9-*^ .4 u k.^hg^'"' r NEW AND IMPORTANT WORKS RECENTLV PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS NOVELS. NIGHT AND MORNING. By Sir E. L. Bulwer, Bart. 2 vols. 12mo. THE HOUR AND THE MAN. By Miss Harriet Mar- tineau. 2 vols. 12ino. THE BUDGET OF THE BUBBLE FAMILY. By Lady Lvtton Bulwer. 2 vols. I2mo. THE MAN-AT-ARMS; or, Henry de Ceroiis. By G. P. R. James, Esq. 2 vols. r2mo. GODOLPHIN. By Sir E. L. Bulwer, Bart. 2 vols. 12mo. STANDARD WORKS. KEIGHTLEY'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 5 vols. 18mo. SELECTIONS FROM BRITISH POETS. By Filz-. Greene Halleck. 2 vols. 18mo. SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETS. By W. C. Bryant. 18mo. ELEMENTS OF MENTAL PHILOSOPHY; embra- cing the two Departments of the Intellect and Sensi- bilities. By Thos. C. Upham, Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy in Bowdoin College. 2 vols. 12mo. A PHILOSOPHICAL AND PRACTICAL TREATISE ON THE WILL. By Thomas C. Upham. 12mo. LIFE AND WORKS OF DR. JOHNSON. By the Rev Wm. P. Page. 2 vols. ISmo. HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. By the Hon. S. Hale. 2 vols. 18mo. RELIGION IN ITS RELATION TO THE PRESENT LIFE. In a Series of Lectures, delivered before the Young Men's Association of Utica, by A. B. Johnson, and published at their request. 18mo. THE LIFE AND WORKS OF DR. OLIVER GOLD- SMITH. By Washington Irving. 2 vols. 18mo. 10 Worka Pudliskea by Devereux. In 2 vols 12mo. Paul Clifford. In 2 vols. 12mo. Eugene Aram. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Last Days of Pompeii. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Student ; a Series of Papers. In 2 vols. Rienzi, the Last of the Tribunes. In 2 vols. Falkland ; a Tale. In 2vols. 12mo. The Pilgrims of the Rhine. 12mo. The Rebel, and other Tales. 12mo. The Siamese Twins. 12mo. Paulding's novels, &Cc Salmagundi. In 4 vols. 12mo. Letters from the South. In 2 vols. 12mo. Koningsmarke ; or, Old Times in the New Word* John Bull and Brother Jonathan. 12mo. The Dutchman's Fireside. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Book of St. Nicholas. 12mo. New Pilgrim's Progress. 12mo. Wise Men of Gotham. 12mo. John Bull in America. 12mo. Winter Nights' Entertainment. In 2 vols. 12mo. Westward Ho ! In 2 vols. 12mo. The Atlantic Club-Book. By Paulding, &c. Tales of Glauber Spa. By Paulding, &c. 2 voiiu SIMMS'S WORKS, «fcc. italantis ; a Story of the Sea. 8vo. Martin Faber, &c. In 2 vols. 12mo. Guy Rivers ; a Tale of Georgia. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Yemassee. In 2 vols. 12mo. SarptT <}• tfiothtrt The Partisan. In 2 vols. 12mo. Mellichampe. In 2 vols. 12mo. James's novels, &c. Richelieu ; a Tale of Franc©, fin 2 vols. i2nio. Darnley. In 2 vols. 12mo. De rOrme. In 2 vols. 12mo. Philip Augustus. In 2 vols. 12mo. Henrj' Masterton. In 2 vols. 12mo. Mary of Burgundy. In 2 vols. 1 2mo. The Adventures of John Marston Hall. In 2 vols. The Gipsy ; a Tale. In 2 vols. 12mo. One in a Thousand. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Desultory Man. In 2 vols. 12nio. The Siring of Pearls. 12mo. The Club-Book, by James and others. 12mo. Giafar al Barmeki ; a Tale of the Court of Haroun Al Raschid. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Adventures of Roderick Random. By Smollett. 12mo. Elkswatavs^a ; or, the Prophet of the West. In 2 vols. i2mo. Lafitte, the Pirate of the Gulf. In 2 vols. 12mo. George Balcomb. In 2 vols. 12mo. Sheppard Lee : written by himself. In 2 vols. The Linwoods. By Miss Sedgwick. In 2 vols. The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man. Allen Prescott ; or, the Adventures of a New-England Boy, by Mrs. T. Sedgwick. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Spy, by Cooper. In 2 vols. 12mo. Outre-Mer. By Longfellow. In 2 vols. 12mo. 22 Worka Published by Norman Leslie, by Fay. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Quiet Man, by Fay. In 2 vols. 12mo. Herbert Wendall ; a Tale of the Revolution. In 2 vols. 12mo. Paul Ulric, by Maltson. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Brothers, by Herbert. In 2 vols. 12mo. Miriam Coffin ; or, the Whale-fisherman. In 2 vols 12mo. The Cavaliers of Virginia, by Caruthers. 2 vols Blackbeard. In 2 vols. 12mo. Tales and Sketches, by W. L. Stone. Tales and Sketches, by Wm. Leggett. Roxobel, by Mrs. Sherwood. In 3 vols. I8mo. France in 1829-30, by Lady Morgan. 2 vols. Romance of History — France, by Ritchie. Speculation, by Miss Pardoe. In 2 vols. 12mo. Romance of History^ — ^Italy, by Macfarlane. The Refugee in America, by Mrs. TroUope. The Mechanic, by the Rev. C. B. Taylor. ISmo The Sketch-Book of Fashion, by Mrs. Gore. Village Belles. In 2 vols. 12mo. Zohrab the Hostage, by Morier. In 2 vols. 12mo. Waverley, by Sir Walter Scott. In 2 vols. 12mo. Chronicles of the Canongate, by Scott. Maxwell, by Theodore Hook. In 2 vols. 12mo. Frank Orby. In 2 vols. 12mo. Count Robert of Paris, by Scott. The False Step, and the Sisters. 12mo. The Younger Sort, by Trelawney. 12mo. The Abbess, by Mrs. Trollope. In 2 vols. 12mo. Southennan, by Gait. In 2 vols 12mo. The New Forest, by Smith. In 2 vols. 12mo. The Early Ages, by Smith. In 2 vols. l2mo. Harper iv Sugcnl) ftoJ)c SSn^e fiitp i(6 in t»c^ J8atcr6 ^au^." Schiller : Der Pilgrim. INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. " Now Tests our vicar. They who knew him best, Proclaim his hfe to have 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 . II is somewhat removed from the high-road, and is, therefore, but little known to those luxurious am- ateurs of the picturesque who view Nature through the windows of a carriage and four. Nor, indeed, is there anything, whether of scenery or association, 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 beautiful amid 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, in the summer season, occasionally resort the Waltons of the neighbourhood — young farmers, retired traders, with now and then a stray artist, or a roving student from one of the Univer- sities. Hence the solitary hostelry of A , being somewhat more frequented, is also more clean and com- fortable than could be reasonably anticipated from the msignificance and remoteness of the village. At the time in which my narrative opens, the village 10 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER boasted a sociable, agreeable, careless, half-starved par- son, who never failed to introduce 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 Cambridge, where he had contrived, in three years, to run through a little fortune of jC3500, 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 de- sire 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 through his degree, and found himself a Bachelor 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, Avith the exception of one, joyous and reckless as him- self, 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 pros- perity, remained true to his adverse fate — a friend, for- tunately for him, of high connexions and brilliant pros- pects — succeeded in obtaining for him the humble living of A . To this primitive spot the once jovial roist- er cheerfully retired — contrived to live contented upon an income somewhat less than he had formerly given to his groom — preached very short sermons to a very scanty and ignorant congregation, some of wliom only understood Welsh — did good to the poor and sick in his own careless, slovenly way — and, uneheered or unvexed INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. ll by wife and children, he rose in summer with the lark, and in winter went to bed at nine precisely, to save coals and candies. For the rest, he was the most skil- ful angler in the whole county ; and so willing to com- municate the results of his experience as to the most taking colour of the flies and the most favoured haunts of the trout, thai he had given especial orders at the inn, that whenever 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 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 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 cab- bages, by a little white-headed boy, who came to say there was a gentleman at the inn who wished immedi- ately 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 iini. 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 visit- ers of A . He was tall, and of one of those athletic forms in which vigour ih youth is 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 ill the other. The stranger was walking impatiently to • and fro the small apartment when Mr. Price entered ; and then, turning to the clergyman a countenance hand- some and striking, but yet more prepossessing from its expression of frankness than from the regularity of its features, he stopped short, held out his hand, and said, 12 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. with a gay laugh, as he glanced over the parson's thread- bare and slovenly costume, "My poor Caleb! what a metamorphosis ! I should not have known you again !" " What ! you ! Is it possible, my dear fellow 1 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." " 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 in- deed !" In a few minutes the punch was prepared, and, after two or three preparatory glasses, the stranger thus com- menced : " My dear Caleb, I am in want of your assistance, and, above all, of your secrecy." " I promise you both beforehand. It will make me happy Xhe rest of my life to think I have served my pa- tron — 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 ! — mar- ried !" And the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and chuckled with the glee of a schoolboy. " 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 trades- man'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 T' " No ; my intended is not of age ; and we keep the se- cret even from her father. In this village you will mum- ble over the bans without one of your congregation ever taking heed of the name. 1 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 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 13 equal privacy in a bttle 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 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 Welshman, as antediluvian as possible — I leave it to you to select him— shall be the other. My servant 1 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 Catharine, 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 inn. He had chan- ged his quarters for the Parsonage ; went out but little, and then chiefly on foot-excursions among the seques- tered 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 minister, though indeed it had never chanced before, was not, in itself, so remarkable an event as to excite any particular observa- tion. The bans had been duly, and half inaudibly, hur- ried over, after the service was concluded, and while the scanty congregation were dispersing down the little aisle of the church, when one morning a chaise and pair ar- rived 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 ladjs who, trembling and agitated, could scarcely, 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 !" How is it that certain words, and those the home- liest — which the hand writes and the eye reads as trite and commonplace expressions — when spolcen, convey so much — so many meanings complicated and refined ! "Ah ! if you knew how I have suffered !" When the lover heard these words, his gay counte- nance fell — he drew back — his conscience smote him : Vol.. I.— B 14 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. in that complaint was the whole history of a clandestine love — not for both the parties, but for the woman — the painful secrecy — the remorsefuldeceit— 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 will be explained. Our marriage once made public, all connected with you will be proud to own you. You will have wealth — star tion — 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 children, sweet one ! from poverty and — " " It is enough," interrupted the girl ; and the expres- sion of her countenance became serene and elevated, '* It is for you — for your sake. I know what you haz- ard : how much I must owe you ! Forgive me ; this i$ the last murmur you shall ever hear from these hps." 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 ?" " Upon his good faith 1^— no," said Caleb, smihng ; *' but upon his deafness, his ignorance, and his age. My poor old clerk ! he will have forgotten all about it before this day three months. Now 1 have seen your lady, 1 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 that I have ever really loved. Caleb, there is an excellent living that adjoins my uncle's liouse. 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 sh^U try iNtRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 15 and find a bride for yourself. Smith" — and the bride- groom turned to the servant who had accompanied his wife, and served as a second witness to the marriage — " tell the postboy to put-to tlie horses immediately." " Yes, sir. May 1 speak a word with you V " Well, what V " Your unclcj sir, sent for me to come to him the day before we left town." "Aha! indeed!" " And I could just pick up among his servants 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, 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 knowl- edge 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 iClOOO at my banker's: 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 prudent than gen- erous ; 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 pub- lic, and then you may ask of me what you will. It's agreed, then — order the horses — we'll go round by Liv- erpool, 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 1" " 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." 16 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. " That's the very reason I mentioned him. If he learned our secret, he would take it to an excellent mar- ket. Where is hel" " 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 without 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 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 him- self 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 mag- num that frets and roars in the distance — have you ever received in your calm retreat some visiter, full of the busy and excited life which you imagined yourself con^ tented to relinquish 1 If so, have you not perceived that, in proportion as his presence and communication 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 unenjoyod and wasted ; that the contrast between the animal life of passionate civiliza- tion and the vegetable torpor of motionless seclusion is one that, if you are still young, it tasks your philosophy to bear — feeling all the while that the torpor may be yours to your grave ? And when your guest has left INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 17 you, when you are again alone, is the solitude the same as it was before 1 Our poor Caleb had for years rooted his thoughts to his village. His guest had been, 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 content- ed. The guest was, indeed, one of those men whose animal spirits exercise upon such as come within their circle the influence and power usually ascribed only to intellectual quahties. During the month he had so- journed with Caleb, he had brought back to the poor parson all the gayety 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 scholar ; he had no resources in himself, no occu- pation but his indolent and ill-paid duties. The emo- tions, therefore, of the active man were easily aroused within him. But if this comparison between his past and present life rendered him restless and disturbed, how much more deeply and lastingly was he affected 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 willing- ly renounce, viz., a partner in a lot however 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 botli were so happy, so all in all to each other, as they left that barren threshold ! And the priest felt all this as, melancholy and envious, he turned from the door in that November 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 B3 a8 introductory chapter. afterward 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 neighbour- hood that the only journey the cob was condemned to take was to the house of a certain squire, who, amid a family of all ages, boasted two very pretty marriageable daughters. That was the second holyday-time of poor Caleb — the love romances of his life : it soon closed. On learning the amount of the pastor's stipend, the squire refused to receive his addresses ; and, shortly af- ter, 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 forsaken 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 gravestones on the Sabbath, and the curate's heart was broken. He languished gradually and silently away. The villagers observed that he had lost his old good-hu- moured smile — that he did not stop every Saturday even- ing 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. 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 district rung at the parson's bell. The single female servant, her red hair loose in her neck, replied to the call. " And how is the master V " Very bad ;" and the girl wiped her eyes. " He should leave you something handsome," remark- ed the postmself 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 — profane hands struggling for the first right of appropriation. And now, revealed against the wail, glared upon the startled Violators of the sanc- tuary, with glassy eyes and horrent visage, a grim mon- ster. They huddled back one upon the other, pale and breathless, till the eldest, seeing that the creature moved not, took heart — approached on tiptoe — twice receded, and twice again advanced — and finally drew out, daubed, painted, and tricked forth in the semblance' of a griffin, a giganli-c kite ! INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 23 The children, alas 1 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 intended gift to the false one's favourite brother. But they guessed that it was a thing or spirit appertain- ing of right to them ; and they resolved, after mature consultation, to impart the secret of their discovery to an old wooden-legged villager who had served jn the army, who was the idol of all the children of the place ; and who, they firmly beheved, knew everything 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 naturral foes to amusement — they carried the monster into an old outhouse, and raij to the veteran to beg him to come up slyly and inspect its properties. Three months after this memorable event arrived the pew pastor : a slim, prim, orderly, and starch young man, framed by nature and trained by practice to bear a great deal of solitude and starving. Two loving couples had waited to be married till His Reverence should ar- rive. The ceremony performed, where was the regisr try-book \ The vestry was searched, the churchward- ens 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 ta- ken 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 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, lit- tle one ]" " That book 1— the— hi !— hi !— " -" Speak the truth, and you sha'n't be punished." " I did not know it was any harm — hi I^-^hi ! — " " Well, and—" " And old Ben helped us.'' f^ Well !" 24 NIGHT AND MORNING. " And — and — and — hi ! — hi ! — The tail of the kite, sir!—" " Where is the kite 1" Alas I the kite and its tail were long ago gone to that undiscovei'ed limbo, where all things lost, broken, van- ished, and destroyed — things that lose themselves, for servants are 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. " And soothed with idle dreams the Frowning fate." — Crabbe. " Why does not my father come backl 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 V said the mother, with a smile. " Not Latin, I am sure ; for I have not seen you open a book since you insisted on poor Todd's dis- missal." " Todd ! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke through his nose : what could he know of Latin V " More than you ever will, I fear, unless — " and here there was a certain hesitation in the mother's voice, " unless your father consents to your going to school." " Well, I should hke 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 NIGHT AND MORNING. 25 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 hght 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 lettef for you. I snatched it from John : it is papa's handwriting." The lady uttered a joyous exclamation, and seized the letter. The younger child nestled himself on a stool at her feet, looking up vvhile 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 ex- pression upon features that, without having the soft and fluent graces of childhood, were yet regular and stri- king. His dark green shooting-dress, with the belt and pouch : the cap, with its gold tassel set upon his luxu- riant curls, which had the purple gloss of the raven's plume, blended, perhaps, something prematurely manly in his own tastes with the love of the fantastic and the picturesque which bespeaks the presiding genius of the proud niother. The younger son had scarcely told his ninth year ; and the soft auburn ringlets, descending half way down the shoulders ; the rich and delicate bloom that exhibits at once the hardy health and the gentle fostering ; the large, deep blue eyes ; the flexile and almost eff"eminate contour of the harmonious fea- tures, altogether made such an ideal of childlike beauty as Lawrence had loved to paint or Chantrey 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 falling collar of finest cambric, and the blue velvet dress, with its filigree buttons and em- broidered 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 Vol. I.— C 26 NIGHT AND MORNING. mother had been extremely handsome, and thotigh the first bloom of youth was now gone, she had still the beauty that might captivate 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 recognised in that child's gay, yet gentle countenance, 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 curv- ed 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-re- membered 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 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 mamma?" said the youngest, pushing himself between Philip and his mother. " Your father is coming back this day — this very hour ; and you — you — child — you, Philip — " Here sobs broke in upon her words, and left her speechless. The letter that had produced this efl'ect 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 affected me : but 1 have at least the consolation of thinking that there is nothing now to prevent my doing justice to you. I am the sole heir to his fortune. I have it in my power, 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, NIGHT AND MORNING. 27 and your devotion. Our children too — my noble Philip ! — kiss them, Kate — kiss them for me a thousand times. " I write in great haste ; the burial is just over, and my letter will only serve to announce my return. My darling Catharine, 1 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 ex- plain. Phihp 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. Inheriting himself but 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, world- ly, sarcastic, and imperious ; and from this relation he received, meanwhile, a handsome, and, indeed, mu- nificent allowance. About sixteen years before the date at which this narrative opens, Philip Beaufort had *' run off," as the saying is, with Catharine Morton, then little more than a child — a motherless child — educated at a boarding-school to notions and desires far beyond her station; for she was the daughter of a provincial tradesman. And Phihp Beaufort, in the prime of life, was possessed of most of the quahties that dazzle the eyes, and many of the arts that betray the affections. It was suspected by some that they were privately mar- ried : if so, the secret had been closely kept, and baf- fled all the inquiries of the stern old uncle. Still there was much, not only in the manner, at once modest and dignified, but in the character of Catharine, 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 su- perior to those of Beaufort ; and for these she had ample leisure of cultivation. To the influence derived from her miud and person she added that of a frank, affection 28 NIGHT AND MORNINGf ate, 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 Catharine 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 Lon- don, the pleasures of the metropolis seldom allured him for more than a few days — generally but a few hours — at a time ; and he always hurried back with renewed rel- ish to what he considered his home. Whatever the connexion between Catharine and him- self (and of the true nature of that connexion, the Intro- ductory 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 extreme joviality and carelessness of his nature, and a very imperfect ed- ucation, to contract whatever vices were most in fash- ion as preservatives against ermui. And if their union had been openly hallowed by the Church, Philip Beau- fort had been universally esteemed the model of a ten- der husband and a fond father. Ever, as he became more and more acquainted with Catharine's natural good qualities, and more and more attached to his home, had Mr. Beaufort, with the generosity of true affection, de- sired to remove from her the pain of an equivocal condi- tion by a public marriage. But Mr. Beaufort, though generous, was not free from the worldliness which had met him everywhere amid 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 pe- culiarity ill the aristocracy of England — families of an- cient birth, immense possessions, at once noble and un- titled — ^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 connex- ion his nephew Was reported to have formed reached him, he at first resolved to break it oflT; but, observing- that Philip no longer gambled nor nm in debt, and had retired from the turf to the safer and more c(;onomical pastimes of the field, he contented himself with inquiries which satisfied him that Piiilip 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 NIGHT AND MORNING. 29 had heretofore characterized the human mfirmities of his reckless nephew. He took care, however, incidentally, and in reference to some scandal of the day, to pro- nounce 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 an- cestry 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 dis- grace the more notorious. If I had an only son, and that son were booby enough to do anything so discredit- able as to marry beneath him, I would rather have my footman for my successor. You understand, PhiU" Philip did understand, and looked round at the noble house and the stately park, and his generosity was not equal to the trial. Catharine — so great was her power over him — might, perhaps, have easily triumphed over his more selfish calculations ; but her love was too del- icate ever to breathe, of itself, the hope that lay deep- est 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 el- der Beaufort would reahze 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, ambi- tious, with a face of smiles and a heart of ice. But the old gentleman was taken dangerously ill, and Phihp was summoned to his bed of death. Robert, the younger brother, was there also, with his wife (for he had married prudently) and his children — (he had two, a son and 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, "Philip, you are a scapegrace, but a gentleman: Rob- ert, you are a careful, sober, plausible man, and it is a great pity you were not in business : you would have made a fortune ! — you won't inherit one, though you think it; I have marked you, sir. Philip, beware of your broth- er. Now let me see the parson." The old man died, the will was read, and Philip sue- C2 So NIGHT AND MORNlNcJ. ceeded to a rental of £'20,000 a year ; Robert to a dia- mond ring, a gold repeater, jESOOO, and a curious collec- tion of bottled snakes. CHAPTER III. " Stay, delightful Dream ; Let him within his pleasant garden walk ; Give him her arm — of blessings let them talk." (Jrabbe. " There, Robert, therd ! now you cdn see the new sta- bles. By Jove, they are the completest thing in the three kingdoms !" " Quite a pile ! But is that the house 1 You lodge your horses more magnificently than yourself." " But is it not a beautiful cottage "? — to be sure, it owes everything to Catharine's taste. Dear Catharine !" Mr. Robert Beaufort — for this colloquy took place be- tween 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 travelling-cap over his brows, and his countenance fell, "whether at the name of Catharine, or the tone in which the name was uttered ; and there was a pailse, broken by a third occupant of the britska, a youth of about sev- enteen, who sat opposite the brothers. " And who are those boys on the lawn, uncle V " Who are those boys i" 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." Tlie elder brother turned round at his nephew's question, and saw the expression on Robert's face. He bit liis lip, and answered gravely* " Arthur, they are my children." " 1 did not know you were married," replied Arthur, bending forward to take a better view of his cousins. NIGHT AND MORNING. 31 Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and Philip's brow grew crimson. The carriage stopped at the little lodge; Philip open- ed the door and jumped to the ground ; the brother and his son followed. A moment more, and Philip was lock- ed in Catharine's arms, her tears falling fast upon his breast, his children plucking at his coat, and the young- er 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 shoul- der and arrested his steps as they contemplated the group before them. " Arthur," said he in a hollow whisper, " those chil- dren are our disgrace and your supplanters ; they are bastards ! bastards ! and they are to be his heirs !" Arthur made no answer, but the smile 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 welcomCj are they noti" Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with stiif 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 hag as many head as my father : he is a famous shot. But this is only a sin- gle barrel, and an oldfashioned 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 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 V "Just fifteen last birthday. 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 hme-trees, by 32 NIGHT AND MORNING. nine o'clock. I hope you will understand me this time : Heaven knows you take a great deal of telling before you understand anything !" " Yes, Mr. Philip," said the man, bowing obsequious- ly ; 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. " No." " Why r' " 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. " Poir a man is helpless and vain, of a condition so exposed to ca- lamity that a raisin is able to kill him : any trooper out of the Egyp- tian army— a fly can do it, when it goes on God's errand." Jeremy Tavlor : On the Deceitfulness of the Heart. The two brothers sat at their wine after dinner. Rob- ert sipped claret, the sturdy Philip quaffed his more generous port. Catharine 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 coun- tenance extremely winning, not only from the comeli- ness of its features, but its frankness, manliness, and good-nature. His was the bronzed, rich complexion, the inclination towards anbonpuint, the athletic girth of chest, which denote redundant health, and mirthful tem- per, and sanguine biood. Robert, who had lived the life of cities, was a year younger than his brother; nearly as tall, but prJe, meager, stooping, and with d careworn, anxious, hungry look, which made the smile Night and morning. 33 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 pro- priety of appearance and bearing, that approached a lit- tle to formality : his every movement, slow and meas- ured, was that of one who paced in the circle that fen- ces 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 seen Catharine, but you do not know half her good qualities ; she would grace any sta- tion : and, besides, she nursed me so carefully last year, when 1 broke my collar-bone in that cursed steeple- chase. Egad, I am gettting too heavy and growing too old for such schoolboy pranks." " I have no doubt of Mrs. Morton's excellence, and I honour your motives ; still, when you talk of her gra- cing 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 incredu- lity. " 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 ascertain if the report of a private mar- riage were true." " And you helped him in the search. Eh, Bob V Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on : •' Ha, ha, to be sui'e you did ; you knew that such a discovery would have done for me in the old gentle- man'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 Catharine 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, Avho officiated, is no more. Even the register, Bob, the register itself 34 NIGHT AND MORNING. has been destroyed ; and yet, notwithstanding, I will prove the ceremony and clear up poor Catharine's fame ; for I have the attested copy of the register safe and sound. Catharine not married! Why, look at her, man !" Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window for a mo- ment, but his countenance was still that of one uncon- vinced. " 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 pubhc marriage, you are wise to insist that there has been a previous private one. Yet, believe me, Philip," contin- ued 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 din- ners 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 masters for the boys. Phil wants to go to Eton ; but I know what Eton is. Poor fellow ! his feelings might be hurt there, if others are as skeptical as yourself. I suppose my old friends will not be less civil now I have £20,000 a year. And as for the society of women, between you and me, I don't care a rush for any woman but Catharine : 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 unea- sily, 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 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 jC2000 a year ?" NIGHT AND MORNING. 35 " Only jClSOO, Philip, and Arthur's education is grow- ing 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 >s a noble young fellow ; and I think my Philip may find & 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 wisb 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 gentle- man commoner, of course — and when he's of age we'll get him into Parliament. Now for yourself. Bob. I shall sell the town-house in Berkeley Square, and what- ever it brings you shall have. Besides that, Pll add jGl500 a year to your jC1500 : so that's said and done. Pshaw ! brothers should be brothers. Let's come out and play with the boys !" The two Beauforts stepped through the open case- ment 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 V " 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, I will ride to ***** to-mor- row, and consult the lawyer there both about the will and the marriage. You will stay for the wedding V " Why, I jnust go into shire to-morrow evening, to place Arthur with his tutor. But 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, grave- ly ; " for I desire, for Catharine's sake, that you, my sole surviving relation, may not seem to withhold your coun- tenance from an act of justice to her. And as for your wife, I fancy £1500 a year would reconcile her to my marrying out of the Penitentiary." IMr. Robert bowed his head, coughed huskily, and said, "I appreciate your generous affection, Philip." 36 NIGHT AND MORNING. 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 lux- uriant August ; and Arthur, as he looked round, thought he had never seen a more beautiful place. It was, in- deed, just the spot to captivate a youthful and suscepti- ble fancy. The village of Feraside, though in one of the counties adjoining Middlesex, and as near to London as the owner's passionate pursuits of the field would permit, was yet as rural and sequestered as if a 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 preten- sions. On either side a graceful and well-proportioned portico stretched verandahs, covered with roses and clematis ; to the right extended a range of costly con- servatories, terminating in vistas of trellis-work, which formed those elegant alleys 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 oth- er side, a light fence separated the grounds from a large paddock, in which three or four hunters grazed in indo- lent enjoyment. It was one of those cottages which bespeak the ease and luxury not often found in more os- tentatious mansions : an abode which the visiter of six- teen contemplates with vague notions of poetry and love — which at forty he might tliink dull and d — d ex^ pensive — 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 poacock 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 handsome than Philip, but the expression of his face was more prepossessing. There was something of pride in the forehead ; but of good^ nature, not unniixed with irresolution and weakness, in tlie 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 NIGHT AND MORNING. 37 graceful and self-possessed, and he had Ais father's sweetness of voice. " This is really beautiful ! I envy you, cousin Philip." " Has not your father got a country-house V '* No : we live either in I^iondon or at some hot, crowd- ed watering-place." " Yes ; this is veiy nice during the shooting and hunt- ing 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 Casar aut 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 remon- strance was uttered, the bird lay quivering on the ground. " Jt 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 mo- ment ; the recklessness 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 a neighbouring pad- dock, and Philip bounded to the fence. " He calls me, poor fellow ; you shall see him feed from my hand, flun in for a piece of bread — a large piece, Sidney." The boy and the animal seemed to understand each oth- er. " 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 inconsistency of the boast. " Oh ! that is sport — all fair : it is not to hurt the pwallow — 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 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 ^he way." Vol, J,-rP 38 NIGHT AND MORNING. " And wliy did not you cut the boughs, blockhead 1" " 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 Phihp, 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-humour- ed voice of his father : " fy !" " This fellow does not mind what I say, sir." " I did not like to cut the boughs of the lime-trees Avithout 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 proud- ly, " or," he added, in a lower voice, but one which showed 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 powerful character and strong passions had, from motives the most amiable, been pampered from the darhng into the despot, " And now, Kate, I will, as 1 told you last night, ride over to and fix tlie 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 Catharine, with natural anxiety. " No ; for, if you remember, I had the precaution to get an examined copy of the register ; otherwise, I own to you, 1 sliould have been alarmed. I don't know what has become of Smith. 1 heard some time since from his father that he had left the colony ; and (1 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, 1 was afraid poor Caleb's sue- NIGHT AND MORNING. 39 cesser 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 far it might be neces- sary to secure the parson ; and, only think ! I found an accident had happened to the register : so, as the cler- gyman 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 show you what is better worth seeing than those miserable dower-beds." So saying, Mr. Beaufort led the way to the courtyard at the back of the cottage. Catharine and Sidney remain- ed on the lawn, the rest followed the host. The grooms, of whom Beaufort was the idol, hastened to show how well the horses had thriven in his absence. " Do see how Brown Bess has come on, sir; but, to be sure, Master Piiilip keeps her in exercise. Ah, sir, he will be as good a rider as your honour one of these days." " He ought to be, Tom, 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 yes- terday, but he was quite restiff 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 to his leaps kindly, and he always tries to bile when we bridles him. Be quiet, sir!" '• Only his airs," said Philip. " I did not know this, or I would have taken him over the gate. Why did not you tell me, Tom ?" 40 >fIGHT AND MORNING. " Lord love you, sir ! because you have such a spur* tet ; and if anything 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 posthorses at two o'clock ; but I shall be with you to-morrow or the day after. You see his tu- tor expects him ; and as he is backward in his mathe- matics, 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 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 generous impulse said, " Arthur, you admired ^his gun : pray accept it. Nay, don't be shy ; I can have as many as I like for the asking : you're not so ivell off, you know." The intention was kind, but the manner was so pat'^ ronising that Arthur felt offended. He put back the gun, and said dryly, "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 j'^ou hke : I hate pride," said he ; and he gave the gim to the groom as he Taulted into his saddle with the lightness of a young Mercury. " Come, father !" Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favourite hunter i a large, powerful horse, well known for its prowess in the field. The rider trotted 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 — ch, Phil 1" " 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 horsemen ; the ease, lightues?, spirit of the one, with the fine-limbed NIGHT AND MORNING. 41 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 mastership of any athletic art, possessed an elegance and dignity, especially on horseback, which rarely accompanies proportions equally sturdy and ro- bust. There was, indeed, something knightly and chiv- alrous in the bearing of the elder Beaufort ; in his hand- some aquiline features, the erectness of his mien, the very wave of his hand as he spurred from the yard. I " What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is !'" said Ar- thur, with involuntary admiration. " Ay, an excellent life — amazingly strong !" returned the pale father, with a slight sigh. " Philip," said Mr. Beaufort, as they cantered 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 im- proved!" 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, spurring 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, showed 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 fore- most on the road beyond. The horse rose instantly — not so the master. The son dismounted, 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 by-standers 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. D2 4^ NIGHT AND MORNlNG. " Speak, brother ! where are you hurt 1" exclaimed Robert Beaufort. " He will never speak more !" said the groom, burst- ing into tears. " His neck is broken !" " Send for the nearest surgeon," cried Mr. Robert. " Good God ! boy ! don't mount that devihsh horse !" But Arthur had already leaped on the unhappy steed which had been the cause of this appalhng 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 1 ray dear brother !" He was interrupted by a cry — a single, shrill, heart- breaking cry— and Phihp fell senseless to the ground. No one heeded him at that hour ; no one 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. Oh, boy, then where art thou ? . . . 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 tlie body in its coffin, the lid not yet nailed down. Tlierc, prostrate on the floor, tearless^ speechless, was the miserable Catharine ; poor Sidney, too young to comprehend all his loss, sobbing at hef side ; while Philip, apart, seated beside the coffin, ga- zed abstractedly on tliat cold, rigid face, which had nev- er known one frown for his boyish follies. In another room, that had been appropriated to the lato ownerj called his study> sat Robert Beaufort. Ev- NIGHT AND MORNING. 43 erything in this room spoke of the deceased. Partially- separated from the rest of the house, it communicated by a winding staircase with a chamber above, to which Philip had been wont to betake himself whenever he re- turned late and over-exhilarated from some rural feast crowning a hard day's hunt. Above a quaint oldfash- ioned bureau of Dutch workmanship (which Philip had picked up at a sale in the earlier years of his marriage) was a portrait of Catharine, taken in the bloom of her youth. On a peg on the door that led to the stair- case 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 misno* mer!) hung prints of celebrated fox-ihunts and renown- ed steeple-chases. Guns, fishing-rods, and foxes' brush- es, ranged with a sportsman's neatness, supplied the place of books. On the mantelpiece lay a cigar-case, a well-worn volume on the Veterinary Art, and the last number of The Sporting Magazine. And in that room — thus witnessing of the 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 draw- ers, and the boxes which contained the papers of the de- ceased were open ; their contents had been ransacked ; no certificate 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. Greaves has ordered the bells to be rung : at three o'clock he will read the service." " I am obliged to you, Black well, for taking these mal- ancholy ofiices on yourself. My poor brother ! It is so sudden ! But the funeral, you say, ought to take place to-day 1" " The weather is so warm !" said the lawyer, wiping his forehead. As he spoke, the death-bell was heard. There was a pause. " It wouM have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton 44 NIGHT AND MORNING. if she had been his wife," observed Mr. Blackwell. " But I suppose persons of tliat kind have very httle feeUng. I must say that it was very 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 posthorses 1 I shall start immediately after the funer- al." " What is to be done with the cottage, sir V "You may advertise it for sale." " And Mrs. Morton and the boys V " Hum — we will consider. She was a tradesman's daughter. 1 think I ought to provide for her suitably, ehr' " It is more than the world could expect from you, sir : it is very different frorn a wife." " Oh, very ! very much so, indeed ! Just ring for a lighted candle ; we will seal up these boxes. And — I think I 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 des- picable loathsomeness, to be concealed and to be forgot- ten ! 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 lament- ably powerless, 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 dif- ference between what it was and what it is ! The posthorses were at the door as the funeral pro- cession returned to the house. Mr. Hobcrt Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, and said, with his pocket-kandherchief still before his eyes, " I will write to you in a few days, ma'am ; you will find tlmt I shall not forget you. The cottage will be sokl ; but we sha'n't hurry you. Good-by, ma'am ; good-by, my boys ;" and he patted his nephews on the head. NIGHT AND MORNING. 45 Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his un- cle, who muttered to himself, " That 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 entered 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 moth- er : she had scarcely touched food since Beaufort's death. She was worn to a shadow : her hair had turn- ed gray. 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 necta- rine 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!" " 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 Phihp !" The boy g-rew very pale, but remained silent. The gardener, delighted to retaUate the insolence he had re- ceived, 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 : 1 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 he expostulated with his late tyrant, and struck the man across the face with it so violently and so sudden- ly 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 ; 3Ut, taking up his grapes, and 46 NIGHT AND MORNING. possessing himself quietly of the disputed nectarine, quitted the spot ; and the gardener did not think it pru- dent to pursue him. To boys, under ordinary circum- stances — boys who have buffeted their way through a scolding nursery, a wrangling family, or a public school — there would have been nothing in this squabble to dwell on the memory or vibrate on the nerves after tli>j 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 vfas henceforth condemned. His pride and his self- esteem had incurred a fearful shock. He entered the house, and a sickness came over him ; his limbs trem- bled ; he sat down in the hall, and, placing the fruit be- side him, covered his face with his hands and wept. Those were not the tears of a boy, drawn from a shal- low source ; they were the burning, agonizing, 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 show rather than to exact respect ; one succeeding another at his own whim and caprice. His natural quickness, and a very strong, hard, inquisi- tive turn of mind, had enabled him, however, to pick up more knowledge, though of a desultory and miscella- neous nature, than boys of his age generally possess ; and his roving, independent, 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, notions of his peculiar position ; but none of its inconveniences had visited him till that day. He began now to turn his eyes to the future ; and vague and dark forebodings — a consciousness of the shelter, the protector, the station he had lost in his father'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 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 NIGHT AND MORNING. 47 fixed on vacancy — listless, drooping — a very image of desolate wo : 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 on thus ; and what will become of us — of Sid- ney ?" Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his face, and strove to smile. " See, too, I haye brought you a letter ; perhaps good news : shall I break the seal ]" Mrs. Morton shook her head gently, and took the let- ter — alas ! how different from that one which Sidney had placed in her hands not two short weeks since : it was Mr. Robert Beaufort's handwriting. 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 1 Whatever the sanc- tity of her marriage, the law might fail her. At the dis- position of Mr. Robert Beaufort the fate of three lives might depend. She gasped for breath, again look up the letter, and hurried over the contents : they ran thus : " Dear Madam, — Knowing that you must naturally be anxious as to the future prospects of your children and yourself, left, by my poor brother, destitute of all pro- vision, 1 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, properly speaking, you can have no kind of claim upon the relations of my late brother; nor will I hurt your feelings by those mor- al reflections which at this season of sorrow cannot, I hope, fail involuntarily to force themselves upon you. Without more than this mere allusion to your peculiar connexion with my brother, I may, however, be per- mitted to add, that that connexion tended very materially to separate him from the legitimate branches of his fam- ily ; and in consulting with them as to a provision for you and your children, I find that, besides scruples that are to be respected, some natural degree of soreness ex- ists upon tlieir minds. Out of regard, however, to my poor brother (though I saw very little of him of late years), I am willing to waive those feelings which, as a 48 KIGHT AND MORNING. father and a husband, you may conceive that I share with the rest of my family. You will probably now de- cide 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 arti- cles of linen and plate, of which I enclose 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 hur- ry 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 cot^ tage is to be sold — indeed, my brother-in-law. Lord Lil- burne, thinks it would suit him — you will be liable to the interruption of strangers to see it ; and, indeed, your prolonged residence at Fernside, you must be sensible, is rather an obstacle to the sale. I beg to enclose you & draught for jCIOO to pay any present expenses ; 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 bail- iff) to detail my instnictions as to selling the crops, &c., and discharging the servants, so that you may have no farther trouble. " I am, madam, " Your obedient servant, " Robert Beaufort, ' Berkeley Square, September 12, 18 — " The letter fell from Catharine's hands. Her grief was changed to indignation and scorn. •' The insolent !" she exclaimed, with flashing 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 !" cried PhU» ip, in a loud voice. " His wife! wedded !" " I swear it," said Catharine, solemnly. " I kept the secret for your father's sake. Now, for yours, the truth must be proclaimed." ♦' Thank God ! thank God !" murmured Philip) in p. NIGHT AND MORNING. 49 quivering voice, throwing his arms round his brother. " We have no brand on our names, Sidney." At those accents, so full of suppressed 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 gener- ous forbearance for her ; that from his equivocal posi- tion his very faults might have arisen ; and a pang of remorse for her long sacrifice of the children to the fa- ther shot through her heart. It was followed by a fear, an appalling fear, more painful than the remorse. The proofs that were to clear herself and them ! The words of her husband that last 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 trem- bled and drew back. But care for the living was strong- er 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 Catharine 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 Catharine ransacked the contents ; opened paper after paper, letter after letter, in vain : no certificate — no will — no memorial. Could the brother have abstracted the fatal proof! A word sufficed 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 afterward they were in the same room in which Philip had brought Robert Beaufort's letter to his mother. Catharine was seated, tearless, but deadly pale with heart-sickness and dismay. " Mother," said Philip, " may I now read the letter 1" " Yes, boy, and decide for us all." She paused, and examined his face as he read. He felt her eye was Vol. I — E 60 NIGHT AND MOkNINO. upon him, and restrained his emotions as he proceeded. "When he had done, he hfted his dark gaze upon Catha- rine's watchful countenance. " Mother, whether or not we obtain our rights, you will still refuse this man's charity. I am young — aboy ; but I am strong and active. I will work for you day and night. I have it in me — I feel it ; anything rather than eating his bread." " Philip ! Philip ! you are indeed my son — your fa- ther's son ! And have you no reproach for your moth- er, who so weakly, so criminally concealed your birth- right, till, alas ! discovery may be too late ? Oh ! re- proach 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 V " 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." Catharine 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 cheek. " Mamma ! what vexes you ? Mamma, mamma !" "Oh, 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 1" "Never a beggar!" said Philip, with a pride that showed what hard lessons he had yet to learn. " The lawful sons of a Beaufort were not bom 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." — Laman Blanchard. Mr. Rohkrt Beaufort was generally considered bv the world a very wortiiy man. He had never commit- ted any excess — never gambled or incurred debt — or NIGHT AND MORNING. 61 )feillen 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 relations of Ufe. Mr. Robert Beaufort, indeed, always meant to do what was right — m the eyes of the world ! He had no other rule of action but that which the world supphed : his religion was decorum — his sense of honour was re- gard 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 whs invisible, the dial was mute — a piece of brass, and nothing more. It is just to Robert 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 a 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 con- fession that of such a marriage there was 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 woman through whose means he had vei-y nearly lost a noble succession — a woman who had not even borne his brother's name — a woman whom nobody knew. Had Mrs. Morton been Mrs. Beaufort, and the natural sons legitimate children, Robert Beaufort, sup- posing their situation of relative power and dependance to have been the same, would have behaved with care- ful and scrupulous generosity. The world would have said, " Nothing could be handsomer than Mr. Robert Beaufort's conduct l" Nay, if Mrs. Morton had been some divorced wife of birth and connexions, 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 circumstances con- sidered, the world, if it spoke at all (which it would scarcely think it worth while to do), would be on his side. An artful woman — low-born, and, of course, low- bred — who wanted to inveigle the rich and careless par- amoul* into marriage : what could be expected from the man she had sought to injure—the rightful heir ? _ Waa 53 NIGHT AND MORNING it not very good in him to do anything for her ; and, if he provided for the children suitably to the original sta- tion of the mother, did he not go to the very utmost of reasonable expectation! He certainly thought in his conscience, such as it w^as, that he had acted well ; not extravagantly, not foohshly, but loell. He was sure the world would say so if it knew all : he was not bound to do anything. He was not, therefore, prepared for Cath- arine'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 Catharine Beaufort ! Mr. Beau- fort put the letter in his bureau, labelled " Impertinent answer from Mrs. Morton, Sept. 14," and was quite con- tented to forget the existence of the writer, until his law- yer, Mr. Blackwell, informed him that a suit had been instituted by Catharine. Mr. Robert turned pale, but Blackwell composed him. " Pooh, sir ! you have nothing to fear. It is but an attempt to extort money : the attorney is a low practi- tioner, accustomed to get up bad cases : they can make nothing of it." This was true : whatever the rights of the case, poor Catharine had no proofs — no evidence — which could jus- tify 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 re- gister had been destroyed. No attested copy thereof was to be found ; and Catharine was stunned on hearing that, even if found, it was doubtful whether it could be received as evidence, unless to corroborate actual per- sonal testimony. It so happened that when Philip, many years ago, had received the copy, he had not shown it to Catharine, nor mentioned Mr. Jones's name as the copy- ist. In fact, then only three years married to Catharine, his worldly caution had not yet been conquered by con- fident experience of her generosity. As for the mere moral evidence dependant on the publication of her bans in London, that amounted to no proof whatever ; nor, on inquiry at A , did the Welsh villagers remember any- thing farther than that, some fifteen years ago, a hand- some gentleman had visited Mr. Price, and one or two NIGHT AND MORNING. 53 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 Catharine 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 con- tempt. Henceforth, then, indeed, in the eyes of the law and the public, Catharine was an impudent adventurer, and her sons were nameless outcasts. 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 persons of con- siderable importance. The rich man had, even when poor, been ambitious ; his ambition now centred 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 pre- paratory visit to his father, Arthur spoke to him of the Mortons. " What has become ot them, sir ? and what have you done for themT' " Done for them !" said Mr. Beaufort, opening his eyes. " What should I do for persons who have just been harassing me with the most unprincipled litigation I My conduct to 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 goodness that be- ibnged to him, " still, my uncle was greatly attached to them ; and the boys, at least, are guiltless." " Well, well !" replied Mr. Beaufort, a little impatient- ly, " 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 revenge- ful or hard-hearted ; but, since we are on this topic," continued the father, smoothing his shirt-frill with a care that showed his decorum even in trifles, " I hope you see the results of that kind of connexion, and that you will lake warning by your poor uncle's example. £2 54 NIGHT AND MORNING. 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." Arthur Beaufort, with the careless generosity of youths that gauges other men's conduct by its own sentiments, believed that his father, who had never been niggardly to himself, had really acted as his words implied ; and, engrossed by the pursuits of the new and brilliant ca- reer opened, whether to his pleasures or his studies, suf- fered 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 an humble suburb, situated on the high road between Fernside and the metropolis. She saved from her hopeless lawsuit, 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 she never revealed the secret of her marriage, though she did not write like a person conscious of error. Per- haps, 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 authorize its disclosure. For neither he nor Catharine ever contem- plated separation or death. Alas ! how all of us, when happy, sleep secure in the dark shadows which ouglit to warn us of the sorrows that are to come ! Still Catha- rine's father, a man of coarse mind and not rigid princi- ples, did not take much to heart that connexion which he assumed to be iUicit. Slie was provided for, that ■was some comfort : doubtless Mr. Beaufort would act like a gentleman — perliaps, at last, make her an honest woman and a lady. Meanwliile, she had a fine house, and a fine carriage, and fine servants ; and, so far from applying to him for money, was constantly sending lum little presents. But Calliarinc only saw, in his permis- sion of her correspondence, kind, forgiving, and trustful affection, and she loved liim tenderly : when lie died, the link that bound lier to her family was broken. Her brother succeeded to the trade : a man of probity and NIGHT AND MORNING. 55 honour, but somewhat hard and unamiable. In the only letter she had received from him — the one announcing her father's death — he told her plainly and very proper- ly 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 af- fectionate brother. Though Catharine had at the time resented this letter as unfeeling, now, humbled and sorrow-stricken, she recognised the propriety of principle from which it em- anated. Her brother was well off for his station ; she would explain to him her real situation, and 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 considerable por- tion 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 forebode the probability of an early death for her- self. From the age of sixteen, when she had been pla- ced by Mr. Beaufort at the head of his household, she had been cradled, not in extravagance, but in an easy luxury, which had not brought with it habits of economy and thrift. She could grudge anything to herself, 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 justice, evinced a consideration not to have been expected from his early and arrogant recklessness. But Sidney — who could ex- pect consideration from such a child ] What could he know of the change of circumstances — of the value of money \ Did he seem dejected, Catharine would steal out and spend a week's income on the lapful of toys which she brought home. Did he seem 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 medi- cine. 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 du- ring her seckided residence with Mr. Beaufort, but she had learned none of the arts by which decayed gentle- 56 NIGHT AND MORNING women keep the wolf from the door ; no little holyday accomplishments, which in the day of need turn to use- ful trade ; no water-colour drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabrication of pretty gewgaws, no embroi- dery 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 hands and guiding eyes, his pas- sions and energies might have ripened into rare qual- ities 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 aay (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 ; per- haps the very weaknesses and importunities of Sidney, the hourly sacrifices the child entailed upon her, endear- ed him more to her from that natural sense of depend- ance 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 inter- twined with it. However this be, Philip had formerly ap- peared 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 re- gard 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 dif- fered 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 tlie younger boy more likely to take root ; for in bold natures tliere is a lavish and uncalculating reck- lessness, which scorns self unconsciously : and what is fear, but, when physical, the regard for one's own per- son ; when moral, the anxiety for one's own interests'? It was in a small room in a lodging-house in the sub- urb of H that Mrs. Morton was se-ated by the win- dow, anxiously awaiting the knock of the postnian, who Night and morning. 57 was expected to bring her brother's reply to her letter. It 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, suspended from the ceiling, swarmed with flies ; flies were on the ceiling, flies buz- zed at the windows ; the sofa and chairs of horsehair seemed stuffed with flies. There was an air of heated discomfort in the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring car- pet, in the very looking-glass over the chimneypiece, where a strip of mirror lay 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 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. Phil- ip, 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 dis- tressed 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 !" exclaimed Sidney, abruptly looking up from his employment. " Sha'n't we ever go into the country again, mamma V " Not at present, my love." " I wish I could have my pony : why can't I have my pony, mamma V " Because — because — the pony is sold, Sidney." " Who sold it ]" *' Your uncle." " 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," continued the moth- er, as if reasoning with herself in excuse of the extrav- 58 NIGHT AND MORNING. agance, " he does not look well : poor child ! he must have exercise." " A ride ! Oh ! that is my own kind mamma !" ex- claimed 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 teU Phihp — pray don't •—he would be jealous." " No, not jealous, my dear : why do you think so V " Because he is always angry when I ask you for anything. 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 pressed her hands lightly 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 — if you 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 weU." 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 apologize 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 Mor- ton's reply was couched in these terms : " Dear Catharine, — I have received your letter of the 14th inst., and write per return. I am very much griev- ed to hear of your afflictions ; but, whatever you say, 1 cannot think the late Mr. Beaufort acted like a consci- entious 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 living by honest industry, to have a rich gentleman's children to maintain. As for your story about the private marriage, it may or may not be. Per- haps 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 NIGHT AND MORNING. 69 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 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 trou- ble my head much about differences in opinion. 1 dare say there are many ways to Heaven, as 1 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 gentlewomen 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 Church — as I ought to be, since the dean is my best customer. With regard to yourself, I will enclose you jGlO, 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 Beau- fort. He bears a high character ; and, notwithstanding your lawsuit, which I cannot approve of, I dare say he might allow you jG40 or £bO a year, if you apply prop- erly, 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 station^ 60 NIGHT AND MORNING.' er, with pretty practice, 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 pa- pers as ' our provincial contemporary.' Mr. Plaskwith owes me some money, which 1 advanced him when he set up the paper, and he has several times most honest- ly 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 understand, 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 as- sistant 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 against his debt to me, so you will have 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 httle chap, I'll 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 wasliing and morals. I conclude (this is Mrs. M.'s suggestion) that he has had the measles, cowpock, and whooping-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 gen- tleman 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 encourage what's wrong, yet, when a person's down 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 ; but everybody can't be as correct as some folks. However, as I said before, that's neither here nor there. Let me know wlien your boy comes down, and also about the measles, cowjwck, and whooping-cough; also NIGHT AND MORN:iNO. 61 if all's right with Mr. Plaskwith. So now I hope you will feel more comfortable ; and remain, " Dear Catharine, " 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 Catharine finished this epistle, she lifted up her eyes and beheld Philip. He had entered noiselessly, and he remained silent, 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 read- er. 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 thread- bare garments, and a haggardness that ill becomes the j'ears of palmy youth, there was about his whole mien and person a wild and savage grandeur, more impressive than his former ruffling arrogance of manner. " Well, mother," said he, with a strange 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 PhiUp 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 Phihp 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. Vol. I.— F 62 NIGHT AND MORNING. " No, my dear, dear mother, no ; it would be terrible, indeed, to part you and him. But this bookseller—^ Plaskwith — perhaps I shall be able to support you both." " Why you do not think, Philip, of being an appren- tice ! 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^T-what, I don't know !" " Come here, Philip — my own Philip-r-my son— my hope — my firstborn !" 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 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 ta- king strange succour 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 Avhich he reluctantly selected a few shillings. " And, mind, if the man is rude, and you dislike him — mind, you must not subject yourself to insolence and morti- fication." " Oh, all will go well, don't fear," said Philip, cheer- fully ; and he left the house. Towards evening he had reached his destination. 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. Plaskwitli." Philip applied at the private entrance, and was shown 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 drah-colo jred breeches, and gaiters to match — a black NIGHT AND MORNING. 63 coat and waistcoat — a large watch-chain, with a prodi- gious 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 Bonaparte, and affected a short, brusque, peremptory manner, which he meant to be the indication of the vigorous 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 Champer- down's order for fifty copies of the last Mercury, con- taining his speech at the county meeting. Your age, young man ^ Only sixteen ! — look oldei- — that's not it — that's not it — and this is it ! Sit down. Yes, Mr. Ro- ger Morton recommends you — a relation — unfortunate circumstances — well-educated — my benevolence — hum ! Well, young man, what have you to say for yourself!" " Sir T" " Can you cast accounts — know bookkeeping V " I know something of algebra, sir." " Algebra ! Oh, what else V " French and Latin." " Hum ! may be useful. Why do you wear your hair so long! Look at mine. What's your name!" " Phihp Morton." " Mr. Phihp Morton, you have an intelligent counte- nance — I go a great deal by countenances. You know the terms ? — most favourable to you. No premium — I settle 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 yovl come V " 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 I You will have every comfort." 64 NIGHT AND MORNING. " Give me less comfort, that I may give my mother more ; a Uttle money, ever so little, and take it out of my board : I can do vi^ith one meal a day, sir." The bookseller was moved ; he took a huge pinchful of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, and mused a mo- ment. He then said as he re-examined Philip, " Well, young man, I'll tell you what we will do. You shall come here first upon trial — see if we like each other before we sign the indentures — allow you, mean- while, 55. a week. If you show talent, will see if I and Roger can settle about some little allowance. That do, ehr' " I thank you, sir, yes," said Philip, gratefully. " Settled, 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. Plask- with ; two little girls, the Misses Plaskwith, also with squints and pinafores ; a young man of three or four- and-twenty, in nankeen trousers, 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 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. Plim- mins, Mr. Plaskwith's factotum, 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. Phmmins 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 biography of the great Napoleon Bonaparte V Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and kicked Philip under the table. Phihp looked fiercely at the foreman, and replied sullenly, " No, sir." NIGHT AND MORNING. 65 "That's a pity. Napoleon Bonaparte was a very great man — very ! You liave seen his cast ? There it is, on the dumb waiter ! Look at it ! See a Hkeness, eh ]" " Likeness, sir ! I never saw Napoleon Bonaparte." " Never saw him ! No ! just look round the room. Who does that bust put you in mind of] who does it re- semble ?" Here Mr. Plaskwith rose and put himself into an at- titude ; 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 hke, Mr. Philip Morton T' " I suppose, sir, it is like you !" " Ah, that it is ! Strikes every one ! Does it not, Mrs. P., does it not 1 And, when you have known me longer, you will find a moral similitude — a moral, sir ! Straightforward — short — to the point-^bold — de- termined !" " Bless me, Mr. P. !" said Mrs. Plaskwith, verj' quer- ulously, " do make haste with your tea : the young gen- tleman, 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. Mor'- ton ■?" asked Mr. Plimmins. " 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 di.sdainful than sad, Philip listened to the babble round hiui, and observed the ungenial characters with which he was to associate. He cared not to please {that, alas ! had never been espe- cially 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 six- teen, what sorrow can freeze the hopcjorwiiat prophetic fear whisper " fool" to the ambition ] He would bear back into ease and prosperity, if not into affluence 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 be off— Smart's the word !" Philip rose, took up his hat, F 2 66 NIGHT AND MORNING. made a stiff bow that included the whole group, and van- ished 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 V " 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, Plim- mins." While these strictures on his appearance were still going on, Philip had already ascended 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 passenger seated at his right, puffing, while he spoke, from a short Ger- man 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, pow- erful 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 !" Roused from his reveryby this quaint and unexpected declamation, Philip turned his quick glance at his neigh- bour. He saw a man of great bulk and immense phys- ical power — broad-shouldered —deep-chested — not cor- pulent, but taking the same girth from bone and muscle that a corpulent man does from flesh. He wore a blue coat — frogged, braided, and buttoned to the throat. A broad-brimmed straw hat, set on one side, gave a jaunty appearance to a countenance which, notwithstanding its jovial cumplcxioa and smiling mouth, had, in repose, a NIGHT AND MORNING. W bold and decided character. It was a face well suited to the frame, inasmuch as it betokened a mind capable of wielding and mastering the brute physical force of body. Light eyes of piercing intelligence ; rough, but resolute 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 and gravely, and the man returned his look. " What do you think of me, young gentleman?" 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 circum- stances 1 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 acquaintance with the happy." " I dare say not ; for, if you know all the unhappy, you must have a sufficiently large acquaintance," return- ed PhiUp. " Your wit is beyond your years ! What is your call- ing, 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, hard-working octopedes, who, out of the sweat of their brains (I take it, by-the-by, that a spider must have a fine craniological development), 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, therefore, wander about, looking out for food provided by the toil of their neighbours. When- ever they come to the web of a smaller spider, whose larder seems well suppliedi they rush upon his doaiaiJi 68 NIGHt AND MORNING. ■^pursue him to his hole — eat him up if they can— ^re- ject 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 spi- ders r' " 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 won- derful bloodsuckers, 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 himself 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. Considera- tions for his own state and prospects swallowed up the curiosity he might otherwise have felt as to his singular neighbour. He 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 hearty the sight of the luxuries gra- cing 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 mo- tion 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 intoxication of a narcotic. His eyes grew heavy ; in- distinct 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 gentle- man's shoulder. The passenger, feeling this unwelcome weight, took the pipe, which he liad already thrice re- fillcii, from his lips, and cniitled an angry and impatient snort ; finding that tliis produced no efiect, 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. NIGHT AND MORNING. 69 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 tum- ble." Philip muttered something inaudible between 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 anything in apology or conciliation, Philip had again fallen asleep. But this time, as if he had felt and resented the rebuff he had received, he inclined his head away from his neighbour, against the edge of a box on the roof: a dan- gerous pillow, from which any sudden jolt might trans- fer 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. " 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 — 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 coal (as ho 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 waist- coat — to the sharpening air. Thus cradled on that stran- ger'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 futi re, slept the fatherless and friendless boy. to NIGHT AND MORNING. CHAPTER VII. *' Constance. My life, my joy, my food, my all the world, My widow-comfort." — King John. Amtd the glare of the lamps, the rattle of carriages, the lumbering of carts and wagons — the throng, the clam- our, 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 thusl" said Philip, with more gratitude in his voice and look than, perhaps, he had shown to any one out of his own family since his birth. " You have had but little kindness shown you, my poor boy, if you think so much of this V " No — all people were very kind to me once. I did not value it then." Here the coach rolled lieavily 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 beg- gar. But can you think of an employment where I can make something'! — \Vhat they offer me is so trifling. I have a mother and a brother — a mere child, sir — at home." " Employnlent !" 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, 1 know of employ- ment ; 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 !" " I am sorry for that ! What and who are you V (^ asked Philip, with rude and blunt curiosity. " Me !" returned the passenger, with his deep laugh ; NIGHT AND MORNING. 71 f^' oh \ I know some people who call me an honest fel- low. Take the employment offered you, no matter how trifling : keep out ol' harm's way. Good-night to you !" So saying, he quickly descended from the roof ; and, ag he was directing the coachman where to look for his carpet bag, Philip saw three or four well-dressed-look- ing men make up to him, shake him heartily by the hand, and welcome him with great seeming cordiality. Philip sighed. " He has friends," he muttered to him- self ; and, paying his fare, he turned from the bustling yard, and took his solitary way home. A week after his visit to li , Philjp 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 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 resolu- tion, 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, for- getting the dread fiat pronounced against herself; "he is so delicate !" " Not at all, ma'am — a very fine little fellow ;" and the doctor patted the boy's head and abmptly vanished. " 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 declining her brother's offer 1 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 t With 73 NIGHT AND MORNING. 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. " Contsance. 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 in- deed happy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet re- mote 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 tradesman who ventures not beyond his means, and sees clear books and sure gains, with enough of occu- pation to give healthful excitement, enough of fortune to greet each nevv^-born child without a sigh, might be en- vied 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 V 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. Good-night ! Catharine does not say ei- ther 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 sen- sible person. Kate herself might liave been an honest woman, and, wliat is more, a very rich woman by this time. Slio might have married Spencer, the young brewer — an excellent man, and well to do !" NIGHT AND MORNING. 73 '• 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 uncommonly handsome, my sister Catharine." " Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. Morton," said the wife, who was very much marked with the smallpox. " 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 PhiUp a very good character." "The human heart is very deceitful," repUed Mrs. Morton, who, by-the-way, spoke through her nose. " Pray Heaven he may be what he seems ; but what's bred in the bone conges 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 awkward, Mr. M. ; we could never have said who he was ; and I've no doubt Miss Pryinall Avould have been very curious." " Miss Pryinall be !" Mr. Morton checked him- self, took a large draught of the brandy and water, and added, " Miss Pryinall 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." " Poor Mrs. Giles ! she came to the workhouse." " 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 med- dles with other folks and their little ones, the better. Vol. I.— G 74 NIGHT AND MORNING. 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 1 And all gone to bed ! Do go and see, Mr. Morton." Somewhat reluctantly and slowly, Mr. 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. Mysister is come at the inn." " Gracious me ! She does not go for to say she is your sister V " 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 un- derstand — " Mr. Morton had naturally a stern countenance — 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!" said he, and walked out of the house, pulling his hat over his brows. That was the ortly rude speech Mr. Morton 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 club 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 bois- terous townsmen. The sounds, the spot, were ungenial 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. f A pretty maid-servant, heated and flushed with orders NIGHT AND MORNING. 75 and compliments, crossed his path with a tray full of glasses. " There's a lady come by the Telegraph 1" "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 for." The slight stairs shook under his hasty tread. He opened the door of No. 2, and that Catharine whom he had last seen at the age of gay sixteen, radiant with bloom, and, but for her air of pride, the model for a Hebe — that Catharine, old ere youth was gone, pale, fa- ded, the dark hair silvered over, the cheeks hollow, and the eye dim — that Catharine fell upon his breast ! " God bless you, brother ! How kind to come ! How long since we have met !" " Sit down, Catharine, my dear sister. You are faint — you are very much changed — very. I should not have known you." " Brother, I have brought my boy : it is painful to part from him — very — very painful ; but it is right, and God's will be done." She turned as she spoke towards a httle, deformed, rickety dwarf of a sofa, that seemed to hide itself in the darkest comer 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 del- icate 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 contrast be- tween that wakeful, anxious, forlorn woman, and the slumber of the unconscious boy. And in that moment, what breast upon which the light of Christian pity — of natural affection had ever dawned, would, even sup- posing the world's judgment were true, have recalled Catharine's reputed error T There is so divine a holi- ness in the love of a mother, that, no matter how the tie 76 NIGHT iND MORNING. that binds her to the child was formed, she becomes, as it were, consecrated and sacred ; and the past is forgot- ten, and the world and its harsh verdicts swept away when that love alone is visible ; and the God who watch- es over the little one sheds his smile over the human deputy, in whose tenderness there breathes His own ! " You will be kind to him — wiU you not 1" said Mrs; Morton ; and the appeal was made with that trustful, al- most cheerful tone which implies, " Who would not be kind to a thing so fair and helpless V " He is very sen- sitive and very docile ; you will never have occasion to 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, quer- ulous, 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 much to say about a child that only a woman will recollect ! Is she very good-tempered and kind, your wife ] You know I nev- er saw her ; you married after — after I left." "• She is a verj.' 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 h^re nor there ; she is a good wife as wives go, and prudent and painstaking ; I don't know what I should do without her." " Brother^ I have one favour to request — a great fa- vour." " Anything I can do in the way of money 1" " 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 I cannot bear to leave him altogether : let me stay in this town — 1 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 : / don't think of dying." NIGHT AND MORNING. 77 *' 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, to Mrs. Morton ; I will get her to see you — yes, I think I can contrive that ; and if you can arrange 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 V There was an honest earnestness in Catharine's voice as she spoke that might have convinced many. But Mr. Morton was a man of facts — a practical man — a man who believed that law was always right, and that the improbable was never true. He looked down as he answered, " I think you have been a very ill-used woman, Catharine, and that is all I can say on that matter : let us drop the subject." " No ! I was not ill used ; my husband — yes, my husband — was noble and generous from first to last. It was for the sake of his children's prospects, for the ex- pectations they, through him, might derive from his groud uncle, that he concealed our marriage. Do not lame Phihp — 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 Beau- fort, 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 natural children, and have their own way to make. No harm in that 1 Warm day for your journey." Cath- arine sighed and wiped her eyes : she no longer re- proached the world, since the son of her own mother disbelieved her. The relations talked together for some minutes on the G2 78 NIGHT AND MORNING past — the present ; but there was embarrassment and constraint on both sides — it was so difficult to avoid one subject ; and, after sixteen years of absence, there is lit- tle 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 Catharine's fatigue to leave her. " Cheer up, and take a glass of something warm before you goto 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 pos- itively declared she would not and could not visit Cath- arine : as to receiving 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 Catharine remaining in the town, such concession for the purpose of resistance being a very common and sagacious policy with married ladies. Ac- cordingly, when 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 rea- sons which his wife urged against allowing Catharine 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, perhaps his trade, certainly his eldest daugh- ter, who was now thirteen; it would be impossible, 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 Pryin- all. Added to all these relations, one not less strong occurred to Mr. Morton himself: the uncommon 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. More- over, he saw that, if Catharine 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 pos- sible, all food for domestic worry. And thus, when at length the wedded pair turned back to back, and com- posed themselves to sleep, the conditions of peace were settled, and the weak party, as usual in diplomacy, sac- iificed t6 the interests of the united powers. NIGHT AND MORNING. ^9 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 ex- tend 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 excess- ively fond of him ; a common delusion of husbands, es- pecially when henpecked. Mrs. Morton was, perhaps, fond of hmi 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 showing the re- wards that belong to female virtue. Flowers adorned ner 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, extremely 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 fra- grance of new leather had not yet departed. It was this last infliction, for il faut souffrir pour etre belle, which somewhat yet more acerbated the ordinary acid of Mrs. Morton's temper. The sweetest disposition is ruffled when the shoe pinches ; and it happened that Mrs. Ro- ger Mort.on 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 al- ter." " A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is — " " My dear, can't you walk faster V " 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 V and " Good-morning's !" in- terchanged 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 over- 80 NIGHT AND MORNING. night, seem by morning. The shutters 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 wife, glad to be un- observed, crept on tiptoe up the stairs, and entered Cath- arine's apartment. Catharine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney — dress- ed, like Mrs. Roger Morton, to Igok his prettiest, nor yet aware of the change that awaited his destiny, but pleased at the excitement of seeing new friends, as handsome children sure of praise and petting usually are — stood by her side. " My wife — Catharine," said Mr. Morton. Catharine 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 Mor- ton 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 Cath- arine, different from what she had anticipated — she dropped the courtesy, and Catharine took her hand and pressed it. " This is my son ;" she turned away her head. Sid- ney 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 dovm his golden hair. This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, hot she sat her- self 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 1" 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. Mor- ton, however, forced a smile, and said, " I have a little boy at home about your age." " Have you V exclaimed Catharine, eagerly ; and, as if that confession made them friends at once, she drew NIGHT AND MORNINd. 81 a chair close to her sister-in-law's : " My brother has told you all V " Yes, ma'am." " And I shall stay here — in the town somewhere — and see him sometimes V Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husband, her hus- band glanced at the door, and Catharine's quick eye turned from one to the other. " Mr. Morton will explain ma'am," said the wife. " E-hem ! Catharine, my dear, I am afraid that is out of the question," began Mr. Morton, who, when fairly put to it, could be business-hke enough. " You see by- gones 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 V " Quite sure. Indeed, ma'am, it is impossible. 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 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, Catharine, can your httle boy go into the other room for a moment 1 Margaret, suppose you take him and make friends." Delighted to throw on her husband the burden of ex- planation, which she had originally meant to have all the importance of giving herself, in her most proper and pat- ronising 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 Cath- arine the hardship 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. Plask- with as a more distant relation than he was ; and he begged, by-the-by, that Catharine would tell Philip to take the hint. But as for Sidney, sooner or later he would go to a dayschool — have companions 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, as the legal ofT- spring of some distant relation. 82 NIGHT AND MORNING. "And," cried poor Catharine, clasping her hands, " when I ara dead, is he never to know that I was his mother T" 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 stra- tum, over the humanities within. He threw his arms round Catharine, 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 se- cret. 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 kfiow it was not your fault. 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 — I 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, resettUng him- self 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 is 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 V " 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 1— pardon me." " He shall have a room to himself," said Mr. Morton. " Eh, my dear T Next to Martha's. Martha is our par- lour-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 V asked Sidney, inno- cently. " You, my dear," replied Mr. Morton. " And where will mamma sleep 1 I must sleep near mamma." " Mamma is going away," said Catharine, in a firm voice, in v^rhich the despair would only have been felt NIGHT AND MORNING. 83 by the acute ear of sympathy ; " going away for a Utile 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'g 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," whis- pered Mrs. Roger Morton. " I don't think we need stay any longer — it will look suspicious. Good-morning, ma'am ; we shall be ready to-morrow." " Good-by, Catharine," said Mr. Morton ; and he add- ed, 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. Mortoft, 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 even- ing, because, like a dog in a strange place, he refused to eat. His little heart was full, and his eyes, swim- ming with tears, were turned at every moment to the door. But he did not show the violent grief that might have been expected. He was naturally timid, and his very desolation, amid the unfamiUar faces, awed and chilled him. But when Martha took him to bed, and undressed him, and he knelt down to say his prayers, and came to the words, " Pray God bless dear mamma, and make me a good child," his heart could contain its load no longer, and he sobbed with a passion that alarmed the good-natured servant. She had been used, how- ever, 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 con vinced, his eyes closed, and, the tears yet wet on their lashes, fell asleep. It had been arranged that Catharine 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 84 NIGHT AND MORNING. the window opened on a back lane, dark and solitary at night, and, from the heal of the weather, the 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 r' " It is I— it is Catharine ! 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 Catharine said this, standing in that lone 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 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 th .; air. " Come round, Catharine," said Mr. Morton, after a pause ; " I will admit you." He shut the window, stole to the door, unbarred it gently, and admitted his visiter. He bade her follow him ; and, shading the light with his hand, crept up the stairs. Catharine'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 holding the candle that its light might not wake the child, though it sufficed to guide Catharine to the bed. The room was small, perhaps close, but scrupulously clean ; for clean- liness 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, A'hat prayers NIGHT AND MORNING. 85 jnoved and stirred 1 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 of great pain, she turned from the room, descended the stairs, gained the street, and mut- tered 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 Igst ; Take May m time ; when May is gone The pleasant time is past." Richard Edwards : from the Paradise of Dainty Device*. 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 tlie thoroughfares roll and glitter the countless streams of indolent and voluptuous life ; when the upper class spend and the middle class make; when the ballroom is the market of Beauty, and the clubhouse the school for scandal ; when the hells yawn for their prey, and the opera-singers and fiddlers — creatures hatched from gold, as the dung-flies from the dung — swarm, and buzz, and fatten round the hide of the gen- tle Pubhc. In the cant phrase, it was " the London sea- son." 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 legs anxious eye ; and the Vol. I.— H 86 NIGHT AND MORNING. weather is warm, and the vagrant sleeps, unfrozen, un- der the stariit portico ; and the beggar thrives, and the thief rejoices — for the rankness of the civilization has su- perfluities clutched by all. And out of the general cor- ruption things sordid and things miserable crawl forth to bask in the common sunshine — things that perish when the first autumn-winds whistle along the melancholy 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, 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 round 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 Inno- cence, for Poverty as for Wealth. And the wheels of every single destiny wheel on the merrier, no matter whether 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 al- ready discovered that learning is not better than house and land. Since the new prospects opened to him, Ar- thur 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 distinguished man. But, though his abilities were good, he had not those restless impul- ses which belong to genius — often not only its glory, but its curse. The golden rod cast his energies asleep at once. Good-natured to a fault, and vacillating in char- acter, he adopted the manner and the code of the rich young idlers who were his equals at college. He be- came, like them, careless, extravagant, and fond of pleasure. This change, if it deteriorated his mind, im- proved his exterior. It was a change tliat could not but please women ; and, of all women, tiis mother the most. Mrs. Beaufort was a lady of high birth, and, in marry- ing her, Robert had hoped nuich from the interest of her connexions ; but a change of ministry had thrown her relations out of power ; and, Ixsyond her dowry, he ob- tained no worldly advantage with the lady of his merce- NIGHT AND MORNlNO. 87 nary choice. Mrs. Beaufort was a woman whom a word or two will describe. She was thoroughly common- place ; neither bad nor good, neither clever nor silly. She was what is called well-bred ; that is, languid, si- lent, perfectly dressed, and insipid. Of her two children, Arthur was almost the exclusive favourite, especially af- ter 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. Without being absolutely in love with her husband, she liked him : they suited each other ; and (in spite of all the temptations that had be- set 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 nu- merous and contagious) her conduct had ever been scru- pulously correct. She had little or no feeling for mis- fortunes with which she 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 sympathy than might have been supposed, and touched on them with all the tact of well-bred charity and lady- like forbearance. Thus, though she was regarded as a strict person in point of moral decorum, yet in society she was popular — as women at once pretty and inoffen- sive generally are. To do Mrs. Beaufort justice, she had not been privy to the letter her husband wrote to Catharine, although not wholly innocent of it. The fact is, that Robert had never mentioned to her the peculiar circumstances that made Catharine 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 Catharine had borne to the deceased — he had mere- ly 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 V " Yes, I think so. What was she — very low V " A tradesman's daughter." " The children should be provided for according to the rank of the mother ; that's the general rule in such cases : 88 NIGHT AND MORNING. and the mother should have about the same provision she might have looked for if she had married a trades- man and been left a w^idow. I dare say she was a very artful kind of person, and don't deserve anything ; 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 Uked the late Mr. Beaufort, whom she considered 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, hstening, or appearing to listen, to the prattle of a beautiful httle girl — Arthur Beaufdrt's sister. This man was not hand- some, but there was a certain elegance in his air, and a certain intelligence in his countenance 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 showed 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 dazzling whiteness ; nor was there any trace of decayed health in his countenance, rie seem- ed 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 constitutionally strong. Without being broad in the shoulders, he was exceed- ingly 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 cel- ebrated 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 inter- fered with his former habits, and was said to have sour- ed his temper. This personage, Virhosc position and NIGHT AND MORNING. 89 character will be described hereafter, 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 ring- lets, " you don't like Berkeley Square as much as you did Gloucester Place V " Oh, no ! not half as much ! You see I never walk out in the fields,* nor make daisy-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, Camilla ; the un- derstandings of young ladies grow up very quickly on this side of Oxford-street. Well, Arthur, and what are your plans to-day V " 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 somewhere in the suburbs." As he spoke, Arthur rose, stretched himself, looked in the glass, and then glanced impatiently at the window. " He ought to be here by this time." " He I who V said Lord Lilburne ; " the horse or the animal — I mean, the friend 1" " The friend," answered Arthur, smiling, but colouring while he smiled, for he half suspected the quiet sneer of his uncle. "Who is your friend, Arthur 1" asked Mrs. Beaufort, looking up from her work. " Watson, an Oxford man. By-the-by, I must intro- duce him to you." " Watson ! What Watson ? what family of Watson ? Some VVatsons are good and some are bad," said Mrs. Beaufort, musingly. " Then they are very unlike the rest of mankind,' observed Lord Lilburne, dryly. " Oh ! mi/ Watson is a very gentlemanlike person, I assure you," said Arthur, half laughing, "and you need not be ashamed of him." Then, rather desirous of turning the conversation, 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." * Now the Regent's Park. H2 90 NIGHT AND MORNING. Here Arthur threw open the window. "Ah, Watson, how are you? How d'ye do, Mars- den 1 Danvers too ! that's capital ! the more the mer- rier ! I will be down in 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 j 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'll have such a nice Vvalk 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 airV " 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 gambhng — 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 feelings of others. Besides, he dishked 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 laughing merrily and talking gayly as they made for the suburb of H . " It i>s an out-of-the-way place for a horse, too," said Sir Harry Danvers. " But 1 assure you," insisted Mr. Watson, earnestly, *' that my groom, who is a capital judge, says it is the tlever65t hack he ev^i- mounted. It has won several NIGHT AND MORNING- 91 trotting matches. It belonged to a sporting tradesman, tiow done up. The advertisement caught me." " Well," said Arthur, gayly, " 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 after- ^vard," said Mr. Marsden, who was an elder, not a bet- ter man than the rest — a handsome, saturnine man — who had just left Oxford, and was already known on the turf. " Anything you please," said Arthur, making his horse curvet. Oh, Mr. Robert Beaufort ! Mr. Robert Beaufort ! could your prudent, scheming, worldly heart but feel what dev- il'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 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 crossing the road. Arthur and his friends, in loud con- verse, did not observe the poor passenger. He stopped abruptly, for his ear caught the sound of danger : it was too late : Mr. Marsden's horse, hard-mouthed and high- stepping, came full against him. Mr. Marsden looked down : " Hang these old men ! ahoays 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 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 complained of pain in his side and linibs. " 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 1 had had my dog. Never mind, sir, go your way. It is only an old man — what of that ] I wish 1 had my d02." 92 NIGHT AND MORNING. " 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 hke 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 I Here's a sovereign for you, my man." " And here's another," said Sir Harry ; " so that's set- tled. Well, you will join us, Beaufort T You see the yard yonder. We'll wait twenty minutes for you. Come on, Watson." The old man had not picked up the sovereigns 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 beggar because he is run over or because he is half blind"!" said he, turning his dim, wan- dering eyes painfully towards 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 Ar- thur continued to talk, though 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 opened by a middle-aged woman, whose appearance was above that of a common menial ; dressed, somewhat gayly for her years, in a cap seated very far back on a black toupee, and decorated with red ribands, an apron made out of an Indian silk handkerchief, 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 1" exclaimed this worthy personage, holding up her hands. " Pish I 1 am faint : let me in. 1 don't want your aid any more, sir. Thank you. Good-day!" Not discouraged by this farewell, the churlish tone of which fell harinless on the invincibly sweet temper of NIGHT AND MORNING. 93 Arthur, the young man continued to assist the sufferer along the narrow passage into a little oldfashioned 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 with the horses) for the nearest sur- geon ; and while the old lady was still employed, after taking off the sufferer's cravat, in burning 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 accents that denoted no diminution of vigour. " 1 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 happen ? 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 diimer — 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 gentleman takes to his dog — fine little dog — what a stump of a tail I Deal of practice — expect too accouche- raents every hour. Hot weather for childbirth. So says I to Mrs. Perkins, ' If Mrs. Plummer is taken, or 94 NIGHT AND MORNING. Mrs. Everat, or if old Mr. Grub has another fit, send oflf at once to No. 4.' Medical men should be always in the way — that's my maxim. Now, sir, where do you feel the painT" " 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 !" mut- tered the apothecary, a little disconcerted. " Well, let him lie down, ma'am. I'll 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 — he^ ninth child in eight years — in the grocery line. A woman in a thousand, sir!" 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. Plummer or Mrs. Everat V " 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 V " Hopeless case, sir — general break-up. Nice woman — quite the lady — known better days, I'm sure." " Has she any children — sons V " 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." NIGHT AND MORNING. 95 " Do you T 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 V " 'Prenticed out, I fancy. Master Sidney — " " Sidney !" " Ah ! that was his name — pretty name. 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'm sure there is, though he won't own it. He has lost his appetite — had a headache last night.' ' No- thing 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 Andronicus. As might be expected, the excitement and fatigue of Catharine's journey to N had considerably acceler- ated the progress of disease. And when she reached home, and looked round the cheerless rooms, all solita- ry, 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. Catharine was not condemned to absolute pov- erty : 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, realized by the sale of her trinkets, as had escaped the clutch of the law ; and her brother had forced into her hands a note for jC20, with an assurance that the same sum should be paid to her half yearly. Alas ! there was little chance of her 96 NIGHT AND MORNINfi needing it again ! She was not, then, in want of means to procure the common comforts of hfe. 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 amid the vast lum- ber-house of death ! She would willingly have removed into a more homely lodging, but the servant of the house had been so fond of Sidney, so kind to him. 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, the good physician whom she had before consulted still attended her, and — refused his fee. Shocked at perceiving that she reject- ed 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 preceding the one in which Arthur dis- covered her abode, he despatched to Philip the follow- ing letter : " Sir, — Being called in to attend your mother in a lin- gering 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 com- fort 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 pro- longed, and her remaining days more happy, if she could be induced to remove into a better air and a more quiet neighbourhood, to take more generous sustenance, 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 fam- ily 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, 1 think some application to them should be made. I fear the state of her affairs weighs much upon your poor motlaer's mind ; and I must leave you to NIGHT AND MfRNING. 97 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., X, After he had despatched this letter, a sudden and marked alteration for the worse took place in his pa- tient's disorder ; and in the visit he had paid that morn- ing, 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 symptoms of her disease had be- come very alarming, and the good-natured servant girl, her sole nurse, and who had, moreover, the whole busi- ness of the other lodgers to attend to, had, as we have seen, thought it necessary to summon 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 contrast, that mean and solitary chamber, and its comfortless appurtenances, to the grace- ful and luxurious abode, where, full of health and hope, he had last beheld her, the mother of Philip Beaufort's children ! He remained silent till Mr. Perkins, after a few questions, retired to send his drugs. He then ap- proached the bed ; Catharine, 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 1" said he, in a voice struggling with tears : " I am Arthur — Arthur Beau- fort." Catharine made no answer. " Good God ! why do I see you here 1 I believed you with your friends — your children ; provided for, as be- came my father to do. He assured me that you were so." Still no answer. And then the young man, overpowered with the feel- ings of a sympathizing and generous nature, forgettmg for a while Catharine's weakness, poured forth a torrent of inquiries, regrets, and self-upbraidings, which Catha- rine at first httle heeded. But the name of her children, Vol. I.— I 98 NIGHT AND MORNING. repeated again and again, struck upon that chord which, in a woman's heart, is the last to break ; and she raised herself in her bed, and looked at her visiter wistfully. " Your father," she said, then, " your father was un- like my Philip : but I see things differently now. For me, all bounty is too late ; but my children — to-morrow they may have no mother. The law is with you, hut not justice ! You will be rich and powerful — will you befriend my children f " Through life, so help me Heaven !" exclaimed Ar- thur, falling on his knees beside the bed. What then passed between them it is needless to de- tail ; for it was little, save broken repetitions of the same prayer and the same response. But there was so much truth and earnestness in Arthur's voice and countenance, that Catharine felt as if an angel had come there to ad- minister comfort. And when, late in the day, the physi- cian entered, he found his patient leaning on the breast of her young visiter, and looking on his face with a hap- py smile. The physician gathered enough from the appearance of Arthur and the gossip of Mr. Perkins to conjecture that one of the rich relations he had attributed to Cath- arine was arrived. Alas for her, it was now too late ! CHAPTER XI. " D'ye stand amazed ? Look o'er thy head, Maximinian . Look to the terror which overhangs thee." Beaumont and Fletcher; The Prophetess. Philip had been five weeks in his new home : in an- other week he was to enter on his articles of appren- ticeship. With a stern, unbending gloom of manner, he had entered on the duties of his novitiate. He submit- ted to all that was enjoined him. He seemed to have lost for ever the wild and unruly waywardness that had stamped his boyhood ; but lie was never seen to smile — he scarcely ever opened his lips. His very soul seemed to have quitted him with its faults ; and he periormed all the functions of his situation with the quiet, listless regularity of a machine Only when the work was NIGHT AND MORNING. 99 done and the shop closed, instedd of joining the family cifcle 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. Punc- tual in all he did, he never exceeded 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 restless 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 Catharine sedulously concealed from her son the state of her health ; she wrote cheerfully, be- sought 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 satisfaction at the home she had provided for 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 assi- duity, and he saved every shilling of his weekly sti- pend ; and sighed as he thought that, in another week, his term of apprenticeship would commence, and the stipend cease. Mr. Plakswith could not but be pleased, on the whole, with the diligence of his assistant, but he was chafed and irritated by the sullenness of his manner. As for Mrs. Plakswith, poor woman ! she positively detested the taciturn and moody boy, who never mixed in the jr)kes of the circle, nor played with the children, nor complimented her, nor added, in short, anything to the sociabiHty of the house. Mr. Plimmins, who had at first sought to condescend, next sought to bully ; but the gaunt frame and savage eye of Phihp awed the smirk youth in spite of himself; and he confessed to Mrs. Plakswith that he should 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 li- brary of Sir Thomas Champerdown ; that gentleman, who was a scholar, having requested that some one ac- 100 NIGHT AND MORNING. quainted with the Grees character might be sent to him, and Phihp 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 mo- ment. I'm sure the 'prentice that cut his master's throat at Chatham last week was just like him" " Pshaw, Mrs. P. I" said the bookseller, taking a huge pinch of snuff, as usual, from his waistcoat pocket. " I myself was reserved when I was young — all reflective people are. I may observe, by-the-by, that it was the case with Napoleon Bonaparte : still, however, I must own he is a disagreeable youth, though he attends to his business." " And how fond of his money he is !" remarked Mrs. Plaskwith ; " he won't buy himself a new pair of shoes ! quite disgraceful ! And did you see what a look he gave Plimmins, when he joked about his indiflference to his sole ? Plimmins always does say such good things !" " He is shabby, certainly," said the bookseller ; " but the value of a book does not always depend on the bind- ing." " I hope he is honest !" observed Mrs. Plaskwith ; and here Phihp entered. " Hum !" said Mr. Plaskwith, " you have had a long day's work ; but I suppose it will take a week to finish 1" " I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir : two days more will conclude the task." " There's a letter for you," cried Mrs. Plaskwith ; "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 ex- aggerated 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, nudging her bus- NIGHT AND MORNING. 101 band ; " I told you what would come of it ; it will be ' money or life' next time." Philip did not heed or hear this address, but stood im- mediately before the bookseller, his hands clasped, wild impatience in his eyes. Mr. Plaskwith, somewhat stu- pified, remained silent. " Do you hear me ? Are you human 1" exclaimed Phil- ip, his emotion revealing at once all the fire of his char- acter. "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 shop- boy (for so he considered Phihp) assumed to him, be- fore 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 necessaries — if she is starving V " Fudge !" said Mr. Plaskwith. " Mr. Morton writes me word that he has provided for your mother ! Does not he, Hannah V "More fool he, I'm sure, with such a fine 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 1 Five pounds — only five pounds, Mr. Plaskwith 1" " Not five shillings ! Talk to me in this style ! — not the man for it, sir ! — highly improper. 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, perhaps — eh, Hannah ?" " Ver)' likely ! Consult Plimmins. Better come away now, Mr. P. He looks like a young tiger." Mrs. Plaskwith quitted the shop for the parlour. Her husband, putting his hands behind his back, and throw- ing back his chin, was about to follow her. Philip, who had remained for the last moment mute and white as stone, turned abniptly ; and his grief taking rather the tone of rage than supplication, he threw himself before his master, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, said, " I leave you — do not let it be with a curse. I con- jure you, have mercy on me !" 12 102 NIGHT AND MORNING. 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 over- set 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 T" Trembling with anger, and perhaps fear, Mr. Plask- with extricated himself from the 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 believe a word about your mother. Baugh !" Left alone, Philip remained for some moments strug- gling with his wrath and agony. He then seized his hat, which he had thrown off on entering, pressed it over his brows, and 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 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 Beau- fort returned from his country mansion to Berkeley Square. He found his wife very uneasy and nervous about the non-appearance of tlicir only son. He had sent liomc his groom and horses about seven o'clock, with a hurried scroll, written in pencil on a blank page torn from his pock ^it-byok, and containing only these words: NIGHT AND MORNING. 103 " Don't wait dinner for me — I may not be home for some hours. 1 have met with a melancholy adventure. You will approve what I have done when we meet." This note a httle 'perplexed Mr. Beaufort; but, as he was very hungry, he turned a deaf ear both to his wife's conjectures and his own 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 ex- tremely mysterious ; 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 accompany 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 finding herself in a false position. Mr. Beaufort accordingly set out alone. Easy was the car- riage, swift were the steeds, and luxuriously the wealthy man was whirled along. 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 im- plies love for the adventure, and money for the melan- choly ; 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 uidicated. 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 M'ith caution 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. Rob- ert Beaufort stood a moment in some doubt whether to call, to knock, to recede, or to advance, when a step was heard upon the stairs above — it came nearer and nearei — a figure emerged f-om the sliadow of the last landing- 164 NIGHT AND M0Ri^IN6. t)lace — and Mr. Beaufort, to his great joy, recognised his &on. Arthur did not, however, seem ta perceive his father ; feind was about to pass him, when Mr. Beaufort laid his hand on his arm. *' What means all this, Arthur 1 What place are you in 1 How you have alarmed us !" Arthur cast a look Upon his father Of sadness and reproach. " Father," he said, in a tone that soUndfed stem — al- most commanding, " I will show you where I have been : follow me — nay, I say, follow." He turned, without another word reascendfed the stairs, and Mr. Beaufort, surprised and awed into me- chanical obedience, did as his son desired. At the land- ing-place of the second floor, another long-wicked, neg- lected, ghastly candle emitted its cheerless ray. It gleamed through the open door of a small bedroom to the left, through which Beaufort perceived the fornis of two women. One (it was the kindly maid-servant) was seated on a chair, and weeping bitterly ; the other (it was a hireling nurse, in the first and last day of her at- tendance) 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 de- cently closed the door. " Where are we, I say, Arthur 1" repeated Mr. Beau- fort. Arthur took his father's hand, drew him into a room to the right, and, taking up the candle, placed it on a smaU 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 Catharine. " Yes — she whom your brother so lOved — the mother of his children — died in this sqUalid roorti, and far from her sons, in poverty, in sorrow! — died of a broken heart ! Was that well, father 1 Have you in this nothing to repent V Conscience-stricken and appalled, the worldly man sank dovvn on a seat beside the bed, and covered his face with his hands. " Ay," continued Arthur, almost bitterly, " ay, we> his NIGHT AND MORNING. 105 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 repara- tion. 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 Arthur, mournfully. " Ah, my dear father ! do not harden your heart by false excuses. The dead still speaks to you, 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 tragedy of the scene had worked into a passion and a dignity above his usual character, unwilling to trust farther to his emo- tions, turned abruptly from the room, fled rapidly down the stairs, and left the house. As the carriage and liv- eries of his father met his eye, he groaned, for their ev- idences 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 physician had left it when hurrying, ten minutes before the arrival of Mr. Beaufort, from the spot where his skill was impo- tent. Wrapped in 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, hopmg, the outcast orphan flew on to the death- room of his mother. Mr. Beaufort, who had but imperfectly heard Arthur's parting accents, lost and bewildered by the strangeness of his situation, did not at first perceive that he was left alone. Surprised, and chilled by the sudden silence of the chamber, he rose, withdrew his hands from his face, and again he saw that countenance so mute and solemn. He cast his gaze round the dismal room for Arthur ; he called his name — no answer came ; a superstitious tre- mour seized upon him ; his limbs shook ; he sunk once 166 NIGHT AND Morning. hiore on his seat, and closed his eyes, muttering, for the first time, perhaps, since his childhood, words of peni^ tence 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 him 1 Had the dead found a voice 1 He started up in an agony of dread, and saw opposite to him the hvid 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 bloom and freshness natural to youth seemed blasted I There, on those wasted features, played all the terrible power and glare of precocious passions — rage, wo, scorn, despair. Ter- rible 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 presence !" shouted Philip, with his wild eyes fixed upon the cowering uncle ; " dead with care, perhaps with famine. And yon 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 — " " You did no/, then, come to reheve 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 1" " 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, sha- king with nameless and cowardly apprehension ; but Philip had fiown 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, 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 took up the heavy hand, and covered it with burning kisses. " Mother ! mother ! do not leave me ! Wake — smile NIGHT AND MORNING. 107 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 written to me, my dear young gentleman— but my offers had been re- fused, 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 heritage. I have worked with these hands for bread, and never complained, ex- cept to my own heart and soul. I never hated and never 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, nor Heaven meant that you should seize all, and that there should be no- thing 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 deceive 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 I There shall be a deathbed yet, beside which you shall see the spec- tre of her, now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave ! These words — no, you never shall forget them — years hence they shall ring in your cars, and freeze the marrow of your bones ! And now begone, my fa- ther's brother — begone from my mother's corpse to your luxurious home !" He opened the door and pointed to the stairs. Beau, fort, 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. BOOK II. Slimmer, nimmcc ftanb tc^ ftiU ; " Schiller : Der Pilgrim. CHAPTER I. " Jncubo. 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 my last hope I Thus as you find me, without fear or wisdom, I now am only child of Hope and Danger." — Ihid. The time employed by Mr. Beaufort in reaching his home was haunted by gloomy and confused terrors. He felt inexplicably as if the denunciations of Phihp were to visit less himself than his son. He trembled at the thought of Arthur meeting this strange, wild, exasper- ated scatterling — perhaps on the morrow — 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 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 anything 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 so unwilling an actor. With that more lively sus- ceptibility which belongs to mo.st wonien, however com- paratively unfeeling, Mrs. Beaufort made greater allow- ance than her hu.sband for the excitement Philip had betrayed. Still Beaufort's description of the dark men- aces, the fierce countenance, the brigand-hke form of the bereaved son, gave her very considerable apprehen- NIGUT AND MORNING. 109 sions 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 while, Arthur returned not, and new fears seized the anxious parents. He had gone forth alone, in a remote suburb of the metropolis, at a late hour, himself under strong excitement. He might have returned to the house, or have lost his way amid 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 straur gers, pale, bleeding, 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 tliink he be much hurt. You sees he was crossing the street, and the coach ran against him ; but it did not go over his head ; it be only the stones that make him bleed so : and that's a mercy." " A providence, sir," said the other man ; " but Provir dence 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 V " 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. Beau- fort to his servants, while Mrs. Beaufort, who had now gained the spot, with greater presence of mind, had Arthur conveyed into his room. " It is a judgment upon me !" groaned Beaufort, rooted to the stone of his hall, and Jeft alone with the strangers. " No, sir, it is rjot a judgment, it is a pravidence.,'''' said the more sanctimonious and better dressed of the two men : " for, put the question, if it had been a judgment, the wheel \vould have gone over him ; and, whether he dies or not, I shall always say that if that's not a provi- dence, I don't know what is. We have come a long Vol. I.— K 110 NIGHT AND MORNING. way, sir ; and Burrows is a poor man, though I'm well to do." This hint for money restored Beaufort to his recol- lection ; he put his purse into the nearest hand out- stretched to clutch it, and muttered out something like thanks. " Sir, may the Lord bless you I 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 1 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 al- ready at its work. An accident almost similar to that which, in the adventure of the blind man, had led Ar- thur to the clew of Catharnie, within twenty-four hours stretched Arthur himself upon his bed. The sorrow Mr. Beaufort had not relieved was now at his own heartli. But there were parents and nurses, and great physicians and skilful surgeons, and all the army that combine against Death ; and there were ease, and lux- ury, and kind eyes, and pitying looks, and all that can take the sting from pain. And thus, the very night on which Catharine 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 des- tined to her son wrestled also with the grim tyrant, that seemed, however, scared from his prey by the arts and luxuries which the world of rich men raises up in defi- ance of the grave. Arthur was, indeed, very seriously injured ; one of his ribs broken, and two severe contusions on the head. To insensibility succeeded fever, followed by delirium. He was in imminent danger for several days. If anything 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 tlie instinct of that capricious and fluctuating conscience which be- longs to weak minds — which remains still, and drooping, and hfeless as a flag on a masthead din-ing the calm of prosperity, but flutters, and flaps, and tosses when the wind blows and the wave heaves — thought very acutely and r(!morsefully of the condition of the Mortons during the danger of his own son. So far, indeed, from his anxiety for Arthur monopolizing all his care, it only NIGHT AND MORNING. Ill shaqjened his charity tpwards 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. Black- well. He commissioned him to see that Catharine's funeral rites were performed with all due care and at- tention : he bade him obtain an interview 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 earnestly counselled the lawyer to employ all his tact and delicacy in confer- ring with one of so proud and fiery a temper. Mr. Blackwell, 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 conde- scending admonitions 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 communicated immediately with a fash- ionable undertaker, and gave orders for a very genteel funeral. He thought, after the funeral, that Philip would be in a less excited state of 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 instructions ; that the orders for the funeral were given ; but that, at present, Mr. Philip Morton's mind was a little disordered, and that he could not calmly discuss, just at present, the plans for the fu- ture suggested by Mr. Beaufort. He did not doubt, how- ever, 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 tlierefore set at rest. It was a dull, close, oppressive moniing upon which the remains of Catharine Morton were consigned to the grave. With the preparations for the funeral Philip did not interfere ; 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 unde- veloped conjecture ascribed this last and vain attention Il2 NIGHT AND MORNING* to Robert Beaufort, it neither lessened the siillen resent- ment 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 surviver. He had remained in a sort of apathy or torpor since Mr. Blackwell's visit, which seemed to the people of the house to pd.rtake rather of indifference than wo. The funeral Was over, and Philip had returned to the apartments occupied by the deceased ; and now, for the first time, he set himself to examine what papers, &c.y 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 let- ters the very heart of the writer seemed to beat ! Now both hearts alike were stilled ! and Ghost called vainly imto Ghost ! He came, at length, to a letter in his mother's hand, and dated two days before her death. He went to the window, and gasped in the midst of the sultry air for breath. Below were heard the noises of London : the shrill cries of ithierant venders, the roUing^ carts, the tvhoop of boys returned for a while from school ; amid all these rose one loud, merry peal of laugliter, which drew his attention mechanically to the spot whence it Came : it was at the threshold of a public house, before which stood the hearse that had conveyed his mother's coffin, and the gay undertakers, halting there to refresh themselves. He closed the window with a groan, re- tired to the farthest corner of the room, and read as follows i " Mv DfiAHEsf Philip,— ^When you read this I shall be no more. You and poor Sidney will have neither father nor mother,' nor fortune nor name. Heaven is more just than man, and in Heaven is my hope for you. ■ Yo\i, 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 patli in life. And lately, in our reverses, Philip, you have so subdued these passions, so schooled the pride and ira- NIGHT AND MORNING. 113 petuosity 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 fond- ly hope, prove some expiation forihe errors of a hap- pier time. For I did err when, even from the least self- ish motives, I suffered 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, 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 de- pendant fbr very life upon me, and we are parted now for the first and last time. lie is with strangers ; and — and— oh 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 char- acter ; without you he is nothing. Live, toil, rise for his sake not less 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 feci 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 ; com- fort and sooth 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 savi-ags. You will see that I have not K2 114 ^IGrt*f XilD MORNING* 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. 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 Mofton fell upon his knees and prayed CHAPTER n. *' His curse ! Dost comprehend what that word means ? Shot from a father's angry breath." James Shirley : The Brothers. " 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 cormnunity !" — Ibid. After he had recovered his self-possession, Philip opened the well of the bureau, and was astonished and affected to find that Catharine had saved more than jClOO. Alas ! how much must she have pinched her- self to have hoarded this little treasure. After burning his father's love-letters, and some other papers which he deemed useless, he made up a little bundle of thosa trifling effects belonging to the deceased which he val- ued as memorials and relics of her, quitted the apart- ment, 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 Catharine had left behind. " And now," said he, as the servant wept while he spoke, " 71010 I can bear to ask you what I have not before done; How did my poor mother die ? Did she sitffer much— or — or-^" NIGHT AND MORNING. 115 " She went off like a lamb, sir," said the girl, drying her eyes. " You see the gentleman had been with hei all the day, and she was much more easy and comfort- able in her mind after he came." " The gentleman ! Not the gentleman I found here V " 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 as how he was a relation. He stay- ed 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 doc- tor's stuff in tiie glass ; and so she looked on the young gentleman, and then looked round at us all, and shook her head very gently, but did not speak. And the gen- tleman 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, ' Nev- er.' I don't know what that meant, sir !" ** Well, well — go on." " And her head fell back on his buzzom, and she look* ed 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 ]" " 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." " And the other gentleman came just as he was a go- ing, 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 ; but he did not stay long." " And has never been since V " No, sir ! Perhaps missus can tell you more about him. But won't you take something, 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 children were seated, playing at dominoes ; he despatched one for their mother, the mis- 116 NIGHT AND MORNING. tress of the shop, who came in, and dropped him a cour- tesy with a very grave, sad face, as was proper. " I am going to leave your house, ma'am ; and I wish to settle any little arrears of rent, &c." " Oh ! sir, don't mention it," said the landlady ; 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 rne 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 everything 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 Catharine had paid reg- ularly for her scanty maintenance and humble lodging — paid the money, and, as the landlady wrote the receipt, he asked, " Who was the gentleman — the younger gen- tleman — who called in the morning of the day my moth- er died r' " Oh, sir, I am 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, hasti- ly 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. Bui, whoever you be, you soothed her last hours — she died in your arms ; and if ever— years, long years hence — we should chance to meet, and I can do anything 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 hira, my moth- NIGHT Aift) MORNING. 117 er'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 1 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." " And what shall I say to Mr. Blackwell ?" " That he may tell his employer to remember 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 noiseless 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 V 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 ad- dressed 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 gray 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 outstretched over the liead of the younger, as if suiting 118 NIGHT AND MORNING. terrible action to the terrible words, and, after a mo- ment'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, per- haps, of fear at the passion of his master, which the an- imal might associate with danger. "Father! father!" said the suppliant, reproachfully, " your very dog rebukes your curse." " Be dumb ! My dog ! What hast thou left me on earth but him 1 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 by-word — 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 years I have maintained myself — no matter 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. For- get not my sins, but this interview. Repeal your curse, father ; I have enough on my head without yours : and Bo — 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 ; but Philip, by the last red beam of the sun, saw again that marked, storm-beaten face which it was difficult, once Been, to forget, and recognised the stranger on whose breast he had slept the night of his first fatal visit to 11 . Tiie old man's imperfect vision did not detect the de- parture of his son, but his face changed and softened as the latter strode silently through the rank grass. " 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 — NIGHT AND MORNING. lid 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 Hesperus hymned by every poet since the world began — was fair in the arch of heav- en, as Philip quitted the spot with a spirit more recon- ciled to the future, more softened, chastened, attuned to gentle and pious thoughts, than perhaps ever yet had made his soul dominant over the deep and dark tide of 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 removed 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 sudden- ly 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 book- seller was accompanied by Mr. Plimmins and a sturdy, ill-favoured stranger. A nameless feeling of fear, rage, and .disgust 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." 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 1 Ignorant of the law, the law only seemed to him, as it ever does to the igno- rant and the friendless, a foe. Quicker than lightning, these thoughts, which it takes so many words to de- Bcribe, flashed through the storm and darkness of his 120 NIGHT AND MORNING. breast ; and, at the very instant that Mr. Phmniins 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. Plimmins sprawling in the ken- nel, he darted across the road, and fled down an opposite lane. " Stop him ! stop !" cried the bookseller ; and the of- ficer rushed after him with algiost equal speed. Lane after lane, alley after alley, fled Philip ; dodging, winding, breathless, panting ; and lane after lane, alley after al- ley, thickened at his heels the crowd that pursued. The idle, and the curious, and the ofllicious — ragged boys, ragged men, 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 jail 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 pubhc house, or, rather, tavern, to judge by its appearance, 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 V That cry yet howled in the distance. One of the loungers seized him ; Philip, desperate and ferocious, struck at him with all his force ; but the blow was scarcely felt by that Her- culean frame. " Pish !" said the man, scornfully ; " I am no spy ; if you run from justice, I would help you to a signpost." Struck by the voice, Philip looked hard at the speaker. It was the voice of the Accursed Son. " Save me ! You remember me V 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 arc 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. C/Oachman, drive fast to — " Philip did not hear the rest of the direction. Our story returns to Sidney. NIGHT AND MORNING. 121 CHAPTER III. "Nous vous mettrons k couvert Repondit le pot de fer, Si quelque matiSre dure Vous menace d'aventure, Entre deux je passerai, Et du coup vous sauverai Le pot de terre en souflTre !" — La Fontainb. " Sidney, come here, sir ! What have you been at ? You have torn your frill into tatters ! How did you do thisT 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 your- self: you are always in mischief. What business had you to look after the coach]" " I don't know," said Sidney, hanging his head rue- fully. " La, rnother !" cried the youngest of the cousins, a square-built, ruddy, coarse-featured urchin about Sid- ney's age, " la, mother, he never sees 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, keep- ing his large eyes fixed on his aunt, as children do when they fear a cuff. Vol. I.— L 122 NIGHT AND MORNING. " You spoil the boy more than you do your own flesh and blood," said Mrs. Morton, greatly displeased. Here Tom, the youngest-born before described, 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 homesick, I should like to know 1 Ba! baa!" The boy pointed his finger over his mother's shoul- der, 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 mother's favour, popped his head through the doorway, and cried, " Good-by, little homesick !" 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. " If that's the way you behave to your children, Mr. Morton, I vow you sha'n't have any more if I can help it. Don't come near me — don't touch me !" and Mrs. Morton assumed the resentful air of offended beauty. " Pshaw !" growled the spouse ; and he reseated him- self 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 Sid- ney 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, authoritatively. " Treacle !" reiterated the aunt. " Jam, I say !" " Treacle, you hear : and, for that matter, Martha has no Jam to give !" The husband had nothing more to say. " Good-night, Sidney ; there's a good boy, 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 NIGHT AND MORNING. 123- 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 ! 1 don't like slovenly boys." Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped, and van- ished. "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 Catharine to be a father to that child, and it goes to my heart to see him so snubbed. Why you disUke 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 children are not sweet-tempered V "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 my heart, that you will!" Mrs. Morton put her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed. The husband was moved ; he got up and attempted to take her hand. " Indeed, Margaret, 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 124 NIGHT AND MORNING. 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 Tom would fret if he was away from you ! Poor little Tom !" " La ! Mr. Morton, you are such a man ! there's no re- sisting your ways ! You know how to come over me, don't you V 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, resumed, 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 fauit," 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 with 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 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 nut ill. Poor Catharine ! she looked in a very bad way when she was here," said Mr. Mor- ton, and he turned uneasily to the fireplace and sighed. Here the servant entered with the supper-tray, and the conversation fell upon other topics. NIGHT AND MORNING. 125 Mrs. Roger Morton's charge against Sidney was, alas ! too true. He had acquired under that roof a ter- rible habit of telling stories. He had never incurred that vice with his mother, because then and there he had nothing to fear; now he had everything to fear; the grim aunt — even the quiet, cold, 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 hira actually a coward ; and, when the nerves tremble, a lie sounds as surely as, when 1 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. Mor- ton, who was subject to erysipelas, had taken a little cooling medicine. He breakfasted, therefore, later than usual — after the rest of the family ; and at this meal — pour lui soulager — 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 customer of great importance: a prosy old lady, who always gave- her orders with re- markable precision, and who valued herself on a char- acter for affability, which she maintained by never buy- ing a penny riband without asking the shopman how all his family were, and 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 re- spective slates : a point of education to which Mr. Mor- ton attended with great care. As soon as his father's back was turned, Master 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 philosophize — per- haps his father had done breakfast ; perhaps he would L2 126 NIGHT AND MORNING. not come back at all ; if he 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 to 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 proceeding with great and conscientious alarm. " Oh, Tom !" said he, " what will your papa say V " Look at that !" said Tom, putting his fist under Sid- ney's reluctant nose. "If father misses it, you'll 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 wishing 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. Mr. Morton, already in a very bad humour, partly at the effects of the cooling medicine, partly at the suspen- sion 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 1" said he, in a voice that seemed to Sidney like the voice he had already supposed an ogre to possess. " Have you. Master Sid- ney?" " N — n — no, sir ; indeed, sir !" " Then Tom has. Where is he V " Gone up stairs for his handkerchief, sir." " Did he take my muffin 1 Speak the truth !" "No, sir; it was the — ic was the — the cat, sir!" " Oh you wicked, wicked boy !" cried Mrs. Morton, 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 cellar : it might have got out, Mrs. M.," said Mr. Morton, just even in his wrath. NIGHT AND MORNING. 127 Mrs. Morton went, and there was a dead silence, ex- cept, indeed, in Sidney's heart, which beat louder than a clock, ticks. Mr. Morton, meanwhile, went to a little cupboard ; while still liiere, 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 evea lap her milk ! Like her mistress, she had had a very bad time ! " Now come here, sir V said Mr. Morton, withdraw- ing 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 up stairs ^ 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 — " 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 muttered. " 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 I" 128 NIGHt AND MORNING. 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 commemorated by the historical events of our last chapter, two men were deposited by a branch coach at the inn of a ham- let 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 fin- ger-post that pointed to three great roads : one led to the town before mentioned ; another to the heart of a manufacturing district ; and a third to a populous sea- port. The weather was fine, and the two travellers or- dered breakfast to be taken into an arbour in the gar- den, as well as the basins and towels necessary for ab- lution. The elder of the travellers- appeared to be un- equivocally foreign; you would have guessed him at once for a German. He wore what was then very un- common in this country, a loose brown linen blouse, buttoned to the chin, with a leathern belt, into which were stuck a German meerschaum and a tobacco- pouch. He had very long flaxen hair, false or real, that streamed half way down his back, large light mustach- es, and a rough, sunburned 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 minutia?, 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 trust to the boots ; and the great, massive, dingy ring which he wore on his fore-finger. The oth- er was a slender, remarkably upright and sinewy youth, in a blue frock, over which was tin-own 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 un- NIGHT AND MORNINO. 129 common fire, and a shawl handkerchief, which was equally useful in conceahng the lower part of the coun- tenance. On descending from the coach, the German, with some difficulty, made the hostler understand 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 washing his hands, and talking in his national tongue to the young man, who returned no answer. But, as soon as the servant had completed her operations, the foreigner turned round, and, observing her eyes fixed on his brooch with much female admiration, he made one stride to her. " Der Teufel, mein goot madchen, but you are von var — pretty — vat you call it V and he gave her, as he spoke, so hearty a smack, that the girl was more flus- tered than flattered by the courtesy. " Keep yourself to yourself, sir !" said she, very tart- ly — for chambermaids never like to be kissed by mid- dle-aged gentlemen when a younger one is by : where- upon the German replied by a pinch — it is immaterial to state the exact spot to which that delicate caress was directed. But this last offence 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 him- self in again, he said, in quite another accent and in ex- cellent English, " There, Master Philip, we have got rid of the girl for the rest of the morning, and that's ex- actly what I wanted to do : women's wits are confound- edly sharp. Well, did 1 not tell you right . we have baf- fled all the bloodhounds '." " And here, then, Gawtrey, we are to part," said Philip, mournfully. " I wish you would think better of it, my boy," re- turned Mr. Gawtrey, breaking an egg; "how can you shift for yourself — no kith nor kin — not even that impor- tant machine for giving advice called a friend — no, not a friend, when I am gone ^ I foresee 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 ray fate to yours. But ray bjother !" 130 NIGHT AND MORNING. " There it is : always wrong when we act from our feeUngs. 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 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 earnestly, and fixing his dark eyes on his companion, " 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 V Gawtrey looked up. " What do you suppose V said he, dryly. " I fear to suppose anything, 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 V " True ; but with a certain wild looseness in their talk that — But I have no right to judge others by mere appearance. Nor is it this that has made me anxious, and, if you will, suspicious." "What thenr' " Your dress — your disguise." "Disguised yourself! ha! ha! Behold the world's charity ! You fly from some danger, some pursuit, disguised — you, who hold yourself guiltless : I do the same, and you hold me criminal — a robber, perhaps — a murderer, 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 — promises me a livelihood. Are you satisfied T' " 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 !" " Not at all strange. Ask the beggar whom he get? , NIGHT AND MORNING. 131 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 w^ay 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 moralizing at the same time, Mr. Gawtrey finished a breakfast that would have as- tonished 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 strange place, as you call it, where I took you — you can find it again 1" " 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 — ' bia- ter' — stay, I will write it down for you — and then ask for William Gawtrey's direction. He will give it you at once, without 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 your- self, and good-by. I see my chaise is at the door." As he spoke, Gawtrey siiook the young man's hand with cordial vigour, and strode off to his chaise, mut- tering, " Money well laid out — fee money ; 1 shall have him, and. Gad, 1 like him — poor devil !" 132 NIGHT AND MORNING. CHAPTER V. " He is a cunning coachman that can turn well in a narrow room." "Old Play : from Lamb's Specimens. " Here are two pilgrims, And neither knows one footstep of the way." Heywood's Duchess of Suffolk. Ibid. The chaise had scarce driven from the inn door, when a coach stopped to change horses on its last stage to the town to which Phihp 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 pas- senger 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 shuas — soon acquires. At his left hand sat a young woman in a cloak lined 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 hand- kerchief 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 expres- sion 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 tas- sel ; a velvet waistcoat, across which, in various folds, hung a golden chain, at the end of which dangled an eyeglass, that from lime to time he screwed, 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 towards tliis personage, the latter fixed his glass also at him with a scrutinizing stare, which drew fire from Philip's dark eyes. The man dropped his glass, and said, in a half provincial, half haw-haio tone, like the stage-exquisite of a minor theatre, " Pawdon me, and split legs!" therewith stretching himself between Phil- NIGHT AND MORNING. 133 ip's limbs, in the approved fashion of inside passengers ! A young man in a white greatcoat 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, sentimentally ; whereupon the young lady took the glass, and, looking very kindly at her Ganymede, said, " Your health !" and sipped, and made a wry face ; then she looked at the passengers, 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 return- ing the glass, rewarded the young man, and proved the salutary effect of his prescription. " All right !" cried the coachman : the hostler twitch- ed 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 T' " La, sir ! why not ?" " No faumily likeness — noice-looking fellow enough ! But your oiyes and mouth — ah, miss !" Miss turned away her head, and uttered, with pert vi- vacity, " I never likes compliments, sir ! But the young man is not my brother." "A sweetheart, eh]" Oh fy, miss! Haw! haw!" and the auburn-whiskered Adonis poked Philip in the knee with one hand, and the pale gentleman in the ribs with the other. The latter looked up, and reproachful- VoL. I.— M 134 NIGHT AND MORNING. ly ; 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, ma'am ; I advoise you to double the dose. We often hear of two strings to a bow, Daun't you think it would be noicer to have two beaux to your string V As he thus wittily expressed himself, the gentleman took off his cap, and thrust his fingers through a very curling and comely head of hair ; the young lady look- ed at him with evident coquetry, and said, " How you do run on, you gentlemen !" " I may well run on, miss, as long as I run aufler 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 sta- ring 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, com^ passionately. " A little pain in my side — nothing more !" " Chaunge plauces with me, sir," cried the Lothario, officiously. " Now do !" The pale gentleman, after a short hesitation and a bashful 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- man continued to gaze at Philip, till the latter, per- ceiving the notice he excited, coloured and replaced his cap over his face. "Are you going to N V asked the gentleman, in a gentle, timid voice. ".Yes!" " Is it the first time you have ever been there V " 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 1 once knew in the town. Do you know the — the xMortons V One in Philip's situation, with, as he supposed, the NIGHT AND MORNING. 135 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, short- ly, " 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 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 — th^ same inn which had before given its shel- ter to poor Catharme — 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 : 1 am waiting for my phe-aton, which my faellow is to bring down — tanking 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 gentleman'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 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 T Oh no, not at all a happy man ! Good- day to you! Guard, that hatbox is mine." While Philip was paying the coachman, the beau passed and whispered him, " Recollect old Gregg — anything on the lay here 1 — 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. How- ever, he did not seek to renew the acquaintance, but in- quired the way to Mr. Morton's house, and thither he now proceeded. He was directed, as a short cut, down one of those nar- row passages at the entrance of which posts are placed, as an indication that they are appropriated solely to foot« 136 NIGHT AND MORNING. 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 pro- vincial town, and no sound was heard save the fall of his own step on the broad flagstones. At the end of the passage in the main street to which it led, he saw al- ready the large, smart, showy shop, with the hot sun shining full on tiie 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 fihild 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 1 He paused, and laid his hand on the child's shoulder : " Oh, don't — don't — pray don't — I am going, I am, indeed !" cried the child, quailing, and still keep- ing 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 broth- er's breast. " Oh, Philip ! dear, dear Philip ! you are come to take me away back to my own, own mamma ; I will be so good ! 1 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 stran- ger's porch, these two orphans : Philip's arm round his brother's waist, Sidney leaning on his shoulder, and im- parting to him— perhaps with pardonable exaggeration — all the sufferings he had gone through ; and, when he came to that morning's chastisement, and showed the wale across the little hands which he had vainly held up in supplication, Philip's passion shook him from limb to limb. His impulse was to march straight into Mr. Morton's shop and gripe him by the throat ; and the in- dignation 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 broth- er's broad chest, said, NIGHT AND MORNING. 137 " 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 hard- ships ; 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 passionate, I never was knowingly unkind to you ; and 1 declare now that I would bite out my 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 nowl" " Comforts !" repeated Sidney, ruefully, and looking at the wale over his hand. " Oh ! let — let*— let me go with you : I shall die if 1 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." CHAPTER VI. " He comes — Yet careless what he brinps ; his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; And, having^ dropped the expected bag, pass on — To him indifferent whether grief or joy." CowpKR ; Detcription of the Postman. The pale gentleman entered Mr. Morton's shop ; and, looking round him, spied the worthy trader showing shawls to a young lady just married. He seated him- self on a stool, and said to the bowing foreman, " 1 Nvill wait till Mr. Morton is disengaged." M2 138 NIGHT AND MORNING. The young lady, having closely examined seven shawls, and declared they were beautiful, said " she would tiiink of it," and walked away. Mr. Morion 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 1 Well, what a time since we met ! I am very glad to see you. And what brings you to N 1 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, turn- ing very pale; "is she dead? — poor Catharine! — and I not. know of it ! When did she die V " Not many days since ; and — and — " said Mr. Spen- cer, greatly aiTected, " 1 fear in want. 1 had been abroad for some months ; on my return last week, look- ing over the newspapers (for 1 always order them to be filed), I read the short account of her lawsuit against Mr. Beaufort some time back. I resolved to find her out. I did so through the 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 determined to visit poor Catharine's brother, and learn if anything could be done for the children she had left behind." •' She left but two. Philip, the elder, is very com- fortably placed at R • ; the youngest has his home vi^ith 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 V " Very much, when she was young — poor, dear Cath- arine!" " What age is he?" " About ten, perhaps — I don't know exactly — much younger than the other. And so she's dead !" " jAIr. 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 NIGHT AND MORNING. IBQ rest is mine, and I live within my income. The elder one is probably old enough to begin to take care of him- self. But the younger — perhaps you have a family of your own, and can spare him .?" Mr. Morton hesitated, and twitched up his trowsers. " Why," said he, " this is very kind in you. 1 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! — heighho ! Meanwhile, I'll talk it over with Mrs. M." " I will be with you," said Mr. Spencer, rising. "Ah!" sighed Mr. Morton, "if Catharine had but married you, she would have been a happy woman." " I would have tried to make her so," said Mr. Spen- cer, 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 breakfast and dinner, this decided him to part with 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 burned 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 insti- tute a regular search. The whole family set off differ- ent ways. It was ten o'clock before they were reuni- ted ; 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 high road towards the man- ufacturing 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 him- self. Boys will drown themselves sometimes ! Tho description of the young man coincided so remarkably with the fellow-passenger of Mr. Spencer, that he did not doubt it was the same ; the more so when he recol- lected having seen him with a fair-haired child under the portico ; and yet more when he recalled the like- ness to Catharine 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 140 NIGHT AND MORNlNtf. 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, 1 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 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 accept 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 hap- pened — not my fault, and very unpleasant for me. Your relation, Philip, as I wrote you word, was a painstaking lad, 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 — 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 insolent way — I may say, threat- ening. It was in my own shop, and before Plimmins and Mrs. P. ; I was forced to answer with dignified re- buke, and left the shop. When I returned, he was gone, NIGHT AND MORNING. 141 and some shillings — fourteen, I think, and three sover- eigns — evidently 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 right. I know human nature : he had 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 un- easy — would not attend longer to Mrs. P. (for, as Napo- leon Bonaparte observed, ' women are well in their way, not in ours^) — made Plimmins go with me to town — hired a Bow-street runner to track him out — cost me £l Is., and two glasses of brandy and water. Poor Mrs. Morton was just buried — quite shocked ! Sud- denly saw the boy in the streets. Plimmins rushed forward in the kindest way — was knocked down — hurt his arm — paid 2^. Qd. for lotion. Philip ran off — we ran after him — could not find him. Forced to return home. Next day, a lawyer from a Mr. Beaufort — Mr. George Blackwell, a gentleman-like man — called. Mr. Beau- fort will do anything for him in reason. Is there any- thing more / can do T 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 instruc- tions. " 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 suspicious character : they think he has left London. Bow-street officer wants to go after him — very expensive : so now you can decide." Mr. Spencer scarce listened to the former letter, but of the latter he felt jealous. He would fain have been the only protector to Catharine'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-he jirted, soft-headed man — a confirmed valetu- dinarian — a day-dreamer, who had wasted away his life in dawdling and maundering over simple poetry, and # ^ 142 NIGHT AND MORNING. sighing over his unhappy attachment — no child, no babe, was so thoroughly helpless as Mr. Spencer. The task of investigation devolved, therefore, on Mr. Morton, and he went about it in a regular, plain, straight- forward way. Handbills 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 VH. " 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 feel. Philip had broken to Sidney the sad newsi 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, prayerful love of a parent, with the inconsiderate, frail, and evanescent affection of the infant, whose eyes the hues of the butterfly yet dazzle with delight. It was the night of their flight, and in the open air, when Phihp (his arms round Sidney's waist) told his brother-orphan that they were mother- less. And the air was balmy, the skies filled with the effulgent presence of the August moon ; the cornfields stretched round them wide and far, and not a leaf trem- bled on the beech-tree beneath which they had sought shelter. It seemed as if Nature herself smiled pity- ingly on their young sorrow, and said to them, " Grieve not for the dead ; I, who live for ever, / will be your mother !" They crept, as the night deepened, into the warmer sleeping-place afforded by stacks of hay, mown that Bummer, and still fragrant. And the next morning tiie NIGHT AND MORNING. 143 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 free- dom 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 manly luxury of independence — to act the Crusoe — and to fancy a Friday in every footprint — an island of his own in every field 1 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 glorious August. Some- times 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, gleanj afar and red by the woodside, the fires of gipsy tents. But these, with the superstition derived from old nurse- ry tales, they scrupulously shunned, eying 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 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 convolvu^ lus 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 children 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 protected 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 ham- lets ; though, more often, they loved to spread the sim- ple food they purchased by the way under some thick tree, or beside a stream, through whose limpid watery 144 NIGHT AND MORNING. they could watch the trout glide and play. And they often preferred the chance-shelter of a haystack or a shed to the less romantic repose afforded 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 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 coun- ty — in the neighbourhood of one of the most considera- ble 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 care- fully hoarded about his person, and most thriftily man- aged, the little fortune bequeathed by his mother. But Philip looked on this capital as a deposite sacred to Sidney; it was not to be spent, but kept and augment- ed — the nucleus for future wealth. Within the last few weeks his character was greatly ripened, and his pow- ers 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 ap- proaching, and to seek for some situation by which he might maintain both. Sidney was very loath to aban- don 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, the gay shops — the ev- idences 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 cor- VIGHT AND MORNING. 145 ner-shop, in the window of which was placed a board bearing this inscription : " OFFICE FOB EMPLOYBIENT. RECIPROCAL ADVANTAGE. " Mr. John Clump's bureau open every day from ten till four. Clerks, servants, labourers, but I am popular — very popular; and, with plenty of wit- nesses, not over scrupulous, I got off" ! When I was re- leased, I would not go to see them, for my clothes were ragged : the police stiU watched me, and I would not do them harm in the world ! Ay, poor wretches ! they struggled so hard : he could get very little by his art, though I believe he was a cleverish fellow at it, and the money I had given them could not last for ever. They lived near the Champs Elysees, and at night I used to steal out and look at them through the window. They seemed so happy, and so handsome, and so good ; but he looked sickly, and I saw that, Uke all Italians, he languished for his own warm climate. But man is born to act as well as to contemplate," pursued Gaw- trey,- changing his tone into the allegro, " and I was soon driven into my old ways, though in a lower line. I went to London just to give my reputation an airing; and when I returned, pretty flush again, the poor Italian Vol. I.— S 206 NIGHT AND MORNING. was dead, and Fanny was a widow, with one boy, and enceinte with a second child. So then I sought her again, for her mother had found her out, and was at her with her deviUsh kindness ; but Heaven was merciful, and took her away from both of us : she died in giving birth to a girl, and her last words were uttered to me, imploring me — the adventurer — the charlatan — the good- for-nothing — to keep her child from the clutches of her own mother. Well, sir, I did what I could for both the children ; but the boy was consumptive, like his father, and sleeps at Pere la Chaise. The girl is here — you shall see her some day. Poor Fanny ! if ever the devil will let me, I shall reform for her sake ; meanwhile, for her sake I must get grist for the mill. My story is concluded, for I need not tell you of all my pranks — of all the parts I have played in hfe. 1 have never been a murderer, or a burglar, or a highway robber, or what the law calls a thief. I can only say as I said before, I have lived upon my wits, and they have been a tolerable capital on the whole. I have been an actor, a money- lender, a physician, a professor of animal magnetism {that was lucrative till it went out of fashion — perhaps it will come in again) ; I have been a lawyer, a house- agent, a dealer in curiosities and china ; I have kept a hotel ; I have set up a weekly newspaper ; 1 have seen almost every city in Europe, and made acquaintance with some of its jails : but a man who has plenty of brains generally falls on his legs." " And your father?" said Philip : and here he inform- ed Gawtrey of the conversation he had overheard in the churchyard, but on which a scruple of natural delicacy had hitherto kept him silent. " Well, now," said his host, while a slight blush rose to his cheeks, " I will tell you, that though to my father's sternness and avarice I attribute many of my faults, I yet always had a sort of love for him ; and when in London, I accidentally heard that he was growing blind, and living with an artful old jade of a housekeeper, who might send him to rest with a dose of magnesia the night after she had coaxed liim to make a will in her fa- vour, I sought him out — and — But you say you heard what passed?" " Yes ; and I heard him also call you by name when it was too late, and T saw tlie tears on his cheeks." " Did you ? Will you swear to that 1" exclaimed NIGHT AND MORNING. 207 Gawtrey, with vehemence ; and then shading his brow with his hand, he fell into a revery that lasted some mo- ments. " If anything happen to me, Philip," he said, abruptly, " perhaps he may yet be a father to poor Fan- ny ; and if he takes to her, she will repay him for what- ever pain I may, perhaps, have cost him. Stop ! now I think of it, I will write down his address for you — never forget it — there ! It is time to go to bed." Gawtrey's tale made a deep impression on Philip. He was too young, too inexperienced, too much borne away by the passion of the narrator to see that Gawtrey had less cause to blame Fate than himself. True, he had been unjustly implicated in the disgrace of an unworthy uncle ; but he had lived with that uncle, though he knew him to be a common cheat : true, he had been betrayed by a friend ; but he had before known that friend to be a man without principle or honour. But what wonder that an ardent boy saw nothing of this — saw only the good heart that had saved a poor girl from vice, and sighed to relieve a harsh and avaricious parent ? Even the hints that Gawtrey unawares let fall, of practices scarcely covered by the jovial phrase of " a great school- boy's scrapes," either escaped the notice of Philip, or were charitably construed by him, in the compassion and the ignorance of a young, hasty, and greatful heart. CHAPTER JV. " And she's a stranger ! Women— beware women." — Middleton " As we love our youngest children best, So the last fruit of our affection, Wherever we bestow it, is most strong ; Since 'tis indeed our latest harvest-home, Last inerri.Tient 'fore winter I" Webster : Devil's Law Case. " I would fain know what kind thing a man's heart is? I will report it to you : 'tis a thing framed With divers corners I" — Rowley. I HAVE said that Gawtrey's tale made a deep impres- sion on Philip ; that impression was increased by suo- sequent conversations, more frank even than their t»lk 208 NIGHT AND MORNING. had hitherto been. There was certainly abov.t this man a fatal charm which concealed his vices. It arose, per- haps, from the perfect combination of his physical frame ; from a health which made his spirits buoyant and hearty imder all circumstances ; and a blood so fresh, so san- guine, that it could not fail to keep the pores of the heart open. But he was not the less — for all his kindly im- pulses and generous feelings, and despite the mamier in which, naturally anxious to make the least unfavourable portrait of himself to Philip, he softened and glossed over the practices of his life — a thorough and complete rogue ; a dangerous, desperate, reckless dare-devil : it was easy to see when anything crossed him, by the cloud on his shaggy brow, by the swelling of the veins on the forehead, by the dilation of the broad nostril, that he was one to cut his way through every obstacle to an end — choleric, impetuous, fierce, determined ; such, in- deed, were the qualities that made him respected among his associates, as his more bland and humorous ones made him beloved : he was, in fact, the incarnation of that great spirit which the laws of the world raise up against the world, and by which the world's injustice, on a large scale, is awfully chastised ; on a small scale, merely nibbled at and harassed, as the rat that gnaws the hoof of the elephant : the spirit which, on a vast the- atre, rises up, gigantic and sublime, in the heroes of war and revolution— in Mirabeaus, Marats, Napoleons ; on a minor stage, it shows itself in demagogues, fanatical philosophers, and mob-writers ; and on the forbidden boards, before whose reeking lamps outcasts sit, at once audience and actors, it never produced a knave more consummate in his part, or carrying it off with more buskined dignity, than "William Gawtrey. I call him by his aboriginal name ; as for his other appellations, Bac- chus himself had not so many ! One day a lady, richly dressed, was ushered by Mr. Birnie into the bureau of Mr. Love, alias Gawtrey. Phil- ip was seated by the window, reading, for the first time, the " Candide ;" that work, next to " Rasselas," the most hopeless and gloomy of the sports of genius with man- kind. The lady seemed rather embarrassed when she perceived Mr. Love was not alone. She drew back, and, drawing her veil still more closely around her, said in French, " Pardon mc, I would wish a private conversation." NIGHT AND MORNING. 209 Philip rose to withdraw, when the lady, observing him with eyes whose lustre shone through the veil, said gently, " But perhaps the young gentleman is discreet." " He is not discreet, he is discretion ! — my adopted son. You may confide in him — upon my honour you may, madam !" and Mr. Love placed his hand on his heart. " He is very young," said the lady, in a tone of invol- untary compassion, as, with a very white hand, she un- clasped the buckle of her cloak. " He can the better understand the curse of celibacy," returned Mr. Love, smiling. The lady lifted part of her veil, and discovered a hand- some mouth, and a set of small, white teeth ; for she too smiled, though gravely, as she turned to Morton and said, " You seem, sir, more fitted to be a votary of the tem- ple than one of its officers. However, Monsieur Love, let there be no mistake between us : I do not come here to form a marriage, but to prevent one. I understand that Monsieur the Vicomte de Vaudemont has called into request your services. I am one of the vicomte's fami- ly ; we are all anxious that he should not contract an engagement of the strange, and, pardon me, unbecoming character which must stamp a union formed at a public office." " I assure you, madam," said Mr. Love, with dignity, " that we have contributed to the very first — " " Mon Dieu .'" interrupted the lady, with much impa- tience, " spare me a eulogy on your establishment : I have no doubt it is very respectable ; and for grisettes and epicicrs may do extremely well. But the vicomte is a man of birth and connexions. In a word, what he contemplates is preposterous. I know not what fee Monsieur Love expects ; but if he contrive to amuse Monsieur de Vaudemont, and to frustrate every connex- ion he proposes to form, that fee, whatever it may be, shall be doubled. Do you understand me 1" " Perfectly, madam ; yet it is not your offer that will bias me, but the desire to oblige so charming a lady." " It is agieed, then V said the lady, carelessly ; and, as she spoke, she again glanced at Philip. " If madame will call again, I will inform her of my plans," said Mr. Love. Si2 210 NIGHT AND MORNING. "Yes, I will call again. Good-morning!" As she rose and passed Philip, she wholly put aside her veil, and looked at him with a gaze entirely free from co- quetry, but curious, searching, and perhaps admiring : the look that an artist may give to a picture that seems of more value than the place where he finds it would seem to indicate. The countenance of the lady herself was fair and noble, and Philip felt a strange thrill at his heart, as, with a slight inclination of her head, she turn- ed from the room. " Ah !" said Gawtrey, laughing, " this is not the first time I have been paid by relations to break off the mar- riages I had formed. Egad ! if one could open a bureau to make married people single, one would be a Croesus in no time ! Well, then, this decides me to complete the union between Monsieur Goupille and Mademoiselle de Courval. I had balanced a little hitherto between the epicier and the viconite. Now I will conclude mat- ters. Do you know, Phil, I think you have made a con- quest V " Pooh !" said Philip, colouring. In effect, that very evening Mr. Love saw both the epicier and Adele, and fixed the marriage-day. As Mon- sieur Goupille was a person of great distinction in the faubourg, this wedding was one that Mr. Love congratu- lated himself greatly upon ; and he cheerfully accepted an invitation for himself and his partners to honour the noces with their presence. A night or two before the day fixed for the marriage of Monsieur Goupille and the aristocratic Adele, when Mr. Birnie had retired, Gawtrey made his usual prep- arations for enjoying himself. But this time the cigar and the punch seemed to fail of their effect ; Gawtrey remained moody and silent ; and Morton was thinking of the bright eyes of the lady who was so much inter- ested against the amours of the Vicomte de Vaudemont. At last Gawtrey broke silence ; " My young friend," said he, " I told you of my little protege — I have been buying toys for her this morning — she is a beautiful creature : to-morrow is her birthday —she will then be six years old. But — but — " here Gawtrey sighed, " I fear she is not all right here," and he touched his forehead. " I should like much to see her," said Philip, not no- ticing the latter remark. NIGHT AND MORNING. 211 ^ And you shall ; you shall come with me to-morrow. Heighho ! I should not like to die for her sake !" ' " Does her wretched relation attempt to regain her 1" " Her relation ! No ; she is no more — she died about two years since ! Poor Mary ! I — well, this is folly. But Fanny is at present in a convent ; they are all kind to her, but then I pay well ; if I were dead and the pay stopped, again I ask, what would become of her, unless, as I before said, my father — " " But you are making a fortune now V " If this lasts — yes ; but I live in fear : the police of this cursed city are lynx-eyed : however, that is the bright side of the question." " Why not have the child with you, since you love her so much ^ She would be a great comfort to you." " Is this a place for a child— a girlV said Gawtrey, stamping his foot impatiently. " I should go mad if I saw that villanous dead man's eye bent upon her !" " You speak of Birnie. How can you endure him V " When you are my age you will know why we en- dure what we dread — why we make friends of those who else would be most horrible foes : no, no, nothing can deliver me of this man but Death. And — and — " added Gawtrey, turning pale, " I cannot murder a man who eats my bread. There are stronger ties, my lad, than affection, that bind men like galley-slaves together. He who can hang you puts the halter round your neck, and leads you by it Uke a dog." A shudder came over the young listener. And what dark secrets, known only to those two, had bound, to a man seemingly his subordinate and tool, the strong will and resolute temper of William Gawtrey ^ " But begone, dull care!" exclaimed Gawtrey, rousing himself. " And, after all, Birnie is a useful fellow, and dare no more turn against me than I against him I Why don't you drink more 1 * Oh ! have you e'er heard of the famed Captain Wattle V " and Gawtrey broke out into a loud Bacchanalian hymn, in which PhiUp could find no mirth, and from wliich the songster suddenly paused to exclaim, " Mind you say nothing about Fanny to Birnie ; my secrets with him are not of that nature. He could not hurt her, poor Iamb ! it is true — at least, as far as I can S12 NIGHT AND MORNING. foresee. But one can never feel too sure of one's lamb if one once introduces it to the butcher !" The next day being Sunday, the bureau was closed, and Philip and Gawtrey repaired to the convent. It was a dismal-looking place as to the exterior ; but with-' in there was a large gardenj well kept, and, notwith- standing the winter, it seemed fair and refreshing com- pared with the polluted streets. The window of the room into which they were shown looked upon the greensward, with walls covered with ivy at the farther end. And Philip's own childhood came back to him as he gazed on the quiet of the lonely place. The door opened : an infant voice was heard ; a voice of glee — of rapture ; and a child, light and beautiful as a fairy, bounded to Gawtrey's breast. NestUng there, she kissed his face, his hands, his clothes, with a passion that did not seem to belong to her age, laughing and sobbing almost at a breath. On his part, Gawtrey appeared equally affected ; he stroked down her hair with his huge hand, calling her all manner of pet names, in a tremulous voice that vain- ly struggled to be gay. At length he took the toys he had brought with him from his capacious pockets, and, strewing them on the floor, fairly stretched his vast bulk along ; while the child tumbled over him, sometimes grasping at the toys, and then again returning to his bosom and laying her head there, looked up quietly into his eyes, as if the joy were too much for her. Morton, unheeded by both, stood by with folded arms. He thought of his lost and ungrateful brother, and mut- tered to himself, " Fool ! when she is older she will forsake him !" Fanny betrayed in her face the Italian origin of her father. She had that exceeding richness of complexion which, though not common even in Italy, is only to be found in the daughters of that land, and which harmo- nized well with the purple lustre of her hair, and the full, clear iris of the dark eyes. Never were parted cherries brighter than her dewy lips ; and the colour of the open neck and tlie rounded arms was of a whiteness still more dazzling, from the darkness of the hair and the carnation of the glowing cheek. Suddenly Fanny started from Gawtrey's arms, and, nnming up to Morton, gazed at him wistfully, and said in French, NIGHT AND MORNING. 213 " Who are you 1 Do you come from the moon t I think you do." Then, stopping abruptly, she broke into a verse of a nursery-song, which she chanted with a low, listless tone, as if she were not conscious of the sense. As she thus sung, Morton, looking at her, felt a strange and painful doubt seize him. The child's eyes, though soft, were so vacant in their gaze. " And why do I come from the moonl" said he. " Because you look sad and cross. I don't like you — I don't like the moon, it gives me a pain here I" and she put her hand to her temples. " Have you got anything for Fanny — poor, poor Fanny 1" and, dwelling on the epithet, she shook her head mournfully. " You are rich Fanny, with all those toys." " Am 1 1 Everybody calls me poor Fanny — every- body but papa ;" and she ran again to Gawtrey, and laid her head on his shoulder. " She calls me papa !" said Gawtrey, kissing her ; " you hear it ! Bless her !" " And you never kiss any one but Fanny — you have no other httle girH" said the child, earnestly, and with a look less vacant than that which had saddened Morton. " No other — no — nothing under Heaven, and perhaps above it, but you I" and he clasped her in his arms. " But," he added, after a pause, " but mind me, Fanny, you must like this gentleman. He will be always good to you ; and he had a little brother whom he was as fond of as I am of you." " No, I won't like him — I won't like anybody but you and my sister!" " Sister ! Who is your sister V The child's face relapsed into an expression almost of idiotcy. " I don't know ; I never saw her. I hear her sometimes, but I don't understand what she says. Hush ! come here !" and she stole to the window on tiptoe. Gawtrey followed and looked out. " Do you hear her now V said Fanny. " What does she say V As the girl spoke, some bird among the evergreens uttered a shrill, plaintive cry rather than song : a sound that the thrush occasionally makes in the winter, and which seems to express something of fear, and pain, and impatience. " What does she say? Can you tell me V asked the child. ^14 NIGHT AND MORNING. " Pooh ! that is a bird : why do you call it your sis- ter V " I don't know ! because it is — because it — because — I don't know — is it not in pain ] Do something for it, papa !" Gawtrey glanced at Morton, whose face betokened his deep pity, and, creeping up to him, whispered, " Do you think she is really touched here "? No, no, she will outgrow it — I am sure she will !" Morton sighed. Fanny by this time had again seated herself in the middle of the floor, and arranged her toys, but without seeming to take pleasure in them. At last Gawtrey was obliged to depart. The lay sis- ter who had charge of Fanny was summoned into the parlour, and then the child's manner entirely changed : her face grew purple ; she sobbed with as much anger as grief : " She would not leave papa ; she would not go — that she would not !" " It is always so," whispered Gawtrey to Morton, in an abashed and apologetic voice. " It is so difficult to get away from her. Just go and talk with her while 1 steal out." Morton went to her as she struggled with the patient, good-natured sister, and began to sooth and caress her, till she turned on him her large humid eyes, and said mournfully, " Tu cs mechant, tu. Poor Fanny I" " But this pretty doll — " began the sister. The child looked at it joylessly. " And papa is going to die !" " Whenever monsieur goes," whispered the nun, " she always says that he is dead, and cries herself quietly to sleep ; when monsieur returns, she says he is come to life again. Some one, I suppose, once talked to her about death ; and she thinks, when she loses sight of any one, that that is death." " Poor child !" said Morton, with a trembling voice. The child looked up, smiled, stroked his cheek with her little hand, and said, " Thank you ! Yes ! poor Fanny ! Ah, he is going — see ! — let me go too — /;/ cs mechant.'''' "But," said Morton, detaining her gently, "do you know that you give him paini You make him cry by showing pain yourself. Don't make him so sad !" NIGHT AND MORNING. 216 The child seemed struck ; hung down her head for a moment, as if in thought ; and then, jumping from Mor- ton's lap, ran to Gawtrey, put up her pouting lips, and said, " One kiss more !" Gawtrey kissed her and turned away his head. " Fanny is a good girl ;" and Fanny, as she spoke, went back to Morton, and put her little fingers into her eyes, as if either to shut out Gawtrey's retreat from her sight, or to press back her tears. " Give me the doll now. Sister Marie." Morton smiled and sighed ; placed the child, who struggled no more, in the nun's arms, and left the room ; but, as he closed the door, he looked back, and saw that Fanny had escaped from the sister, thrown herself on the floor, and was crying, but not aloud. " Is she not a little darling V said Gawtrey, as they gained the street. " She is, indeed, a most beautiful child !" " And you will love her if I leave her penniless," said Gawtrey, abruptly. " It was your love for your mother and your brother that made me like yoic from the first. Ay," continued Gawtrey, in a tone of great earnestness, " ay; and, whatever may happen to me, I will strive and keep you, my poor lad, harmless, and, what is better, innocent even of such matters as sit light enough on my own well-seasoned conscience. In turn, if ever you have the power, be good to her — yes, be good to her ! I won't say a harsh word to you if ever you like to turn king's evidence against myself." " Gawtrey !" said Morton, reproachfully, and almost fiercely. " Bah ! such things are ! But, tell me honestly, do you think she is ven/ strange — very deficient V " I have not seen enougli of her to judge," answered Morton, evasively. "She is so changeful!" persisted Gawtrey; "some- times you would say that she was above her age, she comes out with such thoughtful, clever things ; then, the next moment, she throws me into despair. These nuns are very skilful in education — at least they are said to be so. The doctors give me hope, too ; you see her poor mother was very unhappy at the time of her birth '—delirious, indeed — that may account for it. I often fancy that it is the constant excitement which her stale 216 NIGHT AND MORNING. occasions me that makes me love her so much ; you see she is one who can never shift for herself. I must get money for her ; I have left a little already with the su- perior, and I would not touch it to save myself from famine ! If she has money, people will be kind enough to her. And then," continued Gawtrey, " you must per- ceive that she loves nothing in the world but me — me, whom nobody else loves ! Well, well, now to the shop again !" On returning home, the bonne informed them that a lady had called, and asked both for Monsieur Love and the young gentleman, and seemed much chagrined at missing both. By the description, Morton guessed she was the fair incognita, and felt disappointed at having lost the interview. CHAPTER V. " The cursed carle was at his wonted trade, Still tempting heedless men into his snare, In witching wise, as I before have said ; But when he saw, in goodly gear arrayed, The grave, majestic knight approaching nigh, His countenance fell." Thomson : Castle of Indolence. The moniing rose that was to unite Monsieur Goupille with Mademoiselle Adele de Courval. The ceremony was performed, and bride and bridegroom went through that trying ordeal with becoming gravity. Only the elegant Adeie seemed more unaffectedly agitated than Mr. Love could well account for ; she was very nervous in church, and more often turned her eyes to the door than to the altar. Perhaps she wanted to run away; but it was either too late or too early for that proceed- ing. The rite performed, the happy pair and their friends adjourned to the Cadran Bleu, that restaurant so celebrated in the festivities of the good citizens of Paris. Here Mr. Love had ordered, at the epicier''s expense, a most tasteful entertainment. " Sanre ! but you have not played the economist. Monsieur Lofe," said Monsieur (ioupille, rather queru- NIGHT AND MORNING, 217 fously, as he glanced at the long room adorned with artificial flowers, and the table u cinquante converts. " Bah!" replied Mr. Love, "you can retrench after ward. Think of the fortune she brought you.'' " It is a pretty sum, certainly," said Monsieur Goupille, "and the notary is perfectly satisfied." " There is not a marriage in Paris that does me more credit," said Mr. Love ; and he marched off to receive the compliments and congratulations that awaited him among such of the guests as were avj^are of his good offices. The Vicomte de Vaudemont was, of course, not present. He had not been near ^][r. Love since Adele had accepted the epicier. But Madame Beavor, in a white bonnet lined with lilach, was hanging sentiment- ally on the arm of the Pole, who looked very grand with his white favour ; and Mr. Higgins had been introduced by Mr. Love to a little dark Creole, who wore paste diamonds, and had very languishing eyes ; so that Mr. Love's heart might well swell with satisfaction at the prospect of the various blisses to come, which might owe their origin to his benevolence. In fact, that arch- priest of the T-emple of Hymen was never more great than he >yas that day ; never did his establishment seem more solid, his reputation more popular, or his fortune piore sure. He was the life of the party. The banquet over, the revellers prepared for a dance. Monsieur Goupille, in tights, still tighter than he usually wore, and of a rich nankeen, quite new, with striped gilk stockings, opened the ball with the lady of a rich pdtissier in the same faubourg ; Mr. Love took out the bride. The evening advanced ; and, after several other dances of ceremony, Monsieur Goupille conceived him self entitled to dedicate one to connubial affection. A country-dance was called, and the epicier claimed the fair hand of the gentle Adple. About this time, two persons, not hitherto perceived, had quietly entered the room, and, standing near the doorway, seemed examin- ing the dancers, as if in search for some one. They bebbed their hea(}s up and down, to and fro— now stooped, now stood on tiptoe. The one was a tall, large- whiskered, fair-haired man ; the other a little, thin, neatly dressed person, who kept his hand gn the arm of his companion, and whispered to him from time to time. The whiskered gentleman replied in a guttural tone, which proclaimed his origin to be German. The busy Vol. L— T ^ 218 NIGHT AND MORNING. dancers did not perceive the strangers. The by-standers did, and a hum of curiosity circled round : who could they be 1 who had invited them t ihey were new faces in the faubourg — perhaps relations to Adele ? In high delight, the fair bride was skipping down the middle, while Monsieur Goupille, wiping his forehead with care, admired her agility ; when, lo and behold ! the whiskered gentleman 1 have described abruptly ad- vanced from his companion, and cried, " La voild ! sacre tonnerre .'" At that voice — at that apparition, the bride halted ; so suddenly, indeed, that she had not time to put down both feet, but remained with one high in air, while the other sustained itself on the light fantastic toe. The company naturally imagined this to be an operatic flour- ish which called for approbation. Monsieur Love, who was thundering down behind her, cried " Bravo !" and as the well-grown gentleman had to make a sweep to avoid disturbing her equilibrium, he came full against the whiskered stranger, and sent him off as a bat sends a ball. " Mon Dieu .'" cried Monsieur Goupille. " Ma douce amie — she has fainted away !" And, indeed, Adele had no sooner recovered her balance, than she resigned it once more into the arms of the startled Pole, who was happily at hand. In the mean time, the German stranger, who had saved himself from falling by coming with his full force upon the toes of Mr, Iliggins, again advanced to the spot, and, rudely seizing the fair bride by the arm, exclaimed, " No sham, if you please, madame. Speak! What the devil have you done with the money ]" " Really, sir," said Monsieur Goupille, drawing up his cravat, " this is very extraordinary conduct ! What have you got to say to this lady's money 1 It is my money now, sir !" " Oho ! it is, is it 1 We'll soon see that. Approqhez done. Monsieur Favarl, faites votrc devoir.'''' At these words, the small companion of the stranger slowly sauntered to the spot, while, at the sound of his name and the tread of his step, the throng gavp way to tlie riglit and left : for Monsieur Favart was one of the jnost ndiowncd chiefs of the great Parisian police — a man worthy to be the contemporary of the illustrious Vidocq. NIGHT AND MORNING. 219 " Calmez vous, messieurs ; do not be alarmed, ladies," said this gentleman, in the mildest of all human voices ; and, certainly, no oil dropped on tlie waters ever pro- duced so tranquillizing an effect as that small, feeble, gentle tenour. The Pole, in especial, who was holding the fair bride with both his arms, shook all over, and seemed about to let his burden graduall}' slide to the floor, when Monsieur Favart, looking at him with a be- nevolent smile, said, " Aha, mon brave ! c'est toi. Restez done. Restez, ten- ant toujours la dame .'" The Pole, thus condemned, in the French idiom, " al- ways to hold the dame^'' mechanically raised the arms he had previously dejected, and the police officer, with an approving nod of the head, said, " Bon ! ne bougez point, c''est (^a .'" Monsieur Goupille, in equal surprise and indignation to see his belter half thus consigned, without any care to his own marital feelings, to the arms of another, was about to snatch her from the Pole, when Monsieur Fa- vart, touching him on the breast with his little finger, said, in the suavest manner, " Man bourgeois, meddle not with what does not con- cern you !" " With what does not concern me .'" replied Monsieur Goupille, drawing himself up to so great a stretch that he seemed pulling off his tights the wrong way. " Ex- plain yourself, if you please ! This lady is my wife !" " Say that again — that's all !" cried the whiskered stranger, in most horrible French, and with a furious grimace, as he shook both his fists under the nose of the epicier. " Say it again, sir," said Monsieur Goupille, by no means daunted ; " and why should not I say it again ? That lady is my wife !" " You lie ! she is mine /" cried the German : and, bend- ing down, he caught the fair Adele from the Pole with as little ceremony as if she had never had a great grandfather a marquis, and giving her a shake that might have roused the dead, thundered out, " Spekk ! Madame Bihl ! Are you my wife or not V '■'■ Monstre V murmured Adele, opening her eyes. "There — you hear — she owns me !" said the German, appealing to the company with a triumphant air. " Cest vrai .'" said the soft voice of the policeman. 1220 NIGHT AND MORNING. " And now, pray don't let us disturb your amuserrients any longer. We have a fiacre at the door. Remove your lady, Monsieur Bihl." " Monsieur Lofe ! Monsieur Ldfe !" cried, or, rather, sneered the epicier, darting across the room, and seizing the chef by the tail of his coat just as he was half tvay through the door, " come back ! Quelle mauvais plai- santerie me faites vous igi ! Did you not tell me that lady was single 1 Am I marHed or not ] Do I stand on my head or my heels V\ " Hush — hush ! nlon hon bourgeois .'" Whispered Mr. Love ; " all shall be explained to-morrow!" " Who is this gentleman V asked Monsieur Favart, approaching Mr. Love, who, seeing himself in for it, suddenly jerked off- the epicier, thrust his hands dovrn into his breeches pockets, buried his chin in his cravat, elevated his eyebrows, screwed in his eyes, and puffed out his cheeks, so that the astonished Monsieur Gou- pille really thought himself beWitched, and literally did not recognisfei the face of the matchmaker. "Who is this gentleman ^"repeated the little officerj standing beside, or, rather, below Mr. Love, and looking so dimiimtive by the contrast that you might have fan- cied that the Priest of Hymen had Only to breathe to blow him away. "Who should he be, monsieur?" cried, with great pertness, Madame Rosalie Caumartiri, coming to the re- lief with the generosity of her sex: " this is Monsieur Lofe — Anglais celebre. What have you to say against him?" " He has got 500 francs of mine !" cried the epicier. The policeman scanned Mr. Love with great attention. " So you are in Paris again ! Hein ! vous jouez toujdul-s voire role .'" " Mafoi .'" sdid Mr. Love, boldly, " I don't understand what monsieur means ; my character is well known ; go and inquire it in London — ask the secretary of foreign affairs wliat is said of me — inquire of my ambassador — demand of my — " " Voire passeport, monsieur .^" " It is at home. A gentleman does not carry his pass- {)ort in his pocket when he goes to a ball !" " I will call and see it :• au revoir! Take my advice, and leave Paris ; I think I have seen you somewhere '." " Yet I liave never had the honour to marry mon- sieur !" said Mr. Love, with a polite bow. NIGHT AND MORNING. 221 In return for his joke, the policeman gave Mr. Love one look — it was a quiet look, very quiet ; but Mr. Love seemed uncommonly affected by it ; he did not say another virord, but found himself outside the house in a twinkling. Monsieur Favart turned round, and saw the Pole making himself as small as possible behind the goodly proportions of Madame Beavor. " What name does that gentleman go by "?" " So — vo — lofski, the heroic Pole," cried Madame Beavor, with sundry misgivings at the unexpected cow- ardice of so great a patriot. " Hein I take care of yourselves, ladies. I have no- thing against that person this time. But Monsieur La- tour has served his apprenticeship at the galleys, and is no more a Pole than I am a Jew." " And this lady's fortune !" cried Monsieur Goupille, pathetically ; " the settlements are all made, the notaries all paid. I am sure that there must be some mistake." Monsieur Bihl, who had by this time restored his lost Helen to her senses, stalked up to the epicier, dragging the lady along with him. " Sir, there is no mistake ! But, when I have got the money, if you like to have the lady, you are welcome to her." " Monstre .'" again muttered the fair Adele. " The long and the short of it," said Monsieur Favart, *' is, that Monsieur Bihl is a brave garqon, and has been half over the world as a courier." " A courier !" exclaimed several voices. " Madame was nursery-governess to an English mi- lord. They married, and quarrelled —no harm in that, mcs amis — nothing more common. Monsieur Bihl is a very failliful fellow ; nursed his last master in an illness that ended fatally, because he travelled with his doctor. Milord left him a handsome legacy ; he retired from ser- vice, and fell ill, perhaps from idleness or beer. Is not that the story, Monsieur Bihl V " He was always drunk — the wretch !" sobbed Adele. "That was to drown my domestic sorrows," said the German ; " and, when I was sick in my bed, madame ran off with my money. Thanks to monsieur, I have found both, and I wish you a very good-night." " Dansez vous toujovrs, mes mnis," said the officer, bowing. And, following Adele and her spouse, the little man left th-e room — where he had caused, in chests so T2 ^§2 NIGHT AND MORNING. broad and limbs so doughty, much the same consterna- tion as that which some diminutive ferret occasions in a bprrow of rabbits twice his size. Morton had outstayed Mr. Love. But he thought it unnecessary to hnger long after that gentleman's depart- ure ; and, in the general hubbub that ensued, he crept out unperceived, and soon arrived at the bureau. He found Mr. Love and Mr. Birnie already engaged in pack- ing up their effects. " Why, when did you leave ]" said Morton to Mr. Birnie. " I saw the policeman enter." " And why the deuse did not ydu tell us V said Gdw- trey. " Every man for himself. Besides, Mr. Love was dancing," replied Mr. Birnie, with a dull glance of dis- dain. " Philosophy!" muttered Gawtrey, thrusting his dress- coat into his trunk ; then suddenly changing his voice, " Ha ! ha ! it was a very good joke, after all — own 1 did it well. Ecod ! if he had not given me that look, I think I should have turned the tables on him. But those d — d fellows learn of the mad doctors how to tame us. Faith, my heart went down to my shoes — yet I'm no coward !" " But, after all, he evidently did not know you," said Morton ; " and what has he to say against you ? Your trade is a strange one, but not dishonest. Why give up as if—" " My young friend," interrupted Gawtrey, " whether the officer comes after us or not, our trade is ruined : that infernal Adele, with her fabulous grandmaman, has done for us. Goupille will blow the temple about our ears. No help for it — eh, Birnie V " None." " Go to bed, Philip : we'll call thee at daybreak, for we must make clear work before our neighbours open tlieir shutters." Reclined, but half undressed, on his bed in the little babinet, Mdrton revolved the events of the evening. The thought that he should see no more of that white hand and that lovely mouth, which still haunted his rec- ollection as appertaining to the incognita, greatly indis- posed him towards the abrupt flight intended by Gaw- trey, wliile (so much had his faitli in that person de*- Jiended upon respect for his confident daring, and so thoroughly fearless wa3 Morton's own nature) he felt NIGHT AND MORNING. 22^ himself greatly shaken in his allegiance to the ciiief by recollecting the effect produced on his valour by a sin- gle glance from the instrument of law. He had not yet lived long enough to be aware that men are sometimes the representatives of things ; that what the scytale was to the Spartan hero, a sheriffs writ often is to a Wa- terloo medallist ; that a Bow-street runner will enter the foulest den, where murder sits with his fellows, and pick out his prey with the beck of his fore-finger. That, in short, the thing called Law, once made tangi- ble and present, rarely fails to palsy the fierce heart of the thing called Crime. For Law is the symbol of all mankind reared against one foe — the Man of Crime. Not yet aware of this truth, nor, indeed, in the least suspecting Gawtrey of worse offences than those of a charlatanic and equivocal profession, the young man mused over his protector's cowardice in disdain and wonder ; till, wearied with conjectures, distrust, and shame at his own strange position of obligation to ond whom he could not respect, he fell asleep. When he woke he saw the gray light of dawn, that streamed cheerlessly through his shutterless window^ struggling with the faint ray of a candle that Gawtrey^ shading with his hand, held over the sleeper, tie started up, and, in the confusion of waking and the imperfect light by which he beheld the strong features of Gaw- trey, half imagined it was a foe who stood before him. " Take care, man!" said Gawtrey, as Morton, in this belief, grasped his arm. " You have a precious rough gripe of your own. Be quiet, will you 1 I have a word to say to you." Here Gawtrey, placing the candle on a chair, returned to the door and closed it. " Look you," he said, in a whisper, " I have nearly ran through my circle of invention, and my wit, fertile as it is, can present to me little encouragement in the future. The eyes of this Favart, once on me, every dis- guise and every double will not long avail. I dare not return to London ; I am too well knowil in Brussells, Berlin, and Vienna — " " But," interrupted Morton, raising himself on his arm^ and fixing his dark eyes upon his host, " but you have told me again and again that you have committed no crime — why, then, be so fearful of discovery V " Why I" repeated Gawtrey, with a slight hesitation Which he instantly overcame, "why! Have not you 224 I^lGHT AND MORNING. yourself learned that appearances have the effect of crimes 1 Were you not chased as a thief when I res- cued you from your foe, the Law 1 Are you not, though a boy in years, under an alias, and an exile from your own land 1 And how can you put these austere ques- tions to me, who am growing gray in the endeavour to extract sunbeams from cucumbers — subsistence from poverty 1 I repeat that there are reasons why I must avoid, for the present, the great capitals. I must sink in life, and take to the provinces. Birnie is sanguine as ever ; but he is a terrible sort of comforter. Enough of that. Now to yourself. Our savings are less than you might expect ; to be sure Bi*rnie has been treasurer, and I have laid by a little for Fanny, which I will rather starve than touch. There remain, however, 150 Napo- leons, and our effects, sold at a fourth their value, will fetch 150 more. Here is your share. 1 have compas- sion on you. I told you I would bear you harmless and innocent. Leave us while yet time." It seemed, then, to Morton that Gawtrey had divined his thoughts of shame and escape of the previous night ; perhaps Gawtrey had : and such is the human heart, that, instead of welcoming the very release he had half contemplated, now that it was offered him, Philip shrunk from it as a base desertion. " Poor Gawtrey !" said he, pushing back the canvass bag of gold held out to him, " you shall not go over the world, and feel that the orphan you fed and fostered left you to starve with your money in his pocket. When you again assure me that you have committed no crime, you again remind me that gratitude has no right to be severe upon the shifts and errors of its benefactor. If you do not conform to society, what has society done for me ] No ! I will not forsake you in a reverse. For- tune has given you a fall. What, then, courage, and at her again !" These last words were said so heartily and cheerful- ly as Morton sprung from the bed, that it inspirited Gaw- trey, who had really desponded of his lot. *' Well," said he, " I cannot reject the only friend left me ; and while I live — But 1 will make no professions. Quick, then ; our luggage is already gone, and I hear Birnie grunting the rogue's march of retreat." Morton's toilet was soon completed, and the three as- Bociates bade adieu to the bureau^ NIGriT AND MORNING. 225 Birnie, who was taciturn and inrpenetrable as ever, walked a little before as guide. They arrived, at length, at a serrurier's shop, placed in an alley near the Porte St. Denis. The serrurier himself, a tall, begrimed, black- bearded man, was taking the shutters from his shop as they approached. He and Birnie exchanged silent nods ; and the former, leaving his work, conducted them up a very filthy flight of stairs to an attic, where a bed, two Stools, one table, and an old walnut-tree bureau formed the sole articles of furniture. Gawtrey looked rather ruefully round the black, low, damp walls, and said, in a crestfallen tone, " We were better off at the Temple Of Hymen. But get us a bottle of wine^ some eggs, and a frying-pan — by Jove, I am a capital hand at an omelet !" The sejrrurier nodded again, grinned, and withdrew. " Rest here," said Birnie, in his calm, passionless voice, that seemed to Morton, however, to assume an unwonted tone of command. " I will go and make the best bargain I can for our furniture, buy fresh clothes, and engage our places for Tours." "For Tours'!" repeated Morton. " Yes — there are some English there ; one can live wherever there are English," said Gawtrey. " Hum !" grunted Birnie, dryly ; and, buttoning up his Coat, he walked slowly away. About noon he returned with a bundle of clothes, which Gawtrey, who always regained his elasticity of spirit wherever there was fair play to his talents, ex- amined with great attention, and many exclamations of " Bon, c'est ^a." " I have done well with the Jew," said Birnie, draw- ing from his coat pocket two heavy bags ; " one hun- dred and eighty Napoleons. We shall commence with a good capital." " You are right, my friend," said Gawtrey. The serrurier was then despatched to the best restau- rant in the neighbourhood, and the three adventurers made a less Socratic dinner than might have been ex* pected. 226 NIGHT AND MORNING CHAPTER VI. " Then out again he flies to wing his mazy round." Thomson: Castle of Indolence, " Again he gazed : ' It is,' said he, ' the same ; There sits he upright in his seat secure, As one whose conscience is correct and pure.' " Crabbb. The adventurers arrived at Tours, and established themselves there in a lodging, without any incident w^orth narrating by the way. At Tours, Morton had nothing to do but to take his pleasure and enjoy himself. He passed for a young heir ; Gawtrey for his tutor — a doctor in divinity ; Bir- nie for his valet. The task of maintenance fell on Gaw- trey, who hit off his character to a hair ; larded his grave jokes with University scraps of Latin ; looked big and well-fed ; wore knee-breeches and a shovel-hat ; and played whist with the skill of a veteran vicar. By his art in that game, he made, at first, enough, at least, to defray their weekly expenses. But, by degrees, the good people at Tours, who, under pretence of health, were there for economy, grew shy of so excellent a player; and, though Gawtrey always swore solemnly that he played with the most scrupulous honour (an as- severation which Morton, at least, implicitly believed), and no proof to the contrary was ever detected, yet a first-rate card-player is always a suspicious character, unless the losing parties know exactly who he is. The market fell off, and Gawtrey at length thought it pru- dent to extend their travels. " Ah !" said Mr. Gawtrey, " the world nowadays has grown so ostentatious, that one cannot travel advanta- geously without a post character and four liorscs." At length they found themselves at Milan, which at that time was one of the Kl Dorados for gamesters. Here, however, for want of introductions, Mr. Gawtrey found it difficult to get into society. The nobles, proud and rich, played high, but were circumspect in their compa- ny ; the bourgcoisc, industrious and energetic, preserved NIGHT AND MORNING. 227 much of the old Lombard shrewdness : there were no table d'hotcs and public reunions. Gawtrey saw his lit- tle capital daily diminishing, with the Alps at the rear, and Poverty in the van. At lengtli, always on the qui five, he contrived to make acquaintance with a Scotch ^ family of great respectability. He effected this by picking up a snuffbox which the Scotchman had dropped in taking out his handkerchief. This politeness paved the way to a conversation, in which Gawtrey made himself so agreeable, and talked with such zest of the modem Athens, and the tricks practised upon travel- lers, that he was presented to Mrs. Macgregor ; cards were interchanged ; and, as Mr. Gawtrey lived in toler- able style, the Macgregors pronounced him " a vara genteel mon." Once in the house of a respectable person, Gawtrey contrived to turn himself round and round, till he burrowed a hole into the English circle then settled at Milan. His whist-playing came into requisition, and once more Fortune smiled upon Skill. To this house the pupil one evening accompanied the tutor. When the whist-party, consisting of two tables, was formed, the young man found himself left out with an old gentleman, who seemed loquacious and good-na- tured, and who put many questions to Morton which he found it difficult to answer. One of the whist-tables was now in a state of revolution, viz., a lady had cut out, and a gentleman cut in, when the door opened, and Lord Lilbunie was announced. Mr. Macgregor, rising, advanced with great respect to this personage. " I scarcely ventured to hope you would coom, Lord Lilburne, the night is so cold." " You did not allow sufficiently, then, for the dulness of my solitary inn and the attractions of your circle. Aha ! whist, I see." "You play soometimesV' " Very seldom now ; I have sown all my wild oats, and even the ace of spades can scarcely dig them out again." " Ha ! ha ! vara gude.' " I will look on ;" and Lord Lilbunie drew his chair to the table, exactly opposite to Mr. Gawtrey. The old gentleman turned to Pliilip. " An extraordinary man, Lord Lilbunie ; you have heard of him, of course V 288 NIGHT AND MORNING. '* No, indeed ; what of him V asked the young man, rousing himself. " What of him T" said the old gentleman, with a smile ; " why, the newspapers, if you ever read them, will tell you enough of the elegant, the witty Lord Lil- bume ; a man of eminent talent, tliough indolent. He was wild in his youth, as clever men often are ; but, on attaining his title and fortune, and marrying into the family of the then premier, he became more sedate. They say he might make a great figure in politics if he would. He has a very high reputation — very. People do say he is still fond of pleasure ; but that is a com- mon failing among the aristocracy. Morality is only found in the middling classes, young gentleman. It is a lucky family, that of Lilburne ; his sister, Mrs. Beau- fort—" " Beaufort !" exclaimed Morton ; and then muttered to himself, " Ah, true — true, I have heard the name of Lil- burne before." " Do you know the Beauforts 1 Well, you remember how luckily Robert, Lilburne's brother-in-law, came into that fine property just as his predecessor was about to marry a — " Morton scowled at his garrulous acquaintance, and stalked abruptly to the card-table. Ever since Lord Lilburne had seated himself opposite to Mr. Gawtrey, that gentleman had evinced a perturba- tion of manner that became obvious to the company. He grew deadly pale ; his hands trembled ; he moved uneasily in his seat ; he missed deal ; he trumped his partner's best diamond ; finally he revoked, threw down his money, and said, with a forced sipiile, " That the heat of the room overcame him." As he rose. Lord Ijilburne rose also, and the eyes of both met. Those of Lilburne were calm, but penetrating and inquisitive in their gaze ; those of Gawtrey were hke balls of fire. He seemed gradually to dilate in his height, his broad phest expand- ed, he breathed hard. " Ah, doctor," said Mr, Macgrcgor, " let me introduce you to Lord Lilburne." The peer bowed haughtily ; Mr. Gawtrey did not rcr turn the salutation, but with a sort of gulp, as if he were swallowing some burst of passion, strode to the fire ; and then, turning round, again fixed his gaze upon the new guest. Jjilburne, however, who had ncvgr lost hi§ NIGHT AND MORNING. 229 self-composure at this strange rudeness, was now quiet- ly talking with their host. " Your doctor seems an eccentric man — a little absent — learned, I suppose. Have you been to Como yet ]" Mr. Gawtrey remained by the fire, beating the devil's tattoo upon the chimney-piece, and ever and anon turn- ing his glance towards Lilburne, who seemed to have forgotten his existence. Both these guests stayed tiU the party broke up, Mr. Gawtrey apparently wishing to outstay Lord Lilburne ; for, when the last went down stairs, Mr. Gawtrey, nod- ding to his comrade, and giving a hurried bow to the host, descended also. As they passed the porter's lodge, they found Lilburne on the step of his carriage ; he turned his head abruptly, and again met Mr. Gawtrey's eyes ; paused a moment, and whispered over his shoulder, " So we remember each other, sir 1 Let us not meet again ; and, on that condition, bygones are bygones." " Scoimdrel !" muttered Gawtrey, clinching his fists ; but the peer had sprung into his carriage with a hghtness scarcely to be expected from his lameness, and the wheels whirled within an inch of the soi disant doctor's right pump. Gawtrey walked on for some moments in great ex- citement ; at length he turned to his companion : " Do you guess who Lord Lilburne is ! I wiU tell you : my first foe, and Fanny's grandfather ! Now note the justice of Fate. Here is this man — mark well — this man, who commenced life by putting his faults on my own shoulders ! — from that little boss has fungused out a terrible hump — this man, who seduced my affianced bride, and then left her whole soul, once fair and bloom- ing — I swear it — with its leaves fresh from the dews of Heaven, one rank leprosy — this man, who, rolling in riches, learned to cheat and pilfer as a boy learns to dance and play the fiddle, and (to damn me, whose hap- piness he had blasted) accused me to the world of his own crime ! — here is this man, who has not left off one vice, but added to those of his youth the bloodless craft of the veteran knave — here is this man, flattered, court- ed, great, marching tlu'ough lanes of bowing parasites to an illustrious epitaph and a marble tomb : and I, a rogue too, if you will, but rogue for my bread, dating from him my errors and my ruin ! I — vagabond — outcast — skulk- ing through tricks to avoid crime — why the difference 1 Vol. L— U 230 NIGHT AND MORNING. Because one is born rich and the other poor ; because he has no excuse for crime, and, therefore, no one sus- pects him !" The wretched man (for at that moment he was wretch- ed) paused breathless from this passionate and rapid burst ; and before him rose in its marble majesty, with the moon full upon its shining spires, the wonder of Gothic Italy — the Cathedral Church of Milan. " Chafe not yourself at the universal fate," said the young man, with a bitter smile on his lips, and pointing to the Cathedral ; " I have not lived long, but I have learned already enough to know this : he who could raise a pile like that, dedicated to Heaven, would be hon- oured as a saint ; he who knelt to God by the roadside under a hedge would be sent to the house of correction as a vagabond ! The difference between man and man is money, and will be, when you, the despised charlatan, and Lilburne, the honoured cheat, have not left as much dust behind you as will fill a snuffbox. Comfort your- self ; you are in the majority," CHAPTER VH. " A desert wild Before them stretch'd bare, comfortless, and vast, With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled." TuoM.'iON ; Castle of Indolence. Mr. Gawtrey did not wish to give his foe the triumph of thinking he had driven him from Milan ; he resolved to stay and brave it out ; but when he appeared in pub- lic, he found the acquaintances he had formed bow po- litely, but cross to the other side of the w^ay. No more invitations to tea and cards showered in upon the jolly parson. He was puzzled ; for people, while they shun- ned him, did not appear uncivil. He found out, at last, that a report was circulated that he was deranged ; though he could not trace this rumour to Lord Lilburne, he was at no loss to guess from whom it had emanated. His own eccentricities, especially his recent manner at Mr. Macgregor's, gave confirmation to the charge. NIGHT AND MORNING. 231 Again the funds began to sink low in the canvass bags, and at length, in despair, Mr. Gawtrey was obliged to quit the field. They returned to France through Switz- erland — a country too poor for gamesters ; and, ever since the interview with Lilburne, a great change had come over Gawtrey's gay spirit : he grew moody and thoughtful ; he took no pains to replenish the common stock ; he talked much and seriously to his young friend of poor Fanny, and owned that he yearned to see her again. The desire to return to Paris haunted him like a fatality ; he saw the danger that awaited him there, but it only allured him the more, as the candle that has singed its wings does the moth. Birnie, who, in all their vicissitudes and wanderings, their ups and downs, retained the same tacit, immoveable demeanour, re- ceived with a sneer the orders at last to march back upon the French capital. " You would never have left it if you had taken my advice," he said, and quitted the room. Mr. Gawtrey gazed after him and muttered, " Is the die then cast 1" " What does he mean V said Morton. " You will know soon," replied Gawtrey, and he fol- lowed Birnie ; and from that time, the whispered con- ferences with that person, which had seemed suspended during their travels, were renewed. One morning, three men were seen entering Paris on foot through the Porte St. Denis. It was a fine day in spring, and the old city looked gay with its loitering passengers and gaudy shops, and under that clear, blue, exhilarating sky so peculiar to France. Two of these men walked abreast, the other preceded them a few steps. The one who went first — thin, pale, and threadbare — yet seemed to suffer the least from fa- tigue ; he walked with a long, swinging, noiseless stride, looking to the right and left from the corners of his eyes. Of the two who followed, one was handsome and finely formed, but of a swarthy complexion ; young, yet with a look of care ; the other, of a sturdy frame, leaned on a thick stick, and his eyes were gloomily cast down. " Philip," said the last, " in coming back to Paris, I feel that I am coming back to my grave !'* 232 NIGHT AND MORNING. " Pooh ! you were equally despondent in our excur-= sions elsewhere." " Because I was always thinking of poor Fanny, and because — because — Bimie was ever at me with his hor- rible temptations !" " Bimie ! I loathe the man ! Will you neVfer get rid of him 1" " I cannot ! Hush ! he will hear us ! How unlucky we have been ! and now, without a sous in our pockets ' — here the dunghill, there the jail ! We are in his pmver at last /" " His power ! What mean you t" " What, ho ! Bimie !" cried Gawtrey, ujiheeding Mor- ton's question, " let us halt and breakfast : I am tired." " You forget ! we have no money till we make it !" returned Birnie, coldly. " Come to the serrurier''s—iie will trust us !" BHD or VOL. I. THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. 3 205 02044 0259 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A A 001 410 140 6