THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Peter Scott
 
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 THE NOVELS AND ROMANCES 
 
 OF 
 
 EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 
 
 (LORD LYTTON) 
 
 i^anDp Eibrarp o^tiition 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING
 
 The stranger opened the door of the chaise. 
 
 Night and Morning.
 
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 . THE NOVELS 
 
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 AND • ROMANCES 
 
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 EDWARD • BULWER 
 
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 LYTTON 
 
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 NIGHT AND 
 MORNING 
 
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 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE • hROWN 
 and COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1S93, 1807, 
 Bv Little, Brown, and Company, 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Camhuidge, U.S.A.
 
 PR 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 PART FIRST.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The self-reliance of Bulwer is strikingly shown 
 by the fact that, in an age when the novel of char- 
 acter was the prevailing form of fiction, he steadily 
 adhered to the novel of incident, which by persist- 
 ent painstaking he brought to a high degree of 
 excellence. In creative power, — the power of im- 
 parting individuality to one's personages, which en- 
 abled Scott, Miss Austen, Dickens, and George Eliot 
 to people the world of imagination with men and 
 women of whom we think and talk as beings of 
 actual flesh and blood, — Bulwer is surpassed by all 
 these writers. But if we pass from this region to 
 those ov^ermastering passions which sway men in all 
 ases and countries, we enter a realm where Bulwer 
 has " no rival near his throne." Love, hate, ambi- 
 tion, avarice, vengefulness, — all the grand eternal 
 passions which ennoble or disgrace human nature, 
 — he has depicted with a master's hand. 
 
 Every one who has tried his hand at this part of 
 the novelist's work knows that it is the most diffi- 
 cult which the literary artist has to perform. There 
 
 2227567
 
 viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 is danger on the one hand of transgressing the real- 
 ity, on the other of falling short of it ; and le juste 
 milieu is not easily hit. But it is just here that 
 Buhver shows his mastery. He even surpasses " the 
 Wizard of the North," who usually depicts extreme 
 passion not directly, but by its effects. Like the 
 ancient painter, who threw a veil over the face 
 whose workings he felt himself unable to portray, 
 Scott veils the passion which he cannot adequately 
 depict. Not so with our author, who in such crucial 
 situations is always at home. Striking illustrations 
 of this are the scenes described in Chapters X. and 
 XX. of the present work, and especially in Chapter 
 XV., where Lilburne throws into the fire the paper 
 "on which rests Philip Beaufort's fate," and which is 
 snatched by Fanny, who is rescued by Philip from 
 the clutch of Lilburne. Another striking illustra- 
 tion is the scene in " Ernest Maltravers " that fol- 
 lows the meeting of Maltravers with Cesarini, after 
 the former had discovered the base forgery by which 
 the Itnlian liad caused the estrangement and ulti- 
 mately the death of Florence Lascelles. In the de- 
 scription of this scene, which i'=; a masterpioc? of its 
 kind, there is no avoidance of the difficulties, but 
 they are grappled with fearlessly, although the writer 
 knows that 
 
 "Si pauhuii a suinmo decessit, vergit ad imum." 
 
 "Night and Morning," the aptness or significance 
 of whose title it is not easy to perceive, is a tale of
 
 INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 less absorbing interest than some of its predecessors, 
 yet it is full of variety, and some of its meludramatic 
 scenes, in which it abounds, are in the author's best 
 vein. Philip Beaufort, the hero of the story, tlie 
 proud-spirited, irascible young man v^^ho, along with 
 his tiger-like temper, " had in the sleek hues and 
 sinewy symmetry of his frame something of the 
 tiger's beauty," is vividly portrayed, but engages the 
 reader's sympathies less, we think, than most of 
 Bulwer's heroes. Fanny, the half-idiot girl, Gaw- 
 trey's idol, — the Undine whose slumbering soul 
 gradually awakens under the magic intluence of 
 love, — is a beautiful creation, worthy of the author 
 of Sophy Waife and Evelyn Cameron. Physiolo- 
 gists may object to it as unreal, but the imaginative 
 reader at once feels its charm. The most original 
 and powerfully drawn of the dramatis personce is 
 Gawtrey, the consummate knave, possessed of a co- 
 lossal frame and robust animal spirits, at one time 
 choleric, impetuous, fierce, at another full of pleas- 
 antry, kindly impulses, and generous affections, — 
 self-described as " the prince of good-for-nothings, 
 with ten thousand aliases, and as many strings to 
 my bow." It would be hard to name a scene in all 
 Bulwer's novels more skilfully depicted or of more 
 thrilling interest than that in the coiners' gloomy 
 vault in Paris, where Gawtrey and his confederates 
 are joined by the most skilful forger of the day, — 
 a diminutive man in a mechanic's blouse, with thin, 
 sandy hair, and a patch over one eye, — who, amid
 
 X INTKODUCTION. 
 
 loud applause, exhibits some brilliant specimens of 
 his workmanship, but, after a sharp encounter of 
 wits with Gawtrey, is discovered by the keen-eyed 
 captain of the gang to be the chief of the Paris de- 
 tectives, and is instantly seized by the throat by 
 the master-coiner, and dashed along the table till 
 he falls a lifeless and distorted mass. 
 
 Next in interest to Gawtrey, whose tragic death 
 we half lament on account of the rogue's redeeming 
 qualities, — his humor, rough kindliness, and tender 
 love for Fanny, — is the object of his intense and un- 
 dvin2 hate, Lord Lilburne. This man, whose moral 
 features are powerfully depicted, is one of those 
 liateful characters which are to be found only in 
 the higher classes of society, and which Bulwer de- 
 lights to gibbet, — a cold-blooded voluptuary and 
 embodiment of selfishness, a callous, conscienceless 
 wretch, incapable of remorse, and capable of any 
 villainy which the irreproachable respectability of 
 a high name, a splendid mansion, and a rent-roll 
 without a flaw, may enable a peer of the realm to 
 practise with immunity from the clutches of the law. 
 He is a more repulsive villain than even Vargrave 
 in " The Disowned," who has, at least, many pleas- 
 ant social qualities. In Robert Beaufort, " the man 
 of decorous phrase and bloodless action," we have a 
 graphic portraiture of a man not uncommon in old 
 and highly civilized communities, the systematic 
 time-server, bland and plausible, who never loses 
 his poise or is betrayed into any excesses, — one of
 
 INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 that "venerable corps" whose lives Burns has com- 
 pared to a well-gomg mill supplied with store of 
 water, whose machinery goes on in one unvarying 
 clack, and whose hopper is constantly ebbing but 
 never exhausted. Blessed by fortune with a serene, 
 well-ordered life, free from all harassing cares, the 
 livelier and more errant feelings all stilled down into 
 torpidity, they have little temptation to wrong-doing, 
 and little charity for those who, having it, are led 
 astray. Not less vivid is the picture of the traitor 
 Birnie, with his pale-blue vulture eye and stealthy 
 watchfulness, his noiseless, cat-like footstep, — from 
 his slavery to whom, due to a knowledge of his 
 crimes, Gavvtrey frees himself by sending a pistol- 
 ball through the wretch's brain. 
 
 " Xight and Morning " was originally published 
 in London in 1841. 
 
 It was translated into French by Madame Am- 
 broise Tardieu, and published at Paris in 1876, in 
 two volumes Smo, by M. Coulommiers, under the 
 title of " Jour et Nuit ; ou Heur et Malheur." An- 
 other translation, in two volumes Smo, was pub- 
 lished in Paris in 1879, in the " Bibliotheque ties 
 meillcurs romans Strangers." 
 
 W. M.
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1845. 
 
 Much has been written by critics, especially by those 
 in Germany (the native land of criticism), upon the 
 important question, whether to please or to instruct 
 should be the end of fiction, — whether a moral purpose 
 is or is not in harmony with the undidactic spirit per- 
 ceptible in the higher works of the imagination: and 
 the general result of the discussion has been in favor of 
 those who have contended that moral design, rigidly so 
 called, should be excluded from the aims of the poet; 
 that his art should regard only the beautiful, and be 
 contented with the indirect moral tendencies, which can 
 never fail the creation of the beautiful. Certainly, in 
 fiction, to interest, to please, and sportively to elevate; 
 to take man from the low passions, and the miserable 
 troubles of life, into a higher region; to beguile weary 
 and selfish pain ; to excite a generous sorrow at vicissi- 
 tudes not his own ; to raise the passions into sympathy 
 with heroic struggles; and to admit the soul into that 
 serener atmosphere from which it rarely returns to ordi- 
 nary existence, without some memory or association 
 which ought to enlarge the domain of thought and exalt
 
 xiv PKEFACE. 
 
 the motives of action, — such, without other moral result 
 or object, may satisfy the poet,^ and constitute the high- 
 est and most vmiversal morality he can effect. But, sub- 
 ordinate to this, which is not the duty, but the necessity 
 of all fiction that outlasts the hour, the writer of imagi- 
 nation may well permit to himself other purposes and 
 objects, taking care that they be not too sharply defined, 
 and too obviously meant to contract the poet into the 
 lecturer, — the fiction into the homily. The delight in 
 " Shylock " is not less vivid for the humanity it latently 
 but profoundly incidcates ; the healthful merriment of the 
 " Tartuffe " is not less enjoyed for the exposure of the 
 hypocrisy it denounces. We need not demand from 
 Shakespeare or from Moliere other morality than that 
 which genius unconsciously throws around it, — the nat- 
 ural light which it reflects ; but, if some great principle 
 which guides us practically in the daily intercourse with 
 men becomes in the general lustre more clear and more 
 pronounced, we gain doubly, by the general tendency 
 and the particular result. 
 
 Long since, in searching for new regions in the art 
 to which I am a servant, it seemed to me that they 
 might be found lying far, and rarely trodden, beyond 
 that range of conventional morality in which novelist 
 after novelist had intrenched himself, — amongst those 
 subtle recesses in the ethics of human life in which 
 truth and falsehood dwell undisturbed and unseparated. 
 The vast and dark poetry around us — the poetry of 
 
 1 I use the word poet in its proper sense, as applicable to any 
 writer, whether in verse or prose, who invents or creates.
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 modern civilization and daily existence — is shut out 
 from us in much, by the shadowy giants of prejudice 
 and fear. He who would arrive at the Fairy Land, 
 must face the phantoms. Betimes I set myself to the 
 task of investigating the motley world which our pro- 
 gress in humanity has attained, caring little what mis- 
 representation I incurred, what hostility I provoked, 
 in searching through a devious labyrinth for the foot- 
 tracks of truth. 
 
 In the pursuit of this object, I am, not vainly, con- 
 scious that I have had my influence on my time, — that 
 I have contributed, though humbly and indirectly, to the 
 benefits which public opinion has extorted from govern- 
 ments and laws. While (to content myself with a single 
 example) the ignorant or malicious were decrying the 
 moral of "Paul Clifford," I consoled myself with per- 
 ceiving that its truths had stricken deep, — that many, 
 whom formal essays might not reach, were enlisted by 
 the picture and the popular force of fiction into the ser- 
 vice of that large and catholic humanity which frankly 
 examines into the causes of crime, which ameliorates 
 the ills of society by seeking to amend the circumstances 
 by which they are occasioned, and commences the great 
 work of justice to mankind, by proportioning the pun- 
 ishment to the offence. That work, I know, had its 
 share in the wise and great relaxation of our criminal 
 code ; it has had its share in results yet more valuable, 
 because leading to more comprehensive reforms, — namely, 
 in the courageous facing of the ills which the mock de- 
 corum of timidity would shun to contemplate, but which,
 
 XVI PREFACE. 
 
 till fairly fronted, in the spirit of practical Christianity, 
 sap daily, more and more, the wails in which blind in- 
 dolence would protect itself from restless misery and 
 rampant hunger. For it is not till art has told the un- 
 thmking that nothing (rightly treated) is too low for 
 its breath to vivify, and its wings to raise, that the herd 
 awaken from their chronic lethargy of contempt, and the 
 lawgiver is compelled to redress what the poet has lifted 
 into esteem. In thus enlarging the boundaries of the 
 novelist, from trite and conventional to untrodden ends, I 
 have seen, not with the jealousy of an author, but with 
 the pride of an originator, that I have served as a guide 
 to later and abler writers, both in England and abroad. 
 If at times, while imitating, they have mistaken me, I 
 am not answerable for their errors; or if, more often, 
 they have improved where they borrowed, I am not en- 
 vious of their laurels. They owe me at least this, that 
 I prepared the way for their reception, and that they 
 would have been less popular and more misrepresented, 
 if the outcry which bursts upon the first researches into 
 new directions, had not exhausted its noisy vehemence 
 upon me. 
 
 In this novel of " Night and Morning " I have had 
 various ends in view, — subordinate, I grant to the 
 higher and more durable morality which belongs to 
 the ideal, and instructs us playfully while it interests, 
 in the passions, and through the heart. First : to deal 
 fearlessly with that universal unsoundness in social jus- 
 tice which makes distinctions so marked and iniquitous 
 between vice and crime, — namely, between the corrupting
 
 PREFACE. XVU 
 
 habits and the violent act, which scarce touches the 
 former with the Hghtest twig in the fasces, which lifts 
 against the latter the edge of the lictor's axe. Let a 
 child steal an apple in sport, let a starveling steal a roll 
 in despair, and law conducts them to the prison, for evil 
 commune to mellow them for the gibbet. But let a man 
 spend one apprenticeship from youth to old age in vice ; 
 let him devote a fortune, perhaps colossal, to the whole- 
 sale demoralization of his kind, — and he may be sur- 
 rounded with the adulation of the so-called virtuous, and 
 be served upon its knee by that lackey, the modern 
 world ! I say not that law can, or that law should reach 
 the vice as it does the crime ; but I say that opinion may 
 be more than the servile shadow of law. I impress not 
 here, as in " Paul Clifford, " a material moral to work its 
 effect on the journals, at the hustings, through constitu- 
 ents, and on legislation : I direct myself to a channel less 
 active, more tardy, but as sure, — to the conscience that 
 reigns, elder and superior to all law, in men's hearts 
 and souls ; I utter boldly and loudly a truth, if not all 
 untold, murmured feebly and falteringly before, — sooner 
 or later it will find its way into the judgment and the 
 conduct, and shape out a tribunal which requires not 
 robe or ermine. 
 
 Secondly : In this work I have sought to lift the mask 
 from the timid selfishness which too often with us bears 
 the name of respectability. Purposely avoiding all 
 attraction that may savor of extravagance, patiently sub- 
 duing every tone and every hue to the aspect of those 
 whom we meet daily in our thoroughfares, I have shown
 
 XVlll PREFACE. 
 
 ill Roliert Beaufort the man of decorous phrase and 
 bloodless action, — the systematic self -server, — in whom 
 the world forgive the lack of all that is generous, warm, 
 and noble, in order to respect the passive acquiescence in 
 metliodical conventions and hollow forms. And how 
 common such men are with us in this century, and how 
 inviting and how necessary their delmeation may be seen 
 in this, — that the popular and pre-eminent observer of 
 the age in which we live has since placed their prototype 
 in vigorous colors upon imperishable canvas.^ 
 
 There is yet another object with which I have iden- 
 tified my tale. I trust that I am not insensible to such 
 advantages as arise from the diffusion of education really 
 sound, and knowledge really available ; for these , as the 
 right of my countrymen, I have contended always. But 
 of late years there has been danger that what ought to 
 be an important truth may be perverted into a pestilent 
 fallacy. Whether for rich or for poor, disappointment 
 must ever await the endeavor to give knowledge without 
 labor, and experience without trial. Cheap literature 
 and popular treatises do not in themselves suffice to fit 
 the nerves of man for the strife below, and lift his aspira- 
 tions in healthful confidence above. He who seeks to 
 divorce toil from knowledge, deprives knowledge of its 
 most valuable property, — the strengthening of the mind 
 by exercise. We learn what really braces and elevates 
 us only in proportion to the effort it costs us. Nor is it 
 in books alone, nor in books chiefly, that we are made 
 
 1 Need I say that I allude to the " Pecksniff " of Mr. Dickens ?
 
 PKEFACE. XIX 
 
 conscious of our strength as men ; life is the great school- 
 master, experience the mighty volume. He who has 
 made one stern sacrifice of self, has acquired more than 
 he will ever glean from the odds-and-ends of popular 
 philosophy; and the man the least scholastic, may be 
 more robust in the power that is knowledge, and 
 approach nearer to the Arch-Seraphim, than Bacon him- 
 self, if he cling fast to two simple maxims, " Be honest in 
 temptation, and in adversity believe in God." Such 
 moral, attempted before in " Eugene Aram," I have 
 enforced more directly here ; and out of such convictions 
 I have created hero and heroine, placing them in their 
 primitive and natural characters, with aid more from life 
 than books, — from courage the one, from affection the 
 other, — amidst the feeble Hermaphrodites of our sickly 
 civilization, examples of resolute manhood and tender 
 womanhood. 
 
 The opinions I have here put forth are not in fashion 
 at this day. But I have never consulted the popular, 
 any more than the sectarian prejudice. Alone and 
 unaided, I have hewn out my way, from first to last, 
 by the force of my own convictions. The corn springs 
 up in the field centuries after the first sower is forgotten. 
 Works may perish with the workman; but, if truthful, 
 their results are in the works of others, imitating, bor- 
 rowing, enlarging, and improving, in the everlasting 
 cycle of industry and thought. 
 
 Knebworth, 1845.
 
 NOTE TO THE EDITION OF 1851. 
 
 I HAVE nothing to add to the preceding pages, written 
 six years ago, as to the objects and aims of this work, 
 except to say, and by no means as a boast, that the work 
 lays claims to one kind of interest which I certainly 
 never desired to effect for it, — namely , in exemplifying 
 the glorious uncertainty of the law. For, humbly aware 
 of the blunders which novelists not belonging to the legal 
 profession are apt to commit, when they summon to the 
 denouement of a plot the aid of a deity so mysterious as 
 Themis, I submitted to an eminent lawyer the whole 
 case of " Beaufort versus Beaufort, " as it stands in this 
 novel. And the pages which refer to that suit were not 
 only written from the opinion annexed to the brief I 
 sent in, but submitted to the eye of my counsel, and 
 revised by his pen. — N. B. He was fee'd. Judge 
 then my dismay when I heard long afterwards that the 
 late Mr. O'Connell disputed the soundness of the law I 
 had thus bought and paid for! "Who shall decide 
 when doctors disagree 1 '^ All I can say is, that I took 
 the best opinion that love or money could get me : and I 
 should add that my lawyer, unawed by the alleged ipse 
 dixit of the great Agitator (to be sure, he is dead), still
 
 XX 11 NOTE. 
 
 stoutly maintains his own views of the question.^ Let 
 me hope that the right heir will live long enough to come 
 under the statute of limitations. Possession is nine 
 points of the law, and may time give the tenth. 
 
 Knebworth. 
 
 1 I have, however, thought it prudent so far to meet the objec- 
 tion suggested by Mr. O'Connell, as to make a slight alteration in 
 this edition, which will probably prevent the objection, if correct, 
 being of any material practical effect on the disposition of that 
 visionary El Dorado, — the Beaufort property.
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 ^Jlotf) in meirteS CebenI 2enje 
 aUar ic^ unb ic^ wanbert' au§, 
 
 Unb ber Sugenb froI)e Xanje 
 Ciefe id^ in be§ iUaterS §au§. 
 
 Schiller, Der Pilgrim. 
 
 VOL. I. — 1
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 BOOK I. — INTRODUCTOEY CHAPTER. 
 
 Now rests our vicar. They who knew him best, 
 Proclaim his life 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 . It is somewhat removed from the highroad, 
 
 and is, therefore, but little known to those luxurious 
 amateurs of the picturesque who view nature through 
 the windows of a carriage-and-four. Nor, indeed, is 
 there 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 
 prescribe to those who search the sublime and beautiful 
 amidst the mountain homes of the ancient Britons. Still, 
 on the whole, the village is not without its attractions. 
 It is placed in a small valley, through which winds and 
 leaps, down many a rocky fall, a clear, babbling, noisy 
 rivulet, that affords excellent sport to the brethren of 
 the angle. Thither, accordingly, in the summer season 
 occasionally resort the Waltons of the neighborhood, — 
 young farmers, retired traders, with now and then a 
 stray artist, or a roving student from one of the universi-
 
 4 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ties. Hence the solitary hostelry of A , being some- 
 what more frequented, is also more clean and comfortable 
 than could be reasonably anticipated from the insignifi- 
 cance and remoteness of the village. 
 
 At a time in which my narrative opens, the village 
 boasted a sociable, agreeable, careless, half-starved parson, 
 who never failed to introduce himself to any of the ang- 
 lers who, during the summer months, passed a day or 
 two in the little valley. The Rev. Mr. Caleb Price had 
 been educated at the University of Cambridge, where he 
 had contrived, in three years, to run through a little for- 
 tune of £3500. It is true that he acquired in return the 
 art of making milk-punch, the science of pugilism, and 
 the reputation of one of the best-natured, rattling, open- 
 hearted companions whom you could desire by your side 
 in a tandem to Newmarket or in a row with the barge- 
 men. By the help of these gifts and accomplishments 
 he had not failed to find favor, while his money lasted, 
 with the young aristocracy of the " Gentle Mother. " 
 And, though the very reverse of an ambitious or calculat- 
 ing man, he had certainly nourished the belief that some 
 one of the hats or tinsel gowns, — that is, young lords, or 
 fellow-commoners, — with whom he was on such excel- 
 lent 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 him- 
 self 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, with the excep- 
 tion of one, joyous and reckless as himself, Mr. Caleb 
 Price found that when money makes itself wings, it flies 
 away with our friends. As poor Price had earned no 
 academical distinction, so he could expect no advance-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 5 
 
 ment from his college, no fellowship, no tutorship, lead- 
 ing hereafter to livings, stalls, and deaneries. Poverty- 
 began already to stare him in the face, when the only 
 friend who, having shared his prosperity, remained true 
 to his adverse fate, — a friend, fortunately for him, of 
 high connections and brilliant prospects, — succeeded in 
 
 obtaining for him the humble living of A . To this 
 
 primitive spot the once jovial roister 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 congre- 
 gation, some of whom only understood Welsh ; did good 
 to the poor and sick in his own careless, slovenly way, — 
 and, uncheered or imvexed by wife and children, he rose 
 in summer with the lark, and in winter went to bed at 
 nine precisely, to save coals and candles. For the rest, 
 he was the most skilful angler in the whole county ; and 
 so willing to communicate the results of his experience as 
 to the most taking color of the flies, and the most favored 
 haunts of the trout, that 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 re- 
 compense. First, if the stranger were tolerably liberal, 
 Mr. Price was asked to dinner at the inn ; and, secondly, 
 if this failed, from the poverty or the churlishness of the 
 obliged party, Mr. Price still had an opportunity to hear 
 the last news , to talk about the great world, — in a word, 
 to exchange ideas, and 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 
 gradually rarer and more rare, had altogether ceased, Mr. 
 Caleb Price was summoned from his parlor, in which he
 
 6 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 had been employed in the fabrication of a net for his 
 cabbages, by a little white-headed boy, who came to say 
 there was a gentleman at the inn who wished 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 inn. 
 
 The person there awaiting him was a man who, though 
 plainly clad in a velveteen shooting-jacket, had an air 
 and mien greatly above those common to the pedestrian 
 visitors of A . He was tall, and one of those ath- 
 letic forms in which vigor in youth is too often followed 
 by corpulence in age. At this period, however, in the 
 full prime of manhood, the ample chest and sinewy 
 limbs — seen to full advantage in their simple and manly 
 dress — could not fail to excite that popular admiration 
 which is always given to strength in the one sex as to 
 delicacy in the other. The stranger was walking impa- 
 tiently to and fro the small apartment when Mr. Price 
 entered ; and then, turning to the clergyman a countenance 
 handsome 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, 
 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! Xo! 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 '11 talk over matters as soon as our 
 landlord has brought up the materials for — "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 7 
 
 "The milk-punch," internipted Mr. Price, rubbing 
 his hands. "Ah, that will bring us back to old times, 
 indeed! " 
 
 In a few minutes the punch was prepared, and after 
 two or three preparatory glasses, the stranger thus 
 commenced : — 
 
 " My dear Caleb, I am in want of your assistance, and, 
 above all, of your secrecy." 
 
 " I promise you both beforehand. It will make me 
 happy the rest of my life to think I have served my 
 patron, my benefactor, — the only friend I possess." 
 
 "Tush, man! don't talk of that: we shall do better 
 for you one of these days. But now to the point: I 
 have come here to be married, — married, old boy! 
 married! " 
 
 And the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and 
 chuckled with the glee of a 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 for- 
 tune is at his own disposal ; if I disobliged him, he 
 would be capable of leaving all to my brother; I should 
 disoblige him irrevocably if he knew that I had married 
 a tradesman's daughter; I am going to marry a trades- 
 man'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 1 " 
 
 "No, my intended is not of age; and we keep the 
 secret even from her father. In this village you will 
 mumble over the banns without one of your congregation 
 ever taking heed of the name. I shall stay here a month 
 for the purpose. She is in London, on a visit to a rela-
 
 8 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 tion in the city. The banns on her side will be pub- 
 lished with equal privacy in a little church near the 
 Tower, where my name will be no less unknown than 
 here. Oh, I 've contrived it famously! " 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, consider what you risk." 
 
 " I have considered all, and I find every chance in 
 my favor. 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 
 I shall dispose of, and the rest I can depend on." 
 
 " But — " 
 
 " I detest buts; if I had to make a language, I would 
 not admit such a word in it. And now, before I run on 
 about Catherine, a subject quite inexhaustible, tell me, 
 my dear friend, something about yourself. " 
 
 Somewhat more than a month had elapsed since the 
 arrival of the stranger at the village inn. He had 
 changed his quarters for the parsonage, — went out but 
 little, and then chiefly on foot excursions among the 
 sequestered hills in the neighborhood: he was there- 
 fore 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 
 observation. The banns had been duly, and half audibly, 
 hurried 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 
 arrived at the parsonage. A servant out of livery leaped 
 from the box. The stranger opened the door of the 
 chaise, and, uttering a joyous exclamation, gave his arm 
 to a lady, who, trembling and agitated, could scarcely,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 9 
 
 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 parlor, — 
 "ah! if you knew how I have suffered!" 
 
 How is it that certain words, and those the homeliest, 
 — which the hand writes and the eye reads as trite and 
 commonplace expressions, — when spoken, convey so 
 much, so many 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: 
 in that complaint was the whole history of a clandestine 
 love, not for both the parties, hut for the woman; the 
 painful secrecy, the remorseful deceit, the shame, the 
 fear, the sacrifice. She who uttered those words was 
 scarcely sixteen. It is an early age to leave childhood 
 behind forever! 
 
 "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 horite ? 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, sta- 
 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 enougli," 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 
 hazard: how much I must owe you! Forgive me; this 
 is the last murmur you shall ever bear from these lips."
 
 10 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 An hour after tliese 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 de- 
 pend implicitly upon the good faith of the witness you 
 have selected 1 " 
 
 " Upon his good faith? — no," said Caleb, smiling; 
 " but upon his deafness, his ignorance, and his age. 
 My poor old clerk! he will have forgotten all about it 
 before this day three months. Xow I have seen your 
 lady, I no longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. 
 I never beheld so lovely a countenance. You will be 
 happy." And the village priest sighed, and thought of 
 the coming winter and his own lonely hearth. 
 
 " My dear friend, you have only seen her beauty, — it 
 is her least charm. Heaven knows how often I have 
 made love; and this is the only woman I have ever 
 really loved. Caleb, there is an excellent living that 
 adjoins my uncle's house. The rector is old; when the 
 house is mine, you will not be long without the living. 
 We shall be neighbors, Caleb, and then you shall try 
 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 the horses immediately. " 
 
 " Yes, sir. May I speak a word with you ? " 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 " Your uncle, sir, sent for me to come to him, the day 
 before we left town." 
 
 "Aha! — indeed!" 
 
 " And I could just pick up among his servants that he 
 had some suspicion; at least, that he had been making 
 inquiries, — and seemed very cross, sir."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 11 
 
 " 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 £1000 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 
 generous; for I agree with you that it is all up with 
 me if my uncle gets hold of you. I dread my prying 
 brother, too; in fact, the obligation is on my side: 
 only stay abroad till I am a rich man, and my marriage 
 made public, and then you may ask of me what you 
 will. It's agreed, then; order the horses, we'll go 
 round by Liverpool, and learn about the vessels. By 
 the way, my good fellow, I hope you see nothing now 
 of that good-for-nothing brother of yours ? " 
 
 "No, indeed, sir. It's a thousand pities he has 
 turned out so ill ; for he was the cleverest of the family, 
 and could always twist me round his little finger."
 
 12 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " That 's the very reason I mentioned him. If he 
 learned our secret, he would take it to an excellent 
 market. Wliere is he 1 " 
 
 " Hiding, I suspect, sir." 
 
 "Well, we shall put the sea between you and him! 
 So now all 's safe." 
 
 Caleb stood by the porch of his house as the bride and 
 bridegroom entered their humble vehicle. Though then 
 Xovember, 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 forever. She forgot the rest. The hope, the 
 heart, of sixteen spoke brightly out through the blushes 
 that mantled over her fair cheeks. The bridegroom's 
 frank and manly countenance was radiant Avitli joy. As 
 he waved his hand to Caleb from the window, the postboy 
 cracked his whip, the servant settled himself on the 
 dickey, the horses started off in a brisk trot, — the clergy- 
 man 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- 
 mtm that frets and roars in the distance, — have you ever 
 received, in your calm retreat, some visitor full of the 
 busy and excited life which you imagined yourself con- 
 tented to relinquish? If so, have you not perceived, 
 that in proportion as his presence and communication
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 13 
 
 either revived old memories or brought before you new 
 pictures of " the briglit tumult " of that existence of 
 which your guest made a part, you began to compare 
 him curiously with yourself; you began to feel that 
 what before was to rest is now to rot; that your years 
 are gliding from you unenjoyed and wasted; that the 
 contrast between the animal life of passionate 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 
 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 Avhich before it had basked con- 
 tented. 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 qualities. 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, extrava- 
 gant, thoughtless youth. And Caleb was not a book- 
 man, — not a scholar; he had no resources in himself, no 
 occupation but his indolent and ill-paid duties. The 
 emotions, 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,
 
 14 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 willingly renounce, — namely, 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 both were so happy, so all in 
 all each to each other, as they left that barren threshold! 
 And the priest felt all this, as, melancholy and envious, 
 he turned from the door on 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 afterwards a notable change was visible in 
 the good man's exterior. He became more careful of 
 his dress, he shaved every morning, he purchased a 
 crop-eared Welsh cob; and it was soon known in the 
 neighborhood that the only journey the cob was ever 
 condemned to take was to the house of a certain squire, 
 who, amidst a family of all ages, boasted two very pretty 
 marriageable daughters. That was the second holiday- 
 time of poor Caleb, — the love-romance of his life: it 
 soon closed. On learning the amount of the pastor's 
 stipend the squire refused to receive his addresses; and, 
 shortly after, the girl to whom he had attached himself
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 15 
 
 made what the world calls a happy match : and perhaps 
 it was one, for I never heard that she regretted the 
 forsaken lover. Probably 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 on the week-days, and the urchins gambolled 
 round the gravestones on the Sabbath, — and the pas- 
 tor's heart was broken. He languished gradually and 
 silently away. The villagers observed that he had lost 
 his old good-humored smile ; that he did not stop every 
 Saturday evening at the carrier's gate to ask if there 
 were any news stirring in the town which the carrier 
 weekly visited; that he did not come to borrow the 
 stray newspapers that now and then found their way 
 into the village; that, as he sauntered along the brook- 
 side, his clothes hung loose on his limbs, and that he 
 no longer " whistled as he went ; " alas, he was no longer 
 " in want of thought " ! By degrees the walks them- 
 selves were suspended ; the parson was no longer visi- 
 ble : a stranger performed his duties. 
 
 One day , — it might be some three years and more 
 after the fatal visit I have commemorated, — one very 
 wild, rough day in early March, the postman who made 
 the round of the district rang at the parson's bell. The 
 single female servant, her red hair loose on her neck, 
 replied to tlie call. 
 
 " And how is the master 1 " 
 
 " Very bad ; " and the girl wiped her eyes. 
 
 " He should leave you something handsome," re- 
 marked the postman, kindly, as he pocketed the money 
 for the letter. 
 
 The pastor was in bed, — the boisterous wind rattled 
 down the chimney and shook the ill-fitting casement in
 
 16 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 its rotting frame. The clothes he had last worn were 
 thrown carelessly about, unsmoothed, unbrushed; the 
 scanty articles of furniture were out of their proper 
 places: slovenly discomfort marked the death-chamber. 
 And by the bedside stood a neighboring clergyman, a 
 stout, rustic, homely, thoroughly Welsh priest, who 
 might have sat for the portrait of Parson Adams. 
 
 " Here 's a letter for you," said the visitor. 
 
 "For me!" echoed Caleb, feebly. "Ah, — well: is 
 it not very dark, or are my eyes failing?" The cler- 
 gyman and the servant drew aside the curtains, and 
 propped the sick man up; he read as follows, slowly, 
 and with difficulty: — 
 
 Dear Caleb, — At last I can do something for you. A 
 friend of mine has a living in his gift just vacant, worth, I 
 understand, from three to four hundred a year : pleasant 
 neighborhood, — small parish ; and my friend keeps the hounds ! 
 — just the thing for you. He is, however, a very particular 
 sort of person, — wants a companion, and has a horror of any- 
 thing evangelical ; wishes, therefore, to see you before he de- 
 cides. If you can meet me in London, some day next month, 
 I '11 present you to him, and I have no doubt it will be settled. 
 You nuist think it strange I never wrote to you since we 
 parted, but you know I never was a very good correspondent ; 
 and as I had nothing to communicate advantageous to you, I 
 thought it a sort of insult to enlarge on my own happiness, 
 and so forth. All I shall say on that score is, that I 've sown 
 my wild oats; and that you may take my word for it, there 's 
 nothing that can make a man know how large the heart is, 
 and how little the world, till he comes home (perhaps after a 
 hard day's hunting) and sees his own fireside, and hears one 
 duar welcome ; and — oh, by the way, Caleb, if you could but 
 Bee my boy, the sturdiest little rogue! But enough of this. 
 All that vexes me is, that I 've never yet been able to declare 
 my marriage : my uncle, however, suspects nothing; rny wife 
 bears up against all, like an angel as she is; still, in case of any
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 17 
 
 accident, it occurs to me, now I 'm writing to you, especially 
 if you leave the place, that it may be as well to send me au 
 examined copy of the register. In those remote places registers 
 are often lost or mislaid ; and it may be useful hereafter, when 
 I proclaim the marritige, to clear up all doubt as to the fact. 
 — Good-by, old fellow, 
 
 Yours most truly, etc., etc. 
 
 "It comes too late," sighed Caleb, heavily; and the 
 letter fell from his hands. There was a long pause. 
 "Close the shutters," said the sick man, at last; "I 
 think I could sleep: and — and — pick up that letter." 
 
 With a trembling but eager gripe he seized the paper, 
 as a miser would seize the deeds of an estate on which 
 he has a mortgage. He smoothed the folds, looked com- 
 placently at the well-known hand, smiled, — a ghastly 
 smile! — and then placed the letter under his pillow, 
 and sank down : they left him alone. He did not wake 
 for some hours, and that good clergyman, poor as him- 
 self, was again at his post. The only friendships that 
 are really with us in the hour of need, are those which 
 are cemented by equality of circumstance. In the depth 
 of home, in the hour of tribulation, by the bed of death, 
 the rich and the poor are seldom found side by side. 
 Caleb was evidently much feebler; but his sense seemed 
 clearer than it had been, and tlie instincts of his native 
 kindness were the last that left him. " There is some- 
 thing he wants me to do for him," he muttered. " Ah! 
 I remember: Jones, will you send for the parish regis- 
 ter] It is somewhere in the vestry -room, I think, — 
 but nothing 's kept properly. Better go yourself, — 't is 
 important. " 
 
 Mr. Jones nodded, and sallied forth. The register 
 was not in the vestry ; the churchwardens knew nothing 
 about it; the clerk — a new clerk — who was also the 
 
 VOL. I. — 2
 
 18 NIGHT AND MORNL\G. 
 
 sexton, and rather a wild fellow — had gone ten miles off 
 to a wedding: every place was searched ; till, at last, the 
 book was found, amidst a heap of old magazines and 
 dusty papers, in the parlor of Caleb himself. By the 
 time it was brought to him, the sufferer was fast de- 
 clining; with some difficulty his dim eye discovered 
 the place where, amidst the clumsy pot-hooks of tlie 
 parishioners, the large, clear hand of his old friend, 
 and the trembling characters of the bride, looked forth, 
 distinguished. 
 
 " Extract this for me, will you? " said Caleb. 
 
 Mr. Jones obeyed. 
 
 " Now just write above the extract," — 
 
 Sir, — By Mr. Price's desire I send you the enclosed. He 
 is too ill to write himself. But be bids me say, that he has 
 never been quite the same man siuce you left him ; and that, 
 if he should not get well again, still your kind letter has 
 made him easier in his mind. 
 
 Caleb stopped. 
 
 "Goon." 
 
 "That is all I have to say: sign your name, and put 
 the address, — here it is. Ah, the letter," he muttered, 
 " must not lie about! If anything happen to me, it may 
 get him into trouble. " 
 
 And as Mr. Jones sealed his communication, Caleb 
 feebly stretched his wan hand, and held the letter 
 which had " come too late " over the flame of the can- 
 dle. As the blazing paper dropped on the carpetless 
 floor, Mr. Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole 
 of his top-boot, and the maid-servant brushed the tinder 
 into the grate. 
 
 "Ah, trample it out: hurry it amongst the ashes. 
 The last as the rest," said Caleb, hoarsely. " Friend-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 19 
 
 ship, fortune, hope, love, life, — a little flame, and 
 then — and then — " 
 
 " Don't be uneasy,— it 's quite out! " said Mr. Jones. 
 
 Caleb turned his face to the wall. He lingered till 
 the next day, when he passed insensibly from sleep to 
 death. As soon as the breath was out of his body, 
 Mr. Jones felt that his duty was discharged, that other 
 duties called him home. He promised to return to read 
 the burial-service over the deceased, gave some hasty 
 orders about the plain funeral, and was turning from 
 the room, when he saw the letter he had written by 
 Caleb's wish, still on the table. " I pass the post-office, 
 — I '11 put it in," said he to the weeping servant; " and 
 just give me that scrap of paper." So he wrote on 
 the scrap, " P. S. He died this morning, at half-past 
 twelve, without pain. — M. J.;" and, not taking the 
 trouble to break the seal, thrust the final bulletin into 
 the folds of the letter, which he then carefully placed in 
 his vast pocket, and safely transferred to the post. And 
 that was all that the jovial and happy man, to whom the 
 letter was addressed, ever heard of the last days of his 
 college friend. 
 
 The living vacant by the death of Caleb Price was not 
 so valuable as to plague the patron with many applica- 
 tions. It continued vacant nearly the whole of the six 
 months prescribed by law. And the desolate parsonage 
 was committed to the charge of one of the villagers, 
 who had occasionally assisted Caleb in the care of his 
 little garden. The villager, his wife, and half-a-dozen 
 noisy, ragged children, took possession of the quiet 
 bachelor's abode. The furniture had been sold to pay 
 the expenses of the funeral, and a few trifling bills; 
 and, save the kitchen and the two attics, the empty 
 house, uninhabited, was surrendered to the sportive
 
 20 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 mischief of the idle urchins, who prowled about the 
 silent chambers in fear of the silence, and in ecstasy at 
 the space. The bedroom in which Caleb had died was, 
 indeed, long held sacred by infantine superstition. But 
 one day, the eldest boy having ventured across the thres- 
 hold, two cupboards, the doors standing ajar, attracted 
 the child's curiosity. He opened one, and his exclama- 
 tion soon brought the rest of the children round him. 
 Have you ever, reader, when a boy, suddenly stumbled 
 on that El Dorado, called by the grown-up folks a lum- 
 ber-room? Lumber, indeed! what Virtu double-locks 
 in cabinets is the real lumber to the boy! Lumber, 
 reader! to thee it was a treasury! Now this cupboard 
 had been the lumber-room in Caleb's household. In an 
 instant the whole troop had thrown themselves on the 
 motley contents. Stray joints of clumsy fishing-rods; 
 artificial baits; a pair of worn-out top-boots, in which 
 one of the urchins, whooping and shouting, buried him- 
 self 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 wall, glared upon the startled violators of 
 the sanctuary, with glassy eyes and horrent visage, a 
 grim monster. They huddled back one upon the other, 
 pale and breathless, till the eldest, seeing that the crea- 
 ture moved not, took heart, approached on tip-toe, —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 21 
 
 twice receded, and twice again advanced, and finally 
 drew out daubed, painted, and tricked forth in the sem- 
 blance of a grilhn, a gigantic kite ! 
 
 The children, alas ! were not old and wise enough to 
 know all the dormant value of that imprisoned aeronaut, 
 which had cost Caleb many a dull evening's labor, — the 
 intended gift to the false one's favorite brother. But 
 they guessed that it was a thing or spirit appertaining 
 of right to them; and they resolved, after mature con- 
 sultation, to impart the secret of their discovery to an 
 old wooden-legged villager, who had served in the army, 
 who was the idol of all the children of the place; and 
 ■who, they firmly believed, knew 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 natural foes to amusement, — 
 they carried the monster into an old out-house, and ran 
 to the veteran to beg him to come up slily and inspect 
 its properties. 
 
 Three months after this memorable event, arrived 
 the new pastor, — a slim, prim, orderly, and starch young 
 man, framed by nature and trained by practice to bear 
 a great deal of solitude and starving. Two loving 
 couples had waited to be married till his reverence 
 should arrive. The ceremony performed, where was 
 the registry-book? The vestry was searched, — the 
 churchwardens interrogated; the gay clerk who, on the 
 demise of his deaf predecessor, had come into office a 
 little before Caleb's last illness, had a dim recollection 
 of having taken the registry up to Mr. Price at the 
 time the vestry-room was Avhitewashed. The house 
 was searched, — the cupboard, the mysterious cupboard, 
 was explored. " Here it is, sir ! " cried the clerk ; and
 
 22 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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, little 
 one 1 " 
 
 " That book ? _ the — hi ! — hi ! — " 
 
 " Speak the truth, and you sha'n't be punished." 
 
 " I did not know it was any harm — hi ! — hi ! — " 
 
 "Well, and — " 
 
 " And old Ben helped us." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And — and — and — hi! — hi!— The tail of the 
 kite, sir! — " 
 
 "Where is the kite?" 
 
 Alas ! the kite and its tail were long ago gone to that 
 undiscovered limbo where all things lost, broken, van- 
 ished, and destroyed, — things that lose themselves, 
 for servants are too honest to steal; things that break 
 themselves, 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 1 "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 23 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 And soothed with idle dreams the frowning fate. 
 
 Crabbb. 
 
 " Why does not my father come back 1 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 1 " 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 
 dismissal. " 
 
 " Todd ! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke through 
 his nose : what could he know of Latin ? " 
 
 " More than you ever will, I fear, unless — " and here 
 there was a certain hesitation in the mother's voice, — 
 " imless your father consents to your going to school. " 
 
 "Well, I should like to go to Eton! That's the 
 only school for a gentleman. I 've heard my father 
 say so." 
 
 " Philip, you are too proud. " 
 
 " Proud ! — you often call me proud ; but, then, you 
 kiss me when you do so. Kiss me now, mother. " 
 
 The lady drew her son to her breast, put aside the 
 clustering hair from his forehead, and kissed him; but 
 the kiss was sad, and a moment after she pushed him 
 away gently, and muttered, unconscious that she was 
 overheard, — 
 
 " If, after all, my devotion to the father should wrong 
 the children ! "
 
 24 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 The boy started, and a cloud passed over his brow; 
 but he said notliing. 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 letter 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 while she read it ; the elder stood 
 apart, leaning on his gun, and with something of thought, 
 even of gloom, upon his countenance. 
 
 There was a strong contrast in the two boys. 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 expres- 
 sion upon features that, without having the soft and 
 fluent graces of childhood, were yet regular and striking. 
 His dark-green shooting-dress, with the belt and pouch, 
 the cap, with its gold tassel set upon his luxuriant curls, 
 which had the purple gloss of the raven's plume, 
 blended, perhaps, something prematurely manly in his 
 own tastes, with the love of the fantastic and the pictur- 
 esque which bespeaks the presiding genius of the proud 
 mother. 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 al- 
 most eff'eminate contour of the harmonious features, — 
 altogether made such an ideal of childlike beauty as Law- 
 rence 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
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 25 
 
 in the large falling collar of finest cambric, and the 
 blue velvet dress with its filigree buttons and embroid- 
 ered sash. 
 
 Both the boys had about them the air of those whom 
 fate ushers blandly into life, — the air of wealth and 
 birth and luxury, spoiled and pampered as if earth had 
 no thorn for their feet, and heaven not a wind to visit 
 their young cheeks too roughly. The mother had been 
 extremely handsome; and, though the first bloom of 
 youth was now gone, she had still the beauty that 
 might captivate 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 recognized 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 curved lip and the high fore- 
 head. One who could have looked on her in her more 
 lonely hours, might have seen that the pride had known 
 shame, and the thought was the shadow of the passions 
 of fear and sorrow. 
 
 But now as she read those hasty, brief, but well- 
 remembered characters , — read as one whose heart was 
 in her eyes, — joy and triumph alone were visible in 
 that eloquent countenance. Her eyes flashed, her breast 
 heaved: and at length, clasping the letter to her lips, 
 she kissed 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.
 
 26 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "What is the matter, mamma, dear mamma?" said 
 the youugest, 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 effect ran as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 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 I have at least the consolation of 
 thinking, that there is nothing now to prevent my doing jus- 
 tice 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, 5'our wrongs, 
 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 
 Catherine, I shall be with you almost as soon as these lines 
 meet your eyes, — those dear eyes, that, for all the tears they 
 have shed for my faults and follies, have never looked the 
 less kind. 
 
 Yours, ever as ever, 
 
 Philip Beaufort. 
 
 This letter has told its tale and little remains to ex- 
 plain. Philip Beaufort was one of those men of whom 
 there are many in his peculiar class of society, — easy, 
 thoughtless, good-humored, 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
 
 NIGHT AND JklORNING. 27 
 
 twenty-five, he had the most brilliant expectations from 
 his uncle, — an old bachelor, who, from a courtier, 
 had turned a misanthrope, cold, shrewd, penetrating, 
 worldly, sarcastic, and imperious; and from this relation 
 he received, meanwhile, a handsome, and indeed munifi- 
 cent allowance. About sixteen years before the date at 
 which this narrative opens, Philip Beaufort had " run 
 off," as the saying is, with Catherine Morton, then little 
 more than a child, — a motherless child, — educated 
 at a boarding-school to notions and desires far beyond 
 her station; for she was the daughter of a provincial 
 tradesman. And Philip Beaufort, in the prime of life, 
 was possessed of most of the qualities that dazzle the 
 eyes, and many of the arts that betray the affections. 
 It was suspected by some that they were privately mar- 
 ried: if so, the secret had been closely kept, and baffled 
 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 Catherine, which was 
 proud and high-spirited, to give color to the suspicion. 
 Beaufort, a man naturally careless of forms, paid her a 
 marked and punctilious respect; and his attachment was 
 evidently one not only of passion but of confidence and 
 esteem. Time developed in her mental qualities far 
 superior to those of Beaufort, and for these she had 
 ample leisure of cultivation. To the influence derived 
 from her mind and person she added that of a frank, 
 affectionate, and winning disposition; their children 
 cemented the bond between them. Mr. Beaufort was 
 passionately attached to field-sports. He lived the 
 greater part of the year with Catherine, at the beautiful 
 cottage to which he had built hunting-stables that Avere 
 the admiration of the county ; and though the cottage 
 was near London, the pleasures of the metropolis seldom
 
 28 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 allured liim for more than a few days — generally but a 
 few hours — at a time ; and he always hurried back with 
 renewed relish to what he considered his home. 
 
 Whatever the connection between Catherine and him- 
 self (and of the true nature of that connection, tlie 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 
 education, to contract whatever vices were most in 
 fashion as preservatives against ennif.L And if their 
 union had been openly hallowed by the church, Philip 
 Beaufort had been universally esteemed the model of a 
 tender husband and a fond father. Ever, as he became 
 more and more acquainted with Catherine's natural 
 good qualities, and more and more attached to his home, 
 had Mr. Beaufort, with the generosity of true affection, 
 desired to remove from her the pain of an equivocal con- 
 dition by a public marriage. But Mr. Beaufort, though 
 generous, was not free from the worldliness which had 
 met him everywhere, amidst the society in which his 
 youth had been spent. His uncle, the head of one of 
 those families which yearly vanish from the commonalty 
 into the peerage, but which once formed a distinguished 
 peculiarity in the aristocracy of England, — families of 
 ancient birth, immense possessions, at once noble and 
 untitled, — held his estates by no other tenure than his 
 own caprice. Though he professed to like Philip, yet 
 he saw but little of him. When the news of the 
 illicit connection his nephew was reported to have 
 formed reached him, he at first resolved to break it off; 
 but observing that Philip no longer gambled, nor run 
 in deljt, and had retired from the turf to the safer and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 29 
 
 more economical pastimes of the field, he contented 
 himself with inquiries which satisfied him that Philip 
 was not married ; and perhaps he thought it, on the 
 whole, more prudent to wink at an error that was not 
 attended by the bills which had heretofore character- 
 ized the human infirmities of his reckless nephew. He 
 took care, however, incidentally, and in reference to 
 some scandal of the day, to pronounce his opinion, not 
 upon the fault, but upon the only mode of repairing it. 
 
 " If ever," said he, — and he looked grimly at Philip 
 while he spoke, — "a gentleman were to disgrace his 
 ancestry by introducing into his family one whom his 
 own sister could not receive at her house, why, he ought 
 to sink to her level, and wealth would but make his 
 disgrace the more notorious. If I had an only son, and 
 that son were booby enough to do anything so discred- 
 itable as to marry beneath him, I would rather have my 
 footman for my successor. You understand, Phil? " 
 
 Philip did understand, and looked round at the noble 
 house and the stately park, and his generosity was not 
 equal to the trial. Catherine — so great was her power 
 over him — might, perhaps, have easily triumphed over 
 his more selfish calculations; but her love was too deli- 
 cate ever to breathe, of itself, the hope that lay deepest 
 at her heart. And her children! ah! for them she 
 pined, but for them she also hoped. Before them was 
 a long future, and she had all confidence in Philip. 
 Of late, there had been considerable doubts how far the 
 elder Beaufort would realize the expectations in which 
 his nephew had been reared. Philip's younger brother 
 had been much with the old gentleman, and appeared to 
 be in high favor : this brother was a man in every re- 
 spect opposite to Philip, — sober, supple, decorous, am- 
 bitious, with a face of smiles and a heart of ice.
 
 30 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 But the old gentleman was taken dangerously ill, 
 and Philip was summoned to his bed of death. Robert, 
 the younger brother, was there also, with his wife (for 
 he had married prudently) and his children (he had 
 two, a son and a daughter). Not a word did the uncle 
 say as to the disposition of his property till an hour 
 before he died. And then, turning in his bed, he 
 looked first at one nephew, then at the other, and 
 faltered out, — 
 
 " 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 brother. Now, let me see the parson." 
 
 The old man died; the will was read; and Philip 
 succeeded to a rental of £20,000 a year; Robert, to a 
 diamond ring, a gold repeater, £5000, and a curious 
 collection of bottled snakes.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 31 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Stay, delightful Dream ; 
 Let him within his pleasant garden walk ; 
 Give him her arm, — of blessings let them talk. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 "There, Robert, there! now you can see the new 
 stables. By Jove, they are the completest thing in the 
 three kingdoms ! " 
 
 " Quite a pile ! But is that the house ? You lodge 
 your horses more magnificently than yourself," 
 
 "But is it not a beautiful cottage? — to be sure, it 
 owes everything to Catherine's taste. Dear Catherine ! " 
 
 Mr, Robert Beaufort, — for this colloquy took place 
 between the brothers as their britska rapidly descended 
 the hill, at the foot of which lay Fernside Cottage and 
 its miniature demesnes, — Mr, Robert Beaufort pulled 
 his travelling-cap over his brows, and his countenance 
 fell, whether at the name of Catherine, or the tone in 
 which the name was uttered; and there was a pause, 
 broken by a third occupant of the britska, a youth of 
 about seventeen, who sat opposite the brothers, 
 
 " And who are those boys on the lawn , uncle 1 " 
 
 " Who are those boys? " It was a simple question, 
 but it grated on the ear of Mr. Robert Beaufort, — it 
 struck discord at his heart, " Who were those boys 1 " 
 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
 
 32 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 boys," thought Mr. Robert Beaufort, "the sons of 
 shame, rob mine of his inheritance," The ehler brother 
 turned round at his nephew's q\iestion, and saw the 
 expression on Robert's face. He bit his lip, and an- 
 swered gravely, — 
 
 "Arthur, they are my children." 
 
 " I did not know you were married," replied Arthur, 
 bending forward to take a better view of his cousins. 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and Philip's 
 brow grew crimson. 
 
 The carriage stopped at the little lodge, Philip 
 opened the door, and jumped to the ground; the 
 brother and his son followed. A moment more, and 
 Philip was locked in Catherine's arms, her tears falling 
 fast upon his breast; his children plucking at his coat; 
 and the younger one crying, in his shrill impatient 
 treble, " Papa! papa! you don't see Sidney, papa! " 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort placed his hand on his son's 
 shoulder, and arrested his steps, as they contemplated 
 the group before them. 
 
 " Arthur," said he, in a hollow whisper, " those chil- 
 dren are our disgrace and your supplanters ; they are bas- 
 tards ! 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 welcome, are they 
 not?" 
 
 Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with 
 stiff affability, to Mrs. Morton, muttering something 
 equally complimentary and inaudible. 
 
 The party proceeded towards the house. Philip and 
 Arthur brought up the rear.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING, 33 
 
 " Do you shoot 1 " asked Arthur, observing the gun 
 in his cousin's hand. 
 
 " Yes. I hope this season to bag as many head as my 
 father: he is a famous shot. But this is only a single 
 barrel, and an old-fashioned sort of detonator. My 
 father must get me one of the new guns. I can't afford 
 it myself. " 
 
 " I should think not," said Arthur, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, as to that," resumed Philip, quickly, and with 
 a heightened color, " 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 1 " 
 
 " 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 
 lime-trees, by nine o'clock. I hope you will under- 
 stand me this time : Heaven knows you take a deal of 
 telling before you understand anything! " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Philip," said the man, bowing obsequi- 
 ously; 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 1 " 
 
 "Perhaps one reason may be, that he is not rich 
 enough." 
 
 " Oh! that 's a pity. Never mind, we '11 mount you, 
 whenever you like to pay us a visit." 
 
 VOL. I. — 3
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 35 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 For a man is helpless and vain, of a condition so exposed to calam- 
 ity that a raisin is able to kill him : any trooper out of the 
 Egyptian army, — a fly can do it, when it goes on God's errand. 
 — Jeremy Taylor, On the Deceitfulness of the Heai-t. 
 
 The two brothers sat at their wine after dinner. Rob- 
 ert sipped claret, the sturdy Philip quaffed his more 
 generous port. Catherine and the boys might be seen 
 at a little distance, and by the light of a soft August 
 moon, among the shrubs and bosquets of the lawn. 
 
 Philip Beaufort was about five-and-forty, tall, robust, 
 nay, of great strength of frame and limb; with a 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 embonpoint, the athletic girth 
 of chest, which denote redundant health and mirthful 
 temper and sanguine blood. Robert, who had lived 
 the life of cities, was a year younger than his brother; 
 nearly as tall, but pale, meagre, stooping, and with a 
 careworn, anxious, hungry look, which made the smile 
 that hung upon his lips seem hollow and artificial. His 
 dress, though plain, was neat and studied; his manner 
 bland and plausible ; his voice sweet and low. There was 
 that about him which, if it did not win liking, tended to 
 excite respect, — a certain decorum, a nameless propriety 
 of appearance and bearing, that approached a little to 
 formality: his every movement, slow and measured, 
 was that of one who paced in the circle that fences 
 round the habits and usages of the world.
 
 36 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "Yes," yaid Philip, "I had always decided to take 
 this step, whenever my poor uncle's death should allow 
 me to do so. You have seen Catherine, but you do not 
 know half her good qualities: she would grace any 
 station; and, besides, she nursed me so carefully last 
 year, when I broke my collar-bone in that cursed steeple- 
 chase. Egad, I am getting too heavy, and growing too 
 old, for such schoolboy pranks." 
 
 " I have no doubt of Mrs. Morton's excellence, and I 
 honor your motives; still, when you talk of her gracing 
 any station, you must not forget, my dear brother, that 
 she will be no more received as Mrs. Beaufort than she 
 is now as Mrs. Morton. " 
 
 " But I tell you, Robert, that I am really married to 
 her already; that she would never have left her home 
 but on that condition ; that we were married the very 
 day we met after her flight. " 
 
 Robert's thin lips broke into a slight sneer of 
 incredulity. 
 
 "My dear brother, you do right to say this, — any 
 man in your situation would say the same. But I know 
 that my uncle took every pains to ascertain if the re- 
 port of a private marriage were true." 
 
 " And you helped him in the search, eh, Bob? " 
 
 Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on. 
 
 " Ha, ha! to be sure you did; you knew that such a 
 discovery would have done for me in the old gentleman's 
 good opinion. But I blinded you both, ha, ha! The 
 fact is that we were married with the greatest privacy; 
 that even now, I own, it would be difficult for Catherine 
 herself to establish the fact, unless I wished it. I am 
 ashamed to think that I have never even told her where 
 I keep the main proof of the marriage. I induced one 
 witness to leave the country, the other must be long
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 37 
 
 since dead: my poor friend, too, who officiated, is no 
 more. Even the register. Bob, the register itself has 
 been destroyed: and yet, notwithstanding, I will prove 
 the ceremony, and clear up poor Catherine's fame; for I 
 have the attested copy of the register safe and sound. 
 Catherine not married! why, look at her, man! " 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window for a 
 moment, but his countenance was still that of one 
 unconvinced. 
 
 "Well, brother," said he, dipping his fingers in the 
 water-glass, " it is not for me to contradict you. It is a 
 very curious tale: parson dead, — witnesses missing. 
 But still, as I said before, if you are resolved on 
 a public marriage, you are wise to insist that there 
 has been a previous private one. Yet, believe me, 
 Philip," continued Robert with solemn earnestness, 
 "the world — " 
 
 " D — the world ! What do I care for the world ! 
 We don't want to go to routs and balls, and give dinners 
 to fine people. I shall live much the same as I have 
 always done ; only I shall now keep the hounds, — they 
 are very indifferently kept at present, — and have a 
 yacht; and engage the best 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 sceptical as yourself. I suppose ray 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 Catherine : poor Katty ! " 
 
 "Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs: 
 you don't misinterpret my motives'? " 
 
 " My dear Bob, no. I am quite sensible how kind it 
 is in you, — a man of your starch habits and strict views 
 coming here to pay a mark of respect to Kate " (Mr.
 
 38 NIGHT AND MORXIXG. 
 
 Robert turned uneasily in his chair) ; " even before you 
 knew of the private marriage, and I am sure I don't 
 blame you for never having done it before. You did 
 quite right to try your chance with my uncle." 
 
 Mr. Robert turned in his chair again, still more 
 uneasily, and cleared his voice as if to speak. But 
 Philip tossed off his wine, and proceeded without heed- 
 ing his brother, — 
 
 " And though the poor old man does not seem to 
 have liked you tlie better for consulting his scruples, 
 yet we must make up for the partiality of his will. 
 Let me see, — what, with your wife's fortune, you 
 muster £2000 a year?" 
 
 " Only £1500, Philip, and Arthur's education is 
 growing expensive. Next year he goes to college. He 
 is certainly very clever, and I have great hopes — " 
 
 " That he will do honor to us all, — so have I. He 
 is a noble young fellow; and I think my Philip may 
 find a great deal to learn from him : Phil is a sad, idle 
 dog, — but with a devil of a spirit, and sharp as a needle. 
 I wish you could see him ride. Well, to return to 
 Arthur. Don't trouble yourself about his education, — 
 that shall be my care. He shall go to Christ Church, 
 — a gentleman-commoner of course, — and when he 's of 
 age we '11 get him into Parliament. Now for yourself, 
 Bob. I shall sell the town-house in Berkeley Square, 
 and whatever it brings you shall have. Besides that, 
 I '11 add £1500 a year to your £1500, — 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 casement 
 into the lawn. 
 
 " You look pale. Bob, — all you London fellows do. 
 As for me, I feel as strong as a horse; much better than
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 39 
 
 when I was one of your gay dogs straying loose about 
 the town! 'Gad, I have never had a moment's ill 
 health, except from a fall now and then. I feel as if I 
 should live forever, and that 's the reason why I could 
 never make a will." 
 
 " Have you never, then, made your will ? " 
 
 " Never as yet. Faith, till now, I had little enough 
 to leave. But now that all this great Beaufort property 
 is at my own disposal, I must think of Kate's jointure. 
 By Jove! now I speak of it, I will ride to to- 
 morrow, and consult the lawyer there both about the will 
 and the marriage. You will stay for the wedding 1 " 
 
 " Why , I 7nust go into shire to-morrow evening 
 
 to place Arthur with his tutor. But I '11 return for the 
 wedding, if you particularly wish it: only Mrs. Beau- 
 fort is a woman of very strict — " 
 
 " I do particularly wish it," interrupted Philip, 
 gravely; "for I desire, for Catherine's sake, that you, 
 my sole surviving relation, may not seem to withhold 
 your countenance from an act of justice to her. And as 
 for your wife, I fancy £1500 a year would reconcile her 
 to my marrying out of the Penitentiary." 
 
 Mr. Eobert bowed his head, coughed huskily, and 
 said, " I appreciate your generous affection, Philip." 
 
 The next morning, while the elder parties were still 
 over the breakfast-table, the young people were in the 
 grounds: it was a lovely day, one of the last of the 
 luxuriant August, — and Arthur, as he looked round, 
 thought he had never seen a more beautiful place. It 
 was, indeed, just the spot to captivate a youthful and 
 susceptible fancy. The village of Fernside, 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
 
 40 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 pretensions. On either side a graceful and 
 well-proportioned portico stretched verandas, covered 
 with roses and clematis ; to the right extended a range 
 of costly conservatories, terminating in vistas of trellis- 
 Avork, which formed those elegant alleys called rosaries, 
 and served to screen the more useful gardens from view. 
 The lawn, smooth and even, was studded with American 
 plants and shrubs in flower, and bounded on one side by 
 a small lake, on the opposite bank of which limes and 
 cedars threw their shadows over the clear waves. On 
 the other side a light fence separated the grounds from 
 a large paddock, in which three or four hunters grazed 
 in indolent enjoyment. It was one of those cottages 
 which bespeak the ease and luxury not often found in 
 more ostentatious mansions: an abode which, at sixteen, 
 the visitor contemplates with vague notions of poetry 
 and love, — Avhich, at forty, he might think dull and 
 d — d expensive; which, at sixty, he would pronounce to 
 be damp in winter, and full of earwigs in the summer. 
 Master Philip was leaning on his gun; Master Sidney 
 •was chasing a peacock butterfly; Arthur was silently 
 gazing on the shining lake, and the still foliage that 
 drooped over its surface. In the countenance of this 
 young man there was something that excited a certain 
 interest. He was less 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 unmixed with irresolution and weakness, in 
 the curves of the mouth. He was more delicate of 
 frame than Pliilip, and tlie color of his complexion was 
 not that of a robust constitution. His movements were
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 41 
 
 graceful and self-possessed, and he had his father's 
 sweetness of voice. 
 
 "This is really beautiful! — I envy you, cousin 
 ] 'hi lip." 
 
 " Has not your father got a country-house ? " 
 
 "No: we live either in London or at some hot, 
 crowded watering-place," 
 
 "Yes; this is very nice during the shooting and 
 hunting season. But ray old nurse says we shall have 
 a much finer place now. I liked this very well till I 
 saw Lord Belville's place. But it is very unpleasant 
 not to have the finest house in the county : aut Ccesar 
 aut nullus, — that's my motto. Ah! do you see that 
 swallow? I '11 bet you a guinea I hit it." 
 
 "No, poor thing! don't hurt it." But ere the re- 
 monstrance was uttered, the bird lay quivering on the 
 ground. 
 
 " It is just September, and one must keep one's hand 
 in," said Philip, as he reloaded his gun. 
 
 To Arthur this action seemed a wanton cruelty ; it 
 was rather the wanton recklessness which belongs to a 
 wild boy accustomed to gratify the impulse of the 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 the neighboring 
 paddock, and Philip bounded to the fence. " He calls 
 me , poor fellow ; you shall see him feed from my hand. 
 Run in for a piece of bread, — a large piece, Sidney." 
 The boy and the animal seemed to understand each other. 
 " I see you don't like horses," he said to Arthur. " As 
 for me, I love dogs, horses, — every dumb creature." 
 
 "Except swallows! " said Arthur, with a half smile, 
 and a little surprised at the inconsistency of the boast.
 
 42 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 
 
 "Oh! that is spo7't , — all fair: it is not to hurt the 
 swallow, — it is to obtain skill," said Philip, coloring; 
 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 fiower-beds; "what ails you? I have a great 
 mind to tell my father of you, — you grow stupider every 
 day. I told you to put the tent under the lime-trees." 
 
 "We could not manage it, sir; the boughs were in 
 the way." 
 
 " And why did not you cut the boughs, blockhead ? " 
 
 " I did not dare do so, sir, without master's orders," 
 said the man, doggedly. 
 
 " My orders are sufficient, I should think; so none of 
 your impertinence," cried Philip, with a raised color; 
 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 1 " cried the good- 
 humored voice of his father. "Fie!" 
 
 " This fellow does not mind what I say, sir." 
 
 " I did not like to cut the boughs of the lime-trees 
 without your orders, sir," said the gardener. 
 
 "No, it would be a pity to cut them. You should 
 consult me there. Master Philip; " and the father shook 
 him by the collar with a good-natured and affectionate 
 but rough sort of caress. 
 
 "Be quiet, father!" said the boy, petulantly and 
 proudly; "or," he added, in a lower voice, but one 
 wliich showed emotion, " my cousin may think you 
 mean less kindly than you always do, sir."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 43 
 
 The father was touched : " Go and cut the lime- 
 boughs, John; and always do as Master Philip tells 
 
 you." 
 
 The mother was behind, and she sighed audiblj^. — 
 "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 tlie most amiable, 
 been pampered from the darling into the despot. 
 
 "And now, Kate, I will, as I told you last night, 
 ride over to and fix the earliest day for our pub- 
 lic marriage: I will ask the lawyer to dine here, to 
 talk about the proper steps for proving the private 
 one." 
 
 "Will that be difficult?" asked Catherine, with 
 natural anxiety. 
 
 " No, — for, if you remember, T had the precaution to 
 get an examined copy of the register; otherwise, I own 
 to you, I should have been alarmed. I don't know 
 what has become of Smith. I heard some time since 
 from his father that he had left the colony; and (I never 
 told you before, — it would have made you uneasy) once, 
 a few years ago, when my uncle again got it into his 
 head that we might be married, I was afraid poor Caleb's 
 successor might, by chance, betray us. So I went over 
 
 to A myself, being near it when I was staying with 
 
 Lord C , in order to see how 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 counsel. 
 How lucky I have the copy ! No doubt the lawyer will 
 set all to rights; and, while I am making settlements,
 
 44 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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!" 
 
 " Tshaw! one don't die the sooner for making a will. 
 Have I the air of a man in a consumption ? " — and the 
 sturd}' sportsman glanced complacently at the strength 
 antl 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 flowerbeds." 
 So saying, Mr. Beaufort led the Avay to the coiartyard at 
 the back of the cottage. Catherine and Sidney remained 
 on the lawn: the rest followed the host. The grooms, 
 of whom Beaufort was the idol, hastened to show how 
 Avell tlie horses had thriven in his absence. 
 
 "Do see how Brown Bess has come on, sir; but, to 
 be sure. Master Philip keeps her in exercise. Ah, sir, 
 he will be as good a rider as your honor, one of these 
 days." 
 
 "He ought to be a better, Tom; for I think he '11 
 never have my weight to carry. Well, saddle Brown 
 Bess for Master Philip. What horse shall I takel 
 Ah! here's my old friend. Puppet!" 
 
 " I don't know what's come to Puppet, sir; he's off 
 his feed, and turned sulky. I tried him over the bar 
 yesterday: but he was quite restive like." 
 
 " The devil he was! So, so, old boy, you shall go 
 over the six-barred gate to-day, or we '11 know why." 
 And Mr. Beaufort patted the sleek neck of his favorite 
 hunter. " Put the saddle on him, Tom." 
 
 " Yes, your honor. I sometimes think he is hurt in 
 the loins somehow, — he don't take to his leaps kindly, 
 and he always tries to bite when we bridles him. Be 
 quiet, sir! "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 45 
 
 "Only his airs," said Philip. "I did not know this 
 or / would have taken him over the gate. Why did not 
 you tell me, Tom?" 
 
 " Lord love you, sir! because you have such a spurret; 
 and if 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 1 " 
 
 " No, I must go to to-day with Arthur. I have 
 
 engaged the post-horses at two o'clock; but I shall be 
 Avith you to-morrow or the day after. You see his tutor 
 expects him; and as he is backward in his mathematics, 
 he has no time to lose." 
 
 " Well, then, good-by, nephew! " and Beaufort slipped 
 a pocketbook 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 observ- 
 ing the heightened color of his cousin, he went up to 
 him, and with a generous impulse said, " Arthur, you 
 admired this gun; pray accept it. Nay, don't be shy, 
 — I can have as many as I like for the asking: you 're 
 not so well off, you know." 
 
 The intention was kind, but the manner was so 
 patronizing that Arthur felt offended. He put back 
 the gun, and said dryly, " I shall have no occasion for 
 the gun, thank you." 
 
 If Arthur was offended by the offer, Philip was much 
 more offended by the refusal. " As you like ; I hate 
 pride," said he; and he gave the gun to the groom as he 
 vaulted into his saddle, with the lightness of a young 
 Mercury. " Come, father! "
 
 46 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ]\Ir. Beaufort had now mounted his favorite hunter, 
 — a large, powerful horse, well known for its prowess 
 in the field. The rider trotted him once or twice 
 through the spacious yard. 
 
 " Xonsense, Tom: no more hurt in the loins than I 
 am. Open that gate ; we will go across the paddock , 
 and take the gate yonder, — the old six-bar, eh, Phil? " 
 
 " Capital ! — to be sure ! — " 
 
 The gate was opened , — the grooms stood watchful to 
 see the leap, and a kindred curiosity arrested Robert 
 Beaufort and his son. 
 
 How well they looked! those two horsemen: the ease, 
 lightness, spirit of the one, with the fine-limbed and 
 fiery steed that literally " bounded beneath him as a 
 barb," — seemingly as gay, as ardent, and as haughty 
 as the boy-rider; and the manly, and almost herculean 
 form of the elder Beaufort, which, from the buoyancy 
 of its movements, and the supple grace that belongs to 
 the perfect 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 
 chivalrous in the bearing of the elder Beaufort, — in 
 his handsome, aquiline features, the erectness of his 
 mien, the very wave of his hand, as he spurred from 
 the yard. 
 
 "What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is!" said 
 Arthur, 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."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 47 
 
 "Pooh, my dear father! you don't know how I'm 
 improved! " And slackening the rein, and touching 
 the side of his horse, the young rider darted forward 
 and cleared the gate, which was of no common height, 
 witli an ease that extorted a loud bravo from tlie 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 bystanders had witnessed the 
 fall : they crowded to the spot, they took the fallen man 
 from the weak arms of the son, — the head groom ex- 
 amined him with the eye of one who had picked up 
 science irom his experience in such casualties. 
 
 "Speak, brother 1 — where are you hurtl" 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 devilish horse! " 
 
 But Arthur had already leaped on the unhappy steed, 
 which had been the cause of this appalling affliction. 
 " Which way 1 "
 
 48 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Straight on to , only two miles : every one 
 
 knows Mr. Powis's house. God bless you!" said the 
 groom. 
 
 Artliur vanished. 
 
 " Lift him carefully, and take him to the house," said 
 Mr. Eobert. " My poor brother! my dear brother! " 
 
 He was interrupted by a cry, a single, shrill, heart- 
 breaking cry; and Philip fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 Xo one heeded him at that hour, — no one heeded 
 the fatherless bastard. " Gently, gently," said Mr. 
 Eobert, 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 ! "
 
 NIGHT AND MOILNING. 49 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Constance. — 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 
 Avindovvs closed, lay the body, in its coffin, the lid not 
 yet nailed down. There, prostrate on the floor, tearless, 
 speechless, was the miserable Catherine; poor Sidney, 
 too yoimg to comprehend all his loss, sobbing at her 
 side; while Philip apart, seated beside the coffin, gazed 
 abstractedly on that cold, rigid face which had never 
 known one frown for his boyish follies. 
 
 In another room, that had been appropriated to the 
 late owner, called his study, sat Robert Beaufort. 
 Everything in this room spoke of the deceased. Par- 
 tially separated from the rest of the house, it communi- 
 cated, by a winding staircase, with a chamber above, to 
 which Philip had been wont to betake himself whenever 
 he returned late, and over-exhilarated, from some rural 
 feast crowning a hard day's hunt. Above a quaint, old- 
 fashioned bureau of Dutch workmanship (which Philip 
 had picked up at a sale in the earlier years of his mar- 
 riage) was a portrait of Catherine 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 
 
 VOL. I. — 4
 
 50 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Around the walls of the " study " (a strange mis- 
 nomer I) hung prints of celebrated fox-hunts and re- 
 nowned steeple-chases: guns, fishing-rods, and foxes' 
 brushes, 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, Eobert Beaufort, the heir-at-law, alone: for 
 the very day of the death he had remanded his son home 
 with the letter that announced to his Avife the change in 
 their fortunes, and directed her to send his lawyer post- 
 haste to the house of death. The bureau and the 
 drawers and the boxes which contained the papers of 
 the deceased , were open ; their contents had been ran- 
 sacked; 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. Kobert Beau- 
 fort'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 bo rung: at three o'clock he will 
 read the service." 
 
 " I am obliged to you, Blackwell, for taking these 
 melancholy offices on yourself. My poor brother! — it 
 is so sudden! But the funeral, you say, ought to take 
 place to-day ? " 
 
 " The weather is so warm," said the lawyer, wiping 
 his forehead. As he spoke, the death-bell was heard. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton 
 if she liad been his wife," observed Mr. Blackwell;
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 51 
 
 *'but I suppose persons of that kind have very little 
 feeling. I must say that it was fortunate for the family, 
 that the event happened before Mr. Beaufort was 
 wheedled into so improper a marriage." 
 
 "It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you ordered 
 the post-horses? I shall start immediately after the 
 funeral." 
 
 " What is to he done with the cottage, sir? " 
 
 " You may advertise it for sale. " 
 
 " And Mrs. Morton and the boys? " 
 
 " Hum, — we will consider. She was a tradesman's 
 daughter. I think I ought to provide for her suitably, 
 eh?" 
 
 " It is more than the world could expect from you, 
 sir; it is very different from a wife." 
 
 "Oh, very! very much so, indeed! Just ring for a 
 lighted candle, we will seal up these boxes. And — I 
 think 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 for- 
 gotten ! And this same composition of bone and muscle 
 that was yesterday so strong, — which men respected, 
 and women loved, and children clung to, — to-day so 
 lamentably 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 
 difference between what it was and what it is!
 
 52 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 The post-horses were at the door as the funeral pro- 
 cession returned to the house. 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, 
 and said, with his pocket-handkerchief still before his 
 eyes, — 
 
 " I will write to you in a few days, ma'am; you will 
 find that I shall not forget you. The cottage will be sold ; 
 but we sha'n't hurry you. Good-by, ma'am; good-by, 
 my boys; " and he patted his nephews on the head. 
 
 Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his 
 uncle, who muttered to himself, " That 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 Eobertr' 
 
 Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the 
 britska, — it had been his brother's: the lawyer fol- 
 lowed, and they drove away. 
 
 A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house 
 into the conservatory, to gather some fruit for his 
 motlier; she had scarcely touched food since Beaufort's 
 death. She was worn to a shadow ; her hair had turned 
 gray. Kow she had at last found tears, and she wept 
 noiselessly but unceasingly. 
 
 The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them 
 carefully in his l)asket; he was about to select a nec- 
 tarine 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 1 — 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 mean
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 53 
 
 is, that some great folks are coming to look at the place 
 to-morrow ; and I won't have my show of fruit spoiled 
 by being pawed about by the like of you ; so, that 's 
 plain, Master Philip! " 
 
 The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. The 
 gardener, delighted to retaliate the insolence he had 
 received, continued, — 
 
 "You need not go for to look so spiteful, master; 
 you are not the great man you thought you were ; you 
 are nobody now, and so you will find ere long. So, 
 march out, if you please; I wants to lock up the glass." 
 
 As he spoke, he took the lad roughly by the arm; but 
 Philip, the most irascible of mortals, was strong for his 
 years, and fearless as a young lion. He caught up a 
 watering-pot, which the gardener had deposited while 
 he expostulated with his late tyrant, and struck the man 
 across the face with it so violently and so suddenly, that 
 he fell back over the beds, and the glass crackled and 
 shivered under him. Philip did not wait for the foe to 
 recover his equilibrium; but, taking up his grapes, and 
 possessing himself quietly of the disputed nectarine, 
 quitted the spot; and the gardener did not think it 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 the 
 first burst of passion ; but to Philip Beaufort it was an 
 era in life : it was the first insult he had ever received ; 
 it was his initiation into that changed, rough, and 
 terrible career, to which the spoiled darling of vanity 
 and love was henceforth condemned. His pride and 
 liis self-esteem had incurred a fearful shock. He en- 
 tered the house, and a sickness came over him; his limbs
 
 54 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 trembled; he sat down in the hall, and, placing the 
 fruit beside him, covered his face with his hands and 
 wept. Those were not the tears of a boy, drawn from 
 a shallow source ; they were the burning, agonizing, re- 
 luctant 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, 
 inquisitive turn of mind, had enabled him, however, to 
 pick up more knowledge, though of a desultory and mis- 
 cellaneous nature, than boys of his age generally pos- 
 sess; and his roving, independent, out-of-door existence 
 had served to ripen his understanding. He had cer- 
 tainly, in spite of every precaution, arrived at some, 
 though not very distinct, notion of his peculiar position; 
 but none of its inconveniences had visited him till that 
 day. He began now to turn his eyes 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 
 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 fixed on vacancy, listless, drooping, a very image 
 of desolate woe; and Sidney was weaving flower-chains 
 at her feet.
 
 NIGHT AND MOUNING. 55 
 
 " Mamma! — mother! " whispered Philip as he threw 
 his arms round her neck; "look up! look up! — my 
 heart hreaks to see you. Do taste this fruit: you will 
 die, too, if you go on thus; and what will become of us, 
 — of Sidney ? " 
 
 Mrs. ^lorton did look up vaguely into his fac3, and 
 strove to smile. 
 
 " See, too, I have brought you a letter; perhaps good 
 news : shall I break the seal 1 " 
 
 Mrs. JNIorton shook her head gently, and took the 
 letter, — alas! how different from that one which Sidney 
 had placed in her hands not two short weeks since: it 
 was Mr. Kobert 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 ? Whatever the 
 sanctity of her marriage, the law might fail her. At 
 the disposition of Mr. Eobert Beaufort the fate of three 
 lives might depend. She gasped for breath, again took 
 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 your- 
 self, left by my poor brother destitute of all provision, I take 
 the earliest opportunity which it seems to me that propriet}'' 
 and decorum allow, to apprise 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 j'our 
 feelings by those moral 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 
 T)eculiar connection with my brother, I may, however, be per- 
 mitted to add, that that connection tended very materially to 
 separate him from the legitiiuate branches of his family ; and
 
 66 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 in consiiltinjT 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 exists upon their 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 feel- 
 ings which, as a father and a husband, you may conceive that 
 I share with the rest of my family. You will probably now 
 decide on living with some of your own relations ; and that 
 you may not be entirely a burden to them, I beg to say that I 
 shall allow you a hundred a year, paid, if you prefer it, quar- 
 terly. You may also select such articles of linen and plate as 
 you require for your own use. With regard to your sons, I 
 have no objection to place them at a grammar-school, and, at 
 a proper age, to apprentice them to any trade suitable to their 
 future station, in the choice of which your own family can 
 give you the best advice. If they conduct themselves properly, 
 they may always depend on my protection. I do not wish to 
 hurry your movements ; but it will probably be painful to you 
 to remain longer than you can help in a place crowded with 
 unpleasant recollections; and as the cottage is to be sold, — 
 indeed, my brother-in-law, Lord LilVjurne, thinks it would 
 Buit him, — you will be liable to the interruption of strangers 
 to see it ; and your prolonged residence at Fernside, you must 
 be sensible, is rather an obstacle to the sale. I beg to enclose 
 you a draft for .£100, to pay any present expenses ; and to re- 
 quest, when you are settled, to know where the first quarter 
 shall be paid. 
 
 I shall write to Mr. Jackson (who, I think, is the bailiff) 
 to detail my instructions as to selling the crops, etc., and dis- 
 charging the servants, so that you may have no further trouble. 
 I am, madam, your obedient servant, 
 
 Robert Beaufort. 
 
 Berkeley Square, September 12, 18 — . 
 
 The letter fell from Catherine's hands. Her grief 
 was changed to indignation and scorn, 
 
 "The insolent!" she exclaimed, Avith flashing eyes. 
 "This to me! — to me! — the wife, the lawful wife of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 57 
 
 his brother! the wedded mother of his brother's chil- 
 dren!" 
 
 "Say that again, mother! again, — again!" cried 
 Philip, in a loud voice. " His wife! — wedded! " 
 
 " I swear it," said Catherine, solemnly. " I kept the 
 secret for your father's sake. Now, for yours, the truth 
 must be proclaimed." 
 
 "Thank God! thank God!" murmured Philip, in a 
 quivering voice, throwing his arms round his brother, 
 " we have no brand on our names, Sidney." 
 
 At those accents, so full of suppressed joy and pride, 
 the mother felt at once all that her son had suspected and 
 concealed. She felt that beneath his haughty and way- 
 ward character there had lurked delicate and generous 
 forbearance for her; that from his equivocal position 
 his very faults might have arisen ; and a pang of remorse 
 for her long sacrifice of the children to the father shot 
 through her heart. It was followed by a fear, an appall- 
 ing 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 trembled 
 and drew back. But care for the living was stronger at 
 that moment than even anguish for the dead: she en- 
 tered the apartment; she passed with a firm step to the 
 bureau. It was locked; Robert Beaufort's seal upon 
 the lock: on every cupboard, every box, every drawer, 
 the same seal that spoke of rights more valued than her 
 own. But Catherine was not daunted : she turned and
 
 58 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 saw Philip by her side; she pointed to the bureau la 
 silence; the boy understood the appeal. He left the 
 room, and returned in a few moments with a chisel. 
 The lock was broken: tremblingly and eagerly Catherine 
 ransacked the contents, opened paper after paper, letter 
 after letter, in vain, — no certificate, no will, no memo- 
 rial. 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 afterwards they were in the same room in 
 which Philip had brought Robert Beaufort's letter to 
 his mother. Catherine was seated, tearless, but deadly 
 pale with heart-sickness and dismay. 
 
 "Mother," said Philip, " may I now read the letter?" 
 
 " Yes, boy; and decide for us all." She paused, and 
 examined his face as he read. He felt her eye was upon 
 him, and restrained his emotions as he proceeded. 
 When he had done he lifted his dark gaze upon Cath- 
 erine's watchful countenance. 
 
 " IMother, whether or not we obtain our rights, you 
 will still refuse this man's charity? I am young, — a 
 boy ; but I am strong and active. I will work for you 
 day and night. I have it in me, — I feel it; anything 
 rather than eating his bread." 
 
 "Philip! Philip! you are indeed my son, your 
 father's son! And have you no reproach for your 
 mother, who so Aveakly, so criminally, concealed your 
 birthright, till, alas! discovery may be too late? Oh! 
 reproach me, reproach me! it will be kindness. No! 
 do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Boy! boy! if, as 
 my heart tells me, we fail in proof, do you understand 
 what, in the world's eye, I am; what you are? "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 59 
 
 "I do!" said Pliilip, 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 judg- 
 ment of Heaven, my father's wife, and I his heir." 
 
 Catlierine 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. "]\[amma! what vexes you? 
 Mamma, mamma! " 
 
 "Oh, Sidney! Sidney! How like his father! Look 
 at him, Philip! Shall we do right to refuse him even 
 this pittance ? Must he be a beggar too ? " 
 
 "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 born to beg their 
 bread!"
 
 60 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The storm above, and frozen world below. 
 
 The olive bough 
 Faded and cast upon the common wind, 
 And eartli a doveless ark. 
 
 Laman Blanchard. 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort was generally considered by 
 the world a very worthy man. He had never com- 
 mitted any excess, never gambled nor incurred debt, 
 nor fallen into the warm errors most common with his 
 sex. He was a good husband, a careful father, an 
 agreeable neighbor, 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 life. Mr. Robert Beaufort, in- 
 deed, always meant to do what was right, — in the eyes 
 of the world/ He had no other rule of action but that 
 which the world supplied: his religion was decorum; 
 his sense of honor was regard to opinion. His heart 
 was a dial to which the world was the sun: when the 
 great eye of the public fell on it, it answered every pur- 
 pose that a heart could answer; but when that eye was 
 invisible, the dial was mute, — a piece of brass, and 
 nothing more. 
 
 It is just to 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 the mere invention (and a shallow 
 one) of a man wishing to make the imprudent step he
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 61 
 
 was about to take as respectable as lie could. The 
 careless tone of his brother when speaking upon the 
 subject, his confession that of such a marriage there 
 were no distinct proofs, except a copy of a register 
 (which copy Kobert had not found), — made his incre- 
 dulity natural. He therefore deemed himself \mder no 
 obligation of delicacy or respect to a woman through 
 whose means he had very nearly lost a noble succession, 
 — a woman who had not even borne his brother's name, 
 a woman whom nobody knew. Had Mrs. Morton Ijeen 
 Mrs. Beaufort, and the natural sons legitimate children, 
 Robert Beaufort, supposing their situation of relative 
 power and dependence to have been the same, would 
 have behaved with careful and scrupulous generosity. 
 The world would have said, " Nothing can be hand- 
 somer than Mr. Robert Beaufort's conduct!" Nay, if 
 Mrs. Morton had been some divorced wife of birth and 
 connections, he would have made very different disposi- 
 tions in her favor: he would not have allowed the con- 
 nections to call him shabby. But here he felt that, all 
 circumstances considered, the world, if it spoke at all 
 (which it would scarcely think it worth while to do), 
 would be on his side. An artful woman, — low-born 
 and, of course, low-bred, — who wanted to inveigle her 
 rich and careless paramour into marriage; what could 
 be expected from the man she had sought to injure, — 
 the rightful heir"? Was it not very good in him to do 
 anything for her, and, if he provided for the children 
 suitably to the original station of the mother, did he 
 not go to the very utmost of reasonable expectation '? 
 He certainly thought in his conscience, such as it was, 
 that he had acted well, — not extravagantly, not fool- 
 ishly, but iveJl. He was sure the world would say so 
 if it knew all ; he was not bound to do anything. He
 
 62 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 was not, therefore, prepared for Catherine's short, 
 haughty, but temperate reply to his letter, — a reply 
 which conveyed a decided refusal of his offers; asserted 
 positively her own marriage, and the claims of her 
 children; intimated legal proceedings; and was signed 
 in the name of Catherine Beaufort,. Mr. Beaufort put 
 the letter in his bureau, labelled, "Impertinent answer 
 from Mrs. Morton, Sept. 14," and was quite contented 
 to forget the existence of the writer, until his laAvyer, 
 Mr. Blackwell, informed him that a suit had been 
 instituted by Catherine. Mr. Eobert turned pale, but 
 Blackwell composed him. 
 
 "Pooh, sir! you have notliing 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 
 Catherine had no proofs, no evidence, Avhich could 
 justify a respectable lawyer to advise her proceeding to 
 a suit. She named two witnesses of her marriage, — 
 one dead, the other could not be heard of. She selected 
 for the alleged place in which the ceremony was per- 
 formed a very remote village, in which it appeared that 
 the register had been destroyed. No attested copy 
 thereof was to be found, and Catherine was stunned on 
 hearing that, even if found, it was doubtful whether it 
 could be received as evidence, unless to corroborate 
 actual personal testimony. It so happened that when 
 Philip, many years ago, had received a copy, he had not 
 sliown it to Catherine, nor mentioned Mr. Jones's 
 name as the copyist. In fact, then only three years 
 married to Catherine, his worldly caution had not yet 
 been conquered by confident experience of her gener- 
 osity. As for the mere moral evidence dependent on the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 63 
 
 publication of her banns in London, that amounted to 
 
 no proof whatever; nor, on inquiry at A , did the 
 
 Welsh villagers remember anything further than that, 
 some fifteen years ago, a handsome gentleman had 
 visited Mr. Price, and one or two rather thought that 
 Mr. Price had married him to a lady from London; 
 evidence quite inadmissible against the deadly, damning 
 fact, that, for fifteen years, Catherine had openly borne 
 another name, and lived with Mr. Beaufort, ostensibly 
 as liis mistress. Her generosity in this destroyed her 
 case. Nevertheless, she found a low practitioner, who 
 took her money and neglected her cause; so her suit 
 was heard and dismissed with contempt. Henceforth 
 then, indeed, in the eyes of the law and the public, 
 Catherine was an impudent adventurer, and her sons 
 were nameless outcasts. 
 
 And now, relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert Beau- 
 fort 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 considerable importance. The ricli 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 of them, sir; and what have you 
 done for them ? " 
 
 "Done for them!" said Mr. Beaufort, opening his
 
 64 NIGHT AND HORNING. 
 
 eyes. "What should I do for persons who have just 
 been harassing me with the most unprincipled litiga- 
 tion 1 jVIy 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 good-nature that 
 belonged to him: " still, my uncle was greatly attached 
 to them ; and the boys, at least, are guiltless. " 
 
 "Well, well!" replied Mr. Beaufort, a little impa- 
 tiently ; " 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 connection, and that 
 you will take Avarning by your poor uncle's example. 
 And now let us change the subject; it is not a very 
 pleasant one, and, at j'our age, the less your thoughts 
 turn on such matters the better." 
 
 Arthur Beaufort, with the careless generosity of 
 youth, 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 career opened, whether to his pleasures or 
 his studies, suffered the objects of his inquiries to pass 
 from his thoughts. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Morton, for by that name we must 
 still call her, and her children, were settled in a small 
 lodging in a humble suburb, situated on the highroad 
 between Fernside and the metropolis. She saved from 
 her hopeless lawsuit, after the sale of her jewels and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 65 
 
 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 cor- 
 respondence 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 Catherine ever con- 
 templated separation or death. Alas! how all of us, 
 when happy, sleep secure in the dark shadows, which 
 ought to warn us of the sorrows that are to come ! Still 
 Catherine's father, a man of coarse mind and not rigid 
 principles, did not take much to heart that connection 
 which he assumed to be illicit. She was provided for, 
 that was some comfort: doubtless Mr. Beaufort would 
 act like a gentleman, perhaps at last make her an honest 
 woman and a lady. Meanwhile she had a fine house 
 and a fine carriage and fine servants, and, so far from 
 applying to him for money, was constantly sending 
 him little presents. But Catherine only saw, in his 
 permission of her correspondence, kind, forgiving, and 
 trustful affection, and she loved him tenderly; when he 
 died, the link that bound her to her family was broken. 
 Her brother succeeded to the trade , — a man of probity 
 and honor, but somewhat hard and unamiable. In the 
 only letter she had received from him, — the one an- 
 nouncing her father's death, — he told her plainly, and 
 very properly, that he could not countenance the life 
 she led; that he had children growing up; that all 
 
 VOL. I. — 5
 
 66 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 intercourse between them was at an end, unless she left 
 Mr. Beaufort, when, if she sincerely repented, he would 
 still prove her affectionate brother. 
 
 Though Catherine had at the time resented this letter 
 as unfeeling, now, humbled and sorrow-stricken, she 
 recognized the propriety of principle from which it 
 emanated. Her brother was well off for his station: 
 she would explain to him her real situation, — he would 
 believe her story. She would write to him, and beg 
 him, at least, to give aid to her poor children. 
 
 But this step she did not take till a considerable 
 portion of her pittance was consumed, — till nearly three 
 parts of a year since Beaufort's death had expired, — 
 and till sundry warnings, not to he lightly heeded, had 
 made her forelwde the probability of an early death for 
 herself. From the age of sixteen, when she had been 
 placed by Mr. Beaufort at the head of his household, 
 she had been cradled, not in extravagance, but in an 
 easy luxury, which had not brought with it habits of 
 economy and thrift. She could grudge anything to her- 
 self, but to her children, — his children, whose every 
 whim had been anticipated. — she had not the heart to 
 be saving. She could have starved in a garret had she 
 been alone ; but she could not see them wanting a com- 
 fort while she possessed a guinea. Philip, to do him 
 justice, evinced a consideration not to have been ex- 
 pected from his early and arrogant recklessness. But 
 Sidney, — who could expect consideration from such a 
 child? What could he know of the change of circum- 
 stances, — of the value of money? Did he seem de- 
 jected, Catherine 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 I
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 67 
 
 her own ailments, neglected and unheeded, were grow- 
 ing beyond the reach of medicine. Anxious, fearful, 
 gnawed by regret for the past, the thought of famine in 
 the future, — she daily fretted and wore herself away. 
 She had cultivated her mind during her secluded resi- 
 dence with Mr. Beaufort, but she had learned none of 
 the arts by which decayed gentlewomen keep the wolf 
 from the door, — no little holiday accomplishments, 
 which in the day of need turn to useful trade ; no water- 
 color drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabrication of 
 pretty gewgaws, no embroidery and fine needlework. 
 She was helpless, — utterly helpless; if she had re- 
 signed herself to the thought of service, she would not 
 have had the physical strength for a place of drudgery, 
 and where could she have found the testimonials neces- 
 sary for a place of trust? A great change, at this time, 
 was apparent in Philip. Had he fallen, then, into kind 
 hands, and under guiding eyes, his passions and energies 
 might have ripened into rare qualities and great virtues. 
 But perhaps, as Goethe has somewhere said, "Experi- 
 ence, after all, is the best teacher." He kept a con- 
 stant guard on his vehement temper, — his wayward 
 Avill ; he would not have vexed his mother for the 
 world. But, strange to say (it was a great mystery in 
 the woman's heart), in proportion as he became more 
 amiable, it seemed that his mother loved him less. 
 Perhaps she did not, in that change, recognize so closely 
 the darling of the old time; perhaps tlie very weak- 
 nesses and importunities of Sidney, the hourly sacri- 
 fices the child entailed upon her, endeared the younger 
 son more to her, from that natural sense of dependence 
 and protection which forms the great bond between 
 mother and child; perhaps, too, as Philip had been one 
 to inspire as much pride as affection, so the pride faded
 
 68 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 
 appeared the more spoiled and favored of the two; and 
 now Sidney seemed all in all. Thus, beneath the 
 younger son's caressing gentleness there grew up a cer- 
 tain regard for self; it Avas latent, it took amiable 
 colors, it had even a certain charm and grace in so 
 sweet a child; but selfishness it was not the less. In 
 this he differed from his brother. Philip was self- 
 willed : Sidney self-loving. A certain timidity of char- 
 acter, endearing perhaps to the anxious heart of a mother, 
 made this fault in the younger boy more likely to take 
 root. For, in bold natures, there is a lavish and un- 
 calculating recklessness Avhich scorns self unconsciously: 
 and though there is a fear which arises from a loving 
 heart, and is but sympathy for others, the fear which 
 belongs to a timid character is but egotism, — but when 
 physical, the regard for one's own person; when moral, 
 the anxiety for one's own interests. 
 
 It was in a small room in a lodging-house in the 
 
 suburb of H that Mrs. Morton was seated by the 
 
 window, nervously awaiting the knock of the postman 
 who 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 fly-trap, red, white, and yellow, suspended from the 
 ceiling, swarmed with flies; flies were on the ceiling, 
 flies buzzed at the windows; the sofa and chairs of 
 horse-hair seemed stuffed with flies. There was an air 
 of heated discomfort in the thick, solid moreen curtains, 
 in the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring carpet, in the 
 very looking-glass over the cliimney-piece, where a strip
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 69 
 
 of mirror lay imprisoned in an embrace of frame covered 
 with yellow muslin. We may talk of the dreariness of 
 winter; and winter, no doubt, is desolate: but what in 
 the world is more dreary to eyes inured to the verdure 
 and bloom of nature , — 
 
 " The pomp of groves and garniture of fields, " — 
 
 than a close room in a suburban lodging-house ; the sun 
 piercing every corner; nothing fresh, nothing cool, 
 nothing fragrant to be seen, felt, or inhaled; all dust, 
 glare, noise, with a chandler's shop, perhaps, next door? 
 Sidney, armed with a pair of scissors, was cutting the 
 pictures out of a story-book which his mother had 
 bought him the day before. Philip, who, of late, had 
 taken much to rambling about the streets, — it may be 
 in hopes of meeting one of those benevolent, eccentric, 
 elderly gentlemen he had read of in old novels, who 
 suddenly come to the relief of distressed virtue; or, more 
 probably, from the restlessness that belonged to his 
 adventurous temperament, — Philip had left the house 
 since breakfast. 
 
 " Oh ! how hot this nasty room is ! " exclaimed Sidney, 
 abruptly, looking up from his employment. " Sha'n't 
 we ever go into the covuitry again, mamma? " 
 
 " Kot at present, my love. " 
 
 "I wish I could have my pony: why can't I have 
 my pony, mamma? " 
 
 "Because — because — the pony is sold, Sidney." 
 
 "Who sold it?" 
 
 "Your uncle." 
 
 "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
 
 70 KIGIIT AND MOKNING. 
 
 shall have a ride this week. Yes," continued the 
 mother, as if reasoning Avith herself, in excuse of the 
 extravagance, "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 tell Philip, pray 
 don't; he would be jealous." 
 
 " No, not jealous, my dear; why do you think so? " 
 
 " Because he is always angry when I ask yow for any- 
 thing. It is very unkind in him, for I don't care if he 
 has a pony, too, — only not the white one." 
 
 Here the postman's knock, loud and sudden, startled 
 Mrs. Morton from her seat. She pressed her hands 
 tiglitly to lier heart, as if to still its heating, and 
 went tremulously 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." 
 
 " jNIamma, may I tell Jane to engage the pony 1 " 
 
 "Not now, my love, sit down; be quiet: I — I am 
 not well." 
 
 Sidney, who was affectionate and oltedient, 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-. —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 71 
 
 Dear Catherine, — I have received your letter of the 14th 
 inst., and write per return. I am very much grieved to hear 
 of your afflictions; but, whatever you say, I cannot think the 
 late Mr. Beaufort acted like a conscientious man, in forgetting 
 to make his will, and leaving his little ones destitute. It is 
 all very well to talk of his intentions ; but the proof of the 
 pudding is in the eating. And it is hard upon me, who have 
 a large family of my own, and get my livelihood by honest 
 industry, to have a rich gentleman's children to maintain. As 
 for your story about the private marriage, it may or not be. 
 Perhaps you were taken in by that worthless man, for a real 
 marriage it could not be. And, as you say, the law has de- 
 cidetl that point ; therefore, the less you say on the matter the 
 better. It all comes to the same thing. People are not bound 
 to believe what can't be proved. And even if what you say 
 is true, you are more to be blamed than pitied for holding your 
 tongue so many years, and discrediting an honest family, as 
 ours has always been considered. I am sure my wile 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 trouble my head much about differences in opinion. 
 I daresay there are many ways to heaven; as I said, the other 
 day, to Mr. Thwaites, our member. But it is right to say my 
 wife will not hear of your coming here; and, indeed, it might 
 do harm to my business, for there are several elderly single 
 gentlewomen who buy flannel for the poor at my shop, and 
 tliey 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 enclose you £10, 
 and you will let me know when it is gone, and I will see what
 
 i2 NIGHT AND MORNING, 
 
 more I can do. You say you are very poorly, which I am 
 sorry to hear ; but you must pluck up your spirits, and take 
 in plain work ; and I really think you ought to apply to Mr. 
 Robert Beaufort. He bears a high character; and, notwith- 
 standing your lawsuit, which I cannot approve of, I daresay 
 he might allow you £40 or £50 a year, if you apply properly, 
 which would be the right thing in him. So much for you. 
 As for the boys — poor, fatherless creatures I — it is very hard 
 that they should be so punished for no fault of their own; and 
 my wife, who, though strict, is a good-hearted woman, is ready 
 and willing to do what I wish about them. You say the eldest 
 is near sixteen, and well come on in his studies. I can get him 
 a very good thing in a light, genteel way. My wife's brother, 
 Mr. Christopher Plaskwith, is a bookseller and stationer, with 
 pretty practice, in R . He is a clever man, and has a news- 
 paper, which he kindly sends me every week ; and, though it 
 is not my county, it has some very sensible views, and is often, 
 noticed in the London papers, as " our provincial contempo- 
 rary." Mr. Plaskwith owes me some money, which I ad- 
 vanced him when he set up the paper; and he has several 
 times most honestly offered to pay me, in shares in the said 
 paper. But, as the thing might break, and I don't like con- 
 cerns 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 assistant 
 and 'prentice, and offered to take my eldest boy ; but we can't 
 spare him. I write to Christopher by this post ; and if your 
 youth will run down on the top of the coach, and inquire for 
 Mr. Plaskwith, — the fare is trifling, — I have no doubt he 
 will be engaged at once. But you will say, " There's the pre- 
 mium to consider!" No such thing; Kit will set off the 
 premium against his debt to me ; so you will have nothing to 
 pay. 'T is a very pretty business ; and the lad's education 
 will get him on : so that's off your mind. As to the little 
 chap, I '11 take him at once. You say he is a pretty boy; and 
 a pretty boy is always a help in a linen-draper's shop. He 
 shall share and share with my own young folks ; and Mrs. 
 Morton will take care of his washing and morals. I con-
 
 KIGHT AND MORNING. 73 
 
 elude (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 liis 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 
 Avrite to Mr. Beaufort ; and if he don't do something for you, 
 he 's not the gentleman I take him for. But you are my own 
 flesh and blood, and sha'n't starve ; for, though I don't think 
 it right in a man in business to encourage what 's wrong, yet, 
 when a person 's downi in the world, I think an ounce of help 
 is better than a pound of preaching. ^ly wife thinks other- 
 wise, 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 when your boy comes 
 down, an<l also about the measles, cowpock, and whooping- 
 cough ; also if all 's right with Mr. Plaskwith. So now I hope 
 you will feel more comfortable ; and remain, dear Catherine, 
 your forgiving and affectionate brother, 
 
 Roger Morton. 
 High Street, N , June 13. 
 
 P. S. Mrs. M. says that she will be a mother to your little 
 boy, and that you had better mend up all his linen before you 
 send him. 
 
 As Catherine finished, this epistle, she lifted her eyes 
 and beheld Philip. He had entered noiselessly, and 
 he remained silent, leaning against the wall, and watch- 
 ing the face of his mother, which crimsoned with pain- 
 ful humiliation while she read. Philip was not now 
 the trim and dainty stripling first introduced to the 
 reader. He had outgrown his faded suit of funereal 
 mourning; 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 forms of pride. It was evident
 
 74 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 that his spirit endured, rather than accommodated itself 
 to, his fallen state; and notwithstanding his soiled and 
 threadbare garments, and a haggardness that ill becomes 
 tlie years of palmy youth, there was about his "whole 
 mien and person a wild and savage grandeur more im- 
 pressive than his former ruffling arrogance of manner. 
 
 " Well, mother," said he, Avith 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 — " 
 
 " T don't know," interrupted Philip, vaguely; " let 
 me see Avhat we are to decide on." 
 
 Mrs. Morton was naturally a woman of high courage 
 and spirit, but sickness and grief had worn down both ; 
 and though Philip was but sixteen, there is something 
 in the very nature of woman — especially in trouVjle — ■ 
 which makes her seek to lean on some other will than 
 her own. She gave Philip the letter, and went quietly 
 to sit down by Sidney. 
 
 "Your brother means well," said Philip, when he had 
 concluded the epistle. 
 
 " Yo.s, but nothing is to be done ; I cannot, cannot 
 send poor Sidney to — to — " and Mrs. Morton sobbed. 
 
 " No, my dear, dear mother, no; it would be terriljle, 
 indeed, to part you and him. But this bookseller, — 
 Plaskwith, — perhaps I shall be able to support you 
 both." 
 
 " Why, you do not tliink, 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
 
 NTGHT AND .MORNING. 75 
 
 not proud, — I would be honest, if I can, — but when I 
 see you pining away, and so changed, tlie devil comes 
 into me, and I often shudder lest I should commit some 
 crime, what, I don't know! " 
 
 " Come here, Philip, my own Philip, — my son, my 
 hope, my first-born! " — and the mother's heart gushed 
 forth in all the fondness of early days. " Don't speak 
 so terribly, you frighten me! " 
 
 She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him 
 soothingly. He laid his burning temples on her bosom, 
 and nestled himself to her, as he had been wont to do, 
 after some stormy paroxysm of his passionate and way- 
 ward infancy. So there they remained, — their lips 
 silent, their hearts speaking to each other, each from 
 each taking strange succor 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, hom 
 which 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 
 mortification. " 
 
 " Oh, all Avill go well, don't fear," said Philip, cheer- 
 fully, and he left the house. 
 
 Towards evening he had reached his destination. The 
 shop Avas of goodly exterior, Avith a private entrance; 
 over the shop Avas Avritten, "Christopher PlaskAvith, 
 Bookseller and Stationer : " on the private door a brass 
 
 plate, inscribed Avith " R and Mercury Office, 
 
 Mr. Plaskwith. " Philip applied at the private entrance, 
 and Avas shown by a " neat-handed Phyllis " into a small 
 office-room. In a feAV minutes the door opened, and 
 the bookseller entered.
 
 76 NIGHT A^■D MORXING. 
 
 Mr. Christopher Plaskwith was a short, stout man, 
 in drab-colored breeches, and gaiters to match, a black 
 coat and waistcoat; he wore a large watch-chain, with a 
 prodigious bunch of seals, alternated by small keys and 
 old-fashioned mourning-rings. His complexion was 
 pale and sodden, and his hair short, dark, and sleek. 
 The bookseller valued himself on a likeness to Bona- 
 parte, and affected a short, brusque, peremptory manner, 
 which he meant to be the indication of the vigorous and 
 decisive character of his prototype. 
 
 " So you are the young gentleman Mr. Roger Morton 
 recommends?" Here Mr. Plaskwith took out a huge 
 pocketbook, 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 Cham- 
 perdown's order for fifty copies of the last ' Mercury,' 
 containing his speech at the county meeting. Your age, 
 young man 1 — only sixteen ! — look older : that 's not it ; 
 that's not it; and this is it I — sit down. Yes, Mr. 
 Roger Morton recommends you — a relation — unfortu- 
 nate circumstances — well-educated — hum! Well, 
 young man, what have you to say for yourself] " 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 " Can you cast accounts ? — know book-keeping ? " 
 
 " I know something of algebra, sir." 
 
 " Algebra ! — oh, what else ? " 
 
 " French and Latin." 
 
 "Hum! — may be useful. Why do you wear your 
 hair so long ? — look at mine. What 's your name ? " 
 
 "Philip Morton." 
 
 "Mr. Philip ]\rorton, you have an intelligent counte- 
 nance, — I go a great deal by countenances. You know 
 the terms? — most favorable to you. No premium, —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 77 
 
 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 you 
 come ? " 
 
 " When you please, sir." 
 
 " Day after to-morrow, by six-o'clock coach." 
 
 " But, sir," said Philip, " will there be no salary? — 
 something, ever so small, that I could send to my 
 mother ? " 
 
 " Salary , at sixteen 1 — board and bed, — no premium ! 
 Salary, what for? 'Prentices have no salary! — you 
 will have every comfort." 
 
 " Give me less comfort, that I may give my mother 
 more, — a little money, ever so little, and take it out of 
 my board. I can do Avith one meal a day, sir." 
 
 The bookseller was moved; he took a huge pinchful of 
 snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, and mused a moment. 
 He then said as he re-examined Philip, — 
 
 " Well, young man, I '11 tell you what we will do. 
 You shall come here first upon trial ? — see if we like 
 each other before we sign the indentures: allow you, 
 meanwhile, five shillings a week. If you show talent, 
 will see if I and Roger can settle about some little 
 allowance. That do, eh 1 " 
 
 " I thank you, sir, yes," said Philip, gratefully. 
 
 " Agreed, then. Follow me, — present you to Mrs. P. " 
 
 Thus saying, Mr. Plaskwith returned the letter to 
 the pocketbook, and the pocketbook to the pocket; 
 and, putting his arms behind his coat tails, threw up 
 his chin, and strode through the passage into a small 
 parlor, that looked upon a small garden. Here, seated 
 round the table, were a thin lady, with a squint (Mrs. 
 Plaskwith) ; two little girls (the Misses Plaskwith) , also
 
 78 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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, smelled of cigars. 
 Such was Mr. Plimmins, Mr. Plaskwith's factotum, 
 foreman in the shop, assistant-editor to the " Mercury." 
 Mr. Plaskwith formally went the round of the intro- 
 duction ; Mrs. P. nodded her head ; the Misses P. nudged 
 each other, and grinned; Mr. Plimmins passed his 
 hand through his hair, glanced at the glass, and bowed 
 very politely. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. P., my second cup, and give Mr. Mor- 
 ton 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 biog- 
 rapliy of the great Napoleon Bonaparte 1 " 
 
 Mr. Plimmins gulj^ed down liis tea, and kicked Philip 
 under the table. Philip looked fiercely at the foreman, 
 and replied, sullenly, "No, sir." 
 
 " That 's a pity. Napoleon Bonaparte was a very 
 great man, — very! You have seen his cast? — there it 
 is, on the dumb-wailer! Look at it! see a likeness, 
 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 
 resemble? " 
 
 Here Mr. Plaskwith rose, and placed himself in an 
 attitude; his hand in his waistcoat, and his face pen-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 79 
 
 sively inclined towards tlie tea-table. " Now fancy me 
 at St. H<'l(nia ; this table is the ocean. Now then, who 
 is tliat cast like, Mr. Philip Morton? " 
 
 " I sxippose, sir, it is like you! " 
 
 "Ah, that it is! strikes every one! Does it not, 
 Mrs. P. , does it not ? And when you have known me 
 longer, you will find a moral similitude, — a moral, sir! 
 Straightforward, short, to the point, bold, determined! " 
 
 " Bless me, Mr. P. ! " said Mrs. Plaskwith, very 
 querulously, "do make haste with your tea; the young 
 gentleman, I suppose, wants to go home, and the coach 
 passes in a quarter of an hour." 
 
 " Have you seen Kean in Richard III. , Mr. Morton 1 " 
 asked Mr. Piimmius. 
 
 " I have never seen a play. " 
 
 " Never seen a play ! How very odd ! " 
 
 "Not at all odd, Mr. Plimrains," said the stationer. 
 "Mr. Morton has known troubles, — so hand him the 
 hot toast." 
 
 Silent and morose, but rather disdainful than sad, 
 Philip listened to the babble round him, and observed 
 the ungenial characters with which he was to associate. 
 He cared not to please (that, alas! had never been 
 especially his study); it was enough for him if he could 
 see, stretching to his mind's eye beyond the walls of 
 that dull room, the long vistas into fairer fortune. At 
 sixteen, what sorrow can freeze the hope, or what pro- 
 phetic fear whisper " fool " to the ambition 1 He would 
 bear back into ease and prosperity, if not into affluence 
 and station, the dear ones left at home. Prom 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
 
 80 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 and be off, — smart 's the word! " Philip rose, took up 
 his hat, made a ytiff bow that included the whole group, 
 and vanished with his host. 
 
 ^Mrs. Plaskwith breathed more easily when he was 
 gone. 
 
 " I never seed a more odd, fierce, ill-bred-looking 
 young man! I declare I am quite afraid of him. 
 What an eye he has! " 
 
 "Uncommonly dark; what, I may say, gypsy-like," 
 said ^Ir. Plimmins. 
 
 " He ! he ! you always do say such good things, Plim- 
 mins. Gypsy-like! he! he! So he is! I wonder if 
 he can tell fortunes 1 " 
 
 " He '11 be long before he has a fortune of his own to 
 tell. Ha! ha!" said Plimmins. 
 
 "He! he! how very good! you are so pleasant, 
 Plimmins." 
 
 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, power- 
 ful 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!
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 81 
 
 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 reverie by this quaint and unex- 
 pected declamation, Philip turned his quick glance at 
 his neighbor. He saw a man of great bulk, and im- 
 mense physical power, — broad-shouldered, deep-chested, 
 not corpulent, but taking the same girth from bone 
 and muscle that a corpulent man does from flesh. He 
 wore a 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, not- 
 withstanding its jovial complexion and smiling mouth, 
 had, in repose, a 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 phys- 
 ical 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 Avas 
 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, sliall I guess at your character and 
 circumstances ? You are a gentleman, or something 
 like it, by birth: that the tone of your voice tells me. 
 You are poor, devilish poor: that the hole in your coat 
 assures me. You are proud, fiery, discontented, and 
 
 VOL. I. — 6
 
 82 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 daresay not; for if you know all the unhappy, you 
 must have a sufficiently large acquaintance," returned 
 Philip. 
 
 "Your wit is beyond your years! What is your 
 calling, if the question does not offend you? " 
 
 " I have none as yet," said Philip, with a slight sigh, 
 and a deep blush. 
 
 " More 's the pity ! " grunted the smoker, with a long, 
 emphatic, nasal intonation. " I should have judged 
 that you were a raw recruit in the camp of the enemy." 
 
 " Enemy! I don't understand you." 
 
 " In otlier 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 abuut, 
 looking out for food provided by the toil of their 
 neighbors. Whenever they come to the web of a 
 smaller spider, whose larder seems well supplied, they 
 rush upon his domain, pursue him to liis hole, eat him 
 up if they can, reject hina if he is too tough for their 
 maws, and quietly possess themselves of all the legs 
 and wings they find dangling in his meshes; these 
 spiders I call enemies, — the world calls them lawyers! " 
 
 Philip laughed: "And who are the first class of 
 spiders ? " 
 
 " Honest creatures who openly confess that they live 
 upon flies. Lawyers fall foul upon them, under pre-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 83 
 
 tence of delivering flies from their clutches. They are 
 wonderful blood-suckers, these lawyers, in spite of all 
 their hypocrisy. Ha! ha! Ho! ho!" 
 
 And with a loud, rough chuckle, more expressive of 
 malignity than mirth, the man turned himself round, 
 applied vigorously to his pipe, and sank into a silence 
 which, as mile after mile glided past the wheels, he did 
 not seem disposed to break. ISTeither was Philip in- 
 clined to be communicative. Considerations for his own. 
 state and prospects swallowed up the curiosity he might 
 otherwise have felt as to his singular neighbor. 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 
 heart, the sight of the luxuries gracing the tea-table 
 only revolted him. He did not now feel hunger, but 
 he was fatigued and faint. For several nights, the 
 sleep which youth can so ill dispense with had been 
 broken and disturbed; and now, the rapid motion of the 
 coach, and the free current of a fresher and more ex- 
 hausting air than he had been accustomed to for many 
 months, began to operate on his nerves like the intoxi- 
 cation of a narcotic. His eyes grew heavy; indistinct 
 mists, through which there seemed to glare the various 
 squints of the female Plaskwiths, succeeded the gliding 
 road and the dancing trees. His head fell on his bosom, 
 and thence, instinctively seeking the strongest support at 
 hand, inclined towards the stout smoker, and finally 
 nestled itself composedly on that gentleman's shoiilder. 
 The passenger, feeling this unwelcome and unsolicited 
 weight, took the pipe, which he had already thrice 
 refilled, from his lips, and emitted an angry and impa- 
 tient snort; finding that this produced no effect, and 
 that the load grew heavier as the boy's sleep grew
 
 84 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 deeper, he cried, in a loud voice, "Hallo! I did not 
 pay my fare to be your bolster, young man ! " and shook 
 himself lustily. Philip started, and would have fallen 
 sidelong from the coach, if his neighbor had not griped 
 him hard with a hand that could have kept a young oak 
 from falling. 
 
 "Eouse yourself! — you might have had an ugly 
 tumble. " 
 
 Philip muttered something inaudible, between sleep- 
 ing 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 neighbor, against the edge of a box 
 on the roof, — a dangerous pillow, from which any 
 sudden jolt might transfer him to the road below. 
 
 " Poor lad! — he looks pale! " muttered the man, and 
 he knocked the weed from his pipe, which he placed 
 gently in his pocket. "l*erhaps 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 solilo- 
 quist's bosom. "Poor wretch! he smiles; perhaps he 
 is thinking of home, and tlie Ijutterflies he ran after 
 when he was an urchin, — they never come back, those
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 85 
 
 daj's, — never, never, never! I think the wind veers to 
 the east: he may catch cold;" and with that, the man, 
 sliding the head for a moment, and with the tenderness 
 of a woman, from his breast to his shoulder, unbuttoned 
 his coat (as he replaced the weight, no longer unwel- 
 come, in its former part), and drew the lappets closely 
 round the slender frame of the sleeper, exposing his 
 own sturdy breast — for he wore no waistcoat — to the 
 sharpening air. Thus cradled on that stranger's bosom, 
 wrapped from the present, and dreaming perhaps — 
 while a heart scorched by fierce and terrible struggles 
 with life and sin made his pillow — of a fair and un- 
 sullied future, slept the fatherless and friendless boy.
 
 86 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Constance. — My life, my joy, my food, my all the world, 
 My mdow-comfort. 
 
 King John. 
 
 Amidst the glare of lamps, the rattle of carriages, the 
 lumbering of carts and wagons, the throng, the clamor, 
 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 I " said the passenger, 
 in the deep ringing voice which made itself heard above 
 all the noises round. 
 
 " And you have suffered me to incommode you thus ? " 
 said Philip, with more gratitude in his voice and look 
 than, perhaps, he had sliown 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. " 
 
 "No; all people were very kind to me once. I did 
 not value it then." Here the coach rolled heavily 
 down the dark arch of the inn-yard. 
 
 "Take care of yourself, my boy! You look ill;" 
 and in the dark, the man slipped a sovereign into 
 Philip's hand. 
 
 " I don't want money. Though I thank you heartily 
 all the same; it would be a shame at my age to be a 
 beggar. But can you think of an employment where I 
 can make something 1 — what they offer me is so trifling.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 87 
 
 I have a mother and a brother, — a mere child, sir, — at 
 home. " 
 
 " Employment ! " repeated the man ; and as the coach 
 now stopped at the tavern-door, the light from the lamp 
 fell full on his marked face. " Ay, I know of employ- 
 ment; hut 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?" 
 asked Philip, with a rude and blunt curiosity. 
 
 " Me ! " returned the passenger, with his deep laugh ; 
 " Oh ! I know some people who call me an honest fel- 
 low. Take the employment offered you, no matter how 
 trifling the wages, — keep out of harm's way. Good- 
 night to you! " 
 
 So saying, he quickly descended from the roof, and, 
 as he was directing the coachman where to look for his 
 carpet-bag, Philip saw three or four well-dressed men 
 make up to him, shake him heartily by the hand, and 
 welcome liim with great seeming cordiality, 
 
 Philip sighed. " He has friends," he muttered to 
 himself; and, paying his fare, he turned from the bust- 
 ling yard, and took his solitary way home. 
 
 A week after his visit to R , Philip was settled 
 
 on his probation at Mr. Plaskwith's, and Mrs. Morton's 
 health was so decidedly worse, that she resolved to know 
 her fate, and consult a physician. The oracle was at 
 first ambiguous in its response. But when Mrs. Morton 
 said firmly, " I have duties to perform ; upon your can- 
 did answer rest my plans with respect to my children, 
 left, if I die suddenly, destitute in the world," — the 
 doctor looked hard in her face, saw its calm resolution, 
 and replied frankly, — 
 
 " Lose no time, then, in arranging your plans; life is
 
 88 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 uncertain with all, — with you, especially ; you may live 
 some time yet, but your constitution is much shaken. 
 I fear there is water on the chest. No, ma'am, — no 
 fee. I will see you again." 
 
 The physician turned to Sidney, who played with his 
 watch-chain, and smiled up in his face. 
 
 "And that child, sir?" said the mother, wistfully, 
 forgetting the dread fiat pronounced against herself, — 
 " he is so delicate! " 
 
 " Not at all, ma'am, — a very fine little fellow; " and 
 the doctor patted the boy's head, and abruptly 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 ofi'er? 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 asimder? 
 Would he be as kind to the boy as now, when she 
 should commend him with her own lips to his care, — 
 when she could place that precious charge into his 
 hands? With these thoughts, she formed one of those 
 resolutions which have all the strength of self-sacrificing 
 love. She would put the boy from her, her last solace 
 and comfort; she would die alone — alone!
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 89 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Constance. — When I shall meet him ia 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 warerooras 
 of an English tradesman. Happy often, and indeed 
 happy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet remote 
 from, the toil and care of the busy mart from whicli 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 occupa- 
 tion to give healthful excitement, enough of fortune to 
 greet each new-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 ? " 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! — Catherine does not say 
 either yes or no. She wants time to consider. "
 
 90 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ■" 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 have been an honest 
 woman, and, what is more, a very rich woman, by this 
 time. She might have married Spencer, the young 
 brewer, — an excellent man, and well-to-do! " 
 
 " Spencer! I don't remember him." 
 
 "No; after she went off he retired from business, and 
 left the place. I don't know what's become of him. 
 He was mightily taken with her, to be sure. She was 
 uncommonly handsome, my sister Catherine." 
 
 "Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. Morton," said 
 the wife, who was very much marked with the small- 
 pox. " We all have our temptations and trials; this 
 is a vale of tears, and without grace we are whited 
 sepulchres." 
 
 ^Ir. Morton mixed his brandy-and-water, and moved 
 his chair into its customary corner. 
 
 " You saw your brother's letter," said he, after a 
 pause; " he gives young Philip a very good character." 
 
 "The human heart is very deceitful," replied 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 comes out in the flesh." 
 
 "We must hope the best," said Mr. Morton, mildly, 
 " and — put another lump into the grog, my dear." 
 
 " It is a mercy, I 'm thinking, that we did n't have 
 the other little boy. I daresay 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, ]\Ir. M., we could never have said who 
 he was; and I 've no doubt Miss Pryinall would have 
 been very curious."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 91 
 
 " Miss Pryinall be — " INIr. iNForton checked him- 
 self, took a large draught of the l)rai)dy-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 
 meddles with other folks and their little ones the bet- 
 ter. For, as the Scripture says, ' A man shall cleave to 
 his wife and — ' " 
 
 Here a sharp, shrill ring at the bell was heard, and 
 Mrs. Morton broke off into, — 
 
 "Well! I declare! at this hour; who can that be? 
 And all gone to bed! Do go and see, Mr. Morton." 
 
 Somewhat reluctantly and slowly Mr. 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. 1 " 
 
 Mr, Morton turned back, looking agitated. 
 
 " Where 's my hat ? — oh, here. My sister is come, at 
 the inn." 
 
 "Gracious me! She does not go for to say she is 
 i/oti7' sister 1 "
 
 92 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Xo, 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. 
 ]\r. I 'm an honest woman; she can't come here. You 
 understand — " 
 
 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 only 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 cliild; and she was not a woman who ever 
 forgave. 
 
 jNfr. Morton walked rapidly through the still, moonlit 
 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 
 witli the stamping of feet and the jingling of glasses, 
 saluted his entrance. He was a stiff, sober, respectable 
 man, — a man who, except at elections (he was a great 
 politician), mixed in none of the revels of his more 
 boisterous townsmen. The sounds, the spot, were un- 
 genial to him. He paused, and the color of shame rose 
 to liis brow. He was ashamed to be there, — ashamed 
 to meet the desolate and, as he believed, erring sister. 
 
 A pretty maid-servant, heated and flushed with orders 
 and compliments, crossed his path with a tray full of 
 glasses. 
 
 " There 's a lady come by the Telegraph ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, upstairs, No. 2, Mr. Morton."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 93 
 
 Mr. Morton ! He shrank 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 Catherine, wliom he 
 had last seen at her age of gay sixteen, radiant with 
 bloom, and, but for her air of pride, the model for 
 a Hebe; that Catherine, old ere youth was gone, pale, 
 faded, the dark hair silvered over, the cheeks hol- 
 low, and the eye dim, — that Catherine fell upon his 
 breast ! 
 
 " God bless you, brother! How kind to come! How 
 long since we have met! " 
 
 " Sit down, Catherine, my dear sister. You are 
 faint; you are very much changed, — very. I should 
 not have known you. " 
 
 " 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 little, deformed, rickety dwarf of a sofa, that 
 seemed to hide itself in the darkest corner of the low, 
 gloomy room; and Morton followed her. With one 
 hand she removed the shawl that she had thrown over 
 the child, and placing the forefinger of the other upon 
 her lips, — lips that smiled then^ — she whispered, " We 
 will not wake him, he is so tired. But I would not 
 put him to bed till you had seen him. " 
 
 And there slept poor Sidney, his fair cheek pillowed 
 on his arm ; the soft, silky ringlets thrown from the 
 delicate and unclouded brow; the natural bloom in- 
 creased by warmth and travel ; the lovely face so inno- 
 cent and hushed; the breathing so gentle and regular, 
 as if never broken by a sigh. 
 
 Mr. Morton drew his hand across his eyes.
 
 94 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 There was something very touching in the contrast 
 between that Avakeful, 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 suppos- 
 ing the world's judgment were true, have recalled 
 Catherine's reputed error ? There is so divine a holiness 
 in the love of a mother, that, no matter how the tie 
 that binds her to the child was formed, she becomes, as 
 it were, consecrated and sacred; and the past is for- 
 gotten, and the world and its harsh verdicts swept away, 
 when that love alone is visible; and the God who 
 watches over the little one sheds His smile over the 
 human deputy in whose tenderness there breathes His 
 own. 
 
 " You will be kind to him, will you not? " said Mrs. 
 Morton, and the appeal was made Avith that trustful, 
 almost cheerful tone which implies, " Who would not 
 be kind to a thing so fair and helpless 1 " " He is very 
 sensitive and very docile; you will never have occasion 
 to say a hard word to him, — never! you have children 
 of your own , brother 1 " 
 
 " He is a beautiful boy, — beautiful. I will be a 
 father to him ! " 
 
 As he spoke, the recollection of his wife — sour, 
 querulous, austere — came over him; but he said to 
 himself, " She must take to such a child, — women al- 
 ways take to beauty." 
 
 He bent down and gently pressed his lips to Sidney's 
 forehead: Mrs. Morton repdaced the shawl, and drew 
 her brother to the other end of the room. 
 
 " And now," she said, coloring as she spoke, " I must 
 see your wife, brother; there is so much to say about a 
 child that only a woman will recollect. Is she very
 
 NIGHT AND :iIOrvNIXG. 95 
 
 good-tempered and kind, your wife? You know I 
 never saw her; you married after — after I left." 
 
 "She is a very worthy woman," said Mr. Morton, 
 clearing his throat, " and brought me some money. She 
 has a will of her own, as most women have ; hut that 's 
 neither here 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 favor to request, — a great 
 favor." 
 
 " Anything I can do in the way of money ? " 
 
 " It has nothing to do with money. I can't live 
 long, — don't shake your head, — I can't live long. I 
 have no fear for Philip, he has so much spirit, such 
 strength of character, — but that child ! I cannot bear 
 to leave him altogether. Let me stay in this town, — I 
 can lodge anywhere ; 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." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! but — " 
 
 "Well — well," interrupted Mr. Morton, who began 
 to fear his feelings would hurry him into some promise 
 which his wife would not suffer him to keep; "you 
 shall talk to Margaret, — that is, Mrs. Morton: T 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 Avill see her; thank you, thank you: she cannot 
 refuse me. 
 
 " And, brother," resumed IMrs. ]\rorton, after a short 
 pause, and speaking in a firm voice, — " and is it possible
 
 96 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 that you disbelieve my story; that you, like all the 
 rest, consider my children the sons of shame? " 
 
 There was an honest earnestness in Catherine's voice, 
 as she spoke, that miglit 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, Catherine, and that is all I 
 can say on the matter: let us drop the subject." 
 
 "No! I was not ill-used; my husband, — yes, my 
 husband was noble and generous from first to last. It 
 was for the sake of his children's prospects, for the 
 expectations they, through him, might derive from his 
 proud uncle, that he concealed our marriage. Do not 
 blame Philip, — do not condemn the dead." 
 
 " I don't want to blame any one," said Mr. Morton, 
 rather angrily. " I am a plain man, — a tradesman, and 
 can only go by what in my class seems fair and honest, 
 which I can't think Mr. Beaufort's conduct was, put it 
 how you will. If he marries you as you think, he gets 
 rid of a witness, he destroys a certificate, and he dies 
 without a will. However, all that 's neither here nor 
 there. You do quite right not to take the name of 
 Beaufort, since it is an uncommon name, and would 
 always make the story public. Least said soonest 
 mended. You must always consider that your children 
 will be called natural children, and have their own way 
 to make. No harm in that! Warm day for your 
 journey." Catherine sighed, and wiped her eyes; she 
 no longer reproached the world since the son of her 
 own mother disbelieved her. 
 
 The relations talked together for some minutes on the 
 past, the present; but there was embarrassment and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 97 
 
 constraint on both sides, — it was so difficult to avoid 
 one subject; and after sixteen years of absence, there is 
 little left in coiunion, even between those who once 
 played together round their parents' knees. Mr. Mor- 
 ton was glad at last to find an excuse in Catherine's 
 fatigue to leave her. " Cheer up, and take a glass of 
 something warm before you go to bed. Good-night! " 
 these were his parting words. 
 
 Long was the conference, and sleepless the couch of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Morton. At first that estimable lady 
 positively declared she would not and could not visit 
 Catherine (as to receiving her, that was out of the ques- 
 tion). But she secretly resolved to give up that point 
 in order to insist with greater strength upon anotlier, 
 — namely, the impossibility of Catherine remaining in 
 the town. Such concession for the purpose of resistance 
 being a very common and sagacious policy with married 
 ladies. Accordingly, when 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 ex- 
 cellent reasons which his wife urged against allowing 
 Catherine to reside in the town. He was a political 
 character; he had many enemies; the story of his 
 seduced sister, now forgotten, would certainly be raked 
 up; it would affect his comfort, perhaps his trade, cer- 
 tainly his eldest daughter who was now thirteen ; it 
 would be impossible then to adopt the plan hitherto re- 
 solved upon, — of passing oft" Sidney as the legitimate 
 orphan of a distant relation; it would be made a great 
 handle for gossip by Miss Pryinall. Added to all 
 these reasons, one not less strong occv;rred to Mr. Mor- 
 ton himself, — the uncommon and merciless rigidity of 
 
 VOL. I. — 7
 
 98 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 his wife would render all the other women in the town 
 very glad of any topic that would humble her own 
 sense of immaculate propriety. Moreover, he saw that 
 if Catherine did remain, it would be a perpetual source 
 of irritation in his own home ; he was a man who liked 
 an easy life, and avoided, as far as possible, all food for 
 domestic worry. And thus, when at length the wedded 
 pair turned back to back, and composed themselves to 
 sleep, the conditions of peace were settled, and the 
 weaker party, as usual in diplomacy, sacrificed to the 
 interests of the united powers. 
 
 After breakfast the next morning Mrs. Morton sal- 
 lied 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 
 hira, to say nothing of a dower that enabled him to ex- 
 tend his business, new front, 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 exces- 
 sively fond of him, — a common delusion of husbands, 
 especially when henpecked. Mrs. Morton was, per- 
 haps, fond of him in her own way; for though her heart 
 was not warm, there may be a great deal of fondness 
 with very little feeling. The worthy lady was now 
 clothed in her best. She had a proper pride in showing 
 the rewards that belong to female virtue. Flowers 
 adorned her Leghorn bonnet, and her green silk gown 
 boasted four flounces, — such then was, I am told, the 
 fashion. She wore, also, a very handsome black 
 shawl, extremely heavy, though the day was oppres- 
 sively hot, and with a deep border; a smart sevigne 
 brooch of yellow topazes glittered in her breast; a huge
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 99 
 
 gilt serpent glared from her waist-band ; her hair, or 
 more properly speaking her front, was tortured into 
 very tight curls, and her feet into very tight, half-laced 
 boots, from wliich the fragrance 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 so happened that Mrs. Roger Morton was 
 one of those ladies who always have chilblains in the 
 winter and corns in the summer. 
 
 " So you say your sister is a beauty ? " 
 
 " Was a beauty, Mrs. M. , — was a beauty. People 
 alter." 
 
 " A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is — " 
 
 " My dear, can't you walk faster? " 
 
 " If you had my corns, j\[r. Morton, you would not 
 talk in that way ! " 
 
 The happy pair sank into silence, only broken by 
 sundry " How d' ye do's? " and " Good mornings! " 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-night, seem by morning. The shutters partially 
 closed to keep out the sun, the tap-room 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 unobserved, crept on tiptoe up the stairs, and 
 entered Catherine's apartment. 
 
 Catherine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney — dressed, 
 like Mrs. Eoger Morton, to look his prettiest, nor yet 
 aware of the change that awaited his destiny, but
 
 100 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 pleased at the excitement of seeing new friends, as hand- 
 some children sure of praise and petting usually are — ■ 
 stood by her side. 
 
 "My wife, — Catherine," said Mr. Morton. Cath- 
 erine rose eagerly, and gazed searchingly on her sister- 
 in-law's hard face. She swallowed the convulsive rising 
 at her heart as she gazed, and stretched out both her 
 hands, not so much to welcome as to plead. Mrs. 
 Roger Morton drew herself up, and then dropped a 
 courtesy : it was an involuntary piece of good-breeding, 
 — it was extorted by the noble countenance, the ma- 
 tronly mien of Catherine, different from what she had 
 anticipated; she dropped the courtesy, and Catherine 
 took her hand and pressed it. 
 
 " This is my son ; " she turned away her head. Sid- 
 ney advanced towards his protectress who was to be, 
 and ^Irs. Roger muttered, — 
 
 " Come here, my dear! A fine little boy! " 
 
 "As fine a child as ever I saw! " said Mr. Morton, 
 heartily, as he took Sidney on his lap, and stroked 
 down his golden hair. 
 
 This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton ; but she sat 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 ? " 
 
 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 tlie constraint tenfold. Mrs. 
 Morton, however, forced a smile, and said, " I have a 
 little boy at home about your age." 
 
 " Have you? " exclaimed Catherine, eagerly; and, as
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 101 
 
 if that confession made them friends at once, she drew 
 a chair close to her sister-in-law's: "My brother has 
 told you all ? " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " And I shall stay here, — in the town somewhere, — • 
 and see him sometimes ? " 
 
 Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husband ; her hus- 
 band glanced at the door, — and Catherine's quick eye 
 turned from one to the other. 
 
 " Mr. Morton will explain, ma'am," said the wife. 
 
 "E-hem! — Catherine, my dear, I am afraid that is 
 out of the question," — began Mr. Morton, who, when 
 fairly put to it, could be business-like enough. "You 
 see bygones are bygones and it is no use raking them 
 up. But many people in the town will recollect 
 you. " 
 
 " No one will see me, — no one, but you and Sidney. " 
 
 " It will be sure to creep out; won't it, Mrs. Morton ? " 
 
 " Quite sure. Indeed, ma'am, it is impossible. Mr. 
 Morton is so very respectable, and his neighbors 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, Catherine, can your little boy go into the 
 other room for a moment ? Margaret, suppose you take 
 him and make friends." 
 
 Delighted to throw on her husband the burden of 
 explanation, which she had originally meant to have all 
 the importance of giving herself in her most proper and 
 patronizing manner, Mrs. Morton twisted her fingers 
 into the boy's hand, and, opening the door that commu- 
 nicated with the bedroom, left the brother and sister 
 alone. And then Mr. Morton, with more tact and
 
 102 NIGHT AND MOKNIXG. 
 
 delicacy than miglit have been expected from him, 
 began to soften to Catherine the hardship of the separa- 
 tion he urged. He dwelt principally on M'hat was best 
 for the child. Boys were so brutal in their intercourse 
 with each other. He had even thought it better to 
 represent Philip to ^Mr. Plaskwith as a more distant 
 relation than he was; and he begged, by the by, that 
 Catherine would tell Philip to take the hint. But as 
 for Sidney, sooner or later, he would go to a day-school, 
 
 — have companions of his own age ; if his birth were 
 known, he would be exposed to many mortifications, — 
 so iinich better, and so very easy, to bring him up as the 
 lawful, that is the legal offspring of some distant 
 relation. 
 
 "Ard," cried poor Catherine, clasping her hands, 
 " when I am dead, is he never to know that I was his 
 mother 1 " 
 
 The anguish of that question thrilled the heart of the 
 listetier. He was affected below all the surface that 
 worldly thoughts and habits had laid, stratum by 
 stratum, over the humanities within. He threw his 
 arms round Catherine, and strained her to his breast, — 
 
 "Xo, my sister, my poor sister, he shall know it 
 when he is old enough to understand and to keep his 
 own secret. He shall know, too, how we all loved and 
 prized you once; how young you were, how flattered 
 and tempted; how you were deceived, for I know that, 
 
 — on my soul I do : I know it was not your fault. 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 con- 
 tent. God reward you. I will go, — go quickly. I 
 know you will take care of him now. "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 103 
 
 "And you see," resumed Mr, Morton, re-settling 
 himself, and wiping his eyes, " it is best, between you 
 and me, that Mrs. Morton should have her own way 
 in this. She is a very good woman, — very ; but it 's 
 prudent not to vex her. You may come in now, Mrs. 
 Morton. " 
 
 Mrs. Morton and Sidney reappeared. 
 
 " We have settled it all," said the husband. " When 
 can we have him 1 " 
 
 "Not to-day," said Mrs. Koger 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? — par- 
 don me." 
 
 " He shall have a room to himself," said Mr. Morton. 
 "Eh, my dear? Next to Martha's. Martha is our 
 parlor-maid, — very good-natured girl, and fond of 
 children." 
 
 Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, and 
 said, " Yes, he can have that room. " 
 
 " Who can have that room ? " asked Sidney, innocently. 
 
 " You, my dear," replied Mr. Morton. 
 
 " And where will mamma sleep 1 I must sleep near 
 mamma." 
 
 " Mamma is going away," said Catherine in a firm 
 voice, in which the despair would only have been felt 
 by the acute ear of sympathy, — " going away for a little 
 time; but this gentleman and lady will be very, very 
 kind to you. " 
 
 "We will do our best, ma'am," said Mrs. Morton. 
 
 And as she spoke, a sudden light broke on the boy's 
 mind; he uttered a loud cry, broke from his aunt, 
 rushed to his mother's breast, and hid his face there, 
 sobbing bitterly.
 
 104 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "I am afraid he has heen verj' much spoiled," whis- 
 pered Mrs, Eoger Morton. " I don't think we need 
 stay longer; it will look suspicious. Good morning, 
 ma'am; we shall he ready to-morrow." 
 
 " Good-hy, Catlierine," said Mr. Morton; and he 
 added , as he kissed her ; " be of good heart, I will come 
 up by myself and spend the evening with you." 
 
 It was the night after this interview. Sidney had 
 gone to liis new home; they had been all kind to him, 
 — Mr. Morton, the children, Martha the parlor-maid. 
 Mrs. Roger herself had given him a large slice of bread 
 and jam, but had looked gloomy all the rest of the 
 evening, because, like a dog in a strange place, he re- 
 fused to eat. His little heart was full, and his eyes, 
 swimming with tears, were turned at every moment to 
 the door. But he did not show the violent grief that 
 might have been expected. His very desolation, amidst 
 the unfamiliar 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 itself no longer, and he 
 sobbed with a passion that alarmed the good-natured ser- 
 vant. She had been used, however, to children, and 
 she soothed and caressed him, and told him of all the 
 nice things he would do, and the nice toys he would 
 have; and at last, silenced, if not convinced, his eyes 
 closed, and, the tears yet wet on their lashes, he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 It had been arranged that Catherine should return 
 home that night by a late coach, which left the town at 
 twelve. It was already past eleven. Mrs. Morton 
 had retired to bed; and her husband, who had, accord- 
 ing to his wont, lingered behind to smoke a cigar over
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 105 
 
 his last glass of brandy-and-water, had just thrown aside 
 the stump, and was winding up his watch, when he 
 heard a low tap at his window. He stood mute and 
 alarmed, for the window opened on a back lane, dark 
 and solitary at night, and, from the heat of the weather 
 the iron-cased 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 1 " 
 
 " It is T, — it is Catherine! I cannot go without see- 
 ing my boy. T must see him — I must, once more! " 
 
 " My dear sister, the place is shut up, — it is impos- 
 sible. God bless me, if Mrs. Morton should hear 
 you!" 
 
 " I have walked before this window for hours ,■ I 
 have waited till all is hushed in your house, till no 
 one, not even a menial, need see the mother stealing to 
 the bed of her child. Brother! by the memory of our 
 own mother, I command you to let me look, for the last 
 time, upon my boy's face! " 
 
 As Catherine said this, standing in that lonely street, 
 — darkness and solitude below, God and the stars 
 above, — there was about her a majesty which awed the 
 listener. Though she was so near, her features were not 
 very clearly visible; but her attitude, — her hand raised 
 aloft, — the outline of her wasted, but still commanding 
 form, were more impressive from the shadowy dimness 
 of the air. 
 
 "Come round, Catherine," said Mr. Morton, after a 
 pause; " I will admit you." 
 
 He shut the window, stole to the door, unbarred it 
 gently, and admitted his visitor. He bade her follow 
 him, and, sliading the light with his hand, crept up 
 the stairs. Catherine's step made no sound.
 
 106 NIGHT AND MOllXIXG. 
 
 They passed, unmolested and unheard, tlie 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 Catherine to the bed. The room 
 Avas small, perhaps close, but scrupulously clean; for 
 cleanliness was Mrs. Koger 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, wliat thoughts, what prayers, 
 moved and stirred? Then bending down, Avith 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 
 or])han ; 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 muttered to her brother, "I am happy now; 
 peace be on these thresholds! " Before he could answer 
 she was gone.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 107 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Thus things are strangely wrought, 
 
 While joyful May doth last ; 
 Take May in time, — when May is gone 
 The pleasant time is past. 
 
 Richard Edwards : 
 From the Paradise of Dainty Devices. 
 
 It was that period of the year when, to those who look 
 on the surface of society, London wears its most radiant 
 smile; when shops are gayest and trade most brisk; 
 when down the thoroughfares roll and glitter the coiint- 
 less streams of indolent and voluptuous life ; when the 
 upper class spend, and the middle class make; when 
 the ball-room is the market of beauty, and the club- 
 house the school for scandal ; when the hells yawn for 
 their prey, and opera-singers and fiddlers — creatures 
 hatched from gold, as the dung-flies from the dung — 
 swarm, and buzz, and fatten, roiuid the hide of the 
 gentle public. In the cant phrase, it was "the London 
 season." And happy, take it altogether, happy above 
 the rest of the year, even for the hapless, is that period 
 of ferment and fever. It is not the season for duns, and 
 the debtor glides about with a less anxious eye ; and 
 the weather is warm, and the vagrant sleeps, unfrozen, 
 under the starlit portico; and the beggar thrives, and 
 the thief rejoices, — for the rankness of the civilization 
 has superfluities clutched by all. And out of the gen- 
 eral corniption, things sordid and things miserable crawl 
 forth to bask in the common sunshine, — things that 
 perish when the first autumn winds whistle along the
 
 lOS NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 melancholy city. It is the gay time for the heir and 
 tlie 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 hook. 
 It is the gay time, too, for the starved journey-man, 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 the gay time for the painted 
 harlot in a crimson pelisse ; and a gay time for the old 
 hag that loiters about the thresholds of the gin-shop, 
 to buy back, in a draught, the dreams of departed 
 youth. It is gay, in fine, as the fulness of a vast 
 city is ever gay ; for vice as for innocence, for poverty 
 as for wealth. And the wheels of every single destiny 
 wheel on the merrier, no matter 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, 
 Arthur Beaufort was greatly changed. Naturally stu- 
 dious 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 rest- 
 less impulses which belong to genius, — often not only 
 its glory but its curse. The golden rod cast his ener- 
 gies asleep at once. Good-natured to a fault, and some- 
 what vacillating in character, he adopted the manner 
 and the code of the rich young idlers who were his 
 equals at college. He became, like them, careless, 
 extravagant, and fond of pleasure. This change, if it 
 deteriorated his mind, improved his exterior. It was a 
 change that could not but please women, and of all
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 109 
 
 women his mother the most. Mrs. Beaufort was a lady 
 of high birth; and, in marrying her, llohert had lioped 
 much from the interest of her connections; but a change 
 in the ministry had tlirowu her rehitions out of power; 
 and, beyond her dowry, he obtained no worldly advan- 
 tage with the lady of his mercenary choice. Mrs. Beau- 
 fort was a woman whom a word or two will describe. 
 She was thoroughly commonplace, — neither bad nor 
 good, neither clever nor silly. She was what is called 
 well-bred, — that is, languid, silent, perfectly dressed, 
 and insipid. Of her two children, Arthur was almost 
 the exclusive favorite, especially after he became the 
 heir to such brilliant fortunes. For she was so much 
 the mechanical creature of the world, that even her 
 affection was warm or cold in proportion as the world 
 shone on it. Without being absolutely in love with 
 her husband, she liked him, — they suited each other; 
 and (in spite of all the temptations that had beset her 
 in their earlier years, for she had been esteemed a 
 beauty, and lived, as worldly people must do, in circles 
 where examples of unpunished gallantry are numerous 
 and contagious) her conduct had ever been scrupulously 
 correct. She had little or no feeling for misfortunes 
 with which 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 disap- 
 pointments 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
 
 110 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 to tlie letter her husband wrote to Catherine, although not 
 wholly innocent of it. The fact is, that Robert had 
 never mentioned to her the peculiar circumstances that 
 uaade Catherine an exception from ordinary rules, — the 
 generous propositions of his brother to him the night 
 before his death; and, whatever his incredulity as to 
 the alleged private marriage, the perfect loyalty and 
 faith that Catherine had borne to the deceased, he had 
 merely observed, " I must do something, I suppose, for 
 that woman : she very nearly entrapped my poor brother 
 into marrying her; and he would then, for what I know, 
 have cut Arthur out of the estates. Still, I must do 
 something for her, — eh 1 " 
 
 " Yes, I think so. What was she 1 — very low 1 " 
 
 " 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; and the mother should have about the same pro- 
 vision she might have looked for if she had married a 
 tradesman and been left a widow. I daresay 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 liked 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, listening, or 
 appearing to listen, to the prattle of a beautiful little 
 girl, — Arthur Beaufort's sister. This man was not
 
 NIGHT AND MOUNINO. Ill 
 
 handsome, but there was a certain elegance in his air, 
 and a certain intelligence in his coimtenance, 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 ad- 
 vantage the contour of a small, well-shaped head. His 
 features were irregular; the complexion had been san- 
 guine, 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 counte- 
 nance. He seemed one who had lived hard, but who 
 had much yet left in the lamp wherewith to feed the 
 wick. At the first glance he appeared slight as he 
 lolled listlessly in his chair, — almost fragile. But, at a 
 nearer examination, you perceived that, in spite of the 
 small extremities and delicate bones, his frame was 
 constitutionally strong. Without being broad in the 
 shoulders, he was exceedingly deep in the chest, — • 
 deeper than men who seemed giants by his side; and 
 his gestures had the ease of one accustomed to an active 
 life. He had, indeed, been celebrated in his youth 
 for his skill in athletic exercises; but a wound, received 
 in a duel many years ago, had rendered him lame for 
 life, — a misfortune which interfered with his former 
 habits, and was said to have soured his temper. This 
 personage, whose position and character will be de- 
 scribed 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-
 
 112 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 lets, "you don't like Berkeley Square as you did 
 Gloucester Place. " 
 
 "Oh, no! not half so 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 
 ■understandings of young ladies grow up very quickly 
 on this side of Oxford Street. Well, Arthur, and what 
 are your plans to-day 1 " 
 
 "Why," said Arthur, suppressing a yawn, "I have 
 promised to ride out Avith 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! who?" said Lord Lilburne, "the horse or the 
 other animal, — I mean the friend? " 
 
 "The friend," answered Arthur, smiling; but color- 
 ing while he smiled, for he half suspected the quiet 
 sneer of his uncle. 
 
 "Who is your friend, Arthur? " asked Mrs. Beaufort, 
 looking up from her work. 
 
 " AYatson, an Oxford man. By the by, I must intro- 
 duce him to you." 
 
 "Watson! what Watson; what family of Watson? 
 Some Watsons are good and some are bad," said Mrs. 
 Beaufort, musingly. 
 
 " Then they are very unlike the rest of mankind," 
 observed Lord Lilburne, dryly. 
 
 "Oh! my Watson is a very gentlemanlike person, I 
 
 ^ Now the Regent's Park.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 113 
 
 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." 
 
 Here Arthur threw open the window. 
 
 "Ah, Watson! how are you? How d' ye do, Mars- 
 den? 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; 
 the horses were heard pawing without. Arthur seized 
 his hat and whip, and glanced to his mother and uncle, 
 smilingly. " Good-by! I shall be out till dinner. 
 Kiss me, my pretty 'Milly ! " And as his sister, who 
 had run to the window, sickening for the fresh air and 
 exercise he was about to enjoy, now turned to him 
 wistful and mournful eyes, the kind-hearted young 
 man took her in his arms, and whispered while he 
 kissed her, — 
 
 " Get up early to-morrow, and we '11 have such a nice 
 walk together." 
 
 Arthur was gone ; his mother's gaze had followed his 
 young and graceful figure to the door. 
 
 " Own that he is handsome, Lilburne. May I not say 
 more, — has he not the proper air? " 
 
 " My dear sister, your son will be rich. As for hia 
 air, he has plenty of airs, but wants graces." 
 
 " Then who could polish him like yourself? " 
 
 VOL. I. — 8
 
 114 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Probabl.y no ono. 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!) be- 
 tween two vices, women and gambling, if you want to 
 polish him into the fashionable smoothness, Entre 
 nous, 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 disliked youth: in his own youth he had 
 enjoyed so much that he grew sour when he saw the 
 young. 
 
 Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort and his friends, careless 
 of the warmth of the day, were laughing merrily, and 
 talking gayly, as they made for the suburb of H . 
 
 " It is an out-of-the-way place for a horse, too," said 
 Sir Harry Danvers. 
 
 "But I assure you," insisted Mr. Watson, earnestly, 
 " that my groom, who is a capital judge, says it is the 
 cleverest hack he ever mounted. It has won several 
 trotting matches. It belonged to a sporting tradesman, 
 now done up. The advertisement caught me." 
 
 "Well," said Arthur, 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- 
 wards," said Mr. Marsden, who was an elder, not a 
 better 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. Ptobert Beaufort! Mr, Robert Beaufort! 
 could your prudent, scheming, worldly heart but feel 
 what devil's tricks your wealth was playing with a son
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 115 
 
 who if poor had been the pride of the Beauforts ! On 
 one side of our pieces of gokl 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 
 converse, 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. Mars- 
 den looked down, — 
 
 " Hang these old men! always in the way," said he, 
 plaintively, and in the tone of a much-injured person, 
 and, with that, Mr. Marsden rode on. But the others, 
 who were younger, — who were not gamblers, who were 
 not yet 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 fore- 
 head; he complained of pain in his side and limbs, 
 
 " Lean on me, my poor fellow! I will take you home. 
 Do you live far off? " 
 
 " Not many yards. This would not have happened 
 if I had had my dog. Never mind, sir, go your way. 
 It is only an old man, — what of that? I wish I had 
 my dog." 
 
 "I will join you," said Arthur to his friends; "my 
 groom has the direction, I will just take the poor old
 
 116 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 man home, and send for a surgeon. I shall not bo 
 long." 
 
 " So like you, Beaufort: the best fellow in the 
 world!" said ]\Ir. Watson, with some emotion. "And 
 there 's Marsden positively dismounted, and looking at 
 his horse's knees as if they could be hurt! Here 's a 
 sovereign for j'^ou, my man." 
 
 "And here's another," said Sir Harry; "so that's 
 settled. AVell, you will join us, Beaufort? 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 s dim, 
 wandering 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? " 
 
 « Urn ! — the sovereigns I — it is wicked to leave them 
 in the kennel! " 
 
 Arthur smiled. " Here they are, sir." 
 
 The old man slid the coins into his pocket, and 
 Arthur continued to talk, though he got but short an- 
 swers, 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, wliose appearance was above that 
 of a common menial, — dressed, somewhat gayly for her 
 years, in a cap seated very far back on a black touj)et,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 117 
 
 and decorated with red ribbons, an apron made out of an 
 Indian silk handkerchief, a puce-colorcd sarcenet gown, 
 lilack silk stockings, long gilt earrings, and a watch at 
 her girdle. 
 
 " Bless us, and save us, sir! What has happened? " 
 exclaimed this worthy personage, holding up her hands. 
 
 "Pish! I am faint: let me in. I don't want your aid 
 any more, sir. Thank you. Good-day!" 
 
 Not discouraged by this farewell, the churlish tone 
 of which fell harmless on the invincibly sweet temper 
 of Arthur, the young man continued to assist the sufferer 
 along the narrow passage into a little old-fashioned par- 
 lor; 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 fol- 
 lowed him with the horses) for the nearest surgeon ; and 
 while the woman was still employed, after taking oflf 
 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 — um — um! Sad 
 thing, very sad. Open the window. A glass of water, 
 — a towel. So, so: I see, I see; no fracture, — con- 
 tusion. 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 nowl 
 He is in the back -yard. "
 
 118 XIGHT AND MOItNIXG. 
 
 " And what business has my dog in the back-yard ? " 
 almost screamed the sufferer, in accents that denoted 
 no diminution of vigor. " I thought as soon as my 
 back was turned my dog would be ill-used! Why did 
 I go without my dog? Let in my dog directly, Mrs. 
 Boxer! " 
 
 " All right, you see, sir," said the apothecary, turning 
 to Beaufort; " no cause for alarm. Very comforting that 
 little passion; does him good, — sets one's mind easy. 
 How did it happen? Ah, I understand! knocked 
 down, — might have been worse. Your groom (sharp 
 fellow!) explained in a trice, sir. Tliought it was my 
 old friend here by the description. Worthy man ; 
 settled here a many year; very odd, — eccentric" (this 
 in a Avhisper). " Came off instantly: just at dinner, — 
 cold lamb and salad. 'Mrs. Perkins,' says I, ' if any 
 one calls for me, I shall be at No. 4 Prospect Place.* 
 Your servant observed the address, sir. Oh, very sharp 
 fellow ! See how the old gentleman takes to his dog : 
 fine little dog, — what a stump of a tail ! Deal of prac- 
 tice, expect two accouchements every hour. Hot 
 weather for childbirth. So says I to Mrs. Perkins, * If 
 Mrs. Plummer is taken, or Mrs. Everat, or if old Mr. 
 Grub has another fit, send off at once to Ko. 4.' Med- 
 ical men should be always in the way, — that's my 
 maxim. Xow, sir, where do you feel the pain ? " 
 
 " In my ears, sir. " 
 
 " Bless me, that looks bad. How long have you felt 
 it?" 
 
 "Ever since you have been in the room." 
 
 "Oh! I take. Ha! ha! — very eccentric, — very!" 
 muttered tlie apothecary, a little disconcerted. " Well, 
 let him lie down, ma'am. I '11 send him a little quiet- 
 ing draught to be taken directly, — pill at night, aperi-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 119 
 
 ent 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, perliaps, Mrs. Everat, — her 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?" 
 
 " 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 1 " 
 
 " Hopeless case, sir, — general break-up. Kice 
 woman, quite the lady, — known better days, I 'm 
 sure." 
 
 " Has she any children, sons? " 
 
 " Two ; both away now ; fine lads, — quite wrapped 
 up in them, youngest especially." 
 
 " Good heavens! it must be she, — ill, and dying, and 
 destitute, perhaps," exclaimed Arthur, with real and deep 
 feeling; " I will go with you, sir. I fancy that I know
 
 120 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 this lady, — that " (he added generously) ** I am related 
 to her." 
 
 " Do you 1 — glad to hear it. Come along then ; she 
 ought to have some one near her besides servants, — not 
 but what Jenny, the maid, is uncommonly kind. Dr. 
 , who attends her sometimes, said to me, says he, 
 
 * It is the mind, Mr. Perkins; I wish we could get 
 back her boys. ' " 
 
 " And where are they ? " 
 
 " 'Prenticed out, I fancy. Master 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. Perkins,' 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 head- 
 ache last night.' * Nothing the matter, ma'am,' says I, 
 
 * wish you 'd think more of yourself. ' These mothers 
 are silly, anxious, poor creatures. Nater, sir, nater, — • 
 wonderful thing, — nater! Here we are." 
 
 And the apothecary knocked at the private door of a 
 milliner and hosier's shop.
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 121 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished. — Titus Andronicus. 
 
 As might be expected, the excitement and fatigue of 
 Catherine's journey to N had considerably accel- 
 erated the progress of disease. And when she reached 
 home, and looked round the cheerless rooms, all solitary, 
 all hushed, — Sidney gone, gone from her forever, she 
 felt, indeed, as if the last reed on which she had leaned 
 was broken, and her business upon earth was done. 
 Catherine was not condemned to absolute poverty, — the 
 poverty which grinds and gnaws, the poverty of rags 
 and famine. She had still left nearly half of such 
 portion of the little capital, 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 £20, 
 "with an assurance that the same sum should be paid 
 to her half-yearly. Alas! there was little chance of 
 her needing it again! She was not, then, in want of 
 means to procure the common comforts of life. But 
 now a new passion had entered into her breast, — tlie 
 passion of the miser; she wished to hoard every six- 
 pence as some little provision for her children. What 
 was the use of her feeding a lamp nearly extinguished, 
 and which was fated to be soon broken up and cast 
 amidst the vast lumber-house of death? She would 
 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
 
 122 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ■vvliich 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 per- 
 ceiving that she rejected every little alleviation of her 
 condition, and wishing at least to procure for her last 
 hours the society of one of her sons, he had inquired the 
 address of the elder; and on the day preceding the one 
 in which Arthur discovered her abode, he despatched to 
 Philip the following letter : — 
 
 Sir, — Being called in to attend your mother in a lingering 
 illness, which I fear may prove fatal, I think it my duty to 
 request you to come to her as soon as you receive this. Your 
 presence cannot but be a great comfort to her. The nature of 
 her illness is such that it is impossible to calculate exactly how 
 long she may be spared to you ; but I am sure her fate might 
 be prolonged, and her remaining days more happy, if she 
 could be induced to remove into a better air and a more qiiiet 
 neighborhood, to take more generous sustenance, and, above 
 all, if her mind could be set more at ease as to your aud your 
 brother's prospects. You must pardon me if I have seemed 
 inquisitive ; but I have sought to draw from your mother some 
 particulars as to her family and connections, with a wish to 
 represent to them her state of mind. She is, however, very 
 reserved on these points. If, however, 3-ou have relations well- 
 to-do in the world, I think some application to then) should 
 be made. I fear the state of her affairs weighs much upon 
 your poor mother's mind ; and I must leave you to judge how 
 far it can be relieved by the good feeling of any persons upon 
 whom she may have legitimate claims. At all events, I re- 
 peat my wish that you should come to her forthwith. 
 
 I am, etc.,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 123 
 
 After the physician had despatched tliis letter, a sud- 
 den and marked alteration for the worse took place in his 
 patient's disorder; and in the visit he had paid that 
 morning, he saw cause to fear that her liours on earth 
 Avould be much fswer than he had before anticipated. 
 He had left her, however, comparatively better; but two 
 liours after his departure, the symptoms of her disease 
 had become very alarming, and the good-natured servant- 
 girl, her sole nurse, and who had, moreover, the whole 
 business of the other lodgers to attend to, had, as we 
 have seen, thought it necessary to summon the apothe- 
 cary 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; Catherine, though very weak and 
 suffering much pain, was still sensible. She turned her 
 dim eyes on the young man ; but she did not recognize 
 his features. 
 
 " You do not remember me ? " said he, in a voice strug- 
 gling with tears ; " I am Arthur — Arthur Beaufort. " 
 
 Catherine made no answer. 
 
 " Good heavens ! Why do I see you here ? I be- 
 lieved you with your friends, your children provided 
 for, as became my father to do. He assured me that 
 you were so." 
 
 Still no answer.
 
 124 ^"IGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 And then the young man, overpowered with the feel- 
 ings of a S3nnpathizing and generous nature, forgettmg 
 for awhile Catherine's weakness, poured forth a torrent 
 of inquiries, regrets, and self-upbraiduigs, which Cathe- 
 rine at first little heeded. But the name of her children 
 repeated again and again, struck upon that chord wliich, 
 in a woman's heart, is the last to break ; and she raised 
 herself in her bed, and looked at her visitor wistfully. 
 
 " Your father, " she said, then, — " your father was 
 unlilve 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, but not justice! You will be rich and powerful; 
 will you befriend my children 1 " 
 
 "Through life, so help me Heaven!" exclaimed 
 Artliur, 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 Catherine felt as if an angel had come there to ad- 
 minister comfort. And when, late in the day, the phy- 
 sician entered, he found his patient leaning on the breast 
 of her young visitor, and looking on his face with a 
 happy 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 Catherine 
 was arrived. Alas ! for her it was now indeed too late !
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 125 
 
 CHAPTEK XI. 
 
 D' ye stand amazed ? — Look o'er thy head, Maximinian ! 
 Look to the terror which overhaugs thee. 
 
 Beaumont and Plktcher : The Prophetess. 
 
 Philip had been five weeks in his new home; in an- 
 other week he was to enter on his articles of apprentice- 
 ship. With a stern, unbending gloom of manner he had 
 couunenced the duties of his novitiate. He submitted to 
 aU that was enjoined him. He seemed to have lost for- 
 ever the wild and unruly waywardness that had stamped 
 his boyhood ; but he was never seen to smUe, — he 
 scarcely ever opened his lips. His very soul seemed to 
 have quitted him with its faults ; and he performed all 
 the functions of his situation Avith the quiet listless regu- 
 larity of a machine. Only when the work was done and 
 the shop closed, instead of joining the family circle in 
 the back parlor, he would stroU out in the dusk of the 
 evening, away from the town, and not return till the 
 hour at which the family retired to rest. Punctual in 
 all he did, he never 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 as 
 pale as death, — his hands trembling, his lips com- 
 pressed. When he read the letter he became composed; 
 for Catherine sedidously concealed from her son the 
 state of her health: she wrote cheerfully, besought him 
 to content himself with the state into which he had
 
 126 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 fallen, and expressed her joy that in his letters he inti- 
 mated 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 misgiv- 
 ings as to express satisfaction at the home she had pro- 
 vided for Sidney ; and she even held out hopes of some 
 future, when, their probation finished and their indepen- 
 dence secured, she might reside with her sons alternately. 
 These hopes redoubled Philip's assiduity, and he saved 
 every shilling of his weekly stipend; and sighed as he 
 thought that in another week his term of apprenticeship 
 would commence, and the stipend cease. 
 
 Mr. Plaskwith could not but be pleased on the whole 
 with the diligence of his assistant, but he was chafed and 
 irritated by the sullenness of his manner. As for Mrs. 
 Plaskwith, poor woman! she positively detested the taci- 
 turn and moody boy, who never mingled in the jokes of 
 the circle, nor played with the children, nor compli- 
 mented her, nor added, in short, anything to the socia- 
 bility of the house. Mr. Plimmins, who had at first 
 sought to condescend, next sought to bully; but the 
 gaunt frame and savage eye of Philip awed the smirk 
 youth, in spite of himself; and he confessed to Mrs. 
 Plaskwith that he should not like to meet " the gypsy " 
 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 a few miles into the 
 country to assist in cataloguing some books in the 
 library of Sir Thomas Champerdown, — that gentleman, 
 who was a scholar, having requested that some one 
 acquainted with the Greek character might be sent to 
 him, and Philip being the only one in the shop who 
 possessed such knowledge.
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 127 
 
 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.," 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 Xapoleon Bonaparte; still, however, I must 
 OAvn 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 Avhat a look he 
 gave Plimmins when he joked about his indifference 
 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 
 binding. " 
 
 " I hope he is honest ! " observed Mrs. Plaskwith ; 
 and here Philip entered. 
 
 " Hum, " said Mr. Plaskwith ; " you have had a long 
 day's Avork; but I suppose it will take a week to finish? " 
 
 " I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir : two days 
 more will conclude the task." 
 
 "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.
 
 128 NIGHT AND xMOllNING. 
 
 His mother then was ill, — clyiiig, — wanting, perhaps, 
 the necessaries of Hfe. She would have concealed from 
 him her illness and her poverty. His quick alarm exag- 
 gerated tlie 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 aU my life 
 for nothing, hut lend me the money ! " 
 
 " Hoity-toity ! " said Mrs. Plaskwith, nudging her 
 hushand, — "I told you what would come of it; it will 
 be ' money or life ' next time. " 
 
 Philip did not heed or hear this address, hut stood im- 
 mediately before the bookseller, his hands clasped, — 
 wild impatience in his eyes. Mr. Plaskwith, somewhat 
 stupefied, remained silent. 
 
 " Do you hear me ? — are you human ? " exclaimed 
 Philip, his emotion revealing at once aU the fire of his 
 character. " I tell you my mother is dying ! I must go 
 to her! Shall I go empty-handed? Give me money ! " 
 
 Mr. Plaskwith was not a bad-hearted man; but he 
 was a formal man and an irritable one. The tone his 
 shopboy (for so he considered Philip) assumed to him, 
 before his own wife, too (examples are very dangerous), 
 rather exasperated than moved him. 
 
 " That 's not the way to speak to your master : you 
 forget yourself, young man ! " 
 
 " Forget! But, sir, if she has not necessaries, — if she 
 is starving ? " 
 
 " Fudge 1 " said Mr. Plaskwith. " Mr. Morton writes 
 me word that he has provided for your mother. Does 
 not he, Hannah? " 
 
 " More fool he, I 'm sure, with such a fine family of 
 his own! Don't look at me in that way, young man, I
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 129 
 
 won't take it, — tliat I won't. I declare my blood fi'iz 
 to see you! " 
 
 " Will you advance me money 1 — five pounds, — only 
 five pounds, Mr. Plaskwitli ? " 
 
 " Not five shillings ! Talk to 7ne 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 to-morrow. All a sham, perhaps ; eh, 
 Hannah 1 " 
 
 " Very likely ! Consult PlimmLns. Better come away 
 now, Mr. P. He looks like a young tiger. " 
 
 Mrs. Plaskwith quitted the shop for the parlor. Her 
 husband, puttmg his hands behind his back, and throw- 
 ing back his chin, was about to follow her. Pliilip, who 
 had remained for the last moment mute and white as 
 stone, turned abruptly; and his grief taking rather the 
 tone of rage than suppHcation, he threw himself be- 
 fore 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 ! " 
 
 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 emo- 
 tions to see that in that silence there was relenting, he 
 suddenly shook the little man with a vehemence that 
 ahnost overset him, and cried, — ■ 
 
 " You, who demand for five years my bones and blood, 
 my body and soul, a slave to your vile trade, — do you 
 deny me bread for a mother's lips 1 " 
 
 VOL. I. — 9
 
 130 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Trembling with auger, and, perhaps, fear, Mr. Plask- 
 Avith 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 
 Avorld '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, 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 
 liis 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 face fell, 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 their only son. Arthur had 
 sent home his groom and horses about seven o'clock, 
 with a hurried scroll, written in pencil on a blank page 
 torn from his pockctbook, and containing only these 
 words : —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 131 
 
 " Don't wait dinner for me, — I may not be home for some 
 hours. I have met with a melancholy adventure. You will 
 approve what I have done when we meet." 
 
 This note a little perplexed Mr. Beaufort ; but, as he 
 was very hungry, he turned, a deaf ear both to his wife's 
 conjectures and his own surmises, till he had refreshed 
 himself; and then he sent for the groom, and learned 
 that, after the accident to the blind man, Mr. Arthur 
 
 had been left at a hosier's in H . This seemed to 
 
 him extremely mysterious; and, as hour after hour 
 passed away, and still Arthur came not, he began to im- 
 bibe his wife's fears, which were now wound up almost 
 to hysterics; and just at midnight he ordered his carriage, 
 and taking with him the groom as a guide, set off to the 
 suburban region. Mrs. Beaufort had wished to accom- 
 pany him ; but the husband observing that young men 
 would be young men, and that there migJtt possibly be 
 a lady in the case, Mrs. Beaufort, after a pause of 
 thought, passively 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 
 carriage, 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 implies 
 love for the adventure, and money for the melancholy; 
 and Arthur was young, generous, with a heart and a 
 pocket equally open to imposition. Such scrapes, how- 
 ever, do not terrify a father when he is a man of the 
 world, so much as they do an anxious mother ; and, with 
 more curiosity than alarm, Mr. Beaufort, after a short 
 doze, found himself before the shop indicated.
 
 132 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, the door to 
 the private entrance was ajar, — a circumstance which 
 seemed very suspicious to Mr. Beaufort, He pushed it 
 open with caution and timidity ; a candle placed upon a 
 cliair in the narrow passage threw a sickly light over the 
 flight of stairs, till swallowed up by the deep shadow 
 from the sharp angle made by the ascent. Robert Beau- 
 fort 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 nearer, — a 
 figure emerged from the shadow of the last landing-place, 
 and Mr. Beaufort, to his great joy, recognized his son. 
 
 Arthur did not, however, seem to perceive his father, 
 and was about to pass him, when Mr. Beaufort laid his 
 hand on his arm. 
 
 " What means all this, Arthur ? What place are you 
 in 1 How you have alarmed us ! " 
 
 Arthur cast a look upon his father of sadness and 
 reproach. 
 
 " Father, " he said, in a tone that sounded stern, 
 almost commanding, — "I will show you where I have 
 been : follow me, — nay, I say, follow. " 
 
 He turned without another word, re-ascended the 
 stairs; and Mr. Beaufort, surprised and awed into me- 
 chanical obedience, did as his son desired. At the 
 landing-place of the second floor, another long-wicked, 
 neglected, ghastly candle emitted its cheerless ray. It 
 gleamed through the open door of a small bedroom to the 
 left, through which Beaufort perceived the forms of two 
 women. One (it was the kindly 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 
 attendance) was unpinning her dingy shawl before she 
 lay down to take a nap. She turned her vacant, listless
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 133 
 
 face upon the two men, put on a doleful smile, and 
 decently closed the door. 
 
 " Where are we, I say, Arthur ? " repeated Mr. Beau- 
 fort. Arthur took his father's hand, drew him into a 
 room to the right, and taking vip the candle, placed it 
 on a small table beside a bed, and said, " Here, sir, in 
 the presence of death! " 
 
 Mr. Beaufort cast a hurried and fearful glance on the 
 still, wan, serene face beneath his eyes, and recognized 
 in that glance the features of the neglected and the 
 once-adored Catherine. 
 
 " Yes ; she, whom your brother so loved, the mother 
 of his children, died in this squalid room, and far from 
 her sons, in poverty, in sorrow ! — died of a broken 
 heart ! Was that well, father ? Have you in this 
 nothing to repent 1 " 
 
 Conscience-stricken and appalled, the worldly man 
 sank down on a seat beside the bed, and covered his face 
 with his hands. 
 
 " Ay," continued Arthur, almost bitterly, — "ay, we, 
 his nearest of kin, we, who have inherited his lands and 
 gold, — we have been tlius heedless of that great legacy 
 your brother bequeathed to us, the things dearest to him, 
 the woman he loved, the children his death cast, name- 
 less and branded, on the world. Ay, weep, father; and 
 while you weep, think of the future, of reparation. I 
 have sworn to that clay to befriend her sons ; join you, 
 who have all the power to fulfil the promise, — join in 
 that vow : and may Heaven not visit on us both the woes 
 of this bed of death ! " 
 
 " I did not know — I — I — " faltered Mr. Beaufort. 
 
 " But we should have known, " interrupted Arthur, 
 mournfully. " Ah, my dear father ! do not harden youi 
 heart by false excuses. The dead still speaks to you,
 
 134 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 
 Bcene had worked into a passion and a dignity above his 
 usual character, unwilling to trust himself farther to his 
 emotions, turned abruptly from the room, fled rapidly 
 down the stairs, and left the house. As the carriage and 
 liveries of his father met his eye, he groaned; for their 
 evidences of comfort and wealth seemed a mockery to 
 the deceased. He averted his face and walked on ; nor 
 did he heed nor even perceive 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 hurry mg, ten minutes before the arrival 
 of Mr. Beaufort, from the spot where his skill was im- 
 potent. Wrap{)ed 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, hoping, the outcast orphan flew on to 
 the deatli-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 tliat countenance so mute and solemn. 
 He cast his gaze round the dismal room for Arthur ; he 
 called his name, — no answer came. A superstitious 
 tremor seized upon him ; his limbs shook ; he sank once 
 more 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*
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 135 
 
 abstraction by a deep groan. It seemed to come from 
 the bed. Did his ears deceive him ; had the dead found 
 a voice 1 He started up in an agony of dread, and saw 
 opposite to him the livid countenance of Philip Morton; 
 the son of the corpse had replaced the son of the living 
 man ! The dim and solitary light fell upon that counte- 
 nance. There, all the bloom and freshness natural to 
 youth seemed blasted ! There, on those wasted features, 
 played all the terrible power and glare of precocious pas- 
 sions, — rage, woe, scorn, despair. Terrible is it to see 
 upon the face of a boy the storm and whirlwind that 
 should visit only the strong heart of a man! 
 
 " She is dead ! — dead ! and in your presence ! " 
 shouted Philip, with his wild eyes fixed upon the cow- 
 ering uncle ; " dead with care, perhaps with famine. And 
 you have come to look upon your work ! " 
 
 " Indeed, " said Beaufort, deprecatingly, " I have but 
 just arrived ; I did not know she had been ill, or in want, 
 upon my honor. This is all a — a — mistake ; I — I — 
 came in search of — of — another — " 
 
 " You did not, then, come to relieve her 1 " 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 if?" 
 
 " Did any one call, gentlemen 1 " said a whining voice 
 at the door ; and the nurse put in her head. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; you may come in, " said Beaufort, shaking 
 with nameless and cowardly apprehension; but Philip 
 had flown to the door, and, gazing on the nurse, said, — • 
 
 " She is a stranger! — see, a stranger! The son now 
 has assumed his post. Begone, woman ! " and he pushed 
 her away, and drew the bolt across the door. 
 
 And then there looked upon him, as there had looked
 
 136 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 xipon 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. 
 
 " JNIother ! mother ! do not leave me ! wake, smile 
 once more on your son! I would have brought you 
 money, but I could not have asked for your blessing, 
 then; mother, I ask it now! " 
 
 " If I had but known, if you had but written to me, 
 my dear young gentleman; but my offers had been 
 refused, and — " 
 
 " Offers of a hirelmg'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 Beau- 
 fort 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, except 
 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 nothing 
 due to the claims of affection and blood. He was not the 
 less my father, even if the Church spoke not on my side. 
 Despoiler of the orphan, and derider of human love, you 
 are not the less a robber, though the law fences you 
 round, and men call you honest! But I did not hate you 
 for this. Now, in the presence of my dead mother, — 
 dead, far from both her sons, — now I abhor and curse 
 you. You may think yourself safe when you quit this 
 room, — safe, and from my hatred; you may be so: but
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 137 
 
 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 splendor ; it shall 
 cleave to the heritage of your son! There shall be a 
 deathbed yet, beside which you shall see the spectre of 
 her, now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave ! 
 These words, — no, you shall never forget them; years 
 hence they shall ring in your ears, and freeze the marrow 
 of your bones! And now begone, my father's brother, — ■ 
 begone from my mother's corpse to your luxurious 
 home. " 
 
 He opened the door, and pointed to the stairs. 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 vehement 
 sobs in which the desolate orphan gave vent to the an- 
 guish which succeeded to the less sacred paroxysm of 
 revenge and wrath.
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 mcnb warb'§ unb irurbe 5J?orgen ; 
 9timmer, nimmcr ftaitb ic^ ftid. 
 
 Schiller, i)er Pilgrim.
 
 BOOK 11. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Incubo. — Look to the cavalier. What ails he ? 
 
 Hostess. — And in such good clothes, too ! 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher: Love's Pilgrimage, 
 
 Theod. — I have a hrother, — there my last hope ! 
 
 Thus as you find me, without fear or wisdom. 
 I now am only child of Hope and Danger. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 The time employed by Mr. Beaufort in reaching his 
 home was haunted by gloomy and confused terrors. 
 He felt inexplicably as if the denunciations of Philip 
 were to visit less himself than his son. He trembled 
 at the thought of Arthur meeting this strange, wild, 
 exasperated scatterling, — perhaps on the 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 Berke- 
 ley Square, he went straight to Mrs. Beaufort; and, 
 having relieved her mind as to Arthur's safety, related
 
 142 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 the scene in which he had been so nnwilling an actor. 
 "Witli that more livel}^ susceptihility which belongs to 
 most women, liowever comparatively unfeeling, Mrs. 
 Beaufort made greater allowance than her husband for 
 the excitement Philip had betrayed. Still Beaufort's 
 description of the dark menaces, the fierce countenance, 
 the brigand-like form of the bereaved son, gave her 
 very considerable apprehensions for Arthur, should the 
 young men meet; and she willingly coincided Avith her 
 husband in the propriety of using all means of paren- 
 tal persuasion or command to guard against such an 
 encounter. But, in the meanwhile, 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 
 amidst some dark haunts of violence and crime; they 
 knew not where to send, or what to suggest. Day 
 already began to dawn, and still he came not. At 
 length, towards five o'clock, a loud rap was heard at 
 the door, and Mr. Beaufort, hearing some bustle in the 
 hall, descended. He saw his son borne into the hall 
 from a hackney-coach by two strangers, pale, 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 think 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 makes him bleed so : and that 's 
 a mercy." 
 
 "A providence, sir," said the other man; "but Pro- 
 vidence watches over us all, night and day, sleep or
 
 # 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 143 
 
 wake. Hem! We were passing at the time from the 
 meeting, — the Odd Fellows, sir, — and so we took him, 
 and got him a coach; for we found his card in his 
 pocket. He could not speak just then; but the rattling 
 of the coach did him a deal of good, for he groaned, — 
 my eyes ! how he groaned ! — did not he, Burrows ? " 
 " It did one's heart good to hear him." 
 " Run for Astley Cooper; you, — go to Brodie. Good 
 heavens! he is dying. Be quick — quick!" cried Mr. 
 Beaufort to his servants, while Mrs. Beaufort, who had 
 now gained the spot, with greater presence of mind had 
 Arthur convej'ed into a room. 
 
 "It is a judgment upon me," groaned Beaufort, 
 rooted to the stone of his hall, and left alone with the 
 strangers. 
 
 " No, sir ; it is not a judgment, it is a providence, " said 
 the more sanctimonious and better dressed of the two 
 men ; " for, put the question, if it had been a judgment, 
 the wheel would have gone over him; but it didn't: 
 and, whether he dies or not, I shall always say, that if 
 that 's not a providence, I don't know what is. We have 
 come a long way, sir ; and Burrows is a poor man , though 
 I'm well-to-do." 
 
 This hint for money restored Beaufort to his recollec- 
 tion; he put his purse into the nearest hand outstretched 
 to clutch it, and muttered forth something like thanks. 
 
 " Sir, may the Lord bless you ! and I hope the young 
 gentleman will do well. I am sure you have cause to 
 be thankful that he Avas 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 
 already at its work. An accident almost similar to that
 
 144 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 which, in the adventure of the blind man, had led 
 Arthur to the clew of Catherine, within twenty-four 
 hours stretched Arthur himself upon his bed. The sor- 
 row Mr. Beaufort had not relieved, was now at his own 
 hearth. 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 Catherine had died, broken down and worn-out, 
 upon a strange breast, with a feeless doctor, and by the 
 ray of a single candle, the heir to the fortunes once des- 
 tined to her son, wrestled also with the grim Tyrant, who 
 seemed, however, scared from his prey by the arts and 
 luxuries which the world of rich men raises up in defiance 
 of the grave. 
 
 Arthur was, indeed, very seriously injured; one of his 
 ribs was broken, and he had received two severe contu- 
 sions on the head. To insensibility succeeded fever, fol- 
 lowed by delirium. He was in imminent danger for 
 several days. If anything coxild console his parents for 
 such an affliction, it was the thought that, at least, he 
 was saved from the chance of meeting Philip. Mr. 
 Beaufort, in the instinct of that capricious and fluctuat- 
 ing conscience which belongs to weak minds, which re- 
 mains still, and drooping, and lifeless, as a flag on a 
 mast-head during the calm of prosperity, but flutters, and 
 flaps, and tosses when the wind blows and the wave 
 heaves, thought very acutely and remorsefully of the con- 
 dition of the Mortons, during the danger of his own son. 
 So far, indeed, from his anxiety for Arthur monopolizing 
 all his care, it only sharpened his charity towards the 
 orphans; for many a man becomes devout and good when 
 he fancies he has an immediate interest in appeasing
 
 KIGHT AND MORNING. 145 
 
 Providence. The morning after Arthur's accident, he 
 sent for Mr. Blackwell. He commissioned him to see 
 that Catherine's funeral rites were performed with all 
 due care and attention ; he hade him oljtain 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 earn- 
 estly counselled the laAvyer to employ all his tact and 
 delicacy in conferring 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 gener- 
 osity and benevolence of his employer, mingled with 
 condescending admonitions towards gratitude from Philip, 
 so exasperated the hoy, that Mr. Blackwell was ex- 
 tremely 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 fashiona- 
 ble undertaker, and gave orders for a very genteel 
 funeral. He thought that after the funeral Pliilip 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 meanwhile, 
 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 Mor- 
 ton's mind was a little disordered, and that he could not 
 calmly discuss the plans for the future suggested by Mr. 
 Beaufort. He did not doubt, however, that in another 
 interview all would be arranged according to the wishes 
 his client had so nobly conveyed to him. Mr. Beaufort's 
 conscience on this point was therefore set at rest. 
 
 VOL. I. — 10
 
 146 KIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 It was a dull, close, oppressive morning upon whicli 
 the remains of Catlierine 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 crape-bands was appointed. If his vague 
 and undeveloped conjecture ascribed this last and vain 
 attention to Robert Beaufort, it neither lessened the 
 sullen resentment he felt against his luicle, nor, on the 
 other hand, did he conceive that he had a right to for- 
 bid respect to the dead, though he might reject service 
 for the survivor. Since Mr. Blackwell's visit, he had 
 remained in a sort of apathy or torpor which seemed to 
 the people of the house to partake rather of indiiference 
 than woe. 
 
 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, 
 etc., she had left behind. In an old escritoire, he found, 
 first, various packets of letters in his father's hand- 
 writing, 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 
 those letters, the very heart of the writer seemed to 
 beat! Now both hearts alike were stilled. And Ghost 
 called vainly unto Ghost ! 
 
 He came, at lengtli, to a letter in his mother's hand, 
 addressed to himself, and dated two days before her 
 death. He went to the window, and gasped in the 
 mists of the sultry air for brcatli. Below were heard 
 the noises of London, — the shrill cries of itinerant 
 venders, the rolling carts, the whoop of boys returned
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 147 
 
 tor a while from school ; amidst all these rose one loud, 
 merry peal of laugliter, which drew his attention me- 
 chanically to the spot whence it came ; it was at the 
 threshold of a puljlic-house, before which stood the 
 hearse that had conveyed his mother's coffin, and the 
 gay undertakers haltuig there to refresh themselves. He 
 closed the window with a groan, retired to the farthest 
 corner of the room, and read as follows: — 
 
 Mt dearest 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. You, Philip, are 
 already past childhood ; your nature is one formed, I think, 
 to wrestle successfully with the world. Guard against your 
 own passions, and you may bid defiance to the obstacles that 
 will Ixiset your path in life. And lately, in our reverses, 
 Philip, you have so subdued those passions, so schooled the 
 pride and impetuosity of your childhoo<l, that I have contem- 
 plated your prospects with less fear than I used to do, even 
 when they seemed so brilliant. Forgive me, my dear child, if 
 I have concealed from you my state of health, and if my death 
 be a sudden and unlooked-for shock. Do not grieve for me 
 too long. For myself, my release is indeed escape from the 
 prison-house and the chain, — from bodily pain and mental 
 torture, which may, I fondly hope, prove some expiation for 
 the errors of a happier time. For I did err, when, even from 
 the least selfish motives, I suffered 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, O Philip ! beware 
 of the first false steps into deceit; beware, too, of the passions, 
 which do not betray their fruit till years and years after the 
 leaves that look so green and the blossoms that seem so fair. 
 
 I repeat my solemn injunction : do not grieve for me ; but 
 strengthen your mind and heart to receive the charge that I 
 now confide to you, — my Sidney, my child, your brother f 
 He is so soft, so gentle; he has been so dependent lor very life
 
 148 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 upon me, and we fire parted now for the first and last time. 
 He is with strangers ; and — and — 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 a brother. Put your stout heart 
 against the world, so that you may screen him, the weak child, 
 from its malice. He has not your talents nor strength of 
 character ; without you he is nothing. Live, toil, rise for his 
 Bake not less than your own. H you knew how this heart 
 beats as I write to you, if you could conceive what comfort I 
 take for hhn from my confidence in you, you would feel a new 
 spirit, — my spirit, my mother-spirit of love and forethought 
 and vigilance, enter into you while you read. See him when 
 I am gone, — comfort and soothe him. Happily he is too 
 young yet to know all his loss ; and do not let him think im- 
 kindly of me in the days to come, for he is a child now, and 
 they may poison his mind against me more easily than they 
 can yours. Think, if he is unhappy hereafter, he may forget 
 how I loved him, he may curse those who gave him birth. 
 Forgive me all this, Philip, my son, and heed it well. 
 
 And now, where you find this letter, you will see a key; it 
 opens a well in the bureau in which I have hoarded my little 
 savings. You will see that I have not died in poverty Take 
 what there is ; young as you are, you may want it more now 
 than hereafter. But hold it in trust for your brother as well 
 as yourself. 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 I You are orphans now. But He 
 has told even the orphans to call him " Father I " 
 
 "When he had read this letter, Pliilip Morton fell upon 
 his knees and prayed.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 149 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 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 community ! 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 After he had recovered his self-possession, Philip 
 opened the well of the bureau, and was astonished and 
 atfected to find that Catherine had saved more than 
 £100. Alas! how much must she have pinched herself 
 to have hoarded this little treasure! After burning his 
 father's love-letters, and some other papers which he 
 deemed useless, he made up a little bundle of those 
 trifling effects belonging to the deceased, which he 
 valued as memorials and relics of her, quitted the apart- 
 ment, and descended to the parlor 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 now," said he, as the servant wept 
 while he spoke, — "now I can bear to ask you Avhat I 
 have not before done. How did my poor mother die ? 
 Did she suffer much ? — or — or — " 
 
 " She went off like a lamb, sir," said the girl, drying 
 her eyes. " You see the gentleman had been with her
 
 150 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 " 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 stayed 
 with her till she slept; and when she Avoke, she smiled 
 in his face. I shall never forget that smile, — for I was 
 standing on the other side, as it might be here, and the 
 doctor was by the window, pouring out the doctor's 
 stuff in the glass ; and so she looked on the young gen- 
 tleman, and then looked round at us all, and shook her 
 head very gently, but did not speak. And the gentle- 
 man asked her how she felt, and she took both his 
 hands and kissed them; and then he put his arms round 
 and raised her up, to take the physic like, and she said 
 then, 'You will never forget them?^ and he said, 
 * Never.' I don't know what that meant, sir! " 
 
 "Well, well, — goon." 
 
 " And her head fell back on his buzzom, and she 
 looked so happy ; and when the doctor came to the bed- 
 side, she was quite gone." 
 
 " And the stranger had my post I No matter ; God 
 bless him, — God bless him. Who was he; what was 
 his name 1 " 
 
 " 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 agoing, 
 and they didnotseem to like each otlier; for I heard him 
 through the wall, as nurse and I Avere in the next room, 
 speak as if he was scolding ; but he did not stay long. "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 151 
 
 " And lias never been seen since ? " 
 
 "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 par- 
 lor, where two or three children were seated, playing 
 at dominos; he despatched one for their mother, the 
 mistress of the shop, who came in, and dropped him a 
 courtesy, with a very grave, sad face, as was proper. 
 
 " I am going to leave your house, ma'am ; and I wish 
 to settle any little arrears of rent, etc." 
 
 "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 me say, with his compliments, that he would wait 
 on you to-morrow at eleven o'clock. So I hope you 
 won't go yet: for I think he means to settle 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 Catherine had 
 regularly defrayed the expense of her scanty mainte- 
 nance and humble lodging, — paid the money, and, as 
 the landlady wrote the receipt, he asked, " Who was the 
 gentleman — the younger gentleman — who called ia 
 the morning of the day my mother died 1 " 
 
 "Oh, sir! I am so sorry I did not get his name.
 
 152 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Mr. Perkins said that he was some relation. Very 
 odd he has never been since. But he '11 be sure to call 
 again, sir; you had much better 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, has- 
 tily wrote (wliile Mrs. Lacy went to bring him sealing- 
 wax and a light) these words : — 
 
 I caimot guess who you are : they say that you call yourself 
 a relation ; that must be some mistake. I knew not that my 
 poor mother had relations so kind. But, whoever you be, 
 you soothed her last hours, — she died in your arms ; and if 
 ever — years, long years 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 him, my mother's 
 
 soul will watch over yoa as a guardian angel. As for me, I 
 ask no help from any one ; I go into the world, and will carve 
 out my own way. So much do I shrink from the thought of 
 charity from others, that I do not believe I could bless you, 
 as I do now, if your kindness to me did not close with the 
 stone upon my mother's grave. 
 
 Philip. 
 
 He sealed this letter, and gave it to the woman. 
 
 " Oh, by the by," said she, " I had forgot; the doctor 
 said that if you would send for him, he would be most 
 happy to call on you, and give you any advice." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 « 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 iirst to the churchyard, where his 
 mother's remains had been that day interred. It was
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 153 
 
 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 tlien near evening; the sun had broken out from 
 the mists of tlie 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? " 
 
 As words to this effect struggled from liis lips, a loud, 
 shrill voice, — the cracked, painful voice of weak age 
 wrestling with strong passion, rose close at hand. 
 
 " Away, reprobate! thou art accursed! " 
 
 Philip started, and shuddered as if the words were 
 addressed to himself, and from the grave. But, as he 
 rose on his knee, and, tossing the wild hair from his 
 eyes, looked confusedly round, he saw, at a short dis- 
 tance, 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 vigor of life, who 
 appeared bent as in humble supplication. The old 
 man's hands were outstretched over the head of the 
 younger, as if suiting terrible action to the terrible 
 words, and, after a moment's pause, — ■ a moment, but 
 it seemed far longer to Philip, — there was heard a deep, 
 wild, ghastly howl from a dog that cowered at the old 
 man's feet, — a howl, perhaps, of fear at the passion of his 
 master, which the animal might associate with danger. 
 
 "Father! father!" said the suppliant, reproachfully, 
 " your very dog rebukes your curse ? "
 
 154 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "Be dumb! My dog! What hast thou left me on 
 earth but him? Thou hast made me loathe the sight of 
 friends, for thou hast made me loathe mine own name. 
 Thou hast covered it with disgrace; thou hast turned 
 mine old age into 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 wither- 
 ing 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 suf- 
 fered you to discard me, — now, when you are old and 
 helpless, and, I heard, blind, and you might want aid, 
 even from your poor, good-for-nothing son. But I have 
 done. Forget — not my sins, but this interview. Ke- 
 peal your curse, father: I have enough on my head 
 without yours; and so let the son at least bless the 
 father who curses him. Farewell ! " 
 
 The speaker turned as he thus said, with a voice that 
 trembled at the close, and brushed rapidly by Philip, 
 whom he did not, however, appear to perceive; but 
 Philip, by the last red beam of the sun, saw again that 
 marked, storm-beaten face which it was difficult, once 
 seen, to forget, and recognized the stranger on Avhose 
 breast he had slept the night of his fatal visit to K . 
 
 The old man's imperfect vision did not detect the 
 departure of his son, but his face changed and softened 
 as the latter strode silently through the rank grass.
 
 NIGHT AND MoRNING. 155 
 
 « William! " he said at last, gently, —" William: " 
 and the tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks ; " my 
 son! " hut that son was gone: the old man listened for 
 reply , — none came. " He has left me, — poor William ! 
 — we shall never meet again; " and he sank once more 
 on the old tombstone, dumb, rigid, motionless, — an 
 image of Time himself in his own domain of graves. 
 The dog crept closer to his master, and licked his hand. 
 Philip stood for a moment in thoughtful silence; his 
 exclamation of despair had been answered as by his better 
 angel. There teas a being more miserable than himself; 
 and the accursed would have envied the bereaved! 
 
 The twilight liad closed in ; the earliest star — the star 
 of memory and love, the Hesperus hymned by every 
 poet since tlie world began — was fair in the arch of 
 heaven, as Philip quitted the spot, with a spirit more 
 reconciled to the future, more softened, chastened, at- 
 tuned 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 neigh- 
 boring 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, irreso- 
 lute whether to repair at once to the home assigned to 
 Sidney, or to seek some shelter in town for that night, 
 when three men who were on the opposite side of the 
 -way suddenly caught sight of him. 
 
 " There he is, — ^ there he is; stop, sir! — stop! " 
 
 Philip heard these words, looked up, and recognized 
 the voice and the person of Mr. Plaskwith; the bo(jk- 
 seller was accompanied by Mr. Plimmins and a sturdy, 
 ill-favored stranger.
 
 156 NIGHT AND MOliNING. 
 
 A nameless feeling of fear, rage, and disgust seized 
 the unhappy boy, and at the same moment a ragged 
 vagabond wliispered to him, " Stump it, my cove; that 's 
 a Bow Street runner. " 
 
 Then there shot through Philip's mind the recollec- 
 tion 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 his task-master 1 Igno- 
 rant of the law, the law only seemed to him, as it ever 
 does to the ignorant and the friendless, — a foe. Quicker 
 than lightning these thoughts, which it takes so many 
 words to describe, flashed through the storm and dark- 
 ness of his breast; and at the very instant that Mv. 
 Plimmins 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 ]\rr. Plimmins 
 sprawling in the kennel, he darted across the road and 
 lied down an opposite lane. 
 
 "Stop him! stop!" cried the bookseller, and the 
 officer rushed after him with almost equal speed. Lane 
 after lane, alley after alley, fled Philip, dodging, 
 "winding, breathless, panting; and lane after lane, alley 
 after alley, thickened at his heels the crowd that pur- 
 sued. The idle and the curious and the oflicious — 
 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 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 kiu<l of public-house, or
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 157 
 
 rather tavern, to judge by its appearance, lounged two 
 men; and wliile Philip flew on, the cry of " Stop him! " 
 had changed, as the shout passed to new voices, into 
 " Stop the thief! " — that cry yet howled in the dis- 
 tance. One of tlie loungers seized him; Philip, des- 
 perate and ferocious, struck at him with all his force: 
 but the blow was scarcely felt by that Herculean frame. 
 
 " Pish," said the man, scornfully, " I am no spy; if 
 you run from justice I would help you to a sign-post." 
 
 Struck by the voice, Philip looked hard at the speaker. 
 It was the voice of the accursed son. 
 
 " Save me ! you remember me 1 " said the orphan, 
 faintly. 
 
 "Ah! I think I do; poor lad! Follow me, this 
 way ! " 
 
 The stranger turned within the tavern , passed the hall 
 through a sort of corridor that led into a back-yard 
 which opened upon a nest of courts or passages. 
 
 " You are safe for the present; I will take you where 
 you can tell me all at your ease , — see ! " As he spoke 
 they emerged into an open street, and the guide pointed 
 to a row of hackney-coaches. "Be quick, — get in. 
 Coachman, drive fast to — " Philip did not hear the rest 
 of the direction. 
 
 Our story returns to Sidney.
 
 158 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Nous vons mettrons a couvert, 
 Kepondit le pot de fer : 
 Si quelque matiere dure 
 
 Vous menace d'aventure, 
 Eutre deux je passerai, 
 Et du coup vous sauverai. 
 
 Le pot de terre en souffre ! ^ 
 
 La Fontaine. 
 
 "Sidney, come here, sir! What have you been at? 
 You have torn your frill into tatters! How did you do 
 this? Come, sir, no lies." 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, it was not my fault. I just put my 
 head out of the window to see the coach go by, and a 
 nail caught me here." 
 
 " Why, you little plague! you have scratched yourself, 
 — you are always in miscliief. What business had you 
 to look after the coach ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Sidney, hanging his head 
 ruefully. 
 
 "La, mother! " cried the youngest of the cousins, a 
 square-built, ruddy, coarse-featured urchin, about Sid- 
 ney's age, — "la, mother, he never see a coach in the 
 street when we are at play but he runs arter it." 
 
 "After, not arter" said Mr. Roger Morton, taking 
 the pipe from his mouth. 
 
 ^ We, replied the Iron Pot, will shield you : should any hard 
 substance menace you with danger, I '11 intervene, and save you 
 from the shock. . . . The Earthen Pot was the sufferer !
 
 KIGHT AND MOKNING. 159 
 
 "Why do you go after the coaches, Sidney?" said 
 Mrs. Morton ; " it is very naughty : you will he 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. 
 
 " 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 home- 
 sick, 1 should like to know? Ba! Baa! " 
 
 The boy pointed his finger over his mother's shoulder, 
 and the other children burst into a loud giggle. 
 
 " Leave the room, all of you, — leave the room," said 
 Mr. Morton, rising angrily and stamping his foot. 
 
 The children, who were in great awe of their father, 
 huddled and hustled each other to the door; but Tom, 
 who went last, bold in his mother's favor, popped his 
 head through the doorway, and cried, " Good-by, little 
 homesick ! " 
 
 A sudden slap in tlie 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.
 
 160 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " 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 
 ]\Irs. 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. ]\Iorton, who was knitting, knitted away with the 
 excited energy of nervous irritation. 
 
 " Eing the bell, Sidney," said Mr. Morton. The 
 boy obeyed, — the parlor-maid entered. " Take Master 
 Sidney to his room; keep the boys away from him, 
 and give him a large slice of bread and jam, Martha." 
 
 "Jam, indeed! — treacle," said Mrs. Morton. 
 
 "Jam, Martha! " repeated the uncle, authoritatively. 
 
 " Treacle I " 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 '11 talk to them to-morrow, 
 that I will; no one shall be unkind to you in my 
 house. " 
 
 Sidney muttered something, and went timidly up to 
 Mrs. Morton. His look, so gentle and subdued; his 
 eyes full of tears; his pretty mouth, which, though 
 silent, pleaded so eloquently; his willingness to forgive, 
 and his wish to be forgiven, — might have melted many 
 a heart harder, perhaps, than Mrs. Morton's. But 
 there reigned what are worse than hardness, — prejudice 
 und wounded vanity, maternal vanity. His contrast to
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 161 
 
 her own rough, coarse children, grated on her, and set 
 the teeth of her mind on edge. 
 
 "There, child, don't tread on my gown; you are so 
 awkward. Say your prayers, and don't throw off the 
 counterpane! I don't like slovenly boys." 
 
 Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped, and 
 vanished. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. M. ," said Mr. Morton, abruptly, and 
 knocking out the ashes of his pipe, — " now, Mrs. M. , 
 one word for all ; I have told you that I promised poor 
 Catherine to be a father to that child, and it goes to my 
 heart to see him so snubbed. Why you dislike him I 
 can't guess for the life of me. I never saw a sweeter- 
 tempered child." 
 
 " Go on, sir, — go on : make your personal reflections 
 on your own lawful wife. They don't hurt me, — oh, 
 no, not at all ! Sweet-tempered, indeed ; I suppose your 
 own children are not sweet-tempered 1 " 
 
 "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 mai/ 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 bj' that 
 little mischief-making interloper. It is too bad of you, 
 Mr. Morton ; you will break ray 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- 
 wif e , and brought you such a deal of mon-mon-money 
 
 VOL. I. — 11
 
 162 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 and always stud-stud-studied your interests ; many 's the 
 time wlien you have been fast asleep, that I have sat 
 \ip half the night men-raen-mending the house linen ; 
 and you have not been the same man, Roger, since 
 that boy came! " 
 
 "Well, well! " said the good man, quite overcome, 
 and fairly taking her round the waist and kissing her; 
 " no words between us ; it makes life quite unpleasant. 
 If it pains you to have Sidney here, I will put him to 
 some school in the town, where they '11 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 
 resisting your ways! You know how to come over me, 
 — don't you ? " 
 
 And Mrs. Morton smiled benignly, as she escaped 
 from his conjugal arms and smoothed her cap. 
 
 Peace thus restored, Mr. Morton refilled his pipe, and 
 the good lady, after a pause, resumed, in a very mild, 
 conciliatory tone, — 
 
 " I '11 tell you what it is, Roger, that vexes me with 
 that there child. He is so deceitful, and he does tell 
 such fibs! " 
 
 "Fibs! that is a very bad fault," said Mr. Morton, 
 gravely. " That must be corrected. " 
 
 " It was but the other day that I saw him break a pane 
 of glass in the shop ; and when I taxed him 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 '11 cure him," 
 said Mr. Morton, sternly. "You know how I broke
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 163 
 
 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 not ill. Poor Catherine ! 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 tlie servant entered with the supper-tray, and the 
 conversation fell upon other topics. 
 
 Mrs. Roger Morton's charge against Sidney was, alas! 
 too true. He had acquired, under that roof, a terrible 
 habit of telling stories. He had never incurred that 
 vice with his mother, because then and there he had 
 nothing to fear ; now, he had everything to fear, — the 
 grim aunt, even the quiet, kind, 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 him actually a coward; and, when tlie nerves 
 tremble, a lie sounds as surely as, when I vibrate that 
 wire, the bell at the end of it will ring. Beware of 
 the man who has been roughly treated as a child. 
 
 The day after the conference just narrated, Mr. 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 lu'i soiilager — he ordered the luxury of a 
 muffin. Now it so chanced, that he had only finished
 
 104 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 half the muffin, and drunk one cup of tea, when he was 
 called into the sliop by a customer of great importance, 
 
 — a prosy old lady, who always gave her orders with 
 remarkable precision, and who valued herself on a 
 character for affalnlity, which she maintained by never 
 buying a penny ribbon 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 
 parlor, 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. Xever 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 roimd 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 philoso- 
 phize , — perhaps his father had done breakfast ; perhaps 
 he would 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 into 
 the fatal vortex, and at last, with a desperate plunge, 
 he seized the triangular temptation : — 
 
 " And ere a man had power to say ' Behold ! * 
 The jaws of Thomas had devoured it up."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 165 
 
 Sidney, disturbed from his studies by the agitation of 
 his companion, witnessed this proceeding with great and 
 conscientious alarm. "Oh, Tom!" said he, " wliat 
 will your papa say ? " 
 
 "Look at that!" said Tom, putting his fist under 
 Sidney's reluctant nose. " If father misses it, you '11 
 say the cat took it. If you don't, — my eye! what a 
 wapping I '11 give you! " 
 
 Here Mr. Morton's voice was heard, Avishing 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 upstairs for my pocket- 
 hanker," and hastily absconded. 
 
 Mr. Morton, already in a very bad humor, partly at 
 the effects of the cooling medicine, partly at the suspen- 
 sion of his breakfast, stalked into the parlor. His tea 
 — the second cup already poured out — was cold. He 
 turned towards the muffin, and missed the lost piece at a 
 glance. 
 
 " Who has been at my muffin? " said he, in a voice 
 that seemed to Sidney like the voice he had always 
 supposed an ogre to possess. " Have you. Master 
 Sidney 1 " 
 
 " N-n-no, sir; indeed, sir! " 
 " Then Tom has. Where is he ? " 
 " Gone upstairs for his handkerchief, sir." 
 " Did he take my muffin 1 Speak the truth ! " 
 " Ko, sir; it was the — it 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! ISTo! — first go down, 
 Margaret, and see if the cat is in the cellar; it might
 
 1G6 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 have got out, Mrs. M. ," said Mr. IMorton, just, even in 
 his wrath. 
 
 ]Mrs. Morton went, and, there was a dead silence, 
 except indeed in Sidney's heart, Avhich beat louder 
 than a clock ticks. Mr. Morton, meanwhile, went to a 
 little cupboard; while still there, Mrs. Morton returned. 
 The cat was in the cellar, the key turned on her, — in 
 no mood to eat muffins, poor thing! — she would not 
 even lap her milk! — like her mistress, she had had a 
 very bad time! 
 
 " ISTow come here, sir!" said Mr. Morton, with- 
 drawing himself from the cupboard, with a small horse- 
 wliip in his hand, " I will teach you how to speak 
 the truth in future! Confess that you have told a 
 lie!" 
 
 " Yes, sir, it was a lie! Pray — pray forgive me; but 
 Tom made me! " 
 
 " What ! when poor Tom is upstairs ? — worse and 
 worse! " said Mrs. Morton, lifting up her hands and 
 eyes. " What a viper! " 
 
 " For shame , boy , — for shame ! Take that — and that 
 — and that — " 
 
 Writhing, shrinking, still more terrified than hurt, 
 the poor child cowered beneath the lash. 
 
 " M'amma! — mamma! " he cried at last, " oh, why — 
 why did you leave me 1 " 
 
 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, 
 yo\i are not mucli hurt. Zounds, don't cry so! " 
 
 " He will alarm the whole street," said Mrs. Morton; 
 "T never see such a child! Here, take this parcel to 
 Mrs. pjirnie's; you know the house, — only next street,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 167 
 
 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. 1 " 
 
 " 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! "
 
 168 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 CHAPTER rV. 
 
 Le bien nous le faisons : le mal c'est la Fortune. 
 On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort.* 
 
 La FONTAINB. 
 
 Upox 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 hamlet about 
 ten miles distant from the town in which Mr. Eoger 
 Morton resided. Though the hamlet was small, the inn 
 was large, for it was placed close by a huge finger-post that 
 pointed to three great roads: one led to the town before- 
 mentioned ; another , to the heart of a manufacturing dis- 
 trict; and a third to a populous seaport. The weather 
 ■was fine, and the two travellers ordered breakfast to be 
 taken into an arbor in the garden, as well as the basins 
 and towels necessary for ablution. The elder of the trav- 
 ellers appeared to be imequivocally foreign; you would 
 have guessed him at once for a German. He wore, what 
 was then very uncommon in this country, a loose, brown 
 linen blouse, buttoned to the chin, with a leathern belt, 
 into Avhich 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 
 mustaches, and a rough, sunburnt complexion which 
 made the fairness of the hair more remarkable. He wore 
 an enormous pair of green spectacles, and complained 
 
 ^ The good we effect ourselves ; the evil is the handiwork of 
 fortune. Mortals are always in the right, destiny always in the 
 wrong.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 169 
 
 much, in broken English, of the weakness of his eyes. 
 All about him, even to the smallest minutiae, indicated 
 the German: not only the large, muscular frame, the 
 broad feet, and vast, though well-shaped hands, but the 
 brooch — evidently purchased of a Jew in some great 
 fair — stuck ostentatiously and superfluously into his 
 stock; the quaint, droll-looking carpet-bag, which he re- 
 fused to trust to the boots; and the great, massive, dingy 
 ring which he wore on his forefinger. The other was a 
 slender, remarkably upright and sinewy youth, in a blue 
 frock, over which was thrown a large cloak, a travelling 
 cap, with a shade that concealed all of the upper part of 
 liis face, except a dark, quick eye of uncommon fire, and 
 a shawl handkerchief, which was equally useful in con- 
 cealing the lower part of the countenance. On descend- 
 ing 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 arbor. 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, my goot Madchen, but you are von var 
 
 — pretty — vat you call it 1 " and he gave her, as he 
 spoke, so hearty a smack that the girl was more flustered 
 than flattered by the courtesy. 
 
 " Keep yourself to yourself, sir ! " said she, very tartly, 
 
 — for chambermaids never like to be kissed by a middle- 
 aged gentleman when a yomiger one is by; whereupon
 
 170 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 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 " mtidchen " bounced off with a face of scarlet, and a 
 " Sir, you are no gentleman, — that's what you ar'n't! " 
 The German thrust his head out of the arbor, and fol- 
 lowed her with a loud laugh ; then, drawing himself in 
 again, he said, in quite another accent, and in excellent 
 English, " There, Master Philip, we have got rid of the 
 girl for the rest of the morning, and that 's exactly Avhat 
 I wanted to do, — women's wits are confoundedly sharp. 
 Well, did I not tell you right, we have baffled all the 
 bloodhounds ! " 
 
 " And here then, Gawtrey, we are to part, " said Philip, 
 mournfully. 
 
 " I wisli you would think better of it, my boy, " re- 
 turned ]VIr. Gawtrey, breaking an egg ; " how can you 
 shift for yourself, — no kith nor kin, not even that im- 
 portant 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 my fate to yours. 
 But my brother ! " 
 
 " There it is, always wrong when we act from our feel- 
 ings. 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 1 — plenty to eat 
 and drink, I daresay. Come, man, you must be as hun- 
 gry as a hawk, — a slice of the beef ? Let well alone and 
 shift for yourself. What good can you do your 
 brother t " 
 
 " I don't know, but I must see him ; I have sworn 
 it."
 
 NIGHT AND xMORNING. 171 
 
 " 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 Avhat and who are 
 you 1 " 
 
 Gawtrey looked up. 
 
 " What do you suppose ? " 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 1 " 
 " True ! but with a certain wild looseness in their 
 talk that — But / have no right to judge others by mere 
 appearance; nor is it this that has made me anxious, 
 and, if you will, suspicious." 
 " What, then 1 " 
 " Your dress, — your disguise. " 
 
 " Disguised yourself ! — ha ! — ha ! Behold the world's 
 charity ! You fly from some danger, some pursuit, dis- 
 guised, — 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 
 money, the arch-manager, promises me a livelihood. Are 
 you satisfied ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, " answered the boy, sadly, " when I know 
 more of the world I shall understand you better.
 
 172 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Strange — strange, tliat you, out of all men, should 
 have been kind to me in distress ! " 
 
 " Not at all strange. Ask the beggar whom he gets 
 the most pence from, — the fine lady in her carriage, the 
 beau smelling of Eau de Cologne ? Pish ! the people 
 nearest to being beggars themselves keep the beggar 
 alive. You were friendless, and the man who has all 
 earth for a foe befriends you. It is the Avay 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, 
 ]\Ir. Gawtrey at last finished a breakfast that would 
 have astonished the whole Corporation of London ; and 
 then taking out a large old watch with an enamelled 
 back, — doubtless more German than its master, — he 
 said as he lifted up his carpet-bag, " I must be off, — 
 tempus fugit, and I must arrive just in time to nick the 
 vessels. Shall get to Ostend or Rotterdam safe and 
 snug; thence to Paris. How my pretty Fan Avill have 
 grown ! Ah, you don't know Pan, — make you a nice 
 little wife one of those 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 ? " 
 
 "Not I." 
 
 " Here, then, is the address. Whenever you want 
 me, go there, ask to see Mr. Gregg: old fellow with one 
 eye, you recollect; shake him by the hand just so, — 
 you catch the trick: practise it again. No, the fore- 
 finger thus; that's right. Say 'blater,' no more, 
 'blater;' stay, I will write it down for you; and then 
 ask for William Gawtrey's direction. He will give it 
 you at once, without questions, — these signs are under-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 173 
 
 stood; and if you want money for your passage, he will 
 give you that also, with advice into the bargain. Al- 
 ways a warm welcome with me. And so take care of 
 yourself, and good-by. I see my chaise is at the door. " 
 As he spoke, Gawtrey shook the young man's hand 
 with cordial vigor, and strode off to his chaise, mutter- 
 ing, "Money Avell laid out, — fee-money; I shall have 
 him, and, Gad, I like him, — poor devil ! "
 
 17-4 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ^He is a cunning coachman that can turn well in a narrow room. 
 
 Old Pluji : from Lamb's Specimens. 
 
 Here are two pilgrims, 
 
 And neither kuows one footstep of the way. 
 
 IIevwood'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 wliicli Philip was hound. The name of the des- 
 tination, in gilt letters on the coach-door, caught his eye 
 as he walked from the arbor towards the road, and in a 
 few moments he was seated as the fourth passenger in 
 the " Xelson 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 otlier words, who observes, 
 or .shuns — 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 handkerchief, which she 
 had tied round her liead, probably to serve as a nightcap 
 during the drow.sy length of the journey. Opposite to 
 her was a middle-aged man of pale complexion, and a 
 grave, pensive, studious expression of face ; and vis-a-vis 
 to Philip .sat an overdressed, showy, very good-looking 
 man of about two or three and forty. This gentleman 
 wore auburn whi.skers, which met at the chin; a foraging 
 3ap, with a gold tassel ; a velvet waistcoat, across which, 
 in various folds, hung a golden chain, at the end of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 175 
 
 which dangled an eyeglass, that from time to time he 
 screwed, as it were, into liis 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 this personage, the latter fixed 
 his glass also at him, with a scrutmizing stare, which 
 drew fire from Philip's dark eyes. The man dropped his 
 glass, and said in a half-provincial, half haw-haw tone, 
 like the stage-exquisite of a minor theatre, " Pawdon me, 
 and split legs! " therewith stretching himself between 
 Philip's limbs in the approved fashion of inside passen- 
 gers. A young man in a white greatcoat now came to 
 the door with a glass of warm sherry-and-Avater. 
 
 " You must take this, — you must, now; it AviU 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 tne I " said the young man, sentimentally ; 
 whereupon the yoting 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, sipped up the rest. A 
 silent and expressive squeeze of the hand, on returning 
 the glass, rewarded the young man, and proved the salu- 
 tary effect of his prescription. 
 
 " All right ! " cried the coachman : the hostler twitched 
 the cloths from the leaders, and away went the "Nelson 
 Slow and Sure," with as much pretension as if it had 
 meant to do the ten miles in an hour. The pale gentle- 
 man took from his waistcoat-pocket a little box contain- 
 ing gum-arabic, and having inserted a couple of morsels 
 between his lips, he next drew forth a little thin vol-
 
 176 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ume, 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." 
 
 " Xot your brother, miss, — eh? " 
 
 "La, sir! — why notC" 
 
 " Xo faumily likeness, — noice-looking fellow enough! 
 But your oiyes and mouth, — ah, miss! " 
 
 Miss turned away her head, and uttered with pert 
 vivacity, — 
 
 "I never likes compliments, sir! But the young 
 man is not my brother," 
 
 " A sweetheart, — eh? Oh, fie, miss! Haw! haw!" 
 and the auburn-whiskered Adonis poked Philip in the 
 knee with one hand, and the pale gentleman in the 
 ribs with the other. The latter looked up, and re- 
 proaclifully ; the former drew in his legs, and uttered 
 an angry ejaculation. 
 
 ** Well, sir, there is no harm in a sweetheart, is 
 there ? " 
 
 "Kone in the least, ma'am; I advoise you to double 
 the dose. We often hear of two strings to a bow. 
 Daun't you tliink it would be noicer to have two beaux 
 to your string ? " 
 
 As he thus wittily expressed himself, the gentleman 
 took off his cap, and thrust his fingers through a very 
 curling and comely head of hair; the young lady looked 
 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 aufter 
 you," was the gallant reply.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 177 
 
 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 tlie forgetfulness of thought, had pushed 
 his cap from his brows; and the gentleman, after staring 
 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 gentleman 
 continued to gaze at Philip, till the latter, perceiving 
 the notice he excited, colored and replaced his cap over 
 his face. 
 
 " Are you going to X 1 " asked the gentleman, in 
 
 a gentle, timid voice. 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Is it the first time you have ever been there ? " 
 
 "Sir! " returned Philip, in a voice that spoke sur- 
 prise and distaste at his neighbor's curiosity. 
 
 "Forgive me," said the gentleman, shrinking back; 
 " but you remind me of — of — a family I once knew in 
 the town. Do you know — the — the Morton's ? " 
 
 One in Philip's situation, with, as he supposed, the 
 oflticers of justice in his track (for Gawtrey, for reasons 
 of his own, rather encouraged than allayed his fears), 
 might well be suspicious. He replied, therefore, 
 shortly, " I am quite a stranger to the town," and 
 
 VOL. I. — 12
 
 178 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 tlie journey. When the coacli halted at the 
 inn, — the same inn which had before given its shelter 
 to poor Catherine, — the young man in the white coat 
 opened the door, and offered his arm to the young lady. 
 
 "Do 3'ou make any stay here, sir? " said she to the 
 beau, as she unpinned her bonnet from the roof. 
 
 "Perhaps so: I am waiting for my phe-c/ton, 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-ffton completed the effect 
 produced by the gentleman's previous gallantries; and 
 with that she dropped into his hand a very neat card, on 
 which was printed, " Wavers and. Snow, Stay-makers, 
 High Street." 
 
 The beau put the card gracefully into his pocket, 
 leaped from the coacli, nudged aside his rival of the 
 Avhite 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 hauppy 
 man, are you? Oh, no, not at all a hauppy man! 
 Good-day to you! Guard, that hat-box is mine! " 
 
 While ]-*]ii]ip was paying the coachman, the beavi 
 passed, and whispered him, — 
 
 " Recollect old Gregg: anything on the lay here, — 
 don't spoil my sport if we meet! " and bustled off into 
 the inn, wliistling " God save the king! " 
 
 Philip started, then tried to bring to mind the faces 
 which he had seen at the "strange place," and thought
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 179 
 
 lie recalled the features of his fellow-traveller. How- 
 ever, he did not seek to renew the acquaintance, but 
 inquired the way to Mr. Morton's house, and thither he 
 now proceeded. 
 
 He was directed, as a short cut, down one of those 
 narrow passages, at the entrance of which posts are 
 placed, as an indication that they are appropriated 
 solely to foot-passengers. A dead white wall, which 
 screened the garden of the physician of the place ran 
 on one side; a high fence to a nursery -ground was on 
 the other; the passage was lonely, for it was now the 
 hour when few persons walk, either for business or 
 pleasure, in a provincial town, and no sound was heard 
 save the fall of his own step on the broad flagstones. 
 At the end of the passage in the main street to which 
 it led, he saw already the large, smart, showy shop, with 
 the hot sun shining full on the gilt letters that con- 
 veyed to the eyes of the customer the respectable name 
 of "Morton," — when suddenly the silence was broken 
 by choked and painful sobs. He turned, and beneath a 
 compo portico, jutting from the wall which adorned the 
 physician's door, he saw a child seated on the stone 
 steps weeping bitterly, — a thrill shot through Philip's 
 heart! Did he recognize, disguised as it was by pain 
 and sorrow, that voice? 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 keeping his hands clasped before his 
 face. 
 
 " Sidney! " said Philip. The boy started to his feet, 
 uttered a cry of rapturous joy, and fell upon his brother's 
 breast. 
 
 "Oh, Philip! dear, dear Philip! you are come to 
 take me away back to my own — own mamma; I will ba
 
 180 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 so good; I will never tease her again, — never, never? 
 I have been so wretched! " 
 
 " Sit down, and tell me what they have done to you," 
 said Philip, checking the rising heart that heaved at his 
 mother's name. 
 
 So, there they sat, on the cold stone under the stran- 
 ger's porch, these two orphans: Philip's arm round his 
 brother's waist, Sidney leaning on his shoulder, and 
 imparting to him — perhaps with pardonable exaggera- 
 tion — 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 indignation he betrayed encouraged Sidney to 
 color yet more highly the tale of his wrongs and pain. 
 
 When he had done, and clinging tightly to his 
 brother's broad chest, said, — 
 
 "But never mind, Philip; now we will go home to 
 mamma. " 
 
 Philip replied, — 
 
 " Listen to me , my dear brother. We cannot go back 
 to our mother. I will tell you why, later. We are 
 alone in the world, — we two! If you will come with 
 me, God help you! — for you will have many hardships: 
 we shall have to work and drudge, and you may be cold 
 and hungry, and tired, very often, Sidney, — very, very 
 often! But you know that, long ago, when I was so 
 passionate, I never was wilfully unkind to you; and I 
 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 now ? "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 181 
 
 "Comforts!" repeated Sidney, ruefully, and looking 
 at the wale over his hands, "Oh! let — let — let me 
 go with you : I shall die if I stay here. I shall , in- 
 deed, — 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."
 
 182 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 He comes — 
 
 Yet careless what he brings ; 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. 
 
 CowPER : Description of the Postman. 
 
 The pale gentleman entered Mr. Morton's shop, and 
 looking round him, spied the Avorthy trader showing 
 shawls to a young lady just married. He seated him- 
 self on a stool, and said to the bowing foreman, — 
 
 " I will wait till Mr. Morton is disengaged." 
 
 The young lady having closely examined seven 
 shawls, and declared they were beautiful, said, "she 
 •would think of it," and walked away. Mr. Morton 
 now approached the stranger. 
 
 "Mr. Morton," said the pale gentleman; "you are 
 very little altered. You do not recollect me 1 " 
 
 "Bless me, Mr. Spencer! is it really you? Well, 
 what a time since we met! I am very glad to see you. 
 And what brings you to N ? Business? " 
 
 " Yes, business. Let us go within." 
 
 Mr. ]\rorton led the way to the parlor, where Master 
 Tom, re perched on the stool, was rapidly digesting the 
 plundered muffin. Mr. Morton dismissed him to play, 
 ami the pale gentleman took a chair. 
 
 " ]\Ir. Morton," said he, glancing over his dress, "you 
 see I am in mourning. Tt is for your sister. I never 
 got the better of that early attachment, — never."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 183 
 
 " My sister ! Good heavens ! " said Mr. Morton , 
 turning very pale; "is she dead? Poor Catherine! 
 — and I not know of it! When did she die 1 " 
 
 " Not many days since ; and — and — " said Mr. Spen- 
 cer, greatly affected, "I fear in want. I had been 
 abroad for some months; on my return last week, look- 
 ing over the newspapers (for 1 always order tliem 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 — her burial. I then determined to visit poor 
 Catherine's brother, and learn if anything could be done 
 foi' the children she had left behind." 
 
 " She left but two. Philip, the elder, is very com- 
 fortably placed at R ; the younger has his home 
 
 with me; and Mrs. Morton is a moth — that is to say, 
 she takes great pains with him. Ehem! And my 
 poor, poor sister! " 
 
 " Is he like his mother ? " 
 
 "Very much, when she was young, — poor, dear 
 Catherine ! " 
 
 " What age is he 1 " 
 
 "About ten, perhaps; I don't know exactly; much 
 younger than the other. And so she 's dead! " 
 
 " Mr. Morton, I am an old bachelor," — here a sickly 
 smile crossed Mr. Spencer's face; "a small portion of 
 my fortune is settled, it is true, on ray relations; but 
 tlie rest is mine, and I live within my income. The 
 elder of these boys is probably old enough to begin to 
 take care of himself. But the younger, — perhaps you 
 have a family of your own, and can spare him ? " 
 
 Mr. Morton hesitated, and twitched up his trousers. 
 
 " Why," said he, " this is very kind in you. I don't
 
 184 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 know, — we'll see. The boy is out, now; come and 
 dine with us at two, — pot-luck. Well, so she is no 
 more! Heigho! Meanwhile, I '11 talk it over with 
 Mrs. M." 
 
 " I will be with you," said Mr. Spencer, rising. 
 
 " Ah ! " siglied Mr. Morton, " if Catherine had but 
 married you, she would have been a happy woman." 
 
 " I would have tried to make her so," said Mr. 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, 
 Avhen five, six, seven o'clock came, and the boy was 
 still missing, even Mrs. Morton agreed that it was high 
 time to institute a regular search. The whole family 
 set off different ways. It was ten o'clock before they 
 were re-united; and then, all the news picked up was, 
 that a boy, answering Sidney's description, had been 
 seen with a young man in three several parts of the 
 town; the last time at the outskirts, on the highroad 
 towards the manufacturing districts. These tidings so 
 far relieved Mr. Morton's mind that he dismissed the 
 cliilliiig fear that had crept there, — that Sidney might 
 have drowned himself. Boys vjUL drown themselves 
 sometimes! The description of the young man coin- 
 cided so remarkably with the fellow-passenger of Mr.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 185 
 
 Spencer, that he did not doubt it was the same; the 
 more so, when he recollected having seen him with a 
 fair-haired child under the portico; and, yet more, when 
 he recalled the likeness to Catherine that had struck 
 him in the coach, and caused the inquiry that had 
 aroused Philip's suspicion. The mystery was thus made 
 clear, — Sidney had fled with his brother. Nothing 
 more, however, could be done that night. The next 
 morning, active measures should be devised; and when 
 the morning came, the mail brought to Mr. Morton the 
 two following letters. The first was from Arthur 
 Beaufort. 
 
 Sir, — I have been prevented by severe illness from writing 
 to you before. I can now scarcely hold a pen ; but the instant 
 my health is recovered I shall be with you at N • 
 
 On her deathbed, the mother of the boy under your charge, 
 Sidney Morton, committed him solemnly to me. T make his 
 fortunes ray care, and shall hasten to claim him at your kindly 
 hands. But the elder son, — this poor Philip, who has suf- 
 fered 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 ! 1 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 recognized ; 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, etc. 
 
 Arthur Beaufort. 
 
 Berkeley Square. 
 
 The second letter was from Mr. Plaskwith, and ran 
 thus : — 
 
 Dear Morton, — Something very awkward has happened, 
 — not my fault, and very unpleasant for me. Your relation.
 
 1S6 KIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Philip, as I wrote you word, was a painstaking lad, though 
 odd and bad mannered, — for want, perhaps, poor boy I 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 ma}' say threatening. It was in my own shop, and bei'ore 
 Plimmins and Mrs. P. ; I was forced to answer with dignified 
 rebuke, and left the shop. When I returned he was gone, and 
 some shillings, — fourteen, I think, and three sovereigns, — • 
 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. Plim- 
 mins slept below that night, and we borrowed butcher John- 
 son's dog. Nothing happened. I did not tliink 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, tliought 
 he 'd come back again, meant to reprove him properly, 
 waited several days, heard nothing of him, grew uneasy, 
 would not attend longer to Mrs. P. ; for, as Napoleon Bona- 
 parte observed, " women are well in their way, not in ours." 
 Made Plimmins go with me to town, hired a Bow Sti-eet 
 runner to track him out, cost me £l, Is. and two glasses of 
 brandy-and- water. Poor Mrs. Morton was just buried, — 
 quite shocked ! Suddenly saw the boy in the streets. Plim- 
 mins rushed forward in the kindest way, was knocked down, 
 hurt his arm, paid 2«. 6d. 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 Black- 
 well, a gentleman-like man — called. Mr. Beaufort will do 
 anytliing for him in reason. Is there anything more /can do ] 
 I really am very uneasy about the lad, and Mrs. P. and I have 
 a tiff about it : but that's nothing ; thought I had best write 
 to you for instructions. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 C. Plaskwith.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 187 
 
 P. S. Just open my letter to say, Bow Street officer just 
 been here, has found out that the l)oy 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 scarcely listened to Mr. Plaskwith's 
 letter, but of Arthur's he felt jealous. He would fain 
 have been the only protector to Catherine's children; 
 but he was the last man titted to head the search now 
 so necessary to prosecute with equal tact and energy. 
 
 A soft-hearted, soft-heailed man, a confirmed valetu- 
 dinarian, a day-dreamer, who had wasted away his life 
 in dawdling and maundering over simple poetry, and 
 sighing over his unhappy attachment; no child, no 
 babe, was more thoroughly helpless than Mr. Spencer. 
 
 The task of investigation devolved, therefore, on Mr. 
 Morton, and he went about it in a regular, plain, 
 straightforward way. Handbills were circulated, con- 
 stables employed, and a lawyer, accompanied by Mr. 
 Spencer, despatched to the manufacturing districts 
 towards which the orphans had been seen to direct their 
 path.
 
 1S8 NIGHT AND MOiiNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Give the gentle Sout'i 
 Yet leave to court those sails. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher : Beggar's Bush. 
 
 Cut your cloth, sir, 
 According to your calling. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Meanwhile the brothers were far away, and He who 
 feeds the young ravens made their paths pleasant to 
 their feet. Philip had broken to Sidney the sad news 
 of their mother's death, and Sidney had wej)t 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 en- 
 durance, 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 but- 
 terfly yet dazzle with delight. It was the night of 
 their flight, and in the open air, when Philip (his arms 
 round Sidney's waist) told his brother orphan that they 
 were motherless. And the air was balmy, the skies 
 filled Avith the effulgent presence of the August moon ; 
 the corn-fields stretched round them wide and far, and 
 not a leaf trembled on the beech-tree beneath which 
 they had sought shelter. It seemed as if nature herself 
 smiled pityingly on their young sorrow, and said to 
 tliem, " Grieve not for the dead: I, who live forever, I 
 will be your mother! " 
 
 They crept, as the night deepened, into the warmer 
 sleeping-place afforded by stacks of hay, mown that
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 189 
 
 summer and still fragrant. And the next morning the 
 hirds 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? Yes, in spite of their deso- 
 lation, their loss, of the melancholy past, of the friend- 
 less future, the orphans were happy, — happy in their 
 youth, their freedom, their love, their wanderings in 
 the delicious air of the glorious August. Sometimes 
 they came upon knots of reapers lingering in the shade 
 of the hedgerows over their noon-day meal ; and, grown 
 sociable by travel, and bold by safety, they joined and 
 partook of the rude fare with the zest and fatigue of 
 youth. Sometimes, too, at night, they saw gleam afar, 
 and red by the wood-side, the fires of gypsy tents. 
 But these, with the superstition derived from old nur- 
 sery tales, they scrupulously shunned, eying them 
 with a mysterious awe. What heavenly twilights be- 
 long 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 
 convolvulus glittered in the tangles of the brake, the 
 hardy heath-flower smiled on the green waste. 
 
 And ever, at evening, they came, field after field,
 
 190 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 hamlet ; 
 though, more often, they loved to spread the simple 
 food they purchased by the way under some thick tree, 
 or beside a stream through whose limpid waters they 
 could watch the trout glide and play. And they often 
 preferred the chance shelter of a haystack or a shed to 
 the less romantic repose offered by the small inns they 
 alone dared to enter. They went in this much by the 
 face and voice of the host or hostess. Once only Philip 
 had entered a town, on the second day of their flight, 
 and that solely for the purchase of ruder clothes, and a 
 change of linen for Sidney, with some articles and im- 
 plements of use necessary in their present course of 
 shift and welcome hardship. A wise precaution; for, 
 thus clad, they escaped suspicion. 
 
 So journeying, they consumed several days; and, 
 having taken a direction quite opposite to that which 
 led to the manufacturing districts, whither pursuit had 
 been directed, they were now in the centre of another 
 county, — in the neighborhood of one of the most con- 
 ftiderable towns of England; and here Pliilip began to 
 think tlieir wanderings ought to cease, and it was time 
 tf) 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 liis mother. 
 But Philip looked on this capital as a deposit sacred to
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 191 
 
 Sidney; it was not to be spent, but kept and augmented, 
 
 — the nucleus for future wealth. Within the last few 
 weeks his character was greatly ripened, and his powers 
 of thought enlarged. He was no more a boy, — he was 
 a man; he had another life to take care of. He re- 
 solved, then, to enter the town they were approaching, 
 and to seek for some situation by which he might 
 maintain both. Sidney was very loth to abandon their 
 present roving life; but he allowed that the Avarm 
 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 
 walk, Philip sallied forth alone. 
 
 After his long rambling, Philip was pleased and 
 struck with tlie broad bustling streets, the gay shops, 
 
 — the evidences of opulence and trade. He thought it 
 hard if he could not find there a market for the health 
 and heart of sixteen. He strolled slowly and alone 
 along the streets, till his attention was caught by a 
 small corner-shop, in the window of which was placed 
 a board, bearing this inscription : — 
 
 OFFICE FOR EMPLOYMENT. — RECIPROCAL ADVANTAGE. 
 
 Mr. John Clump's bureau open every day from ten till four. 
 Clerks, servants, laborers, etc., provided with suitable situa- 
 tions. Terms moderate. N. B. — The oldest established 
 olliee in the town. 
 
 Wanted, a good cook. An under-gardener. 
 
 What he sought was here! Philip entered, and saw a 
 short, fat man with spectacles, seated before a desk, 
 poring upon the well-filled leaves of a long register.
 
 192 NIGHT AND MORNING, 
 
 "Sir," said Philip, " I wish for a situation; I don't 
 care what." 
 
 " Half-a-crown for entry, if you please. That 's right. 
 Now for particulars. Hum! — you don't look like a 
 servant! " 
 
 " No ; I wish for any place where my education can 
 be of use. I can read and write ; I know Latin and 
 Frencli ; I can draw ; I know arithmetic and summing. " 
 
 " Very well ; very genteel young man , — prepossessing 
 appearance (that's a fudge!) — highly educated; usher 
 in a school, eh? " 
 
 "What you like." 
 
 " References. " 
 
 " I have none. " 
 
 "Eh! — none! " and Mr. Clump fixed his spectacles 
 full upon Philip. 
 
 Philip was prepared for the question, and had the 
 sense to perceive that a frank reply was his best policy. 
 " The fact is," said he, boldly, " I was well brought up; 
 my father died; I was to be bound apprentice to a trade 
 I disliked: I left it, and have now no friends." 
 
 " If I can help you, I will," said Mr. Clump, coldly. 
 " Can't promise much. If you were a laborer, char- 
 acter might not matter; but educated young men must 
 have a character. Hands always more useful tlian 
 head. Education no avail nowadays; common, quite 
 common. Call again on Monday." 
 
 Somewhat disappointed and chilled, Philip turned 
 from the bureau; but he had a strong confidence in liis 
 own resources, and recovered his spirits as he mingled 
 with the throng. He passed, at length, by a livery- 
 stable, and paused, from old associations, as he saw a 
 groom in the mews attempting to manage a young, hot 
 horse, evidently unbroken. The master of the stables,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 193 
 
 in a green short jacket and top-boots, with a long whip 
 in his hand, was standing by, with one or two men who 
 looked like horse-dealers. 
 
 " Come off , Clumsy ! yon can't manage that 'ere fine 
 hanimal," cried the livery-man. " Ah! he 's a lamb, 
 sir, if he were backed properly. But I has not a man 
 in the yard as can ride, since Will died. Come off, I 
 say, lubber! " 
 
 But to come off, without being thrown off, was more 
 easily said than done. The horse was now plunging as 
 if Juno had sent her gad-fly to him; and Philip, in- 
 terested and excited, came near and nearer, till he stood 
 by the side of the horse-dealers. The other hostlers ran 
 to the help of their comrade, who, at last, with white 
 lips and shaking knees, found himself on terra firma ; 
 while the horse, snorting hard, and rubbing his head 
 against the breast and arms of the hostler who held him 
 tightly by the rein, seemed to ask, in his own way, 
 " Are there any more of you ? " 
 
 A suspicion that the horse was an old acquaintance 
 crossed Philip's mind; he went up to him, and a white 
 spot over the left eye confirmed his doubts. It had been 
 a foal reserved and reared for his own riding; one that, 
 in his prosperous days, had ate bread from his hand, 
 and followed him round the paddock like a dog; one 
 that he had mounted in sport, without saddle, when his 
 father's back was turned; a friend, in short, of the 
 happy lang syne, — nay, the very friend to whom he 
 had boasted his affection, when, standing with Arthur 
 Beaufort under the summer sky, the whole world seemed 
 to him full of friends. He put his hand on the horse's 
 neck, and whispered, " Soho! So, Billy! " and the horse 
 turned sharp round with a quick, joyous neigh. 
 
 "If you please, sir," said Philip, appealing to the 
 
 VOL. I. — 13
 
 194 NIGHT AND MOltNING. 
 
 livery-man, " I will undertake to ride this horse, and 
 take liim over yon leaping-bar. Just let me try him. " 
 
 " There 's a fine spirited lad for you! " said the livery- 
 man, much pleased at the offer. " Xow, gentlemen, 
 did I not tell you that 'ere hanimal had no vice if he 
 was properly managed ? " 
 
 The horse-dealers shook their heads. 
 
 " May I give him some bread first? " asked Philip; 
 and the hostler was despatched to the house. Meanwhile 
 the animal evinced various signs of pleasure and recog- 
 nition, as Philip stroked and talked to him; and, 
 finally, when he ate the bread from the young man's 
 hand, the whole yard seemed in as much delight and 
 surprise as if they had witnessed one of Monsieur Van 
 Amburgh's exploits. 
 
 And now, Philip, still caressing the horse, slowly 
 and cautiously mounted; the animal made one bound 
 half across the yard, — a bound which sent all the horse- 
 dealers into a corner, — and then went tlirough liis paces, 
 one after the other, with as much ease and calm as if he 
 had been broken in at Mr. Fozard's to carry a young 
 lady. And when he crowned all by going thrice over 
 the leaping-bar, and Philip, dismounting, threw the 
 reins to the hostler, and turned triumphantly to the horse- 
 dealer, that gentleman slapped him on the back, and 
 said, emphatically, "Sir, you are a man! and I am 
 proud to see you here. " 
 
 ^Meanwhile the horse-dealers gathered round the 
 animal, looked at his hoofs, felt his legs, examined his 
 windpipe, and concluded the bargain, which, but for 
 Philip, would have been very abruptly broken off. 
 When the horse was led out of the yard, the livery-man, 
 Mr. Stubmore, turned to Philip, who, leaning against 
 the wall, followed the poor animal with mournful eyes.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 195 
 
 " My good sir, you have sold that horse for me, — that 
 you have ! Anything as I can do for you ? One good 
 turn deserves another. Here 's a brace of shiners." 
 
 " Thank you, sir! I want no money, but I do want 
 some employment. I can be of use to you, perhaps, in 
 your establisliment. I have been brought up among 
 horses all my life." 
 
 " Saw it, sir! that 's very clear. I say, that 'ere horse 
 knows you! " and the dealer put his finger to his nose. 
 " Quite right to be mum! He was bred by an old cus- 
 tomer of mine — famous rider! — Mr. Beaufort. Aha! 
 that 's where you knew him, I 'spose. Were you in 
 his stables ? " 
 
 " Hem, — I knew Mr. Beaufort well." 
 
 " Did you 1 You could not know a better man. Well, 
 I shall be very glad to engage you, though you seem by 
 your hands to be a bit of a gentleman, — ehl Never 
 mind; don't want you to groom! — but superintend 
 things. D' ye know accounts, eh? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Character?" 
 
 Philip repeated to Mr. Stubmore the story he had 
 imparted to Mr. Clump. Somehow or other men who 
 live much with horses are always more lax in their 
 notions than the rest of mankind. Mr. Stubmore did 
 not seem to grow more distant at Philip's narration. 
 
 " Understand you perfectly, my man. Brought up 
 with them 'ere fine creturs, how could you nail your 
 nose to a desk? I '11 take you without more palaver. 
 Wliat 's your name ? " 
 
 "Philips." 
 
 " Come to-morrow, and we '11 settle about wages. 
 Sleep here ? " 
 
 " No. I have a brother whom I must lodge with, and
 
 196 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 for whose sake I wish to work. I should not like 
 him to be at the stables, — he is too young. But I can 
 come early every day, and go home late." 
 " Well, just as you like, man. Good-day." 
 And thus, not from any mental accomplishment, — 
 not from the result of his intellectual education, but from 
 the mere pliysical capacity and brute habit of sticking 
 fast on his saddle, did Philip Morton, in this great in- 
 telligent, gifted, civilized, enlightened community of 
 Great Britain, find the means of earning his bread with- 
 out stealing it.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 197 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Don Salluste (sonriant). — Je parie 
 Que vous ne peusiez pas a moi ? 
 
 Ruif Bias. 
 Don Salluste. Cousin ! 
 
 Don Cesar. — De vos bienfaits je n'aurai nulle envie 
 Tant que je trouverai vivant ma libre vie.^ 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 Philip's situation was agreeable to his habits. His 
 great courage and skill in horsemanship were not the 
 only qualifications useful to Mr. Stubmore: his educa- 
 tion answered a useful purpose in accounts, and his 
 manners and appearance were liighly to the credit of the 
 yard. The customers and loungers soon grew to like 
 Gentleman Philips, as he was styled in the establishment. 
 Mr. Stubmore conceived a real affection for him. So 
 passed several weeks; and Philip, in this humble ca- 
 pacity, might have worked out his destinies in peace and 
 comfort, but for a new cause of vexation that arose in 
 Sidney. This boy was all in all to his brother. For 
 him he had resisted the hearty and joyous invitations of 
 Gawtrey (whose gay manner and high spirits had, it 
 must be owned, captivated his fancy, despite the equivo- 
 cal mystery of the man's avocations and condition) ; for 
 him he now worked and toiled, cheerful and contented, — 
 and him he sought to save from all to which he subjected 
 
 1 Don Sallust (smiling). — I'lllay a wager you won't think of me ? 
 Don Sallust. — Cousin ! 
 
 Don Cfvsar. — I covet not your favors so, but I lead an inde« 
 pendent life.
 
 108 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 himself. Ho could not bear that that soft and delicate 
 child should ever he exposed to the low and menial asso- 
 ciations tliat now made up his own life; to the obscene 
 slang of grooms and hostlers ; to their coarse manners and 
 rough contact. He kept him, therefore, apart and aloof 
 ill their little lodging, and hoped in time to lay by, so 
 that Sidney might ultimately be restored, if not to his 
 bright original sphere, at least to a higher grade than 
 that to which Philip was himself condemned. But poor 
 Sidnej' could not bear to be thus left alone ; to lose sight 
 of his brother from daybreak till bedtime ; to have no one 
 to amuse him. He fretted and pined away, — all the 
 little inconsiderate selfishness, uneradicated from his 
 breast by his sufferings, broke out tlie more, the more he 
 felt that he was the first object on earth to Philip. 
 Philip, thinking he might be more cheerful at a day- 
 school, tried the experiment of placing him at one where 
 the boys were much of his own age. But Sidney, on 
 the third day, came back with a black eye, and he would 
 return no more. Philip several times thought of chang- 
 ing their lodging for one where there were young people. 
 But Sidney had taken a fancy to the kind old widow who 
 was their landlady, and cried at the thought of removal. 
 Unfortunately, the old woman was deaf and rheumatic ; 
 and though she bore teasing od libitum, she could not 
 entertain the child long on a stretch. Too young to be 
 reasonable, Sidney could not or would not comprehend 
 why his brother was so long away from liim; and once 
 he .said, peevi.shly, — 
 
 " If I had thought I was to be moped up so, I would 
 not have left Mrs. Morton. Tom was a bad boy, but 
 still it was somebody to play with. I wish I had not 
 gone away with you ! " 
 
 Tliis speech cut Philip to the heart. What, then, he
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 199 
 
 had taken from the child a respectable and safe shelter, 
 — the sure provision of a life, — and the cliild now re- 
 proached him! When this was said to him, the tears 
 gushed from his eyes. 
 
 " God forgive me, Sidney, " said he, and turned away. 
 
 But then, Sidney, who had the most endearing ways 
 with him, seeing his brother so vexed, ran up and 
 kissed him, and scolded himself for being naughty. 
 StiU the words were spoken, and tlieir meaning rankled 
 deep. Philip himself, too, was morbid in his excessive 
 tenderness for this boy. There is a certain age, before 
 the love for the sex commences, when the feeling of 
 friendship is almost a passion. You see it constantly in 
 girls and boys at school. It is the first vague craving of 
 the heart after the master food of human life, — love. 
 It has its jealousies and humors and caprices, like love 
 itself. Philip was painfully acute to Sidney's afi'ection, 
 was jealous of every particle of it. He dreaded lest his 
 brother should ever be torn from him. 
 
 He would start from his sleep at night, and go to 
 Sidney's bed to see that he was there. He left him in 
 the morning with forebodings, — he returned in the dark 
 with fear. Meanwhile the character of this young man, 
 so sweet and tender to Sidney, was gradually becoming 
 more hard and stern to others. He had now climbed to 
 the post of command in that rude establishment; and 
 premature command in any sphere tends to make men 
 unsocial and imperious. 
 
 One day Mr. Stubmore called him into his own count- 
 ing-house, where stood a gentleman, with one hand in his 
 coat-pocket, the other tapping his whip against his boot. 
 
 " Philips, show this gentleman the brown mare. Slie 
 is a beauty in harness, is not she ? This gentleman 
 wants a match for his phe-aton."
 
 200 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " She must step very hoigh, " said the gentleman, 
 turning round; and Philip recognized the beau in the 
 stage-coach. 
 
 The recognition was simultaneous. The beau nodded, 
 then whistled, and winked. 
 
 " Come, my man, I am at your service, " said he. 
 
 Philip, with many misgivings, followed him across the 
 yard. The gentleman then beckoned him to approach. 
 
 " You, sir, — moind I never peach, — setting up here 
 in the honest line? Dull work, honesty, — eh? " 
 
 " Sir, I really don't know you. " 
 
 " Daun't you recollect old Gregg's, the evening you 
 came there with jolly Bill Gawtrey? Recollect thatj 
 eh?" 
 
 Philip was mute. 
 
 " I was among the gentlemen in the back-parlor who 
 shook you by the hand. Bill 's off to France then. I 
 am tanking the provinces. I want a good horse, — the 
 best in the yard, moind! Cutting such a swell here! 
 My name is Captain de Burgh Smith, — never moind 
 yours, my fine faellow. Now then, out with your rat- 
 tlers, and keep your tongue in your mouth." 
 
 Philip mechanically ordered out the brown mare, which 
 Captain Smith did not seem much to approve of; and, 
 after glancing round the stables with great disdain of the 
 collection, he sauntered out of the yard without saying 
 more to Philip, though he stopped and spoke a few 
 sentences to Mr. Stubmore. Philip hoped he had no 
 design of purchasing, and that he Avas rid, for the pres- 
 ent, of so awkward a customer. Mr. Stubmore approached 
 Philip. 
 
 " Drive over the grays to Sir John, " said he. " My 
 lady wants a pair to job. A very pleasant man, that 
 Captain Smith. I did not know you had been in a
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 201 
 
 yard "before, — s<ays you were the pet at Elmore's in 
 London. Served him many a day. Pleasant gentleman- 
 like man ! " 
 
 " Y-e-s ! " said Philip, hardly knowing what he said, 
 and hurrying back into the stables to order out the 
 grays. 
 
 The place to which he was bound was some miles 
 distant, and it was sunset when he returned. As he 
 drove into the main street, two men observed him 
 closely. 
 
 " That is he! I am almost sure it is," said one. 
 
 " Oh ! then it 's all smooth sailing, " replied the 
 other. 
 
 " But, bless my eyes ! you must be mistaken. See 
 whom he's talking to now!" 
 
 At that moment. Captain de Burgh Smith, mounted 
 on the brown mare, stopped Philip. 
 
 "Well, you see, I've bought her, — hope she '11 turn 
 out well. What do you really think she 's worth 1 Not 
 to buy, but to sell 1 " 
 
 " Sixty guineas. " 
 
 " Well, that 's a good day's work ; and I owe it to you. 
 The old faellow would not have trusted me if you had 
 not served me at Elmore's, — ha! — ha! If he gets 
 scent and looks shy at you, my lad, come to me. I 'm 
 at the Star Hotel for the next few days. I Avant a 
 tight faellow like you, and you shall have a fair percen- 
 tage. I 'm none of your stingy ones. I say, I hope this 
 devil is quiet ? She cocks up her ears dawmnably ! " 
 
 " Look you, sir ! " said Philip, very gravely, and ris- 
 ing up in his break ; " I know very little of you, and 
 that little is not much to your credit. I give you fair 
 warning, that I shall caution my employer against 
 you. "
 
 202 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 " Will you, my fine faellow 1 — then take care of 
 yourself." 
 
 " Stay ! and if you dare utter a word against me, " said 
 Philip, "with that frown to Avhich his swarthy complexion 
 and flashing eyes gave an expression of fierce power be- 
 yond his years, " you will find that, as I am the last 
 to care for a threat, so I am the first to resent an 
 injury!" 
 
 Thus saying, he drove on. Captain Smith affected a 
 cough, and put his brown mare into a canter. The tAvo 
 men followed Philip as he drove into the yard. 
 
 " What do you know against the person he spoke to ? " 
 said one of them, 
 
 " Merely that he is one of the cunningest swells on 
 this side the Bay, " returned the other. " It looks bad 
 for your young friend. " 
 
 The first speaker shook his head, and made no reply. 
 
 On gaining the yard, Philip found that Mr. Stubmore 
 had gone out, and was not expected home till the next 
 day. He had some relations who were farmers, whom he 
 often visited; to them he was probably gone. 
 
 Philip, therefore, deferring his intended caution against 
 the gay captain till the morrow, and musing how the 
 caution might be most discreetly given, walked home- 
 ward. He had just entered the lane that led to his lodg- 
 ings, when he saw the two men I have spoken of on the 
 other side of the street. The taller and better-dressed of 
 the two left his comrade, and, crossing over to Philip, 
 bowed, and thus accosted him, — 
 
 " Fine evening, Mr. Philip Morton. I am rejoiced to 
 see you at last. You remember me, — Mr. Blackwell, 
 Lincoln's Inn! " 
 
 " What is your business ? " said Philip, halting, and 
 speaking short and fiercely.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 203 
 
 " Now don't be in a passion, my dear sir, — now don't. 
 I am here on behalf of my clients, Messrs. Beaufort, sen. 
 and jun. I have had such work to find you ! Dear, 
 dear ! but you are a sly one ! Ha ! ha ! Well, you see 
 we have settled that little affair of Plaskwith's for you 
 (might have been ugly), and now I hope you will — " 
 
 " To your business, sir ! Wliat do you want with me ? " 
 
 "Why, now, don't be so quick! 'Tis not the Avay to 
 do business. Suppose you step to my hotel. A glass of 
 wine, now, Mr. Philip ! We shall soon luiderstand each 
 other." 
 
 " Out of my path, or speak plainly ! " 
 
 Thus put to it, the lawyer, casting a glance at his stout 
 companion, who appeared to be contemplating the sunset 
 on the other side of the way, came at once to the marrow 
 of his subject. 
 
 " Well, then, — well, my say is soon said. Mr. Arthur 
 Beaufort takes a most lively interest in you ; it is he who 
 has directed this inquiry. He bids me say that he 
 shall be most happy — yes, most happy — to serve you 
 in anything; and if you will but see him, he is in the 
 town, I am sure you will be charmed with him, — most 
 amiable young man! " 
 
 " Look you, sir, " said Philip, drawing himself up : 
 " neither from father, nor from son, nor from one of that 
 family, on whose heads rest the mother's death and the 
 orphan's curse, will I ever accept boon or benefit, — with 
 them, voluntarily, I will hold no communion; if they 
 force themselves in my path, let them beware! I am 
 earning my bread in the way I desire : I am independent, 
 — I want them not. Begone ! " 
 
 With that, Philip pushed aside the lawyer and strode 
 on rapidly. Mr. Blackwell, abashed and perplexed, 
 returned to his companion.
 
 204 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Philip regained his home, and found Sidney stationed 
 at the window alone, and with wistful eyes noting the 
 flight of the gray moths, as they darted to and fro across 
 the dull shruhs, that, variegated with lines for washing, 
 adorned the plot of ground which the landlady called a. 
 garden. The elder brother liad returned at an earlier 
 hour than usual, and Sidney did not at first perceive him 
 enter. When he did, he clapped his hands and ran to 
 him. 
 
 " This is so good in you, Philip. I have been so dull ; 
 you will come and play now 1 " 
 
 " With all my heart, — where shall we play 1 " said 
 Philip, with a cheerful smile. 
 
 " Oh, in the garden ! — it 's such a nice time for hide- 
 and-seek. " 
 
 " But is it not chill and damp for you 1 " said Philip. 
 
 " There now ; you are always making excuses. I see 
 you don't like it. I have no heart to play now. " 
 
 Sidney seated himself and pouted. 
 
 " Poor Sidney ! you must be dull without me. Yes, 
 let us play; but put on this handkerchief;" and Philip 
 took off his own cravat and tied it round his brother's 
 neck and kissed him. 
 
 Sidney, whose anger seldom lasted long, was reconciled ; 
 and they went into the garden to play. It was a little 
 spot, screened by an old moss-grown paling from the 
 neighboring garden on the one side, and a lane on the 
 other. They played with great glee till the night grew 
 darker and the dews heavier. 
 
 " This must be the last time, " cried Philip. " It is 
 my turn to hide." 
 
 "Very well! Xow, then." 
 
 Philip .secreted himself behind a poplar; and as Sid- 
 ney searched for him, and Philip stole round and round
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 205 
 
 the tree, the latter, happening to look across the paling, 
 saw the dim outline of a man's figure in the lane, who 
 appeared watching them. A thrill shot across his hreast. 
 These Beauforts, associated in his thoughts with every 
 ill omen and augury, had they set a spy upon his move- 
 ments ? He remained erect and gazing at the form, when 
 Sidney discovered and ran up to him with his noisy 
 laugh. 
 
 As the child clung to him, shouting with gladness, 
 Philip, unheeding his playmate, called aloud and imperi- 
 ously to the stranger, — 
 
 " What are you gaping at 1 Why do you stand watch- 
 ing us 1 " 
 
 The man muttered something, moved on, and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 " I hope there are no thieves here ! I am so much 
 afraid of thieves," said Sidney, tremulously. 
 
 The fear grated on Philip's heart. Had he not him- 
 self, perhaps, been judged and treated as a thief? He 
 said nothing, but drew his brother within: and there, 
 in their little room, by the one poor candle, it was 
 touching and beautiful to see these boys, — the tender 
 patience of the elder lending itself to every whim of the 
 younger, now building houses with cards, now telling 
 stories of fairy and knight-errant, the sprightliest he 
 could remember or invent. At length, all was over, and 
 Sidney was undressing for the night, Philip, standing 
 apart, said to him in a mournful voice, — 
 
 " Are you sad now, Sidney 1 " 
 
 "No! not when you are with me, — but that is so 
 seldom. " 
 
 " Do you read none of the story-books I bought for 
 you?" 
 
 " Sometimes ! but one can't read all day. "
 
 206 NIGHT AST) MORNING. 
 
 " All ! Sidney, if ever we should part, perhaps you will 
 love me no longer! " 
 
 " Don't say so, " said Sidney. '' But we sha'n't part, 
 Philip ! " 
 
 Philip sighed, and turned away as his brother leaped 
 into bed. Something whispered to him that danger was 
 near: and as it was, could Sidney grow up neglected 
 and uneducated; was it thus that he was to fulfil his 
 trust?
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 207 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 But oh, what storm was iu that mind ! — Ckabbe : Ruth, 
 
 While Philip mused, and his brother fell into the happy 
 sleep of childhood, in a room in the principal hotel of 
 the town sat three persons, Arthur Beaufort, Mr. 
 Spencer, and Mr. Blackwell. 
 
 "And so," said the first, "he rejected every overture 
 from the Beauforts 1 " 
 
 " With a scorn I cannot convey to you ! " replied the 
 lawyer. " But the fact is, that he is evidently a lad of 
 low habits ; to think of his being a sort of helper to a 
 horse-dealer! I suppose, sir, he was always in the 
 stables in his father's time. Bad company depraves 
 the taste very soon, but that is not the worst. Sharp 
 declares that the man he was talking with, as I told 
 you, is a common swindler. Depend on it, Mr. Arthur, 
 he is incorrigible ; all we can do is to save the brother. " 
 
 " It is too dreadful to contemplate ! " said Arthur, 
 who, still ill and languid, reclined on a sofa. 
 
 " It is, indeed, " said Mr. Spencer ; "I am sure I 
 should not know what to do with such a character ; but the 
 other poor child, it would be a mercy to get hold of him." 
 
 " Where is Mr. Sharp 1 " asked Arthur. 
 
 " Why," said the lawyer, " he has followed Philip at a 
 distance to find out his lodgings, and learn if his brother 
 is with him. Oh, here he is! " and Blackwell's com- 
 panion in the earlier part of the evening entered. 
 
 " I have found him out, sir, " said Mr. Sharp, wiping 
 his forehead. " "Wliat a fierce un he is ! I thought he
 
 208 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 would have had a stone at my head ; but we officers are 
 used to it: we does our duty, and Providence makes our 
 heads unkimmon hard! " 
 
 " Is the child with him ? " asked Mr. Spencer. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " A little, quiet, subdued boy 1 " asked the melancholy 
 inhabitant of the Lakes. 
 
 " Quiet ! Lord love you ! never heard a noisier little 
 urchin! There they were, romping and roupmg in the 
 garden, like a couple of jail-birds. " 
 
 " You see, " groaned Mr. Spencer, " he will make that 
 poor child as bad as himself. " 
 
 " What shall us do, Mr. Blackwell 1 " asked Sharp, 
 who longed for his brandy-and-water. 
 
 " Why, I Avas thinkmg you might go to the horse- 
 dealer the first thing in the morning ; find out whether 
 Philip is really thick with the swindler; and, perhaps, 
 Mr. Stubmore may have some influence with him, if, 
 without saying who he is — " 
 
 " Yes," interrupted Arthur, " do not expose his name." 
 
 " You could still hint tliat he ouglit to be induced to 
 listen to his friends and go with them. Mr. Stubmore 
 may be a respectable man, and — " 
 
 " I understand," said Sharp; " I have no doubt as how 
 I can settle it. We learns to know human natur in our 
 profession, — 'cause why ? — we gets at its blind side. 
 Good-night, gentlemen ! " 
 
 " You seem very pale, Mr. Arthur ; you had better go 
 to bed : you promised your father, you know. " 
 
 " Yes, I am not well : I will go to bed : " and Arthur 
 ro.se, lighted his candle, and sought his room. 
 
 "I will see Philip to-morrow," he said to himself; 
 " he will listen to me. " 
 
 The conduct of Arthur Beaufort in executing the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 209 
 
 charge he had undertaken, had brought into full light all 
 the most amiable and generous part of his character. As 
 soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he had expressed 
 so much anxiety as to the fate of the orphans, that to 
 quiet him his father was forced to send for Mr. Black- 
 well. Tlie lawyer had ascertained, through Dr. , 
 
 the name of Philip's employer at E, . At Arthur's 
 
 request he went down to Mr. Plaskwith, and, arriving 
 there the day after the return of the bookseller, learned 
 those particulars with which Mr. Plaskwith's letter to 
 Roger Morton has already made the reader acqi;ainted. 
 The lawyer then sent for 'Mr. Sharp, the officer before 
 employed, and commissioned him to track the young 
 man's whereabout. That shrewd functionary sonn re- 
 ported that a youth every way answering to Philip's 
 description had been introduced, the night of the escape, 
 by a man celebrated, not indeed for robberies, or lar- 
 cenies, or crimes of the coarser kind, but for address in all 
 that more large and complex character which comes under 
 the denomination of living upon one's wits, to a polite 
 rendezvous frequented by persons of a similar profession. 
 Since then, however, all clew of Philip was lost. But 
 though Mr. Blackwell, in the way of his profession, was 
 thus publicly benevolent towards the fugitive, he did not 
 the less privately represent to his patrons, senior and 
 junior, the very equivocal character that Philip must be 
 allowed to bear. Like most lawyers, hard upon all who 
 wander from the formal tracks, he unaffectedly regarded 
 Philip's flight and absence as proofs of a very reprobate 
 disposition; and this conduct was greatly aggravated in 
 his eyes by Mr. Sharp's report, by which it appeared 
 that after his escape Philip had so suddenly, and, as it 
 were, so naturally, taken to such equivocal companion- 
 ship. Mr. Kobert Beaufort, already prejudiced against 
 
 VOL. I. — 14
 
 210 NIGKT AND MORNING. 
 
 Philip, viewed matters in the same light as the lawyer; 
 and the story of his supposed predilections reached 
 Arthur's ears in so distorted a shape that even he was 
 staggered and revolted : still Philip was so young, Arthur's 
 oath to the orphans' mother so recent, — and if thus 
 early inclined to wrong courses, should not every effort 
 be made to lure him back to the straight path ? With 
 these views and reasonings, as soon as he was able, 
 Arthur himself visited Mrs. Lacy, and the note from 
 Philip, which the good ladj'^ put into his hands, affected 
 him deeply, and confirmed all his previous resolutions. 
 Mrs. Lacy was very anxious to get at his name ; but 
 Arthur, having heard that Philip had refused all aid 
 from his father and Mr. Blackwell, tliou<:jht that the 
 young man's pride might work equally against himself, 
 and therefore evaded the landlady's curiosity. He wrote 
 the next day the letter we have seen to Mr. Poger Mor- 
 ton, whose address Catherine had given to him: and by 
 return of post came a letter from the linen-draper narrat- 
 ing the flight of Sidney, as it was supposed, with his 
 brother. This news so excited Arthur, that he insisted 
 
 on going down to N at once, and joining in the 
 
 search. His father, alarmed for his health, positively 
 refused ; and the consequence was an increase of fever, 
 a consultation with the doctors, and a declaration that 
 Mr. Arthur was in that state that it would be dangerous 
 not to let him have his own way. Mr. Beaufort was 
 forced to yield, and with Blackwell and Mr. Sharp ac- 
 companied his son to N . The inquiries, hitherto 
 
 fruitless, then assumed a more regular and businesslike 
 character. By little and little they came, through the 
 aid of Mr. Sharp, upon the right clew, up to a certain 
 point. But here there was a double scent: two youthn 
 answering the description had been seen at a small vil-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING, 211 
 
 lage; then there came those who asserted tliat they had 
 seen the same youths at a seaport in one direction ; 
 others, who deposed to their having taken the road to an 
 inland town in the other. This had induced Arthur and 
 his father to part company. Mr. Beaufort, accompanied 
 by Roger Morton, went to tlie seaport; and Arthur, 
 with Mr. Spencer and Mr. Sharp, more fortunate, 
 tracked the fugitives to their retreat. As for Mr. Beau- 
 fort, senior, now that his mind was more at ease ahout 
 his son, he was thorouglily sick of the whole thing; 
 greatly bored by the society of Mr. Morton; very much 
 ashamed that he, so respectable and great a man, should 
 be employed on such an errand; more afraid of, than 
 pleased with any chance of discovering the fierce Philip ; 
 and secretly resolved upon sUnking back to London at 
 the first reasonable excuse. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Sharp entered betimes Mr. 
 Stubmore's counting-house. In the yard he caught a 
 glimpse of Philip, and managed to keep himself unseen 
 by that young gentleman. 
 
 "Mr. Stubmore, I think?" 
 
 " At your service, sir. " 
 
 Mr. Sharp shut the glass door mysteriously, and, 
 lifting up the corner of a green curtain that covered the 
 panes, beckoned to the startled Stubmore to approach. 
 
 " You see tliat 'ere young man in the velveteen 
 jacket; you employs him? " 
 
 " I do, sir; he is my right hand." 
 
 "Well, now, don't be frightened, but his friends are 
 arter him. He has got into bad ways, and we want you 
 to give him a little good advice." 
 
 " Pooh! I know he has run away, like a fine-spirited 
 lad as he is; and as long as he likes to stay with me, 
 they as comes after him may get a ducking in the horse- 
 trough! "
 
 212 NIGHT AND MOENING. 
 
 "Be you a father, — a father of a family, Mr. Stub- 
 more 1 " said Sharp, thrusting his hands into his 
 breeches-pockets, swelling out his stomach, and pursing 
 up his lips with great solemnity. 
 
 "Nonsense! no gammon with me! Take your chaff 
 to the goslings. I tells you I can't do without that 'ere 
 lad. Every man to himself." 
 
 " Oho ! " thought Sharp, " I must change the tack. 
 ]\[r. Stubmore," said he, taking a stool, " you speaks 
 like a sensible man. No one can reasonably go for to 
 ask a gentleman to go for to inconvenience his-self. 
 But what do you know of that 'ere youngster? Had 
 you a carakter with him ? " 
 
 " What's that to you?" 
 
 " Why, it 's more to yourself, Mr. Stubmore ; he is but 
 a lad, and if he goes back to his friends they may take 
 care of him, Imt he got into a bad set afore he come 
 here. Do you know a good-looking chap with whiskers, 
 who talks of his phe-aton, and was riding last night on 
 a brown mare ? " 
 
 "Y-e-s!" said Mr. Stubmore, growing rather pale, 
 " and I knows the mare, too. Why, sir, I sold him 
 that mare! " 
 
 " Did he pay you for her? " 
 
 " W^hy, to be sure, he gave me a check on Coutts." 
 
 " And you took it ! My eyes ! what a flat ! " Here 
 Mr. Sharp closed the orbs he had invoked, and whistled 
 with that self-hugging delight which men invariably feel 
 when another man is taken in. 
 
 Mr. Stubmore became evidently nervous. 
 
 " Why, what now! — you don't think I 'm done? I 
 did not let him have the mare till I went to the hotel, 
 — found he was cutting a great dash there, a groom, 
 a phe-aton, and a fine horse, and as extravagant as the 
 devil!"
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 213 
 
 " Lord ! — Lord ! what a world this is ! What 
 does he call his-self 1 " 
 
 "Why, here's the clieck, — George Frederick de — 
 de Burgh Smith." 
 
 " Put it in your pipe, my man, — put it in your pipe; 
 not worth a d ! " 
 
 " And who the deuce are you, sir? " bawled oiit Mr. 
 Stubraore, in an equal rage both with himself and his 
 guest. 
 
 " I, sir," said the visitor, rising with great dignity, 
 — "I, sir, am of the great Bow Street Office, and my 
 name is John Sharp ! " 
 
 Mr. Stubmore nearly fell off his stool, his eyes rolled 
 in his head, and his teeth chattered. Mr. Sharp per- 
 ceived the advantage he had gained, and continued, — 
 
 " Yes, sir; and I could have much to say against that 
 chap, who is nothing more or less than Dashing Jerry, 
 as has ruined more girls and more tradesmen than any 
 lord in the land. And so I called to give you a bit of 
 caution; 'for,' says I to myself, 'Mr. Stubmore is a 
 respectable man. ' " 
 
 " I hope I am, sir," said the crest-fallen horse-dealer; 
 " that was always my character. " 
 
 " And the father of a family 1 " 
 
 "Three boys and a babe at the buzzom," said Mr. 
 Stubmore, pathetically. 
 
 " And he sha'n't be taken in if I can help it! That 
 'ere young man as I am arter, you see, knows Captain 
 Smith, — ha! ha! — smell a rat now — eh? " 
 
 " Captain Smith said he knew him, — the wiper, — 
 and that 's what made me so green." 
 
 " Well, we must not be hard on the youngster; 'cause 
 why, he has friends as is gemmen. But you tell him 
 to go back to his poor, dear relations, and all shall be
 
 214 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 forgiven; and say as how you won't keep him; and if 
 he don't go back, he '11 have to get his livelihood with- 
 out a carakter; and use your influence with him like a 
 man and a Christian, and what 's more, like the father 
 of a family, Mr. Stubraore, with three boys and a babe 
 at the buzzom. You won't keep him now 1 " 
 
 "Keep him! I have had a precious escape. I'd 
 better go and see after the mare. " 
 
 " I doubt if you '11 find her; the captain caught a sight 
 of me this morning. Why, he lodges at our hotel! 
 He's off by this time! " 
 
 " And why the devil did you let him go? " 
 
 "'Cause I had no writ agin him!" said the Bow 
 Street officer; and he walked straight out of the count- 
 ing-office, satisfied that he had " done the job." 
 
 To snatch his hat, tu run to the hotel, to find that 
 Captain Smith had indeed gone off in his phaeton, bag 
 and baggage, the same as he came, except that he had 
 now two horses to the phaeton instead of one, — having 
 left with the landlord the amount of his bill in another 
 check upon Coutts, — was the work of five minutes 
 with Mr. Stubmore. He returned home, panting and 
 purple with indignation and wounded feeling. 
 
 " To think that chap, whom I took into my yard like 
 a son, should have connived at this! 'T ain't tlie money, 
 — 'tis the willany that 'flicts me!" muttered Mr. 
 Stubmore, as he re-entered the mews. 
 
 Here he came plump upon Philip, who said, — 
 
 " Sir, I wished to see you, to say that you had better 
 take care of Ca])tain Smith." 
 
 " Oh, you did, did you, now he 's gone ? — 'sconded off 
 to America, I daresay, by this time. Now look ye, 
 young man: your friends are after you, I won't say 
 anything agin you; but you go back to them, — I wash
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 215 
 
 my hands of you. Quite too much for me. Tliere 's 
 your week, and never let me catch you in my yard agin, 
 that 's all ! " 
 
 Philip dropped the money which Stubmore had put 
 into his hand. "My friends! — friends have been 
 with you, have they? I thought so, — I thank them. 
 And so you part with me? Well, you have been kind, 
 very kind ; let us part kindly ; " and he held out his 
 hand. 
 
 Mr. Stubmore was softened, — he touched the hand 
 lielil out to hira, and looked doubtful a moment; but 
 Captain de Burgh Smith's check for eighty guineas 
 suddenly rose before his eyes. He turned on his heel 
 abruptly, and said, over his shoulder, — 
 
 " Don't go after Captain Smith (he '11 come to the 
 gallows) ; mend your ways, and be ruled by your poor, 
 dear relatives, whose hearts you are breaking." 
 
 " Captain Smith! Did my relations tell you? " 
 
 " Yes — yes; they told me all, — that is, they sent to 
 tell me; so you see I 'm d — d soft not to lay hold of 
 you. But, perhaps, if they be gemmen, they '11 act as 
 sich, and casli me this here check! " 
 
 But the last words were said to air. Philip had 
 rushed from the yard. 
 
 With a heaving breast, and every nerve in his body 
 quivering with wrath, the proud, unhappy boy strode 
 through the gay streets. They had betrayed him then, 
 these accursed Beauforts; they circled his steps with 
 schemes to drive him like a deer into the snare of their 
 loatlisome charity! The roof was to be taken from his 
 head, the bread from his lips, so that he miglit fawn at 
 their knees for bounty. " But they shall not break my 
 spirit, nor steal away my curse. No, my dead mother, 
 never! "
 
 216 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 As he thus rrmtterecl, he passed through a patch of 
 waste laud tliat led to the row of houses in which his 
 lodging was placed. And here a voice called to him, 
 and a hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned, and 
 Arthur Beaufort, who had followed him from the street, 
 stood behind him. Philip did not, at the first glance, 
 recognize his cousin. Illness had so altered liim, and 
 his dress was so different from that in which he had first 
 and last beheld him. The contrast between the two 
 young men was remarkable. Philip was clad in the 
 rough garb suited to his late calling, — a jacket of black 
 velveteen, ill-fitting and ill-fashioned, loose fustian 
 trousers, coarse shoes, his hat set deep over his pent 
 eyebrows, his raven hair long and neglected. He was 
 just at that age when one with strong features and robust 
 frame is at the worst in point of appearance : the sinewy 
 proportions not yet sufficiently fleshed, and seeming 
 inharmonious and undeveloped, — precisely in propor- 
 tion, perhaps, to the symmetry towards which they in- 
 sensibly mature ; the contour of the face sharpened from 
 the roundness of boyhood, and losing its bloom without 
 yet acquiring that relief and shadow which make the 
 expression and dignity of the masculine countenance. 
 Thus accoutred, thus gaunt and uncouth, stood ]\[orton. 
 Arthur Beaufort, always refined in his appearance, 
 seemed yet more so from the almost feminine delicacy 
 which ill health threw over his pale complexion and 
 graceful figure ; that sort of unconscious elegance which 
 belongs to the dress of the rich when they are young, — • 
 seen most in minutiae, not observable, perhaps, by them- 
 selves, — marked forcibly and painfully the distinction of 
 rank between the two. That distinction Beaufort did 
 not feel ; but at a glance it was visible to Philip. 
 
 The past rushed back on him. Tlie sunny lawn, the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 217 
 
 gun offered and rejected, — the pride of old, much less 
 haughty than the pride of to-day. 
 
 "Philip," said Beaufort, feebly, "they tell me you 
 will not accept any kindness from me or mine. Ah! 
 if you knew how we have sought you! " 
 
 "Knew!" cried Philip, savagely, for that unlucky 
 sentence recalled to him his late interview with his 
 employer, and his present destitution. "Knew! And 
 why have you dared to hunt me out, and halloo me 
 (Jown? — why must this insolent tyranny, that assumes 
 the right over these limbs and this free will, betray and 
 expose me and my wretchedness wherever I turn ? " 
 
 " Your poor mother — " began Beaufort. 
 
 "Name her not with your lips, — name her not!" 
 cried Philip, growing livid with his emotions. " Talk 
 not of the mercy — the forethought — a I'eaufort could 
 show to her and her offspring! I accept it not, — I be- 
 lieve it not. Oh, yes! you folloAV me now with your 
 false kindness; and why ? Because your father, — your 
 vain, hollow, heartless father — " 
 
 " Hold ! " said Beaufort, in a tone of such reproach 
 that it startled the wild heart on which it fell ; " it is 
 my father you speak of. Let the son respect the son." 
 
 " No — no — no ! I will respect none of your race. I 
 tell you, your father fears me. I tell you, that my last 
 words to him ring in his ears! My wrongs! Arthur 
 Beaufort, when you are absent I seek to forget them; 
 in your abhorred presence they revive, they — • " 
 
 He stopped, almost choked with his passion, but 
 continued instantly, with equal intensity of fervor, — 
 
 " Were yon tree the gibbet, and to touch your hand 
 could alone save me from it, I would scorn your aid! 
 Aid! the very thought fires my blood and nerves my 
 hand. Aid! Will a Beaufort give me back my birth-
 
 218 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 right, — restore my dead mother's fair name? Minion! 
 — sleek, dainty, luxurious minion! — out of my path! 
 You have my fortune, my station, my rights; I have 
 but poverty and hate and disdain. I swear, again and 
 again, that you shall not purchase these from me." 
 
 "But, Philip — Philip," cried Beaufort, catching his 
 arm ; " hear one — hear one who stood by your — " 
 
 The sentence that would have saved the outcast from 
 the demons that were darkening and swooping round 
 his soul, died upon the young protector's lips. Blinded, 
 maddened, excited, and exasperated, almost out of hu- 
 manity itself, Philip fiercely, brutally, swung aside the 
 enfeebled form that souglit to cling to him, and Beaufort 
 fell at his feet. Morton stopped, glared at him with 
 clenched hands and a smiling lip, sprang over his pros- 
 trate form, and bounded to his home. 
 
 He slackened his pace as he neared the house, and 
 looked behind; but Beaufort had not followed him. 
 He entered the house, and found Sidney in the room, 
 with a countenance so much more gay than that he had 
 lately worn, that, absorbed as he was in thought and 
 passion, it yet did not fail to strike him. 
 
 " What has pleased you, Sidney 1 " 
 
 The child smiled. 
 
 "Ah! it is a secret, — I was not to tell you. But 
 I 'm sure you are not the naughty boy he says you are." 
 
 "He! who?" 
 
 " Don't look so angry, Philip: you frighten me! '' 
 
 " And you torture me. Who could malign one brother 
 to the other ? " 
 
 "Oh! it was all meant very kindly, — there's been 
 such a nice, dear, good gentleman here, and he cried 
 when he saw me, and said he knew dear mamma. Well, 
 and he has promised to take me home with him and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 219 
 
 give me a pretty pony, — as pretty, as pretty oh, as 
 pretty as it can be got! And he is to call again and 
 tell me more: I think he is a fairy, Philip." 
 
 "Did he say that he was to take tne, too, Sidney?" 
 said Morton, seating himself, and looking very pale. 
 At that question Sidney hung his head. 
 
 "No, brother, — he says you won't go, and that you 
 are a bad boy ; and that you associate with wicked 
 people; and that you want to keep me shut up here and 
 not let any one be good to me. But I told him I did 
 not believe that, — yes, indeed, T told him so." 
 
 And Sidney endeavored caressingly to withdraw the 
 hands that his brother placed before his face. 
 
 Morton started up, and walked hastily to and fro the 
 room. " This," thought he, " is another emissary of the 
 P>eauforts, — perhaps the lawyer; they will take him 
 from me, — the last thing left to love and hope for. I 
 will foil them. — Sidney," he said aloud; "we must 
 go lience to-day, this very hour, — nay, instantly." 
 
 " What! away from this nice good gentleman? " 
 
 " Curse him! yes, away from him. Do not cry: it is 
 of no use, — you viust go." 
 
 This was said more harshly than Philip had ever yet 
 spoken to Sidney; and when he had said it, he left the 
 room to settle with the landlady, and to pack up their 
 scanty effects. In another hour the brothers had 
 turned their backs on the town.
 
 220 NIGHT AND MOKKING. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 I '11 carry tliee 
 In Sorrow's arms to welcome Misery. 
 
 Heywood's Duchess of Suffolk. 
 
 Who 's here besides foul weather ? — Shakespeare : Lear. 
 
 The sun was as bright and the sky as calm during this 
 journey of the orphans as the last. They avoided, as 
 hefore, the main roads, and their way lay through land- 
 scapes that might have charmed a Gainsborough's eye. 
 Autumn scattered its last hues of gold over the various 
 foliage, and the poppy glowed from the hedges, and the 
 wild convolvuluses liere and there still gleamed on the 
 wayside with a parting smile. 
 
 At times, over the sloping stubbles, broke the sound 
 of the sportman's gun ; and, ever and anon, by stream 
 and sedge, they startled tlie shy wildfowl, just come 
 from the far lands, nor yet settled in the new haunts 
 too soon to be invaded. 
 
 But there was no longer in the travellers the same 
 liearts that had made light of hardsliip and fatigue. 
 Sichiey was no longer flying from a harsh master, and 
 his step was not elastic with the energy of fear that looked 
 behind, and of liojjc that smiled before. He was going 
 a toilsome, weary journey, he knew not why nor whither; 
 just, too, when he had made a friend, whose soothing 
 Avord.s haunted his childisli fancy. He was displeased 
 witli Philip, and in sullen and silent thoughtfulness 
 slowly plodded behind liiui; and Morton himself wag
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 221 
 
 gloomy, and knew not where in the world to seek a 
 future. 
 
 They arrived at dusk at a small inn, not so far distant 
 from the town they had left as Morton could have wished ; 
 but the days were shorter than in their first flight. 
 
 They were shown into a small, sanded parlor, which 
 Sidney eyed with great disgust; nor did he seem more 
 pleased with the hacked and jagged leg of cold mutton, 
 which was all that the hostess set before them for supper. 
 Philip in vain endeavored to cheer him up, and ate to set 
 him the example. He felt relieved when, under the 
 auspices of a good-looking, good-natured chambermaid, 
 Sidney retired to rest, and he was left in the parlor to his 
 own meditations. Hitherto it had been a happy thing 
 for Morton that he had had some one dependent on him ; 
 that feeling had given him perseverance, patience, forti- 
 tude, and hope. But now, dispirited and sad, he felt 
 rather the horror of being responsible for a human life, 
 Avithout seeing the means to discharge the trust. It was 
 clear, even to his experience, that he was not likely to 
 find another employer as facile as Mr. Stubmore; and, 
 wherever he went, he felt as if his destiny stalked at his 
 back. He took out his little fortune and spread it on 
 the table, counting it over and over; it had remained 
 pretty stationary since his service with Mr. Stubmore, 
 for Sidney had swallowed up the wages of his hire. 
 While thus employed the door opened, and the chamber- 
 maid, showing in a gentleman, said, " We have no other 
 room, sir." 
 
 " Very well, then, — I'm not particular ; a tumbler of 
 braundy-and-water, stiffish, — cold without, — the news- 
 paper, and a cigar. You '11 excuse smoking, sir 1 " 
 
 Philip looked up from his hoard, and Captain de Burgh 
 Smith stood before him.
 
 2l'2 NIGHT AND MOKNIXG. 
 
 "All!" said the latter, "well met!" And, closing 
 the door, he took off his greatcoat, seated himself near 
 Philip, and bent both his eyes with considerable wistful- 
 ness on the neat rows into Avhich Philip's banknotes, 
 sovereigns, and shillings were arrayed. 
 
 " Pretty little sum for pocket-money ; cansh in hand 
 goes a great way, properly invested. You must have 
 been very lucky. Well, so I suppose you are surprised 
 to see me here without my phe-«ton ? " 
 
 " I wish I had never seen you at all, " replied Philip, 
 tmcourteously, and restoring his money to his pocket; 
 " your fraud upon Mr. Stubmore, and your assurance that 
 you knew me, have set me adrift upon the Avorld." 
 
 " What 's one man's meat is another man's poison, " 
 said the captain, philosophically; " no use fretting, — care 
 killed a cat. I am as badly off as you ; for, hang me, if 
 there was not a Bow Street runner in the town. I caught 
 his eye fixed on me like a gimlet ; so I bolted, went to 
 
 N , left my phe-aton and groom there for the present, 
 
 and have doubled back to bauffle pursuit, and cut across 
 the country. You recollect that noice girl we saw in the 
 coach ; ' gad, I served her spouse that is to be a praetty 
 trick ! Borrowed his money under pretence of investing 
 it in the New Grand Anti-Dry -Rot Company, — cool 
 hundred ; it 's only just gone, sir. " 
 
 Here the chambermaid entered with the brandy-and- 
 water, the newspaper, and cigar; the captain lighted the 
 last, took a deep sup from the beverage, and said, gayly, — 
 
 " Well, now, let us join fortunes ; we are both, as you 
 say, 'adrift.' Best way to staund the breeze is to unite 
 the caubles." 
 
 Philip shook his head, and, displeased with his com- 
 panion, sought his pillow. He took care to put his 
 money under his head, and to lock his door.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 22 
 
 Q 
 
 The brothers started at daybreak; Sidney was even 
 naore discontented than on the i')revious day. The 
 weather was hot and oppressive ; they rested for some 
 hours at noon, and in the cool of the evenmg renewed 
 their way. Philip had made up his mind to steer for a 
 town in the thick of a hunting district, where he hoped 
 his equestrian capacities miglit again befriend him ; and 
 their path now lay tlirough a chain of vast dreary com- 
 mons, which gave them at least the advantage to skirt 
 the roadside unobserved. But, somehow or other, either 
 Philip had been misinformed as to an inn where he had 
 proposed to pass the night, or he had missed it; for the 
 clouds darkened, and the sun went down, and no vestige 
 of human liabitation was discernible. Sidney, foot-sore 
 and querulous, began to weep, and declare that he could 
 stir no further; and while Philip, whose iron frame 
 defied fatigue, compassionately paused to rest las 
 lirother, a low roll of thimder broke upon the gloomy air. 
 " There will be a storm, " said he, anxiously. " Come on, 
 — pray, Sidney, come on. " 
 
 " It is so cruel in you, brother Philip," replied Sidney, 
 sobbing. " I wish I had never, never gone with you, " 
 
 A flash of lightning, that illuminated the whole 
 heavens, Imgered round Sidney's pale face as he spoke ; 
 and Philip threw himself instinctively on the child, as 
 if to protect him even from the wrath of the unshelter- 
 able flame. Sidney, hushed and terrified, clung to his 
 brother's breast; after a pause, he silently consented 
 to resume their journey. But now the storm came near 
 and nearer to the wanderers. The darkness grew rapidly 
 more intense, save when the lightning lit up heaven and 
 earth alike with intolerable lustre. And when at length 
 the rain began to fall in merciless and drenching torrents, 
 even Philip's brave heart failed him. How could he
 
 224 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ask Sidney to proceed, wlieii they could scarcely see an 
 inch before them 1 — all that could now be done was to 
 gain the highroad, and hope for some passing convey- 
 ance. Witli fits and starts, and by the glare of the 
 lightning, they attamed their object; and stood at last 
 on the great broad thoroughfare, along which, since the 
 day when the Roman carved it from the waste, misery 
 hath plodded, and luxury rolled, their common way. 
 
 Philip had stripped handkerchief, coat, vest, all to 
 shelter Sidney; and he felt a kind of strange pleasure 
 through the dark even to hear Sidney's voice wail and 
 moan. But that voice grew more languid and faint; 
 it ceased, — Sidney's weight hung heavy — heavier on 
 the fostering arm. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, speak! — speak, Sidney ! — only 
 one word, — I will carry you in my arms! " 
 
 " I think I am dying, " replied Sidney, in a low 
 murmur ; " I am so tired and worn out, I can go no 
 further, — I must lie here." And he sank at once upon 
 the reeking grass beside the road. At this time the 
 rain gradually relaxed; the clouds broke away; a gray 
 light succeeded to the darkness; the lightning was 
 more distant; and the thunder rolled onward in its 
 awful path. Kneeling on the ground, Philip supported 
 his brother in his arms, and cast his pleading eyes up- 
 ward to tlie softening terrors of the sky. A star — a 
 solitary star — broke out for one moment, as if to smile 
 comfort upon him, and then vanished. But lo! in the 
 distance there suddenly gleamed a red, steady light, like 
 tliat in some solitary whidow ; it was no will-o'-the-wisp, 
 it was too stationary, — human shelter was then nearer 
 then he had thought for. He pointed to the light, and 
 Avhispered, " Kouse yourself, one struggle more; it can- 
 not be far oflf. "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 225 
 
 '•' It is impossiljle, — I cannot stir, " answered Sidney ; 
 and a sudden flash of lightning showed liis countenance, 
 ghastly, as if with the damjos of death. What could the 
 brother do, — stay there, and see the hoy perish before 
 his eyes ; leave him on the road, and fly to the friendly 
 light ? The last plan was the sole one left, yet he shrank 
 from it in greater terror than the first. Was that a 
 step that he heard across the road ? He held his breath 
 to listen; a form became dimly visible; it approached. 
 
 Philip shouted aloud. 
 
 " What now 1 " answered the voice, and it seemed 
 familiar to Morton's ear. He sprang forward; and put- 
 ting his face close to the wayfarer, thought to recognize 
 the features of Captain de Burgh Smith. The captain, 
 whose eyes were yet more accustomed to the dark, made 
 the first overture. 
 
 " Why, my lad, it is you then ! 'Gad, you f roigh- 
 tened me ! " 
 
 Odious as this man had hitherto been to Philip, he 
 was as welcome to him as daylight now; he grasped 
 his hand : " My brother, a child, is here, dying, I fear, 
 Avith cold and fatigue, he cannot stir. Will you stay 
 with him — support him — but for a few moments, while 
 I make to yon light ? See, I have money, — plenty of 
 money ! " 
 
 " My good lad, it 's very ugly work staying here at 
 this hour : still, — where 's the choild 1 " 
 
 " Here, here ! make haste, raise him ! that 's right ! 
 God bless you ! I shall be back ere you think me gone. " 
 
 He sprang from the road, and plunged through the 
 heath, the furze, the rank glistening i)ools, straight to- 
 wards the light, as the swimmer towards the shore. 
 
 The captain, though a rogue, was human; and when 
 life — an innocent life — is at stake, even a rogue's heart 
 
 VOL, I. — 15
 
 226 NIGHT AXD MOUNIXG. 
 
 rises up from its weedy bed. He muttered a few oaths, 
 it 'is true, but lie held the child in his arms, and, taking 
 out a little tin case, poured some brandy down Sidney's 
 throat, and then, by way of company, down his own. 
 The cordial revived the boy; he opened his eyes, and 
 said, " I think I can go on, now, Philip. " 
 
 We must return to Arthur Beaufort. He was natu- 
 rally, though gentle, a person of high spirit, and not 
 without pride. He rose from the ground with bitter, 
 resentful feelings, and a blushing cheek, and Avent his 
 way to the hotel. Here he found Mr. Spencer, just 
 returned from his visit to Sidney. Enchanted with the 
 soft and endearing manners of his lost Catherine's son, 
 and deeply affected with the resemblance the child bore 
 to the mother, as he had seen her last at the gay and 
 rosy age of fair sixteen, his description of the younger 
 brother drew Beaufort's indignant thoughts from the 
 elder. He cordially concurred with Mr. Spencer in the 
 wish to save one so gentle from the domination of one so 
 fierce; and this, after all, was the child Catherine had 
 most strongly commended to him. She had said little 
 of the elder ; perhaps she had been aware of his imgra- 
 cious and untractable nature, and, as it seemed to Arthur 
 Beaufort, his predilections for a coarse and low career. 
 
 " Yes, " said he, " this boy, then, shall console me for 
 the perverse brutality of the other. He shall, indeed, 
 drink of my cup, and eat of my bread, and be to me as a 
 brother. " 
 
 "What!" said Mr. Spencer, changing countenance, 
 " you do not intend to take Sidney to live with you ? I 
 meant him for my son, — my adopted son." 
 
 " No ; generous as you are, " said Arthur, pressing his 
 hand, "this charge devolves on me, — it is my right. I
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 227 
 
 am the orphan's relation, — his mother consigned him to 
 me. But he shall be taught to love you not the less. " 
 
 Mr. Spencer was silent. He could not bear the 
 tliought of losing Sidney as an inmate of his cheerless 
 home, a tender relic of his early love. From that moment 
 he began to contemplate the possibility of securing Sidney 
 to himself, unknown to Beaufort. 
 
 The plans both of Arthur and Spencer were interrupted 
 by the sudden retreat of the brothers. They determmed 
 to depart different ways in search of them. Spencer, as 
 the more helpless of the two, obtained the aid of Mr. 
 Sharp; Beaufort departed with the lawyer. 
 
 Two travellers, in a hired barouche, were slowly 
 dragged by a pair of jaded posters along the commons I 
 have just described. 
 
 " I think, " said one, " that the storm is very much 
 abated ; heigho ! what an unpleasant night ! " 
 
 " Unkimmon ugly, sir, " answered the other ; " and an 
 awful long stage, eighteen miles. These here remote 
 places are quite behind the age, sir, — quite. However, 
 I think we shall kitch them now." 
 
 " I am very much afraid of that eldest boy. Sharp. 
 He seems a dreadful vagabond." 
 
 " You see, sir, quite hand in glove with Dashing Jerry ; 
 met in the same inn last night, — preconcerted, you may 
 be quite sure. It would be the best day's job I have 
 done this many a day to save that 'ere little fellow from 
 being corrupted. You sees he is just of a size to be use- 
 ful to these bad karakters. If they took to burglary, he 
 would be a treasure to them, — slip him through a pane 
 of glass like a ferret, sir. " 
 
 " Don't talk of it, Sharp, " said Mr. Spencer, with a 
 groan ; " and recollect, if we get hold of him, that you 
 are not to say a word to Mr. Beaufort."
 
 228 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "I understand, sir; and I always goes with the 
 gemman who behaves most like a gemman." 
 
 Here a loud halloo was heard close by the horses' 
 heads 
 
 " Good heavens, if that is a footpad ! " said Mr. 
 Spencer, shaking violently. 
 
 "Lord, sir, I have my barkers with me. Who's 
 there 1 " 
 
 The barouche stopped, — a man came to the window. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, " said the stranger ; " but there is a 
 poor boy here so tired and ill that I fear he will never 
 reach the next town, unless you will koindly give him a 
 lift." 
 
 " A poor boy ! " said Mr. Spencer, poking his head 
 over the head of Mr. Sharp. " A^^lere 1 " 
 
 " If you would just drop him at the King's Awrms, 
 it would be a chaurity, " said the man. 
 
 Sharp pinched Mr. Spencer on the shoulder. " That 's 
 Dashing Jerry ; I '11 get out. " So saying, he opened 
 the door, jumped into the road, and presently re-appeared 
 with the lost and welcome Sidney in his arms. " Be n't 
 this the boy ? " he whispered to Mr. Spencer ; and, 
 taking the lamp from the carriage, he raised it to the 
 child's face. 
 
 " It is ! it is ! God be thanked ! " exclaimed the 
 worthy man. 
 
 " Will you leave him at the King's Awrms 1 — we shall 
 be there in an hour or two," cried the captain. 
 
 " We ! Who 's we ? " said Sharp, gruffly. 
 
 " Why, myself and the choild's brother. " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Sharp, raising the lantern to his own 
 face ; " you knows me, I think. Master Jerry ? Let me 
 kitch you agin, that's all. And give my compliments 
 to your 'sociate, and say, if he prosecutes this here
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 229 
 
 hurchin any more, we '11 settle his bizness for him ; and 
 so take a hint and make yourself scarce, old boy ! " 
 
 With that Mr. Sharp jumped into the barouche, and 
 bade the postboy drive on as fast as he could. 
 
 Ten minutes after this abduction, Philip, followed by 
 two laborers, with a barrow, a lantern, and two blankets, 
 returned from the hospitable farm to which the light had 
 conducted him. The spot where he had left Sidney, 
 and which he knew by a neighboring milestone, was 
 vacant; he shouted an alarm, and the captain answered 
 from the distance of some threescore yards. Philip came 
 to him. " Where is my brother 1 " 
 
 " Gone away in a barouche and pair. Devil take me if 
 I understaund it." And the captain proceeded to give a 
 ♦"onfused account of what had passed. 
 
 " My brother ! my brother ! they have torn thee from 
 me, then! " cried Philip, and he fell to the earth 
 insensible.
 
 230 NIGHT AND MORNING, 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Vous me rendrez mon frere ! ^ — Cashier Delavigxe : Les 
 Enfans d'Edouard. 
 
 One evening, a week after this event, a wild, tattered, 
 haggard youth knocked at the door of Mr. Robert 
 Beaufort. 
 
 The porter slowly presented himself. 
 
 " Is your master at home ? I must see him instantly. " 
 
 " That 's more than you can , my man ; my master does 
 not see the like of you this time of night," replied the 
 porter, eying the ragged apparition before him with 
 great disdain. 
 
 "' See me he must and shall," replied the young man; 
 and, as the porter blocked up the entrance, he grasped 
 his collar with a hand of iron, swung him, huge as he 
 was, aside, and strode into the spacious hall. 
 
 "Stop! stop!" cried the porter, recovering himself. 
 " James ! John ! here 's a go ! " 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort had been back in town several 
 days. Mrs. Beaufort, who was Avaiting his return from 
 his club, was in the dining-room. Hearing a noise in 
 the hall, she opened the door, and saw the strange 
 grim figure I have described advancing towards her. 
 " Who are yon? " she said; " what do you want? " 
 
 " I am Philip Morton. Who are you 1 " 
 
 " ^ly husband," said Mrs. Beaufort shrinking into 
 the parlor, while Morton followed her, and closed the 
 door, — " my husband, Mr. Beaufort, is not at home." 
 
 ^ You shall restore me my brother !
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 231 
 
 "You are Mrs. Beaufort, then! Well, you can un- 
 derstand me. J want my brother. He has been basely 
 reft from me. Tell me where he is, and T will forgive 
 all. Restore him to me, and I will bless you and 
 yours." And Philip fell on his knees and grasped the 
 train of her gown. 
 
 "I know nothing of your brother, Mr. Morton," 
 cried Mrs. Beaufort, surprised and alarrped. " Arthur, 
 whom we expect every day, writes us word that all 
 search for him has been in vain." 
 
 "Ha! you admit the search?" cried Morton, rising 
 and clenching his hands. " And who else but j^ou or 
 yours would have parted brother and brother? An- 
 swer me where he is. iS^o subterfuge, madam: 1 am 
 desperate ! " 
 
 Mrs. Beaufort, though a woman of that worldly cold- 
 ness and indifference which, on ordinary occasions, 
 supply the place of courage, was extremely terrified by 
 the tone and mien of her rude guest. She laid her hand 
 on the bell; but Morton seized her arm, and, holding it 
 sternly, said, while his dark eyes shot fire through the 
 glimmering room, " I will not stir hence till you have 
 told me. Will you reject my gratitude, my blessing? 
 Beware! Again, where have you hid my brother? " 
 
 At that instant the door opened, and Mr. Kobert Beau- 
 fort entered. The lady, with a shriek of joy, wrenched 
 herself from Philip's grasp, and flew to her husband. 
 
 " Save me from this ruffian! " she said, with an hyster- 
 ical sob. 
 
 Mr. Beaufort, who had heard from Blackwell strange 
 accounts of Philip's obdurate perverseness, vile asso- 
 ciates, and unredeemable cliaracter, Avas roused from his 
 usual timidity by the appeal of his wife. 
 
 "Insolent reprobate! " he said, advancing to Philip;
 
 232 NIGHT AND MOUNING. 
 
 "after all the absurd goodness of my son and myself; 
 after rejecting all our offers, and persisting in your 
 miserable and vicious conduct, — how dare you presume 
 to force yourself into this house? Begone, or I will 
 send for the constables to remove you ! " 
 
 "Man, man," cried Philip, restraining the fury that 
 shook him from liead to foot, " I care not for your 
 threats, — I scarcely hear your abuse ; your son, or your- 
 self, has stolen away ray brother. Tell me only where 
 he is; let me see him once more. Do not drive me 
 hence without one word of justice, of pity. I implore 
 you, on my knees I implore you, — yes, I, / implore 
 you, Robert Beaufort, to have mercy on your brother's 
 son. Where is Sidney 1 " 
 
 Like all mean and cowardly men, Eobert Beaufort 
 ■was rather encouraged than softened by Philip's abrupt 
 humility. 
 
 "I know nothing of your brother; and if this is not 
 all some villanous trick, — which it may be, — I am 
 heartily rejoiced that he, poor child! is rescued from 
 the contamination of such a companion," answered 
 Beaufort. 
 
 "I am at your feet still; again, for the last time, 
 clinging to you a suppliant: I pray you to tell me the 
 truth. " 
 
 Mr. Beaufort, more and more exasperated by Morton's 
 forbearance, raised his hand as if to strike; when, at 
 that moment, one hitherto unobserved — one who, terri- 
 fied by the scene she had witnessed but could not compre- 
 hend, had slunk into a dark corner of the room — now 
 came from her retreat: and a child's soft voice was 
 heard, saying — 
 
 "Do not strike him, papa! — let him have his 
 brother! "
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 233 
 
 Mr. Beaufort's arm fell to his side: kneeling before 
 liim, and by the ontcast's side, was his own young 
 daughter; she had crept into the room unobserved, 
 Avhen her father entered. Through the dim shadows, 
 relieved only by the red and fitful gleam of the fire, he 
 saw her fair meek face looking up wistfully at his own, 
 Avith tears of excitement, and perhaps of pity, — for 
 children have a quick insight into the reality of grief 
 in those not far removed from their own years, — glis- 
 tening in her soft eyes. Philip looked round bewil- 
 dered, and he saw that face which seemed to him, at 
 such a time, like the face of an angel. 
 
 " Hear her! " he murmured: "oh, hear her! For her 
 sake, do not sever one orphan from the other! " 
 
 " Take away tliat child, Mrs. Beaufort," cried Robert, 
 angrily, "Will you let her disgrace herself thus? 
 And you, sir, begone from this roof; and when you 
 can approach me with due respect, I will give you, as 
 I said I would, the means to get an honest living! " 
 
 Philip rose; Mrs. Beaufort had already led away her 
 daughter, and she took that opportunity of sending in 
 the servants : their forms filled up the doorway. 
 
 "Will you go?" continued Mr. Beaufort, more and 
 more emboldened, as he saw the menials at hand, " or 
 shall they expel you ? " 
 
 " It is enough, sir," said Philip, Avith a sudden calm 
 and dignity that surprised, and almost awed his micle. 
 "My father, if the dead yet watch over the living, has 
 seen and heard you. There will come a day for justice. 
 Out of my path, hirelings! " 
 
 He waved his arm, and the menials shrank back at 
 his tread, stalked across the inhospitable hall, and 
 vanished. 
 
 When he had gained the street, he turned and looked
 
 234 NIGHT AND MOIINING. 
 
 np at the house. His dark and hollow eyes, gleaming 
 through the long and raven hair that fell profusely over 
 his face, had in them an expression of menace almost 
 preternatural, from its settled calmness; the wild and 
 untutored majesty which, through rags and squalor, 
 never deserted his form, as it never does the forms of 
 men in whom the will is strong and the sense of in- 
 justice deep; the outstretched arm; the haggard, hut 
 noble features; the bloomless and scathed youth, — all 
 gave to his features and his stature an aspect awful x.i 
 its sinister and voiceless wrath. There he stood a 
 moment, like one to whom woe and wrong have given 
 a prophet's power, guiding the eye of the unforgetful 
 fate to the roof of the oppressor. Then, slowly, and 
 with a half smile, he turned away, and strode through 
 the streets till he arrived at one of the narrow lanes that 
 intersect the more equivocal quarters of the huge city. 
 He stopped at the private entrance of a small pawn- 
 broker's shop ; the door was opened by a slipshod boy ; 
 he ascended the dingy stairs till he came to the second 
 floor; and there, in a small back room, he found Cap- 
 tain de Burgh Smith, seated before a taljle with a couple 
 of candles on it, smoking a cigar, and playing at cards 
 by himself. 
 
 " Well, what news of your brother. Bully Phil? " 
 
 "None: they will rcA'eal nothing." 
 
 " Do you give him up ? " 
 
 " Never ! IMy hope now is in you. " 
 
 " Well, I thought you would be driven to come to me, 
 and I will do something for you that I should not loike 
 to do for myself. I told you that I knew the Bow Street 
 runner who was in the barouche. I will find him out, 
 — Heaven knows that is easily done; and, if you can 
 pay well, you will get your news."
 
 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 235 
 
 "You shall have all I possess, if you restore my 
 brother. See what it is, one liundred pounds, — it \va3 
 his fortune. It is useless to me without him. There, 
 take fifty now, and if — " 
 
 Philip stopped, for his voice trembled too much to 
 allow him farther speech. Captain Smith thrust the 
 notes into his pocket, and said, — 
 
 "We'll consider it settled." 
 
 Captain Smith fulfilled his promise. He saw the 
 Bow Street officer. Mr. Sharp had been bribed too 
 high by the opposite party to tell tales, and he willingly 
 encouraged the suspicion that Sidney was under the 
 care of the Beauforts. He promiseil, however, for the 
 sake of ten guineas, to procure Philip a letter from 
 Sidney himself. This was all he would undertake. 
 
 Philip was satisfied. At the end of another week 
 Mr. Sharp transmitted to the captain a letter, which he, 
 in his turn, gave to Philip. It ran thus, in Sidney's 
 own sprawling hand : — 
 
 Dear Brother Philip, — I am told you wish to know how 
 I am, and therefore take up my pen, and asure you that I 
 tvrite all out of my own head. I am very Comfortable and 
 happy, — much more so than I have been since poor deir 
 mama died ; so I beg you won't vex yourself about me : and 
 pray don't try and Find me out, For I would not go with you 
 again for the world. I am so much better Off here. I wish 
 you would be a good boy, and leave off your Bad way.^ ; for I 
 am .sure, as every one says, I don't know what would have 
 
 bec(jme of me if I had stayed with you. Mr. [the Mr. 
 
 half scratched out], the gentleman I am with, says if you turn 
 out Properly, he will be a friend to you, Too ; but he advises 
 you to go, like a Good boy, to Arthur Beaufort, and ask his 
 pardon for the past, and then Arthur will be very kind to you. 
 I send you a great Big sum of ^20, and the gentleman says he 
 would send more, only it might make you naughty, and set
 
 236 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 up. I go to churcli now every Sunday, and read good books, 
 and always pray that God may open your eyes. I have such 
 a Nice pony, with such a long tale. So no more at present 
 from your affectionate brother. 
 
 Sidney Morton. 
 Oct. 8, 18—. 
 
 Pray, pray don't come after me Any more. You know I 
 neerly died of it, but lor this deir good gentleman I am with. 
 
 So this, then, was the crowning reward of all his suffer- 
 ings and all his love. There was the letter, evidently 
 undictated, with its errors of orthography, and in the 
 child's rough scrawl ; the serpent's tooth pierced to the 
 heart, and left there its most lasting venom. 
 
 "I have done with him forever," said Philip, brush- 
 ing away the bitter tears. " I will molest him no fur- 
 ther; 1 care no more to pierce this mystery. Better 
 for him as it is, — he is happy ! Well, well, and I — / 
 will never care for a human being again." 
 
 He bowed his head over his hands; and when he 
 rose, his heart felt to him like stone. It seemed as if 
 Conscience herself had fled from his soul on the wings 
 of departed Love.
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 237 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 But you have found the mountain's top, — there sit 
 On the cahn flourishing head of it; 
 And whilst with wearied steps we upward go, 
 See Us and Clouds below. 
 
 Cowley. 
 
 It was true that Sitlney was happy in his new home, 
 and thither we must now trace him. 
 
 On reaching the town where the travellers in the 
 harouche had been requested to leave Sidney, "The 
 King's Arms " was precisely the inn eschewed by Mr. 
 Spencer. While the horses were being changed, he 
 summoned the surgeon of the town to examine the child, 
 who had already much recovered; and, by stripping his 
 clothes, wrapping him in warm blankets, and adminis- 
 tering cordials, he was permitted to reach another stage, 
 so as to baffle pursuit that night; and in three days Mr. 
 Spencer had placed his new charge with his maiden sis- 
 ters, a hundred and fifty miles from the spot where he 
 had been found. He would not take him to his own 
 home yet. He feared the claims of Arthur Beaufort. 
 He artfully wrote to that gentleman, stating that he had 
 abandoned the chase of Sidney in despair, and desiring 
 to know if he had discovered him; and a bribe of £300 
 to Mr. Sharp, with a candid exposition of his reasons 
 for secreting Sidney, — reasons in which the worthy 
 officer professed to sympathize, — secured the discretion 
 of his ally. But he would not deny himself the pleasure 
 of being in the same house with Sidney, and was there- 
 fore for some months the guest of his sisters. At length
 
 238 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 he heard that young "Beaufort had heen ordered abroad 
 for his health, and he then deemed it safe to transfer 
 his new idol to his Lares by the lakes. During this 
 interval, the current of the younger Morton's life had 
 indeed flowed through flowers. At his age the cares of 
 females were almost a want as well as a luxury, and the 
 sisters spoiled and petted him as much as any elderly 
 nymphs in Cytherea ever petted Cupid. They were 
 good, excellent, high-nosed, fiat-bosomed spinsters, sen- 
 timentally fond of their brother, whom they called " the 
 poet," and dotingly attached to children. The clean- 
 ness, the quiet, the good cheer of their neat abode, all 
 tended to revive and invigorate the spirits of their 
 young guest, and every one there seemed to vie which 
 should love him the most. Still, his especial favorite 
 was Mr. Spencer : for Spencer never went out without 
 bringing back cakes and toys ; and Spencer gave him his 
 pony ; and Spencer rode a little crop-eared nag by his 
 side; and Spencer, in short, was associated with his 
 every comfort and caprice. He told them his little 
 history; and when he said how Philip had left hira 
 alone for long hours together, and how Philip had forced 
 him to his last and nearly fatal journey, the old maids 
 groaned, and the old bachelor sighed, and they all cried 
 in a breath, that "Philip was a very wicked boy." It 
 was not only their obvious policA'^ to detach him from 
 his brother, but it was their sincere conviction that 
 they did right to do so. Sidney began, it is true, by 
 taking Philip's part; but his mind was ductile, and 
 he still looked back with a shudder to the hardships he 
 had gone through. And so, by little and little, he 
 learned to forget all the endearing and fostering love 
 Philip had evinced to him; to connect his name with 
 dark and mysterious fears; to repeat thanksgivings to
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 239 
 
 Providence that lie was saved from him ; and to hope 
 that they might never meet again. In fact, when Mr. 
 Spencer learned from Sharp that it was through Captain 
 Smith, the swindler, that application had been made by 
 Philip for news of his brother, and having also learned 
 before, from the same person, that Philip had been im- 
 plicated in the sale of a horse, swindled, if not stolen, 
 — he saw every additional reason to widen the stream 
 that flowed between the wolf and the lamb. The older 
 Sidney grew, the better he comprehended and appreci- 
 ated tlie motives of his protector, — for he was brought 
 up in a formal school of propriety and ethics, and his 
 mind naturally revolted from all images of violence or 
 fraud. Mr. Spencer changed both the Chri&tian and the 
 surname of his lyrotege^ in order to elude the search, 
 whether of Philip, the Mortons, or the Beauforts, and 
 Sidney passed for his nephew by a younger brother who 
 had died in India. 
 
 So there, by the calm banks of the placid lake, 
 amidst the fairest landscapes of the Island Garden, the 
 youngest born of Catherine passed his tranquil daj^s. 
 The monotony of the retreat did not fatigue a spirit 
 which, as he grew up, found occupation in books, music, 
 poetry, and the elegances of the cultivated, if quiet life, 
 within his reach. To the rough past he looked back as 
 to an evil dream, in which the image of Philip stood 
 dark and threatening. His brother's name, as he grew 
 older, he rarely mentioned ; and if he did volunteer it to 
 ]Mr. Spencer, the bloom on his cheek grew paler. The 
 sweetness of his manners, his fair face and winning 
 smile, still continued to secure him love, and to screen 
 from the common eye whatever of selfishness yet lurked 
 in his nature. And, indeed, that fault, in so serene a 
 career, and with friends so attached, was seldom called
 
 240 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 into action. So thus was he severed from both the pro- 
 tectors, Arthur and Philip, to whom poor Catherine had 
 bequeathed him. 
 
 By a perverse and strange mystery, they, to whom 
 the charge was most intrusted, were the very persons 
 who were forbidden to redeem it. On our deathbeds, 
 wlien we think we have provided for those we leave 
 behind, — should we lose the last smile that gilds the 
 solemn agony, if we could look one year into the future? 
 
 Artiiur Beaufort, after an ineffectual search for Sid- 
 ney, heard, on returning to his home, no unexaggerated 
 narrative of Philip's visit, and listened, with deep 
 resentment, to his mother's distorted account of the lan- 
 guage addressed to her. It is not surprising that, with 
 all his romantic generosity, he felt sickened and re- 
 volted at violence that seemed to him without excuse. 
 Though not a revengeful character, he had not that 
 meekness which never resents. He looked upon Philip 
 Morton as upon one rendered incorrigible by bad pas- 
 sions and evil company. Still, Catherine's last bequest, 
 and Philip's note to him, the Unknown Comforter, 
 often recurred to him, and he Avould have willingly yet 
 aided had Philip been thrown in his way. But as it 
 was, when he looked around, and saw the examples of 
 that charity that begins at home, in which the world 
 abounds, he felt as if he had done liis duty; and pros- 
 perity having, though it could not harden his heart, 
 still sapped the habits of perseverance, .so by little and 
 little the image of the dying Catherine, and the thought 
 of her sons, faded from his remembrance. And for this 
 there was the more excuse after the receipt of an anony- 
 mous letter, which relieved all his apprehensions on 
 beljalf of Sidney. The letter was short, and stated 
 simply that Sidney Morton had found a friend who
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 241 
 
 would protect him throughout life, but who would not 
 scruple to apply to Beaufort if ever he needed his assist- 
 ance. So one son, and that the youngest and the best- 
 loved, was safe. And the other, — had he not chosen 
 his own career ? Alas, poor Catherine! when you fan- 
 cied that Philip was the one sure to force his way into 
 fortune, and Sidney the one most helpless, how ill did 
 you judge of the human heart! It was that very 
 strength in Philip's nature which tempted the winds 
 that scattered the blossoms, and shook the stem to its 
 roots; while the lighter and frailer nature bent to tlie 
 gale, and bore transplanting to a happier soil. If a 
 parent read these pages, let him pause and think well 
 on the characters of his children ; let him at once fear 
 and hope the most for the one whose passions and whose 
 temper lead to a struggle with the world. That same 
 world is a tough wrestler, and has a bear's gripe for the 
 poor. 
 
 Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort's own complaints, which 
 grew serious and menaced consumption, recalled his 
 thoughts more and more every day to himself. He was 
 compelled to abandon his career at the university, and 
 to seek for health in the softer breezes of the South. 
 His parents accompanied him to Nice; and when, at 
 the end of a few months, he was restored to health, the 
 desire of travel seized the mind and attracted the fancy 
 of the young heir. His father and mother, satisfied 
 with his recovery, and not unwilling that he should 
 acquire the polish of Continental intercourse, returned 
 to England ; and young Beaufort, with gay companions 
 and munificent income, already courted, spoiled, and 
 flattered, commenced his tour with the fair climes of 
 Italy. 
 
 So, dark mystery of the Moral World! so, unlike 
 
 VOL. I. — 16
 
 242 KIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 the order of the external universe, glide together, side 
 by side, the shadowy steeds of Night and Morning. 
 Examine life in its own world; confound not that 
 world, the inner one, the practical one, with the more 
 visible, yet airier and less substantial system, doing 
 homage to the sun, to whose throne, afar in the infinite 
 space, the human heart has no wings to flee. In life, 
 the mind and the circumstance give the true seasons, 
 and regulate the darkness and the light. Of two men 
 standing on the same foot of earth, the one revels in 
 the joyous noon, the other shudders in the solitude of 
 night. For hope and fortune the day-star is ever shin- 
 ing. For care and penury, Kight changes not with the 
 ticking of the clock, nor with the shadow on the dial. 
 Morning for the heir, night for the houseless, and God's 
 eye over both!
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Serge lagen mir im iiyege : 
 
 ©trome l)emmten meinen i^u% : 
 Ueber gd^lunbe baut' xdi Stege, 
 iiJriiden bur^ ben loitben giuB- 
 
 Schiller : Der Pilarim,
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The knight of arts and industry, 
 And his achievements fair. 
 Thomson's Castle of Indolence : explanatory verse to Canto IL 
 
 In a popular and respectable, but not very fashionable 
 quartier in Paris, and in the tolerably broad and 
 
 effective locale of the Rue , there might be seen, 
 
 at the time I now treat of, a curious-looking building, 
 that jutted out semicircular ly from the neighboring shops, 
 with plaster pilasters and compo ornaments. The vir- 
 tuosi of the quartier had discovered that the building was 
 constructed in imitation of an ancient temple in Rome ; 
 this erection, then fresh and new, reached only to the 
 entresol. The pilasters were painted light green and 
 gilded in the cornices, while, surmounting the architrave, 
 were three little statues, — one held a torch, another a 
 bow, and a third a bag ; they were therefore rumored, I 
 know not with what justice, to be the artistical repre- 
 sentatives of Hymen, Cupid, and Fortune. 
 
 On the door was neatly engraved, on a brass-plate, the 
 following inscription : — 
 
 "Monsieur Love, Anglais, a l'entresol." 
 
 And if you had crossed the threshold and mounted the 
 stairs, and gained that mysterious story inhabited by
 
 24G NIGUT AND MORNING. 
 
 Monsieur Love, you would have seen, upon another 
 door to the right, another epigraph, informing those in- 
 terested in the inquiry that the bureau of M. Love was 
 open daily from nine in the morning to four in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 The office of M. Love — for office it Avas, and of a 
 nature not unfrequently designated in the ^^ petites 
 ajffiches" of Paris — had been established about six 
 months; and whether it was the popularity of the pro- 
 fession, or the shape of tlie shop, or the manners of 
 M. Love himself, I cannot pretend to say, but certain it 
 is that the Temple of Hymen — as M. Love classically 
 termed it — had become exceedmgly in vogue in the 
 
 Faubourg St. . It was rumored that no less than 
 
 nine marriages in the immediate neighborhood had been 
 manufactured at this fortunate office, and that they had 
 all turned out happily except one, in which the bride 
 being sixty, and the bridegroom twenty-four, there had 
 been rumors of domestic dissension; but as the lady 
 had been delivered — I mean of her husband, who had 
 drowned himself in the Seine — about a month after the 
 ceremony, things had turned out in the long run better 
 than might have been expected, and the widow was so 
 little discouraged that she had been seen to enter the 
 office already, — a circumstance that was greatly to the 
 credit of Mr. Love. 
 
 Perhaps the secret of Mr. Love's success, and of the 
 marked superiority of his establishment in rank and 
 popularity over similar ones, consisted in the spirit and 
 liberality with which the business was conducted. He 
 seemed resolved to destroy all formality between parties 
 who might desire to draw closer to each other, and he 
 hit upon the lucky device of a table d'hote, very well 
 managed and held twice a week, and often followed by a
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 247 
 
 soiree dansante ; so that, if they pleased, the aspirants 
 to matrimonial happiness might become acquainted with- 
 out (jhie. As he himself was a jolly, convivial fellow of 
 much savoir vivre, it is astonishing how well he made 
 these entertainments answer. Persons who had not 
 seemed to take to each other in the firpt distant inter- 
 view grew extremely enamored when the corks of the 
 champagne — an extra of course in the abonnemefit — 
 bounced against the wall. Added to this, Mr. Love 
 took great pains to know the tradesmen in his neighbor- 
 hood; and, what with his jokes, his appearance of easy 
 circumstances, and the fluency with which he spoke 
 the language, he became a universal favorite. Many 
 persons who were uncommonly starch m general, and 
 who professed to ridicule the bureau, saw nothing impro- 
 per in dining at the table dliote. To those who wished 
 for secrecy, he was said to be wonderfully discreet ; but 
 there were others who did not affect to conceal their 
 discontent at the single state : for the rest, the entertain- 
 ments were so contrived as never to shock the delicac}', 
 while they always forwarded the suit. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock in the evening, and Mr. 
 Love was still seated at dinner, or rather at dessert, with 
 a party of guests. His apartments, though small, were 
 somewhat gaudily painted and furnished, and his dining- 
 room was decorated a la Txirque. The party consisted, 
 — first, of a rich Spicier, a widower. Monsieur Goupille 
 by name, an eminent man in the faubourg; he was in 
 his grand climacteric, but still belhomme ; wore a very 
 well made perugue of light auburn, with tight panta- 
 loons, which contained a pair of very respectable calves ; 
 and his white neckcloth and his large frill were washed 
 and got up with especial care. Kext to INIonsieur 
 Goupille sat a very demure and very spare young lady of
 
 2-48 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 about two-and-tlurty, who was said to have saved a 
 fortune — Heaven knows how — in the family of a rich 
 English milord, where she had officiated as governess; 
 she called herself Mademoiselle Adele de Courval, and 
 was very particular about the de, and very melancholy 
 about her ancestors. Monsieur Goupille generally put his 
 finger through his periniue, and fell away a little on 
 his left pantaloon when he spoke to Mademoiselle de 
 Courval, and Mademoiselle de Courval generally pecked 
 at her bouquet when she answered Monsieur Goupille. 
 On the other side of this young lady sat a fuie-looking 
 fair man , — M. Sovolof ski, a Pt)le, buttoned up to the 
 chin, and rather threadbare, though uncommonly neat. 
 He was flanked by a little fat lady who had been very 
 pretty, and who kept a boarding-house, or pension, for 
 the English, she herself being English, though long 
 established in Paris. Riimor said she had been gay in 
 her youth, and dropped in Paris by a Russian nobleman, 
 with a very pretty settlement, — she and the settlement 
 having equally expanded by time and season : she was 
 called Madame Beavor. On the other side of the table 
 Avas a red-headed Englishman, who spoke very little 
 French; who had been told that French ladies were 
 passionately fond of light hair; and who, having £2000 
 of his own, intended to quadruple that sum by a prudent 
 marriage. Nobody knew what his family was, but his 
 name was Higgins. His neighbor was an exceedingly 
 tall, large-boned Frenchman, with a long nose and a red 
 ribWni, who was much seen at Frascati's, and had served 
 luider Napoleon. Then came another lady, extremely 
 pretty, very puiuante, and very gay, but past the ^:*re- 
 miere jeunesse, who ogled Mr. Love more than she did 
 any of his guests : she was called Kosalie Caumartin, and 
 was at the head of a large bon-bon establishment; mar-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 240 
 
 ried, but her husband had gone four years ago to the Isle 
 of France, and she was a little doubtful whether she 
 miglit not be justly entitled to the privileges of a widow. 
 Next to Mr. Love, in the place of honor, sat no less a 
 person than the V'icomte de Vaudemont, a French gen- 
 tleman, really well-born, but whose various excesses, 
 added to his poverty, had not served to sustain that 
 respect for his birth which he considered due to it. He 
 had already been twice married: once to an English- 
 woman, who had been decoyed by the title ; by this lady, 
 who died in childbed, he had one son, — a fact which he 
 sedulously concealed from the world of Paris by keeping 
 the unhappy boy — who was now some eighteen or nine- 
 teen years old — a perpetual exile in England. Monsieur 
 de Vaudemont did not wish to pass for more than thirty, 
 and he considered that to produce a son of eighteen would 
 be to make the lad a monster of ingratitude by giving the 
 lie every hour to his own father ! In spite of this pre- 
 caution, the vicomte found great difficulty in getting a 
 third wife, — especially as he had no actual and visible 
 income; was, not seamed, but ploughed up, with the 
 small-pox; small of stature, and was considered more 
 than un jse^t hete. He was, however, a prodigious dandy, 
 and wore a lace frill and embroidered waistcoat. Mr. 
 Love's vis-a-vis was Mr. Birnie, an Englishman, a sort 
 of assistant in the establishment, with a hard, dry, parch- 
 ment face, and — a remarkable talent for silence. The 
 host himself Avas a splendid animal : his vast chest seemed 
 to occupy more space at the table than any four of his 
 guests, yet he was not corpulent or vuiwieldy; he was 
 dressed in black, wore a velvet stock very high, and four 
 gold studs glittered in his shirt front; he w^as bald to the 
 crown, which made his forehead appear singularly lofty, 
 and what hair he had left was a little grayish and curled;
 
 250 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 his face was shaved smoothly, except a close-clipped 
 mustache; and his eyes, though small, were bright and 
 piercing. Such was the party. 
 
 " These are the best bons-hons I ever ate, " said Mr. 
 Love, glancing at Madame Caumartin. " My fair friends 
 have compassion on tlie table of a poor bachelor. " 
 
 " But you ought not to be a bachelor. Monsieur Lofe, " 
 replied the fair Rosalie, with an arch look ; " you who 
 make others marry, should set the example." 
 
 " All in good time, " answered Mr. Love, nodding ; 
 " one serves one's customers to so much happiness that 
 one has none left for one's self. " 
 
 Here a loud explosion was heard. Monsieur Gou- 
 pille had pulled one of the bon-bon crackers with 
 Mademoiselle Adele. 
 
 "I've got the motto! — no, monsieur has it: I'm 
 always unlucky, " said the gentle Adele. 
 
 The epicier solemnly unrolled the httle sHp of paper; 
 the print was very small, and he longed to take out his 
 spectacles, but he thought that would make him look 
 old. However, he spelled through the motto with some 
 difficidty : — 
 
 " Conirae elle fait soumettre un coeur, 
 En refusant son doux honimagc, 
 Oil peut trailer la coquette en vainqueur : 
 De la beaute modeste on cherit I'esclavage." ^ 
 
 " I present it to mademoiselle, " said he, laying the 
 motto solemnly in Adele's plate, upon a little mountain. 
 of chestnut husks. 
 
 " It is very pretty, " said she, looking down. 
 
 1 The coquette who subjugates a heart, yet refuses its tender 
 homage, one may treat as a conqueror ; of modest beauty we cherish 
 the slavery.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 251 
 
 "It is very apropos," whispered the epicier, caress- 
 ing the po'ucpie a little too roughly in his emotion. Mr. 
 Love gave him a kick under the table, and put his finger 
 to his own bald head, and then to his nose significantly. 
 The intelligent epicier smoothed back the irritated 
 jieruque. 
 
 " Are you fond of ho7is-hons, Mademoiselle Adele ? 
 I have a very fijie stock at home," said Monsieur 
 Goupille. 
 
 Mademoiselle Ad^le de Courval sighed, " Helas ! they 
 remind me of happier days, when I was a petite, and my 
 dear grandmamma took me in her lap, and told me how 
 she escaped the guillotine: she was an emigree, and you 
 know her father was a marquis. " 
 
 The epicier bowed and looked piizzled. He did not 
 quite see the connection between the hons-bons and the 
 guillotine. 
 
 " You are triste, monsieur," observed Madame Beavor, 
 in rather a piqued tone, to the Pole, who had not said a 
 word since the rati. 
 
 " Madame, an exile is always triste : I think of my 
 pauvre pays. " 
 
 " Bah ! " cried Mr. Love. " Think that there is no 
 exile by the side of a helle dame." 
 
 The Pole smiled mournfully. 
 
 " Pull it, " said Madame Beavor, holding a cracker to 
 the patriot, and turning away her face. 
 
 " Yes, madame ; I wish it were a cannon in defence of 
 La Polorjne." 
 
 With this magniloquent aspiration, the gallant Sovo- 
 lofski pulled lustily, and then rubbed his fingers, with a 
 little grimace, observing that crackers were sometimes 
 dangerous, and that the present combustible was d'une 
 force immense.
 
 252 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Helus ! J'ai cm jusi[u';i ce jour 
 Pouvoir triompher de ramour,"^ 
 
 said IMadame Beavor, reading the motto. " Wliat do 
 you say to that ? " 
 
 " Madame, there is no triumph for La Pologne ! " 
 
 Madame Beavor uttered a little peevish exclamation, 
 and glanced in despair at her red-headed countryman. 
 " Are you, too, a great politician, sir 1 " said she, in 
 English. 
 
 " Xo, mem ! — I 'm all for the ladies. " 
 
 " What does he say ? " asked Madame Caumartin. 
 
 " Monsieur Higgins est tout pour les dames. " 
 
 " To be sure he is, " cried Mr. Love : " all the English 
 are, especially with that colored hair: a lady who 
 likes a passionate adorer should always marry a man 
 with gold-colored hair, — always. What do you say, 
 Mademoiselle Adele 1 " 
 
 " Oh, I like fair hair, " said mademoiselle, looking 
 baslifully askew at Monsieur Goupille's peruque. 
 " Grandmamma said her papa — the marquis — used 
 yellow powder : it must have been very pretty. " 
 
 " Rather a la Sucre d^orge, " remarked the epicier, 
 smiling on the right side of his mouth, where his best 
 teeth were. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Courval looked displeased. " I fear 
 you are a republican, Monsieur Goupille 1 " 
 
 " I, mademoiselle ? No ; 1 'm for the Restoration ; " 
 and again the ep icier perplexed himself to discover the 
 association of idea between republicanism and sucre d'orge. 
 
 " Another glass of wine. Come, another, " said Mr. 
 Love, stretching across the vicomte to help Madame 
 Caumartin. 
 
 1 AIa« ! I believed until to-day that I could triumpli over love.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 253 
 
 " Sir, " said the tall Frenchman with the ribbon, eying 
 the ep icier with great disdain, " you say you are for 
 the Restoration: I am for the Empire, — moi ! " 
 
 " No politics ! " cried Mr. Love. " Let us adjourn to 
 the salon." 
 
 The vicomte, who had seemed supremely ennuye 
 during this dialogue, plucked Mr. Love by the sleeve 
 as he rose, and whispered petulantly, " I do not see any 
 one here to suit me. Monsieur Love, — none of my 
 rank." 
 
 " J/o 71 i)<e« .'" answered Mr. Love; "point (Targent 
 2ioint de Suisse. I could introduce you to a duchess; 
 but then the fee is high. There 's Mademoiselle de 
 Courval, — she dates from the Carlovingians. " 
 
 " She is very like a boiled sole, " answered the 
 vicomte, with a wry face. " Still, — what dower has 
 she ? " 
 
 " Forty thousand francs, and sickly, " replied Mr. 
 Love ; " but she likes a tall man, and Monsieur 
 Goupille is — " 
 
 " Tall men are never well made, " interrupted the 
 vicomte, angrily ; and he drew himself aside as Mr. Love, 
 gallantly advancing, gave his arm to Madame Beavor, 
 because the Pole had, in rismg, folded both his own arms 
 across his breast. 
 
 " Excuse me, ma'am, " said Mr. Love to Madame 
 Beavor, as they adjourned to the salon, " I don't think 
 you manage that brave man well." 
 
 " Ma foi, comme il est ennuyeux avec sa Pologne, " 
 replied ISIadame Beavor, shrugging her shoulders. 
 
 " True ; but he is a very fine-shaped man ; and it ia 
 a comfort to think that one will have no rival but his 
 country. Trust me, and encourage him a little more; 
 I think he would suit you to a T."
 
 254 NIGHT AND MOUNING. 
 
 Here the attendant engaged for the evening announced 
 Monsieur and Madame Giraud ; whereupon there entered 
 a little, little couple, — very fair, very plump, and very 
 like each other. This was Mr. Love's show couple, his 
 decoy ducks, his last best example of match-making ; they 
 had been married two months out of the bureau, and 
 were the admiration of the neighborhood for their con- 
 jugal affection. As they were now imited, they had 
 ceased to frequent the table d'hote ; but Mr. Love often 
 invited them after the dessert, pour encourager les 
 autres. 
 
 " My dear friends, " cried Mr. Love, shaking each by 
 the hand, " I am ravished to see you. Ladies and gentle- 
 men, I present to you Monsieur and Madame Giraud, 
 the happiest couple in Christendom: if I had done 
 notliing else in my life but bring them together, I should 
 not have lived in vain ! " 
 
 The company eyed the objects of this eulogium with 
 great attention. 
 
 " jVIonsieur, my prayer is to deserve my bonheur, " said 
 Monsieur Giraud. 
 
 " Cher ange ! " murmured madame : and the happy 
 pair seated themselves next to each other. 
 
 Mr. Love, who was all for those innocent pastimes 
 which do away with conventional formality and reserve, 
 now proposed a game at " Hunt the Slipper, " which was 
 welcomed by the whole party, except the Pole and the 
 vicomte: though Mademoiselle Adele looked prudish, 
 and observed to the Spicier that " Monsieur Lofe was so 
 droll, but she should not have liked her paiivre grand- 
 ntaman to see her." 
 
 The vicomte had stationed himself opposite to Made- 
 moiselle de Courval, and kept his eyes fixed on her very 
 tenderly.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 255 
 
 " Mademoiselle, I see, does not approve of such bour- 
 geois diversions," said he, 
 
 " No, monsieur, " said the gentle Adele ; " but I think 
 we must sacrifice our own tastes to those of the company." 
 
 " It is a very amiable sentiment, " said the epicier. 
 
 " It is one attributed to grandmamma's pajia, the 
 Marquis de Courval. It has become quite a hackneyed 
 remark since, " said Adele. 
 
 " Come, ladies, " said the joyous Eosalie ; " I volunteer 
 my slipper," 
 
 " Asseyez-vous done, " said Madame Beavor to the 
 Pole. " Have you no games of this sort in Poland 1 " 
 
 "Madame, La Pologne is no more," said the Pole. 
 " But with the swords of her brave — " 
 
 " No swords here, if you please, " said Mr. Love, put- 
 ting his vast hands on the Pole's shoulders, and sinking 
 him forcibly down into the circle now formed. 
 
 The game proceeded with great vigor and much 
 laugliter from Eosalie, Mr. Love, and Madame Beavor, 
 especially whenever the last thumped the Pole with 
 the heel of the slipper. Monsieur Giraud was always 
 sure that Madame Giraud had the slipper about her, 
 which persuasion on his part gave rise to many little 
 endearments, which are always so innocent among 
 married people. The vicomte and the epicier were 
 equally certain the slipper was with Mademoiselle Adele, 
 who defended herself Avith much more energy than 
 might have been supposed in one so gentle. The 
 epicier, however, grew jealous of the attentions of his 
 noble rival, and told him that he geni'd mademoiselle : 
 whereupon the vicomte called him an impertinent ; and 
 the tall Frenchman with the red ribbon sprang up, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Can I be of any assistance, gentlemen ? "
 
 256 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Therewith Mr. Love, tlie great peacemaker, inter- 
 posed, and, reconciling the rivals, proposed to change 
 the game to Colin Maillard, xhiglice, " Blind Man's 
 Eutf." Rosalie clapped her hands, and offered herself 
 to be blindfolded. The tables and chairs were cleared 
 away ; and Madame Beavor pushed the Pole into 
 Kosalie's arms, who, having felt him about the face for 
 some moments, guessed him to be the tall Frenchman. 
 During this time, Monsieur and Madame Giraud hid 
 themselves behind the window-curtain. 
 
 "Amuse yourself, mon ami," said Madame Beavor to 
 the liberated Pole. 
 
 " Ah, madame, " s.ighed Monsieur Sovolofski, " how 
 can I be gay ? All my property confiscated by the 
 Emperor of Russia ! Has La Pologne no Brutus ? " 
 
 " I think you are in love, " said the host, clapping him 
 on the back. 
 
 "Are you quite sure," whispered the Pole to the 
 match-maker, " that Madame Beavor has vingt mille 
 liores de rentes ? " 
 
 " Xot a sou less. " 
 
 The Pole mused, and, glancing at Madame Beavor, 
 said, " And yet, madame, your charming gayety consoles 
 me amidst all my sufferings ; " upon which Madame 
 Beavor called him " flatterer, " and rapped his knuckles 
 with her fan; the latter proceeding the brave Pole did 
 not seem to like, for he immediately buried his hands in 
 his trousers-pockets. 
 
 The game was now at its meridian. Rosalie was 
 uncommonly active, and flew about here and there, 
 much to the harassment of the Pole, who repeatedly 
 wipeti his forehead, and observed that it was warm 
 work, and put him in mind of the last sad battle for 
 La Pologne. Monsieur Goupille, who had lately taken
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 257 
 
 lessons in dancing, and was vain of liis agility, mounted 
 the chairs and tables, as llosalie approached, with great 
 grace and gravity. It so happened that in these salta- 
 tions he ascended a stool near the curtain beliind which 
 Monsieur and Madame Giraud were ensconced. Some- 
 what agitated by a slight flutter behind the folds, which 
 made him fancy, on the sudden panic, that Rosalie was 
 creeping that way, the ep icier made an abrupt jji^'ouette, 
 and the hook on which the curtains were suspended 
 caught his left coat-tail, — - 
 
 " The fatal vesture left the unguarded side : " 
 
 just as he turned to extricate the garment from that 
 dilemma, Rosalie sprimg upon him, and naturally lift- 
 ing her hands to that height where she fancied the 
 human face divine, took another extremity of INIonsieur 
 Goupille's graceful frame, thus exposed by surprise. 
 
 " I don't know who this is. Quelle drole de visage ! " 
 muttered Rosalie. 
 
 " Mn is, madame, " faltered Monsieur Goupille, look- 
 ing greatly disconcerted. 
 
 The gentle Ad^le, who did not seem to relish this ad- 
 venture, came to tlie relief of her wooer, and pinched 
 Rosalie very sharply in the arm. 
 
 " That 's not fair. But I will know who this is, " 
 cried Rosalie, angrily ; " you sha'n't escape ! " 
 
 A sudden and universal burst of laughter roused her 
 suspicions ; she drew back, — and exclaiming, " Mais, 
 quelle mauvaise plaisanterie ; e'est trop fort ! " applied 
 her fair hand to tlie place in dispute vfith so hearty a 
 goodwill, that IMonsieur Goupille uttered a dolorous cry, 
 and sprung from the chair, leaving the coat-tail (the 
 cause of all his woe) suspended upon the hook. 
 
 It was just at this moment, and in the midst of the 
 
 VOL. I. — 17
 
 258 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 excitoment caused by Monsieur Goupille's misfortune, 
 that the door opened, and the attendant reappeared, 
 followed by a young man in a large cloak. 
 
 The new-comer paused at the threshold, and gazed 
 aroiind him in evident surprise. 
 
 " Diahle ! " said Mr. Love, approaching, and gazing 
 hard at the stranger. " Is it possible ? You are come 
 at last 1 Welcome ! " 
 
 " But, " said the stranger, apparently still bewildered, 
 " there is some mistake ; you are not — " 
 
 " Yes ; I am Mr. Love ! — Love all the world over. 
 How is our friend Gregg ? — told you to address yourself 
 to Mr. Love, eh ? — Mum ! Ladies and gentlemen, an 
 acquisition to our party. Fine fellow — eh ? Five 
 feet eleven without his shoes, — and young enough to 
 hope to be thrice married before he dies. When did you 
 arrive 1 " 
 
 "To-day." 
 
 And thus Philip Morton and Mr. William Gawtrey 
 met once more.
 
 NIGHT AKD MORNING. 259 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Happy the man who, void of care and strife, 
 In silken or in leathern purse retains 
 A splendid shilling ! 
 
 The Splendid Shilling, 
 
 And wherefore should they take or care for thought, 
 
 The unreasoning vulgar willingly obey, 
 
 And, leaving toil and poverty behind. 
 
 Run forth by different ways, the blissful boon to find. 
 
 West's Education. 
 
 " Poor boy ! your story interests me. The events are 
 romantic, but the moral is practical, old, everlasting, — 
 life, boy, life. Poverty by itself is no such great curse ; 
 that is, if it stops short of starving. And passion by 
 itself is a noble thing, sir; but poverty and passion to- 
 gether, poverty and feeling, poverty and pride, the 
 poverty one is not born to, but falls into; and the man 
 who ousts you out of your easy-chair, kicking you with 
 every turn he takes, as he settles himself more comfort- 
 ably : why there 's no romance in that, — hard every-day 
 life, sir! Well, well. So, after your brother's letter, 
 you resigned yourself to that fellow Smith 1 " 
 
 " No ; I gave him my money, not my soul. I turned 
 from his door, with a few shillings that he himself 
 tlirust into my hand, and walked on, — I cared not 
 whither : out of the town, into the fields, — till night 
 came ; and then, just as I suddenly entered on the high- 
 road, many miles away, the moon rose, and I saw by the 
 hedge-side, something that seemed like a corpse. It was 
 an old beggar, in the last state of raggedness, disease, and
 
 2G0 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 famine. He had lain himself down to die. I shared with 
 him what I had, and helped him to a little inn. As 
 he crossed the threshold, he turned round and blessed me. 
 Do you know, the moment I heard that blessing, a stone 
 seemed rolled away from my heart. I said to myself, 
 ' "What then ! even / can be of use to some one ; and I 
 am better off than tliat old man, for I have youth and 
 health.' As these thoughts stirred in me, my limbs, 
 before heavy with fatigue, grew light ; a strange kind of 
 excitement seized me. I ran on gayly beneath the moon- 
 light that smiled over the crisp broad road. I felt as if 
 no house, not even a palace, were large enough for me 
 that night. And Avhen, at last, wearied out, I crept 
 into a wood, and laid myself down to sleep , I still mur- 
 mured to myself, 'I have youth and health.' But in 
 the morning, when I rose, I stretched out my arms, and 
 missed my brother! ... In two or three days I found 
 employment with a farmer; but we quarrelled after a 
 few weeks ; for once he wished to strike me : and, some- 
 how or other, I could work but not serve. Winter had 
 begun when we parted. Oh, such a winter! Then — 
 then I knew what it was to be houseless. How I 
 lived for some months, — if to live it can be called, — 
 it would pain you to hear, and humble me to tell. At 
 last I found myself again in London; and one evening, 
 not many days since, I resolved at last — for nothing 
 else seemed left, and I had not touched food for two 
 days — to come to you. " 
 
 " And why did that never occur to you before ? " 
 "Because," said Philip, with a deep blush, — "be- 
 cause I trembled at the power over my actions and my 
 future life that I was to give to one whom I was to blesa 
 as a benefactor, yet distrust as a guide. " 
 
 " Well," said Love, or Gawtrey, with a singular mix-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 261 
 
 ture of irony and compassion in his voice; "and it 
 was hunger, then, that terrified you at last even more 
 than I ? " 
 
 "Perhaps hunger, — or perhaps rather the reasoning 
 that comes from hunger. I had not, I say, touched food 
 for two days; and I was standing on that bridge, from 
 which on one side you see the palace of a head of the 
 Church, on the other the towers of the Abbey, within 
 which the men I have read of in history lie buried. It 
 was a cold frosty evening, and the river below looked 
 bright with the lamps and stars. I leaned, weak and 
 sickening, against the wall of the bridge; and in one of 
 the arched recesses beside me a cripple held out his hat 
 for pence. I envied him! — he had a livelihood; he 
 was inured to it, perhaps bred to it: he had no shame. 
 By a sudden impulse, I too turned abruptly round, 
 held out my hand to the first passenger, and started at 
 the shrillness of my own voice, as it cried, ' Charity.' " 
 
 Gawtrey threw another log on the fire, looked com- 
 placently round the comfortable room, and rubbed his 
 hands. The young man continued , — 
 
 " * You should be ashamed of yourself. — I 've a great 
 mind to give you to the police,' was the answer, in a 
 pert and sharp tone. I looked up, and saw the livery 
 my father's menials had worn. I had been begging my 
 bread from Robert Beaufort's lackey! I said nothing; 
 the man went on his business on tiptoe, that the mud 
 might not splash above the soles of his shoes. Then 
 thoughts so black that they seemed to blot out every 
 star from the sky — thoughts I had often wrestled 
 against, but to which I now gave myself up with a sort 
 of mad joy — seized me: and I remembered you. I had 
 still preserved the address you gave me ; I went straight 
 to the house. Your friend, on naming you, received
 
 262 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 me kindly, and without question placed food before me, 
 pressed on me clothing and money, procured me a pass- 
 port, gave me your address, — and now I am beneath 
 your roof. Gawtrey, I know nothing yet of the world, 
 but the dark side of it. I know not what to deem you ; 
 but as you alone have been kind to me, so it is to your 
 kindness rather than your aid that I now cling: your 
 kind words and kind looks; yet — " he stopped short, 
 and breathed hard. 
 
 "Yet you would know more of me. Faith, my boy, 
 I cannot tell you more at this moment. I believe, to 
 speak fairly, I don't live exactly within the pale of the 
 law. But I'm not a villain! I never plundered my 
 friend and called it play ! — I never murdered my friend 
 and called it honor! — I never seduced my friend's wife 
 and called it gallantry!" As Gawtrey said this, he 
 drew the Avords out, one by one, through his grinded 
 teeth, paused, and resumed more gayly, " I struggle 
 with fortune; volla tout! I am not what j'ou seem to 
 suppose, — not exactly a swindler, certainly not a rob- 
 ber! But, as I before told you, I am a charlatan; so is 
 every man who strives to be richer or greater than he is. 
 I, too, want kindness as much as you do. My bread and 
 my cup are at your service. I will try and keep you 
 unsullied, even Vjy the clean dirt that now and then 
 sticks to me. On the other hand, youth, my young 
 friend, has no right to play the censor; and you must 
 take me as you take the world, without being over- 
 scrupulous and dainty. My present vocation pays well ; 
 in fact, I am beginning to lay by. My real name and 
 past life are thoroughly iinknown, and as yet unsus- 
 pected in this quartier; for though I have seen much 
 of Paris, my career hitherto has passed in other parts of 
 the city : and for the rest, own that I am well disguised!
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 263 
 
 What a benevolent air this bald forehead gives me, — 
 eh? True," added Gawtrey, somewhat more seriously, 
 " if I saw how you could support yourself in a broader 
 path of life than that in which I pick out my own way, 
 I might say to you, as a gay man of fashion might say 
 to some sober stripling, — nay, as many a dissolute 
 father says (or ought to say) to his son, ' It is no reason 
 you should be a sinner, because I am not a saint. ' In 
 a word, if you were Avell off in a respectable profession, 
 you might have safer acquaintances than myself. But 
 as it is, upon my word as a plain man, I don't see what 
 you can do better. " Gawtrey made this speech with so 
 much frankness and ease that it seemed greatly to relieve 
 the listener, and when he wound up with, " What say 
 you? In fine, my life is that of a great schoolboy, get- 
 ting into scrapes for the fun of it, and fighting his way 
 out as he best can! Will you see how you like it?" 
 — Philip, with a confiding and grateful impulse, put his 
 hand into Gawtrey 's. The host shook it cordially, and, 
 without saying another word, showed his guest into a 
 little cabinet where there was a sofa-bed, and they parted 
 for the night. 
 
 The new life upon which Philip Morton entered was 
 so odd, so grotesque, and so amusing, that at his age it 
 was, perhaps, natural that he should not be clear-sighted 
 as to its danger, 
 
 William Gawtrey was one of those men who are born 
 to exert a certain influence and ascendancy wherever they 
 may be thrown; his vast strength, his redundant health, 
 had a power of themselves, — a moral as well as physical 
 poAver, He naturally possessed high animal spirits, be- 
 neath the surface of which, however, at times, there was 
 visible a certain under-current of malignity and scorn. 
 He had evidently received a superior education, and
 
 264 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 could command at will the manners of a man not un- 
 familiar with a politer class of society. From the first 
 hour that Philip had seen him on the top of the coach 
 
 on the K road, this man had attracted his curiosity 
 
 and interest; the conversation he had heard in the 
 churchyard, the obligations he owed to Gawtrey in his 
 escape from the officers of justice, the time afterwards 
 passed in his society till they separated at the little 
 inn, the rough and hearty kindliness Gawtrey had shown 
 him at that period, and the hospitality extended to him 
 now, — all contributed to excite his fancy, and in much, 
 indeed, very much, entitled this singular person to his 
 gratitude. Morton, in a word, was fascinated; this man 
 M'as the only friend he had made. I have not thought 
 it necessary to detail to the reader the conversations that 
 had taken place between them, during that passage of 
 Morton's life when he was before for some days Gaw- 
 trey's companion; yet those conversations had sunk deep 
 in his mind. He was struck, and almost awed, by the 
 profound gloom which lurked under Gawtrey 's broad 
 humor, — a gloom, not of temperament, but of knowl- 
 edge. His views of life, of human justice and human 
 virtue were (as, to be sure, is commonly the case with 
 men who have had reason to quarrel with the world) 
 dreary and despairing; and Morton's own experience 
 hail been so sad tliat these opinions were more influen- 
 tial than they could ever have been with the happy. 
 However, in this, their second re-union, there was a 
 greater gayety than in their first: and under his host's 
 roof Morton insensibly, ])ut rapidly, recovered some- 
 tliing of tlie early and natural tone of his impetuous 
 and ardent spirits. Gawtrey himself was generally a 
 boon companion; their society, if not select, was merry. 
 When their evenings were disengaged, Gawtrey was fond
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 265 
 
 of haunting cafes and theatres, and Morton was his com- 
 panion; Birnie (Mr. Gawtrey's partner) never accom- 
 panied them. Kefreshed by this change of life, the 
 very person of this young man regained its bloom and 
 vigor, as a plant, removed from some choked atmos- 
 phere and unwholesome soil, where it had struggled for 
 light and air, expands on transplanting; the graceful 
 leaves burst from the long-drooping boughs, and the 
 elastic crest springs upward to the sun in the glory of 
 its young prime. If there was still a certain fiery stern- 
 ness in his aspect, it had ceased, at least, to be haggard 
 and savage ; it even suited the character of his dark and 
 expressive features. He might not have lost the some- 
 thing of the tiger in his fierce temper, but, in the sleek 
 hues and the sinewy symmetry of the frame, he began to 
 put forth also something of the tiger's beauty. 
 
 Mr. Birnie did not sleep in the house, he went home 
 nightly to a lodging at some little distance. We have 
 said but little about this man; for, to all appearance, 
 there was little enough to say : he rarely opened his own 
 mouth except to Gawtrey, with whom Philip often ob- 
 served him engaged in whispered conferences, to which 
 he was not admitted. His eye, however, was less idle 
 than his lips: it was not a bright eye; on the contrary, 
 it was dull, and, to tlie unobservant, lifeless, of a pale 
 blue, with a dim film over it, — the eye of a vulture; 
 but it had in it a calm, heavy, stealthy watchfulness, 
 which inspired Morton with great distrust and aver- 
 sion. Mr. Birnie not only spoke French like a native, 
 but all his habits, his gestures, his tricks of manner, 
 were French ; not the French of good society , but more 
 idiomatic, as it were, and popular. He was not exactly 
 a vulgar person, — he was too silent for that, — but he 
 was evidently of low extraction and coarse breeding; liis
 
 2(36 NIGHT AND MOr.NING. 
 
 accomplishments were of a mechanical nature; he was 
 an extraordinary arithmetician; he was a very skilful 
 chemist, and kept a laboratory at his lodgings; he 
 mended his own clothes and linen with incomparable 
 neatness, Philip suspected him of blacking his own 
 shoes, but that was prejudice. Once he found Morton 
 sketching horses' heads, — pour se desennuyer ; and 
 he made some short criticisms on the drawings, which 
 showed him well acquainted with the art. Philip, sur- 
 prised, sought to draw him into conversation; but Birnie 
 eluded the attempt, and observed that he had once been 
 an engraver. 
 
 Gawtrey himself did not seem to know much of the 
 early life of this person, or at least he did not seem to 
 like much to talk of him. The footstep of Mr. Birnie 
 Avas gliding, noiseless, and catlike; he had no sociality 
 in him, enjoyed nothing, drank hard, — but was never 
 drunk. Somehow or other, he had evidently over 
 Gawtrey an influence little less than that which Gaw- 
 trey had over Morton, but it was of a different nature: 
 Morton had conceived an extraordinary affection for his 
 friend, while Gawtrey seemed secretly to dislike Birnie, 
 and to be glad whenever he quitted his presence. It 
 was, in truth, Gawtrey 's custom, when Birnie retired for 
 the night, to rub his hands, bring out the punch-bowl, 
 squeeze the lemons, and while Philip, stretched on the 
 sofa, listened to him, between sleep and waking, to talk 
 on for the hour together, often till daybreak, with that 
 bizarre mixture of knavery and feeling, drollery and sen- 
 timent, which made the dangerous charm of his society. 
 
 One evening as they thus sat together, Morton, after 
 listening for .some time to his companion's comments on 
 men and things, said abruptly, — 
 
 " Gawtrey ! there is so much in you that puzzles me,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 267 
 
 BO much which I find it difFicnlt to reconcile with your 
 present pursuits, that, if I ask no indiscreet confidence, 
 I should like greatly to hear some account of your early 
 life. It would please me to compare it with my own! 
 when I am your age, I will then look back and see what 
 I owed to your example." 
 
 "My early life! Avell, — you shall hear it. It will 
 put you on your guard, I hope, betimes, against the two 
 rocks of youth, — love and friendship." Then, while 
 squeezing the lemon into his favorite beverage, which 
 Morton observed he made stronger than usual, Gawtrey 
 thus commenced 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING.
 
 268 NIGHT A2sD MOKNING. 
 
 CHAPTER Iir. 
 
 All his success must on himself depend, 
 He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend ; 
 With spirit high, John learned the world to hrave, 
 And in both senses was a ready knave. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 " ]My grandfather sold walking-sticks and umbrellas in 
 the little passage by Exeter 'Change; he was a man of 
 genius and speculation. As soon as he had scraped to- 
 gether a little money, he lent it to some poor devil with 
 a hard landlord, at twenty per cent, and made him take 
 half the loan in umbrellas or bamboos. By these means 
 he got his foot into the ladder, and climbed upward and 
 upward, till, at the age of forty, he had amassed £5000. 
 He then looked about for a wife. An honest trader in the 
 Strand, who dealt largely in cotton prints, possessed an 
 only daughter ; this young lady had a legacy from a great 
 aunt of £3220, with a small street in St. Giles's, where 
 the tenants paid weekly (all thieves or rogues, — all, so 
 their rents were sure). Now, my grandfather conceived 
 a great friendship for the father of this young lady, gave 
 him a hint as to a new pattern in spotted cottons, en- 
 ticed him to take out a patent, and lent him £700 for 
 the speculation, applied for the money at the very 
 moment cottons were at their worst, and got the daugh- 
 ter instead of the money, — by which exchange, you see, 
 he won £2520 to say nothing of the young lady. My 
 grandfather then entered into partnership with tlie 
 worthy trader, carried on the patent with spirit, and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 269 
 
 begat two sons. As he grew older, ambition seized him ; 
 his sous should be gentlemen, — one was sent to college, 
 the other put into a marching regiment. My grandfather 
 meant to die worth a plum ; but a fever he caught in visit- 
 ing his tenants in St. Giles's prevented him, and he only- 
 left £20,000, equally divided between the sons. My 
 father, the college-man " (here Gawtrey paused a moment, 
 took a large draught of the punch, and resumed with a 
 visible effort) — " my father, the college-man, was a per- 
 son of rigid principles, bore an excellent character, 
 had a great regard for the world. He married early and 
 respectably. I am the sole fruit of that union; he lived 
 soberly, his temper was harsh and morose, his home 
 gloomy; he was a very severe father, and my motlier 
 died before I was ten years old. When I was fourteen, 
 a little old Frenchman came to lodge with us; he had 
 been persecuted under the old regime for being a philos- 
 opher; he filled my head with odd crotchets, which, more 
 or less, have stuck there ever since. At eighteen I was 
 sent to St. John's College, Cambridge. My father w^as 
 rich enough to have let me go up in the higher rank of 
 a pensioner, but he had lately grown avaricious; he 
 thought that I was extravagant; he made me a sizar, 
 perhaps to spite me. Then, for the first time, those in- 
 equalities in life which the Frenchman had dinned into 
 my ears met me practically. A sizar ! another name for 
 a dog! I had such strength, health, and spirits, that I 
 had more life in my little finger than half the fellow- 
 commoners — genteel, spindle-shanked striplings, who 
 might have passed for a collection of my grandfatlier's 
 walking-canes — had in their whole bodies. And I 
 often think," continued Gawtrey, "that health and 
 spirits have a great deal to answer for! When we are 
 young, we so far resemble savages — who are nature's
 
 270 NIGHT AND MORXIXG. 
 
 young people — that we attach prodigious value to phys- 
 ical advantages. My feats of strength and activity, — 
 the clods I thrashed, and the railings I leaped, and the 
 boat-races I won, — are they not written in the chronicL) 
 of St. John's? These achievements inspired me with 
 an extravagant sense of my own superiority ; I coiild not 
 but despise the rich fellows whom I could have blown 
 down with a sneeze. Nevertheless, there was an impas- 
 sable barrier between me and them, — a sizar was not a 
 proper associate for the favorites of fortune! But there 
 was one young man, a year younger than myself, of high 
 birth, and the heir to considerable wealth, who did not 
 regard me with the same supercilious insolence as the 
 rest; his verj^ rank, perhaps, made him indifferent to the 
 little conventional formalities which influence persons 
 who cannot play at football with this round world; he 
 was the wildest youngster in the university : lamp- 
 breaker, tandem-driver, mob-fighter, — a very devil, in 
 short; clever, but not in the reading line; small and 
 slight, but brave as a lion. Congenial habits made us 
 intimate, and I loved him like a brother: better than a 
 brother, — as a dog loves his master. In all our rows I 
 covered him with my body. He had but to say to me, 
 * Leap into the water,' and I Avould not have stopped to 
 pull off my coat. In short, I loved him as a proud man 
 loves one who stands betwixt him and contempt, — as an 
 affectionate man loves one who stands between him and 
 solitude. To cut short a long story: my friend, one 
 dark night, committed an outrage against discipline of 
 the most unpardonable character. There was a sancti- 
 monious, grave old fellow of the college crawling home 
 from a tea-party ; my friend and another of his set seized, 
 blindfolded, and handcuffed this poor wretch, carried 
 him vi et armis, back to the house of an old maid whom
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 271 
 
 he had been courting for the last ten years, fastened his 
 pigtail (he wore a long one) to the knocker, and so left 
 him. You may imagine the infernal hubbub Avhich his 
 attempts to extricate himself caused in the whole street; 
 the old maid's old maid-servant, after emptying on his 
 head all the vessels of wrath she could lay her hand to, 
 screamed * Eape and murder! ' The proctor and his 
 bull-dogs came up, released the prisoner, and gave chase 
 to the delinquents, who had incautiously remained near 
 to enjoy the sport. Tlie night was dark, and they 
 reached the college in safety ; but they had been tracked 
 to the gates. For this offence /was expelled." 
 
 " Why, you were not concerned in it? " said Philip. 
 
 " Xo ; but I was suspected and accused. I could have 
 got off by betraying the true culprits, but my friend's 
 father was in public life: a stern, haughty, old states- 
 man ; my friend was mortally afraid of him, — the only 
 person he was afraid of. If I had too much insisted on 
 my innocence, I might have set inquiry on the right 
 track. In fine, I was happy to prove my friendship for 
 him. He shook me most tenderly by the hand on part- 
 ing, and promised never to forget my generous devotion. 
 I went home in disgrace : I need not tell you what my 
 father said to me ; I do not think he ever loved me from 
 tliat hour. Shortly after this, my uncle, George Gaw- 
 trey, the captain, returned from abroad; he took a great 
 fancy to me, and I left my father's house (which had 
 grown insufferable) to live with him. He had been a 
 very handsome man, — a gay spendthrift ; he had got 
 through his fortune, and now lived on his wits, — he was 
 a professed gamliler. His easy temper, his lively humor, 
 fascinated me; he knew the world well, and, like all 
 gamblers, was generous when the dice were lucky, — 
 which, to tell you the truth, they generally were, with a
 
 272 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 man wlio had no scruples. Though his practices were 
 a little suspected, they had never been discovered. We 
 lived in an elegant apartment, mixed familiarly with men 
 of various ranks, and enjoyed life extremely. I brushed 
 off my college rust, and conceived a taste for expense. 
 I knew not why it was, but in my new existence every 
 one was kind to me ; and I had spirits that made me wel- 
 come everywhere. I was a scamp, — but a frolicsome 
 scamp, and that is always a popular character. As 
 yet I was not dishonest, but saw dishonesty round me, 
 and it seemed a very pleasant, jolly mode of making 
 money ; and now I again fell into contact with the young 
 heir. My college friend was as wild in London as he 
 had been at Cambridge ; but the boy-ruffian, though 
 not then twenty years of age, had grown into the 
 man-villain." 
 
 Here Gawtrey paused, and frowned darkly. 
 
 " He had great natural parts, this young man ; much 
 wit, readiness, and cunning, and he became very inti- 
 mate Avith my uncle. He learned of him how to play 
 the dice, and to pack the cards, — he paid him £1000 for 
 the knowledge ! " 
 
 " How ! a cheat ? You said he was rich. " 
 
 " His father was very rich, and he had a liberal allow- 
 ance, but he was very extravagant; and rich men love 
 gain as well as poor men do! He had no excuse but the 
 grand excuse of all vice, — SELFisii>rESS. Young as he 
 was, he became the fashion, and he fattened upon the 
 plunder of his equals, who desired the honor of his ac- 
 quaintance. Now, I had seen my imcle cheat, but I had 
 never imitated his example: when the man of fashion 
 cheated, and made a jest of his earnings and my scruples; 
 when I saw him courted, flattered, honored, and his 
 acts unsuspected, because his connections embraced half
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 273 
 
 the peerage, — the temptation grew strong, but I still re- 
 sisted it. However, my father always said I was born to 
 be a good-for-nothing, and I could not escape my destiny. 
 And now I suddenly fell in love, — you don't know what 
 that is yet: so much the better for you. The girl was 
 beautiful, and I thought she loved me, — perhaps she 
 did; but I was too poor, so her friends said, for mar- 
 riage. We courted, as the saying is, in the mean- 
 while. It was my love for her, my wish to deserve 
 her, that made me iron against my friend's example. 
 I was fool enough to speak to him of Mary, — to pre- 
 sent him to her; this ended in her seduction." (Again 
 Gawtrey paused, and breathed hard. ) "I discovered 
 the treachery, — I called out the seducer; he sneered, 
 and refused to fight the low-born adventurer. I struck 
 him to the earth, — and then we fought; I was satisfied 
 by a ball through my side; but he," added Gawtrey, 
 rubbing his hands, and with a vindictive chuckle, — 
 " he was a cripple for life ! When I recovered, I found 
 that my foe, whose sick-chamber was crowded with 
 friends and comforters, had taken advantage of my ill- 
 ness to ruin my reputation. He, the swindler, accused 
 me of his own crime; the equivocal character of my 
 uncle confirmed the charge. Him, his own high-born 
 pupil was enabled to unmask, and his disgrace was visited 
 on me. I left my bed to find my uncle (all disguise 
 over) an avowed partner in a hell; and myself, blasted 
 alike in name, love, past, and future. And then, Philip, 
 then I commenced that career which I have trodden 
 since, — the prince of good-fellows and good-for-nothings, 
 with ten thousand aliases, and as many strings to my 
 bow. Society cast me off when I Avas innocent. Egad, I 
 have had my revenge on society since ! — Ho ! ho ! 
 ho!" 
 
 VOL. I. — 18
 
 274 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 The laugh of this man had in it a moral infection. 
 There was a sort of glorying in its deep tone; it was 
 not the holloAV hysteric of shame and despair, — it spoke 
 a sanguine joyousness! William Gawtrey was a man 
 whose animal constitution had led him to take animal 
 pleasure in all things; he had enjoyed the poisons he had 
 lived on. 
 
 " But your father, — surely your father — " 
 
 " My father, " interrupted Gawtrey, " refused me the 
 money (but a small sum) that, once struck with the 
 strong impulse of a sincere penitence, I begged of him, 
 to enable me to get an honest living in an humble 
 trade. His refusal soured the penitence ; it gave me an 
 excuse for my career, — ami conscience grapples to an 
 excuse as a drowning wretch to a straw. And yet this 
 hard father, — this cautious, moral, money-loving man, 
 — three months afterwards, suffered a rogue, almost a 
 stranger, to decoy him into a speculation that promised 
 to bring him fifty per cent. He invested in the traffic of 
 usury what had sufficed to save a hundred such as I am 
 from perdition, and he lost it all. It was nearly his 
 whole fortune; but he lives, and has his luxuries still. 
 He cannot speculate, but he can save ; he cared not if I 
 starved, for he finds an hourly happiness in starving 
 himself." 
 
 " And your friend," said Philip, after a pause, in 
 ■which his young sympatliics went dangerously with the 
 excuses for his benefactor; "what has become of him, 
 and the poor girl ? " 
 
 " My friend became a great man ; he succeeded to his 
 father's peerage, — a very ancient one, — and to a splen- 
 did income. He is living still. Well, you shall hear 
 about the poor fjlrl ! We are told of victims of seduc- 
 tion dying in a workhouse, or on a dunghill, penitent,
 
 NIGHT AND MOllNING. 275 
 
 broken-hearted, and uncommonly ragged and sentimental : 
 it may be a frequent case, but it is not the worst. It is 
 worse, I think, when the fair, penitent, innocent, credu- 
 lous dupe becomes in her turn the deceiver; when slie 
 catches vice from the breath upon which slie has hung; 
 when she ripens and mellows and rots away into 
 painted, blazing, staring, wholesale harlotry; when in 
 her turn she ruins warm youth with false smiles and 
 long bills ; and when worse — worse than all — when she 
 has children, daughters perhaps, brought up to the same 
 trade, cooped, plumped, for some hoary lecher, without 
 a heart in their bosoms, unless a balance for weighing 
 money may be called a heart. ]\Iary became this ; and I 
 wish to Heaven she had rather died in a hospital! Her 
 lover polluted her soul as well as her beauty : he found 
 her another lover when he was tired of her. When she 
 was at the age of thirty-six, I met her in Paris, with a 
 daughter of sixteen. I was then flush with money, fre- 
 quenting salons, and playing the part of a fine gentleman ; 
 she did not knoAV me at first, and she sought m)' ac- 
 quaintance. For you must know, my young friend," 
 said Gawtrey, abruptly breaking off the thread of his 
 narrative, " that I am not altogether the low dog you 
 might suppose in seeing me here. At Paris — ah ! you 
 don't know Paris — there is a glorious ferment in society 
 in which the dregs are often uppermost. I came here 
 at the Peace ; and here have I resided the greater part 
 of each year ever since. The vast masses of energy 
 and life, broken up by the great thaw of the Imperial 
 system, floating along the tide, are terrible icebergs for 
 the vessel of the state. Some think Napoleonism over, 
 — its effects are only begun. Society is shattered from 
 one end to the other, and I laugh at the little rivets by
 
 276 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 •which they think to keep it together.^ But to return: 
 Paris, I say, is the atmosphere for adventurers, — new 
 faces and new men are so common here that they excite 
 no impertinent inquiry, it is so usual to see fortunes 
 made in a day and spent in a month ; except in certain 
 circles, there is no walking round a man's character to 
 spy out where it wants piercing! Some lean Greek 
 poet put lead in his pockets to prevent being blown 
 away : put gold in your pockets, and at Paris you may 
 defy the sharpest wind in the world, — yea, even the 
 breath of that old ^olus. Scandal. Well, then, I had 
 money — no matter how I came by it — and health and 
 gayety ; and 1 was well received in the coteries that 
 exist in all capitals, but mostly m France, where pleas- 
 ure is the cement that joins many discordant atoms : here 
 I say, I met Mary, and her daughter by my old friend, 
 — the daughter still innocent, but, sac re ! in Avhat an 
 element of vice! We knew each other's secrets, Mary 
 and I, and kept them : she thought me a greater knave 
 than I was, and she intrusted to me her intention of sell- 
 ing her child to a rich English marquis. On the other 
 liand, the poor girl confided to me her horror of the 
 scenes she witnessed and the snares that surrounded her. 
 What do you think jjreserved her pure from all danger 1 
 Bah ! you will never guess ! It was partly because, if 
 example corrupts, it as often deters, but principally be- 
 cause she loved. A girl who loves one man purely has 
 about her an amulet which defies the advances of the 
 profligate. There was a handsome young Italian, an 
 artist, who frequented the house, — he was the man. 
 
 ' This passage wa.s written at a period when the dynasty of 
 Louis Philippe seemed the most assured, and Napoleouism was 
 indeed considered extinct.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 277 
 
 I had to choose, then, between mother and daughter: 
 I chose the last." 
 
 Fhilip seized hold of Gawtrey's hand, grasped it 
 warmly, and the good-for-nothing continued : — 
 
 " Do you know that I loved that girl as well as I 
 had ever loved the mother, though in another way ; she 
 was what I had fancied the mother to be, — stiU more fair, 
 more graceful, more winning, with a heart as full of love 
 as her mother's had been of vanity. I loved that child 
 as if she had been my own daughter ; I induced her to 
 leave her mother's house; I secreted her; I saw her 
 married to the man she loved, — I gave her away, and 
 saw no more of her for several months." 
 
 " Why 1. " 
 
 " Because I spent them in prison ! The yoimg people 
 could not live upon air; I gave them what I had, and, 
 in order to do more, I did something which displeased 
 the police. I narrowly escaped that time: but I am 
 popular, very popular, and with plenty of witnesses not 
 over-scrupulous, I got off ! When I was released, I 
 would not go to see them, for my clothes were ragged; 
 the police still 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 forever. 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 
 eickly, and I saw that, like all Italians, he languished 
 for his own warm climate. But man is born to act as 
 well as to contemplate, " pursued Gawtrey, changing his 
 tone into the allegro; " and I was soon driven into my 
 old ways, though in a lower line. I went to London,
 
 278 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 just to give my reputation an airing; and when I re- 
 tui'netl, pretty flush again, the poor Itahan was dead, 
 and I'anny 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 
 devilish 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 all of my pranks,- — ^of all the parts I 
 have played in life. I 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; I 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 spoke 
 to Gawtrey of the conversation he had overheard in the 
 churchyard, but on which a scruple of natural delicacy 
 had hitherto kept him silent.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 279 
 
 " Well, now, " said his host, while a slight blush rose 
 to his checks, " 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 Lon- 
 don, I accidentally heard that he was growing blind, 
 and living witli an artful old jade of a housekeeper, who 
 might send liini to rest with a dose of magnesia the night 
 after she had coaxed him to make a will in her favor. 
 I sought him out, and — But you say you heard what 
 passed. " 
 
 " Yes ; and I heard him also call you by name, when 
 it wns too late, and I saw the tears on his cheeks." 
 
 " Did you 1 — will you swear to that 1 " exclaimed 
 Gawtrey, with vehemence ; then shading his l)row with 
 his hand, he fell into a reverie that lasted some 
 moments. 
 
 " If anything happen to me, Philip, " he said, abruptly, 
 " perhaps he may yet be a father to poor Fanny ; and if 
 he takes to her, she will repay him for whatever pain I 
 may perliaps 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. " 
 
 Gart^trey'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 be- 
 trayed by a friend, but he had before known that friend 
 to be a man witliout principle or honor. But what won- 
 der 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?
 
 280 NIGHT AND MOIiNING. 
 
 Even the hints that Gawtrey miawares let fall of prac- 
 tices scarcely covered by the jovial phrase of " a great 
 schoolboy'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 grateful 
 heart.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 281 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 And she 's a stranger ! 
 Women, — beware women. 
 
 MlDDLETOK. 
 
 As we love our youngest children best, 
 So tlie last fruit of our affection, 
 Wherever we bestow it, is most strong ; 
 Since 't is indeed our latest harvest-home, 
 Last merriment fore winter ! 
 
 Webster : Devil's Law Case. 
 
 I would fain know what kind of thing a man's heart is 1 
 I will report it to you : 't is a thing framed 
 With divers corners ! 
 
 ROWLET. 
 
 I HAVE said that Gawtrey's tale made a deep impression 
 on Philip: that impression was increased by subsequent 
 conversations, more frank even than their talk had hith- 
 erto been. There was certainly about this man a fatal 
 charm which concealed his vices. It arose, perhaps, 
 from the perfect combinations of his physical frame: 
 from a health which made his spirits buoyant and hearty 
 under 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 manner in 
 which, naturally anxious to make the least unfavoraltle 
 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
 
 282 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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, 
 indeed, 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 
 theatre, rises up, gigantic and sublime, in the heroes of 
 war and revolution, in ]MirabeauR, Marats, Napoleons; 
 on a minor stage, it shows itself in demagogues, fanatical 
 pliiL)sophers, 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, 
 Bacchus himself had not so many ! 
 
 One day a lady, richly dressed, was ushered by IVIr. 
 Birnie into the bureau of Mr. Love, alias Gawtrey. 
 Philip 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 mankind. The lady seemed rather embarrassed 
 when she perceived Mr. Love was not alone. She drew 
 back, and, drawing her veil still more closely round her, 
 said, in French, — 
 
 "Pardon me, I would wish a private conversation." 
 Philip ro.se to withdraw, when the lady, observing him 
 with eyes whose lustre shone through the veil, said 
 gently,—
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 283 
 
 " Rut, perliaps, the young gentleman is discreet? " 
 
 "He is not discreet, he is discretion! — my adopted 
 son. You may confide in him, — upon ray lionor, 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 
 handsome mouth, and a set of small, white teeth; for 
 she, too, smiled, tliough gravely, as she turned to Mor- 
 ton, and said, — 
 
 " You seem, sir, more fitted to be a votary of the 
 temple 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 under- 
 stand that MonsieiTr the Vicomte de Vaudemont has 
 called into request your services, I am one of the 
 vicomte's family; 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 Dien! " interrupted the lady, with much im- 
 patience, "spare me a eulogy on your establishment: I 
 have no doubt it is very respectable ; and for grisettes 
 and epiders may do extremely well. But the vicomte 
 is a man of birth and connections. 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 connec-
 
 2S4 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 tion he proposes to form, that fee, whatever it may be, 
 shall be doubled. Do you understand me ? " 
 
 " Perfectly, madam; yet it is not your oifer that would 
 bias me, but the desire to oblige so charming a lady." 
 
 " It is agreed then 1 " 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. 
 
 "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 
 turned from the room. 
 
 " Ah! " said Gawtrey, laughing, " this is not the first 
 time I have been paid by relations to break off the 
 marriages I had formed. Egad! if one could open a 
 bureau to make married people single, one would soon 
 be a Croesus! Well, then, this decides me to complete the 
 nnion between Monsieur Goupille and Mademoiselle de 
 Courval. I had balanced a little hitherto between the 
 epicier and the vicomte. Now I will conclude mat- 
 ters. Do you know, Phil, 1 think you have made a 
 conquest ? " 
 
 " Pooh! " said Philip, coloring. 
 
 In effect, that very evening Mr. Love saw both the 
 epicier and Adele, and fixed the marriage-day. As 
 Monsieur Goupille was a person of great distinction in 
 thn Faubourg, this wedding was one upon which Mr. 
 JjQve congratulated himself greatly ; and he cheerfully
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING, 285 
 
 accepted an invitation for himself and his partners to 
 honor 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 prepara- 
 tions for enjoying himself. But this time the cigar and 
 the punch seemed to fail of their effect. Gawtrey re- 
 mained moody and silent; and Morton was thinking of 
 the bright eyes of the lady who was so much interested 
 against the amours of the Vicomte de Vaudemont. 
 
 At last Gawtrey broke silence. 
 
 " My young friend," said he, " I told you of my little 
 protegee ; 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 
 noticing the latter remark. 
 
 " And you shall, — you shall come with me to-morrow. 
 Heigho! I should not like to die, for her sake! " 
 
 " Does her wretched relation attempt to regain her ? " 
 
 " Her relation ! No ; she is no more, — she died about 
 two years since! Poor Marj''! 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, un- 
 less, as I before said, my father — " 
 
 " But you are making a fortune now 1 " 
 
 " 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. "
 
 286 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Is this a place for a child, — a girl 1 " said Gawtrey, 
 stamping his foot impatiently. " I should go mad if I 
 6aw that villanous deadman's eye bent upon her! " 
 
 " You speak of Birnie. How can you endure him ? " 
 
 " When you are my age you will know why we endure 
 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 
 aflfection, that bind men, like galley-slaves, together. 
 He who can hang you puts the halter round your neck 
 and leads you by it like 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, rous- 
 ing himself. " And, after all, Birnie is a useful fellow, 
 and dare no more turn against me than I against him ! 
 Why don't you drink more ? 
 
 " ' Oh 1 have you e'er heard of the famed Captain Wattle ? ' " 
 
 and Gawtrey broke out into a loud Bacchanalian hymn, 
 in which Philip could find no mirth, and from which 
 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 lamb! it is true, — at least as far as I can 
 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 within,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 287 
 
 there was a large garden, well kept, and, notwithstanding 
 tlie winter, it seemed fair and refreshing compared with 
 the polluted streets. The window of the room into 
 which they were shown looked upon the green sward, 
 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. 
 
 Nestling 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 ; lie 
 stroked down her hair with his huge hand, calling her 
 all manner of pet names, in a tremulous voice that 
 vainly 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 
 muttered to himself, — 
 
 " Fool! when she is older, she will forsake him! " 
 
 Fanny betra^'ed 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
 
 288 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 cherries brighter than her dewy lips ; and the color of 
 the open neck and the 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 
 running up to Morton, gazed at him wistfully, and said, 
 in French, — 
 
 " Who are you ? Do you come from the moon 1 — I 
 think you do." Then stopping abruptly, she broke into 
 a Averse 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 moon ? " 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! " and 
 she put her hand to her temples. " Have you got any- 
 thing for Fanny, — poor, poor Fanny 1 " and, dwelling on 
 the epithet, she shook her head movirnfull3\ 
 
 " You are rich, Fanny, with all those toys." 
 
 " Am I ? — 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 little girl?" said the child, earnestly, and 
 with a look less vacant than that which had saddened 
 IVIorton. 
 
 "No other; no, — nothing under heaven, and perhaps 
 above it, but you! " 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
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 289 
 
 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 l)ut 
 you and my sister! " 
 
 " Sister! — who is your sister? " 
 
 The child's face relapsed into an expression almost of 
 idiocy. "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 1 " said Fanny. " What does 
 she say ? " 
 
 As the girl spoke, some bird among the evergreens 
 uttered a shrill, plaintive cry, rather than song, — a 
 sound which the thrush occasionally makes in the win- 
 ter, and which seems to express something of fear and 
 pain and impatience. 
 
 " What does she say ? — can you tell me 1 " asked the 
 child. 
 
 " l*ooh ! that is a bird ; why do you call it your 
 sister ? " 
 
 " I don't know ! — because it is — because it — because 
 — I don't know — is it not in pain 1 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 I " 
 
 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 
 sister who had charge of Fanny was summoned into the 
 
 VOL. I. — 19
 
 290 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 parlor, 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 
 I steal out." 
 
 Morton went to her, as she struggled with the patient, 
 good-natured sister, and began to soothe and caress her, 
 till she turned on him her large humid eyes, and said, 
 mournfully, — 
 
 " Ta es mediant, tu. Poor Fanny! " 
 
 " 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, — tu es mechant. " 
 
 "But," said Morton, detaining her gently, "do you 
 know that you give him pain ? — you make him cry by 
 showing pain yourself. Don't make him so sad! " 
 
 The child seemed struck, hung down her head for a 
 moment, as if in thought, and then, jumping from 
 Morton's lap, ran to Gawtrey, put up her pouting lipa 
 and said, —
 
 NIGHT AND MOliNING. 291 
 
 " 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 loud. 
 
 " Is she not a little darling? " 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 you 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! 
 and 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. 
 
 "Ball! — such things are ! But tell me honestly, do 
 you think she is very strange, — very deficient? " 
 
 " I have not seen enough of her to judge," answered 
 INIorton, evasively. 
 
 "She is so changeful," persisted Gawtrey; "some- 
 times you would say that she was above her age, she
 
 292 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 he so. The doctors give me hope, too; you see 
 her poor mother aw.o very unhappy at the time of her 
 hirth, — delirious, indeed; that may account for it. I 
 often fancy that it is the constant excitement which her 
 state occasions me, that makes me love her so much; you 
 see she is one who can never shift for herself. I Tnust 
 get money for her; I have left a little already with the 
 superior, and I would not touch it to save myself from 
 famine! Tf she has money, people will he 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 hav- 
 ing lost the interview.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 293 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The cursed carle was at his wonted trade, 
 StiU 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 morning rose that was to i\nite 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 Ad^le 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 proceeding. 
 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 ejjtcier's expense, a 
 most tasteful entertainment. 
 
 " Sacre ! but you have not played the economist. 
 Monsieur Lofe," said Monsieur Goupille, rather queru- 
 lously, as he glanced at the long room adorned with 
 artificial flowers, and the table a cinquante converts. 
 
 " Bah, " replied Mr. Love, " you can retrench after- 
 wards. Think of the fortune she brought you. " 
 
 " It is a pretty sum, certainly," said Monsieur Goupille, 
 " and the notary is perfectly satisfied. "
 
 294 NIGtIT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Til ere is not a marriage in Paris that does me more 
 credit, " said Mr. Love ; and he marched off to receive 
 tlic compliments and congratulations that awaited him 
 among such of the gviests as were aware of his good 
 offices. The Vicomte de Vaudemont was of course not 
 present. He had not been near Mr. Love since Adele 
 had accepted the epicler. But Madame Beavor, in a 
 white bonnet lined with lilac, Avas hanging, sentimentally, 
 on the arm of the Pole, who looked very grand with his 
 white favor; 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 archpriest 
 of the Temple of Hymen was never more great than he 
 was that day; never did his establishment seem more 
 solid, his reputation more popular, or his fortune more 
 sure. He was the life of the party. 
 
 The bunrpiet 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 silk 
 stockings, opened the ball with the lady of a rich 
 jjutissier in the same Faubourg; Mr. Love took out the 
 bride. The evening advanced; and, after several other 
 dances of ceremony, Monsicixr Goupille conceived himself 
 entitled to dedicate one to connubial affection. A 
 country-dance was called, and the eplcier claimed the 
 fair hand of the gentle Adele. About this time two 
 persons, not hitherto perceived, had quietly entered the 
 room, and, standing near the doorway, seemed examining 
 the dancers, as if in search for some one. They bobbed 
 their heads up and down, to and fro, — now stooped, 
 now stood on tiptoe. The one was a tall, large-whiskered,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 295 
 
 fair-haired man; the other, a little, thin, neatly-dressed 
 person, who kept his hand on 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 dancers did not per- 
 ceive the strangers. The bystanders did, and a hum of 
 curiosity circled round ; who could they be ? — who had 
 invited them 1 — they 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 I have described abruptly 
 advanced from his companion, and cried, — 
 
 " La viola ! — sacre toiinerre ! " 
 
 At that voice, — at that apparition, the bride halted : 
 so suddenly, indeed, that she had not time to put doAvn 
 both feet, but remained with one high in the air, while 
 the other sustained itself on the light fantastic toe. The 
 company naturally imagined this to be an operatic flourish, 
 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 Avas 
 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. Higgins, again advanced to the
 
 296 NIGHT AND MOENING. 
 
 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 1 " 
 
 " 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 mi/ 
 money now, sir ! " 
 
 " Oho ! it is, is it ? we '11 soon see that. Approchez 
 done, Monsieur Favart, faites voire 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 gave way to the 
 right and left. For Monsieur Favart was one of the most 
 renowned chiefs of the great Parisian police, — a man 
 worthy to be the contemporary of the illustrious Vidocq. 
 
 " Calmez vous, messieurs ; do not be alarmed, ladies, " 
 said this gentleman, in the mildest of all human voices; 
 and certainly no oil dropped on the waters ever produced 
 so tranquillizing an effect as that small, feeble, gentle 
 tenor. The Pole in especial, who was holding the fair 
 bride with both his arms, shook all over, and seemed 
 about to let his burden gradually slide to the floor, when 
 Monsieur Favart, looking at him with a benevolent 
 smile, said, — 
 
 " Aha, mon brave ! c'est toi. Restez done. Restez, 
 tenant toujours la dame ! " ^ 
 
 The Pole, thus condemned in the French idiom, 
 " alvmys to hold the dame, " mechanically raised the 
 arras he had previously dejected, and the police-officer, 
 with an approving nod of the head, said, — 
 
 1 Approach then, Monsieur Favart, and do your duty. 
 
 2 Alia, my fine fellow! it's you. Stay, then. Stay, always 
 holding the dame.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 297 
 
 " Bon ! ne hoiigez point, c'est ga ! " ^ 
 
 Monsieur Goupille, in equal surprise and indignation 
 to see his better 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 
 l^avart, touching him on the breast with his little finger, 
 said in the suavest manner, — ■ 
 
 " Hon bourgeois, meddle not with what does not 
 concern you! " 
 
 "With what does not concern me!" repeated Mon- 
 sieur Goupille, drawing himself up to so great a stretch 
 that he seemed pulling off his tights the wrong way. 
 " Explain 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 just 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, 
 bending 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, — 
 
 " Speak ! Madame Bihl ! Are you my wife or not 1 " 
 
 " Monstre ! " murmured Adele, opening her eyes. 
 
 " There : j'^ou hear, — she owns me ! " said the Ger- 
 man, appealing to the company with a triumphant air. 
 
 " C^est vrai! " said the soft voice of the policeman. 
 " And now, pray don't let us disturb your amusements 
 any longer. We have a fiacre at the door. Remove 
 your lady, Monsieur Bihl." 
 
 1 Good ! don't stir, — that 's it.
 
 298 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " ]\ronsie\ir Lofe ! — Monsienr Lofe ! " cried, or rather 
 screeched, tlie epicier, dartiiiff across the room, and seiz- 
 ing the chef by the tail of his coat, just as he was half- 
 way through tlie door, "Come hack! Quelle niauvaise 
 plaisanterie me faites-vons ici ? ^ Did you not tell me 
 that lady was single 1 Am I married or not 1 Do I stand 
 on my head or my heels ? " 
 
 " Hush — hush ! mon bon honrgeois ! " whispered Mr. 
 Love, " all shall he explained to-morrow! " 
 
 " Wlio is this gentleman ? " asked Monsieur Favart, 
 approaching Mr. Love, who, seeing himself in for it, 
 suddenly jerked off the eplcier, thrust his hands down 
 into his breeclies-pockets, buried his chin in his cravat, 
 elevated his eyebrows, screwed in his eyes, and puffed 
 out his cheeks, so tliat the astonished Monsieur Goupille 
 really thought himself bewitched, and literally did not 
 recognize the face of the match-maker. 
 
 " Wlio is this gentleman 1 " repeated the little officer, 
 standing beside, or rather below, Mr. Love, and looking 
 80 diminutive by the contrast that you might have fancied 
 that the priest of Hymen had only to breathe to blow 
 him away. 
 
 " Wlio should he be, monsieur 1 " cried, with great pert- 
 ness, Madame Rosalie Caumartin, ceming to the relief 
 Avith the generosity of her sex. " This is Monsieur Ijofe, 
 — Anglais celehre. AVhat have you to say against 
 him ? " 
 
 " He has got five hundred francs of mine ! " cried the 
 epicier. 
 
 The policeman scanned Mr. Love with great attention. 
 " So you are in Paris again 1 Hein ! — voiis jouez 
 toujours voire role ! " "^ 
 
 ' What scurvy trick is this you 're playing me ? 
 2 You 're always actiug your part.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 299 
 
 " Ma foW said Mr. Love, boldly; "I don't undcr- 
 etand what monsieur means; my character is well 
 known : go and inquire it in London ; ask the Secretary 
 of Foreign Affairs what is said of me; inquire of my 
 Ambassador; demand of my — " 
 
 " Voire j)asseport, monsieur ? " 
 
 " It is at home. A gentleman does not carry his pass- 
 port in his pocket when he goes to a ball I " 
 
 " I will call and see it, — au revoir ! Take my advice 
 and leave Paris; I think I have seen you somewhere! " 
 
 " Yet I have never had the honor to marry monsieur ! " 
 said Mr. Love, Avith a polite bow. 
 
 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 word, 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 1 " 
 
 " So-vo-lofski, the heroic Pole, " cried Madame Beavor, 
 with sundry misgivings at the unexpected cowardice of 
 so great a patriot. 
 
 " Heiii! take care of yourselves, ladies. I have noth- 
 ing against that person this time. But Monsieur Latour 
 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 Gou- 
 pille, pathetically ; " the settlements are all made, — 
 the notaries all paid. I am sure there must be some 
 mistake. " 
 
 IVIonsieur Bihl, who had by this time restored his 
 lost Helen to her senses, stalked up to the epicier, drag- 
 ging the lady along with him.
 
 o 
 
 00 XIGIIT AND MORNING. 
 
 " 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 gargon, and has been 
 half over the world as a courier. " 
 
 " A courier! " exclaimed several voices, 
 
 " Madame was nursery -governess to an English milord. 
 They married and quarrelled, — no harm in that, mes amis; 
 nothing more common. Monsieur Bihl is a very faithful 
 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 service, 
 and fell ill, perhaps from idleness or beer. Is not that 
 the story. Monsieur Bihl 1 " 
 
 " 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 tovjours, vies amis, " said the officer, 
 bowing. And following Adele and her spouse, the 
 little man left the room, — where he had caused, in 
 chests so broad and limbs so doughty, much the same 
 consternation as that which some diminutive ferret occa- 
 sions in a burrow of rabbits twice his size. 
 
 Morton had outstayed Mr. Love. But he thought 
 it unnecessary to linger long after that gentleman's 
 departure; 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 
 packing up their effects. " Wliy, — when did you 
 leave ? " said Morton to Mr. Birnie.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 301 
 
 " I saw the policeman enter. " 
 
 " And wliy the deuce did not you tell us 1 " said 
 Gawtrey. 
 
 " Every man for himself. Besides, Mr. Love was danc- 
 ing, " replied Mr. Birnie, with a dull glance of disdain. 
 
 " 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 I did 
 it well. Ecod! if he had not given me that look, I 
 think I should have turned the tahles 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 
 asif— " 
 
 " My young friend, " interrupted Gawtrey, " whether 
 the officer comes after us or not, our trade is ruined: 
 that infernal Adele, with her fabulous grnndmaDian, 
 has done for us. Goupille will blow the temple about 
 our ears. iSI^o help for it, — eh, Birnie ? " 
 
 "None." 
 
 " Go to bed, Philip ; we'll call thee at daybreak, for 
 we must make clear work before our neighbors open their 
 shutters. " 
 
 Reclined, but half undressed, on his bed in the 
 little cabinet, Morton 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 
 recollection as appertaming to the incognita, greatly 
 indisposed him towards the abrupt flight intended by 
 Gawtrey, while (so much had his faith in that person 
 depended upon respect for his confident daring, and so
 
 302 NIGHT AND MOCNIXG. 
 
 thoroughly fearless .was Morton's own nature) he felt 
 himself greatly shaken in his allegiance to the chief, by 
 recollecting the effect produced on his valor by a single 
 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 sheriff's writ often is to a Water- 
 loo 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 forefinger. That, in 
 short, the thing called law, once made tangible and 
 present, rarel}?^ 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 one 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. He 
 started up, and, in the confusion of waking and the 
 imperfect light by which he belield the strong features 
 of Gawtrey, 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? I have a word 
 to say to you." Here Gawtrey, placing the candle on a 
 chair, returned to the door and closed it.
 
 NIGHT AND MOUNING. 303 
 
 ** Look you, " he said in a whisper, " I have nearly run 
 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 disguise and 
 every double will not long avail. I dare not return to 
 London; I am too well known in Brussels, 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 ? " 
 
 " Why, " repeated Gawtrey, with a slight hesitation, 
 which he instantly overcame, — "why! have not you 
 yourself learned that appearances have the efi"ect of 
 crimes ? — were you not cliased as a thief when I rescued 
 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 ] And how can you put these austere questions to 
 me, who am growing gray in the endeavor to extract 
 sunbeams from cucumbers, — subsistence from poverty? 
 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 .'^•avings are less than you might expect; 
 to be sure, Birnie has been treasurer, and I have laid by 
 a little for Fanny, which I will rather starve than 
 touch. There remain, however, 150 napoleons, and oui 
 effects, sold at a fourth their value, will fetch 150 more. 
 Here is your share. I have compassion 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 j
 
 304 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 perhaps Gawtrey had : and such is the human heart, that 
 instead of welcoming the very release he had half con- 
 templated, now that it was offered him, Philip shrunk 
 from it as a base desertion. 
 
 " Poor Gawtrey ! " said he, pushing back the canvas 
 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. Portime 
 has given you a fall. What then, courage, and at her 
 again ! " 
 
 These last words were said so heartily and cheerfully 
 as Morton sprang from the bed, that they inspirited 
 Gawtrey, 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 
 associates bade adieu to the bureau. 
 
 Birnie, who was taciturn and impenetrable 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, con- 
 ducted 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
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 305 
 
 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 cajjital hand at an omelet ! " 
 
 The serrurier 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 bargam 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, 
 examined with great attention, and many exclamations 
 of " Bon, c'est ga. " 
 
 " I have done well with the Jew, " said Birnie, draAV- 
 ing from his coat-pocket two heavy bags, " one hundred 
 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 res- 
 taurayit in the neighborhood, and the three adven- 
 turers made a less Socratic dinner than might have 
 been expected. 
 
 VOL. I. — 20
 
 306 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Then out again he flies to wing his mazy round. 
 
 Thomson's 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." 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 The adventurers arrived at Tours, and established them- 
 selves there in a lodging, without any incident worth 
 narrating by the way. 
 
 At Tours, Morton had nothing to do hut take his 
 pleasure and enjoy himself. He passed for a young 
 heir; Gawtrey for his tutor, — a doctor in divinity; 
 Birnie for his valet. The task of maintenance fell on 
 Gawtrey, 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 
 science 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 honor (an 
 asseveration which Morton, at least, implicitly believed), 
 and no proof to the contrary Avas 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 prudent 
 to extend their travels.
 
 NIGHT AND MOltNING. 307 
 
 "Ah! " said Mr. Gawtrey, "the world nowadays has 
 grown so ostentatious, that one cannot travel advanta- 
 geously without a post-chariot and four horses." At 
 length they found themselves at Milan, which at that 
 time was one of the El 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 com- 
 pany; the bourgeoisie, industrious and energetic, pre- 
 served much of the old Lombard shrewdness; there 
 were no tables d'hote and public reunions. Gawtrey 
 saw his little capital daily diminishing, with the Alps 
 at the rear, and poverty in the van. At length, always 
 on the qui vive, he contrived to make acquaintance with 
 a Scotch family of great respectability. He effected 
 this by picking up a snufif-box 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 Modern Athens, and the tricks prac- 
 tised upon travellers, that he was presented to Mrs. 
 Macgregor ; cards were interchanged; and, as Mr. Gawtrey 
 lived in tolerable style, the Macgregors pronounced him 
 "a vara genteel mon." Once in the house of a respect- 
 able person, Gawtrey contrived to turn himself round 
 and round, till he burrowed a hole into the English 
 circle then settled in 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- 
 natured, and who put many questions to Morton which 
 he found it difficult to answer. One of the whist-tables
 
 308 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 was now in a state of revolution, — namely, a lady had 
 cut out, and a gentleman cut in, when the door opened, 
 and Lord Lilburnc 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 sometimes 1 " 
 
 " Very seldom, now; I have sown all my Avild oats, 
 and even the ace of spades can scarcely dig them out 
 again. " 
 
 " Ha! ha! vara gude." 
 
 " I will look on ; " and Lord Lilburne drew his chair 
 to the table, exactly opposite to Mr. Gawtrey. 
 
 The old gentleman turned to Philip. 
 
 " An extraordinary man, — Lord Lilburne; you have 
 heard of him, of course 1 " 
 
 " No, indeed; what of him? " asked the young man, 
 rousing himself. 
 
 " What of him 1 " 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 
 Lilburne, — a man of eminent talent, though 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 pol- 
 itics if he would. He has a very high reputation, — 
 very. People do say he is still fond of pleasure, but 
 that is a common failing amongst the aristocracy. 
 Morality is only found in the middle classes, young
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 309 
 
 gentleman. It is a lucky family, that of Lilburne; his 
 sister, Mrs. Beaufort — " 
 
 "]?eaufort!" exclaimed Morton, and then muttered 
 to himself, " Ah, true, — true, 1 have heard the name of 
 Lilburne before." 
 
 "Do you know the Beauforts? 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 pertur- 
 bation 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 smile, "That the 
 heat of the room overcame him." As he rose, Lord 
 Lilburne rose also, and the eyes of both met, — those of 
 Lilburne were calm, but penetrating and inquisitive in 
 their gaze ; those of Gawtrey were like balls of fire. 
 He seemed gradually to dilate in his height, his broad 
 chest expanded, he breathed hard. 
 
 " Ah, Doctor," said Mr. Macgregor, " let me introduce 
 you to Lord Lilburne." 
 
 The peer bowed haughtily; Mr. Gawtrey did not 
 return 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. Lilburne, however, who had never lost 
 his self-composure at this strange rudeness, was now 
 quietly talking with their host. 
 
 " Your Doctor seems an eccentric man : a little
 
 310 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 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 till the party broke up, Mr. 
 Gawtrey apparently wishing to outstay Lord Lilburne; 
 for, when the last went downstairs, 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 
 eye, paused a moment, and Avhispered over his 
 shoulder, — 
 
 " So we remember each other, sir ? Let us not meet 
 again; and, on that condition, bygones are bygones." 
 
 " Scoundrel! " muttered Gawtrey, clenching his fists; 
 but the peer had sprung into his carriage with a light- 
 ness 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 excite- 
 ment; at length he turned to his companion : — 
 
 " Do you guess who Lord Lilburne is ? I will 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 
 o^vn 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
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 311 
 
 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, courted, 
 great, marching through 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, 
 skulking through tricks to avoid crime, — why the dif- 
 ference ? Because one is born rich and the other poor, 
 — because he has no excuse for crime, and therefore no 
 one suspects him! " 
 
 The wretched man (for at that moment he was 
 wretched) paused breathless from his 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 
 honored as a saint; he who knelt to God by the road- 
 side under a hedge, would be sent to the house of cor- 
 rection as a vagabond ! The difference between man and 
 man is money, and will be, when you, the despised 
 charlatnn, and Lilburne, the honored cheat, have not 
 left as much dust behind you as will fill a snuff-box. 
 Comfort yourself, you are in the majority."
 
 312 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A desert wild 
 Before them stretched bare, comfortless, and vast. 
 With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled. 
 
 Thomson's 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 
 politely, but cross to the other side of the way. No 
 more invitations to tea and cards showered in upon the 
 jolly parson. He was puzzled, for people, while they 
 slmnned 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 rumor 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. Again 
 the funds began to sink low in the canvas bags, and at 
 length, in despair, Mr. Gawtrey was obliged to quit the 
 field. They returned to France through Switzerland, — 
 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
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 313 
 
 allured him the more, — as the candle does the moth 
 whose wings it has singed. Birnie, who, in all their 
 vicissitudes and wanderings, their ups and downs, 
 retained the same tacit, immovable demeanor, received 
 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 tlien cast ? " 
 
 " What does he mean ? " said Morton. 
 
 "You will know soon," replied Gawtrey, and he fol- 
 lowed Birnie; and from that time the whispered confer- 
 ences 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 whole city looked gay with its loiter- 
 ing 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 
 fatigue; he walked with a long, swinging, noiseless 
 stride, looking to the right and left from the corners of 
 his eyes. Of the tAvo who followed, one was handsome 
 and finely formed, but of swarthy complexion, young, 
 yet with a look of care; the other, of 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 ! " 
 
 " Pooh ! you were equally despondent on our excur- 
 sions elsewhere. "
 
 314 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Because I was always thinking of poor Fanny, and 
 because — because — Birnie was ever at me with his 
 horrible temptations!" 
 
 " Birnie ! I loathe the man. Will you never get rid 
 of him 1 " 
 
 "I cannot! Hush! he will hear us! How unlucky 
 we have been ! and now without a sou in our pockets : 
 here the dunghill, — there the jail! We are in his 
 power at last ! " 
 
 " His power! what mean you? " 
 
 "What ho! Birnie!" cried Gawtrey, unheeding 
 Morton'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'Sf 
 — he will trust us ! "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 315 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Gaunt Beggary and Scorn with many hell-hounds more. 
 
 Thomson's Castle o/ Indolence, 
 
 The other was a fell, despiteful fiend. — Ibid. 
 
 Your happiness behold ! then straight a wand 
 He waved, an anti-magic power that hath 
 Truth from illu.sive falsehood to command. 
 
 Ib!d. 
 But what for us, the cliildren of despair, 
 
 Brouglit to the brink of heU, — what hope remains ? 
 Resolve, Resolve ! 
 
 Ihid. 
 
 It may be observed that there are certain years in which, 
 in a civilized country, some particular crime comes into 
 vogue. It flares its season, and then burns out. Thus 
 at one time we have Burking, — at another, Swingism ; 
 now, suicide is in vogue; now, poisoning tradespeople 
 in apple-dumplings; now, little boys stab each other 
 with penknives; now, common soldiers shoot at their 
 sergeants. Almost every year there is one crime peculiar 
 to it, — a sort of annual which overruns the country , but 
 does not bloom again. Unquestionably the press has a 
 great deal to do with these epidemics. Let a news- 
 paper once give an account of some out-of-the-way atrocity 
 that has the charm of being novel, and certain depraved 
 minds fasten to it like leeches. They brood over and 
 revolve it, — the idea grows up, a horrid phantasmalian 
 monomania ; ^ and all of a sudden, in a hundred different 
 
 1 An old Spanish writer, treating of the Inquisition, has some 
 very striking remarks on the kind of madness which, whenever 
 some terrible notoriety is given to a particular offence, leads per-
 
 316 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 places, the one seed sown by the leaden types springs up 
 into foul flowering. But if the first reported aboriginal 
 crime has been attended with impunity, how much more 
 does the imitative faculty cling to it! Ill-judged mercy 
 falls, not like dew, but like a great heap of manure, 
 on the rank deed. 
 
 Xow it happened that at the time I write of, or rather 
 a little before, there had been detected and tried in 
 Paris a most redoubted coiner. He had carried on the 
 business with a dexterity that won admiration even for 
 the offence; and, moreover, he had served previously 
 ■with some distinction at Austerlitz and Marengo. The 
 consequence was that the public went with instead of 
 against him, and his sentence was transmuted to three 
 years' imprisonment by the government ; for all govern- 
 ments in free countries aspire rather to be popular than 
 just. 
 
 Xo sooner was this case reported in the journals, — and 
 even the gravest took notice of it, which is not com- 
 mon with the scholastic journals of France, — no sooner 
 did it make a stir and a sensation, and cover the criminal 
 with celebrity, than the result became noticeable in a very 
 large issue of false money. 
 
 Coining, in the year I now write of, was the fashion- 
 able crime. The police were roused into full vigor: it 
 became known to them that there was one gang in especial 
 who cultivated this art with singular success. Their 
 coinage was, indeed, so good, so superior to all their 
 rivals, that it was often unconsciously preferred by the 
 
 Bons of distempered fancy to accuse themselves of it. He observes 
 that when the cruelties of the Inquisition against the imaginary 
 crime of sorcery were the most barbarous, this singular frenzy led 
 numbers to accuse tliemselves of sorcery 'ihe publication and 
 celebrity of the crime begat the desire of the crime.
 
 NIGHT AND MOUNING. 317 
 
 public to the real mintage. At the same time they car- 
 ried on their calling with such secrecy that they utterly 
 baffled discovery. 
 
 An immense reward was offered by the bureaxi to any 
 one who would betray his accomplices, and Monsieur 
 Favart was placed at the head of a commission of inquiry. 
 This person had himself been a faux vionnoyer, and 
 was an adept in the art, and it was he who had discovered 
 the redoubted coiner who had brought the crime into 
 such notoriety. Monsieur Favart was a man of the most 
 vigilant acuteness, the most indefatigable research, and of 
 a courage which, perhaps, is more common than we sup- 
 pose. It is a popular error to suppose that courage 
 means courage in everything. Put a hero on board ship 
 at a five-barred gate, and if he is not used to hunting 
 he Avill tvirn pale. Put a fox-hunter on one of the Swiss 
 chasms, over which the mountameer springs like a roe, 
 and his knees will knock under him. People are brave 
 in the dangers to which they accustom themselves, either 
 in imagination or practice. 
 
 Monsieur Favart, then, was a man of the most daring 
 bravery in facing rogues and cutthroats. He awed them 
 with his very eye ; yet he had been known to have been 
 kicked downstairs by his wife, and when he was drawn 
 into the grand army, he deserted the eve of his first battle. 
 Such, as moralists say, is the inconsistency of man! 
 
 But Monsieur Favart was sworn to trace the coiners, 
 and he had never failed yet in any enterprise he under- 
 took. One day he presented himself to his chief with a 
 countenance so elated, that that penetrating functionary 
 said to him at once, — 
 
 " You have heard of our messieurs ! " 
 
 " I have : I am to visit them to-night. " 
 
 " Bravo ! How many men will you take ? "
 
 318 NIGHT AND xMORNING. 
 
 " From twelve to twenty to leave without on guard. 
 But I must enter alone. Such is the condition : an accom- 
 plice who fears his own throat too much to be openly 
 a betrayer, will introduce me to the house, — nay, to 
 the very room. By his description, it is necessary I 
 should know the exact locale in order to cut olf retreat; 
 so to-morrow night I shall surround the beehive and take 
 the honey." 
 
 " They are desperate fellows, these coiners, always ; 
 better be cautious." 
 
 " You forget, I was one of them, and know the 
 masonry." 
 
 About the same time this conversation was going on 
 at the bureau of the police, in another part of the town 
 Morton and Gawtrey were seated alone. It is some 
 weeks since they entered Paris, and spring has mellowed 
 into summer. The house in which they lodged was in 
 the lordly quartier of the Faubourg St. Germain; the 
 neighboring streets were venerable with the ancient edi- 
 fices of a fallen noblesse, — but their tenement was in a 
 narrow, dingy lane, and the building itself seemed beg- 
 garly and ruinous. The apartment was in an attic on 
 the sixth story, and the window, placed at the back of 
 the lane, looked upon another row of houses of a better 
 description, that communicated with one of the great 
 streets of the quartier. The space betAveen their abode 
 and their opposite neighbors was so narrow that the sun 
 could scarcely pierce between. In the height of summer 
 might be found there a perpetual shade. 
 
 The pair were seated by the window. Gawtrey, well- 
 dressed, sraootli-shaven, as in his palmy time; Morton, 
 in the same garments with which he had entered Paris, 
 weather-stained and ragged. Looking towards the case- 
 ments of the attic in the opposite house, Gawtrey said,
 
 KIGHT AND MOKNING. 319 
 
 mutteringly, " I wonder where Birnie has been, and why 
 he is not returned : I grow suspicious of that man. " 
 
 " Suspicious of what ? " asked IMorton. " Of his 
 honesty ? Would he rob you ? " 
 
 "Rob me! Humpli, — perhaps! But you see I am 
 in Paris, in spite of the hints of the police; he may 
 denounce me." 
 
 " Why then suffer him to lodge away from you 1 " 
 
 " Why ? because by having separate houses there are 
 two channels of escape. A dark night, and a ladder 
 thrown across from window to window, he is with us, or 
 we with him." 
 
 " But wherefore such precautions ? You blind, you 
 deceive me ; what have you done 1 — what is your em- 
 ployment now? You are mute. Hark you, Gawtrey! 
 I have pinned my fate to you, — I am fallen from hope 
 itself. At times it almost makes me mad to look back, 
 — and yet you do not trust me. Since your return to 
 Paris you are absent whole nights, — often days; you 
 are moody and thoughtful, — yet, whatever your busi- 
 ness, it seems to bring you ample returns." 
 
 " You think that, " said Gawtrey, mildly, and with a 
 sort of pity in his voice, " yet you refuse to take even 
 the money to change those rags." 
 
 " Because I know not how the money was gained. 
 Ah ! G awtrey, I am not too proud for charity ; but I am 
 for — " 
 
 He checked the word uppermost in his thoughts, and 
 resumed, — 
 
 " Yes ; your occupations seem lucrative. It was but 
 yesterday Birnie gave me fifty napoleons, for which he 
 said you wished change in silver. " 
 
 " Did he 1 The ras — Well ! and you got change for 
 them?"
 
 320 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " I know not why, but I refused," 
 
 " Tliat Avas riglit, Philip. Do nothing that man tells 
 
 you." 
 
 " Will you then trust me ? You are engaged in some 
 horrible traffic ! it may be blood ! I am no longer a boy : 
 I have a will of my own; I will not be silently and 
 blindly entrapped to perdition. If I march thither, it 
 shall be with my own consent. Trust me, and this day, 
 or we part to-morrow. " 
 
 " Be ruled. Some secrets it is better not to know. " 
 
 " It matters not ! I have come to my decision : I ask 
 yours. " 
 
 Gawtrey paused for some moments in deep thought. 
 At last he lifted his eyes to Philip, and replied, — 
 
 " Well , then, if it must be. Sooner or later it must 
 have been so, and I want a confidant. You are bold, 
 and will not shrink. You desire to know my occupa- 
 tion, — will you witness it to-night? " 
 
 " I am prepared : to-night ! " 
 
 Here a step was heard on the stairs, a knock at the 
 door, and Birnie entered. 
 
 He drew aside Gawtrey, and whispered him, as usual, 
 for some moments. 
 
 Gawtrey nodded his head, and then said aloud, — 
 
 " To-morrow we shall talk without reserve before my 
 young friend. To-night he joins us. " 
 
 " To-night ! — very well ! " said Birnie, with his cold 
 sneer. " He must take the oath ; and you, with your 
 life, will be responsible for his honesty ? " 
 
 " Ay ! it is the rule. " 
 
 " Good-by, then, till we meet, " said Birnie, and 
 withdrew. 
 
 " I wonder, " said Gawtrey, musingly, and between his 
 grinded teeth, " whether I shall ever have a good fair
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 321 
 
 shot at that fellow 1 Ho ! ho ! " and his laugh shook the 
 walls. 
 
 Morton looked hard at Gawtrey, as the latter now sunk 
 down in his chair, and gazed with a vacant stare, that 
 seemed almost to partake of imbecility, upon the oppo- 
 site wall. The careless, reckless, jovial expression 
 which usually characterized the features of the man had 
 for some weeks given place to a restless, anxious, and, 
 at times, ferocious aspect; like the beast that first finds 
 a sport while the hounds are yet afar, and his limbs are 
 yet strong, in the chase which marks him for his victim, 
 but grows desperate with rage and fear as the day nears 
 its close, and the death-dogs pant hard upon his track: 
 but at that moment, the strong features, with their 
 gnarled muscle and iron sinews, seemed to have lost 
 every sign both of passion and the will, and to be locked 
 in a stolid and dull repose. At last he looked up at 
 Morton, and said, with a smile, like that of an old man 
 in his dotage, — 
 
 " I 'm thinking that my life has been one mistake. I 
 had talents, — you would not fancy it ; but once I was 
 neither a fool nor a villain ! Odd, is n't it 1 Just reach 
 me the brandy." 
 
 But Morton, with a slight shudder, turned and left 
 the room. 
 
 He walked on mechanically, and gained, at last, the 
 superb quai that borders the Seine: there, the passen- 
 gers became more frequent; gay equipages rolled along; 
 the white and lofty mansions looked fair and stately in 
 the clear, blue sky of early summer ; beside him flowed the 
 sparkling river, animated with the painted baths that 
 floated on its surface. Earth was merry and heaven 
 serene; his heart was dark through all. Night within, — 
 Morning beautiful without! At last he paused by that 
 
 VOL. I. — 21
 
 322 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 bridge, stately with the statues of those whom the 
 caprice of time lionors with a name ; for though Zeus and 
 his gods be overthrown, while earth exists will live the 
 worship of dead men : the bridge by which you pass from 
 the royal Tuileries, or the luxurious streets beyond the 
 Kue de Eivoli, to the Senate of the emancipated people, 
 and the gloomy and desolate grandeur of the Faubourg 
 St. Germain, in whose venerable haunts the impover- 
 ished descendants of the old feudal tyrants, whom the 
 birth of the Senate overthrew, yet congregate, — the 
 ghosts of departed powers proud of the shadows of great 
 names. As the English outcast paused midway on the 
 bridge, and for the first time lifting his head from his 
 bosom, gazed around, there broke at once on his remem- 
 brance that terrible and fatal evening when, hopeless, 
 friendless, desperate, he had begged for charity of his 
 uncle's hireling, with all the feelings that then (so imper- 
 fectly and lightly touched on in his brief narrative to 
 Gawtrey) had raged and blackened in his breast, urging 
 to the resolution he had adopted, casting him on the 
 ominous friendship of the man whose guidance he even 
 then had suspected and distrusted. The spot in either 
 city had had a certain similitude and correspondence each 
 with each: at the first, he had consummated his despair 
 of human destinies; he had dared to forget the Provi- 
 dence of God; he had arrogated his fate to himself, — by 
 the first bridge he had taken his resolve ; by the last he 
 stood in awe at the result ! — stood no less poor, no less 
 abject, equally in rags and squalor; but was his crest 
 as haughty and his eye as fearless, for was his conscience 
 as free and his honor as unstained? Those arches of 
 stone, those rivers that rolled between, seemed to him 
 then to take a more mystic and typical sense than belongs 
 to the outer world, — they were the bridges to the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 323 
 
 rivers of his life. Plunged in thoughts so confused and 
 dim that he could scarcely distinguish, through the chaos, 
 the one streak of light which, perhaps, heralded the recon- 
 struction or regeneration of the elements of his soul ; two 
 passengers halted, also, by his side. 
 
 " You will be late for the debate," said one of them 
 to the other. " Why do you stop ? " 
 
 " My friend," said the other, " I never pass this spot 
 without recalling the time when I stood here without a 
 sou, or, as I thought, a chance of one, and impiously 
 meditated self-destruction. " 
 
 " You/ — now so rich, so fortunate in repute and 
 station ! — is it possible ? How was it ? A lucky 
 chance, a sudden legacy 1 " 
 
 "No; time, faith, and energy, — the three friends 
 God has given to the poor! " 
 
 The men moved on; but Morton, who had turned his 
 face towards them, fancied that the last speaker fixed on 
 him his bright, cheerful eye, with a meaning look; and 
 when the man was gone, he repeated those words, and 
 hailed them in his heart of hearts as an augury from 
 above. 
 
 Quickly then, and as if by magic, the former confu- 
 sion of his mind seemed to settle into distinct shapes of 
 courage and resolve. "Yes," he muttered; "I will 
 keep this night's appointment, — I will learn the secret 
 of these men's life. In my inexperience and destitution, 
 I have suffered myself to be led hitherto into a partner- 
 ship, if not with vice and crime, at least with subterfuge 
 and trick. I awake from my reckless boyhood, — my 
 unworthy palterings with my better self. If Gawtrey 
 be as I dread to find him, if he be linked in some 
 guilty and hateful traffic with that loathsome accom- 
 plice, I will — " He paused, for his heart whispered,
 
 324 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Well, and even so, — the guilty man clotlied and fed 
 thee!" "I will," resumed his thought, in answer to 
 his heart, — "I will go on my knees to him to fly 
 while there is yet time, to work, beg, starve, perish 
 even, rather than lose the right to look man in the 
 face without a blush, and kneel to his God without 
 remorse ! " 
 
 And as he thus ended, he felt suddenly as if he him- 
 self were restored to the perception and the joy of the 
 nature and the world around him ; the night had van- 
 ished from his soul, — he inhaled the balm and fresh- 
 ness of the air; he comprehended the delight which the 
 liberal June Avas scattering over the earth ; he looked 
 above, and his eyes were suffused with pleasure at the 
 smile of the soft, blue skies. The morning became, as 
 it were, a part of his own being; and he felt that as the 
 world in spite of the storms is fair, so in spite of evil 
 God is good. He walked on; he passed the bridge, 
 but liis step was no more the same, — he forgot his rags. 
 Why should he be ashamed ? And thus, in the very 
 flush of this new and strange elation and elasticity of 
 spirit, he came unawares upon a group of young men, 
 lounging before the porch of one of the chief hotels in 
 that splendid Eue de Rivoli, wherein wealth and the 
 English have made their homes. A groom, mounted, 
 was leading another horse up and down the road, and 
 the young men were making their comments of approba- 
 tion upon both the horses, especially the one led, which 
 was, indeed, of uncommon beauty and great value. 
 Even Morton, in whom the boyish passion of his earlier 
 life yet existed, paused to turn his experienced and 
 admiring eye upon the stately shape and pace of the 
 noble animal, and as he did so, a name too well remem- 
 bered came upon his ear.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 325 
 
 "Certainly, Arthur Beaufort is the most enviable 
 fellow in Europe ! " 
 
 "Why, yes," said another of the young men; "he 
 has plenty of money, is good-looking, devilish good- 
 natured, clever, and spends like a prince." 
 " Has the best horses! " 
 " The best luck at roulette ! " 
 " The prettiest girls in love with him ! " 
 " And no one enjoys life more. Ah! here he is! " 
 The group parted as a light, graceful figure came out 
 of a jeweller's shop that adjoined the hotel, and halted 
 gayly amongst the loungers. jVlorton's first impulse 
 was to hurry from the spot; his second impulse arrested 
 his step, and, a little apart, and half-hid beneath one of 
 the arches of the colonnade which adorns the street, the 
 outcast gazed upon the heir. There was no comparison 
 in the natural personal advantages of the two young men ; 
 for Philip Morton, despite all the hardships of his 
 rough career, had now grown \;p and ripened into a rare 
 perfection of form and feature. His broad chest, his 
 erect air, his lithe and symmetrical length of limb, 
 united, happily, the attributes of activity and strength; 
 and though there was no delicacy of youthful bloom upon 
 his dark cheek, and though lines which should have 
 come later marred its smoothness with the signs of care 
 and thought, yet an expression of intelligence and 
 daring, equally beyond his years, and the evidence of 
 hardy, abstemious, vigorous health, served to show to 
 the full advantage the outline of features which, noble 
 and regular, though stern and masculine, the artist might 
 have borrowed for his ideal of a young Spartan arming 
 for his first battle. Arthur, slight to feebleness, and 
 with the paleness, partly of constitution, partly of gay 
 excess, on his fair and clear complexion, had features far
 
 326 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 less symmetricnl and impressive than his cousin: hut 
 wliat then 1 All tliat are hestowod by elegance of dress, 
 the refinements of luxurious habit, the nameless grace 
 that comes from a mind and a manner polished, — the 
 one by literary culture, the other by social intercourse, — 
 invested the person of the heir with a fascination that 
 rude nature alone ever fails to give. And about him 
 there was a gayety, an airiness of spirit, an atmosphere of 
 enjoyment, which bespoke one who is in love with life. 
 
 " Why, this is lucky! I 'm so glad to see you all! " 
 said Arthur Beai;fort, with that silver-ringing tone, 
 and charming smile, which are to the liappy spring of 
 man what its music and its sunshine are to the spring of 
 earth. " You must dine with me at Verey's. I want 
 something to rouse me to-day; for I did not get home 
 from the Salon ^ till four this morning." 
 
 " But you won 1 " 
 
 " Yes, Marsden. Hang it! I always win, — I who 
 could so well afford to lose; I'm quite ashamed of my 
 luck!" 
 
 "It is easy to spend what one wins," observed Mr. 
 ]\larsden, sententiously ; " and I see you have been at the 
 jeweller's! A present for Cecile? Well, don't blush, 
 my dear fellow. What is life without women? " 
 
 " And wine 1 " said a second. 
 
 " And play ? " said a third. 
 
 " And wealth? " said a fourth. 
 
 "And you enjoy them all! Happy fellow!" said a 
 fifth. 
 
 The outcast pulled his hat over his brows, and walked 
 away. 
 
 1 The mofit celebrated gaming-house in Paris in the day before 
 gaming-houses were suppressed by the well-directed energy of the 
 government.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 327 
 
 "This dear Paris! " said Beaufort, as his eye care- 
 lessly and unconsciously followed the dark form 
 retreating through the arches, — "this dear Paris! I 
 must make the most of it while I stay! I have only 
 been here a few weeks, and next week I must go." 
 
 "Pooh! — your health is better: you don't look like 
 the same man." 
 
 "You think so, really? Still I don't know: the 
 doctors say that I must either go to the German waters, 
 — the season is begun, — or — " 
 
 "Or what?" 
 
 "Live less with such pleasant companions, my dear 
 fellow! But as you say, what is life without — " 
 
 "Women!" 
 
 "Wine!" 
 
 « Play ! " 
 
 " Wealth ! " 
 
 "Ha! ha! * Throw physic to the dogs: I '11 none of 
 it! ' " 
 
 And Arthur leaped lightly on his saddle, and as he 
 rode gayly on, humming the favorite air of the last 
 opera, the hoofs of his horse splashed the mud over a 
 foot-passenger halting at the crossing. Morton checked 
 the fiery exclamation rising to his lips; and gazing after 
 the brilliant form that hurried on towards the Champs 
 Elysees, his eye caught the statues on the bridge, and 
 a voice, as of a cheering angel, whispered again to his 
 heart, "time, faith, energy!" 
 
 The expression of his countenance grew calm at once, 
 and, as he continued his rambles, it was with a mind 
 that, casting off the burdens of the past, looked serenely 
 and steadily on the obstacles and hardships of the future. 
 We have seen that a scruple of conscience, or of pride, not 
 without its nobleness, had made him refuse the impor-
 
 328 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 tunities of Gawtrey for less sordid raiment; the saire 
 feeling made it his custom to avoid sharing the luxurious 
 and dainty food Avith which Gawtrey was wont to regale 
 himself. For that strange man, whose wonderful felicity 
 of temperament and constitution rendered him, in all 
 circumstances, keenly alive to the hearty and animal 
 enjoyments of life, would still emerge, as the day 
 declined, from their wretched apartment, and, trusting 
 to his disguises, in which indeed he possessed a masterly 
 art, repair to one of the better description of restaurants 
 and feast away his cares for the moment. William 
 Gawtrey would not have cared three straws for the curse 
 of Damocles. The sword over his head would never 
 have spoiled his appetite! He had lately, too, taken to 
 drinking much more deeply than he had been used to do, 
 — the fine intellect of the man was growing thickened 
 and dulled ; and this was a spectacle that Morton could 
 not bear to contemplate. Yet so great was Gawtrey's 
 vigor of health, that, after draining wine and spirits 
 enough to have despatched a company of fox-hunters, 
 and after betraying, sometimes in uproarious glee, some- 
 times in maudlin self-bewailings, that he himself was 
 not quite invulnerable to the thyrsus of the god, he 
 would — on any call on his energies, or especially before 
 departing on those mysterious expeditions which kept 
 him from home half, and sometimes all the night — 
 plunge his head into cold water, drink as much of the 
 lymph as a groom would have shuddered to bestow on a 
 horse, close his eyes in a doze for half an hour, and wake, 
 cool, sober, and collected, as if he had lived according to 
 the precepts of Socrates or Cornaro! 
 
 But to return to Morton. It was his habit to avoid 
 as much as possible sharing the good cheer of his com- 
 panion; and now, as he entered the Champs Elysees, he
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 329 
 
 saw a little family, consisting of a young mechanic, Lis 
 wife, and two children, who with that love of harmless 
 recreation which yet characterizes the French, had taken 
 advantage of a holiday in the craft, and were enjoying 
 their simple meal under the shadow of the trees. 
 Whether in hunger or in envy , Morton paused and con- 
 templated the happy group. Along the road rolled the 
 equipages and trampled the steeds of those to whom all 
 life is a holiday. T/iere, was pleasure, — under those 
 trees was happiness. One of the children, a little boy 
 of about six years old, observing the attitude and gaze 
 of the pausing wayfarer, ran to him, and holding up a 
 fragment of a coarse kind of cake, said to him winningly, 
 "Take it, — I have had enough! " The child reminded 
 Morton of his brother: his heart melted within him, — 
 he lifted the young Samaritan in his arms, and, as he 
 kissed him, wept. 
 
 The mother observed and rose also. She laid her 
 hand on his own, "Poor boy! why do you weep? — can 
 we relieve you? " 
 
 Now that bright gleam of human nature, suddenly 
 darting across the sombre recollections and associations 
 of his past life, seemed to Morton as if it came from 
 Heaven, in approval and in blessing of this attempt at 
 reconciliation to his fate. 
 
 " I thank you," said he, placing the child on the 
 ground, and passing his baud over his eyes, — "I thank 
 you, — yes! Let me sit down amongst you." And he 
 sat down, the child by his side, and partook of their 
 fare, and was merry with them, — the proud Philip! 
 Had he not begun to discover the " precious jewel " in 
 the " ugly and venomous " adversity 1 
 
 The mechanic, though a gay fellow on the whole, was 
 not without some of that discontent of his station which
 
 330 NIGHT AND MOIINING. 
 
 is common with his class; he vented it, however, not in 
 niurnuirs, but in jests. He was satirical on the carriages 
 and the horsemen that passed, and, lolling on the grass, 
 ridiculed his betters at his ease. 
 
 "Hush! " said his wife, suddenly; "here comes 
 Madame de ]\Ierville ; " and rising as she spoke, she 
 made a respectful inclination of her head towards an 
 open carriage that was passing very slowly towards the 
 town. 
 
 "Madame de Merville! " repeated the husband, rising 
 also, and lifting his cap from his head. "Ah! I have 
 nothing to say against her ! " 
 
 Morton looked instinctively towards the carriage, and 
 saw a fair countenance turned graciously to ansM'er the 
 silent salutations of the mechanic and his wife, — a coiin- 
 tenance that had long haunted his dreams, though of late 
 it had faded away beneath harsher thoughts, the coun- 
 tenance of the stranger whom he had seen at the bureau 
 of Gawtrey, when that worthy personage had borne a 
 more mellifluous name. He started and changed color: 
 the lady herself now seemed suddenly to recognize him ; 
 for their eyes met, and she bent forward eagerly. She 
 pulled the check-string: the carriage halted, — she beck- 
 oned to the mechanic's wife, who went up to the 
 road-side. 
 
 " I worked once for that lady," said the man, with a 
 tone of feeling; " and when my wife fell ill last winter 
 she paid the doctors. Ah, she is an angel of charity 
 and kindness! " 
 
 Morton scarcely heard this eulogium ; for he observed, 
 by something eager and inquisitive in the face of 
 Madame de Merville, and by the sudden manner in which 
 the mechanic's helpmate turned her head to the spot 
 on which he stood, that he was the object of their con-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNINQ. 331 
 
 versation. Once more he became suddenly aware of his 
 ragged dress, and with a natural shame, — a fear that 
 charity might be extended to him from her, — he mut- 
 tered an abrupt farewell to the operative, and, without 
 another glance at the carriage, walked away. 
 
 Before he had got many paces, the wife, however, 
 came up to him, breathless. " Madame de Merville 
 would speak to you, sir ! " she said, with more respect 
 than she had hitherto thrown into her manner. Philip 
 paused an instant, and again strode on. 
 
 " It must be some mistake," he said, hurriedly: "I 
 have no right to expect such an honor. " 
 
 He struck across the road, gained the opposite side, 
 and had vanished from JNIadame de Merville's eyes, 
 before the woman regained the carriage. But still that 
 calm, pale, and somewhat melancholy face, presented 
 itself before him ; and, as he walked again through the 
 town, sweet and gentle fancies crowded confusedly on 
 his heart. On that soft summer day, memorable for so 
 many silent but mighty events in that inner life which 
 prepares the catastrophes of the outer one, — as in the 
 region of which Virgil has sung the images of men to 
 be born hereafter repose or glide, — on that soft summer 
 day he felt he had reached the age when Youth begins 
 to clothe in some human shane its first vague ideal of 
 desire and love. 
 
 In such thoughts, and still wandering, the day wore 
 away, till he found himself in one of the lanes tliat 
 surround that glittering IMicrocosm of the vices, the 
 frivolities, the hollow show, and the real beggary of 
 the gay city, — the gardens and the galleries of the Palais 
 Eoyal. Surprised at the lateness of the hour, — it was 
 then on the stroke of seven, — he was about to return 
 homewards, when the loud voice of Gawtrey sounded
 
 332 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 behind, and that personage, tapping him on the back, 
 said, — 
 
 " Hollo, my young friend, well met! This will be a 
 niglit of trial to you. Empty stomachs produce weak 
 nerves. Come along! you must dine Avith me. A good 
 dinner and a bottle of old wine, — come! nonsense, I 
 say you shall come! Vive la jole ! " 
 
 While speaking, he had linked his arm in Morton's, 
 and hurried him on several paces in spite of his strug- 
 gles; but just as the words Vive la jole left his lips, he 
 stood still and mute, as if a thunderbolt had fallen at 
 his feet; and Morton felt that heavy arm shiver and 
 tremble like a leaf. He looked up, and just at the 
 entrance of that part of the Palais Royal in which are 
 situated the restaurants of Verey and Vefour, he saw 
 two men standing but a few paces before them, and 
 gazing full on Gawtrey and himself. 
 
 "It is my evil genius," muttered Gawtrey, grinding 
 his teeth. 
 
 " And mine ! " said Morton. 
 
 The younger of the two men thus apostrophized made 
 a step towards Philip, when his companion drew him 
 back and whispered, "What are you about? Do you 
 know that young man ? " 
 
 " He is my cousin; Philip Beaufort's natural son! " 
 " Is he? — then discard him forever. He is with the 
 most dangerous knave in Europe ! " 
 
 As Lord Lilburne — for it was he — thus whispered 
 his nephew, Gawtrey strode up to him, and, glaring 
 full in his face, said in a deep and hollow tone: " There 
 is a hell, my lord, — I go to drink to our meeting! " 
 Thus saying, he took off his hat with a ceremonious 
 mockery, and disappeared within the adjoining restau- 
 rant kept by Vefour.
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 333 
 
 "A hell ! ^ said Lilburne, with his frigid smile; 
 " the rogue's head runs upon (jamhling-houses ! " 
 
 "And I have suffered Philip again to escape me," 
 said Arthur, in self-reproach: for while Gawtrey hud 
 addressed Lord Lilburne, Morton had plunged back 
 amidst the labyrinth of alleys. " How have I kept my 
 oath ? " 
 
 " Come! your guests must have arrived by this time. 
 As for that wretched young man, depend upon it that he 
 is corrupted body and soul. " 
 
 " But he is my own cousin." 
 
 "Pooh! there is no relationship in natural children: 
 besides, he will find you out fast enough. Ragged 
 claimants are not long too proud to beg. " 
 
 " You speak in earnest? " said Arthur, irresolutely. 
 
 " Ay ! trust my experience of the world, — allons ! " 
 
 And in a cabinet of the very restaurant adjoining 
 that in which the solitary Gawtrey gorged his con- 
 science, Lilburne, Arthur, and their gay friends, soon 
 forgetful of all but the roses of the moment, bathed 
 their airy spirits in the dews of the mirthful wine. Oh, 
 extremes of life! Oh, Night! Oh, Morning!
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 PART SECOND.
 
 
 "^'
 
 Lahe Windermere. 
 
 Drawn and etched by Louis K. Harlow. 
 Night and Morning.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Meantime a moving scene was open laid, 
 That lazar-house. 
 
 Thomson : Castle of Indolence. 
 
 It was near midnight. At the mouth of the lane in 
 which Gawtrey resided there stood four men. Not far 
 distant, in the broad street at angles with the lane, were 
 heard the Avheels of carriages and the sound of music. 
 A lady, fair in form, tender of heart, stainless in repute, 
 was receiving her friends! 
 
 " Monsieur Favart, " said one of the men to the 
 smallest of the four, " you understand the conditions, — 
 20, 000 francs and a free pardon ? " 
 
 " Nothing more reasonable, — it is understood. Still 
 I confess that I should like to have my men close at 
 hand. I am not given to fear; but this is a dangerous 
 experiment. " 
 
 " You knew the danger beforehand and subscribed to 
 it ; you must enter alone with me, or not at all. Mark 
 you, the men are sworn to murder him who betrays 
 them. Not for twenty times 20,000 francs would I 
 have them know me as the informer. My life were 
 not worth a day's purchase. Now, if you feel secure in 
 your disguise, all is safe. You will have seen them at 
 
 VOL. II. — 1
 
 2 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 
 
 their work; you will recognize their persons; you can 
 depose against them at the trial, — I shall have time to 
 quit France." 
 
 " Well, well ! as you please. " 
 
 " Mind, you must wait in the vault with them till they 
 separate. We have so planted your men that whatever 
 street each of the gang takes in going home, he can be 
 seized, quietly and at once. The bravest and craftiest of 
 all, who, though he has but just joined, is already their 
 captain: him, the man I told you of, who lives in the 
 house, you must take after his return, in his bed. It is 
 the sixth story to the right, remember: here is the key 
 to his door. He is a giant in strength, and will never 
 be taken alive if up and armed." 
 
 " Ah, I comprehend ! — Gilbert ! " (and Favart turned 
 to one of his companions who had not yet spoken), 
 " take three men besides yourself, according to the direc- 
 tions I gave you ; the porter will admit you, that 's 
 arranged. Make no noise. If I don't return by four 
 o'clock, don't wait for me, but proceed at once. Look 
 well to your primings. Take him alive, if possible, — 
 at the worst, dead. And now, mon ami, lead on! " 
 
 The traitor nodded, and walked slowly down the 
 street. Favart, ])ausing, whispered hastily to the man 
 whom he had called Gilbert, — 
 
 " Follow me close ; get to the door of the cellar ; place 
 eight men within hearing of my whistle; recollect the 
 picklocks, — the axes. If you hear the whistle, break 
 in; if not, I'm safe, and the first orders to seize the 
 cajjtain in his room stand good." 
 
 80 saying, Favart strode after his guide. The door of 
 a large but ill-favored-looking house stood ajar; they 
 entered, passed unmolested through a courtyard, de- 
 scended some stairs; the guide unlocked the door of a
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. O 
 
 cellar, and took a dark lantern from under his cloak. As 
 he drew up the slide, the dim light gleamed on barrels 
 and wine-casks, which appeared to fill up the space. 
 Rolling aside one of these, the guide lifted a trap-door, 
 and lowered his lantern. "Enter," said he; and the 
 two men disappeared. 
 . 
 The coiners were at their work. A man, seated on a 
 stool before a desk, was entering accounts in a large 
 book. That man was William Gawtrey. While, with 
 the rapid precision of honest mechanics, the machinery 
 of the dark trade went on in its several departments. 
 Apart, alone, at the foot of a long table, sat Philip 
 Morton. The truth had exceeded his darkest suspicions. 
 He had consented to take the oath not to divulge what 
 was to be given to his survey ; and when, led into that 
 vault, the bandage was taken from his eyes, it was some 
 minutes before he could fully comprehend the desperate 
 and criminal occupations of the wild forms amidst which 
 towered the burly stature of his benefactor. As the 
 truth slowly grew upon him, he shrank from the side of 
 Gawtrey ; but, deep compassion for his friend's degrada- 
 tion swallowing up the horror of the trade, he flung him- 
 self on one of the rude seats, and felt that the bond 
 between them was indeed broken, and that the next 
 morning he should be again alone in the world. Still, as 
 the obscene jests, the fearful oaths, that from time to time 
 rang through the vault, came on his ear, he cast his haughty 
 eye in such disdain over the groups that Gawtrey, 
 observing him, trembled for his safety; and nothing 
 but Philip's sense of his own impotence, and the brave, 
 not timorous, desire not to perish by such hands, kept 
 silent the fiery denunciations of a nature, still proud and 
 honest, that quivered on his lips. All present were
 
 4 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 armed with pistols and cutlasses except Morton, who 
 suffered the weapons presented to him to lie unheeded on 
 the table. 
 
 " Courage, mes amis ! " said Gawtrey, closing his 
 book, — " courage ! A few months more, and we shall 
 have made enough to retire upon, and enjoy ourselves 
 for the rest of the days. Where is Birnie 1 " 
 
 " Did he not tell you 1 " said one of the artisans, 
 looking up. " He has found out the cleverest hand in 
 France, — the very fellow who helped Bouchard in all his 
 five-franc pieces. He has promised to bring him to-night. " 
 
 " Ay, I remember, " returned Gawtrey, " he told me 
 this mornuig, — he is a famous decoy! " 
 
 " I think so, indeed ! " quoth a coiner : " for he caught 
 you, the best head to our hands that ever les mdustriels 
 were blessed with, — sacre fichtre ! " 
 
 " Flatterer ! " said Gawtrey, coming from the desk to 
 the table, and, pouring out wine from one of the bottles 
 into a huge flagon, — " To your healths ! " 
 
 Here the door slided hark and Birnie glided in. 
 
 " ^Vliere is your booty, man brave ? " said Gawtrey. 
 " We only coin money : you coin men, stamp with your 
 own seal, and send them current to the devil ! " 
 
 The coiners, who liked Birnie's abiUty (for the ci^e- 
 vant engraver was of admirable skill in their craft), 
 but who hated his joyless manners, laughed at this taunt, 
 which Birnie did not seem to heed, except by a malignant 
 gleam of his dead eye. 
 
 " If you mean the celebrated coiner, Jacques Girau- 
 mont, he waits without. You know our rules, — I can- 
 not admit him without leave, " 
 
 " Bon! we give it, — eh, messieurs? " said Gawtrey. 
 
 " Ay, ay, " cried several voices. " He knows the 
 oath, and will hear the penalty."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 5 
 
 " Yes, he knows the oath, " replied Birnie, and glided 
 back. 
 
 In a moment more he returned with a small man in 
 a mechanic's blouse. The new-comer wore the republican 
 beard and mustache, of a sandy gray ; his hair was the 
 same color, and a black patch over one eye increased the 
 ill-favored appearance of his features. 
 
 " Diable! Monsieur Giraumont! but you are more 
 like Vulcan than Adonis ! " said Gawtrey. 
 
 " I don't know anything alDOut Vulcan, but I know how 
 to make five-franc pieces," said Monsieur Giraumont, 
 doggedly. 
 
 " Are you poor ? " 
 
 " As a church mouse, — the only thing belonging to a 
 church, since the Bourbons came back, that is poor! " 
 
 At this sally the coiners, who had gathered round the 
 table, uttered the shout with which, in all circumstances, 
 Frenchmen receive a ho7i mot. 
 
 " Humph ! " said Gawtrey. " Who responds with 
 his own life for your fidelity 1 " 
 
 "I," said Birnie. 
 
 " Administer the oath to him. " 
 
 Suddenly four men advanced, seized the visitor, and 
 bore him from the vault into another one within. After 
 a few moments they returned. 
 
 " He has taken the oath and heard the penalty. " 
 
 " Death to yourself, your wife, your son, and your 
 grandson, if you betray us ! " 
 
 " I have neither son nor grandson ; as for my wife. 
 Monsieur le Capitaine, you offer a bribe instead of a 
 threat when you talk of her death ! " 
 
 " Sacre ! but you will be an addition to our circle, mon 
 brave ! " said Gawtrey, laughing ; while again the grim 
 circle shouted applause.
 
 6 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 " But I suppose you care for your own life ? " 
 
 " Otherwise I should have preferred starving to coming 
 here," answered the laconic neophj'te. 
 
 " I have done with you. Your health! " 
 
 On this the coiners gathered round Monsieur Girau- 
 mont, shook him by the hand, and commenced many 
 questions with a view to ascertain his skill. 
 
 " Show me your coinage first ; I see you use both the 
 die and the furnace. Hem! this piece is not bad: you 
 have struck it from an iron die ? — right : it makes the 
 impression sharper than plaster-of-Paris. But you take 
 the poorest and the most dangerous part of the trade 
 in taking the Home Market. I can put you in a way 
 to make ten times as much, — and with safety! Look 
 at this ! " — and Monsieur Giraumont took a forged 
 Spanish dollar from his pocket, so skilfully manufac- 
 tured that the connoisseurs were lost in admiration, — 
 " You may pass thousands of these all over Europe, 
 except France, and who is ever to detect you 1 But it 
 will require better machinery than you have here." 
 
 Thus conversing. Monsieur Giraumont did not per- 
 ceive that Mr. Gawtrey had been examining him very 
 curiously and minutely. But Birnie had noted their 
 chief's attention, and once attempted to join his new 
 ally, when Gawtrey laid his hand on his shoulder and 
 stopped him. 
 
 " Do not speak to your friend till I bid you, or — " 
 he stopped short and touched his pistols. 
 
 Birnie grew a shade more pale, but replied with his 
 usual sneer, — 
 
 " Suspicious ! — well so much the better ! " and seating 
 himself carelessly at the table, lighted his pipe. 
 
 " And now, Monsieur Giraumont, " said Gawtrey, as 
 he took the head of the table, " come to my right
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 7 
 
 hand. A half holiday in your honor. Clear these 
 infernal instrnments, and more wine, mes amis ! " 
 
 The party arranged themselves at the table. Among 
 the desperate there is almost invariably a tendency to 
 mirth. A solitary ruffian, indeed, is moody, but a gang 
 of ruffian.'^; are jovial. The coiners talked and laughed 
 loud. ]\Ir. Birnie, from his dogged silence, seemed apart 
 from the rest, though in the centre; for in a noisy 
 circle a silent tongue builds a wall round its owner. 
 But that respectable personage kept his furtive watch 
 upon Giraumont and Gawtrey, who appeared talking 
 together very amicably. The younger novice of that 
 night, equally silent, seated towards the bottom of the 
 table, was not less watcliful than Birnie. An uneasy, 
 undefinable foreboding had come over him since the 
 entrance of Monsieur Giraumont ; this had been increased 
 by the manner of ]\Ir. Gawtrey. His faculty of observa- 
 tion, which was very acute, had detected something 
 false in the chief's blandness to their guest, — something 
 dangerous in the glittering eye that Gawtrey ever, as he 
 spoke to Giraumont, bent on that person's lips as he 
 listened to his reply; for whenever William Ga^vtrey 
 suspected a man, he watched not his eyes, but his 
 lips. 
 
 Waked from his scornful reverie, a strange spell 
 chained Morton's attention to the chief and the guest, 
 and he bent forward, with parted mouth and straining 
 ear, to catch their conversation. 
 
 " It seems to me a little strange, " said Mr. Gawtrey, 
 raising his voice so as to be heard by the party, " that 
 a coiner so dexterous as Monsieur Giraumont should not 
 be known to any of us except our friend Birnie." 
 
 "Not at all," replied Giraumont: "I worked only 
 with Bouchard and two others, since sent to the galleys.
 
 8 NIGHT AND JIORNING. 
 
 We were hut a small fraternity, — everything has its 
 commencement. " 
 
 " C^est juste : biivez, done, cher ami ! " ^ 
 
 The wine circulated, Gawtrey hegan again. 
 
 " You have had a bad accident, seemingly, Monsieur 
 Giraumont, — how did you lose your eye? " 
 
 " In a scuffle with the (/eris (V arm.es the night Bouchard 
 was taken and I escaped: such misfortunes are on the 
 cards. " 
 
 " C^est juste : buvez, done, Monsieur Giraumont ! " ^ 
 
 Again there was a pause, and again Gawtrey 's deep 
 voice was heard. 
 
 " You wear a wig, I think, Monsieur Giraumont ? — 
 to judge by your eyelashes, your own hair has been a 
 liandsomer color. " 
 
 " We seek disguise, not beauty, my host ! and the 
 police have sharp eyes." 
 
 " C'est juste, buvez, done, vieux Renard !^ — when 
 did we two meet last ? " 
 
 " Never, that 1 know of ! " 
 
 " Ce n'est jms vrai! huvez, done, MONSIEUR 
 FA V ART I ""^ 
 
 At the sound of that name the company started in 
 dismay and confusion, and the police officer, forgetting 
 himself for the moment, sprung from his seat, and put 
 his right hand into his blouse. 
 
 " Ho, there, treason ! " cried Gawtrey, in a voice 
 of thunder; and he caught the unhappy man by the 
 throat. 
 
 It was the work of a moment. Morton, where he 
 
 1 That 'h right : drink, then, dear friend. 
 
 2 That 's right ; drink, then, Monsieur Giraumont. 
 8 That 's right : drink, then, old fox. 
 
 * That 'a not true : drink, then, Monsieur Favart.
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 9 
 
 sat, beheld a struggle, he heard a death-cry. He saw 
 the huge form of the master-coiner rishig above all the 
 rest as cutlasses gleamed and eyes sparkled round. He 
 saw the quivering and powerless frame of the unhappy 
 guest raised aloft in those mighty arms, and presently 
 it was hurled along the table, — bottles crashing, the 
 board shaking beneath its weight, — and lay before the 
 very eyes of Morton a distorted and lifeless mass. At 
 the same instant Gawtrey sprang upon the table, his 
 l)lack frown singling out from the group the ashen, 
 cadaverous face of the shrinking traitor. Birnie had 
 darted from the table ; he was half-way towards the 
 sliding door; his face, turned over his shoulder, met 
 the eyes of the chief. 
 
 " Devil ! " shouted Gawtrey, in his terrible voice, 
 which the echoes of the vault gave back from side to 
 side, " did I not give thee up my soul that thou 
 mightest not compass my death? Hark ye! thus die 
 my slavery and all our secrets! " The explosion of 
 his pistol half swallowed up the last word, and with 
 a single groan the traitor fell on the floor, pierced 
 through the brain. Then there was a dead and grim 
 hush as the smoke rolled slowly along the roof of the 
 dreary vault. 
 
 Morton sank back on his seat and covered his face 
 with his hands. The last seal on the fate of The Man 
 OF Crime was set; the last wave in the terrible and 
 mysterious tide of his destiny had dashed on his soul 
 to the shore whence there is no return. Vain, now and 
 henceforth, the humor, the sentiment, the kindly impulse, 
 the social instincts, which had invested that stalwart 
 shape with dangerous fascination, which had implied 
 the hope of ultimate repentance, of redemption even in 
 this world. The Hour and the Circumstance had
 
 10 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 seized their prey; and the self-defence, which a lawless 
 career rendered a necessity, left the eternal die of blood 
 upon his doom ! 
 
 " Friends, I have saved you, " said Gawtrey, slowly, 
 gazing on the corpse of his second victim, while he re- 
 turned the pistol to his belt : " I have not quailed before 
 this man's eye, " and he spurned the clay of the officer 
 as he spoke with a revengeful scorn , " without treasur- 
 ing up its aspect in my heart of hearts. I knew him 
 when he entered, knew him through his disguise, — yet, 
 faith, it was a clever one ! Turn up his face and gaze on 
 him noAv; he will never terrify us again, unless there be 
 truth in ghosts ! " 
 
 Murmuring and tremulous, the coiners scrambled on 
 the table and examined the dead man. From this task 
 Gawtrey interrupted them, for his quick eye detected, 
 with the pistols vuider the policeman's blouse, a whistle 
 of metal of curious construction, and he conjectured at 
 once that danger was yet at hand. 
 
 " I have saved you, I say, but only for the hour. 
 This deed cannot sleep: see, he had help within call. 
 The police know where to look for their comrade, — we 
 are dispersed. Each for himself. Quick, divide the 
 spoils ! Sauve qui pent ! " 
 
 Then Morton heard where he sat, his hands still clasped 
 before his face, a confused hubbub of voices, the jingle of 
 money, the scrambling of feet, the creaking of doors, — 
 all was silent! 
 
 A strong grasp drew his hands from his eyes. 
 
 "Your first scene of life against life," said Gawtrey 's 
 voice, which seemed fearfully changed to the ear that 
 heard it. " Bah ! what would you think of a battle ? 
 Come to our eyrie : the carcasses are gone. " 
 
 Morton looked fearfully round the vault. He and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 11 
 
 Gawtrey were alone. His eyes sought the places where 
 the dead had lain: they were removed, — no vestige of 
 the deeds, not even a drop of blood. 
 
 " Come, take up your cutlass, come ! " repeated the 
 voice of the chief, as with his dim lantern, now the sole 
 light of the vault, he stood in the shadow of the doorway. 
 
 Morton rose, took up tlie weapon mechanically, and 
 followed that terrible guide, mute and unconscious, as 
 a soul follows a dream through the house of sleep !
 
 12 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Sleep no more ! — Macbeth. 
 
 After winding through gloomy and labyrinthine pas- 
 sages which conducted to a different range of cellars from 
 those entered by the unfortunate Favart, Gawtrey 
 emerged at the foot of a flight of stairs, which, dark, 
 narrow, and in many places broken, had been probably 
 appropriated to servants of the house in its days of 
 palmier glory. By these steps the pair regained their 
 attic. Gawtrey placed the lantern on the table, and 
 seated himself in silence. Morton, who had recovered 
 his self-possession and formed his resolution, gazed on 
 him for some moments equally taciturn; at length he 
 spoke, — 
 
 "Gawtrey!" 
 
 " I bade you not call me by that name," said the 
 coiner; for we need scarcely say that in his new trade 
 he had assumed a new appellation. 
 
 " It is the least guilty one by which I have known 
 you," returned Morton, firmly; " it is for the last time 
 I call you by it! I demanded to see by what means 
 one to whom I had intrusted my fate supported himself. 
 I have seen," continued the young man, still firmly but 
 with a livid cheek and lip, "and the tie between us is 
 rent forever. Interrupt me not! it is not for me to 
 blame you. I have eaten of your bread and drank of 
 your cup. Confiding in you too blindly, and believing 
 that you were at least free from those dark and terrible 
 crimes for which there is no expiation, — at least in this
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 13 
 
 life, — my conscience, seared by distress, my very soul 
 made dormant by despair, I surrendered myself to one 
 leading a career equivocal, suspicious, dishonorable, 
 perliaps, but still not, as I believed, of atrocity and 
 bloodshed. I wake at the brink of the abyss, — my 
 mother's hand beckons to me from the grave; I think I 
 hear her voice while I address you j I recede while it is 
 yet time, — we part, and forever! " 
 
 Gawtrey, whose stormy passion was still deep upon 
 his soul, had listened hitherto in sullen and dogged 
 silence, with a gloomy frown on his knitted brow. He 
 now rose with an oath, — 
 
 " Part, that I may let loose on the world a new 
 traitor! Part, when you have seen me fresh from an 
 act that, once whispered, gives me to the guillotine! 
 Part, never, — at least alive ! " 
 
 " I have said it," said Morton, folding his arms calmly; 
 " I say it to your face, though I might part from you in 
 secret. Frown not on me, man of blood ! I am fearless 
 as yourself! In another minute I am gone." 
 
 " Ah ! is it so ? " said Gawtrey ; and glancing round the 
 room, which contained two doors, — the one concealed 
 by the draperies of a bed, communicating with the stairs 
 by which they had entered, the other with the landing 
 of the principal and common flight: he turned to the 
 former, within his reach, which he locked, and put the 
 key into his pocket, and then, throwing across the latter 
 a heavy swing-bar, which fell into its socket with a 
 harsh noise, before the threshold he placed his vast 
 bulk, and burst into his loud, fierce laugh: "Ho! ho! 
 slave and fool, once mine, you are mine, body and soul, 
 forever! " 
 
 " Tempter, I defy you! stand back! " And, firm and 
 dauntless, Morton laid his hand on the giant's vest.
 
 14 NIGHT AND MOllNING. 
 
 Gawtrey seemed more astonished than enraged. He 
 looked hard at his daring associate, on whose lip the 
 down was yet scarcely dark. 
 
 " Boy," said he, " ofi'! Do not rouse the devil in me 
 again! I could crush you with a hug." 
 
 " My soul supports my body, and I am armed," said 
 Morton, laying hand on his cutlass. " But you dare 
 not harm me, nor I you. Blood-stained as you are, you 
 gave me shelter and bread; but accuse me not tliat I 
 will save my soul while it is yet time! Shall my 
 motlier have blessed me in vain upon her deathbed 1 " 
 
 Gawtrey drew back, and Morton, by a sudden impulse, 
 grasped his hand. 
 
 "Oh! hear me, — hear me!" he cried, with great 
 emotion. " Abandon this horrible career; you have 
 been decoyed and betrayed to it by one who can deceive 
 or terrify you no more! Abandon it, and I will never 
 desert you. For her sake — for your Fanny's sake — 
 pause, like me, before the gulf swallow us. Let us fly! 
 — far to the New World — to any land where our thews 
 and sinews, our stout hands and hearts, can find an 
 honest mart. Men, desperate as we are, have yet risen 
 by honest means. Take her, your orphan, with us. 
 We will work for her, both of us. Gawtrey! hear me. 
 It is not my voice that speaks to you, — it is your good 
 angel's! " 
 Gawtrey fell back against the wall, and his chest heaved. 
 " Morton," he said, with choked and tremulous 
 accents, "go now; leave me to my fate! I have sinned 
 against you, — shamefully sinned. It seemed to me so 
 sweet to have a friend : in your youth and character of 
 mind there was so much about which the tough strings 
 of my heart wound themselves, that I could not bear to 
 lose you, — to suffer you to know me for what I was. I
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 15 
 
 blinded — I deceived you as to ray past deeds; that was 
 base in me : but 1 swore to my own heart to keep you 
 unexposed to every danger, and free from every vice 
 that darkened my own path. I kept that oath till this 
 night, when, seeing that you began to recoil from me, 
 and dreading that you should desert me, 1 thought to 
 bind you to me forever by implicating you in this fel- 
 lowship of crime. I am punished, and justly. Go, I 
 repeat, — leave me to the fate that strides nearer and 
 nearer to me day by day. You are a boy still, I am no 
 longer young. Habit is a second nature. Still — still 
 I could repent: I could begin life again. But repose! 
 
 — to look back, to remember, to be haunted night and 
 day with deeds that shall meet me bodily, and face to 
 face , on the last day — " 
 
 " Add not to the spectres! Come: fly this night, this 
 hour!" 
 
 Gawtrey paused, irresolute and wavering, when at 
 that moment he heard steps on the stairs below. He 
 started, — as starts the boar caught in his lair, — and 
 listened, pale and breathless. 
 
 " Hush ! — they are on us ! — they come ! " As he 
 whispered, the key from without turned in the wards, — ■ 
 the door shook. "Soft! — the bar preserves us both, 
 
 — this way ; " and the coiner crept to the door of the 
 private stairs. He unlocked and opened it cautiously. 
 A man sprang through the aperture : — 
 
 " Yield! — you are my prisoner! " 
 
 "Never!" cried Gawtrey, hurling back the intruder, 
 and clapping to the door, though other and stout men 
 were pressing against it with all their power. 
 
 " Ho! ho! Who shall open the tiger's cage? " 
 
 At both doors now were heard the sounds of voices. 
 " Open in the king's name, or expect no mercy! "
 
 16 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "Hist!" said Gawtrey. "One way yet; the win- 
 dow, the rope." 
 
 Morton opened the casement, Gawtrey uncoiled the 
 rope. The dawn was hreaking; it was light in the 
 streets, but all seemed quiet without. The doors 
 reeled and shook beneath the pressure of the pursuers. 
 Gawtrey flung the rope across the street to the opposite 
 parapet; after two or three efforts, the grappling-hook 
 caught firm hold , — the perilous path was made. 
 
 "On! — quick! — loiter not!" whispered Gawtrey. 
 " You are active; it seems more dangerous than it is, — 
 cling with both hands; shut your eyes. When on the 
 other side, you see the window of Birnie's room, enter 
 it, descend the stairs, let yourself out, and you are 
 safe." 
 
 "Go first," said Morton, in the same tone; "I will 
 not leave you now ; you will be longer getting across 
 than I shall. I will keep guard till you are over." 
 
 "Hark! hark! — are you man? You keep guard! 
 What is your strength to mine 'i Twenty men shall not 
 move that door while my weight is against it. Quick, 
 or you destroy us both! Besides, you will hold the rope 
 for me, it may not be strong enough for my bulk of 
 itself. Stay I — stay one moment. If you escape, and I 
 fall, — Fanny — my father, he will take care of her: 
 you remember — thanks! Forgive me all! Go; that's 
 right!" 
 
 With a firm pulse Morton threw himself on that 
 dreadful bridge; it swung and crackled at his weight. 
 Shifting his grasp rapidly, holding his breath, with 
 set teeth, with closed eyes, he moved on; he gained the 
 parapet, — he stood safe on the opposite side. And now, 
 straining his eyes across he saw through the open case- 
 ment into the chamber he had just quitted. Gawtrey
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 17 
 
 was still standing against the door to the principal stair- 
 case, for that of the two was the weaker and the more 
 assailed. Presently the explosion of a firearm was heard; 
 they had shot through the panel. Gawtrey seemed 
 wounded, for he staggered forward and uttered a fierce 
 cry; a moment more, and he gained the window; he 
 seized the rope, — he hung over the tremendous depth! 
 Morton knelt by the parapet, holding the grappling- 
 hook in its place, with convulsive grasp, and fixing his 
 eyes, bloodshot with fear and suspense, on the huge 
 bulk that clung for life to that slender cord ! 
 
 " Le voila ! le voila ! " cried a voice from the opposite 
 side. Morton raised his gaze from Gawtrey; the case- 
 ment was darkened by the forms of the pursuers: they 
 had burst into the room. An officer sprung upon the 
 parapet, and Gawtrey, now aware of his danger, opened 
 his eyes, and, as he moved on, glared upon the foe. 
 The policeman deliberately raised his pistol. Gawtrey 
 arrested himself; from a wound in his side the blood 
 trickled slowly and darkly down, drop by drop, upon 
 the stones below; even the officers of law shuddered as 
 they eyed him, — his hair bristling, his cheek white, his 
 lips drawn convulsively from his teeth, and his eye glar- 
 ing from beneath the frown of agony and menace in which 
 yet spoke the indomitable power and fierceness of the 
 man. His look, so fixed, so intense, so stern, awed 
 the policeman; his hand trembled as he fired, and the 
 ball struck the parapet an inch below the spot where 
 Morton knelt. An indistinct, wild, gurgling sound 
 — half-laugh, half-yell — of scorn and glee, broke from 
 Gawtrey 's lips. He swung himself on, near, near, 
 nearer, — a yard from the parapet. 
 
 " You are saved! " cried Morton ; when at that moment 
 a volley burst from the fatal casement. The smoke rolled 
 
 VOL. II. — 2
 
 18 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 over both the fugitives; a groan, or rather howl of rage 
 and despair and agony, appalled even the hardiest on 
 Avhose ear it came. Morton sprung to his feet and 
 looked below. He saw on the rugged stones, far down, 
 a dark, formless, motionless mass. The strong man of 
 passion and levity, the giant who had played with life 
 and soul, as an infant with the baubles that it prizes and 
 breaks, was what the Caesar and the leper alike are 
 •when the clay is without God's breath, — what glory, 
 genius, power, and beauty would be forever and forever, 
 if there were no God ! 
 
 " There is another ! " cried the voice of one of the 
 pursuers. " Fire! " 
 
 "Poor Gawtrey!" muttered Philip, "I will fulfil 
 your last wish; " and scarcely conscious of the bullet 
 that whistled by him, he disappeared behind the 
 parapet.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 19 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Gently moved 
 By the soft wind of whispering silks. 
 
 Decker. 
 
 The reader may remember that while Monsieur Favart 
 and Mr. Birnie were holding commune in the lane, the 
 sounds of festivity were heard from a house in the 
 adjoining street. To that house we are now summoned. 
 
 At Paris the gayeties of balls, or soirees, are, I 
 believe very rare in that period of the year in which 
 they are most frequent in London. The entertainment 
 now given was in honor of a christening; the lady who 
 gave it, a relation of the newborn. 
 
 Madame de Merville was a young widow; even before 
 her marriage she had been distinguished in literature; 
 she had written poems of more than common excellence; 
 and being handsome, of good family, and large fortune, 
 her talents made her an object of more interest than they 
 might otherwise have done. Her poetry showed great 
 sensibility and tenderness. If poetry be any index to 
 the heart, you would have thought her one to love truly 
 and deeply. Nevertheless, since she married — as girls 
 in France do — not to please herself, but her parents, 
 she made a mariage de convenance. Monsieur de Mer- 
 ville was a sober, sensible man, past middle age. Not 
 being fond of poetry, and by no means coveting a pro- 
 fessional author for his wife, he had during their union, 
 which lasted four years, discouraged his wife's liaison 
 with Apollo. But her mind, active and ardent, did not
 
 20 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 the less prey upon itself. At the age of foiir-and-twenty 
 slie became a widow, with an income large even in 
 England for a single woman, and at Paris constituting 
 no ordinary fortune. Madame de Merville, however, 
 though a person of elegant taste, was neither ostentatious 
 nor selfish; she had no children, and she lived quietly 
 in apartments, handsome indeed, but not more than ade- 
 quate to the small establishment which — where, as on 
 the Continent, the costly convenience of an entire house 
 is not usually incurred — sufficed for her retinue. She 
 devoted at least half her income, wdiich was entirely at 
 her own disposal, partly to the aid of her own relations, 
 who were not rich, and partly to the encouragement of 
 the literature she cultivated. Although she shrank 
 from the ordeal of publication, her poems and sketches 
 of romance were read to her own friends, and possessed 
 an eloquence seldom accompanied with so much mod- 
 esty. Thus her reputation, though not blown about 
 the winds, was high in her own circle, and her position 
 in fashion and in fortune made her looked up to by her 
 relations as the head of her family; they regarded her as 
 femme superieure, and her advice with them was equiv- 
 alent to a command. Eugenie de Merville was a strange 
 mixture of qualities at once feminine and masculine. 
 On the one hand, she had a strong will, independent 
 views, some contempt for the world, and followed her 
 own inclinations without servility to the opinion of 
 others; on the other hand, she was susceptible, romantic, 
 of a .sweet, affectionate, kind disposition. Her visit to 
 M. Love, however indiscreet, was not less in accordance 
 with her character than her charity to the mechanic's 
 wife; masculine and careless where an eccentric thing 
 was to l)e done, — curiosity satisfied, or some object in 
 female diplomacy achieved; womanly, delicate, and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 21 
 
 gentle, the instant her benevolence was appealed to or 
 her heart touched. She had now been three years a 
 widow, and was consequently at the age of twenty- 
 seven. Despite the tenderness of her poetry and her 
 character, her reputation was unblemished. She had 
 never been in love. People who are much occupied do 
 not fall in love easily; besides, Madame de Mervillo 
 was refining, exacting, and wished to find heroes where 
 she only met handsome dandies or ugly authors. More- 
 over, Eugenie was both a vain and a proud person, — 
 vain of her celebrity, and proud of her birth. She was 
 one whose goodness of heart made her always active 
 in promoting the happiness of others. She was not only 
 generous and charitable, but willing to serve people by 
 good offices as well as money. Everybo<ly loved her. 
 The newborn infant, to whose addition to the Christian 
 community the fete of this night was dedicated, was the 
 pledge of a union which Madame de Merville had man- 
 aged to effect between two young persons, first cousins to 
 each other, and related to herself. There had been 
 scruples of parents to remove, money matters to adjust; 
 Eugenie had smoothed all. The husband and wife, 
 still lovers, looked up to her as the author, under 
 Heaven, of their happiness. 
 
 The gala of that night had been, therefore, of a nature 
 more than usually pleasurable, and the mirth did not 
 sound hollow, but rung from the heart. Yet as Eugenie 
 from time to time contemplated the young couple, Avhose 
 eyes ever soxight each other, — so fair, so tender, and so 
 joyous as they seemed, — a melancholy shadow darkened 
 her brow, and she sighed involuntarily. Once the 
 young wife, Madame d'Anville, approaching her tim- 
 idly, said, — 
 
 "Ah! my sweet cousin, when shall we see you as
 
 22 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 happ3' as ourselves? There is such happiness," she 
 added, innocently and with a hlush, " in being a mother! 
 — that little life all one's own, — it is something to 
 think of every hour! " 
 
 " Perhaps," said Eugenie, smiling, and seeking to turn 
 the conversation from a subject that touched too nearly 
 upon feelings and thoughts lier pride did not wish to 
 reveal , — " perhaps it is you then who have made our 
 cousin, poor Monsieur de Vaudemont, so determined to 
 marry? Pray, be more cautious with him. How diffi- 
 cult I have found it to prevent his bringing into our 
 family some one to make us all ridicidous! " 
 
 "True," said Madame d'Anville, laughing. "But 
 then the vicomte is so poor and in debt. He would 
 fall in love not with the demoiselle, but the dower. 
 Apropos of that, how cleverly you took advantage 
 of his boastful confession to break off his liaisons with 
 that bureau de mariage." 
 
 " Yes ; I congratulate myself on that manoeuvre. 
 Unpleasant as it was to go to such a place (for, of 
 course, I could not send for Monsieur Love here), it 
 would have been still more unpleasant to have received 
 such a Madame de Vaudemont as our cousin would have 
 presented to us. Only think, — he was the rival of an 
 epicier / I heard that there was some curious denoueinent 
 to the farce of that establishment; but I could never get 
 from Vaudemont the particulars. He was ashamed of 
 them, I fanc}'." 
 
 " What droll professions there are in Paris! " said 
 Madame d'Anville; " as if people could not marry with- 
 out going to an office for a spouse as we go for a servant! 
 And so the establishment is broken up? And you 
 never again saw that dark, wild-looking boy who so 
 struck your fancy that you have taken him as the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 23 
 
 original for the Murillo sketch of the youth in that 
 charming tale you read to us the other evening. Ah! 
 cousin, I think you were a little taken with him; the 
 bureau de mariage had its allurements for you as well 
 as for our poor cousin ! " The young mother said this 
 laughingly and carelessly. 
 
 "Pooh!" returned Madame de Merville, laughing 
 also; but a slight blush broke over her natural paleness. 
 " But aprojjos of the vicomte, you know how cruelly 
 he has behaved to that poor boy of his by his English 
 wife: never seen him since he was an infant, — kept 
 him at some school in England ; and all because his 
 vanity does not like the world to know that he has a 
 son of nineteen! Well, I have induced him to recall 
 this poor youth. " 
 
 "Indeed! and how?" 
 
 "Why," said Eugenie, with a smile, " he wanted a 
 loan, poor man, and I could therefore impose condi- 
 tions by way of interest. But I also managed to concil- 
 iate him to the proposition by representing that if the 
 young man were good-looking, he might himself, with 
 our connections, etc., form an advantageous marriage, 
 and that in such a case, if the father treated him 
 now justly and kindly, he would naturally partake 
 with the father whatever benefits the marriage might 
 confer. " 
 
 " Ah! you are an excellent diplomatist, Eugenie; and 
 you turn people's heads by always acting from your 
 heart. Hush, here comes the vicomte! " 
 
 "A delightful ball," said Monsieur de Vaudemont, 
 approaching the hostess. " Pray, has that young lady 
 yonder, in the pink dress, any fortune? She is pretty, 
 — eh ? — you observe she is looking at me, — I mean 
 at us!"
 
 24 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 " ]\ry dear cousin, what a compliment you pay to 
 marriage! You have had two wives, and you are ever 
 on the qui vive for a third! " 
 
 " What would you have me do ? — we cannot resist the 
 overtures of your bewitching sex. Hum, — what for- 
 tune has she 1 " 
 
 " Not a sou : besides, she is engaged." 
 
 " Oh ! now I look at her, she is not pretty, — not at 
 all. I made a mistake. I did not mean her. I meant 
 the young lady in blue. " 
 
 " Worse and Avorse, — she is married already. Shall I 
 present you ? " 
 
 " All, Monsieur de Vaudemont," said Madame 
 d'Anville, " have you found out a new bureau de 
 mariage ? " 
 
 The vicomte pretended not to hear that question. 
 But, turning to Eugenie, took her aside, and said with 
 an air in which he endeavored to throw a great deal of 
 sorrow, " You know, my dear cousin, that to oblige you 
 I consented to send for my son, though, as I always 
 said, it is very unpleasant for a man like me in the 
 prime of life to hawk about a great boy of nineteen or 
 twenty. People soon say, ^ Old Vaudemont and young 
 Vaudemont. ' However, a father's feelings are never 
 appealed to in vain." Here the vicomte put his hand- 
 kerchief to his eyes, and after a pause continued, "I 
 sent for him, — I even went to your old bonne, Madame 
 Dufour, to make a bargain for her lodgings, and this day, 
 guess my grief, I received a letter sealed with black. 
 My son is dead! — a sudden fever; it is shocking! " 
 
 " Horriljle! dead! — your own son, whom you hardly 
 ever saw, — never since he was an infant! " 
 
 " Yes, that softens the blow very much. And now 
 you see / must marry. If the boy had been good-look-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 25 
 
 ing, and like me, and so forth, why, as you observed, he 
 ]iiight have made a good match, and allowed me a certain 
 sum, or we could have all lived together." 
 
 " And your son is dead, and you come to a ball! " 
 " Je silts philosophe,''^ said the vicomte, shrugging 
 his shoulders. "And, as you say, I never saw him. 
 It saves me seven hundred francs a year. Don't say a 
 word to any one, — I sha'n't give out that he is dead, 
 l)oor fellow ! Pray be discreet : you see there are some 
 ill-natured people who might think it odd I do not shut 
 myself up. I can wait till Paris is quite empty. It 
 would be a pity to lose any opportunity at present, for 
 11010, you see, I viust marry I" And the philosojjhe 
 sauntered away.
 
 26 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 GUIOMAR. 
 
 Those devotions I am to pay 
 Are written in my heart, not in this book. 
 
 Enter Rutilio. 
 I am pursued : all the ports are stopped, too. 
 Not any hope to escape, — behind, before me. 
 On either side, I am beset. 
 Beaumont AND Fletchkr : The Custom of the Countri/. 
 
 The party were just gone; it was already the peep of 
 day; the wheels of the last carriage had died in the 
 distance. 
 
 Madame de Merville had dismissed her woman, and 
 was seated in her own room, leaning her head musingly 
 on her hand. 
 
 Beside her was the table that held her MSS. and a 
 few books, amidst which were scattered vases of flowers. 
 On a pedestal beneath the window Avas placed a marble 
 bust of Dante. Through the open door were seen in 
 perspective the rooms just deserted by her guests, — 
 the lights still burned in the chandeliers and girandoles, 
 contendmg with the daylight that came through the 
 half-closed curtains. The person of the inmate was in 
 harmony with the apartment. It was characterized by 
 a certain grace which, for want of a better epithet, writers 
 are prone to call clas.sical or antique. Her complexion, 
 seeming paler than usual by that light, was yet soft and 
 delicate, — the features well cut, but small and womanly. 
 About the face there was that rarest of all charms, the 
 combination of intellect with sweetness, — the eyes, of a
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 27 
 
 dark blue, were thoughtful, perhaps melancholy, in their 
 expression; but the long dark lashes, and the shape of 
 the eyes, themselves more long than full, gave to their 
 intelligence a softness approaching to languor, increased, 
 perhaps, by that slight shadow round and below the orbs, 
 which is common with those who have tasked too much 
 either the mind or the heart. The contour of the face, 
 without being sharp or angular, had yet lost a little of 
 the roiuidness of earlier youth; and the hand on Avhich 
 she leaned was, perhaps, even too white, too delicate, 
 for the beauty which belongs to health; but the throat 
 and bust were of exquisite symmetry. 
 
 "I am not happy," murmured Eugenie to herseK; 
 " yet I scarce know why. Is it really as we women of 
 romance have said till the saying is worn threadbare, 
 that the destiny of women is not fame, but love? 
 Strange, then, that while I have so often pictured what 
 love should be, I have never felt it. And now, — and 
 now, " she continued, half-rising, and with a natural pang, 
 — " now I am no longer in my first youth. If I loved, 
 should I be loved again 1 How happy that young pair 
 seemed, — they are never alone ! " 
 
 At this moment, at a distance, was heard the report 
 of firearms, — again. Eugenie started, and called to her 
 servant, who, with one of the waiters hired for the night, 
 was engaged in removing, and nibbling as he removed, 
 the remains of the feast. " VThat is that, at this hour ? — 
 open the window and look out! " 
 
 " I can see nothing, madame." 
 
 "Again, — that is the third time. Go into the street 
 and look: some one must be in danger." 
 
 The servant and the waiter, both curious, and not will- 
 ing to part company, ran down the stairs, and thence 
 into the street.
 
 28 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Meainvliile INIorton, after vainly attempting Birnie's 
 ■window, which the traitor had previously locked and 
 barred against the escape of his intended victim, crept 
 rapidly along the roof, screened by the parapet not only 
 from the shot but the sight of the foe. But, just as 
 he gained the point at which the lane made an angle with 
 the broad street it adjoined, he cast his eyes over the 
 parapet, and perceived that one of the officers had ven- 
 tured himself to the fearful bridge : he was pursued, — 
 detection and capture seemed inevitable. He paused and 
 breathed hard. He, once the heir to such fortunes, the 
 darling of such affections! — he, the hunted accomplice of 
 a gang of miscreants ! That was the thought that para- 
 lysed, — the disgrace, not the danger. But he was in 
 advance of the pursuer ; he hastened on ; he turned the 
 angle ; he heard a shout behind from the opposite side, 
 — the officer had passed the bridge. " It is but one man 
 as yet," thought he, and his nostrils dilated and his 
 hands clenched as he glided on, glancing at each case- 
 ment as he passed. 
 
 Now as youth and vigor thus struggled against law for 
 life, near at hand death was busy with toil and disease. 
 
 In a miserable gi-ahat, or garret, a mechanic, yet 
 young, and stricken by a lingering malady contracted by 
 the labor of his occupation, was slowly passing from 
 that world which had frowned on his cradle, and relaxed 
 not the gloom of its aspect to comfort his bed of death. 
 Now, this man had married for love, and his wife had 
 loved him ; and it was the cares of that early marriage 
 which had consumed him to the bone. But extreme 
 want, if long continued, eats up love when it has nothing 
 else to eat. And when people are very long dying, the 
 people they fret and trouble begin to think of that too 
 often hypocritical prettiness of phrase called " a happy
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 29 
 
 release. " So the worn-out and half-famished wife did not 
 care three straws for the dying husband whom a year or 
 two ago she had vowed to love and cherish in sickness 
 and in health. But still she seemed to care; for she 
 moaned and pined and wept as the man's breath grew 
 fainter and fainter. 
 
 " Ah, Jean ! " said she, sobbing, " what will become 
 of vie, a poor, lone widow with nobody to work for my 
 bread ? " And with that thought she took on worse 
 than before. 
 
 " I am stifling, " said the dying man, rolling round 
 his ghastly eyes. " How hot it is ! Open the v/indow ; 
 I should like to see the light, — daylight once again. " 
 
 " Mon Dieu I what whims he has, poor man ! " mut- 
 tered the woman, without stirring. 
 
 The poor wretch put out his skeleton hand and 
 clutched his wife's arm. 
 
 " I sha'n't trouble you long, Marie ! Air, — air ! " 
 
 " Jean, you will make yourself worse, — besides, I 
 shall catch my death of cold. I have scarce a rag on; 
 but I will just open the door." 
 
 " Pardon me, " groaned the sufferer ; " leave me, 
 then." 
 
 Poor fellow! perhaps at that moment the thought of 
 unkindness was sharper than the sharp cough which 
 brought blood at every paroxysm. He did not like her 
 so near him, but he did not blame her. Again, I say, 
 poor fellow! 
 
 The woman opened the door, went to the other side of 
 the room and sat down on an old box, and began darning 
 an old neck-handkerchief. The silence was soon broken 
 by the moans of the fast-dying man, and again he mut- 
 tered, as he tossed to and fro, with baked white lips, — 
 
 "Jem:etouffe! — A.u\"
 
 30 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 There was no resisting that prayer, it seemed so like 
 the last. The wife laid down the needle, put the hand- 
 kerchief round her throat, and opened the window. 
 " Do you feel easier now 1 " 
 
 "Bless you, Marie, — yes; that's good, good. It 
 puts me in mind of old days, that breath of air, before 
 we came to Paris. I wish I could work for you noWf 
 Marie." 
 
 " Jean ! my poor Jean ! " said the woman, and the 
 words and tlie voice took back her hardening heart to 
 the fresh fields and tender thoughts of the past time. 
 And she walked up to the bed, and he leaned his 
 temples, damp with livid dews, upon her breast. 
 
 " I have been a sad burden to you, Marie : we should 
 not have married so soon ; but I thought I was stronger. 
 Don't cry ; we have no little ones, thank God. It will 
 be much better for you when I am gone. " 
 
 And so, word after word gasped out, he stopped sud- 
 denly and seemed to fall asleep. 
 
 The v^ife then attempted gently to lay him once more 
 on his pillow ; the head fell back heavily, the jaw had 
 dropped, the teeth were set, the eyes were open and 
 like stone, — the truth broke on her! 
 
 "Jean — Jean! My God, he is dead! and I was 
 unkind to him at the last! " With these words she fell 
 upon the corpse, happily herself insensible. 
 
 Just at tliat moment a human face peered in at the 
 window. Through that aperture, after a moment's 
 pause, a young man leaped lightly into the room. He 
 looked round with a hurried glance, but scarcely noticed 
 the forms stretched on the pallet. It was enough for 
 him that they seemed to sleep, and saw him not. He 
 stole across the room, the door of which Marie had left 
 open, and descended the stairs. He had almost gained
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 31 
 
 the courtyard into which the stairs conducted, Avhen he 
 heard voices helow by the porter's lodge. 
 
 " The police have discovered a gang of coiners ! " 
 
 "Coiners! " 
 
 " Yes ; one has been shot dead ! I have seen his body 
 in the kennel : another has fled along the roofs, — a des- 
 perate fellow ! We were to watch for him. Let us go 
 upstairs and get on the roof and look out." 
 
 By the hum of approval that followed this proposi- 
 tion, Morton judged rightly that it had been addressed to 
 several persons whom curiosity and the explosion of the 
 pistols had drawn from their beds, and who were grouped 
 round the porter's lodge. What was to be done ? — to 
 advance wa^ impossible : was there yet time to retreat 1 — 
 it was at least the only course left him ; he sprang back 
 up the stairs; he had just gained the first flight when he 
 heard steps descending; then, suddenly, it flashed across 
 him that he had left open the window above, — that, 
 doul)tless, by that imprudent oversight, the officer in 
 pursuit had detected a clew to the path he had taken. 
 What was to be done ? — die as Gawtrey had done ! — 
 death rather than the galleys. As he thus resolved, 
 he saw to the right the open door of an apartment in 
 which lights still glimmered in their sockets. It seemed 
 deserted, — he entered boldly and at once, closing the door 
 after him. Wines and viands still left on the table; 
 gilded mirrors, reflecting the stern face of the solitary 
 intruder; here and there an artificial flower; a knot of 
 ribbon on the floor, — all betokening the gayeties and graces 
 of luxurious life, the dance, the revel, the feast, all 
 this in one apartment. Above, in the same house, the 
 pallet, the corpse, the widow, — famine and woe ! Such 
 is a great city; such, above all, is Paris! where, under 
 the same roof, are gathered such antagonistic varieties of
 
 32 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 the social state! Nothing strange in this; it is strange 
 and sad that so little do people, thus neighbors, know 
 of each other that the owner of those rooms had a heart 
 soft to every distress, but she did not know the distress 
 80 close at hand. The music that had charmed her 
 guests had mounted gayly to the vexed ears of agony and 
 hunger. Morton passed the first room, — a second; he 
 came to a third, and Eugenie de Merville, looking up at 
 that instant, saw before her an apparition that might 
 well have alarmed the boldest. His head was uncovered, 
 — his dark hair shadowed in wild and disorderly profu- 
 sion the pale face, and features, beautiful indeed ; but at 
 that moment of the beauty which an artist would impart 
 to a young gladiator, — stamped with defiance, menace, and 
 despair. The disordered garb, the fierce aspect, the 
 dark eyes, that literally shone through the shadows of 
 the room, — all conspired to increase the terror of so 
 abrupt a presence. 
 
 " What are you 1 What do you seek here 1 " said 
 she, falteringly, placing her hand on the bell as she 
 spoke. 
 
 Upon that soft hand Morton laid his own. 
 
 "I seek my life! I am pursued! I am at your 
 mercy ! I am innocent ! Can you save me 1 " 
 
 As he spoke, the door of the outer room beyond was 
 heard to open, and steps and voices were at hand. 
 
 " Ah ! " he exclaimed, recoiling as he recognized her 
 face. " And is it to you that I have fled 1 " 
 
 Eugenie also recognized the stranger; and there was 
 something in tlieir relative positions — the suppliant, 
 the protectress — that excited both her imagination and 
 her pity. A slight color mantled to her cheeks, — her 
 look was gentle and compassionate. 
 
 "Poor boy! so young! " she said. " Hush! "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 33 
 
 She withdrew her hand from his, retired a few steps, 
 lifted a curtain drawn across a recess, and pointing to 
 an alcove that contained one of those sofa-beds common 
 in French houses, added in a whisper, — 
 
 " Enter, — you are saved. " 
 
 Morton obeyed, and Eugenie replaced the curtain. 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 34 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 GCIOMAR. 
 
 Speak ! What are you ? 
 
 RUTILIO. 
 
 Gracious woman, hear me. I am a stranger ; 
 And iu that I answer all your demands. 
 
 Custom ojthe Country. 
 
 Eugenie replaced tlie curtain, and scarcely had she done 
 so, ere the steps in the outer room entered the chamber 
 "where she stood. Her servant was accompanied by two 
 officers of the police. 
 
 "Pardon, madame," said one of the latter; "but 
 we are in pursuit of a criminal. We think he must 
 have entered this house tlirough a window above while 
 your servant was in the street. Permit us to search 1 " 
 
 "Without doubt," answered Eugenie, seating herself. 
 " If he has entered, look in the other apartments. I 
 have not quitted this room." 
 
 " You are right. Accept our apologies." 
 
 And the officers turned back to examine every corner 
 where the fugitive was 7iot. For in that, the scouts of 
 Justice resembled their mistress: when does man's jus- 
 tice look to the right place? 
 
 The servant lingered to repeat the tale he had heard, 
 — the sight he had seen. When, at tliat instant, he 
 saw the curtain of the alcove slightly stirred. He 
 uttered an exclamation, sprung to the bed; his hand 
 toiiched the curtain, — Eugenie seized his arm. She 
 did not speak: but as he turned his eyes to her, aston-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. SS 
 
 ished, he saw that she trembled, and that her cheek 
 was as white as marble. 
 
 "Madame," he said, hesitating, "there is some one 
 hid in the recess." 
 
 "There is! Be silent! " 
 
 A suspicion flashed across the servant's mind. The 
 pure, the proud, the immaculate Eugenie! 
 
 " There is! — and in madame's chamber! " he faltered 
 unconsciously. 
 
 Eugenie's quick apprehensions seized the foul thought. 
 Her eyes flashed, her cheek crimsoned. But her lofty 
 and generous nature conquered even the indignant and 
 scornful burst that rushed to hei lips. The truth ! — 
 could she trust the man 1 A doubt, — and the charge 
 of the human life rendered to her might be betrayed. 
 Her color fell, tears gushed to her eyes. 
 
 " I have been kind to you, Francois. Not a word! " 
 
 " Madame confides in me, — it is enough," said the 
 Frenchman, bowing, with a slight smile on his lips; 
 and he drew back respectfully. 
 
 One of the police-officers re-entered. 
 
 " We have done, madame, he is not here. Aha! that 
 curtain! " 
 
 "It is madame's bed," said Francois. "But I have 
 looked behind. " 
 
 " I am most sorry to have disarranged you," said the 
 policeman, satisfied with the answer; "but we shall have 
 him yet." And he retired. 
 
 The last footsteps died away, the last door of the 
 apartments closed behind the officers, and Eugenie and 
 her servant stood alone gazing on each other. 
 
 "You may retire," said she, at last; and taking her 
 purse from the table, she placed it in his hands. 
 
 The man took it, with a significant look.
 
 36 KIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " ^Madame may depend on ray discretion." • 
 
 Eugenie was alone again. Those words rang in her 
 ear, — Eugenie de ^lerville dependent on the discretion 
 of her lackey! She sank into her chair, and, her excite- 
 ment succeeded by exhaustion, leaned her face on her 
 hands, and burst into tears. She was aroused by a low 
 voice, she looked up, and the young man was kneeling 
 at her feet. 
 
 " Go — go ! " she said : " I have done for you all I can. 
 You heard, you heard, — my own hireling, too! At the 
 hazard of my own good name you are saved. Go I " 
 
 " Of your good name ! " — for Eugenie forgot that it 
 was looks, not words, that had so wrung her pride, — 
 "your good name," he repeated: and glancing round 
 the room — the toilet, the curtain, the recess he had 
 quitted, — all that bespoke that chastest sanctuary of a 
 chaste woman, which for a stranger to enter is, as it 
 were, to profane — her meaning broke on him. "Your 
 good name! — your hireling! No, madame, — no!" 
 And as he spoke he rose to his feet. " Not for me, that 
 sacrifice! Your humanity shall not cost you so dear. 
 Ho, there! I am the man you seek." And he strode 
 to the door. 
 
 Eugenie was penetrated with the answer. She sprung 
 to him, she grasped his garments. 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! — for mercy's sake ! What would you 
 dol Think you I could ever be happy again if the 
 confidence you placed in me were betrayed? Be calm, 
 — be still. I knew not what I said. It will be easy 
 to undeceive the man — later — when you are saved. 
 And you are innocent, — are you not? " 
 
 "Oh, madame," said Morton, "from my soul, I say 
 it, I am innocent, — not of poverty, wretchedness, error, 
 shame; T am innocent of crime. May Heaven bless
 
 NIGHT AND iMORNING. 37 
 
 you! " And as he reverently kissed the hand laid on 
 his arm, there was something in his voice so touching, 
 in his manner something so above his fortunes, that 
 Eugenie was lost in her feelings of compassion, sur- 
 prise, and something, it might be, of admiration in her 
 wonder. 
 
 "And, oh!" he said, passionately, gazing on her 
 with his dark, brilliant eyes, liquid with emotion, "you 
 have made my life sweet in saving it. You — you, of 
 whom, ever since the first time, almost the sole time, I 
 beheld you, — I have so often mused and dreamed. 
 Henceforth, whatever befall me, there will be some 
 recollections that will — that — " 
 
 He stopped short, for his heart was too full for words; 
 and the silence said more to Eugenie than if all the 
 eloquence of Rousseau had glowed upon his tongue. 
 
 "And who, and what are you? " she asked, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " An exile, an orphan, an outcast! I have no name! 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 " No, — stay yet ; the danger is not past. Wait till 
 my servant is gone to rest ; I hear him yet. Sit down, 
 — sit down. And whither would you go 1 " 
 
 "1 know not." 
 
 " Have you no friends 1 " 
 
 "None." 
 
 « No home 1 " 
 
 " None." 
 
 "And the police of Paris so vigilant! " cried Eugenie, 
 wringing her hands. " What is to be done 1 I shall 
 have saved you in vain, — you will be discovered! Of 
 what do they charge you 1 Not robbery — not — " 
 
 And she, too, stopped short, for she did not dare to 
 breathe the black word, "Murder! "
 
 38 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " I know not," said Morton, putting his hand to his 
 forehead ," except of being friends with the only man 
 who befriended me, — and they have killed him! " 
 
 " Another time you shall tell me all." 
 
 " Another time!" he exclaimed, eagerly, — "shall I 
 see you again 1 " 
 
 Eugenie blushed beneath the gaze and the voice of 
 
 joy- 
 
 "Yes," she said; "yes. But I must reflect. Be 
 calm, — be silent. Ah ! — a happy thought ! " 
 
 She sat down, wrote a hasty line, sealed, and gave it 
 to Morton. 
 
 "Take this note, as addressed, to Madame Dufour; it 
 will provide you with a safe lodging. She is a person 
 I can depend on, — an old servant who lived with my 
 mother and to whom I have given a small pension. 
 She has a lodging; it is lately vacant: I promised to 
 procure her a tenant, — go, say nothing of what has 
 passed. I will see her and arrange all. Wait! — hark! 
 — all is still! I will go first, and see that no one 
 watches you. Stop" (and she threw open the window, 
 and looked into the court). " The porter's door is 
 open, — that is fortunate! Hurry on, and God be with 
 you!" 
 
 In a few minutes Morton was in the streets. It was 
 still early; the thoroughfares deserted, — none of the 
 shops yet open. The address on the note was to a street 
 at some distance on the other side of the Seine. He 
 passed along the same Quai which he had trodden but 
 a few hours since ; he passed the same splendid bridge 
 on which he had stood despairing, to quit it revived ; 
 he gained the Rue Faubourg St. Honore. A young man 
 in a cabriolet, on whose fair cheek burned the hectic of 
 late vigils and lavish dissipation, was rolling leisurely
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 39 
 
 home from the gaming-house, at which he had been 
 more than usually fortunate, — his pockets were laden 
 with notes and gold. He bent forwards as Morton 
 passed him. Philip, absorbed in his reverie, perceived 
 him not, and continued his way. The gentleman turned 
 down one of the streets to the left, stopped, and called 
 to the servant dozing behind his cabriolet, — 
 
 "Follow that passenger! quietly, — see where he 
 lodges; be sure to find out and let me know. I shall 
 go home without you." With that he drove on. 
 
 Fliili]!, unconscious of the espionar/e, arrived at a 
 small house in a quiet but respectable street, and rang 
 tlie bell several times before at last he was admitted by 
 ^Madame Dufour herself, in her night-cap. The old 
 woman looked askant and alarmed at the unexpected 
 apparition. But the note seemtid at once to satisfy 
 her. She conducted him to an apartment on the first 
 floor, small, but neatly and even elegantly furnished, 
 consisting of a sitting-room and a bed-chamber, and said, 
 quietly, — 
 
 " Will they suit monsieur? " 
 
 To monsieur they seemed a palace. Morton nodded 
 assent. 
 
 " And will monsieur sleep for a short time 1 " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " The bed is well-aired. The rooms have only been 
 vacant three days since. Can I get you anything till 
 your luggage arrives ? " 
 
 «Ko." 
 
 The woman left him. He threw off his clothes, flunji 
 himself on the bed, — and did not wake till noon. 
 
 When his eyes unclosed, — when they rested on that 
 calm chamber, with its air of health and cleanliness 
 and comfort, it was long before he could convince him-
 
 40 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 self that he was yet awake. He missed the loud, deep 
 voice of Gawtrey, the smoke of the dead man's meer- 
 schaum, the gloomy garret, the distained walls, the 
 stealthy whisper of the loathed Birnie; slowly the life 
 led and the life gone within the last twelve hours grew 
 upon his struggling memory. He groaned, and turned 
 uneasily round, when the door slightly opened, and he 
 spriuig up fiercely, — 
 
 " Who is there 1 " 
 
 "It is only I, sir," answered Madame Dufour. "I 
 have been in three times to see if you were stirring. 
 There is a letter, I believe, for you, sir; though there 
 is no name to it," and she laid the letter on the chair 
 beside him. Did it come from her, — the saving angel? 
 He seized it. The cover was blank ; it was sealed with 
 a small device, as of a ring seal. He tore it open, and 
 found four billets de ba7ique ioT 1000 francs each, — a 
 sum equivalent in our money to about £160. 
 
 " Who sent this, the — the lady from whom I brought 
 the note ? " 
 
 "Madame de Merville? — certainly not, sir," said 
 Madame Dufour, who, with the privilege of age, was 
 now unscrupulously filling the water-jugs and settling 
 the toilet-table. " A young man called about two hours 
 after you had gone to bed; and describing you, inquired 
 if you lodged here, and what your name was. I said 
 you had just arrived, and that I did not yet know your 
 name. So he went away, and came again half an hour 
 afterwards with this letter, which he charged me to 
 deliver to you safely." 
 
 " A young man, — a gentleman ? " 
 
 "No, sir; he seemed a smart but common sort of 
 lad." For the unsophisticated Madame Dufour did not 
 discover in the plain, black frock and drab gaiters of the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 41 
 
 bearer of that letter the simple livery of an English 
 gentleman's groom. 
 
 Whom could it come from, if not from Madame de 
 Merville? Perhaps one of Gawtrey's late friends. A 
 suspicion of Arthur Beaufort crossed him, but he indig- 
 nantly dismissed it. Men are seldom credulous of 
 what they are unwilling to helieve! What kindness 
 had the Beauforts hitherto shown him? — left his 
 mother to perish broken-hearted, stolen from him his 
 brother, and steeled, in that brother, the only heart 
 wherein he had a right to look for gratitude and love ! 
 No; it viust be Madame de Merville. He dismissed 
 Madame Dufour for pen and paper, rose, wrote a letter 
 to Eugenie — grateful, but proud — and enclosed the 
 notes. He then summoned Madame Dufour, and sent 
 her with his despatch. 
 
 "Ah, madame," said the ci-devant bonne, when she 
 found herself in Eugenie's presence. "The poor lad! 
 how handsome he is,, and how shameful in the vicomte 
 to let him wear such clothes! " 
 
 "The vicomte! " 
 
 "Oh, my dear mistress, you must not deny it. You 
 told me in your note to ask him no questions, but I 
 guessed at once. The vicomte told me himself that he 
 should have the young gentleman over in a few days. 
 You need not be ashamed of him. You will see what a 
 difference clothes will make in his appearance; and I 
 have taken it on myself to order a tailor to go to him. 
 The vicomte must pay me." 
 
 " Not a word to the vicomte as yet. We will surprise 
 him," said Eugenie, laughing. 
 
 Madame de Merville had been all that morning trying 
 to invent some story to account for her interest in the 
 lodger, and now fortune favored her!
 
 42 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " But is that a letter for me ? " 
 
 " And I had almost forgot it," said Madame Dufour, 
 as she extended the letter. 
 
 Whatever there had hitherto been in the circum- 
 stances connected with Morton that had roused the 
 interest and excited the romance of Eugenie de Merville, 
 her fancy was yet more attracted by the tone of the letter 
 she now read. For though Morton, more accustomed 
 to speak than to write French, expressed himself with 
 less precision, and a less euphuistic selection of phrase 
 than the authors and elegans who formed her usual 
 correspondents, there was an innate and rough nobleness 
 — a strong and profound feeling in every line of his 
 letter — which increased her surprise and admiration. 
 
 " All that surrounds him, — all that belongs to him, is 
 strangeness and mystery!" murmured she; and she sat 
 down to reply. 
 
 When Madame Dufour departed with that letter, 
 Eugenie remained silent and thouglitful for more than 
 an hour, — Morton's letter before her; and sweet, in 
 their indistinctness, were the recollections and the 
 images that crowded on her mind. 
 
 Morton, satisfied by the earnest and solemn assurances 
 of Eugenie that she was not the unknown donor of the 
 sum she re-enclosed, after puzzling himself in vain to 
 form any new conjectures as to the quarter whence it 
 came, felt that, under his present circumstances, it 
 would Ije an absurd Quixotism to refuse to apply what 
 the very Providence to whom he had anew consigned 
 himself seemed to have sent to his aid. And it placed 
 him, too, beyond the offer of all pecuniary assistance 
 from one from whom he could least have brooked to 
 receive it. He consented, therefore, to all that the 
 lo(iuaciou8 tailor proposed to him. And it would
 
 NIGHT AND MOUNING. 43 
 
 have been difficult to have recognized the wild and 
 frenzied fugitive in the stately and graceful form, with 
 its young beauty and air of well-born pride, which the 
 next day sat by the side of Eugenie. And that day he 
 told his sad and troubled story, and Eugenie Avept; and 
 from that day he came daily ; and two weeks — happy, 
 dreamlike, intoxicating to both — passed by ; and, as 
 their last sun set, he was kneeling at her feet, and 
 breathing to one to whom the homage of wit and genius 
 and complacent wealth, had hitherto been vainly 
 proffered, the impetuous, agitated, delicious secrets of 
 the first love. He spoke, and rose to depart forever, — 
 when the look and sigh detained him. 
 
 The next day, after a sleepless night, Eugenie de 
 Merville sent for the Vicomte de Vaudemont.
 
 44 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A silver river small 
 In sweet accents 
 Its music vents ; — 
 The warbling virginal, 
 To which the merry birds do sing, 
 Timed with stops of gold the silver string. 
 
 Sir Kichakd Fanshaw. 
 
 One evening, several weeks after the events just com- 
 memorated, a stranger, leading in his hand a young 
 
 child, entered the churchyard of H . The sun had 
 
 not long set, and the short twilight of deepening sum- 
 mer reigned in the tranquil skies ; you might still hear 
 from the trees above the graves the chirp of some joy- 
 ous bird: what cared he, the denizen of the skies, for 
 the dead that slept below 1 — what did he value save the 
 greenness and repose of the spot ? — to him alike, the 
 garden or the grave ! As the man and the child passed, 
 the robin, scarcely scared by their tread from the long 
 grass beside one of the mounds, looked at them with 
 its bright, blithe eye. It was a famous spot for the 
 robin, — the old churchyard! That domestic bird — 
 "the friend of man," as it has been called by the poets 
 — found a jolly supper among the worms! 
 
 Tlie stranger, on reaching the middle of the sacred 
 ground, paused and looked round him wistfully. He 
 then approached, slowly and hesitatingly, an oblong 
 tablet, on which were graven, in letters yet fresh and 
 new, these words : —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 45 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF ONE CALUMNIATED AND WRONGED, 
 
 THIS BURIAL-STONE IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY HER SON. 
 
 Such, with the addition of the dates of birth and 
 death, was the tablet which Philip Morton had directed 
 to be placed over his mother's bones ; and around it was 
 set a simple palisade, which defended it from the tread 
 of the children, who sometimes, in defiance of the beadle, 
 played over the dust of the former race. 
 
 " Thy son ! " muttered the stranger, while the child 
 stood quietly by his side, pleased by the trees, the 
 grass, the song of the birds, and recking not of grief or 
 death, — " thy son ! — but not thy favored son, thy 
 darling, thy youngest born; on what spot of earth do 
 thine eyes look down on him ? Surely in heaven thy 
 love has preserved the one whom on earth thou didst 
 most cherish, from the suflferings and the trials that 
 have visited the less-favored outcast. Oh, mother, 
 mother! — it was not his crime — not Philip's — that he 
 did not fulfil to the last the trust bequeathed to him ! 
 Happier, perhaps, as it is! And, oh! if thy memory 
 be graven as deeply in my brother's heart as my own, 
 how often will it warn and save him! That memory! 
 — it has been to me the angel of my life ! To thee — 
 to thee, even in death, I owe it, if, though erring, I 
 am not criminal; if I have lived with the lepers, and 
 am still undefiled ! " His lips then were silent, — not 
 his heart ! 
 
 After a few minutes thus consumed he turned to the 
 child, and said, gently and in a tremulous voice, " Fanny, 
 you have been taught to pray ; you will live near this 
 spot, — will you come sometimes here and pray that you
 
 46 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 may groAv up good and innocent, and become a blessing 
 to those who love you ? " 
 
 " Will papa ever come to hear me pray 1 " 
 
 That sad and unconscious question went to the heart 
 of Morton. The child could not comprehend death. 
 He had sought to explain it, but she had been accus- 
 tomed to consider her protector dead when he was absent 
 from her, and she still insisted that he must come again 
 to life. And that man of turbulence and crime, Avho 
 had passed unrepentant, unabsolved, from sin to judg- 
 ment ; it was an awful question, — " If he should hear 
 her pray 1 " 
 
 " Yes ! " said he, after a pause, — " yes , Fanny, there 
 is a Father who will hear you pray; and pray to him 
 to be merciful to those who have been kind to you. 
 Fanny, you and I may never meet agam I " 
 
 " Are you going to die too 1 Mediant, every one dies 
 to Fanny!" and, clinging to him endearingly, she put 
 up her lips to kiss him. He took her in his arms; and, 
 as a tear fell upon her rosy cheek, she said, " Don't cry, 
 brother, for I love you. " 
 
 " Do you, dear Fanny ? Then, for my sake, when you 
 come to this place, if any one will give you a few flowers, 
 scatter them on that stone. And now we will go to one 
 whom you must love also, and to whom, as I have told 
 you, he sends you ; he who — Come ! " 
 
 As he thus spoke, and placed Fanny again on the 
 ground, he was startled to see, precisely on the spot 
 where he had seen before the like apparition, on the 
 same spot where the father had cursed the son, the 
 motionless form of an old man. Morton recognized, as 
 if by an instinct rather than by an effort of the memory, 
 the person to whom he was bound. 
 
 He walked slowly towards him; but Fanny abruptly
 
 NIGHT AND MOPcNING. 47 
 
 left his side, lured by a moth that flitted duskily over 
 the graves. 
 
 " Your name, sir, I think, is Simon Gawtrey 1 " said 
 Morton. " I have come to England in quest of you. " 
 
 " Of me ? " said the old man, half rising, and his eyes, 
 now completely blind, roUod vacantly over Morton's 
 person, — " of me 1 — for what ? Who are you 1 — I 
 don't know your voice ! " 
 
 " I come to you from your son ! " 
 
 "My son! " exclaimed the old man, with great vehe- 
 mence, — " the reprobate ! — the dishonored ! — the in- 
 famous ! — tlie accursed — " 
 
 " Hush ! you revile the dead ! " 
 
 " Dead ! " muttered the wretched father, tottering 
 back to the seat he had quitted, — "dead!" and the 
 sound of his voice was so full of anguish that the dog 
 at his feet, which Morton had not hitherto perceived, 
 echoed it with a dismal cry that recalled to Philip the 
 awful day in which he had seen the son quit the father 
 for the last time on earth. 
 
 The sound brought Fanny to the spot; and, with a 
 laugh of delight, which made to it a strange contrast, 
 she threw herself on the grass beside the dog and sought 
 to entice it to play. So there, in that place of death, 
 were knit together the four links in the great chain: 
 lusty and blooming life; desolate and doting age; in- 
 fancy, yet scarce conscious of a soul, — and the dumb 
 brute, that has no warrant of a hereafter! 
 
 " Dead — dead ! " repeated the old man, covering 
 his sightless balls with his withered hands. " Poor 
 William! " 
 
 " He remembered you to the last. He bade me seek 
 you out; he bade me replace the guilty son with a thing 
 pure and innocent, as he had been had he died in his
 
 4* NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 cradle, — a child to comfort your old age! Kneel, Fanny, 
 I have found you a father who will cherish you (oh! 
 you will, sir, will you not ?) as he whom you may see no 
 more ! " 
 
 There was something in Morton's voice so solemn 
 that it awed and touched both the old man and the 
 infant; and Fanny, creeping to the protector thus 
 assigned to her, and putting her little hands confidingly 
 on his knees, said, — 
 
 " Fanny will love you if papa wished it. Kiss 
 Fanny." 
 
 " Is it his child, — his 1 " said the blind man, sobbing. 
 " Come to my heart ; here — here ! God, forgive me ! " 
 
 Morton did not think it right at that moment to unde- 
 ceive him with regard to the poor child's true connection 
 with the deceased; and he waited in silence till Simon, 
 after a burst of passionate grief and tenderness, rose, and, 
 still clasping the child to his breast, said, — 
 
 " Sir, forgive me ! — I am a very weak old man : I 
 have many thanks to give, — I have much, too, to learn. 
 My poor son ! he did not die in want, — did he t " 
 
 The particulars of Gawtrey's fate, with his real name 
 and the various aliases he had assumed, had appeared in 
 the French journals, and been partially copied into the 
 English; and Morton had expected to have been saved 
 the painful narrative of that fearful death : but the utter 
 seclusion of the old man, his infirmity, and his estranged 
 habits, had shut him out from the intelligence that it 
 now devolved on Philip to communicate. Morton 
 hesitated a little before he answered, — 
 
 " It is late now ; you are not yet prepared to receive 
 this poor infant at your home, nor to hear the details I 
 have to state. I arrived in England but to-day. I shall 
 lodge in the neighborhood, for it is dear to me. If I
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 49 
 
 may feel sure, then, that you will receive and treasure 
 this sacred and last deposit bequeathed to you by your 
 luihappy son, I will bring my charge to you to-morrow, 
 and we will then, more calmly than we can noAV, talk 
 over the past." 
 
 " You do not answer my question, " said Simon, pas- 
 sionately ; " answer that and I will wait for the rest. 
 They call me a miser ! Did I send out my only child to 
 starve 1 Answer that ! " 
 
 " Be comforted. He did not die in want ; and he has 
 even left some little fortune for Fanny, which I was to 
 place in your hands." 
 
 " And he thought to bribe the old miser to be human ! 
 Well, well, well! I will go home." 
 
 " Lean on me ! " 
 
 The dog leaped playfully on his master as the latter 
 rose, and Fanny slid from Simon's arms to caress and 
 talk to the animal in her own way. As they sloAvly 
 passed through the churchyard, Simon muttered inco- 
 herently to himself for several paces, and Morton would 
 not disturb, since he could not comfort, him. 
 
 At last he said abruptly, " Did my son repent ? " 
 
 " I hope, " answered Morton, evasively, " that, had 
 his life been spared, he would have amended! " 
 
 " Tush, sir ! — I am past seventy ; we repent ! — we 
 never amend! " And Simon again sunk into his own 
 dim and disconnected reveries. 
 
 At length they arrived at the blind man's house. The 
 door was opened to them by an old woman of disagreeable 
 and sinister aspect, dressed out much too gayly for the 
 station of a servant, though such was her reputed capa- 
 city ; but the miser's affliction saved her from the chance 
 of his comment on her extravagance. As she stood in 
 the doorway, with a candle in her hand, she scanned 
 
 VOL. II. — 4
 
 50 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 curiously, and with no welcoming eye, her master's 
 companions. 
 
 " Mrs. Boxer, my son is dead ! " said Simon, in a 
 hollow voice. 
 
 " And a good thing it is, then, sir! " 
 
 " For shame, woman, " said Morton, indignantly. 
 
 " Hey-day ! sir ! Whom have we got here ? " 
 
 " One, " said Simon, sternly, " whom you will treat 
 with respect. He brings me a blessing to lighten my 
 loss. One harsh word to this child, and you quit my 
 house ! " 
 
 The woman looked perfectly thunderstruck; but, 
 recovering herself, she said whiningly, — 
 
 " I ! a harsh word to anything my dear, kind master 
 cares for! And, Lord, what a sweet, pretty creature it 
 is! Come here, my dear! " 
 
 But Fanny shrunk back, and would not let go Philip's 
 hand. 
 
 " To-morrow, then, " said Morton ; and he was turning 
 away, when a sudden thought seemed to cross the old 
 man, — 
 
 "Stay, sir, — stay! I — I — did my son say I was 
 rich 1 I am very, very poor, — nothing in the house, or 
 I should have been robbed long ago! " 
 
 " Your son told me to bring money, not to ask for it ! " 
 
 " Ask for it ! No ; but, " added the old man, and a 
 gleam of cunning intelligence shot over his face, — "but 
 he had got into a bad set. Ask! — No! — Put up the 
 door-chain, Mrs. Boxer! " 
 
 It was with doubt and misgivings that Morton, the 
 next day, consigned the child, who had already nestled 
 herself into the warmest core of his heart, to the care of 
 Simon. Nothing short of that superstitious respect which 
 all men owe to the wishes of the dead would have made
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 51 
 
 him select for her that asylum; for fate had now, in 
 brightening his own prospects, given him an alternative 
 in the benevolence of Madame de Merville. But Gaw- 
 trey had been so earnest on the subject, that he felt as if 
 he had no right to hesitate. And was it not a sort of 
 atonement to any faults the son miglit have committed 
 against the parent, to place by the old man's hearth so 
 sweet a charge 1 
 
 The strange and peculiar mind and character of 
 Fanny made him, however, yet more anxious than 
 otherwise he might have been. She certainly deserved 
 not the harsh name of imbecile or idiot, but she was 
 different from all other children ; slie felt more acutely 
 than most of her age, but she could not be taught to 
 reason. There was something either oblique or deficient 
 in her intellect which justified the most melancholy 
 apprehensions; yet, often, when some disordered, incohe- 
 rent, inexplicable train of ideas most saddened the 
 listener, it would be followed by fancies so exquisite in 
 their strangeness, or feelings so endearing in their tender- 
 ness, that suddenly she seemed as much above, as before 
 she seemed below the ordinary measiire of infant compre- 
 hension. She was like a creature to whicli nature, in 
 some cruel but bright caprice, has given all that belongs 
 to poetry, but denied all that belongs to the common 
 \inderstanding necessary to mankind; or, as a fairy 
 changeling, not, indeed, according to the vulgar supersti- 
 tion, malignant and deformed, but lovelier than the 
 children of men, and haunted by dim and struggling 
 associations of a gentler and fairer being, yet wholly 
 incapable to learn the dry and hard elements Avhich make 
 up the knowledge of actual life. 
 
 Morton as well as he could, sought to explain to 
 Simon the peculiarities in Fanny's mental constitution.
 
 52 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 He urged on him the necessity of providing for her care- 
 ful instruction, and Simon promised to send her to the 
 best school the neigliborhood could afford; but, as the 
 old man spoke, he dwelt so much on the supposed fact 
 that Fanny was William's daughter, and with his re- 
 morse or affection there ran so interwoven a thread of 
 selfishness and avarice, that Morton thought it would be 
 dangerous to his interest in the child to undeceive his 
 error. He, therefore, — perhaps excusably enough, — 
 remained silent on that subject. 
 
 Gawtrey had placed with the superior of the convent, 
 together with an order to give up the child to any one 
 who should demand her in his true name, which he con- 
 fided to the superior, a sum of nearly £300, which he 
 solemnly swore had been honestly obtained, and which, 
 in all his shifts and adversities, he had never allowed 
 himself to touch. This sum, with the trifling deduction 
 made for arrears due to the convent, Morton now placed 
 in Simon's hands. Tlie old man clutched the money, 
 which was for the most in French gold, with a convulsive 
 gripe, and then, as if ashamed of the impulse, said, — 
 
 " But you, sir, — will any sum — that is, any reason- 
 able sura — be of use to you 1 " 
 
 " No ! and if it were, it is neither yours nor mine, 
 
 it is hers. Save it for her, and add to it what you can. " 
 
 While this conversation took place, Fanny had been 
 consigned to the care of Mrs. Boxer, and Philip now 
 rose to see and bid her farewell before he departed. 
 
 " I may come again to visit you, Mr. Gawtrey ; and I 
 pray Heaven to find that you and Fanny have been a 
 mutual blessing to each other. Oh, remember how your 
 son loved her ! " 
 
 " He had a good heart in spite of all his sins. Poor 
 William! " said Simon.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 53 
 
 Philip Morton heard, and his lip curled with a sad 
 and a just disdain. 
 
 If, when at the age of nineteen, William Gawtrey had 
 quitted his father's roof, the father had then remembered 
 that the sou's heart was good, — the son had been alive 
 still, an honest and a happy man. Do ye not laugli, 
 ye all-listening Fiends! when men praise those dead 
 whose virtues they discovered not when alive! It takes 
 much marble to build the sepulchre, — how little of lath 
 and plaster would have repaired the garret! 
 
 On turning into a small room adjoining the parlor in 
 which Gawtrey sat, Morton found Fanny standing 
 gloomily by a dull, soot-grimed window, which looked 
 out on the dead walls of a small yard. Mrs. Boxer, 
 seated by a table, was employed in trimming a cap, and 
 putting questions to Fanny in that falsetto voice of en- 
 dearment in which people not used to children are apt to 
 address them. 
 
 " And so, my dear, they 've never taught you to read 
 or write? You 've been sadly neglected, poor thing! " 
 
 " We must do our best to supply the deficiency, " said 
 Morton, as he entered. 
 
 " Bless me, sir, is that you ? " and the gouvernante 
 bustled up and dropped a low courtesy; for Morton, 
 dressed then in the garb of a gentleman, was of a mien 
 and person calculated to strike the gaze of the vulgar. 
 
 " Ah, brother ! " cried Fanny, for by that name he 
 had taught her to call him; and she flew to his side, 
 " Come aAvay : it 's ugly here, — it makes me cold. " 
 
 " My cliild, I told you you must stay ; but I shall 
 hope to see you again some day. Will you not be kind 
 to this poor creature, ma'am 1 Forgive me if I offended 
 you last night, and favor me by accepting this to show 
 that we are friends." As he spoke he slid his purse
 
 54 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 into the woman's hand. " I shall feel ever grateful for 
 whatever you can do for Fanny." 
 
 " Fanny wants nothing from any one else ; Fanny 
 wants her brother. " 
 
 " Sweet child ! I fear she don't take to me. WiU you 
 like me, Miss Fanny ? " 
 
 " Xo ! get along ! " 
 
 " Fie, Fanny ! — you remember you did not take to 
 me at first. But she is so affectionate, ma'am; she 
 never forgets a kindness. " 
 
 " I will do all I can to please her, sir. And so she is 
 really master's grandchild ? " The woman fixed lier 
 eyes, as she spoke, so intently on Morton that he felt 
 embarrassed, and busied himself, without answering, 
 in caressing and soothing Fanny, who now seemed to 
 awake to the affliction about to visit her; for though she 
 did not weep, — she very rarely wept, — her slight frame 
 trembled, her eyes closed, her cheeks, even her lips, 
 were white, and her delicate hands were clasped tightly 
 round the neck of the one about to abandon her to 
 strange breasts. 
 
 Morton was greatly moved. " One kiss, Fanny ! and 
 do not forget me when we meet again." 
 
 The child pressed her lips to his cheek, but the lips 
 were cold. He put her down gently ; she stood mute 
 and passive. 
 
 "Remember that he wished me to leave you here," 
 whispered Morton, using an argviment that never failed, 
 " We must obey him ; and so — God bless you, Fanny ! " 
 
 He rose and retreated to the door; the child un- 
 closed her eyes, and gazed at him with a strained, 
 painful, imploring gaze ; her lips moved, but she did not 
 speak. Morton could not bear tliat silent woe. He 
 sought to smile on her consolingly, but the smile would
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 55 
 
 not come. He closed the door, and hurried from the 
 house. 
 
 From that day Fanny settled into a kind of dreary, 
 inanimate stupor, which resembled that of the som- 
 nambulist whom the magnetizer forgets to waken. 
 Hitherto, with all the eccentricities or deficiencies of 
 her mind had mingled a wild and airy gayety. That 
 was vanished. She spoke little, she never played; no 
 toys could lure her; even the poor dog failed to win 
 her notice. If she was told to do anything, she stared 
 vacantly, and stirred not. She evinced, however, a 
 kind of dumb regard to the old blind man ; she would 
 creep to his knees, and sit there for hours, seldom answer- 
 ing when he addressed her, but uneasy, anxious, and 
 restless, if he left her. 
 
 " Will you die too ? " she asked once ; the old man 
 ■understood her not, and she did not try to explain. 
 Early one morning, some days after Morton was gone, 
 they missed her; she was not in the house, nor the dull 
 yard where she was sometimes dismissed and told to play, 
 — told in vain. In great alarm, the old man accused 
 Mrs. Boxer of having spirited her away, and threatened 
 and stormed so loudly that the woman, against her will, 
 went forth to the search. At last she found the child in 
 the churchyard, standing wistfully beside a tomb. 
 
 " What do you here, you little plague 1 " said Mrs. 
 Boxer, rudely seizing her by the arm. 
 
 " This is the Avay they will both come back some day ! 
 I dreamed so ! " 
 
 " If ever I catch you here again ! " said the house- 
 keeper ; and, wiping her brow with one hand, she struck 
 the child with the other. Fanny had never been struck 
 before. She recoiled in terror and amazement, and, 
 for the first time since her arrival, burst into tears.
 
 56 NIGHT AND MOENINa. 
 
 "Come, come, — no crying! and if you tell master, 
 I '11 beat you within an inch of your life ! " So saying, 
 she caught Fanny in her arms; and, Avalking about, 
 scolding and menacing, till she had frightened back 
 the child's tears, she returned triumphantly to the 
 house, and, bursting into the parlor, exclaimed, " Here 'a 
 the little darling, sir! " 
 
 When old Simon learned where the child had been 
 found, he was glad ; for it was his constant habit, when- 
 ever the evening was fine, to glide out to that church- 
 yard, — his dog his guide, — and sit on his one favorite 
 spot opposite the setting sun. This, not so much for 
 the sanctity of the place, or the meditations it might 
 inspire, as because it was the nearest, the safest, and the 
 loneliest spot in the neighborhood of his home, where 
 the blind man could inhale the air, and bask in the light 
 of heaven. Hitherto, thinking it sad for the child, he 
 had never taken her with him ; indeed, at the hour of 
 his monotonous excursion, she had generally been ban- 
 ished to bed. Now she was permitted to accompany 
 him; and the old man and the infant would sit there 
 side by side, as age and infancy rested side by side in the 
 graves beloAV. The first symptom of childlike interest 
 and curiosity that Fanny betrayed was awakened by the 
 affliction of her protector. One evening, as they thus 
 sat, she made him explain what the desolation of blind- 
 ness is. She seemed to comprehend him, though he did 
 not seek to adapt his complaints to her understanding. 
 
 " Fanny knows, " said she, touchingly ; " for she, too, 
 is blind here ; " and she pressed her hands to her 
 temples. 
 
 Notwithstanding her silence and strange ways, and 
 although he could not see the exquisite loveliness which 
 nature, as in remorseful pity, had lavished on her out'
 
 NIGHT AND JIORNING. 57 
 
 ward form, Simon soon learned to love her hotter than 
 lie had ever loved yet: for they most cold to tlie child 
 are often dotards to the grandchild. For her even his 
 avarice slept. Dainties never before known at his spar- 
 ing board were ordered to tempt her appetite ; toy-shops 
 ransacked to amuse her indolence. He was long, how- 
 ever, before he could prevail on himself to fulfil his 
 promise to Morton, and rob himself of her presence. 
 At length, however, wearied with Mrs. Boxer's lamen- 
 tations at her ignorance, and alarmed himself at some 
 evidences of helplessness which made him dread to 
 think what her future might be when left alone in life, 
 he placed her at a day-school in the suburb. Here 
 Fanny, for a considerable time, justified the harshest 
 assertions of her stupidity. She could not even keep her 
 eyes two minutes together on the page from which she 
 M'^as to learn the mysteries of reading; months passed 
 before she mastered the alphabet, and, a month after, 
 she had again forgot it, and the labor was renewed. The 
 only thing in which she showed ability, if so it might be 
 called, was in the use of the needle. The sisters of the 
 convent had already taught her many pretty devices in 
 this art, and when she found that at the scliool they 
 were admired, — that she was praised instead of blamed, 
 — her vanity was pleased, and she learned so readily all 
 that they could teach in this not unprofitable accomplish- 
 ment, that Mrs. Boxer slyly and secretly turned her 
 tasks to account, and made a weekly perquisite of the 
 poor pupil's industry. Another faculty she possessed, in 
 common with persons usually deficient, and with the 
 lower species, — namely, a most accurate and faithful 
 recollection of places. At first Mrs. Boxer had been 
 duly sent morning, noon, and evening, to take her to, or 
 bring her from, the school; but this was so great a
 
 58 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 grievance to Simon's solitary superintendent, and Fanny 
 coaxed the old man so endearingly to allow her to go and 
 return alone, that the attendance, unwelcome to both, 
 was Avaived. Fanny exulted in this liberty; and she 
 never, in going or in returning, missed passing through 
 the burial-ground, and gazing wistfully at the tomb from 
 ■which she yet believed Morton would one day reappear. 
 With his memory, she cherished also that of her earlier 
 and more guilty protector ; but they were separate feel- 
 ings, which she distinguished in her own way, — 
 
 " Papa had given her up. She knew that he would 
 not have sent her away, far, far over the great water, 
 if he had meant to see Fanny again; but her brother 
 was forced to leave her, — he would come to life one 
 day, and then they should live together! " 
 
 One day, towards the end of autumn, as her school- 
 mistress, a good woman on the whole, but who had not 
 yet had the wit to discover by what cliords to tune the 
 instrument, over Avhich so wearily she drew her unskil- 
 ful hand, — one day, we say, the schoolmistress hap- 
 pened to be dressed for a christening party to Avhich she 
 was invited in the suburb; and, accordingly, after the 
 morning lessons, the pupils were to be dismissed to a 
 holiday. As Fanny now came last, with tlie hopeless 
 spelling-book, she stopped suddenly short, and her 
 eyes rested with avidity upon a large bouquet of exotic 
 flowers with which the good lady had enlivened the 
 centre of the parted kerchief, whose yellow gauze mod- 
 estly veiled that tender section of female beauty which 
 poets have likened to hills of snow, — a chilling simile! 
 It was then autumn ; and field, and even garden flowers 
 were growing rare. 
 
 " Will you give me one of those flowers 1 " said Fannj'^, 
 dropping her book.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 59 
 
 " One of these flowers, child! why? " 
 
 Fanny did not answer; but one of the elder and 
 cleverer girls, said, — 
 
 "Oh! she comes from France, you know, ma'am, and 
 the Koraan Catholics put flowers and riltbons and 
 things over the graves; you recollect, ma'am, we were 
 reading yesterday about Pere-la-Chaise 1 " 
 
 "Well, what then?" 
 
 " And Miss Fanny will do any kind of work for us if 
 we will give her flowers." 
 
 " My brother told me where to put them : but these 
 pretty flowers, I never had any like them; thei/ may 
 bring him back again! I '11 be so good if you '11 give 
 me one, — only one! " 
 
 " Will you learn your lesson if I do, Fanny ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes! Wait a moment! " 
 
 And Fanny stole back to her desk, put the hateful 
 book resolutely before her, pressed both hands tightly on 
 her temples, — Eureka, the chord was touched; and 
 Fanny marched in triumph through half a column of 
 hostile double-syllables! 
 
 From that day the schoolmistress kneAV how to stimu- 
 late her, and Fanny learned to read : her path to knowl- 
 edge thus literally strewn with flowers! Catherine, thy 
 children were far ofi", and thy grave looked gay! 
 
 It naturally happened that those short and simple 
 rhymes, often sacred, which are repeated in schools as 
 helps to memory, made a part of her studies; and no 
 sooner had the sound of verse struck upon her fancy than 
 it seemed to confuse and agitate anew all her senses. 
 It was like the music of some breeze, to which dance 
 and tremble all the young leaves of a wild plant. Even 
 when at the convent she had been fond of repeating the 
 infant rhymes with which they had sought to lull, or to
 
 60 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 amuse her; b\;t now the taste was more strongly devel- 
 oped. She confounded, however, in meaningless and 
 motley disorder, the various snatches of song that came 
 to her ear, weaving them together in some form which 
 she understood, but which was jargon to all others; and 
 often, as she went alone through the green lanes or 
 the hustling streets, the passenger would turn in pity 
 and fear to hear her half chant, half murmur, ditties 
 that seemed to suit only a wandering and unsettled 
 imagination. And as Mrs. Boxer, in her visits to the 
 various shops in the suburb, took care to bemoan her 
 hard fate in attending to a creature so evidently moon- 
 stricken, it was no wonder that the manner and habits 
 of the child, coupled with that strange predilection to 
 haunt the burial-ground, which is not uncommon with 
 persons of weak and disordered intellect, confirmed the 
 character thus given to her. 
 
 So, as slie tripped gayly and lightly along the thor- 
 oughfares, the cliildren would draw aside from her path, 
 and whisper, with superstitious fear mingled with con- 
 tempt, " It 's the idiot girl ! " Idiot! — how much more 
 of Heaven's light was there in that cloud than in the 
 rushlights that, flickering in sordid chambers, shed on 
 dull things the dull ray, — esteeming themselves as 
 stars ! 
 
 Months, years, passed ; Fanny was thirteen, when there 
 dawned a new era to her existence. Mrs. Boxer had 
 never got over her first griidge to Fanny. Her treat- 
 ment of the poor girl was always harsh, and sometimes 
 cruel. But Fanny did not complain; and as Mrs. 
 Boxer's manner to her before Simon was invariably 
 cringing and caressing, the old man never guessed the 
 hardships his supposed grandchild underwent. There 
 had been scandal some years back in the suburb about
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 61 
 
 the relative connection of the master and the house- 
 keeper; and the flaunting dress of the latter, something 
 bold in her regard, and certain whispers that her youth 
 had not been vowed to Vesta, confirmed the suspicion. 
 The only reason why we do not feel sure that the rumor 
 was false is this, — Simon Gawtrey had been so hard on 
 the early follies of his son! Certainly, at all events, the 
 Avoman had exercised great influence over the miser 
 before the arrival of Fanny, and she had done much to 
 steel his selfishness against the ill-fated William. 
 And, as certainly, she had fully calculated on succeed- 
 ing to the savings, whatever they might be, of the miser, 
 whenever Providence should be pleased to terminate his 
 days. She knew that Simon had, many years back, 
 made his will in her favor ; she knew that he had not 
 altered that will: she believed, therefore, that in spite 
 of all his love for Fanny, he loved his gold so much 
 more that he could not accustom himself to the thought 
 of bequeathing it to hands too helpless to guard the 
 treasure. This had in some measure reconciled the 
 housekeeper to the intruder, whom, nevertheless, she 
 hated as a dog hates another dog, not only for taking 
 his bone, but for looking at it. 
 
 But suddenly Simon fell ill. His age made it prob- 
 able he would die. He took to his bed : his breathing 
 grew fainter and fainter, — he seemed dead. Fanny, 
 all unconscious, sat by his bedside as usual, holding 
 her breath not to waken him. Mrs. Boxer flew to the 
 bureau; she unlocked it. She could not find the will; 
 but she found three bags of bright old guineas. The 
 sight charmed her. She tumbled them forth on the 
 distained green cloth of the bureau, — she began to 
 count them; and at that moment the old man, as if 
 there were a secret magnetism between himself and the
 
 62 NIGHT AND MOP.NIXG. 
 
 guineas, woke from his trance. His blindness saved 
 hiui tlie pain that might have been fatal, of seeing the 
 unhallowed profanation; but he heard the chink of the 
 metal. The very sound restored his strength. But the 
 infirm are always cunning, — he breathed not a suspicion. 
 " jNIrs. Boxer," said he, faintly, "I think I could take 
 some broth." Mrs. Boxer rose in great dismay, gently 
 reclosed the bureau, and ran downstairs for the broth. 
 Simon took the occasion to question Fanny; and no 
 sooner had he learned the operation of the heir-expectant, 
 than he bade the girl first lock the bureau and bring him 
 the key, and next run to a lawyer (whose address he 
 gave her), and fetch him instantly. 
 
 With a malignant smile the old man took the broth 
 from his handmaid, " Poor Boxer, you are a disinter- 
 ested creature," said he, feebly; " I think you will 
 grieve when I go." 
 
 Mrs. Boxer sobbed; and before she had recovered, the 
 lawyer entered. That day a new will was made; and 
 the lawyer politely informed Mrs. Boxer that her ser- 
 vices would be dispensed with the next morning, when 
 he should bring a nurse to the house. Mrs. Boxer 
 heard, and took her resolution. As soon as Simon again 
 fell asleep, she crept into the room, led away Fanny, 
 locked her up in her own chamber, returned, searched 
 for the key of the bureau, which she found at last under 
 Simon's pillow, possessed herself of all she could lay 
 her hands on, and the next morning she had disap- 
 peared forever! Simon's loss was greater than might 
 have been .supposed; for, except a trifling sum in the 
 Savings' Bank, he, like many other misers, kept all he 
 had, in notes or specie, under his own lock and key. 
 His whole fortune, indeed, was far less than was sup- 
 posed; for money does not make money unless it is put
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 03 
 
 out to interest, — and the miser cheated himself. Such 
 portion as was in bank-notes Mrs. Boxer probably had 
 the prudence to destroy ; for those numbers which Simoii 
 could remember were never traced; the gold, who could 
 swear to? Except the pittance in the Savings' Bank, 
 and whatever might be the paltry worth of the house ha 
 rented, the father who had enriched the menial to 
 exile the son was a beggar in his dotage. This news, 
 however, was carefully concealed from him by the 
 advice of the doctor, whom, on his own responsibility, 
 the lawyer introduced, till he had recovered sufficiently 
 to bear the shock without danger ; and the delay natu- 
 rally favored Mrs. Boxer's escape. 
 
 Simon remained for some moments perfectly stunned 
 and speechless when the news was broken to him. 
 Fanny, in alarm at his increasing paleness, sprang to 
 his breast. He pushed her away, " Go, go, go, 
 child! " he said; "I can't feed you now. Leave me to 
 starve." 
 
 " To starve! " said Fanny, wonderingly ; and she stole 
 away, and sat herself down as if in deep thought. She 
 then crept uj) to the lawyer as he was about to leave the 
 room, after exhausting his stock of common-place con- 
 solation, and putting her hand in his, whispered, " I 
 want to talk to you, — this way." She led him through 
 the passage into the open air. "Tell me," she said, 
 " when poor people try not to starve, don't they work ? " 
 
 " My dear, yes. " 
 
 " For rich people buy poor people's work? " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear ; to be sure. " 
 
 " Very well. Mrs. Boxer used to sell my work. 
 Fanny will feed grandpapa! Go and tell him never to 
 say ' starve ' again." 
 
 The good-natured lawyer was moved, " Can you
 
 64 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 work, indeed, my poor girl ? Well, put on your Lonnet, 
 and come and talk to my wife. " 
 
 And that was the new era in Fanny's existence! Her 
 schooling was stopped; but now life schooled her. 
 Necessity ripened her intellect. And many a hard eye 
 moistened, as, seeing her glide with her little basket of 
 fancy-work along the streets, still murmuring her happy 
 and bird-like snatches of unconnected song, men and 
 children alike said with respect, in Avhich there was now 
 no contempt, " It 's the idiot girl who supports her blind 
 grandfather! " 
 
 They called her idiot still !
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 SQin \u einem grofeen Meexe 
 %tieb mic^ jeiner iBetlen Spiet ; 
 
 93or mir liegt'S in inciter Sieere, 
 ^Jialjer bin ic^ nidjt bem ^icl. 
 
 Schiller: Der Pilgrim. 
 
 VOL. II. — 5
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Oh, that sweet gleam of sunshine on the lake ! 
 
 Wilson's City of the Plague. 
 
 If, reader, you have ever looked through a solar micro- 
 scope at the monsters in a drop of water, perhaps you 
 have wondered to yourself how things so terrihle have 
 been hitherto unknown to you, you have felt a loathing 
 at the limpid element you hitherto deemed so pure, 
 you have half fancied that you would cease to be a 
 water-drinker ; yet the next day you have forgotten the 
 grim life that started before you, with its countless 
 shapes, in that teeming globule, and, if so tempted by 
 your thirst, you have not shrunk from the lying crystal, 
 although myriads of the horrible vmseen are mangling, 
 devouring, gorging each other, in the liquid you so 
 tranquilly imbil>e : so is it with that ancestral and mas- 
 ter element called life. Lapped in your sleek comforts, 
 and lolling on the sofa of your patent conscience, — 
 when, perhaps for the first time, you look through the 
 glass of science upon one ghastly globule in the waters 
 that heave around, that fill up, with their succulence, 
 the pores of earth, that moisten every atom subject to 
 your eyes, or handled by your touch, — you are startled 
 and dismayed; you say, mentally, " Can such things be? 
 I never dreamed of this before! I thought what was
 
 68 KIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 invisible to me was non-existent in itself, — I will 
 remember this dread experiment." The next day the 
 experiment is forgotten. The chemist may purify the 
 globule, — can science make pure the world ? 
 
 Turn we now to the pleasant surface, seen in the whole, 
 broad and fair to the common eye. Who would judge 
 well of God's great designs, if he could look on no drop 
 pendent from the rose-tree, or sparkling in the sun, with- 
 out the help of his solar microscope ? 
 
 It is ten years after the night on which William 
 Gawtrey perished. I transport you, reader, to the fair- 
 est scenes in England, — scenes consecrated by the only 
 true pastoral poetry we have known, to contemplation 
 and repose. 
 
 Autumn had begun to tinge the foliage on the banks 
 of Winandermere. It had been a summer of unusual 
 warmth, and beauty; and if that year you had visited 
 the English lakes, you might, from time to time, amidst 
 the groups of happy idlers you encountered, have singled 
 out two persons for interest, or, perhaps, for envy. 
 Two who might have seemed to you in peculiar harmony 
 ■with those serene and soft retreats, both young, both 
 beautiful. Lovers you would have guessed them to be; 
 but such lovers as Fletclier miglit have placed under the 
 care of his " Holy Shepherdess," — forms that might have 
 reclined by 
 
 " The virtuous well, about whose flowery banks 
 The nimble footed fairies dance their rounds 
 By the pale nioonshiiie." 
 
 For in the love of those persons there seemed a purity 
 and innocence that suited well their youth and the char- 
 acter of their beauty. Perhaps, indeed, on the girl's 
 side, love sprung rather from those affections which the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 69 
 
 spring of life throws upward to the surface, as the spring 
 of earth does its flowers, than from that concentrated 
 and deep absorption of self in self, wliich alone promises 
 endurance and devotion, and of which first love, or rather 
 the first fancy, is often less susceptible than that which 
 grows out of the more thoughtful fondness of maturer 
 years. Yet he, the lover, was of so rare and singular a 
 beauty, that he might well seem calculated to awaken, 
 to the utmost, the love which wins the heart through 
 the eyes. 
 
 But to begin at the beginning. A lady of fashion had, 
 in the autumn previous to the year on which our narra- 
 tive reopens, tf'ken, with her daughter, a girl then of 
 about eighteen, the tour of the English lakes. Charmed 
 by the beauty of Winandermere, and finding one of the 
 most commodious villas on its banks to be let, they 
 had remained there all the winter. In the early spring 
 a severe illness had seized the elder lady, and finding 
 herself, as she slowly recovered, unfit for the gayeties 
 of a London season , nor unwilling, perhaps — for she 
 had been a beauty in her day — to postpone for another 
 year the debut of her daughter, she had continued her 
 sojourn, with short intervals of absence, for a whole 
 year. Her husband, a busy man of the world, with 
 occupation in London, and fine estates in the country, 
 joined them only occasionally, glad to escape the still 
 beauty of landscapes which brought him no rental, and 
 therefore afforded no charm to his eye. 
 
 In the first month of their arrival at Winandermere, 
 the mother and daughter had made an eventful acquain- 
 tance in the following manner. 
 
 One evening, as they were walking on their lawn, 
 which sloped to the lake, they heard the sound of a 
 flute, played with a skill so exquisite as to draw them,
 
 70 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 surprised and spell-bound, to the banks. The musician 
 Avas a young man in a boat, which he had moored 
 beneath the trees of their demesne. He was alone, or 
 rather, he had one companion in a large Newfoundland 
 dog that sat watchful at the helm of the boat and 
 appeared to enjoy the music as much as his master. 
 As the ladies approached the spot, the dog growled, and 
 the young man ceased, though without seeing the fair 
 causes of his companion's displeasure. The sun, then 
 setting, shone full on his countenance as he looked 
 round ; and that countenance was one that might have 
 haunted the nymphs of Delos: the face of Apollo, not as 
 the hero, but the shepherd; not of tlie bow, but of the 
 lute ; not the Python-slayer, but the young dreamer by 
 shady places, — he whom the sculptor has portrayed lean- 
 ing idly against the tree, the boy-god whose home is 
 yet on earth, and to whom the Oracle and the Spheres 
 are still unknown. 
 
 At that moment the dog leaped from the boat, and the 
 elder lady uttered a faint cry of alarm, which directing 
 the attention of the musician, brought him also ashore. 
 He called off his dog, and apologized, with a not ungrace- 
 ful mixture of diffidence and ease, for his intrusion. He 
 was not aware the j)lace was inhabited : it was a favorite 
 haunt of his, — he lived near. The elder lady was 
 pleased with his address, and struck with his appearance. 
 There was, indeed, in his manner that undefinable charm 
 which is more attractive than mere personal appearance, 
 and which can never be imitated or acquired. They 
 parted, however, without establishing any formal ac- 
 quaintance. A few days after, they met at dinner at a 
 neighlx)ring house, and were introduced by name. Tliat 
 of the young man seemed strange to the ladies; not so 
 theirs to him. He turned pale when he heard it, and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 71 
 
 remained silent and aloof the rest of the evening. They 
 met again and often ; and for some weeks — nay, even 
 for months — he appeared to avoid as much as possible the 
 acquaintance so auspiciously begun ; but by little and lit- 
 tle the beauty of the younger lady seemed to gain ground 
 on his diffidence or repugnance Excurpions among the 
 neighboring mountains threw tliem together, and at last 
 he fairly surrendered himself to the charm he had at 
 first determined to resist. 
 
 This young man lived on the opposite side of the 
 lake, in a quiet household, of which he was the idol. 
 His life had been one of almost monastic purity and 
 repose ; his tastes were accomplished, his character seemed 
 soft and gentle; but beneath that calm exterior, Hashes 
 of passion — the nature of the poet, ardent and sensitive 
 — would break forth at times. He had scarcely ever, 
 since his earliest childhood, quitted those retreats; he 
 knew nothing of the world, except in books, — books of 
 poetry and romance. Those with whom he lived — his 
 relations, an old bachelor, and the old bachelor's sisters, 
 old maids — seemed equally innocent and inexperienced. 
 It was a family whom the rich respected, and the poor 
 loved, — inoffensive, charitable, and well off. To what- 
 ever their easy fortune might be, he appeared the heir. 
 The name of this young man was Charles Spencer; the 
 ladies were Mrs. Beaufort, and Camilla her daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Beaufort, though a shrewd woman, did not at 
 first perceive any danger in the growing intimacy between 
 Camilla and the younger Spencer. Her daughter was 
 not her favorite, — not the object of her one thought or 
 ambition. Her whole heart and soul were wrapped in 
 her son Arthur, who lived principally abroad. Clever 
 enough to be considered capable, when he pleased, of 
 achieving distinction, good-looking enough to be thought
 
 72 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 handsome by all who were on the qui vive for an advan- 
 tageous match, good-natnred enough to be popular with 
 the society in which he lived, scattering to and fro money 
 without limit, Arthur Beaufort, at the age of thirty, 
 had established one of those brilliant and evanescent 
 reputations, which, for a few years, reward the ambition 
 of the fine gentleman. It was precisely the reputation 
 that the mother could appreciate, and which even the 
 more saving father secretly admired, while, ever respect- 
 able in phrase, Mr. Robert Beaufort seemed openly to 
 regret it. This son was, I say, everything to them; 
 they cared little, in comparison, for their daughter. 
 How could a daughter keep up the proud name of Beau- 
 fort? However well she might marry, it was another 
 house, not theirs, which her graces and beauty would 
 adorn. Moreover, the better she might marry, the 
 greater her dowry would naturally be, — the dowry to go 
 out of the family ! And Arthur, poor fellow ! was so 
 extravagant that really he would want every sixpence. 
 Such was the reasoning of the father. The mother rea- 
 soned less upon the matter. Mrs. Beaufort, faded and 
 meagre, in blonde and cashmere, was jealous of the 
 charms of her daughter; and she herself, growing senti- 
 mental and lachrymose as she advanced in life, as silly 
 women often do, had convinced herself that Camilla was 
 a girl of no feeling. 
 
 Miss Beaufort was, indeed, of a character singularly 
 calm and placid ; it was the character that charms men in 
 proportion, perhaps, to their own strength and passion. 
 She had been rigidly brought up; her affections had 
 been very early chilled and subdued; they moved, there- 
 fore, now with ease, in the serene path of her duties. 
 She held her parents, especially her father in reverential 
 fear, and never dreamed of the possibility of resisting one
 
 NIGHT AND MOHNING. 73 
 
 of their wishes, much less tlieir commands. Pious, kind, 
 gentle, of a fine and never-ruffled temper, Camilla, an 
 admirable daughter, was likely to make no less admira- 
 ble a Avife; you might depend on her principles, if ever 
 you could doubt her affection. Few girls were more 
 calculated to inspire love. You would scarcely wonder at 
 any folly, any madness, which even a wise man might 
 commit for her sake. This did not depend on her 
 beauty alone, though she was extremely lovely rather 
 than handsome, and of that style of loveliness which is 
 universally fascinating: the figure, especially as to the 
 arms, throat, and bust, was exquisite ; the mouth dim- 
 pled ; the teeth dazzling ; the eyes of that velvet softness 
 which to look on is to love. But her charm was in a 
 certain prettiness of manner, an exceeding innocence, 
 mixed with the most captivating, because unconscious, 
 coquetry. With all this, there was a freshness, a joy, 
 a virgin and bewitching candor in her voice, her laugh, — 
 you might almost say in her very movements. Such was 
 Camilla Beaufort at that age. Such she seemed to 
 others. To her parents she was only a great girl rather 
 in the way. To Mrs. Beaufort a rival, to Mr. Beaufort 
 an encumbrance on the property.
 
 74 NIGHT AIsD MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The moon 
 Saddening the solemn night, yet with that sadness 
 Mingling the breath of undisturbed Peace. 
 
 Wilson ; City of the Plague, 
 
 Tell me his fate. 
 Say that he lives, or say that he is dead : 
 But tell me — tell me ! 
 
 I see him not — some cloud envelops him. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 One day (nearly a year after their first introduction), 
 as with a party of friends Camilla and Charles Spencer 
 were riding through those wild and romantic scenes which 
 lie between the sunny Winandermere and the dark and 
 sullen Wastwater, their conversation fell on topics more 
 personal than it had hitherto done, for as yet, if they felt 
 love, they had never spoken of it. 
 
 The narrowness of the i)ath allowed only two to ride 
 abreast, and the two to whom I confine my description 
 were the last of the little band. 
 
 " How I wish Arthur were here ! " said Camilla ; " I 
 am sure you would like him. " 
 
 "Are you? He lives much in the world, — the world 
 of which I know nothing. Are we then characters to 
 suit each other ? " 
 
 " He is the kindest, the best of human beings ! " said 
 Camilla, rather evasively, but with more warmth than 
 usually dwelt in her soft and low voice.
 
 NICxIIT AND MORNING. 75 
 
 " Is lie so kind 1 " returned Spencer, musingly. " Well 
 it may be so. And who would not be kind to you 1 Ah ! 
 it is a beautiful connection that of brother and sister, — ■ 
 I never had a sister ! " 
 
 " Have you then a brother 1 " asked Camilla, in some 
 surprise, and turning her ingenuous eyes full on her 
 companion. 
 
 Spencer's color rose, — rose to his temples; his voice 
 trembled as he answered, "No; no brother!" then, 
 speaking in a rapid and hurried tone, he continued, " My 
 life has been a strange and lonely one. I am an orphan. 
 I have mixed with few of my own age : my boyhood and 
 youth have been spent in these scenes; my education 
 such as nature and books could bestow, with scarcely any 
 guide or tutor save my guardian, — the dear old man ! 
 Thus the world, the stir of cities, ambition, enterprise, 
 ■ — all seem to me as things belonging to a distant land to 
 which I shall never wander. Yet I have had my dreams. 
 Miss Beaufort ; dreams of which these solitudes still form 
 a part, — but solitudes not unshared. And lately I have 
 thought that those dreams might be prophetic. And 
 you, — do i/ou love the world 1 " 
 
 " I, like you, have scarcely tried it, " said Camilla, 
 with a sweet laugh. " But I love the country better, 
 — oh ! far better than what little I have seen of towns. 
 But for you, " she continued, with a charming hesitation, 
 " a man is so different from us, — for you to shrink from 
 the world : you, so young and with talents too, — nay, 
 it is true! — it seems to me strange." 
 
 " It may be so, but I cannot tell you what feelings of 
 dread, — what vague forebodings of terror seize me if I 
 carry my thoughts beyond these retreats. Perhaps, my 
 good guardian — " 
 
 " Your uncle 1 " interrupted Camilla.
 
 76 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Ay, my uncle, — may have contributed to engender 
 feelings, as you say, strange at my age ; but still — " 
 
 "Still Avbat?" 
 
 " My earlier childhood, " continued Spencer, breath- 
 ing hard and turning pale, " was not spent in the happy 
 home I have now ; it was passed in a premature ordeal 
 of sulfering and pain. Its recollections have left a dark 
 shadow on my mind, and under that shadow lies every 
 tliought that points towards the troublous and laboring 
 career of other men. But, " he resumed, after a pause, 
 and in a deep, earnest, almost solemn voice, — -"but, 
 after all, is this cowardice or wisdom 1 I find no monot- 
 ony, no tedium in this quiet life. Is there not a certain 
 morality, a certain religion in the spirit of a secluded 
 and coimtry existence 1 In it we do not know the evil 
 passions which ambition and strife are said to arouse. I 
 never feel jealous or envious of other men; I never know 
 what it is to hate ; my boat, my horse, our garden, music, 
 books, and, if I may dare to say so, the solemn gladness 
 that comes from the hopes of another life, — these fill up 
 every hour with thouglits and pursuits, peaceful, happy, 
 and without a cloud, till of late, when — when — " 
 
 " When what? " said Camilla, innocently. 
 
 " When I have longed, but did not dare to ask 
 another, if to share such a lot would content her! " 
 
 He bent, as he spoke, his soft, blue eyes full upon the 
 blushing face of her whom he addressed, and Camilla 
 lialf smiled and half sighed, — 
 
 " Our companions are far before us," said she, turning 
 away her face; " and see, the road is now smooth." She 
 quickened her horse's pace as she said this ; and Spen- 
 cer, too new to women to interpret favorably her evasion 
 of his words and looks, fell into a profound silence which 
 lasted during the rest of their excursion.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 77 
 
 As towards the decline of day he bent his solitary- 
 way liome, emotions and passions to which his life had 
 hitherto been a stranger, and which, alas! he had vainly 
 imagined a life so tranquil would everlastingly restrain, 
 swelled his heart. 
 
 " She does not love me, " he muttered, half aloud ; 
 " she will leave me, and what then will all the beauty 
 of the landscape seem in my eyes? And how dare I 
 look up to her? Even if her cold, vain mother, her 
 father, the man, they say, of forms and scruples, were 
 to consent, would they not question closely of my true 
 birth and origin ? And if the one blot were overlooked, 
 is there no other ? His early habits and vices, his ! — 
 a brother's — his unknown career terminating at any 
 day, perhaps, in shame, in crime, in exposure, in the 
 gibbet, — will they overlook this ? " As he spoke, he 
 groaned aloud, and, as if impatient to escape himself, 
 spurred on his horse and rested not till he reached the 
 belt of trim and sober evergreens that surrounded his 
 hitherto happy home. 
 
 Leaving his horse to find its way to the stables, the 
 young man passed through rooms which he found 
 deserted, to the lawn on the other side, which sloped 
 to the smooth waters of the lake. 
 
 Here, seated under the one large tree that formed the 
 pride of the lawn, over which it cast its shadow broad and 
 far, he perceived his guardian poring idly over an oft-read 
 book, one of those books of which literary dreamers are apt to 
 grow fanatically fond, — books by the old English writers, 
 full of phrases and conceits half quaint and half sublime, 
 interspersed with praises of the country, imbued with a 
 poetical rather than ortliodox religion, and adorned with 
 a strange mixture of monastic learning and aphorisms 
 collected from the weary experience of actual life.
 
 78 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 To the left, by a greenhouse, built between the house 
 and the lake, might be seen the white dress and lean 
 form of the eldest spinster sister, to whom the care of 
 the flowers — for she had been early crossed in love — 
 was consigned; at a little distance from her, the other 
 two were seated at work, and conversing in whispers, 
 not to disturb their studious brother, no doubt upon the 
 nepheAv, who was their all in all. It was the calmest 
 hour of eve, and the quiet of the several forms, their 
 simple and harmless occupations, — if occupations tliey 
 might be called, — the breathless foliage, rich in the 
 depth of summer; behind, the old-fashioned house, unpre- 
 tending, not mean, its open doors and windows giving 
 glimpses of the comfortable repose within; before, the 
 lake, without a ripple, and catching the gleam of the 
 sunset clouds, — all made a picture of that complete 
 tranquillity and stillness which sometimes soothes and 
 sometimes saddens us, according as we are in the temper 
 
 to woo CONTENT. 
 
 The young man glided to his guardian and touched his 
 shoulder, " Sir, may I speak to you 1 Hush ! thei/ need 
 not see us now ! it is only you I would speak with. " 
 
 The elder Spencer rose, and, with his book still in 
 his hand, moved side by side with his nephew under 
 the shadow of the tree and towards a walk to the 
 right, which led for a short distance along the margin 
 of the lake, backed by the interlaced boughs of a thick 
 copse. 
 
 "Sir!" said the young man, speaking first and with 
 a visible effort, " your cautions have been in vain ! I 
 love this girl, — this daughter of the haughty Beauforts! 
 I love her; better than life I love her! " 
 
 " My poor boy, " said the uncle, tenderly, and with 
 a simple fondness passing his arm over the speaker's
 
 NIGHT AND l^IORNING. 79 
 
 shoulder, " do not think I can chide you, — I know what 
 it is to love in vain ! " 
 
 " In vain ! — but why in vain ? " exclaimed the 
 younger Spencer with a vehemence that had in it some- 
 thing of both agony and fierceness. " She may love me, 
 — she shall love me ! " and almost for the first time 
 in his life, the proud consciousness of his rare gifts of 
 person spoke in his kindled eye and dilated stature. 
 " Do they not say that nature has been favorable to me ? 
 What rival haA^e I here? Is she not young? And," 
 sinking his voice till it almost breathed like music, " is 
 not love contagious 1 " 
 
 " I do not doubt that she may love you, — who would 
 not 1 — but — but — the parents, will they ever consent 1 " 
 
 " Nay ! " answered the lover, as with that inconsis- 
 tency common to passion he now argued stubbornly 
 against those fears in another to Avhich he had just 
 before yielded in himself, — " nay ! — after all, am I not 
 of their own blood? Do I not come from the elder 
 branch ? Was I not reared in equal luxury and with 
 higher hopes ? And my mother, — my poor mother, — 
 did she not to the last maintain our birthright, her own 
 honor? Has not accident or law unjustly stripped us of 
 our true station ? Is it not for us to forgive spolia- 
 tion? " Am I not, in fact, the person who descends, who 
 forgets the wrongs of the dead, the heritage of the 
 living? " 
 
 The young man had never yet assumed this tone, — 
 had never yet shown that he looked back to the history 
 connected with his birth with the feelings of resentment 
 and the remembrance of wrong. It was a tone contrary 
 to his habitual calm and contentment ; it struck forcibly 
 on his listener, and the elder Spencer was silent for some 
 moments before he replied, " If you feel tlius (and it is
 
 80 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 natural), you have yet stronger reason to struggle against 
 this unhappy affection." 
 
 " I have been conscious of that, sir, " replied the young 
 man, mournfully. " I have struggled! — and I say again, 
 it is in vain ! I turn, then, to face the obstacles ! My 
 birth, — let us suppose that the Beauforts overlook it. 
 Did you not tell me that Mr. Beaufort wrote to inform 
 you of the abrupt and intemperate visit of my brother, 
 — of his determination never to forgive it ? I think I 
 remember something of this years ago. " 
 
 " It is true ! " said the giiardian ; " and the conduct of 
 that brother is, in fact, the true cause why you never 
 ought to reassume your proper name ! — never to divulge 
 it, even to the family with whom you connect yourself 
 by marriage; but, above all, to the Beauforts, who, for 
 that cause, if that cause alone, would reject your suit." 
 
 The young man groaned, placed one hand before his 
 eyes, and with the other grasped his guardian's arm con- 
 vulsively, as if to check him from proceeding further ; but 
 the good man, not divining his meaning, and absorbed 
 in his subject, went on, irritating the wound he had 
 touched. 
 
 "Reflect! — your brother in boyhood, in the dying 
 hours of his mother, scarcely saved from the crime of 
 a thief, flying from a friendly pursuit with a notorious 
 reprobate; afterwards implicated in some discreditable 
 transaction about a horse, rejecting all, every hand 
 that could save him, clinging by choice to the lowest 
 companions and the meanest habits; disappearing from 
 the country, and last seen, ten years ago, — the beard 
 not yet on his chin, — with that same reprobate of whom 
 I have spoken, in Paris, a day or so only before hia 
 companion, a coiner — a murderer — fell by the hands of 
 the police! You remember that when, in your seven-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 81 
 
 teontli year, you evinced some desire to retake your 
 name, — nay, even to refind that guilty brother, — I 
 placed before you, as a sad and terrible duty, the 
 newspaper that contained the particulars of the death 
 and the former adventures of that wretched accomplice, 
 the notorious Gawtrey. And, telling you that ]\Ir. 
 Beaufort had long since written to inform me that his 
 own son and Lord Lilburne had seen your brother in 
 company with the miscreant just before his fate, — nay, 
 was, in all probability, the very youth described in the 
 account, as found in his chamber and escaping the pur- 
 suit, I asked you if you Avould now venture to leave 
 that disguise — that shelter under which you would for- 
 ever be safe from the opprobrium of the world — from 
 the shame that, sooner or later, your brother must 
 bring upon your name ! " 
 
 " It is true, — it is true ! " said the pretended nephew, 
 in a tone of great anguish, and with trembling lips which 
 the blood had forsaken. " Horrible to look either to his 
 past or his future! But — but — we have heard of him 
 no more ; no one ever has learned his fate. Perhaps — 
 perhaps, " and he seemed to breathe more freely , " mi/ 
 brother is no more ! " 
 
 And poor Catherine ! and poor Philip ! had it come to 
 this? Did the one brother feel a sentiment of release, 
 of joy, in conjecturing the death — perhaps the death of 
 violence and shame — of his fellow orphan ? Mr. Spencer 
 shook his head doubtingly, but made no reply. The 
 young man sighed heavily and strode on for several paces 
 in advance of his protector, then, turning back, he laid 
 his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Sir, " he said, in a low voice and with downcast eyes, 
 " you are right : this disguise — this false name — must 
 be forever borne! Why need the Beauforts, then, ever 
 
 VOL. II. — 6
 
 82 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 know who and what I am ? Why not as your nephew, 
 
 — nephew to one so respected and exemplary, — proffer 
 my claims and plead my cause 1 " 
 
 " They are proud — so it is said — and worldly ; you 
 know my family was in trade — still — hut — " and here 
 ]\[r. Spencer hroke off from a tone of doubt into that of 
 despondency, — " but, recollect, though Mrs. Beaufort 
 may not remember the circumstance, both her husband 
 and her son have seen me, — have known my name. 
 Will they not suspect, when once introduced to you, the 
 stratagem that has been adopted ? Nay, has it not been 
 from that very fear that you have wished me to shun the 
 acquaintance of the family? Both Mr. Beaufort and 
 Arthur saw you in childhood, and their suspicion once 
 aroused, they may recognize you at once; your features 
 are developed, but not altogether changed. Come, come ! 
 
 — my adopted, my dear son, shake off this fantasy be- 
 times: let us change the scene; I will travel with you; 
 read with you ; go where — " 
 
 " Sir, sir ! " exclaimed the lover, smiting his breast, 
 "you are ever kind, compassionate, generous; but do not 
 
 — do not rob me of hope. I have never — thanks to 
 you — felt, save in a momentary dejection, the curse of 
 my birth. Now how heavily it falls! Where shall I 
 look for comfort 1 " 
 
 As he spoke, the sound of a bell broke over the trans- 
 lucent air and the slumbering lake : it was the bell that 
 every eve and morn summoned that innocent and pious 
 family to prayer. The old man's face changed as he heard 
 it, — changed from its customary indolent, absent, listless 
 aspect, into an expression of dignity, even of animation. 
 
 " Hark ! " he said, pointing upwards ; " hark ! it chides 
 you. Who shall say ' Where shall I look for comfort, ' 
 while God is in the heavens 1 "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 83 
 
 Tlie young man, habituated to the faith and obser- 
 vance of religion, till they had pervaded his whole 
 nature, bowed his head in rebuke ; a few tears stole from 
 his eyes. 
 
 "You are right, father" he said, tenderly, giving 
 emphasis to the deserved and endearing name. " I am 
 comforted already ! " 
 
 So, side by side, silently and noiselessly, the young 
 and the old man glided back to the house. When they 
 gained the quiet room in which the family usually 
 assembled, the sisters and servants were already gathered 
 round the table. They knelt as the loiterers entered. 
 It was the wonted duty of the younger Spencer to read 
 the prayers ; and, as he now did so, his graceful counte- 
 nance more hushed, his sweet voice more earnest than 
 usual in its accents : who that heard could have deemed 
 the heart within convulsed by such stormy passions ? Or 
 was it not in that hour — that solemn commune — 
 soothed from its woe % beneficent Creator ! thou who 
 inspirest all the tribes of earth with the desire to %>rayy 
 hast thou not, in that divinest instinct, bestowed on us 
 the happiest of thy gifts ?
 
 84 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Bertram. — I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of 
 it hereafter. 
 
 1st Soldier. — Do you know this Captain Dumain ? 
 
 All 's Well that Ends Well 
 
 One evening, some weeks after the date of the last chap- 
 ter, Mr, Robert Beaufort sat alone in his house in 
 Berkeley Square. He had arrived that morning from 
 Beaufort Court, on his way to Winandermere, to which 
 he was summoned by a letter from his wife. 
 
 That year was an agitated and eventful epoch in Eng- 
 land ; and Mr. Beaufort had recently gone through the 
 bustle of an election, — not, indeed, contested; for his 
 popularity and his property defied all rivalry in his 
 own county. 
 
 The rich man had just dined, and was seated in lazy 
 enjoyment by the side of the fire, which he had lighted, 
 less for the warmth — though it was then September — 
 than for the companionship, engaged in finishing his 
 madeira, and with half-closed eyes munching his 
 devilled biscuits. 
 
 " I am sure," he soliloquized while thus employed, 
 " I don't know exactly what to do, — my wife ought to 
 decide matters wliere the r/irl is concerned; a son is 
 another affair, — that 's the use of a wife. Humph! " 
 
 " Sir," said a fat servant, opening the door, " a gentle- 
 man wishes to see you upon very particular business."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 85 
 
 '■ Business at this liour! Tell him to go to Mr. 
 Blackwell." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Stay ! perhaps he is a constituent, Simmons. Ask 
 him if he belongs to the county." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " A great estate is a great plague," muttered Mr. Beau- 
 fort, " so is a great constituency. It is pleasanter, after 
 all, to be in the House of Lords. I suppose I could if I 
 wished ; but then one must rat, — that 's a bore. I will 
 consult Lilburne. Humph ! " The servant re-appeared. 
 
 " Sir, he says he does belong to the county." 
 
 " Show him in ! What sort of a person ? " 
 
 "A sort of gentleman, sir; that is," continued the 
 butler, mindful of five shillings just slipped within his 
 palm by the stranger, " quite the gentleman." 
 
 " More wine, tlien, — stir up the fire." 
 
 In a few moments the visitor was ushered into the 
 apartment. He was a man between fifty and sixty, but 
 still aiming at the appearance of youth. His dress 
 evinced military pretensions, consisting of a blue coat, 
 buttoned up to the chin, a black stock, loose trousers 
 of the fashion called cossacks, and brass spurs. He 
 wore a wig, of great luxuriance in curl and rich auburn 
 in hue, with large whiskers of the same color, slightly 
 tinged with gray at the roots. By the imperfect light 
 of the room it was not perceptible that the clothes were 
 somewhat threadbare, and that the boots, cracked at the 
 side, admitted glimpses of no very white hosiery 
 within. Mr. Beaufort, reluctantly rising from his re- 
 pose and gladly sinking back to it, motioned to a chair, 
 and put on a doleful and doubtful semi-smile of wel- 
 come. The servant placed the wine and glasses before 
 the stranger; the host and visitor were alone.
 
 86 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "So, sir," said ^Ir. Beaufort, languidly, "you are 
 
 from shire; I suppose about the canal, — may I 
 
 offer you a glass of wine 1 " 
 
 " ]\Iost hauppy , sir, — your health ! " and the stranger, 
 with evident satisfaction, tossed off a bumper to so com- 
 plimentary a toast. 
 
 " About the canal ? " repeated ^Nlr. Beaufort. 
 
 " Xo, sir, no! You Parliament gentlemen must haiive 
 a vaust deal of trouble on your haunds, — very foine 
 property I understaund yours is, sir. Sir, allow me to 
 drink the health of your good lady! " 
 
 " I thank you, Mr. — , Mr. — , what did you say your 
 name was ? — I beg you a thousand pardons. " 
 
 " Xo offaunce in the least, sir; no ceremony with me, 
 — this is perticler good madeira ! " 
 
 " May I ask how I can serve you 1 " said Mr. Beaufort, 
 struggling between the sense of annoyance and the fear 
 to be uncivil, " And pray, had I the honor of your 
 vote in the last election 1 " 
 
 " Xo, sir, no! It 's mauny years since I have been in 
 your part of the world, though I was born there." 
 
 " Then I don't exactly see — " began Mr. Beaufort, 
 and stopped with dignity. 
 
 " Why I call on you," put in the stranger, tapping 
 his boots with his cane ; and then recognizing the rents, 
 he til rust both feet under the table. 
 
 "I don't say that; but at this hour I am seldom at 
 leisure, — not but what I am always at the service of a 
 constituent, that is, a voter/ Mr. — , I beg your 
 pardon, I did not catch your name." 
 
 "Sir," said the stranger, helping himself to a third 
 glass of wine; " here 's a health to your young folk! 
 And now to business." Here the visitor, drawing his 
 chair nearer to his host, assuming a more grave aspect,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 87 
 
 and dropping something of his stilted pronimciation, 
 continued, " You had a brother? " 
 
 " Well, sir," said Mr. Beaufort, with a very changed 
 tountenance. 
 
 " And that brother had a wife ! " 
 
 Had a cannon gone off in the ear of Mr. Robert Beau- 
 fort, it could not have shocked or stunned him more than 
 that simple word with which his companion closed his 
 sentence. He fell back in his chair, — his lips apart, 
 his eyes fixed on the stranger. He sought to speak, but 
 his tongue clove to his mouth. 
 
 " That wife had two sons, born in wedlock! " 
 
 " It is false! " cried Mr. Beaufort, finding a voice at 
 length, and springing to his feet. " And who are you, 
 sir 1 — and what do you mean by — " 
 
 " Hush! " said the stranger, perfectly unconcerned, 
 and regaining the dignity of his haw-haw enunciation: 
 " better not let the servants hear aunything. For my 
 pawt, I think servants hauve the longest pair of ears of 
 auny persons, not excepting jauckasses; their ears 
 stretch from the pauntry to the parlor. Hush, sir! 
 perticler good madeira, this! " 
 
 " Sir! " said Mr. Beaufort, struggling to preserve, or 
 rather recover, his temper, " your conduct is exceedingly 
 strange: but allow me to say, that you are wholly mis- 
 informed. My brother never did marry; and if you 
 have anything to say on behalf of those young men, — 
 his natural sons, — I refer you to my solicitor, Mr. Black- 
 well, of Lincoln's Inn. I wish you a good-evening " 
 
 "Sir! the same to you, — I won't trouble you auny 
 farther; it was only out of koindness I called, — I am 
 not used to be treated so. Sir, I am in his Maujesty's 
 service; sir, you will foind that the witness of the mar- 
 riage is forthcoming; you will think of me then, and,
 
 88 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 perhaps, be sorry. But I 've done, — ' Your most obe- 
 dient humble, sir! ' " And tlie stranger, with a flourish 
 of his hand, turned to the door. 
 
 At the sight of this determination on the part of his 
 strange guest, a coM, uneasj', vague presentiment seized 
 Mr. Beaufort. There, not flashed, but rather froze, 
 across him the recollection of his brother's emphatic but 
 disbelieved assurances, of Catherine's obstinate assertion 
 of her son's alleged rights, — ■ rights which her lawsuit, 
 undertaken on her own behalf, had not compromised ; a 
 fresh lawsuit might be instituted by the son, and the 
 evidence Avhich had been wanting in the former suit 
 might be found at last. With this remembrance and 
 these reflections came a horrible train of shadowy fears: 
 witnesses, verdict, surrender, spoliation, arrears, ruin! 
 
 The man, who had gained the door, turned back and 
 looked at him with a complacent, half -triumphant leer 
 upon his impudent, reckless face. 
 
 " Sir," then said Mr. Beaufort, mildly, " I repeat 
 that yo\a had better see Mr. Blackwell." 
 
 The tempter saw his triumph. " I have a secret to 
 communicate, which it is best for you to keep snug. 
 How mauny people do you wish me to see about it? 
 Come, sir, there is no need of a lawyer; or, if you think 
 so, tell him yourself. Now or never, Mr. Beaufort. " 
 
 " I can have no objection to hear anything you have 
 to say, sir," said the rich man, yet more mildly than 
 before, and then added, with a forced smile, " though 
 my rights are already too confirmed to admit of a 
 doubt." 
 
 Without heeding the last assertion, the stranger coolly 
 walked back, resumed his seat, and, placing both arms on 
 the table, and looking Mr. Beaufort full in the face, thus 
 proceeded, —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 89 
 
 " Sir, of the marriage between Philip Beaufort and 
 Catherine Morton there Avere two witnesses: the one is 
 dead, the other Avent abroad, — the last is alive still! " 
 
 "If so," said Mr. Beaufort, who, not naturally defi- 
 cient in cunning and sense, felt every faculty now 
 prodigiously sharpened, and was resolved to know the 
 precise grounds for alarm, — " if so, why did not the man 
 — it was a servant, sir, a man-servant, whom Mrs. Morton 
 pretended to rely on — appear on the trial 1 " 
 
 "Because, I say, he was abroad, and could not be 
 found; or, the search after him miscaurried, from clumsy 
 management and a lack of the rhino." 
 
 "Hum!" said Mr. Beaufort; "one witness — one 
 ■witness, observe, there is only one! — does not alarm me 
 much. It is not what a man deposes, it is what a jury 
 believe, sir! Moreover, what has become of the young 
 men ? They have never been heard of for years. They 
 are probably dead; if so, I am heir-at-law! " 
 
 " I know where one of them is to be found , at all 
 events. " 
 
 "The elder, —Philip?" asked Mr. Beaufort, anx- 
 iously, and with a fearfiil remembrance of the energetic 
 and vehement character prematurely exhibited by his 
 nephew. 
 
 " Pawdon me! I need not aunswer that question." 
 
 " Sir! a lawsuit of this nature, against one in posses- 
 sion, is very doubtful, and," added the rich man, draw- 
 ing himself up, — " and, perhaps, very expensive! " 
 
 " The young man I speak of does not want friends, 
 who will not grudge the money." 
 
 " Sir! " said Mr. Beaufort, rising and placing his back 
 to the fire, — " sir! what is your object in this commu- 
 nication? Do you come, on the part of the young man, 
 to propose a compromise? If so, be plain! "
 
 90 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " I come on my own pawt. It rests with you to say 
 if the young men shall never know it! " 
 
 " And what do you want ? " 
 
 " Five hundred a year as long as the secret is kept." 
 
 " And how can you prove that there is a secret, after 
 all ? " 
 
 " By producing the witness, if you wish." 
 
 " Will he go halves in the £500 a year? " asked ^Iv. 
 Beaufort, artfully. 
 
 " That is moy affair, sir," replied the stranger. 
 
 " What you say," resumed ]Mr. Beaufort, " is so extra- 
 ordinary, — so unexpected, and still, to me, seems so 
 improbable, that I must have time to consider. If you 
 will call on me in a week, and produce your facts, I will 
 give you my answer. I am not the man, sir, to wish to 
 keep any one out of his true rights, hut I will not yield, 
 on the other hand, to imposture." 
 
 " If you don't want to keep them out of their rights, 
 I 'd best go and tell my young gentlemen," said tlie 
 stranger, with cool impudence. 
 
 " I tell you I must have time," repeated Beaufort, 
 disconcerted. "Besides, I have not myself alone to 
 look to, sir," he added, with dignified emphasis, — "I 
 am a father! " 
 
 " This day week I will call on you again. Good- 
 evening, Mr. Beaufort! " And the man stretched out 
 his hand with an air of amicable condescension. 
 
 The respectable Mr. Beaufort changed color, hesitated, 
 and finally suffered two fingers to be enticed into the 
 grasp of the visitor, whom he ardently wished at that 
 bourn whence no visitor returns. 
 
 The stranger smiled, stalked to the door, laid his 
 finger on his lip, winked knowingly, and vanisbed, 
 leaving Mr. Beaufort a prey to such feelings of uneasi-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 91 
 
 ness, dread, and terror, as may be experienced by a man 
 whom, on some inch or two of slippery rock, the tides 
 have suddenly surrounded. 
 
 He remained perfectly still for some moments, and 
 then glancing round the dim and spacious room, his eyes 
 took in all the evidences of luxury and wealth which 
 it betrayed. Above the huge sideboard, that on festive 
 days groaned beneath the hoarded weight of the silver 
 heirlooms of the Beauforts, hung, in its gilded frame, 
 a large picture of the family seat, with the stately por- 
 ticos, the noble park, the groups of deer; and around 
 the wall , interspersed here and there with ancestral por- 
 traits of knight and dame, long since gathered to their 
 rest, were placed masterpieces of the Italian and Flemish 
 art, which generation after generation had slowly accu- 
 mulated, till the Beaufort Collection had become the 
 theme of connoisseurs and the study of young genius. 
 
 The still room, the dumb pictures, even the heavy 
 sideboard, seemed to gain voice, and speak to him audi- 
 bly. He thrust his hand into the folds of his Avaist- 
 coat, and griped his own flesh convulsively ; then striding 
 to and fro the apartment, he endeavored to re-collect his 
 thoughts. 
 
 "I dare not consult Mrs. Beaufort," he muttered; 
 "no, no, — she is a fool! Besides, she 's not in the 
 way. No time to lose, — I will go to Lilburne." 
 
 Scarce had that thought crossed him than he has- 
 tened to put it into execution. He rang for his hat and 
 gloves, and sallied out on foot to Lord Lilburne 's house 
 in Park Lane, — the distance was short, and impatience 
 has long strides. 
 
 He knew Lord Lilburne was in town, for that person- 
 age loved London for its own sake ; and even in Septem- 
 ber he would have said with the old Duke of Queensbury,
 
 92 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 when some, one observed that London was very empty, 
 " Yes, hut it is fuller than the country. " 
 
 ;Mr. Beaufort found Lord Lilburne reclined on a sofa, 
 by the open window of his drawing-room, beyond which 
 the early stars shone upon the glimmering trees and 
 silver turf of the deserted park. Unlike the simple 
 dessert of his respectable brother-in-law, the costliest 
 fruits, the richest wines of France, graced the small 
 table placed beside his sofa; and as the starch man 
 of forms and method entered the room at one door, a 
 rustling silk, that vanished through the aperture of 
 another, seemed to betray tokens of a tete-a-tete probably 
 more agreeable to Lilburne than the one with which 
 only our narrative is concerned. 
 
 It would have been a curious study for such men as 
 love to gaze upon the dark and wily features of human 
 character, to have watched the contrast between the 
 reciter and the listener, as Beaufort, with much circum- 
 locution, much affected disdain, and real anxiety, nar- 
 rated the singular and ominous conversation between 
 himself and his visitor. 
 
 The servant, in introducing Mr. Beaufort, had added 
 to the light of the room; and the candles shone full on 
 the face and form of Mr. Beaufort. All about that gen- 
 tleman was so completely in unison with the world's 
 forms and seemings, that there was something moral in the 
 very sight of him! Since his accession of fortune, 
 he had grown less pale and less thin; the angles in 
 his figure were filled up. On his brow there was no 
 trace of younger passion. No able vice had ever 
 sharpened the expression, no exhausting vice ever 
 deepened the lines. He was the beau ideal of a county 
 member, — so sleek, so staid, so business-like; yet so 
 clean, so neat, so much the gentleman. And now there
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 93 
 
 was a kind of pathos in his gray hairs, his nervous 
 smile, his agitated hands, his quick and uneasy transi- 
 tion of posture, the tremble of his voice. He would 
 have appeared to those who saw, but lieard not, the 
 good man in trouble. Cold, motionless, speechless, 
 seemingly apathetic, but in truth observant, still re- 
 clined on the sofa, his head thrown back, but one eye 
 fixed on his companion, his hands clasped before him, 
 Lord Lilburne listened; and in that repose, about his 
 face, even about his person, might be read the history 
 of how different a life and character! What native 
 acuteness in the stealthy eye! What hardened resolve 
 in the full nostril and firm lips! What sardonic con- 
 tempt for all things in the intricate lines about the 
 mouth! What animal enjoyment of all things so de- 
 spised in that delicate nervous system, which, combined 
 with original vigor of constitution, yet betrayed itself 
 in the veins on the hands and temples, the occasional 
 quiver of the upper lip ! His was the frame above all 
 others the most alive to pleasure: deep-chested, com- 
 pact, sinewy, but thin to leanness, — delicate in its tex- 
 ture and extremities, almost to effeminacy. The indif- 
 ference of the posture, the very habit of the dress — not 
 slovenly, indeed, but easy, loose, careless — seemed to 
 speak of the man's manner of thought and life, his pro- 
 found disdain of externals. 
 
 Not till Beaufort had concluded did Lord Lilburne 
 change his position or open his lips; and then, turning 
 to his brother-in-law his calm face, he said dryly, — 
 
 " I always thought your brother had married that 
 woman ; he was the sort of man to do it. Besides, why 
 should she have gone to law without a vestige of proof, 
 unless she was convinced of her rights ? Imposture 
 never proceeds without some evidence. Innocence, like
 
 94 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 a fool, as it is, fancies it has only to speak to be 
 believed. But there is no cause for alarm." 
 
 " No cause ! — and yet you think there was a 
 marriage." 
 
 " It is quite clear," continued Lilburne, without 
 heeding this interruption, " that the man, whatever his 
 evidence, has not got sufficient proofs. If he had he 
 would go to the young men rather than you: it is 
 evident that they would promise infinitely larger rewards 
 than he could expect from yourself. Men are always 
 more generous with what they expect than with what 
 they have. All rogues know this. 'T is the way Jews 
 and usurers thrive upon heirs rather than possessors; 
 't is the philosophy of post-obits. I daresay the man 
 has found out the real witness of the marriage, but 
 ascertained also that the testimony of that witness 
 would not suffice to dispossess you. He might be dis- 
 credited, — rich men have a way sometimes of discredit- 
 ing poor witnesses. Mind, he says nothing of the lost 
 copy of the register, Avhatever may be the value of that 
 document, which I am not lawyer enough to say, — of 
 any letters of your brother avowing the marriage. 
 Consider, the register itself is destroyed, — -the clergy- 
 man dead. Pooh! make yourself easy." 
 
 " True, " said Mr. Beaufort, much comforted ; " what 
 a memory you have! " 
 
 " Naturally. Your wife is my sister : I hate poor 
 relations, and I was therefore much interested in your 
 accession and your lawsuit. No; you may feel at rest 
 on this matter, so far as a successful lawsuit is concerned. 
 The next question is, will you have a lawsi;it at all, 
 and is it worth Avhile buying this fellow ? That I can't 
 say unless I see him myself. " 
 
 " I wish to Heaven you would! "
 
 NIGHT AND MOTINING. 95 
 
 " Very ■willingly : 't is a sort of thing I like : I 'm fond 
 of dealing with rogues, — it amuses me. This day Aveek? 
 I'll beat your house, ^ your proxy; I shall do better 
 than Blackwell. And since you say j'^ou are wanted at 
 the Lakes, go down, and leave all lo me. " 
 
 " A thousand thanks. I can't say how grateful I am. 
 You certainly are the kindest and cleverest person ux the 
 world. " 
 
 " You can't think worse of the world's cleverness and 
 kindness than I do," was Lilburne's rather ambiguous 
 answer to the compliment. " But why does my sister 
 want to see you 1 " 
 
 "Oh, I forgot! — here is her letter. I was going to 
 ask your advice in this too." 
 
 Lord Lilburne took the letter, and glanced over it 
 with the rapid eye of a man accustomed to seize in every- 
 thing the main gist and pith. 
 
 " An offer to my pretty niece — Mr. Spencer — requires 
 no fortune — his uncle will settle all his own (poor, 
 silly old man). All! Why that 's only £1000 a year. 
 You don't think much of this, eh ? How my sister can 
 even ask you about it puzzles me. " 
 
 " Why, you see, Lilburne, " said Mr. Beaufort, rather 
 embarrassed, " there is no question of fortune, — nothmg 
 to go out of the family ; and, really, Arthur is so expen- 
 sive; and, if she were to marry ivell, I could not give 
 her less than fifteen or twenty thousand pounds. " 
 
 " Aha ! — I see ; every man to his taste : here a 
 daugliter, — there a dowry. Yoti are devilish fond of 
 mone}'-, Beaufort. Any pleasure in avarice, — eh ? " 
 
 Mr. Beaufort colored very much at the remark and the 
 question, and, forcing a smile, said, — 
 
 " You are severe. But you don't know what it is to 
 be father to a young man. "
 
 96 NIGHT AND MOUNING. 
 
 " Then a great many young women have told me sad 
 fibs! But you are right in yoitr sense of the phrase. 
 No, I never had an heir apparent, thank Heaven ! No 
 children imposed upon me by law, — natural enemies, to 
 count the years between the bells that ring for their 
 majority, and those that will toll for my decease. It is 
 enough forme that I have a brother and a sister; that 
 my brother's son Avill inherit my estates, — and that, in 
 the mean time, he grudges me every tick in that clock. 
 What then? If he had been my uncle, I had done the 
 same. Meanwhile I see as little of him as good-breeding 
 •will permit. On the face of a rich man's heir is written 
 the rich man's memento morif But revenons a nos 
 moutons. Yes, if you give your daughter no fortune, 
 your death will be so much the more profitable to 
 Arthur! " 
 
 " Really, you take such a very odd view of the mat- 
 ter, " said Mr. Beaufort, exceedingly shocked. " But 
 I see you don't like the marriage; perhaps you are 
 right." 
 
 " Indeed, I have no choice in the matter ; I never 
 interfere between father and children. If I had children 
 myself, I will, however, tell you, for your comfort, that 
 they might marry exactly as they pleased, — I would 
 never thwart them. I should be too happy to get them 
 out of my way. If thoy married well, one would have 
 all the credit; if ill, one would have an excuse to disown 
 them. As I said before, I dislike poor relations. 
 Though if Camilla lives at the Lakes when she is mar- 
 ried, it is but a letter now and then ; and that 's your 
 wife's trouble, not yours. But, Spencer, — what Spencer, 
 what family 1 Was there not a Mr. Spencer who lived 
 at Winandermere, who — " 
 
 " Who went with us in search of these boys, — to be
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 97 
 
 sure. Very likely the same, — nay, he must be so. I 
 thought so at the first." 
 
 " Go down to the Lakes to-morrow. You may hoar 
 something about your nephews ; " at that word Mr. 
 Beaufort winced. " 'T is well to be forearmed." 
 
 " Many thanks for all your counsel, " said Beaufort, 
 rising, and glad to escape ; for though both he and his 
 wife held the advice of Lord Lilburne in the highest 
 reverence, they always smarted beneath the quiet and 
 careless stings which accompanied the honey. Lord 
 Lilburne was singular in this, — - he would give to any 
 one who asked it, but especially a relation, the best 
 advice in his power ; and none gave better, that is, more 
 worldly advice. Thus, without the least benevolence, 
 he was often of the greatest service; but he could not 
 help mixing up the draught with as much aloes and 
 bitter-apple as possible. His intellect delighted in 
 exhibiting itself even gratuitously. His heart equally 
 delighted in that only cruelty which polished life leaves 
 to its tyrants towards their equals, — thrusting pins into 
 the feelings, and breaking self-love upon the wheel. 
 But just as Mr. Beaufort had drawn on his gloves and 
 gained the doorway, a thought seemed to strike Lord 
 Lilburne, — 
 
 " By the by, " he said, " you understand that when I 
 promised I would try and settle the matter for you, I 
 only meant that I would learn the exact causes you have 
 for alarm on the one hand, or for a compromise with this 
 fellow on the other. If the last be advisable, you are 
 aware that I cannot interfere. I might get into a scrape; 
 and Beaufort Court is not my property. " 
 
 " I don't quite understand you." 
 
 " I am plain enougli, too. If there is money to be 
 given, it is given in order to defeat what is called justice, 
 
 VOL. 11. — 7
 
 98 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 — to keep tliese nephews of yours out of their inheri- 
 tance. Now, should this ever come to light, it would 
 have an ugly appearance. Tliey who risk the blame 
 miist be the persons who possess the estate." 
 
 " If you think it dishonorable or dishonest — " said 
 Beaufort, irresolutely. 
 
 " I ! I never can advise as to the feelings ; I can only 
 advise as to the policy. If you don't think there ever 
 was a marriage, it may, still, be honest in you to pre- 
 vent the bore of a lawsuit." 
 
 " But if he can prove to me that they were married ? " 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Lillmrne, raising his eyebrows with a 
 slight expression of contemptuous impatience ; " it rests 
 on yourself whether or not he prove it to your satisfao 
 tion ! For my part, as a third person, I am persuaded 
 the marriage did take place. But if I had Beaufort 
 Court, my convictions would be all the other way. You 
 understand. I am too happy to serve you. But no man 
 can be expected to jeopardize his" character, or coquet 
 with the law, unless it be for his own individual interest. 
 Then, of course, he must judge for himself. Adieu! I 
 expect some friends — foreigners, Carlists — to whist. 
 You won't join them?" 
 
 " I never play, you know. You will write to me at 
 Winandermere : and, at all events, you will keep off the 
 man till I return ? " 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 P»eaufort, whom tlie latter part of the conversation 
 had comforted far less than the former, hesitated, and 
 turned the door-handle three or four times ; but, glancing 
 towards his brother-in-law, he saw in that cold face so 
 little sympathy in the struggle between interest and con- 
 science, that he judged it best to withdraw at once. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, Lilburne summoned his valet,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 99 
 
 who had lived with him many years, and who was his 
 confidant in all the adventurous gallantries with which 
 he still enlivened the autumn of his life. 
 
 " Dykeman, " said he, " you have let out that lady ? " 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 " I am not at home if she calls again. She is stupid ; 
 she cannot get the girl to come to her again. I sliall 
 trust you with an adventure, Dykeman, — an adventure 
 that will remind you of our young days, man. This 
 charming creature, — I tell you she is irresistible; her 
 very oddities bewitch me. You must — well, you look 
 uneasy. What would you say ? " 
 
 " My lord, I have found out more about her, and — 
 and — " 
 
 "Well, well." 
 
 The valet drew near and whispered something in his 
 master's ear. 
 
 " They are idiots who say it, then, " answered Lilburne. 
 
 " And, " faltered the man, with the shame of humanity 
 on his face, " she is not worthy your lordship's notice, — 
 a poor — " 
 
 " Yes, I know she is poor ; and, for tliat reason, there 
 can be no difficulty, if the thing is properly managed. 
 You never, perhaps, heard of a certain Philip, king of 
 Macedon ; but I will tell you what he once said, as well 
 as I can remember it : ' Lead an ass with a pannier of 
 gold; send the ass through the gates of a city, and all 
 the sentinels will run away. ' Poor ! — where there is 
 love, there is charity also, Dykeman. Besides — " 
 
 Here Lilbume's coimtenance assumed a sudden aspect 
 of dark and angry passion, — he broke off abruptly, rose, 
 and paced the room, muttering to himself. Suddenly he 
 stopped, and put his hand to his hip, as an expression of 
 pain again altered the character of his face.
 
 100 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " The limb pains me still ! Dykeman — T was scarce 
 — twenty-one — when I became a cripple for life. " He 
 paused, drew a long breath, smiled, rubbed his hands 
 gently, and added, " Never fear, — you sliall be the, 
 ass ; and thus Philip of Macedon begins to fill the pan- 
 nier. " And he tossed his purse into the hands of the 
 valet, whose face seemed to lose its anxious embarrass- 
 ment at the touch of the gold. Lilburne glanced at him 
 with a quiet sneer : " Go ! — I will give you my orders 
 when I undress." 
 
 " Yes ! " he repeated to himself, " the limb pains me 
 still. But he died ! — shot as a man would shoot a jay 
 or a polecat ! I have the newspaper still in that drawer. 
 He died an outcast, a felon, a murderer ! And I blasted 
 his name, and I seduced his mistress, and I — am John, 
 Lord Lilburne ! " 
 
 About ten o'clock some half-a-dozen of those gay lovers 
 of London who, like Lilburne, remain faithful to its 
 charms when more vulgar worshippers desert its sun- 
 burnt streets — mostly single men, mostly men of middle 
 age — dropped in. And soon after came three or four 
 high-born foreigners, who had followed into England the 
 exile of the unfortunate Charles X. Their looks, at 
 once proud and sad, their mustaches curled downAvard, 
 their beards permitted to grow, made at first a strong 
 contrast with the smooth gay Englishmen. But Lilburne, 
 who was fond of French society, and who, when he 
 pleased, could be courteous and agreeable, soon placed 
 the exiles at their ease ; and, in the excitement of high 
 play, all differences of mood and humor speedily vanished. 
 Morning was in the skies before they sat down to supper. 
 
 " You have been very fortunate to-night, milord, " 
 said one of the Frenchmen, with an envious tone of 
 congratulation.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 101 
 
 " But, indeed, " said another, who, having been several 
 times his host's partner, had won largely, " you are the 
 finest player, milord, I ever encountered. " 
 
 " Always excepting Monsieur Deschapelles and , " 
 
 replied Lilhurne, indifferently. And, turning the con- 
 versation, he asked one of the guests why he had not 
 introduced him to a French officer of merit and distinc- 
 tion, — " With whom, " said Lord Lilburne, " I under- 
 stand that you are intimate, and of whom I hear your 
 countrymen very often speak." 
 
 " You mean De Vaudemont. Poor f elloAV ! " said a 
 middle-aged Frenchman, of a graver appearance than 
 the rest. 
 
 " But why ' poor fellow,* Monsieur de Liancourt? " 
 
 " He was rising so high before the revolution. There 
 was not a braver officer in the army. But he is but a 
 soldier of fortune, and his career is closed." 
 
 "Till the Bourbons return," said another Carlist, 
 playing with his mustache. 
 
 " You will really honor me much by introducing me 
 to him," said Lord Lilburne. " De Vaudemont: it is a 
 good name, — perhaps, too, he plays at whist." 
 
 "But," observed one of the Frenchmen, "I am by no 
 means sure that he has the best right in the world to the 
 name. 'T is a strange story." 
 
 " May I hear it 1 " asked the host. 
 
 "Certainly. It is briefly this: There was an old 
 Vicomte de Vaudemont about Paris; of good birth, 
 but extremely poor, — a maurais sujet. He had already 
 had two wives, and run through their fortunes. Being 
 old and ugly, and men who survive two wives having 
 a bad reputation among marriageable ladies at Paris, he 
 found it difficult to get a third. Despairing of the 
 noblesse, he went among the bourgeoisie with that hope.
 
 102 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 His family were kept in perpetual fear of a ridiculous 
 viesalliance. Among these relations was Madame de 
 Merville, whom you may have heard of." 
 
 "Madame de Merville! Ah, yes! Handsome, was 
 she not ? " 
 
 " It is true. Madame de ]Merville, whose failing was 
 pride, was known more than once to have bought otf 
 the matrimonial inclinations of the amorous vicomte. 
 Suddenly there appeared in her circles a very handsome 
 young man. He was presented formally to her friends 
 as the son of the Vicomte de Vaudemont by his second 
 marriage with an English lady, brought up in England, 
 and now for the first time publicly acknowledged. Some 
 scandal was circulated — " 
 
 " Sir," interrupted Monsieur de Liancourt, very 
 gravely, " the scandal was such as all honorable men 
 must stigmatize and despise: it was only to be traced 
 to some lying lackey, — a scandal that the young man 
 was already the lover of a woman of stainless reputation 
 the very first day that he entered Paris ! I answer for 
 the falsity of that report. But that report I own was 
 one that decided not only Madame de Merville, who 
 was a sensitive, — too sensitive a person, but my friend 
 young Vaudemont, to a marriage, from the pecuniary 
 advantages of which he was too high-spirited not to 
 shrink. " 
 
 "Well," said Lord Lilburne, "then this young De 
 Vaudemont married Madame de Merville t " 
 
 " No," said Liancourt, somewhat sadly, " it was not so 
 decreed; for Vaudemont, with a feeling which belongs 
 to a gentleman, and which I honor, while deeply and 
 gratefully attached to Madame de Merville, desired that 
 he might first win for himself some honorable distinction 
 before he claimed a hand to which men of fortunes so
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 103 
 
 ftiuch higher had aspired in vain. I am not ashamed," 
 lie added, after a slight pause, " to say that I had been 
 one of the rejected suitors, and that I still revere the 
 memory of Eugenie de Merville. The young man, 
 therefore, was to have entered my regiment. Before, 
 however, he liad joined it, and while yet in tlie full 
 flush of a young man's love for a woman formed to 
 excite the strongest attachment, she — she — " The 
 Frenchman's voice trembled, and he resumed with 
 affected composure, " Madame de Merville, who had the 
 best and kindest heart that ever beat in a human breast, 
 learned one day that there was a poor widow in the 
 garret of the hotel she inhabited who was dangerously 
 ill, — without medicine and without food, — having lost 
 her only friend and supporter in her husband some time 
 before. In the impulse of the moment Madame de ]\[er- 
 ville herself attended this widow, caught the fever that 
 preyed upon her, was confined to her bed ten days, 
 and died as she had lived, in serving others and forget- 
 ting self. And so much, sir, for the scandal you spoke 
 ofl'" 
 
 "A warning," observed Lord Lilburne, "against 
 trifling with one's health by that vanity of parading a 
 kind heart which is called charity. If charity, mon cher, 
 begins at home, it is in the drawing-room, not the 
 garret! " 
 
 The Frenchman looked at his host in some disdain, 
 bit his lip, and was silent. 
 
 " But still," resumed Lord Lilburne, — " still it is so 
 probable that your old vicomte had a son; and I can 
 so perfectly understand why he did not wish to be 
 embarrassed with him as long as he could help it, that I 
 do tiot understand why there should be any doubt of the 
 younger De Vaudemont's parentage. "
 
 104: NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Because, " said the Frenchman who had first com- 
 menced the narrative , — " because the young man refused 
 to take the legal steps to proclaim his birth and natural- 
 ize himself a Frenchman; because, no sooner was 
 Madame de Merville dead than he forsook the father he 
 had so newly discovered, forsook France, and entered 
 
 Avith some other officers under the brave , in the 
 
 service of one of the native princes of India. " 
 
 " But perhaps he was poor," observed Lord Lilburne. 
 " A father is a very good thing, and a coimtry is a very 
 good thing, but still a man must have money; and if 
 your father does not do much for you, somehow or other 
 your country generally follows his example." 
 
 " My lord," said Liancourt, " my friend here has for- 
 gotten to say that Madame de ]\Ierville had by deed of 
 gift (though unknown to her lover) before her death 
 made over to young Vaudemont the bulk of her fortune ; 
 and that, when he was informed of this donation after 
 her decease, and sufficiently recovered from the stupor 
 of his grief, he summoned her relations round him, 
 declared that her memory was too dear to him for wealth 
 to console him for her loss, and reser\nng to himself 
 but a modest and bare sufficiency for the common neces- 
 saries of a gentleman, he divided the rest amongst them, 
 and repaired to the East, — not only to conquer his sor- 
 row by the novelty and stir of an exciting life, but to 
 carve out with his own hand the reputation of an honor- 
 able and brave man. ily friend remembered the scandal 
 long buried, — he forgot the generous action." 
 
 "Your friend, you see, my dear Monsieur de Lian- 
 court," remarked Lilburne, " is more a man of the world 
 than you are ! " 
 
 "And I was just going to observe," said the friend 
 thus referred to , " that that very action seemed to con-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 105 
 
 firm the rumor that there had been some little manoeu- 
 vring as to this unexpected addition to the name of 
 De Vaudemont; for, if himself related to Madame de 
 Merville, why have such scruples to receive her gift? " 
 
 " A very shrewd remark," said Lord Lilhurne, looking 
 with some respect at the speaker; " and I own that it is 
 a very unaccountable proceeding, and one of which I 
 don't think you or I would ever have been guilty. 
 Well, and the old vicomte? " 
 
 " Did not live long! " said the Frenchman, evidently 
 gratified by his host's compliment, while Liancourt 
 threw himself back in his chair in grave displeasure. 
 " The young man remained some years in India, and 
 when he returned to Paris, our friend here, Monsieur 
 de Liancourt (then in favor with Charles X.) and 
 Madame de Merville's relations took him up. He had 
 already acquired a reputation in this foreign service, 
 and he obtained a place at the court, and a commission 
 in the king's guards. I allow that he would certainly 
 have made a career, had it not been for the Three Days. 
 As it is, you see him in London, like the rest of us, an 
 exile!" 
 
 "And, I suppose, without a sou." 
 
 "No; I believe that he had still saved, and even 
 augmented in India, the portion he allotted to himself 
 from Madame de Merville's bequest." 
 
 "And if he don't play whist, he ought to play it," 
 said Lilburne. " You have roused my curiosity ; I hope 
 you will let me make his acquaintance. Monsieur de 
 Liancourt. I am no politician, but allow me to propose 
 this toast, ' Success to those who have the wit to plan, 
 and the strength to execute.' In other words, ' the 
 Eight Divine! ' " 
 
 Soon afterwards the guests retired.
 
 106 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Ros. — Happily, he 's the second time come to them. — Hamlet. 
 
 It was the evening after that in which the conversations 
 recorded in our last chapter were held: evening in the 
 
 quiet suhurh of H . The desertion and silence of 
 
 the metropolis in September had extended to its neigh- 
 boring hamlets: a village in the heart of the country 
 could scarcely have seemed more still ; the lamps were 
 lighted, many of the shops already closed, a few of the 
 sober couples and retired spinsters of the place might, 
 here and there, be seen slowly wandering homeward 
 after their evening walk; two or three dogs, in spite of 
 the prohibitions of the magistrates placarded on the 
 walls, — manifestoes which threatened with death the 
 dogs, and predicted more than ordinary madness to the 
 public, — were playing in the main road, disturbed 
 from time to time as the slow coach, plying between the 
 city and the suburb, crawled along the thoroughfare, or 
 as the brisk mails whirled rapidly by, announced by 
 the cloudy dust and the guard's lively horn. Gradually 
 even these evidences of life ceased, — the saunterers dis- 
 appeared, the mails had passed, the dogs gave place to 
 the later and more stealthy perambulations of their 
 feline successors " who love the moon." At unfrequent 
 intervals, the more important shops — the linen-drapers', 
 the chemists', and the gin-palace — still poured out, 
 across the shadowy road, their streams of light, from 
 windows yet unclosed: but, with these exceptions, the 
 business of the place stood still.
 
 NIGHT A^D MORNING. 107 
 
 At this time there emerged from a milliner's house 
 (shop, to outward appearance, it was not, evincing its 
 gentility and its degree, above the Capelocracy, to 
 use a certain classical neologism, by a brass plate on an 
 oak door, whereon was graven, " Miss Semper, Milliner 
 and Dressmaker, from Mailam Devy"), — at this time, 
 I say, and from this house, there emerged the light and 
 graceful form of a young female. She held in her left 
 hand a little basket, of the contents of which (for it was 
 empty) she had apparently just disposed; and, as she 
 stepped across the road, the lamp-light fell on a face 
 in the first bloom of youth, and characterized by an 
 expression of child-like innocence and candor. It was 
 a face regularly and exquisitely lovely, yet something 
 there was in the aspect that saddened you; you knew 
 not why, for it was not sad itself; on the contrary, the 
 lips smiled and the eyes sparkled. As she now glided 
 along the shadowy street with a light, quick step, a 
 man, who had hitherto been concealed by the portico 
 of an attorney's house, advanced stealthily, and followed 
 her at a little distance. Unconscious that she was 
 dogged, and seemingly fearless of all danger, the girl 
 went lightly on, swinging her basket playfully to and 
 fro, and chanting, in a low but musical tone, some 
 verses that seemed rather to belong to the nursery than 
 to that age which the fair singer had attained. 
 
 As she came to an angle which the main street formed 
 with a lane, narrow, and partially lighted, a policeman, 
 stationed there, looked hard at her, and then touched 
 his hat with an air of respect, in which there seemed 
 also a little of compassion. 
 
 " Good-night to you," said the girl, passing him, and 
 with a frank, gay tone. 
 
 " Shall I attend you home, miss? " said the man.
 
 108 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " What for 1 T am very well ! " answered the young 
 woman, with an accent and look of innocent surprise. 
 
 Just at this time the man, who had hitherto followed 
 her, gained the spot, and turned down the lane. 
 
 "Yes," replied the policeman; "but it is getting 
 dark, miss." 
 
 " So it is every night when I walk home, unless 
 there 's a moon. Good-by. — The moon," she repeated 
 to herself as she walked on, — "I used to be afraid of 
 the moon when I was a little child; " and then after 
 a pause, she murmured, in a low chant, — 
 
 " ' The moon, she is a wandering ghost 
 That walks in penance nightly. 
 How sad she is, that wandering moon, 
 For all she shines so brightly ! 
 
 " ' I watched her eyes when I was young, 
 Until they turned my brain. 
 And now I often weep to think 
 'T will ne'er be right again.' " 
 
 As the murmur of these words died at a distance 
 down the lane in which the girl had disappeared, the 
 policeman, who had paiised to listen, shook his head 
 mournfully, and said, while he moved on, — 
 
 " Poor thing! they should not let her always go about 
 by herself ; and yet, who would harm her ? " 
 
 Moanwliile tlie girl proceeded along the lane, which 
 was skirted by small, but not mean houses, till it ter- 
 minated in a cross-stile, that admitted into a church- 
 yard. Here hung the last lamp in the path, and a few 
 dim stars broke palely over the long grass and scattered 
 gravestones, without piercing the deep shadow which 
 the church threw over a large portion of the sacred 
 ground. Just as she passed the stile, the man whom
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 109 
 
 we have before noticed, and who had been leaning, as if 
 waiting for some one, against the pales, approached, 
 and said gently, — 
 
 " Ah, miss! it is a lone place for one so beautiful as 
 you are to be alone. You ought never to be on foot. " 
 
 The girl stopped, and looked full, but without any 
 alarm in her eyes, into the man's face. 
 
 "Go away!" she said, with a half peevish, half 
 kindly tone of command. " I don't know you." 
 
 " But I have been sent to speak to you by one who 
 does know you, miss: one who loves you to distraction, 
 — he has seen you before at Mrs. West's. He is so 
 grieved to think you should walk, — you, who ought, he 
 says, to have every luxury, — that he has sent his car- 
 riage for you. It is on the other side of the yard. Do 
 come now; " and he laid his hand, though very lightly, 
 on her arm. 
 
 " At Mrs. West's! " she said; and. for the first time, 
 her voice and look showed fear. "Go away directly' 
 How dare you touch me! " 
 
 " But, my dear miss, you have no idea how my 
 employer loves you, and how rich he is. See, he has sent 
 you all this money; it is gold, — real gold. You may 
 have what you like, if you will but come. Now, don't 
 be silly, miss." 
 
 The girl made no answer, but, with a sudden spring, 
 passed the man, and ran lightly and rapidly along the 
 path, in an opposite direction from that to which the 
 tempter had pointed, when inviting her to the carriage. 
 The man, surprised, but not baffled, reached her in 
 an instant, and caught hold of her dress. 
 
 "Stay! you must come, — younnist!" he said, threat- 
 eningly; and, loosening his grasp on her shawl, he 
 threw his arm round her waist.
 
 HO NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 "Don't!" cried the girl, pleadingly, and apparently 
 subdued, turning lier fair, soft face upon her pursuer, 
 and clasping her hands. "Be quiet! Fanny is silly ! 
 Xo one is «ver rude to poor Fanny ! " 
 
 "And no one will be rude to you, miss," said the 
 man, apparently touched; "but I dare not go without 
 you. You don't know what you refuse. Come;" and 
 he attempted gently to draw her back. 
 
 "No, no! " said the girl, changing from supplication 
 to anger, and raising her voice into a loud shriek, " No! 
 I will — " 
 
 "Nay, then," interrupted the man, looking round 
 anxiously; and, with a quick and dexterous movement, 
 he threw a large handkerchief over her face, and, as he 
 lield it fast to her lips, with one hand, he lifted her 
 from the ground. Still violently struggling, the girl 
 contrived to remove the handkerchief, and once more 
 her shriek of terror rang through the violated sanctuary. 
 
 At that instant a loud, deep voice was heard, " Who 
 calls? " And a tall figure seemed to rise, as from the 
 grave itself, and emerge from the shadow of the church. 
 A moment more, and a strong gripe was laid on the 
 shoulder of the ravisher. "What is this? On God's 
 ground, too! Release her, Avretch! " 
 
 The man, trembling, half with superstitious, half 
 with bodily fear, let go his captive, who fell at once at 
 the knees of her deliverer. 
 
 "Don't 1J0U hurt me, too," she said, as the tears 
 rolled down her eyes, "I am a good girl, — and my 
 grandfather 's blind." 
 
 The stranger bent down and raised her; then looking 
 round for the assailant with an eye whose dark fire 
 shone through the gloom, he perceived the coward steal- 
 ing off. He disdained to pursue.
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. Ill 
 
 "My poor child," said he, Avith that voice which 
 the strong assume to the weak, the man to some 
 wounded infant, — the voice of tender superiority and 
 compassion, " there is no cause for fear now. Be 
 soothed. Do you live near? Shall I see you home? " 
 
 "Thank you! That's kind. Pray do!" And, with an 
 infantine confidence she took his hand, as a child does 
 that of a grown-up person : so they walked on together. 
 
 "And," said the stranger, "do you know that man? 
 Has he insulted you before 1 " 
 
 " No ; don't talk of him : ce me fait mal ! " And she 
 put her hand to her forehead. 
 
 The French was spoken with so French an accent, 
 that, in some curiosity, the stranger cast his eye over 
 her plain dress. 
 
 " You speak French well." 
 
 " Do 1 1 I wish I knew more words, — I only recol- 
 lect a few. When I am very happy or very sad they 
 come into my head. But I am happy now. I like your 
 voice, — I like you. Oh! I have dropped my basket! " 
 
 " Shall I go back for it, or shall I buy you another ? " 
 
 "Another! Oh, no! come back for it. How kind 
 you are! Ah! I see it!" and she broke away and ran 
 forward to pick it up. 
 
 When she had recovered it, she laughed; she spoke 
 to it, she kissed it. 
 
 Her companion smiled as he said, — 
 
 "Some sweetheart has given you that basket, — it 
 seems but a common basket, too." 
 
 "I have had it — oh, ever since — since — I don't 
 know how long ! It came with me from France, — it was 
 full of little toys. T/iei/ are gone, — I am so sorry I " 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 "I don't know."
 
 112 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " My pretty one," said the stranger, with deep pity in 
 his rich voice, " your mother should not let you go out 
 alone at this hour." 
 
 "Mother! mother!" repeated the girl, in a tone of 
 surprise. 
 
 " Have you no mother'? " 
 
 " N'o! — • I had a father once. But he died, they say. 
 I did not see him die. I sometimes cry when I think 
 that I shall never, never see him again! But," she 
 said, changing her accent from melancholy almost to joy, 
 " he is to have a grave here like the other girls' fathers! 
 — a fine stone upon it, — and all to be done with my 
 money ! " 
 
 " Your money, my child ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the money I make. I sell my work and take 
 the money to my grandfather; but I lay by a little 
 every week for a gravestone for my father." 
 
 " Will the gravestone be placed in that churchyard? " 
 They were now in another lane; and, as he spoke, the 
 stranger checked her, and bending down to look into 
 her face, he murmured to himself, " Is it possible? — it 
 must be, — it must! " 
 
 " Yes! I love that churchyard, — my brother told me 
 to put flowers there ; and grandfather and I sit tliere in 
 the summer, without speaking. But I don't talk much, 
 I like singing better: — 
 
 * All things that good and harmless are, 
 
 Are taught, they say, to sing, — 
 The maiden resting at her work, 
 
 The bird upon the wing ; 
 The little ones at church, in prayer. 
 
 The angels in the sky, — 
 The angels less when babes are bom 
 
 Than when the aged die.' "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 113 
 
 And unconscious of the latent mor.al, dark or cheering, 
 according as we estimate the value of this life, couched 
 in the concluding rhyme, Fanny turned round to the 
 stranger, and said, " Why sliould the angels be glad 
 when the aged die ? " 
 
 " That they are released from a false, unjust, and mis- 
 erable world in which the first man was a rebel, and the 
 second a murderer ! " muttered the stranger between his 
 teeth, which he gnashed as he spoke. 
 
 The girl did not understand him; she shook her head 
 gently, and made no reply. A few moments, and she 
 paused before a small house. 
 
 " This is my home. " 
 
 " It is so," said her companion, examining the exterior 
 of the house with an earnest gaze ; " and your name is 
 Panny." 
 
 " Yes; every one knows Fanny. Come in; " and the 
 girl opened the door with a latch-key. 
 
 The stranger bowed his stately height as he crossed 
 the low threshold, and followed his guide into a little 
 parlor. 
 
 Before a table, on which burned dimly, and with 
 unheeded wick, a single candle, sat a man of advanced 
 age; and, as he turned his face to the door, the stranger 
 saw that he was blind. The girl bounded to his chair, 
 passed her arras round the old man's neck, and kissed 
 his forehead; then nestling herself at his feet, and 
 leaning her clasped hands caressingly on his knee, she 
 said, — 
 
 " Grandpapa, I have brought you somebody you must 
 love. He has been so kind to Fanny." 
 
 " And neither of you can remember me ! " said the 
 guest. 
 
 The old man, whose dull face seemed to indicate 
 
 VOL. II. — 8
 
 114 NIGHT AND MOllNING. 
 
 dotage, half raised himself at the sound of the stranger's 
 voice. 
 
 " Who is that? " said he, with a feeble and querulous 
 voice. " Who wants me ? " 
 
 " I am the friend of your lost son. I am he who, ten 
 years ago, brought Fanny to your roof, and gave her to 
 your care, — your son's last charge. And you blessed 
 your son, and forgave him, and vowed to be a father 
 to his Fanny." 
 
 The old man, who had now slowly risen to his feet, 
 trembled violently, and stretched out his hands. 
 
 " Come near, near, let me put my hands on your 
 head. I cannot see you; but Fanny talks of you, and 
 prays for you; and Fanny, — she has been an angel to 
 me!" 
 
 The stranger approached and half knelt as the old man 
 epread his hands over his head, muttering inaudibly. 
 Meanwhile Fanny, pale as death, her lips apart, an 
 eager, painful expression on her face, looking inquir- 
 ingly on the dark, marked countenance of the visitor, 
 and creeping towards him inch by inch, fearfully touched 
 his dress, his arms, his countenance. 
 
 "Brother," she said at last, doubtingly and timidly, 
 — "brother, I thought I could never forget you! But 
 you are not like my brother; you are older: you are — 
 you are ! — no ! no ! you are not my brother ! " 
 
 " I am much changed , Fanny ; and you too ! " 
 
 He smiled as he spoke ; and the smile — sweet and 
 pitying — thoroughly changed the character of his face, 
 which was ordinarily stern, grave, and proud. 
 
 " I know you now ! " exclaimed Fanny, in a tone of 
 wild joy. " And you come back from that grave ! My 
 flowers have brought you back at last! I knew they 
 would ! Brother ! Brother ! "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 115 
 
 And she threw herself on his breast and burst into 
 passionate tears. Then, suddenly drawing herself back, 
 she laid her finger on his arm, and looked up at him 
 beseechingly. 
 
 " Pray, now, is he really dead ? He, ray father ! — 
 he, too, was lost like you. Can't he come back again as 
 you have done 1 " 
 
 " Do you grieve for him still, then ? Poor girl ! " 
 said the stranger, evasively, and seating himself. Fanny 
 continued to listen for an answer to her touching ques- 
 tion; but finding that none was given, she stole away 
 to a corner of the room and leaned her face on her hands, 
 and seemed to think, — till at last, as she so sat, the 
 tears began to flow down her cheeks, and she wept, but 
 silently and imnoticed. 
 
 " But, sir, " said the guest, after a short pause, " how 
 is this ? Fanny tells me she supports you by her work. 
 Are you so poor, then? Yet I left you your son's 
 bequest; and you, too, I understood, though not rich, 
 were not in want! " 
 
 " There was a curse on my gold, " said the old man, 
 sternly. " It was stolen from us. " 
 
 There was another pause. Simon broke it. 
 
 " And you, young man, — how has it fared with you ? 
 You have prospered, I hope." 
 
 " I am as I have been for years, — alone in the world, 
 without kindred and without friends. But, thanks to 
 Heaven, I am not a beggar ! " 
 
 " No kindred and no friends ! " repeated the old man. 
 " No father, no brother, no wife , no sister ! " 
 
 " None ! No one to care whether I live or die, " 
 answered the stranger, with a mixture of pride and sad- 
 ness in his voice. " But, as the song has it, — 
 
 ' I care for nobody, — no, not I, 
 For nobody cares for me ! ' "
 
 U6 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 There was a certain pathos in the mockery with which 
 he repeated the homely lines, although, as he did, he 
 gathered himself up, as if conscious of a certain consola- 
 tion and reliance on the resources not dependent on others 
 which he had found in his own strong limbs and his own 
 stout heart. 
 
 At that moment he felt a soft touch upon his hand, 
 and he saw Panny looking at him through the tears that 
 still flowed. 
 
 " You have no one to care for you 1 Don't say so ! 
 Come and live with us, brother ; we '11 care for you. 
 I have never forgotten the flowers, — never ! Do come ! 
 Fanny shall love you. Fanny can work for three/ " 
 
 " And they call her an idiot! " mumbled the old man, 
 with a vacant smile on his li2)s. 
 
 " My sister ! You sJiall be my sister ! Forlorn one, 
 
 — whom even nature has fooled and betrayed! Sister! 
 
 — we, both orphans ! Sister ! " exclaimed that dark, 
 stern man, passionately, and with a broken voice; and 
 he opened his arms, and Fanny, without a blush or a 
 thought of shame, threw herself on his breast. He 
 kissed her forehead with a kiss that was, indeed, pure 
 and holy as a brother's ; and Fanny felt that he had left 
 upon her cheek a tear that was not her own. 
 
 " Well, " he said, with an altered voice, and taking 
 the old man's hand, " what say you 1 Shall I take up 
 my lodging with you? I have a little money; I can 
 protect and aid you both. I shall be often away, — in 
 London or elsewhere, — and will not intrude too much 
 on you. But you blind, and she [here he broke oif 
 the sentence abruptly, and went on] — you should not 
 be left alone. And this neighborhood, that burial-place, 
 are dear to me. T, too, Fanny, have lost a parent; 
 and that grave — "
 
 NIGHT AND MOi;>;iis'G. 117 
 
 He paused, and then added, in a treniLling voice, 
 " And you have placed flowers over that grave 1 " 
 
 " Stay with us, " said the bhnd man ; " not for our 
 sake, but your own. The world is a had place. I have 
 >)een long sick of the world. Yes! come and live near 
 the burial-ground; the nearer you are to tlie grave, the 
 safer you are, — and you have a little money, you say 1 " 
 
 " 1 will come to-morrow, then. I must return now. 
 To-morrow, Fanny, we shall meet again. " 
 
 "Must you go?" said Fanny, tenderly. "But you 
 will come again ; you know I used to think every one 
 died when he left me. I am wiser now. Yet still, 
 when you do leave me, it is true that you die for 
 Fanny ! " 
 
 At this moment, as the three persons were grouped, 
 each had assumed a posture of form, an expression of 
 face, which a painter of fitting sentiment and skill would 
 have loved to study. The visitor had gained the door ; 
 and, as he stood there, his noble height, the magnifi- 
 cent strength and healtli of his manhood in its full prime, 
 contrasted alike the almost spectral debility of extreme 
 age and the graceful delicacy of Fanny, half girl, half 
 child. There was something foreign in his air, and the 
 half military habit, relieved by the red ribbon of the 
 Bourbon knighthood. His complexion was dark as that 
 of a Moor, and his raven hair curled close to the stately 
 head. The soldier-mustache — thick, but glossy as silk 
 — shaded the firm lip ; and the pointed beard, assumed 
 by the exiled Carlists, heightened the effect of the strong 
 and haughty features, and the expression of the martial 
 countenance. 
 
 But as Fanny's voice died on his ear, he half averted 
 that proud face ; and the dark eyes — almost Oriental 
 in their brilliancy and depth of shade — seemed soft and
 
 lis NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 h\unid. And there stood Fanny, in a posture of such 
 unconscious sadness, such childlike innocence, — her 
 arms drooping, her face wistfully turned to his, and a 
 half-smile upon the lips, that made still more touching 
 tlie tears not yet dried upon her cheeks. While thin, 
 frail, shadowy, with white hair and furrowed cheeks 
 the old man fixed his sightless orbs on space; and his 
 face, usually only animated from the lethargy of advanc- 
 ing dotage by a certain querulous cynicism, now grew 
 suddenly earnest and even thoughtful, as Fanny spoke 
 of death !
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 119 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Uli/ss. — Time hath a wallet at his back 
 Whereiu he puts alms for oblivion. 
 . . , Perseverance, dear, my lord. 
 Keeps honor bright. 
 
 Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 I HAVE not sought — as would have been easy, by a 
 little ingenuity in the early portion of tliis narrative — 
 whatever source of vulgar interest might be derived from 
 the mystery of names and persons. As in Charles 
 Spencer the reader is allowed at a glance to detect 
 Sidney Morton, so in Philip de Vaudemont (the stranger 
 who rescued Fanny) the reader at once recognizes the 
 hero of my tale ; but, since neither of these young men 
 has a better right to the name resigned than to the name 
 adopted, it will be simpler and more convenient to desig- 
 nate them by those appellations by which they are 
 now known to the world. In truth, Philip de Vaude- 
 mont was scarcely the same being as Philip Morton. In 
 the short visit he had paid to the elder Gawtrey, when 
 he consigned Panny to his charge, he had given no 
 name; and the one he now took (when, towards the 
 evening of the next day, he returned to Simon's house) 
 the old man heard for the first time. Once more sunk 
 into his usual apathy, Simon did not express any surprise 
 that a Frenchman should be so well acquainted with 
 English, — he scarcely observed that the name was 
 French. Simon's age seemed daily to bring him more 
 and more to that state when life is mere mechanism, and 
 the soul, preparing for its departure, no longer heeds the
 
 120 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 tenement that crumbles silently and neglected into its 
 lonely dust. Vaudemont came with but little luggage 
 (for he had an apartment also in London) and no attend- 
 ant, — a single horse was consigned to the stables of an 
 inn at hand, and he seemed, as soldiers are, more careful 
 for the comforts of the animal than his own. There was 
 but one woman servant in the humble household, who 
 did all the ruder work; for Fanny's industry could afford 
 it. The solitary servant and the homely fare sufficed for 
 the simple and hardy adventurer. 
 
 Fanny, with a countenance radiant with joy, took his 
 hand and led him to his room. Poor child ! with that 
 instinct of ivoman which never deserted her, she had 
 busied herself the whole day in striving to deck the 
 chamber according to her own notions of comfort. She 
 had stolen from her little hoard Avherewithal to make 
 some small purchases, on which the Dowbiggin of the 
 suburb had been consulted. And what with flowers on 
 the table, and a fire at the hearth, the room looked 
 cheerful. 
 
 She watched him as he glanced around, and felt 
 disappointed that he did not xitt^r the admiration she 
 expected. Angry at last with the indifference which, in 
 fact, as to external accommodation, was habitual to him, 
 she plucked his sleeve, and said, — 
 
 " Why don't you speak 1 Is it not nice ? Fann}' did 
 her best." 
 
 " And a thousand thanks to Fanny ! It is all I could 
 wish." 
 
 " There is another room, bigger than this, but the 
 wicked woman who robbed us slept there ; and besides, 
 you said you liked the churchyard. See ! " and she 
 opened the window, and pointed to the church-tower 
 rising dark against the evening sky.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNIXG. 121 
 
 " This is better than all ! " said Vaudemont ; and he 
 looked out from the window in a silent reverie, which 
 Fanny did not disturb. 
 
 And now he was settled! From a career so wild, 
 agitated, and various, the adventurer paused in that 
 liumble resting-nook. But quiet is not repose, — ob- 
 scurity is not content. Often as, morn and eve, he 
 looked forth upon the spot, where his mother's heart, 
 imconscious of love and woe, mouldered away, the in- 
 dignant and bitter feelings of the wronged outcast and 
 the son who could not clear the mother's name, swept 
 away the subdued and gentle melancholy into which 
 time usually softens regret for the dead, and with which 
 most of us think of the distant past, and the once joyous 
 childhood ! 
 
 In this man's breast lay, concealed by his external 
 calm, those memories and aspirations which are as strong 
 as passions. In his earlier years, when he had been put 
 to hard shifts for existence, he had found no leisure for 
 close and brooding reflection upon that spoliation of just 
 rights, that calumny upon his mother's name, which 
 had first brought the Night into his Morning. His 
 resentment towards the Beauforts, it is true, had ever 
 been an intense but a fitful and irregular passion. It 
 was exactly in proportion as, by those rare and romantic 
 incidents which fiction cannot invent, and which narra- 
 tive takes with diffidence from the great storehouse of 
 real life, his steps had ascended in the social ladder, that 
 all which his childhood had lost, all which the robbers 
 of his heritage had gained, the grandeur and the power 
 of WEALTH, above all, the hourly and the tranquil 
 happiness of a stainless name, became palpable and dis- 
 tinct. He had loved Eugenie as a boy loves for the first 
 time an accomplished woman. He regarded her — so
 
 122 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 refined, so gentle, so gifted — with the feelings due to a 
 superior being, with an eternal recollection of the minis- 
 tering angel that had shone upon him when he stood on 
 the dark abyss. She was the first that had redeemed 
 liis fate; the first that had guided aright his path; the 
 first that had tamed the savage at his breast: it was the 
 young lion charmed by the eyes of Una. The outline of 
 his story had been truly given at Lord Lilburne's. 
 Despite his pride, which revolted from such obligations 
 to another, and a Avoman, — which disliked and struggled 
 against a disguise which at once and alone saved him 
 from the detection of the past and the terrors of the 
 future, — he had yielded to her, the wise and the gentle, 
 as one whose judgment he could not doubt; and, indeed, 
 the slanderous falsehoods circulated by the lackey, to 
 whose discretion, the night of Gawtrey's death, Eugenie 
 had preferred to confide her own honor rather than 
 another's life, had (as Liancourt rightly stated) left 
 Philip no option but that which Madame de Merville 
 deemed the best, whether for lier happiness or her good 
 name. Then had followed a brief season, — the holiday of 
 his life, — the season of young hope and passion, of 
 brilliancy and joy, closing by that abrupt death which 
 again left him lonely in the world. 
 
 When, from the grief that succeeded to the death of 
 Eugenie, he woke to find himself amidst the strange faces 
 and exciting scenes of an Oriental court, he turned with 
 hard and disgustful contempt from pleasure, as an infi- 
 delity to the dead. Ambition crept over him; his mind 
 hardened as his cheek lu'onzed under those burning suns; 
 his hardy frame, his energies prematurely awakened, his 
 constitutional disregard to danger made him a brave and 
 skilful soldier. He acquired reputation and rank. But, 
 as time went on, the ambition took a higher flight, — he
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 123 
 
 felt his sphere circurascriljed; the Eastern indolence that 
 tilled up the long intervals between Eastern action chafed 
 a tempernever at rest. He returned to France. His repu- 
 tation, Liancourt's friendship, and the relations of Eugenie 
 — grateful, as has before been implied, for the generosity 
 with which he surrendered the principal part of her 
 donation — opened for him a new career, but one painful 
 and galling. In the Indian court there was no question 
 of his birth, — one adventurer was equal Avith the rest. 
 But in Paris, a man attempting to rise provoked all the 
 sarcasm of wit, all the cavils of party ; and in polished 
 and civil life, what valor has weapons against a jest? 
 Thus, in civilization, all the passions that spring from 
 humiliated self-love and baffled aspiration again preyed 
 upon his breast. He saw, then, that the more he strug- 
 gled from obscurity, the more acute Avould become 
 research into his true origin ; and his writhing pride 
 almost stung to death his ambition. To succeed in life by 
 regular means was indeed difficult for this man : always 
 recoiling from the name he bore ; always strong in 
 the hope yet to regain that to which he conceived himself 
 entitled; cherishing that pride of country which never 
 deserts the native of a free state, however harsh a parent 
 she may have proved ; and, above all, whatever his ambi- 
 tion and his passions, taking, from the very misfortunes 
 he had known, an indomitable belief in the ultimate jus- 
 tice of Heaven, — he had refused to sever the last ties that 
 connected him with his lost heritage and his forsaken 
 land; he refused to be naturalized, to make the name he 
 bore legally undisput-ed; he was contented to be an 
 alien. Neither was Vaudemont fitted exactly for that 
 crisis in the social world when the men of journals and 
 talk bustle aside the men of action. He had not culti- 
 vated literature, he had no book-knowledge, — the world
 
 124 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 had been his school, and stern life his teacher. Still, 
 eminently skilled in those physical accomplishments which 
 men admire and soldiers covet, calm and self-possessed in 
 manner, of great personal advantages, of much ready 
 talent and of practised oliservation in character, he con- 
 tinned to breast the obstacles around him, and to establish 
 himself in the favor of those in power. It was natural 
 to a person so reared and circumstanced to have no sym- 
 pathy with what is called the popular cause. He was 
 no citizen in the state, — he was a stranger in the land. 
 He had suffered, and still suffered too much from man- 
 kind, to have that philanthropy, sometimes visionary but 
 always noble, Avhich, in fact, generally springs from the 
 studies we cultivate, not in the forum, but the closet. 
 Men, alas! too often lose the democratic enthusiasm in 
 proportion as they find reason to suspect or despise their 
 kind. And if there were not hopes for the future, Avhich 
 this hard, practical, daily life does not suffice to teach us, 
 the vision and the glory that belong to the great popular 
 creed, dimmed beneath the injustice, the follies, and the 
 vices of the world as it is, would fade into the lukewarm 
 sectarianism of temporary party. Moreover, Vaudemont's 
 habits of thouglit and reasoning were those of the camp, 
 confirmed by the systems familiar to hnu in the East: he 
 regarded the populace as a soldier enamored of discipline 
 and order usually does. His theories, therefore, or rather 
 his ignorance of what is souncl in theory, went with 
 Charles X. in his excesses, but not with the timidity 
 which terminated those excesses by dethronement and 
 disgrace. Chafed to the heart, gnawed with proud grief, 
 he obeyed the royal mandates, and followed the exiled 
 monarch : his hopes overthrown, his career in France 
 annihilated forever. But, on entering England, his 
 temper, confident and ready of resource, fastened itself
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 125 
 
 on new food. Tn the land where he had no name he 
 might yet rebuild his fortunes. It was an arduous effort, 
 - — an improbable hope ; but the words heard by the 
 bridge of Paris — words that had often cheered him in 
 his exile through hardships and through dangers which 
 it is unnecessary to our narrative to detail — yet rang 
 again in his ear, as he leaped on his native land, " Time, 
 Faith, Energy." 
 
 While such his character in the larger and more dis- 
 tant relations of life, in the closer circles of companion- 
 ship many rare and noble qualities were visible. It is 
 true that he was stern, perhaps imperious, — of a temper 
 that always struggled for command ; but he was deeply 
 susceptible of kindness, and if feared by those who 
 opposed, loved by those who served him. About his 
 character was that mixture of tenderness and fierceness, 
 which belonged, of old, to the descriptions of the warrior. 
 Though so Kttle lettered, life had taught him a certain 
 poetry of sentiment and idea, — more poetry, perhaps, in 
 the silent thoughts that, in his happier moments, filled 
 his solitude, than in half the pages that his brother had 
 read and written by the dreaming lake. A certain large- 
 ness of idea and nobility of impulse often made him act 
 the sentiments of which bookmen write. With all his 
 passions, he held licentiousness in disdain; with all his 
 ambition for the power of wealth, he despised its luxury. 
 Simple, masculine, severe, abstemious, he was of that 
 mould in which, in earlier times, the successful men of 
 action have been cast. But to successful action, circum- 
 stance is more necessary than to triumphant study. 
 
 It was to be expected that, in })roportion as he had 
 been familiar with a purer and nobler life, he should look 
 Avith great and deep self-humiliation at his early associa- 
 tion with Gawtrey. He was in this respect more severe
 
 126 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 on himself tlian any otlier mind ordinarily just and 
 candid would have been, — when fairly surveying the cir- 
 cumstances of penury, hunger, and despair, which had 
 driven him to Gawtrey's roof, the imperfect nature of his 
 early education, the boyish trust and affection he had felt 
 for Ins protector, and his own ignorance of, and exemp- 
 tion froui, all the worse practices of that unhappy criminal. 
 But still, when, with the knowledge he had now acquired, 
 the ?na7i looked calmly back, his cheek burned with 
 remorseful shame at his unreflecting companionship in 
 a life of subterfuge and equivocation, the true nature 
 of which, the boi/ (so circumstanced as we have shown 
 him) might be forgiven for not at that time comprehend- 
 ing. Two advantages resulted, however, from the error 
 and the remorse: first, the humiliation it brought, 
 curbed, in some measure, a pride that might otherwise 
 have been arrogant and unamiable ; and, secondly, as I 
 have before intimated, his profound gratitude to Heaven 
 for his deliverance from the snares that had beset his 
 youth, gave his future the guide of an earnest and heart- 
 felt faitli. He acknowledged in life no such thing as 
 accident. Whatever his struggles, whatever his melan- 
 choly, whatever his sense of worldly wrong, he never 
 despaired ; for nothing now could shake his belief in one 
 directing Providence. 
 
 The ways and habits of Vaudemont were not at dis- 
 cord with those of the quiet household in wliich he was 
 now a guest. Like most men of strong frames, and 
 accustomed to active, not studious pursuits, he rose early 
 and usually rode to London, to come back late at noon to 
 their frugal meal. And if again, perhaps after the hour 
 when Fanny and Simon retired, he would often return to 
 London, his own pass-key re-admitted him, at whatever 
 time he came back, without disturbing the sleep of the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNI^'G. 127 
 
 household. Sometimes when the sun began to decline, 
 if the air was warm, the old man would crawl out, lean- 
 ing on that strong arm, through the neighboring lanes, 
 ever returning through the lonely burial-ground ; or when 
 the blind host clung to his fireside, and composed himself 
 to sleep, Philip would saunter forth along with Fanny ; 
 and on the days when she went to sell her work, or select 
 her purchases, he always made a point of attending her. 
 And her cheek wore a flush of pride when she saw him 
 carrying her little basket, or waiting without, in musing 
 patience, while she performed her commissions in the 
 shops. Though, in reality, Fanny's intellect was ripen- 
 ing within, yet still the surface often misled the eye as 
 to the depths. It was rather that something yet held 
 back the faculties from their growth, than that the facul- 
 ties themselves were wanting. Her weakness was more 
 of the nature of the infant's than of one afflicted with 
 incurable imbecility. For instance, she managed the 
 little household with skill and prudence ; she could cal- 
 culate in her head as rapidly as Vaudemont himself, the 
 arithmetic necessary to her simple duties ; she knew the 
 value of money, which is more than some of us wise folk 
 do. Her skill, even in her infancy so remarkable, in 
 various branches of female handiwork, was carried, not 
 only by perseverance, but by invention and peculiar 
 talent, to a marvellous and exquisite perfection. Her 
 embroidery, especially in what was then more rare than 
 at present, — namely, flowers on silk, — was much in 
 request among the great modistes of London, to whom it 
 found its way through the agency of Miss Semper. So 
 that all this had enabled her, for years, to provide every 
 necessary comfort of life for herself and her blind pro- 
 tector. And her care for the old man was beautiful in 
 its minuteness, its vigilance. Wlierever her heart was
 
 128 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 interested, there never seemed a deficiency of mind. 
 Vaudemont was touched to see how much of affectionate 
 and pitying respect she appeared to enjoy in tlie neighbor- 
 hood, especially among the humbler classes, — even the 
 beggar who swept the crossings did not beg of her, but 
 bade God bless her as she passed; and the rude, discon- 
 tented artisan would draw himself from the wall and 
 answer, with a softened brow, the smile with which the 
 harmless one charmed his courtesy. In fact, whatever 
 attraction she took from her youth, her beauty, her mis- 
 fortune, and her affecting industry, was heightened, in 
 the eyes of the poorer neighbors, by many little traits of 
 charity and kindness; many a sick child had she tended, 
 and many a breadless board had stolen something from 
 the stock set aside for her father's grave, 
 
 " Don't you think, " she once whispered to Vaudemont, 
 " that God attends to us more if we are good to those who 
 are sick and hungry 1 " 
 
 " Certainly, Ave are taught to think so. " 
 
 " Well, I '11 tell you a secret, — don't tell again. 
 Grandpapa once said that my father liad done bad 
 things ; now, if Fanny is good to those she can help, I 
 think that God will hear her more kindly when she prays 
 him to forgive what her father did. Do you think so 
 too 1 Do say, — you are so wise ! " 
 
 " Fanny, you are wiser than all of us ; and I feel 
 myself better and happier when I hear you speak. " 
 
 Tliere were, indeed, many moments when Vaudemont 
 thought that her deficiencies of intellect might have been 
 repaired, long since, by skilful culture and habitual com- 
 panionship with those of her own age; from which com- 
 panionship, however, Fanny, even when at school, had 
 shrunk aloof. At other moments there was something 
 so absent and distracted about her, or so fantastic and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 129 
 
 incoherent, tliat Yaudemont, with tlie man's hard, worldly 
 eye, read in it nothing but melancholy confusion. ISTever- 
 theless, if the skein of ideas was entangled, each thread 
 in itself was a thread of gold. 
 
 Fanny's great object — her great ambition, her one 
 hope — was a tomb for her supposed father. Whether 
 from some of that early religion attached to the grave, 
 which is most felt in Catholic countries, and which she 
 had imbibed at the convent; or from her residence so 
 near the burial-ground, and the affection with which she 
 regarded the spot, — whatever the cause, she had 
 cherished for some years, as young maidens usually 
 cherish the desire of the altar, the dream of the grave- 
 stone. But the hoard was amassed so slowly : now old 
 Gawtrey was attacked by illness; now there was some 
 little difficulty in the rent; now some fluctuation in the 
 price of work ; and now, and more often than all, some 
 demand on her charity, which interfered with, and drew 
 from the pious savings. This was a sentiment in which 
 her new friend sympathized deeply ; for he, too, remem- 
 bered that his first gold had bought that humble stone 
 which still preserved upon the earth the memory of his 
 mother. 
 
 Meanwhile days crept on, and no new violence was 
 offered to Fanny. Vaudemont learned, then, by little 
 and little, — and Fanny's account was very confused, — • 
 the nature of the danger she had run. 
 
 It seemed that one day, tempted by the fineness of 
 the weather up the road that led from the suburb farther 
 into the country, Fanny was stopped by a gentleman in 
 a carriage, who accosted her, as she said, very kindly, 
 and, after several questions, which she answered with 
 her usual unsuspecting innocence, learned her trade, 
 insisted on purchasing some articles of work which she 
 
 VOL. II. — 9
 
 130 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 had at the moment in her basket, and promised to 
 procure her a constant purchaser, upon much better 
 terms than she had hitherto obtained, if she would call 
 at the house of a Mrs. West, about a mile from the 
 suburb towards London. This she promised to do, and 
 this she did, according to the address he gave her. She 
 was admitted to a lady more gayly dressed than Fanny 
 had ever seen a lady before. The gentleman was also 
 present; they both loaded her with compliments, and 
 bought her work at a price which seemed about to 
 realize all the hopes of the poor girl as to the gravestone 
 for William Gawtrey, — as if his evil fate pursued that 
 wild man beyond the grave, and his very tomb was to be 
 purchased by the gold of the polluter! The lady then 
 appointed her to call again ; but meanwhile, she met 
 Fanny in the streets, and while she was accosting her, it 
 fortunately chanced that Miss Semper the milliner passed 
 that way, turned round, looked hard at the lady, used 
 very angry language to her, seized Fanny's hand, led her 
 away, while the lady slunk off, and told her that the 
 said lady was a very bad woman, and that Fanny must 
 never speak to her again. Fanny most cheerfully 
 promised this. And, in fact, the lady, probably afraid, 
 whether of the mob or the magistrates, never again came 
 near her. 
 
 " And, " said Fanny, " I gave the money they had 
 both given to me to Miss Semper, who said she would 
 send it back." 
 
 " You did right, Fanny ; and as you made one promise 
 to ]Miss Semper, so you must make me one, — never to 
 stir from home again witliout me or some other person. 
 No, no other person, — only me. I will give up every- 
 tliing else to go with you. "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 131 
 
 "Will you? Oh, yes, I promise! I used to like 
 going alone, but that was before you came, brother. " 
 
 And as Fanny kept her promise, it would have been a 
 bold gallant, indeed, who would have ventured to molest 
 her by the side of that stately and strong protector.
 
 132 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Timnn. — Each thing's a thief: 
 The laws, your curb and wliip, iu their rough power 
 Have unchecked theft. 
 
 The sweet degrees that this brief world affords, 
 To such as may the passive drugs of it 
 Freely command. 
 
 Timon of Athens. 
 
 On" the day and at the hour fixed for the interview with 
 the stranger Avho had visited ]\Ir. Beaufort, Lord Lil- 
 burne was seated in the library of his brotlier-in-law ; and 
 before the elbow-chair, on which he lolled carelessly, 
 stood our old friend Mr. Sharp, of Bow Street notability. 
 " Mr. Sharp, " said the peer, " I have sent for you to 
 do me a little favor. I expect a man here who professes 
 to give Mr. Beaufort, my brother-in-law, some informa- 
 tion about a lawsuit. It is necessary to know the exact 
 value of his evidence. I wish you to ascertain all partic- 
 ulars about him. Be so good as to seat yourself in the 
 porter's chair in the hall ; note him when he enters, un- 
 observed yourself, — but as he is probably a stranger to 
 you, note him still more when he leaves the house; 
 follow him at a distance ; find out where he lives, whom 
 he associates with, Avhere he visits, their names and direc- 
 tions, what his character and calling are, — in a word, 
 everything you can, and report to me each evening. Dog 
 him well, never lose sight of liim, — you will be hand- 
 somely paid. You understand ? "
 
 NTGIIT AND AIORNING. 133 
 
 "Ah!" said ]\Tr. Sharp, "leave me alone, my lord. 
 Been employed before by your lordship's brother-in-law. 
 We knows what 's wliat." 
 
 " I don't doiil)t it. To your post. I expect him 
 every moment." 
 
 And, in ta«t, Mr. Sharp had only just ensconced 
 himself in the porter's chair when the stranger knocked 
 at the door, — in another moment he was shown in to 
 Lord Lilburne. 
 
 " Sir," said his lordship, without rising, " he so good 
 as to take a chair. Mr. Beaufort is obliged to leave 
 town; he has asked me to see you, — I am one of his 
 family: his wife is my sister, — you may be as frank 
 with me as with him; more so, perhaps." 
 
 " I beg the fauvor of your name, sir," said the stranger, 
 adjusting his collar. 
 
 " Yours first, — business is business." 
 
 "Well, then, Captain Smith." 
 
 "Of what regiment?" 
 
 "Half-pay." 
 
 " I am Lord Lilburne. Your name is Smith, — 
 humph! " added the peer, looking over some notes before 
 him. " I see it is also the name of the witness appealed 
 to by Mrs. Morton, — humph ! " 
 
 At this remark, and still more at the look which 
 accompanied it, the countenance, before impudent and 
 complacent, of Captain Smith fell into visible embar- 
 rassment; he cleared his throat and said, with a little 
 hesitation, — 
 
 " My lord, that witness is living! " 
 
 " No doubt of it, — witnesses never die where property 
 is concerned and imposture intended. " 
 
 At this moment the servant entered and placed a little 
 note, qiiaintly folded, before Lord Lilburne. He glanced
 
 134 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 at it in surprise, opened, and read as follows, in 
 pencil : — 
 
 My Lord, — I knows the man ; take caer of him ; he is as 
 
 big a roge as ever stept ; he was transported some three year 
 
 back, and unless his time has been shortened by the Home, 
 
 he 's absent without leve. We used to call him Dashing Jerry. 
 
 That ere youngster we went arter, by Mr. Bofort's wish, was 
 
 a pal of his. Scuze the liberty I take, 
 
 J. Sharp. 
 
 While Lord Lilburne held this effusion to the candle, 
 and spelled his way through it, Captain Smith, recovering 
 his self-composure , thus proceeded : — 
 
 "Imposture, my lord! imposture! I really don't 
 understand. Your lordship really seems so suspicious 
 that it is quite uncomfortable. I am sure it is all the 
 same to me ; and if Mr. Beaufort does not think proper 
 to see me himself, why, I 'd best make my bow." 
 
 And Captain Smith rose. 
 
 " Stay a moment, sir. What Mr. Beaufort may yet 
 do, I cannot say; but I know this, you stand charged of 
 a very grave offence, and if your witness or witnesses — 
 you may have fifty for what I care — are equally guilty, 
 so much the worse for them." 
 
 " My lord, I really don't comprehend." 
 
 " Then I will be more plain. I accuse you of devising 
 an infamous falsehood for the purpose of extorting money. 
 Let your witnesses appear in court, and I promise that 
 you, they, and the young man, Mr. Morton, whose claim 
 tliey set up, shall bo indicted for conspiracy, — conspiracy, 
 if accompanied (as in the case of your witnesses) with 
 perjury of the blackest dye. Mr. Smith, I know you; 
 and, before ten o'clock to-morrow, I shall know also if 
 you had his Majesty's leave to quit the colonies! Ah! 
 I am plain enough now, I see. "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 135 
 
 And Lord Lilbiirne threw himself back in his chair, 
 and coldly contemplated the white face and dismayed 
 expression of the crestfallen captain. That most worthy 
 person, after a pause of confusion, amaze, and fear, mads 
 an involuntary stride, with a menacing gesture, towards 
 Lilhurne; the peer quietly placed his hand on the bell. 
 
 " One moment more," said the latter; " if I ring this 
 bell, it is to place you in custody. Let Mr. Beaufort 
 but see you here once again, — nay, let him but hear 
 another word of this pretended lawsuit, — and you 
 return to the colonies. Pshaw! Frown not at me, sir! 
 A r>ow Street officer is in the hall. Begone! — no, stop 
 one moment, and take a lesson in life. Never again 
 attempt to threaten people of property and station. 
 Around every rich man is a wall, — better not run your 
 head against it." 
 
 " But I swear solemnly," cried the knave, with an 
 emphasis so startling that it carried with it the appear- 
 ance of truth, " that the marriage did take place." 
 
 " And I say, no less solemnly, that any one who 
 swears it in a court of law shall be prosecuted for perjury ! 
 Bah! you are a sorry rogue, after all! " 
 
 And with an air of supreme and half-compassionate 
 contempt. Lord Lilburne turned away and stirred the 
 fire. Captain Smith muttered and fumbled a moment 
 with his gloves, then shrugged his shoulders and sneaked 
 out. 
 
 That night Lord Lilburne again received his friends, 
 and amongst his guests came Va\idemont. Lilburne was 
 one vvho liked the study of character, especially the 
 character of men wrestling against the world. Wholly 
 free from every species of ambition, he seemed to reconcile 
 himself to his apathy by examining into the disquietude, 
 the mortification, the heart's wear and tear, which are
 
 136 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 the lot of the ambitious. Like the spider in his hole, 
 he watched with hungry pleasure the flies struggling in 
 the web, through whose slimy labyrinth he wallted with 
 an easy safety. Perhaps one reason why he loved 
 gaming was less from the joy of winning than the 
 philosophical complacency with which he feasted on the 
 emotions of those who lost, — always serene, and, except, 
 in debauch, always passionless, — Majendie, tracing the 
 experiments of science in the agonies of some tortured 
 dog, could not be more wrapt in the science and more 
 indifferent to the dog than Lord Lilburne ruining a 
 victim in the analysis of human passions, — stoical in 
 the writhings of the wretch whom he tranquilly dissected. 
 He wished to win money of Vaudemont; to ruin this 
 man who presumed to be more generous than other 
 people ; to see a bold adventurer submitted to the wheel 
 of the fortune which reigns in a pack of cards, — and 
 all , of course , without the least hate to the man whom 
 he then saw for the first time. On the contrary, he felt 
 a respect for Vaudemont. Like most worldly men, 
 Lord Lilburne was prepossessed in favor of those who 
 seek to rise in life; and, like men who have excelled 
 in manly and athletic exercises, he was also prepossessed 
 in favor of those who appeared fitted for the same 
 success. 
 
 Liancourt took aside his friend, aa Lord Lilburne was 
 talking with his other guests: — 
 
 " I need not caution you, who never play, not to 
 commit yourself to Lord Lilburne 's tender mercies: 
 remember, he is an admirable player." 
 
 " Nay ," answered Vaudemont, " I want to know this 
 man ; I have reasons, which alone induce me to enter 
 his house. I can afford to venture something, because I 
 wish to see if I can gain something for one dear to me.
 
 NIGHT AND JfORNING. 137 
 
 And for the rest," he muttered, " T knoAV him too well 
 not to be on my guard." With that he joined Lord 
 Lilburne's group, and accepted the invitation to the 
 card-table. At supper, Vauderaont conversed more than 
 was habitual to him ; he especially addressed himself to 
 his host, and listened, with great attention, to Lilburne's 
 caustic comments upon every topic successively started. 
 And whether it was the art of De Vau<lemont, or from 
 an interest that Lord Lilburne took in studying what 
 was to him a new character, or whether that, both men 
 excelling peculiarly in all masculine accomplishments, 
 their conversation was of a nature that was more attractive 
 to themselves than to others, it so happened, that they 
 were still talking while the daylight already peered 
 through the window-curtains. 
 
 "And I have outstayed all your giiests," said De 
 Vaudemont, glancing round the emptied room. 
 
 " It is the best compliment you could pay me. 
 Another night we can enliven our tete-a-tete with 
 ecarte; though at your age, and with your appearance, 
 I am surprised, Monsieur de Vaudemont, that you are 
 fond of play : I should have thought that it was not in 
 a pack of cards that you looked for hearts. But perhaps 
 you are blase betimes of the beau sexe. " 
 
 " Yet your lordship's devotion to it is, perhaps, as 
 great now as ever 1 " 
 
 " Mine 1 — no, not as ever. To diflferent ages different 
 degrees. At your age I wooed ; at mine I purchase, — • 
 the better plan of the two : it does not take up half so 
 much time." 
 
 "Your marriage, I think. Lord Lilburne, was not 
 blessed with children. Perhaps sometimes you feel the 
 want of them 1 " 
 
 " If I did, I could have them by the dozen. Other
 
 133 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ladies have been more generous in that department than 
 the Late Lady Lilburne, Heaven rest her! " 
 
 " And," said Vaudemont, fixing his eyes with some 
 earnestness on his host, " if you were really persuaded 
 that you had a child, or perhaps a grandchild, — the 
 mother one whom you loved in your first youth, — a 
 child affectionate, beautiful, and especially needing your 
 care and protection, would you not suffer that child, 
 though illegitimate, to supply to you the want of filial 
 affection 1 " 
 
 " Filial affection, mon cher ! " repeated Lord Lilburne, 
 "needing my care and protection! Pshaw! In other 
 words, would I give board and lodging to some young 
 vagabond who was good enough to say he was son to 
 Lord Lilburne?" 
 
 " But if you were convinced that the claimant were 
 your son, or perhaps your daughter, — a tenderer name 
 of the two, and a more helpless claimant? " 
 
 " My dear Monsieur de Vaudemont, you are doubtless 
 a man of gallantry and of the world. If the children 
 whom the law forces on one are, nine times out of 
 ten, such damnable plagues, judge if one would father 
 those whom the law permits us to disown! Natural 
 children are the pariahs of the world, and I — am one of 
 the Brahmins." 
 
 "But," persisted Vaudemont, "forgive me if I press 
 the question farther. Perhaps T seek from your wisdom 
 a guide to my own conduct: suppose then, a man had 
 loved, had wronged, the motlier; suppose that in the 
 child he saw one who, without his aid, might be exposed 
 to every curse with which the pariahs (true, the pariahs !) 
 of tlie world are too often visited, and who ivith his aid 
 might become, as age advanced, his companion, his 
 nurse, his comforter — "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 139 
 
 " Tush! " interrupted Lilburne, with some impatience ; 
 " I know not how our conversation fell on such a topic, — 
 but if you really ask my opinion in reference to any case 
 in practical life, you shall have it. Look you, then, 
 Monsieur de Vaudemont, no man has studied the art of 
 happiness more than I have; and I will tell you the 
 great secret, — have as few ties as possible. Nurse! — 
 pooh! you or I could hire one by the week a thousand 
 times more useful and careful than a bore of a child. 
 Comforter! — a man of mind never wants comfort. And 
 there is no such thing as sorrow while we have health 
 and money, and don't care a straw for anybody in the 
 world. If you choose to love people, their health and 
 circumstances, if either go wrong, can fret you: that 
 opens many avenues to pain. Never live alone, but 
 always /lyeZ alone. You think this unamiable : possibly. 
 I am no hypocrite, and for my part, 1 never aflfect to be 
 anything but what 1 am — John Lilburne. " 
 
 As the peer thus spoke, Vaudemont, leaning against 
 the door, contemplated him with a strange mixture of 
 interest and disgust. " And John Lilburne is thought a 
 great man, and William Gawtrey was a great rogue. 
 You don't conceal your heart? — no, I understand. 
 Wealth and power have no need of hypocrisy : you are 
 the man of vice, — Gawtrey, the man of crime. You 
 never sin against the law, — he was a felon by his trade. 
 And the felon saved from vice the child, and from want 
 the grandchild (your flesh and blood) whom you disown: 
 which will Heaven consider the worse man? No, poor 
 Eanny! I see I am wrong. If he would own you, I 
 Avould not give you up to the ice of such a soul: better 
 the blind man than the dead heart! " 
 
 " Well, Lord Lilburne," said De Vaudemont, aloud, 
 shaking off his reverie, " I must own that your philosophy
 
 140 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 seems to me the wisest for yourself. For a poor man it 
 might be different, — the poor need affection." 
 
 " Ay, the poor, certainly," said Lord Lilburne, with 
 an air of patronizing candor. 
 
 " And I will own farther," continued De Vaudemont, 
 " that I have willingly lost my money in return for the 
 instruction I have received in hearing you converse." 
 
 "You are kind: come and take your revenge next 
 Thursday. Adieu." 
 
 As Lord Lilburne undressed, and his valet attended 
 him, he said to that worthy functionary, — 
 
 " So you have not been able to make out the name of 
 the stranger, — the new lodger you tell me of 1 " 
 
 " No, my lord. They only say he is a very fine-looking 
 man." 
 
 " You have not seen him ? " 
 
 "No, my lord. What do you wish me now to do? " 
 
 "Humph! Nothing at this moment! you manage 
 things so badly, you might get me into a scrape. I 
 never do anything which the law, or the police, or even 
 the newspapers, can get hold of. I must think of some 
 other way, — humph! I never give up what I once 
 commence, and I never fail in what I undertake! If 
 life had l)een worth what fools trouble it with, — business 
 and ambition, — I suppose I should have been a great 
 man with a very bad liver — ha! ha! I, alone, of all 
 the world, ever found out what the world was good for. 
 Draw the curtains, Dykeman."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 141 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Org. — Welcome thou ice that sitt'st about his heart ! 
 No heat can ever thaw thee ! 
 
 FoiiD : Broken Heart. 
 
 Nearch. — Honorable infamy ! — Ibid. 
 
 Amyc. — Her tenderness hath yet deserved no rigor. 
 So to be crossed by fate ! 
 
 Arm. — You misapply, sir, 
 With favor let me speak it, what Apollo 
 Hath clouded in dim sense ! 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 If Vaudemont had fancied that, considering the age and 
 poverty of Simon, it Avas his duty to see whether Fanny's 
 not more legal, but more natural protector were, indeed, 
 the unredeemed and unmalleable egotist which Gawtrey 
 had painted him, the conversation of one night was suffi- 
 cient to make him abandon forever the notion of advanc- 
 ing her claims upon Lord Lilburne. But Philip had 
 another motive in continuing his acquaintance with that 
 personage. The sight of his motlier's grave had recalled 
 to him the image of that lost brother over whom he had 
 vowed to watch. And, despite the deep sense of wronged 
 affection with which he yet remembered the cruel letter 
 that had contained the last tidings of Sidney, Philip's 
 heart climg with undying fondness to that fair shape 
 associated with all the happy recollections of childhood; 
 and his conscience as well as his love asked him, each 
 time that he passed the churchyard, " Will you make no 
 effort to obey that last prayer of the mother who con- 
 signed her darling to your charge ? " Perhaps, had
 
 142 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 
 
 Philip been in want, or had the name he now bore been 
 sullied by his conduct, he might have shrunk from seek- 
 ing one whom he might injure, but could not serve. But 
 tliough not rich, he had more than enough for tastes as 
 Iiardy and simple as any to which soldier of fortune ever 
 limited his desires. And he tliought, with a sentiment 
 of just and noble pride, that the name which Eugenie 
 had forced upon liim had been borne spotless as the 
 ermine through the trials and vicissitudes he had passed 
 since he had assumed it. Sidney could give him nothing, 
 and therefore it was his duty to seek Sidney out. I^ow, 
 he had always believed in his heart that the Beauforts 
 were acquainted with a secret which he more and more 
 pined to penetrate. He would, for Sidney's sake, 
 smother his hate to the Beauforts; he would not reject 
 their acquaintance if thrown in his Avay ; nay, secure in 
 his change of name and his altered features, from all sus- 
 picion on their part, he would seek that acquaintance in 
 order to find his brother and fulfil Catherine's last com- 
 mands. His intercourse with Lilburne would necessarily 
 bring him easily into contact with Lilburne's family. 
 And in this thought he did not reject the invitations 
 pressed on him. He felt, too, a dark and absorbing 
 interest in examining a man who was in himself the 
 incarnation of the Avorld, — the world of art, the world as 
 the preacher paints it, the hollow, sensual, sharp-witted, 
 self-wrapped world , the World that is all for this life, 
 and til inks of no future and no God! 
 
 Lord Lilburne was, indeed, a study for deep con- 
 templation, — a study to perplex the ordinary thinker, 
 and task to the utmost the analysis of more profound 
 reflection. William Gawtrey had possessed no common 
 talents; he had discovered that his life had been one 
 mistake: Lord Lilburne's intellect was far keener than
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 143 
 
 Gawtrey's, and he had never made, and if he had lived 
 to the age of Old Parr never would have made, a similar 
 discovery. He never wrestled against a law, though he 
 slipped through all laws! And he knew no remorse, for 
 he knew no fear. Lord Lilburne had married early, 
 and long survived a lady of fortune, the daugliter of the 
 then Premier, — the best match, in fact, of his day. 
 And for one very brief period of his life he had suffered 
 himself to enter into the field of politics, — the only 
 ambition common with men of equal rank. He showed 
 talents that might have raised one so gifted by circum- 
 stance to any height, and then retired at once into his 
 old habits and old system of pleasure. " I wished to 
 try, " said he once, " if fame was worth one headache, 
 and I have convinced myself that the man who can sacrifice 
 the bone in his mouth to the shadow of the bone in the 
 water is a fool." From that time he never attended 
 the House of Lords, and declared himself of no political 
 opinions one way or the other. Nevertheless, the world 
 had a general belief in his powers, and Vaudemont 
 reluctantly subscribed to the world's verdict. Yet he 
 had done nothing, he liad read but little, he laughed at 
 the world to its face, — and that last was, after all, the 
 main secret of his ascendency over those who were, drawn 
 into his circle. That contempt of the world placed the 
 world at his feet. His sardonic and polished indiffer- 
 ence; his professed code that there was no life worth 
 caring for but his own life ; his exemption from all cant, 
 prejudice, and disguise; the frigid lubricity with which 
 he gliiled out of the grasp of the conventional, wheneA^er 
 it so pleased him, without shocking the decorums whose 
 sense is in their ear, and who are not roused by the deed 
 but by the noise, — all this had in it the marrow and 
 essence of a system triumphant with the vulgar; for
 
 144 NIGHT AND MOr.NIXG. 
 
 little minds give importance to the man who gives 
 importance to nothing. Lord Lilburne's authority, not in 
 matters of taste alone, but in those which the world calls 
 judgment and common-sense, was regarded as an oracle. 
 He cared not a straw for the ordinary baubles that attract 
 his order ; he had refused both an earldom and the garter, 
 and this was often quoted in his honor. But you only 
 try a man's virtue when you offer him something that he 
 covets. The earldom and the garter were to Lord Lil- 
 bume no more tempting inducements than a doll or a 
 skipping-rope ; had you offered him an infallible cure for 
 the gout, or an antidote against old age, you might have 
 hired him, as your lackey, on your own terms. Lord 
 Lilburne's next heir was the son of his only brother, a 
 person entirely dependent on his uncle. Lord Lilburne 
 allowed him £1000 a year, and kept him always abroad 
 in a diplomatic situation. He looked upon his successor 
 as a man who wanted power, but not inclination, to 
 become his assassin. 
 
 Though he lived sumptuously and grudged himself 
 nothing. Lord Lilburne was far from an extravagant 
 man: he might, indeed, be considered close; for he 
 knew how much of comfort and consideration he owed 
 to his money, and valued it accordingly, — he knew the 
 best speculations and the best investments. If he took 
 f-'hares in an American canal, you might be sure that the 
 shares would soon be double in value ; if he purchased 
 an estate, you might be certain it was a bargain. This 
 pecuniary tact and success necessarily augmented his 
 fame for wisdom. 
 
 He had been in early life a successful gambler, and 
 some suspicions of his fair play had been noised abroad; 
 but, as has been recently seen in the instance of a man 
 of rank equal to Lilburne's, though, perhaps, of less
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 145 
 
 acute, if more cultivated intellect, it is long before the 
 pigeon will turn roiuid upon a falcon of breed and mettle. 
 The rumors, indeed, were so vague as to carry with 
 them no weight. During the middle of his career, 
 when in the full flush of health and fortune, he had 
 renounced the gaming-table. Of late years, as advancing 
 age made time more heavy, he had resumed the resource, 
 and with all his former good luck. The money-market, 
 the table, the sex, constituted the other occupations and 
 amusements with which Lord Lilburne filled up his rosy 
 leisure. 
 
 Another way by which this man had acquired reputa- 
 tion for ability was this: he never pretended to any 
 branch of knowledge of which he was ignorant, any 
 more than to any virtue in which he was deficient. 
 Honesty itself was never more free from quackery or 
 deception than was this embodied and walking vice. 
 If the world chose to esteem him, he did not buy 
 its opinion by imposture. No man ever saw Lord 
 Lilburne's name in a public subscription, whether for a 
 new church or a Bible Society or a distressed family; 
 no man ever heard of his doing one generous, benevo- 
 lent, or kindly action ; no man was ever startled by one 
 philanthropic, pious, or amiable sentiment from those 
 mocking lips. Yet, in spite of all this, John, Lord 
 Lilburne was not only esteemed but liked by the world, 
 and set up in the chair of its Rhadamanthuses. In a 
 word, he seemed to Vaudemont, and he was so in reality, 
 a brilliant example of the might of circumstance, — an 
 instance of what may be done in the way of reputation 
 and influence by a rich, well-born man, to whom the 
 will a kingdom is. A little of genius, and Lord Lil- 
 burne would have made his vices notorious and his 
 deficiencies glaring; a little of heart, and his habits 
 
 VOL. II. — 10
 
 146 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 would have led him into countless follies and discredit- 
 able scrapes. It was the lead and the stone that he 
 carried about him that preserved his equilibrium, no 
 matter which way the breeze blew. But all his quali- 
 ties, positive or negative, would have availed him 
 nothing without that position which enabled him to 
 take his ease in that inn, the world, — which presented, 
 to every detection of his want of intrinsic nobleness, 
 the irreproachable respectability of a high name, a 
 splendid mansion, and a rent-roll without a flaw. 
 Vaudemont drew comparisons between Lilburne and 
 Gawtrey, and he comprehended at last why one was a 
 low rascal and the other a great man. 
 
 Although it was but a few days after their first intro- 
 duction to each other, Vaudemont had been twice to 
 Lord Lilburne's, and their acquaintance was already on 
 an easy footing, when one afternoon, as the former was 
 
 riding through the streets towards H , he met the 
 
 peer, mounted on a stout cob, which, from its symmet- 
 rical strength, pure English breed, and exquisite groom- 
 ing, showed something of those sporting tastes for which, 
 in earlier life, Lord Lilburne had been noted. 
 
 " Why, Monsieur de Vaudemont, what brings you 
 to this part of the town ? — curiosity and the desire to 
 explore 1 " 
 
 "That might be natural enough in me; but you, who 
 know London so well, — ratlier what brings 1/011 here? " 
 
 " Why, I am returned from a long ride. I have had 
 symptoms of a fit of the gout, and been trying to keep 
 it olf by exercise. 1 have been to a cottage that belongs 
 to me, some miles from town, — a pretty place enough 
 by the way : you must come and see me there next 
 month. I shall fill the house for a battue! I have 
 some tolerable covers, — you are a good shot, I suppose 1 "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 147 
 
 " I have not practised, except with a rifle, for some 
 years. " 
 
 "That's a pity; for as I think a week's shooting 
 once a year quite enough, I fear that your visit to me 
 at Fernside may not be sufficiently long to put your 
 hand in." 
 
 "Fernside! " 
 
 " Yes ; is the name familiar to you 1 " 
 
 " I think I have heard it before. Did your lordship 
 purchase or inherit it ? " 
 
 " I bought it of my brother-in-law. It belonged to 
 his brother, — a gay, wild sort of fellow, who broke 
 his neck over a six-barred gate : through that gate my 
 friend Robert walked the same day into a very fine 
 estate ! " 
 
 " I have heard so. The late Mr. Beaufort, then, left 
 no cliildren? " 
 
 "Yes; two. But they came into the world in the 
 primitive way in which Mr. Owen wishes us all to 
 come, — too naturally for the present state of society, 
 and IVIr. Owen's parallelogram was not ready for them. 
 By the way, one of them disappeared at Paris: you never 
 met with him, I suppose? " 
 
 " Under what name 1 " 
 
 "Morton." 
 
 " Morton ! — hem ! What Christian name ? " 
 
 "Philip." 
 
 " Philip! — no. But did Mr. Beaufort do nothing for 
 the young men ? I think I have heard somewhere that 
 he took compassion on one of them." 
 
 " Have you? Ah, my brother-in-law is precisely one 
 of those excellent men of whom the world always 
 speaks well. No; he would very willingly have served 
 either or both the boys, but the mother refused all his
 
 148 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 overtures and went to law, I fancy. The elder of these 
 bastards turned out a sad fellow, and the younger, — I 
 don't know exactly where he is, but no doubt with one 
 of his mother's relations. You seem to interest your- 
 self in natural children, my dear Vaudemonf? " 
 
 ■' Perhaps you have heard that people have doubted if 
 I were a natural son 1 " 
 
 " Ah ! I understand now. But are you going 1 — I 
 was in hopes you would have turned back my way, 
 and — " 
 
 " You are very good; but I have a particular appoint- 
 ment, and I am now too late. Good-morning, Lord 
 Lilburne." 
 
 Sidney with one of his mother's relations! Returned, 
 perhaps to the Mortons! How had he never before 
 chanced on a conjecture so probable 1 He would go at 
 once ! — that very night he would go to the house from 
 which he had taken his brother. At least, and at the 
 worst, they might give him some clew. 
 
 Buoyed with this hope and this resolve, he rode hastily 
 
 to H , to announce to Simon and Fanny that he 
 
 should not return to them, perhaps, for two or three 
 days. As he entered the suburb, he drew up by the 
 statuary of whom he had purchased his mother's 
 gravestone. 
 
 The artist of the melancholy trade was at work in his 
 yard. 
 
 " Ho! there! " said Vaudemont, looking over the low 
 railing; " is the tomb I have ordered nearly finished? " 
 
 " Why, sir, as you were so anxious for despatch, and 
 as it would take a long time to get a new one ready, I 
 thought of giving you this, which is finished all but 
 the inscription. It was meant for Miss Deborah 
 Primme; but her nephew and heir called on me yester-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 149 
 
 day to say, that as the poor lady died worth less by 
 £5000 than he had expected, he thought a handsome 
 wooden tomb would do as well, if I could get rid of 
 this for him. It is a beauty, sir. It will look so 
 cheerful — " 
 
 " Well, that will do: and you can place it now where 
 I told you. " 
 
 " In three days, sir. " 
 
 "So be it." And he rode on, muttering, "Fanny, 
 your pious wish will be fulfilled. But flowers, — will 
 they suit that stone 1 " 
 
 He put up his horse, and walked through the lane to 
 Simon's. 
 
 As he approached the house, he saw Fanny's bright 
 eyes at the window. She was watching his return. 
 She hastened to open the door to him, and the world's 
 wanderer felt what music there is in the footstep, what 
 summer there is in the smile, of ivelcome ! 
 
 "My dear Fanny," he said, affected by her joyous 
 greeting, " it makes my heart warm to see you. I have 
 brought you a present from town. When I was a boy, 
 I remember that my poor mother was fond of singing, 
 some simple songs, which often, somehow or other, 
 come back to me when I see and hear you. I fancy 
 you would understand and like them as well at least as 
 I do, — for Heaven knows [he added to himself] my ear 
 is dull enough generally to the jingle of rhyme." And 
 he placed in her hands a little volume of those exquisite 
 songs in which Burns has set nature to music. 
 
 " Oh! you are so kind, brother," said Fanny, with 
 tears swimming in her eyes, and she kissed the book. 
 
 After their simple meal, Vaudemont broke to Fanny 
 and Simon the intelligence of his intended departure 
 for a few days. Simon heard it with the silent apathy
 
 150 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 into which, except on rare occasions, his life had settled. 
 But Fanny turned away her face and wept, 
 
 " It is but for a day or two, Fanny." 
 
 " An hour is very, very long sometimes," said the girl, 
 shaking her head mournfully. 
 
 " Come, I have a little time yet left, and the air is 
 mild, you have not been out to-day, shall we walk — " 
 
 " Hem! " interrupted Simon, clearing his throat, and 
 seeming to start into sudden animation ; " had not you 
 better settle the board and lodging before you go ? " 
 
 "Oh, grandfather!" cried Fanny, springing to her 
 feet, with such a blush upon her face. 
 
 " jSTay, child," said Vaudemont, laughingly; "your 
 grandfather only anticipates me. But do not talk of 
 board and lodging; Fanny is as a sister to me, and 
 our purse is in common." 
 
 "I should like to feel a sovereign, just to feel it," 
 muttered Simon, in a sort of apologetic tone that was 
 really pathetic; and as Vaudemont scattered some coins 
 on the table, the old man clawed them up, chuckling 
 and talking to himself, and, rising with great alacrity, 
 hobbled out of the room like a raven carrying some 
 cunning theft to its hiding-place. 
 
 This was so amusing to Vaudemont that he burst out 
 fairly into an incontrollable laughter. Fanny looked 
 at him, humbled and wondering, for some moments, 
 and then, creeping to him, put her hand gently on his 
 arm, and said, — 
 
 "Don't laugh, — it pains me. It was not nice in 
 grandpapa; but — but, it does not mean anything. It 
 — it — don't laugh — Fanny feels so sad! " 
 
 "Well, you are right. Come, put on your bonnet, 
 we will go out." 
 
 Fanny obeyed; but with less ready delight than usual.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 151 
 
 And they took their way through lanes over which hung, 
 still iu the cool air, the leaves of the yellow autumn. 
 
 Fanny was the first to break silence, 
 
 " Do you know," she said, timidly, " that people here 
 think me very silly 1 — do you think so too ? " 
 
 Vaudemont was startled by the simplicity of the 
 question, and hesitated. Fanny looked up in his dark 
 face anxiously and inquiringly. 
 
 " Well," she said, " you don't answer? " 
 
 " My dear Fanny, there are some things in which I 
 could wish you less childlike and, perhaps, less charm- 
 ing. Those strange snatches of song, for instance — " 
 
 " What! do you not like me to sing? It is my way 
 of talking. " 
 
 "Yes; sing, pretty one! But sing something that 
 we can understand, — sing the songs I have given you, 
 if you will. And now, may I ask why you put to me 
 that question 1 " 
 
 " I have forgotten," said Fanny, absently, and looking 
 down. 
 
 Now, at that instant, as Philip Vaudemont bent over 
 the exceeding sweetness of that young face, a sudden 
 thrill shot through his heart, and he too became silent 
 and lost in thought. Was it possible that there could 
 creep into his breast a wilder afifection for this creature 
 than that of tenderness and pity ? He was startled as 
 the idea crossed him. He shrunk from it as a profana- 
 tion, as a crime, as a frenzy. He, with his fate so 
 uncertain and checkered, — he to link himself with one 
 so helpless; he to debase the very poetry that clung to 
 the mental temperament of this pure being, with the 
 feelings which every fair face may awaken to every 
 coarse heart, — to love Fanny! No, it was impossible! 
 For what could he love in her but beauty, which the
 
 152 NIGHT AND MOKNING, 
 
 very spirit had forgotten to guard ? And she, — conld 
 she even know what love was? He despised himself 
 for even admitting such a thought; and, with that iron 
 and hardy vigor which belonged to his mind, resolved 
 to watch closely against every fancy that would pass the 
 fairy boundary which separated Fanny from the world 
 of women. 
 
 He was roused from this self-commune by an abrupt 
 exclamation from his companion. 
 
 " Oh ! I recollect now, why I asked you that ques- 
 tion. There is one thing that always puzzles me, — I 
 want you to explain it. Why does everything in life 
 depend upon money ? You see even my poor grand- 
 father forgot how good you are to us both, when — when 
 — ah! I don't understand: it pains, — it puzzles me! " 
 
 " Fanny, look there, — no, to the left, — you see that 
 old woman, in rags, crawling Avearily along: turn now 
 to the right, — you see that fine house glancing through 
 the trees, with a carriage-and-four at the gates? The 
 difference between that old woman and the owner of 
 that house is — money ; and who shall blame your 
 grandfather for liking money ? " 
 
 Fanny understood ; and while the wise man thus 
 moralized, the girl, whom his very compassion so haugh- 
 tily contemned, moved away to the old woman to do 
 her little best to smooth down those disparities from 
 which wisdom and moralizing never deduct a grain! 
 Vaudemont felt this as he saw her glide towards the 
 beggar; but wlien she came bounding back to him, she 
 had forgotten his dislike to her songs, and was chanting, 
 in tlie glee of the heart that a kind act had made glad, 
 one of her own impromptu melodies. 
 
 Vaudemont turned away. Poor Fanny had uncon- 
 sciously decided his self-conquest: she guessed not what
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 153 
 
 passed, within liim, but she suddenly recollected what 
 he had said to her about her songs, and fancied him 
 displeased. 
 
 "Ah! I will never do it again. Brother, don't turn 
 away ! " 
 
 " But we must go home. Hark ! the clock strikes 
 seven, — I have no time to lose. And you will promise 
 me never to stir out till I return 1 " 
 
 " I shall have no heart to stir out," said Fanny, sadly ; 
 and then, in a more cheerful voice, she added, " and I 
 shall sing the songs you like, before you come back 
 
 again 
 
 t "
 
 154: NIGHT AND MORNINa 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Well did they know that service all by rote ; 
 
 Some singing loud as if they had complained, 
 Some with their notes another manner feigned. 
 Chaucer : The Cuckoo and the Nightingale, modernized 
 by Wordsworth. — Horne's edition. 
 
 AxD once more, sweet Winandermere, we are on the 
 banks of thy happy lake! The softest ray of the soft 
 clear sun of early autumn trembled on the fresh waters, 
 and glanced through the leaves of the limes and willows 
 that were reflected — distinct as a home for the Xaiads 
 — beneath the limpid surface. You might hear in the 
 bushes the young blackbirds trilling their first untutored 
 notes. And the graceful dragonfly, his wings glittering 
 in the translucent sunshine, darted to and fro the reeds 
 gathered here and there in the mimic bays that broke the 
 shelving marge of the grassy shore. 
 
 And by that grassy shore, and beneath tliose shadowy 
 limes, sat the young lovers. It was the very place 
 where Spencer had first beheld Camilla. And now they 
 were met to say " Farewell ! " 
 
 "Oh, Camilla!" said he, with great emotion, and 
 eyes that swam in tears, " be firm, be true. You know 
 liow my whole life is Avrapped up in your love. You 
 go amidst scenes where all will tempt you to forget me. 
 I linger behind in those which are consecrated by your 
 remembrance, which will speak to me, every hour, of you. 
 Camilla, since you do love me, — you do, do you not?
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. loo 
 
 — since you have confessed it, since your parents have 
 consented to our marriage, provided only that your love 
 last (for of mine there can be no doubt) for one year, 
 one terrible year, — shall I not trust you as truth itself? 
 And yet how darkly I despair at times! " 
 
 Camilla innocently took the hands that, clasped 
 together, were raised to her, as if in supplication, and 
 pressed them kindly between her own. 
 
 " Do not doubt me, — never doubt my affection. Has 
 not my father consented? Kefiect, it is but a year's 
 delay!" 
 
 " A year! — can you speak thus of a year, — a whole 
 year? Not to see — not to hear you for a whole year, 
 except in my dreams! And if at the end your parents 
 waver? Your father, — I distrust him still. If this 
 delay is but meant to wean you from me; if, at the end, 
 there are new excuses found; if they then, for some 
 cause or other not now foreseen, still refuse their 
 assent, — j'ou — may I not still look to you ? " 
 
 Camilla sighed heavily, and, turning her meek face 
 on her lover, said timidly, " Never think that so short 
 a time can make me unfaithful, and do not suspect 
 that my father will break his promise. " 
 
 " But, if he does, you will still be mine ? " 
 
 "Ah, Charles, how could you esteem me as a wife if 
 I were to tell you I could forget I am a daughter ? " 
 
 This was said so touchingly, and with so perfect 
 a freedom from all affectation, that her lover could 
 only reply by covering her hand with his kisses. 
 And it was not till after a pause that he continued 
 passionately, — 
 
 " You do but show me how much deeper is my love 
 than yours. You can never dream how I love you. 
 But I do not ask you to love me as well, — it would be
 
 156 NIGHT AND MORNING, 
 
 impossible. My life, from my earliest cliildliood, has 
 been passed in these solitudes; a happy life, though 
 tranquil and monotonous, till you suddenly broke upon 
 it. You seemed to me the living form of the very 
 poetry I had worsliipped, — so bright, so heavenly; I 
 loved you from the very first moment that we met. I 
 am not like other men of my age. I have no pursuit, 
 no occupation , — nothing to abstract me from your 
 thought. And I love you so purely, — so devotedly, 
 Camilla. I have never known even a passing fancy for 
 another. You are the first, the only woman, it ever 
 seemed to me possible to love. You are my Eve, — your 
 presence my paradise! Think how sad I shall be when 
 you are gone , — how I shall visit every spot your foot- 
 step has hallowed ; how I shall count every moment till 
 the year is past! " 
 
 While he thus spoke he had risen in that restless 
 agitation which belongs to great emotion ; and Camilla 
 now rose also, and said, soothingly, as she laid her 
 hand on his shoulder with tender but modest frankness, 
 " And shall I not also think of you 1 I am sad to feel 
 that you will be so much alone, — no sister, no 
 brother! " 
 
 " Do not grieve for that. The memory of you will be 
 dearer to me than comfort from all else. And you will 
 be true ? " 
 
 Camilla made no answer by words, but her eyes and 
 her color spoke. And in that moment, while plighting 
 eternal truth, they forgot that they were about to part! 
 
 Meanwhile in a room in the house which, screened 
 by the foliage, was only partially visible where the lovers 
 stood, sat Mr, Robert Beaufort and Mr. Spencer. 
 
 " I assure you, sir, " .said the former, " that I am not 
 insensible to the merits of your nephew, and to the very
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 157 
 
 handsome proposals you make, still I cannot consent to 
 abridge the time I have named. They are both very 
 young. What is a year? " 
 
 " It is a long time when it is a year of suspense, " said 
 the recluse, shaking his head. 
 
 " It is a longer time when it is a year of domestic dis- 
 sension and repentance. And it is a very true proverb, 
 ' Marry in haste and repent at leisure. ' Ko ! If at the 
 end of the year the young people continue of the same 
 mind, and no unforeseen circumstances occur — " 
 
 " No unforeseen circumstances, Mr. Beaufort ! — that 
 is a new condition : it is a very vague phrase. " 
 
 " My dear sir, it is hard to please you. Unforeseen 
 circumstances, " said the wary father, with a wise look, 
 " means circumstances that we don't foresee at present. 
 I assure you that I have no intention to trifle with you, 
 and I shall be sincerely happy in so respectable a 
 connection." 
 
 " The young people may write to each other ? " 
 
 " Why, I '11 consult Mrs. Beaufort. At all events, it 
 must not be very often, and Camilla is well brought up, 
 and will show all the letters to her mother. I don't 
 much like a correspondence of that nature. It often 
 leads to unpleasant results ; if, for instance — " 
 
 "If what?" 
 
 " Why, if the parties change their minds, and my girl 
 were to marry another. It is not prudent in matters of 
 business, my dear sir, to put down anything on paper 
 that can be avoided." 
 
 Mr. Spencer opened his eyes. " Matters of business, 
 Mr. Beaufort!" 
 
 " Well, is not marriage a matter of business, and a 
 very grave matter, too? More lawsuits about marriage 
 and settlements, etc., than I like to think of. But to
 
 158 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 change the subject. You have never heard anything 
 more of those young men, you say 1 " 
 
 " No, " said Mr. Spencer, rather inaudibly, and looking 
 down. 
 
 " And it is your firm impression that the elder one, 
 Philip, is dead ? " 
 
 "I don't doubt it." 
 
 " That was a very vexatious and improper lawsuit 
 their mother brought against me. Do you know that 
 some wretched impostor, who, it appears, is a convict 
 broke loose before his time, has tlireatened me with 
 another, on the part of one of those young men. You 
 never heard anything of it, — • eh 1 " 
 
 " Never, upon my honor. " 
 
 " And, of course, you would not countenance so vil- 
 lanous an attempt ? " 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 " Because that would break off our contract at once. 
 But you are too much a gentleman and a man of honor. 
 Forgive me so improper a question. As for the younger 
 Mr. Morton, I have no ill-feeling against him. But the 
 elder ! — oh, a thorough reprobate ! a very alarming 
 character! I could have nothing to do with any member 
 of the family while the elder lived; it would only expose 
 me to every species of insult and imposition. And now 
 I think we have left our young friends alone long 
 enough. 
 
 " But stay, to prevent future misunderstanding, I may 
 as well read over again the heads of the arrangement j'ou 
 honor me by proposing. You agree to settle your for- 
 tune after your decease, amounting to £23,000, and your 
 house, with twenty-five acres, one rood, and two poles, 
 more or less, upon your nephew and my daughter, 
 jointly, — remainder to tlieir children. Certainly, with-
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 159 
 
 out offence, in a worldly point of view, Camilla might 
 do better; still, you are so very respectable, and you 
 speak so handsomely, that I cannot touch upon that 
 point; and I own, that though there is a large nominal 
 rent-roll attached to Beaufort Court (indeed there is not 
 a finer property in the county), yet there are many 
 encumbrances, and ready money would not be conven- 
 ient to me. Arthur — poor fellow, a very fine young 
 man, sir — is, as I have told you in perfect confidence, 
 a little imprudent and lavish ; in short, your offer to dis- 
 pense with any dowry is extremely liberal, and proves 
 your nephew is actuated by no mercenary feelings: such 
 conduct prepossesses me highly in your favor and his 
 too." 
 
 Mr. Spencer bowed, and the great man rising, with 
 a stiff affectation of kindly affability, put his arm into 
 the uncle's, and strolled with him across the lawn 
 towards the lovers. And vsuch is life, — love on the 
 lawn, and settlements in the parlor! 
 
 The lover was the first to perceive the approach of 
 the elder parties. And a change came over his face as 
 he saw the dry aspect and marked the stealthy stride 
 of his future father-in-law ; for then there flashed across 
 him a dreary reminiscence of early childhood ; the happy 
 evening when, with his joyous father, that grave and 
 ominous aspect was first beheld ; and then the dismal 
 burial, the funereal sables, the carriage at the door, and 
 he himself clinging to the cold uncle to ask him to say a 
 word of comfort to the mother who now slept far away. 
 
 " Well, my young friend, " said ]\Ir. Beaufort, patron- 
 izingly, " your good uncle and myself are quite agreed, 
 — a little time for reflection, that 's all. Oh ! I don't 
 think the worse of you for wishing to abridge it. But 
 papas must be papas. "
 
 160 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 There was so little jocular about that sedate man, that 
 this attempt at jovial good-humor seemed harsh and 
 grating, — the hinges of that wily mouth wanted oil for 
 a hearty smile. 
 
 " Come, don't be faint-hearted, Mr. Charles. ' Faint 
 heart, ' — you know the proverb. You must stay and 
 dine Avith us. We return to-morrow to town. I should 
 tell you, that. I received this morning a letter from my 
 son Arthur, announcing his return from Baden, so we 
 must give him the meeting, — a very joyful one, you may 
 guess. "VVe have not seen him these three years. Poor 
 fellow ! he says he has been very ill, and the waters have 
 ceased to do him any good. But a little quiet and country- 
 air at Beaufort Court will set him up, I hope. " 
 
 Thus running on about his son, then about his shoot- 
 ing, about Beaufort Court and its splendors, aboiit 
 Parliament and its fatigues, about the last French 
 Revolution and the last English election, about Mrs. 
 Beaufort and her good qualities and bad health, about, 
 in short, everything relating to himself, some things 
 relating to the public, and nothing that related to the 
 persons to whom his conversation was directed, Mr. 
 Robert Beaufort wore away half-an-hour, Avlien the 
 Spencers took their leave, promising to return to dinner. 
 
 " Charles, " said Mr. Spencer, as the boat, which the 
 young man rowed, bounded over the water towards their 
 quiet home, — " Charles, I dislike these Beauforts! " 
 
 "Not the daugliter?" 
 
 " No, she is beautiful, and seems good : not so hand- 
 some as your poor mother, but who ever was ? " 
 Here Mr. Spencer sighed, and repeated some lines from 
 Shenstone. 
 
 " Do you think Mr. Beaufort suspects in the least who 
 Tam?"
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 161 
 
 " Why, tliat puzzles me ; I rather think he does. " 
 
 " And that is the cause of the delay 1 I knew it. " 
 
 " No, on the contrary, I incline to think he has some 
 kindly feeling to you, though not to your brother, and 
 that it is such a feeling that made him consent to your 
 marriage. He sifted me very closely as to what I knew 
 of the young Mortons, — observed that you were very 
 handsome, and that he had fancied at first that he had 
 seen you before." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " Yes : and looked hard at me while he spoke, and said 
 more than once, significantly, ' So his name is Charles ? ' 
 He talked about some attempt at imposture and litigation, 
 but that was, evidently, merely to sound me about your 
 brother, — whom, of course, he spoke ill of, — impressing 
 on me, three or foTir times, tlnit he would never have 
 anything to say to any of the family while Philip lived. " 
 
 " And you told him, " said the young man, hesitat- 
 ingly, and with a deep blush of shame over his face, 
 " that you were persuad — that is, that you believed 
 Philip was — was — " 
 
 " Was dead ! Yes ; and without confusion. For the 
 more I reflect, the more I think he must be dead. At 
 all events, you may be sure that he is dead to us, that 
 we shall never hear more of him." 
 
 "Poor Philip!" 
 
 " Your feelings are natural : they are worthy of your 
 excellent heart ; but remember, wdiat would have become 
 of you if you had stayed with him ! " 
 
 " True! " said the brother, with a slight shudder, — " a 
 career of suffering, crime, perhaps the gibbet! Ah! 
 what do I owe you 1 " 
 
 The dinner-party at Mr. Beaufort's that day was 
 constrained and formal, though the host, in unusual 
 
 VOL. H. 11
 
 162 NIGHT AND MORXING. 
 
 good-liumor, sought to make himself agreeable. Mrs. 
 Beaufort, languid and afllicted with headache, said little. 
 The two Spencers were yet more silent. But the younger 
 sat next to her he loved ; and both hearts were full ; and 
 in the evening they contrived to creep apart into a cor- 
 ner by the window, through which the starry heavens 
 looked kindly on them. They conversed in whispers, 
 with long pauses between each : and at times Camilla's 
 tears flowed silently down her cheeks, and were followed 
 by tlie false smiles intended to cheer her lover. 
 
 Time did not fly, but crept on breathlessly and heavily. 
 And then came the last parting — formal, cold — before 
 witnesses. But the lover could not restrain his emotion, 
 and the hard father heard his suppressed sob as he closed 
 the door. 
 
 It will now be well to explain the cause of Mr. 
 Beaufort's heightened spirits, and the motives of his 
 conduct with respect to his daughter's suitor. 
 
 Tliis, perhaps, can be best done by laying before the 
 reader the following letters that passed between Mr. 
 Beaufort and Lord Lilburne: — 
 
 FROM LORD LILBURNE TO ROBERT BEAUFORT, ESQ., M. P. 
 
 Dear Beaufort, — I think I have settled, pretty satis- 
 factorily, your affair witli your unwelcome visitor. The first 
 thing it seemed to me necessary to do was to leam exactly 
 what and wlio he was, and with what parties that could annoy 
 you he held intiM-course. I sent for Sharp, the Bow Street 
 officer, and placed him in the hall to mark, and afterwards to 
 dog and keep watch on your new friend. The moment the 
 latter entered I saw at once, from his dress and his address, 
 that he was a "scamp ; " and thought it highly inexpedient 
 to place you in his power Ijy any money transactions. While 
 talking with him. Sharp sent in a billet containing his recog- 
 nition of our gentleman as a transported convict.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 163 
 
 I acted accordingly ; soon saw, from tlie fellow's manner, 
 that he had returned before his time ; and Pent him away with 
 a promise, which you may be sure he believes will be kept, 
 that if he molest you further he shall return to the colonies, 
 and that if his lawsuit proceed, his witness or witnesses shall 
 be indicted for conspiracy and perjury. Make your n)ind 
 easy so far. Fur the rest, I own to you that I think what he 
 eays probable enough • but my object in setting Sharp to 
 watch him is to learn what other parties he sees. And if there 
 be really anything formidable iu his proofs or witnesses, it is 
 with those other parties I advise you to deal. Never transact 
 business with the go-between, if you can with the principal. 
 Remember, the two young men are the persons to arrange with, 
 after all. They must be poor, and therefore easily dealt with. 
 For if poor, they will think a bird in the hand worth two in 
 the bush of a lawsuit. 
 
 If, through Mr. Spencer, you can learn anything of either 
 of the young men, do so ; and try and open some channel 
 through which you can always establish a communication with 
 them, if necessary. Perhaps, by learning their early history 
 you may learn something to put them into your power. 
 
 I have had a twinge of the gout this morning, and am likely, 
 [ fear, to be laid up for some weeks. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 LiLBURNE. 
 
 P. S. Sharp has just been here. He followed the man 
 who calls himself " Captain Smith "to a house in Lambeth, 
 where he lodges, and from which he did not stir till midnight, 
 when Sharp ceased his watch. On renewing it this morning, 
 he found that the captain had gone off, to what place Sharp 
 has not yet discovered. 
 
 Burn this immediately. 
 
 PROM ROBERT BEAUFORT, ESQ., M. P., TO THE LORD 
 LILBURNE. 
 
 Dear Lilburne, — Accept my warmest thanks for your 
 kindness ; you have done admirably, and I do not see that I
 
 164 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 have anytliing further to apprehend. I suspect that it wa? an 
 entire fabrication on that man's part, and your firmness has 
 foiled his wicked designs. Only think, 1 have discovered — I 
 am sure of it — one of the Mortons; and he, too, though the 
 younger, yet, in all probability, the sole pretender the lellow 
 could set up. You remember that the child Sidney had dis- 
 appeared mysteriously, — you remember, also, how much that 
 Mr. Spencer had interested himself in finding out the same 
 Sidney. Well, — this gentleman at the Lakes is, as we sus- 
 pected, the identical Mr. Spencer, and his soi-disant nephew, 
 Camilla's suitor, is assuredly no other than the lost Sidney. 
 The moment I saw the young man, I recognized him ; for he 
 is very little altered, and has a great look of hi.s mother into 
 the bargain. Concealing my more than suspicions, I, how- 
 ever, took care to sound Mr. Spencer (a very poor soul), and 
 his manner was so embarrassed as to leave no doubt of the 
 matter ; but, in asking him what he had heard of the brothers, 
 I had the satisfaction of learning that, in all human probability, 
 the elder is dead : of this Mr. Spencer seems convinced. I 
 also assured mj'self that neither Spencer nor the young man 
 had the remotest connection with our Captain Smith, nor any 
 idea of litigation. This is very satisfactorj'-, you will allow. 
 And now, I hope you will approve of what I have done. I 
 find that young Morton, or Spencer, as he is called, is desper- 
 ately enamored of Camilla ; he seems a meek, well-conditioned, 
 amiable young man, writes poetry, — in short, rather weak 
 than otherwise. I have demanded a year's delay to allow 
 mutual trial and reflection. This gives us the channel for con- 
 stant information which you advise me to establish, and I shall 
 have the opportunity to learn if the impostor makes any com- 
 munication to them, or if there be any news of the brother. 
 If by any trick or chicanery (for I will never believe that there 
 was a marriage) a lawsuit that might be critical or hazardous 
 can be cooked up, I can, I am sure, make such terms with 
 Sidney, through his love for mj' daughter, as would effectively 
 and permanently secure me from all further trouble and 
 machinations in regard to my pro]ierty. And if, during the 
 year, we convince ourselves that, after all, there ia not a leg of
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 165 
 
 law for any claimant to stand on, T may be giiided by otber 
 circumstances how far I shall finally accept or reject the suit. 
 That must depend on any other views we may then form for 
 Camilla ; and I shall not allow a hint of such an enfragement 
 to get abroad. At the worst, as Mr. Spencer's heir, it is not 
 8o very bad a match, seeing that they dispense with all mar- 
 riage-portion, etc., — a proof how easily they can be managed. 
 I have not let Mr. Spencer see that I have discovered his 
 secret, — I can do that or not, according to circumstances, 
 hereaftefTTieither have I said anything of my discovery to 
 Mrs. B. or Camilla. At present, " least said soonest mended." 
 I heard from Arthur to-day. He is on his road home, and we 
 hasten to town sooner than we expected to meet him. He 
 complains still of his health. We shall all go down to Beau- 
 fort Court. I write this at night, the pretended uncle and 
 sham nei)hew having just gone. But though we start to- 
 morrow, you will get this a day or two before we arrive, as 
 Mrs. Beaufort's health renders short stages necessary. I really 
 do hope that Arthur, also, will not be an invalid, poor fellow! 
 one in a family is quite enough ; and I find Mrs. Beaufort's 
 delicacy very inconvenient, especially in moving about, and in 
 keeping up one's county connections. A young man's health, 
 however, is soon restored. I am very sorry to hear of your 
 gout, except that it carries off all other complaints. I am very 
 well, thank Heaven ; indeed my health has been much better 
 of late years : Beaufort Court agrees with me so well 1 The 
 more I reflect, the more I am astonished at the monstrous and 
 wicked impudence of that fellow, — to defraud a man out of 
 his own property! You are quite right, — certainly a 
 conspiracy. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 XV. B. 
 
 P. S. I shall keep a constant eye on the Spencers. 
 Bum this immediately. 
 
 After he had written and sealed this letter, Mr 
 Beaufort went to bed and slept soundly.
 
 166 NIGHT AND MORNING, 
 
 And the next day that place was desolate, and the 
 board on the lawn announced that it was again to be let. 
 But thither daily, in rain or sunshine, came the solitary 
 lover, as a bird that seeks its young in the deserted nest: 
 again and again he haunted the spot where he had strayed 
 with the lost one, — and again and again murmured his 
 passionate vows beneath the fast-fading limes. Are those 
 vows destined to be ratified or annulled? Will the 
 absent forget, or the lingerer be consoled? Had the 
 characters of that yovmg romance been lightly stamped 
 on the fancy, where once obliterated they are erased for- 
 ever, — or were they graven deep in those tablets where 
 the writing, even when invisible, exists still, and revives, 
 sweet letter by letter, when the light and the warmth 
 borrowed from the one bright presence are applied to the 
 faithful record 1 There is but one wizard to disclose that 
 secret, as all others, — the old Gravedigger whose Church- 
 yard is the Earth: whose trade is to find burial-places 
 for passions that seemed immortal; disinterring the ashes 
 of some long-crumbling Memory ; to hollow out the dark 
 bed of some new-perished Hope. He who determines 
 all things and prophesies none ; for his oracles are uncom- 
 prehended till tlie doom is sealed. He who in the bloom 
 of the fairest affection detects the hectic that consumes 
 it, and while the hymn rings at the altar, marks with 
 his joyless eye the grave for the bridal vow. Wherever 
 is the sepulchre, there is thy temple, melancholy 
 time!
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 Unb ju eineg ©trom§ ©c[taiien 
 Bam id), bcr natfi ^JJJorgcn flofe. 
 
 Schillek: Der Pilgrim.
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Per ambages et miuisteria deorum.i — Petronius. 
 
 Mr. Eoger Morton was behind his counter one 
 drizzling, melancholy day. Mr. Roger Morton, alder- 
 man, and twice mayor of his native town, was a thriving 
 man. He had grov/n portly and corpulent. The nightly 
 potations of brandy-and- water, continued year after year 
 with mechanical perseverance, had deepened the roses on 
 his cheek. Mr. Roger Morton was never intoxicated, — • 
 he only " made himself comfortable." His constitution 
 was strong; but somehow or other his digestion was not 
 as good as it might be. He was certain that something 
 or other disagreed with him. He left off the joint one 
 day, — the pudding another. Now he avoided vegetables 
 as poison, — and now he submitted with a sigh to the 
 doctor's interdict of his cigar. Mr. Roger Morton never 
 thought of leaving off the brandy-and-water: and he 
 would have resented as the height of impertinent 
 insinuation any hint upon that score to a man of so sober 
 and respectable a character. 
 
 Mr. Roger Morton was seated, — for the last four 
 
 years, ever since his second mayoralty, he had arrogated 
 
 to himself the dignity of a chair. He received rather 
 
 than served his customers. The latter task was left to 
 
 1 Through the mysteries aud ministering of the gods.
 
 170 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 two of his sons. For Tom, after much cogitation, the 
 profession of an apothecary had been selected. Mrs. 
 Morton observed, that it was a genteel business, and 
 Tom had always been a likely lad; and Mr. Rogei 
 considered that it would be a great comfort and a great 
 saving to have his medical adviser in his own son. 
 
 The other two sons, and the various attendants of the 
 shop, were plying the profitable trade, as customer aftei 
 customer, with umbrellas and in pattens, dropped into 
 the tempting shelter, — when a man, meanly dressed, 
 and who was somewhat past middle age, with a careworn, 
 hungry face, entered timidly. He waited in patience by 
 the crowded counter, elbowed by sharpboned and eager 
 spinsters, — and how sharp the elbows of spinsters are, 
 no man can tell who has not forced his unwelcome way 
 through the agitated groups in a linendraper's shop! — 
 the man, I say, waited patiently and sadly till the 
 smallest of the shopboys turned from a lady, who, after 
 much sorting and shading, had finally decided on two 
 yards of lilac-colored penny ribbon, and asked, in an 
 insinuating professional tone, — 
 
 "What shall I show you, sir? " 
 
 " I wish to speak to Mr. Morton. Which is he ? " 
 
 "Mr. Morton is engaged, sir. I can give you what 
 you want." 
 
 " No ; it is a matter of business, — important business." 
 
 The boy eyed the napless and dripping hat, the 
 gloveless hands, and the rusty neckcloth of the speaker, 
 and said, as he passed his fingers through a profusion of 
 light curls, — 
 
 " Mr. Morton don't attend much to business himself 
 now; but that 's he. Any cravats, sir? " 
 
 The man made no answer, but moved where, neai 
 the window, and chatting with the banker of the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 171 
 
 town (as the banker tried on a pair of beaver gloves), 
 sat still — after due apology for sitting — Mr. Roger 
 Morton. 
 
 The alderman lowered his spectacles as he glanced 
 grimly at the lean apparition that shaded the spruce 
 banker, and said, — 
 
 " Do you want me, friend 1 " 
 
 " Yes, sir, if you please; " and the man took off his 
 shabby hat, and bowed low. 
 
 " Well, speak out. No begging petition, I hope? " 
 
 " No, sir; your nephews • — " 
 
 The banker turned round, and in his turn eyed the 
 new-comer. The linendraper started back. 
 
 "Nephews!" he repeated, with a bewildered look. 
 " What does the man mean 1 Wait a bit. " 
 
 "Oh, I've done! " said the banker, smiling. " I am 
 glad to find we agree so well upon this question : I knew 
 we should. Our member will never suit us if he goes 
 on in this way. Trade must take care of itself. Good- 
 day to you." 
 
 "Nephews! " repeated Mr. Morton, rising, and beck- 
 oning to the man to follow him into the back parlor, 
 where Mrs. jVIorton sat casting up the washing bills. 
 
 " Now," said the husband, closing the door, " what do 
 you mean, my good fellow'? " 
 
 " Sir, what I wish to ask you is, — if you can tell me 
 what has become of — of the young Beau — , — that is, 
 of your sister's sons. I understand there were two — 
 and I am told that — that they are both dead. Is 
 it so?" 
 
 " Wliat is that to you, friend ? " 
 
 " An' please you, sir, it is a great deal to them ! " 
 
 "Yes — ha! ha! — it is a great deal to everybody, 
 whether they are alive or dead!" Mr. Morton, since
 
 172 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 he had been mayor, now and then had his joke. "But 
 really — '' 
 
 " lloger! " said Mrs. Morton, under her breath,^ 
 "Roger!" 
 
 " Yes, my dear." 
 
 " Come this way, — I want to speak to you about this 
 bill." The husband approached, and bent over his wife. 
 " \Ylio 's this man ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 "Depend on it, he has some claim to make, — some 
 bills, or something. Don't commit yourself, — the boys 
 are dead for what we know! " 
 
 Mr. Morton hemmed, and returned to his visitor. 
 
 " To tell you the truth, I am not aware of what has 
 become of the young men." 
 
 " Then they are not dead, — I thought not! " exclaimed 
 the man, joyously. 
 
 " That 's more than I can say. It 's many years since 
 I lost sight of the only one I ever saw; and they may 
 be both dead for what I know." 
 
 " Indeed! " said the man. " Then you can give me 
 no kind of — of — hint like, to find them out? " 
 
 " 'No. Do they owe you anything? " 
 
 " It does not signify talking now, sir. I beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 " Stay, — who are you? " 
 
 " I am a very poor man, sir." 
 
 Mr. Morton recoiled. 
 
 " Poor! Oh, very well, — very well. You have done 
 with me now. Good-day, — good-day. I 'm busy." 
 
 1'he stranger pecked for a moment at his hat, turned 
 the handle of the door, peered under his gray eyebrows 
 at the portly trader, who, with both hands buried in his 
 pockets, his mouth pursed u[), like a man about to say
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 173 
 
 "No," fidgeted uneasily behind Mrs. Morton's chair. 
 He sighed, shook his head, and vanished. 
 
 Mrs. Morton rang the bell, — the maid-servant entered. 
 
 " Wipe the carpet, Jenny, — dirty feet! Mr. Morton, 
 it 's a Brussels ! " 
 
 " It was not my fault, my dear. I could not talk 
 about family matters before the whole shop. Do you 
 know, I 'd quite forgot those poor boys. This unsettles 
 me. Poor Catherine! she was so fond of them. A 
 pretty boy that Sidney, too. What can have become of 
 them ? My heart rebukes me. I wish I had asked the 
 man more." 
 
 " More! — why, he was just going to beg." 
 
 "Beg, — yes: very true!" said Mr. Morton, paiasing 
 irresolutely; and then, with a hearty tone, he cried out, 
 " And, damme, if he had begged, I could afford him a 
 shilling! I '11 go after him." So saying, he hastened 
 back through the shop, but the man was gone, the rain 
 was falling, Mr. Morton had his thin shoes on; he blew 
 his nose, and went back to the counter. But there still 
 rose to his memory the pale face of his dead sister; and a 
 voice murmured in his ear, " Brother, where is my 
 child?" 
 
 "Pshaw! it is not my fault if he ran away. Bob, go 
 and get me the county paper." 
 
 Mr. Morton had again settled himself, and was deep 
 in a trial for murder, when another stranger strode 
 haughtily into the shop. The new-comer, wrapped in 
 a pelisse of furs, with a thick mustache, and an 63^6 that 
 took in the whole shop, from master to boy, from ceiling 
 to floor, in a glance, had the air at once of a foreigner 
 and a soldier. Every look fastened on him, as he 
 paused an instant, and then walking up to the alderman, 
 said, —
 
 174 NIGHT AND MOHXING. 
 
 " Sir, you are doubtless Mr. Morton 1 " 
 
 "At your commands, sir," said Roger, rising 
 involuntarily. 
 
 " A word with you, then, on business." 
 
 " Business! " echoed Mr. jNIorton, turning rather pale, 
 for he began to think himself haunted ; " anything in 
 my line, sir? I should be — " 
 
 The stranger bent down his tall stature, and hissed 
 into Mr. Morton's foreboding ear, — 
 
 " Your nephews ! " 
 
 Mr. Morton was literally dumb-stricken. Yes, he 
 certainly 7vas haunted! He stared at this second ques- 
 tioner, and fancied that there was something very 
 supernatural and unearthly about him. He was so 
 tall and so dark and so stern and so strange. Was it 
 the Unspeakable himself come for the linendraper? 
 Kephews again! The uncle of the babes in the wood 
 could hardly have been more startled by the demand! 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Morton at last, recovering his dignity 
 and somewhat peevishly, — "sir, I don't know Avhy 
 people should meddle with my family affairs. I don't 
 a.sk other folks about their nephews. I have no nephew 
 that I know of. " 
 
 " Permit me to speak to you, alone, for one instant." 
 
 Mr. Morton sighed, hitched up his trousers, and led 
 the way to the parlor, where Mrs. IMorton, having 
 finished the washing bills, was now engaged in tying 
 certain pieces of bladder round certain pots of preserves. 
 The elde.st Miss Morton, a young woman of five or six 
 and twenty, who was about to be very advantageously 
 married to a young gentleman who dealt in coals and 
 
 played the violin (for N was a very musical town), 
 
 had just joined her for the purpose of extorting " The 
 Swiss Boy, with variations," out of a sleepy little piano,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 175 
 
 that emitted a very painful cry under the awakening 
 fingers of Miss ^Margaret jMorton. 
 
 Mr. Morton threw open the door witli a grunt, and 
 the stranger pausing at the threshold, the full flood of 
 sound (key C) upon wliich " The Swiss Boy " was 
 swimming along, " kine " and all, for life and death, 
 came splash upon liim. 
 
 "Silence! can't you?" cried the father, putting one 
 hand to his ear, while with the other he pointed to a 
 chair; and, as Mrs. Morton looked up from the preserves 
 with that air of indignant suffering with which female 
 meekness upbraids a husband's wanton outrage, Mr. 
 Roger added, shrugging his shoulders, — 
 
 " My nephews again, Mrs. M. ! " 
 
 Miss Margaret turned round, and dropped a courtesy. 
 Mrs, INIorton gently let fall a napkin over the preserves, 
 and muttered a sort of salutation, as the stranger, taking 
 off his hat, turned to mother and daugliter one of those 
 noble faces in which nature has written her grant and 
 warranty of the lordship of creation. 
 
 "Pardon me," he said, " if I disturb you; but my 
 business will be short. I have come to ask you, sir, 
 Jrankly, and as one who has a right to ask it, what 
 tilings you can give me of Sidney Morton?" 
 
 " Sir, I know nothing whatever about him. He was 
 taken from my house, about twelve years since, by his 
 brother. Myself, and the two Mr. Beauforts, and another 
 friend of the family, went in search of them both. jNIy 
 search failed." 
 
 " And theirs ? " 
 
 " I understood from Mr. Beaufort tliat they had not 
 been more successful. I have had no communication 
 •with those gentlemen since. But that 's neither here 
 nor there. In all probability, the elder of the boys —
 
 176 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 ■who, I fear, was a sad character — corrupted and ruined 
 his brother; and, by this time, Heaven knows what and 
 where they are." 
 
 " And no one has inquired of you since — no one has 
 asked the brother of Catherine Morton, nay, rather of 
 Catherine Beaufort — where is the child intrusted to 
 your care ? " 
 
 This question, so exactly similar to that which his 
 superstition had rung on his own ears, perfectly appalled 
 the worthy alderman. He staggered back, stared at the 
 marked and stern face that lowered upon him, and at 
 last cried, — 
 
 " For pity's sake, sir, be just! What could I do for 
 one who left me of his own accord 1 " 
 
 " The day you had beaten him like a dog. You see, 
 Mr. Morton, I know all." 
 
 " And what are you ? " said Mr. Morton, recovering his 
 English courage, and feeling himself strangely broW' 
 beaten in his own house, — "what and who are you, 
 that you thus take the liberty to catechize a man of my 
 character and respectability ? " 
 
 " Twice mayor — " began Mrs. Morton. 
 
 " Hush , mother! " whispered Miss Margaret, — " don't 
 work him up." 
 
 " I repeat, sir, what are you ? " 
 
 " What am 1 ? — your nephew ! Who am I ? Before 
 men, I bear a name that I have assumed, and not 
 dishonored, — before Heaven, I am Philip Beaiifort! " 
 
 Mrs. Morton drojiped down upon her stool. Margaret 
 murmured " My cousin! " in a tone that the ear of the 
 mupical coal-merchant might not have greatly relished. 
 And Mr. Morton, after a long pause, came up with a 
 frank and manly expression of joy, and said, —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 177 
 
 " Then, sir, I thank Heaven, from my heart, that one 
 of my sister's children stands alive before me! " 
 
 " And now, again, I — I whom you accuse of having 
 corrupted and ruined him; him for whom I toiled and 
 worked; him, who was to me, then, as a last surviving 
 son to some anxious father — I, from whom he was 
 reft and robbed, I ask you again for Sidney, for my 
 brother!" 
 
 " And again, I say, that I have no information to give 
 you, that — stay a moment, stay. You must pardon 
 what I have said of you before you made yourself known. 
 I went but by the accounts I had received from Mr. 
 Beaufort. Let me speak plainly; that gentleman 
 thought, right or wrong, that it would be a great thing 
 to separate your brother from you. He may have found 
 him , — it must be so , — and kept his name and condition 
 concealed from us all, lest you should detect it. Mrs. M. , 
 don't you think so? " 
 
 " I 'm sure I 'm so terrified I don't know what to 
 think," said INIrs. Morton, putting her hand to her 
 forehead, and see-sawing herself to and fro upon her 
 stool. 
 
 " But since they wronged you ; since you — you seem 
 so very — very — " 
 
 " Very much the gentleman," suggested Miss 
 Margaret. 
 
 " Yes, so much the gentleman; well off, too, I should 
 hope, sir," — and the experienced eye of Mr. Morton 
 glanced at the costly sables that lined the pelisse, — ■ 
 " there can be no difficulty in your learning from Mr. 
 Beaufort all that you wish to know. And pray, sir, 
 may I ask, did you send any one here to-day to make 
 the very inquiry you have made?" 
 
 " I ? _ ISTo. What do you mean 1 " 
 
 VOL. II — 12
 
 178 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "Well, well, — sit down, — there may be something 
 in all this that you may make out better than I can." 
 
 And as I'hilip obeyed, Mr. Morton, who was really 
 and honestly rejoiced to see his sister's son alive and 
 apparently thriving, proceeded to relate pretty exactly 
 the conversation he had held with the previous visitor. 
 Philip listened earnestly and with attention. Who 
 could this questioner be 1 Some one who knew his 
 birth; some one who sought him out? — some one, who 
 — good heavens! could it be the long-lost witness of 
 the marriage 1 
 
 As soon as that idea struck him, he started from his 
 seat, and entreated Morton to accompany him in search 
 of the stranger. "You know not," he said, in a tone 
 impressed with that energy of will in which lay the 
 talent of his mind, — " you know not of what importance 
 this may be to my prospects, to your sister's fair name. 
 If it should be the witness returned at last! Who else, 
 of the rank you describe, would be interested in such 
 inquiries? Come! " 
 
 '■' What witness ? " said Mrs. Morton, fretfully. " You 
 don't mean to come over us with the old story of the 
 marriage ? " 
 
 "Shall your wife slander your own sister, sir? A 
 marriage there was: God yet will proclaim the right, — 
 and the name of Beaufort shall be yet placed on my 
 mother's gravestone. Come!" 
 
 " Here are your shoes and umbrella, pa," cried Miss 
 Margaret, inspired by Philip's earnestness. 
 
 " My fair cousin, I guess ; " and as the soldier took 
 her hand, he kissed the unreluctant cheek turned to 
 the door. Mr. Morton placed his arm in his, and the 
 next moment they were in the street. 
 
 When Catherine, in her meek tones, had said,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 179 
 
 "Philip Beaufort was my husband," Roger Morton had 
 disbelieved her. And now one word from the son, who 
 could, in comparison, know so little of the matter, had 
 almost sufficed to convert and to convince the sceptic- 
 Why was this? Because man believes the strong!
 
 180 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Quid Virtus et quid Sapientia possit 
 Utile proposuit uobis exemplar L/li/ssem.^ 
 
 HOR. 
 
 IMeaxwhile the object of their search, on quitting Mv. 
 I\Iorton's shop, had walked slowly and sadly on, through 
 the plashing streets, till he came to a public-house in the 
 outskirts and on the high-road to London. Here he 
 took shelter for a short time, drying himself by the 
 kitchen fire, with the license purchased by fourpenny- 
 "worth of gin ; and, having learned that the next coach to 
 London would not pass for some hours, he finallj' settled 
 himself in the ingle till the guard's horn should arouse 
 him. By the same coach that the night before had con- 
 veyed Philip to N , had the very man he sought 
 
 been also a passenger! 
 
 The poor fellow was sickly and wearied out : he had 
 settled into a doze, when he w^as suildenly wakened by 
 the wheels of a coach and the trampling of horses. Not 
 knowing how long he had slept, and imagining that the 
 vehicle he had awaited was at the door, he ran out. It 
 was a coach coming from London, and the driver was 
 joking with a pretty barmaid, who, in ratlier short petti- 
 coats, was holding up to him the customary glass. The 
 man, after satisfying himself that his time was not yet 
 come, was turning back to the fire, when a head popped 
 itself out of the window, and a voice cried, " Stars and 
 
 1 He has proposed to us Ulysses as a useful example of how 
 much may be accomplished ]>y virtue aud wisdom.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 181 
 
 garters ! Will, — so that 's yo\i ! " At the sound of the 
 voice the man halted abruptly, turned very pale, and his 
 limbs trembled. The inside passenger opened the door, 
 jumped out with a little carpet-bag in his hand, took 
 forth a long leathern purse, from which he ostentatiously 
 selected the coins that paid his fare and satisfied the 
 coachman, and then, passing his arm through that of 
 the acquaintance he had discovered, led him back into 
 the house. 
 
 " Will, Will, " he Avhispered, " you have been to the 
 Mortons. Never moind, — -let's hear all. Jenny or 
 Dolly, or whatever your sweet praetty name is, — a 
 private room and a pint of brandy, my dear. Hot water 
 and lots of the grocery. That 's right." 
 
 And as soon as the pair found themselves, Avith the 
 brandy before them, in a small parlor with a good fire, 
 the last-comer went to the door, shut it cautiously, flung 
 his bag under the table, took off his gloves, spread him- 
 self wider and wider before the fire, until he had entirely 
 excluded every ray from his friend, and then suddenly 
 turning, so that the back might enjoy what the front had 
 gained, he exclaimed, — 
 
 " Damme, Will, you 're a praetty sort of a broather to 
 give me the slip in that way. But in this world, every 
 man for his-self ! " 
 
 " I tell you, " said William, with something like deci- 
 sion in his voice, " that I will not do any wrong to these 
 young men if they live. " 
 
 "Who asks you to do a wrong to them? — booby! 
 Perhaps I may be the best friend they may have yet, — 
 ay, or you too, though you 're the ungratefullest, whim- 
 sicallest sort of a son of a gun that ever I came across. 
 Come, help yourself, and don't roll up your eyes in 
 that way, like a Muggletonian asoide of a Fye-Fye! "
 
 182 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Here the speaker paused a moment, and -with a graver 
 and more natural tone of voice proceeded. 
 
 " So you did not believe me when I told you that these 
 brothers were dead, and you have been to the Mortons to 
 learn more ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, and what have you learned 1 " 
 
 " Nothing. Morton declares that he does not know 
 that they are alive, but he says also that he does not 
 know that they are dead." 
 
 "Indeed," said the other, listening with great atten- 
 tion ; " and you really think that he does not know 
 anything about them 1 " 
 
 "Tdo, indeed." 
 
 " Hum ! Is he a sort of man who would post down 
 the rhino to help the search ? " 
 
 " He looked as if he had the yellow fever when I said 
 I was poor," returned William, turning round, and 
 trying to catch a glimpse at the fire, as he gulped his 
 brandy-and-water. 
 
 " Then I '11 be d— d if I run the risk of calling. I 
 have done some things in tliis town by way of business 
 before now; and though it 's a long time ago, yet folks 
 don't forget a haundsome man in a hurry, — especially 
 if he has done 'em! Now, then, listen to me. You 
 see, I have given this matter all the 'tention in my 
 power. ' If the lads be dead,* said I to you, * it is no 
 use burning one's fingers by holding a candle to bones 
 in a coffin. But Mr. Beaufort need not know they are 
 dead, and we'll see what we can get out of him; and if 
 I succeeds, as I think I shall, you and I may hold up 
 our heads for the rest of our life.' Accordingly, as I 
 told you, I went to Mr. Beaufort, and — 'Gad, I thought 
 we had it all our own way. But since I saw .you last,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 183 
 
 there 's been the devil and all. When I called again, 
 "Will, I was shown in to an old lord, sharp as a gimlet. 
 Hang me, William, if he did not frighten me out of 
 my seven senses! " 
 
 Here Captain Smith (the reader has, no doubt, already 
 discovered that the speaker was no less a personage) took 
 three or four nervous strides across the room, returned 
 to the table, threw himself in a chair, placed one foot 
 on one hob and one on the other, laid his finger on his 
 nose, and, with a significant wink, said in a whisper, 
 "Will, he knew I had been lagged! He not only 
 refused to hear all I had to say, but threatened to prose- 
 cute, persecute, hang, draw, and quarter us both, if we 
 ever dared to come out with the truth." 
 
 " But what 's the good of the truth if the boys are 
 dead? " said William, timidly. 
 
 The captain, without heeding this question, con- 
 tinued, as he stirred the sugar in his glass, " Well, out 
 I sneaked, and as soon as I had got to my own door I 
 turned round and saw Sharp the runner on the other side 
 of the way, — I felt deuced queer. However, I went in, 
 sat down, and began to think. I saw that it was up 
 with us, so far as the old uns were concerned; and now 
 it might be worth while to find out if the young uns 
 really were dead." 
 
 " Then you did not know that after all ! I thought 
 so. Oh, Jerry!" 
 
 " Why, look you, man, it was not our interest to take 
 their side if we could make our bargain out of the other. 
 'Cause why ? You are only one witness, — you are a 
 good fellow, but poor, and with very shaky nerves. 
 Will. You does not know what them big wigs are 
 when a man 's caged in a witness-box, — they flank one 
 up, and they flank one down, and they bully and bother,
 
 184 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 till one 's like a horse at Astley's dancing on hot iron. 
 If your testimony broke down, why it Avould be all 
 up with the case, and what then would become of us? 
 Besides," added the captain, with dignified candor, " I 
 have been lagged, it 's no use denying it; I am back 
 before my time. Inquiries about your respectability 
 would soon bring the bulkies about me. And you would 
 not have poor Jerry sent back to that d — d low place on 
 t' other side of the Herring-pond, would you? " 
 
 " Ah, Jerry! " said William, kindly placing his hand 
 in his brother's, " you know I helped you to escape ; I 
 left all to come over with you." 
 
 " So you did, and you 're a good fellow; though as to 
 leaving all, why you had got rid of all first. And 
 when you told me about the marriage, did not I say that 
 I saw our way to a snug thing for life 1 But to return 
 to my story. There is a danger in going with the 
 youngsters. But since, Will, — since nothing but hard 
 words is to be got on the other side, we '11 do our duty, 
 and I '11 find them out, and do the best I can for us : that 
 is, if they be yet above ground. And now I '11 own to 
 you that I think I knows that the younger one is alive." 
 
 " You do ? " 
 
 " Yes! But as he won't come in for anything unless 
 his brother is dead, we must have a hunt for the heir. 
 Now 1 told you that, many years ago, there was a lad 
 with me, who, putting all things together, — seeing how 
 the Beauforts came after him, and recollecting different 
 things he let out at the time, — I feel pretty sure is your 
 old master 's hopeful. I know that poor Will Gawtrey 
 gave this lad the address of old Gregg, a friend of mine. 
 So, after watching Sharp off the sly, I went that very 
 night, or rather at two in the morning, to Gregg's 
 house, and, after brushing up his memory, I found that
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 185 
 
 the lad had been to him, and gone over afterwards to 
 l*aris in search of Gawtrey, who was then keeping a 
 matrimony shop. As I was not rich enougli to go off to 
 Paris in a pleasant, gentlemanlike way, I allowed Gregg 
 to put me up to a noice, quiet little bit of business. 
 Don't shake your head: all safe, — a rural affair! That 
 took some days. You see it has helped to new rig me," 
 and the captain glanced complacently over a very smart 
 suit of clothes. " Well, on my return I went to call 
 on you, but you were flown. I half suspected you 
 might have gone to the mother's relations here; and I 
 thought, at all events, that I could not do better than 
 go myself and see what they knew of the matter. From 
 what you say I feel I had better now let that alone , and 
 go over to Paris at once; leave me alone to find out. 
 And faith, what with Sharp and the old lord, the sooner 
 I quit England the better. " 
 
 " And you really think you shall get hold of them 
 after all ? Oh, never fear my nerves if I 'm once in the 
 riglit; it's living with you, and seeing j^ou do wrong, 
 and hearing you talk wickedly, that makes me tremble." 
 
 " Bother! " said the captain, " you need not crow over 
 me. Stand up. Will; there now, look at us two in the 
 glass! Why, I look ten years younger than you do, in 
 spite of all my troubles. I dress like a gentleman, as 
 1 am; 1 have money in my pocket: I put money in 
 yours; without me you 'd starve. Look you, you carried 
 over a little fortune to Australia: you married, you 
 farmed, you lived honestly, — and yet that d— d shilly- 
 shally disposition of yours, 'ticed into one speculation 
 to-day, and scared out of another to-morrow, ruined 
 you ! " 
 
 "Jerry! Jerry!" cried William, writhing; "don't, 
 — don't!"
 
 186 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 " But it 's all true, and I wants to cure you of preach- 
 ing. And then, when you were nearly run out, instead 
 of putting a bold face on it, and setting your shoulder 
 to the wheel, you gives it up; you sells what you have; 
 you bolts over, wife and all, to Boston, because some 
 one tells you you can do better in America; you are 
 out of the way when a search is made for you ; years ago, 
 when you could have benefited yourself and your 
 master's family without any danger to you or me, nobody 
 can find you : 'cause why ? — you could not bear that your 
 old friends in England, or in the colony either, should 
 know that you were turned a slave-driver in Kentucky. 
 You kick up a mutiny among the niggers by moaning 
 over them instead of keeping 'em to it; you get kicked 
 out yourself; your wife begs you to go back to Australia, 
 where her relations will do something for you ; you work 
 your passage out, looking as ragged as a colt from grass; 
 Avife's uncle don't like ragged nephews-in-law; wife 
 dies broken-hearted, — and you might be breaking stones 
 on the roads with the convicts, if I, myself a convict, 
 had not taken compassion on you. Don't cry, Will, it 
 is all for your own good; I hates cant! Whereas I, 
 my own master from eighteen, never stooped to serve 
 any other; have dressed like a gentleman; kissed the 
 pretty girls; drove my phe-«ton; been in all the papers 
 as 'the celebrated Dashing Jerry;' never wanted a 
 guinea in my pocket, and even when lagged at last, had 
 a pretty little sum in the colonial bank to lighten my 
 misfortunes. I escape; I bring you over, — and here I 
 am, supporting you, and, in all probability, the one on 
 whom depends the fate of one of the first families in the 
 country. And you preaches at me, do you? Look you, 
 Will: in this world, honesty 's nothing without force of 
 character! And so your health! "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 187 
 
 Here the captain emptied the rest of the brandy 
 into his glass, drained it at a draught, and, while poor 
 William was wiping his eyes with a ragged blue pocket- 
 handkerchief, rang the bell, and asked what coaches 
 
 would pass tliat way to , a seaport town at some 
 
 distance. On hearing that there was one at six o'clock, 
 the captain orderetl the best dinner the larder would 
 afford to be got ready as soon as possible; and, when 
 they were again alone, thus accosted his brother, — 
 
 " Now you go back to town, — here are four shiners 
 for you. Keep quiet, — don't speak to a soul; don't 
 put your foot in it, that 's all I beg, and I '11 find out 
 whatever there is to be found. It is damnably out of 
 
 my way embarking at , but I had best keep clear of 
 
 Lunnon. And I tell you what, if these youngsters have 
 hopped the twig, there 's another bird on the bough 
 that may prove a goldfinch after all, — young Arthur 
 Beaufort. I hear he is a wild, expensive chap, and one 
 who can't live without lots of money. Now, it 's easy 
 to frighten a man of that sort, and I sha'n't have the 
 old lord at his elbow." 
 
 " But I tell you, that I only care for m}' poor master's 
 children." 
 
 "Yes; but if they are dead, and by saying they are 
 alive one can make old age comfortable, there 's no 
 harm in it, — eh? " 
 
 "1 don't know," said William, irresolutely. "But 
 certainly it is a hard thing to be so poor at my time of 
 life; and so honest a man as I 've been, too! " 
 
 Captain Smith went a little too far when he said that 
 "honesty's nothing without force of character." Still 
 honesty has no business to be helpless and draggle- 
 tailed: she must be actiA'^e and brisk, and make use of 
 her Avits; or, though she keep clear of the prison, 'tis 
 no verjr great wonder if she fall on the parish.
 
 188 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MItis. — This Macilente, signior, begins to be more sociable on a 
 sudden. — Every Man out of his Humor. 
 
 Pniit. — Signior, you are sufficiently instructed. 
 Fast — Wlio — 1, sir 1 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 After spending the greater part of the day in vain 
 inquiries and a vain search, Philip and Mr. Morton 
 returned to tlie house of the latter. 
 
 " And now," said Philip, " all that remains to be done 
 is this: first, give to the police of the town a detailed 
 description of the man; and, secondly, let us put an 
 advertisement both in the county journal and in some 
 of the London papers, to the effect, that if tlie person 
 who called on you will take the trouble to apply again, 
 either personally or by letter, he may obtain the infor- 
 mation sought for. In case he does, I will trouble you 
 to direct him to — yes, to Monsieur de Vaudemont, 
 according to liiis address." 
 
 " Not to you, then 1 " 
 
 " It is the same thing," replied Philip, dryly, " You 
 have confirmed my suspicions that the P>eauforts know 
 something of my brother. What did you say of some 
 other friend of the family who assisted in the search? " 
 
 "Oh, a Mr. Spencer I an old acquaintance of your 
 mother's." Here Mr. Morton smiled, but not being 
 encouraged in a joke, went on, — "however, that's 
 neither here nor there; he certainly never found out 
 your brother. For I have had several letters from him
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 189 
 
 at different times, asking if any news had been heard of 
 either of you." 
 
 And, indeed, Spencer had taken peculiar pains to 
 deceive the Mortons, whose interposition he feared little 
 less than that of the Beauforts. 
 
 "Then it can be of no vise to apply to him," said 
 Philip, carelessly, not having any recollection of the 
 name of Spencer, and therefore attaching little import- 
 ance to the mention of him. 
 
 " Certainly, I should think not. Depend on it, Mr. 
 Beaufort must know. " 
 
 " True," said Philip, "and I have only to thank you 
 for your kindness, and return to town. " 
 
 " But stay with us this day, — do ; let me feel that we 
 are friends. I assure you poor Sidney's fate has been 
 a load on my mind ever since he left. You shall have 
 the bed he slept in, and over which your mother bent 
 when she left him and me for the last time." 
 
 These words were said with so much feeling that the 
 adventurer wrung his uncle's hand, and said, " Forgive 
 me; I wronged you, — I will be your guest." 
 
 Mrs. Morton, strange to say, evinced no symptoms 
 of ill-humor at the news of the proffered hospitality. 
 In fact. Miss Margaret had been so eloquent in Philip's 
 praise during his absence, that she suffered herself to 
 be favorably impressed. Her daughter, indeed, had ob- 
 tained a sort of ascendency over ]\Irs. j\I. and the whole 
 house, ever since she had received so excellent an offer. 
 And, moreover, some people are like dogs, — they snarl 
 at the ragged and fawn on the well-dressed. Mrs. 
 Morton did not object to a nephew de facto, she only 
 objected to a nephew in forma, pauperis. The evening, 
 therefore, passed more cheerfully than might have been 
 anticipated, though Philip found some difficulty in
 
 190 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 parrying the many questions put to him on the past. 
 He contented himself with saying, as briefly as possible, 
 that he had served in a foreign service, and acquired 
 what sufficed him for an independence; and then, with 
 the ease which a man picks up in the great world, 
 turned the conversation to the prospects of the family 
 whose guest he was. Having listened with due atten- 
 tion to Mrs. Morton's eulogies on Tom, who had been 
 sent for, and who drank the praises on his own gentility 
 into a very large pair of blushing ears ; also, to her self- 
 felicitations on Miss INIargaret's marriage; item, on the 
 service rendered to the town by Mr. Roger, who had 
 repaired the town-hall in his first mayoralty at his own 
 expense ; item, to a long chronicle of her own genealogy, 
 how she had one cousin a clergyman, and how her great- 
 grandfather had been knighted; item, to the domestic 
 virtues of all her children; item, to a confused explana- 
 tion of the chastisement inflicted on Sidney, which 
 Philip cut short in the middle, — he asked, with a 
 smile, what had become of the Plaskwiths. " Oh," said 
 Mrs. Morton, " my brother Kit has retired from business. 
 His son-in-law, Mr. Pliramins, has succeeded." 
 
 "Oh, then, Plimmins married one of the young 
 ladies?" 
 
 "Yes, Jane, — she had a sad squint! Tom, there is 
 nothing to laugh at! — we are all as God made us. 
 ' Handsome is as handsome does; ' she has had three 
 little uns!" 
 
 "Do they squint too?" asked Philip; and Miss 
 Margaret giggled, and Tom roared, and the other young 
 men roared too. Philip had certainly said something 
 very witty. 
 
 This time Mrs. Morton administered no reproof; but 
 replied pensively, —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 191 
 
 " Natur is very mysterious, — they all squint! " 
 
 Mr. Morton conducted Philip to his chamber. There 
 it was, fresh, clean, unaltered, — the same white cur- 
 tains, the same honeysuckle paper, as when Catherine 
 had crept across the tlireshold. 
 
 " Did Sidney ever tell you that his mother placed a 
 ring round his neck that night 1 " asked Mr. Morton. 
 
 "Yes; and the dear boy wept when he said that he 
 had slept too soundly to know that she was by his 
 side that last, last time. The ring, — oh, how well I 
 remember it! — she never put it off till then; and often 
 in the fields, — for we were wild wanderers together 
 in that day , — often when his head lay on my shoulder, 
 I felt that ring still resting on his heart, and fancied 
 it was a talisman, — a blessing. Well, well, good- 
 night to you! " And he shut the door on his uncle, 
 and was alone.
 
 192 KIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Man of Law, . . . 
 
 And a great suit is like to be between them. 
 
 Ben Jonson : Staple of News. 
 
 Ox arriving in London, Philip went first to the lodging 
 he still kept there, and to which his letters were directed; 
 and, among some communications from Paris, full of 
 the politics and the hopes of the Carlists, he found the 
 following note from Lord Lilburne : — 
 
 Dear Sir, — When I met you the other day, I told you 1 
 had been threatened with the f,'out. The enemy has now 
 taken possession of the field. I am sentenced to regimen and 
 the sofa. But as it is my rule in life to make afflictions as 
 light as possible, so I have asked a few friends to take com- 
 passion on me, and help me " to shuffle off this mortal coil," 
 by dealing me, if they can, four by honors. Any time between 
 nine and twelve to-night, or to-morrow night, you will find 
 me at home ; and, if you are not better engaged, suppose you 
 dine ^vith me to-day, — or rather dine opposite to me, — and 
 excuse my Spartan broth. You will meet (besides any two 
 or three friends whom an impromptu invitation may find dis- 
 engaged) ray sister, with Beaufort and their daughter : they 
 only arrived in town this morning, and are kind enough "to 
 nurse me," as they call it, — that is to say, their cook is taken 
 
 ill! 
 
 Yours, 
 
 Lilburne. 
 
 Park Lake, Sept. — 
 
 " The Beauforts. Fate favors me, — I will go. The 
 date is for to-day."
 
 NIGHT AND MOIiXIXG. 193 
 
 He sent off a hasty line to accept the invitation, and 
 finding he had a few hours yet to spare, he resolved to 
 employ them in consultation with some lawyer as to 
 the chances of ultimately regaining his inheritance, — 
 a hope which, however wild, he had, since his return 
 to his native shore, and especially since he had heard 
 of tlie strange visit made to Koger Morton, permitted 
 himself to indulge. With this idea he sallied out, 
 meaning to consult Liancourt, wlio, having a large 
 acquaintance among the English, seemed the best person 
 to advise him as to the choice of a lawyer at once active 
 and honest, when he suddenly chanced upon that gentle- 
 man himself. 
 
 " This is luck}', my dear Liancourt. I was just 
 going to your lodgings." 
 
 " And I was coming to yours to know if you dine with 
 Lord Lilburne. He told me he had asked you. I have 
 just left him. And by the sofa of Mephistopheles, 
 there was the prettiest Margaret you ever beheld. " 
 
 "Indeed! — Who?" 
 
 " He called her his niece ; but I should doubt if he 
 had any relation on this side the Styx so human as a 
 niece. " 
 
 " You seem to have no great predilection for our host. " 
 
 " My dear Vaudemont, between our blunt, soldierly 
 natures, and tliose wily, icy, sneering intellects, there is 
 the antipathy of the dog to the cat. " 
 
 " Perhaps so on our side, not on his, — or why does he 
 invite us ? " 
 
 " London is empty, there is no one else to ask. We 
 are new faces, new minds to him. We amuse him more 
 than the hackneyed comrades he has Avorn out. Besides, 
 he plays, — and you too. Fie on you ! " 
 
 " Liancourt, I had two objects in knowing that man, 
 
 VOL. II. — 13
 
 194 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 and I pay tlie toll for the bridge. "When I cease to want 
 the passage, I shall cease to pay the toll. " 
 
 " But the bridge may be a drawbridge, and the moat 
 is devilish deep below. "Without metaphor, that man 
 maj' ruin you before you know where you are." 
 
 " Bah ! I have my eyes open. I know hoAV much to 
 spend on the rogue, whose service I hire as a lackey's; 
 and I know also where to stop. Liancourt, " he added, 
 after a short pause, and in a tone deep Avith suppressed 
 passion, " when I first saw that man I thought of appeal- 
 ing to his heart for one who has a claim on it. That Avas 
 a vain hope. And then there came upon me a sterner 
 and deadlier thought, — the scheme of the avenger! 
 This Lilburne, this rogue Avhom the Avorld sets up to 
 worship, ruined — body and soul ruined — one Avhose 
 name the world gibbets with scorn! Well, I thought to 
 avenge that man. In his own house — amidst you all — 
 I thought to detect the sharper and brand the cheat! '' 
 
 "You. startle me! It has been whispered, indeed, 
 that Lord Lilburne is dangerous, — but skill is danger- 
 ous. To cheat ! — an English gentleman ! — a nobleman ! 
 Impossible ! " 
 
 " Whetlier he do or not, " returned Vauderaont, in a 
 calmer tone , " I have foregone the vengeance, because 
 he is — " 
 
 "Is what?" 
 
 " Xo matter, " said Vaudemont aloud, but he added to 
 himself, " Because he is the grandfather of Fanny! " 
 
 " You are very enigmatical to-day. " 
 
 " Patience, Liancourt; I may solve all the riddles that 
 make up my life, yet. Bear with me a little longer. 
 And now can j^ou help me to a lawyer ? — a man expe- 
 rienced, indeed, and of repute, but young, active, not 
 overladen with business ; I want his zeal and his time,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 195 
 
 for a hazard that j-our monopolists of clients may not 
 deem worth their devotion." 
 
 " I can recommend you, then, the very man yon 
 require. I had a suit some years ago at Paris, for which 
 English witnesses were necessary. My avocat employed, 
 a solicitor here whose activity in collecting my evidence 
 gained my cause. I will answer for his diligence and. 
 his honesty." 
 
 " His address 1 " 
 
 " Mr. Barlow, — somewhere by the Strand : let me see, 
 .Essex — yes, Essex Street. " 
 
 " Then good-by to you for the present. You dine at 
 Lord Lilburne's, too ? " 
 
 "Yes. Adieu tiU then." 
 
 Vaudemont was not long before he arrived at Mr. 
 Barlow's ; a brass plate announced to him the house. 
 He was shown at once into a parlor, where he saw a 
 man whom lawyers would call young, and spinsters 
 middle-aged, — namely, about two-and-forty ; with a bold, 
 resolute, intelligent countenance, and that steady, calm, 
 sagacious eye which inspires at once confidence and 
 esteem. 
 
 Vaudemont scanned him with the look of one who 
 has been accustomed to judge mankind — as a scholar 
 does books — with rapidity because with practice. He 
 had at first resolved to submit to him the heads of his 
 case without mentioning names, and, in fact, he so com- 
 menced his narrative ; but, by degrees, as he perceived 
 how much his own earnestness arrested and engrossed 
 the interest of his listener, he warmed into fuller con- 
 fidence, and ended by a full disclosure, and a caution as 
 to the profoundest secrecy, in case, if there were no hope 
 to recover his rightful name, he might yet wish to retain, 
 unannoyed by curiosity or suspicion, that by which he 
 was not discreditably known.
 
 19G NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Barlow, after assuring him of the 
 most scnipuloiis discretion, — "sir, I have some recol- 
 lection of the trial instituted hy your motlier, Mrs. 
 Beaufort, " — and the slight emphasis he laid on that 
 name was the most grateful compliment he could have 
 paid to the truth of Philip's recital. " My impression 
 IS, that it was managed in a very slovenly manner by 
 her lawyer; and some of his oversights we may repair 
 in a suit instituted by yourself. But it would be absurd 
 to conceal from you the great difficulties that beset us: 
 your mother's suit, designed to establish her own rights, 
 was far easier than that which you must commence , — 
 namely, an action for ejectment against a man who has 
 been some years in undisturbed possession. Of course, 
 until the missing witness is found out; it would be mad- 
 ness to commence litigation. And the question, then, 
 will be, how far that witness will suffice? It is true, 
 that one witness of a marriage, if the others are dead, is 
 held sufficient by law. But I need not add, that that 
 witness must be thoroughly credible. In suits for real 
 property, very little documentary or secondary evidence 
 is admitted. I doubt even whether the certificate of the 
 marriage on which — in the loss or destruction of the 
 register — you lay so much stress, would be available in 
 itself. But if a7i examined copy, it becomes of the last 
 importance, for it will then inform us of the name of the 
 person who extracted and examined it. Heaven grant 
 it may not have been the clergyman himself who per- 
 formed the ceremony, and who, you say, is dead ; if some 
 one else, we should then have a second, no doubt credi- 
 ble and most valuable witness. The document would 
 thus become available as proof, and I think that we should 
 not fail to establish our case. " 
 
 "But this certificate, how is it ever to be foimd? I 
 told you we had searched everywhere in vain."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 197 
 
 " True ; hut you say that your mother always declared 
 that the late Mr. Beaufort had so solemnly assured her, 
 even just prior to his decease, that it was in existence, 
 that I have no douht as to the fact. It may he possible, 
 but it is a terrible insinuation to make, that if INIr. 
 Robert Beaufort, in examining the papers of the 
 deceased, chanced upon a document so important to him, 
 he abstracted or destroyed it. If tliis should not have 
 been the case (and Mr. Robert Beaufort's moral character 
 is unspotted, — and we have no right to suppose it), the 
 probability is, either that it was intrusted to some third 
 person, or placed in some hidden drawer or deposit, the 
 secret of which your father never disclosed. Who has 
 purchased the house you lived in 1 " 
 
 "Fernside? Lord Lilburne, Mrs. Robert Beaufort's 
 brother. " 
 
 "Humph! — probably, then, he took the furniture 
 and all. Sir, this is a matter that requires some time 
 for close consideration. With your leave I will not 
 only insert in the London papers an advertisement to 
 the effect that you suggested to Mr. Roger Morton (in 
 case you should have made a right conjecture as to the 
 object of the man who applied to him), but I will also 
 advertise for the witness himself. William Smith, you 
 say, his name is. Did the lawyer employed by Mrs. 
 Beaufort send to inquire for him in the colony 1 " 
 
 " No ; I fear there could not have been time for that. 
 My mother was so anxious and eager, and so convinced 
 of the justice of her case — " 
 
 "That's a pity; her lawyer must have been a sad 
 driveller." 
 
 " Besides, now I remember, inquiry was made of his 
 relations in England. His father, a farmer, was then 
 alive; the answer was that he had certainly left Aus-
 
 198 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 tralia. His last letter, written two years before that 
 date, containing a request for money, which the father, 
 himself made a bankrupt by reverses, could not give, 
 had stated, that he was about to seek his fortune else- 
 where, — since then tliey had heard nothing of him." 
 
 " Ahem! Well, you will perhaps let me know where 
 any relations of his are yet to be found, and I will look 
 up the former suit, and go into the whole case without 
 delay. In the mean time, you do right, sir, — if you 
 will allow me to say it, — not to disclose either your 
 own identity or a hint of your intentions. It is no use 
 putting suspicion on its guard. And my search for this 
 certificate must be managed with the greatest address. 
 But, by the way, speaking of identity, — there can be 
 no difficulty, I hope, in proving yours? " 
 
 Philip was startled. " Why, I am greatly altered." 
 
 " But, probably, your beard and mustache may con- 
 tribute to that change; and doubtless, in the village 
 where you lived, there would be many with whom you 
 were in sufficient intercourse, and on whose recollection, 
 by recalling little anecdotes and circumstances with 
 which no one but yourself could be acquainted, your 
 features would force themselves, along Avith the moral 
 conviction that the man who spoke to tliem could be no 
 other but Philip Morton, — or rather Beaufort." 
 
 "You are right; there must be many such. There 
 was not a cottage in the place where I and my dogs were 
 not familiar and half domesticated." 
 
 "All 's right, so far, then. But, I repeat, we must 
 not be too sanguine. Law is not justice — " 
 
 "But God is," said Philip; and he left the room.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 199 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Volpone. — A little in a mist, but not dejected : 
 Never, — but still myself. 
 
 Ben Jonson : Volpone. 
 
 Peregrine. — Am I enough disguised ? 
 Mer. — Ay, I warrant you. 
 Per. — Save you, fair lady. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The ill wind 
 that had blown gout to Lord Lilburne had blown Lord 
 Lilburne away from the injury he had meditated against 
 what he called "the object of his attachment." How 
 completely and entirely, indeed, the state of Lord Lil- 
 burne's feelings depended on the state of his health, 
 may be seen in the answer he gave to his valet, when, 
 the morning after the first attack of the gout, that worthy 
 person, by way of cheering his master, proposed to ascer- 
 tain something as to tlie movements of one with whom 
 Lord Lilburne professed to be so violently in love, 
 "Confound you, Dykeman! " exclaimed the invalid, — 
 " why do you trouble me about women when I 'm in this 
 condition? I don't care if they were all at the bottom 
 of the sea! Reach me the colchicum; I must keep my 
 mind calm." 
 
 Whenever tolerably well, Lord Lilburne was careless 
 of his health; the moment he was ill. Lord Lilburne 
 paid himself the greatest possible attention. Though 
 a man of tirni nerves, in youth of remarkable daring, 
 and still, though no longer rash, of sufficient personal 
 courage, he was by no means fond of the thought of
 
 200 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 death, — that is, of his own death. Not that he was 
 tormented by any religious apprehensions of the Dread 
 Unknown, but simply because the only life of which 
 he had any experience seemed to him a peculiarly 
 pleasant thing. He had a sort of instinctive persuasion 
 that John, Lord Lilburne, would not be better off any- 
 where else. Always disliking solitude, he disliked it 
 more than ever when he was ill, and he therefore 
 welcomed the visit of his sister, and the gentle hand of 
 his pretty niece. As for Beaufort, he bored the sufferer; 
 and when that gentleman, on his arrival, shutting out 
 his wife and daughter, whispered to Lilburne, " Any 
 more news of that impostor 1 " Lilburne answered 
 peevishly, " I never talk about business when I have 
 the gout! I have set Sharp to keep a look-out for him, 
 but he has learned nothing as yet. And now go to 
 your club. You are a worthy creature, but too solemn 
 for my spirits just at this moment. I have a few people 
 coming to dine with me, your wife will do the honors, 
 and — 7/oti can come in the evening." 
 
 Though Mr. Robert Beaufort's sense of importance 
 swelled and chafed at this very unceremonious co7i(je, 
 he forced a smile, and said, — 
 
 " Well, it is no wonder you are a little fretful with 
 the gout. I have plenty to do in town, and Mrs. Beau- 
 fort and Camilla can come back without waiting for 
 me." 
 
 " Why, as your cook is ill, and they can't dine at a 
 club, you may as well leave them here till I am a little 
 better; not that I care, for I can hire a better nurse tliau 
 either of them." 
 
 " My dear Lilburne, don't talk of hiring nurses: cer- 
 tainly, I am too happy if they can be of comfort to you." 
 
 "No! on second thoughts, you may take back your
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 201 
 
 wife, she 's always talking of her OAvn complaints, and 
 leave me Camilla; you can't want hnv for a few days." 
 
 "Just as you like. And you really think I have 
 managed as well as I could about this young man, 
 — eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes! And so you go to Beaufort Court in a few 
 days 1 " 
 
 " I propose doing so. I wish you were well enough 
 to come." 
 
 " Um ! Chambers says that it would be a very good 
 air for me, — better than Ternside ; and as to my castle 
 in the north, I would as soon go to Siberia. Well, if 
 I get better, I will pay you a visit, only you always 
 have such a stupid set of respectable people about you. 
 I shock them, and they oppress me." 
 
 " Why, as I hope soon to see Arthur, T shall make it 
 as agreeable to him as I can, and I shall be very much 
 obliged to you if you would invite a few of your own 
 friends. " 
 
 " Well, you are a good fellow, Beaufort, and I will 
 take you at your word; and, since one good turn 
 deserves another, I have now no scruple in telling you 
 that I feel quite sure that you will have no further 
 annoyance from this troublesome witness-monger. " 
 
 " In that case," said Beaufort, " I may pick up a better 
 match for Camilla! Good-by, ray dear Lilburne." 
 
 " Form and ceremony of the world! " snarled the peer, 
 as the door closed on his brother-in-law, " ye make little 
 men very moral, and not a bit the better for being so! " 
 
 It so happened that Vaudemont arrived before any of 
 the other guests that day, and during the half-hour 
 which Dr. Chambers assigned to his illustrious patient, 
 so that, when he entered, there were only Mrs. Beaufort 
 and Camilla in the drawing-room.
 
 202 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Vaudemont drew back involuntarily, as he recognized 
 in the faded countenance of the elder lady features 
 associated with one of the dark passages in his earlier 
 life; but Mrs. Beaufort's gracious smile, and urbane 
 though languid welcome, sufficed to assure him that the 
 recotinition was not mutual. He advanced, and again 
 stopped short, as his eye fell upon that fair and still 
 childlike form, which had once knelt by his side and 
 pleaded, with the orphan, for his brother. While he 
 spoke to her, many recollections, some dark and stern, 
 — but those, at least, connected with Camilla, soft and 
 gentle, — thrilled through his heart. Occupied as her 
 own thoughts and feelings necessarily were with Sidney, 
 there Avas something in Vaudemont's appearance, his 
 manner, his voice, which forced upon Camilla a strange 
 and undefined interest; and even Mrs. Beaufort was 
 roused from her customary apathy, as she glanced to that 
 dark and commanding face with something between 
 admiration and fear. Vaudemont had scarcely, how- 
 ever, spoken ten words, when some other guests were 
 announced, and Lord Lilburne was wheeled in upon his 
 sofa shortly afterwards. Vaudemont continued, how- 
 ever, seated next to Camilla, and the embarrassment he 
 had at first felt disappeared. He possessed, when he 
 pleased it, that kind of eloquence which belongs to men 
 who have seen much and felt deeply, and whose talk has 
 not been frittered down to the commonplace jargon of 
 the world. His very phraseology was distinct and 
 peculiar, and he had that rarest of all charms in polished 
 life, originality both of thought and of manner. Camilla 
 blushed when she found at dinner that he placed him- 
 self by her side. That evening De Vaudemont excused 
 himself from playing, but the table was easily made 
 without him, and still he continued to converse with
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 203 
 
 the daugliter of tlie man wliom he hehl as his worst foe. 
 ])y degrees, he turned the conversation into a channel 
 that might lead him to the knowledge he sought. 
 
 " It was my fate," said he, " once to become acquainted 
 with an intimate friend of the late Mr. Beaufort. Will 
 you pardon me if I venture to fulfil a promise I made to 
 him, and ask you to inform me what has become of a — 
 a — that is, of Sidney Morton ? " 
 
 " Sidney Morton! I don't even remember the name. 
 Oh, yes! I have heard it," added Camilla, innocently, 
 and with a candor that showed how little she knew of 
 the secrets of the family; " he was one of two poor boys 
 in whom my brother felt a deep interest, — some rela- 
 tions to my uncle. Yes, yes! I remember now. I 
 never knew Sidney , but T once did see his brother. " 
 
 " Indeed ! and you remember — " 
 
 " Yes! I was very young then. I scarcely recollect 
 what passed , it was all so confused and strange ; but I 
 know that I made papa very angry, and I was told 
 never to mention the name of Morton again. I believe 
 they behaved very ill to papa." 
 
 " And you never learned — never ! — the fate of either, 
 — of Sidney ? " 
 
 "Xever!" 
 
 " But your father must know 1 " 
 
 " I think not; but tell me," said Camilla, with girlish 
 and unaffected innocence, " I have always felt anxious to 
 know, — what and who were those poor boys? " 
 
 What and who were they? So deep, then, was the 
 stain upon their name, that the modest mother and the 
 decorous father had never even said to that young girl, 
 " They are your cousins, — the children of the man in 
 whose gold we revel ! " 
 
 Philip bit his lip, and the spell of Camilla's presence
 
 204 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 seemed vanished. He muttered some inaudible answer, 
 turned away to the card-table, and Liancourt took the 
 chair he had left vacant. 
 
 " And how does INIiss Beaufort like my friend Vaude- 
 mont? I assure you that I have seldom seen him so 
 alive to tlie fascination of female beauty ! " 
 
 "Oh!" said Camilla, with her silver laugh, "your 
 nation spoils us for our own countrymen. You forget 
 how little we are accustomed to flattery." 
 
 " Flattery ! what truth could flatter on the lips of an 
 exile? But you don't answer my question, — what 
 think you of Vaudemont? Few are more admired. 
 He is handsome ! " 
 
 " Is he ? " said Camilla, and she glanced at Vaudemont, 
 as he stood at a little distance, thoughtful and abstracted. 
 Every girl forms to herself some untold dream of that 
 which she considers fairest. And Vaudemont had not 
 the delicate and faultless beauty of Sidney. There was 
 nothing that corresponded to her ideal in his marked 
 features and lordly shape I But she owned, reluctantly, 
 to herself, that she had seldom seen, among the trim 
 gallants of everyday life, a form so striking and impres- 
 sive. The air, indeed, was professional, — the most 
 careless glance could detect the soldier. But it seemed 
 the soldier of an elder age or a wilder clime. He recalled 
 to her those heads which she had seen in the Beaufort 
 Gallery and other collections yet more celebrated, — 
 portraits by Titian of those warrior statesmen who lived 
 in the old republics of Italy in a perpetual struggle 
 with their kind: images of dark, resolute, earnest men. 
 Even whatever was intellectual in his countenance 
 spoke, as in those portraits, of a mind sharpened rather 
 in active than in studious life, — intellectual, not from 
 the pale hues, the worn exhaustion, and the sunken
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 205 
 
 cheek of the bookman and dreamer, but from its collected 
 and stern repose, the calm depth that lay beneath the 
 fire of the eyes, and the strong will that spoke in the 
 close full lips, and the high but not cloudless forehead. 
 
 And, as she gazed, Vaudemont turned round, — her 
 eyes fell beneath his, and she felt angry with herself 
 that she blushed. Vaudemont saw the downcast eye, 
 he saw the Ijlush, and the attraction of Camilla's pres- 
 ence was restored. He would have approached her; 
 but at that moment Mr. Beaufort himself entered, and 
 his thoughts went again into a darker channel. 
 
 " Yes," said Liancourt, " you must allow Vaudemont 
 looks what he is, — a noble fellow and a gallant soldier. 
 Did you never hear of his battle with the tigress? It 
 made a noise in India. I must tell it you as I have 
 heard it." 
 
 And while Liancourt was narrating the adventure, 
 whatever it was, to which he referred, the card-table 
 was broken up, and Lord Lilburne, still reclining on 
 his sofa, lazily introduced his brother-in-law to such 
 of the guests as were strangers to him, — Vaudemont 
 among the rest. Mr. Beaufort had never seen Philip 
 Morton more than three times; once at Fernside, and 
 the other times by an imperfect light, and when his 
 features were convulsed by passion, and his form dis- 
 figured by his dress. Certainly, therefore, had Robert 
 Beaufort even possessed that faculty of memory which 
 is supposed to belong peculiarly to kings and princes, and 
 which recalls every face once seen, it might have tasked 
 the gift to the utmost to have detected, in the bronzed 
 and decorated foreigner to whom he was now presented, 
 the features of the wild and long-lost boy. But still 
 some dim and uneasy presentiment, or some struggling 
 and painful effort of recollection, was in his mind, as he
 
 206 NIGHT AND MOP.NIXG. 
 
 spoke to Yaudeinont, and listened to the cold, calm tone 
 of his reply. 
 
 " Who do you say that Frenchman is 1 " he whispered 
 to his brother-in-law, as Yaudemont turned away. 
 
 " Oh ! a cleverish sort of adventurer, — a gentleman : 
 he plays. He has seen a good deal of the world; he 
 rather amuses me, — different from other people. I think 
 of asking him to join our circle at Beaufort Court." 
 
 Mr. Beaufort coughed huskily, but not seeing any 
 reasonable objection to the proposal, and afraid of 
 rousing the sleeping hyena of Lord Lilburne's sarcasm, 
 he merely said, — 
 
 " Any one you like to invite : " and looking round for 
 some one on whom to vent his displeasure, perceived 
 Camilla still listening to Liancourt. He stalked up to 
 her, and, as Liancourt, seeing her rise, rose also and 
 moved away, he said peevishly, " You will never learn 
 to conduct yourself properly ; you are to he left here 
 to nurse and comfort your uncle, and not to listen to the 
 gibberish of every French adventurer. Well, Heaven 
 be praised, I have a son! — girls are a great plague! " 
 
 " So they are, Mr. Beaufort," sighed his wife, who 
 had just joined him, and who was jealous of the prefer- 
 ence Lilburne had given to her daughter. 
 
 "And so selfish," added Mrs. Beaufort; "they only 
 care for their own amusements, and never mind how 
 uncomfortable their parents are for want of them." 
 
 "Oh! dear mamma, don't say so: let me go home 
 with you, — I '11 speak to my uncle ! " 
 
 " Nonsense, child! Come along, Mr. Beaufort;" and 
 the affectionate parents went out arm in arm. They 
 did not perceive that Yaudemont had been standing close 
 behind them; but Camilla, now looking up with tears 
 in her eyes, again caught his gaze : he had heard all.
 
 KIGHT AND MOltNING. 207 
 
 " And they ill-treat her," he muttered: " that divides 
 her from them! — she will be left here; I shall see her 
 again. " 
 
 As he turned to depart, Lilburne beckoned to him. 
 
 " You do not mean to desert our table 1 " 
 
 " iSTo; but I am not very well to-night, — to-morrow, 
 if you will allow me." 
 
 " Ay, to-morrow; and if you can spare an hour in the 
 morning it will be a charity. You see," he added in a 
 whisper, " I have a nurse, though I have no children. 
 D' ye think that 's love 1 Bah ! sir, — a legacy ! Good- 
 night." 
 
 "iS'o, no, no!" said Vaudemont to himself, as ho 
 walked through the moonlight streets. " No! though 
 my heart burns, — poor murdered felon ! — to avenge thy 
 wrongs and thy crimes, revenge cannot come from me: 
 he is Fanny's grandfather, and — Camilla's uncle! " 
 
 And Camilla, when that uncle had dismissed her for 
 the night, sat down thoughtfully in her own room. 
 The dark eyes of Vaudemont seemed still to shine on 
 her; his voice yet rung in her ear; the wild tales of 
 daring and danger with which Liancourt had associated 
 his name, yet haunted her bewildered fancy, — she 
 started, frightened at her own thoughts. She took from 
 her bosom some lines that Sidney had addressed to her, 
 and as she read and re-read, her spirit became calmed 
 to its wonted and faithful melancholy. Vaudemont 
 was forgotten, and the name of Sidney yet murmured 
 on her lips, when sleep came to renew the image of the 
 absent one, and paint iu dreams the fairy-land of a happy 
 future !
 
 208 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Ring on, ye bells, — most pleasant is your chime ! 
 
 Wilson: Isle of Palms. 
 
 fairy child ! What can I wish for thee ' — Ibid. 
 
 Vaudemont remained six days in London witliout 
 
 going to H , and each of those days he paid a visit 
 
 to Lord Lilburne. On the seventh day, the invalid 
 being much better, though still unable to leave his 
 room, Camilla returned to Berkeley Square. On the 
 same day Vaudemont went once more to see Simon and 
 poor Fanny. 
 
 As he approached the door, he heard from the window, 
 partially opened, for the day was clear and fine, Fanny's 
 sweet voice. She was chanting one of the simple songs she 
 had promised to learn by heart; and Vaudemont, though 
 but a poor judge of the art, was struck and affected by 
 the music of the voice and the earnest depth of the 
 feeling. He paused opposite the window and called 
 her by her name. Fanny looked forth joyously, and 
 ran, as usual, to open the door to him. 
 
 " Oh ! you have been so long away ; but I already 
 know many of the songs: they say so much that I always 
 wanted to say! " 
 
 Vaudemont smiled, but languidly. 
 
 "How strange it is," said Fanny, musingly, "that 
 there should be so much in a piece of paper! for, after 
 all," pointing to the open page of her book, " this is but 
 a piece of paper, — only there is life in it! "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 209 
 
 " Ay," said Vaudeinont, gloomily, and far from 
 seizing the subtle delicacy of Fanny's thought, — her 
 mind dwelling upon poetry and his upon law, — " ay, and 
 do you know that upon a mere scrap of paper, if I could 
 but find it, may depend my whole fortune, my whole 
 happiness, all tliat I care for in life? " 
 
 " Upon a scrap of paper? Oh! how I wish I could 
 find it ! Ah ! you look as if you thought I should never 
 be wise enough for that! " 
 
 Vaudemont, not listening to her, uttered a deep sigh. 
 Fanny approached him timidly. 
 
 " Do not sigh, brother, — I can't bear to hear you 
 sigh. You are changed. Have you, too, not been 
 happy?" 
 
 "Happy, Fanny! yes, lately very happy, — too 
 happy ! " 
 
 " Happy, have you? and / — " the girl stopped short; 
 her tone had been that of sadness and reproach, and she 
 stopped, — why she knew not, but she felt her heart sink 
 within her. Fanny suffered him to pass her, and he 
 went straight to his own room. Her eyes followed him 
 wistfully ; it was not his habit to leave her thus abruptly. 
 The family meal of the day was over; and it was an 
 hour before Vaudemont descended to the parlor. Fanny 
 had put aside the songs; she had no heart to recommence 
 those gentle studies that had been so sweet, — thej^ had 
 drawn no pleasure, no praise from him. She was seated 
 idly and listlessly beside the silent old man, who every 
 day grew more and more silent still. She turned her 
 head as Vaudemont entered, and her pretty lip pouted as 
 that of a neglected child. But he did not heed it, and 
 the pout vanished, and tears rushed to her eyes. 
 
 Vaudemont was changed. His countenance was 
 thoughtful and overcast, his manner abstracted. He 
 
 VOL. II. — 14
 
 210 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 a.Mrossod a few words to Simon, and then, seating 
 himself by the window, leaned his cheek on his hand, 
 and was soon lost in reverie. Fanny, finding that he 
 (lid not speak, and, after stealing many a long and earnest 
 glance at his motionless attitude and gloomy brow, rose 
 gently, and gliding to him with her light step, said in 
 a trembling voice, — 
 
 " Are you in pain, brother? " 
 "No, pretty one! " 
 
 "Then why won't you speak to Fanny? Will you 
 not walk with her? Perhaps my grandfather will come 
 too." 
 
 "Not this evening. I shall go out; but it will be 
 alone." 
 
 " Where ? Has not Fanny been good ? I have not been 
 out since you left us. And the grave, — brother! I 
 sent Sarah with the flowers, but — " 
 
 Vaudemont rose abruptly. The mention of the grave 
 brought back his thoughts from the dreaming channel 
 into which they had flowed. Fanny, whose very child- 
 ishness had once so soothed him, now disturbed; he felt 
 the want of that complete solitude Avhich makes the 
 atmosphere of growing passion; he muttered some 
 scarcely audible excuse, and quitted the house. Fanny 
 saw him no more that evening. He did not return till 
 midnight. But Fanny did not sleep till she heard his 
 step on the stairs, and his chamber-door close; and when 
 she did sleep, her dreams were disturbed and painful. 
 The next morning, Avhen they met at breakfast (for 
 Vaudemont did not return to London), her eyes were 
 red and heavy, and her cheek pale. And, still buried in 
 meditation, Vaudemont's eye, usually so kind and 
 watchful, did not detect those signs of a grief that Fanny 
 could not have explained. After breakfast, however, he
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 211 
 
 asked her to walk out; and her face brightened as she 
 hastened to put on her bonnet, and take her little basket, 
 full of fresh flowers which she had already sent Sarah 
 forth to purcliase. 
 
 "Fanny," said Vaudemont, as leaving the house, he 
 saw the basket on her arm, " to-day you may place some 
 of those flowers on another tombstone ! Poor child, what 
 natural goodness there is in that heart! — what pity 
 that — " 
 
 He paused. Fanny looked delightedly in his face. 
 
 " You were praising me, — you ! And what is a pity, 
 brother?" 
 
 While she spoke, the sound of the joy -bells was heard 
 near at hand. 
 
 "Hark!" said Vaudemont, forgetting her question, 
 and almost gayly, — "hark! — I accept the omen. It 
 is a marriage peal ! " 
 
 He quickened his steps, and they reached the 
 churchyard. 
 
 There was a crowd already assembled, and Vaudemont 
 and Fanny paused, and, leaning over the little gate, 
 looked on. 
 
 " Why are these peo^jle here, and why does the bell 
 ring so merrily ? " 
 
 " There is to be a wedding, Fanny." 
 
 " I have heard of a wedding very often," said Fanny, 
 with a pretty look of puzzlement and doubt, " but I 
 don't know exactly what it means. Will you tell me? 
 — and the bells too ? " 
 
 "Yes, Fanny, those bells toll but three times for 
 man! The first time, when he comes into the world; 
 the last time, when he leaves it; the time between, 
 when he takes to his side a partner in all the sorrows, 
 in all the joys that yet remain to him; and who, even
 
 212 IS'IGHT AND MQIIXING. 
 
 when the last bell announces his death to this earth, may 
 yet, forever and ever, be his partner in that world to 
 come: that Heaven, where they who are as innocent as 
 you, Fanny, may hope to live and to love each other in 
 a land in which there are no graves ! " 
 
 " And this bell ? " 
 
 "Tolls for that partnership, — for the Avedding! " 
 
 " T think I understand you : and they Avho are to be 
 wed are happy 1 " 
 
 " Happy, Fanny, if they love, and their love continue. 
 Oh! conceive the happiness to know some one person 
 dearer to you than your own self, — some one breast into 
 which you can pour every thought, every grief, every 
 joy! One person, who, if all the rest of the world were 
 to calumniate or forsake you, would never wrong you by 
 a harsh thought or an unjust word; who would cling to 
 you the closer in sickness, in poverty, in care; who 
 would sacrifice all things to you, and for whom you 
 would sacrifice all; from whom, except by death, night 
 or day, you may be never divided; whose smile is ever 
 at your hearth; who has no tears while you are well and 
 happy, and your love the same. Fanny, such is marriage, 
 if they who marry have hearts and souls to feel that 
 there is no bond on earth so tender and so sublime. 
 There is an opposite picture: I will not draw that! 
 And as it is, Fanny, you cannot understand me! " 
 
 He turned away, and Fanny's tears were falling like 
 rain upon the grass below: he did not see them! He 
 entered the churchyard, for tlie bell now ceased; the 
 ceremony was to begin. He followed tlie bridal party 
 into the church, and Fanny, lowering her veil, crept 
 after him, aw^ed and trembling. 
 
 They stood, unobserved, at a little distance, and heard 
 the service.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 213 
 
 The betrothed were of the middle class of life, young, 
 both ceniely ; and their behavior was such as suited the 
 reverence and sanctity of the rite. Vaudemont stood, 
 looking on intently, with his arms folded on his breast. 
 Fanny leaned behind him, and apart from all, against 
 one of the pews. And still in her hand, while the 
 priest was solemnizing marriage, she held the flowers 
 intended for the grave. Even to that Morning — 
 hushed, calm, earnest, with her mysterious and un- 
 conjectured heart — her shape brought a thought of 
 Night! 
 
 When the ceremony was over; when the bride fell on 
 her mother's breast, and wept; and then, when turning 
 thence her eyes met the bridegroom's and the tears were 
 all smiled away ; when in that one rapid interchange of 
 looks spoke all that holy love can speak to love, and 
 with timid frankness she placed her hand in his to 
 whom she had just vowed her life, — a tlirill went 
 through the hearts of those present. Vaudemont sighed 
 heavily. He heard his sigh echoed, but by one that had 
 in its sound no breath of pain ; he turned ; Fanny had 
 raised her veil; her eyes met his, moistened, but 
 bright, soft, and her cheeks were rosy -red. Vaudemont 
 recoiled before that gaze, and turned from the church. 
 The persons interested retired to the vestry to sign 
 their names in the registry; the crowd dispersed, 
 and Vaudemont and Fanny stood alone in the burial- 
 ground. 
 
 "Look, Fanny," said the former, pointing to a tomb 
 that stood far from his mother's (for those ashes were 
 too hallowed for such a neighborhood), — " look yonder; 
 it is a new tomb, Fanny, let us approach it. Can you 
 read what is there inscribed 1 " 
 
 The inscription was simply this : —
 
 21-i NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 To W— G— . 
 
 MAN SEES THE DEED, — 
 
 GOD THE CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 JUDGE NOT, THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED. 
 
 " Fanny, this tomb fulfils your pious wish: it is to the 
 memory of him whom you called your father. Whatever 
 was his life here, — whatever sentence it hath received, 
 Heaven, at least, Avill not condemn your piety, if you 
 honor one who was good to you, and place flowers, 
 however idle, even over that grave." 
 
 " It is his, — my father's — and you have thought of 
 this for me! " said Fanny, taking his hand, and sobbing. 
 " And I have been thinking that you were not so kind 
 to me as you were! " 
 
 " Have I not been so kind to you ? — nay, forgive me, 
 I am not happy. " 
 
 " Not 1 — you said yesterday you had been too happy. " 
 
 " To remember happiness is not to be happy, Fanny." 
 
 "That's true, and — " 
 
 Fanny stopped; and, as she bent over the tomb 
 musing, Vaudemont — willing to leave her undisturbed, 
 and feeling bitterly how little his conscience could 
 vindicate, though it miglit find palliation for the dark 
 man who slept not there — retired a few paces. 
 
 At this time the new-married pair, with their wit- 
 nesses, the clergyman, etc., came from the vestry and 
 cros.sed the path. Fanny, as she turned from the tomb, 
 saw them, and stood still, looking earnestly at the bride. 
 
 " What a lovely face ! " said the mother. " Is it — yes 
 it is — the poor idiot girl." 
 
 "Ah!" said the bridegroom, tenderly, "and she, 
 Mary, beautiful as she is, she can never make another as 
 happy as you have made me. "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 21 
 
 K 
 
 VauJemont heard, and his heart felt sad. " Poor 
 Fanny! And yet, hut for that alfliction, / might have 
 loved her, ere I met the fatal face of the daughter of my 
 foe!" And with a deep compassion, an inexpressible 
 and holy fondness, he moved to Fanny. 
 
 " Gome, my child; now let us go home." 
 
 " Stay," said Fanny, — " you forget. " And she went 
 to strew the flowers still left over Catherine's grave. 
 
 " Will my mother," thought Vaudemont, " forgive me, 
 if 1 have other thoughts than hate and vengeance for 
 that house which builds its greatness over her slandered 
 name 1 " He groaned : and that grave had lost its 
 melancholy charm.
 
 216 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Of all men, I say, 
 
 That dare, for 't is a desperate adventure, 
 Wear ou their free necks tlie yoke of women, 
 Give me a soldier. 
 
 Knight of Malta, 
 So lightly doth this little boat 
 Upon the scane-touched billows float ; 
 So careless dotli she seem to be, 
 Thus left by herself on the homeless sea, 
 To lie there with her cheerful sail, 
 Till Heaven shall send some gracious gale. 
 
 Wilson : Isle of Palms. 
 
 Vaudemont returned that evening to London, and 
 found at his lodgings a note from Lord Lilburne, stating 
 that as his gout was now somewhat mitigated, his 
 physician had recommended him to try change of air; 
 that Beaufort Court was in one of the western counties, 
 in a genial climate; that he was therefore going thither 
 the next day for a short time ; that he had asked some of 
 ]\Ionsieur de Vaudemont's countrymen, and a few other 
 friends, to enliven the circle of a dull country-house; 
 that ^Ir. and Mrs. Beaufort would be delighted to see 
 Monsieur de Vaudemont also, — and that his compliance 
 with their invitation would be a charity to Monsieur de 
 Vaudemont's faitliful and obliged Lilburne. 
 
 The first sensation of Vaudemont on reading this 
 effusion was delight. " I shall see her," he cried, " I 
 shall be under the same roof ! " But the glow faded at 
 once from his cheek The roof ! what roof ! Be the 
 guest where he held himself the lord ! — be the guest of 
 
 !
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 217 
 
 Robert Beaufort! Was that all? T^iil lie not meditate 
 the deadliest war which civilized life admits of, — the 
 fV'ir of Laiv : war for name, property, that very hearth, 
 with all its household goils, against this man, — could 
 he receive his hospitality 1 " And what then ? " he 
 exclaimed, as he paced to and fro the room, — " because 
 her father wronged me, and because I would claim mine 
 own, must I therefore exclude from my thoughts, from 
 my sight, an image so fair and gentle, — the one who 
 knelt by my side, an infant, to that hard man? Is hate 
 so noble a passion that it is not to admit one glimpse of 
 love? Love! what word is that? Let me beware in 
 time!" He paused in fierce self-contest, and, throwing 
 open the window, gasped for air. The street in which he 
 lodged Avas situated in the neighborhood of St. James's; 
 and, at that very moment, as if to defeat all opposition, 
 and to close the struggle, Mrs. Beaufort's barouche drove 
 by, Camilla at her side. Mrs. Beaufort, glancing up, 
 languidly bowed; and Camilla herself perceived him, 
 and he saw her change color as she inclined her head. 
 He gazed after them almost breathless till the carriage 
 disappeared ; and then, reclosing the window, he sat 
 down to collect his thoughts, and again to reason with 
 himself. But still, as he reasoned, he saw ever before 
 him that blush and that smile. At last he sprang up, 
 and a noble and bright expression elevated the character 
 of his face: "Yes, if I enter that house, if I eat that 
 man's bread and drink of his cup, I must forego, not 
 justice, — not what is due to my mother's name, — but 
 Avhatever belongs to hate and vengeance. \i I enter 
 that house, and if Brovidence permit me the means 
 whereby to regain my rights, why, she — the innocent 
 one — she may be the means of saving her father from 
 ruin, and stand like an angel by that boundary where
 
 218 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 justice runs into revenge! Besides, is it not my duty 
 to discover Sidney? Here is the only clew I shall 
 obtain." AVith these thoughts, he hesitated no more, — 
 he decided: he would not reject this hospitality, since 
 it might be in his power to pay it back ten thousand-fold. 
 " And who knows," he murmured again, " if Heaven, in 
 throwing this sweet being in my Avay, might not have 
 designed to subdue and chasten in inc the angry passions 
 I have so long fed on 1 I have seen her, — can I now 
 hate her father ? " 
 
 He sent off his note accepting the invitation. When 
 he bad done so, was be satisfied? He had taken as noT)le 
 and as large a view of the diities thereby imposed on liiiu 
 as he well could take ; but something whispered at his 
 heart, "There is weakness in thy generosity, — darest 
 thou love the daughter of Robert Beaufort? " And his 
 heart had no answer to this voice. 
 
 The rapidity with which love is ripened depends less 
 upon the actvial number of years that liave passed over 
 the soil in which the seed is cast, than upon the freshness 
 of the soil itself. A young man who lives the ordinary 
 life of the world, and wlio fritters away rather than 
 exhausts his feelings upon a variety of quick succeeding 
 subjects, — the Cynthias of the minute, — is not apt to 
 form a real passion at the first sight. Youth is infiam- 
 malile only when the heart is young. 
 
 There are certain times of life when, in either sex, 
 the affections are prepared, as it were, to be impress(id 
 with the first fair face tliat attracts the fancy and 
 delights the eye. Such times are when the heart has 
 been long solitary, and when some interval of idleness 
 and rest succeeds to periods of harsher and more turbulent 
 excitement. It was precisely such a period in the life 
 of Vaudemont. Although his ambition had been for
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 219 
 
 many years his dream, and his sword liis mistress, yet, 
 naturally affectionate, and susceptihle of strong emotion, 
 he had often repined at his lonely lot. By degrees, the 
 hoy's fantasy and reverence which had wound themselves 
 round the image of Eugenie, subsided into that gentle 
 and tender melancholy which, perhaps, by weakening 
 the strength of the sterner thoughts; leaves us inclined 
 rather to receive than to resist a new attachment; and 
 on the verge of the sweet Memory trembles the sweet 
 Plope. The suspension of his profession, his schemes, 
 his struggles, his career, left his passions unemployed. 
 Vaudemont was thus unconsciously prepared to love. 
 As Ave have seen, his first and earliest feelings directed 
 themselves to Fanny, l^ut he had so immediately 
 detected the danger, and so immediately recoiled from 
 nursing those thoughts and fancies, without which love 
 dies for want of food, — for a person to whom he ascribed 
 the affliction of an imbecility which would give to such 
 a sentiment all the attributes either of the weakest 
 rashness or of dishonor approaching to sacrilege, — that 
 the wings of the deity were scared away the instant their 
 very shadow fell upon his mind. And thus, when 
 Camilla rose upon him, his heart was free to receive her 
 image. Her graces, her accomplishments, a certain 
 nameless charm that invested her, pleased him even more 
 than her beauty ; the recollections connected with that 
 first time in which he had ever beheld her were also 
 grateful and endearing; the harshness with which her 
 parents spoke to her moved his compassion, and addressed 
 itself to a temper peculiarly alive to the generosity that 
 leans towards the weak and the wronged; the engaging 
 mixture of mildness and gayety with which she tended 
 her peevish and sneering imcle, convinced him of her 
 better and more enduring qualities of disposition and
 
 220 i;ig:it and mornixg. 
 
 womanly heart. And even — so strange and contra- 
 dictory are our feelings — the very rememhrance that 
 she was connected with a family so hateful to him made 
 her own image the more bright from the darkness that 
 surrounded it. For was it not with the daughter of his 
 foe that the lover of Verona fell in love at first sight 1 
 And is not tJnit a common type of us all, — as if passion 
 delighted in contradictions'? As the Diver, in Schiller's 
 exquisite ballad, fastened upon the rock of coral in the 
 midst of the gloomy sea, so we cling tlie more gratefully 
 to whatever of fair thought and gentle shelter smiles out 
 to us in the depths of hate and strife. 
 
 But, perhaps, Vaudemont would not so suddenly and 
 so utterly have rendered himself to a passion that began, 
 already, completely to master his strong spirit, if he had 
 not, from Camilla's embarrassment, her timidity, her 
 blushes, intoxicated himself with the belief that his 
 feelings were not unshared. And who knows not that 
 such a belief, once clierished, ripens our own love to a 
 development in wliich hours are as years ? 
 
 It was, then, with such emotions as made him almost 
 insensible to every thought but the luxury of breathing 
 the same air as his cousin, which swept from his mind 
 the past, the future, — leaving nothing but a joyous, a 
 breathless pkesent on the face of Time, — that he 
 repaired to Beaufort Court. He did not return to 
 
 H before he went, but he wrote to Fanny a short 
 
 and hurried line to explain that he might be absent for 
 some days at least, and promised to write again, if he 
 should be detained longer than he anticipated. 
 
 In the meanwhile one of those successive revolutions 
 which had marked the eras in Fanny's moral existence, 
 took its date from that last time they had walked and 
 conversed together.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 221 
 
 The very evening of that day, some hours after Philip 
 was gone, and after Simon had retired to rest, Fanny 
 was sitting before the dying fire in the little parlor in 
 an attitude of deep and pensive reverie. The old 
 woman-servant, Sarah, who, very different from Mrs. 
 Boxer, loved Fanny with her whole heart, came into 
 the room, as was her wont before going to bed, to see 
 that the fire Avas duly out, and all safe: and as she 
 approached the hearth, she started to see Fanny 
 still up. 
 
 "Dear heart alive!" she said: "why, Miss Fanny, 
 you will catch your death of cold, — what are you 
 thinking about ? " 
 
 "Sit down, Sarah; I want to speak to you." Now, 
 though Fanny was exceedingly kind and attached to 
 Sarah, she was seldom communicative to her, or indeed 
 to any one. It was usually in its own silence and 
 darkness that that lovely mind worked out its own. 
 doubts. 
 
 " Do you, my sweet young lady? T 'm sure anything 
 I can do — " and Sarah seated herself in her master's 
 great chair, and drew it close to Fanny. There was no 
 light in the room but the expiring fire, and it threw 
 upward a pale glimmer on the two faces bending over it: 
 the one so strangely beautiful, so smooth, so blooming, 
 so exquisite in its youth and innocence; the other 
 withered, wrinkled, meagre, and astute. It was like 
 the fairy and the witch together. 
 
 "Well, miss," said the crone, observing that, after a 
 considerable pause, Fanny was still silent, — " well — " 
 
 " Sarah, I have seen a wedding! " 
 
 " Have you 1 " and the old woman laughed. " Oh ! 
 I heard it was to be to-day ! — young Waldron's wedding! 
 Yes, they have been long sweethearts- "
 
 222 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " "Were you ever married , Sarah 1 " 
 
 "Lord l)less you, yes! and a very good husband I 
 had, poor man! But he's dead these many years; and 
 if you had not taken me, I must have gone to the 
 workhus. " 
 
 "He is dead! Wasn't it very hard to live after 
 that, Sarah?" 
 
 " The Lord strengthens the hearts of widders ! " 
 observed Sarah, sanctimoniously. 
 
 " Did you marry your brother, Sarah?" said Fanny, 
 playing with tlie corner of her apron. 
 
 " My brother! " exclaimed the old woman, aghast. 
 " La! miss, you must not talk in that way, — it 's quite 
 wicked and heathenish ! One must not marry one's 
 brother!" 
 
 " No! " said Fanny, trembling, and turning very pale, 
 even by that light. " No ! — are you sure of that ? " 
 
 " It is the wickedest thing even to talk about, my 
 dear young mistress : but you 're like a babby unborn ! " 
 
 Fanny was silent for some moments. At length she 
 said, unconscious that she was speaking aloud, " But he 
 is not my brother, after all ! " 
 
 "Oh, miss, fie! Are you letting your pretty head 
 run on the handsome gentleman? Yo7i, too, — dear, 
 dear! I .see we're all alike, we poor femel creturs! 
 You! who'd have thought it? Oh, Miss Fanny! — 
 yon '11 break your heart if you goes for to fancy any such 
 thing. " 
 
 " Any what thing?" 
 
 "Why, that that gentleman will marry you! I'm 
 sure, thof he 's so simple like, he 's .some great gentleman ! 
 They sny his boss is worth a hundred pounds! Dear, 
 dear! why did n't I ever think of this before 1 He must 
 be a very wicked man, I see, now, why he comes
 
 ^IGET AND MORNING. 223 
 
 here. I '11 speak to him, that I will! — a verij wicked 
 man!" 
 
 Sarah was startled from her indignation by Fanny's 
 rising suddenly and standing hefore her in the flickering 
 twilight, almost like a shape transformed, — so tall did 
 she seem, so stately, so dignified. 
 
 "Is it of him that you are speaking? " said she, in a 
 voice of calm but deep resentment, — " of him! If so, 
 Sarah, we two can live no more in the same house." 
 
 And these words were said with a propriety and 
 collecteduess that even, through all her terror, showed 
 at once to Sarah how much they now wronged Fanny 
 who had snfTered their lips to repeat the parrot-cry of 
 the "idiot girl." 
 
 " Oh ! gracious me ! — miss — ma'am — I am so sorry 
 • — 1 'd rather bite out my tongue than .'^ay a word to 
 offend you; it was only my love for you, dear innocent 
 creature that you are ! " and the honest woman sobbed 
 with real passion as she clasped Fanny's hand. " There 
 have been so many young persons, good and harmless, 
 yes, even as you are, ruined. But you don't understand 
 me. ]\Iiss Fanny ! hear me ; I must try and say what I 
 would say. That man, tliat gentleman — so proud, so 
 well-dressed, so grandlike — will never marry you, 
 never, never. And if ever he says he does love you, 
 and you say you loves him, and you two don^t marry, 
 you will be ruined and wicked, and die, — die of a 
 broken heart! " 
 
 The earnestness of Sarah's manner subdued and almost 
 awed Fanny. She sunk down again in her chair, and 
 sutleriMl the old woman to caress and weep over her hand 
 for some moments, in a silence that concealed the darkest 
 and most agitated feelings Fanny's life had hitherto 
 known. At length she said, —
 
 224 KIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 " \Yhy may lie not marry me if he loves me? — he is 
 not my brother, — indeed he is not ! I '11 never call 
 him so again," 
 
 " He cannot marry you," said Sarah, resolved, with a 
 sort of rude nobleness, to persevere in what she felt to 
 be a duty; " I don't say anything about money, because 
 that does not always signify. But he cannot marry you, 
 because — because people who are hedicated one way 
 never marry those who are hedicated and brought up in 
 another, A gentleman of that kind requires a wife to 
 know — oh — to know ever so much ; and 7jou — " 
 
 " Sarah," interrupted Fanny, rising again, but this 
 time with a smile on her face, " don't say anything more 
 about it; I forgive you, if you promise never to speak 
 unkindly of him again, — never, never, never, Sarah!" 
 
 " But may I just tell him that — that — " 
 
 " That what 1 " 
 
 " That you are so young and innocent, and has no 
 pertector like; and that if you were to love him it would 
 be a shame in him, — that it would! " 
 
 And then (oh! no, Fanny, there was nothing clouded 
 noio in your reason !) — and then the woman's alarm, 
 the modesty, the instinct, the terror came upon her: 
 
 " Never! never! I will not love him, — I do not love 
 him, indeed, Sarah. If you speak to him, I will never 
 look you in the face again. It is all past, — all, dear 
 Sarah!" 
 
 She kissed the old woman; and Sarah, fancying that 
 her sagacity and counsel had prevailed, promised all she 
 was asked; so they went upstairs together, — friends.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 225 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 As the wind 
 Sobs, an uiicertaiu sweetness comes from out 
 The orange-trees. 
 
 Rise up, Olympia. — She sleeps soundly. Ho ! 
 
 Stirring at last. 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 The next day Fanny was seen liy Sarah counting the 
 little hoard that she had so long and so painfully saved 
 for her benefactor's tomb. The money was no longer, 
 wanted for that object. Fanny had found another; she 
 said nothing to Sarah or to Simon. But there Avas a 
 strange complacent smile upon lier lip, as she busied 
 herself in her work, tliat puzzled the old woman. Late 
 at noon came the postman's unwonted knock at the door. 
 A letter! — a letter for Miss Fanny. A letter! — the 
 first she had ever received in her life! And it v/as froni 
 him! — and it began with " Dear Fanny." Vaudemont 
 had called her " dear Fanny " a hundred times, and the 
 expression had become a matter of cour.se. But " Dear 
 Fanny " seemed so very diiferent when it was written. 
 The letter could not well be .shorter, nor, all things con- 
 sidered, colder. But the girl found no fault with it. Jt 
 began with " Dear Fanny," and it ended with " Yours 
 truly. " " ' Yours truly, ' — mine truly, — and how kind 
 to write at all! " Now it so happened that Vaudemont, 
 having never merged the art of the penman into that 
 rapid scrawl into which people, who are compelled to 
 
 VOL. IL — 15
 
 226 NIGHT AND MOKN.'NG. 
 
 write hnrrieillj' and constantly, degenerate, wrote a 
 remarkably good hand, — 1x)ld, clear, symmetrical: 
 almost too good a hand for one wlio was not to make 
 money by calligraphy. And after Fanny had got the 
 words by heart, she stole gently to a cupboard and 
 took forth some specimens of her own hand, in tlie 
 shape of house and work memoranda, and extracts which, 
 the better to help her memory, she had made from the 
 poem-book Vaudemont had given her. She gravel}' 
 laid his letter by the side of these specimens, and 
 blushed at the contrast; yet, after all, her own writing, 
 though trembling and irresolute, was far from a bad 
 or vulgar hand. But emulation was now fairly roused 
 within her. Vaudemont, preoccupied by more engrossing 
 thoughts, and, indeed, forgetting a danger which had 
 seemed so thoroughly to have passed away, did not in 
 his letter caution Fanny against going out alone. She 
 remarked this: and having completely recovered her 
 own alarm at the attempt that had been made on her 
 liberty, she thought she was now released from her 
 promise to guard against a past and imaginary peril. So 
 after dinner she slipped out alone, and went to the 
 mistress of the school where she had received her 
 elementary education. She had ever since continued 
 her acquaintance with that lady, who, kind-hearted, 
 and touched by her situation, often employed her 
 industry, and was far from blind to the improvement 
 that had for some time been silently working in the 
 mind of her old pupil. 
 
 Fanny had a long conversation with this lady, and she 
 brought back a bundle of books. The light might have 
 been seen that night, and many nights after, burning 
 long and late from her little window. And having 
 recovered her old freedom of habits, — which Simon,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 227 
 
 poor man, did not notice, and which Sarah, thinking 
 tliat anything was better than moping at home, did not 
 remonstrate against, — Fanny went out regularly for 
 two hours, or sometimes for even a longer period, every 
 evening after old Simon hail composed himself to the 
 nap that filled up the interval between dinner and tea. 
 
 In a very short time — a time that with ordinary 
 stimulants would have seemed marvellously sliort — 
 Fanny's handwriting was not the same thing; her 
 manner of talking became different; she no longer 
 called herself " Fanny " when she spoke ; the music of 
 her voice was more quiet and settled ; her sweet expres- 
 sion of face was more thoughtful ; the eyes seemed to 
 have deepened in their very color; she was no longer 
 heard chanting to herself as she tripped along. The 
 books that she nightly fed on had passed into her mind ; 
 the poetry that had ever unconsciously sported round 
 her young years began now to create poetry in herself. 
 Xay, it might almost have seemed as if that restless 
 disorder of the intellect, which the dullards had called 
 idiocy, had been the wild efforts, not of folly, but of 
 GENIUS seeking to find its path and OTitlet from the cold 
 and dreary solitude to which the circumstances of her 
 early life had compelled it. 
 
 Days, even weeks, passed, ■ — she never spoke of 
 Vaudemont. And once, when Sarah, astonished and 
 bewildered by the change in her young mistress, 
 asked, — 
 
 " When does the gentleman come back 1 " 
 
 Fanny answered, with a mysterious smile, " Is'ot yet, 
 I hojje, — not quite yet! "
 
 228 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Thierri/. — I do begin 
 
 To feel an alteration in my nature, 
 
 And in his full-sailed coutidence a shower 
 
 Of gentle rain, that falling on the fire 
 
 Hath quenched it. 
 
 How is my heart divided 
 Between the duty of a son and love ! 
 Bealmoxt and Fjletchek: Tltierry and Theodoret. 
 
 Vaudemoxt liad now been a month at Beaufort Court. 
 The scene of a country-house, with the sports that 
 enliven it, and the accomplishments it calls forth, was 
 one in which he was well fitted to shine. He had been 
 an excellent shot as a boy; and, though long unused to 
 the fowling-piece, had, in India, acquired a deadly pre- 
 cision with the rifle; so that a very few days of practice 
 in the stubbles and covers of Beaufort Court made his 
 skill the theme of the guests and the admiration of the 
 keepers. Hunting began, and this pursuit, always so 
 strong a passion in the active man, and which, to the 
 turbulence and agitation of his half-tamed breast, now 
 excited by a kind of fronzy of hope and fear, gave a 
 vent and release, was a sport in which he was yet more 
 fitted to excel. His horsemanship, his daring, the 
 stone walls he leaped, and the floods through which he 
 dashed, furnished his companions with wondering tale 
 and comment on their return home. Mr. Marsden, who, 
 with some other of Arthur's early friends, had been 
 invited to Beaufort Court, in order to welcome its
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 229 
 
 expected heir, and who retained all the prudence which 
 liad distinguished him of yore when, having ridden over 
 old Simon, he dismounted to examine the knees of his 
 horse; Mr. ISIarsden, a skilful huntsman, who rode 
 the most experienced horses in the world, and who 
 generally contrived to be in at the death, without having 
 leaped over anything higher than a hurdle, suffering 
 the bolder quadruped (in case what is called the " knowl- 
 edge of the country " — that is, the knowledge of gaps 
 and gates — failed him) to perform the more dangerous 
 feats alone, as he quietly scrambled over, or scrambled 
 through, upon foot, and remounted the well-taught 
 animal when it halted after the exploit, safe and sound, 
 — ]Mr. Marsden declared that he never saw a rider with 
 so little judgment as Monsieur de Vaudemont, and that 
 the devil was certainly in him. 
 
 This sort of reputation, commonplace and merely 
 physical as it was in itself, had a certain effect upon 
 Camilla; it might be an effect of fear. I do not say, for 
 I do not know, what her feelings towards Vaudemont 
 exactly were. As the calmest natures are often those 
 the most hurried away by their contraries, so, perhaps, 
 he awed and dazzled rather than pleased her: at least, 
 he certainly forced himself on her interest. Still she 
 would have started in terror if any one had said to her, 
 " Do you love your betrothed less than when you met by 
 that happy lake 1 " — and her heart would have indig- 
 nantly rebuked the questioner. The letters of her 
 lover were still long and frequent; hers were briefer 
 and more subdued. But then there was constraint in 
 the correspondence, — it was submitted to her mother. 
 Whatever might be Vaudemont's manner to Camilla 
 whenever occasion threw them alone together, he cer- 
 tainly did not make his attentions glaring enough to be
 
 230 NIGHT AND MORNIXG. 
 
 remarked. His eye watched her rather than his lip 
 addressed ; lie kept as much aloof as possible from the 
 rest of her family, and his customary bearing was silent 
 even to gloom. But there were moments when he 
 indulged in a fitful exuberance of spirits, Avhich had ii 
 something strained and unnatural. He had outlived ' 
 Lord Lilburne's short liking; for since he had resolved 
 no longer to keep watch on that noble gamester's 
 method of play, he played but little himself; and Lord 
 Lilburne saw that he had no chance of ruining him, — 
 there was, therefore, no longer any reason to like him. 
 But this was not all ; Avhen Vaudemont had been at 
 the house somewhat more than two weeks, Lilburne, 
 petulant and impatient, whether at his refusals to join 
 the card-table, or at the moderation with which, when 
 he did, he confined his ill-luck to petty losses, one 
 day limped up to him, as he stood at the embrasure 
 of the window, gazing on the wide lands beyond, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Vaudemont, you are bolder in hunting, they tell 
 me, than you are at whist. " 
 
 " Honors don't tell against one, — over a hedge! " 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Lilburne, rather 
 haughtily. 
 
 Vaudemont was, at that moment, in one of those bitter 
 moods when the sense of his situation, the sight of the 
 usurper in his home, often swept away the gentler 
 thoughts inspired by his fatal passion. And the tone 
 of Lord Lilburne, and his loathing to the man, were 
 too much for his temper. 
 
 " Lord Lilburne," lie said, and his lip curled, " if you 
 had been born poor, you would have made a great for- 
 tune, — you play luckily." 
 
 " How am I to take this, sir 1 "
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 231 
 
 " As you please," answered Vaudemont, calmly, but 
 with an eye of fire. And he turned away. 
 
 Lilburne remained on the spot very thoughtful : 
 " Hum! he suspects me. I cannot quarrel on such 
 ground : the suspicion itself dishonors me, — I must seek 
 another. " 
 
 The next day Lilburne, who was familiar with Mr. 
 Marsden (though the latter gentleman never played at 
 the same table) , asked that prudent person after break- 
 fast, if he happened to have his pistols Avith him. 
 
 "Yes; I always take them into the country, — one 
 may as well practise Avhen one has the opportunity. 
 Besides, sportsmen are often quarrelsome; and if it is 
 known that one shoots well, — it keeps one out of 
 quarrels ! " 
 
 "Very true," said Lilburne, rather admiringly; "I 
 have made the same remark myself when I was younger, 
 I have not shot with a pistol for some years. I am well 
 enough now to walk out Avith the help of a stick. 
 Suppose we practise for half an hour or so." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Mr. Marsden. 
 
 The pistols were brought, and they strolled forth; 
 Lord Lilburne found his hand out. 
 
 "As I never hunt now," said the peer, and he 
 gnashed his teeth, and glanced at his maimed limb; 
 "for though lameness would not prevent my keeping 
 my seat, violent exercise hurts my leg; and Brodie says 
 any frcvsh accident iniglit bring on tic douloureux: and as 
 my gout does not permit me to join the shooting-parties 
 at present, it would be a kindness in you to lend me 
 your pistols, — it would while away an hour or so; 
 though, thank Heaven, my duelling days are over! " 
 
 "Certainly," said 'Slv. IMarsden; and the pistols were 
 consigned to Lord Lilburne.
 
 232 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 Four days from the date, as Mr. Marsden, Vaudemont, 
 and some other gentlemen, were making for the covers, 
 they came upon Lord Lilburne, who, in a part of the 
 park not within sight or sound of the house, was amusing 
 himself with Mr. Marsden's pistols, which Dykeman 
 was at hand to load for him. He turned round, not at 
 all disconcerted by the interruption. 
 
 "You have no idea how 1 'm improved, Marsden, — • 
 just see ! " and he pointed to a glove nailed to a tree. 
 "I've hit that mark twice in five times; and every 
 time I have gone straight enough along the line to 
 have killed my man." 
 
 ",Ay, the mark itself does not so much signify," said 
 Mr. ^larsden : " at least, not in actual duelling, — the 
 great tiling is to be in the line." 
 
 While he spoke. Lord Lilburne's ball went a third 
 time through the glove. His cold, bright eye turned 
 on Vaudemont, as he said, with a smile, — 
 
 "They tell me you shoot well with a fowling-piece, 
 my dear Vaudemont, — are you equally adroit with a 
 pistol ? " 
 
 " You may see , if you like ; but yoit take aim , Lord 
 Lilburne; that would be of no use in English duelling. 
 Permit me." 
 
 He walked to the glove, and tore from it one of the 
 fingers, which he fastened separately to the tree, took 
 the pistol from Dykeman as he walked past him, gained 
 the spot whence to fire, turned at once round, without 
 apparent aim, and the finger fell to the ground. 
 
 Jjilburne stood aghast. 
 
 "That's wonderful!" said Marsden, — "quite won- 
 derful. Where the devil did you get such a knack? — 
 for it is only knack after all! " 
 
 " I lived for many years in a country where the practice
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 233 
 
 was constant, where all tliat belongs to rifle-shooting 
 was a necessary accomplislunent, — a country in which 
 man had often to contend against the wild beast. In 
 civilized states, man himself supplies the place of the 
 wild beast, — but we don't hunt him ! — Lord Lilburne," 
 — and this was added with a smiling and disdainful 
 whisper, — "you must practise a little more." 
 
 But disregardful of the advice, from that day Lord 
 Lilburne's morning occupation was gone. He thought 
 no longer of a duel with Vaudemont. As soon as the 
 sportsman had left him, he bade Dykeman take up the 
 pistols, and walked straight home into the library, where 
 Robert Beaufort, who was no sportsman, generally 
 spent his mornings. 
 
 He flung himself into an arm-chair, and said, as he 
 stirred the fire with unusual vehemence, — 
 
 "Beaufort, I'm very sorry I asked you to invite 
 Vaudemont. He 's a very ill-bred, disagreeable fellow! " 
 
 Beaufort threw down his steward's account-book, on 
 which he was employed, and replied, — 
 
 " Lilburne, I have never had an easy moment since 
 that man has been in the house. As he was your guest 
 I did not like to speak before; but don't you observe — 
 you viust observe — • how like he is to the old family 
 portraits? The more I have examined him the more 
 another resemblance grows upon me. In a word," said 
 Robert, pausing and breathing hard, " if liis name were 
 not Vaudemont, if his history were not, apparently , so 
 well known, I should say, — I should swear, that it is 
 Philip Morton who sleeps under this roof! " 
 
 "Ha!" said Lilburne, with an earnestness that sur- 
 prised Beaufort, who expected to have heard his brother- 
 in-law's sneering sarcasm at his fears; "the likeness 
 you speak of to the old portraits did strike me: it struck
 
 234 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 jVIarsden, too, the other day, as we were passing through 
 the picture-gallery; and Marsden remarked it aloud to 
 Vaudemont. I remember now that he changed counte- 
 nance and made no answer. Hush! hush! hold your 
 tongue, let me think, — let me think. This Philip — 
 yes, yes; 1 and Arthur saw him with — with Gawtrey 
 — in Paris — " 
 
 " Gawtrey ! was that the name of the rogue he was 
 said to — " 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes. Ah! now I guess the meaning of 
 those looks, — those words," muttered Lilburne, between 
 his teeth. " This pretension to the name of Vaudemont 
 was always apocryphal, — the story always but half 
 believed; the invention of a woman in love with him; 
 the claim on your property is made at the. very time he 
 appears in England. Ha ! have you a newspaper there ? 
 Give it me. No! 'tis not in this paper. Ring the bell 
 for the file!" 
 
 " What 's the matter? — you terrify me! " gasped out 
 Mr. PJeaufort, as he rang the bell. 
 
 " Why ! have you not seen an advertisement repeated 
 several times within the last month 1 " 
 
 " I never read advertisements, except in the county 
 paper if land is to 1)0 sohl." 
 
 "Nor I often; but this caught my eye. John," — 
 here the servant entered, — " bring the file of the news- 
 papers. The name of the witness whom Mrs. Morton 
 appealed to was Smith, the same name as the captain; 
 what was the Christian name 1 " 
 
 " r don't remember." 
 
 "Here are the papers; shut the door, — and here is 
 the advertisement: ' H Mr. William Smith, son of 
 Jeremiah Smith, wlio formerly rented the farm of 
 Shipdale-Bury, under the late Right Hon. Charles
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 235 
 
 Leopold Beaufort,' — that 's your uucle, — * and who 
 emigrated in the year 18 — to Australia, will apply to 
 'Mv. Barlow, Solicitor, Essex Street, Strand, he will 
 hear of something to his advantage. ' " 
 
 " Good heavens! why did not you mention this to me 
 before 1 " 
 
 " Because I did not think it of any importance. In, 
 the first place, there might he some legacy left to the 
 man, quite distinct from your business, — indeed, that 
 was the probable supposition ; or even if connected 
 with the claim, such an advertisement might be but a 
 despicable attempt to frighten you. Never mind: 
 don't look so pale, — after all, this is a proof that the 
 witness is not found ; tliat Captain Smith is neither 
 the Smith, nor has discovered where the Smith is ! " 
 
 " True ! " observed Mr. Beaufort : " true , — very 
 true!" 
 
 " Humph! " said Lord Lilburne, who was still rapidly 
 glancing over the file, — " here is another advertisement 
 Avhich I never saw before. This looks suspicious: ' If 
 the person who called on the — of September on Mr. 
 
 Morton, linendraper, etc. , of X , will renew his 
 
 application personally or by letter, he may now obtain 
 the information he sought for. ' " 
 
 "Morton! — the woman's brother! their uncle! it ia 
 too clear! " 
 
 " But what brings this man, if he be really Philip 
 Morton , what brings him here 1 — to spy or to threaten 1 " 
 
 " I will get him out of the house this day." 
 
 " No, no; turn the watch upon himself. I see now: 
 he is attracted by your daughter ; sound her quietly ; 
 don't tell her to discourage his confidences; find out 
 if he ever speaks of these Mortons. Ha! I recollect: 
 he has spoken to me of the Mortons, Tnit vaguely, — T
 
 236 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 forget what. Humph! this is a man of spirit and 
 daring: Avatch him, I say, — watch him! When does 
 Arthur come back? " 
 
 " He has been travelling so slowly, for he still com- 
 plains of his healtli, and has had relapses; but he ought 
 to be in Paris this week, perhaps he is there now. 
 Good heavens ! he must not meet this man ! " 
 
 " Do what I tell you! get out all from your daughter. 
 Kever fear : he can do nothing against you except by 
 law. But if he really like Camilla — " 
 
 " He ! — Philip Morton — the adventurer, the — " 
 
 "He is the eldest son: remember, you thought even 
 of accepting the second. He maz/ find the witness, — 
 lie may win his suit; if he like Camilla, there viay be 
 a compromise. " 
 
 Mr. P>eaufort felt as if turned to ice. 
 
 " You think him likely to win this infamous suit, 
 then 1 " he faltered. 
 
 " Did not you guard against the possibility by secur- 
 ing the brother ? — more worth while to do it with this 
 man. Hark ye! the politics of private are like those of 
 puldic life, —when the state can't crush a demagogue, it 
 should entice him over. If you can ruin this dog," — 
 and Lilburne stamped his foot fiercely, forgetful of the 
 gout, — ' ruin him! hang him! If you can't," — and 
 here with a wry face he caressed the injured foot, — " if 
 you can't ('sdeath, what a twinge!) and he can ruin i/ou, 
 bring him into the family, and make his secret ours! 
 I must go and lie down, I have over-excited myself." 
 
 In great perplexity Beaufort repaired at once to 
 Camilla. His nervous agitation betrayed itself, though 
 he smiled a ghastly smile, and intended to be exceeding 
 cool and collected. His questions, which confused and 
 alarmed her, soon drew out the fact, that the very first
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 237 
 
 time Vaudemont had been introduced to her, he had 
 spoken of the Mortons; and that he had often after- 
 wards alluded to the subject, and seemed at first strongly 
 impressed with the notion that the younger brother 
 was under Ueaufort's protection ; though at last he 
 appeared reluctantly convinced of the contrary. Robert, 
 however agitated, preserved at least enough of his 
 natural slyness not to let out that he sus])ected Vaude- 
 mont to be Philip Morton himself, for he feared lest his 
 daughter should betray that suspicion to its object. 
 
 " l^ut," he said, with a look meant to win confidence, 
 " I dare say he knows these young men. I should like 
 myself to know more about them. Learn all you can, 
 and tell me; and, I say — I say, Camilla, — he! he! he! 
 
 — you have made a conquest, you little fiirt, you! Did 
 he, this Vaudemont, ever say how much he admired 
 you?" 
 
 "He? — never!" said Camilla, blushing, and then 
 turning pale. 
 
 "But he looks it. Ah! you say nothing, then. 
 Well, well, don't discourage him; that is to say, — yes, 
 don't discourage him. Talk to him as much as you can, 
 
 — ask him about his own early life. I 've a particular 
 wish to know, — 't is of great importance to me." 
 
 "But, my dear father," said Camilla, trembling, 
 and thoroughly bewildered, " I fear this man, — I fear 
 
 — I fear — " 
 
 Was she going to add, " I fear myself? " I know 
 not; but she stopped short, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Hang these girls ! " muttered Mr. Beaufort, " always 
 crying when they ought to be of use to one. Go down, 
 dry your eyes, do as I tell you, — get all you can from 
 him. Fear him! — yes, I dare say she does! " muttered 
 the poor man, as he closed the door.
 
 238 KIGHT AND MOIINING. 
 
 From tliat time what wonder that Camilla's manner 
 to Vaudemont was yet more embarrassed than ever; 
 wliat wonder that he put his own heart's interpretation 
 on that confusion. Beaufort took care to thrust her 
 more often than before in his way ; he suddenly affected 
 a creeping, fawning civility to Vaudemont; he was sure 
 he was fond of music ; what did he think of that new 
 air Camilla was so fond of? He must be a judge of 
 scenery , he who had seen so much : there were beautiful 
 landscapes in the neighborhood, and if he would forego 
 his sports, Camilla drew prettily, had an eye for that 
 sort of thing, and was so fond of riding. 
 
 Vaudemont was astonished at this change, but his 
 delight was greater than the astonishment. He began 
 to perceive that his identity was suspected; perhaps 
 Beaufort, more generous than he had deemed him, meant 
 to repay every early wrong or harshness by one inesti- 
 mable blessing. The generous interpret motives in 
 extremes, — ever too enthusiastic or too severe. Vaude- 
 mont felt as if he had wronged the wronger; he began 
 to conquer even his dislike to Robert Beaufort. For 
 some days he was thus thrown much with Camilla; the 
 questions her father forced her to put to him, uttered 
 tremulously and fearfully, seemed to him proofs of 
 her interest in his fate. His feelings to Camilla, so 
 sudden in their growth, so ripened and so favored by the 
 sub-ruler of the world, circumstance, might not, 
 perhaps, have the depth and the calm completeness of 
 that one true love, of which there are many counterfeits, 
 — and whicli in man, at least, possibly requires the 
 touch and mellowness, if not of time, at least of many 
 memories; of perfect and tried conviction of the faith, 
 the worth, the value, and the beauty of the heart to 
 which it clings, — but those feelings were, nevertheless,
 
 NIGHT AND MOliNING. 239 
 
 strong, ardent, and intense. He believed himself be- 
 loved, — lie was in Elysium. But he did not yet declare 
 the passion that beamed in his eyes. No! he would 
 not yet claim the hand of Camilla Beaufort, for he 
 imagined the time would soon come when he could 
 claim it, not as the inferior or the suppliant, but as the 
 lord uf her father's fate.
 
 240 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Here 's somethiug got amongst us ! — Knight of Malta, 
 
 Two or three nights after his memorable conversation 
 •with Robert Beaufort, as Lord Lilburne was undressing, 
 lie said to his valet, — 
 
 "Dykeman, I am getting well." 
 
 " Indeed, my lord, I never saw your lordship look 
 better. " 
 
 " There you lie. I looked better last year, — I looked 
 better the year before; and I looked better and better 
 every year back to the age of twenty-one! Rut I 'm not 
 talking of looks, no man with money wants looks. I 
 am talking of feelings. I feel better. The gout is 
 almost gone. I have been quiet now for a month : 
 that 's a long time, — time wasted when, at my age, I 
 have so little time to waste. Besides, as you know, I 
 am very much in love ! " 
 
 " In love , my lord ? I thought that you told me 
 never to speak of — " 
 
 " Blockhead ! what the deuce was the good of speaking 
 about it when I was wrapped in flannels 1 I am never 
 in love when I am ill, — avIio is? I am well now, or 
 nearly so; and I 've had things to vex me, — things to 
 make this place very disagreeable; I shall go to town, 
 and before this day week perhaps, that charming face 
 may enliven the solitude of Fernside. I shall look to 
 it myself now. I see you 're going to say something. 
 Spare yourself the trouble ! nothing ever goes wrong if 
 / myself take it in hand."
 
 NIGHT AND MOIINING. 241 
 
 The next day Lord Lillmrne — who, in truth, felt 
 himself unconifortahle and gene in the presence of 
 Vaudemont; who had won as mucli as the guests at 
 Beaufort Court seemed inclined to lose; and who made 
 it the rule of his life to consult his own pleasure and 
 amusement before anything else — sent for his post- 
 horses, and informed his hrother-in-law of his departure. 
 
 " And you leave me alone with this man just when I 
 am convinced that he is the person we suspected! My 
 dear Lilburne, do stay till he goes." 
 
 " Impossible! I am between fifty and sixty, — every 
 moment is precious at that time of life. Besides, I 've 
 said all I can say; rest quiet, act on the defensive, 
 entangle this cursed Vaudemont, or Morton, or whoever 
 he be, in the mesh of your daughter's charms, and then 
 get rid of him, not before. This can do no harm, let 
 the matter turn out how it will. Read the papers; and 
 send for Blackwell if you want advice on any new 
 advertisements. I don't see that anything more is to 
 be done at present. You can write to me; I shall 
 be at Park Lane or Fernside. Take care of yourself. 
 You're a lucky fellow, — you never have the gout! 
 Good-by." 
 
 And in half an hour Lord Lilburne was on the road 
 to London. 
 
 The departure of Lilburne was a signal to many 
 others, especially and naturally to those he himself had 
 invited. He had not announced to such visitors his 
 intention of going till his carriage was at the door. 
 This might be delicacy or carelessness, just as people 
 chose to take it: and how they did take it. Lord Lil- 
 burne, much too selfish to be well-bred, did not care a 
 rush. The next day, half, at least, of the guests were 
 gone; and even Mr, ^Marsden, who had been specially 
 
 VOL. II. — 16
 
 242 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 invited on Arthur's account, announced that he sliould 
 go after dinner! he always travelled by night: he slept 
 well on the road, — a day was not lost by it. 
 
 "And it is so long since you saw Arthur," said Mr. 
 Beaufort, in remonstrance, " and I expect him every day. " 
 
 " Very sorry, — best fellow in the world ; but the fact 
 is, that I am not very well myself. I want a little 
 sea air; I shall go to Dover or Brighton. But 1 suppose 
 you Avill have the house full again about Christmas; 
 in that case, I shall be delighted to repeat my visit." 
 
 Tlie fact was, that Mr. Marsden, without Lilburne's 
 intellect on the one hand or vices on the other, was, 
 like that noble sensualist, one of the broken pieces of 
 the great looking-glass " self. " He was noticed in 
 society as always haunting the places where Lilburne 
 played at cards, carefully choosing some other table, 
 and as carefully betting upon Lilburne's side. The 
 card-tables were now broken up; Vaudemont's superi- 
 ority in shooting, and the manner in Avhich he engrossed 
 the talk of the sportsmen, disjileased him. He was 
 bored : he wanted to be off, — and off he went. Vaude- 
 mont felt that the time was come for him to de^iart too; 
 but Roliert Beaufort — who felt in his society the 
 painful fascination of the bird with the boa, who hated 
 to see him there, and dreaded to see him depart, who 
 liad not yet extracted all the confirmation of his persua- 
 sions that he required, for Vaudemont easily enough 
 parried the artless questions of Camilla — pressed him 
 to stay with so eager an hospitality, and made Camilla 
 herself falter out, against her will and even against her 
 remonstrances (she never before had dared to remonstrate 
 with either father or mother), " Could not you stay a few 
 days longer?" — that Vaudemont was too contented to 
 yield to his own inclinations; and so, for some little
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 243 
 
 time longer, he continued to move before the eyes of 
 Mr. Beaufort — stern, sinister, silent, mysterious — 
 like one of the family pictures stepped down from its 
 frame. Vaudemont wrote, however, to Fanny, to excuse 
 his delay; and, anxious to hear from her as to her 
 own and Simon's health, bade her direct her letter to 
 his lodging in London (of which he gave her the 
 address), whence, if he still continued to defer his 
 departure, it would be forwarded to him. He did not 
 do this, however, till he had been at Beaufort Court 
 several days after Lilburne's departure, and till, in fact, 
 two days before the eventful one which closed his visit. 
 
 The party, now greatly diminished, were at breakfast, 
 when the servant entered, as usual, with the letter-bag. 
 Mr. Beaufort, who was always important and pompous 
 in the small ceremonials of life, unlocked the precious 
 deposit with slow dignity, drew forth the newspapers, 
 which he threw on the table, and which the gentlemen 
 of the party eagerly seized; then, diving out one by 
 one, jerked first a letter to Camilla, next a letter to 
 Vaudemont, and, thirdly, seized a letter for himself. 
 
 " I beg that there may be no ceremony, Monsieur de 
 Vaudemont; pray excuse me and follow my example. 
 A see this letter is from my son; " and he broke the seal. 
 
 The letter ran thus : — 
 
 My dear Father, — Almost as soon as you receive this I 
 shall be with you. Ill as I am, I can have no peace till I see 
 and cousult you. The most startling, the most painful, in- 
 telligence has just been conveyed to me. It is of a nature not 
 to bear any but personal communication. 
 Your affectionate son, 
 
 Arthur Beaufort. 
 Boulogne. 
 
 P. S. This will go by the same packet-boat that I shall take 
 myself, and can only reach you a few hours before I arrive.
 
 244 NIGHT AND MOliNlNG. 
 
 Mr. Beaufort's trembling hand dropped the letter, — ■ 
 he grasped the elbow of the chair to save him from 
 falling. It was clear! — the same visitor who had 
 persecuted himself had now sought his son! He grew 
 sick; his son might have heard the witness, might be 
 convinced. His son himself noiv appeared to him as a 
 foe, — for the father dreaded the son's honor! He 
 glanced furtively round the table till his eye rested on 
 Vaudemont, and his terror was redoubled; for Vaude- 
 mont's face, usually so calm, was animated to an extraor- 
 dinary degree, as he now lifted it from the letter he had 
 just read. Their eyes met. Eobert Beaufort looked on 
 him as a prisoner at the bar looks on the accusing 
 counsel when he first commences his harangue. 
 
 " Mr. Beaufort," said the guest, "the letter you have 
 given me summons me to London on important business, 
 and immediately. Suffer me to send for horses at your 
 earliest convenience. " 
 
 " What 's the matter ? " said the feeble and seldom- 
 heard voice of ;Mrs. Beaufort, — " what 's the matter, 
 Robert 1 — is Arthur coming 1 " 
 
 " He comes to-day," said the father, with a deep sigh; 
 and Vaudemont, at that moment rising from his half- 
 finished breakfast, with a bow that included the group, 
 and with a glance that lingered on Camilla, as she 
 bent over her own unopened letter (a letter from 
 Winandermere, tlie seal of which she dared not yet to 
 break) , quitted the room. He hastened to his own 
 chamber, and strode to and fro with a stately step, — the 
 step of the master, — then, taking forth the letter, he 
 again hurried over its contents. They ran thus : — 
 
 Dear Sir, — At last the missing witness has applied to me. 
 He [troves to be, a"* j'ou coiijecturefl, the same person who had 
 called on Mr. Roger Morton ; but as there are some circum-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 245 
 
 stances on which I wish to take your instructions without a 
 moment's delay, I shall leave London by the mail, and wait 
 
 you at D (at the principal inn), which is, I understand, 
 
 twenty miles, on the hij^h-road, from P)eaut'ort Court. 
 1 have the honor to be, sir, yours, etc. 
 
 John Barlow. 
 Essex Street. 
 
 Vaudemont was yet lost in the emotions that this letter 
 aroused, when they came to announce that his chaise 
 was arrived. As he went down the stairs he met 
 Camilla, who was on the way to her own room. 
 
 "Miss Beaufort," said he, in a low and tremulous 
 voice, "in wishing you farewell I may not now say 
 more. I leave you, and, strange to say, I do not regret 
 it; for I go upon an errand that may entitle me to 
 return again, and speak those thoughts which are upper- 
 most in my soul, even at this moment." 
 
 He raised her hand to his lips as he spoke ; and at 
 that moment Mr. Beaufort looked from the door of his 
 own room and cried "Camilla." She was too glad to 
 escape. Philip gazed after her light form for an instant, 
 and then hurried down the stairs.
 
 2-iG NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Lonfjuem'Ile. — What ! are you married, Beaufort ? 
 Beaufort. — Ay, as fast 
 As words and hands and hearts and priest 
 Could make us. 
 
 BiiALMOXT AND Fletcher: Noble Gentleman. 
 
 In the parlor of the inn at D sat IMr. John Barlow. 
 
 He had just finished his hreakfast, and was writing 
 letters and looking over papers connected with his 
 various husiness, Avhen the door was thrown open, and 
 a gentleman entered ahruptly. 
 
 "Mr. Beaufort," said the lawyer, rising, — "Mr. 
 Philip Beaufort, for such I now feel you are hy right, 
 — though," he added, with his usual formal and quiet 
 smile, "not yet hy law; and much, very much, remains 
 to he done to make the law and the right the same, — I 
 congratulate you on having something at last to work 
 on. I had hegun to despair of finding up our witness, 
 after a mouth's advertising; and had commenced other 
 investigations, of which I will speak to you presently, 
 when yesterday, on my return to town from an errand 
 on your husiness, I had the pleasure of a visit from 
 William Smith himself. i\Iy dear sir, do not yet he 
 too sanguine. It seems that this poor fellow, having 
 known misfortune, was in America when the first 
 fruitless inquiries were made. Long after this he 
 returned to the colony, and there met with a hrother, 
 who, as I drew from him was a convict. He helped the 
 brother to escape. They both came to England.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 247 
 
 William learned from a distant relation, who lent him 
 some little money, of the inquiry that had been set on 
 foot for him; consulted his brother, who desired him to 
 leave all to his management. The brother afterwards 
 assured him that you and Mr. Sidney were both dead; 
 and, it seems (for the witness is simple enough to allow 
 me to extract all), this same brother then went to Mr. 
 Beaufort to hold out the threat of a lawsuit, and to 
 offer the sale of the evidence, yet existing — " 
 
 "And Mr. Beaufort?" 
 
 " I am happy to say , seems to have spurned the offer. 
 Meanwhile William, incredulous of his brother's report, 
 
 proceeded to X ; learned nothing from ^It. Morton ; 
 
 met his brother again ; and the brother (confessing that 
 he had deceived him in the assertion that you and Mr. 
 Sidney were dead) told him that he had known you in 
 earlier life, and set out to Paris to seek you — " 
 
 " Known me ? — to Paris ? " 
 
 " More of this presently. William returned to town, 
 living hardly and penuriously on the little his brother 
 bestowed on him, too melancholy and too poor for the 
 luxury of a newspaper, and never saw our advertisement, 
 till, as luck would have it, his money was out; he had 
 heard nothing further of his brother, and he went for 
 new assistance to the same relation who had before 
 aided him. This relation, to his surprise, received the 
 poor man very kindly, lent him what he wanted, and 
 then asked him if he had not seen our advertisement. 
 The newspaper shown him contained both the advertise- 
 ments, — that relating to Mr. Morton's visitor, that 
 containing his own name. He coupled them both 
 together, — called on me at once. I was from town on 
 your business. He returned to his own home ; tlie 
 next morning (yesterday morning) came a letter from his
 
 248 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 brother, -wliicli I obtained from him at last, and with 
 promises that no harm should happen to the writer on 
 account of it." 
 
 Vaudemont took the letter and read as follows : — 
 
 Dear William, — No go about the youngster I went after: 
 all researches in vane. Paris develish expensive. Never mind, 
 
 I have sene the other, — the young B ; different sort of 
 
 fellow from his father : very ill, frightened out of his wits, — 
 will go off to the governor, take me with him as far as Bul- 
 loHL'. I think we shall settel it now. Mind as I saide before, 
 don't put your foot in it. I send you a Nap in the Seele, — 
 all I can spare. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 Jeremiah Smith. 
 
 Direct to me, Monsieur Smith, — always a safe name, — 
 Ship Inn, BuUone. 
 
 "Jeremiah — Smith, Jeremiah! " 
 
 "Do you know the name, then?" said Mr. Barlow. 
 " Well ; the poor man owns that he was frightened at his 
 brother; that he wished to do what is right; that he 
 feared his brother would not let him ; that your father 
 was very kind to him, — and so he came off at once to 
 me ; and I was very luckily at home to assure him that 
 the heir was alive and prepared to assert his rights, 
 Now then, Mr. Beaufort, we have the witness, but will 
 that suffice us? I fear not. Will the jury believe 
 him with no other testimony at his back? Consider! 
 When he was gone I put myself in communication with 
 some officers at 1)0W Street about this brotlier of his, — a 
 most notorious character, commonly called in the police 
 slang Dash in r/ Jerry — " 
 
 "All! Wed 1, proceed! " 
 
 " Your one witness, then, is a very poor, penniless 
 man, — his brother a rogue, a convict. This witness, too,
 
 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 249 
 
 is the most timid, fluctuating, irresolute fellow I ever 
 saw; I should tremble for his testimony against a sharp, 
 bullying lawyer. And that, sir, is all at present we 
 have to look to. " 
 
 " I see, I see. It is dangerous, it is hazardous. But 
 truth is truth; justice, — justice! I will run the risk." 
 
 " Pardon me, if I ask, did you ever know this brother? 
 Were you ever absolutely acquainted with him, — in 
 the same house 1 " 
 
 " Many years since — years of early hardship and trial 
 — I was acquainted with him: what then? " 
 
 "I am sorry to hear it," and the lawyer looked grave. 
 " Do you not see that if this witness is browbeat, is 
 disbelieved, and if it can be shown that you, the claim- 
 ant, was — forgive my saying it — intimate with a 
 brother of such a character, why the whole thing might 
 be made to look like perjury and conspiracy. If we 
 stop here it is an ugly business! " 
 
 " And is this all you have to say to me 1 The witness 
 is found, the only surviving witness, — the only proof I 
 ever shall or ever can obtain, and you seek to terrify 
 me — me too — from using the means for redress Provi- 
 dence itself vouchsafes me. Sir, I will not hear you! " 
 
 " Mr. Beaufort, you are impatient, — it is natural. 
 But if we go to law, — that is, should I have anything 
 to do with it, — wait, wait till your case is good. And 
 liear me yet. This is not the only proof, — this is not 
 the only witness : you forget that there was an examined 
 copy of the register; we may yet find that copy, and the 
 person who copied it may yet be alive to attest it. 
 Occupied with this thought, and weary of waiting the 
 result of our advertisement, I resolved to go into the 
 neighborhood of Fernside; luckily, there was a gentle- 
 man's seat to be sold in the village. I made the survey
 
 250 NIGHT AND MOIINIXG. 
 
 of this place my apparent business. After going over 
 the house, I appeared anxious to see liow far some alter- 
 ations could he made, — alterations to render it more 
 like Lord Lilhurne's villa. This led me to request a 
 sight of that villa, — a crown to the housekeeper got me 
 admittance. The housekeeper had lived with your 
 father, and been retained by his lords;hip. I soon, 
 therefore, knew which were the rooms the late ]\[r. 
 Beaufort had principally occupied; shown into his 
 study, where it was probable he would keep his papers, 
 I inquired if it were the same furniture (which seemed 
 likely enough from its age and fashion) as in your 
 father's time. It was so; Lord Lilburne had bought the 
 house just as it stood, and, save a few additions in the 
 drawing-room, the general equipment of the villa, 
 remained unaltered. You look impatient ! — I'm coming 
 to the point. My eye fell upon an old-fashioned 
 bureau — " 
 
 " But we searched every drawer in that bureau! " 
 
 " Any secret drawers 1 " 
 
 " Secret drawers ! No ! there were no secret drawers 
 that I ever heard of ! " 
 
 Mr. Barlow rubbed his hands and mused a moment. 
 
 "I was struck with that bureau, for my father had 
 had one like it. It is not English, — it is of Dutch 
 manufacture. " 
 
 "Yes; I have heard that my father bought it at a 
 sale, three or four years after his marriage." 
 
 " I learned this from the housekeeper, who was flat- 
 tered by my admiring it, I could not find out from 
 her at wliat sale it had been purchased, but it was in 
 the neighborhood she was sure. I had now a date to go 
 upon; I learned, by careless inquiries, what sales 
 near Fernside had taken place in a certain year. A
 
 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 251 
 
 gentleman had died at that date, whose furniture was 
 sohl by auction. With great difficulty, I found that his 
 widow was still alive, living far up the country: I paid 
 her a visit; and, not to fatigue you with too long an 
 account, I have only to say, that she not only assured 
 me that she perfectly remembered the bureau, but that 
 it had secret drawers and wells, very curiously con- 
 trived; nay, she showed me the very catalogue in which 
 the said receptacles are noticed in capitals, to arrest the 
 eye of the bidder, and increase the price of the bidding. 
 That your father should never have revealed where he 
 stowed this document is natural enough, during the life 
 of his uncle: his own life was not spared long enough 
 to give him much opportunity to explain afterwards; 
 but I feel perfectly persuaded in my own mind that, 
 unless Mr. Robert Beaufort discovered that paper 
 amongst the others he examined, in one of those drawers 
 ■will be found all we want to substantiate your claims. 
 This is the more likely from your father never men- 
 tioning, even to your mother apparently, the secret 
 receptacles in the bureau. Why else such myster}^ 1 
 The probability is that he received the document either 
 just before or at the time lie purchased the bureau, or 
 that he bought it for that very purpose; and, having 
 once deposited the paper in a place he deemed secure 
 from curiosity, accident, carelessness, policy, perhaps, 
 rather shame itself (pardon me) for the doubt of your 
 mother's discretion that his secrecy seemed to imply, 
 kept him from ever alluding to the circumstance, even 
 when the intimacy of after years made him more assured 
 of your mother's self-sacrificing devotion to his inter- 
 ests. At his uncle's death he thought to repair all." 
 
 " And how, if that be true, — if that Heaven which 
 has delivered me hitherto from so many dangers has, iu
 
 252 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 the very secrecy of my poor father, saved my birthright 
 from the gripe of the usurper, — how, I say, is — " 
 
 " The bureau to pass into our possession ? That is 
 the difficulty. But we must contrive it someliow, if 
 all else fail us; meanwhile, as I now feel sure that there 
 has been a copy of that register made, I wish to know 
 whether I should not immediately cross the country into 
 Wales, and see if I can find any person in the neighbor- 
 hood of A who did examine the copy taken; for, 
 
 mark you, the said copy is only of importance as leading 
 us to the testimony of the actual witness who took it." 
 
 " Sir," said Vaudemont, heartily shaking Mr. Barlow 
 by the hand, "forgive my first petulance. I see in 
 you the very man I desired and wanted, — your acuteness 
 surprises and encourages me. Go to Wales, and God 
 speed you! " 
 
 " Very well ! in five minutes I shall be off. Mean- 
 while see the witness yourself; the sight of his bene- 
 factor's son Avill do more to keep him steady than 
 anything else. There 's his address, and take care not 
 to give him money. And now I will order my chaise, 
 — the matter begins to look worth expense. Oh, I 
 forgot to say that ]\Ionsieur Liancourt called on me 
 yesterday about his own affairs. He wishes much to 
 consult you, I told him you would probably be this 
 evening in town, and he said he would wait you at your 
 lodging." 
 
 " Yes; I will lose not a moment in going to London, 
 and visiting our witness. And he saw my mother at 
 the altar! My poor mother, — ah, how could my father 
 have doubted her! " and as he spoke, he blushed for the 
 first time with shame at that father's memory. He 
 could not yet conceive tliat one so frank, one usually so 
 bold and open, could for years have preserved from the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 253 
 
 woman who had sacrificed all to him, a secret to her so 
 important! That was, in fact, the only blot on his 
 fatlier's honor, — a foul and a grave blot it was. 
 Heavily had the pimishment fallen on those whom the 
 father loved best! Alas! Philip had not yet learned 
 what terrible corrupters are the hope and the fear of 
 immense wealth, — ay, even to men reputed the most 
 honorable, if they have been reared and pampered in the 
 belief that wealth is the arch blessing of life! Rightly 
 considered, in Philip Beaufoit's solitary meanness lay 
 the vast moral of this world's darkest truth! 
 
 Mr. Barlow was gone. Philip was about to enter his 
 own chaise, when a dormeuse-and-four drove up to the 
 inn-door to change horses. A young man was reclining, 
 at his length, in the carriage, wrapped in cloaks, and 
 with a ghastly paleness, — the paleness of long and 
 deep disease upon his cheeks. He turned his dim eye, 
 with, perhaps, a glance of the sick man's envy, on that 
 strong and athletic form, majestic with health and 
 vigor, as it stood beside the more humble vehicle. 
 Philip did not, however, notice the new arrival; he 
 sprang into the chaise, it rattled on: and thus, uncon- 
 sciously, Arthur Beaufort and his cousin had again met. 
 To which was now the Isight, — to which the Morning?
 
 254 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Bakam. — Let my men guard the walls. 
 S/jaiia. — And mine tlie temple. 
 
 The Island Princess. 
 
 Whilk thus eventfully the days and the weeks liad 
 passed for Philip, no less eventfully, so far as tlie inner 
 life is concerned, had they glided away for Fanny. She 
 had feasted in quiet and delighted thought on the 
 consciousness that she was improving; that she Avas 
 growing worthier of him; that he would perceive it on 
 his return. Her manner was more thoughtful, more 
 collected, — less childish, in short, tlian it had been. 
 And yet, with all the stir and flutter of the aroused 
 intellect, the charm of her strange innocence was not 
 scared away. She rejoiced in the ancient liberty she 
 had regained of going out and coming back when she 
 pleased ; and, as the weather was too cold ever to tempt 
 Simon from his fireside, except, perhaps, for half an 
 hour in the forenoon, so the hours of dusk, when he 
 least missed her, were those which .she chiefly appro- 
 priateil for stealing away to the good schoolmistress, and 
 growing wiser and wi.ser every day in the ways of God 
 and tlie learning of His creatures. The schoolmistress 
 was not a brilliant woman. Nor was it accomplishments 
 of which Fanny .stood in need, so much as the opening 
 of her thoughts and mind by profitable books and rational 
 conversation. Beautiful as were all her natural feelings, 
 the schoolmistress had now little difficulty in educating 
 feelings up to the dignity of principles.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 255 
 
 At last, hitherto patient under the absence of one 
 never absent from her heart, Fanny received from him 
 the letter he had addressed to her two days before he 
 quitted Beaufort Court : another letter, — a second 
 letter, a letter to excuse himself for not coming before, 
 a letter that gave her an address, that asked for a reply. 
 It was a morning of unequalled delight, approaching to 
 transport. And then the excitement of answering the 
 letter, — the pride of showing how she was improved, 
 wliat an excellent hand she now wrote! She shut 
 herself up in her room; she did not go out that day. 
 She placed the paper before her, and, to her astonishment, 
 all that she had to say vanished from her mind at once. 
 How was she even to begin 1 She had ahvays hitherto 
 called him " brother." Ever since her conversation with 
 Sarah, she felt that she could not call him that name 
 a"ain for the world, — no, never! But wlmt should she 
 call him, what could she call him? He signed himself 
 " riiilip." She knew that was his name. She thought 
 it a musical name to utter, but to write it! No! some 
 instinct she could not account for seemed to whisper that 
 it was improper, presumptuous, to call him " Dear 
 Philip. " Had Burns's songs, — the songs that unthink- 
 ingly he had put into her hand, and told her to read, 
 songs that comprise the most beautiful love-poems in 
 the world, — had they helped to teach her some of the 
 secrets of her own heart 1 And had timidity come with 
 knowledge? Who shall say, who guess, what passed 
 within her? Xor did Fanny herself, perhaps, know her 
 own feelings: but write the words " Dear Philip " she 
 could 7iot. And the whole of that day, though she 
 thought of nothing else, she could not even get through 
 the first line to her satisfaction. The next morning 
 she sat down again. It would be so unkind if she did
 
 256 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 not answer immediately : she must answer. She placed 
 his letter before her, — she resolutely began. But copy 
 after copy was made and torn. And Simon wanted her, 
 and Sarah wanted her, — and there were bills to be paid; 
 and dinner was over before her task was really begun. 
 But after dinner she began in good earnest. 
 
 " How kind in you to write to me" (the difficulty of 
 any name Avas dispensed with by adopting none), " and 
 to wish to know about my dear grandfather! He is 
 much the same, but hardly ever walks out now, and I 
 have had a good deal of time to myself. I tliink 
 something will surprise you, and make you smile, as 
 you used to do at first, Avhen you come back. You must 
 not be angry with me that I have gone out by myself 
 very often, — every day, indeed. I have been so safe. 
 Xobody has ever offered to be rude again to Fanny " (the 
 word " Fanny " was here carefully scratched out Avith 
 a penknife, and "me" substituted). "But you shall 
 know all when you come. And are you sure you are 
 Avell, — quite, quite well? Do you never have the 
 headaches you complained of sometimes? Do say this! 
 Do you walk out, — every day? Is there any pretty 
 churchyard near you now ? Whom do you walk with ? 
 
 " I have been so happy in putting the flowers on the 
 two graves. But I still give yours the prettiest, though 
 the other is so dear to me. I feel sad when I come to 
 the last, but not when I look at the one I have looked at 
 so long. Oh, how good you were! But you don't like 
 me to thank you." 
 
 "This is very stupid!" cried Fanny, suddenly 
 throwing down her pen; "and I don't think I am 
 improved at all;" and she half cried with vexation. 
 Suddenly a bright idea crossed her. In the little parlor 
 where the schoolmistress privately received her, she had
 
 NIGHT AKD MOIINLXG. 257 
 
 seen among the books, and thought at the time how 
 useful it might be to her if ever she had to write to 
 Philip, a little volume entitled " The Complete Letter- 
 Writer." She knew by the title-page that it contained 
 models for every description of letter, — no doubt it 
 would contain the precise thing that would suit the 
 present occasion. She started up at the notion. She 
 would go, — she could be back to finish the letter before 
 post-time. She put on her bonnet, left the letter, in 
 her haste, open on the table, and just looking into 
 the parlor in her way to the street-door, to convince 
 herself that Simon was asleep, and the wire-guard was 
 on the fire, she hurried to the kind schoolmistress. 
 
 One of the fogs that in autumn gather sullenly over 
 London and its suburbs covered the declining day with 
 premature dimness. It grew darker and darker as she 
 proceeded, but she reached the hoi;se in safety. She 
 spent a quarter of an hour in timidly consulting her 
 friend about all kind of letters except the identical one 
 that she intended to write, and having had it strongly 
 impressed on her mind that if the letter Vv^as to a gentle- 
 man at all genteel, she ought to begin " Dear Sir," and 
 end with " I have the honor to remain ; " and that he 
 would be everlastingly oflfended if she did not in the 
 address affix " Esquire " to his name (that was a great 
 discovery), — she carried oif the precious volume, and 
 quitted the house. There was a wall that, bounding 
 the demesnes of the school, ran for some short distance 
 into the main street. The increasing fog here faintly 
 struggled against the glimmer of a single lamp at some 
 little distance. Just in this spot her eye was caught by 
 a dark object in the road, which she could scarcely 
 perceive to be a carriage, when her hand was seized, and 
 a voice said in her ear, — 
 
 VOL 11. — 17
 
 258 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " Ah! you will not be so cruel to me, I hope, as you 
 were to my messenger! 1 have come myself for you." 
 
 She turned in great alarm, but the darkness prevented 
 her recognizing the face of him who thus accosted her. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she cried, — " let me go ! " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! Xo , no ! Come with me. You shall 
 have a house, carriage, servants! You shall wear silk 
 gowns and jewels! You shall be a great lady ! " 
 
 As these various temptations succeeded in ra])id course 
 each new struggle of Fanny, a voice from the coach-box 
 said in a low tone, — 
 
 "Take care, my lord, I see somebody coming, — - 
 perhaps a policeman ! " 
 
 Fanny heard the caution, and screamed for rescue. 
 
 " Is it so 1 " muttered the molester. And suddenly 
 Panny felt her voice checked, her head mantled, her 
 light form lifted from the ground. She clung, she 
 struggled, — it Avas in vain. It was the affair of a 
 moment: she felt herself borne into the carriage, the 
 door closed; the stranger was by her side, and his voice 
 said, — 
 
 " Drive on, Dykeman. Fast! fast! " 
 
 Two or three minutes, which seemed to her terror as 
 ages, elapsed, when the gag and tlie mantle were gently 
 removed, and the same voice (she still could not see her 
 companion) said in a very mild tone, — 
 
 "Do not alarm yourself; there is no cause, — indeed 
 there is not. I would not have adopted this plan had 
 there been any other, — any gentler one. But I could 
 not call at your own house , — I knew no other where to 
 meet you. This was the only course left to me, — 
 indeed it was. I made myself acquainted with your 
 movements. Do not blame me, then, for prying into 
 your footsteps. I watched for you all last night, — you
 
 NIGHT AXD MORNING. 259 
 
 did not come out. I was in despair. At last I find 
 3'ou. Do not be so terrified : I will not even touch you 
 hand if you do not wish it. " 
 
 As he spoke, however, he attempted to touch it, and 
 was repulsed with an energy that rather disconcertetl 
 him. The poor girl recoiled from him into the farthest 
 corner of that prison in speechless horror, — in the 
 darkest confusion of ideas. She did not weep, she did 
 not sob; but her trembling seemed to shake the very 
 carriage. The man continued to address, to expostulate, 
 to pray, to soothe. His manner was respectful. His 
 protestations that he would not harm her for the world 
 were endless. 
 
 "Only just see the home I can give you; for two 
 days, — for one day. Only just hear how rich I can 
 make you and your grandfather, and then, if you wish 
 to leave me, you shall." 
 
 More, much more, to this effect, did he continue to 
 pour forth, without extracting any sound from Fanny 
 but gasps as for breath, and now and then a low 
 murmur, — 
 
 "Let me go, let me go! My grandfather, my blind 
 grandfather ! " 
 
 And finally tears came to her relief, and she sobbed 
 with a passion that alarmed, and perhaps even touched, 
 her companion, cynical and icy as he was. Meanwhile 
 the carriage seemed to fly. Fast as two horses, thor- 
 oughbred, and almost at full speed, could go, they were 
 whirled along, till about an hour, or even less, from the 
 time in which she had been thus captured, the carriage 
 stopped. 
 
 "Are we here already?" said the man, putting his 
 head out of the window. " Do then as I told you. 
 Not to the front door; to my study."
 
 260 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 In two minutes more the carriage halted again before 
 a building, which looked white and ghostlike througli 
 the mist. The driver dismounted, opened with a latch- 
 key a window-door, entered for a moment to light the 
 candles in a solitary room from a fire that blazed on the 
 hearth, reappeared, and opened the carriage-door. It 
 was witli a difficulty for which they were scarcely 
 prepared that they were enabled to get "Fanny from the 
 carriage. No soft words, no whispered prayers, could 
 draw her forth; and it was with no trifling address, for 
 her companion sought to be as gentle as the force 
 necessary to employ would allow, that he disengaged her 
 hands from the window-frame, the lining, the cushions, 
 to which they clung ; and at last bore her into the house. 
 The driver closed the window again as he retreated, and 
 they were alone. Panny then cast a wild, scarce 
 conscious glance over the apartment. It was small and 
 simply furnished. Opposite to her was an old-fashioned 
 bureau, — one of those quaint, elaborate monuments of 
 Dutch ingenuity which, during the present century, 
 the audacious spirit of curiosity-venders has transplanted 
 from their native receptacles, to contrast, with grotesque 
 strangeness, the neat handiwork of Gillovv and Seddon. 
 It had a physiognomy and character of its own, — this 
 fantastic foreigner, — inlaid witli mosaics, depicting 
 landscapes and animals; graceless in form and fashion, 
 but still picturesque, and winning admiration, when 
 more closely observed, from the patient defiance of all 
 rules of taste which had formed its cumbrous parts into 
 one profusely ornamented and eccentric wliole. It was 
 the more noticeable from its total want of harmony with 
 the other appurtenances of the room, which bespoke the 
 tastes of the plain English squire. Prints of horses and 
 hunts, fishing-rods and fowling-pieces, carefully sus-
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. . 261 
 
 pendod, decorated the walls. Not, however, on this 
 iintal)le stranger from the sluggish land, rested the eye 
 of Fanny. That ^ in her hurried survey, was arrested 
 only by a portrait placed over the bureau, — the portrait 
 of a female in the bloom of life; a face so fair, a brow 
 so candid, an eye so pure, a lip so rich in j^outh and joy, 
 that as her look lingered on the features, Fanny felt 
 comforted, felt as if some living protectress were there. 
 The fire burned bright and merrily; a table, spread as 
 for dinner, was drawn near it. To any other eye but 
 Fanny's the place would have seemed a picture of 
 English comfort. At last her looks rested on her 
 companion. He had throAvn himself, with a long sigh, 
 partly of fatigue, partly of satisfaction, on one of the 
 chairs, and was contemplating her as she thus stood and 
 gazed, with an expression of mingled curiosity and 
 admiration: she recognized at once her first, her only 
 persecutor. She recoiled, and covered her face with 
 her hands. The man approached her : — 
 
 " Do not hate me, Fanny, — do not turn away. 
 Believe me, though I have acted thus violently, here 
 qU violence Avill cease. I love you, but I will not be 
 satisfied till you love me in return. I am not young, and 
 I am not handsome ; but I am rich and great, and I can 
 make those whom I love happy, — so happy, Fanny! " 
 
 But Fanny had turned away, and was now busily 
 employed in trying to re-open the door at which she had 
 entered. Failing in this, she suddenly darted away, 
 opened the inner door, and rushed into the passage with 
 a loud cry. Her persecutor stifled an oath, and sprang 
 after and arrested her. He now spoke sternly, and with 
 a smile and a frown at once : — • 
 
 "This is folly; come back, or you will repent it! I 
 have promised you, as a gentleman, — as a nobleman, if
 
 262 KIGHT AXD MORNIXG. 
 
 you know what that is, — to respect 3-011. But neither 
 will I myself be trifled with nor insulted. There must 
 be no screams ! " 
 
 His look and his voice awed Eanny in spite of her 
 bewilderment and her loathing, and she suffered herself 
 passively to be drawn into the room. He closed and 
 bolted the door. She threw herself on the ground in 
 one corner, and moaned low but piteously. He looked 
 at her musingly for some moments, as he stood by the 
 fire, and at last went to the door, opened it, and called 
 " Harriet" in a low voice. Presently a young woman, 
 of about thirty, appeared, neatly but plainly dressed, 
 and of a countenance that, if not very winning, might 
 certainly be called very handsome. He drew her aside 
 for a few moments, and a whispered conference "was 
 exchanged. He then walked gravely up to Fanny : — 
 
 "My young friend," said he, "I see ray presence is 
 too much for you this evening. This young woman will 
 attend you, — will get you all you want. She can tell 
 you, too, that I am not the terrible sort of person you 
 seem to suppose. I shall see you to-morrow." So 
 saying, he turned on his heel and walked out. 
 
 Fanny felt something like liberty, something like joy, 
 again. She rose, and looked so pleadingly, so earnestly, 
 so intently into the woman's face, that Harriet turned 
 away her bold eyes abashed; and at this moment 
 Dykeman himself looked into the room. 
 
 " You are to bring us in dinner here yourself, uncle; 
 and then go to my lord in the drawing-room. " 
 
 Dykeman looked pleased, and vanished. Then 
 Harriet came up and took Fanny's hand, and said 
 kindly, — 
 
 " Don't be frightened. I assure you half the girls in 
 London would give I don't know what to be in your
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 263 
 
 place. My lord never will force you to do anytliing 
 you don't like, — it 's not his way ; and he 's the kindest 
 and best man, — and so rich; he does not know what to 
 do with his money ! " 
 
 To all this Fanny made but one answer, — she threw 
 hersnlf suddenly upon the woman's breast, and sobbed 
 out, — 
 
 " My grandfather is blind , he cannot do without me : 
 he will die — die. Have you nobody you love too? 
 Let me go, let me out! What can they want with me? 
 — T nevpr did harm to any one." 
 
 "And no one will harm yo}i; T swear it I" said 
 Harriet, earnestly. " I see you don't know my lord. 
 But here 's the dinner ; come and take a bit of something, 
 and a glass of wine." 
 
 Fanny could not touch anything except a glass of 
 Avater, and that nearly choked her. But at last, as she 
 recovered her senses, the absence of her tormentor, the 
 presence of a woman, the solemn assurances of Harriet 
 that, if she did not like to stay there, after a day or two 
 she should go back, — tranquillized her in some measure. 
 She did not heed the artful and lengthened eulogiums 
 that the she-tempter then proceeded to pour forth upon 
 the virtues and the love and the generosity and, above 
 all, the money of my lord. She only kept repeating 
 to herself, "I shall go back in a day or two." At 
 length, Harriet, having ate and drank as much as she 
 could by her single self, and growing wearied with 
 elforts from wdiich so little resulted, proposed to Fanny 
 to retire to rest. She opened a door to the right of the 
 fireplace, and lighted her up a winding staircase to a 
 pretty and comfortable chamber, where she offered to 
 help her to undress. Fanny's complete innocence, and 
 her utter ignorance of the precise nature of the danger
 
 264 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 that awaited her, though she fancied it must be very 
 great and very awful , prevented her quite comprehending 
 all that Harriet meant to convey by her solemn assur- 
 ances that she should not be disturbed. But she 
 luulerstood, at least, that she was not to see her hateful 
 jailer till the next morning; and when Harriet, wishing 
 her " good-night," showed her a bolt to her door, she 
 was less terrified at the thought of being alone in that 
 strange place. She listened till Harriet's footsteps had 
 died away, and then, Avith a beating heart, tried to open 
 the door; it was locked from without. She sighed 
 heavily. The window ] — alas! when she had removed 
 the shutter, there was another one barred from Avithout, 
 which precluded all hope there ; she had no help for it 
 but to bolt her door, stand forlorn and amazed at her own 
 condition, and, at last, falling on her knees, to pray, in 
 her own simple fashion, which, since her recent visits to 
 the schoolmistress, had become more intelligent and 
 earnest, to Him from whom no bolts and no bars can 
 exclude the voice of the human heart.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 In te omnis domus inclinata recumbit.^ — Virgil. 
 
 Lord Lilburxr, seated before a tray in tlie drawing- 
 room, was finishing his own solitary dinner, and Dyke- 
 man was standing close behind him, nervous and 
 agitated. The confidence of many years between the 
 master and the servant — the peculiar mind of Lilburne, 
 which excluded him from all friendship with his own 
 equals — had established between the two the kind of 
 intimacy so common with the noble and the valet of the 
 old French regime; and indeed in much, Lilburne more 
 resembled the men of that day and land, than he did 
 the nobler and statelier being which belongs to our own. 
 But to the end of time, whatever is at once vicious, 
 polished, and intellectual, will have a common likeness. 
 
 "But, my lord," said Dykeman, "just reflect. This 
 girl is so well known in the place ; she will be sure to 
 be missed; and if any violence is done to her, it's a 
 capital crime, my lord, — a capital crime. I know they 
 can't hang a great lord like you, but all concerned in it 
 may — " 
 
 Lord Lilburne interrupted the speaker by, " Give me 
 some wine, and hold your tongue!" Then, Avhen he 
 had emptied his glass, he drew himself nearer to the 
 fire, warmed his hands, mused a moment, and turned 
 round to his confidant : — 
 
 " Dykeman," said he, "though you're an ass and a 
 coward, and you don't deserve that I should be so 
 1 On thee the whole house rest coufidingly.
 
 266 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 condescending, I will relieve your fears at once. I 
 know the law better than you can, for my whole life has 
 been spent in doing exactly as I please, without ever 
 putting myself in the power of LAW, which interferes 
 with the pleasures of other men. You are right in 
 saying violence would be a capital crime. Kow the 
 difierence between vice and crime is this: vice is what 
 parsons write sermons against ; crime is what we make 
 laws against. I never committed a crime in all my life, 
 
 — at an age between fifty and sixty I am not going to 
 begin. Vices are safe things: I may have my vices 
 like other men ; but crimes are dangerous things, — 
 illegal things, things to be carefully avoided. Look 
 you " (and here tlie speaker, fixing his puzzled listener 
 with his eye, broke into a grin of sublime mockery), " let 
 me suppose you to be the World, — that cringing valet 
 of valets, the World! I should say to you this: ' My 
 dear World, you and I understand each other well, — 
 we are made for each otlier : I never come in your way , 
 nor you in mine. If I get drunk every day in my own 
 room, that 's vice, you can't touch me; if I take an extra 
 glass for the first time in ni}'' life, and knock down the 
 watchman, that 's a crime which, if I am rich, costs me 
 one pound, — perhaps five pounds, if I am poor, sends 
 me to the treadmill. If I break the hearts of five 
 hundred old fathers, by buying with gold or flattery the 
 embraces of five hundred young daughters, that 's vice, 
 
 — your servant, Mr. World! If one termagant wench 
 scratches my face, makes a noise, and goes brazen-faced 
 to the Old Bailey to swear to her shame, why that 's 
 crime, and my friend, Mr. World, pulls a hemp-rope 
 out of his pocket.' Now, do you understand'/ Yes, I 
 repeat," he added with a change of voice, " I never 
 committed a crime in my life. I have never even been
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 2G7 
 
 accused of one, — never liad an action of crim. co7i., of 
 seduction against me. 1 know how to manage such 
 matters better. I was forced to carry off this girl, 
 because I had no other means of courting her. To court 
 her is all I mean to do now. I am perfectly aware that 
 an action for violence, as you call it, would be the more 
 disagreeable, because of the very weakness of intellect 
 which the girl is said to possess, and of which report I 
 dun't believe a word._ 1 shall, most certainly, avoid 
 every the remotest appearance that could be so con- 
 strued. It is for that rea.son that no one in the house 
 shall attend the girl except yourself and your niece. 
 Your niece I can depend on, I kuowj I have been 
 kind to her; I have got her a good husband. T shall 
 get her husband a good place ; I shall be godfather to 
 her first child. To be sure, the other servants will 
 know there 's a lady in the house, but to that they are 
 accustomed ; I don't set up for a Joseph. They need 
 know no more, unless you choose to blab it out. AVell, 
 then, supposing that at the end of a few days, more or 
 less, without any rudeness on my part, a young woman, 
 after seeing a few jewels and fine dresses and a pretty 
 house, and being made very comfortable, and being 
 convinced that her grandfather shall be taken care of 
 without her slaving herself to death, chooses of her 
 own accord to live with me, where 's the crime, and who 
 can interfere with it "? " 
 
 "Certainly, my lord, that alters the case," said 
 Dykeman, considerably relieved. "But still," he 
 added anxiously ," if the inquiry is made, — if before 
 all this is settled, it is found out where she is? " 
 
 "Why, tlien, no harm will be done, — no violence 
 will be committed. Her grandfather — drivelling, and 
 a miser, you say — can be appeased by a little money,
 
 268 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 
 
 and it will be nobody's business, and no case can be 
 made of it. Tush, man! I always look before I leap. 
 People in this world are nut so charitable as you 
 suppose, Wliat more natural than that a poor and 
 pretty girl — not as wise as Queen Elizabeth — should 
 be tempted to pay a visit to a rich lover ! All they can 
 say of the lover is, that he is a very gay man or a very 
 bad man, and that 's saying nothing new of me. But I 
 don't think it will be found out. Just get me that stool ; 
 this has iM^en a very troublesome piece of business, — 
 rather tired me. I am not so young as I was. Yes, 
 Dykeraan, something which that Frenchman Vaudemont, 
 or Vautr-rien, or whatever his name is, said to me once 
 has a certain degree of truth. I felt it in the last fit 
 of tlie gout, when my pretty niece was smoothing my 
 pillows. A nurse, ao we grow older, may be of use to 
 one. I wish to make this girl like me, or be grateful 
 to me. I am meditating a longer and more serious 
 attachment tlian usual, — a companion! " 
 
 "A companion, my lord, in that poor creature! — so 
 ignorant, so uneducated ! " 
 
 " So much the better. This world palls upon me," 
 said Lilburne, almost gloomily. " I grow sick of the 
 miserable quackeries, — of the piteous conceits that men, 
 women, and children, call ' knowledge.' I wish to 
 catch a glimpse of nature before I die. This creature 
 interests me, and that is something in this life. Clear 
 those things away, and leave me. 
 
 "Ay! " muttered Lilburne, as he bent over the lire 
 alone, " when 1 first heard that that girl was the grand- 
 daughter of Simon Gawtrey, and, therefore, the child of 
 the man whom I am to thank that I am a cripple, I felt 
 as if love to her were a part of that hate which I owe 
 ii, him, — a .segment in the circle of my vengeance. But
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 269 
 
 now, poor cliild! I forgot all this. I feel for her, not 
 passion, but what I never felt before, affection. I feel 
 that if I had such a child, I could understand what men 
 mean when they talk of the tenderness of a father. I 
 have not one impure thought for that girl, — not one. 
 But I would give thousands if she could love me. 
 Strange! strange! in all this I do not recognize 
 
 myself!" 
 
 Lord Lilburne retired to rest betimes that night; he 
 slept sound ; rose refreshed at an earlier hour than usual ; 
 and what he considered a fit of vapors of the previous 
 night was passed away. He looked with eagerness to 
 an interview with Fanny. Proud of his intellect, 
 pleased in any of those sinister exercises of it, which 
 the code and habits of his life so long permitted to him, 
 he regarded the conquest of his fair adversary with the 
 interest of a scientific game. Harriet went to Fanny's 
 room to prepare her to receive her host; and Lord 
 Lilburne now resolved to make his own visit the less 
 unwelcome, by reserving for his especial gift some 
 showy, if not valuable, trinkets, which for similar 
 puilioses never failed the depositories of the villa he 
 had purchased for his pleasures. He recollected that 
 these gewgaws were placed in the bureau in the study ; 
 in which, as having a lock of foreign and intricate 
 workmanship, he usually kept whatever might tempt 
 cupidity in those frequent absences when the house 
 was left guarded but by two women-servants. Finding 
 that Fanny had not yet quitted her own chamber, while 
 Harriet went up to attend and reason with her, he him- 
 self limped into the study below, unlocked the bureau, 
 and was searching in the drawers, when he heard the 
 voice of Fanny above , raised a little as if in remonstrance 
 or entreaty; and he paused to listen. He could not,
 
 270 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 however, distinguish what was said; and in the mean- 
 while, without attending much to what he was about, 
 his hands were still employed in opening and shutting 
 the drawers, passing through the pigeon-lioles, and 
 feeling for a topaz brooch, which he thought could not 
 fail of pleasing the unsophisticated eyes of Fanny. 
 One of the recesses was deeper tlian the rest ; he fancied 
 the brooch was there; he stretched his hand into tlie 
 recess; and, as tlie room was partially darkened by the 
 lower shutters from without, which were still closed to 
 prevent any attempted escape of his captive, he had only 
 the sense of touch to depend on; not finding the brooch, 
 he stretched on till he came to the extremity of the 
 recess, and was suddenly sensible of a sharp pain ; the 
 flesh seemed caught as in a trap ; lie drew back his finger 
 with sudden force and a half-suppressed exclamation, and 
 he perceived the bottom or floor of the pigeon-hole 
 recede, as if sliding back. His curiosity was aroused; 
 he again felt warily and cautiously, and discovered a 
 very sliglit inequality and roughness at the extremity of 
 the recess. He was aware instantly tliat there was 
 some secret spring; he pressed with some force on the 
 spot, and he felt the board give way ; he pushed it back 
 towards him, and it slid suddenly with a whirring 
 noise, and left a cavity below exposed to his sight. He 
 peered in, and drew forth a paper; he opened it at first 
 carelessly, for he was still trying to listen to Fanny. 
 His eye ran rapidly over a few preliminary lines till it 
 rested on what follows: — 
 
 Marriage. The year 18 — . 
 No. 83, page 21. 
 
 Pliilip Beaufort, of this parish of A , and Catherine 
 
 Morton, of the parish of St. Botolph, Aldgate, London, were
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 271 
 
 married in tliia chuich liy banns, this 12tli day of November, 
 
 in the year one thousand eight hundred and ,^ by nie, 
 
 Caleb Price, Vicar. 
 
 This marriage was solemnized between us, 
 
 Philip Beaufort. 
 Catherune xMorton. 
 In the presence of 
 
 David Apreeck. 
 William Smith. 
 
 The above is a true copy, taken from the registry of mar- 
 riages in A pari.sh, this 19th day of March, 18 — , by me, 
 
 Morgan Jones, Curate of C . 
 
 Lord Lilburne again cast his eye over the lines pre- 
 fixed to this startling document, which, being those 
 written at Caleb's desire by Mr. Jones to Philip Beau- 
 fort, we need not here transcribe to the reader.^ At that 
 instant, Harriet descended the stairs, and came into 
 the room; she crept up on tiptoe to Lilburne, and 
 whispered, — 
 
 " She is coming down, I think ; she does not know 
 you are here." 
 
 " Very well, — go! " said Lord Lilburne. And scarce 
 liad Harriet left the room, when a carriage drove 
 furiously to the door, and Robert Beaufort rushed into 
 the study. 
 
 ^ This is according to the form customary at the date at which 
 the copy was made. There has since been au alteration. 
 ^ See vol. i., page 18.
 
 272 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Goue, and none know it. 
 
 Huw now ? — What news, wliat hopes and steps discovered ' 
 Beaumont and Fletcher: The Pilgrim. 
 
 "When Philip arrived at his lodgings in town it was 
 very late, but he still found Ijiancourt waiting the 
 chance of his arrival. The Frenchman was full of his 
 own schemes and projects. He was a man of high 
 repute and connections; negotiations for his recall to 
 Paris had been entered into ; he was divided between a 
 Quixotic loyalty and a rational prudence; he brought 
 his doubts to Vaudemont. Occupied as he was with 
 thoughts of so important and personal a nature, Philip 
 could yet listen patiently to his friend, and weigh with 
 him the 2>i'os and cons. And, after having mutually 
 agreed that loyalty and prudence would both be best 
 consulted by waiting a little, to see if the nation, as 
 the Carlists yet fondly trusted, would soon, after its 
 first fever, offer once more the throne and the purple to 
 the descendant of St. Louis, Liancourt, as he lighted 
 his cigar to walk home, said, " A thousand thanks to 
 you, my dear friend: and how have you enjoyed your- 
 self in your visit? I am not surprised or jealous that 
 Lilburne did not invite me, as I do not play at cards, 
 and as I have said some sharp things to hiin." 
 
 " I fancy I shall have the same disqualifications for 
 another invitation," said Vaudemont, with a severe 
 smile. " I may have much to disclose to you in a few
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 273 
 
 days. At present my news is still unripe. And have 
 you seen anything of Lilburnel He left us some days 
 since. Is he in London? " 
 
 " Yes; I was riding with our friend Henri, wlio 
 Avished to try a new horse otf the stones, a little way 
 
 into the country yesterday. We went througli 
 
 and H . Pretty places, those. Do you know 
 
 them 1 " 
 
 "Yes; I know H ." 
 
 " And just at dusk, as we were spurring back to town, 
 whom should I see walking on the path of the highroad, 
 but Lord Lilburne himself! I could hardly believe my 
 eyes. I stopped, and, after asking him about you, I 
 could not help expressing my surprise to see him on 
 foot at such a place. You know the man's sneer. ' A 
 Frenchman so gallant as Monsieur de Liancourt,' said 
 he, ' need not be surprised at much greater miracles; 
 the iron moves to the magnet: T have a little adventure 
 here. Pardon me, if I ask you to ride on.' Of course, 
 I wished him good-day; and a little farther up the 
 road 1 saw a dark, plain chariot, no coronet, no arms, 
 no footman, — only the man on the box, but the beauty 
 of the horses assured me it must belong to Lilburne. 
 Can you conceive such abs\:rdity in a man of that age, 
 — and a very clever fellow too? Yet, how is it that 
 one does not ridicule it in Lilburne, as one would in 
 another man between fifty and sixty ? " 
 
 " Because one does not ridicule — one loathes — him. " 
 
 " No ; that 's not it. The fact is, that one can't fancy 
 Lilburne old. His manner is young, — his eye is 
 3'oung. I never saw any one with so much vitality. 
 'The bad heart and the good digestion,' — the twin 
 secrets for wearing well , eh ? " 
 
 " Where did you meet him : not near H ? " 
 
 VOL. II. — 18
 
 274 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "Yes; close by. Wliy? Have yon any adventure 
 there too? Nay, forgive me; it was but a jest. 
 Good-night!" 
 
 Yaudemont fell into an uneasy reverie; he could not 
 divine exactly why he should be alarmed; but he icas 
 alarmed at Lilburne being in the neighborhood of 
 
 H . It was the foot of the profane violating the 
 
 sanctuary. An undefined thrill shot through him, as 
 his mind coupled together the associations of Lilburne 
 and Fanny ; but there was no ground for forebodings. 
 Fanny did not stir out alone. An adventure, too, — 
 pooh! Lord Lilburne must be awaiting a willing and 
 voluntary appointment, most probably from some one 
 of tlie fair but decorous frailties in London. Lord 
 Lilburne's more recent conquests were said to be 
 among those of his own rank ; suburbs are useful for 
 such assignations. Any other thought was too horrible 
 to be contemplated. He glanced to the clock ; it was 
 
 three in the morning. He would go to H early, 
 
 even before he sought out Mr. William Smith. With 
 that resolution, and even his hardy frame worn out by 
 the excitement of the day, he threw himself on his bed 
 and fell asleep. 
 
 He did not wake till near nine, and had just dressed, 
 and hurried over his abstemious breakfast, when the 
 .servant of the house came to tell him that an old 
 woman, apparently in great agitation, wished to see 
 him. His head was still full of witnesses and lawsuits; 
 and he was vaguely expecting some visitor connected 
 with his primary objects, when Sarah broke into the 
 room. She cast a hurried, suspicious look round her, 
 and then, throwing herself on her knees to him, " Oh! " 
 she cried, " if you have taken that poor young thing 
 away, God forgive you! Let her come back again. It
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 275 
 
 sluill be all hushed up. Don't ruin her! don't! that 's 
 a dear, good gentleman! " 
 
 " Speak plainly, woman, — what do you mean 1 " cried 
 Philip, turning pale. 
 
 A very few words sufficed for an explanation: Fanny's 
 disappearance the previous night; the alarm of Sarah 
 at her non-return; the apathy of old Simon, who did not 
 comprehend what had happened, and quietly went to 
 bed; the search Sarah had made during half the night; 
 the intelligence she had picked up, that the policeman, 
 going his rounds, had heard a female shriek near the 
 school, but that all he could perceive through the mist 
 was a carriage driving rapidly past him; Sarah's suspi- 
 cions of Vaudemont, confirmed in the morning, when, 
 entering Fanny's room, she perceived the poor girl's 
 unfinished letter with his own; the clew to his address 
 that the latter gave her, — all this, ere she well under- 
 stood what she herself was talking about, Vaudemont's 
 alarm seized, and the reflection of a moment construed. 
 The carriage ; Lilburne seen lurking in the neighbor- 
 hood the previous day ; the former attempt, — all flashed 
 on him with an intolerable glare. While Sarah was 
 yet speaking, he rushed from the house, he flew to Lord 
 Lilburne's in Park Lane, he composed his manner, he 
 inquired calmly. His lordship had slept from home; 
 
 he was, they believed, at Fernside : Fernside! H 
 
 was on the direct way to that villa! Scarcely ten 
 minutes had elapsed since he heard the story ere he was 
 on the road, with such speed as the promise of a guinea 
 a mile could extract from the spurs of a young post-boy 
 applied to the flanks of London post-horses.
 
 276 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Ex humili magna ad fastigia rerum 
 ExtoUit.i 
 
 JCVEXAL. 
 
 When Harriet had quitted Fanny, the waiting-woman, 
 craftily wishing to lure her into Lilburne's presence, 
 had told her that the room below was empty ; and the 
 captive's mind naturally and instantly seized on the 
 thought of escape. After a brief breathing pause, she 
 crept noiselessly down the stairs, and gently opened the 
 door; and at the very instant she did so, Robert Beau- 
 fort entered from the other door; she drew back in terror, 
 when, what was htir astonishment in hearing a name 
 uttered that spell-bound her, — the last name she could 
 have expected to hear; for Lilburne, the instant he saw 
 Beaufort pale, haggard, agitated, rush into the room, 
 and bang the door after him, could only suppose that 
 something of extraordinary moment had occurred with 
 regard to the dreaded guest, and cried : " You come about 
 Vaudemont! Something has happened about Vaude- 
 mont! about Philip! What is it? Calm yourself." 
 
 Fanny, as the name was thus abruptly uttered, actually 
 thrust her face through the door; but she again drew 
 back, and, all her senses preternaturally quickened at 
 that name, while she held the door almost closed, 
 listened with her whole soul in her ears. 
 
 The faces of both the men were turned from her, 
 and her partial entry had not been perceived. 
 
 1 Fortune raises men from low estate to the very summit of 
 prosperity.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 277 
 
 "Yes," said Eobert Beaufort, leaning his weight, as 
 if ready to sink to the ground, upon Lilburne's shoulder, 
 
 — "yes: Vauderaont, or Philip, for they are one, — ■ 
 yes, it is about that man I have come to consult you. 
 Arthur has arrived." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " And Arthur has seen the wretch who visited us, and 
 the rascal's manner has so imposed on him, so convinced 
 him that Philip is the heir to all our property, that he 
 has come over — ill, ill — I fear," added Beaufort, in a 
 hollow voice, " dying, to — to — " 
 
 " To guard against their machinations ? " 
 
 " Xo, no, no, — to say that if such be the case, neither 
 honor nor conscience will allow us to resist his rights. 
 He is so obstinate in this matter, his nerves so ill bear 
 reasoning and contradiction, that I know not what to 
 do — " 
 
 " Take breath, — go on." 
 
 "Well, it seems that this man found out Arthur 
 almost as soon as my son arrived at Paris ; that he has 
 persuaded Arthur that he has it in his power to prove 
 the marriage; that he pretended to be very impatient 
 for a decision; that Arthur, in order to gain time to see 
 me, affected irresolution, took him to Boulogne, for the 
 rascal does not dare to return to England, left him there, 
 
 — and now comes back, my own son, as my worst enemy, 
 to conspire against me for my property! I could not 
 have kept ray temper if I had stayed. But that 's not 
 all, — that 's not the worst : Vauderaont left me suddenly 
 in the morning on the receipt of a letter. In taking 
 leave of Camilla, he let fall hints which fill me with 
 fear. Well , I inquired his movements as I came along ; 
 
 he had stopped at D , had been closeted for above an 
 
 hour with a man whose name the landlord of the inu
 
 278 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 knew, for it was on his carpet-hag, — the name was 
 Barlow. You rememher tlie advertisements! Good 
 heavens! what is to he done? I wouhl not do anything 
 iinhandsome or dishonest. But there never was a mar- 
 riage. I never will helieve there was a marriage, 
 — never! " 
 
 "There was a marriage, Rohert Beaufort," said Lord 
 Lilhurne, almost enjoying the torture he was ahout to 
 inflict; " and T hold here a paper that Philip Vaudemont 
 ^for so we will yet call hi in — would give his right 
 hand to clutcli for a momont. I have hut just found it 
 in a secret cavity in that bureau. Robert, on this paper 
 may depend the fate, the fortune, the prosperity, the 
 greatness of Philip Vaudemont; or his poverty, his 
 exile, his ruin! See!" 
 
 Robert Beaufort glanced over the paper held out to 
 him, dropped it on the floor, and staggered to a seat. 
 J.illnirne coolly replaced the document in the bureau, 
 and, limping to his brother-in-law, said with a smile, 
 "But the paper is in my possession, — I Avill not 
 destroy it. No; I have no right to destroy it. Besides, 
 it would be a crime ; but if I give it to you, yott can 
 do with it as you please." 
 
 " O Lilhurne, spare me, spare me! I meant to be an 
 honest man. T — T — " And Robert Beaufort sobbed. 
 
 Lilhurne looked at him in scornful surprise. 
 
 " Do not fear that /shall ever think worse of you ; and 
 who else will know it? Do not fear me. Ko; I, too, 
 have reasons to hate and to fear this Philip Vaudemont; 
 for Vaudemont shall be his name, and not Beaufort, 
 in spite of fifty such scraps of paper! He has known a 
 nian, — my worst foe ; he has secrets of mine, — of my 
 past, perhaps of my present: but I laugh at his knowledge 
 while he is a wandering adventurer; T should tremble
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 279 
 
 at that knowledge if he could thunder it out to the world 
 as Philip Beaufort of Beaufort Court! There, I am 
 candid with you. Now hear my plan. Prove to Arthur 
 that his visitor is a convicted felon, by sending the 
 officers of justice after him instantly, — off with him 
 again to the Settlements. Defy a single witness; 
 entrap Vaudemont back to France, and prove him (I 
 think I will prove him such, — I think so, — with 
 a little money and a little pains) — prove him the 
 accomplice of William Gawtrey, a coiner and a mur- 
 derer! Pshaw! take yon paper. Do with it as you 
 will ; keep it, give it to Arthur, — let Philip Vaudemont 
 have it, and Philip Vaudemont will be rich and great, 
 the happiest man between earth and paradise! On the 
 other hand, come and tell me that you have lost it, or 
 that I never gave you such a paper, or that no such 
 paper ever existed; and Philip Vaudemont may live a 
 pauper, and die, perhaps a slave at the galleys! Lose 
 it, I say, lose it, — and advise with me upon the rest." 
 
 Horror-struck, bewildered, the weak man gazed upon 
 the calm face of the master-villain, as the scholar of 
 the old fables might have gazed on the fiend who put 
 before him worldly prosperity here and the loss of his 
 S(ml hereafter. He had never hitherto regarded Lilburne 
 in his true light. He was appalled by the black heart 
 that lay bare before him. 
 
 " I can't destroy it, — I can't," he faltered out; " and 
 if I did, out of love for Arthur, — don't talk of galleys, 
 — of vengeance, I — I — " 
 
 " The arrears of the rents you have enjoyed will send 
 you to jail for your life. No, no; doii't destroy the 
 paper! " 
 
 Beaufort rose with a desperate effort; he moved to the 
 bureau. Fanny's heart was on her lips. Of this long
 
 280 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 conference she had understood only the one broad point 
 on which Lilburne had insisted with an emphasis that 
 coukl have enlightened an infant, — and he looked on 
 Beaufort as an infant then : On tJiat paper rested Philip 
 Vaudemonfs fate, — happiness if saved, ruin if 
 destroyed; Philip, — her Philip ! And Philip himself 
 had said to her once, — when had she ever forgotten 
 his words? and now how those words flashed across her, 
 — Philip himself had said to her once, " Upon a scrap 
 of paper, if I could hut find it, may depend my whole 
 fortune, my whole happiness, all that I care for in life." 
 Robert Beaufort moved to the bureau; he seized the 
 document; he looked over it again, hurriedly, — and 
 ere Lilburne, who by no means wished to have it 
 destroyed in his own presence, was aware of his inten- 
 tion, he hastened with tottering steps to the hearth, 
 averted his eyes, and cast it on the fire. At that instant, 
 something white — he scarce knew what, it seemed to 
 him as a spirit, as a ghost — darted by him, and snatched 
 the paper, as yet uninjured, from the embers! There 
 was a pause for the hundredth part of a moment: a 
 gurgling sound of astonishment and horror from Beaufort, 
 an exclamation from Lilburne, a laugh from Panny, as, 
 her eyes flashing light, with a proud dilation of stature, 
 with the paper clasped tightly to her bosom, she turned 
 her looks of triumph from one to the other. The two 
 men were both too amazed, at the instant, for rapid 
 measures. But Lilburne, recovering himself first, has- 
 tened to her; she eluded his grasp, — she made towards 
 the door to the passage; when Lilburne, seriously 
 alarmed, seized her arm: — 
 
 " Foolish child! — give me that paper! " 
 " Never but with my life ! " And Fanny's cry for help 
 rang through the house.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 281 
 
 "Then — " tlie speech died on his lips, for at that 
 instant a rapid stride was heard without; a momentary 
 scuffle ; voices in altercation ; the door gave way as if a 
 hattering-ram hatl forced it; not so much thrown forward, 
 as actually hurled into the room, the body of Dykeman 
 fell heavily, like a dead man's, at the very feet of 
 Lord Lilburne, — and Philip Vaudcmont stood in the 
 doorway ! 
 
 The grasp of Lilburne on Fanny's arm relaxed, and 
 the girl, with one bound, sprang to Philip's breast. 
 "Here, here!" she cried "take it, take it!" and she 
 thrust the paper into his hand. " Don't let them have 
 it: read it, — see it, — never mind me!" But Philip, 
 though his hand unconsciously closed on the precious 
 document, did mind Fanny; and in tliat moment her 
 cause was the only one in the world to him. 
 
 "Foul villain!" he said, as he strode to Lilburne, 
 while Fanny still clung to his breast: " Speak! — speak! 
 • — is — she — is she 1 — man — man, speak ! — you know 
 what I would say! She is the child of your own 
 daughter, the grandchild of that ^lary whom you dis- 
 honored, the child of the woman whom William 
 Gawtrey saved from pollution! Before he died, Gawtrey 
 commended her to my care ! — God of Heaven ! — 
 speak ! — I am not too late ! " 
 
 The manner, the words, the face of Philip, left 
 Lilburne terror-stricken with conviction. But the man's 
 crafty ability, debased as it was, triumphed even over 
 remorse for the dread guilt meditated, — over gratitude for 
 the dread guilt spared. He glanced at Beaufort, at Dyke- 
 man, who now, slowly recovering, gazed at him with eyes 
 that seemed starting from their sockets, and lastly fixed 
 his look on Philip himself. There were three witnesses, 
 — presence of mind was his great attribute!
 
 282 NIGHT AND MOKNIXG. 
 
 " And if, IMonsieur de Vandemont, I knew, or at least 
 had the firmest persuasion, tliat Fanny was my grand- 
 child, what tlien ? Why else should she be here 1 Pooh, 
 sir! I am an old m;in." 
 
 I'liilip recoiled a step in wonder; his plain sense was 
 hallled by the calm lie. He looked down at Fanny, 
 Avlio, comprehending nothing of what was spoken, for 
 all her facidties, even her very sense of sight and 
 hearing, were absorbed in her impatient anxiety for 
 him, cried out, — 
 
 "No harm has come to Fanny, — none: only fright- 
 ened. Read! read! Save that paper! You know what 
 you once said about a mere scrap of paper! Come away! 
 Come ! " 
 
 He did now cast his eyes on the paper he held. That 
 was an awful moment for Robert Beaufort, — even for 
 Lilburne! To snatch the fatal document from tJint 
 gripe! They would as soon have snatched it from a 
 tiger! He lifted his eyes, — they rested on his mother's 
 picture! Her lips smiled on him! He turned to 
 Beaufort in a state of emotion too exulting, too blessed 
 for vulgar vengeance, — for vulgar triumph, almost for 
 words. 
 
 "Look yonder, Robert Beaufort, look!" and he 
 pointed to the picture. " Ihr name is spotless! I 
 stand again beneath a roof that was mv father's, — the 
 heir of Beaufort! We shall meet before the justice of 
 our country. For you, Lord Tjilburne, I will believe 
 you: it is too horrible to doubt even your intentions. 
 If wrong had chanced to her, I would have rent you 
 Avhcre you stand, limb from limb. And thank her" 
 ("for r.illjuriie recovered at tliis language the daring of 
 his youth, before calculation, indolence, and excess had 
 dulled the edge of his nerves; and unawed by the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 283 
 
 lieiL^lit and nKiuhood and strength of his menacer, 
 stalked haughtily up to him), — " and thank your 
 relationship to her," said Philip, sinking his voice into 
 a whisper, " that I do not hrand you as a pilferer and a 
 cheat! Hush, knave! Hush, pupil of George Gawtrey ! 
 — there are no duels for nie but with men of honor! " 
 
 Lilburne now turned white, and the big word stuck 
 in his throat. In another instant Fanny and her 
 guardian had quitted the house. 
 
 " Dykeman," said Lord Lilburne, after a long silence, 
 " I shall ask you another time how you came to admit 
 that impertinent person. At present, go and order 
 breakfast for ^Iv. Beaufort." 
 
 As soon as Dykeman, more astounded, perhaps, by his 
 lord's coolness than even by the preceding circumstances, 
 had left the study, Lilburne came up to Beaufort, — who 
 seemed absolutely stricken as if by palsy, — and touching 
 him impatiently and rudely, said, — • 
 
 " 'Sdeath, man! — rouse yourself! There is not a 
 moment to be lost! I have already decided on what 
 you are to do. This paper is not worth a rush unless 
 the curate who examined it will depose to that fact. 
 He is a curate, — a Welsh curate; you are yet Mr. 
 Beaufort, a rich and a gretit man. The curate, properly 
 managed, niaij depose to the contrary; and then we will 
 indict them all for forgery and conspiracy. At the 
 worst, you can, no doubt, get the parson to forget all 
 about it, — to stay away. His address was on the 
 
 certificate, — C . Go yourself into Wales, without 
 
 an instant's delay. Then, having arranged with Mr. 
 Jones, hurry back, cross to Boulogne, and buy this 
 convict and his witness, — yes, bu]/ them! That, now, 
 is the only thing. Quick! quick! quick! Zounds, 
 man! if it were //<y affair, ))i>/ estate, I would not care
 
 284 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 a pin for that fragment of paper; I should rather rejoice 
 
 at it. I see how it could be turned against them! Go! " 
 
 " Xo, no; I am not equal to it! Will ijou manage it? 
 
 — will jou? Half my estate! All! Take it: hut 
 save — " 
 
 " Tut! " interrupted Lord Lilburne, in great disdain. 
 " I am as rich as I want to be. Money does not bribe 
 vie. 1 manage this. // Lord Lilburne! I! Why, 
 if found out, it is subornation of witnesses. It is 
 exposure, it is dishonor, — it is ruin. What then? 
 You should take the risk, — for you must meet ruin if 
 you do nut. /cannot, i have nothing to gain! " 
 
 " I dare not ! — I dare not ! " murmured Beaufort, 
 quite spirit-broken. " Subornation, dishonor, exposure! 
 
 — and I, so respectable, — my character — and my son 
 against me, too — my son, in whom I lived again! no, 
 no; let them take all! Let them take it! Ha! ha! let 
 them take it! Good-day to you." 
 
 " Where are you going 1 " 
 
 " 1 shall consult Mr. Blackwell, and I '11 let you 
 know. " 
 
 Ami Beaufort walked tremulously back to his carriage. 
 
 "Go to his lawyer!" growled Lilburne. "Yes, if 
 his laivyer can help him to defraud men lawfully, he '11 
 defraud them fast enough. That will be the respectable 
 way of doing it! Um! — This may be an ugly business 
 for me, — tlie paper found here, — if the girl can depose 
 to what she heard, and she must have heard something. 
 No, I think the laws of real property will hardly allow 
 her evidence; and if they do — um! — my grand- 
 daughter! — is it possible? And Gawtrey rescued her 
 mother, my child, from her own mother's vices! I 
 thought my liking to that girl dilFerent from any other 
 I have ever felt: it was pure, — it was/ — it was pity,
 
 l^IGHT AND MORNING. 285 
 
 — affection. And I must never see her again, — must 
 forget the whole thing! And I am growing old, and I 
 am childless, — and alone! " He paused, almost with a 
 groan; and then the expression of his face changing to 
 rage, he cried out, " The man threatened me, and I was 
 a coward! What to do? Nothing! The defensive is 
 my line. I shall play no more. I attack no one. Who 
 will accuse Lord Lilburne ? Still, Robert is a fool. I 
 must not leave him to himself. Ho ! there ! Dykeman 
 
 — the carriage ! I shall go to London. " 
 
 Fortunate, no doubt, it was for Philip that Mr. 
 Beaufort was not Lord Lilburne. For all history 
 teaches us, — public and private historj'-, conquerors, 
 statesmen, sharp hypocrites, and brave designers, — yes, 
 they all teach us how mighty one man of great intellect 
 and no scruple is against the justice of millions! The 
 one man moves, — the mass is inert. Justice sits on a 
 throne. Eoguery never rests, — activity is the lever of 
 Archimedes.
 
 286 NIGHT AND :\IOKNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Quam multa injusta ac prava fiunt moribus i — Tull. 
 
 Vol at anibiguis 
 Mobilis alis Hora.^ 
 
 Seneca. 
 
 Mr. Robert Beaufort sought INIr. Blackwell, and 
 long, rambling, and disjointed was his narrative. ]\Ir. 
 Blackwell, after some consideration, proposed to set 
 about doing the very things that Lilburne had proposed 
 at once to do. But the lawyer expressed himself legally 
 and covertly, so that it did not seem to the sober sense 
 of Mr. Beaufort at all the same plan. He was not the 
 least alarmed at what Mr. Blackwell proposed, though 
 so shocked at what Lilburne dictated. Blackwell would 
 go the next day into \Yales; lie would find out Mr. 
 Jones; he would sound him! Xothing was more 
 common, with people of the nicest honor, than just to 
 get a witness out of the way! Done in election 
 petitions, for instance, every day. 
 
 "True," said Mr. Beaufort, much relieved. 
 
 Then, after having done that, Mr. Blackwell would 
 return to town, and cross over to Boulogne to see this 
 very impudent person whom Arthur (yoang men were 
 so apt to be taken in!) had actually believed. He had 
 no doubt he could .settle it all. Robert Beaufort returned 
 to Berkeley Square actually in spirits. 
 
 1 How many unjust and vicious actions are perpetrated under 
 the name of morals. 
 ^ The hour flies, moving with douljtful wings.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 287 
 
 There he found Lilburne, who, on reflection, seeing 
 that Blackwell was at all events more up to the business 
 than his brother, assented to the propriety of the 
 arrangement. 
 
 Mr. Blackwell accordingly did set off the next day. 
 That next day, perhaps, made all the difference. Within 
 two hours from his gaining the document so important, 
 Philip, without any subtler exertion of intellect than 
 the decision of a plain, bold sense, had already fore- 
 stalled both the peer and the lawyer. He had sent down 
 Mr. Barlow's head clerk to his master in Wales with 
 the document, and a short account of the manner in 
 which it had been discovered. And fortunate, indeed, 
 was it that the copy had been found ; for all tlie inquiries 
 
 of Mr. Barlow at A had failed, and probably would 
 
 have failed, without such a clew, in fastening upon any 
 one probable person to have officiated as Caleb Price's 
 amanuensis. The sixteen hours' start Mr. Barlow 
 gained over Blackwell enabled the former to see Mr. 
 Jones ; to show him his own handwriting ; to get a written 
 and witnessed attestation from which the curate, however 
 poor, and however tempted, could never well have escaped 
 (even had he been dishonest, which he was not), of his 
 perfect recollection of the fact of making an extract from 
 the registry at Caleb's desire, though he owned he had 
 quite forgotten the names he extracted till they were 
 again placed before him. Barlow took care to arouse 
 ]\lr. Jones's interest in the case, quitted Wales, has- 
 tened over to Bovilogne, saw Captain Smith, and without 
 bribes, without threats, but by plainly proving to that 
 worthy person tbat he could not return to England nor 
 see his brother without being immediately arrested ; that 
 his brother's evidence was already pledfjed on the side 
 of trath , and that by the acquisition of new testimony
 
 288 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 there could be no doubt that the suit would be suc- 
 cessful, — he diverted the captain from all disposition 
 towards perfidy, convinced him on which side his interest 
 lay, and saw him return to Paris, where very shortly 
 afterwards he disappeared forever from this world, being 
 forced into a duel, much against his will (with a 
 Frenchman whom he had attempted to defraud) and shot 
 through the lungs: thus verifying a favorite maxim of 
 Lord Lilburne's, — namely, that it does not do, on the 
 long run, for little men to play the great game. 
 
 On the same day that Blackwell returned, frustrated 
 in his half-and-half attempts to corrupt Mr. Jones, and 
 not having been able even to discover Mr. Smith, Mr. 
 Kobert Beaufort received notice of an action for ejectment 
 to be brought by Philip Beaufort at the next assizes. 
 And, to add to his afflictions, Arthur, whom he had 
 hitherto endeavored to amuse by a sort of ambiguous 
 shilly-shally correspondence, became so alarmingly 
 worse, that his mother brought him up to town for advice. 
 Lord Lilburne was, of course, sent for; and, on learning 
 all, his counsel was prompt. 
 
 " I told you before that this man loves your daughter. 
 See if you can effect a compromise. The lawsuit will 
 be ugly, and probably ruinous. He has a right to claim 
 six years' arrears, — that is above £100,000. ]\Iake 
 yourself his father-in-law, and me his uncle-in-law; 
 and, since we can't kill the wasp, we may at least 
 soften the venom of liis sting." 
 
 Beaufort, still perplexed, irresolute, sought his son, 
 and, for the first time, spoke to him franlcly, — that is, 
 frankly for llobert Beaufort! He owned tliat the 
 copy of tlie register had been found by Lilburne in a 
 secret drawer. He made the best of the story Lilburne 
 himself furnished liini with (adhering, of course, to the
 
 NIGHT AND MOKXING. 289 
 
 assertion uttered or insinuated to Philip) in regard to 
 Fanny's abduction and interposition; he said nothing of 
 his attempt to destroy the paper. Why should he? 
 By admitting the copy in court, — if so advised, — he 
 could get rid of Fanny's evidence altogether; even 
 without such concession, her evidence might possibly be 
 olyected to, or eluded. He confessed that he feared the 
 witness who copied the register and the witness to the 
 marriage were alive. And then he talked pathetically 
 of his desire to do what was right, his dread of slander 
 and misinterpretation. He said nothing of Sidney, and 
 his belief that Sidney and Charles Spencer were the 
 same; because, if his daughter were to be the instrument 
 for effecting a compromise, it was clear that her engage- 
 ment with Spencer must be cancelled and concealed. 
 And luckily Arthur's illness and Camilla's timidity, 
 joined now to her father's injunctions not to excite 
 Arthur in his present state with any additional causes 
 of anxiety, prevented the confidence that might other- 
 wise have ensued between the brother and sister. And 
 Camilla, indeed, had no heart for such a conference. 
 How, when she looked on Arthur's glassy eye, and 
 listened to his hectic cough, could she talk to him of 
 love and marriage 1 As to the automaton, Mrs. Beaufort, 
 llobert made sure of her discretion. 
 
 Arthur listened attentively to his father's communi- 
 cation, and the result of that interview was the following 
 letter from Arthur to his cousin : — 
 
 I write to you without fear of misconstruction ; for I write 
 to you unknown to all my family, and I am the only one of 
 them who can have no personal interest in tlie strusfgle about 
 to take place between my father and yourself. Before the law 
 can decide between you, I shall be in my grave. I write this 
 from the bed of death. Philip, I write this, — /, who stood 
 vol. II. — 19
 
 290 NIGHT AND MORNING, 
 
 beside a deuthbed more sacred to you than mine, — T, who re- 
 ceived your motiier's last sigh. And with that sigh there was 
 a smile that lasted when the sigh was gone : for I promised to 
 befriend her children Heaven knows how anxiously I sought 
 to fulfil that solemn vow! Feeble and sick myself, I followed 
 you and your brother with no aim, no prayer, but this, — to 
 embrace you iind say, " Accept a new brother in me." I spare 
 you the humiliation — for it is yours, not mine — of recalling 
 what passed between us when at last we met. Yet I stdl 
 sought to save, at least, Sidney, — more especially confided to 
 my care by his dying mother. He mysteriously eUuled our 
 search ; but we had reason, by a letter received from some un- 
 known hand, to believe him saved and provided for. Again 
 I met you at Paris. I saw you were poor. Judging from 
 your associate, I might, with justice, think you depraved. 
 Mindful of your declaration never to accept bounty from a 
 Beaufort, and remembering with natural resentment the out- 
 rage [ had before received from you, I judged it vain to seek 
 and remonstrate with you, but I did not judge it vain to aid. 
 I sent you, anonymously, what at least would suffice, if abso- 
 lute poverty had sul)jected you to evil courses, to rescue you 
 from them if yonr heart were so disposed. Perhaps that sura, 
 trifling as it was, may have smoothed your path and assisted 
 your career. And why tell you all this now ? To dissuade 
 from asserting rights you conceive to be just ? Heaven for- 
 bid ! If justice is witli you, so also is the duty due to your 
 mother's name. But simply for this : that in asserting such 
 rights, you content yourself with justice, not revenge, — that 
 in righting yourself, you do not wrong others. If the law 
 should decide for you, the arrears you could demand would 
 leave my father and sister beggars This may be law,— it 
 would not be justice ; for my father solemnly believed himself, 
 and had every apparent probability in his favor, the true heir 
 of the wealth that devolved upon him. This is not all. 
 There mav be circumstances connected with the discovery of 
 a certain document that, if authentic, — and I do not presume 
 to question it, —may decide the contest so far as it rests on 
 truth ; circumstances which might seem to bear hard upon my
 
 NIGHT AND MOIINING. 291 
 
 father's good name and faith. I do not know sufficiently of 
 law to say how far these could be publicly urged, or, if urged, 
 exaggerated and tortured liy an advocate's calumnious inge- 
 nuity. But again 1 say, justice, and not revenge ! And with 
 this I conclude, enclosing to you these lines, written in your 
 own hand, and leaving you the arbiter ot their value. 
 
 Arthur Beaufort. 
 
 The lines enclosed were these, a second time placed 
 before the reader : — 
 
 1 cannot guess who you are. They say that you call your- 
 self a relation ; that must be some mistake. I knew not that 
 my poor mother had relations so kind. But, whoever you 
 be, you soothed her last hours, — she died in your arms ; and 
 if ever — years, long years, 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 him, my 
 
 mother's soul will watch over you as a guardian angel. As 
 ioT me, I ask no help from any one ; I go into the world, and 
 will carve out my own way. So much do I shrink from the 
 thought of charity from others, that I do not believe I could 
 bless you as I do now, if your kindness to me did not close 
 
 with the stone upon my mother's grave. 
 
 Philip. 
 
 This letter was sent to the only address of Monsieur 
 de Vaudemont which the Beauforts knew, — namely, 
 his apartments in town, — and he did not receive it 
 the day it was sent. 
 
 ^Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort's malady continued to 
 gain ground rapidly. His father, absorbed in his own 
 more selfish fears (though, at the first sight of Arthur, 
 overcome by the alteration of his appearance), had 
 ceased to consider his illness fatal. In fact, his affec- 
 tion for Arthur was rather one of pride than love; long
 
 292 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 absence liad weakened the ties of early custom. He 
 prized him as an lieir rather than treasured him as a 
 son. It almost seemed that, as the heritage was in 
 danger, so the heir became less dear: this was only 
 because he was loss thought of. Poor jNIrs. Beaufort, 
 yet but partially acquainted with the terrors of her 
 husband, still clung to hope for Arthur. Her affection 
 for him brought out from the depths of her cold and 
 insignificant character qualities that had never before 
 been apparent. She watched, she nursed, she tended 
 him. The fine lady was gone; nothing but the mother 
 was left behind. 
 
 With a delicate constitution, and with an easy temper, 
 which yielded to tlie influence of companions inferior 
 to himself, except in bodily vigor and more sturdy will, 
 Arthur Beaufort had been ruined by prosperity. His 
 talents and acquirements, if not first-rate, at least far 
 above mediocrity, had only served to refine his tastes, 
 not to strengthen his mind. His amiable impulses, his 
 charming disposition, and sweet temper had only served 
 to make him the dupe of the parasites that feasted on 
 the lavish heir. His heart, frittered away in the usual 
 round of light intrigues and hollow pleasures, had be^ 
 come too sated and exhausted for the redeeming blessings 
 of a deep and noble love. He had so lived for pleasure 
 that he had never known happiness. His frame broken 
 by excesses in which his better nature never took 
 delight, he came home, — to hear of ruin and to die! 
 
 It was evening in the sick-room. Arthur had risen 
 from the bed to which, for some days, he had volun- 
 tarily taken, and was stretched on the sofa before the 
 fire. Camilla was leaning over him, keeping in the 
 shade that he might not see the tears which she could 
 not suppress. His mother had been endeavoring to
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 203 
 
 amuse him, as she wouhl liave amvised herself, hy read- 
 iiiL' aloud one of the li"lit novels of the hour; novels 
 that paint the life of the higher classes as one gorgeous 
 holiday. 
 
 " My dear mother," said the patient, querulously, 
 "I have no interest in these false descriptions of the 
 life I have led. I know that life's worth. Ah! had 
 I been trained to some employment, some profession! 
 had I — well, it is weak to repine. Mother, tell me, 
 you have seen Monsieur de Vaudemont; is he strong 
 and health)!? " 
 
 " Yes; too much so. He has not your elegance, dear 
 Arthur." 
 
 "And do you admire him, Camilla? Has no other 
 caught your heart or your fancy 1 " 
 
 "My dear Artliur," interrupted Mrs. Beaufort, "you 
 forget that Camilla is scarcely out ; and of course a young 
 girl's affections, if she 's well brought up, are regulated 
 by the experience of her parents. It is time to take the 
 medicine: it certainly agrees with you; you have more 
 color to-day, my dear, dear son." 
 
 While Mrs. Beaufort was pouring out the medicine, 
 the door gently opened, and Mr. Robert Beaufort 
 appeared; behind him there rose a taller and a statelier 
 form, but one which seemed more bent, more humbled, 
 more agitated. Beaufort advanced. Camilla looked up 
 and turned pale. The visitor escaped from Mr. Beau- 
 fort's grasp on his arm; he came forward, trembling; he 
 fell on his knees beside Arthur, and, seizing his hand, 
 bent over it in silence : but silence so stormy ! silence 
 more impressive than all words; his breast heaved, his 
 whole frame shook. Arthur guessed at once whom he 
 saw, and bent down gently, as if to raise his visitor. 
 
 "Oh, Arthur! Arthur!" then cried Philip; "forgive
 
 294 NIG ITT AND MOliNING. 
 
 me! My mother's comforter, my cousin, my brother! 
 Oh! brother, forgive me! " 
 
 And as he half -rose, Arthur stretched out his arms, 
 and Philip clasped him to his breast. 
 
 It is in vain to describe the different feelings that 
 agitated those who beheld; the selfish congratulations 
 of Robert, mingled with a better and purer feeling; the 
 stupor of the mother; the emotions that she herself 
 could not unravel, which rooted Camilla to the spot. 
 
 " You own me, then, — you own me! " cried Philip. 
 " You accept the brotherhood that my mad passions once 
 rejected! And you, too, — you, Camilla, — you who 
 once knelt by my side, under this very roof, — do you 
 remember me 7ioiv ? Oh, Arthur! that letter, that 
 letter! — yes, indeed, that aid, which I ascribed to any 
 one rather than to you, made the date of a fairer fortune. 
 I may have owed to that aid the very fate that has 
 preserved me till now, — the very name which I have 
 not discredited. No, no; do not think you can ask ine 
 a favor; you can but claim your due. Brother! my 
 dear brother ! " 
 
 0'
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XVIT. 
 
 W<inrirl\ — Excecdiug woll ! his cares are now all over. — 
 Henry IV. 
 
 Thk excitement of tliis iuterview soon overpowering 
 Arthur, Philip, in quitting the room with Mr. Beau- 
 fort, asked a conference with that gentleman ; and they 
 went into the very parlor from which the rich man had 
 once threatened to expel the haggard suppliant. Philip 
 glanced round the room, and the whole scene came 
 again before him. After a pause, he thus began, — 
 
 " Mr. Beaufort, let the past be forgotten. We may have 
 need of mutual forgiveness, and I, who have so wronged 
 your noble son, am willing to suppose that I misjudged 
 you. I cannot, it is true, forego this lawsuit." 
 
 Mr. Beaufort's face fell. 
 
 " I have no right to do so. I am the trustee of my 
 father's honor and my mother's name ; I must vindi- 
 cate both ; I cannot forego this lawsuit. But when I 
 once bowed myself to enter your house, — then only 
 "snth a hope, where now I have the certainty of obtaining 
 my heritage, — it was with the resolve to bury in 
 oblivion every sentiment that would transgress the 
 most temperate justice. Note, I will do more. If the 
 law decide against me, we are as we were; if with me, 
 — listen: I will leave you the lands of Beaufort, for 
 your life and your son's. I ask but for me and for 
 mine such a deduction from your wealth as will enable 
 me, should my brother be yet living, to provide for 
 him, and (if you approve the choice, which out of all
 
 296 KIGHT A^■D MORNING. 
 
 earth I -would desire to make) to give Avhatever belongg 
 to more refined or graceful existence than I myself care 
 for to her whom I would call my wife. Robert Beau- 
 fort, in this room I once asked you to restore to me the 
 only being I then loved: I am now again your sup- 
 pliant; and this time you have it in your power to 
 grant my prayer. Let Arthur be, in truth, my brother: 
 give me, if I prove myself, as I feel assured, entitled 
 to hold the name my father bore, give me your daughter 
 as my wife, — give me Camilla, and I will not envy you 
 the lands I am willing for myself to resign ; and if they 
 pass to my children, those children will be your 
 daughter's! " 
 
 The first impulse of Mr. Beaufort was to grasp the 
 hand held out to him, — to pour forth an incoherent 
 torrent of praise and protestation, of assurances that he 
 could not hear of such generosity, that what was right 
 was right, that he should be proud of such a son-in-law, 
 and much more to the same key. And in the midst of 
 this it suddenly occurred to Mr. Beaufort that if 
 Philip's case were really as good as he said it was, he 
 could not talk so coolly of resigning the property it 
 ■would secure him for the term of a life (]\Ir. Beaufort 
 thought of his own) so uncommonly good, to say nothing 
 of Arthur's. At this notion, he thought it best not to 
 commit himself too far; drew in as artfully as he could, 
 until he could consult Lord Lilburne and his lawyer; 
 and, recollecting also that he had a great deal to manage 
 with respect to Camilla and her prior attachment, he 
 began to talk of his distress for Arthur, of the necessity 
 of waiting a little before Camilla was spoken to, while 
 so agitated about her brother, of the exceedingly strong 
 case which his lawyer advised him he possessed, — not 
 but what he would rather rest the matter on justice
 
 NIGHT AND MORN-IXO. 297 
 
 than law, — and that if the law should be with him, he 
 would not the less (provided he did not force his 
 daughter's inclinations, of which, indeed, he had no 
 fear) be most haiipy to bestow her hand on his brother's 
 son, with such a portion as would be most handsome 
 to all parties. 
 
 It often happens to us in this world, that wlien we 
 come with our heart in our hands to some person or 
 other; when we pour out some generous burst of feeling 
 so enthusiastic and self-sacriticing, that a bystander 
 would call us fool and Quixote, — it often, T say, hap- 
 pens to us to find our warm self suddenly thrown back 
 upon our cold self, to discover that we are utterly uncom- 
 prehended, and that the swine who would have miuiched 
 up the acorn does not know what to make of the pearl. 
 That sudden ice which then freezes over us, that supreme 
 disgust and despair almost of the whole world, which 
 for the moment we confound with the one worldling, 
 — they who have felt may reasonably ascribe to Philip. 
 He listened to Mr. Beaufort in utter and contemptuous 
 silence, and then replied only, — 
 
 " Sir, at all events, this is a question for law to decide. 
 If it decide as you think, it is for you to act; if as I 
 think, it is for me. Till then, I will speak to you no 
 more of your daughter, or my intentions. Meanwhile 
 all I ask is the liberty to visit your son. I would not 
 be banished from his sick-room! " 
 
 " My dear nephew ! " cried Mr. Beaufort, again 
 alarmed, " consider this house as your home." 
 
 Philip bowed and retreated to the door, followed 
 obsequiously by his uncle. 
 
 It chanced that both Lord Lilburne and ^Ir. Black- 
 well were of the same mind as to the course advisal)Ie for 
 Mr. Beaufort now to pursue. Lord Lilburne was not
 
 '298 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 only anxious to exchange a hostile litigation for an 
 amicable lawsuit, but he was really eager to put the seal 
 of relationship upon any secret with regard to himself, 
 that a man who might inherit £20,000 a year — a dead 
 shot, and a bold tongue — might think fit to disclose. 
 This made him more earnest than he otherwise might 
 have been in advice as to other people's affairs. He 
 spoke to Beaufort as a man of the world, — to Blackwell 
 as a lawyer. 
 
 " Pin the man down to his generosity," said Lilburne, 
 " before he gets the property. Possession makes a great 
 change in a man's value of money. After all, you can't 
 enjoy the property when you 're dead: he gives it next 
 to Arthur, who is not married; and if anything happen 
 to Arthur, poor fellow, why in devolving on your daugh- 
 ter's husband and children, it goes in the right line. 
 Pin him down at once : get credit with the world for the 
 most noble and disinterested conduct, by letting your 
 counsel state that the instant you discovered the lost 
 document, you wished to throw no obstacle in the way 
 of proving the marriage, and that the only thing to 
 consider is, if the marriage be proved; if so, you will 
 be the first to rejoice, etc., etc. You know all that 
 sort of humbug as well as any man! " 
 
 Mr. Blackwell suggested the same advice, though in 
 different words, — after taking the opinions of three 
 eminent members of the bar. Those opinions, indeed, 
 were not all alike: one was adverse to Mr. Tiobert 
 Beaufort's chance of success, one was doubtful of it, the 
 tliird maintained that he had nothing to fear from the 
 action, — except, possibly, the ill-natured construction 
 of the world. Mr. liobert Beaufort disliked the idea of 
 the world's ill-nature, almost as much as he did that 
 of losing his property. And when even this last and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 299 
 
 more encouraging authority, learning privately from 
 Mr. TUackwell that Arthur's illness was of a nature to 
 terminate fatally, observed, " that a compromise with a 
 claimant, who was at all events Mr. Beaufort's nephew, 
 l)y which Mr. Beaufort could secure the enjoyment of 
 the estates to himself for life, and to his son for life 
 also, should not (whatever his probabilities of legal 
 success) be hastily rejected, unless he had a peculiar 
 affection for a very distant relation, — who, failing ]\[r. 
 Beaufort's male issue and Philip's claim, would be heir- 
 at-law, but whose rights would cease if Arthur liked to 
 cut off the entail," — Mr. Beaufort at once decided. He 
 had a personal dislike to that distant heir-at-law; he 
 had a strong desire to retain the esteem of the world ; 
 he had an intimate conviction of the justice of Philip's 
 claim ; he had a remorseful recollection of his brother's 
 generous kindness to himself; he preferred to have for 
 his heir, in case of Arthur's decease, a nephew who 
 would marry his daughter, than a remote kinsman. 
 And should, after all, the lawsuit fail to prove Philip's 
 right, he was not sorry to have the estate in his own 
 power by Arthur's act in cutting off the entail. Brief: 
 all these reasons decided him. He saw Philip, he 
 spoke to Arthur, — and all the preliminaries, as sug- 
 gested above, were arranged between the parties. The 
 entail was cut off, and Arthur secretl}' prevailed upon 
 his father, to whom, for the present, the fee-simple thus 
 belonged, to make a will, by which he bequeathed the 
 estates to Philip, without reference to the question of 
 his legitimacy. Mr. Beaufort felt his conscience greatly 
 eased after this action, — which, too, he could always 
 retract if he pleased ; and henceforth the lawsuit became 
 but a matter of form so far as the property it involved 
 was concerned.
 
 300 KIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Wliile tliese negotiations went on, Arthur continued 
 gradually to decline. Philip was with him always. 
 Tlie sufferer took a strange liking to this long-dreaded 
 relation, this man of iron frame and thews. In Philip 
 there was so much of life, that Arthur almost felt as if 
 in I'.is presence itself there was an antagonism to death. 
 And Camilla saw thus her cousin, day by day, hour by 
 hour, in that sick-chamber, lending himself, with the 
 gentle tenderness of a woman, to soften the pang, to 
 arouse the weariness, to cheer the dejection. Philip 
 never spoke to her of love: in such a scene that had 
 been impossible. She overcame in their mutual cares 
 the embarrassment she had before felt in his presence; 
 whatever her other feelings, she could not, at least, but be 
 grateful to one so tender to her brother. Three letters 
 of Charles Spencer's had been, in the afflictions of the 
 house, only answered by a brief line. She now took 
 the occasion of a momentary and delusive amelioration 
 in Arthur's disease to write to him more at length. 
 She was carrying, as usual, the letter to her mother, 
 Avhen Mr. Beaufort met her, and took the letter from 
 her hand. He looked embarrassed for a moment, and 
 bade her follow him into his study. It was then that 
 Camilla learned, for the first time distinctly, the claims 
 and rights of her cousin : then she learned also at what 
 price those rights were to be enforced Avith the least 
 possible injury to her father. Mr. Beaufort naturally 
 pnt the case before her in the strongest point of the 
 dilemma. He was to be ruined, — utterly ruined; a 
 ])auper, a beggar, if Camilla did not save him. The 
 master of his fate demanded his daughter's hand. 
 Habitually subservient to even a whim of her parents, 
 this intelligence, the entreaty, the command with 
 whicii it was accompanied, overwhelmed her. She
 
 KIGIIT AND MORNING. 301 
 
 answered but by tears; and ^h. Beaufort, assured of her 
 submission, left ber, to consider of the tone of tbe letter 
 lie bimself sbould write to Mr. Spencer. He had sat 
 down to tliis very task when be was summoned to 
 Arthur's room. His son was suddenly taken worse: 
 spasms that threatened immediate danger convulsed 
 and exhausted him; and when these were allayed, he 
 continued for three days so feeble that Mr. Beaufort, his 
 eyes now thoroughly open to the loss that awaited him, 
 had no thoucrhts even for workllv interests. 
 
 On the night of the third day Philip, Robert Beau- 
 fort, his wife, his daughter, were grouped round the 
 deatlibed of Arthur. The sufferer bad just wakened 
 from sleep, and he motioned to Philip to raise him. 
 Mr. Beaufort started, as by the dim light he saw his 
 son in the arms of Catherine's ! and another chamber of 
 death seemed, shadow-like, to replace the one before 
 him. Words, long since uttered, knelled in his ear, 
 " There shall be a deathbed yet beside which you shall 
 see the spectre of her, now so calm, rising for retribu- 
 tion from the grave! " His blood froze, his hair stood 
 erect; he cast a hurried, shrinking glance round the 
 twilight of the darkened room, and, with a feeble cry, 
 covered his white face with his trembling hands! But 
 on Arthur's lips there was a serene smile; he turned 
 his eyes from Philip to Camilla, and murmured, " She 
 will repay you!" A pause, and the mother's shriek 
 rang through the room! Robert Beaufort raised his face 
 from his hands. His son was dead!
 
 302 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Jtd. — And wliat reward do you propose ? 
 It must be my love. 
 
 2'Ae Double Marriage. 
 
 While tliese events, dark, hurried, and stormy, had 
 befallen the family of his betrothed, Sidney had con- 
 tinued his calm life by the banks of the lovely lake. 
 After a few weeks his confidence in Camilla's fidelity 
 overbore all his apprehensions and forebodings. Her 
 letters, though constrained by the inspection to which 
 they were submitted, gave him inexpressible consola- 
 tion and delight. He began, however, early to fancy 
 that there was a change in their tone. The letters 
 seemed to shun the one subject to which all others 
 were as nought; they turned rather upon the guests 
 assembled at Beaufort Court ; and why I know not, — 
 for there was nothing in them to authorize jealousy, — 
 the brief words devoted to Monsieur de Vaudemont 
 filled him with uneasy and terrible suspicion. He 
 gave vent to these feelings, as fully as he dared do, 
 under the knowledge that his letter would be seen; 
 antl Camilla never again even mentioned the name of 
 Vaudemont. Then there was a long pause; then her 
 brother's arrival and illness were announced; then, at 
 intervals, but a few hurried lines; then a complete, 
 long, dreadful silence; and lastly, with a deep black 
 border and a solemn black seal, came the following 
 letter from Mr. Beaufort : —
 
 NIGHT AND MOKXIXG, 303 
 
 My dear Sir, — I have the unutterable grief to announce 
 to you and your Avorthy uncle the irreparable loss I have sus- 
 tained in the death of my only son. It is a month to-day 
 since he departed this life. He died, sir, as a Christian should 
 die : humbly, penitently, — exagLjerating the few faults of his 
 short life, but [and here the writer's hypocrisy, though so 
 natural to him — ^vas it, that he knew not that he was hypo- 
 critical ? — fairly gave way before the real and human anguish 
 for which there is no dictionary!] — but I cannot pursue 
 this theme I 
 
 Slowly now awakening to the duties yet left me to dis- 
 charge, I cannot but be sensible of the material difference in 
 the prospects of my remaining child. Miss Beaufort is now 
 the heiress to an ancient name and a large fortune. She sub- 
 sciibes with me to the necessity of consulting those new con- 
 siderations which so melancholy an event forces upon her 
 mind. The little i'ancy, or liking (the acijuaintance was too 
 short for more) that might naturally spring up between two 
 amiable young persons thrown together in the country, must 
 be banished from our thoughts. As a friend, I shall be alwaj's 
 happy to hear of your welfare ; and should you ever think of 
 a profession in which I can serve you, you may command my 
 utmost interest and exertions. I know, my young friend, 
 what you will feel at first, and how disposed you will be to 
 call me mercenary and selfish. Heaven knows if that be really 
 my character ! But at your age, impressions are easily effaced; 
 and aiiy experienced friend of the world will assure you that, 
 in the altered circumstances of the case, I have no option. 
 All intercourse and correspondence, of course, cease with this 
 letter, — until, at least, we may all meet, with no sentiments 
 but tliose of friendship and esteem. I desire my compliments 
 to your worthy uncle, in which Mrs. and Miss Beaufort join ; 
 and I am sure you will be happy to hear that my wife and 
 daughter, though still in great affliction, have suffered less in 
 health than I could have ventured to anticipate. 
 Believe me, dear sir, yours sincerely, 
 
 Robert Beaufort. 
 To C. Spencer, Esq., Juu.
 
 304 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Wlien Sidney received this letter, he was with Mr. 
 Spencer, and the latter read it over the young man's 
 shoulder, on which he leaned affectionately. When they 
 came to the concluding words, Sidney turned round with 
 a vacant look and a hollow smile. "You see, sir," he 
 said, — " you see — " 
 
 " My hoy, my son, you hear this as you ought. Con- 
 tempt will soon efface — " 
 
 Sidney started to his feet, and his whole countenance 
 was changed. 
 
 " Contempt ! — yes, for him ! But for her, — she 
 knows it not, she is no party to this; I cannot believe 
 it, — I will not! I — I — " and he rushed out of the 
 room. He was absent till nightfall, and when he re- 
 turned, he endeavored to appear calm, — but it was in 
 vain. 
 
 The next day brought him a letter from Camilla, 
 written unknown to her parents, short, it is true (con- 
 firming the sentence of separation contained in her 
 father's), and imploring him not to reply to it; but 
 still so full of gentle and of sorrowful feeling, so evi- 
 dently worded in the wish to soften the anguish she 
 inflicted, that it did more than soothe, — it even admin- 
 istered liope. 
 
 Now, when Mr. E-obert Beaufort had recovered the 
 ordinary tone of his mind, sufficiently to indite the 
 letter Sidney had just read, he had become fully sensible 
 of the necessity of concluding the marriage between 
 Philip and Camilla, before the publicity of the law-suit. 
 The action for the ejectment could not take place before 
 the ensuing March or April. He would waive the ordi- 
 nary etiquette of time and mourning to arrange all before. 
 Indeed he lived in liourly fear lest Philip should dis- 
 cover that he had a rival in his brother, and break off
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 305 
 
 the marriage, with its contingent advantages. The first 
 aiinouncenient of such a suit in the newspapers might 
 reach the Spencers; and if the young man were, as he 
 douljted not, Sidney Beaufort, would necessarily bring 
 liim forward, and insure the dreaded explanation. Thus 
 apprehensive and ever scheming, Robert Beaufort spoke 
 to Philip so much, and with such apparent feeling, of 
 his wish to gratify, at the earliest possible period, the 
 last wish of his son, in the union now arranged. He 
 spoke, with such seeming consideration and good sense, 
 of the avoidance of all scandal and misinterpretation in 
 the suit itself, which suit a previous marriage between 
 the claimant and his daugliter would show at once to be 
 of so amicable a nature, that Philip, ardently in love as 
 he was, coiild not but assent to any hastening of his 
 expected happiness compatible with decorum. As to 
 any previous publicity by way of newspaper comment, 
 he agreed with Mr. Beaufort in deprecating it. But 
 then came the question, what name was he to bear in 
 the interval 1 
 
 " As to that, " said Philip, somewhat proudly, " when, 
 after my mother's suit in her own behalf, I persuaded 
 her not to bear the name of Beaufort, though her due, 
 — and for my own part, I prized her own modest name, 
 which under such dark appearances was in reality spot- 
 less, as much as the loftier one which you bear and my 
 father bore, — so, I shall not resume the name the law 
 denies me till the law restores it to me. Law alone can 
 efface the wrong which law has done me. " 
 
 Mr. Beaufort was pleased with this reasoning (errone- 
 ous though it was), and he now hoped that all would be 
 safely arranged. 
 
 That a girl so situated as Camilla, and of a character 
 not energetic or profound, but submissive, dutiful, and 
 VOL. II. — 20
 
 306 NIGHT AND MOIINING. 
 
 timiil, slinuld yield to the arguments of her father, the 
 desire of her dying brotlier ; that she should not dare to 
 refuse to become the instrument of peace to a divided 
 family, the saving sacrifice to her father's endangered 
 fortunes; that, in fine, when nearly a month after 
 Arthur's death, her father, leading her into the room 
 where Philip waited her footstep with a beating heart, 
 placed her hand in his, and Philip, falling on his 
 knees, said, " May I hope to retain this hand for life 1 " 
 she should falter out such words as he might construe 
 into not reluctant acquiescence, — that all this should 
 happen is so natural that the reader is already prepared 
 for it. But still she thought with bitter and remorseful 
 feelings of him thus deliberately and faithlessly re- 
 nounced. She felt how deeply he had loved her; she 
 knew how fearful would be his grief. She looked sad 
 and thoughtful ; but her brother's death was siifficient 
 in Philip's eyes to account for that. The praises and 
 gratitude of her father, to whom she suddenly seemed 
 to become an object of even greater pride and affection 
 than ever Arthur had been ; the comfort of a generous 
 heart, that takes pleasure in the very sacrifice it makes ; 
 the acquittal of her conscience as to the motives of her 
 conduct, began, however, to produce their effect. Nor, 
 as she had lately seen more of Philip, could she be 
 insensible of his attachment, of his many noble qualities, 
 of the pride which most women might have felt in his 
 addresses, when his rank was once made clear; and as 
 she had ever been of a character more regulated by duty 
 than passion, so one who could have seen what was pass- 
 ing in her mind would have had little fear for Philip's 
 future happiness in her keeping, — little fear but that, 
 when once married to him, her affections would have 
 gone along with her duties; and that if the first love
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 307 
 
 were yet recalled, it would be with a sigh due rather to 
 some romantic recollection than some contmued regret. 
 Few of either sex are ever united to their first love ; yet 
 married people jog on, and call each other " my dear " 
 and " my darling " all the same! It might be, it is true, 
 that Philip would be scarcely loved with the intenseuess 
 with which he loved; but if Camilla's feelings were 
 capable of corresponding to the ardent and impassioned 
 ones of that strong and vehement nature, such feelings 
 were not yet developed in her : the heart of the woman 
 might still be half concealed in the veil of the virgin 
 innocence. Philip himself was satisfied, — he believed 
 that he was beloved ; for it is the property of love, in a 
 large and noble heart, to reflect itself, and to see its own 
 image in the eyes on which it looks. As the poet gives 
 ideal beauty and excellence to some ordinary child of 
 Eve, worshipping less the being that is, than the being 
 he imagines and conceives, so. Love, which makes vis 
 all poets for a while, throws its own divine light over a 
 heart perhaps really cold, and becomes dazzled into the 
 joy of a false belief by the very lustre with which it sur- 
 rounds its object. 
 
 The more, however, Camilla saw of Philip, the more 
 (gradually overcoming her former mysterious and super- 
 stitious awe of him) she grew familiarized to his peculiar 
 cast of character and thought, so the more she began to 
 distrust her father's assertion that he had insisted on her 
 hand as a price, a bargain, an equivalent for the sacrifice 
 of a dire revenge. And with this thought came another. 
 Was she worthy of this man 1 — was she not deceiving 
 him 1 Ouglit she not to say, at least, that she had known 
 a previous attachment, however determined she might be 
 to subdue it? Often the desire for this just and honor- 
 able confession trembled on her lips, and as often was it
 
 308 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 checked by some cliance circumstance or some maiden 
 fear. Despite tlieir connection, there was not yet 
 between them that delicious intimacy which ought to 
 accompany the affiance of two hearts and souls. The 
 gloom of the house, the restraint on the very language 
 of love imposed by a death so recent, and so deplored, 
 accounted in much for this reserve. And for the rest, 
 Robert Beaufort prudently left them very few and very 
 brief opportunities to be alone. 
 
 In the mean time Philip (now persuaded that the 
 Beauforts were ignorant of his brother's fate) had set 
 Mr. Barlow's activity in search of Sidney ; and his pain- 
 ful anxiety to discover one so dear and so mysteriously 
 lost, was the only cause of vuieasiness apparent in the 
 brightening future. While these researches, hitherto 
 fruitless, were being made, it so happened, as London 
 began now to refill, and gossip began now to revive, that 
 a report got abroad, no one knew how (probably from the 
 servants), that Monsieur de Vaudemont, a distinguished 
 French officer, was shortly to lead the daughter and sole 
 heiress of Kobert Beaufort, Esq., M. P., to the hymeneal 
 altar; and that report very quickly found its way into 
 the London papers ; from the London papers it spread to 
 the Provincial; it reached the eyes of Sidney in his 
 now gloomy and despairing solitude. The day that he 
 read it, he disappeared.
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 309 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Jul. — Good lady, love him ! 
 
 You have a noble and an honest gentleman. 
 
 I ever found him so. 
 
 Love him no less than I have done, and serve him, 
 
 And Heaven shall bless you, — you shall bless my ashes. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher : The Double Marriage. 
 
 We have been too long absent from Fanny ; it is time to 
 return to her. The delight she experienced when Philip 
 made her understand all the benefits, the blessings, that 
 her courage, nay, her intellect, had bestowed upon him, 
 the blushing ecstasy with which she heard (as they 
 returned to H , the eventful morning of her deliver- 
 ance, side by side, her hand clasped in his, and often 
 pressed to his grateful lips) his praises, his thanks, his 
 fear for her safety, his joy at regaining her, — all this 
 amounted to a bliss which, till then, she could not have 
 conceived that life was capable of bestowing. And when 
 
 he left her at H , to hurry to his lawyer's with the 
 
 recovered document, it was but for an hour. He returned, 
 and did not quit her for several days. And in that time 
 he became sensible of her astonishing, and, to him, it 
 seemed miraculous improvement in all that renders mind 
 the equal to mind, — miraculous, for he guessed not the 
 influence that makes miracles its commonplace. And 
 now he listened attentively to her when she conversed; 
 he read with her (though reading was never much in his 
 vocation), his unfastidious ear was charmed with her 
 voice, when it sang those simple songs; and his man- 
 ner (impressed alike by gratitude for the signal service
 
 310 NIGHT AND MOKXIXG. 
 
 rendered to hiiu, and by the discovery that Fanny Avas 
 110 longer a child, -whether in mind or years), tliough not 
 less gentle than before, was less familiar, less superior, 
 more respectful, and more earnest. It was a change 
 which raised her in her own self-esteem. Ah, those were 
 rosy da3's for Fanny ! 
 
 A less sagacious judge of character than Lilburne would 
 have formed doubts perhaps of the nature of Philip's 
 interest in Fanny. But he comprehended at once the 
 fraternal interest which a man like Philip might well 
 take in a creature like Fanny, if commended to his care 
 by a protector whose doom was so awful as that which 
 had engulfed the life of William Gawtrey. Lilburne 
 had some thoughts at first of claiming her ; but as he had 
 no power to compel her residence with him, he did not 
 wish, on consideration, to come again in contact with 
 Philip upon ground so full of humbling recollections as 
 that still overshadowed by tlie images of Gawtrey and 
 Mary. He contented himself with writing an artful 
 letter to Simon, stating that from Fanny's residence with 
 Mr. Gawtrey, and from her likeness to her mother, whom 
 he had only seen as a child, he had conjectured the 
 relationship she bore to himself; and, having obtained 
 other evidence of that fact (he did not say what or 
 where), he had not scrupled to remove her to his roof, 
 meaning to explain all to Mr. Simon Gawtrey the next 
 day. This letter was accompanied by one from a lawyer, 
 informing Simon Gawtrey that Lord Lilburne would pay 
 £200 a year, in quarterly payments, to his order; and 
 that he was requested to add, that when the young lady 
 he had so benevolently reared came of age, or married, 
 an adequate provision would be made for her. Simon's 
 mind blazed up at this last intelligence, when read to 
 liim, though he neither comprehended nor sought to
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 311 
 
 know why Lord Lill)uriie should be so generous, or Avhat 
 that noble person's letter to himself was intended to con- 
 vey. For two days he seemed restored to vigorous 
 sense; but when he had once clutched the first payment 
 made in advance, the touch of the money seemed to numb 
 him back to his lethargy : the excitement of desire died 
 in the dull sense of possession. 
 
 And just at that time Fanny's happiness came to a 
 close. Philip received Arthur Beaufort's letter; and 
 now ensued long and frequent absences ; and on his 
 return, for about an hour or so at a time, he spoke of 
 sorrow and death ; and the books were closed and the 
 songs silenced. All fear for Fanny's safety was, of 
 course, over; all necessity for her work. Their little 
 establishment was increased. She never stirred out 
 without Sarah ; yet she would rather that tliere had 
 been some danger on her account for him to guard 
 against, or some trial that his smile might soothe. His 
 prolonged absences began to prey upon her ; the books 
 ceased to interest; no study filled up the dreary gap; 
 her step grew listless; her cheek pale, — she was sensible 
 at last that his presence had become necessary to her very 
 life. One day he came to the house earlier than usual, 
 and with a much happier and serener expression of 
 countenance than he had worn of late. 
 
 Simon was dozing in his chair, with his old dog, now 
 scarce vigorous enough to bark, curled up at his feet. 
 Neither man nor dog was more as a witness to what was 
 spoken than the leathern chair or the hearth-rug on 
 which they severally reposed. 
 
 There was something which, in actual life, greatly 
 contributed to the interest of Fanny's strange lot, but 
 which in narration, I feel I cannot make sufficiently 
 clear to the reader. And this was her connection and
 
 312 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 residence with that old man. Her character formincr, 
 as It is was completely gone; here, the blank becoming 
 tilled, — there, the page fading to a blank. It was the 
 utter, total deathliness-m-life of Simon that, while so 
 impressive to see, renders it impossible to bring liim 
 before the reader, in his full force of contrast to the young 
 Psyche. He seldom spoke, — often, not from morning 
 till night; he now seldom stirred. It is in vain to 
 describe the indescribable ; let the reader draw the pic- 
 ture for himself. And whenever (as I sometimes think 
 he will, after he has closed this book) he conjures up the 
 idea he attaches to the name of its heroine, let him see 
 before her, as she glides through the humble room ; as 
 she listens to the voice of him she loves; as she sits mus- 
 ing by the window, with the church spire just visible ; 
 as day by day the soul brightens and expands within her, 
 — still let the reader see Avithin the same walls, gray- 
 haired, ])lind, dull to all feeling, frozen to all life, that stony 
 image of time and death ! Perhaps then he may under- 
 stand why they who beheld the real and the living Fanny 
 blooming under that chill and mass of shadow, felt that 
 her grace, her simplicity, her charming beauty, were 
 raised by the contrast till they grew associated with 
 thoughts and images, mysterious and profound, belong- 
 ing not more to the lovely than to the sublime. 
 
 So there sat the old man ; and Philip, though aware 
 of his presence, speaking as if he were alone with Fanny, 
 after touching on more casual topics, thus addressed 
 her: — 
 
 " My true and my dear friend, it is to you that I shall 
 owe, not only my rights and fortune, but tlie vindication 
 of my mother's memory. You have not only placed 
 flowers upon tliat gravestone, but it is owing to yoii, 
 under Providence, that it will Ije inscribed at last with
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 313 
 
 the name which refutes all calumny. Young and inno- 
 cent as 3'ou now are, my gentle and heloved lienefactress, 
 you cannot as yet know what a hlessing it will be to me 
 to engrave that name upon that simple stone. Here- 
 after, when you yourself are a wife, a mother, you will 
 comprehend the service you have rendered to the living 
 and the dead! " 
 
 He stopped, struggling with the rush of emotions that 
 overflovved his heart. Alas the dead! what service 
 can we render to them ? — wliat availed it now, either 
 to the dust below, or to the immortality above, that the 
 fools and knaves of this world should mention the 
 Catherine whose life was gone, whose ears were deaf, with 
 more or less respect 1 Tliere is in calumny that poison 
 that, even when the character throws off the slander, the 
 heart remains diseased beneath the effect. They .say that 
 truth comes sooner or later ; but it seldom comes before the 
 soul, passing from agony to contempt, has groAvn callous 
 to men's judgments. Calumniate a human being in 
 youth, adulate that being in age: what has been the 
 interval ? Will the adulation atone either for the tor- 
 ture, or the hardness which the torture leaves at last? 
 And if, as in Catherine's case (a case, how common!), 
 the truth come too late, — if the tomb is closed, if the 
 heart you have wrung can be wrung no more, — why, 
 the truth is as valueless as the epitaph on a forgotten 
 name! Some such conviction of the hollowness of his 
 own words, when he spoke of service to the dead, smote 
 upon Philip's heart, and stopped the flow of his words. 
 
 Fanny, conscious only of his praise, his thanks, and 
 the tender affection of his voice, stood still silent, her 
 eyes downcast, her breast heaving. 
 
 Philip resumed, — 
 
 " And now, Fanny, my honored sister, I would thank
 
 314 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 you for more, were it possible, even than tliis. I shall 
 owe to you not only name and fortune, but happiness. 
 It is from the rights to which you have assisted me, and 
 wliich will shortly be made clear, that I am enabled to 
 demand a hand I have long coveted, — the hand of one 
 as dear to me as you are. In a word, the time has, this 
 day, been fixed, when I shall have a home to offer to 
 you and to this old man ; when I can present to you a 
 sister who will prize you as I do: for I love you so dearly, 
 — I owe you so much that even that home would lose 
 half its smiles if you were not there. Do you under- 
 stand me, Fanny? The sister I speak of will be my 
 
 wife : " 
 
 The poor girl who heard this speech of most cruel 
 tenderness did not fall, or faint, or evince any outward 
 emotion, except in a deadly paleness. She seemed like 
 one turned to stone. Her very breath forsook her for 
 some moments, and then came back with a long deep 
 sigh, she laid her hand lightly upon his arm, and said 
 calmly, — 
 
 "Yes, — T understand. We once saw a wedding. 
 You are to be married, — I shall see yours!" 
 
 " You shall ; and later, perhaps, I may see your own. 
 I have a brother. Ah ! if I could but find him : youn- 
 ger than I am, — beautiful almost as you! " 
 
 " You will be happy, " .said Fanny, still calmly. 
 
 " T liave long placed my hojies of happiness in such a 
 union! Stay, where are you going? " 
 
 "To pray for you," .said Fanny, with a smile in 
 Avhich there was something of the old vacancy ; and she 
 walked gently from the room. Philip followed her 
 with moistened eyes. Her manner might have deceived 
 one more vain. He soon after quitted the house, and 
 returned to town.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 315 
 
 Tliree hours after Sarah found Fanny stretched on 
 the floor of her own room, so still, so white, that, for 
 some moments, the old woman thought life was gone. 
 She recovered, however, hy degrees; and, after putting 
 her hands to her eyes, and muttering some moments, 
 seemed much as usual, except that she was more silent, 
 and that her lips remained colorless, and her hands cold 
 like stone.
 
 316 KIGIIT A>^D MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Vec. — Ye see what follows. 
 
 Duke. — (_>li, gentle sir ! this shape again ! 
 
 The Chances, 
 
 That evening Sidney Beaufort arrived in London. It 
 is the nature of solitude to make the passions calm on 
 the surface, — agitated m the deeps. Sidney had placed 
 liis whole existence in one object. When the letter 
 arrived that told him to hope no more, he was at first 
 rather sensible of the terrible and dismal blank — the 
 " void abyss " — to which all his future was suddenly 
 changed, tlian roused to vehement and turbulent emo- 
 tion. But Camilla's letter had, as we have seen, raised 
 his courage and animated his heart. To the idea of her 
 faitli he still clung with the instinct of hope in the midst 
 of despair. The tidings that she was absolutely betrothed 
 to another, and in so short a time since her rejection of 
 liim, let loose from all restraint his darker and more 
 tempestuous passions. In a state of mind bordering 
 upon frenzy, he hurried to London, — to seek her, to 
 see her; with wliat intent — what hope, if hope there 
 were — he himself could scarcely tell. But what man 
 who has loved with fervor and trust, will be contented to 
 receive the sentence of eternal separation except from tlie 
 very lips of tlie one thus worsliipped and thus forsworn? 
 The day had been intensely cold. Towards evening 
 the snow fell fast and heavily. Sidney hail not, since a 
 child, been before in London ; and the immense city, cov- 
 ered with a wintry and icy mist, through which the
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 317 
 
 hurrying passengers and the slow-moving vehicles passed, 
 spectre-like, along the dismal and slippery streets, opened 
 to the stranger no hospitable arms. He knew not a step of 
 the way ; he was pushed to and fro ; his scarce intelligible 
 questions impatiently answered ; the snow covered him ; 
 the frost pierced to his veins. At length a man, more 
 kindly than the rest, seeing that he was a stranger to 
 London, procured him a hackney-coach, and directed the 
 driver to the distant quarter of Berkeley Square. The 
 snow balled under the hoofs of the horses, the groan- 
 ing vehicle proceeded at the pace of a hearse. At length, 
 and after a period of such suspense and such emotion as 
 Sidney never in after-life could recall without a shudder, 
 the coach stopped ; the benumbed driver heavily de- 
 scended; the sound of the knocker knelled loud through 
 the muffled air, and the light from Mr. Beaufort's hall 
 glared full upon the dizzy eyes of the visitor. He pushed 
 aside the porter, and sprung into the hall. Luckily, one 
 of the footmen who had attended Mrs. Beaiifort to the 
 Lakes recognized him, and in answer to his breathless 
 inquiry, said, — 
 
 " Wliy, indeed, Mr. Spencer, Miss Beaufort is at 
 home, — upstairs in the drawing-room, with master and 
 mistress and Monsieur de Vaudemont ; but — " 
 
 Sidney waited no more. He bounded up the stairs, 
 he opened the first door that presented itself to him, and 
 burst unannounced and unlooked for upon the eyes of 
 the group seated within. He saw not the terrified start 
 of Mr. Robert Beaufort ; he heeded not the faint, nervous 
 exclamation of the mother ; he caught not the dark and 
 wondering glance of the stranger seated beside Camilla, 
 — he saw but Camilla herself, and in a moment he was 
 at her feet. 
 
 "Camilla, I am here! — I who love you so, — I who
 
 318 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 have nothing in the Avorld hut you ! I am here to learn 
 from you, and you alone, if I am indeed abandoned, — if 
 you are indeed to be another's! " 
 
 He had dashed his hat from his hrow as he sprang 
 forward ; his long, fair hair, damp with tlie snows, fell 
 disordered over his forehead ; his eyes were fixed, as for 
 life and death, upon the pale face and trembling lips of 
 Camilla. Rol)ert Beaufort, in great alarm, and well 
 aware of the fierce temper of Philip, anticipative of some 
 rash and violent impulse, turned his glance xipon his 
 destined son-in-law. But there was no angry pride in 
 the countenance he there beheld. Philip had risen, but 
 his frame was bent, his knees knocked together, his lips 
 were parted, his eyes were staring full upon the face of 
 the kneeling man. 
 
 Suddenly Camilla, sharing her father's fear, herself 
 half rose, and with an unconscious pathos stretched one 
 hand, as if to shelter, over Sidney's head, and looked to 
 Philip. Sidney's eyes followed hers. He sprang to his 
 feet. 
 
 "What, then, it is true! And this is the man for 
 whom I am abandoned ! But unless you — 1/ou, with your 
 own lips, tell me that you love me no more, that you 
 love another, — I Avill not yield you but with life." 
 
 He stalked sternly and impetuously up to Philip, 
 who recoiled as his rival advanced. The characters of 
 the two men seemed suddenly changed. The timid 
 dreamer seemed dilated into the fearless soldier: the 
 soldier seemed shrinking — quailing — into nameless 
 terror. Sidney grasped that strong arm, as Philip still 
 retreated, with his slight and delicate fingers, — grasped 
 it with violence and menace, and frowning into the face 
 from which the swarthy blood was scared away, said, in 
 a hollow whi.^per, —
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 319 
 
 " Do you hear me 1 Do you comprehend me ? I say 
 that she shall not be forced into a marriage at which I 
 yet believe her heart rebels. INly claim is holier than 
 yours. Renounce her, or win her but with my blood." 
 
 Philip did not apparently hear the words thus 
 addressed to him. His whole senses seemed absorbed 
 in the one sense of sight. He continued to gaze upon 
 the speaker, till his eye dropped on the hand that yet 
 griped his arm. And as he thus looked, he uttered an 
 inartic^ilate cry. He caught the hand in his own, and 
 pointed to a ring on tlie finger, but remained speechless. 
 IMr. Beaufort approached, and began some stammered 
 words of soothing to Sidney ; but Philip motioned him 
 to be silent, and at last, as if by a violent effort, gasped 
 forth, not to Sidney, but to Beaufort, — 
 
 " His name, — his name 1 " 
 
 "It is Mr. Spencer, — j\[r. Charles Spencer," cried 
 Beaufort. "Listen to me, I will explain all, I — " 
 
 ** Hush, hush! " cried Philip; and turning to Sidney, 
 he put his hand on his shoulder, and looking him full 
 in the face, said, — 
 
 " Have you not known another name 1 Are you not 
 — yes, it is so; it is, it is! Follow me, — follow!" 
 
 And still retaining his grasp, and leading Sidney, 
 who was now subdued, awed, and a prey to new and 
 wild suspicions, he moved on gently, stride by stride, 
 his eyes fixed on that fair face, his lips muttering, till 
 the closing door shut both forms from the eyes of the 
 three there left. 
 
 It Avas the adjoining room into which Philip led his 
 rival. It was lit but by a small reading-lamp, and the 
 bright, steady blaze of the fire; and by this light they 
 both continued to gaze on each other, as if spell -bound, 
 in complete silence. At last Philip, by an irresistible
 
 320 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 impulse, fell upon Sidney's bosom, and clasping him 
 with convulsive energy, gasped out, — 
 
 " Sidney ! — Sidney ! — my mother's son ! " 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Sidney, struggling from the 
 embrace, and at last freeing himself, "it is you, then! 
 — you, my own brother! You, who have been hitherto 
 the thorn in my path, the cloud in my fate! You, who 
 are now come to make me a wretch for life! I love that 
 woman, and you tear her from me! You, who subjected 
 my infancy to hardship, and, but for Providence, might 
 have degraded my youth, by your example, into shame 
 and guilt! " 
 
 "Forbear! — forbear!" cried Philip, with a voice so 
 shrill in its agony that it smote the hearts of those in 
 the adjoining chamber like the shriek of some despairing 
 soul. They looked at each other, but not one had the 
 courage to break upon the interview. 
 
 Sidney himself was appalled by the sound. He threw 
 himself on a seat, and, overcome by passions so new to 
 him, by excitement so strange, hid his face, and sobbed 
 as a child. 
 
 Philip walked rapidly to and fro the room for some 
 moments; at length he paused opposite to Sidney and 
 said, with the deep calmness of a wronged and goaded 
 spirit, — 
 
 " Sidney Beaufort, hear me! When my mother died, 
 she confided you to my care, ray love, and my protection. 
 In the last lines that her hand traced, she bade me think 
 less of myself than of you; to be to you as a father, as 
 well as brother. The hour that I read that letter I fell 
 on my knees and vowed that I would fulfil that injunc- 
 tion, — that I would sacrifice my very self, if I could 
 give fortune or happiness to you. And this not for your 
 sake alone, Sidney; no! but as ray raother, — our
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 321 
 
 wronged, our belied, our broken-hearted mother! — 
 Sidney, Sidney ! have you no tears for her too ? " He 
 passed his hand over his own eyes for a moment, and 
 resumed: "But as our mother, in that last letter, said 
 to me, ' Let my love pass into your breast for him,' 
 30, Sidney, so, in all that I could do for you, I fancied 
 that my mother's smile looked down upon me, and that 
 in serving you it was my mother whom I obeyed. Per- 
 haps, hereafter, Sidney, when we talk over that period of 
 my earlier life when I worked for you, when the degrada- 
 tion you speak of (there was no crime in it!) was borne 
 cheerfully for your sake, and yours the holiday though 
 mine the task, — perhaps, hereafter, you will do me 
 more justice. You left me, or were reft from me, and 
 I gave all the little fortune that my mother had be- 
 queathed us, to get some tidings from you. I received 
 your letter, — that bitter letter, — and I cared not then 
 that I was a beggar, since I was alone. You talk of 
 what I have cost you, — you talk ! — and you now ask 
 me to — to — merciful Heaven! let me understand 
 you, — do you love Camilla? Does she love you? 
 Speak, speak, — explain: what new agony awaits 
 me 1" 
 
 It was then that Sidney, affected and humbled, amidst 
 all his more selfish sorrows, by his brother's language 
 and manner, related, as succinctly as he could, the 
 history of his affection for Camilla, the circumstances 
 of their engagement, and ended by placing before him 
 the letter he had received from Mr. Beaufort. 
 
 In spite of all his efforts for self-control, Philip's 
 anguish was so great, so visible, that Sidney, after 
 looking at his working features, his trembling hands, 
 for a moment, felt all the earthlier parts of his nature 
 melt in a flow of generous sympathy and remorse. He 
 
 VOL. II. — 21
 
 322 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 flung himself on the breast from wliich he had shrunk 
 before, and cried, — 
 
 "Brother, brother! forgive me; I see how I have 
 wronged you. If she has forgotten me, if she love you, 
 take her, and be happy! " 
 
 Philip returned his embrace, but without warmth, and 
 then moved away, and again, in great disorder, paced 
 the room. His brother only heard disjointed exclama- 
 tions that seemed to escape him unawares: "They said 
 she loved me! Heaven give me strength! Mother, 
 mother! let me fulfil my vow! Oh, that I had died ere 
 this!" He stopped at last, and the large dews rolled 
 down his forehead. 
 
 " Sidney! " said he, " there is a mystery here that I 
 comprehend not. But my mind now is very confused. 
 If she loves you — if! — is it possible for a woman to 
 love two? Well, well, I go to solve the riddle: wait 
 here!" 
 
 He vanished into the next room, and for nearly half 
 an hour Sidney was alone. He heard through the 
 partition murmured voices ; he caught more clearly the 
 sound of Camilla's sobs. The particulars of that inter- 
 view between Philip and Camilla, alone at first (after- 
 wards Mr. Robert Beaufort was re-admitted), Philip 
 never disclosed; nor could Sidney himself ever obtain 
 a clear account from Camilla, who could not recall it, 
 even years after, without great emotion. But at last 
 the door was opened, and I'hilip entered, leading Camilla 
 by the hand. His face was calm, and there was a smile 
 on his lips; a greater dignity than even that habitual to 
 him was diffused over his whole person. Camilla was 
 holding her handkerchief to her eyes, and weeping 
 passionately. Mr. Beaufort followed them with a 
 mortified and slinking air.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 323 
 
 " Sidney," said Philip, " it is past. All is arranged. 
 I yield to your earlier, and therefore better claim. Mr. 
 Beaufort consents to your union. He will tell you, at 
 some fitter time, that our birthright is at last made clear, 
 and that there is no blot on the name we shall hereafter 
 bear. Sidney, embrace your bride! " 
 
 Amazed, delighted, and still half-incredulous, Sidney 
 seized and kissed the hand of Camilla; and as he then 
 drew her to his breast, she said, as she pointed to 
 Philip,— 
 
 "Oh! if you do love me as you say, see in him the 
 generous, the noble — " Fresh sobs broke off her 
 speech, but as Sidney sought again to take her hand, 
 she whispered, with a touching and womanly sentiment, 
 "Ah! respect him : see — " and Sidney, looking then at 
 his brother, saw that though he still attempted to smile, 
 his lip writhed, and his features were drawn together, as 
 one whose frame is wrung by torture but who struggles 
 not to groan. 
 
 He flew to Philip, who, grasping his hand, held him 
 back, and said, — 
 
 " I have fulfilled my vow! I have given you up the 
 only blessing my life has known. Enough! you are 
 happy, and I shall be so too, when God pleases to soften 
 this blow. And now you must not wonder or blame me, 
 if, though so lately found, I leave you for a while. Do 
 me one kindness, — you, Sidney, you, Mr. Beaufort. 
 
 Let the marriage take place at H , in the village 
 
 church by which my mother sleeps; let it be delayed 
 till the suit is terminated; by that time I shall hope to 
 meet you all, — to meet you, Camilla, as I ought to meet 
 my brother's wife : till then, my presence will not sadden 
 your happiness. Do not seek to see me ; do not expect 
 to hear from me. Hist! be silent, all of you; my
 
 324 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 heart is yet bruised and sore. Thou," and here, 
 deepening his voice, he raised his arms, — " Thou, whc 
 hast preserved my youth from such snares and such 
 peril, who hast guided my steps from the abyss to which 
 they Avandered, and beneath whose hand I now bow, 
 grateful if chastened, receive this offering, and bless 
 that imiou! Fare ye well."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 325 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Heaven's airs amid the harpstrings dwell; 
 
 And we wish they ne'er may fade. 
 They cease , and the soul is a silent cell, 
 
 Where music never played. 
 Dream follows dream through the long night-hours. 
 
 Wilson : The Past, a poem. 
 
 The self-command which Philip had obtained for a 
 while, deserted him when he was without the house. 
 His mind felt broken up into chaos; he hurried on 
 mechanically on foot ; he passed street upon street, now 
 solitary and deserted, as the lamps gleamed upon the 
 thick snow. The city was left behind him. He paused 
 not till, breathless, and exhausted in spirit if not in 
 frame, he reached the churchyard where Catherine's dust 
 reposed. The snow had ceased to fall, but it lay deep 
 over the graves; the yew-trees, clad in their white 
 shrouds, gleamed ghost-like through the dimness. Upon 
 the rail that fenced the tomb yet hung a wreath that 
 Fanny's hand had placed there. But the flowers were 
 hid; it was a wreath of snow! Through the intervals 
 of the huge and still clouds, there gleamed a few melan- 
 choly stars. The very calm of the holy spot seemed 
 unutterably sad. The death of the year overhung the 
 death of man. And as Philip bent over the tomb, 
 within and without all was ice and night! 
 
 For hours he remained on that spot, alone with his 
 grief and absorbed in his prayer. Long past midnight 
 Fanny heard his step on the stairs, and the door of his
 
 326 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 chamber close with unwonted violence. She heard, 
 too, for some time, his heavy tread on the floor, till 
 suddenly all was silent. The next morning when, at 
 the usual hour, Sarah entered to unclose the shutters 
 and light the fire, she was startled by wild exclamations 
 and wilder laughter. The fever had mounted to the 
 brain, — he was delirious. 
 
 For several weeks Philip Beaufort was in imminent 
 danger; for a considerable part of that time he was 
 unconscious; and, when the peril was past, his recovery 
 was slow and gradual. It was the only illness to which 
 his vigorous frame had ever been subjected; and the 
 fever had perhaps exhausted him more than it might 
 have done one in whose constitution the disease had 
 encountered less resistance. His brother, imagining he 
 had gone abroad, was unacquainted with his danger. 
 None tended his sick-bed save the hireling nurse, the 
 fee'd physician, and the unpurchasable heart of the only 
 being to whom the wealth and rank of the heir of 
 Beaufort Court were as nothing. Here was reserved 
 for him fate's crowning lesson, in the vanity of those 
 human wishes which anchor in gold and power. For 
 how many years had the exile and the outcast pined 
 imlignantly for his birthright! Lo! it was won; and 
 witli it came the crushed heart and the smitten frame. 
 As he slowly recovered sense and reasoning, these 
 thoughts struck him forcibly. He felt as if he were 
 rightly punished in having disdained, during his earlier 
 youth, the enjoyments within his reach. Was there 
 nothing in the glorious health, the unconquerable hope, 
 the heart, if wrung and chafed and sorely tried, free at 
 least from the direst anguish of the passions, disappointed 
 and jealous love ? Though now certain, if spared to the 
 future, to be rich, powerful, righted in name and honor,
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 327 
 
 might he not from that sick-bed envy his earlier past ? — 
 even when with his brother-orphan he wandered through 
 the solitary fields, and felt with what energies we are 
 gifted when we have something to protect; or when 
 loving and beloved, he saw life smile out to him in the 
 eyes of Eugenie; or when, after that melancholy loss, 
 he wrestled boldly, and breast to breast with fortune, in 
 a far land, for honor and independence ? There is some- 
 thing in severe illness, especially if it be in violent 
 contrast to the usual strength of the body, which has 
 often the most salutary effect upon the mind; which 
 often, by the affliction of the frame, roughly wins us 
 from the too morbid pains of the heart; which makes us 
 feel that, in mere life, enjoyed as the robust enjoy it, 
 God's great principle of good breathes and moves. We 
 rise thus from the sick-bed softened and humbled, and 
 more disposed to look around us for such blessings as 
 we may yet command. 
 
 The return of Philip, his danger, the necessity of 
 exertion, of tending him, had roused Fanny from a state 
 which might otherwise have been permanently dangerous 
 to the intellect so lately ripened within her. With 
 what patience, with what fortitude, with what unutter- 
 able thought and devotion, she fulfilled that best and 
 holiest woman's duty, let *he man whose struggle with 
 life and death has been blessed with the vigil that wakes 
 and saves, imagine to himself. And in all her anxiety 
 and terror, she had glimpses of a happiness which 
 it seemed to her almost criminal to acknowledge. For, 
 even in his delirium, her voice seemed to have some 
 soothing influence over him, and he was calmer while 
 she was by. And when at last he was conscious, her 
 face was the first he saw, and her name the first which 
 his lips uttered. As then he grew gradually stronger.
 
 328 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 and tlie bed was deserted for the sofa, he took more than 
 the old pleasure in hearing her read to him; which she 
 did with a feeling that lecturers cannot teach. And 
 once, in a pause from this occupation, he spoke to her 
 frankly j he sketched his past history, — his last 
 sacrifice. And Fanny, as she wept, learned that he was 
 no more another's! 
 
 It has been said that this man, naturally of an active 
 and impatient temperament, had been little accustomed 
 to seek those resources which are found in books ; but 
 somehow in that sick-chamber it was Fanny's voice — 
 the voice of her over whose mind he had once so 
 haughtily lamented — that taught him how much of aid 
 and solace the herd of men derive from the everlasting 
 genius of the few. 
 
 Gradually, and interval by interval, moment by 
 moment, thus drawn together, all thought beyond shut 
 out (for, however crushing for the time the blow that 
 Lad stricken Philip from health and reason, he was not 
 that slave to a guilty fancy, that he could voluntarily 
 indulge — that he would not earnestly seek to shun — all 
 sentiments that yet turned with unholy yearning towards 
 the betrothed of his brother), — gradually, I say, and 
 slowly, came those progressive and delicious epochs 
 which mark a revolution in the affections: unspeakable 
 gratitude, brotherly tenderness, the united strength of 
 compassion and respect that he had felt for Fanny 
 seemed, as he gained health, to mellow into feelings yet 
 more exquisite and deep. He could no longer delude 
 himself with a vain and imperious belief that it was a 
 defective mind that his heart protected ; he began again 
 to be sensible to the rare beauty of that tender face, — 
 more lovely, perhaps, for the paleness that had replaced 
 its bloom. The fancy that he had so imperiously checked
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 329 
 
 before — before he saw Camilla, returned to him, and 
 neither pride nor honor had now the right to chase the 
 soft wings away. One evening, fancying himself alone, 
 he fell into a profound reverie; he awoke with a start, 
 and the exclamation, " Was it true love that I ever felt 
 for Camilla, or a passion, a frenzy, a delusion? " 
 
 His exclamation was answered by a sound that seemed 
 both of joy and grief. He looked up, and saw Fanny 
 before him; the light of the moon, just risen, fell full 
 on her form, but her hands were clasped before her face; 
 he heard her sob. 
 
 "Fanny, dear Fanny!" he cried, and sought to 
 throw himself from the sofa to lier feet. But she drew 
 herself away, and fled from the chamber silent as a 
 dream. 
 
 Philip rose, and, for the first time since his illness, 
 walked, but with feeble steps, to and fro the room. 
 With what different emotions from those in which last, 
 in fierce and intolerable agony, he had paced that narrow 
 boundary ! Returning health crept through his veins, — 
 a serene, a kindly, a celestial joy circurafused his heart. 
 Had the time yet come when the old Florimel had 
 melted into snow ; when the new and the true one, with 
 its warm life, its tender beauty, its maiden wealth of 
 love, had risen before his hopes? He paused before the 
 window; the spot within seemed so confined, the night 
 without so calm and lovely, that he forgot his still- 
 clinging malady, and unclosed the casement: the air 
 came soft and fresh upon his temples, and the church- 
 tower and spire, for the first time, did not seem to him 
 to rise in gloom against the heavens. Even the grave- 
 stone of Catherine, half in moonlight, half in shadow, 
 appeared to him to wear a smile. His mother's memory 
 was become linked with the living Fanny.
 
 330 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 "Thou art vindicated, — thy Sidney is happy," he 
 murmured: " to her the thanks! " 
 
 Fair hopes and soft thoughts busy within him, he 
 remained at the casement till the increasing chill 
 warned him of the danger he incurred. 
 
 The next day, when the physician visited him, he 
 found the fever had returned. For many days Philip 
 was again in danger, — dull, unconscious even of the 
 step and voice of Fanny. 
 
 He woke at last as from a long and profound sleep, — 
 woke so refreshed, so revived, that he felt at once that 
 some great crisis had been passed, and that at length 
 he had struggled back to the sunny shores of life. 
 
 By his bedside sat Liancourt, who, long alarmed at his 
 disappearance, had at last contrived, with the help of jMr. 
 Barlow, to trace him to Gawtrey's house, and had for 
 several days taken share in the vigils of poor Fanny. 
 
 While he was yet explaining all this to Philip, and 
 congratulating him on his evident recovery, the physi- 
 cian entered to confirm the congratulation. In a few 
 days the invalid was able to quit his room, and nothing 
 but change of air seemed necessary for his convalescence. 
 It was then that Liancourt, who had for two days 
 seemed impatient to unburden himself of some commu- 
 nication, thus addressed him: — 
 
 " My dear friend, I have learned, now, your story 
 from Barlow, who called several times during your 
 relapse; and who is the more anxious about you, as the 
 time for the decision of your case now draws near. 
 The sooner you quit this house the better." 
 
 " Quit this house ! and why 1 Is there not one in this 
 house to whom I owe my fortune and my life ? " 
 
 "Yes; and for that reason I say, * Go hence: ' it is 
 the only return you can make her."
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 331 
 
 " Psliaw! — speak intelligibly." 
 
 "I will," said Liancourt, gravely. "I have been a 
 watcher with her by your sick-bed, and I know what 
 you must feel already, — nay, I must confess that even 
 the old servant has ventured to speak to nie. You 
 have inspired that poor girl with feelings dangerous to 
 her peace." 
 
 "Ha!" cried Philip, with such joy that Liancourt 
 frowned, and said, " Hitherto I have believed you too 
 honorable to — " 
 
 "So you think she loves me?" interrupted Philip. 
 
 "Yes; what then? You, the heir of Beaufort Court, 
 of a rental of £20,000 a year, of an historical name, — 
 you cannot marry this poor girl 1 " 
 
 " Well! — I will consider what you say, and, at all 
 events, I will leave the house to attend the result of the 
 trial. Let us talk no more on the subject now." 
 
 Philip had the penetration to perceive that Liancourt, 
 who was greatly moved by the beauty, the innocence, 
 and the unprotected position of Fanny, had not confined 
 caution to himself; that with his characteristic well- 
 meaning bluntness, and with the license of a man some- 
 what advanced in years, he had spoken to Fanny 
 herself; for Fanny now seemed to slum Philip, — her 
 eyes were heavj^ her manner was embarrassed. He saw 
 the change, but it did not grieve him; he hailed the 
 omens which he drew from it. 
 
 And at last he and Liancourt went. He was absent 
 three weeks, during which time the formality of the 
 friendly lawsuit was decided in the plaintiff's favor; 
 and the public were in ecstasies at the noble and 
 sublime conduct of Mr. Eobert Beaufort, v.-ho, the 
 moment he had discovered a document which he might 
 so easily have buried forever in oblivion, voluntarily
 
 332 NIGHT A^'D MORNING. 
 
 agreed to dispossess himself of estates he had so long 
 enjoyed, preferring conscience to lucre. Some persons 
 observed that it was reported that Mr. Philip Beaufort 
 had also been generous, — that he had agreed to give up 
 the estates for his uncle's life, and was only in the 
 meanwhile to receive a fourth of the revenues. But 
 the universal comment was, ** He could not have done 
 less! " Mr. Robert Beaufort was, as Lord Lilburne had 
 once observed, a man who was bom, made, and reared 
 to be spoken well of by the world; and it was a 
 comfort to him now, poor man! to feel that his char- 
 acter was so highly estimated. If Philip should live to 
 the age of one hundred, he will never become so respect- 
 able and popular a man with the crowd as his worthy 
 uncle. But does it much matter ? 
 
 Philip returned to H the eve before the day 
 
 fixed for the marriage of his brother and Camilla.
 
 NIGHT A^•D MORNING. 333 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 JtvKTOS, Aidr}p re kui 'H/x* pa f^fyeyovTo.^ — Hes. 
 
 The sun of early May shone cheerfully over the quiet 
 
 suburb of H . In the thoroughfares life was astir. 
 
 It was the hour of noon , — the hour at which commerce 
 is busy and streets are full. The old retired trader, 
 eying wistfully the rolling coach or the oft-passing 
 omnibus, was breathing the fresh and scented air in the 
 broadest and most crowded road, from which, afar in 
 the distance, rose the spires of the metropolis. The boy 
 let loose from the day-school was hurrying home to 
 dinner, his satchel on his back; the ballad-singer was 
 sending her cracked whine through the obscurer alleys, 
 where the baker's boy, with puddings on his tray, and 
 the smart maid-servant, despatched for porter, paused 
 to listen. And round the shops where cheap shawls 
 and cottons tempted the female eye, many a loitering 
 girl detained her impatient mother, and eyed the tickets 
 and calculated her hard-gained savings for the Sunday 
 gear. And in the corners of the streets steamed the 
 itinerant kitchens of the piemen, and rose the sharp 
 cry, " All hot! all hot! " in the ear of infant and ragged 
 hunger. And amidst them all rolled on some lazy coach 
 of ancient merchant or withered maiden, unconscious of 
 any life but that creeping through their own languid 
 veins. And before the house in which Catherine died 
 there loitered many stragglers, gossips of the hamlet, 
 
 ^ From Night, Sunshine and Day arose !
 
 33-4 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 subscribers to the news-room hard by, to guess and spec- 
 ulate and wonder why, from the church beliind, there 
 rose the merry peal of the marriage-bell ! 
 
 At length along the broad road leading from the great 
 city there were seen rapidly advancing three carriages 
 of a very different fashion from those familar to the 
 suburb. On they came; swiftly they whirled round 
 the angle that conducted to the church, — the hoofs of 
 the gay steeds ringing cheerily on the ground, the white 
 favors of the servants gleaming in the sun. Happy is 
 the bride the sun shines on! And when the carriages 
 had thus vanished, the scattered groups melted into 
 one crowd, and took their way to the church. They 
 stood idling without in the burial-ground, many of 
 them round the fence that guarded from their footsteps 
 Catherine's lonely grave. All in nature was glad, 
 exhilarating, and yet serene; a genial freshness breathed 
 through the soft air; not a cloud was to be seen in 
 the smiling azure ; even the old dark yews seemed 
 happy in tlieir everlasting verdure. The bell ceased, 
 and then even the crowd grew silent; and not a 
 sound was heard in that solemn spot to whose demesnes 
 are consecrated alike the birth, the marriage, and the 
 death. 
 
 At length there came forth from tlie church-door the 
 goodly form of a rosy beadle. Approaching the groups, 
 he Avhispered the better-dressed and commanded the 
 ragged, remonstrated with the old and lifted his cane 
 again.st the young; and the result of all was, that the 
 churchyard, not without many a murmur and expostula- 
 tion, was cleared, and the crowd fell back in the space 
 behind the gates of the principal entrance, where they 
 swayed and gaped and chattered round the carriages 
 which were to bear away the bridal party.
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 335 
 
 "Within the church, as the ceremony was now concluded, 
 Philip Beaufort conducted, hand-in-hand, silently along 
 the aisle, his brother's wife. 
 
 Leaning on his stick, his cold sneer upon his thin 
 lip, Lord Lilburne limped, step by step, Avith the pair, 
 though a little apart from them, glancing from moment 
 to moment at the face of Philip Beaufort, where he had 
 hoped to read a grief that he could not detect. Lord 
 Lilburne had carefully refrained from an interview with 
 Philip till that day, and he now only came to the 
 wedding as a surgeon goes to a hospital to examine 
 a disease he had been told would be great and sore; 
 he was disappointed. Close behind followed Sidney, 
 radiant with joy and bloom and beauty; and his kind 
 guardian, the tears rolling down his eyes, murmured 
 blessings as he looked upon him. Mrs. Beaufort had 
 declined attending the ceremony, — her nerves were too 
 weak; but behind, at a longer interval, came Robert 
 Beaufort, sober, staid, collected as ever to outAvard 
 seeming; but a close observer might have seen that his 
 eye had lost its habitual complacent cunning, that his 
 step was more heavy, his stoop more joyless. About 
 his air there was a something crestfallen. The con- 
 sciousness of acres had passed aAvay from his portly 
 presence; he was no longer a possessor, but a pensioner. 
 The rich man, who had decided as he pleased on the 
 happiness of others, was a cipher; he had ceased to have 
 any interest in anything. What to him the marriage of 
 his daughter now ? Her children would not be the 
 heirs of Beaufort. As Camilla kindly turned round, 
 and through happy tears waited for his approach to 
 clasp his hand, he forced a smile; but it was sickly and 
 piteous. He longed to creep away, and be alone. 
 
 "My father! " said Camilla, in her sweet low voice;
 
 336 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 and she extricated herself from Philip, and threw herself 
 on his breast. 
 
 " She is a good child," said Robert Beaufort, vacantly; 
 and, turning his dry eyes to the group, he caught instinc- 
 tively at his customary commonplaces, — "and, a good 
 child, ^Nlr. Sidney, makes a good wife! " 
 
 The clergyman bowed as if the compliment were 
 addressed to himself; he was the only man there whom 
 Robert Beaufort could now deceive. 
 
 " My sister," said Philip Beaufort, as, once more 
 leaning on his arm, they paused before the church-door, 
 " may Sidney love and prize you as — as I would have 
 done; and believe me, both of you, I have no regret, 
 no memory that wounds me now." 
 
 He dropped the hand, and motioned to her father to 
 lead her to the carriage. Then Avinding his arm into 
 Sidney's he said, — 
 
 " Wait till they are gone : I have one word yet with 
 you. Go on, gentlemen." 
 
 The clergyman bowed, and walked through the 
 churchyard; but Lilburne, pausing and surveying Philip 
 Beaufort, said to him, whisperinglj'-, — 
 
 " And so much for feeling, — the folly! So much for 
 generosity, — the delusion! Happy man! " 
 
 " I am thoroughly happy. Lord Lilburne." 
 
 " Are you 1 Then it was neither feeling nor gener- 
 osity ; and we were taken in ! Good-day. " With that 
 he limped slowly to the gate. 
 
 Philip answered not the sarcasm even by a look; for 
 at that moment a loud shout was set up by the mob 
 without, — tliey had caught a glimpse of the bride. 
 
 "Come, Sidney, this way," he said; "I must not 
 detain you long. " 
 
 Arm-in-arm they passed out of the church , and turned
 
 NIGHT AND MOKNING. 337 
 
 to the spot hard by, where the flowers smiled up to them 
 from the stone on their mother's grave. 
 
 The okl inscription had been elfaced, and the name of 
 Catherine Beaufort was placed upon the stone. 
 
 "Brother," said Philip, "do not forget this grave, 
 years hence, when children play around your own 
 hearth. Observe, the name of Catherine Beaufort is 
 fresher on the stone than the dates of birth and death; 
 the name was only inscribed there to-day, — your v>^ed- 
 ding-day! Ikother, by this grave we are now indeed 
 united." 
 
 "Oh, Philip!" cried Sidney, in deep emotion, 
 clasping the hand stretched out to him; " I feel, I feel 
 how noble, how great you are, — that you have sacrificed 
 more than I dreamed of — " 
 
 "Hush!" said Philip, with a smile. " Xo talk of 
 this. I am happier than you deem me. Go back now, 
 — she waits you." 
 
 " And you 1 Leave you ! — alone ! " 
 
 "Not alone," said Philip, pointing to the grave. 
 
 Scarce had he spoken, when from the gate came the 
 shrill, clear voice of Lord Lilburne, — 
 
 " We wait for Mr. Sidney Beaufort." 
 
 Sidney passed his hand over his eyes, wrung the hand 
 of his brother once more, and in a moment was by 
 Camilla's side. 
 
 Another shout, the whirl of the wheels, the tramp- 
 ing of feet, the distant hum and murmur, and all was 
 still. 
 
 The clerk returned to lock up the church , — he did 
 not observe where Philip stood in the shadow of the 
 wall, — and went home to talk of the gay wedding, and 
 inquire at what hour the fimeral of a young woman, 
 his next-door neighbor, would take place the next day. 
 VOL. n. — 22
 
 338 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 It might be a qiiarter of an hour after Philip was thus 
 left, — nor had he moved from the spot, — Avhen he felt 
 his sleeve pulled gently. He turned round and saw 
 before him the wistful face of Fanny ! 
 
 " So you would not come to the wedding! " said he. 
 " iN'o. But I fancied you might be here alone, — and 
 sad." 
 
 " And you will not even wear the dress I gave you ? " 
 " Another time. Tell me, are you unhappy ? " 
 "Unhappy, Fanny! No; look around. The very 
 burial-ground has a smile. See the laburnums clustering 
 over the wall, listen to the birds on the dark yews 
 above, and yonder see even the butterfly has settled 
 upon her grave! — I am not unhappy." As he thus 
 spoke, he looked at her earnestly, and, taking both her 
 hands in his, drew her gently towards him, and con- 
 tinued: "Fanny, do you remember that, leaning over 
 that gate, I once spoke to you of the happiness of 
 marriage where two hearts are united? Nay, Fanny, 
 nay, I must go on. It was here, in this spot, — it was 
 here that I first saw you on my return to England. I 
 came to seek the dead, and I have thought since, it 
 was my mother's guardian spirit that drew me hither to 
 find you, — the living! And often afterwards, Fanny, 
 you would come with me here, when, blinded and dull 
 as I was I came to brood and to repine, insensible 
 of the treasures even then perhaps Avithin my reach. 
 But, best as it was; the ordeal through which I have 
 passed has made me more grateful for the prize I now 
 dare to hope for. On this grave your hand daily 
 renewed the flowers. By this grave, the link between 
 the time and the eternity, whose lessons we have read 
 together, will you consent to record our vows? Fanny, 
 dearest, fairest, tenderest, best, I love you, and at last
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 339 
 
 as alone you should be loved ! — I woo you as my wife ! 
 Mine, not for a season, but forever, — forever, even when 
 these graves are opened, and the world shrivels like a 
 scroll. Do you understand me ? Do you heed me ? — 
 or have I dreamed that — that — " 
 
 He stopped short ; a dismay seized him at her silence. 
 Had he been mistaken in his divine belief 1 — the fear 
 was momentary; for Fanny, who had recoiled as he 
 spoke, now placing her hands to her temples, gazing on 
 him, breathless, and with lips apart, as if, indeed, 
 with great effort and struggle her modest spirit conceived 
 the possibility of the happiness that broke upon it, 
 advanced timidly, her face suffused in blushes, and, 
 looking into his eyes as if she would read into his very 
 soul, said, with an accent, the intenseness of which 
 showed that her whole fate hung on his answer, — 
 
 "But this is pity! They have told you that T — in 
 short, you are generous — you — you — oh, deceive me 
 not! Do you love her still? Can you — do you love 
 the humble, foolish Fanny? " 
 
 " As God shall judge me, sweet one, I am sincere! I 
 have survived a passion, — never so deep, so tender, so 
 entire, as that I now feel for you! And oh, Fanny, 
 hear this true confession! It was you — you to whom 
 my heart turned before I saw Camilla! — against that 
 impulse I struggled in the blindness of a haughty 
 error! " 
 
 Fanny uttered a low and suppressed cry of delight and 
 rapture. Philip passionately continued : — 
 
 " Fanny, make blessed the life you have saved. Fate 
 destined us for each other. Fate for me has ripened 
 your sweet mind. Fate for you has softened this rugged 
 heart. We may have yet much to bear and much to 
 learn. We will console and teach each other! "
 
 340 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 He drew lier to his breast as he spoke, — drew her 
 trembling, blushing, confused, but no more reluctant; 
 and there, by the gravk that had been so memorable a 
 scene in their common history, were murmured those 
 vows in which all this Avorld knows of human happiness 
 is treasured and recorded, — love that takes the sting 
 from grief, and faith that gives eternity to love. All 
 silent, yet all serene around them! Above, the heaven; 
 at their feet, the grave. For the love, tlie grave! — for 
 the faith, the heaven !
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 341 
 
 CHAPTEK THE LAST. 
 
 A labore reclinat otium.^ — Horat. 
 
 I FEEL that there is some justice in the affection the 
 general reader entertains for the old-fashioned and now 
 somewhat obsolete custom of giving to him, at the close 
 of a work, the latest news of those who sought his 
 acquaintance through its progress. 
 
 The weak but well-meaning Smith, no more oppressed 
 by the evil influence of his brother, has continued to 
 pass his days in comfort and respectability on the income 
 settled on him by Philip Beaufort. ]\Ir. and ]\Irs. 
 Roger Morton still live, and have just resigned their 
 business to their eldest son, retiring themselves to a 
 small villa adjoining the town in which they had made 
 their fortune. Mrs. Ltorton is very apt, when she goes 
 out to tea, to talk of her dear deceased sister-in-law, the 
 late Mrs. Beaufort, and of her own remarkable kindness 
 to her nephew when a little boy. She observes that, 
 in fact, the young men owe everything to jNIr. Eoger and 
 herself; and, indeed, though Sidney was never of a 
 grateful disposition, and has not been near her since, 
 yet the elder brother, the jVIr. Beaufort, always evinces 
 his respect to them by the yearly present of a fat buck. 
 She then comments on the ups and downs of life, and 
 observes that it is a pity her son Tom preferred the 
 medical profession to the church. Their cousin, Mr. 
 Beaufort, has two livings. To all this Mr. Roger says 
 
 1 Leisure unbends itself from labor.
 
 342 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 nothing, except an occasional "Thank Heaven, I want 
 no man's help! I am as well to do as my neighbors. 
 But that 's neither here nor there." 
 
 There are some readers — they who do not thoroughly 
 consider the truths of this life — who will yet ask, " But 
 how is Lord Lilhurne punished 1 " Punished ? — ay , and 
 indeed, how? The world, and not the poet, must answer 
 that question. Crime is punished from without. If 
 vice is punished, it must be from within. The LiL- 
 burnes of this hollow world are not to be pelted with 
 the soft roses of poetical justice. They who ask why 
 he is not punished, may be the first to doff the hat to 
 the equipage in which my lord lolls through the streets! 
 The only offence he habitually committed of a nature to 
 bring the penalties of detection he renounced the 
 moment he perceived there was danger of discovery, — 
 he gambled no more after Philip's hint. He was one of 
 those, some years after, most bitter upon a certain 
 nobleman charged with unfair play, — one of those 
 who took the accusation as proved, and whose authority 
 settled all disputes thereon. 
 
 But if no thunderbolt falls on Lord Lilburne's head, 
 
 — if he is fated still to eat, and drink, and to die on 
 his bed, he may yet taste the ashes of the Dead Sea fruit 
 which his hands have culled. He is grown old. His 
 infirmities increase upon him; his sole resources of 
 pleasure — the senses — are dried up. For him there is 
 no longer savor in the viands, or sparkle in the wine, 
 
 — man delights him not, nor woman neither. He is 
 alone with old age, and in sight of death. 
 
 With the exception of )Simon, who died in his chair 
 not many days after Sidney's marriage, Robert Beaufort 
 is the only one among the more important agents left at 
 the last scene of this history who has passed from our
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 343 
 
 mortal stage. After the marriage of his daughter he 
 for some time moped and drooped. 
 
 But Philip learned from Mr. Blackwell of the will 
 that Robert had made previously to the lawsuit; and by 
 which, had the lawsuit failed, his rights would yet have 
 been preserved to him. Deeply moved by a generosity 
 he could not have expected from his uncle, and not 
 pausing to inquire too closely how far it was to be traced 
 to the influence of Arthur, Philip so warmly expressed 
 his gratitude, and so surrounded ]\Ir. Beaufort with 
 afl'ectionate attentions, that the poor man began to 
 recover his self-respect, — began even to regard the 
 nephew he had so long dreaded, as a son, to forgive him 
 for not marrying Camilla. And, perhaps, to his aston- 
 ishment, an act in his life which the customs of the 
 world (that never favor natural ties not previously 
 sanctioned by the legal) would have rather censured 
 than praised, became his consolation, and the memory 
 he was most proud to recall. He gradually recovered 
 his spirits ; he was very fond of looking over that will ; 
 he carefully preserved it; he even flattered himself that 
 it was necessary to preserve Philip from all possible 
 litigation hereafter ; for if the estates were not legally 
 Philip's, why, then, they were his to dispose of as he 
 pleased. He was never more happy than when his 
 successor was by his side, and was certainly a more 
 cheerful, and, I doubt not, a better man, during the few 
 years in which he survived the lawsuit, than ever he 
 had been before. He died — still member for the 
 county, and still quoted as a pattern to county members 
 — in Philip's arms ; and on his lips there was a smile 
 that even Lilburne would have called sincere. 
 
 Mrs. Beaufort, after her husband's death, established 
 herself in London, and could never be persuaded to visit
 
 344 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Beaufort Court. She took a companion, who more than 
 replace! in her eyes the absence of Camilla. 
 
 And Camilla, Spencer, Sidney. They live still by 
 the gentle lake, happy in their own serene joys and 
 graceful leisure; shunning alike ambition and its trials, 
 action and its sharp vicissitudes; envying no one, 
 covetous of nothing; making around them, in the work- 
 ing world, something of the old pastoral and golden 
 holiday. If Camilla had at one time wavered in her 
 allegiance to Sidney, her good and simple heart has 
 long since been entirely regained by his devotion ; and 
 as might be expected from her disposition, she loved 
 him better after marriage than before. 
 
 Philip had gone through severer trials than Sidney ; 
 but had their earlier fates been reversed, and that spirit, 
 in youth so haughty and self-willed, been lapped in ease 
 and luxury, would Philip now be a better or a happier 
 man? Perhaps, too, for a less tranquil existence than 
 his brother, Philip yet may be reserved; but in propor- 
 tion to the uses of our destiny do we repose or toil : he 
 who never knows pain , knows but the half of i)leasure. 
 The lot of whatever is most noble on the earth below, 
 falls not amidst the rosy gardens of the epicurean. We 
 may envy the man who enjoys and rests; but the smile 
 of Heaven settles rather on the front of him who labors 
 and aspires. 
 
 And did Philip ever regret the circumstances that had 
 given him Panny for the partner of his life 1 To some 
 who take their notions of the ideal from the conventional 
 rules of romance, rather than from their own perceptions 
 of what is true, this narrative would have been more 
 pleasing had Philip never loved but Fanny. But all 
 that had led to that love had only served to render it 
 more enduring and concentred. Man's strongest and
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 345 
 
 worthiest affection is his last, — is the one that unites 
 and embodies all his past dreams of what is excellent; 
 tlie one from Avhich hope springs out the brighter from 
 former disappointments; the one in which the memories 
 are the most tender and the most abundant; the one 
 which, replacing all others, nothing hereafter can 
 replace. 
 
 And now, ere the scene closes, and the audience, 
 whom, perhaps, the actors may have interested for a 
 while, disperse, to forget amidst the pursuits of actual 
 life the shadows that have amused an hour or beguiled 
 a care, let the curtain fall on one happy pictvire : — • 
 
 It is some years after the marriage of Philip and 
 Fanny. It is a summer's morning. In a small old- 
 fashioned room at Beaufort Court, Avith its casements 
 open to the gardens, stood Philip, having just entered; 
 and near the window sat Panny, his boy by her side. 
 She was at the mother's hardest task, — the first lessons 
 to the first-born child ; and as the boy looked up at her 
 sweet earnest face with a smile of intelligence on his 
 own, you might have seen at a glance how well under- 
 stood were the teacher and the pupil. Yes; whatever 
 might have been wanting in the virgin to the full devel- 
 opment of mind, the cares of the mother had supplied. 
 When a being was born to lean on her alone, — 
 dependent on her providence for life, — then, hour after 
 hour, step after step, in the progress of infant destinies, 
 had the reason of the mother grown in the child's 
 growth, adapting itself to each want that it must foresee, 
 and taking its perfectness and completion from the breath 
 of the new love ! 
 
 The child caught sight of Philip, and rushed to 
 embrace him.
 
 346 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 " See ! " whispered Fanny, as she also hung upon him, 
 and strange recollections of her own mysterious child- 
 hood crowded upon her, — " see," whispered she, with a 
 blush half of shame and half of pride, " the poor idiot 
 girl is the teacher of your child! " 
 
 "And," answered Philip, "whether for child or 
 mother, what teacher is like love ? " 
 
 Thus saying, he took the boy into his arms, and as 
 he bent over those rosy cheeks, Fanny saw, from the 
 movement of his lips and the moisture in his eyes, that 
 he blessed God. He looked up on the mother's face, 
 he glanced round on the flowers and foliage of the luxu- 
 rious summer, and again he blessed God : and without 
 and witlnn, it was Light and Morning! 
 
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