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 was about to take as respectable as he could. The careless tone of his brother when speaking upon the subject–his confession that of such a marriage there were no distinct proofs, except a copy of a register (which copy Robert had not found)–made his incredulity natural. He therefore deemed himself under no obligation of delicacy or respect, to a 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 been 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 handsomer 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 dispositions in her favour: he would not have allowed the connections to call him shabby. But here he felt that, all circumstances considered, the world, if it spoke at all (which it would scarce 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 foolishly; but well. He was sure the world would say so if it knew all: he was not bound to do anything. He was not, therefore, prepared for 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 lawyer, Mr. Blackwell, informed him that a suit had been instituted by Catherine.
Mr. Robert turned pale, but Blackwell composed him.
“Pooh, sir! you have nothing to fear. It is but an attempt to extort money: the attorney is a low practitioner, accustomed to get up bad cases: they can make nothing of it.”
This was true: whatever the rights of the case, poor Catherine had no proofs–no evidence–which could justify a respectable lawyer to advise her proceeding to a suit. She named two witnesses of her marriage–one dead, the other could not be heard of. She selected for the alleged place in which the ceremony was performed a very remote village, in which it appeared that the register had been destroyed. No attested copy thereof was to be found, and Catherine was stunned on hearing that, even if found, it was doubtful whether it could be received as evidence, unless to corroborate actual personal testimony. It so happened that when Philip, many years ago, had received a copy, he had not shown 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 generosity. As for the mere moral evidence dependent on the publication of her bans 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 his mistress. Her generosity in this destroyed her case. Nevertheless, she found a low practitioner, who took her money and neglected her cause; so her suit was heard and dismissed with contempt. Henceforth, then, indeed, in the eyes of the law and the public, Catherine was an impudent adventurer, and her sons were nameless outcasts.
And now relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert Beaufort entered upon the full enjoyment of his splendid fortune.
The house in Berkeley Square was furnished anew. Great dinners and gay routs were given in the ensuing spring. Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort became persons of considerable importance. The rich man had, even when poor, been ambitious; his ambition now centred in his only son. Arthur had always been considered a boy of talents and promise; to what might he not now aspire? The term of his probation with the tutor was abridged, and Arthur Beaufort was sent at once to Oxford.
Before he went to the university, during a short preparatory visit to his father, Arthur spoke to him of the Mortons. “What has become of them, sir? and what have you done for them?”
“Done for them!” said Mr. Beaufort, opening his eyes. “What should I do for persons who have just been harassing me with the most unprincipled litigation? My conduct to them has been too generous: that is, all things considered. But when you are my age you will find there is very little gratitude in the world, Arthur.”
“Still, sir,” said Arthur, with the good nature that belonged to him: “still, my uncle was greatly attached to them; and the boys, at least, are guiltless.”
“Well, well!” replied Mr. Beaufort, a little impatiently; “I believe they want for nothing: I fancy they are with the mother’s relations. Whenever they address me in a proper manner they shall not find me revengeful or hardhearted; 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 warning by your poor uncle’s example. And now let us change the subject; it is not a very pleasant one, and, at your age, the less your thoughts turn on such matters the better.”
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 high road between Fernside and the metropolis. She saved from her hopeless law-suit, after the sale of her jewels and ornaments, a sufficient sum to enable her, with economy, to live respectably for a year or two at least, during which time she might arrange her plans for the future. She reckoned, as a sure resource, upon the assistance of her relations; but it was one to which she applied with natural shame and reluctance. She had kept up a correspondence with her father during his life. To him, she never revealed the secret of her marriage, though she did not write like a person conscious of error. Perhaps, as she always said to her son, she had made to her husband a solemn promise never to divulge or even hint that secret until he himself should authorise its disclosure. For neither he nor Catherine ever contemplated separation or death. Alas! how all of us, when happy, sleep secure in the dark shadows, which ought to warn us of the sorrows that are to come! Still Catherine’s father, a man of coarse mind and not rigid principles, did not take much to heart that 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 honour, but somewhat hard and unamiable. In the only letter she had received from him–the one announcing her father’s death–he told her plainly, and very properly, that he could not countenance the life she led; that he had children growing up–that all intercourse between them was at an end, unless she left Mr. Beaufort; when, if she sincerely repented, he would still prove her affectionate brother.
Though Catherine had at the time resented this letter as unfeeling–now, humbled and sorrow-stricken, she recognised the propriety of principle from which it emanated. Her brother was well off for his station–she would explain to him her real situation–he would believe her story. She would write to him, and beg him at least to give aid to her poor children.
But this step she did not take till a 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 be lightly heeded, had made her forebode 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 herself, but to her children–his children, whose every whim had been anticipated, she had not the heart to be saving. She could have starved in a garret had she been alone; but she could not see them wanting a comfort while she possessed a guinea. Philip, to do him justice, evinced a consideration not to have been expected from his early and arrogant recklessness. But Sidney, who could expect consideration from such a child? What could he know of the change of circumstances–of the value of money? Did he seem dejected, 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! her own ailments, neglected and unheeded, were growing beyond the reach of medicine. Anxious fearful–gnawed by regret for the past–the thought of famine in the future–she daily fretted and wore herself away. She had cultivated her mind during her secluded residence with Mr. Beaufort, but she had learned none of the arts by which decayed gentlewomen keep the wolf from the door; no little holiday accomplishments, which, in the day of need turn to useful trade; no water-colour drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabrications of pretty gewgaws, no embroidery and fine needlework. She was helpless–utterly helpless; if she had resigned 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 necessary 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, “Experience, after all, is the best teacher.” He kept a constant guard on his vehement temper–his wayward will; he would not have vexed his mother for the world. But, strange to say (it was a great mystery in the woman’s heart), in proportion as he became more amiable, it seemed that his mother loved him less. Perhaps she did not, in that change, recognise so closely the darling of the old time; perhaps the very weaknesses and importunities of Sidney, the hourly sacrifices the child entailed upon her, endeared 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 away with the expectations that had fed it, and carried off in its decay some of the affection that was intertwined with it. However this be, Philip had formerly appeared the more spoiled and favoured of the two: and now Sidney seemed all in all. Thus, beneath the younger son’s caressing gentleness, there grew up a certain regard for self; it was latent, it took amiable colours; it had even a certain charm and grace in so sweet a child, but selfishness it was not the less. In this he differed from his brother. Philip was self-willed: Sidney self-loving. A certain timidity of character, endearing perhaps to the anxious heart of a mother, made this fault in the younger boy more likely to take root. For, in bold natures, there is a lavish and uncalculating recklessness which 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 flytrap, 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 horsehair seemed stuffed with flies. There was an air of heated discomfort in the thick, solid moreen curtains, in the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring carpet, in the very looking-glass over the chimney-piece, where a strip of mirror lay imprisoned in an embrace of frame covered with yellow muslin. We may talk of the dreariness of winter; and winter, no doubt, is desolate: but what in the world is more dreary to eyes inured to the verdure and bloom of Nature–,
“The pomp of groves and garniture of fields,”
–than a close room in a suburban lodging-house; the sun piercing every corner; nothing fresh, nothing cool, nothing fragrant to be seen, felt, or inhaled; all dust, glare, noise, with a chandler’s shop, perhaps, next 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 country, again, mamma?”
“Not at present, my love.”
“I wish I could have my pony; why can’t I have my pony, mamma?”
“Because,–because–the pony is sold, Sidney.”
“Who sold it?”
“Your uncle.”
“He is a very naughty man, my uncle: is he not? But can’t I have another pony? It would be so nice, this fine weather!”
“Ah! my dear, I wish I could afford it: but you shall have a ride this week! Yes,” continued the mother, as if reasoning with herself, in excuse of the extravagance, “he does not look well: poor child! he must have exercise.”
“A ride!–oh! that is my own kind mamma!” exclaimed Sidney, clapping his hands. “Not on a donkey, you know!–a pony. The man down the street, there, lets ponies. I must have the white pony with the long tail. But, I say, mamma, don’t tell Philip, pray don’t; he would be jealous.”
“No, not jealous, my dear; why do you think so?”
“Because he is always angry when I ask you for anything. It is very unkind in him, for I don’t care if he has a pony, too,–only not the white one.”
Here the postman’s knock, loud and sudden, started Mrs. Morton from her seat.
She pressed her hands tightly to her heart, as if to still its beating, and went tremulously to the door; thence to the stairs, to anticipate the lumbering step of the slipshod maidservent.
“Give it me, Jane; give it me!”
“One shilling and eightpence–double charged–if you please, ma’am! Thank you.”
“Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the pony?”
“Not now, my love; sit down; be quiet: I–I am not well.”
Sidney, who was affectionate and obedient, crept back peaceably to the window, and, after a short, impatient sigh, resumed the scissors and the story-book. I do not apologise to the reader for the various letters I am obliged to lay before him; for character often betrays itself more in letters than in speech. Mr. Roger Morton’s reply was couched in these terms,–
“DEAR CATHERINE, I have received your letter of the 14th inst., and write per return. 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 decided that point; therefore, the less you say on the matter the better. It all comes to the same thing. People are not bound to believe what can’t be proved. And even if what you say is true, you are more to be blamed than pitied for holding your tongue so many years, and discrediting an honest family, as ours has always been considered. I am sure my wife would not have thought of such a thing for the finest gentleman that ever wore shoe-leather. However, I don’t want to hurt your feelings; and I am sure I am ready to do whatever is right and proper. You cannot expect that I should ask you to my house. My wife, you know, is a very religious woman–what is called evangelical; but that’s neither here nor there: I deal with all people, churchmen and dissenters–even Jews,–and don’t trouble my head much about differences in opinion. I dare say there are many ways to heaven; as I said, the other day, to Mr. Thwaites, our member. But it is right to say my wife will not hear of your coming here; and, indeed, it might do harm to my business, for there are several elderly single gentlewomen, who buy flannel for the poor at my shop, and they are very particular; as they ought to be, indeed: for morals are very strict in this county, and particularly in this town, where we certainly do pay very high church- rates. Not that I grumble; for, though I am as liberal as any man, I am for an established church; as I ought to be, since the dean is my best customer. With regard to yourself I inclose you L10., and you will let me know when it is gone, and I will see what more I can do. You say you are very poorly, which I am sorry to hear; but you must pluck up your spirits, and take in plain work; and I really think you ought to apply to Mr. Robert Beaufort. He bears a high character; and notwithstanding your lawsuit, which I cannot approve of, I dare say he might allow you L40. or L50. a-year, if you apply properly, which would be the right thing in him. So much for you. As for the boys–poor, fatherless creatures!–it is very hard that they should be so punished for no fault of their own; and my wife, who, though strict, is a good-hearted woman, is ready and willing to do what I wish about them. You say the eldest is near sixteen and well come on in his studies. I can get him a very good thing in a light genteel way. My wife’s brother, Mr. Christopher Plaskwith, is a bookseller and stationer with pretty practice, in R—-. He is a clever man, and has a newspaper, which he kindly sends me every week; and, though it is not my county, it has some very sensible views and is often noticed in the London papers, as ‘our provincial contemporary.’–Mr. Plaskwith owes me some money, which I advanced him when he set up the paper; and he has several times most honestly offered to pay me, in shares in the said paper. But, as the thing might break, and I don’t like concerns I don’t 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 premium to consider!’ No such thing; Kit will set off the premium against his debt to me; so you will have nothing to pay. ‘Tis a very pretty business; and the lad’s education will get him on; so that’s off your mind. As to the little chap, I’ll take him at once. You say he is a pretty boy; and a pretty boy is always a help in a linendraper’s shop. He shall share and share with my own young folks; and Mrs. Morton will take care of his washing and morals. I conclude–(this is Mrs. M’s. suggestion)–that he has had the measles, cowpock, and whooping-cough, which please let me know. If he behave well, which, at his age, we can easily break him into, he is settled for life. So now you have got rid of two mouths to feed, and have nobody to think of but yourself, which must be a great comfort. Don’t forget to write to Mr. Beaufort; and if he don’t do something for you he’s not the 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 down in the world, I think an ounce of hell is better than a pound of preaching. My wife thinks otherwise, and wants to send you some tracts; but every body can’t be as correct as some folks. However, as I said before, that’s neither here nor there. Let me know when your boy comes down, and also about the measles, cowpock, and 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 watching the face of his mother, which crimsoned with painful humiliation while she read. Philip was not now the trim and dainty stripling first introduced to the reader. He had outgrown his faded suit of funereal 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 form of Pride. It was evident that his spirit endured, rather than accommodated itself to, his fallen state; and, notwithstanding his soiled and threadbare garments, and a haggardness that ill becomes the years of palmy youth, there was about his whole mien and person a wild and savage grandeur more impressive than his former ruffling arrogance of manner.
“Well, mother,” said he, with a strange mixture of sternness in his countenance and pity in his voice; “well, mother, and what says your brother?”
“You decided for us once before, decide again. But I need not ask you; you would never–“
“I don’t know,” interrupted Philip, vaguely; “let me see what we are to decide on.”
Mrs. Morton was naturally a woman of high courage and spirit, but sickness and grief had worn down both; and though Philip was but sixteen, there is something in the very nature of woman–especially in trouble– which makes her seek to lean on some other will than her own. She gave Philip the letter, and went quietly to sit down by Sidney.
“Your brother means well,” said Philip, when he had concluded the epistle.
“Yes, but nothing is to be done; I cannot, cannot send poor Sidney to– to–” and Mrs. Morton sobbed.
“No, my dear, dear mother, no; it would be terrible, indeed, to part you and him. But this bookseller–Plaskwith–perhaps I shall be able to support you both.”
“Why, you do not think, Philip, of being an apprentice!–you, who have been so brought up–you, who are so proud!”
“Mother, I would sweep the crossings for your sake I Mother, for your sake I would go to my uncle Beaufort with my hat in my hand, for halfpence. Mother, I am not proud–I would be honest, if I can–but when I see you pining away, and so changed, the devil comes into me, and I often shudder lest I should commit some crime–what, I don’t know!”
“Come here, Philip–my own Philip–my son, my hope, my firstborn!”–and the mother’s heart gushed forth in all the fondness of early days. “Don’t speak so terribly, you frighten me!”
She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him soothingly. He laid his burning temples on her bosom, and nestled himself to her, as he had been wont to do, after some stormy paroxysm of his passionate and wayward infancy. So there they remained–their lips silent, their hearts speaking to each other–each from each taking strange succour and holy strength–till Philip rose, calm, and with a quiet smile, “Good-bye, mother; I will go at once to Mr. Plaskwith.”
“But you have no money for the coach-fare; here, Philip,” and she placed her purse in his hand, from which he reluctantly 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 will go well, don’t fear,” said Philip, cheerfully, and he left the house.
Towards evening he had reached his destination. The shop was of goodly exterior, with a private entrance; over the shop was written, “Christopher Plaskwith, Bookseller and Stationer:” on the private door a brass plate, inscribed with “R—- and —- Mercury Office, Mr. Plaskwith.” Philip applied at the private entrance, and was shown by a “neat-handed Phillis” into a small office-room. In a few minutes the door opened, and the bookseller entered.
Mr. Christopher Plaskwith was a short, stout man, in drab-coloured 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 Buonaparte; 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 Champerdown’s order for fifty copies of the last Mercury, containing his speech at the county meeting. Your age, young man?–only sixteen?–look older;–that’s not it–that’s not it–and this is it!–sit down. Yes, Mr. Roger Morton recommends you –a relation–unfortunate circumstances–well educated–hum! Well, young man, what have you to say for yourself?”
“Sir?”
“Can you cast accounts?–know bookkeeping?”
“I know something of algebra, sir.”
“Algebra!–oh, what else?”
“French and Latin.”
“Hum!–may be useful. Why do you wear your hair so long?–look at mine. What’s your name?”
“Philip Morton.”
“Mr. Philip Morton, you have an intelligent countenance–I go a great deal by countenances. You know the terms?–most favourable to you. No premium–I settle that with Roger. I give board and bed–find your own washing. Habits regular–‘prenticeship only five years; when over, must not set up in the same town. I will see to the indentures. When can 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 another?”
“Salary, at sixteen?–board and bed-no premium! Salary, what for? ‘Prentices have no salary!–you will have every comfort.”
“Give me less comfort, that I may give my mother more;–a little money, ever so little, and take it out of my board: I can do with one meal a day, sir.”
The bookseller was moved: he took a huge pinch of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, and mused a moment. He then said, as he re-examined Philip:
“Well, young man, I’ll tell you what we will do. You shall come here first upon trial;–see if we like each other before we sign the indentures; allow you, meanwhile, five shillings a week. If you show talent, will see if I and Roger can settle about some little allowance. That do, eh?”
“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 pocket-book, and the pocket-book to the pocket; and, putting his arms behind his coat tails, threw up his chin, and strode through the passage into a small parlour, that locked upon a small garden. Here, seated round the table, were a thin lady, with a squint (Mrs. Plaskwith), two little girls, the Misses Plaskwith, also with squints, and pinafores; a young man of three or four-and-twenty, in nankeen trousers, a little the worse for washing, and a black velveteen jacket and waistcoat. This young gentleman was very much freckled; wore his hair, which was dark and wiry, up at one side, down at the other; had a short thick nose; full lips; and, when close to him, smelt of cigars. Such was Mr. Plimmins, Mr. Plaskwith’s factotum, foreman in the shop, assistant editor to the Mercury. Mr. Plaskwith formally went the round of the introduction; Mrs. P. nodded her head; the Misses P. nudged each other, and grinned; Mr. Plimmins passed his hand through his hair, glanced at the glass, and bowed very politely.
“Now, Mrs. P., my second cup, and give Mr. Morton his dish of tea. Must be tired, sir–hot day. Jemima, ring–no, go to the stairs and call out ‘more buttered toast.’ That’s the shorter way–promptitude is my rule in life, Mr. Morton. Pray-hum, hum–have you ever, by chance, studied the biography of the great Napoleon Buonaparte?”
Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and kicked Philip under the table. Philip looked fiercely at the foreman, and replied, sullenly, “No, sir.”
“That’s a pity. Napoleon Buonaparte was a very great man,–very! You have seen his cast?–there it is, on the dumb waiter! Look at it! see a likeness, eh?”
“Likeness, sir? I never saw Napoleon Buonaparte.”
“Never saw him! No, just look round the room. Who does that bust put you in mind of? who does it resemble?”
Here Mr. Plaskwith rose, and placed himself in an attitude; his hand in his waistcoat, and his face pensively inclined towards the tea-table. “Now fancy me at St. Helena; this table is the ocean. Now, then, who is that cast like, Mr. Philip Morton?”
“I suppose, sir, it is like you!”
“Ah, that it is! strikes every one! Does it not, Mrs. P., does it not? And when you have known me longer, you will find a moral 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 the Third, Mr. Morton?” asked Mr. Plimmins.
“I have never seen a play.”
“Never seen a play! How very odd!”
“Not at all odd, Mr. Plimmins,” said the stationer. “Mr. Morton has known troubles–so hand him the hot toast.”
Silent and morose, but rather disdainful than sad, Philip listened to the babble round him, and observed the ungenial characters with which he was to associate. He cared not to please (that, alas! had never been especially his study); it was enough for him if he could see, stretching to his mind’s eye beyond the walls of that dull room, the long vistas into fairer fortune. At sixteen, what sorrow can freeze the Hope, or what prophetic fear whisper, “Fool!” to the Ambition? He would bear back into ease and prosperity, if not into affluence and station, the dear ones left at home. From the eminence of five shillings a week, he looked over the Promised Land.
At length, Mr. Plaskwith, pulling out his watch, said, “Just in time to catch the coach; make your bow and be off-smart’s the word!” Philip rose, took up his hat, made a stiff bow that included the whole group, and vanished with his host.
Mrs. Plaskwith breathed more easily when he was gone. “I never seed a more odd, fierce, ill-bred-looking young man! I declare I am quite afraid of him. What an eye he has!”
“Uncommonly dark; what I may say gipsy-like,” said Mr. Plimmins.
“He! he! You always do say such good things, Plimmins. Gipsy-like, he! he! So he is! I wonder if be can tell fortunes?”
“He’ll be long before he has a fortune of his own to tell. Ha! ha!” said Plimmins.
“He! he! how very good! you are so pleasant, Plimmins.”
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 German pipe, a volume of smoke in Philip’s face.
“Very warm. Be so good as to smoke into the face of the gentleman on the other side of you,” returned Philip, petulantly.
“Ho, ho!” replied the passenger, with a loud, powerful laugh-the laugh of a strong man. “You don’t take to the pipe yet; you will by and by, when you have known the cares and anxieties that I have gone through. A pipe! –it is a great soother!–a pleasant comforter! Blue devils fly before its honest breath! It ripens the brain–it opens the heart; and the man who smokes thinks like a sage and acts like a Samaritan!”
Roused from his reverie by this quaint and unexpected declamation, Philip turned his quick glance at his neighbour. He saw a man of great bulk and immense 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, notwithstanding 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 physical force of body;–light eyes of piercing intelligence; rough, but resolute and striking features, and a jaw of iron. There was thought, there was power, there was passion in the shaggy brow, the deep-ploughed lines, the dilated, nostril and the restless play of the lips. Philip looked hard and grave, and the man returned his look.
“What do you think of me, young gentleman?” asked the passenger, as he replaced the pipe in his mouth. “I am a fine-looking man, am I not?”
“You seem a strange one.”
“Strange!–Ay, I puzzle you, as I have done, and shall do, many. You cannot read me as easily as I can read you. Come, shall I guess at your character and circumstances? You are a gentleman, or something like it, by birth;–that the tone of your voice tells me. You are poor, devilish poor;–that the hole in your coat assures me. You are proud, fiery, discontented, and unhappy;–all that I see in your face. It was because I saw those signs that I spoke to you. I volunteer no acquaintance with the happy.”
“I dare say not; for if you know all the unhappy you must have a sufficiently large acquaintance,” returned Philip.
“Your wit is beyond your years! What is your calling, if the question does not offend you?”
“I have none as yet,” said Philip, with a slight sigh, and a deep blush.
“More’s the pity!” grunted the smoker, with a long emphatic nasal intonation. “I should have judged that you were a raw recruit in the camp of the enemy.”
“Enemy! I don’t understand you.”
“In other words, a plant growing out of a lawyer’s desk. I will explain. There is one class of spiders, industrious, 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 flies. There is another class of spiders who have no stuff in them wherewith to make webs; they, therefore, wander about, looking out for food provided by the toil of their neighbours. Whenever they come to the web of a smaller spider, whose larder seems well supplied, they rush upon his domain–pursue him to his hole–eat him up if they can–reject him if he is too tough for their maws, and quietly possess themselves of all the legs and wings they find dangling in his meshes: these spiders I call enemies–the world calls them lawyers!”
Philip laughed: “And who are the first class of spiders?”
“Honest creatures who openly confess that they live upon flies. Lawyers fall foul upon them, under pretence of delivering flies from their clutches. They are wonderful blood-suckers, these lawyers, in spite of all their hypocrisy. Ha! ha! ho! ho!”
And with a loud, rough chuckle, more expressive of malignity than mirth, the man turned himself round, applied vigorously to his pipe, and sank into a silence which, as mile after mile glided past the wheels, he did not seem disposed to break. Neither was Philip inclined to be communicative. Considerations for his own state and prospects swallowed up the curiosity he might otherwise have felt as to his singular neighbour. He had not touched food since the early morning. Anxiety had made him insensible to hunger, till he arrived at Mr. Plaskwith’s; and then, feverish, sore, and sick at heart, the sight of the luxuries gracing the tea-table only revolted him. He did not now feel hunger, but he was fatigued and faint. For several nights the sleep which youth can so ill dispense with had been broken and disturbed; and now, the rapid motion of the coach, and the free current of a fresher and more exhausting air than he had been accustomed to for many months, began to operate on his nerves like the intoxication of a narcotic. His eyes grew heavy; indistinct mists, through which there seemed to glare the various squints of the female Plaskwiths, succeeded the gliding road and the dancing trees. His head fell on his bosom; and thence, instinctively seeking the strongest support at hand, inclined towards the stout smoker, and finally nestled itself composedly on that gentleman’s shoulder. The passenger, feeling this unwelcome and unsolicited weight, took the pipe, which he had already thrice refilled, from his lips, and emitted an angry and impatient snort; finding that this produced no effect, and that the load grew heavier as the boy’s sleep grew deeper, he cried, in a loud voice, “Holla! I did not pay my fare to be your bolster, young man!” and shook himself lustily. Philip started, and would have fallen sidelong from the coach, if his neighbour had not griped him hard with a hand that could have kept a young oak from falling.
“Rouse yourself!–you might have had an ugly tumble.” Philip muttered something inaudible, between sleeping and waking, and turned his dark eyes towards the man; in that glance there was so much unconscious, but sad and deep reproach, that the passenger felt touched and ashamed. Before however, he could say anything in apology or conciliation, Philip had again fallen asleep. But this time, as if he had felt and resented the rebuff he had received, he inclined his head away from his neighbour, against the edge of a box on the roof–a 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. “Perhaps the smoke was too much for him–he seems ill and thin,” and he took the boy’s long lean fingers in his own. “His cheek is hollow!–what do I know but it may be with fasting? Pooh! I was a brute. Hush, coachee, hush! don’t talk so loud, and be d—d to you–he will certainly be off!” and the man softly and creepingly encircled the boy’s waist with his huge arm.
“Now, then, to shift his head; so-so,–that’s right.” Philip’s sallow cheek and long hair were now tenderly lapped on the soliloquist’s bosom. “Poor wretch! he smiles; perhaps he is thinking of home, and the butterflies he ran after when he was an urchin–they never come back, those days;–never–never–never! I think the wind veers to the east; he may catch cold;”–and with that, the man, 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 unwelcomed, in its former part), and drew the lappets closely round the slender frame of the sleeper, exposing his own sturdy breast–for he wore no waistcoat–to the sharpening air. Thus cradled on that stranger’s bosom, wrapped from the present and dreaming perhaps–while a heart scorched by fierce and terrible struggles with life and sin made his pillow–of a fair and unsullied future, slept the fatherless and friendless boy.
CHAPTER VII.
“_Constance_. My life, my joy, my food, my all the world, My widow-comfort.”–King John.
Amidst the glare of lamps–the rattle of carriages–the lumbering of carts and waggons–the throng, the clamour, the reeking life and dissonant roar of London, Philip woke from his happy sleep. He woke uncertain and confused, and saw strange eyes bent on him kindly and watchfully.
“You have slept well, my lad!” said the passenger, in the deep ringing voice which made itself heard above all the noises around.
“And you have suffered me to incommode you thus!” said Philip, with more gratitude in his voice and look than, perhaps, he had shown to any one out of his own family since his birth.
“You have had but little kindness shown you, my poor boy, if you think so much of this.”
“No–all people were very kind to me once. I did not value it then.” Here the coach rolled heavily down the dark arch of the inn-yard.
“Take care of yourself, my boy! You look ill;” and in the dark the man slipped a sovereign into Philip’s hand.
“I don’t want money. Though I thank you heartily all the same; it would be a shame at my age to be a beggar. But can you think of an employment where I can make something?–what they offer me is so trifling. I have a mother and a brother–a mere child, sir–at home.”
“Employment!” repeated the man; and as the coach now stopped at the tavern door, the light of the lamp fell full on his marked face. “Ay, I know of employment; but you should apply to some one else to obtain it for you! As for me, it is not likely that we shall meet again!”
“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 fellow. 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 carpetbag, Philip saw three or four well-dressed men make up to him, shake him heartily by the hand, and welcome him with great seeming cordiality.
Philip sighed. “He has friends,” he muttered to himself; and, paying his fare, he turned from the bustling yard, and took his solitary way home.
A week after his visit to R—-, Philip was settled on his probation at Mr. Plaskwith’s, and Mrs. Morton’s health was so decidedly worse, that she resolved to know her fate, and consult a physician. The oracle was at first ambiguous in its response. But when Mrs. Morton said firmly, “I have duties to perform; upon your candid answer rest my Plans with respect to my children–left, if I die suddenly, destitute in the world,”–the doctor looked hard in her face, saw its calm resolution, and replied frankly:
“Lose no time, then, in arranging your plans; life is uncertain with all –with you, especially; you may live some time yet, but your constitution is much shaken–I fear there is water on the chest. No, ma’am-no fee. I will see you again.”
The physician turned to Sidney, who played with his watch-chain, and smiled up in his face.
“And that child, sir?” said the mother, wistfully, forgetting the dread fiat pronounced against herself,–“he is so delicate!”
“Not at all, ma’am,–a very fine little 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 offer? Did it not, at least, secure bread and shelter to her child? When she was dead, might not a tie, between the uncle and nephew, be snapped asunder? Would he be as kind to the boy as now when she could commend him with her own lips to his care–when she could place that precious charge into his hands? With these thoughts, she formed one of those resolutions which have all the strength of self-sacrificing love. She would put the boy from her, her last solace and comfort; she would die alone,–alone!
CHAPTER VIII.
“Constance. When I shall meet him in the court of heaven, I shall not know him.”–King John.
One evening, the shop closed and the business done, Mr. Roger Morton and his family sat in that snug and comfortable retreat which generally backs the warerooms of an English tradesman. Happy often, and indeed happy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet remote from, the toil and care of the busy mart from which its homely ease and peaceful security are drawn. Glance down those rows of silenced shops in a town at night, and picture the glad and quiet groups gathered within, over that nightly and social meal which custom has banished from the more indolent tribes who neither toil nor spin. Placed between the two extremes of life, the tradesman, who ventures not beyond his means, and sees clear books and sure gains, with enough of occupation to give healthful excitement, enough of fortune to greet each new-born child without a sigh, might be envied alike by those above and those below his state–if the restless heart of men 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.”
“It was a very handsome offer on our part; some folks never know when they are well off.”
“That is very true, my dear, and you are a very sensible person. Kate herself might have been an honest woman, and, what is more, a very rich woman, by this time. She 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 sepulchers.”
Mr. Morton mixed his brandy and water, and moved his chair into its customary corner.
“You saw your brother’s letter,” said he, after a pause; “he gives young Philip a very good character.”
“The human heart is very deceitful,” 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 didn’t have the other little boy. I dare say he has never even been taught his catechism: them people don’t know what it is to be a mother. And, besides, it would have been very awkward, Mr. M.; we could never have said who he was: and I’ve no doubt Miss Pryinall would have been very curious.”
“Miss Pryinall be —-!” Mr. Morton checked himself, took a large draught of the brandy and water, and added, “Miss Pryinall wants to have a finger in everybody’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 better. For as the Scripture says, ‘A man shall cleave to his wife and–‘”
Here a sharp, shrill ring at the bell was heard, and Mrs. Morton broke off into:
“Well! I declare! at this hour; who can that be? And all gone to bed! Do go and see, Mr. Morton.”
Somewhat reluctantly and slowly, Mr. Morton rose; and, proceeding to the passage, unbarred the door. A brief and muttered conversation followed, to the great irritability of Mrs. Morton, who stood in the passage–the candle in her hand.
“What is the matter, Mr. M.?”
Mr. Morton turned back, looking agitated.
“Where’s my hat? oh, here. My sister is come, at the inn.”
“Gracious me! She does not go for to say she is your sister?”
“No, no: here’s her note-calls herself a lady that’s ill. I shall be back soon.”
“She can’t come here–she sha’n’t come here, Mr. M. I’m an honest woman– she can’t come here. You understand–“
Mr. Morton had naturally a stern 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 his 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 child; and she was not a woman who ever forgave.
Mr. Morton walked rapidly through the still, moon-lit streets, till he reached the inn. A club was held that night in one of the rooms below; and as he crossed the threshold, the sound of “hip-hip-hurrah!” mingled with the stamping of feet and the jingling of glasses, saluted his entrance. He was a stiff, sober, respectable man,–a man who, except at elections–he was a great politician–mixed in none of the revels of his more boisterous townsmen. The sounds, the spot, were ungenial to him. He paused, and the colour of shame rose to his brow. He was ashamed to be there–ashamed to meet the desolate and, as he believed, erring sister.
A pretty maidservant, 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.”
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, whom he had last seen at her age of gay sixteen, radiant with bloom, and, but for her air of pride, the model for a Hebe, –that Catherine, old ere youth was gone, pale, faded, the dark hair silvered over, the cheeks hollow, and the eye dim,–that Catherine fell upon his breast!
“God bless you, brother! How kind to come! How long since we have met!”
“Sit down, Catherine, my dear sister. You are faint–you are very much changed-very. I should not have known you.”
“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 increased by warmth and travel; the lovely face so innocent and hushed; the breathing so gentle and regular, as if never broken by a sigh.
Mr. Morton drew his hand across his eyes.
There was something very touching in the contrast between that wakeful, anxious, forlorn woman, and the slumber of the unconscious boy. And in that moment, what breast upon which the light of Christian pity–of natural affection, had ever dawned, would, even supposing the world’s judgment were true, have recalled Catherine’s reputed error? There is so divine a holiness in the love of a mother, that no matter how the tie that binds her to the child was formed, she becomes, as it were, consecrated and sacred; and the past is forgotten, and the world and its harsh verdicts swept away, when that love alone is visible; and the God, who watches over the little one, sheds His smile over the human deputy, in whose tenderness there breathes His own!
“You will be kind to him–will you not?” said Mrs. Morton; and the appeal was made with that trustful, almost cheerful tone which implies, ‘Who would not be kind to a thing so fair and helpless?’ “He is very sensitive and very docile; you will never have occasion to say a hard word to him–never! you have children of your own, brother.”
“He is a beautiful boy-beautiful. I will be a father to him!”
As he spoke,–the recollection of his wife–sour, querulous, austere– came over him, but he said to himself, “She must take to such a child,– women always take to beauty.” He bent down and gently pressed his lips to Sidney’s forehead: Mrs. Morton replaced the shawl, and drew her brother to the other end of the room.
“And now,” she said, colouring as she spoke, “I must see your wife, brother: there is so much to say about a child that only a woman will recollect. Is she very good-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; but 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 favour to request–a great favour.”
“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–I don’t think of dying.”
“Heaven forbid! but–“
“Well–well,” interrupted Mr. Morton, who began to fear his feelings would hurry him into some promise which his wife would not suffer him to keep; “you shall talk to Margaret,–that is Mrs. Morton–I will get her to see you–yes, I think I can contrive that; and if you can arrange with her to stay,–but you see, as she brought the money, and is a very particular woman–“
“I will see her; thank you–thank you; she cannot refuse me.”
“And, brother,” resumed Mrs. Morton, after a short pause, and speaking in a firm voice–“and is it possible that you disbelieve my story?–that you, like all the rest, consider my children the sons of shame?”
There was an honest earnestness in Catherine’s voice, as she spoke, that might have convinced many. But Mr. Morton was a man of facts, a practical man–a man who believed that law was always right, and that the improbable was never true.
He looked down as he answered, “I think you have been a very ill-used woman, 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. How ever, 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 constraint on both sides–it was so difficult to avoid one subject; and after sixteen years of absence, there is little left in common, even between those who once played together round their parent’s knees. Mr. Morton was glad at last to find an excuse in Catherine’s fatigue to leave her. “Cheer up, and take a glass of something warm before you go to bed. Good night!” these were his parting words.
Long was the conference, and sleepless the couch, of Mr. and Mrs. Morton. At first that estimable lady positively declared she would not and could not visit Catherine (as to receiving her, that was out of the question). But she secretly resolved to give up that point in order to insist with greater strength upon another-viz., the impossibility of 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 excellent reasons which his wife urged against allowing Catherine to reside in the town. He was a political character–he had many enemies; the story of his seduced sister, now forgotten, would certainly be raked up; it would affect his comfort, perhaps his trade, certainly his eldest daughter, who was now thirteen; it would be impossible then to adopt the plan hitherto resolved upon–of passing off Sidney as the legitimate orphan of a distant relation; it would be made a great handle for gossip by Miss Pryinall. Added to all these reasons, one not less strong occurred to Mr. Morton himself–the uncommon and merciless rigidity of his wife would render all the other women in the town very glad of any topic that would humble her own sense of immaculate propriety. 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 sallied out on her husband’s arm. Mr. Morton was rather a handsome man, with an air and look grave, composed, severe, that had tended much to raise his character in the town.
Mrs. Morton was short, wiry, and bony. She had won her husband by making desperate love to him, to say nothing of a dower that enabled him to extend his business, new-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 excessively fond of him–a common delusion of husbands, especially when henpecked. Mrs. Morton was, perhaps, fond of him in her own way; for though her heart was not warm, there may be a great deal of fondness with very little feeling. The worthy lady was now clothed in her best. She had a proper pride in 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 oppressively hot, and with a deep border; a smart _sevigni_ brooch of yellow topazes glittered in her breast; a huge gilt serpent glared from her waistband; her hair, or more properly speaking her _front_, was tortured into very tight curls, and her feet into very tight half-laced boots, from which the fragrance of new leather had not yet departed. It was this last infliction, for _il faut souffrir pour 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, Mr. Morton, you would not talk in that way!”
The happy pair sank into silence, only broken by sundry “How d’ye dos?” and “Good mornings!” interchanged with their friends, till they arrived at the inn.
“Let us go up quickly,” said Mrs. Morton.
And quiet–quiet to gloom, did the inn, so noisy overnight, seem by morning. The shutters partially closed to keep out the sun–the taproom deserted–the passage smelling of stale smoke–an elderly dog, lazily snapping at the flies, at the foot of the staircase–not a soul to be seen at the bar. The husband and wife, glad to be unobserved, crept on tiptoe up the stairs, and entered Catherine’s apartment.
Catherine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney-dressed, like Mrs. Roger Morton, to look his prettiest, nor yet aware of the change that awaited his destiny, but pleased at the excitement of seeing new friends, as handsome children sure of praise and petting usually are–stood by her side.
“My wife–Catherine,” said Mr. Morton. Catherine rose eagerly, and gazed searchingly on her sister-in-law’s hard face. She swallowed the convulsive rising at her heart as she gazed, and stretched out both her hands, not so much to welcome as to plead. Mrs. Roger Morton drew herself up, and then dropped a courtesy–it was an involuntary piece of good breeding–it was extorted by the noble countenance, the matronly mien of Catherine, different from what she had anticipated–she dropped the courtesy, and Catherine took her hand and pressed it.
“This is my son;” she turned away her head. Sidney advanced towards his protectress who was to be, and Mrs. Roger muttered:
“Come here, my dear! A fine little boy!”
“As fine a child as ever I saw!” said Mr. Morton, heartily, as he took Sidney on his lap, and stroked down his, golden hair.
This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, but she sat herself down, and said it was “very warm.”
“Now go to that lady, my dear,” said Mr. Morton. “Is she not a very nice lady?–don’t you think you shall like her very much?”
Sidney, the best-mannered child in the world, went boldly up to Mrs. Morton, as he was bid. Mrs. Morton was embarrassed. Some folks are so with other folk’s children: a child either removes all constraint from a party, or it increases the constraint tenfold. Mrs. Morton, however, forced a smile, and said, “I have a little boy at home about your age.”
“Have you?” exclaimed Catherine, eagerly; and as if that confession made them friends at once, she drew a chair close to her sister-in-law’s,–“My brother has told you all?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And I shall stay here–in the town somewhere–and see him sometimes?”
Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husband–her husband 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 neighbours pay so much attention to all he does; and then, if we have an election in the autumn, you see, ma’am, he has a great stake in the place, and is a public character.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Mr. Morton. “But I say, 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 patronising manner, Mrs. Morton twisted her fingers into the boy’s hand, and, opening the door that communicated with the bedroom, left the brother and sister alone. And then Mr. Morton, with more tact and delicacy than might have been expected from him, began to soften to Catherine the hard ship of the separation he urged. He dwelt principally on what was best for the child. Boys were so brutal in their intercourse with each other. He had even thought it better 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 much better, and so very easy, to bring him up as the lawful, that is the legal, offspring of some distant relation.
“And,” cried poor Catherine, clasping her bands, “when I am dead, is he never to know that I was his mother?” The anguish of that question thrilled the heart of the listener. He was affected below all the surface that worldly thoughts and habits had laid, stratum by stratum, over the humanities within. He threw his arms round Catherine, and strained her to his breast:
“No, my sister–my poor sister-he shall know it when he is old enough to understand, and to keep his own secret. He shall know, too, how we all loved and prized you once; how young you were, how flattered and tempted; how you were deceived, for I know that–on my soul I do–I know it was not your fault. He shall know, too, how fondly you loved your child, and how you sacrificed, for his sake, the very comfort of being near him. He shall know it all–all–“
“My brother–my brother, I resign him–I am content. God reward you. I will go–go quickly. I know you will take care of him now.”
“And you see,” resumed Mr. Morton, re-settling himself, and wiping his eyes, “it is best, between you and me, that Mrs. Morton should have her own way in this. She is a very good woman–very; but it’s prudent not to vex her. You may come in now, Mrs. Morton.”
Mrs. Morton and Sidney reappeared.
“We have settled it all,” said the husband. “When can we have him?”
“Not to-day,” said Mrs. Roger Morton; “you see, ma’am, we must get his bed ready, and his sheets well aired: I am very particular.”
“Certainly, certainly. Will he sleep alone?–pardon me.”
“He shall have a room to himself,” said Mr. Morton. “Eh, my dear? Next to Martha’s. Martha is our parlourmaid–very good-natured girl, and fond of children.”
Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, and said, “Yes, he can have that room.”
“Who can have that room?” asked Sidney, innocently. “You, my dear,” replied Mr. Morton.
“And where will mamma sleep? I must sleep near mamma.”
“Mamma is going away,” said Catherine, in a firm voice, in which the despair would only have been felt by the acute ear of 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.
“I am afraid he has been very much spoiled,” whispered Mrs. Roger Morton. “I don’t think we need stay longer–it will look suspicious. Good morning, ma’am: we shall be ready to-morrow.”
“Good-bye, Catherine,” said Mr. Morton; and he added, as he kissed her, “Be of good heart, I will come up by myself and spend the evening with you.”
It was the night after this interview. Sidney had gone to his new home; they had been all kind to him–Mr. Morton, the children, Martha the parlour-maid. Mrs. Roger herself had given him a large slice of bread and jam, but had looked gloomy all the rest of the evening: because, like a dog in a strange place, he refused to eat. His little heart was full, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were turned at every moment to the door. But he did not 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 its load no longer, and be sobbed with a passion that alarmed the good-natured servant. She had been used, however, to children, and she soothed and caressed him, and told him of all the nice things he would do, and the nice toys he would have; and at last, silenced, if not convinced, his eyes closed, and, the tears yet wet on their lashes, 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, according to his wont, lingered behind to smoke a cigar over his last glass of brandy and water, had just thrown aside the stump, and was winding up his watch, when he heard a low tap at his window. He stood mute and alarmed, for the window opened on a back lane, dark and solitary at night, and, from the heat of the weather, the 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?”
“It is I–it is Catherine! I cannot go without seeing my boy. I must see him–I must, once more!”
“My dear sister, the place is shut up–it is impossible. God bless me, if Mrs. Morton should hear you!”
“I have walked before this window for hours–I have waited till all is hushed in your house, till no one, not even a menial, need see the mother stealing to the bed of her child. Brother, by the memory of our own mother, I command you to let me look, for the last time, upon my boy’s face!”
As Catherine said this, standing in that lonely street–darkness and solitude below, God and the stars above–there was about her a majesty which awed the listener. Though she was so near, her features were not very clearly visible; but her attitude–her hand raised aloft–the outline of her wasted but still commanding form, were more impressive from the shadowy dimness of the air.
“Come round, Catherine,” said Mr. Morton after a pause; “I will admit you.”
He shut the window, stole to the door, unbarred it gently, and admitted his visitor. He bade her follow him; and, shading the light with his hand, crept up the stairs. Catherine’s step made no sound.
They passed, unmolested, and unheard, the room in which the wife was drowsily reading, according to her custom before she tied her nightcap and got into bed, a chapter in some pious book. They ascended to the chamber where Sidney lay; Morton opened the door cautiously, and stood at the threshold, so holding the candle that its light might not wake the child, though it sufficed to guide Catherine to the bed. The room was small, perhaps close, but scrupulously clean; for cleanliness was Mrs. Roger Morton’s capital virtue. The mother, with a tremulous hand, drew aside the white curtains, and checked her sobs as she gazed on the young quiet face that was turned towards her. She gazed some moments in passionate silence; who shall say, beneath that silence, what thoughts, what prayers moved and stirred!
Then bending down, with pale, convulsive lips she kissed the little hands thrown so listlessly on the coverlet of the pillow on which the head lay. After this she turned her face to her brother with a mute appeal in her glance, took a ring from her finger–a ring that had never till then left it–the ring which Philip Beaufort had placed there the day after that child was born. “Let him wear this round his neck,” said she, and stopped, lest she should sob aloud, and disturb the boy. In that gift she felt as if she invoked the father’s spirit to watch over the friendless orphan; and then, pressing together her own hands firmly, as we do in some paroxysm of great pain, she turned from the room, descended the stairs, gained the street, and muttered to her brother, “I am happy now; peace be on these thresholds!” Before he could answer she was gone.
CHAPTER IX.
“Thus things are strangely wrought, While joyful May doth last;
Take May in Time–when May is gone The pleasant time is past.”–RICHARD EDWARDS. From the Paradise of Dainty Devices.
It was that period of the year when, to those who look on the surface of society, London wears its most radiant smile; when shops are gayest, and trade most brisk; when down the thoroughfares roll and glitter the countless streams of indolent and voluptuous life; when the upper class spend, and the middle class make; when the ball-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, round the hide of the gentle Public In the cant phase, 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 civilisation has superfluities clutched by all. And out of the general corruption things sordid and things miserable crawl forth to bask in the common sunshine–things that perish when the first autumn winds whistle along the melancholy city. It is the gay time for the heir and the beauty, and the statesman and the lawyer, and the mother with her young daughters, and the artist with his fresh pictures, and the poet with his new book. It is the gay time, too, for the starved journeyman, and the ragged outcast that with long stride and patient eyes follows, for pence, the equestrian, who bids him go and be d—d in vain. It is a gay time for the painted harlot in a crimson pelisse; and a gay time for the old hag that loiters 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 already discovered that learning is not better than house and land. Since the new prospects opened to him, Arthur Beaufort was greatly changed. Naturally studious and prudent, had his fortunes remained what they had been before his uncle’s death, he would probably have become a laborious and distinguished man. But though his abilities were good, he had not those restless impulses which belong to Genius–often not only its glory, but its curse. The Golden Rod cast his energies asleep at once. Good-natured to a fault, and somewhat vacillating in character, he adopted the manner and the code of the rich young idlers who were his equals at College. He became, like them, careless, extravagant, and fond of pleasure. This change, if it deteriorated his mind, improved his exterior. It was a change that could not but please women; and of all women his mother the most. Mrs. Beaufort was a lady of high birth; and in marrying her, Robert had hoped much from the interest of her connections; but a change in the ministry had thrown her relations out of power; and, beyond her dowry, he obtained no worldly advantage with the lady of his mercenary choice. Mrs. Beaufort was a 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 favourite, especially after he became the heir to such brilliant fortunes. For she was so much the mechanical creature of the world, that even her affection was warm or cold in proportion as the world shone on it. 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 disappointments of “a proper ambition”–she had more sympathy than might have been supposed, and touched on them with all the tact of well-bred charity and ladylike 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 inoffensive generally are.
To do Mrs. Beaufort justice, she had not been privy to the letter her husband wrote to Catherine, although not wholly innocent of it. The fact is, that Robert had never mentioned to her the peculiar circumstances that made Catherine an exception from ordinary rules–the generous propositions of his brother to him the night before his death; and, whatever his incredulity as to the alleged private marriage, the perfect loyalty and faith that Catherine had borne to the deceased,–he had merely observed, “I must do something, I suppose, for that woman; she very nearly entrapped my poor brother into marrying her; and he would then, for what I know, have cut Arthur out of the estates. Still, I must do something for her–eh?”
“Yes, I think so. What was she?-very low?”
“A tradesman’s daughter.”
“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 provision she might have looked for if she had married a tradesman and been left a widow. I dare say she was a very artful kind of person, and don’t deserve 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 handsome, but there was a certain elegance in his air, and a certain intelligence in his countenance, which made his appearance pleasing. He had that kind of eye which is often seen with red hair–an eye of a reddish hazel, with very long lashes; the eyebrows were dark, and clearly defined; and the short hair showed to advantage the contour of a small well-shaped head. His features were irregular; the complexion had been sanguine, but was now faded, and a yellow tinge mingled with the red. His face was more wrinkled, especially round the eyes–which, when he laughed, were scarcely visible –than is usual even in men ten years older. But his teeth were still of a dazzling whiteness; nor was there any trace of decayed health in his countenance. 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 described hereafter, was Lord Lilburne, the brother of Mrs. Beaufort.
“So, Camilla,” said Lord Lilburne to his niece, as carelessly, not fondly, he stroked down her glossy ringlets, “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, –[Now the Regent’s Park.]–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?”
“Why,” said Arthur, suppressing a yawn, “I have promised to ride out with a friend of mine, to see a horse that is for sale somewhere in the suburbs.”
As he spoke, Arthur rose, stretched himself, looked in the glass, and then glanced impatiently at the window.
“He ought to be here by this time.”
“He! who?” said Lord Lilburne, “the horse or the other animal–I mean the friend?”
“The friend,” answered Arthur, smiling, but colouring while he smiled, for he half suspected the quiet sneer of his uncle.
“Who is your friend, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Beaufort, looking up from her work.
“Watson, an Oxford man. By the by, I must introduce him to you.”
“Watson! what Watson? what family of Watson? Some Watsons are good and some are bad,” said Mrs. Beaufort, musingly.
“Then they are very unlike the rest of mankind,” observed Lord Lilburne, drily.
“Oh! my Watson is a very gentlemanlike person, I assure you,” said Arthur, half-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, Marsden? Danvers, too! that’s capital! the more the merrier! 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-bye! I shall be out till dinner. Kiss me, my pretty Milly!” And as his sister, who had run to the window, sickening for the fresh air and exercise he was about to enjoy, now turned to him wistful and mournful eyes, the kind-hearted young man took her in his arms, and whispered while he kissed her:
“Get up early to-morrow, and we’ll have such a nice 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 his air, he has plenty of airs, but wants graces.”
“Then who could polish him like yourself?”
“Probably no one. But had I a son–which Heaven forbid!–he should not have me for his Mentor. Place a young man–(go and shut the door, Camilla!)–between two vices–women and gambling, if you want to polish him into the fashionable smoothness. _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 gaily, as they made for the suburb of H—-.
“It is an out-of-the-way place for a horse, too,” said Sir Harry Danvers.
“But I assure you,” insisted Mr. Watson, earnestly, that my groom, who is a capital judge, says it is the cleverest hack he ever mounted. It has won several trotting matches. It belonged to a sporting tradesman, now done up. The advertisement caught me.”
“Well,” said Arthur, gaily, “at all events the ride is delightful. What weather! You must all dine with me at Richmond to-morrow–we will row back.”
“And a little chicken-hazard, at the M—, afterwards,” said Mr. Marsden, who was an elder, not a better, man than the rest–a handsome, saturnine man–who had just left Oxford, and was already known on the turf.
“Anything you please,” said Arthur, making his horse curvet.
Oh, Mr. Robert Beaufort! Mr. Robert Beaufort! could your prudent, scheming, worldly heart but feel what devil’s tricks your wealth was playing with a son who if poor had been the pride of the Beauforts! On one side of our pieces of old 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. Marsden looked down:
“Hang these old men! always in the way,” said he, plaintively, and in the tone of a much-injured person, and, with that, Mr. Marsden rode on. But the others, who were younger–who were not gamblers–who were not yet grinded down into stone by the world’s wheels–the others halted. Arthur Beaufort leaped from his horse, and the old man was already in his arms; but he was severely hurt. The blood trickled from his forehead; he complained of pains in his side and limbs.
“Lean on me, my poor fellow! Do you live far off? I will take you home.”
“Not many yards. This would not have happened if I had had my dog. Never mind, sir, go your way. It is only an old man–what of that? I wish I had my dog.”
“I will join you,” said Arthur to his friends; “my groom has the direction. I will just take the poor old man home, and send for a surgeon. I shall not be long.”
“So like you, Beaufort: the best fellow in the world!” said Mr. Watson, with some emotion. “And there’s Marsden positively, dismounted, and looking at his horse’s knees as if they could be hurt! Here’s a sovereign for you, my man.”
“And here’s another,” said Sir Harry; “so that’s settled. Well, 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 his 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?”
“Um!–the sovereigns!–it is wicked to leave them in the kennel!”
Arthur smiled. “Here they are, sir.”
The old man slid the coins into his pocket, and Arthur continued to talk, though he got but short answers, and those only in the way of direction, till at last the old man stopped at the door of a small house near the churchyard.
After twice ringing the bell, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman, whose appearance was above that of a common menial; dressed, somewhat gaily for her years, in a cap seated very far back on a black _touroet_, and decorated with red ribands, an apron made out of an Indian silk handkerchief, a puce-coloured sarcenet gown, black silk stockings, long gilt earrings, and a watch at her girdle.
“Bless us and save us, sir! What has happened?” 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 parlour; and no sooner was the owner deposited on his worm- eaten leather chair than he fainted away. On reaching the house, Arthur had sent his servant (who had followed him with the horses) for the nearest surgeon; and while the woman was still employed, after taking off the sufferer’s cravat, in burning feathers under his nose, there was heard a sharp rap and a shrill ring. Arthur opened the door, and admitted a smart little man in nankeen breeches and gaiters. He bustled into the room.
“What’s this–bad accident–um–um! Sad thing, very sad. Open the window. A glass of water–a towel.”
“So–so: I see–I see–no fracture–contusion. Help him off with his coat. Another chair, ma’am; put up his poor legs. What age is he, ma’am?–Sixty-eight! Too old to bleed. Thank you. How is it, sir? Poorly, to be sure will be comfortable presently–faintish still? Soon put all to rights.”
“Tray! Tray! Where’s my dog, Mrs. Boxer?”
“Lord, sir, what do you want with your dog now? He is in the back-yard.”
“And what business has my dog in the back-yard?” almost screamed the sufferer, in accents that denoted no diminution of vigour. “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. Thought it was my old friend here by the description. Worthy man–settled here a many year–very odd-eccentric (this in a whisper). Came off instantly: just at dinner–cold lamb and salad. ‘Mrs. Perkins,’ says I, ‘if any one calls for me, I shall be at No. 4, Prospect Place.’ Your servant observed the address, sir. Oh, very sharp fellow! See how the old gentleman takes to his dog–fine little dog–what a stump of a tail! Deal of practice–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 No. 4. Medical men should be always in the way- that’s my maxim. Now, sir, where do you feel the pain?”
“In my ears, sir.”
“Bless me, that looks bad. How long have you felt it?”
“Ever since you have been in the room.”
“Oh! I take. Ha! ha!–very eccentric–very!” muttered the apothecary, a little disconcerted. “Well, let him lie down, ma’am. I’ll send him a little quieting draught to be taken directly–pill at night, aperient in the morning. If wanted, send for me–always to be found. Bless me, that’s my boy Bob’s ring. Please to open the door, ma’ am. Know his ring–very peculiar knack of his own. Lay ten to one it is Mrs. Plummer, or perhaps. Mrs. Everat–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?”
“Hopeless case, sir–general break-up. Nice woman–quite the lady–known better days, I’m sure.”
“Has she any children–sons?”
“Two–both away now–fine lads–quite wrapped up in them–youngest especially.”
“Good heavens! it must be she–ill, and dying, and destitute, perhaps,”– exclaimed Arthur, with real and deep feeling; “I will go with you, sir. I fancy that I know this lady–that,” he added generously, “I am related to her.”
“Do you?–glad to hear it. Come along, then; she ought to have some one near her besides servants: not but what Jenny, the maid, is uncommonly kind. Dr. —–, who attends her sometimes, said to me, says he, ‘It is the mind, Mr. Perkins; I wish we could get back her boys.”
“And where are they?”
“‘Prenticed out, I fancy. Master 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 headache last night.’ ‘Nothing the matter, ma’am,’ says I; ‘wish you’d think more of yourself.’
“These mothers are silly, anxious, poor creatures. Nater, sir, Nater– wonderful thing–Nater!–Here we are.”
And the apothecary knocked at the private door of a milliner and hosier’s shop.
CHAPTER X.
“Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished.”–Titus Andronicus.
As might be expected, the excitement and fatigue of Catherine’s journey to N—- had considerably accelerated the progress of disease. And when she reached home, and looked round the cheerless rooms all solitary, all hushed–Sidney gone, gone from her for ever, she felt, indeed, as if the last reed on which she had leaned was broken, and her business upon earth was done. Catherine was not condemned to absolute poverty–the poverty which grinds and gnaws, the poverty of rags and famine. She had still left nearly half of such portion of the little capital, realised by the sale of her trinkets, as had escaped the clutch of the law; and her brother had forced into her hands a note for L20. with an assurance that the same sum should be paid to her half-yearly. Alas! there was little chance of her needing it again! She was not, then, in want of means to procure the common comforts of life. But now a new passion had entered into her breast–the passion of the miser; she wished to hoard every sixpence as some little provision for her children. What was the use of her feeding a lamp nearly extinguished, and which was fated to be soon broken up and cast amidst the vast lumber-house of Death? She would willingly have removed into a more homely lodging, but the servant of the house had been so fond of Sidney–so kind to him. She clung to one familiar face on which there seemed to live the reflection of her child’s. But she relinquished the first floor for the second; and there, day by day, she felt her eyes grow heavier and heavier beneath the clouds of the last sleep. Besides the aid of Mr. Perkins, a kind enough man in his way, the good physician whom she had before consulted, still attended her, and refused his fee. Shocked at perceiving that she 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 quiet neighbourhood, to take more generous sustenance, and, above all, if her mind could be set more at ease as to your and your brother’s prospects. You must pardon me if I have seemed inquisitive; but I have sought to draw from your mother some particulars as to her family and connections, with a wish to represent to them her state of mind. She is, however, very reserved on these points. If, however, you have relations well to do in the world, I think some application to them should be made. I fear the state of her affairs weighs much upon your poor mother’s mind; and I must leave you to judge how far it can be relieved by the good feeling of any persons upon whom she may have legitimate claims. At all events, I repeat my wish that you should come to her forthwith.
“I am, &c.”
After the physician had despatched this letter, a sudden 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 hours on earth would be much fewer than he had before anticipated. He had left her, however, comparatively better; but two hours after his departure, the symptoms of her disease had 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 apothecary in the interval that must elapse before she could reach the distant part of the metropolis in which Dr. —- resided.
On entering the chamber, Arthur felt all the remorse, which of right belonged to his father, press heavily on his soul. What a contrast, that mean and solitary chamber, and its comfortless appurtenances, to the graceful 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 approached the bed; Catherine, though very weak and suffering much pain, was still sensible. She turned her dim eyes on the young man; but she did not recognise his features.
“You do not remember me?” said he, in a voice struggling with tears: “I am Arthur–Arthur Beaufort.” Catherine made no answer.
“Good Heavens! Why do I see you here? I believed you with your friends –your children provided for–as became my father to do. He assured me that you were so.” Still no answer.
And then the young man, overpowered with the feelings of a sympathising and generous nature, forgetting for a while Catherine’s weakness, poured forth a torrent of inquiries, regrets, and self-upbraidings, which Catherine at first little heeded. But the name of her children, repeated again and again, struck upon that chord which, in a woman’s heart, is the last to break; and she raised herself in her bed, and looked at her visitor wistfully.
“Your father,” she said, then–“your father was unlike my Philip; but I see things 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?”
“Through life, so help me Heaven!” exclaimed Arthur, falling on his knees beside the bed.
What then passed between them it is needless to detail; 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 administer comfort. And when late in the day the physician entered, he found his patient leaning on the breast of her young visitor, and looking on his face with a happy smile.
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!