut his book up, and 
 looked round. His eye rested on Philip, who, 
 whether from the heat of the day or from the 
 forgetfulness of thought, had pushed his cap 
 from his brows ; and the gentleman, after star- 
 ing at him for a few moments with great 
 earnestness, sighed so heavily that it attracted 
 the notice of all the passengers. 
 
 " Are you unwell, sir?" asked the young 
 lady, compassionately. 
 
 "A little pain in my side, nothing more!" 
 " Chaunge plauces with me, sir," cried the 
 Lothario, officiously. " INow do!" The pale 
 gentleman, after a short hesitation, and a bash- 
 ful excuse, accepted the proposal. In a few 
 moments the young lady and the beau were in 
 deep and whispered conversation, their heads 
 turned towards the window. The pale gentle-
 
 306 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 man continued to gaze at Philip, till the latter, 
 perceiving the notice he excited, coloured and 
 replaced his cap over his face. 
 
 " Are you going to N ?" asked the gen- 
 tleman, in a gentle, timid voice. 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Is it the first time you have ever been 
 there?" 
 
 "Sir!" returned Philip, in a voice that 
 spoke surprise and distaste at his neighbour's 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Forgive me," said the gentleman, shrinking 
 back ; " but you remind me of of a family 
 I once knew in the town. Do you know the 
 the Mortons?" 
 
 One in Philip's situation, with, as he supposed, 
 the officers of justice in his track (for Gawtrey, 
 for reasons of his own, rather encouraged than 
 allayed his fears), might well be suspicious. 
 He replied therefore shortly, " I am quite a 
 stranger to the town," and ensconced himself 
 in the corner, as if to take a nap. Alas ! that 
 answer was one of the many obstacles he was
 
 MGHT AND MORNING. 307 
 
 doomed to build up between himself and a fairer 
 fate. 
 
 The gentleman sighed again, and never spoke 
 more to the end of the journey. When the 
 coach halted at the inn the same inn which 
 had before given its shelter to poor Catherine 
 the young man in the white coat opened the 
 door, and offered his arm to the young lady. 
 
 " Do you make any stay here, sir?" said she 
 to the beau, as she unpinned her bonnet from 
 the roof. 
 
 " Perhaps so : I am waiting for nay phe-aton, 
 which my faellow is to bring down, tauking a 
 little tour." 
 
 " We shall be very happy to see you, sir," 
 said the young lady, on whom the phe-aton 
 completed the effect produced by the gentle- 
 man's previous gallantries ; and with that, she 
 dropped a very neat card, on which was printed 
 " Wavers and Snow, Staymakers, High Street," 
 into his hand. 
 
 The beau put it gracefully into his pocket 
 leaped from the coach nudged aside his rival
 
 308 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 of the white coat, and offered his arm to the 
 lady, who leaned on it affectionately as she 
 descended. 
 
 " This gentleman has been so perlite to me, 
 James," said she. James touched his hat; the 
 beau clapped him on the shoulder, " Ah ! you 
 are not a happy man, are you ? Oh no, not 
 at all a happy man ! Good day to you ! Guard , 
 that hat-box is mine/' 
 
 While Philip was paying the coachman, the 
 beau passed, and whispered him, 
 
 " Recollect old Gregg any thing on the lay 
 here don't spoil my sport if we meet!" and 
 bustled off into the inn, whistling "God save 
 the king !" 
 
 Philip started, then tried to bring to mind the 
 faces which he had seen at the " strange place," 
 and thought he recalled the features of his 
 fellow-traveller. However, he did not seek to 
 renew the acquaintance, but inquired the way 
 to Mr. Morton's house, and thither he now 
 proceeded. 
 
 He was directed, as a short cut, down one of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 309 
 
 those narrow passages at the entrance of which 
 posts are placed, as an indication that they are 
 appropriated solely to foot-passengers. A dead 
 white wall, which screened the garden of the 
 physician of the place, ran on one side ; a high 
 fence to a nursery-ground was on the other ; 
 the passage was lonely, for it was now the hour 
 when few persons walk either for business or 
 pleasure in a provincial town, and no sound 
 was heard save the fall of his own step on the 
 broad flag-stones. At the end of the passage in 
 the main street to which it led, he saw already 
 the large, smart, showy shop, with the hot sun 
 shining full on the gilt letters that conveyed to 
 the eyes of the customer the respectable name 
 of" Morton," when suddenly, the silence was 
 broken by choked and painful sobs. He turned, 
 and beneath a compo portico, jutting from the 
 wall, which adorned the physician's door, he 
 saw a child seated on the stone steps weeping 
 bitterly a thrill shot through Philip's heart! 
 Did he recognise, disguised as it was by pain 
 and sorrow, that voice ? He paused, and laid
 
 310 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 his hand on the child's shoulder : " Oh, don't 
 don't pray don't I am going, I ain indeed!" 
 cried the child, quailing, and still keeping his 
 hands clasped before his face. 
 
 " Sidney!" said Philip. The boy started to 
 his feet, uttered a cry of rapturous joy, and 
 fell upon his brother's breast. 
 
 " O Philip! dear, dear Philip! you are 
 coine to take me away back to my own 
 own mamma ; I will be so good ; I will never 
 tease her again, never, never! I have been 
 so wretched!" 
 
 " Sit down, and tell me what they have 
 done to you," said Philip, checking the rising 
 heart that heaved at his mother's name. 
 
 So, there they sat, on the cold stone 
 under the stranger's porch, these two orphans : 
 Philip's arm round his brother's waist, Sidney 
 leaning on his shoulder, and imparting to him 
 perhaps with pardonable exaggeration all 
 the sufferings he had gone through ; and, when 
 he came to that morning's chastisement, and 
 shewed the wale across the little hands which
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 311 
 
 he had vainly held up in supplication, Philip's 
 passion shook him from limb to limb. His 
 impulse was to march straight into Mr. Mor- 
 ton's shop and gripe him by the throat ; and 
 the indignation he betrayed encouraged Sidney 
 to colour yet more highly the tale of his 
 wrongs and pain. 
 
 When he had done, and clinging tightly 
 to his brother's broad chest, said, 
 
 " But never mind, Philip ; now we will go 
 home to mamma." 
 
 Philip replied, 
 
 " Listen to me, my dear brother. We 
 cannot go back to my mother. I will tell you 
 why, later. We are alone in the world we 
 two! If you will come with me God help 
 you ! for you will have many hardships : we 
 shall have to work and drudge, and you 
 may be cold, and hungry, and tired, very 
 often, Sidney, very, very often! But you 
 know that, long ago, when I was so passion- 
 ate, I never was knowingly unkind to you ; 
 and I declare now, that I would bite out my
 
 312 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 tongue rather than it should say a harsh word 
 to you. That is all I can promise. Think 
 well. Will you never miss all the comforts 
 you have now ? " 
 
 " Comforts!'' repeated Sidney, ruefully, and 
 looking at the wale over his hand. " Oh ! let 
 let let me go with you : I shall die if I stay 
 here. I shall, indeed indeed!" 
 
 " Hush!" said Philip; for at that moment 
 a step was heard, and the pale gentleman 
 walked slowly down the passage, and started, 
 and turned his head wistfully as he looked at 
 the boys. 
 
 When he was gone, Philip rose. 
 
 " It is settled then," said he, firmly. "Come 
 with me at once. You shall return to their 
 roof no more. Come, quick : we shall have 
 many miles to go to-night. r '
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 He comes - 
 
 Yet careless what lie brings ; his one concern 
 
 Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 
 
 And, having dropp'd the expected hag, pass on - 
 
 To him indifferent whether grief or joy.'' 
 
 : Description of the Postman* 
 
 THE pale gentleman entered Mr. Morton's 
 shop ; and, looking round him, spied the 
 worthy trader shewing shawls to a young lady 
 just married. He seated himself on a stool, 
 and said to the bowing foreman, 
 
 l< I will wait till Mr. Morton is dis- 
 engaged." 
 
 The young lady having closely examined 
 seven shawls, and declared they were beauti- 
 ful, said " she would think of it," and walked 
 away. Mr. Morton now approached the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Mr. Morton," said the pale gentleman - 
 " you are very little altered. You do not 
 recollect me?" 
 
 "Bless me, Mr. Spencer! is it really you? 
 
 VOL. i. p
 
 314 XIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Well, what a time since we met! I am 
 very glad to see you. And what brings you 
 to N ? Business?" 
 
 " Yes, business. Let us go within." 
 
 Mr. Morton led the way to the parlour, 
 where Master Tom, reperched on the stool, 
 was rapidly digesting the plundered muffin. 
 Mr. Morton dismissed him to play, and the 
 pale gentleman took a chair. 
 
 " Mr. Morton," said he, glancing over his 
 dress, " you see I am in mourning. It is for 
 your sister. I never got the better of that 
 early attachment never." 
 
 "My sister! Good Heavens!" said Mr. 
 Morton, turning very pale ; " is she dead ? 
 Poor Catherine ! and I not know of it ! 
 When did she die?" 
 
 " Not many days since ; and and " said 
 Mr. Spencer, greatly affected, " I fear in 
 want. I had been abroad for some months : 
 on my return last week, looking over the 
 newspapers (for I always order them to be 
 filed), I read the short account of her lawsuit 
 against Mr. Beaufort sometime back. I re- 
 solved to find her out. I did so through the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 3J5 
 
 
 
 solicitor she employed : it was too late ; I 
 arrived at her lodgings two days after her 
 corpse had left it for the grave. I then de- 
 termined to visit poor Catherine's brother, and 
 learn if any thing could be done for the 
 children she had left behind." 
 
 " She left but two. Philip, the elder, is very 
 
 comfortably placed at R ; the youngest has 
 
 his home with me ; and Mrs. Morton is a moth 
 that is to say, she takes great pains with him. 
 Ehem! and my poor poor sister!" 
 
 ** Is he like his mother?" 
 
 " Very much, when she was young poor 
 dear Catherine ! " 
 
 " What age is he?" 
 
 " About ten, perhaps ; I don't know ex- 
 actly ; much younger than the other. And so 
 she's dead!" 
 
 " Mr. Morton, I am an old bachelor" (here 
 a sickly smile crossed Mr. Spencer's face) ; 
 *' a small portion of my fortune is settled, it 
 is true, on my relations : but the rest is mine, 
 and I live within my income. The elder one 
 is probably old enough to begin to take care 
 of himself. But, the younger perhaps you
 
 316 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 have a family of your own, and can spare 
 him?" 
 
 Mr. Morton hesitated, and twitched up his 
 trousers. 
 
 " Why," said he, " this is very kind in you. 
 I don't know we'll see. The boy is out 
 now; come and dine with us at two pot- 
 luck. Well, so she is no more! Heigho! 
 Meanwhile, I '11 talk it over with Mrs. M." 
 
 " I will be with you," said Mr. Spencer, 
 rising. 
 
 "Ah!" sighed Mr. Morton, "if Catherine 
 had but married you, she would have been a 
 happy woman." 
 
 " I would have tried to make her so," said 
 Mr. Spencer, as he turned away his face, and 
 took his departure. 
 
 Two o'clock came ; but no Sidney. They 
 had sent to the place whither he had been 
 despatched; he had never arrived there. Mr. 
 Morton grew alarmed ; and, when Mr. Spencer 
 came to dinner, his host was gone in search of 
 the truant. He did not return till three. 
 Doomed that day to be belated both at break- 
 fast and dinner, this decided him to part with
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 317 
 
 Sidney whenever he should be found. Mrs. 
 Morton was persuaded that the child only 
 sulked, and would come back fast enough 
 when he was hungry. Mr. Spencer tried to 
 believe her, and ate his mutton, which was 
 burnt to a cinder ; but, when five, six, seven 
 o'clock came, and the boy was still missing, 
 even Mrs. Morton agreed that it was high time 
 to institute a regular search. The whole family 
 set off different ways. It was ten o'clock before 
 they were reunited ; and then, all the news 
 picked up was that a boy, answering Sidney's 
 description, had been seen with a young man in 
 three several parts of the town ; the last time 
 at the outskirts, on the highroad towards the 
 manufacturing districts. These tidings so far 
 relieved Mr. Morton's mind that he dismissed 
 the chilling fear that had crept there, that 
 Sidney might have drowned himself. Boys 
 will drown themselves sometimes! The de- 
 scription of the young man coincided so re- 
 markably with the fellow-passenger of Mr. 
 Spencer, that he did not doubt it was the 
 same ; the more so, when he recollected having 
 seen him with a fair-haired child under the
 
 318 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 portico ; and, yet more, when he recalled the 
 likeness to Catherine that had struck him in 
 the coach, and caused the inquiry that had 
 roused Philip's suspicion. The mystery was thus 
 made clear Sidney had fled with his brother. 
 Nothing more, however, could be done that 
 night. The next morning active measures 
 should be devised ; and when the morning 
 came, the mail brought to Mr. Morton the 
 two following letters. The first was from 
 Arthur Beaufort. 
 
 " SIR, I have only been prevented by 
 severe illness from writing to you before. I 
 can now scarcely hold a pen ; but the instant 
 my health is recovered I shall be with you 
 at N . 
 
 " On her deathbed, the mother of the boy 
 under your charge, Sidney Morton, committed 
 him solemnly to me, the heir and representative 
 of his father. I make his fortunes my care, 
 and shall hasten to claim him at your kindly 
 hands. But the elder son, this poor Philip, 
 who has suffered so unjustly, for our lawyer 
 has seen Mr. Plaskwith and heard the whole
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 319 
 
 story; what has become of him? All our 
 inquiries have failed to track him. Alas, I was 
 too ill to institute them myself while it was yet 
 time. Perhaps he may have sought shelter 
 with you, his uncle : if so, assure him that he 
 is in no danger from the pursuit of the law, 
 that his innocence is fully recognised ; and 
 that my father and myself implore him to ac- 
 cept our affection. I can write no more now ; 
 but in a few days I shall hope to see you. 
 
 " I am, sir, &c. 
 
 " ARTHUR BEAUFORT." 
 
 " Berkeley Square." 
 
 The second letter was from Mr. Plaskwith, 
 and ran thus : 
 
 " DEAR MORTON, Something very awkward 
 has happened, not my fault, and very un- 
 pleasant for me. Your relation, Philip, as I 
 wrote you word, was a pains-taking lad r 
 though odd, and bad-mannered, for want, 
 perhaps, poor boy, of being taught better ; 
 and Mrs. P. is, you know, a very genteel 
 woman women go too much by manners
 
 320 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 so she never took much to him. However, to 
 the point, as the French emperor used to say : 
 one evening he asked me for money for his 
 mother, who, he said, was ill, in a very inso- 
 lent way : I may say, threatening. It was in 
 my own shop, and before Plimmins and 
 Mrs. P. ; I was forced to answer with digni- 
 fied rebuke, and left the shop. When I 
 returned, he was gone, and some shillings 
 fourteen I think, and three sovereigns evi- 
 dently from the till, scattered on the floor. 
 Mrs. P. and Mr. Plimmins were very much 
 frightened; thought it was clear I was robbed, 
 and that we were to be murdered. Plimmins 
 slept below that night, and we borrowed 
 butcher Johnson's dog. Nothing happened. 
 I did not think I was robbed : because the 
 money, when we came to calculate, was 
 all ri^ht. I know human nature : he had 
 
 \j 
 
 thought to take it, but repented quite clear. 
 However, I was naturally very angry, thought 
 he'd come back again meant to reprove him 
 properly waited several days heard nothing 
 of him grew uneasy would not attend longer 
 to Mrs. P. ; for, as Napoleon Buonaparte ob-'
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 321 
 
 served, " women are well in their way, not 
 in ours." Made Pliinmins go with me to 
 town hired a Bow Street runner to track 
 him out cost me II. Is. and two glasses of 
 brandy and water. Poor Mrs. Morton was 
 just buried quite shocked! Suddenly saw 
 the boy in the streets. Plimmins rushed 
 forward in the kindest way was knocked 
 down hurt his arm paid 2s. 6d. for lo- 
 tion. Philip ran off, we ran after him 
 could not find him. Forced to return home. 
 Next day, a lawyer from a Mr. Beaufort 
 -Sir. George Blackwell, a gentleman - like 
 man called. Mr. Beaufort will do any 
 thing for him in reason. Is there any thing 
 more / can do? I really am very uneasy 
 about the lad, and Mrs. P. and I have a tiff 
 about it : but that's nothing thought I had 
 best write to you for instructions. 
 
 " Yours, truly, 
 
 " C. PLASKWITH." 
 
 " P. S. Just open my letter to say, Bow 
 Street officer just been here has found out 
 that the boy has been seen with a very suspi- 
 p2
 
 322 MGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 cious character : they think he has left Lon- 
 don. Bow Street officer wants to go after him 
 very expensive : so now you can decide." 
 
 Mr. Spencer scarcely listened to the former 
 letter, but of the latter he felt jealous. He 
 would fain have been the only protector to 
 Catherine's children ; but he was the last 
 man fitted to head the search, now so neces- 
 sary to prosecute with equal tact and energy. 
 
 A soft-hearted, soft-headed man, a con- 
 firmed valetudinarian, a day-dreamer, who had 
 wasted away his life in dawdling and maund- 
 ering over Simple Poetry, and sighing over his 
 unhappy attachment ; no child, no babe, was 
 so thoroughly helpless as Mr. Spencer. 
 
 The task of investigation devolved, there- 
 fore, on Mr. Morton, and he went about it in 
 a regular, plain, straight-forward way. Hand- 
 bills were circulated, constables employed, 
 and a lawyer, accompanied by Mr. Spencer, 
 despatched to the manufacturing districts : 
 towards which the orphans had been seen to 
 direct their path.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Give the gentle South 
 Yet leave to court those sails." 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER : Beggar's Bush. 
 
 " Cut your cloth, sir, 
 
 According to your calling." 
 Ibid. 
 
 MEANWHILE the brothers were far away, and 
 He who feeds the young ravens made their 
 paths pleasant to their feet. Philip had broken 
 to Sidney the sad news of their mother's death, 
 and Sidney had wept, with bitter passion. - 
 But children, what can they know of death? 
 Their tears over graves dry sooner than the 
 dews. It is melancholy to compare the depth, 
 the endurance, the far-sighted, anxious, prayer- 
 ful, love of a parent, with the inconsiderate, 
 frail, and evanescent affection of the infant, 
 whose eyes the hues of the butterfly yet
 
 324 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 dazzle with delight. It was the night of their 
 flight, and in the open air, when Philip 
 (his arms round Sidney's waist) told his 
 brother - orphan that they were motherless. 
 And the air was balmy, the skies filled with 
 the effulgent presence of the August moon ; 
 the corn-fields stretched round them wide and 
 far, and not a leaf trembled on the beech-tree, 
 beneath which they had sought shelter. It 
 seemed as if Nature herself smiled pityingly 
 on their ^ young sorrow, and said to them, 
 " Grieve not for the dead : I, who live for 
 aver, /will be your mother!" 
 
 They crept, as the night deepened, into the 
 warmer sleeping - place afforded by stacks of 
 hay, mown that summer, and still fragrant. 
 And the next morning the birds woke them 
 betimes, to feel that Liberty, at least, was with 
 them, and to wander with her at will. 
 
 Who in his boyhood has not felt the delight 
 of freedom and adventure ? to have the world 
 of woods and sward before him to escape 
 restriction to lean, for the first time, on his 
 own resources to rejoice in the wild but
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 325 
 
 manly luxury of independence to act the 
 Crusoe and to fancy a Friday in every foot- 
 print an island of his own in every field? 
 Yes, in spite of their desolation, their loss, 
 of the melancholy past, of the friendless 
 future, the orphans were happy happy in 
 their youth their freedom their love 
 their wanderings in the delicious air of the 
 
 o 
 
 glorious August. Sometimes they came upon 
 knots of reapers lingering in the shade of the 
 hedgerows over their noonday meal; and, 
 grown sociable by travel, and bold by safety, 
 they joined and partook of the rude fare with 
 the zest of fatigue and youth. Sometimes, 
 too, at night, they saw, gleam afar and red by 
 the wood-side, the fires of gipsy tents. But 
 these, with the superstition derived from old 
 nursery tales, they scrupulously shunned, 
 eyeing them with a mysterious awe! What 
 heavenly twilights belong to that golden 
 month ! the air so lucidly serene, as the 
 purple of the clouds fades gradually away, 
 and," up soars, broad, round, intense, and 
 luminous, the full moon which belongs to the
 
 326 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 joyous season ! The fields then are greener than 
 in the heats of July and June, they have got 
 back the luxury of a second spring. And still, 
 beside the paths of the travellers, lingered, 
 on the hedges, the clustering honeysuckle 
 the convolvulus glittered in the tangles of the 
 brake the hardy heath-flower smiled on the 
 green waste. 
 
 And ever, at evening, they came, field after 
 field, upon those circles which recall to child- 
 ren so many charmed legends, and are fresh 
 and frequent in that month the Fairy Rings! 
 They thought, poor boys, that it was a good 
 omen, and half fancied that the Fairies pro- 
 tected them, as in the old time they had often 
 protected the desolate and outcast. 
 
 They avoided the main roads, and all towns, 
 with suspicious care. But sometimes they 
 paused, for food and rest, at the obscure 
 hostels of some scattered hamlet : though, 
 more often, they loved to spread the simple 
 food they purchased by the way under some 
 thick tree, or beside a stream, through whose 
 limpid waters they could watch the trout glide
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 327 
 
 and play. And they often preferred the chance- 
 shelter of a haystack, or a shed, to the less 
 romantic repose offered by the small inns they 
 alone dared to enter. They went, in this, 
 much by the face and voice of the host or 
 hostess. Once only Philip had entered a 
 town, on the second day of their flight, and 
 that solely for the purchase of ruder clothes, 
 and a change of linen for Sidney, with some 
 articles and implements of use necessary in their 
 present course of shift and welcome hardship. 
 A wise precaution, for, thus clad, they escaped 
 suspicion. 
 
 So journeying, they consumed several days ; 
 and, having taken a direction quite opposite to 
 that which led to the manufacturing districts, 
 whither pursuit had been directed, they were 
 now in the centre of another county in the 
 neighbourhood of one of the most con- 
 siderable towns of England ; and here Philip 
 began to think their wanderings ought to 
 cease, and it was time to settle on some 
 definite course of life. He had carefully 
 hoarded about his person, and most thriftily
 
 328 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 managed, the little fortune bequeathed by his 
 mother. But Philip looked on this capital 
 as a deposit sacred to Sidney; it was not to 
 be spent, but kept and augmented the nu- 
 cleus for future wealth. Within the last few 
 weeks his character was greatly ripened, and 
 his powers of thought enlarged. He was no 
 more a boy, he was a man ; he had another 
 life to take care of. He resolved, then, to 
 enter the town they were approaching, .and 
 to seek for some situation by which he might 
 maintain both. Sidney was very loath to 
 abandon their present roving life ; but he 
 allowed that the warm weather could not 
 always last, and that in winter the fields 
 would be less pleasant. He, therefore, with 
 a sigh, yielded to his brother's reasonings. 
 
 They entered the fair and busy town of 
 
 one day at noon; and, after finding a small 
 lodging, at which he deposited Sidney, who 
 was fatigued with their day's work, Philip 
 sallied forth alone. 
 
 After his long rambling, Philip was pleased 
 and struck with the broad bustling streets,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 329 
 
 the gay shops the evidences of opulence and 
 trade. He thought it hard if he, could not find 
 there a market for the health and heart of 
 sixteen. He strolled slowly and alone along 
 the streets, till his attention was caught by a 
 small corner-shop, in the window of which was 
 placed a board, bearing this inscription : 
 
 " OFFICE FOR EMPLOYMENT. RECIPROCAL 
 ADVANTAGE. 
 
 " Mr. John Clump's bureau open every day 
 from ten till four. Clerks, servants, labourers, 
 &c., provided with suitable situations. Terms 
 moderate. N. 13. The oldest established 
 office in the town. 
 
 "Wanted, a good Cook. An under Gardener." 
 
 What he sought was here ! Philip entered, 
 and saw a short, fat man with spectacles, seated 
 before a desk, poring upon the well-filled leaves 
 of a long register. 
 
 "Sir," said Philip, " I wish for a situation ; 
 I don't care what." 
 
 " Half- a- crown for entry, if you please. 
 That's right. Now for particulars. Hum! 
 you don't look like a servant ! "
 
 330 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " No ; I wish for any place where my edu- 
 cation can be of use. I can read, write ; I 
 know Latin and French ; I can draw ; I know 
 arithmetic and summing." 
 
 "Very well; very genteel young man 
 prepossessing appearance (that 's a fudge !) 
 highly educated ; usher in a school eh?" 
 
 " What you like." 
 
 " References?" 
 
 " I have none." 
 
 "Eh! none!" and Mr. Clump fixed his 
 spectacles full upon Philip. 
 
 Philip was prepared for the question, and 
 had the art to perceive that a frank reply was 
 his best policy. " The fact is," said he, boldly, 
 " I was well brought up ; my father died : I 
 was to be bound apprentice to a trade I dis- 
 liked ; I left it, and have now no friends." 
 
 " If I can help you, I will," said Mr. Clump, 
 coldly. " Can't promise much. If you were 
 a labourer, character might not matter ; but 
 educated young men must have a character. 
 Hands always more useful than head. Edu- 
 cation no avail nowadays ; common, quite 
 common. Call again on Monday."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 331 
 
 Somewhat disappointed and chilled, Philip 
 turned from the bureau ; but he had a strong 
 confidence in his own resources, and recovered 
 his spirits as he mingled with the throng. 
 He passed, at length, by a livery-stable, and 
 paused, from old associations, as he saw a 
 groom in the mews attempting to manage a 
 young, hot horse, evidently unbroken. The 
 master of the stables, in a green short jacket, 
 and top boots, with a long whip in his hand, 
 was standing by, with one or two men who 
 looked like horse-dealers. 
 
 " Come off, clumsy ! you can't manage that 
 'ere fine hanimal," cried the liveryman. " Ah I 
 he's a lamb, sir, if he were backed properly. 
 But I has not a man in the yard as can ride 
 since Will died. Come off, I say, lubber!" 
 
 But to come off, without being thrown off, 
 was more easily said than done. The horse 
 was now plunging as if Juno had sent her gad- 
 fly to him ; arid Philip, interested and excited, 
 came near and nearer, till he stood by the side 
 of the horse-dealers. The other hostlers ran to 
 the help of their comrade, who, at last, with
 
 332 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 white lips and shaking knees, found himself 
 on terra firma ; while the horse, snorting hard 
 and rubbing his head against the breast and 
 arms of the hostler who held him tightly by the 
 rein, seemed to ask, in his own way, "Are 
 there any more of you?" 
 
 A suspicion that the horse was an old ac- 
 quaintance crossed Philip's mind ; he went up 
 to him, and a white spot over the left eye 
 confirmed his doubts. It had been a foal 
 reserved and reared for his own riding; one 
 that, in his prosperous day, had ate bread from 
 his hand, and followed him round the paddock 
 like a dog ; one that he had mounted in sport, 
 without saddle, when his father's back was 
 turned : a friend, in short, of the happy lang 
 syne; nay, the very friend to whom he had 
 boasted his affection, when, standing with 
 Arthur Beaufort under the summer sky, the 
 whole world seemed to him full of friends. 
 He put his hand on the horse's neck, and 
 whispered, " Soho ! So, Billy!" and the 
 horse turned sharp round with a quick joyous 
 neigh.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 333 
 
 " If you please, sir," said Philip, appealing 
 to the liveryman, " I will undertake to ride 
 this horse, and take him over yon leaping bar. 
 Just let me try him." 
 
 " There 's a fine-spirited lad for you!" said, 
 the liveryman, much pleased at the offer. 
 "Now, gentlemen, did I not tell you that 
 ere hanimal had no vice if he was properly 
 managed ?" 
 
 The horse-dealers shook their heads. 
 
 " May I give him some bread first?" asked 
 Philip ; and the hostler was despatched to the 
 house. Meanwhile the animal evinced various 
 signs of pleasure and recognition, as Philip 
 stroked and talked to him ; and, finally, when 
 he ate the bread from the young man's hand, 
 the whole yard seemed in as much delight and 
 surprise as if they had witnessed one of Mon- 
 sieur Van Arnburgh's exploits. 
 
 And now, Philip, still caressing him, slowly 
 and cautiously mounted ; the horse made one 
 bound half-across the yard a bound which 
 sent all the horse-dealers into a corner and 
 then went through his paces, one after the
 
 334 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 other, with as much ease and calm as if he 
 had been broke in at Mr. Fozard's to carry a 
 young lady. And when he crowned all by 
 going thrice over the leapirig-bar, and Philip, 
 dismounting, threw the reins to the hostler, 
 and turned triumphantly to the horse-dealer, 
 that gentleman slapped him on the back, and 
 said, emphatically, " Sir, you are a man ! and 
 I am proud to see you here." 
 
 Meanwhile the horse-dealers gathered round 
 the animal ; looked at his hoofs, felt his legs, 
 examined his windpipe, and concluded the 
 bargain, which, but for Philip, would have 
 been very abruptly broken off. When the 
 horse was led out of the yard, the liveryman, 
 Mr. Stubmore, turned to Philip, who, leaning 
 against the wall, followed the poor animal 
 with mournful eyes. 
 
 " My good sir, you have sold that horse 
 for me that you have! Any thing as I can 
 do for you ? One good turn deserves another. 
 Here's a brace of shiners." 
 
 " Thank you, sir; I want no money, but I 
 do want some employment. I can be of u^e
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 335 
 
 to you, perhaps, in your establishment. I have 
 been brought up among horses all my life." 
 
 "Saw it, sir! that's very clear. I say that 
 re horse knows you ! " and the dealer put his 
 finger to his nose. " Quite right to be mum ! 
 He came from an old customer of mine famous 
 rider! Mr. Beaufort. Aha! that 's where you 
 knew him, I 'spose. Were you in his stables? " 
 
 " Hem I knew Mr. Beaufort well." 
 
 "Did you? You could not know a better 
 man. Well, I shall be very glad to engage 
 you, though you seeni by your hands to be a 
 bit of a gentleman eh? Never mind; don't 
 want you to groom! but superintend things. 
 D'ye know accounts, eh?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Character?" 
 
 Philip repeated to Mr. Stubmore the story 
 he had imparted to Mr. Clump. Somehow or 
 other, men who live much with horses are 
 always more lax in their notions than the rest 
 of mankind. Mr. Stubmore did not seem to 
 grow more distant at Philip's narration. 
 
 " Understand you perfectly, my man.
 
 36 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Brought up with them ere fine creturs, how 
 could you nail your nose to a desk ? I'll take 
 you \vithout more palaver. What's your name ?" 
 
 " Philips." 
 
 "Come to-morrow, and we'll settle about 
 wages. Sleep here ? " 
 
 " No. I have a brother whom I must lodge 
 with, and for whose sake I wish to work. I 
 should not like him to be at the stables he is 
 too young. But I can come early every day, 
 and go home late." 
 
 " Well, just as you like, man. Good day." 
 
 And thus, not from any mental accomplish- 
 ment not from the result of his intellectual 
 education, but from the mere physical capacity 
 and brute, habit of sticking fast on his saddle, 
 did Philip Morton, in this great, intelligent, 
 gifted, civilised, enlightened community of 
 Great Britain, find the means of earning his 
 bread without stealing it. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PP.INTED BY MOVES AND BARCLAY, CASTI* STl'.FET, 
 LEICESTER SQUARE.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
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