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diff --git a/9755-h/9755-h.htm b/9755-h/9755-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f356b1 --- /dev/null +++ b/9755-h/9755-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,24973 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Night and Morning, by Edward Bulwer Lytton + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Night and Morning, Complete, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Night and Morning, Complete + +Author: Edward Bulwer-Lytton + +Release Date: March 17, 2009 [EBook #9755] +Last Updated: August 28, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIGHT AND MORNING, COMPLETE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + NIGHT AND MORNING + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edward Bulwer Lytton + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1845. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>NIGHT AND MORNING.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <br /><b>BOOK</b> I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> <br /><b>BOOK</b> II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> <br /><b>BOOK</b> III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> <br /><b>BOOK</b> IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> <br /><b>BOOK</b> V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER XV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER XX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0065"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0066"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0067"> CHAPTER THE LAST. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1845. + </h2> + <p> + Much has been written by critics, especially by those in Germany (the + native land of criticism), upon the important question, whether to please + or to instruct should be the end of Fiction—whether a moral purpose + is or is not in harmony with the undidactic spirit perceptible in the + higher works of the imagination. And the general result of the discussion + has been in favour of those who have contended that Moral Design, rigidly + so called, should be excluded from the aims of the Poet; that his Art + should regard only the Beautiful, and be contented with the indirect moral + tendencies, which can never fail the creation of the Beautiful. Certainly, + in fiction, to interest, to please, and sportively to elevate—to + take man from the low passions, and the miserable troubles of life, into a + higher region, to beguile weary and selfish pain, to excite a genuine + sorrow at vicissitudes not his own, to raise the passions into sympathy + with heroic struggles—and to admit the soul into that serener + atmosphere from which it rarely returns to ordinary existence, without + some memory or association which ought to enlarge the domain of thought + and exalt the motives of action;—such, without other moral result or + object, may satisfy the Poet,* and constitute the highest and most + universal morality he can effect. But subordinate to this, which is not + the duty, but the necessity, of all Fiction that outlasts the hour, the + writer of imagination may well permit to himself other purposes and + objects, taking care that they be not too sharply defined, and too + obviously meant to contract the Poet into the Lecturer—the Fiction + into the Homily. The delight in Shylock is not less vivid for the Humanity + it latently but profoundly inculcates; the healthful merriment of the + Tartufe is not less enjoyed for the exposure of the Hypocrisy it + denounces. We need not demand from Shakespeare or from Moliere other + morality than that which Genius unconsciously throws around it—the + natural light which it reflects; but if some great principle which guides + us practically in the daily intercourse with men becomes in the general + lustre more clear and more pronounced, we gain doubly, by the general + tendency and the particular result. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *[I use the word Poet in its proper sense, as applicable to any + writer, whether in verse or prose, who invents or creates.] +</pre> + <p> + Long since, in searching for new regions in the Art to which I am a + servant, it seemed to me that they might be found lying far, and rarely + trodden, beyond that range of conventional morality in which Novelist + after Novelist had entrenched himself—amongst those subtle recesses + in the ethics of human life in which Truth and Falsehood dwell undisturbed + and unseparated. The vast and dark Poetry around us—the Poetry of + Modern Civilisation and Daily Existence, is shut out from us in much, by + the shadowy giants of Prejudice and Fear. He who would arrive at the Fairy + Land must face the Phantoms. Betimes, I set myself to the task of + investigating the motley world to which our progress in humanity has + attained, caring little what misrepresentation I incurred, what hostility + I provoked, in searching through a devious labyrinth for the foot-tracks + of Truth. + </p> + <p> + In the pursuit of this object, I am, not vainly, conscious that I have had + my influence on my time—that I have contributed, though humbly and + indirectly, to the benefits which Public Opinion has extorted from + Governments and Laws. While (to content myself with a single example) the + ignorant or malicious were decrying the moral of Paul Clifford, I consoled + myself with perceiving that its truths had stricken deep—that many, + whom formal essays might not reach, were enlisted by the picture and the + popular force of Fiction into the service of that large and Catholic + Humanity which frankly examines into the causes of crime, which + ameliorates the ills of society by seeking to amend the circumstances by + which they are occasioned; and commences the great work of justice to + mankind by proportioning the punishment to the offence. That work, I know, + had its share in the wise and great relaxation of our Criminal Code—it + has had its share in results yet more valuable, because leading to more + comprehensive reforms—viz., in the courageous facing of the ills + which the mock decorum of timidity would shun to contemplate, but which, + till fairly fronted, in the spirit of practical Christianity, sap daily, + more and more, the walls in which blind Indolence would protect itself + from restless Misery and rampant Hunger. For it is not till Art has told + the unthinking that nothing (rightly treated) is too low for its breath to + vivify and its wings to raise, that the Herd awaken from their chronic + lethargy of contempt, and the Lawgiver is compelled to redress what the + Poet has lifted into esteem. In thus enlarging the boundaries of the + Novelist, from trite and conventional to untrodden ends, I have seen, not + with the jealousy of an author, but with the pride of an Originator, that + I have served as a guide to later and abler writers, both in England and + abroad. If at times, while imitating, they have mistaken me, I am not + answerable for their errors; or if, more often, they have improved where + they borrowed, I am not envious of their laurels. They owe me at least + this, that I prepared the way for their reception, and that they would + have been less popular and more misrepresented, if the outcry which bursts + upon the first researches into new directions had not exhausted its noisy + vehemence upon me. + </p> + <p> + In this Novel of Night and Morning I have had various ends in view—subordinate, + I grant, to the higher and more durable morality which belongs to the + Ideal, and instructs us playfully while it interests, in the passions, and + through the heart. First—to deal fearlessly with that universal + unsoundness in social justice which makes distinctions so marked and + iniquitous between Vice and Crime—viz., between the corrupting + habits and the violent act—which scarce touches the former with the + lightest twig in the fasces—which lifts against the latter the edge + of the Lictor’s axe. Let a child steal an apple in sport, let a starveling + steal a roll in despair, and Law conducts them to the Prison, for evil + commune to mellow them for the gibbet. But let a man spend one + apprenticeship from youth to old age in vice—let him devote a + fortune, perhaps colossal, to the wholesale demoralisation of his kind—and + he may be surrounded with the adulation of the so-called virtuous, and be + served upon its knee, by that Lackey—the Modern World! I say not + that Law can, or that Law should, reach the Vice as it does the Crime; but + I say, that Opinion may be more than the servile shadow of Law. I impress + not here, as in Paul Clifford, a material moral to work its effect on the + Journals, at the Hustings, through Constituents, and on Legislation;—I + direct myself to a channel less active, more tardy, but as sure—to + the Conscience—that reigns elder and superior to all Law, in men’s + hearts and souls;—I utter boldly and loudly a truth, if not all + untold, murmured feebly and falteringly before, sooner or later it will + find its way into the judgment and the conduct, and shape out a tribunal + which requires not robe or ermine. + </p> + <p> + Secondly—in this work I have sought to lift the mask from the timid + selfishness which too often with us bears the name of Respectability. + Purposely avoiding all attraction that may savour of extravagance, + patiently subduing every tone and every hue to the aspect of those whom we + meet daily in our thoroughfares, I have shown in Robert Beaufort the man + of decorous phrase and bloodless action—the systematic self-server—in + whom the world forgive the lack of all that is generous, warm, and noble, + in order to respect the passive acquiescence in methodical conventions and + hollow forms. And how common such men are with us in this century, and how + inviting and how necessary their delineation, may be seen in this,—that + the popular and pre-eminent Observer of the age in which we live has since + placed their prototype in vigorous colours upon imperishable canvas.—[Need + I say that I allude to the Pecksniff of Mr. Dickens?] + </p> + <p> + There is yet another object with which I have identified my tale. I trust + that I am not insensible to such advantages as arise from the diffusion of + education really sound, and knowledge really available;—for these, + as the right of my countrymen, I have contended always. But of late years + there has been danger that what ought to be an important truth may be + perverted into a pestilent fallacy. Whether for rich or for poor, + disappointment must ever await the endeavour to give knowledge without + labour, and experience without trial. Cheap literature and popular + treatises do not in themselves suffice to fit the nerves of man for the + strife below, and lift his aspirations, in healthful confidence above. He + who seeks to divorce toil from knowledge deprives knowledge of its most + valuable property.—the strengthening of the mind by exercise. We + learn what really braces and elevates us only in proportion to the effort + it costs us. Nor is it in Books alone, nor in Books chiefly, that we are + made conscious of our strength as Men; Life is the great Schoolmaster, + Experience the mighty Volume. He who has made one stern sacrifice of self + has acquired more than he will ever glean from the odds and ends of + popular philosophy. And the man the least scholastic may be more robust in + the power that is knowledge, and approach nearer to the Arch-Seraphim, + than Bacon himself, if he cling fast to two simple maxims—“Be honest + in temptation, and in Adversity believe in God.” Such moral, attempted + before in Eugene Aram, I have enforced more directly here; and out of such + convictions I have created hero and heroine, placing them in their + primitive and natural characters, with aid more from life than books,—from + courage the one, from affection the other—amidst the feeble + Hermaphrodites of our sickly civilisation;—examples of resolute + Manhood and tender Womanhood. + </p> + <p> + The opinions I have here put forth are not in fashion at this day. But I + have never consulted the popular any more than the sectarian, Prejudice. + Alone and unaided I have hewn out my way, from first to last, by the force + of my own convictions. The corn springs up in the field centuries after + the first sower is forgotten. Works may perish with the workman; but, if + truthful, their results are in the works of others, imitating, borrowing, + enlarging, and improving, in the everlasting Cycle of Industry and + Thought. + </p> + <p> + Knelworth, 1845. NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION, 1851. + </p> + <p> + I have nothing to add to the preceding pages, written six years ago, as to + the objects and aims of this work; except to say, and by no means as a + boast, that the work lays claims to one kind of interest which I certainly + never desired to effect for it—viz., in exemplifying the glorious + uncertainty of the Law. For, humbly aware of the blunders which Novelists + not belonging to the legal profession are apt to commit, when they summon + to the denouement of a plot the aid of a deity so mysterious as Themis, I + submitted to an eminent lawyer the whole case of “Beaufort versus + Beaufort,” as it stands in this Novel. And the pages which refer to that + suit were not only written from the opinion annexed to the brief I sent + in, but submitted to the eye of my counsel, and revised by his pen.—(N.B. + He was feed.) Judge then my dismay when I heard long afterwards that the + late Mr. O’Connell disputed the soundness of the law I had thus bought and + paid for! “Who shall decide when doctors disagree?” All I can say is, that + I took the best opinion that love or money could get me; and I should add, + that my lawyer, unawed by the alleged ipse dixit of the great Agitator (to + be sure, he is dead), still stoutly maintains his own views of the + question. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [I have, however, thought it prudent so far to meet the objection + suggested by Mr. O’Connell, as to make a slight alteration in this + edition, which will probably prevent the objection, if correct, + being of any material practical effect on the disposition of that + visionary El Dorado—the Beaufort Property.] +</pre> + <p> + Let me hope that the right heir will live long enough to come under the + Statute of Limitations. Possession is nine points of the law, and Time may + give the tenth. + </p> + <p> + Kenbworth. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + NIGHT AND MORNING. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Noch in meines Lebens Lenze + War ich and ich wandert’ aus, + Und der Jugend frohe Tanze + Liess ich in des Vaters Haus.” + + SCHILLER, Der Pilgrim. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now rests our vicar. They who knew him best, + Proclaim his life to have been entirely rest; + Not one so old has left this world of sin, + More like the being that he entered in.”—CRABBE. +</pre> + <p> + In one of the Welsh counties is a small village called A——. It + is somewhat removed from the high road, and is, therefore, but little + known to those luxurious amateurs of the picturesque, who view nature + through the windows of a carriage and four. Nor, indeed, is there + anything, whether of scenery or association, in the place itself, + sufficient to allure the more sturdy enthusiast from the beaten tracks + which tourists and guide-books prescribe to those who search the Sublime + and Beautiful amidst the mountain homes of the ancient Britons. Still, on + the whole, the village is not without its attractions. It is placed in a + small valley, through which winds and leaps down many a rocky fall, a + clear, babbling, noisy rivulet, that affords excellent sport to the + brethren of the angle. Thither, accordingly, in the summer season + occasionally resort the Waltons of the neighbourhood—young farmers, + retired traders, with now and then a stray artist, or a roving student + from one of the universities. Hence the solitary hostelry of A——, + being somewhat more frequented, is also more clean and comfortable than + could reasonably be anticipated from the insignificance and remoteness of + the village. + </p> + <p> + At a time in which my narrative opens, the village boasted a sociable, + agreeable, careless, half-starved parson, who never failed to introduce + himself to any of the anglers who, during the summer months, passed a day + or two in the little valley. The Rev. Mr. Caleb Price had been educated at + the University of Cambridge, where he had contrived, in three years, to + run through a little fortune of L3500. It is true, that he acquired in + return the art of making milkpunch, the science of pugilism, and the + reputation of one of the best-natured, rattling, open-hearted companions + whom you could desire by your side in a tandem to Newmarket, or in a row + with the bargemen. By the help of these gifts and accomplishments, he had + not failed to find favour, while his money lasted, with the young + aristocracy of the “Gentle Mother.” And, though the very reverse of an + ambitious or calculating man, he had certainly nourished the belief that + some one of the “hats” or “tinsel gowns”—i.e., young lords or + fellow-commoners, with whom he was on such excellent terms, and who supped + with him so often, would do something for him in the way of a living. But + it so happened that when Mr. Caleb Price had, with a little difficulty, + scrambled through his degree, and found himself a Bachelor of Arts and at + the end of his finances, his grand acquaintances parted from him to their + various posts in the State Militant of Life. And, with the exception of + one, joyous and reckless as himself, Mr. Caleb Price found that when Money + makes itself wings it flies away with our friends. As poor Price had + earned no academical distinction, so he could expect no advancement from + his college; no fellowship; no tutorship leading hereafter to livings, + stalls, and deaneries. Poverty began already to stare him in the face, + when the only friend who, having shared his prosperity, remained true to + his adverse fate,—a friend, fortunately for him, of high connections + and brilliant prospects—succeeded in obtaining for him the humble + living of A——. To this primitive spot the once jovial + roisterer cheerfully retired—contrived to live contented upon an + income somewhat less than he had formerly given to his groom—preached + very short sermons to a very scanty and ignorant congregation, some of + whom only understood Welsh—did good to the poor and sick in his own + careless, slovenly way—and, uncheered or unvexed by wife and + children, he rose in summer with the lark and in winter went to bed at + nine precisely, to save coals and candles. For the rest, he was the most + skilful angler in the whole county; and so willing to communicate the + results of his experience as to the most taking colour of the flies, and + the most favoured haunts of the trout—that he had given especial + orders at the inn, that whenever any strange gentleman came to fish, Mr. + Caleb Price should be immediately sent for. In this, to be sure, our + worthy pastor had his usual recompense. First, if the stranger were + tolerably liberal, Mr. Price was asked to dinner at the inn; and, + secondly, if this failed, from the poverty or the churlishness of the + obliged party, Mr. Price still had an opportunity to hear the last news—to + talk about the Great World—in a word, to exchange ideas, and perhaps + to get an old newspaper, or an odd number of a magazine. + </p> + <p> + Now, it so happened that one afternoon in October, when the periodical + excursions of the anglers, becoming gradually rarer and more rare, had + altogether ceased, Mr. Caleb Price was summoned from his parlour in which + he had been employed in the fabrication of a net for his cabbages, by a + little white-headed boy, who came to say there was a gentleman at the inn + who wished immediately to see him—a strange gentleman, who had never + been there before. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Price threw down his net, seized his hat, and, in less than five + minutes, he was in the best room of the little inn. + </p> + <p> + The person there awaiting him was a man who, though plainly clad in a + velveteen shooting-jacket, had an air and mien greatly above those common + to the pedestrian visitors of A——. He was tall, and of one of + those athletic forms in which vigour in youth is too often followed by + corpulence in age. At this period, however, in the full prime of manhood—the + ample chest and sinewy limbs, seen to full advantage in their simple and + manly dress—could not fail to excite that popular admiration which + is always given to strength in the one sex as to delicacy in the other. + The stranger was walking impatiently to and fro the small apartment when + Mr. Price entered; and then, turning to the clergyman a countenance + handsome and striking, but yet more prepossessing from its expression of + frankness than from the regularity of its features,—he stopped + short, held out his hand, and said, with a gay laugh, as he glanced over + the parson’s threadbare and slovenly costume, “My poor Caleb!—what a + metamorphosis!—I should not have known you again!” + </p> + <p> + “What! you! Is it possible, my dear fellow?—how glad I am to see + you! What on earth can bring you to such a place? No! not a soul would + believe me if I said I had seen you in this miserable hole.” + </p> + <p> + “That is precisely the reason why I am here. Sit down, Caleb, and we’ll + talk over matters as soon as our landlord has brought up the materials for—” + </p> + <p> + “The milk-punch,” interrupted Mr. Price, rubbing his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that will bring us back to old times, indeed!” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes the punch was prepared, and after two or three + preparatory glasses, the stranger thus commenced: “My dear Caleb, I am in + want of your assistance, and above all of your secrecy.” + </p> + <p> + “I promise you both beforehand. It will make me happy the rest of my life + to think I have served my patron—my benefactor—the only friend + I possess.” + </p> + <p> + “Tush, man! don’t talk of that: we shall do better for you one of these + days. But now to the point: I have come here to be married—married, + old boy! married!” + </p> + <p> + And the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and chuckled with the + glee of a schoolboy. + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” said the parson, gravely. “It is a serious thing to do, and a + very odd place to come to.” + </p> + <p> + “I admit both propositions: this punch is superb. To proceed. You know + that my uncle’s immense fortune is at his own disposal; if I disobliged + him, he would be capable of leaving all to my brother; I should disoblige + him irrevocably if he knew that I had married a tradesman’s daughter; I am + going to marry a tradesman’s daughter—a girl in a million! the + ceremony must be as secret as possible. And in this church, with you for + the priest, I do not see a chance of discovery.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you marry by license?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my intended is not of age; and we keep the secret even from her + father. In this village you will mumble over the bans without one of your + congregation ever taking heed of the name. I shall stay here a month for + the purpose. She is in London, on a visit to a relation in the city. The + bans on her side will be published with equal privacy in a little church + near the Tower, where my name will be no less unknown than hers. Oh, I’ve + contrived it famously!” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear fellow, consider what you risk.” + </p> + <p> + “I have considered all, and I find every chance in my favour. The bride + will arrive here on the day of our wedding: my servant will be one + witness; some stupid old Welshman, as antediluvian as possible—I + leave it to you to select him—shall be the other. My servant I shall + dispose of, and the rest I can depend on.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “I detest buts; if I had to make a language, I would not admit such a word + in it. And now, before I run on about Catherine, a subject quite + inexhaustible, tell me, my dear friend, something about yourself.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ....... +</pre> + <p> + Somewhat more than a month had elapsed since the arrival of the stranger + at the village inn. He had changed his quarters for the Parsonage—went + out but little, and then chiefly on foot excursions among the sequestered + hills in the neighbourhood. He was therefore but partially known by sight, + even in the village; and the visit of some old college friend to the + minister, though indeed it had never chanced before, was not, in itself, + so remarkable an event as to excite any particular observation. The bans + had been duly, and half audibly, hurried over, after the service was + concluded, and while the scanty congregation were dispersing down the + little aisle of the church,—when one morning a chaise and pair + arrived at the Parsonage. A servant out of livery leaped from the box. The + stranger opened the door of the chaise, and, uttering a joyous + exclamation, gave his arm to a lady, who, trembling and agitated, could + scarcely, even with that stalwart support, descend the steps. “Ah!” she + said, in a voice choked with tears, when they found themselves alone in + the little parlour,—“ah! if you knew how I have suffered!” + </p> + <p> + How is it that certain words, and those the homeliest, which the hand + writes and the eye reads as trite and commonplace expressions—when + spoken convey so much,—so many meanings complicated and refined? + “Ah! if you knew how I have suffered!” + </p> + <p> + When the lover heard these words, his gay countenance fell; he drew back—his + conscience smote him: in that complaint was the whole history of a + clandestine love, not for both the parties, but for the woman—the + painful secrecy—the remorseful deceit—the shame—the fear—the + sacrifice. She who uttered those words was scarcely sixteen. It is an + early age to leave Childhood behind for ever! + </p> + <p> + “My own love! you have suffered, indeed; but it is over now. + </p> + <p> + “Over! And what will they say of me—what will they think of me at + home? Over! Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “It is but for a short time; in the course of nature my uncle cannot live + long: all then will be explained. Our marriage once made public, all + connected with you will be proud to own you. You will have wealth, station—a + name among the first in the gentry of England. But, above all, you will + have the happiness to think that your forbearance for a time has saved me, + and, it may be, our children, sweet one!—from poverty and—” + </p> + <p> + “It is enough,” interrupted the girl; and the expression of her + countenance became serene and elevated. “It is for you—for your + sake. I know what you hazard: how much I must owe you! Forgive me, this is + the last murmur you shall ever hear from these lips.” + </p> + <p> + An hour after these words were spoken, the marriage ceremony was + concluded. + </p> + <p> + “Caleb,” said the bridegroom, drawing the clergyman aside as they were + about to re-enter the house, “you will keep your promise, I know; and you + think I may depend implicitly upon the good faith of the witness you have + selected?” + </p> + <p> + “Upon his good faith?—no,” said Caleb, smiling, “but upon his + deafness, his ignorance, and his age. My poor old clerk! He will have + forgotten all about it before this day three months. Now I have seen your + lady, I no longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. I never beheld so + lovely a countenance. You will be happy!” And the village priest sighed, + and thought of the coming winter and his own lonely hearth. + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend, you have only seen her beauty—it is her least + charm. Heaven knows how often I have made love; and this is the only woman + I have ever really loved. Caleb, there is an excellent living that adjoins + my uncle’s house. The rector is old; when the house is mine, you will not + be long without the living. We shall be neighbours, Caleb, and then you + shall try and find a bride for yourself. Smith,”—and the bridegroom + turned to the servant who had accompanied his wife, and served as a second + witness to the marriage,—“tell the post-boy to put to the horses + immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir. May I speak a word with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what?” + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle, sir, sent for me to come to him, the day before we left + town.” + </p> + <p> + “Aha!—indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “And I could just pick up among his servants that he had some suspicion—at + least, that he had been making inquiries—and seemed very cross, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + “You went to him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir, I was afraid. He has such a way with him;—whenever his eye + is fixed on mine, I always feel as if it was impossible to tell a lie; and—and—in + short, I thought it was best not to go.” + </p> + <p> + “You did right. Confound this fellow!” muttered the bridegroom, turning + away; “he is honest, and loves me: yet, if my uncle sees him, he is clumsy + enough to betray all. Well, I always meant to get him out of the way—the + sooner the better. Smith!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “You have often said that you should like, if you had some capital, to + settle in Australia. Your father is an excellent farmer; you are above the + situation you hold with me; you are well educated, and have some knowledge + of agriculture; you can scarcely fail to make a fortune as a settler; and + if you are of the same mind still, why, look you, I have just L1000. at my + bankers: you shall have half, if you like to sail by the first packet.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, you are too generous.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense—no thanks—I am more prudent than generous; for I + agree with you that it is all up with me if my uncle gets hold of you. I + dread my prying brother, too; in fact, the obligation is on my side; only + stay abroad till I am a rich man, and my marriage made public, and then + you may ask of me what you will. It’s agreed, then; order the horses, + we’ll go round by Liverpool, and learn about the vessels. By the way, my + good fellow, I hope you see nothing now of that good-for-nothing brother + of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed, sir. It’s a thousand pities he has turned out so ill; for he + was the cleverest of the family, and could always twist me round his + little finger.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the very reason I mentioned him. If he learned our secret, he + would take it to an excellent market. Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Hiding, I suspect, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we shall put the sea between you and him! So now all’s safe.” + </p> + <p> + Caleb stood by the porch of his house as the bride and bridegroom entered + their humble vehicle. Though then November, the day was exquisitely mild + and calm, the sky without a cloud, and even the leafless trees seemed to + smile beneath the cheerful sun. And the young bride wept no more; she was + with him she loved—she was his for ever. She forgot the rest. The + hope—the heart of sixteen—spoke brightly out through the + blushes that mantled over her fair cheeks. The bridegroom’s frank and + manly countenance was radiant with joy. As he waved his hand to Caleb from + the window the post-boy cracked his whip, the servant settled himself on + the dickey, the horses started off in a brisk trot,—the clergyman + was left alone. + </p> + <p> + To be married is certainly an event in life; to marry other people is, for + a priest, a very ordinary occurrence; and yet, from that day, a great + change began to operate in the spirits and the habits of Caleb Price. Have + you ever, my gentle reader, buried yourself for some time quietly in the + lazy ease of a dull country-life? Have you ever become gradually + accustomed to its monotony, and inured to its solitude; and, just at the + time when you have half-forgotten the great world—that mare magnum + that frets and roars in the distance—have you ever received in your + calm retreat some visitor, full of the busy and excited life which you + imagined yourself contented to relinquish? If so, have you not perceived, + that, in proportion as his presence and communication either revived old + memories, or brought before you new pictures of “the bright tumult” of + that existence of which your guest made a part,—you began to compare + him curiously with yourself; you began to feel that what before was to + rest is now to rot; that your years are gliding from you unenjoyed and + wasted; that the contrast between the animal life of passionate + civilisation and the vegetable torpor of motionless seclusion is one that, + if you are still young, it tasks your philosophy to bear,—feeling + all the while that the torpor may be yours to your grave? And when your + guest has left you, when you are again alone, is the solitude the same as + it was before? + </p> + <p> + Our poor Caleb had for years rooted his thoughts to his village. His guest + had been like the Bird in the Fairy Tale, settling upon the quiet + branches, and singing so loudly and so gladly of the enchanted skies afar, + that, when it flew away, the tree pined, nipped and withering in the sober + sun in which before it had basked contented. The guest was, indeed, one of + those men whose animal spirits exercise upon such as come within their + circle the influence and power usually ascribed only to intellectual + qualities. During the month he had sojourned with Caleb, he had brought + back to the poor parson all the gaiety of the brisk and noisy novitiate + that preceded the solemn vow and the dull retreat;—the social + parties, the merry suppers, the open-handed, open-hearted fellowship of + riotous, delightful, extravagant, thoughtless YOUTH. And Caleb was not a + bookman—not a scholar; he had no resources in himself, no occupation + but his indolent and ill-paid duties. The emotions, therefore, of the + Active Man were easily aroused within him. But if this comparison between + his past and present life rendered him restless and disturbed, how much + more deeply and lastingly was he affected by a contrast between his own + future and that of his friend! Not in those points where he could never + hope equality—wealth and station—the conventional distinctions + to which, after all, a man of ordinary sense must sooner or later + reconcile himself—but in that one respect wherein all, high and low, + pretend to the same rights—rights which a man of moderate warmth of + feeling can never willingly renounce—viz., a partner in a lot + however obscure; a kind face by a hearth, no matter how mean it be! And + his happier friend, like all men full of life, was full of himself—full + of his love, of his future, of the blessings of home, and wife, and + children. Then, too, the young bride seemed so fair, so confiding, and so + tender; so formed to grace the noblest or to cheer the humblest home! And + both were so happy, so all in all to each other, as they left that barren + threshold! And the priest felt all this, as, melancholy and envious, he + turned from the door in that November day, to find himself thoroughly + alone. He now began seriously to muse upon those fancied blessings which + men wearied with celibacy see springing, heavenward, behind the altar. A + few weeks afterwards a notable change was visible in the good man’s + exterior. He became more careful of his dress, he shaved every morning, he + purchased a crop-eared Welsh cob; and it was soon known in the + neighbourhood that the only journey the cob was ever condemned to take was + to the house of a certain squire, who, amidst a family of all ages, + boasted two very pretty marriageable daughters. That was the second holy + day-time of poor Caleb—the love-romance of his life: it soon closed. + On learning the amount of the pastor’s stipend the squire refused to + receive his addresses; and, shortly after, the girl to whom he had + attached himself made what the world calls a happy match: and perhaps it + was one, for I never heard that she regretted the forsaken lover. Probably + Caleb was not one of those whose place in a woman’s heart is never to be + supplied. The lady married, the world went round as before, the brook + danced as merrily through the village, the poor worked on the week-days, + and the urchins gambolled round the gravestones on the Sabbath,—and + the pastor’s heart was broken. He languished gradually and silently away. + The villagers observed that he had lost his old good-humoured smile; that + he did not stop every Saturday evening at the carrier’s gate, to ask if + there were any news stirring in the town which the carrier weekly visited; + that he did not come to borrow the stray newspapers that now and then + found their way into the village; that, as he sauntered along the + brookside, his clothes hung loose on his limbs, and that he no longer + “whistled as he went;” alas, he was no longer “in want of thought!” By + degrees, the walks themselves were suspended; the parson was no longer + visible: a stranger performed his duties. + </p> + <p> + One day, it might be some three years and more after the fatal visit I + have commemorated—one very wild rough day in early March, the + postman, who made the round of the district, rang at the parson’s bell. + The single female servant, her red hair loose on her neck, replied to the + call. + </p> + <p> + “And how is the master?” + </p> + <p> + “Very bad;” and the girl wiped her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “He should leave you something handsome,” remarked the postman, kindly, as + he pocketed the money for the letter. + </p> + <p> + The pastor was in bed—the boisterous wind rattled down the chimney + and shook the ill-fitting casement in its rotting frame. The clothes he + had last worn were thrown carelessly about, unsmoothed, unbrushed; the + scanty articles of furniture were out of their proper places; slovenly + discomfort marked the death-chamber. And by the bedside stood a + neighbouring clergyman, a stout, rustic, homely, thoroughly Welsh priest, + who might have sat for the portrait of Parson Adams. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a letter for you,” said the visitor. + </p> + <p> + “For me!” echoed Caleb, feebly. “Ah—well—is it not very dark, + or are my eyes failing?” The clergyman and the servant drew aside the + curtains and propped the sick man up: he read as follows, slowly, and with + difficulty: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR, CALEB,—At last I can do something for you. A friend of mine + has a living in his gift just vacant, worth, I understand, from three to + four hundred a year: pleasant neighbourhood—small parish. And my + friend keeps the hounds!—just the thing for you. He is, however, a + very particular sort of person—wants a companion, and has a horror + of anything evangelical; wishes, therefore, to see you before he decides. + If you can meet me in London, some day next month, I’ll present you to + him, and I have no doubt it will be settled. You must think it strange I + never wrote to you since we parted, but you know I never was a very good + correspondent; and as I had nothing to communicate advantageous to you I + thought it a sort of insult to enlarge on my own happiness, and so forth. + All I shall say on that score is, that I’ve sown my wild oats; and that + you may take my word for it, there’s nothing that can make a man know how + large the heart is, and how little the world, till he comes home (perhaps + after a hard day’s hunting) and sees his own fireside, and hears one dear + welcome; and—oh, by the way, Caleb, if you could but see my boy, the + sturdiest little rogue! But enough of this. All that vexes me is, that + I’ve never yet been able to declare my marriage: my uncle, however, + suspects nothing: my wife bears up against all, like an angel as she is; + still, in case of any accident, it occurs to me, now I’m writing to you, + especially if you leave the place, that it may be as well to send me an + examined copy of the register. In those remote places registers are often + lost or mislaid; and it may be useful hereafter, when I proclaim the + marriage, to clear up all doubt as to the fact. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, old fellow, + </p> + <p> + “Yours most truly, &c., &c.” + </p> + <p> + “It comes too late,” sighed Caleb, heavily; and the letter fell from his + hands. There was a long pause. “Close the shutters,” said the sick man, at + last; “I think I could sleep: and—and—pick up that letter.” + </p> + <p> + With a trembling, but eager gripe, he seized the paper, as a miser would + seize the deeds of an estate on which he has a mortgage. He smoothed the + folds, looked complacently at the well-known hand, smiled—a ghastly + smile! and then placed the letter under his pillow, and sank down; they + left him alone. He did not wake for some hours, and that good clergyman, + poor as himself, was again at his post. The only friendships that are + really with us in the hour of need are those which are cemented by + equality of circumstance. In the depth of home, in the hour of + tribulation, by the bed of death, the rich and the poor are seldom found + side by side. Caleb was evidently much feebler; but his sense seemed + clearer than it had been, and the instincts of his native kindness were + the last that left him. “There is something he wants me do for him,” he + muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I remember: Jones, will you send for the parish register? It is + somewhere in the vestry-room, I think—but nothing’s kept properly. + Better go yourself—‘tis important.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Jones nodded, and sallied forth. The register was not in the vestry; + the church-wardens knew nothing about it; the clerk—a new clerk, who + was also the sexton, and rather a wild fellow—had gone ten miles off + to a wedding: every place was searched; till, at last, the book was found, + amidst a heap of old magazines and dusty papers, in the parlour of Caleb + himself. By the time it was brought to him, the sufferer was fast + declining; with some difficulty his dim eye discovered the place where, + amidst the clumsy pothooks of the parishioners, the large clear hand of + the old friend, and the trembling characters of the bride, looked forth, + distinguished. + </p> + <p> + “Extract this for me, will you?” said Caleb. Mr. Jones obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “Now, just write above the extract: + </p> + <p> + “‘Sir,—By Mr. Price’s desire I send you the inclosed. He is too ill + to write himself. But he bids me say that he has never been quite the same + man since you left him; and that, if he should not get well again, still + your kind letter has made him easier in his mind.” + </p> + <p> + Caleb stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “That is all I have to say: sign your name, and put the address—here + it is. Ah, the letter,” he muttered, “must not lie about! If anything + happens to me, it may get him into trouble.” + </p> + <p> + And as Mr. Jones sealed his communication, Caleb feebly stretched his wan + hand, held the letter which had “come too late” over the flame of the + candle. As the blazing paper dropped on the carpetless floor, Mr. Jones + prudently set thereon the broad sole of his top-boot, and the maidservant + brushed the tinder into the grate. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, trample it out:—hurry it amongst the ashes. The last as the + rest,” said Caleb, hoarsely. “Friendship, fortune, hope, love, life—a + little flame, and then—and then—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be uneasy—it’s quite out!” said Mr. Jones. Caleb turned his + face to the wall. He lingered till the next day, when he passed insensibly + from sleep to death. As soon as the breath was out of his body, Mr. Jones + felt that his duty was discharged, that other duties called him home. He + promised to return to read the burial-service over the deceased, gave some + hasty orders about the plain funeral, and was turning from the room, when + he saw the letter he had written by Caleb’s wish, still on the table. “I + pass the post-office—I’ll put it in,” said he to the weeping + servant; “and just give me that scrap of paper.” So he wrote on the scrap, + “P. S. He died this morning at half-past twelve, without pain.—M. + J.;” and not taking the trouble to break the seal, thrust the final + bulletin into the folds of the letter, which he then carefully placed in + his vest pocket, and safely transferred to the post. And that was all that + the jovial and happy man, to whom the letter was addressed, ever heard of + the last days of his college friend. + </p> + <p> + The living, vacant by the death of Caleb Price, was not so valuable as to + plague the patron with many applications. It continued vacant nearly the + whole of the six months prescribed by law. And the desolate parsonage was + committed to the charge of one of the villagers, who had occasionally + assisted Caleb in the care of his little garden. The villager, his wife, + and half-a-dozen noisy, ragged children, took possession of the quiet + bachelor’s abode. The furniture had been sold to pay the expenses of the + funeral, and a few trifling bills; and, save the kitchen and the two + attics, the empty house, uninhabited, was surrendered to the sportive + mischief of the idle urchins, who prowled about the silent chambers in + fear of the silence, and in ecstasy at the space. The bedroom in which + Caleb had died was, indeed, long held sacred by infantine superstition. + But one day the eldest boy having ventured across the threshold, two + cupboards, the doors standing ajar, attracted the child’s curiosity. He + opened one, and his exclamation soon brought the rest of the children + round him. Have you ever, reader, when a boy, suddenly stumbled on that El + Dorado, called by the grown-up folks a lumber room? Lumber, indeed! what + Virtu double-locks in cabinets is the real lumber to the boy! Lumber, + reader! to thee it was a treasury! Now this cupboard had been the + lumber-room in Caleb’s household. In an instant the whole troop had thrown + themselves on the motley contents. Stray joints of clumsy fishing-rods; + artificial baits; a pair of worn-out top-boots, in which one of the + urchins, whooping and shouting, buried himself up to the middle; + moth-eaten, stained, and ragged, the collegian’s gown—relic of the + dead man’s palmy time; a bag of carpenter’s tools, chiefly broken; a + cricket-bat; an odd boxing-glove; a fencing-foil, snapped in the middle; + and, more than all, some half-finished attempts at rude toys: a boat, a + cart, a doll’s house, in which the good-natured Caleb had busied himself + for the younger ones of that family in which he had found the fatal ideal + of his trite life. One by one were these lugged forth from their dusty + slumber-profane hands struggling for the first right of appropriation. And + now, revealed against the wall, glared upon the startled violators of the + sanctuary, with glassy eyes and horrent visage, a grim monster. They + huddled back one upon the other, pale and breathless, till the eldest, + seeing that the creature moved not, took heart, approached on + tip-toe-twice receded, and twice again advanced, and finally drew out, + daubed, painted, and tricked forth in the semblance of a griffin, a + gigantic kite. + </p> + <p> + The children, alas! were not old and wise enough to knew all the dormant + value of that imprisoned aeronaut, which had cost Caleb many a dull + evening’s labour—the intended gift to the false one’s favourite + brother. But they guessed that it was a thing or spirit appertaining of + right to them; and they resolved, after mature consultation, to impart the + secret of their discovery to an old wooden-legged villager, who had served + in the army, who was the idol of all the children of the place, and who, + they firmly believed, knew everything under the sun, except the mystical + arts of reading and writing. Accordingly, having seen that the coast was + clear—for they considered their parents (as the children of the + hard-working often do) the natural foes to amusement—they carried + the monster into an old outhouse, and ran to the veteran to beg him to + come up slyly and inspect its properties. + </p> + <p> + Three months after this memorable event, arrived the new pastor—a + slim, prim, orderly, and starch young man, framed by nature and trained by + practice to bear a great deal of solitude and starving. Two loving couples + had waited to be married till his Reverence should arrive. The ceremony + performed, where was the registry-book? The vestry was searched—the + church-wardens interrogated; the gay clerk, who, on the demise of his deaf + predecessor, had come into office a little before Caleb’s last illness, + had a dim recollection of having taken the registry up to Mr. Price at the + time the vestry-room was whitewashed. The house was searched—the + cupboard, the mysterious cupboard, was explored. “Here it is, sir!” cried + the clerk; and he pounced upon a pale parchment volume. The thin clergyman + opened it, and recoiled in dismay—more than three-fourths of the + leaves had been torn out. + </p> + <p> + “It is the moths, sir,” said the gardener’s wife, who had not yet removed + from the house. + </p> + <p> + The clergyman looked round; one of the children was trembling. “What have + you done to this book, little one?” + </p> + <p> + “That book?—the—hi!—hi!—” + </p> + <p> + “Speak the truth, and you sha’n’t be punished.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know it was any harm—hi!—hi!—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and—” + </p> + <p> + “And old Ben helped us.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “And—and—and—hi!—hi!—The tail of the kite, + sir!—” + </p> + <p> + “Where is the kite?” + </p> + <p> + Alas! the kite and its tail were long ago gone to that undiscovered limbo + where all things lost, broken, vanished, and destroyed; things that lose + themselves—for servants are too honest to steal; things that break + themselves—for servants are too careful to break; find an + everlasting and impenetrable refuge. + </p> + <p> + “It does not signify a pin’s head,” said the clerk; “the parish must find + a new ‘un!” + </p> + <p> + “It is no fault of mine,” said the Pastor. “Are my chops ready?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + “And soothed with idle dreams the frowning fate.”—CRABBE. + </h3> + <p> + “Why does not my father come back? what a time he has been away!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Philip, business detains him; but he will be here in a few days—perhaps + to-day!” + </p> + <p> + “I should like him to see how much I am improved.” + </p> + <p> + “Improved in what, Philip?” said the mother, with a smile. “Not Latin, I + am sure; for I have not seen you open a book since you insisted on poor + Todd’s dismissal.” + </p> + <p> + “Todd! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke through his nose: what could he + know of Latin?” + </p> + <p> + “More than you ever will, I fear, unless—” and here there was a + certain hesitation in the mother’s voice, “unless your father consents to + your going to school.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should like to go to Eton! That’s the only school for a + gentleman. I’ve heard my father say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Philip, you are too proud.”—“Proud! you often call me proud; but, + then, you kiss me when you do so. Kiss me now, mother.” + </p> + <p> + The lady drew her son to her breast, put aside the clustering hair from + his forehead, and kissed him; but the kiss was sad, and the moment after + she pushed him away gently and muttered, unconscious that she was + overheard: + </p> + <p> + “If, after all, my devotion to the father should wrong the children!” + </p> + <p> + The boy started, and a cloud passed over his brow; but he said nothing. A + light step entered the room through the French casements that opened on + the lawn, and the mother turned to her youngest-born, and her eye + brightened. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma! mamma! here is a letter for you. I snatched it from John: it is + papa’s handwriting.” + </p> + <p> + The lady uttered a joyous exclamation, and seized the letter. The younger + child nestled himself on a stool at her feet, looking up while she read + it; the elder stood apart, leaning on his gun, and with something of + thought, even of gloom, upon his countenance. + </p> + <p> + There was a strong contrast in the two boys. The elder, who was about + fifteen, seemed older than he was, not only from his height, but from the + darkness of his complexion, and a certain proud, nay, imperious, + expression upon features that, without having the soft and fluent graces + of childhood, were yet regular and striking. His dark-green + shooting-dress, with the belt and pouch, the cap, with its gold tassel set + upon his luxuriant curls, which had the purple gloss of the raven’s plume, + blended perhaps something prematurely manly in his own tastes, with the + love of the fantastic and the picturesque which bespeaks the presiding + genius of the proud mother. The younger son had scarcely told his ninth + year; and the soft, auburn ringlets, descending half-way down the + shoulders; the rich and delicate bloom that exhibits at once the hardy + health and the gentle fostering; the large deep-blue eyes; the flexile and + almost effeminate contour of the harmonious features; altogether made such + an ideal of childlike beauty as Lawrence had loved to paint or Chantrey + model. And the daintiest cares of a mother, who, as yet, has her darling + all to herself—her toy, her plaything—were visible in the + large falling collar of finest cambric, and the blue velvet dress with its + filigree buttons and embroidered sash. + </p> + <p> + Both the boys had about them the air of those whom Fate ushers blandly + into life; the air of wealth, and birth, and luxury, spoiled and pampered + as if earth had no thorn for their feet, and heaven not a wind to visit + their young cheeks too roughly. The mother had been extremely handsome; + and though the first bloom of youth was now gone, she had still the beauty + that might captivate new love—an easier task than to retain the old. + Both her sons, though differing from each other, resembled her; she had + the features of the younger; and probably any one who had seen her in her + own earlier youth would have recognized in that child’s gay yet gentle + countenance the mirror of the mother when a girl. Now, however, especially + when silent or thoughtful, the expression of her face was rather that of + the elder boy;—the cheek, once so rosy was now pale, though clear, + with something which time had given, of pride and thought, in the curved + lip and the high forehead. One who could have looked on her in her more + lonely hours, might have seen that the pride had known shame, and the + thought was the shadow of the passions of fear and sorrow. + </p> + <p> + But now as she read those hasty, brief, but well-remembered characters—read + as one whose heart was in her eyes—joy and triumph alone were + visible in that eloquent countenance. Her eyes flashed, her breast heaved; + and at length, clasping the letter to her lips, she kissed it again and + again with passionate transport. Then, as her eyes met the dark, + inquiring, earnest gaze of her eldest born, she flung her arms round him, + and wept vehemently. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, mamma, dear mamma?” said the youngest, pushing + himself between Philip and his mother. “Your father is coming back, this + day—this very hour;—and you—you—child—you, + Philip—” Here sobs broke in upon her words, and left her speechless. + </p> + <p> + The letter that had produced this effect ran as follows: + </p> + <p> + TO MRS MORTON, Fernside Cottage. + </p> + <p> + “DEAREST KATE,—My last letter prepared you for the news I have now + to relate—my poor uncle is no more. Though I had seen little of him, + especially of late years, his death sensibly affected me; but I have at + least the consolation of thinking that there is nothing now to prevent my + doing justice to you. I am the sole heir to his fortune—I have it in + my power, dearest Kate, to offer you a tardy recompense for all you have + put up with for my sake;—a sacred testimony to your long + forbearance, your unreproachful love, your wrongs, and your devotion. Our + children, too—my noble Philip!—kiss them, Kate—kiss them + for me a thousand times. + </p> + <p> + “I write in great haste—the burial is just over, and my letter will + only serve to announce my return. My darling Catherine, I shall be with + you almost as soon as these lines meet your eyes—those clear eyes, + that, for all the tears they have shed for my faults and follies, have + never looked the less kind. Yours, ever as ever, “PHILIP BEAUFORT. + </p> + <p> + This letter has told its tale, and little remains to explain. Philip + Beaufort was one of those men of whom there are many in his peculiar class + of society—easy, thoughtless, good-humoured, generous, with feelings + infinitely better than his principles. + </p> + <p> + Inheriting himself but a moderate fortune, which was three parts in the + hands of the Jews before he was twenty-five, he had the most brilliant + expectations from his uncle; an old bachelor, who, from a courtier, had + turned a misanthrope—cold—shrewd—penetrating—worldly—sarcastic—and + imperious; and from this relation he received, meanwhile, a handsome and, + indeed, munificent allowance. About sixteen years before the date at which + this narrative opens, Philip Beaufort had “run off,” as the saying is, + with Catherine Morton, then little more than a child,—a motherless + child—educated at a boarding-school to notions and desires far + beyond her station; for she was the daughter of a provincial tradesman. + And Philip Beaufort, in the prime of life, was possessed of most of the + qualities that dazzle the eyes and many of the arts that betray the + affections. It was suspected by some that they were privately married: if + so, the secret had been closely kept, and baffled all the inquiries of the + stern old uncle. Still there was much, not only in the manner, at once + modest and dignified, but in the character of Catherine, which was proud + and high-spirited, to give colour to the suspicion. Beaufort, a man + naturally careless of forms, paid her a marked and punctilious respect; + and his attachment was evidently one not only of passion, but of + confidence and esteem. Time developed in her mental qualities far superior + to those of Beaufort, and for these she had ample leisure of cultivation. + To the influence derived from her mind and person she added that of a + frank, affectionate, and winning disposition; their children cemented the + bond between them. Mr. Beaufort was passionately attached to field sports. + He lived the greater part of the year with Catherine, at the beautiful + cottage to which he had built hunting stables that were the admiration of + the county; and though the cottage was near London, the pleasures of the + metropolis seldom allured him for more than a few days—generally but + a few hours—at a time; and he—always hurried back with renewed + relish to what he considered his home. + </p> + <p> + Whatever the connection between Catherine and himself (and of the true + nature of that connection, the Introductory Chapter has made the reader + more enlightened than the world), her influence had, at least, weaned from + all excesses, and many follies, a man who, before he knew her, had seemed + likely, from the extreme joviality and carelessness of his nature, and a + very imperfect education, to contract whatever vices were most in fashion + as preservatives against ennui. And if their union had been openly + hallowed by the Church, Philip Beaufort had been universally esteemed the + model of a tender husband and a fond father. Ever, as he became more and + more acquainted with Catherine’s natural good qualities, and more and more + attached to his home, had Mr. Beaufort, with the generosity of true + affection, desired to remove from her the pain of an equivocal condition + by a public marriage. But Mr. Beaufort, though generous, was not free from + the worldliness which had met him everywhere, amidst the society in which + his youth had been spent. His uncle, the head of one of those families + which yearly vanish from the commonalty into the peerage, but which once + formed a distinguished peculiarity in the aristocracy of England—families + of ancient birth, immense possessions, at once noble and untitled—held + his estates by no other tenure than his own caprice. Though he professed + to like Philip, yet he saw but little of him. When the news of the illicit + connection his nephew was reported to have formed reached him, he at first + resolved to break it off; but observing that Philip no longer gambled, nor + ran in debt, and had retired from the turf to the safer and more + economical pastimes of the field, he contented himself with inquiries + which satisfied him that Philip was not married; and perhaps he thought + it, on the whole, more prudent to wink at an error that was not attended + by the bills which had here-to-fore characterised the human infirmities of + his reckless nephew. He took care, however, incidentally, and in reference + to some scandal of the day, to pronounce his opinion, not upon the fault, + but upon the only mode of repairing it. + </p> + <p> + “If ever,” said he, and he looked grimly at Philip while he spoke, “a + gentleman were to disgrace his ancestry by introducing into his family one + whom his own sister could not receive at her house, why, he ought to sink + to her level, and wealth would but make his disgrace the more notorious. + If I had an only son, and that son were booby enough to do anything so + discreditable as to marry beneath him, I would rather have my footman for + my successor. You understand, Phil!” + </p> + <p> + Philip did understand, and looked round at the noble house and the stately + park, and his generosity was not equal to the trial. Catherine—so + great was her power over him—might, perhaps, have easily triumphed + over his more selfish calculations; but her love was too delicate ever to + breathe, of itself, the hope that lay deepest at her heart. And her + children!—ah! for them she pined, but for them she also hoped. + Before them was a long future, and she had all confidence in Philip. Of + late, there had been considerable doubts how far the elder Beaufort would + realise the expectations in which his nephew had been reared. Philip’s + younger brother had been much with the old gentleman, and appeared to be + in high favour: this brother was a man in every respect the opposite to + Philip—sober, supple, decorous, ambitious, with a face of smiles and + a heart of ice. + </p> + <p> + But the old gentleman was taken dangerously ill, and Philip was summoned + to his bed of death. Robert, the younger brother, was there also, with his + wife (who he had married prudently) and his children (he had two, a son + and a daughter). Not a word did the uncle say as to the disposition of his + property till an hour before he died. And then, turning in his bed, he + looked first at one nephew, then at the other, and faltered out: + </p> + <p> + “Philip, you are a scapegrace, but a gentleman! Robert, you are a careful, + sober, plausible man; and it is a great pity you were not in business; you + would have made a fortune!—you won’t inherit one, though you think + it: I have marked you, sir. Philip, beware of your brother. Now let me see + the parson.” + </p> + <p> + The old man died; the will was read; and Philip succeeded to a rental of + L20,000. a-year; Robert, to a diamond ring, a gold repeater, L5,000. and a + curious collection of bottled snakes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Stay, delightful Dream; + + Let him within his pleasant garden walk; + Give him her arm—of blessings let them talk.”—CRABBE. +</pre> + <p> + “There, Robert, there! now you can see the new stables. By Jove, they are + the completest thing in the three kingdoms!” + </p> + <p> + “Quite a pile! But is that the house? You lodge your horses more + magnificently than yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “But is it not a beautiful cottage?—to be sure, it owes everything + to Catherine’s taste. Dear Catherine!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert Beaufort, for this colloquy took place between the brothers, as + their britska rapidly descended the hill, at the foot of which lay + Fernside Cottage and its miniature demesnes—Mr. Robert Beaufort + pulled his travelling cap over his brows, and his countenance fell, + whether at the name of Catherine, or the tone in which the name was + uttered; and there was a pause, broken by a third occupant of the britska, + a youth of about seventeen, who sat opposite the brothers. + </p> + <p> + “And who are those boys on the lawn, uncle?” + </p> + <p> + “Who are those boys?” It was a simple question, but it grated on the ear + of Mr. Robert Beaufort—it struck discord at his heart. “Who were + those boys?” as they ran across the sward, eager to welcome their father + home; the westering sun shining full on their joyous faces—their + young forms so lithe and so graceful—their merry laughter ringing in + the still air. “Those boys,” thought Mr. Robert Beaufort, “the sons of + shame, rob mine of his inheritance.” The elder brother turned round at his + nephew’s question, and saw the expression on Robert’s face. He bit his + lip, and answered, gravely: + </p> + <p> + “Arthur, they are my children.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know you were married,” replied Arthur, bending forward to take + a better view of his cousins. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and Philip’s brow grew crimson. + </p> + <p> + The carriage stopped at the little lodge. Philip opened the door, and + jumped to the ground; the brother and his son followed. A moment more, and + Philip was locked in Catherine’s arms, her tears falling fast upon his + breast; his children plucking at his coat; and the younger one crying in + his shrill, impatient treble, “Papa! papa! you don’t see Sidney, papa!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert Beaufort placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, and arrested + his steps, as they contemplated the group before them. + </p> + <p> + “Arthur,” said he, in a hollow whisper, “those children are our disgrace + and your supplanters; they are bastards! bastards! and they are to be his + heirs!” + </p> + <p> + Arthur made no answer, but the smile with which he had hitherto gazed on + his new relations vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Kate,” said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned from Mrs. Morton, and lifted his + youngest-born in his arms, “this is my brother and his son: they are + welcome, are they not?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with stiff affability, to + Mrs. Morton, muttering something equally complimentary and inaudible. + </p> + <p> + The party proceeded towards the house. Philip and Arthur brought up the + rear. + </p> + <p> + “Do you shoot?” asked Arthur, observing the gun in his cousin’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I hope this season to bag as many head as my father: he is a famous + shot. But this is only a single barrel, and an old-fashioned sort of + detonator. My father must get me one of the new gulls: I can’t afford it + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think not,” said Arthur, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as to that,” resumed Philip, quickly, and with a heightened colour, + “I could have managed it very well if I had not given thirty guineas for a + brace of pointers the other day: they are the best dogs you ever saw.” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty guineas!” echoed Arthur, looking with native surprise at the + speaker; “why, how old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Just fifteen last birthday. Holla, John! John Green!” cried the young + gentleman in an imperious voice, to one of the gardeners, who was crossing + the lawn, “see that the nets are taken down to the lake to-morrow, and + that my tent is pitched properly, by the lime-trees, by nine o’clock. I + hope you will understand me this time: Heaven knows you take a deal of + telling before you understand anything!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mr. Philip,” said the man, bowing obsequiously; and then muttered, + as he went off, “Drat the nat’rel! He speaks to a poor man as if he warn’t + flesh and blood.” + </p> + <p> + “Does your father keep hunters?” asked Philip. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps one reason may be, that he is not rich enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! that’s a pity. Never mind, we’ll mount you, whenever you like to pay + us a visit.” + </p> + <p> + Young Arthur drew himself up, and his air, naturally frank and gentle, + became haughty and reserved. Philip gazed on him, and felt offended; he + scarce knew why, but from that moment he conceived a dislike to his + cousin. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For a man is helpless and vain, of a condition so exposed to + calamity that a raisin is able to kill him; any trooper out of the + Egyptian army—a fly can do it, when it goes on God’s errand.” + —JEREMY TAYLOR On the Deceitfulness of the Heart. +</pre> + <p> + The two brothers sat at their wine after dinner. Robert sipped claret, the + sturdy Philip quaffed his more generous port. Catherine and the boys might + be seen at a little distance, and by the light of a soft August moon, + among the shrubs and bosquets of the lawn. + </p> + <p> + Philip Beaufort was about five-and-forty, tall, robust, nay, of great + strength of frame and limb; with a countenance extremely winning, not only + from the comeliness of its features, but its frankness, manliness, and + good nature. His was the bronzed, rich complexion, the inclination towards + embonpoint, the athletic girth of chest, which denote redundant health, + and mirthful temper, and sanguine blood. Robert, who had lived the life of + cities, was a year younger than his brother; nearly as tall, but pale, + meagre, stooping, and with a careworn, anxious, hungry look, which made + the smile that hung upon his lips seem hollow and artificial. His dress, + though plain, was neat and studied; his manner, bland and plausible; his + voice, sweet and low: there was that about him which, if it did not win + liking, tended to excite respect—a certain decorum, a nameless + propriety of appearance and bearing, that approached a little to + formality: his every movement, slow and measured, was that of one who + paced in the circle that fences round the habits and usages of the world. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Philip, “I had always decided to take this step, whenever my + poor uncle’s death should allow me to do so. You have seen Catherine, but + you do not know half her good qualities: she would grace any station; and, + besides, she nursed me so carefully last year, when I broke my collar-bone + in that cursed steeple-chase. Egad, I am getting too heavy and growing too + old for such schoolboy pranks.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no doubt of Mrs. Morton’s excellence, and I honour your motives; + still, when you talk of her gracing any station, you must not forget, my + dear brother, that she will be no more received as Mrs. Beaufort than she + is now as Mrs. Morton.” + </p> + <p> + “But I tell you, Robert, that I am really married to her already; that she + would never have left her home but on that condition; that we were married + the very day we met after her flight.” + </p> + <p> + Robert’s thin lips broke into a slight sneer of incredulity. “My dear + brother, you do right to say this—any man in your situation would + say the same. But I know that my uncle took every pains to ascertain if + the report of a private marriage were true.” + </p> + <p> + “And you helped him in the search. Eh, Bob?” + </p> + <p> + Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on. + </p> + <p> + “Ha, ha! to be sure you did; you knew that such a discovery would have + done for me in the old gentleman’s good opinion. But I blinded you both, + ha, ha! The fact is, that we were married with the greatest privacy; that + even now, I own, it would be difficult for Catherine herself to establish + the fact, unless I wished it. I am ashamed to think that I have never even + told her where I keep the main proof of the marriage. I induced one + witness to leave the country, the other must be long since dead: my poor + friend, too, who officiated, is no more. Even the register, Bob, the + register itself, has been destroyed: and yet, notwithstanding, I will + prove the ceremony and clear up poor Catherine’s fame; for I have the + attested copy of the register safe and sound. Catherine not married! why, + look at her, man!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window for a moment, but his + countenance was still that of one unconvinced. “Well, brother,” said he, + dipping his fingers in the water-glass, “it is not for me to contradict + you. It is a very curious tale—parson dead—witnesses missing. + But still, as I said before, if you are resolved on a public marriage, you + are wise to insist that there has been a previous private one. Yet, + believe me, Philip,” continued Robert, with solemn earnestness, “the world—” + </p> + <p> + “Damn the world! What do I care for the world! We don’t want to go to + routs and balls, and give dinners to fine people. I shall live much the + same as I have always done; only, I shall now keep the hounds—they + are very indifferently kept at present—and have a yacht; and engage + the best masters for the boys. Phil wants to go to Eton, but I know what + Eton is: poor fellow! his feelings might be hurt there, if others are as + sceptical as yourself. I suppose my old friends will not be less civil now + I have L20,000. a year. And as for the society of women, between you and + me, I don’t care a rush for any woman but Catherine: poor Katty!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs: you don’t misinterpret + my motives?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Bob, no. I am quite sensible how kind it is in you—a man of + your starch habits and strict views, coming here to pay a mark of respect + to Kate (Mr. Robert turned uneasily in his chair)—even before you + knew of the private marriage, and I’m sure I don’t blame you for never + having done it before. You did quite right to try your chance with my + uncle.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert turned in his chair again, still more uneasily, and cleared his + voice as if to speak. But Philip tossed off his wine, and proceeded, + without heeding his brother,— + </p> + <p> + “And though the poor old man does not seem to have liked you the better + for consulting his scruples, yet we must make up for the partiality of his + will. Let me see—what with your wife’s fortune, you muster L2000. a + year?” + </p> + <p> + “Only L1500., Philip, and Arthur’s education is growing expensive. Next + year he goes to college. He is certainly very clever, and I have great + hopes—” + </p> + <p> + “That he will do Honour to us all—so have I. He is a noble young + fellow: and I think my Philip may find a great deal to learn from him,—Phil + is a sad idle dog; but with a devil of a spirit, and sharp as a needle. I + wish you could see him ride. Well, to return to Arthur. Don’t trouble + yourself about his education—that shall be my care. He shall go to + Christ Church—a gentleman-commoner, of course—and when he is + of age we’ll get him into parliament. Now for yourself, Bob. I shall sell + the town-house in Berkeley Square, and whatever it brings you shall have. + Besides that, I’ll add L1500. a year to your L1000.—so that’s said + and done. Pshaw! brothers should be brothers.—Let’s come out and + play with the boys!” + </p> + <p> + The two Beauforts stepped through the open casement into the lawn. + </p> + <p> + “You look pale, Bob—all you London fellows do. As for me, I feel as + strong as a horse: much better than when I was one of your gay dogs + straying loose about the town. ‘Gad, I have never had a moment’s ill + health, except from a fall now and then. I feel as if I should live for + ever, and that’s the reason why I could never make a will.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you never, then, made your will?” + </p> + <p> + “Never as yet. Faith, till now, I had little enough to leave. But now that + all this great Beaufort property is at my own disposal, I must think of + Kate’s jointure. By Jove! now I speak of it, I will ride to——to-morrow, + and consult the lawyer there both about the will and the marriage. You + will stay for the wedding?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I must go into ———shire to-morrow evening, to + place Arthur with his tutor. But I’ll return for the wedding, if you + particularly wish it: only Mrs. Beaufort is a woman of very strict—” + </p> + <p> + “I—do particularly wish it,” interrupted Philip, gravely; “for I + desire, for Catherine’s sake, that you, my sole surviving relation, may + not seem to withhold your countenance from an act of justice to her. And + as for your wife, I fancy L1500. a year would reconcile her to my marrying + out of the Penitentiary.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert bowed his head, coughed huskily, and said, “I appreciate your + generous affection, Philip.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning, while the elder parties were still over the + breakfast-table, the younger people were in the grounds; it was a lovely + day, one of the last of the luxuriant August—and Arthur, as he + looked round, thought he had never seen a more beautiful place. It was, + indeed, just the spot to captivate a youthful and susceptible fancy. The + village of Fernside, though in one of the counties adjoining Middlesex, + and as near to London as the owner’s passionate pursuits of the field + would permit, was yet as rural and sequestered as if a hundred miles + distant from the smoke of the huge city. Though the dwelling was called a + cottage, Philip had enlarged the original modest building into a villa of + some pretensions. On either side a graceful and well-proportioned portico + stretched verandahs, covered with roses and clematis; to the right + extended a range of costly conservatories, terminating in vistas of + trellis-work which formed those elegant alleys called roseries, and served + to screen the more useful gardens from view. The lawn, smooth and even, + was studded with American plants and shrubs in flower, and bounded on one + side by a small lake, on the opposite bank of which limes and cedars threw + their shadows over the clear waves. On the other side a light fence + separated the grounds from a large paddock, in which three or four hunters + grazed in indolent enjoyment. It was one of those cottages which bespeak + the ease and luxury not often found in more ostentatious mansions—an + abode which, at sixteen, the visitor contemplates with vague notions of + poetry and love—which, at forty, he might think dull and d—-d + expensive—which, at sixty, he would pronounce to be damp in winter, + and full of earwigs in the summer. Master Philip was leaning on his gun; + Master Sidney was chasing a peacock butterfly; Arthur was silently gazing + on the shining lake and the still foliage that drooped over its surface. + In the countenance of this young man there was something that excited a + certain interest. He was less handsome than Philip, but the expression of + his face was more prepossessing. There was something of pride in the + forehead; but of good nature, not unmixed with irresolution and weakness, + in the curves of the mouth. He was more delicate of frame than Philip; and + the colour of his complexion was not that of a robust constitution. His + movements were graceful and self-possessed, and he had his father’s + sweetness of voice. “This is really beautiful!—I envy you, cousin + Philip.” + </p> + <p> + “Has not your father got a country-house?” + </p> + <p> + “No: we live either in London or at some hot, crowded watering-place.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; this is very nice during the shooting and hunting season. But my old + nurse says we shall have a much finer place now. I liked this very well + till I saw Lord Belville’s place. But it is very unpleasant not to have + the finest house in the county: <i>aut Caesar aut nullus</i>—that’s + my motto. Ah! do you see that swallow? I’ll bet you a guinea I hit it.” + “No, poor thing! don’t hurt it.” But ere the remonstrance was uttered, the + bird lay quivering on the ground. “It is just September, and one must keep + one’s hand in,” said Philip, as he reloaded his gun. + </p> + <p> + To Arthur this action seemed a wanton cruelty; it was rather the wanton + recklessness which belongs to a wild boy accustomed to gratify the impulse + of the moment—the recklessness which is not cruelty in the boy, but + which prosperity may pamper into cruelty in the man. And scarce had he + reloaded his gun before the neigh of a young colt came from the + neighbouring paddock, and Philip bounded to the fence. “He calls me, poor + fellow; you shall see him feed from my hand. Run in for a piece of bread—a + large piece, Sidney.” The boy and the animal seemed to understand each + other. “I see you don’t like horses,” he said to Arthur. “As for me, I + love dogs, horses—every dumb creature.” + </p> + <p> + “Except swallows.” said Arthur, with a half smile, and a little surprised + at the inconsistency of the boast. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! that is short,—all fair: it is not to hurt the swallow—it + is to obtain skill,” said Philip, colouring; and then, as if not quite + easy with his own definition, he turned away abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “This is dull work—suppose we fish. By Jove!” (he had caught his + father’s expletive) “that blockhead has put the tent on the wrong side of + the lake, after all. Holla, you, sir!” and the unhappy gardener looked up + from his flower-beds; “what ails you? I have a great mind to tell my + father of you—you grow stupider every day. I told you to put the + tent under the lime-trees.” + </p> + <p> + “We could not manage it, sir; the boughs were in the way.” + </p> + <p> + “And why did you not cut the boughs, blockhead?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not dare do so, sir, without master’s orders,” said the man + doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “My orders are sufficient, I should think; so none of your impertinence,” + cried Philip, with a raised colour; and lifting his hand, in which he held + his ramrod, he shook it menacingly over the gardener’s head,—“I’ve a + great mind to——” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter, Philip?” cried the good-humoured voice of his father. + “Fie!” + </p> + <p> + “This fellow does not mind what I say, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not like to cut the boughs of the lime-trees without your orders, + sir,” said the gardener. + </p> + <p> + “No, it would be a pity to cut them. You should consult me there, Master + Philip;” and the father shook him by the collar with a good-natured, and + affectionate, but rough sort of caress. + </p> + <p> + “Be quiet, father!” said the boy, petulantly and proudly; “or,” he added, + in a lower voice, but one which showed emotion, “my cousin may think you + mean less kindly than you always do, sir.” + </p> + <p> + The father was touched: “Go and cut the lime-boughs, John; and always do + as Mr. Philip tells you.” + </p> + <p> + The mother was behind, and she sighed audibly. “Ah! dearest, I fear you + will spoil him.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he not your son? and do we not owe him the more respect for having + hitherto allowed others to—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and the mother could say no more. And thus it was, that this + boy of powerful character and strong passions had, from motives the most + amiable, been pampered from the darling into the despot. + </p> + <p> + “And now, Kate, I will, as I told you last night, ride over to —— + and fix the earliest day for our public marriage: I will ask the lawyer to + dine here, to talk about the proper steps for proving the private one.” + </p> + <p> + “Will that be difficult” asked Catherine, with natural anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “No,—for if you remember, I had the precaution to get an examined + copy of the register; otherwise, I own to you, I should have been alarmed. + I don’t know what has become of Smith. I heard some time since from his + father that he had left the colony; and (I never told you before—it + would have made you uneasy) once, a few years ago, when my uncle again got + it into his head that we might be married, I was afraid poor Caleb’s + successor might, by chance, betray us. So I went over to A—— + myself, being near it when I was staying with Lord C——, in + order to see how far it might be necessary to secure the parson; and, only + think! I found an accident had happened to the register—so, as the + clergyman could know nothing, I kept my own counsel. How lucky I have the + copy! No doubt the lawyer will set all to rights; and, while I am making + the settlements, I may as well make my will. I have plenty for both boys, + but the dark one must be the heir. Does he not look born to be an eldest + son?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Philip!” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! one don’t die the sooner for making a will. Have I the air of a + man in a consumption?”—and the sturdy sportsman glanced complacently + at the strength and symmetry of his manly limbs. “Come, Phil, let’s go to + the stables. Now, Robert, I will show you what is better worth seeing than + those miserable flower-beds.” So saying, Mr. Beaufort led the way to the + courtyard at the back of the cottage. Catherine and Sidney remained on the + lawn; the rest followed the host. The grooms, of whom Beaufort was the + idol, hastened to show how well the horses had thriven in his absence. + </p> + <p> + “Do see how Brown Bess has come on, sir! but, to be sure, Master Philip + keeps her in exercise. Ah, sir, he will be as good a rider as your honour, + one of these days.” + </p> + <p> + “He ought to be a better, Tom; for I think he’ll never have my weight to + carry. Well, saddle Brown Bess for Mr. Philip. What horse shall I take? + Ah! here’s my old friend, Puppet!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what’s come to Puppet, sir; he’s off his feed, and turned + sulky. I tried him over the bar yesterday; but he was quite restive like.” + </p> + <p> + “The devil he was! So, so, old boy, you shall go over the six-barred gate + to-day, or we’ll know why.” And Mr. Beaufort patted the sleek neck of his + favourite hunter. “Put the saddle on him, Tom.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, your honour. I sometimes think he is hurt in the loins somehow—he + don’t take to his leaps kindly, and he always tries to bite when we + bridles him. Be quiet, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Only his airs,” said Philip. “I did not know this, or I would have taken + him over the gate. Why did not you tell me, Tom?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord love you, sir! because you have such a spurret; and if anything had + come to you—” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right: you are not weight enough for Puppet, my boy; and he never + did like any one to back him but myself. What say you, brother, will you + ride with us?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I must go to —— to-day with Arthur. I have engaged the + post-horses at two o’clock; but I shall be with you to-morrow or the day + after. You see his tutor expects him; and as he is backward in his + mathematics, he has no time to lose.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, good-bye, nephew!” and Beaufort slipped a pocket-book into + the boy’s hand. “Tush! whenever you want money, don’t trouble your father—write + to me—we shall be always glad to see you; and you must teach Philip + to like his book a little better—eh, Phil?” + </p> + <p> + “No, father; I shall be rich enough to do without books,” said Philip, + rather coarsely; but then observing the heightened colour of his cousin, + he went up to him, and with a generous impulse said, “Arthur, you admired + this gun; pray accept it. Nay, don’t be shy—I can have as many as I + like for the asking: you’re not so well off, you know.” + </p> + <p> + The intention was kind, but the manner was so patronising that Arthur felt + offended. He put back the gun, and said, drily, “I shall have no occasion + for the gun, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + If Arthur was offended by the offer, Philip was much more offended by the + refusal. “As you like; I hate pride,” said he; and he gave the gun to the + groom as he vaulted into his saddle with the lightness of a young Mercury. + “Come, father!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favourite hunter—a large, powerful + horse well known for its prowess in the field. The rider trotted him once + or twice through the spacious yard. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Tom: no more hurt in the loins than I am. Open that gate; we + will go across the paddock, and take the gate yonder—the old six-bar—eh, + Phil?” + </p> + <p> + “Capital!—to be sure!—” + </p> + <p> + The gate was opened—the grooms stood watchful to see the leap, and a + kindred curiosity arrested Robert Beaufort and his son. + </p> + <p> + How well they looked! those two horsemen; the ease, lightness, spirit of + the one, with the fine-limbed and fiery steed that literally “bounded + beneath him as a barb”—seemingly as gay, as ardent, and as haughty + as the boyrider. And the manly, and almost herculean form of the elder + Beaufort, which, from the buoyancy of its movements, and the supple grace + that belongs to the perfect mastership of any athletic art, possessed an + elegance and dignity, especially on horseback, which rarely accompanies + proportions equally sturdy and robust. There was indeed something knightly + and chivalrous in the bearing of the elder Beaufort—in his handsome + aquiline features, the erectness of his mien, the very wave of his hand, + as he spurred from the yard. + </p> + <p> + “What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is!” said Arthur, with involuntary + admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, an excellent life—amazingly strong!” returned the pale father, + with a slight sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Philip,” said Mr. Beaufort, as they cantered across the paddock, “I think + the gate is too much for you. I will just take Puppet over, and then we + will open it for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh, my dear father! you don’t know how I’m improved!” And slackening + the rein, and touching the side of his horse, the young rider darted + forward and cleared the gate, which was of no common height, with an ease + that extorted a loud “bravo” from the proud father. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Puppet,” said Mr. Beaufort, spurring his own horse. The animal + cantered towards the gate, and then suddenly turned round with an + impatient and angry snort. “For shame, Puppet!—for shame, old boy!” + said the sportsman, wheeling him again to the barrier. The horse shook his + head, as if in remonstrance; but the spur vigorously applied showed him + that his master would not listen to his mute reasonings. He bounded + forward—made at the gate—struck his hoofs against the top bar—fell + forward, and threw his rider head foremost on the road beyond. The horse + rose instantly—not so the master. The son dismounted, alarmed and + terrified. His father was speechless! and blood gushed from the mouth and + nostrils, as the head drooped heavily on the boy’s breast. The bystanders + had witnessed the fall—they crowded to the spot—they took the + fallen man from the weak arms of the son—the head groom examined him + with the eye of one who had picked up science from his experience in such + casualties. + </p> + <p> + “Speak, brother!—where are you hurt?” exclaimed Robert Beaufort. + </p> + <p> + “He will never speak more!” said the groom, bursting into tears. “His neck + is broken!” + </p> + <p> + “Send for the nearest surgeon,” cried Mr. Robert. “Good God! boy! don’t + mount that devilish horse!” + </p> + <p> + But Arthur had already leaped on the unhappy steed, which had been the + cause of this appalling affliction. “Which way?” + </p> + <p> + “Straight on to ——, only two miles—every one knows Mr. + Powis’s house. God bless you!” said the groom. Arthur vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Lift him carefully, and take him to the house,” said Mr. Robert. “My poor + brother! my dear brother!” + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by a cry, a single shrill, heartbreaking cry; and + Philip fell senseless to the ground. + </p> + <p> + No one heeded him at that hour—no one heeded the fatherless BASTARD. + “Gently, gently,” said Mr. Robert, as he followed the servants and their + load. And he then muttered to himself, and his sallow cheek grew bright, + and his breath came short: “He has made no will—he never made a + will.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Constance. O boy, then where art thou? + * * * * What becomes of me”—King John. +</pre> + <p> + It was three days after the death of Philip Beaufort—for the surgeon + arrived only to confirm the judgment of the groom: in the drawing-room of + the cottage, the windows closed, lay the body, in its coffin, the lid not + yet nailed down. There, prostrate on the floor, tearless, speechless, was + the miserable Catherine; poor Sidney, too young to comprehend all his + loss, sobbing at her side; while Philip apart, seated beside the coffin, + gazed abstractedly on that cold rigid face which had never known one frown + for his boyish follies. + </p> + <p> + In another room, that had been appropriated to the late owner, called his + study, sat Robert Beaufort. Everything in this room spoke of the deceased. + Partially separated from the rest of the house, it communicated by a + winding staircase with a chamber above, to which Philip had been wont to + betake himself whenever he returned late, and over-exhilarated, from some + rural feast crowning a hard day’s hunt. Above a quaint, old-fashioned + bureau of Dutch workmanship (which Philip had picked up at a sale in the + earlier years of his marriage) was a portrait of Catherine taken in the + bloom of her youth. On a peg on the door that led to the staircase, still + hung his rough driving coat. The window commanded the view of the paddock + in which the worn-out hunter or the unbroken colt grazed at will. Around + the walls of the “study”—(a strange misnomer!)—hung prints of + celebrated fox-hunts and renowned steeple-chases: guns, fishing-rods, and + foxes’ brushes, ranged with a sportsman’s neatness, supplied the place of + books. On the mantelpiece lay a cigar-case, a well-worn volume on the + Veterinary Art, and the last number of the Sporting Magazine. And in the + room—thus witnessing of the hardy, masculine, rural life, that had + passed away—sallow, stooping, town-worn, sat, I say, Robert + Beaufort, the heir-at-law,—alone: for the very day of the death he + had remanded his son home with the letter that announced to his wife the + change in their fortunes, and directed her to send his lawyer post-haste + to the house of death. The bureau, and the drawers, and the boxes which + contained the papers of the deceased were open; their contents had been + ransacked; no certificate of the private marriage, no hint of such an + event; not a paper found to signify the last wishes of the rich dead man. + </p> + <p> + He had died, and made no sign. Mr. Robert Beaufort’s countenance was still + and composed. + </p> + <p> + A knock at the door was heard; the lawyer entered. + </p> + <p> + “Sir, the undertakers are here, and Mr. Greaves has ordered the bells to + be rung: at three o’clock he will read the service.” + </p> + <p> + “I am obliged to you., Blackwell, for taking these melancholy offices on + yourself. My poor brother!—it is so sudden! But the funeral, you + say, ought to take place to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “The weather is so warm,” said the lawyer, wiping his forehead. As he + spoke, the death-bell was heard. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. + </p> + <p> + “It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton if she had been his + wife,” observed Mr. Blackwell. “But I suppose persons of that kind have + very little feeling. I must say that it was fortunate for the family that + the event happened before Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into so improper a + marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you ordered the post-horses? I shall + start immediately after the funeral.” + </p> + <p> + “What is to be done with the cottage, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “You may advertise it for sale.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mrs. Morton and the boys?” “Hum! we will consider. She was a + tradesman’s daughter. I think I ought to provide for her suitably, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “It is more than the world could expect from you, sir; it is very + different from a wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very!—very much so, indeed! Just ring for a lighted candle, we + will seal up these boxes. And—I think I could take a sandwich. Poor + Philip!” + </p> + <p> + The funeral was over; the dead shovelled away. What a strange thing it + does seem, that that very form which we prized so charily, for which we + prayed the winds to be gentle, which we lapped from the cold in our arms, + from whose footstep we would have removed a stone, should be suddenly + thrust out of sight—an abomination that the earth must not look upon—a + despicable loathsomeness, to be concealed and to be forgotten! And this + same composition of bone and muscle that was yesterday so strong—which + men respected, and women loved, and children clung to—to-day so + lamentably powerless, unable to defend or protect those who lay nearest to + its heart; its riches wrested from it, its wishes spat upon, its influence + expiring with its last sigh! A breath from its lips making all that mighty + difference between what it was and what it is! + </p> + <p> + The post-horses were at the door as the funeral procession returned to the + house. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, and said, with his + pocket-handkerchief still before his eyes: + </p> + <p> + “I will write to you in a few days, ma’am; you will find that I shall not + forget you. The cottage will be sold; but we sha’n’t hurry you. Good-bye, + ma’am; good-bye, my boys;” and he patted his nephews on the head. + </p> + <p> + Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his uncle, who muttered to + himself, “That boy will come to no good!” Little Sidney put his hand into + the rich man’s, and looked up, pleadingly, into his face. “Can’t you say + something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle Robert?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the britska—it had been his + brother’s: the lawyer followed, and they drove away. + </p> + <p> + A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house into the + conservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother; she had scarcely + touched food since Beaufort’s death. She was worn to a shadow; her hair + had turned grey. Now she had at last found tears, and she wept noiselessly + but unceasingly. + </p> + <p> + The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them carefully in his basket: + he was about to select a nectarine that seemed riper than the rest, when + his hand was roughly seized; and the gruff voice of John Green, the + gardener, exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “What are you about, Master Philip? you must not touch them ‘ere fruit!” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you, fellow!” cried the young gentleman, in a tone of equal + astonishment and, wrath. + </p> + <p> + “None of your airs, Master Philip! What I means is, that some great folks + are coming too look at the place tomorrow; and I won’t have my show of + fruit spoiled by being pawed about by the like of you; so, that’s plain, + Master Philip!” + </p> + <p> + The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. The gardener, delighted to + retaliate the insolence he had received, continued: + </p> + <p> + “You need not go for to look so spiteful, master; you are not the great + man you thought you were; you are nobody now, and so you will find ere + long. So, march out, if you please: I wants to lock up the glass.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he took the lad roughly by the arm; but Philip, the most + irascible of mortals, was strong for his years, and fearless as a young + lion. He caught up a watering-pot, which the gardener had deposited while + he expostulated with his late tyrant and struck the man across the face + with it so violently and so suddenly, that he fell back over the beds, and + the glass crackled and shivered under him. Philip did not wait for the foe + to recover his equilibrium; but, taking up his grapes, and possessing + himself quietly of the disputed nectarine, quitted the spot; and the + gardener did not think it prudent to pursue him. To boys, under ordinary + circumstances—boys who have buffeted their way through a scolding + nursery, a wrangling family, or a public school—there would have + been nothing in this squabble to dwell on the memory or vibrate on the + nerves, after the first burst of passion: but to Philip Beaufort it was an + era in life; it was the first insult he had ever received; it was his + initiation into that changed, rough, and terrible career, to which the + spoiled darling of vanity and love was henceforth condemned. His pride and + his self-esteem had incurred a fearful shock. He entered the house, and a + sickness came over him; his limbs trembled; he sat down in the hall, and, + placing the fruit beside him, covered his face with his hands and wept. + Those were not the tears of a boy, drawn from a shallow source; they were + the burning, agonising, reluctant tears, that men shed, wrung from the + heart as if it were its blood. He had never been sent to school, lest he + should meet with mortification. He had had various tutors, trained to + show, rather than to exact, respect; one succeeding another, at his own + whim and caprice. His natural quickness, and a very strong, hard, + inquisitive turn of mind, had enabled him, however, to pick up more + knowledge, though of a desultory and miscellaneous nature, than boys of + his age generally possess; and his roving, independent, out-of-door + existence had served to ripen his understanding. He had certainly, in + spite of every precaution, arrived at some, though not very distinct, + notion of his peculiar position; but none of its inconveniences had + visited him till that day. He began now to turn his eyes to the future; + and vague and dark forebodings—a consciousness of the shelter, the + protector, the station, he had lost in his father’s death—crept + coldly, over him. While thus musing, a ring was heard at the bell; he + lifted his head; it was the postman with a letter. Philip hastily rose, + and, averting his face, on which the tears were not dried, took the + letter; and then, snatching up his little basket of fruit, repaired to his + mother’s room. + </p> + <p> + The shutters were half closed on the bright day—oh, what a mockery + is there in the smile of the happy sun when it shines on the wretched! + Mrs. Morton sat, or rather crouched, in a distant corner; her streaming + eyes fixed on vacancy; listless, drooping; a very image of desolate woe; + and Sidney was weaving flower-chains at her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma!—mother!” whispered Philip, as he threw his arms round her + neck; “look up! look up!—my heart breaks to see you. Do taste this + fruit: you will die too, if you go on thus; and what will become of us—of + Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his face, and strove to smile. + </p> + <p> + “See, too, I have brought you a letter; perhaps good news; shall I break + the seal?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton shook her head gently, and took the letter—alas! how + different from that one which Sidney had placed in her hands not two short + weeks since—it was Mr. Robert Beaufort’s handwriting. She shuddered, + and laid it down. And then there suddenly, and for the first time, flashed + across her the sense of her strange position—the dread of the + future. What were her sons to be henceforth? + </p> + <p> + What herself? Whatever the sanctity of her marriage, the law might fail + her. At the disposition of Mr. Robert Beaufort the fate of three lives + might depend. She gasped for breath; again took up the letter; and hurried + over the contents: they ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MADAM,—Knowing that you must naturally be anxious as to the + future prospects of your children and yourself, left by my poor brother + destitute of all provision, I take the earliest opportunity which it seems + to me that propriety and decorum allow, to apprise you of my intentions. I + need not say that, properly speaking, you can have no kind of claim upon + the relations of my late brother; nor will I hurt your feelings by those + moral reflections which at this season of sorrow cannot, I hope, fail + involuntarily to force themselves upon you. Without more than this mere + allusion to your peculiar connection with my brother, I may, however, be + permitted to add that that connection tended very materially to separate + him from the legitimate branches of his family; and in consulting with + them as to a provision for you and your children, I find that, besides + scruples that are to be respected, some natural degree of soreness exists + upon their minds. Out of regard, however, to my poor brother (though I saw + very little of him of late years), I am willing to waive those feelings + which, as a father and a husband, you may conceive that I share with the + rest of my family. You will probably now decide on living with some of + your own relations; and that you may not be entirely a burden to them, I + beg to say that I shall allow you a hundred a year; paid, if you prefer + it, quarterly. You may also select such articles of linen and plate as you + require for your own use. With regard to your sons, I have no objection to + place them at a grammar-school, and, at a proper age, to apprentice them + to any trade suitable to their future station, in the choice of which your + own family can give you the best advice. If they conduct themselves + properly, they may always depend on my protection. I do not wish to hurry + your movements; but it will probably be painful to you to remain longer + than you can help in a place crowded with unpleasant recollections; and as + the cottage is to be sold—indeed, my brother-in-law, Lord Lilburne, + thinks it would suit him—you will be liable to the interruption of + strangers to see it; and your prolonged residence at Fernside, you must be + sensible, is rather an obstacle to the sale. I beg to inclose you a draft + for L100. to pay any present expenses; and to request, when you are + settled, to know where the first quarter shall be paid. + </p> + <p> + “I shall write to Mr. Jackson (who, I think, is the bailiff) to detail my + instructions as to selling the crops, &c., and discharging the + servants; so that you may have no further trouble. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am, Madam, + “Your obedient Servant, + “ROBERT BEAUFORT. + “Berkeley Square, September 12th, 18—.” + </pre> + <p> + The letter fell from Catherine’s hands. Her grief was changed to + indignation and scorn. + </p> + <p> + “The insolent!” she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. “This to me!—to + me—the wife, the lawful wife of his brother! the wedded mother of + his brother’s children!” + </p> + <p> + “Say that again, mother! again—again!” cried Philip, in a loud + voice. “His wife—wedded!” + </p> + <p> + “I swear it,” said Catherine, solemnly. “I kept the secret for your + father’s sake. Now for yours, the truth must be proclaimed.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God! thank God!” murmured Philip, in a quivering voice, throwing + his arms round his brother, “We have no brand on our names, Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + At those accents, so full of suppressed joy and pride, the mother felt at + once all that her son had suspected and concealed. She felt that beneath + his haughty and wayward character there had lurked delicate and generous + forbearance for her; that from his equivocal position his very faults + might have arisen; and a pang of remorse for her long sacrifice of the + children to the father shot through her heart. It was followed by a fear, + an appalling fear, more painful than the remorse. The proofs that were to + clear herself and them! The words of her husband, that last awful morning, + rang in her ear. The minister dead; the witness absent; the register lost! + But the copy of that register!—the copy! might not that suffice? She + groaned, and closed her eyes as if to shut out the future: then starting + up, she hurried from the room, and went straight to Beaufort’s study. As + she laid her hand on the latch of the door, she trembled and drew back. + But care for the living was stronger at that moment than even anguish for + the dead: she entered the apartment; she passed with a firm step to the + bureau. It was locked; Robert Beaufort’s seal upon the lock:—on + every cupboard, every box, every drawer, the same seal that spoke of + rights more valued than her own. But Catherine was not daunted: she turned + and saw Philip by her side; she pointed to the bureau in silence; the boy + understood the appeal. He left the room, and returned in a few moments + with a chisel. The lock was broken: tremblingly and eagerly Catherine + ransacked the contents; opened paper after paper, letter after letter, in + vain: no certificate, no will, no memorial. Could the brother have + abstracted the fatal proof? A word sufficed to explain to Philip what she + sought for; and his search was more minute than hers. Every possible + receptacle for papers in that room, in the whole house, was explored, and + still the search was fruitless. + </p> + <p> + Three hours afterwards they were in the same room in which Philip had + brought Robert Beaufort’s letter to his mother. Catherine was seated, + tearless, but deadly pale with heart-sickness and dismay. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” said Philip, “may I now read the letter?” Yes, boy; and decide + for us all. She paused, and examined his face as he read. He felt her eye + was upon him, and restrained his emotions as he proceeded. When he had + done, he lifted his dark gaze upon Catherine’s watchful countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Mother, whether or not we obtain our rights, you will still refuse this + man’s charity? I am young—a boy; but I am strong and active. I will + work for you day and night. I have it in me—I feel it; anything + rather than eating his bread.” + </p> + <p> + “Philip! Philip! you are indeed my son; your father’s son! And have you no + reproach for your mother, who so weakly, so criminally, concealed your + birthright, till, alas! discovery may be too late? Oh! reproach me, + reproach me! it will be kindness. No! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. + Boy! boy! if as my heart tells me, we fail in proof, do you understand + what, in the world’s eye, I am; what you are?” + </p> + <p> + “I do!” said Philip, firmly; and he fell on his knees at her feet.” + Whatever others call you, you are a mother, and I your son. You are, in + the judgment of Heaven, my father’s Wife, and I his Heir.” + </p> + <p> + Catherine bowed her head, and with a gush of tears fell into his arms. + Sidney crept up to her, and forced his lips to her cold cheek. “Mamma! + what vexes you? Mamma, mamma!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Sidney! Sidney! How like his father! Look at him, Philip! Shall we do + right to refuse him even this pittance? Must he be a beggar too?” + </p> + <p> + “Never beggar,” said Philip, with a pride that showed what hard lessons he + had yet to learn. “The lawful sons of a Beaufort were not born to beg + their bread!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The storm above, and frozen world below. + + The olive bough + Faded and cast upon the common wind, + And earth a doveless ark.”—LAMAN BLANCHARD. +</pre> + <p> + Mr. Robert Beaufort was generally considered by the world a very worthy + man. He had never committed any excess—never gambled nor incurred + debt—nor fallen into the warm errors most common with his sex. He + was a good husband—a careful father—an agreeable neighbour—rather + charitable than otherwise, to the poor. He was honest and methodical in + his dealings, and had been known to behave handsomely in different + relations of life. Mr. Robert Beaufort, indeed, always meant to do what + was right—in the eyes of the world! He had no other rule of action + but that which the world supplied; his religion was decorum—his + sense of honour was regard to opinion. His heart was a dial to which the + world was the sun: when the great eye of the public fell on it, it + answered every purpose that a heart could answer; but when that eye was + invisible, the dial was mute—a piece of brass and nothing more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert turned pale, but Blackwell composed him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And now relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert Beaufort entered upon the full + enjoyment of his splendid fortune. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve">"The pomp of groves and garniture of fields,"</pre> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at present, my love.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could have my pony; why can’t I have my pony, mamma?” + </p> + <p> + “Because,—because—the pony is sold, Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “Who sold it?” + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not jealous, my dear; why do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Here the postman’s knock, loud and sudden, started Mrs. Morton from her + seat. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Give it me, Jane; give it me!” + </p> + <p> + “One shilling and eightpence—double charged—if you please, + ma’am! Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the pony?” + </p> + <p> + “Not now, my love; sit down; be quiet: I—I am not well.” + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> + <p> + “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 help 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, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dear Catherine, + “Your forgiving and affectionate brother, + “ROGER MORTON. + “High Street, N——, June 13.” + </pre> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You decided for us once before, decide again. But I need not ask you; you + would never—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” interrupted Philip, vaguely; “let me see what we are to + decide on.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Your brother means well,” said Philip, when he had concluded the epistle. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but nothing is to be done; I cannot, cannot send poor Sidney to—to—” + and Mrs. Morton sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you do not think, Philip, of being an apprentice!—you, who + have been so brought up—you, who are so proud!” + </p> + <p> + “Mother, I would sweep the crossings for your sake! Mother, for your sake + I would go to my uncle Beaufort with my hat in my hand, for halfpence. + Mother, I am not proud—I would be honest, if I can—but when I + see you pining away, and so changed, the devil comes into me, and I often + shudder lest I should commit some crime—what, I don’t know!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all will go well, don’t fear,” said Philip, cheerfully, and he left + the house. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Can you cast accounts?—know bookkeeping?” + </p> + <p> + “I know something of algebra, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Algebra!—oh, what else?” + </p> + <p> + “French and Latin.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum!—may be useful. Why do you wear your hair so long?—look + at mine. What’s your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Philip Morton.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “When you please, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Day after to-morrow, by six o’clock coach.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sir,” said Philip, “will there be no salary? something, ever so + small, that I could send to my another?” + </p> + <p> + “Salary, at sixteen?—board and bed—no premium! Salary, what + for? ‘Prentices have no salary!—you will have every comfort.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and kicked Philip under the table. + Philip looked fiercely at the foreman, and replied, sullenly, “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Likeness, sir? I never saw Napoleon Buonaparte.” + </p> + <p> + “Never saw him! No, just look round the room. Who does that bust put you + in mind of? who does it resemble?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose, sir, it is like you!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Kean in Richard the Third, Mr. Morton?” asked Mr. Plimmins. + </p> + <p> + “I have never seen a play.” + </p> + <p> + “Never seen a play! How very odd!” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all odd, Mr. Plimmins,” said the stationer. “Mr. Morton has known + troubles—so hand him the hot toast.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Uncommonly dark; what I may say gipsy-like,” said Mr. Plimmins. + </p> + <p> + “He! he! You always do say such good things, Plimmins. Gipsy-like, he! he! + So he is! I wonder if he can tell fortunes?” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll be long before he has a fortune of his own to tell. Ha! ha!” said + Plimmins. + </p> + <p> + “He! he! how very good! you are so pleasant, Plimmins.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Very warm. Be so good as to smoke into the face of the gentleman on the + other side of you,” returned Philip, petulantly. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You seem a strange one.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say not; for if you know all the unhappy you must have a + sufficiently large acquaintance,” returned Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Your wit is beyond your years! What is your calling, if the question does + not offend you?” + </p> + <p> + “I have none as yet,” said Philip, with a slight sigh, and a deep blush. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Enemy! I don’t understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Philip laughed: “And who are the first class of spiders?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Constance. My life, my joy, my food, my all the world, + My widow-comfort.”—King John. +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You have slept well, my lad!” said the passenger, in the deep ringing + voice which made itself heard above all the noises around. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You have had but little kindness shown you, my poor boy, if you think so + much of this.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Take care of yourself, my boy! You look ill;” and in the dark the man + slipped a sovereign into Philip’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry for that!—What and who are you?” asked Philip, with a + rude and blunt curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The physician turned to Sidney, who played with his watch-chain, and + smiled up in his face. + </p> + <p> + “And that child, sir?” said the mother, wistfully, forgetting the dread + fiat pronounced against herself,—“he is so delicate!” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, ma’am,—a very fine little fellow;” and the doctor + patted the boy’s head, and abruptly vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! mamma, I wish you would ride—I wish you would take the white + pony!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy! poor boy!” muttered the mother; “I must not be selfish.” She + covered her face with her hands, and began to think! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Constance. When I shall meet him in the court of heaven, I shall + not know him.”—King John. +</pre> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a very handsome offer on our part; some folks never know when they + are well off.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Spencer! I don’t remember him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton mixed his brandy and water, and moved his chair into its + customary corner. + </p> + <p> + “You saw your brother’s letter,” said he, after a pause; “he gives young + Philip a very good character.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “We must hope the best,” said Mr. Morton, mildly; “and—put another + lump into the grog, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Mrs. Giles!—she came to the workhouse.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Mrs. Giles, indeed! I wonder, Mr. Morton, that you, a married man + with a family, should say, poor Mrs. Giles!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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—‘” + </p> + <p> + Here a sharp, shrill ring at the bell was heard, and Mrs. Morton broke off + into: + </p> + <p> + “Well! I declare! at this hour; who can that be? And all gone to bed! Do + go and see, Mr. Morton.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, Mr. M.?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton turned back, looking agitated. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s my hat? oh, here. My sister is come, at the inn.” + </p> + <p> + “Gracious me! She does not go for to say she is your sister?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no: here’s her note—calls herself a lady that’s ill. I shall be + back soon.” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A pretty maidservant, heated and flushed with orders and compliments, + crossed his path with a tray full of glasses. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a lady come by the Telegraph?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, upstairs, No. 2, Mr. Morton.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton! He shrank at the sound of his own name. + </p> + <p> + “My wife’s right,” he muttered. “After all, this is more unpleasant than I + thought for.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “God bless you, brother! How kind to come! How long since we have met!” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Catherine, my dear sister. You are faint—you are very + much changed—very. I should not have known you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton drew his hand across his eyes. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He is a beautiful boy—beautiful. I will be a father to him!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Brother, I have one favour to request—a great favour.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything I can do in the way of money?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “You must not talk so sadly—you are young yet—younger than I + am—I don’t think of dying.” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid! but—” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “I will see her; thank you—thank you; she cannot refuse me.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>il faut souffrir pour etre belle</i>, 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Was a beauty, Mrs. M.,—was a beauty. People alter.” + </p> + <p> + “A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is—” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, can’t you walk faster?” + </p> + <p> + “If you had my corns, Mr. Morton, you would not talk in that way!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go up quickly,” said Mrs. Morton. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “This is my son;” she turned away her head. Sidney advanced towards his + protectress who was to be, and Mrs. Roger muttered: + </p> + <p> + “Come here, my dear! A fine little boy!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, but she sat herself down, and said it + was “very warm.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “And I shall stay here—in the town somewhere—and see him + sometimes?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husband—her husband glanced at the + door—and Catherine’s quick eye turned from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Morton will explain, ma’ am,” said the wife. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No one will see me—no one, but you and Sidney.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be sure to creep out; won’t it, Mrs. Morton?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 hardship of the separation he urged. He dwelt principally on + what was best for the child. Boys were so brutal in their intercourse with + each other. He had even thought it better 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. + </p> + <p> + “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: + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton and Sidney reappeared. + </p> + <p> + “We have settled it all,” said the husband. “When can we have him?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, certainly. Will he sleep alone?—pardon me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, and said, “Yes, he can have + that room.” + </p> + <p> + “Who can have that room?” asked Sidney, innocently. “You, my dear,” + replied Mr. Morton. + </p> + <p> + “And where will mamma sleep? I must sleep near mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “We will do our best, ma’am,” said Mrs. Morton. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 he + sobbed with a passion that alarmed the good-natured servant. She had been + used, however, to children, and she soothed and caressed him, and told him + of all the nice things he would do, and the nice toys he would have; and + at last, silenced, if not convinced, his eyes closed, and, the tears yet + wet on their lashes, he fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “It is I—it is Catherine! I cannot go without seeing my boy. I must + see him—I must, once more!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sister, the place is shut up—it is impossible. God bless + me, if Mrs. Morton should hear you!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come round, Catherine,” said Mr. Morton after a pause; “I will admit + you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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. +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so. What was she?—very low?” + </p> + <p> + “A tradesman’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, Arthur rose, stretched himself, looked in the glass, and then + glanced impatiently at the window. + </p> + <p> + “He ought to be here by this time.” + </p> + <p> + “He! who?” said Lord Lilburne, “the horse or the other animal—I mean + the friend?” + </p> + <p> + “The friend,” answered Arthur, smiling, but colouring while he smiled, for + he half suspected the quiet sneer of his uncle. + </p> + <p> + “Who is your friend, Arthur?” asked Mrs. Beaufort, looking up from her + work. + </p> + <p> + “Watson, an Oxford man. By the by, I must introduce him to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Watson! what Watson? what family of Watson? Some Watsons are good and + some are bad,” said Mrs. Beaufort, musingly. + </p> + <p> + “Then they are very unlike the rest of mankind,” observed Lord Lilburne, + drily. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Here Arthur threw open the window. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “An agreeable inundation,” murmured Lord Lilburne. “Three at a time: he + takes your house for Trinity College.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Get up early to-morrow, and we’ll have such a nice walk together.” + </p> + <p> + Arthur was gone: his mother’s gaze had followed his young and graceful + figure to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Own that he is handsome, Lilburne. May I not say more:—has he not + the proper air?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sister, your son will be rich. As for his air, he has plenty of + airs, but wants graces.” + </p> + <p> + “Then who could polish him like yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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——. + </p> + <p> + “It is an out-of-the-way place for a horse, too,” said Sir Harry Danvers. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Anything you please,” said Arthur, making his horse curvet. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Lean on me, my poor fellow! Do you live far off? I will take you home.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I will supply his place,” said Arthur, soothingly. “Come, lean on me—heavier; + that’s right. You are not so bad,—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Um!—the sovereigns!—it is wicked to leave them in the + kennel!” + </p> + <p> + Arthur smiled. “Here they are, sir.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Bless us and save us, sir! What has happened?” exclaimed this worthy + personage, holding up her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Pish! I am faint: let me in. I don’t want your aid any more, sir. Thank + you. Good day!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this—bad accident—um—um! Sad thing, very sad. + Open the window. A glass of water—a towel.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Tray! Tray! Where’s my dog, Mrs. Boxer?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, sir, what do you want with your dog now? He is in the back-yard.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “In my ears, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless me, that looks bad. How long have you felt it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ever since you have been in the room.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “I know—I know—coming. Mrs. Plummer or Mrs. Everat?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Here the apothecary had shuffled himself off to the street door, when + Arthur laid his hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Morton! Did you say Morton, sir? What kind of a person—is she + very ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Hopeless case, sir—general break-up. Nice woman—quite the + lady—known better days, I’m sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she any children—sons?” + </p> + <p> + “Two—both away now—fine lads—quite wrapped up in them—youngest + especially.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And where are they?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Prenticed out, I fancy. Master Sidney—” + </p> + <p> + “Sidney!” + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + “These mothers are silly, anxious, poor creatures. Nater, sir, Nater—wonderful + thing—Nater!—Here we are.” + </p> + <p> + And the apothecary knocked at the private door of a milliner and hosier’s + shop. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <h3> + “Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished.”—Titus + Andronicus. + </h3> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am, &c.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You do not remember me?” said he, in a voice struggling with tears: “I am + Arthur—Arthur Beaufort.” Catherine made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Through life, so help me Heaven!” exclaimed Arthur, falling on his knees + beside the bed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “D’ye stand amazed?—Look o’er thy head, Maximinian! + Look to the terror which overhangs thee.” + BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: The Prophetess. +</pre> + <p> + Phillip had been five weeks in his new home: in another week, he was to + enter on his articles of apprenticeship. With a stern, unbending gloom of + manner, he had commenced the duties of his novitiate. He submitted to all + that was enjoined him. He seemed to have lost for ever the wild and unruly + waywardness that had stamped his boyhood; but he was never seen to smile—he + scarcely ever opened his lips. His very soul seemed to have quitted him + with its faults; and he performed all the functions of his situation with + the quiet listless regularity of a machine. Only when the work was done + and the shop closed, instead of joining the family circle in the back + parlour, he would stroll out in the dusk of the evening, away from the + town, and not return till the hour at which the family retired to rest. + Punctual in all he did, he never exceeded that hour. He had heard once a + week from his mother; and only on the mornings in which he expected a + letter, did he seem restless and agitated. Till the postman entered the + shop, he was as pale as death—his hands trembling—his lips + compressed. When he read the letter he became composed for Catherine + sedulously concealed from her son the state of her health: she wrote + cheerfully, besought him to content himself with the state into which he + had fallen, and expressed her joy that in his letters he intimated that + content; for the poor boy’s letters were not less considerate than her + own. On her return from her brother, she had so far silenced or concealed + her misgivings as to express satisfaction at the home she had provided for + Sidney; and she even held out hopes of some future when, their probation + finished and their independence secured, she might reside with her sons + alternately. These hopes redoubled Philip’s assiduity, and he saved every + shilling of his weekly stipend; and sighed as he thought that in another + week his term of apprenticeship would commence, and the stipend cease. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Plaskwith could not but be pleased on the whole with the diligence of + his assistant, but he was chafed and irritated by the sullenness of his + manner. As for Mrs. Plaskwith, poor woman! she positively detested the + taciturn and moody boy, who never mingled in the jokes of the circle, nor + played with the children, nor complimented her, nor added, in short, + anything to the sociability of the house. Mr. Plimmins, who had at first + sought to condescend, next sought to bully; but the gaunt frame and savage + eye of Philip awed the smirk youth, in spite of himself; and he confessed + to Mrs. Plaskwith that he should not like to meet “the gipsy,” alone, on a + dark night; to which Mrs. Plaskwith replied, as usual, “that Mr. Plimmins + always did say the best things in the world!” + </p> + <p> + One morning, Philip was sent a few miles into the country, to assist in + cataloguing some books in the library of Sir Thomas Champerdown—that + gentleman, who was a scholar, having requested that some one acquainted + with the Greek character might be sent to him, and Philip being the only + one in the shop who possessed such knowledge. + </p> + <p> + It was evening before he returned. Mr. and Mrs. Plaskwith were both in the + shop as he entered—in fact, they had been employed in talking him + over. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t abide him!” cried Mrs. Plaskwith. “If you choose to take him for + good, I sha’n’t have an easy moment. I’m sure the ‘prentice that cut his + master’s throat at Chatham, last week, was just like him.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! Mrs. P.,” said the bookseller, taking a huge pinch of snuff, as + usual, from his waistcoat pocket. “I myself was reserved when I was young; + all reflective people are. I may observe, by the by, that it was the case + with Napoleon Buonaparte: still, however, I must own he is a disagreeable + youth, though he attends to his business.” + </p> + <p> + “And how fond of money he is!” remarked Mrs. Plaskwith, “he won’t buy + himself a new pair of shoes!—quite disgraceful! And did you see what + a look he gave Plimmins, when he joked about his indifference to his sole? + Plimmins always does say such good things!” + </p> + <p> + “He is shabby, certainly,” said the bookseller; “but the value of a book + does not always depend on the binding.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope he is honest!” observed Mrs. Plaskwith;—and here Philip + entered. + </p> + <p> + “Hum,” said Mr. Plaskwith; “you have had a long day’s work: but I suppose + it will take a week to finish?” + </p> + <p> + “I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir: two days more will conclude the + task.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a letter for you,” cried Mrs. Plaskwith; “you owes me for it.” + </p> + <p> + “A letter!” It was not his mother’s hand—it was a strange writing—he + gasped for breath as he broke the seal. It was the letter of the + physician. + </p> + <p> + His mother, then, was ill—dying—wanting, perhaps, the + necessaries of life. She would have concealed from him her illness and her + poverty. His quick alarm exaggerated the last into utter want;—he + uttered a cry that rang through the shop, and rushed to Mr. Plaskwith. + </p> + <p> + “Sir, sir! my mother is dying! She is poor, poor, perhaps starving;—money, + money!—lend me money!—ten pounds!—five!—I will + work for you all my life for nothing, but lend me the money!” + </p> + <p> + “Hoity-toity!” said Mrs. Plaskwith, nudging her husband—“I told you + what would come of it: it will be ‘money or life’ next time.” + </p> + <p> + Philip did not heed or hear this address; but stood immediately before the + bookseller, his hands clasped—wild impatience in his eyes. Mr. + Plaskwith, somewhat stupefied, remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear me?—are you human?” exclaimed Philip, his emotion + revealing at once all the fire of his character. “I tell you my mother is + dying; I must go to her! Shall I go empty-handed? Give me money!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Plaskwith was not a bad-hearted man; but he was a formal man, and an + irritable one. The tone his shopboy (for so he considered Philip) assumed + to him, before his own wife too (examples are very dangerous), rather + exasperated than moved him. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not the way to speak to your master:—you forget yourself, + young man!” + </p> + <p> + “Forget!—But, sir, if she has not necessaries—if she is + starving?” + </p> + <p> + “Fudge!” said Plaskwith. “Mr. Morton writes me word that he has provided + for your mother! Does he not, Hannah?” + </p> + <p> + “More fool he, I’m sure, with such a fine family of his own! Don’t look at + me in that way, young man; I won’t take it—that I won’t! I declare + my blood friz to see you!” + </p> + <p> + “Will you advance me money?—five pounds—only five pounds, Mr. + Plaskwith?” + </p> + <p> + “Not five shillings! Talk to me in this style!—not the man for it, + sir!—highly improper. Come, shut up the shop, and recollect + yourself; and, perhaps, when Sir Thomas’s library is done, I may let you + go to town. You can’t go to-morrow. All a sham, perhaps; eh, Hannah?” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely! Consult Plimmins. Better come away now, Mr. P. He looks like + a young tiger.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Plaskwith quitted the shop for the parlour. Her husband, putting his + hands behind his back, and throwing back his chin, was about to follow + her. Philip, who had remained for the last moment mute and white as stone, + turned abruptly; and his grief taking rather the tone of rage than + supplication, he threw himself before his master, and, laying his hand on + his shoulder, said: + </p> + <p> + “I leave you—do not let it be with a curse. I conjure you, have + mercy on me!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Plaskwith stopped; and had Philip then taken but a milder tone, all + had been well. But, accustomed from childhood to command—all his + fierce passions loose within him—despising the very man he thus + implored—the boy ruined his own cause. Indignant at the silence of + Mr. Plaskwith, and too blinded by his emotions to see that in that silence + there was relenting, he suddenly shook the little man with a vehemence + that almost overset him, and cried: + </p> + <p> + “You, who demand for five years my bones and blood—my body and soul—a + slave to your vile trade—do you deny me bread for a mother’s lips?” + </p> + <p> + Trembling with anger, and perhaps fear, Mr. Plaskwith extricated himself + from the gripe of Philip, and, hurrying from the shop, said, as he banged + the door: + </p> + <p> + “Beg my pardon for this to-night, or out you go to-morrow, neck and crop! + Zounds! a pretty pass the world’s come to! I don’t believe a word about + your mother. Baugh!” + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Philip remained for some moments struggling with his wrath and + agony. He then seized his hat, which he had thrown off on entering—pressed + it over his brows—turned to quit the shop—when his eye fell + upon the till. Plaskwith had left it open, and the gleam of the coin + struck his gaze—that deadly smile of the arch tempter. Intellect, + reason, conscience—all, in that instant, were confusion and chaos. + He cast a hurried glance round the solitary and darkening room—plunged + his hand into the drawer, clutched he knew not what—silver or gold, + as it came uppermost—and burst into a loud and bitter laugh. The + laugh itself startled him—it did not sound like his own. His face + fell, and his knees knocked together—his hair bristled—he felt + as if the very fiend had uttered that yell of joy over a fallen soul. + </p> + <p> + “No—no—no!” he muttered; “no, my mother,—not even for + thee!” And, dashing the money to the ground, he fled, like a maniac, from + the house. + </p> + <p> + At a later hour that same evening, Mr. Robert Beaufort returned from his + country mansion to Berkeley Square. He found his wife very uneasy and + nervous about the non-appearance of their only son. Arthur had sent home + his groom and horses about seven o’clock, with a hurried scroll, written + in pencil on a blank page torn from his pocket-book, and containing only + these words,— + </p> + <p> + “Don’t wait dinner for me—I may not be home for some hours. I have + met with a melancholy adventure. You will approve what I have done when we + meet.” + </p> + <p> + This note a little perplexed Mr. Beaufort; but, as he was very hungry, he + turned a deaf ear both to his wife’s conjectures and his own surmises, + till he had refreshed himself; and then he sent for the groom, and learned + that, after the accident to the blind man, Mr. Arthur had been left at a + hosier’s in H——. This seemed to him extremely mysterious; and, + as hour after hour passed away, and still Arthur came not, he began to + imbibe his wife’s fears, which were now wound up almost to hysterics; and + just at midnight he ordered his carriage, and taking with him the groom as + a guide, set off to the suburban region. Mrs. Beaufort had wished to + accompany him; but the husband observing that young men would be young + men, and that there might possibly be a lady in the case, Mrs. Beaufort, + after a pause of thought, passively agreed that, all things considered, + she had better remain at home. No lady of proper decorum likes to run the + risk of finding herself in a false position. Mr. Beaufort accordingly set + out alone. Easy was the carriage—swift were the steeds—and + luxuriously the wealthy man was whirled along. Not a suspicion of the true + cause of Arthur’s detention crossed him; but he thought of the snares of + London—or artful females in distress; “a melancholy adventure” + generally implies love for the adventure, and money for the melancholy; + and Arthur was young—generous—with a heart and a pocket + equally open to imposition. Such scrapes, however, do not terrify a father + when he is a man of the world, so much as they do an anxious mother; and, + with more curiosity than alarm, Mr. Beaufort, after a short doze, found + himself before the shop indicated. + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, the door to the private entrance + was ajar,—a circumstance which seemed very suspicious to Mr. + Beaufort. He pushed it open with caution and timidity—a candle + placed upon a chair in the narrow passage threw a sickly light over the + flight of stairs, till swallowed up by the deep shadow from the sharp + angle made by the ascent. Robert Beaufort stood a moment in some doubt + whether to call, to knock, to recede, or to advance, when a step was heard + upon the stairs above—it came nearer and nearer—a figure + emerged from the shadow of the last landing-place, and Mr. Beaufort, to + his great joy, recognised his son. + </p> + <p> + Arthur did not, however, seem to perceive his father; and was about to + pass him, when Mr. Beaufort laid his hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “What means all this, Arthur? What place are you in? How you have alarmed + us!” + </p> + <p> + Arthur cast a look upon his father of sadness and reproach. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” he said, in a tone that sounded stern—almost commanding—“I + will show you where I have been; follow me—nay, I say, follow.” + </p> + <p> + He turned, without another word re-ascended the stairs; and Mr. Beaufort, + surprised and awed into mechanical obedience, did as his son desired. At + the landing-place of the second floor, another long-wicked, neglected, + ghastly candle emitted its cheerless ray. It gleamed through the open door + of a small bedroom to the left, through which Beaufort perceived the forms + of two women. One (it was the kindly maidservant) was seated on a chair, + and weeping bitterly; the other (it was a hireling nurse, in the first and + last day of her attendance) was unpinning her dingy shawl before she lay + down to take a nap. She turned her vacant, listless face upon the two men, + put on a doleful smile, and decently closed the door. + </p> + <p> + “Where are we, I say, Arthur?” repeated Mr. Beaufort. Arthur took his + father’s hand-drew him into a room to the right—and taking up the + candle, placed it on a small table beside a bell, and said, “Here, sir—in + the presence of Death!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort cast a hurried and fearful glance on the still, wan, serene + face beneath his eyes, and recognised in that glance the features of the + neglected and the once adored Catherine. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—she, whom your brother so loved—the mother of his + children—died in this squalid room, and far from her sons, in + poverty, in sorrow! died of a broken heart! Was that well, father? Have + you in this nothing to repent?” + </p> + <p> + Conscience-stricken and appalled, the worldly man sank down on a seat + beside the bed, and covered his face with his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” continued Arthur, almost bitterly—“ay, we, his nearest of kin—we, + who have inherited his lands and gold—we have been thus heedless of + the great legacy your brother bequeathed to us:—the things dearest + to him—the woman he loved—the children his death cast, + nameless and branded, on the world. Ay, weep, father: and while you weep, + think of the future, of reparation. I have sworn to that clay to befriend + her sons; join you, who have all the power to fulfil the promise—join + in that vow: and may Heaven not visit on us both the woes of this bed of + death!” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know—I—I—” faltered Mr. Beaufort. + </p> + <p> + “But we should have known,” interrupted Arthur, mournfully. “Ah, my dear + father! do not harden your heart by false excuses. The dead still speaks + to you, and commends to your care her children. My task here is done: O + sir! yours is to come. I leave you alone with the dead.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, the young man, whom the tragedy of the scene had worked into a + passion and a dignity above his usual character, unwilling to trust + himself farther to his emotions, turned abruptly from the room, fled + rapidly down the stairs and left the house. As the carriage and liveries + of his father met his eye, he groaned; for their evidences of comfort and + wealth seemed a mockery to the deceased: he averted his face and walked + on. Nor did he heed or even perceive a form that at that instant rushed by + him—pale, haggard, breathless—towards the house which he had + quitted, and the door of which he left open, as he had found it—open, + as the physician had left it when hurrying, ten minutes before the arrival + of Mr. Beaufort, from the spot where his skill was impotent. Wrapped in + gloomy thought, alone, and on foot—at that dreary hour, and in that + remote suburb—the heir of the Beauforts sought his splendid home. + Anxious, fearful, hoping, the outcast orphan flew on to the death-room of + his mother. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort, who had but imperfectly heard Arthur’s parting accents, lost + and bewildered by the strangeness of his situation, did not at first + perceive that he was left alone. Surprised, and chilled by the sudden + silence of the chamber, he rose, withdrew his hands from his face, and + again he saw that countenance so mute and solemn. He cast his gaze round + the dismal room for Arthur; he called his name—no answer came; a + superstitious tremor seized upon him; his limbs shook; he sank once more + on his seat, and closed his eyes: muttering, for the first time, perhaps, + since his childhood, words of penitence and prayer. He was roused from + this bitter self-abstraction by a deep groan. It seemed to come from the + bed. Did his ears deceive him? Had the dead found a voice? He started up + in an agony of dread, and saw opposite to him the livid countenance of + Philip Morton: the Son of the Corpse had replaced the Son of the Living + Man! The dim and solitary light fell upon that countenance. There, all the + bloom and freshness natural to youth seemed blasted! There, on those + wasted features, played all the terrible power and glare of precocious + passions,—rage, woe, scorn, despair. Terrible is it to see upon the + face of a boy the storm and whirlwind that should visit only the strong + heart of man! + </p> + <p> + “She is dead!—dead! and in your presence!” shouted Philip, with his + wild eyes fixed upon the cowering uncle; “dead with—care, perhaps + with famine. And you have come to look upon your work!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed,” said Beaufort, deprecatingly, “I have but just arrived: I did + not know she had been ill, or in want, upon my honour. This is all a—a—mistake: + I—I—came in search of—of—another—” + </p> + <p> + “You did not, then, come to relieve her?” said Philip, very calmly. “You + had not learned her suffering and distress, and flown hither in the hope + that there was yet time to save her? You did not do this? Ha! ha!—why + did I think it?” + </p> + <p> + “Did any one call, gentlemen?” said a whining voice at the door; and the + nurse put in her head. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes—you may come in,” said Beaufort, shaking with + nameless and cowardly apprehension; but Philip had flown to the door, and, + gazing on the nurse, said, + </p> + <p> + “She is a stranger! see, a stranger! The son now has assumed his post. + Begone, woman!” And he pushed her away, and drew the bolt across the door. + </p> + <p> + And then there looked upon him, as there had looked upon his reluctant + companion, calm and holy, the face of the peaceful corpse. He burst into + tears, and fell on his knees so close to Beaufort that he touched him; he + took up the heavy hand, and covered it with burning kisses. + </p> + <p> + “Mother! mother! do not leave me! wake, smile once more on your son! I + would have brought you money, but I could not have asked for your + blessing, then; mother, I ask it now!” + </p> + <p> + “If I had but known—if you had but written to me, my dear young + gentleman—but my offers had been refused, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Offers of a hireling’s pittance to her; to her for whom my father would + have coined his heart’s blood into gold! My father’s wife!—his wife!—offers—” + </p> + <p> + He rose suddenly, folded his arms, and facing Beaufort, with a fierce + determined brow, said: + </p> + <p> + “Mark me, you hold the wealth that I was trained from my cradle to + consider my heritage. I have worked with these hands for bread, and never + complained, except to my own heart and soul. I never hated, and never + cursed you—robber as you were—yes, robber! For, even were + there no marriage save in the sight of God, neither my father, nor Nature, + nor Heaven, meant that you should seize all, and that there should be + nothing due to the claims of affection and blood. He was not the less my + father, even if the Church spoke not on my side. Despoiler of the orphan, + and derider of human love, you are not the less a robber though the law + fences you round, and men call you honest! But I did not hate you for + this. Now, in the presence of my dead mother—dead, far from both her + sons—now I abhor and curse you. You may think yourself safe when you + quit this room—safe, and from my hatred you may be so but do not + deceive yourself. The curse of the widow and the orphan shall pursue—it + shall cling to you and yours—it shall gnaw your heart in the midst + of splendour—it shall cleave to the heritage of your son! There + shall be a deathbed yet, beside which you shall see the spectre of her, + now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave! These words—no, + you never shall forget them—years hence they shall ring in your + ears, and freeze the marrow of your bones! And now begone, my father’s + brother—begone from my mother’s corpse to your luxurious home!” + </p> + <p> + He opened the door, and pointed to the stairs. Beaufort, without a word, + turned from the room and departed. He heard the door closed and locked as + he descended the stairs; but he did not hear the deep groans and vehement + sobs in which the desolate orphan gave vent to the anguish which succeeded + to the less sacred paroxysm of revenge and wrath. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK II. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Incubo. Look to the cavalier. What ails he? + . . . . . + Hostess. And in such good clothes, too!” + BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Love’s Pilgrimage. + + “Theod. I have a brother—there my last hope!. + Thus as you find me, without fear or wisdom, + I now am only child of Hope and Danger.”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + The time employed by Mr. Beaufort in reaching his home was haunted by + gloomy and confused terrors. He felt inexplicably as if the denunciations + of Philip were to visit less himself than his son. He trembled at the + thought of Arthur meeting this strange, wild, exasperated scatterling—perhaps + on the morrow—in the very height of his passions. And yet, after the + scene between Arthur and himself, he saw cause to fear that he might not + be able to exercise a sufficient authority over his son, however naturally + facile and obedient, to prevent his return to the house of death. In this + dilemma he resolved, as is usual with cleverer men, even when yoked to yet + feebler helpmates, to hear if his wife had anything comforting or sensible + to say upon the subject. Accordingly, on reaching Berkeley Square, he went + straight to Mrs. Beaufort; and having relieved her mind as to Arthur’s + safety, related the scene in which he had been so unwilling an actor. With + that more lively susceptibility which belongs to most women, however + comparatively unfeeling, Mrs. Beaufort made greater allowance than her + husband for the excitement Philip had betrayed. Still Beaufort’s + description of the dark menaces, the fierce countenance, the brigand-like + form, of the bereaved son, gave her very considerable apprehensions for + Arthur, should the young men meet; and she willingly coincided with her + husband in the propriety of using all means of parental persuasion or + command to guard against such an encounter. But, in the meanwhile, Arthur + returned not, and new fears seized the anxious parents. He had gone forth + alone, in a remote suburb of the metropolis, at a late hour, himself under + strong excitement. He might have returned to the house, or have lost his + way amidst some dark haunts of violence and crime; they knew not where to + send, or what to suggest. Day already began to dawn, and still he came + not. A length, towards five o’clock, a loud rap was heard at the door, and + Mr. Beaufort, hearing some bustle in the hall, descended. He saw his son + borne into the hall from a hackney-coach by two strangers, pale, bleeding, + and apparently insensible. His first thought was that he had been murdered + by Philip. He uttered a feeble cry, and sank down beside his son. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be darnted, sir,” said one of the strangers, who seemed an artisan; + “I don’t think he be much hurt. You sees he was crossing the street, and + the coach ran against him; but it did not go over his head; it be only the + stones that makes him bleed so: and that’s a mercy.” + </p> + <p> + “A providence, sir,” said the other man; “but Providence watches over us + all, night and day, sleep or wake. Hem! We were passing at the time from + the meeting—the Odd Fellows, sir—and so we took him, and got + him a coach; for we found his card in his pocket. He could not speak just + then; but the rattling of the coach did him a deal of good, for he groaned—my + eyes! how he groaned! did he not, Burrows?” + </p> + <p> + “It did one’s heart good to hear him.” + </p> + <p> + “Run for Astley Cooper—you—go to Brodie. Good Heavens! he is + dying. Be quick—quick!” cried Mr. Beaufort to his servants, while + Mrs. Beaufort, who had now gained the spot, with greater presence of mind + had Arthur conveyed into a room. + </p> + <p> + “It is a judgment upon me,” groaned Beaufort, rooted to the stone of his + hall, and left alone with the strangers. “No, sir, it is not a judgment, + it is a providence,” said the more sanctimonious and better dressed of the + two men “for, put the question, if it had been a judgment, the wheel would + have gone over him—but it didn’t; and, whether he dies or not, I + shall always say that if that’s not a providence, I don’t know what is. We + have come a long way, sir; and Burrows is a poor man, though I’m well to + do.” + </p> + <p> + This hint for money restored Beaufort to his recollection; he put his + purse into the nearest hand outstretched to clutch it, and muttered forth + something like thanks. + </p> + <p> + “Sir, may the Lord bless you! and I hope the young gentleman will do well. + I am sure you have cause to be thankful that he was within an inch of the + wheel; was he not, Burrows? Well, it’s enough to convert a heathen. But + the ways of Providence are mysterious, and that’s the truth of it. Good + night, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Certainly it did seem as if the curse of Philip was already at its work. + An accident almost similar to that which, in the adventure of the blind + man, had led Arthur to the clue of Catherine, within twenty-four hours + stretched Arthur himself upon his bed. The sorrow Mr. Beaufort had not + relieved was now at his own hearth. But there were parents and nurses, and + great physicians, and skilful surgeons, and all the army that combine + against Death, and there were ease, and luxury, and kind eyes, and pitying + looks, and all that can take the sting from pain. And thus, the very night + on which Catherine had died, broken down, and worn out, upon a strange + breast, with a feeless doctor, and by the ray of a single candle, the heir + to the fortunes once destined to her son wrestled also with the grim + Tyrant, who seemed, however, scared from his prey by the arts and luxuries + which the world of rich men raises up in defiance of the grave. + </p> + <p> + Arthur, was, indeed, very seriously injured; one of his ribs was broken, + and he had received two severe contusions on the head. To insensibility + succeeded fever, followed by delirium. He was in imminent danger for + several days. If anything could console his parents for such an + affliction, it was the thought that, at least, he was saved from the + chance of meeting Philip. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort, in the instinct of that capricious and fluctuating + conscience which belongs to weak minds, which remains still, and drooping, + and lifeless, as a flag on a masthead during the calm of prosperity, but + flutters, and flaps, and tosses when the wind blows and the wave heaves, + thought very acutely and remorsefully of the condition of the Mortons, + during the danger of his own son. So far, indeed, from his anxiety for + Arthur monopolising all his care, it only sharpened his charity towards + the orphans; for many a man becomes devout and good when he fancies he has + an Immediate interest in appeasing Providence. The morning after Arthur’s + accident, he sent for Mr. Blackwell. He commissioned him to see that + Catherine’s funeral rites were performed with all due care and attention; + he bade him obtain an interview with Philip, and assure the youth of Mr. + Beaufort’s good and friendly disposition towards him, and to offer to + forward his views in any course of education he might prefer, or any + profession he might adopt; and he earnestly counselled the lawyer to + employ all his tact and delicacy in conferring with one of so proud and + fiery a temper. Mr. Blackwell, however, had no tact or delicacy to employ: + he went to the house of mourning, forced his way to Philip, and the very + exordium of his harangue, which was devoted to praises of the + extraordinary generosity and benevolence of his employer, mingled with + condescending admonitions towards gratitude from Philip, so exasperated + the boy, that Mr. Blackwell was extremely glad to get out of the house + with a whole skin. He, however, did not neglect the more formal part of + his mission; but communicated immediately with a fashionable undertaker, + and gave orders for a very genteel funeral. He thought after the funeral + that Philip would be in a less excited state of mind, and more likely to + hear reason; he, therefore, deferred a second interview with the orphan + till after that event; and, in the meanwhile, despatched a letter to Mr. + Beaufort, stating that he had attended to his instructions; that the + orders for the funeral were given; but that at present Mr. Philip Morton’s + mind was a little disordered, and that he could not calmly discuss the + plans for the future suggested by Mr. Beaufort. He did not doubt, however, + that in another interview all would be arranged according to the wishes + his client had so nobly conveyed to him. Mr. Beaufort’s conscience on this + point was therefore set at rest. It was a dull, close, oppressive morning, + upon which the remains of Catherine Morton were consigned to the grave. + With the preparations for the funeral Philip did not interfere; he did not + inquire by whose orders all that solemnity of mutes, and coaches, and + black plumes, and crape bands, was appointed. If his vague and undeveloped + conjecture ascribed this last and vain attention to Robert Beaufort, it + neither lessened the sullen resentment he felt against his uncle, nor, on + the other hand, did he conceive that he had a right to forbid respect to + the dead, though he might reject service for the survivor. Since Mr. + Blackwell’s visit, he had remained in a sort of apathy or torpor, which + seemed to the people of the house to partake rather of indifference than + woe. + </p> + <p> + The funeral was over, and Philip had returned to the apartments occupied + by the deceased; and now, for the first time, he set himself to examine + what papers, &c., she had left behind. In an old escritoire, he found, + first, various packets of letters in his father’s handwriting, the + characters in many of them faded by time. He opened a few; they were the + earliest love-letters. He did not dare to read above a few lines; so much + did their living tenderness, and breathing, frank, hearty passion, + contrast with the fate of the adored one. In those letters, the very heart + of the writer seemed to beat! Now both hearts alike were stilled! And + GHOST called vainly unto GHOST! + </p> + <p> + He came, at length, to a letter in his mother’s hand, addressed to + himself, and dated two days before her death. He went to the window and + gasped in the mists of the sultry air for breath. Below were heard the + noises of London; the shrill cries of itinerant vendors, the rolling + carts, the whoop of boys returned for a while from school. Amidst all + these rose one loud, merry peal of laughter, which drew his attention + mechanically to the spot whence it came; it was at the threshold of a + public-house, before which stood the hearse that had conveyed his mother’s + coffin, and the gay undertakers, halting there to refresh themselves. He + closed the window with a groan, retired to the farthest corner of the + room, and read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAREST PHILIP,—When you read this, I shall be no more. You and + poor Sidney will have neither father nor mother, nor fortune, nor name. + Heaven is more just than man, and in Heaven is my hope for you. You, + Philip, are already past childhood; your nature is one formed, I think, to + wrestle successfully with the world. Guard against your own passions, and + you may bid defiance to the obstacles that will beset your path in life. + And lately, in our reverses, Philip, you have so subdued those passions, + so schooled the pride and impetuosity of your childhood, that I have + contemplated your prospects with less fear than I used to do, even when + they seemed so brilliant. Forgive me, my dear child, if I have concealed + from you my state of health, and if my death be a sudden and unlooked-for + shock. Do not grieve for me too long. For myself, my release is indeed + escape from the prison-house and the chain—from bodily pain and + mental torture, which may, I fondly hope, prove some expiation for the + errors of a happier time. For I did err, when, even from the least selfish + motives, I suffered my union with your father to remain concealed, and + thus ruined the hopes of those who had rights upon me equal even to his. + But, O Philip! beware of the first false steps into deceit; beware, too, + of the passions, which do not betray their fruit till years and years + after the leaves that look so green and the blossoms that seem so fair. + </p> + <p> + “I repeat my solemn injunction—Do not grieve for me; but strengthen + your mind and heart to receive the charge that I now confide to you—my + Sidney, my child, your brother! He is so soft, so gentle, he has been so + dependent for very life upon me, and we are parted now for the first and + last time. He is with strangers; and—and—O Philip, Philip! + watch over him for the love you bear, not only to him, but to me! Be to + him a father as well as a brother. Put your stout heart against the world, + so that you may screen him, the weak child, from its malice. He has not + your talents nor strength of character; without you he is nothing. Live, + toil, rise for his sake not less than your own. If you knew how this heart + beats as I write to you, if you could conceive what comfort I take for him + from my confidence in you, you would feel a new spirit—my spirit—my + mother-spirit of love, and forethought, and vigilance, enter into you + while you read. See him when I am gone—comfort and soothe him. + Happily he is too young yet to know all his loss; and do not let him think + unkindly of me in the days to come, for he is a child now, and they may + poison his mind against me more easily than they can yours. Think, if he + is unhappy hereafter, he may forget how I loved him, he may curse those + who gave him birth. Forgive me all this, Philip, my son, and heed it well. + </p> + <p> + “And now, where you find this letter, you will see a key; it opens a well + in the bureau in which I have hoarded my little savings. You will see that + I have not died in poverty. Take what there is; young as you are, you may + want it more now than hereafter. But hold it in trust for your brother as + well as yourself. If he is harshly treated (and you will go and see him, + and you will remember that he would writhe under what you might scarcely + feel), or if they overtask him (he is so young to work), yet it may find + him a home near you. God watch over and guard you both! You are orphans + now. But HE has told even the orphans to call him ‘Father!’” + </p> + <p> + When he had read this letter, Philip Morton fell upon his knees, and + prayed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His curse! Dost comprehend what that word means? + Shot from a father’s angry breath.” + JAMES SHIRLEY: The Brothers. + + “This term is fatal, and affrights me.”—Ibid. + + “Those fond philosophers that magnify + Our human nature...... + Conversed but little with the world-they knew not + The fierce vexation of community!”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + After he had recovered his self-possession, Philip opened the well of the + bureau, and was astonished and affected to find that Catherine had saved + more than L100. Alas! how much must she have pinched herself to have + hoarded this little treasure! After burning his father’s love-letters, and + some other papers, which he deemed useless, he made up a little bundle of + those trifling effects belonging to the deceased, which he valued as + memorials and relies of her, quitted the apartment, and descended to the + parlour behind the shop. On the way he met with the kind servant, and + recalling the grief that she had manifested for his mother since he had + been in the house, he placed two sovereigns in her hand. “And now,” said + he, as the servant wept while he spoke, “now I can bear to ask you what I + have not before done. How did my poor mother die? Did she suffer much?—or—or—” + </p> + <p> + “She went off like a lamb, sir,” said the girl, drying her eyes. “You see + the gentleman had been with her all the day, and she was much more easy + and comfortable in her mind after he came.” + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman! Not the gentleman I found here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear no! Not the pale middle-aged gentleman nurse and I saw go down + as the clock struck two. But the young, soft-spoken gentleman who came in + the morning, and said as how he was a relation. He stayed with her till + she slept; and, when she woke, she smiled in his face—I shall never + forget that smile—for I was standing on the other side, as it might + be here, and the doctor was by the window, pouring out the doctor’s stuff + in the glass; and so she looked on the young gentleman, and then looked + round at us all, and shook her head very gently, but did not speak. And + the gentleman asked her how she felt, and she took both his hands and + kissed them; and then he put his arms round and raised her up to take the + physic like, and she said then, ‘You will never forget them?’ and he said, + ‘Never.’ I don’t know what that meant, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well—go on.” + </p> + <p> + “And her head fell back on his buzzom, and she looked so happy; and, when + the doctor came to the bedside, she was quite gone.” + </p> + <p> + “And the stranger had my post! No matter; God bless him—God bless + him. Who was he? what was his name?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, sir; he did not say. He stayed after the doctor went, and + cried very bitterly; he took on more than you did, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And the other gentleman came just as he was a-going, and they did not + seem to like each other; for I heard him through the wall, as nurse and I + were in the next room, speak as if he was scolding; but he did not stay + long.” + </p> + <p> + “And has never been seen since?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. Perhaps missus can tell you more about him. But won’t you take + something, sir? Do—you look so pale.” + </p> + <p> + Philip, without speaking, pushed her gently aside, and went slowly down + the stairs. He entered the parlour, where two or three children were + seated, playing at dominoes; he despatched one for their mother, the + mistress of the shop, who came in, and dropped him a courtesy, with a very + grave, sad face, as was proper. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to leave your house, ma’am; and I wish to settle any little + arrears of rent, &c.” + </p> + <p> + “O sir! don’t mention it,” said the landlady; and, as she spoke, she took + a piece of paper from her bosom, very neatly folded, and laid it on the + table. “And here, sir,” she added, taking from the same depository a card,—“here + is the card left by the gentleman who saw to the funeral. He called half + an hour ago, and bade me say, with his compliments, that he would wait on + you to-morrow at eleven o’clock. So I hope you won’t go yet: for I think + he means to settle everything for you; he said as much, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Philip glanced over the card, and read, “Mr. George Blackwell, Lincoln’s + Inn.” His brow grew dark—he let the card fall on the ground, put his + foot on it with a quiet scorn, and muttered to himself, “The lawyer shall + not bribe me out of my curse!” He turned to the total of the bill—not + heavy, for poor Catherine had regularly defrayed the expense of her scanty + maintenance and humble lodging—paid the money, and, as the landlady + wrote the receipt, he asked, “Who was the gentleman—the younger + gentleman—who called in the morning of the day my mother died?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir! I am so sorry I did not get his name. Mr. Perkins said that he + was some relation. Very odd he has never been since. But he’ll be sure to + call again, sir; you had much better stay here.” + </p> + <p> + “No: it does not signify. All that he could do is done. But stay, give him + this note, if he should call.” + </p> + <p> + Philip, taking the pen from the landlady’s hand, hastily wrote (while Mrs. + Lacy went to bring him sealing-wax and a light) these words: + </p> + <p> + “I cannot guess who you are: they say that you call yourself a relation; + that must be some mistake. I knew not that my poor mother had relations so + kind. But, whoever you be, you soothed her last hours—she died in + your arms; and if ever—years, long years hence—we should + chance to meet, and I can do anything to aid another, my blood, and my + life, and my heart, and my soul, all are slaves to your will. If you be + really of her kindred, I commend to you my brother: he is at ——, + with Mr. Morton. If you can serve him, my mother’s soul will watch over + you as a guardian angel. As for me, I ask no help from any one: I go into + the world and will carve out my own way. So much do I shrink from the + thought of charity from others, that I do not believe I could bless you as + I do now if your kindness to me did not close with the stone upon my + mother’s grave. PHILIP.” + </p> + <p> + He sealed this letter, and gave it to the woman. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by the by,” said she, “I had forgot; the Doctor said that if you + would send for him, he would be most happy to call on you, and give you + any advice.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + “And what shall I say to Mr. Blackwell?” + </p> + <p> + “That he may tell his employer to remember our last interview.” + </p> + <p> + With that Philip took up his bundle and strode from the house. He went + first to the churchyard, where his mother’s remains had been that day + interred. It was near at hand, a quiet, almost a rural, spot. The gate + stood ajar, for there was a public path through the churchyard, and Philip + entered with a noiseless tread. It was then near evening; the sun had + broken out from the mists of the earlier day, and the wistering rays shone + bright and holy upon the solemn place. + </p> + <p> + “Mother! mother!” sobbed the orphan, as he fell prostrate before that + fresh green mound: “here—here I have come to repeat my oath, to + swear again that I will be faithful to the charge you have entrusted to + your wretched son! And at this hour I dare ask if there be on this earth + one more miserable and forlorn?” + </p> + <p> + As words to this effect struggled from his lips, a loud, shrill voice—the + cracked, painful voice of weak age wrestling with strong passion, rose + close at hand. + </p> + <p> + “Away, reprobate! thou art accursed!” + </p> + <p> + Philip started, and shuddered as if the words were addressed to himself, + and from the grave. But, as he rose on his knee, and tossing the wild hair + from his eyes, looked confusedly round, he saw, at a short distance, and + in the shadow of the wall, two forms; the one, an old man with grey hair, + who was seated on a crumbling wooden tomb, facing the setting sun; the + other, a man apparently yet in the vigour of life, who appeared bent as in + humble supplication. The old man’s hands were outstretched over the head + of the younger, as if suiting terrible action to the terrible words, and, + after a moment’s pause—a moment, but it seemed far longer to Philip—there + was heard a deep, wild, ghastly howl from a dog that cowered at the old + man’s feet; a howl, perhaps of fear at the passion of his master, which + the animal might associate with danger. + </p> + <p> + “Father! father!” said the suppliant reproachfully, “your very dog rebukes + your curse.” + </p> + <p> + “Be dumb! My dog! What hast thou left me on earth but him? Thou hast made + me loathe the sight of friends, for thou hast made me loathe mine own + name. Thou hast covered it with disgrace,—thou hast turned mine old + age into a by-word,—thy crimes leave me solitary in the midst of my + shame!” + </p> + <p> + “It is many years since we met, father; we may never meet again—shall + we part thus?” + </p> + <p> + “Thus, aha!” said the old man in a tone of withering sarcasm! “I + comprehend,—you are come for money!” + </p> + <p> + At this taunt the son started as if stung by a serpent; raised his head to + its full height, folded his arms, and replied: + </p> + <p> + “Sir, you wrong me: for more than twenty years I have maintained myself—no + matter how, but without taxing you;—and now, I felt remorse for + having suffered you to discard me,—now, when you are old and + helpless, and, I heard, blind: and you might want aid, even from your poor + good-for-nothing son. But I have done. Forget,—not my sins, but this + interview. Repeal your curse, father; I have enough on my head without + yours; and so—let the son at least bless the father who curses him. + Farewell!” + </p> + <p> + The speaker turned as he thus said, with a voice that trembled at the + close, and brushed rapidly by Philip, whom he did not, however, appear to + perceive; but Philip, by the last red beam of the sun, saw again that + marked storm-beaten face which it was difficult, once seen, to forget, and + recognised the stranger on whose breast he had slept the night of his + fatal visit to R——. + </p> + <p> + The old man’s imperfect vision did not detect the departure of his son, + but his face changed and softened as the latter strode silently through + the rank grass. + </p> + <p> + “William!” he said at last, gently; “William!” and the tears rolled down + his furrowed cheeks; “my son!” but that son was gone—the old man + listened for reply—none came. “He has left me—poor William!—we + shall never meet again;” and he sank once more on the old tombstone, dumb, + rigid, motionless—an image of Time himself in his own domain of + Graves. The dog crept closer to his master, and licked his hand. Philip + stood for a moment in thoughtful silence: his exclamation of despair had + been answered as by his better angel. There was a being more miserable + than himself; and the Accursed would have envied the Bereaved! + </p> + <p> + The twilight had closed in; the earliest star—the star of Memory and + Love, the Hesperus hymned by every poet since the world began—was + fair in the arch of heaven, as Philip quitted the spot, with a spirit more + reconciled to the future, more softened, chastened, attuned to gentle and + pious thoughts than perhaps ever yet had made his soul dominant over the + deep and dark tide of his gloomy passions. He went thence to a + neighbouring sculptor, and paid beforehand for a plain tablet to be placed + above the grave he had left. He had just quitted that shop, in the same + street, not many doors removed from the house in which his mother had + breathed her last. He was pausing by a crossing, irresolute whether to + repair at once to the home assigned to Sidney, or to seek some shelter in + town for that night, when three men who were on the opposite side of the + way suddenly caught sight of him. + </p> + <p> + “There he is—there he is! Stop, sir!—stop!” + </p> + <p> + Philip heard these words, looked up, and recognised the voice and the + person of Mr. Plaskwith; the bookseller was accompanied by Mr. Plimmins, + and a sturdy, ill-favoured stranger. + </p> + <p> + A nameless feeling of fear, rage, and disgust seized the unhappy boy, and + at the same moment a ragged vagabond whispered to him, “Stump it, my cove; + that’s a Bow Street runner.” + </p> + <p> + Then there shot through Philip’s mind the recollection of the money he had + seized, though but to dash away; was he now—he, still to his own + conviction, the heir of an ancient and spotless name—to be hunted as + a thief; or, at the best, what right over his person and his liberty had + he given to his taskmaster? Ignorant of the law—the law only seemed + to him, as it ever does to the ignorant and the friendless—a Foe. + Quicker than lightning these thoughts, which it takes so many words to + describe, flashed through the storm and darkness of his breast; and at the + very instant that Mr. Plimmins had laid hands on his shoulder his + resolution was formed. The instinct of self beat loud at his heart. With a + bound—a spring that sent Mr. Plimmins sprawling in the kennel, he + darted across the road, and fled down an opposite lane. + </p> + <p> + “Stop him! stop!” cried the bookseller, and the officer rushed after him + with almost equal speed. Lane after lane, alley after alley, fled Philip; + dodging, winding, breathless, panting; and lane after lane, and alley + after alley, thickened at his heels the crowd that pursued. The idle and + the curious, and the officious,—ragged boys, ragged men, from stall + and from cellar, from corner and from crossing, joined in that delicious + chase, which runs down young Error till it sinks, too often, at the door + of the gaol or the foot of the gallows. But Philip slackened not his pace; + he began to distance his pursuers. He was now in a street which they had + not yet entered—a quiet street, with few, if any, shops. Before the + threshold of a better kind of public-house, or rather tavern, to judge by + its appearance, lounged two men; and while Philip flew on, the cry of + “Stop him!” had changed as the shout passed to new voices, into “Stop the + thief!”—that cry yet howled in the distance. One of the loungers + seized him: Philip, desperate and ferocious, struck at him with all his + force; but the blow was scarcely felt by that Herculean frame. + </p> + <p> + “Pish!” said the man, scornfully; “I am no spy; if you run from justice, I + would help you to a sign-post.” + </p> + <p> + Struck by the voice, Philip looked hard at the speaker. It was the voice + of the Accursed Son. + </p> + <p> + “Save me! you remember me?” said the orphan, faintly. “Ah! I think I do; + poor lad! Follow me—this way!” The stranger turned within the + tavern, passed the hall through a sort of corridor that led into a back + yard which opened upon a nest of courts or passages. + </p> + <p> + “You are safe for the present; I will take you where you can tell me all + at your ease—See!” As he spoke they emerged into an open street, and + the guide pointed to a row of hackney coaches. “Be quick—get in. + Coachman, drive fast to —-” + </p> + <p> + Philip did not hear the rest of the direction. + </p> + <p> + Our story returns to Sidney. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nous vous mettrons a couvert, + Repondit le pot de fer + Si quelque matiere dure + Vous menace d’aventure, + Entre deux je passerai, + Et du coup vous sauverai. + ........ + Le pot de terre en souffre!”—LA FONTAINE. + + [“We, replied the Iron Pot, will shield you: should any hard + substance menace you with danger, I’ll intervene, and save you + from the shock. + ......... The Earthen Pot was the sufferer!] +</pre> + <p> + “SIDNEY, come here, sir! What have you been at? you have torn your frill + into tatters! How did you do this? Come sir, no lies.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, ma’am, it was not my fault. I just put my head out of the window + to see the coach go by, and a nail caught me here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you little plague! you have scratched yourself—you are always + in mischief. What business had you to look after the coach?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Sidney, hanging his head ruefully. “La, mother!” + cried the youngest of the cousins, a square-built, ruddy, coarse-featured + urchin, about Sidney’s age, “La, mother, he never see a coach in the + street when we are at play but he runs arter it.” + </p> + <p> + “After, not arter,” said Mr. Roger Morton, taking the pipe from his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you go after the coaches, Sidney?” said Mrs. Morton; “it is very + naughty; you will be run over some day.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am,” said Sidney, who during the whole colloquy had been + trembling from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes ma’am,’ and ‘no, ma’am:’ you have no more manners than a cobbler’s + boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tease the child, my dear; he is crying,” said Mr. Morton, more + authoritatively than usual. “Come here, my man!” and the worthy uncle took + him in his lap and held his glass of brandy-and-water to his lips; Sidney, + too frightened to refuse, sipped hurriedly, keeping his large eyes fixed + on his aunt, as children do when they fear a cuff. + </p> + <p> + “You spoil the boy more than do your own flesh and blood,” said Mrs. + Morton, greatly displeased. + </p> + <p> + Here Tom, the youngest-born before described, put his mouth to his + mother’s ear, and whispered loud enough to be heard by all: “He runs arter + the coach ‘cause he thinks his ma may be in it. Who’s home-sick, I should + like to know? Ba! Baa!” + </p> + <p> + The boy pointed his finger over his mother’s shoulder, and the other + children burst into a loud giggle. + </p> + <p> + “Leave the room, all of you,—leave the room!” said Mr. Morton, + rising angrily and stamping his foot. + </p> + <p> + The children, who were in great awe of their father, huddled and hustled + each other to the door; but Tom, who went last, bold in his mother’s + favour, popped his head through the doorway, and cried, “Good-bye, little + home-sick!” + </p> + <p> + A sudden slap in the face from his father changed his chuckle into a very + different kind of music, and a loud indignant sob was heard without for + some moments after the door was closed. + </p> + <p> + “If that’s the way you behave to your children, Mr. Morton, I vow you + sha’n’t have any more if I can help it. Don’t come near me—don’t + touch me!” and Mrs. Morton assumed the resentful air of offended beauty. + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!” growled the spouse, and he reseated himself and resumed his pipe. + There was a dead silence. Sidney crouched near his uncle, looking very + pale. Mrs. Morton, who was knitting, knitted away with the excited energy + of nervous irritation. + </p> + <p> + “Ring the bell, Sidney,” said Mr. Morton. The boy obeyed—the + parlour-maid entered. “Take Master Sidney to his room; keep the boys away + from him, and give him a large slice of bread and jam, Martha.” + </p> + <p> + “Jam, indeed!—treacle,” said Mrs. Morton. + </p> + <p> + “Jam, Martha,” repeated the uncle, authoritatively. “Treacle!” reiterated + the aunt. + </p> + <p> + “Jam, I say!” + </p> + <p> + “Treacle, you hear: and for that matter, Martha has no jam to give!” + </p> + <p> + The husband had nothing more to say. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, Sidney; there’s a good boy, go and kiss your aunt and make + your bow; and I say, my lad, don’t mind those plagues. I’ll talk to them + to-morrow, that I will; no one shall be unkind to you in my house.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney muttered something, and went timidly up to Mrs. Morton. His look so + gentle and subdued; his eyes full of tears; his pretty mouth which, though + silent, pleaded so eloquently; his willingness to forgive, and his wish to + be forgiven, might have melted many a heart harder, perhaps, than Mrs. + Morton’s. But there reigned what are worse than hardness,—prejudice + and wounded vanity—maternal vanity. His contrast to her own rough, + coarse children grated on her, and set the teeth of her mind on edge. + </p> + <p> + “There, child, don’t tread on my gown: you are so awkward: say your + prayers, and don’t throw off the counterpane! I don’t like slovenly boys.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped, and vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Mrs. M.,” said Mr. Morton, abruptly, and knocking out the ashes of + his pipe; “now Mrs. M., one word for all: I have told you that I promised + poor Catherine to be a father to that child, and it goes to my heart to + see him so snubbed. Why you dislike him I can’t guess for the life of me. + I never saw a sweeter-tempered child.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, sir, go on: make your personal reflections on your own lawful + wife. They don’t hurt me—oh no, not at all! Sweet-tempered, indeed; + I suppose your own children are not sweet-tempered?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s neither here nor there,” said Mr. Morton: “my own children are + such as God made them, and I am very well satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed you may be proud of such a family; and to think of the pains I + have taken with them, and how I have saved you in nurses, and the bad + times I have had; and now, to find their noses put out of joint by that + little mischief-making interloper—it is too bad of you, Mr. Morton; + you will break my heart—that you will!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton put her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed. The husband was + moved: he got up and attempted to take her hand. “Indeed, Margaret, I did + not mean to vex you.” + </p> + <p> + “And I who have been such a fa—fai—faithful wi—wi—wife, + and brought you such a deal of mon—mon—money, and always stud—stud—studied + your interests; many’s the time when you have been fast asleep that I have + sat up half the night—men—men—mending the house linen; + and you have not been the same man, Roger, since that boy came!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well” said the good man, quite overcome, and fairly taking her + round the waist and kissing her; “no words between us; it makes life quite + unpleasant. If it pains you to have Sidney here, I will put him to some + school in the town, where they’ll be kind to him. Only, if you would, + Margaret, for my sake—old girl! come, now! there’s a darling!—just + be more tender with him. You see he frets so after his mother. Think how + little Tom would fret if he was away from you! Poor little Tom!” + </p> + <p> + “La! Mr. Morton, you are such a man!—there’s no resisting your ways! + You know how to come over me, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Morton smiled benignly, as she escaped from his conjugal arms and + smoothed her cap. + </p> + <p> + Peace thus restored, Mr. Morton refilled his pipe, and the good lady, + after a pause, resumed, in a very mild, conciliatory tone: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you what it is, Roger, that vexes me with that there child. He + is so deceitful, and he does tell such fibs!” + </p> + <p> + “Fibs! that is a very bad fault,” said Mr. Morton, gravely. “That must be + corrected.” + </p> + <p> + “It was but the other day that I saw him break a pane of glass in the + shop; and when I taxed him with it, he denied it;—and with such a + face! I can’t abide storytelling.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me know the next story he tells; I’ll cure him,” said Mr. Morton, + sternly. “You now how I broke Tom of it. Spare the rod, and spoil the + child. And where I promised to be kind to the boy, of course I did not + mean that I was not to take care of his morals, and see that he grew up an + honest man. Tell truth and shame the devil—that’s my motto.” + </p> + <p> + “Spoke like yourself, Roger,” said Mrs. Morton, with great animation. “But + you see he has not had the advantage of such a father as you. I wonder + your sister don’t write to you. Some people make a great fuss about their + feelings; but out of sight out of mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope she is not ill. Poor Catherine! she looked in a very bad way when + she was here,” said Morton; and he turned uneasily to the fireplace and + sighed. + </p> + <p> + Here the servant entered with the supper-tray, and the conversation fell + upon other topics. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Roger Morton’s charge against Sidney was, alas! too true. He had + acquired, under that roof, a terrible habit of telling stories. He had + never incurred that vice with his mother, because then and there he had + nothing to fear; now, he had everything to fear;—the grim aunt—even + the quiet, kind, cold, austere uncle—the apprentices—the + strange servants—and, oh! more than all, those hardeyed, + loud-laughing tormentors, the boys of his own age! Naturally timid, + severity made him actually a coward; and when the nerves tremble, a lie + sounds as surely as, when I vibrate that wire, the bell at the end of it + will ring. Beware of the man who has been roughly treated as a child. + </p> + <p> + The day after the conference just narrated, Mr. Morton, who was subject to + erysipelas, had taken a little cooling medicine. He breakfasted, + therefore, later than usual—after the rest of the family; and at + this meal pour lui soulager he ordered the luxury of a muffin. Now it so + chanced that he had only finished half the muffin, and drunk one cup of + tea, when he was called into the shop by a customer of great importance—a + prosy old lady, who always gave her orders with remarkable precision, and + who valued herself on a character for affability, which she maintained by + never buying a penny riband without asking the shopman how all his family + were, and talking news about every other family in the place. At the time + Mr. Morton left the parlour, Sidney and Master Tom were therein, seated on + two stools, and casting up division sums on their respective slates—a + point of education to which Mr. Morton attended with great care. As soon + as his father’s back was turned, Master Tom’s eyes wandered from the slate + to the muffin, as it leered at him from the slop-basin. Never did Pythian + sibyl, seated above the bubbling spring, utter more oracular eloquence to + her priest, than did that muffin—at least the parts of it yet extant—utter + to the fascinated senses of Master Tom. First he sighed; then he moved + round on his stool; then he got up; then he peered at the muffin from a + respectful distance; then he gradually approached, and walked round, and + round, and round it—his eyes getting bigger and bigger; then he + peeped through the glass-door into the shop, and saw his father busily + engaged with the old lady; then he began to calculate and philosophise, + perhaps his father had done breakfast; perhaps he would not come back at + all; if he came back, he would not miss one corner of the muffin; and if + he did miss it, why should Tom be supposed to have taken it? As he thus + communed with himself, he drew nearer into the fatal vortex, and at last + with a desperate plunge, he seized the triangular temptation,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And ere a man had power to say ‘Behold!’ + The jaws of Thomas had devoured it up.” + </pre> + <p> + Sidney, disturbed from his studies by the agitation of his companion, + witnessed this proceeding with great and conscientious alarm. “O Tom!” + said he, “what will your papa say?” + </p> + <p> + “Look at that!” said Tom, putting his fist under Sidney’s reluctant nose. + “If father misses it, you’ll say the cat took it. If you don’t—my + eye, what a wapping I’ll give you!” + </p> + <p> + Here Mr. Morton’s voice was heard wishing the lady “Good morning!” and + Master Tom, thinking it better to leave the credit of the invention solely + to Sidney, whispered, “Say I’m gone up stairs for my pocket-hanker,” and + hastily absconded. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton, already in a very bad humour, partly at the effects of the + cooling medicine, partly at the suspension of his breakfast, stalked into + the parlour. His tea-the second cup already poured out, was cold. He + turned towards the muffin, and missed the lost piece at a glance. + </p> + <p> + “Who has been at my muffin?” said he, in a voice that seemed to Sidney + like the voice he had always supposed an ogre to possess. “Have you, + Master Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “N—n—no, sir; indeed, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Then Tom has. Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone up stairs for his handkerchief, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he take my muffin? Speak the truth!” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; it was the—it was the—the cat, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “O you wicked, wicked boy!” cried Mrs. Morton, who had followed her + husband into the parlour; “the cat kittened last night, and is locked up + in the coal-cellar!” + </p> + <p> + “Come here, Master Sidney! No! first go down, Margaret, and see if the cat + is in the cellar: it might have got out, Mrs. M.,” said Mr. Morton, just + even in his wrath. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton went, and there was a dead silence, except indeed in Sidney’s + heart, which beat louder than a clock ticks. Mr. Morton, meanwhile, went + to a little cupboard;—while still there, Mrs. Morton returned: the + cat was in the cellar—the key turned on her—in no mood to eat + muffins, poor thing!—she would not even lap her milk! like her + mistress, she had had a very bad time! + </p> + <p> + “Now come here, sir,” said Mr. Morton, withdrawing himself from the + cupboard, with a small horsewhip in his hand, “I will teach you how to + speak the truth in future! Confess that you have told a lie!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, it was a lie! Pray—pray forgive me: but Tom made me!” + </p> + <p> + “What! when poor Tom is up-stairs? worse and worse!” said Mrs. Morton, + lifting up her hands and eyes. “What a viper!” + </p> + <p> + “For shame, boy,—for shame! Take that—and that—and that—” + </p> + <p> + Writhing—shrinking, still more terrified than hurt, the poor child + cowered beneath the lash. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma! mamma!” he cried at last, “Oh, why—why did you leave me?” + </p> + <p> + At these words Mr. Morton stayed his hand, the whip fell to the ground. + </p> + <p> + “Yet it is all for the boy’s good,” he muttered. “There, child, I hope + this is the last time. There, you are not much hurt. Zounds, don’t cry + so!” + </p> + <p> + “He will alarm the whole street,” said Mrs. Morton; “I never see such a + child! Here, take this parcel to Mrs. Birnie’s—you know the house—only + next street, and dry your eyes before you get there. Don’t go through the + shop; this way out.” + </p> + <p> + She pushed the child, still sobbing with a vehemence that she could not + comprehend, through the private passage into the street, and returned to + her husband. + </p> + <p> + “You are convinced now, Mr. M.?” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! ma’am; don’t talk. But, to be sure, that’s how I cured Tom of + fibbing.—The tea’s as cold as a stone!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Le bien nous le faisons: le mal c’est la Fortune. + On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort.”—LA FONTAINE. + + [The Good, we effect ourselves; the Evil is the handiwork of + Fortune. Mortals are always in the right, Destiny always in the + wrong.] +</pre> + <p> + Upon the early morning of the day commemorated by the historical events of + our last chapter, two men were deposited by a branch coach at the inn of a + hamlet about ten miles distant from the town in which Mr. Roger Morton + resided. Though the hamlet was small, the inn was large, for it was placed + close by a huge finger-post that pointed to three great roads: one led to + the town before mentioned; another to the heart of a manufacturing + district; and a third to a populous seaport. The weather was fine, and the + two travellers ordered breakfast to be taken into an arbour in the garden, + as well as the basins and towels necessary for ablution. The elder of the + travellers appeared to be unequivocally foreign; you would have guessed + him at once for a German. He wore, what was then very uncommon in this + country, a loose, brown linen blouse, buttoned to the chin, with a + leathern belt, into which were stuck a German meerschaum and a + tobacco-pouch. He had very long flaxen hair, false or real, that streamed + half-way down his back, large light mustaches, and a rough, sunburnt + complexion, which made the fairness of the hair more remarkable. He wore + an enormous pair of green spectacles, and complained much in broken + English of the weakness of his eyes. All about him, even to the smallest + minutiae, indicated the German; not only the large muscular frame, the + broad feet, and vast though well-shaped hands, but the brooch—evidently + purchased of a Jew in some great fair—stuck ostentatiously and + superfluously into his stock; the quaint, droll-looking carpet-bag, which + he refused to trust to the boots; and the great, massive, dingy ring which + he wore on his forefinger. The other was a slender, remarkably upright and + sinewy youth, in a blue frock, over which was thrown a large cloak, a + travelling cap, with a shade that concealed all of the upper part of his + face, except a dark quick eye of uncommon fire; and a shawl handkerchief, + which was equally useful in concealing the lower part of the countenance. + On descending from the coach, the German with some difficulty made the + ostler understand that he wanted a post-chaise in a quarter of an hour; + and then, without entering the house, he and his friend strolled to the + arbour. While the maid-servant was covering the table with bread, butter, + tea, eggs, and a huge round of beef, the German was busy in washing his + hands, and talking in his national tongue to the young man, who returned + no answer. But as soon as the servant had completed her operations the + foreigner turned round, and observing her eyes fixed on his brooch with + much female admiration, he made one stride to her. + </p> + <p> + “Der Teufel, my goot Madchen—but you are von var pretty—vat + you call it?” and he gave her, as he spoke, so hearty a smack that the + girl was more flustered than flattered by the courtesy. + </p> + <p> + “Keep yourself to yourself, sir!” said she, very tartly, for chambermaids + never like to be kissed by a middle-aged gentleman when a younger one is + by: whereupon the German replied by a pinch,—it is immaterial to + state the exact spot to which that delicate caress was directed. But this + last offence was so inexpiable, that the “Madchen” bounced off with a face + of scarlet, and a “Sir, you are no gentleman—that’s what you arn’t!” + The German thrust his head out of the arbour, and followed her with a loud + laugh; then drawing himself in again, he said in quite another accent, and + in excellent English, “There, Master Philip, we have got rid of the girl + for the rest of the morning, and that’s exactly what I wanted to do—women’s + wits are confoundedly sharp. Well, did I not tell you right, we have + baffled all the bloodhounds!” + </p> + <p> + “And here, then, Gawtrey, we are to part,” said Philip, mournfully. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would think better of it, my boy,” returned Mr. Gawtrey, + breaking an egg; “how can you shift for yourself—no kith nor kin, + not even that important machine for giving advice called a friend—no, + not a friend, when I am gone? I foresee how it must end. [D—- it, + salt butter, by Jove!]” + </p> + <p> + “If I were alone in the world, as I have told you again and again, perhaps + I might pin my fate to yours. But my brother!” + </p> + <p> + “There it is, always wrong when we act from our feelings. My whole life, + which some day or other I will tell you, proves that. Your brother—bah! + is he not very well off with his own uncle and aunt?—plenty to eat + and drink, I dare say. Come, man, you must be as hungry as a hawk—a + slice of the beef? Let well alone, and shift for yourself. What good can + you do your brother?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, but I must see him; I have sworn it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, go and see him, and then strike across the country to me. I will + wait a day for you,—there now!” + </p> + <p> + “But tell me first,” said Philip, very earnestly, and fixing his dark eyes + on his companion,—“tell me—yes, I must speak frankly—tell + me, you who would link my fortunes with your own,—tell me, what and + who are you?” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey looked up. + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose?” said he, dryly. + </p> + <p> + “I fear to suppose anything, lest I wrong you; but the strange place to + which you took me the evening on which you saved me from pursuit, the + persons I met there—” + </p> + <p> + “Well-dressed, and very civil to you?” + </p> + <p> + “True! but with a certain wild looseness in their talk that—But I + have no right to judge others by mere appearance. Nor is it this that has + made me anxious, and, if you will, suspicious.” + </p> + <p> + “What then?” + </p> + <p> + “Your dress—your disguise.” + </p> + <p> + “Disguised yourself!—ha! ha! Behold the world’s charity! You fly + from some danger, some pursuit, disguised—you, who hold yourself + guiltless—I do the same, and you hold me criminal—a robber, + perhaps—a murderer it may be! I will tell you what I am: I am a son + of Fortune, an adventurer; I live by my wits—so do poets and + lawyers, and all the charlatans of the world; I am a charlatan—a + chameleon. ‘Each man in his time plays many parts:’ I play any part in + which Money, the Arch-Manager, promises me a livelihood. Are you + satisfied?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” answered the boy, sadly, “when I know more of the world, I + shall understand you better. Strange—strange, that you, out of all + men, should have been kind to me in distress!” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all strange. Ask the beggar whom he gets the most pence from—the + fine lady in her carriage—the beau smelling of eau de Cologne? Pish! + the people nearest to being beggars themselves keep the beggar alive. You + were friendless, and the man who has all earth for a foe befriends you. It + is the way of the world, sir,—the way of the world. Come, eat while + you can; this time next year you may have no beef to your bread.” + </p> + <p> + Thus masticating and moralising at the same time, Mr. Gawtrey at last + finished a breakfast that would have astonished the whole Corporation of + London; and then taking out a large old watch, with an enamelled back—doubtless + more German than its master—he said, as he lifted up his carpet-bag, + “I must be off—tempos fugit, and I must arrive just in time to nick + the vessels. Shall get to Ostend, or Rotterdam, safe and snug; thence to + Paris. How my pretty Fan will have grown! Ah, you don’t know Fan—make + you a nice little wife one of these days! Cheer up, man, we shall meet + again. Be sure of it; and hark ye, that strange place, as you call it, + where I took you,—you can find it again?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I.” + </p> + <p> + “Here, then, is the address. Whenever you want me, go there, ask to see + Mr. Gregg—old fellow with one eye, you recollect—shake him by + the hand just so—you catch the trick—practise it again. No, + the forefinger thus, that’s right. Say ‘blater,’ no more—‘blater;’—stay, + I will write it down for you; and then ask for William Gawtrey’s + direction. He will give it you at once, without questions—these + signs understood; and if you want money for your passage, he will give you + that also, with advice into the bargain. Always a warm welcome with me. + And so take care of yourself, and good-bye. I see my chaise is at the + door.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, Gawtrey shook the young man’s hand with cordial vigour, and + strode off to his chaise, muttering, “Money well laid out—fee money; + I shall have him, and, Gad, I like him,—poor devil!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He is a cunning coachman that can turn well in a narrow room.” + Old Play: from Lamb’s Specimens. + + “Here are two pilgrims, + And neither knows one footstep of the way.” + HEYWOOD’s Duchess of Suffolk, Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + The chaise had scarce driven from the inn-door when a coach stopped to + change horses on its last stage to the town to which Philip was, bound. + The name of the destination, in gilt letters on the coach-door, caught his + eye, as he walked from the arbour towards the road, and in a few moments + he was seated as the fourth passenger in the “Nelson Slow and Sure.” From + under the shade of his cap, he darted that quick, quiet glance, which a + man who hunts, or is hunted,—in other words, who observes, or shuns,—soon + acquires. At his left hand sat a young woman in a cloak lined with yellow; + she had taken off her bonnet and pinned it to the roof of the coach, and + looked fresh and pretty in a silk handkerchief, which she had tied round + her head, probably to serve as a nightcap during the drowsy length of the + journey. Opposite to her was a middle-aged man of pale complexion, and a + grave, pensive, studious expression of face; and vis-a-vis to Philip sat + an overdressed, showy, very good-looking man of about two or three and + forty. This gentleman wore auburn whiskers, which met at the chin; a + foraging cap, with a gold tassel; a velvet waistcoat, across which, in + various folds, hung a golden chain, at the end of which dangled an + eye-glass, that from time to time he screwed, as it were, into his right + eye; he wore, also, a blue silk stock, with a frill much crumpled, dirty + kid gloves, and over his lap lay a cloak lined with red silk. As Philip + glanced towards this personage, the latter fixed his glass also at him, + with a scrutinising stare, which drew fire from Philip’s dark eyes. The + man dropped his glass, and said in a half provincial, half haw-haw tone, + like the stage exquisite of a minor theatre, “Pawdon me, and split legs!” + therewith stretching himself between Philip’s limbs in the approved + fashion of inside passengers. A young man in a white great-coat now came + to the door with a glass of warm sherry and water. + </p> + <p> + “You must take this—you must now; it will keep the cold out,” (the + day was broiling,) said he to the young woman. + </p> + <p> + “Gracious me!” was the answer, “but I never drink wine of a morning, + James; it will get into my head.” + </p> + <p> + “To oblige me!” said the young man, sentimentally; whereupon the young + lady took the glass, and looking very kindly at her Ganymede, said, “Your + health!” and sipped, and made a wry face—then she looked at the + passengers, tittered, and said, “I can’t bear wine!” and so, very slowly + and daintily, sipped up the rest. A silent and expressive squeeze of the + hand, on returning the glass, rewarded the young man, and proved the + salutary effect of his prescription. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” cried the coachman: the ostler twitched the cloths from the + leaders, and away went the “Nelson Slow and Sure,” with as much pretension + as if it had meant to do the ten miles in an hour. The pale gentleman took + from his waistcoat pocket a little box containing gum-arabic, and having + inserted a couple of morsels between his lips, he next drew forth a little + thin volume, which from the manner the lines were printed was evidently + devoted to poetry. + </p> + <p> + The smart gentleman, who since the episode of the sherry and water had + kept his glass fixed upon the young lady, now said, with a genteel smirk: + </p> + <p> + “That young gentleman seems very auttentive, miss!” + </p> + <p> + “He is a very good young man, sir, and takes great care of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not your brother, miss,—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “La, sir—why not?” + </p> + <p> + “No faumily likeness—noice-looking fellow enough! But your oiyes and + mouth—ah, miss!” + </p> + <p> + Miss turned away her head, and uttered with pert vivacity: “I never likes + compliments, sir! But the young man is not my brother.” + </p> + <p> + “A sweetheart,—eh? Oh fie, miss! Haw! haw!” and the auburn-whiskered + Adonis poked Philip in the knee with one hand, and the pale gentleman in + the ribs with the other. The latter looked up, and reproachfully; the + former drew in his legs, and uttered an angry ejaculation. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, there is no harm in a sweetheart, is there?” + </p> + <p> + “None in the least, ma’am; I advoise you to double the dose. We often hear + of two strings to a bow. Daun’t you think it would be noicer to have two + beaux to your string?” As he thus wittily expressed himself, the gentleman + took off his cap, and thrust his fingers through a very curling and comely + head of hair; the young lady looked at him with evident coquetry, and + said, “How you do run on, you gentlemen!” + </p> + <p> + “I may well run on, miss, as long as I run aufter you,” was the gallant + reply. + </p> + <p> + Here the pale gentleman, evidently annoyed by being talked across, shut + his book up, and looked round. His eye rested on Philip, who, whether from + the heat of the day or from the forgetfulness of thought, had pushed his + cap from his brows; and the gentleman, after staring at him for a few + moments with great earnestness, sighed so heavily that it attracted the + notice of all the passengers. + </p> + <p> + “Are you unwell, sir?” asked the young lady, compassionately. + </p> + <p> + “A little pain in my side, nothing more!” + </p> + <p> + “Chaunge places with me, sir,” cried the Lothario, officiously. “Now do!” + The pale gentleman, after a short hesitation, and a bashful excuse, + accepted the proposal. In a few moments the young lady and the beau were + in deep and whispered conversation, their heads turned towards the window. + The pale gentleman continued to gaze at Philip, till the latter, + perceiving the notice he excited, coloured, and replaced his cap over his + face. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to N——? asked the gentleman, in a gentle, timid + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it the first time you have ever been there?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir!” returned Philip, in a voice that spoke surprise and distaste at his + neighbour’s curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” said the gentleman, shrinking back; “but you remind me of-of—a + family I once knew in the town. Do you know—the—the Mortons?” + </p> + <p> + One in Philip’s situation, with, as he supposed, the officers of justice + in his track (for Gawtrey, for reasons of his own, rather encouraged than + allayed his fears), might well be suspicious. He replied therefore + shortly, “I am quite a stranger to the town,” and ensconced himself in the + corner, as if to take a nap. Alas! that answer was one of the many + obstacles he was doomed to build up between himself and a fairer fate. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman sighed again, and never spoke more to the end of the + journey. When the coach halted at the inn,—the same inn which had + before given its shelter to poor Catherine,—the young man in the + white coat opened the door, and offered his arm to the young lady. + </p> + <p> + “Do you make any stay here, sir?” said she to the beau, as she unpinned + her bonnet from the roof. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so; I am waiting for my phe-a-ton, which my faellow is to bring + down,—tauking a little tour.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall be very happy to see you, sir!” said the young lady, on whom the + phe-a-ton completed the effect produced by the gentleman’s previous + gallantries; and with that she dropped into his hand a very neat card, on + which was printed, “Wavers and Snow, Staymakers, High Street.” + </p> + <p> + The beau put the card gracefully into his pocket—leaped from the + coach—nudged aside his rival of the white coat, and offered his arm + to the lady, who leaned on it affectionately as she descended. + </p> + <p> + “This gentleman has been so perlite to me, James,” said she. James touched + his hat; the beau clapped him on the shoulder,—“Ah! you are not a + hauppy man,—are you? Oh no, not at all a hauppy man!—Good day + to you! Guard, that hat-box is mine!” + </p> + <p> + While Philip was paying the coachman, the beau passed, and whispered him— + </p> + <p> + “Recollect old Gregg—anything on the lay here—don’t spoil my + sport if we meet!” and bustled off into the inn, whistling “God save the + king!” + </p> + <p> + Philip started, then tried to bring to mind the faces which he had seen at + the “strange place,” and thought he recalled the features of his + fellow-traveller. However, he did not seek to renew the acquaintance, but + inquired the way to Mr. Morton’s house, and thither he now proceeded. + </p> + <p> + He was directed, as a short cut, down one of those narrow passages at the + entrance of which posts are placed as an indication that they are + appropriated solely to foot-passengers. A dead white wall, which screened + the garden of the physician of the place, ran on one side; a high fence to + a nursery-ground was on the other; the passage was lonely, for it was now + the hour when few persons walk either for business or pleasure in a + provincial town, and no sound was heard save the fall of his own step on + the broad flagstones. At the end of the passage in the main street to + which it led, he saw already the large, smart, showy shop, with the hot + sum shining full on the gilt letters that conveyed to the eyes of the + customer the respectable name of “Morton,”—when suddenly the silence + was broken by choked and painful sobs. He turned, and beneath a compo + portico, jutting from the wall, which adorned the physician’s door, he saw + a child seated on the stone steps weeping bitterly—a thrill shot + through Philip’s heart! Did he recognise, disguised as it was by pain and + sorrow, that voice? He paused, and laid his hand on the child’s shoulder: + “Oh, don’t—don’t—pray don’t—I am going, I am indeed:” + cried the child, quailing, and still keeping his hands clasped before his + face. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney!” said Philip. The boy started to his feet, uttered a cry of + rapturous joy, and fell upon his brother’s breast. + </p> + <p> + “O Philip!—dear, dear Philip! you are come to take me away back to + my own—own mamma; I will be so good, I will never tease her again,—never, + never! I have been so wretched!” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, and tell me what they have done to you,” said Philip, checking + the rising heart that heaved at his mother’s name. + </p> + <p> + So, there they sat, on the cold stone under the stranger’s porch, these + two orphans: Philip’s arms round his brother’s waist, Sidney leaning on + his shoulder, and imparting to him—perhaps with pardonable + exaggeration, all the sufferings he had gone through; and, when he came to + that morning’s chastisement, and showed the wale across the little hands + which he had vainly held up in supplication, Philip’s passion shook him + from limb to limb. His impulse was to march straight into Mr. Morton’s + shop and gripe him by the throat; and the indignation he betrayed + encouraged Sidney to colour yet more highly the tale of his wrongs and + pain. + </p> + <p> + When he had done, and clinging tightly to his brother’s broad chest, said— + </p> + <p> + “But never mind, Philip; now we will go home to mamma.” + </p> + <p> + Philip replied— + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me, my dear brother. We cannot go back to our mother. I will + tell you why, later. We are alone in the world—we two! If you will + come with me—God help you!—for you will have many hardships: + we shall have to work and drudge, and you may be cold and hungry, and + tired, very often, Sidney,—very, very often! But you know that, long + ago, when I was so passionate, I never was wilfully unkind to you; and I + declare now, that I would bite out my tongue rather than it should say a + harsh word to you. That is all I can promise. Think well. Will you never + miss all the comforts you have now?” + </p> + <p> + “Comforts!” repeated Sidney, ruefully, and looking at the wale over his + hands. “Oh! let—let—let me go with you, I shall die if I stay + here. I shall indeed—indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said Philip; for at that moment a step was heard, and the pale + gentleman walked slowly down the passage, and started, and turned his head + wistfully as he looked at the boys. + </p> + <p> + When he was gone. Philip rose. + </p> + <p> + “It is settled, then,” said he, firmly. “Come with me at once. You shall + return to their roof no more. Come, quick: we shall have many miles to go + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He comes— + Yet careless what he brings; his one concern + Is to conduct it to the destined inn; + And having dropp’d the expected bag, pass on— + To him indifferent whether grief or joy.” + COWPER: Description of the Postman. +</pre> + <p> + The pale gentleman entered Mr. Morton’s shop; and, looking round him, + spied the worthy trader showing shawls to a young lady just married. He + seated himself on a stool, and said to the bowing foreman— + </p> + <p> + “I will wait till Mr. Morton is disengaged.” + </p> + <p> + The young lady having closely examined seven shawls, and declared they + were beautiful, said, “she would think of it,” and walked away. Mr. Morton + now approached the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Morton,” said the pale gentleman; “you are very little altered. You + do not recollect me?” + </p> + <p> + “Bless me, Mr. Spencer! is it really you? Well, what a time since we met! + I am very glad to see you. And what brings you to N——? + Business?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, business. Let us go within?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton led the way to the parlour, where Master Tom, reperched on the + stool, was rapidly digesting the plundered muffin. Mr. Morton dismissed + him to play, and the pale gentleman took a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Morton,” said he, glancing over his dress, “you see I am in mourning. + It is for your sister. I never got the better of that early attachment—never.” + </p> + <p> + “My sister! Good Heavens!” said Mr. Morton, turning very pale; “is she + dead? Poor Catherine!—and I not know of it! When did she die?” + </p> + <p> + “Not many days since; and—and—” said Mr. Spencer, greatly + affected, “I fear in want. I had been abroad for some months: on my return + last week, looking over the newspapers (for I always order them to be + filed), I read the short account of her lawsuit against Mr. Beaufort, some + time back. I resolved to find her out. I did so through the solicitor she + employed: it was too late; I arrived at her lodgings two days after her—her + burial. I then determined to visit poor Catherine’s brother, and learn if + anything could be done for the children she had left behind.” + </p> + <p> + “She left but two. Philip, the elder, is very comfortably placed at R——; + the younger has his home with me; and Mrs. Morton is a moth—that is + to say, she takes great pains with him. Ehem! And my poor—poor + sister!” + </p> + <p> + “Is he like his mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much, when she was young—poor dear Catherine!” + </p> + <p> + “What age is he?” + </p> + <p> + “About ten, perhaps; I don’t know exactly; much younger than the other. + And so she’s dead!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Morton, I am an old bachelor” (here a sickly smile crossed Mr. + Spencer’s face); “a small portion of my fortune is settled, it is true, on + my relations; but the rest is mine, and I live within my income. The elder + of these boys is probably old enough to begin to take care of himself. + But, the younger—perhaps you have a family of your own, and can + spare him!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton hesitated, and twitched up his trousers. “Why,” said he, “this + is very kind in you. I don’t know—we’ll see. The boy is out now; + come and dine with us at two—pot-luck. Well, so she is no more! + Heigho! Meanwhile, I’ll talk it over with Mrs. M.” + </p> + <p> + “I will be with you,” said Mr. Spencer, rising. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” sighed Mr. Morton, “if Catherine had but married you she would have + been a happy woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I would have tried to make her so,” said Mr. Spencer, as he turned away + his face and took his departure. + </p> + <p> + Two o’clock came; but no Sidney. They had sent to the place whither he had + been despatched; he had never arrived there. Mr. Morton grew alarmed; and, + when Mr. Spencer came to dinner, his host was gone in search of the + truant. He did not return till three. Doomed that day to be belated both + at breakfast and dinner, this decided him to part with Sidney whenever he + should be found. Mrs. Morton was persuaded that the child only sulked, and + would come back fast enough when he was hungry. Mr. Spencer tried to + believe her, and ate his mutton, which was burnt to a cinder; but when + five, six, seven o’clock came, and the boy was still missing,—even + Mrs. Morton agreed that it was high time to institute a regular search. + The whole family set off different ways. It was ten o’clock before they + were reunited; and then all the news picked up was, that a boy, answering + Sidney’s description, had been seen with a young man in three several + parts of the town; the last time at the outskirts, on the high road + towards the manufacturing districts. These tidings so far relieved Mr. + Morton’s mind that he dismissed the chilling fear that had crept there,—that + Sidney might have drowned himself. Boys will drown themselves sometimes! + The description of the young man coincided so remarkably with the + fellow-passenger of Mr. Spencer, that he did not doubt it was the same; + the more so when he recollected having seen him with a fair-haired child + under the portico; and yet more, when he recalled the likeness to + Catherine that had struck him in the coach, and caused the inquiry that + had roused Philip’s suspicion. The mystery was thus made clear—Sidney + had fled with his brother. Nothing more, however, could be done that + night. The next morning, active measures should be devised; and when the + morning came, the mail brought to Mr. Morton the two following letters. + The first was from Arthur Beaufort. + </p> + <p> + “SIR,—I have been prevented by severe illness from writing to you + before. I can now scarcely hold a pen; but the instant my health is + recovered I shall be with you at N ——, on her deathbed, the + mother of the boy under your charge, Sidney Morton, committed him solemnly + to me. I make his fortunes my care, and shall hasten to claim him at your + kindly hands. But the elder son,—this poor Philip, who has suffered + so unjustly,—for our lawyer has seen Mr. Plaskwith, and heard the + whole story—what has become of him? All our inquiries have failed to + track him. Alas, I was too ill to institute them myself while it was yet + time. Perhaps he may have sought shelter, with you, his uncle; if so, + assure him that he is in no danger from the pursuit of the law,—that + his innocence is fully recognised; and that my father and myself implore + him to accept our affection. I can write no more now; but in a few days I + shall hope to see you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am, sir, &c., + “ARTHUR BEAUFORT. + “Berkely Square.” + </pre> + <p> + The second letter was from Mr. Plaskwith, and ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MORTON,—Something very awkward has happened,—not my + fault, and very unpleasant for me. Your relation, Philip, as I wrote you + word, was a painstaking lad, though odd and bad mannered,—for want, + perhaps, poor boy! of being taught better, and Mrs. P. is, you know, a + very genteel woman—women go too much by manners—so she never + took much to him. However, to the point, as the French emperor used to + say: one evening he asked me for money for his mother, who, he said, was + ill, in a very insolent way: I may say threatening. It was in my own shop, + and before Plimmins and Mrs. P.; I was forced to answer with dignified + rebuke, and left the shop. When I returned, he was gone, and some + shillings-fourteen, I think, and three sovereigns—evidently from the + till, scattered on the floor. Mrs. P. and Mr. Plimmins were very much + frightened; thought it was clear I was robbed, and that we were to be + murdered. Plimmins slept below that night, and we borrowed butcher + Johnson’s dog. Nothing happened. I did not think I was robbed; because the + money, when we came to calculate, was all right. I know human nature. He + had thought to take it, but repented—quite clear. However, I was + naturally very angry, thought he’d comeback again—meant to reprove + him properly—waited several days—heard nothing of him—grew + uneasy—would not attend longer to Mrs. P.; for, as Napoleon + Buonaparte observed, ‘women are well in their way, not in ours.’ Made + Plimmins go with me to town—hired a Bow Street runner to track him + out—cost me L1. 1s, and two glasses of brandy and water. Poor Mrs. + Morton was just buried—quite shocked! Suddenly saw the boy in the + streets. Plimmins rushed forward in the kindest way—was knocked down—hurt + his arm—paid 2s. 6d. for lotion. Philip ran off, we ran after him—could + not find him. Forced to return home. Next day, a lawyer from a Mr. + Beaufort—Mr. George Blackwell, a gentlemanlike man called. Mr. + Beaufort will do anything for him in reason. Is there anything more I can + do? I really am very uneasy about the lad, and Mrs. P. and I have a tiff + about it: but that’s nothing—thought I had best write to you for + instructions. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yours truly, + “C. PLASHWITH. +</pre> + <p> + “P. S.—Just open my letter to say, Bow Street officer just been here—has + found out that the boy has been seen with a very suspicious character: + they think he has left London. Bow Street officer wants to go after him—very + expensive: so now you can decide.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spencer scarcely listened to Mr. Plaskwith’s letter, but of Arthur’s + he felt jealous. He would fain have been the only protector to Catherine’s + children; but he was the last man fitted to head the search, now so + necessary to prosecute with equal tact and energy. + </p> + <p> + A soft-hearted, soft-headed man, a confirmed valtudinarian, a day-dreamer, + who had wasted away his life in dawdling and maundering over Simple + Poetry, and sighing over his unhappy attachment; no child, no babe, was + more thoroughly helpless than Mr. Spencer. + </p> + <p> + The task of investigation devolved, therefore, on Mr. Morton, and he went + about it in a regular, plain, straightforward way. Hand-bills were + circulated, constables employed, and a lawyer, accompanied by Mr. Spencer, + despatched to the manufacturing districts: towards which the orphans had + been seen to direct their path. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Give the gentle South + Yet leave to court these sails.” + BEAUMONT AND FLLTCHER: Beggar’s Bush. + + “Cut your cloth, sir, + According to your calling.”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + Meanwhile the brothers were far away, and He who feeds the young ravens + made their paths pleasant to their feet. Philip had broken to Sidney the + sad news of their mother’s death, and Sidney had wept with bitter passion. + But children,—what can they know of death? Their tears over graves + dry sooner than the dews. It is melancholy to compare the depth, the + endurance, the far-sighted, anxious, prayerful love of a parent, with the + inconsiderate, frail, and evanescent affection of the infant, whose eyes + the hues of the butterfly yet dazzle with delight. It was the night of + their flight, and in the open air, when Philip (his arms round Sidney’s + waist) told his brother-orphan that they were motherless. And the air was + balmy, the skies filled with the effulgent presence of the August moon; + the cornfields stretched round them wide and far, and not a leaf trembled + on the beech-tree beneath which they had sought shelter. It seemed as if + Nature herself smiled pityingly on their young sorrow, and said to them, + “Grieve not for the dead: I, who live for ever, I will be your mother!” + </p> + <p> + They crept, as the night deepened, into the warmer sleeping-place afforded + by stacks of hay, mown that summer and still fragrant. And the next + morning the birds woke them betimes, to feel that Liberty, at least, was + with them, and to wander with her at will. + </p> + <p> + Who in his boyhood has not felt the delight of freedom and adventure? to + have the world of woods and sward before him—to escape restriction—to + lean, for the first time, on his own resources—to rejoice in the + wild but manly luxury of independence—to act the Crusoe—and to + fancy a Friday in every footprint—an island of his own in every + field? Yes, in spite of their desolation, their loss, of the melancholy + past, of the friendless future, the orphans were happy—happy in + their youth—their freedom—their love—their wanderings in + the delicious air of the glorious August. Sometimes they came upon knots + of reapers lingering in the shade of the hedge-rows over their noonday + meal; and, grown sociable by travel, and bold by safety, they joined and + partook of the rude fare with the zest of fatigue and youth. Sometimes, + too, at night, they saw, gleam afar and red by the woodside, the fires of + gipsy tents. But these, with the superstition derived from old + nursery-tales, they scrupulously shunned, eying them with a mysterious + awe! What heavenly twilights belong to that golden month!—the air so + lucidly serene, as the purple of the clouds fades gradually away, and up + soars, broad, round, intense, and luminous, the full moon which belongs to + the joyous season! The fields then are greener than in the heats of July + and June,—they have got back the luxury of a second spring. And + still, beside the paths of the travellers, lingered on the hedges the + clustering honeysuckle—the convolvulus glittered in the tangles of + the brake—the hardy heathflower smiled on the green waste. + </p> + <p> + And ever, at evening, they came, field after field, upon those circles + which recall to children so many charmed legends, and are fresh and + frequent in that month—the Fairy Rings! They thought, poor boys! + that it was a good omen, and half fancied that the Fairies protected them, + as in the old time they had often protected the desolate and outcast. + </p> + <p> + They avoided the main roads, and all towns, with suspicious care. But + sometimes they paused, for food and rest, at the obscure hostel of some + scattered hamlet: though, more often, they loved to spread the simple food + they purchased by the way under some thick tree, or beside a stream + through whose limpid waters they could watch the trout glide and play. And + they often preferred the chance shelter of a haystack, or a shed, to the + less romantic repose offered by the small inns they alone dared to enter. + They went in this much by the face and voice of the host or hostess. Once + only Philip had entered a town, on the second day of their flight, and + that solely for the purchase of ruder clothes, and a change of linen for + Sidney, with some articles and implements of use necessary in their + present course of shift and welcome hardship. A wise precaution; for, thus + clad, they escaped suspicion. + </p> + <p> + So journeying, they consumed several days; and, having taken a direction + quite opposite to that which led to the manufacturing districts, whither + pursuit had been directed, they were now in the centre of another county—in + the neighbourhood of one of the most considerable towns of England; and + here Philip began to think their wanderings ought to cease, and it was + time to settle on some definite course of life. He had carefully hoarded + about his person, and most thriftily managed, the little fortune + bequeathed by his mother. But Philip looked on this capital as a deposit + sacred to Sidney; it was not to be spent, but kept and augmented—the + nucleus for future wealth. Within the last few weeks his character was + greatly ripened, and his powers of thought enlarged. He was no more a boy,—he + was a man: he had another life to take care of. He resolved, then, to + enter the town they were approaching, and to seek for some situation by + which he might maintain both. Sidney was very loath to abandon their + present roving life; but he allowed that the warm weather could not always + last, and that in winter the fields would be less pleasant. He, therefore, + with a sigh, yielded to his brother’s reasonings. + </p> + <p> + They entered the fair and busy town of one day at noon; and, after finding + a small lodging, at which he deposited Sidney, who was fatigued with their + day’s walk, Philip sallied forth alone. + </p> + <p> + After his long rambling, Philip was pleased and struck with the broad + bustling streets, the gay shops—the evidences of opulence and trade. + He thought it hard if he could not find there a market for the health and + heart of sixteen. He strolled slowly and alone along the streets, till his + attention was caught by a small corner shop, in the window of which was + placed a board, bearing this inscription: + </p> + <p> + “OFFICE FOR EMPLOYMENT.—RECIPROCAL ADVANTAGE. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. John Clump’s bureau open every day, from ten till four. Clerks, + servants, labourers, &c., provided with suitable situations. Terms + moderate. N.B.—The oldest established office in the town. + </p> + <p> + “Wanted, a good cook. An under gardener.” + </p> + <p> + What he sought was here! Philip entered, and saw a short fat man with + spectacles, seated before a desk, poring upon the well-filled leaves of a + long register. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Philip, “I wish for a situation. I don’t care what.” + </p> + <p> + “Half-a-crown for entry, if you please. That’s right. Now for particulars. + Hum!—you don’t look like a servant!” + </p> + <p> + “No; I wish for any place where my education can be of use. I can read and + write; I know Latin and French; I can draw; I know arithmetic and + summing.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; very genteel young man—prepossessing appearance (that’s + a fudge!), highly educated; usher in a school, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “What you like.” + </p> + <p> + “References?” + </p> + <p> + “I have none.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh!—none?” and Mr. Clump fixed his spectacles full upon Philip. + </p> + <p> + Philip was prepared for the question, and had the sense to perceive that a + frank reply was his best policy. “The fact is,” said he boldly, “I was + well brought up; my father died; I was to be bound apprentice to a trade I + disliked; I left it, and have now no friends.” + </p> + <p> + “If I can help you, I will,” said Mr. Clump, coldly. “Can’t promise much. + If you were a labourer, character might not matter; but educated young men + must have a character. Hands always more useful than head. Education no + avail nowadays; common, quite common. Call again on Monday.” + </p> + <p> + Somewhat disappointed and chilled, Philip turned from the bureau; but he + had a strong confidence in his own resources, and recovered his spirits as + he mingled with the throng. He passed, at length, by a livery-stable, and + paused, from old associations, as he saw a groom in the mews attempting to + manage a young, hot horse, evidently unbroken. The master of the stables, + in a green short jacket and top-boots, with a long whip in his hand, was + standing by, with one or two men who looked like horsedealers. + </p> + <p> + “Come off, clumsy! you can’t manage that I ‘ere fine hanimal,” cried the + liveryman. “Ah! he’s a lamb, sir, if he were backed properly. But I has + not a man in the yard as can ride since Will died. Come off, I say, + lubber!” + </p> + <p> + But to come off, without being thrown off, was more easily said than done. + The horse was now plunging as if Juno had sent her gadfly to him; and + Philip, interested and excited, came nearer and nearer, till he stood by + the side of the horse-dealers. The other ostlers ran to the help of their + comrade, who at last, with white lips and shaking knees, found himself on + terra firma; while the horse, snorting hard, and rubbing his head against + the breast and arms of the ostler, who held him tightly by the rein, + seemed to ask, in his own way, “Are there any more of you?” + </p> + <p> + A suspicion that the horse was an old acquaintance crossed Philip’s mind; + he went up to him, and a white spot over the left eye confirmed his + doubts. It had been a foal reserved and reared for his own riding! one + that, in his prosperous days, had ate bread from his hand, and followed + him round the paddock like a dog; one that he had mounted in sport, + without saddle, when his father’s back was turned; a friend, in short, of + the happy Lang syne;—nay, the very friend to whom he had boasted his + affection, when, standing with Arthur Beaufort under the summer sky, the + whole world seemed to him full of friends. He put his hand on the horse’s + neck, and whispered, “Soho! So, Billy!” and the horse turned sharp round + with a quick joyous neigh. + </p> + <p> + “If you please, sir,” said Philip, appealing to the liveryman, “I will + undertake to ride this horse, and take him over yon leaping-bar. Just let + me try him.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a fine-spirited lad for you!” said the liveryman, much pleased at + the offer. “Now, gentlemen, did I not tell you that ‘ere hanimal had no + vice if he was properly managed?” + </p> + <p> + The horse-dealers shook their heads. + </p> + <p> + “May I give him some bread first?” asked Philip; and the ostler was + despatched to the house. Meanwhile the animal evinced various signs of + pleasure and recognition, as Philip stroked and talked to him; and, + finally, when he ate the bread from the young man’s hand, the whole yard + seemed in as much delight and surprise as if they had witnessed one of + Monsieur Van Amburgh’s exploits. + </p> + <p> + And now, Philip, still caressing the horse, slowly and cautiously mounted; + the animal made one bound half-across the yard—a bound which sent + all the horse-dealers into a corner—and then went through his paces, + one after the other, with as much ease and calm as if he had been broken + in at Mr. Fozard’s to carry a young lady. And when he crowned all by going + thrice over the leaping-bar, and Philip, dismounting, threw the reins to + the ostler, and turned triumphantly to the horse-dealer, that gentleman + slapped him on the back, and said, emphatically, “Sir, you are a man! and + I am proud to see you here.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the horse-dealers gathered round the animal; looked at his + hoofs, felt his legs, examined his windpipe, and concluded the bargain, + which, but for Philip, would have been very abruptly broken off. When the + horse was led out of the yard, the liveryman, Mr. Stubmore, turned to + Philip, who, leaning against the wall, followed the poor animal with + mournful eyes. + </p> + <p> + “My good sir, you have sold that horse for me—that you have! + Anything as I can do for you? One good turn de serves another. Here’s a + brace of shiners.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir! I want no money, but I do want some employment. I can be + of use to you, perhaps, in your establishment. I have been brought up + among horses all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Saw it, sir! that’s very clear. I say, that ‘ere horse knows you!” and + the dealer put his finger to his nose. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right to be mum! He was bred by an old customer of mine—famous + rider!—Mr. Beaufort. Aha! that’s where you knew him, I s’pose. Were + you in his stables?” + </p> + <p> + “Hem—I knew Mr. Beaufort well.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you? You could not know a better man. Well, I shall be very glad to + engage you, though you seem by your hands to be a bit of a gentleman—eh? + Never mind; don’t want you to groom!—but superintend things. D’ye + know accounts, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Character?” + </p> + <p> + Philip repeated to Mr. Stubmore the story he had imparted to Mr. Clump. + Somehow or other, men who live much with horses are always more lax in + their notions than the rest of mankind. Mr. Stubmore did not seem to grow + more distant at Philip’s narration. + </p> + <p> + “Understand you perfectly, my man. Brought up with them ‘ere fine creturs, + how could you nail your nose to a desk? I’ll take you without more + palaver. What’s your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Philips.” + </p> + <p> + “Come to-morrow, and we’ll settle about wages. Sleep here?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I have a brother whom I must lodge with, and for whose sake I wish to + work. I should not like him to be at the stables—he is too young. + But I can come early every day, and go home late.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, just as you like, my man. Good day.” + </p> + <p> + And thus, not from any mental accomplishment—not from the result of + his intellectual education, but from the mere physical capacity and brute + habit of sticking fast on his saddle, did Philip Morton, in this great, + intelligent, gifted, civilised, enlightened community of Great Britain, + find the means of earning his bread without stealing it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Don Salluste (souriunt). Je paire + Que vous ne pensiez pas a moi?”—Ruy Blas. + + “Don Salluste. Cousin! + Don Cesar. De vos bienfaits je n’aurai nulle envie, + Tant que je trouverai vivant ma libre vie.”—Ibid. + + Don Sallust (smiling). I’ll lay a wager you won’t think of me? + Don Sallust. Cousin! + Don Caesar. I covet not your favours, so but I lead an independent + life. +</pre> + <p> + Phillip’s situation was agreeable to his habits. His great courage and + skill in horsemanship were not the only qualifications useful to Mr. + Stubmore: his education answered a useful purpose in accounts, and his + manners and appearance were highly to the credit of the yard. The + customers and loungers soon grew to like Gentleman Philips, as he was + styled in the establishment. Mr. Stubmore conceived a real affection for + him. So passed several weeks; and Philip, in this humble capacity, might + have worked out his destinies in peace and comfort, but for a new cause of + vexation that arose in Sidney. This boy was all in all to his brother. For + him he had resisted the hearty and joyous invitations of Gawtrey (whose + gay manner and high spirits had, it must be owned, captivated his fancy, + despite the equivocal mystery of the man’s avocations and condition); for + him he now worked and toiled, cheerful and contented; and him he sought to + save from all to which he subjected himself. He could not bear that that + soft and delicate child should ever be exposed to the low and menial + associations that now made up his own life—to the obscene slang of + grooms and ostlers—to their coarse manners and rough contact. He + kept him, therefore, apart and aloof in their little lodging, and hoped in + time to lay by, so that Sidney might ultimately be restored, if not to his + bright original sphere, at least to a higher grade than that to which + Philip was himself condemned. But poor Sidney could not bear to be thus + left alone—to lose sight of his brother from daybreak till bed-time—to + have no one to amuse him; he fretted and pined away: all the little + inconsiderate selfishness, uneradicated from his breast by his sufferings, + broke out the more, the more he felt that he was the first object on earth + to Philip. Philip, thinking he might be more cheerful at a day-school, + tried the experiment of placing him at one where the boys were much of his + own age. But Sidney, on the third day, came back with a black eye, and he + would return no more. Philip several times thought of changing their + lodging for one where there were young people. But Sidney had taken a + fancy to the kind old widow who was their landlady, and cried at the + thought of removal. Unfortunately, the old woman was deaf and rheumatic; + and though she bore teasing ad libitum, she could not entertain the child + long on a stretch. Too young to be reasonable, Sidney could not, or would + not, comprehend why his brother was so long away from him; and once he + said, peevishly,— + </p> + <p> + “If I had thought I was to be moped up so, I would not have left Mrs. + Morton. Tom was a bad boy, but still it was somebody to play with. I wish + I had not gone away with you!” + </p> + <p> + This speech cut Philip to the heart. What, then, he had taken from the + child a respectable and safe shelter—the sure provision of a life—and + the child now reproached him! When this was said to him, the tears gushed + from his eyes. “God forgive me, Sidney,” said he, and turned away. + </p> + <p> + But then Sidney, who had the most endearing ways with him, seeing his + brother so vexed, ran up and kissed him, and scolded himself for being + naughty. Still the words were spoken, and their meaning rankled deep. + Philip himself, too, was morbid in his excessive tenderness for this boy. + There is a certain age, before the love for the sex commences, when the + feeling of friendship is almost a passion. You see it constantly in girls + and boys at school. It is the first vague craving of the heart after the + master food of human life—Love. It has its jealousies, and humours, + and caprices, like love itself. Philip was painfully acute to Sidney’s + affection, was jealous of every particle of it. He dreaded lest his + brother should ever be torn from him. + </p> + <p> + He would start from his sleep at night, and go to Sidney’s bed to see that + he was there. He left him in the morning with forebodings—he + returned in the dark with fear. Meanwhile the character of this young man, + so sweet and tender to Sidney, was gradually becoming more hard and stern + to others. He had now climbed to the post of command in that rude + establishment; and premature command in any sphere tends to make men + unsocial and imperious. + </p> + <p> + One day Mr. Stubmore called him into his own countinghouse, where stood a + gentleman, with one hand in his coatpocket, the other tapping his whip + against his boot. + </p> + <p> + “Philips, show this gentleman the brown mare. She is a beauty in harness, + is she not? This gentleman wants a match for his pheaton.” + </p> + <p> + “She must step very hoigh,” said the gentleman, turning round: and Philip + recognised the beau in the stage-coach. The recognition was simultaneous. + The beau nodded, then whistled, and winked. + </p> + <p> + “Come, my man, I am at your service,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Philip, with many misgivings, followed him across the yard. The gentleman + then beckoned him to approach. + </p> + <p> + “You, sir,—moind, I never peach—setting up here in the honest + line? Dull work, honesty,—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir, I really don’t know you.” + </p> + <p> + “Daun’t you recollect old Greggs, the evening you came there with jolly + Bill Gawtrey? Recollect that, eh?” Philip was mute. + </p> + <p> + “I was among the gentlemen in the back parlour who shook you by the hand. + Bill’s off to France, then. I am tauking the provinces. I want a good + horse—the best in the yard, moind! Cutting such a swell here! My + name is Captain de Burgh Smith—never moind yours, my fine faellow. + Now, then, out with your rattlers, and keep your tongue in your mouth.” + </p> + <p> + Philip mechanically ordered out the brown mare, which Captain Smith did + not seem much to approve of; and, after glancing round the stables with + great disdain of the collection, he sauntered out of the yard without + saying more to Philip, though he stopped and spoke a few sentences to Mr. + Stubmore. Philip hoped he had no design of purchasing, and that he was + rid, for the present, of so awkward a customer. Mr. Stubmore approached + Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Drive over the greys to Sir John,” said he. “My lady wants a pair to job. + A very pleasant man, that Captain Smith. I did not know you had been in a + yard before—says you were the pet at Elmore’s in London. Served him + many a day. Pleasant, gentlemanlike man!” + </p> + <p> + “Y-e-s!” said Philip, hardly knowing what he said, and hurrying back into + the stables to order out the greys. The place to which he was bound was + some miles distant, and it was sunset when he returned. As he drove into + the main street, two men observed him closely. + </p> + <p> + “That is he! I am almost sure it is,” said one. “Oh! then it’s all smooth + sailing,” replied the other. + </p> + <p> + “But, bless my eyes! you must be mistaken! See whom he’s talking to now!” + </p> + <p> + At that moment Captain de Burgh Smith, mounted on the brown mare, stopped + Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you see, I’ve bought her,—hope she’ll turn out well. What do + you really think she’s worth? Not to buy, but to sell?” + </p> + <p> + “Sixty guineas.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s a good day’s work; and I owe it to you. The old faellow + would not have trusted me if you had not served me at Elmore’s—ha! + ha! If he gets scent and looks shy at you, my lad, come to me. I’m at the + Star Hotel for the next few days. I want a tight faellow like you, and you + shall have a fair percentage. I’m none of your stingy ones. I say, I hope + this devil is quiet? She cocks up her ears dawmnably!” + </p> + <p> + “Look you, sir!” said Philip, very gravely, and rising up in his break; “I + know very little of you, and that little is not much to your credit. I + give you fair warning that I shall caution my employer against you.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you, my fine faellow? then take care of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay, and if you dare utter a word against me,” said Philip, with that + frown to which his swarthy complexion and flashing eyes gave an expression + of fierce power beyond his years, “you will find that, as I am the last to + care for a threat, so I am the first to resent an injury!” + </p> + <p> + Thus saying, he drove on. Captain Smith affected a cough, and put his + brown mare into a canter. The two men followed Philip as he drove into the + yard. + </p> + <p> + “What do you know against the person he spoke to?” said one of them. + </p> + <p> + “Merely that he is one of the cunningest swells on this side the Bay,” + returned the other. “It looks bad for your young friend.” + </p> + <p> + The first speaker shook his head and made no reply. + </p> + <p> + On gaining the yard, Philip found that Mr. Stubmore had gone out, and was + not expected home till the next day. He had some relations who were + farmers, whom he often visited; to them he was probably gone. + </p> + <p> + Philip, therefore, deferring his intended caution against the gay captain + till the morrow, and musing how the caution might be most discreetly + given, walked homeward. He had just entered the lane that led to his + lodgings, when he saw the two men I have spoken of on the other side of + the street. The taller and better-dressed of the two left his comrade; and + crossing over to Philip, bowed, and thus accosted him,— + </p> + <p> + “Fine evening, Mr. Philip Morton. I am rejoiced to see you at last. You + remember me—Mr. Blackwell, Lincoln’s Inn.” + </p> + <p> + “What is your business?” said Philip, halting, and speaking short and + fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Now don’t be in a passion, my dear sir,—now don’t. I am here on + behalf of my clients, Messrs. Beaufort, sen. and jun. I have had such work + to find you! Dear, dear! but you are a sly one! Ha! ha! Well, you see we + have settled that little affair of Plaskwith’s for you (might have been + ugly), and now I hope you will—” + </p> + <p> + “To your business, sir! What do you want with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, now, don’t be so quick! ‘Tis not the way to do business. Suppose you + step to my hotel. A glass of wine now, Mr. Philip! We shall soon + understand each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Out of my path, or speak plainly!” + </p> + <p> + Thus put to it, the lawyer, casting a glance at his stout companion, who + appeared to be contemplating the sunset on the other side of the way, came + at once to the marrow of his subject. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,—well, my say is soon said. Mr. Arthur Beaufort takes a + most lively interest in you; it is he who has directed this inquiry. He + bids me say that he shall be most happy—yes, most happy—to + serve you in anything; and if you will but see him, he is in the town, I + am sure you will be charmed with him—most amiable young man!” + </p> + <p> + “Look you, sir,” said Philip, drawing himself up “neither from father, nor + from son, nor from one of that family, on whose heads rest the mother’s + death and the orphans’ curse, will I ever accept boon or benefit—with + them, voluntarily, I will hold no communion; if they force themselves in + my path, let them beware! I am earning my bread in the way I desire—I + am independent—I want them not. Begone!” + </p> + <p> + With that, Philip pushed aside the lawyer and strode on rapidly. Mr. + Blackwell, abashed and perplexed, returned to his companion. + </p> + <p> + Philip regained his home, and found Sidney stationed at the window alone, + and with wistful eyes noting the flight of the grey moths as they darted + to and fro, across the dull shrubs that, variegated with lines for + washing, adorned the plot of ground which the landlady called a garden. + The elder brother had returned at an earlier hour than usual, and Sidney + did not at first perceive him enter. When he did he clapped his hands, and + ran to him. + </p> + <p> + “This is so good in you, Philip. I have been so dull; you will come and + play now?” + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart—where shall we play?” said Philip, with a + cheerful smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, in the garden!—it’s such a nice time for hide and seek.” + </p> + <p> + “But is it not chill and damp for you?” said Philip. + </p> + <p> + “There now; you are always making excuses. I see you don’t like it. I have + no heart to play now.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney seated himself and pouted. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Sidney! you must be dull without me. Yes, let us play; but put on + this handkerchief;” and Philip took off his own cravat and tied it round + his brother’s neck, and kissed him. + </p> + <p> + Sidney, whose anger seldom lasted long, was reconciled; and they went into + the garden to play. It was a little spot, screened by an old moss-grown + paling, from the neighbouring garden on the one side and a lane on the + other. They played with great glee till the night grew darker and the dews + heavier. + </p> + <p> + “This must be the last time,” cried Philip. “It is my turn to hide.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well! Now, then.” + </p> + <p> + Philip secreted himself behind a poplar; and as Sidney searched for him, + and Philip stole round and round the tree, the latter, happening to look + across the paling, saw the dim outline of a man’s figure in the lane, who + appeared watching them. A thrill shot across his breast. These Beauforts, + associated in his thoughts with every evil omen and augury, had they set a + spy upon his movements? He remained erect and gazing at the form, when + Sidney discovered, and ran up to him, with his noisy laugh. + </p> + <p> + As the child clung to him, shouting with gladness, Philip, unheeding his + playmate, called aloud and imperiously to the stranger— + </p> + <p> + “What are you gaping at? Why do you stand watching us?” + </p> + <p> + The man muttered something, moved on, and disappeared. “I hope there are + no thieves here! I am so much afraid of thieves,” said Sidney, + tremulously. + </p> + <p> + The fear grated on Philip’s heart. Had he not himself, perhaps, been + judged and treated as a thief? He said nothing, but drew his brother + within; and there, in their little room, by the one poor candle, it was + touching and beautiful to see these boys—the tender patience of the + elder lending itself to every whim of the younger—now building + houses with cards—now telling stories of fairy and knight-errant—the + sprightliest he could remember or invent. At length, as all was over, and + Sidney was undressing for the night, Philip, standing apart, said to him, + in a mournful voice:— + </p> + <p> + “Are you sad now, Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “No! not when you are with me—but that is so seldom.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you read none of the story-books I bought for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes! but one can’t read all day.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Sidney, if ever we should part, perhaps you will love me no longer!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say so,” said Sidney. “But we sha’n’t part, Philip?” + </p> + <p> + Philip sighed, and turned away as his brother leaped into bed. Something + whispered to him that danger was near; and as it was, could Sidney grow + up, neglected and uneducated; was it thus that he was to fulfil his trust? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But oh, what storm was in that mind!”—CRABBE. Ruth +</pre> + <p> + While Philip mused, and his brother fell into the happy sleep of + childhood, in a room in the principal hotel of the town sat three persons, + Arthur Beaufort, Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Blackwell. + </p> + <p> + “And so,” said the first, “he rejected every overture from the Beauforts?” + </p> + <p> + “With a scorn I cannot convey to you!” replied the lawyer. “But the fact + is, that he is evidently a lad of low habits; to think of his being a sort + of helper to a horse dealer! I suppose, sir, he was always in the stables + in his father’s time. Bad company depraves the taste very soon; but that + is not the worst. Sharp declares that the man he was talking with, as I + told you, is a common swindler. Depend on it, Mr. Arthur, he is + incorrigible; all we can do is to save the brother.” + </p> + <p> + “It is too dreadful to contemplate!” said Arthur, who, still ill and + languid, reclined on a sofa. + </p> + <p> + “It is, indeed,” said Mr. Spencer; “I am sure I should not know what to do + with such a character; but the other poor child, it would be a mercy to + get hold of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is Mr. Sharp?” asked Arthur. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said the lawyer, “he has followed Philip at a distance to find out + his lodgings, and learn if his brother is with him. Oh! here he is!” and + Blackwell’s companion in the earlier part of the evening entered. + </p> + <p> + “I have found him out, sir,” said Mr. Sharp, wiping his forehead. “What a + fierce ‘un he is! I thought he would have had a stone at my head; but we + officers are used to it; we does our duty, and Providence makes our heads + unkimmon hard!” + </p> + <p> + “Is the child with him?” asked Mr. Spencer. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “A little, quiet, subdued boy?” asked the melancholy inhabitant of the + Lakes. + </p> + <p> + “Quiet! Lord love you! never heard a noisier little urchin! There they + were, romping and romping in the garden, like a couple of gaol birds.” + </p> + <p> + “You see,” groaned Mr. Spencer, “he will make that poor child as bad as + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “What shall us do, Mr. Blackwell?” asked Sharp, who longed for his brandy + and water. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I was thinking you might go to the horse-dealer the first thing in + the morning; find out whether Philip is really thick with the swindler; + and, perhaps, Mr. Stubmore may have some influence with him, if, without + saying who he is—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” interrupted Arthur, “do not expose his name.” + </p> + <p> + “You could still hint that he ought to be induced to listen to his friends + and go with them. Mr. Stubmore may be a respectable man, and—-” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said Sharp; “I have no doubt as how I can settle it. We + learns to know human natur in our profession;—‘cause why? we gets at + its blind side. Good night, gentlemen!” + </p> + <p> + “You seem very pale, Mr. Arthur; you had better go to bed; you promised + your father, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am not well; I will go to bed;” and Arthur rose, lighted his + candle, and sought his room. + </p> + <p> + “I will see Philip to-morrow,” he said to himself; “he will listen to me.” + </p> + <p> + The conduct of Arthur Beaufort in executing the charge he had undertaken + had brought into full light all the most amiable and generous part of his + character. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he had expressed so + much anxiety as to the fate of the orphans, that to quiet him his father + was forced to send for Mr. Blackwell. The lawyer had ascertained, through + Dr. ——, the name of Philip’s employer at R——. At + Arthur’s request he went down to Mr. Plaskwith; and arriving there the day + after the return of the bookseller, learned those particulars with which + Mr. Plaskwith’s letter to Roger Morton has already made the reader + acquainted. The lawyer then sent for Mr. Sharp, the officer before + employed, and commissioned him to track the young man’s whereabout. That + shrewd functionary soon reported that a youth every way answering to + Philip’s description had been introduced the night of the escape by a man + celebrated, not indeed for robberies, or larcenies, or crimes of the + coarser kind, but for address in all that more large and complex character + which comes under the denomination of living upon one’s wits, to a polite + rendezvous frequented by persons of a similar profession. Since then, + however, all clue of Philip was lost. But though Mr. Blackwell, in the way + of his profession, was thus publicly benevolent towards the fugitive, he + did not the less privately represent to his patrons, senior and junior, + the very equivocal character that Philip must be allowed to bear. Like + most lawyers, hard upon all who wander from the formal tracks, he + unaffectedly regarded Philip’s flight and absence as proofs of a reprobate + disposition; and this conduct was greatly aggravated in his eyes by Mr. + Sharp’s report, by which it appeared that after his escape Philip had so + suddenly, and, as it were, so naturally, taken to such equivocal + companionship. Mr. Robert Beaufort, already prejudiced against Philip, + viewed matters in the same light as the lawyer; and the story of his + supposed predilections reached Arthur’s ears in so distorted a shape, that + even he was staggered and revolted:—still Philip was so young—Arthur’s + oath to the orphans’ mother so recent—and if thus early inclined to + wrong courses, should not every effort be made to lure him back to the + straight path? With these views and reasonings, as soon as he was able, + Arthur himself visited Mrs. Lacy, and the note from Philip, which the good + lady put into his hands, affected him deeply, and confirmed all his + previous resolutions. Mrs. Lacy was very anxious to get at his name; but + Arthur, having heard that Philip had refused all aid from his father and + Mr. Blackwell, thought that the young man’s pride might work equally + against himself, and therefore evaded the landlady’s curiosity. He wrote + the next day the letter we have seen, to Mr. Roger Morton, whose address + Catherine had given to him; and by return of post came a letter from the + linendraper narrating the flight of Sidney, as it was supposed with his + brother. This news so excited Arthur that he insisted on going down to N—— + at once, and joining in the search. His father, alarmed for his health, + positively refused; and the consequence was an increase of fever, a + consultation with the doctors, and a declaration that Mr. Arthur was in + that state that it would be dangerous not to let him have his own way, Mr. + Beaufort was forced to yield, and with Blackwell and Mr. Sharp accompanied + his son to N——. The inquiries, hitherto fruitless, then + assumed a more regular and business-like character. By little and little + they came, through the aid of Mr. Sharp, upon the right clue, up to a + certain point. But here there was a double scent: two youths answering the + description, had been seen at a small village; then there came those who + asserted that they had seen the same youths at a seaport in one direction; + others, who deposed to their having taken the road to an inland town in + the other. This had induced Arthur and his father to part company. Mr. + Beaufort, accompanied by Roger Morton, went to the seaport; and Arthur, + with Mr. Spencer and Mr. Sharp, more fortunate, tracked the fugitives to + their retreat. As for Mr. Beaufort, senior, now that his mind was more at + ease about his son, he was thoroughly sick of the whole thing; greatly + bored by the society of Mr. Morton; very much ashamed that he, so + respectable and great a man, should be employed on such an errand; more + afraid of, than pleased with, any chance of discovering the fierce Philip; + and secretly resolved upon slinking back to London at the first reasonable + excuse. + </p> + <p> + The next morning Mr. Sharp entered betimes Mr. Stubmore’s counting-house. + In the yard he caught a glimpse of Philip, and managed to keep himself + unseen by that young gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Stubmore, I think?” + </p> + <p> + “At your service, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Sharp shut the glass door mysteriously, and lifting up the corner of a + green curtain that covered the panes, beckoned to the startled Stubmore to + approach. + </p> + <p> + “You see that ‘ere young man in the velveteen jacket? you employs him?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, sir; he’s my right hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, don’t be frightened, but his friends are arter him. He has got + into bad ways, and we want you to give him a little good advice.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! I know he has run away, like a fine-spirited lad as he is; and as + long as he likes to stay with me, they as comes after him may get a + ducking in the horse-trough!” + </p> + <p> + “Be you a father? a father of a family, Mr. Stubmore?” said Sharp, + thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets, swelling out his stomach, + and pursing up his lips with great solemnity. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! no gammon with me! Take your chaff to the goslings. I tells you + I can’t do without that ‘ere lad. Every man to himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oho!” thought Sharp, “I must change the tack.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Stubmore,” said he, taking a stool, “you speaks like a sensible man. + No one can reasonably go for to ask a gentleman to go for to inconvenience + hisself. But what do you know of that ‘ere youngster. Had you a carakter + with him?” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, it’s more to yourself, Mr. Stubmore; he is but a lad, and if he goes + back to his friends they may take care of him, but he got into a bad set + afore he come here. Do you know a good-looking chap with whiskers, who + talks of his pheaton, and was riding last night on a brown mare?” + </p> + <p> + “Y—e—s!” said Mr. Stubmore, growing rather pale, “and I knows + the mare, too. Why, sir, I sold him that mare!” + </p> + <p> + “Did he pay you for her?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, to be sure, he gave me a cheque on Coutts.” + </p> + <p> + “And you took it! My eyes! what a flat!” Here Mr. Sharp closed the orbs he + had invoked, and whistled with that self-hugging delight which men + invariably feel when another man is taken in. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Stubmore became evidently nervous. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what now;—you don’t think I’m done? I did not let him have the + mare till I went to the hotel,—found he was cutting a great dash + there, a groom, a pheaton, and a fine horse, and as extravagant as the + devil!” + </p> + <p> + “O Lord!—O Lord! what a world this is! What does he call his-self?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, here’s the cheque—George Frederick de—de Burgh Smith.” + </p> + <p> + “Put it in your pipe, my man,—put it in your pipe—not worth a + d—-!” + </p> + <p> + “And who the deuce are you, sir?” bawled out Mr. Stubmore, in an equal + rage both with himself and his guest. + </p> + <p> + “I, sir,” said the visitor, rising with great dignity,—“I, sir, am + of the great Bow Street Office, and my name is John Sharp!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Stubmore nearly fell off his stool, his eyes rolled in his head, and + his teeth chattered. Mr. Sharp perceived the advantage he had gained, and + continued,— + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; and I could have much to say against that chap, who is nothing + more or less than Dashing Jerry, as has ruined more girls and more + tradesmen than any lord in the land. And so I called to give you a bit of + caution; for, says I to myself, ‘Mr. Stubmore is a respectable man.’” + </p> + <p> + “I hope I am, sir,” said the crestfallen horse-dealer; “that was always my + character.” + </p> + <p> + “And the father of a family?” + </p> + <p> + “Three boys and a babe at the buzzom,” said Mr. Stubmore pathetically. + </p> + <p> + “And he sha’n’t be taken in if I can help it! That ‘ere young man as I am + arter, you see, knows Captain Smith—ha! ha!—smell a rat now—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Captain Smith said he knew him—the wiper—and that’s what made + me so green.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we must not be hard on the youngster: ‘cause why? he has friends as + is gemmen. But you tell him to go back to his poor dear relations, and all + shall be forgiven; and say as how you won’t keep him; and if he don’t go + back, he’ll have to get his livelihood without a carakter; and use your + influence with him like a man and a Christian, and what’s more, like the + father of a family—Mr. Stubmore—with three boys and a babe at + the buzzom. You won’t keep him now?” + </p> + <p> + “Keep him! I have had a precious escape. I’d better go and see after the + mare.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt if you’ll find her: the Captain caught a sight of me this + morning. Why, he lodges at our hotel. He’s off by this time!” + </p> + <p> + “And why the devil did you let him go?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Cause I had no writ agin him!” said the Bow Street officer; and he + walked straight out of the counting-office, satisfied that he had “done + the job.” + </p> + <p> + To snatch his hat—to run to the hotel—to find that Captain + Smith had indeed gone off in his phaeton, bag and baggage, the same as he + came, except that he had now two horses to the phaeton instead of one—having + left with the landlord the amount of his bill in another cheque upon + Coutts—was the work of five minutes with Mr. Stubmore. He returned + home, panting and purple with indignation and wounded feeling. + </p> + <p> + “To think that chap, whom I took into my yard like a son, should have + connived at this! ‘Tain’t the money—‘tis the willany that ‘flicts + me!” muttered Mr. Stubmore, as he re-entered the mews. + </p> + <p> + Here he came plump upon Philip, who said— + </p> + <p> + “Sir, I wished to see you, to say that you had better take care of Captain + Smith.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you did, did you, now he’s gone? ‘sconded off to America, I dare say, + by this time. Now look ye, young man; your friends are after you, I won’t + say anything agin you; but you go back to them—I wash my hands of + you. Quite too much for me. There’s your week, and never let me catch you + in my yard agin, that’s all!” + </p> + <p> + Philip dropped the money which Stubmore had put into his hand. “My + friends!—friends have been with you, have they? I thought so—I + thank them. And so you part with me? Well, you have been very kind, very + kind; let us part kindly;” and he held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Stubmore was softened—he touched the hand held out to him, and + looked doubtful a moment; but Captain de Burgh Smith’s cheque for eighty + guineas suddenly rose before his eyes. He turned on his heel abruptly, and + said, over his shoulder: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t go after Captain Smith (he’ll come to the gallows); mend your ways, + and be ruled by your poor dear relatives, whose hearts you are breaking.” + </p> + <p> + “Captain Smith! Did my relations tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes—they told me all—that is, they sent to tell me; + so you see I’m d—-d soft not to lay hold of you. But, perhaps, if + they be gemmen, they’ll act as sich, and cash me this here cheque!” + </p> + <p> + But the last words were said to air. Philip had rushed from the yard. + </p> + <p> + With a heaving breast, and every nerve in his body quivering with wrath, + the proud, unhappy boy strode through the gay streets. They had betrayed + him then, these accursed Beauforts! they circled his steps with schemes to + drive him like a deer into the snare of their loathsome charity! The roof + was to be taken from his head—the bread from his lips—so that + he might fawn at their knees for bounty. “But they shall not break my + spirit, nor steal away my curse. No, my dead mother, never!” + </p> + <p> + As he thus muttered, he passed through a patch of waste land that led to + the row of houses in which his lodging was placed. And here a voice called + to him, and a hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned, and Arthur + Beaufort, who had followed him from the street, stood behind him. Philip + did not, at the first glance, recognise his cousin; illness had so altered + him, and his dress was so different from that in which he had first and + last beheld him. The contrast between the two young men was remarkable. + Philip was clad in a rough garb suited to his late calling—a jacket + of black velveteen, ill-fitting and ill-fashioned, loose fustian trousers, + coarse shoes, his hat set deep over his pent eyebrows, his raven hair long + and neglected. He was just at that age when one with strong features and + robust frame is at the worst in point of appearance—the sinewy + proportions not yet sufficiently fleshed, and seeming inharmonious and + undeveloped; precisely in proportion, perhaps, to the symmetry towards + which they insensibly mature: the contour of the face sharpened from the + roundness of boyhood, and losing its bloom without yet acquiring that + relief and shadow which make the expression and dignity of the masculine + countenance. Thus accoutred, thus gaunt, and uncouth, stood Morton. Arthur + Beaufort, always refined in his appearance, seemed yet more so from the + almost feminine delicacy which ill-health threw over his pale complexion + and graceful figure; that sort of unconscious elegance which belongs to + the dress of the rich when they are young—seen most in minutiae—not + observable, perhaps, by themselves-marked forcibly and painfully the + distinction of rank between the two. That distinction Beaufort did not + feel; but at a glance it was visible to Philip. + </p> + <p> + The past rushed back on him. The sunny lawn—the gun offered and + rejected—the pride of old, much less haughty than the pride of + to-day. + </p> + <p> + “Philip,” said Beaufort, feebly, “they tell me you will not accept any + kindness from me or mine. Ah! if you knew how we have sought you!” + </p> + <p> + “Knew!” cried Philip, savagely, for that unlucky sentence recalled to him + his late interview with his employer, and his present destitution. “Knew! + And why have you dared to hunt me out, and halloo me down?—why must + this insolent tyranny, that assumes the right over these limbs and this + free will, betray and expose me and my wretchedness wherever I turn?” + </p> + <p> + “Your poor mother—” began Beaufort. + </p> + <p> + “Name her not with your lips—name her not!” cried Philip, growing + livid with his emotions. “Talk not of the mercy—the forethought—a + Beaufort could show to her and her offspring! I accept it not—I + believe it not. Oh, yes! you follow me now with your false kindness; and + why? Because your father—your vain, hollow, heartless father—” + </p> + <p> + “Hold!” said Beaufort, in a tone of such reproach, that it startled the + wild heart on which it fell; “it is my father you speak of. Let the son + respect the son.” + </p> + <p> + “No—no—no! I will respect none of your race. I tell you your + father fears me. I tell you that my last words to him ring in his ears! My + wrongs! Arthur Beaufort, when you are absent I seek to forget them; in + your abhorred presence they revive—they—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, almost choked with his passion; but continued instantly, with + equal intensity of fervour: + </p> + <p> + “Were yon tree the gibbet, and to touch your hand could alone save me from + it, I would scorn your aid. Aid! The very thought fires my blood and + nerves my hand. Aid! Will a Beaufort give me back my birthright—restore + my dead mother’s fair name? Minion!—sleek, dainty, luxurious minion!—out + of my path! You have my fortune, my station, my rights; I have but + poverty, and hate, and disdain. I swear, again and again, that you shall + not purchase these from me.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Philip—Philip,” cried Beaufort, catching his arm; “hear one—hear + one who stood by your—” + </p> + <p> + The sentence that would have saved the outcast from the demons that were + darkening and swooping round his soul, died upon the young Protector’s + lips. Blinded, maddened, excited, and exasperated, almost out of humanity + itself, Philip fiercely—brutally—swung aside the enfeebled + form that sought to cling to him, and Beaufort fell at his feet. Morton + stopped—glared at him with clenched hands and a smiling lip, sprung + over his prostrate form, and bounded to his home. + </p> + <p> + He slackened his pace as he neared the house, and looked behind; but + Beaufort had not followed him. He entered the house, and found Sidney in + the room, with a countenance so much more gay than that he had lately + worn, that, absorbed as he was in thought and passion, it yet did not fail + to strike him. + </p> + <p> + “What has pleased you, Sidney?” The child smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! it is a secret—I was not to tell you. But I’m sure you are not + the naughty boy he says you are.” + </p> + <p> + “He!—who?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t look so angry, Philip: you frighten me!” + </p> + <p> + “And you torture me. Who could malign one brother to the other?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! it was all meant very kindly—there’s been such a nice, dear, + good gentleman here, and he cried when he saw me, and said he knew dear + mamma. Well, and he has promised to take me home with him and give me a + pretty pony—as pretty—as pretty—oh, as pretty as it can + be got! And he is to call again and tell me more: I think he is a fairy, + Philip.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he say that he was to take me, too, Sidney?” said Morton, seating + himself, and looking very pale. At that question Sidney hung his head. + </p> + <p> + “No, brother—he says you won’t go, and that you are a bad boy—and + that you associate with wicked people—and that you want to keep me + shut up here and not let any one be good to me. But I told him I did not + believe that—yes, indeed, I told him so.” + </p> + <p> + And Sidney endeavoured caressingly to withdraw the hands that his brother + placed before his face. + </p> + <p> + Morton started up, and walked hastily to and fro the room. “This,” thought + he, “is another emissary of the Beauforts’—perhaps the lawyer: they + will take him from me—the last thing left to love and hope for. I + will foil them.” + </p> + <p> + “Sidney,” he said aloud, “we must go hence today, this very hour—nay, + instantly.” + </p> + <p> + “What! away from this nice, good gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “Curse him! yes, away from him. Do not cry—it is of no use—you + must go.” + </p> + <p> + This was said more harshly than Philip had ever yet spoken to Sidney; and + when he had said it, he left the room to settle with the landlady, and to + pack up their scanty effects. In another hour, the brothers had turned + their backs on the town. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I’ll carry thee + In sorrow’s arms to welcome Misery.” + + HEYWOOD’s Duchess of Sufolk. + + “Who’s here besides foul weather?” + SHAKSPEARE Lear. +</pre> + <p> + The sun was as bright and the sky as calm during the journey of the + orphans as in the last. They avoided, as before, the main roads, and their + way lay through landscapes that might have charmed a Gainsborough’s eye. + Autumn scattered its last hues of gold over the various foliage, and the + poppy glowed from the hedges, and the wild convolvuli, here and there, + still gleamed on the wayside with a parting smile. + </p> + <p> + At times, over the sloping stubbles, broke the sound of the sportsman’s + gun; and ever and anon, by stream and sedge, they startled the shy wild + fowl, just come from the far lands, nor yet settled in the new haunts too + soon to be invaded. + </p> + <p> + But there was no longer in the travellers the same hearts that had made + light of hardship and fatigue. Sidney was no longer flying from a harsh + master, and his step was not elastic with the energy of fear that looked + behind, and of hope that smiled before. He was going a toilsome, weary + journey, he knew not why nor whither; just, too, when he had made a + friend, whose soothing words haunted his childish fancy. He was displeased + with Philip, and in sullen and silent thoughtfulness slowly plodded behind + him; and Morton himself was gloomy, and knew not where in the world to + seek a future. + </p> + <p> + They arrived at dusk at a small inn, not so far distant from the town they + had left as Morton could have wished; but the days were shorter than in + their first flight. + </p> + <p> + They were shown into a small sanded parlour, which Sidney eyed with great + disgust; nor did he seem more pleased with the hacked and jagged leg of + cold mutton, which was all that the hostess set before them for supper. + Philip in vain endeavoured to cheer him up, and ate to set him the + example. He felt relieved when, under the auspices of a good-looking, + good-natured chambermaid, Sidney retired to rest, and he was left in the + parlour to his own meditations. Hitherto it had been a happy thing for + Morton that he had had some one dependent on him; that feeling had given + him perseverance, patience, fortitude, and hope. But now, dispirited and + sad, he felt rather the horror of being responsible for a human life, + without seeing the means to discharge the trust. It was clear, even to his + experience, that he was not likely to find another employer as facile as + Mr. Stubmore; and wherever he went, he felt as if his Destiny stalked at + his back. He took out his little fortune and spread it on the table, + counting it over and over; it had remained pretty stationary since his + service with Mr. Stubmore, for Sidney had swallowed up the wages of his + hire. While thus employed, the door opened, and the chambermaid, showing + in a gentleman, said, “We have no other room, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then,—I’m not particular; a tumbler of braundy and + water, stiffish, cold without, the newspaper—and a cigar. You’ll + excuse smoking, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Philip looked up from his hoard, and Captain de Burgh Smith stood before + him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said the latter, “well met!” And closing the door, he took off his + great-coat, seated himself near Philip, and bent both his eyes with + considerable wistfulness on the neat rows into which Philip’s bank-notes, + sovereigns, and shillings were arrayed. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty little sum for pocket money; caush in hand goes a great way, + properly invested. You must have been very lucky. Well, so I suppose you + are surprised to see me here without my pheaton?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had never seen you at all,” replied Philip, uncourteously, and + restoring his money to his pocket; “your fraud upon Mr. Stubmore, and your + assurance that you knew me, have sent me adrift upon the world.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s one man’s meat is another man’s poison,” said the captain, + philosophically; “no use fretting, care killed a cat. I am as badly off as + you; for, hang me, if there was not a Bow Street runner in the town. I + caught his eye fixed on me like a gimlet: so I bolted—went to N——, + left my pheaton and groom there for the present, and have doubled back, to + bauffle pursuit, and cut across the country. You recollect that noice girl + we saw in the coach; ‘gad, I served her spouse that is to be a praetty + trick! Borrowed his money under pretence of investing it in the New Grand + Anti-Dry-Rot Company; cool hundred—it’s only just gone, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Here the chambermaid entered with the brandy and water, the newspaper, and + cigar,—the captain lighted the last, took a deep sup from the + beverage, and said, gaily: + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, let us join fortunes; we are both, as you say, ‘adrift.’ Best + way to staund the breeze is to unite the caubles.” + </p> + <p> + Philip shook his head, and, displeased with his companion, sought his + pillow. He took care to put his money under his head, and to lock his + door. + </p> + <p> + The brothers started at daybreak; Sidney was even more discontented than + on the previous day. The weather was hot and oppressive; they rested for + some hours at noon, and in the cool of the evening renewed their way. + Philip had made up his mind to steer for a town in the thick of a hunting + district, where he hoped his equestrian capacities might again befriend + him; and their path now lay through a chain of vast dreary commons, which + gave them at least the advantage to skirt the road-side unobserved. But, + somehow or other, either Philip had been misinformed as to an inn where he + had proposed to pass the night, or he had missed it; for the clouds + darkened, and the sun went down, and no vestige of human habitation was + discernible. + </p> + <p> + Sidney, footsore and querulous, began to weep, and declare that he could + stir no further; and while Philip, whose iron frame defied fatigue, + compassionately paused to rest his brother, a low roll of thunder broke upon + the gloomy air. “There will be a storm,” said he, anxiously. “Come on—pray, + Sidney, come on.” + </p> + <p> + “It is so cruel in you, brother Philip,” replied Sidney, sobbing. “I wish + I had never—never gone with you.” + </p> + <p> + A flash of lightning, that illuminated the whole heavens, lingered round + Sidney’s pale face as he spoke; and Philip threw himself instinctively on + the child, as if to protect him even from the wrath of the unshelterable + flame. Sidney, hushed and terrified, clung to his brother’s breast; after + a pause, he silently consented to resume their journey. But now the storm + came nearer and nearer to the wanderers. The darkness grew rapidly more + intense, save when the lightning lit up heaven and earth alike with + intolerable lustre. And when at length the rain began to fall in merciless + and drenching torrents, even Philip’s brave heart failed him. How could he + ask Sidney to proceed, when they could scarcely see an inch before them?—all + that could now be done was to gain the high-road, and hope for some + passing conveyance. With fits and starts, and by the glare of the + lightning, they obtained their object; and stood at last on the great + broad thoroughfare, along which, since the day when the Roman carved it + from the waste, Misery hath plodded, and Luxury rolled, their common way. + </p> + <p> + Philip had stripped handkerchief, coat, vest, all to shelter Sidney; and + he felt a kind of strange pleasure through the dark, even to hear Sidney’s + voice wail and moan. But that voice grew more languid and faint—it + ceased—Sidney’s weight hung heavy—heavier on the fostering + arm. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven’s sake, speak!—speak, Sidney!—only one word—I + will carry you in my arms!” + </p> + <p> + “I think I am dying,” replied Sidney, in a low murmur; “I am so tired and + worn out I can go no further—I must lie here.” And he sank at once + upon the reeking grass beside the road. At this time the rain gradually + relaxed, the clouds broke away—a grey light succeeded to the + darkness—the lightning was more distant; and the thunder rolled + onward in its awful path. Kneeling on the ground, Philip supported his + brother in his arms, and cast his pleading eyes upward to the softening + terrors of the sky. A star, a solitary star—broke out for one + moment, as if to smile comfort upon him, and then vanished. But lo! in the + distance there suddenly gleamed a red, steady light, like that in some + solitary window; it was no will-o’-the-wisp, it was too stationary—human + shelter was then nearer than he had thought for. He pointed to the light, + and whispered, “Rouse yourself, one struggle more—it cannot be far + off.” + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible—I cannot stir,” answered Sidney: and a sudden + flash of lightning showed his countenance, ghastly, as if with the damps + of Death. What could the brother do?—stay there, and see the boy + perish before his eyes? leave him on the road and fly to the friendly + light? The last plan was the sole one left, yet he shrank from it in + greater terror than the first. Was that a step that he heard across the + road? He held his breath to listen—a form became dimly visible—it + approached. + </p> + <p> + Philip shouted aloud. + </p> + <p> + “What now?” answered the voice, and it seemed familiar to Morton’s ear. He + sprang forward; and putting his face close to the wayfarer, thought to + recognise the features of Captain de Burgh Smith. The Captain, whose eyes + were yet more accustomed to the dark, made the first overture. + </p> + <p> + “Why, my lad, is it you then? ‘Gad, you froightened me!” + </p> + <p> + Odious as this man had hitherto been to Philip, he was as welcome to him + as daylight now; he grasped his hand,—“My brother—a child—is + here, dying, I fear, with cold and fatigue; he cannot stir. Will you stay + with him—support him—but for a few moments, while I make to + yon light? See, I have money—plenty of money!” + </p> + <p> + “My good lad, it is very ugly work staying here at this hour: still—where’s + the choild?” + </p> + <p> + “Here, here! make haste, raise him! that’s right! God bless you! I shall + be back ere you think me gone.” + </p> + <p> + He sprang from the road, and plunged through the heath, the furze, the + rank glistening pools, straight towards the light—as the swimmer + towards the shore. + </p> + <p> + The captain, though a rogue, was human; and when life—an innocent + life—is at stake, even a rogue’s heart rises up from its weedy bed. + He muttered a few oaths, it is true, but he held the child in his arms; + and, taking out a little tin case, poured some brandy down Sidney’s throat + and then, by way of company, down his own. The cordial revived the boy; he + opened his eyes, and said, “I think I can go on now, Philip.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ........ +</pre> + <p> + We must return to Arthur Beaufort. He was naturally, though gentle, a + person of high spirit and not without pride. He rose from the ground with + bitter, resentful feelings and a blushing cheek, and went his way to the + hotel. Here he found Mr. Spencer just returned from his visit to Sidney. + Enchanted with the soft and endearing manners of his lost Catherine’s son, + and deeply affected with the resemblance the child bore to the mother as + he had seen her last at the gay and rosy age of fair sixteen, his + description of the younger brother drew Beaufort’s indignant thoughts from + the elder. He cordially concurred with Mr. Spencer in the wish to save one + so gentle from the domination of one so fierce; and this, after all, was + the child Catherine had most strongly commended to him. She had said + little of the elder; perhaps she had been aware of his ungracious and + untractable nature, and, as it seemed to Arthur Beaufort, his + predilections for a coarse and low career. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said he, “this boy, then, shall console me for the perverse + brutality of the other. He shall indeed drink of my cup, and eat of my + bread, and be to me as a brother.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” said Mr. Spencer, changing countenance, “you do not intend to take + Sidney to live with you. I meant him for my son—my adopted son.” + </p> + <p> + “No; generous as you are,” said Arthur, pressing his hand, “this charge + devolves on me—it is my right. I am the orphan’s relation—his + mother consigned him to me. But he shall be taught to love you not the + less.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spencer was silent. He could not bear the thought of losing Sidney as + an inmate of his cheerless home, a tender relic of his early love. From + that moment he began to contemplate the possibility of securing Sidney to + himself, unknown to Beaufort. + </p> + <p> + The plans both of Arthur and Spencer were interrupted by the sudden + retreat of the brothers. They determined to depart different ways in + search of them. Spencer, as the more helpless of the two, obtained the aid + of Mr. Sharp; Beaufort departed with the lawyer. + </p> + <p> + Two travellers, in a hired barouche, were slowly dragged by a pair of + jaded posters along the commons I have just described. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said one, “that the storm is very much abated; heigho! what an + unpleasant night!” + </p> + <p> + “Unkimmon ugly, sir,” answered the other; “and an awful long stage, + eighteen miles. These here remote places are quite behind the age, sir—quite. + However, I think we shall kitch them now.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very much afraid of that eldest boy, Sharp. He seems a dreadful + vagabond.” + </p> + <p> + “You see, sir, quite hand in glove with Dashing Jerry; met in the same inn + last night—preconcerted, you may be quite shure. It would be the + best day’s job I have done this many a day to save that ‘ere little fellow + from being corrupted. You sees he is just of a size to be useful to these + bad karakters. If they took to burglary, he would be a treasure to them—slip + him through a pane of glass like a ferret, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk of it, Sharp,” said Mr. Spencer, with a groan; “and recollect, + if we get hold of him, that you are not to say a word to Mr. Beaufort.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, sir; and I always goes with the gemman who behaves most + like a gemman.” + </p> + <p> + Here a loud halloo was heard close by the horses’ heads. “Good Heavens, if + that is a footpad!” said Mr. Spencer, shaking violently. + </p> + <p> + “Lord, sir, I have my barkers with me. Who’s there?” The barouche stopped—a + man came to the window. “Excuse me, sir,” said the stranger; “but there is + a poor boy here so tired and ill that I fear he will never reach the next + town, unless you will koindly give him a lift.” + </p> + <p> + “A poor boy!” said Mr. Spencer, poking his head over the head of Mr. + Sharp. “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “If you would just drop him at the King’s Awrms it would be a chaurity,” + said the man. + </p> + <p> + Sharp pinched Mr. Spencer in his shoulder. “That’s Dashing Jerry; I’ll get + out.” So saying, he opened the door, jumped into the road, and presently + reappeared with the lost and welcome Sidney in his arms. “Ben’t this the + boy?” he whispered to Mr. Spencer; and, taking the lamp from the carriage, + he raised it to the child’s face. + </p> + <p> + “It is! it is! God be thanked!” exclaimed the worthy man. + </p> + <p> + “Will you leave him at the King’s Awrms?—we shall be there in an + hour or two,” cried the Captain. + </p> + <p> + “We! Who’s we?” said Sharp, gruffly. “Why, myself and the choild’s + brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Sharp, raising the lantern to his own face; “you knows me, I + think, Master Jerry? Let me kitch you again, that’s all. And give my + compliments to your ‘sociate, and say, if he prosecutes this here hurchin + any more, we’ll settle his bizness for him; and so take a hint and make + yourself scarce, old boy!” + </p> + <p> + With that Mr. Sharp jumped into the barouche, and bade the postboy drive + on as fast as he could. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes after this abduction, Philip, followed by two labourers, with + a barrow, a lantern, and two blankets, returned from the hospitable farm + to which the light had conducted him. The spot where he had left Sidney, + and which he knew by a neighbouring milestone, was vacant; he shouted an + alarm, and the Captain answered from the distance of some threescore + yards. Philip came to him. “Where is my brother?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone away in a barouche and pair. Devil take me if I understand it.” And + the Captain proceeded to give a confused account of what had passed. + </p> + <p> + “My brother! my brother! they have torn thee from me, then;” cried Philip, + and he fell to the earth insensible. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Vous me rendrez mon frere!” + CASIMER DELAVIGNE: Les Enfans d’Edouard. + + [You shall restore me my brother!] +</pre> + <p> + One evening, a week after this event, a wild, tattered, haggard youth + knocked at the door of Mr. Robert Beaufort. The porter slowly presented + himself. + </p> + <p> + “Is your master at home? I must see him instantly.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s more than you can, my man; my master does not see the like of you + at this time of night,” replied the porter, eying the ragged apparition + before him with great disdain. + </p> + <p> + “See me he must and shall,” replied the young man; and as the porter + blocked up the entrance, he grasped his collar with a hand of iron, swung + him, huge as he was, aside, and strode into the spacious hall. + </p> + <p> + “Stop! stop!” cried the porter, recovering himself. “James! John! here’s a + go!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robert Beaufort had been back in town several days. Mrs. Beaufort, who + was waiting his return from his club, was in the dining-room. Hearing a + noise in the hall, she opened the door, and saw the strange grim figure I + have described, advancing towards her. “Who are you?” said she; “and what + do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I am Philip Morton. Who are you?” + </p> + <p> + “My husband,” said Mrs. Beaufort, shrinking into the parlour, while Morton + followed her and closed the door, “my husband, Mr. Beaufort, is not at + home.” + </p> + <p> + “You are Mrs. Beaufort, then! Well, you can understand me. I want my + brother. He has been basely reft from me. Tell me where he is, and I will + forgive all. Restore him to me, and I will bless you and yours.” And + Philip fell on his knees and grasped the train of her gown. “I know + nothing of your brother, Mr. Morton,” cried Mrs. Beaufort, surprised and + alarmed. “Arthur, whom we expect every day, writes us word that all search + for him has been in vain.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! you admit the search?” cried Morton, rising and clenching his hands. + “And who else but you or yours would have parted brother and brother? + Answer me where he is. No subterfuge, madam: I am desperate!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Beaufort, though a woman of that worldly coldness and indifference + which, on ordinary occasions, supply the place of courage, was extremely + terrified by the tone and mien of her rude guest. She laid her hand on the + bell; but Morton seized her arm, and, holding it sternly, said, while his + dark eyes shot fire through the glimmering room, “I will not stir hence + till you have told me. Will you reject my gratitude, my blessing? Beware! + Again, where have you hid my brother?” + </p> + <p> + At that instant the door opened, and Mr. Robert Beaufort entered. The + lady, with a shriek of joy, wrenched herself from Philip’s grasp, and flew + to her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Save me from this ruffian!” she said, with an hysterical sob. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort, who had heard from Blackwell strange accounts of Philip’s + obdurate perverseness, vile associates, and unredeemable character, was + roused from his usual timidity by the appeal of his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Insolent reprobate!” he said, advancing to Philip; “after all the absurd + goodness of my son and myself; after rejecting all our offers, and + persisting in your miserable and vicious conduct, how dare you presume to + force yourself into this house? Begone, or I will send for the constables + to remove YOU! + </p> + <p> + “Man, man,” cried Philip, restraining the fury that shook him from head to + foot, “I care not for your threats—I scarcely hear your abuse—your + son, or yourself, has stolen away my brother: tell me only where he is; + let me see him once more. Do not drive me hence, without one word of + justice, of pity. I implore you—on my knees I implore you—yes, + I,—I implore you, Robert Beaufort, to have mercy on your brother’s + son. Where is Sidney?” Like all mean and cowardly men, Robert Beaufort was + rather encouraged than softened by Philip’s abrupt humility. + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing of your brother; and if this is not all some villainous + trick—which it may be—I am heartily rejoiced that he, poor + child! is rescued from the contamination of such a companion,” answered + Beaufort. + </p> + <p> + “I am at your feet still; again, for the last time, clinging to you a + suppliant: I pray you to tell me the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort, more and more exasperated by Morton’s forbearance, raised + his hand as if to strike; when, at that moment, one hitherto unobserved—one + who, terrified by the scene she had witnessed but could not comprehend, + had slunk into a dark corner of the room,—now came from her retreat. + And a child’s soft voice was heard, saying: + </p> + <p> + “Do not strike him, papa!—let him have his brother!” Mr. Beaufort’s + arm fell to his side: kneeling before him, and by the outcast’s side, was + his own young daughter; she had crept into the room unobserved, when her + father entered. Through the dim shadows, relieved only by the red and + fitful gleam of the fire, he saw her fair meek face looking up wistfully + at his own, with tears of excitement, and perhaps of pity—for + children have a quick insight into the reality of grief in those not far + removed from their own years—glistening in her soft eyes. Philip + looked round bewildered, and he saw that face which seemed to him, at such + a time, like the face of an angel. + </p> + <p> + “Hear her!” he murmured: “Oh, hear her! For her sake, do not sever one + orphan from the other!” + </p> + <p> + “Take away that child, Mrs. Beaufort,” cried Robert, angrily. “Will you + let her disgrace herself thus? And you, sir, begone from this roof; and + when you can approach me with due respect, I will give you, as I said I + would, the means to get an honest living.” + </p> + <p> + Philip rose; Mrs. Beaufort had already led away her daughter, and she took + that opportunity of sending in the servants: their forms filled up the + doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Will you go?” continued Mr. Beaufort, more and more emboldened, as he saw + the menials at hand, “or shall they expel you?” + </p> + <p> + “It is enough, sir,” said Philip, with a sudden calm and dignity that + surprised and almost awed his uncle. “My father, if the dead yet watch + over the living, has seen and heard you. There will come a day for + justice. Out of my path, hirelings!” + </p> + <p> + He waved his arm, and the menials shrank back at his tread, stalked across + the inhospitable hall, and vanished. When he had gained the street, he + turned and looked up at the house. His dark and hollow eyes, gleaming + through the long and raven hair that fell profusely over his face, had in + them an expression of menace almost preternatural, from its settled + calmness; the wild and untutored majesty which, though rags and squalor, + never deserted his form, as it never does the forms of men in whom the + will is strong and the sense of injustice deep; the outstretched arm the + haggard, but noble features; the bloomless and scathed youth, all gave to + his features and his stature an aspect awful in its sinister and voiceless + wrath. There he stood a moment, like one to whom woe and wrong have given + a Prophet’s power, guiding the eye of the unforgetful Fate to the roof of + the Oppressor. Then slowly, and with a half smile, he turned away, and + strode through the streets till he arrived at one of the narrow lanes that + intersect the more equivocal quarters of the huge city. He stopped at the + private entrance of a small pawnbroker’s shop; the door was opened by a + slipshod boy; he ascended the dingy stairs till he came to the second + floor; and there, in a small back room, he found Captain de Burgh Smith, + seated before a table with a couple of candles on it, smoking a cigar, and + playing at cards by himself. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what news of your brother, Bully Phil?” + </p> + <p> + “None: they will reveal nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you give him up?” + </p> + <p> + “Never! My hope now is in you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought you would be driven to come to me, and I will do + something for you that I should not loike to do for myself. I told you + that I knew the Bow Street runner who was in the barouche. I will find him + out—Heaven knows that is easily done; and, if you can pay well, you + will get your news.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall have all I possess, if you restore my brother. See what it is, + one hundred pounds—it was his fortune. It is useless to me without + him. There, take fifty now, and if—” + </p> + <p> + Philip stopped, for his voice trembled too much to allow him farther + speech. Captain Smith thrust the notes into his pocket, and said— + </p> + <p> + “We’ll consider it settled.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Smith fulfilled his promise. He saw the Bow Street officer. Mr. + Sharp had been bribed too high by the opposite party to tell tales, and he + willingly encouraged the suspicion that Sidney was under the care of the + Beauforts. He promised, however, for the sake of ten guineas, to procure + Philip a letter from Sidney himself. This was all he would undertake. + </p> + <p> + Philip was satisfied. At the end of another week, Mr. Sharp transmitted to + the Captain a letter, which he, in his turn, gave to Philip. It ran thus, + in Sidney’s own sprawling hand: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR BROTHER PHILIP,—I am told you wish to know how I am, and + therfore take up my pen, and assure you that I write all out of my own + head. I am very Comfortable and happy—much more so than I have been + since poor deir mama died; so I beg you won’t vex yourself about me: and + pray don’t try and Find me out, For I would not go with you again for the + world. I am so much better Off here. I wish you would be a good boy, and + leave off your Bad ways; for I am sure, as every one says, I don’t know + what would have become of me if I had staid with you. Mr. [the Mr. half + scratched out] the gentleman I am with, says if you turn out Properly, he + will be a friend to you, Too; but he advises you to go, like a Good boy, + to Arthur Beaufort, and ask his pardon for the past, and then Arthur will + be very kind to you. I send you a great Big sum of L20., and the gentleman + says he would send more, only it might make you naughty, and set up. I go + to church now every Sunday, and read good books, and always pray that God + may open your eyes. I have such a Nice Pony, with such a long tale. So no + more at present from your affectionate brother, SIDNEY MORTON.” + </p> + <p> + Oct. 8, 18— + </p> + <p> + “Pray, pray don’t come after me Any more. You know I neerly died of it, + but for this deir good gentleman I am with.” + </p> + <p> + So this, then, was the crowning reward of all his sufferings and all his + love! There was the letter, evidently undictated, with its errors of + orthography, and in the child’s rough scrawl; the serpent’s tooth pierced + to the heart, and left there its most lasting venom. + </p> + <p> + “I have done with him for ever,” said Philip, brushing away the bitter + tears. “I will molest him no farther; I care no more to pierce this + mystery. Better for him as it is—he is happy! Well, well, and I—I + will never care for a human being again.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed his head over his hands; and when he rose, his heart felt to him + like stone. It seemed as if Conscience herself had fled from his soul on + the wings of departed Love. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But you have found the mountain’s top—there sit + On the calm flourishing head of it; + And whilst with wearied steps we upward go, + See us and clouds below.”—COWLEY. +</pre> + <p> + It was true that Sidney was happy in his new home, and thither we must now + trace him. + </p> + <p> + On reaching the town where the travellers in the barouche had been + requested to leave Sidney, “The King’s Arms” was precisely the inn + eschewed by Mr. Spencer. While the horses were being changed, he summoned + the surgeon of the town to examine the child, who had already much + recovered; and by stripping his clothes, wrapping him in warm blankets, + and administering cordials, he was permitted to reach another stage, so as + to baffle pursuit that night; and in three days Mr. Spencer had placed his + new charge with his maiden sisters, a hundred and fifty miles from the + spot where he had been found. He would not take him to his own home yet. + He feared the claims of Arthur Beaufort. He artfully wrote to that + gentleman, stating that he had abandoned the chase of Sidney in despair, + and desiring to know if he had discovered him; and a bribe of L300. to Mr. + Sharp with a candid exposition of his reasons for secreting Sidney—reasons + in which the worthy officer professed to sympathise—secured the + discretion of his ally. But he would not deny himself the pleasure of + being in the same house with Sidney, and was therefore for some months the + guest of his sisters. At length he heard that young Beaufort had been + ordered abroad for his health, and he then deemed it safe to transfer his + new idol to his Lares by the lakes. During this interval the current of + the younger Morton’s life had indeed flowed through flowers. At his age + the cares of females were almost a want as well as a luxury, and the + sisters spoiled and petted him as much as any elderly nymphs in Cytherea + ever petted Cupid. They were good, excellent, high-nosed, flat-bosomed + spinsters, sentimentally fond of their brother, whom they called “the + poet,” and dotingly attached to children. The cleanness, the quiet, the + good cheer of their neat abode, all tended to revive and invigorate the + spirits of their young guest, and every one there seemed to vie which + should love him the most. Still his especial favourite was Mr. Spencer: + for Spencer never went out without bringing back cakes and toys; and + Spencer gave him his pony; and Spencer rode a little crop-eared nag by his + side; and Spencer, in short, was associated with his every comfort and + caprice. He told them his little history; and when he said how Philip had + left him alone for long hours together, and how Philip had forced him to + his last and nearly fatal journey, the old maids groaned, and the old + bachelor sighed, and they all cried in a breath, that “Philip was a very + wicked boy.” It was not only their obvious policy to detach him from his + brother, but it was their sincere conviction that they did right to do so. + Sidney began, it is true, by taking Philip’s part; but his mind was + ductile, and he still looked back with a shudder to the hardships he had + gone through: and so by little and little he learned to forget all the + endearing and fostering love Philip had evinced to him; to connect his + name with dark and mysterious fears; to repeat thanksgivings to Providence + that he was saved from him; and to hope that they might never meet again. + In fact, when Mr. Spencer learned from Sharp that it was through Captain + Smith, the swindler, that application had been made by Philip for news of + his brother, and having also learned before, from the same person, that + Philip had been implicated in the sale of a horse, swindled, if not + stolen, he saw every additional reason to widen the stream that flowed + between the wolf and the lamb. The older Sidney grew, the better he + comprehended and appreciated the motives of his protector—for he was + brought up in a formal school of propriety and ethics, and his mind + naturally revolted from all images of violence or fraud. Mr. Spencer + changed both the Christian and the surname of his protege, in order to + elude the search whether of Philip, the Mortons, or the Beauforts, and + Sidney passed for his nephew by a younger brother who had died in India. + </p> + <p> + So there, by the calm banks of the placid lake, amidst the fairest + landscapes of the Island Garden, the youngest born of Catherine passed his + tranquil days. The monotony of the retreat did not fatigue a spirit which, + as he grew up, found occupation in books, music, poetry, and the elegances + of the cultivated, if quiet, life within his reach. To the rough past he + looked back as to an evil dream, in which the image of Philip stood dark + and threatening. His brother’s name as he grew older he rarely mentioned; + and if he did volunteer it to Mr. Spencer, the bloom on his cheek grew + paler. The sweetness of his manners, his fair face and winning smile, + still continued to secure him love, and to screen from the common eye + whatever of selfishness yet lurked in his nature. And, indeed, that fault + in so serene a career, and with friends so attached, was seldom called + into action. So thus was he severed from both the protectors, Arthur and + Philip, to whom poor Catherine had bequeathed him. + </p> + <p> + By a perverse and strange mystery, they, to whom the charge was most + intrusted were the very persons who were forbidden to redeem it. On our + death-beds when we think we have provided for those we leave behind—should + we lose the last smile that gilds the solemn agony, if we could look one + year into the Future? + </p> + <p> + Arthur Beaufort, after an ineffectual search for Sidney, heard, on + returning to his home, no unexaggerated narrative of Philip’s visit, and + listened, with deep resentment, to his mother’s distorted account of the + language addressed to her. It is not to be surprised that, with all his + romantic generosity, he felt sickened and revolted at violence that seemed + to him without excuse. Though not a revengeful character, he had not that + meekness which never resents. He looked upon Philip Morton as upon one + rendered incorrigible by bad passions and evil company. Still Catherine’s + last request, and Philip’s note to him, the Unknown Comforter, often + recurred to him, and he would have willingly yet aided him had Philip been + thrown in his way. But as it was, when he looked around, and saw the + examples of that charity that begins at home, in which the world abounds, + he felt as if he had done his duty; and prosperity having, though it could + not harden his heart, still sapped the habits of perseverance, so by + little and little the image of the dying Catherine, and the thought of her + sons, faded from his remembrance. And for this there was the more excuse + after the receipt of an anonymous letter, which relieved all his + apprehensions on behalf of Sidney. The letter was short, and stated simply + that Sidney Morton had found a friend who would protect him throughout + life; but who would not scruple to apply to Beaufort if ever he needed his + assistance. So one son, and that the youngest and the best loved, was + safe. And the other, had he not chosen his own career? Alas, poor + Catherine! when you fancied that Philip was the one sure to force his way + into fortune, and Sidney the one most helpless, how ill did you judge of + the human heart! It was that very strength of Philip’s nature which + tempted the winds that scattered the blossoms, and shook the stem to its + roots; while the lighter and frailer nature bent to the gale, and bore + transplanting to a happier soil. If a parent read these pages, let him + pause and think well on the characters of his children; let him at once + fear and hope the most for the one whose passions and whose temper lead to + a struggle with the world. That same world is a tough wrestler, and has a + bear’s gripe. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Arthur Beaufort’s own complaints, which grew serious and + menaced consumption, recalled his thoughts more and more every day to + himself. He was compelled to abandon his career at the University, and to + seek for health in the softer breezes of the South. His parents + accompanied him to Nice; and when, at the end of a few months, he was + restored to health, the desire of travel seized the mind and attracted the + fancy of the young heir. His father and mother, satisfied with his + recovery, and not unwilling that he should acquire the polish of + Continental intercourse, returned to England; and young Beaufort, with gay + companions and munificent income, already courted, spoiled, and flattered, + commenced his tour with the fair climes of Italy. + </p> + <p> + So, O dark mystery of the Moral World!—so, unlike the order of the + External Universe, glide together, side by side, the shadowy steeds of + NIGHT AND MORNING. Examine life in its own world; confound not that world, + the inner one, the practical one, with the more visible, yet airier and + less substantial system, doing homage to the sun, to whose throne, afar in + the infinite space, the human heart has no wings to flee. In life, the + mind and the circumstance give the true seasons, and regulate the darkness + and the light. Of two men standing on the same foot of earth, the one + revels in the joyous noon, the other shudders in the solitude of night. + For Hope and Fortune, the day-star is ever shining. For Care and Penury, + Night changes not with the ticking of the clock, nor with the shadow on + the dial. Morning for the heir, night for the houseless, and God’s eye + over both. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK III. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The knight of arts and industry, + And his achievements fair.” + THOMSON’S Castle of Indolence: Explanatory Verse to Canto II. +</pre> + <p> + In a popular and respectable, but not very fashionable quartier in Paris, + and in the tolerably broad and effective locale of the Rue ——, + there might be seen, at the time I now treat of, a curious-looking + building, that jutted out semicircularly from the neighbouring shops, with + plaster pilasters and compo ornaments. The virtuosi of the quartier had + discovered that the building was constructed in imitation of an ancient + temple in Rome; this erection, then fresh and new, reached only to the + entresol. The pilasters were painted light green and gilded in the + cornices, while, surmounting the architrave, were three little statues—one + held a torch, another a bow, and a third a bag; they were therefore + rumoured, I know not with what justice, to be the artistical + representatives of Hymen, Cupid and Fortune. + </p> + <p> + On the door was neatly engraved, on a brass plate, the following + inscription: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “MONSIEUR LOVE, ANGLAIS, + A L’ENTRESOL.” + </pre> + <p> + And if you had crossed the threshold and mounted the stairs, and gained + that mysterious story inhabited by Monsieur Love, you would have seen, + upon another door to the right, another epigraph, informing those + interested in the inquiry that the bureau, of M. Love was open daily from + nine in the morning to four in the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + The office of M. Love—for office it was, and of a nature not + unfrequently designated in the “petites affiches” of Paris—had been + established about six months; and whether it was the popularity of the + profession, or the shape of the shop, or the manners of M. Love himself, I + cannot pretend to say, but certain it is that the Temple of Hymen—as + M. Love classically termed it—had become exceedingly in vogue in the + Faubourg St.—. It was rumoured that no less than nine marriages in + the immediate neighbourhood had been manufactured at this fortunate + office, and that they had all turned out happily except one, in which the + bride being sixty, and the bridegroom twenty-four, there had been rumours + of domestic dissension; but as the lady had been delivered,—I mean + of her husband, who had drowned himself in the Seine, about a month after + the ceremony, things had turned out in the long run better than might have + been expected, and the widow was so little discouraged; that she had been + seen to enter the office already—a circumstance that was greatly to + the credit of Mr. Love. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the secret of Mr. Love’s success, and of the marked superiority of + his establishment in rank and popularity over similar ones, consisted in + the spirit and liberality with which the business was conducted. He seemed + resolved to destroy all formality between parties who might desire to draw + closer to each other, and he hit upon the lucky device of a table d’hote, + very well managed, and held twice a-week, and often followed by a soiree + dansante; so that, if they pleased, the aspirants to matrimonial happiness + might become acquainted without <i>gene</i>. As he himself was a jolly, + convivial fellow of much <i>savoir vivre</i>, it is astonishing how well + he made these entertainments answer. Persons who had not seemed to take to + each other in the first distant interview grew extremely enamoured when + the corks of the champagne—an extra of course in the abonnement—bounced + against the wall. Added to this, Mr. Love took great pains to know the + tradesmen in his neighbourhood; and, what with his jokes, his appearance + of easy circumstances, and the fluency with which he spoke the language, + he became a universal favourite. Many persons who were uncommonly starched + in general, and who professed to ridicule the bureau, saw nothing improper + in dining at the table d’hote. To those who wished for secrecy he was said + to be wonderfully discreet; but there were others who did not affect to + conceal their discontent at the single state: for the rest, the + entertainments were so contrived as never to shock the delicacy, while + they always forwarded the suit. + </p> + <p> + It was about eight o’clock in the evening, and Mr. Love was still seated + at dinner, or rather at dessert, with a party of guests. His apartments, + though small, were somewhat gaudily painted and furnished, and his + dining-room was decorated a la Turque. The party consisted—first, of + a rich epicier, a widower, Monsieur Goupille by name, an eminent man in + the Faubourg; he was in his grand climacteric, but still belhomme; wore a + very well-made peruque of light auburn, with tight pantaloons, which + contained a pair of very respectable calves; and his white neckcloth and + his large frill were washed and got up with especial care. Next to + Monsieur Goupille sat a very demure and very spare young lady of about + two-and-thirty, who was said to have saved a fortune—Heaven knows + how—in the family of a rich English milord, where she had officiated + as governess; she called herself Mademoiselle Adele de Courval, and was + very particular about the de, and very melancholy about her ancestors. + Monsieur Goupille generally put his finger through his peruque, and fell + away a little on his left pantaloon when he spoke to Mademoiselle de + Courval, and Mademoiselle de Courval generally pecked at her bouquet when + she answered Monsieur Goupille. On the other side of this young lady sat a + fine-looking fair man—M. Sovolofski, a Pole, buttoned up to the + chin, and rather threadbare, though uncommonly neat. He was flanked by a + little fat lady, who had been very pretty, and who kept a boarding-house, + or pension, for the English, she herself being English, though long + established in Paris. Rumour said she had been gay in her youth, and + dropped in Paris by a Russian nobleman, with a very pretty settlement, she + and the settlement having equally expanded by time and season: she was + called Madame Beavor. On the other side of the table was a red-headed + Englishman, who spoke very little French; who had been told that French + ladies were passionately fond of light hair; and who, having L2000. of his + own, intended to quadruple that sum by a prudent marriage. Nobody knew + what his family was, but his name was Higgins. His neighbour was an + exceedingly tall, large-boned Frenchman, with a long nose and a red + riband, who was much seen at Frascati’s, and had served under Napoleon. + Then came another lady, extremely pretty, very piquante, and very gay, but + past the premiere jeunesse, who ogled Mr. Love more than she did any of + his guests: she was called Rosalie Caumartin, and was at the head of a + large bon-bon establishment; married, but her husband had gone four years + ago to the Isle of France, and she was a little doubtful whether she might + not be justly entitled to the privileges of a widow. Next to Mr. Love, in + the place of honour, sat no less a person than the Vicomte de Vaudemont, a + French gentleman, really well-born, but whose various excesses, added to + his poverty, had not served to sustain that respect for his birth which he + considered due to it. He had already been twice married; once to an + Englishwoman, who had been decoyed by the title; by this lady, who died in + childbed, he had one son; a fact which he sedulously concealed from the + world of Paris by keeping the unhappy boy—who was now some eighteen + or nineteen years old—a perpetual exile in England. Monsieur de + Vaudemont did not wish to pass for more than thirty, and he considered + that to produce a son of eighteen would be to make the lad a monster of + ingratitude by giving the lie every hour to his own father! In spite of + this precaution the Vicomte found great difficulty in getting a third wife—especially + as he had no actual land and visible income; was, not seamed, but ploughed + up, with the small-pox; small of stature, and was considered more than un + peu bete. He was, however, a prodigious dandy, and wore a lace frill and + embroidered waistcoat. Mr. Love’s vis-a-vis was Mr. Birnie, an Englishman, + a sort of assistant in the establishment, with a hard, dry, parchment + face, and a remarkable talent for silence. The host himself was a splendid + animal; his vast chest seemed to occupy more space at the table than any + four of his guests, yet he was not corpulent or unwieldy; he was dressed + in black, wore a velvet stock very high, and four gold studs glittered in + his shirt-front; he was bald to the crown, which made his forehead appear + singularly lofty, and what hair he had left was a little greyish and + curled; his face was shaved smoothly, except a close-clipped mustache; and + his eyes, though small, were bright and piercing. Such was the party. + </p> + <p> + “These are the best bon-bons I ever ate,” said Mr. Love, glancing at + Madame Caumartin. “My fair friends, have compassion on the table of a poor + bachelor.” + </p> + <p> + “But you ought not to be a bachelor, Monsieur Lofe,” replied the fair + Rosalie, with an arch look; “you who make others marry, should set the + example.” + </p> + <p> + “All in good time,” answered Mr. Love, nodding; “one serves one’s + customers to so much happiness that one has none left for one’s self.” + </p> + <p> + Here a loud explosion was heard. Monsieur Goupille had pulled one of the + bon-bon crackers with Mademoiselle Adele. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got the motto!—no—Monsieur has it: I’m always unlucky,” + said the gentle Adele. + </p> + <p> + The epicier solemnly unrolled the little slip of paper; the print was very + small, and he longed to take out his spectacles, but he thought that would + make him look old. However, he spelled through the motto with some + difficulty:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Comme elle fait soumettre un coeur, + En refusant son doux hommage, + On peut traiter la coquette en vainqueur; + De la beauty modeste on cherit l’esclavage.” + + [The coquette, who subjugates a heart, yet refuses its tender + homage, one may treat as a conqueror: of modest beauty we cherish + the slavery.] +</pre> + <p> + “I present it to Mademoiselle,” said he, laying the motto solemnly in + Adele’s plate, upon a little mountain of chestnut-husks. + </p> + <p> + “It is very pretty,” said she, looking down. + </p> + <p> + “It is very a propos,” whispered the epicier, caressing the peruque a + little too roughly in his emotion. Mr. Love gave him a kick under the + table, and put his finger to his own bald head, and then to his nose, + significantly. The intelligent epicier smoothed back the irritated + peruque. + </p> + <p> + “Are you fond of bon-bons, Mademoiselle Adele? I have a very fine stock at + home,” said Monsieur Goupille. Mademoiselle Adele de Courval sighed: + “Helas! they remind me of happier days, when I was a petite and my dear + grandmamma took me in her lap and told me how she escaped the guillotine: + she was an emigree, and you know her father was a marquis.” + </p> + <p> + The epicier bowed and looked puzzled. He did not quite see the connection + between the bon-bons and the guillotine. “You are triste, Monsieur,” + observed Madame Beavor, in rather a piqued tone, to the Pole, who had not + said a word since the roti. + </p> + <p> + “Madame, an exile is always triste: I think of my pauvre pays.” + </p> + <p> + “Bah!” cried Mr. Love. “Think that there is no exile by the side of a + belle dame.” + </p> + <p> + The Pole smiled mournfully. + </p> + <p> + “Pull it,” said Madame Beavor, holding a cracker to the patriot, and + turning away her face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, madame; I wish it were a cannon in defence of La Pologne.” + </p> + <p> + With this magniloquent aspiration, the gallant Sovolofski pulled lustily, + and then rubbed his fingers, with a little grimace, observing that + crackers were sometimes dangerous, and that the present combustible was + d’une force immense. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Helas! J’ai cru jusqu’a ce jour + Pouvoir triompher de l’amour,” + + [Alas! I believed until to-day that I could triumph over love.] +</pre> + <p> + said Madame Beavor, reading the motto. “What do you say to that?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, there is no triumph for La Pologne!” Madame Beavor uttered a + little peevish exclamation, and glanced in despair at her red-headed + countryman. “Are you, too, a great politician, sir?” said she in English. + </p> + <p> + “No, mem!—I’m all for the ladies.” + </p> + <p> + “What does he say?” asked Madame Caumartin. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Higgins est tout pour les dames.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure he is,” cried Mr. Love; “all the English are, especially with + that coloured hair; a lady who likes a passionate adorer should always + marry a man with gold-coloured hair—always. What do you say, + Mademoiselle Adele?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I like fair hair,” said Mademoiselle, looking bashfully askew at + Monsieur Goupille’s peruque. “Grandmamma said her papa—the marquis—used + yellow powder: it must have been very pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather a la sucre d’ orge,” remarked the epicier, smiling on the right + side of his mouth, where his best teeth were. Mademoiselle de Courval + looked displeased. “I fear you are a republican, Monsieur Goupille.” + </p> + <p> + “I, Mademoiselle. No; I’m for the Restoration;” and again the epicier + perplexed himself to discover the association of idea between + republicanism and sucre d’orge. + </p> + <p> + “Another glass of wine. Come, another,” said Mr. Love, stretching across + the Vicomte to help Madame Canmartin. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said the tall Frenchman with the riband, eying the epicier with + great disdain, “you say you are for the Restoration—I am for the + Empire—Moi!” + </p> + <p> + “No politics!” cried Mr. Love. “Let us adjourn to the salon.” + </p> + <p> + The Vicomte, who had seemed supremely ennuye during this dialogue, plucked + Mr. Love by the sleeve as he rose, and whispered petulantly, “I do not see + any one here to suit me, Monsieur Love—none of my rank.” + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu!” answered Mr. Love: “point d’ argent point de Suisse. I could + introduce you to a duchess, but then the fee is high. There’s Mademoiselle + de Courval—she dates from the Carlovingians.” + </p> + <p> + “She is very like a boiled sole,” answered the Vicomte, with a wry face. + “Still—what dower has she?” + </p> + <p> + “Forty thousand francs, and sickly,” replied Mr. Love; “but she likes a + tall man, and Monsieur Goupille is—” + </p> + <p> + “Tall men are never well made,” interrupted the Vicomte, angrily; and he + drew himself aside as Mr. Love, gallantly advancing, gave his arm to + Madame Beavor, because the Pole had, in rising, folded both his own arms + across his breast. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, ma’am,” said Mr. Love to Madame Beavor, as they adjourned to + the salon, “I don’t think you manage that brave man well.” + </p> + <p> + “Ma foi, comme il est ennuyeux avec sa Pologne,” replied Madame Beavor, + shrugging her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “True; but he is a very fine-shaped man; and it is a comfort to think that + one will have no rival but his country. Trust me, and encourage him a + little more; I think he would suit you to a T.” + </p> + <p> + Here the attendant engaged for the evening announced Monsieur and Madame + Giraud; whereupon there entered a little—little couple, very fair, + very plump, and very like each other. This was Mr. Love’s show couple—his + decoy ducks—his last best example of match-making; they had been + married two months out of the bureau, and were the admiration of the + neighbourhood for their conjugal affection. As they were now united, they + had ceased to frequent the table d’hote; but Mr. Love often invited them + after the dessert, pour encourager les autres. + </p> + <p> + “My dear friends,” cried Mr. Love, shaking each by the hand, “I am + ravished to see you. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Monsieur and + Madame Giraud, the happiest couple in Christendom;—if I had done + nothing else in my life but bring them together I should not have lived in + vain!” + </p> + <p> + The company eyed the objects of this eulogium with great attention. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, my prayer is to deserve my bonheur,” said Monsieur Giraud. + </p> + <p> + “Cher ange!” murmured Madame: and the happy pair seated themselves next to + each other. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Love, who was all for those innocent pastimes which do away with + conventional formality and reserve, now proposed a game at “Hunt the + Slipper,” which was welcomed by the whole party, except the Pole and the + Vicomte; though Mademoiselle Adele looked prudish, and observed to the + epicier, “that Monsieur Lofe was so droll, but she should not have liked + her pauvre grandmaman to see her.” + </p> + <p> + The Vicomte had stationed himself opposite to Mademoiselle de Courval, and + kept his eyes fixed on her very tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle, I see, does not approve of such bourgeois diversions,” said + he. + </p> + <p> + “No, monsieur,” said the gentle Adele. “But I think we must sacrifice our + own tastes to those of the company.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a very amiable sentiment,” said the epicier. + </p> + <p> + “It is one attributed to grandmamma’s papa, the Marquis de Courval. It has + become quite a hackneyed remark since,” said Adele. + </p> + <p> + “Come, ladies,” said the joyous Rosalie; “I volunteer my slipper.” + </p> + <p> + “Asseyez-vous donc,” said Madame Beavor to the Pole. “Have you no games of + this sort in Poland?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, La Pologne is no more,” said the Pole. “But with the swords of + her brave—” + </p> + <p> + “No swords here, if you please,” said Mr. Love, putting his vast hands on + the Pole’s shoulder, and sinking him forcibly down into the circle now + formed. + </p> + <p> + The game proceeded with great vigour and much laughter from Rosalie, Mr. + Love, and Madame Beavor, especially whenever the last thumped the Pole + with the heel of the slipper. Monsieur Giraud was always sure that Madame + Giraud had the slipper about her, which persuasion on his part gave rise + to many little endearments, which are always so innocent among married + people. The Vicomte and the epicier were equally certain the slipper was + with Mademoiselle Adele, who defended herself with much more energy than + might have been supposed in one so gentle. The epicier, however, grew + jealous of the attentions of his noble rival, and told him that he gene’d + mademoiselle; whereupon the Vicomte called him an impertinent; and the + tall Frenchman, with the riband, sprang up and said: + </p> + <p> + “Can I be of any assistance, gentlemen?” + </p> + <p> + Therewith Mr. Love, the great peacemaker, interposed, and reconciling the + rivals, proposed to change the game to Colin Maillard-Anglice, “Blind + Man’s Buff.” Rosalie clapped her hands, and offered herself to be + blindfolded. The tables and chairs were cleared away; and Madame Beaver + pushed the Pole into Rosalie’s arms, who, having felt him about the face + for some moments, guessed him to be the tall Frenchman. During this time + Monsieur and Madame Giraud hid themselves behind the window-curtain. + </p> + <p> + “Amuse yourself, _mon ami_,” said Madame Beaver, to the liberated Pole. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, madame,” sighed Monsieur Sovolofski, “how can I be gay! All my + property confiscated by the Emperor of Russia! Has La Pologne no Brutus?” + </p> + <p> + “I think you are in love,” said the host, clapping him on the back. + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure,” whispered the Pole to the matchmaker, “that Madame + Beavor has vingt mille livres de rentes?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a sous less.” + </p> + <p> + The Pole mused, and, glancing at Madame Beavor, said, “And yet, madame, + your charming gaiety consoles me amidst all my suffering;” upon which + Madame Beavor called him “flatterer,” and rapped his knuckles with her + fan; the latter proceeding the brave Pole did not seem to like, for he + immediately buried his hands in his trousers’ pockets. + </p> + <p> + The game was now at its meridian. Rosalie was uncommonly active, and flew + about here and there, much to the harassment of the Pole, who repeatedly + wiped his forehead, and observed that it was warm work, and put him in + mind of the last sad battle for La Pologne. Monsieur Goupille, who had + lately taken lessons in dancing, and was vain of his agility—mounted + the chairs and tables, as Rosalie approached—with great grace and + gravity. It so happened that, in these saltations, he ascended a stool + near the curtain behind which Monsieur and Madame Giraud were ensconced. + Somewhat agitated by a slight flutter behind the folds, which made him + fancy, on the sudden panic, that Rosalie was creeping that way, the + epicier made an abrupt pirouette, and the hook on which the curtains were + suspended caught his left coat-tail, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The fatal vesture left the unguarded side;” + </pre> + <p> + just as he turned to extricate the garment from that dilemma, Rosalie + sprang upon him, and naturally lifting her hands to that height where she + fancied the human face divine, took another extremity of Monsieur + Goupille’s graceful frame thus exposed, by surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know who this is. Quelle drole de visage!” muttered Rosalie. + </p> + <p> + “Mais, madame,” faltered Monsieur Goupille, looking greatly disconcerted. + </p> + <p> + The gentle Adele, who did not seem to relish this adventure, came to the + relief of her wooer, and pinched Rosalie very sharply in the arm. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not fair. But I will know who this is,” cried Rosalie, angrily; + “you sha’n’t escape!” + </p> + <p> + A sudden and universal burst of laughter roused her suspicions—she + drew back—and exclaiming, “Mais quelle mauvaise plaisanterie; c’est + trop fort!” applied her fair hand to the place in dispute, with so hearty + a good-will, that Monsieur Goupille uttered a dolorous cry, and sprang + from the chair leaving the coat-tail (the cause of all his woe) suspended + upon the hook. + </p> + <p> + It was just at this moment, and in the midst of the excitement caused by + Monsieur Goupille’s misfortune, that the door opened, and the attendant + reappeared, followed by a young man in a large cloak. + </p> + <p> + The new-comer paused at the threshold, and gazed around him in evident + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Diable!” said Mr. Love, approaching, and gazing hard at the stranger. “Is + it possible?—You are come at last? Welcome!” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said the stranger, apparently still bewildered, “there is some + mistake; you are not—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am Mr. Love!—Love all the world over. How is our friend + Gregg?—told you to address yourself to Mr. Love,—eh?—Mum!—Ladies + and gentlemen, an acquisition to our party. Fine fellow, eh?—Five + feet eleven without his shoes,—and young enough to hope to be thrice + married before he dies. When did you arrive?” + </p> + <p> + “To-day.” + </p> + <p> + And thus, Philip Morton and Mr. William Gawtrey met once more. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + “Happy the man who, void of care and strife, In silken or in leathern + purse retains A splendid shilling!”—The Splendid Shilling. + </p> + <p> + “And wherefore should they take or care for thought, The unreasoning + vulgar willingly obey, And leaving toil and poverty behind. Run forth by + different ways, the blissful boon to find.” WEST’S Education. + </p> + <p> + “Poor, boy! your story interests me. The events are romantic, but the + moral is practical, old, everlasting—life, boy, life. Poverty by + itself is no such great curse; that is, if it stops short of starving. And + passion by itself is a noble thing, sir; but poverty and passion together—poverty + and feeling—poverty and pride—the poverty one is not born to,—but + falls into;—and the man who ousts you out of your easy-chair, + kicking you with every turn he takes, as he settles himself more + comfortably—why there’s no romance in that—hard every-day + life, sir! Well, well:—so after your brother’s letter you resigned + yourself to that fellow Smith.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I gave him my money, not my soul. I turned from his door, with a few + shillings that he himself thrust into my hand, and walked on—I cared + not whither—out of the town, into the fields—till night came; + and then, just as I suddenly entered on the high-road, many miles away, + the moon rose; and I saw, by the hedge-side, something that seemed like a + corpse; it was an old beggar, in the last state of raggedness, disease, + and famine. He had laid himself down to die. I shared with him what I had, + and helped him to a little inn. As he crossed the threshold, he turned + round and blessed me. Do you know, the moment I heard that blessing a + stone seemed rolled away from my heart? I said to myself, ‘What then! even + I can be of use to some one; and I am better off than that old man, for I + have youth and health.’ As these thoughts stirred in me, my limbs, before + heavy with fatigue, grew light; a strange kind of excitement seized me. I + ran on gaily beneath the moonlight that smiled over the crisp, broad road. + I felt as if no house, not even a palace, were large enough for me that + night. And when, at last, wearied out, I crept into a wood, and laid + myself down to sleep, I still murmured to myself, ‘I have youth and + health.’ But, in the morning, when I rose, I stretched out my arms, and + missed my brother!... In two or three days I found employment with a + farmer; but we quarrelled after a few weeks; for once he wished to strike + me; and somehow or other I could work, but not serve. Winter had begun + when we parted.—Oh, such a winter!—Then—then I knew what + it was to be houseless. How I lived for some months—if to live it + can be called—it would pain you to hear, and humble me to tell. At + last, I found myself again in London; and one evening, not many days + since, I resolved at last—for nothing else seemed left, and I had + not touched food for two days—to come to you.” + </p> + <p> + “And why did that never occur to you before?”! + </p> + <p> + “Because,” said Philip, with a deep blush,—“because I trembled at + the power over my actions and my future life that I was to give to one, + whom I was to bless as a benefactor, yet distrust as a guide.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Love, or Gawtrey, with a singular mixture of irony and + compassion in his voice; “and it was hunger, then, that terrified you at + last even more than I?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps hunger—or perhaps rather the reasoning that comes from + hunger. I had not, I say, touched food for two days; and I was standing on + that bridge, from which on one side you see the palace of a head of the + Church, on the other the towers of the Abbey, within which the men I have + read of in history lie buried. It was a cold, frosty evening, and the + river below looked bright with the lamps and stars. I leaned, weak and + sickening, against the wall of the bridge; and in one of the arched + recesses beside me a cripple held out his hat for pence. I envied him!—he + had a livelihood; he was inured to it, perhaps bred to it; he had no + shame. By a sudden impulse, I, too, turned abruptly round—held out + my hand to the first passenger, and started at the shrillness of my own + voice, as it cried ‘Charity.’” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey threw another log on the fire, looked complacently round the + comfortable room, and rubbed his hands. The young man continued,— + </p> + <p> + “‘You should be ashamed of yourself—I’ve a great mind to give you to + the police,’ was the answer, in a pert and sharp tone. I looked up, and + saw the livery my father’s menials had worn. I had been begging my bread + from Robert Beaufort’s lackey! I said nothing; the man went on his + business on tiptoe, that the mud might not splash above the soles of his + shoes. Then, thoughts so black that they seemed to blot out every star + from the sky—thoughts I had often wrestled against, but to which I + now gave myself up with a sort of mad joy—seized me: and I + remembered you. I had still preserved the address you gave me; I went + straight to the house. Your friend, on naming you, received me kindly, and + without question placed food before me—pressed on me clothing and + money—procured me a passport—gave me your address—and + now I am beneath your roof. Gawtrey, I know nothing yet of the world but + the dark side of it. I know not what to deem you—but as you alone + have been kind to me, so it is to your kindness rather than your aid, that + I now cling—your kind words and kind looks—yet—” he + stopped short, and breathed hard. + </p> + <p> + “Yet you would know more of me. Faith, my boy, I cannot tell you more at + this moment. I believe, to speak fairly, I don’t live exactly within the + pale of the law. But I’m not a villain! I never plundered my friend and + called it play!—I never murdered my friend and called it honour!—I + never seduced my friend’s wife and called it gallantry!” As Gawtrey said + this, he drew the words out, one by one, through his grinded teeth, paused + and resumed more gaily: “I struggle with Fortune; voila tout! I am not + what you seem to suppose—not exactly a swindler, certainly not a + robber! But, as I before told you, I am a charlatan, so is every man who + strives to be richer or greater than he is. + </p> + <p> + “I, too, want kindness as much as you do. My bread and my cup are at your + service. I will try and keep you unsullied, even by the clean dirt that + now and then sticks to me. On the other hand, youth, my young friend, has + no right to play the censor; and you must take me as you take the world, + without being over-scrupulous and dainty. My present vocation pays well; + in fact, I am beginning to lay by. My real name and past life are + thoroughly unknown, and as yet unsuspected, in this quartier; for though I + have seen much of Paris, my career hitherto has passed in other parts of + the city;—and for the rest, own that I am well disguised! What a + benevolent air this bald forehead gives me—eh? True,” added Gawtrey, + somewhat more seriously, “if I saw how you could support yourself in a + broader path of life than that in which I pick out my own way, I might say + to you, as a gay man of fashion might say to some sober stripling—nay, + as many a dissolute father says (or ought to say) to his son, ‘It is no + reason you should be a sinner, because I am not a saint.’ In a word, if + you were well off in a respectable profession, you might have safer + acquaintances than myself. But, as it is, upon my word as a plain man, I + don’t see what you can do better.” Gawtrey made this speech with so much + frankness and ease, that it seemed greatly to relieve the listener, and + when he wound up with, “What say you? In fine, my life is that of a great + schoolboy, getting into scrapes for the fun of it, and fighting his way + out as he best can!—Will you see how you like it?” Philip, with a + confiding and grateful impulse, put his hand into Gawtrey’s. The host + shook it cordially, and, without saying another word, showed his guest + into a little cabinet where there was a sofa-bed, and they parted for the + night. The new life upon which Philip Morton entered was so odd, so + grotesque, and so amusing, that at his age it was, perhaps, natural that + he should not be clear-sighted as to its danger. + </p> + <p> + William Gawtrey was one of those men who are born to exert a certain + influence and ascendency wherever they may be thrown; his vast strength, + his redundant health, had a power of themselves—a moral as well as + physical power. He naturally possessed high animal spirits, beneath the + surface of which, however, at times, there was visible a certain + undercurrent of malignity and scorn. He had evidently received a superior + education, and could command at will the manner of a man not unfamiliar + with a politer class of society. From the first hour that Philip had seen + him on the top of the coach on the R—— road, this man had + attracted his curiosity and interest; the conversation he had heard in the + churchyard, the obligations he owed to Gawtrey in his escape from the + officers of justice, the time afterwards passed in his society till they + separated at the little inn, the rough and hearty kindliness Gawtrey had + shown him at that period, and the hospitality extended to him now,—all + contributed to excite his fancy, and in much, indeed very much, entitled + this singular person to his gratitude. Morton, in a word, was fascinated; + this man was the only friend he had made. I have not thought it necessary + to detail to the reader the conversations that had taken place between + them, during that passage of Morton’s life when he was before for some + days Gawtrey’s companion; yet those conversations had sunk deep in his + mind. He was struck, and almost awed, by the profound gloom which lurked + under Gawtrey’s broad humour—a gloom, not of temperament, but of + knowledge. His views of life, of human justice and human virtue, were (as, + to be sure, is commonly the case with men who have had reason to quarrel + with the world) dreary and despairing; and Morton’s own experience had + been so sad, that these opinions were more influential than they could + ever have been with the happy. However in this, their second reunion, + there was a greater gaiety than in their first; and under his host’s roof + Morton insensibly, but rapidly, recovered something of the early and + natural tone of his impetuous and ardent spirits. Gawtrey himself was + generally a boon companion; their society, if not select, was merry. When + their evenings were disengaged, Gawtrey was fond of haunting cafes and + theatres, and Morton was his companion; Birnie (Mr. Gawtrey’s partner) + never accompanied them. Refreshed by this change of life, the very person + of this young man regained its bloom and vigour, as a plant, removed from + some choked atmosphere and unwholesome soil, where it had struggled for + light and air, expands on transplanting; the graceful leaves burst from + the long-drooping boughs, and the elastic crest springs upward to the sun + in the glory of its young prime. If there was still a certain fiery + sternness in his aspect, it had ceased, at least, to be haggard and + savage, it even suited the character of his dark and expressive features. + He might not have lost the something of the tiger in his fierce temper, + but in the sleek hues and the sinewy symmetry of the frame he began to put + forth also something of the tiger’s beauty. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Birnie did not sleep in the house, he went home nightly to a lodging + at some little distance. We have said but little about this man, for, to + all appearance, there was little enough to say; he rarely opened his own + mouth except to Gawtrey, with whom Philip often observed him engaged in + whispered conferences, to which he was not admitted. His eye, however, was + less idle than his lips; it was not a bright eye: on the contrary, it was + dull, and, to the unobservant, lifeless, of a pale blue, with a dim film + over it—the eye of a vulture; but it had in it a calm, heavy, + stealthy watchfulness, which inspired Morton with great distrust and + aversion. Mr. Birnie not only spoke French like a native, but all his + habits, his gestures, his tricks of manner, were French; not the French of + good society, but more idiomatic, as it were, and popular. He was not + exactly a vulgar person, he was too silent for that, but he was evidently + of low extraction and coarse breeding; his accomplishments were of a + mechanical nature; he was an extraordinary arithmetician, he was a very + skilful chemist, and kept a laboratory at his lodgings—he mended his + own clothes and linen with incomparable neatness. Philip suspected him of + blacking his own shoes, but that was prejudice. Once he found Morton + sketching horses’ heads—pour se desennuyer; and he made some short + criticisms on the drawings, which showed him well acquainted with the art. + Philip, surprised, sought to draw him into conversation; but Birnie eluded + the attempt, and observed that he had once been an engraver. + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey himself did not seem to know much of the early life of this + person, or at least he did not seem to like much to talk of him. The + footstep of Mr. Birnie was gliding, noiseless, and catlike; he had no + sociality in him—enjoyed nothing—drank hard—but was + never drunk. Somehow or other, he had evidently over Gawtrey an influence + little less than that which Gawtrey had over Morton, but it was of a + different nature: Morton had conceived an extraordinary affection for his + friend, while Gawtrey seemed secretly to dislike Birnie, and to be glad + whenever he quitted his presence. It was, in truth, Gawtrey’s custom when + Birnie retired for the night, to rub his hands, bring out the punchbowl, + squeeze the lemons, and while Philip, stretched on the sofa, listened to + him, between sleep and waking, to talk on for the hour together, often + till daybreak, with that bizarre mixture of knavery and feeling, drollery + and sentiment, which made the dangerous charm of his society. + </p> + <p> + One evening as they thus sat together, Morton, after listening for some + time to his companion’s comments on men and things, said abruptly,— + </p> + <p> + “Gawtrey! there is so much in you that puzzles me, so much which I find it + difficult to reconcile with your present pursuits, that, if I ask no + indiscreet confidence, I should like greatly to hear some account of your + early life. It would please me to compare it with my own; when I am your + age, I will then look back and see what I owed to your example.” + </p> + <p> + “My early life! well—you shall hear it. It will put you on your + guard, I hope, betimes against the two rocks of youth—love and + friendship.” Then, while squeezing the lemon into his favourite beverage, + which Morton observed he made stronger than usual, Gawtrey thus commenced: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE HISTORY OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All his success must on himself depend, + He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend; + With spirit high John learned the world to brave, + And in both senses was a ready knave.”—CRABBE. +</pre> + <p> + “My grandfather sold walking-sticks and umbrellas in the little passage by + Exeter ‘Change; he was a man of genius and speculation. As soon as he had + scraped together a little money, he lent it to some poor devil with a hard + landlord, at twenty per cent., and made him take half the loan in + umbrellas or bamboos. By these means he got his foot into the ladder, and + climbed upward and upward, till, at the age of forty, he had amassed + L5,000. He then looked about for a wife. An honest trader in the Strand, + who dealt largely in cotton prints, possessed an only daughter; this young + lady had a legacy, from a great-aunt, of L3,220., with a small street in + St. Giles’s, where the tenants paid weekly (all thieves or rogues—all, + so their rents were sure). Now my grandfather conceived a great friendship + for the father of this young lady; gave him a hint as to a new pattern in + spotted cottons; enticed him to take out a patent, and lent him L700. for + the speculation; applied for the money at the very moment cottons were at + their worst, and got the daughter instead of the money,—by which + exchange, you see, he won L2,520., to say nothing of the young lady. My + grandfather then entered into partnership with the worthy trader, carried + on the patent with spirit, and begat two sons. As he grew older, ambition + seized him; his sons should be gentlemen—one was sent to College, + the other put into a marching regiment. My grandfather meant to die worth + a plum; but a fever he caught in visiting his tenants in St. Giles’s + prevented him, and he only left L20,000. equally divided between the sons. + My father, the College man” (here Gawtrey paused a moment, took a large + draught of the punch, and resumed with a visible effort)—“my father, + the College man, was a person of rigid principles—bore an excellent + character—had a great regard for the world. He married early and + respectably. I am the sole fruit of that union; he lived soberly, his + temper was harsh and morose, his home gloomy; he was a very severe father, + and my mother died before I was ten years old. When I was fourteen, a + little old Frenchman came to lodge with us; he had been persecuted under + the old regime for being a philosopher; he filled my head with odd + crotchets which, more or less, have stuck there ever since. At eighteen I + was sent to St. John’s College, Cambridge. My father was rich enough to + have let me go up in the higher rank of a pensioner, but he had lately + grown avaricious; he thought that I was extravagant; he made me a sizar, + perhaps to spite me. Then, for the first time, those inequalities in life + which the Frenchman had dinned into my ears met me practically. A sizar! + another name for a dog! I had such strength, health, and spirits, that I + had more life in my little finger than half the fellow-commoners—genteel, + spindle-shanked striplings, who might have passed for a collection of my + grandfather’s walking-canes—bad in their whole bodies. And I often + think,” continued Gawtrey, “that health and spirits have a great deal to + answer for! When we are young we so far resemble savages who are Nature’s + young people—that we attach prodigious value to physical advantages. + My feats of strength and activity—the clods I thrashed—and the + railings I leaped—and the boat-races I won—are they not + written in the chronicle of St. John’s? These achievements inspired me + with an extravagant sense of my own superiority; I could not but despise + the rich fellows whom I could have blown down with a sneeze. Nevertheless, + there was an impassable barrier between me and them—a sizar was not + a proper associate for the favourites of fortune! But there was one young + man, a year younger myself, of high birth, and the heir to considerable + wealth, who did not regard me with the same supercilious insolence as the + rest; his very rank, perhaps, made him indifferent to the little + conventional formalities which influence persons who cannot play at + football with this round world; he was the wildest youngster in the + university—lamp-breaker—tandem-driver—mob-fighter—a + very devil in short—clever, but not in the reading line—small + and slight, but brave as a lion. Congenial habits made us intimate, and I + loved him like a brother—better than a brother—as a dog loves + his master. In all our rows I covered him with my body. He had but to say + to me, ‘Leap into the water,’ and I would not have stopped to pull off my + coat. In short, I loved him as a proud man loves one who stands betwixt + him and contempt,—as an affectionate man loves one who stands + between him and solitude. To cut short a long story: my friend, one dark + night, committed an outrage against discipline, of the most unpardonable + character. There was a sanctimonious, grave old fellow of the College, + crawling home from a tea-party; my friend and another of his set seized, + blindfolded, and handcuffed this poor wretch, carried him, vi et armis, + back to the house of an old maid whom he had been courting for the last + ten years, fastened his pigtail (he wore a long one) to the knocker, and + so left him. You may imagine the infernal hubbub which his attempts to + extricate himself caused in the whole street; the old maid’s old + maidservant, after emptying on his head all the vessels of wrath she could + lay her hand to, screamed, ‘Rape and murder!’ The proctor and his + bull-dogs came up, released the prisoner, and gave chase to the + delinquents, who had incautiously remained near to enjoy the sport. The + night was dark and they reached the College in safety, but they had been + tracked to the gates. For this offence I was expelled.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you were not concerned in it?” said Philip. + </p> + <p> + “No; but I was suspected and accused. I could have got off by betraying + the true culprits, but my friend’s father was in public life—a + stern, haughty old statesman; my friend was mortally afraid of him—the + only person he was afraid of. If I had too much insisted on my innocence, + I might have set inquiry on the right track. In fine, I was happy to prove + my friendship for him. He shook me most tenderly by the hand on parting, + and promised never to forget my generous devotion. I went home in + disgrace: I need not tell you what my father said to me: I do not think he + ever loved me from that hour. Shortly after this my uncle, George Gawtrey, + the captain, returned from abroad; he took a great fancy to me, and I left + my father’s house (which had grown insufferable) to live with him. He had + been a very handsome man—a gay spendthrift; he had got through his + fortune, and now lived on his wits—he was a professed gambler. His + easy temper, his lively humour, fascinated me; he knew the world well; + and, like all gamblers, was generous when the dice were lucky,—which, + to tell you the truth, they generally were, with a man who had no + scruples. Though his practices were a little suspected, they had never + been discovered. We lived in an elegant apartment, mixed familiarly with + men of various ranks, and enjoyed life extremely. I brushed off my college + rust, and conceived a taste for expense: I knew not why it was, but in my + new existence every one was kind to me; and I had spirits that made me + welcome everywhere. I was a scamp—but a frolicsome scamp—and + that is always a popular character. As yet I was not dishonest, but saw + dishonesty round me, and it seemed a very pleasant, jolly mode of making + money; and now I again fell into contact with the young heir. My college + friend was as wild in London as he had been at Cambridge; but the + boy-ruffian, though not then twenty years of age, had grown into the + man-villain.” + </p> + <p> + Here Gawtrey paused, and frowned darkly. + </p> + <p> + “He had great natural parts, this young man—much wit, readiness, and + cunning, and he became very intimate with my uncle. He learned of him how + to play the dice, and a pack the cards—he paid him L1,000. for the + knowledge!” + </p> + <p> + “How! a cheat? You said he was rich.” + </p> + <p> + “His father was very rich, and he had a liberal allowance, but he was very + extravagant; and rich men love gain as well as poor men do! He had no + excuse but the grand excuse of all vice—SELFISHNESS. Young as he was + he became the fashion, and he fattened upon the plunder of his equals, who + desired the honour of his acquaintance. Now, I had seen my uncle cheat, + but I had never imitated his example; when the man of fashion cheated, and + made a jest of his earnings and my scruples—when I saw him courted, + flattered, honoured, and his acts unsuspected, because his connections + embraced half the peerage, the temptation grew strong, but I still + resisted it. However, my father always said I was born to be a + good-for-nothing, and I could not escape my destiny. And now I suddenly + fell in love—you don’t know what that is yet—so much the + better for you. The girl was beautiful, and I thought she loved me—perhaps + she did—but I was too poor, so her friends said, for marriage. We + courted, as the saying is, in the meanwhile. It was my love for her, my + wish to deserve her, that made me iron against my friend’s example. I was + fool enough to speak to him of Mary—to present him to her—this + ended in her seduction.” (Again Gawtrey paused, and breathed hard.) “I + discovered the treachery—I called out the seducer—he sneered, + and refused to fight the low-born adventurer. I struck him to the earth—and + then we fought. I was satisfied by a ball through my side! but he,” added + Gawtrey, rubbing his hands, and with a vindictive chuckle,—“He was a + cripple for life! When I recovered I found that my foe, whose sick-chamber + was crowded with friends and comforters, had taken advantage of my illness + to ruin my reputation. He, the swindler, accused me of his own crime: the + equivocal character of my uncle confirmed the charge. Him, his own + high-born pupil was enabled to unmask, and his disgrace was visited on me. + I left my bed to find my uncle (all disguise over) an avowed partner in a + hell, and myself blasted alike in name, love, past, and future. And then, + Philip—then I commenced that career which I have trodden since—the + prince of good-fellows and good-for-nothings, with ten thousand aliases, + and as many strings to my bow. Society cast me off when I was innocent. + Egad, I have had my revenge on society since!—Ho! ho! ho!” + </p> + <p> + The laugh of this man had in it a moral infection. There was a sort of + glorying in its deep tone; it was not the hollow hysteric of shame and + despair—it spoke a sanguine joyousness! William Gawtrey was a man + whose animal constitution had led him to take animal pleasure in all + things: he had enjoyed the poisons he had lived on. + </p> + <p> + “But your father—surely your father—” + </p> + <p> + “My father,” interrupted Gawtrey, “refused me the money (but a small sum) + that, once struck with the strong impulse of a sincere penitence, I begged + of him, to enable me to get an honest living in a humble trade. His + refusal soured the penitence—it gave me an excuse for my career and + conscience grapples to an excuse as a drowning wretch to a straw. And yet + this hard father—this cautious, moral, money-loving man, three + months afterwards, suffered a rogue—almost a stranger—to decoy + him into a speculation that promised to bring him fifty per cent. He + invested in the traffic of usury what had sufficed to save a hundred such + as I am from perdition, and he lost it all. It was nearly his whole + fortune; but he lives and has his luxuries still: he cannot speculate, but + he can save: he cared not if I starved, for he finds an hourly happiness + in starving himself.” + </p> + <p> + “And your friend,” said Philip, after a pause in which his young + sympathies went dangerously with the excuses for his benefactor; “what has + become of him, and the poor girl?” + </p> + <p> + “My friend became a great man; he succeeded to his father’s peerage—a + very ancient one—and to a splendid income. He is living still. Well, + you shall hear about the poor girl! We are told of victims of seduction + dying in a workhouse or on a dunghill, penitent, broken-hearted, and + uncommonly ragged and sentimental. It may be a frequent case, but it is + not the worst. It is worse, I think, when the fair, penitent, innocent, + credulous dupe becomes in her turn the deceiver—when she catches + vice from the breath upon which she has hung—when she ripens, and + mellows, and rots away into painted, blazing, staring, wholesale harlotry—when, + in her turn, she ruins warm youth with false smiles and long bills—and + when worse—worse than all—when she has children, daughters + perhaps, brought up to the same trade, cooped, plumper, for some hoary + lecher, without a heart in their bosoms, unless a balance for weighing + money may be called a heart. Mary became this; and I wish to Heaven she + had rather died in an hospital! Her lover polluted her soul as well as her + beauty: he found her another lover when he was tired of her. When she was + at the age of thirty-six I met her in Paris, with a daughter of sixteen. I + was then flush with money, frequenting salons, and playing the part of a + fine gentleman. She did not know me at first; and she sought my + acquaintance. For you must know, my young friend,” said Gawtrey, abruptly + breaking off the thread of his narrative, “that I am not altogether the + low dog you might suppose in seeing me here. At Paris—ah! you don’t + know Paris—there is a glorious ferment in society in which the dregs + are often uppermost! I came here at the Peace, and here have I resided the + greater part of each year ever since. The vast masses of energy and life, + broken up by the great thaw of the Imperial system, floating along the + tide, are terrible icebergs for the vessel of the state. Some think + Napoleonism over—its effects are only begun. Society is shattered + from one end to the other, and I laugh at the little rivets by which they + think to keep it together. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [This passage was written at a period when the dynasty of Louis + Philippe seemed the most assured, and Napoleonism was indeed + considered extinct.] +</pre> + <p> + “But to return. Paris, I say, is the atmosphere for adventurers—new + faces and new men are so common here that they excite no impertinent + inquiry, it is so usual to see fortunes made in a day and spent in a + month; except in certain circles, there is no walking round a man’s + character to spy out where it wants piercing! Some lean Greek poet put + lead in his pockets to prevent being blown away;—put gold in your + pockets, and at Paris you may defy the sharpest wind in the world,—yea, + even the breath of that old AEolus—Scandal! Well, then, I had money—no + matter how I came by it—and health, and gaiety; and I was well + received in the coteries that exist in all capitals, but mostly in France, + where pleasure is the cement that joins many discordant atoms. Here, I + say, I met Mary and her daughter, by my old friend—the daughter, + still innocent, but, sacra! in what an element of vice! We knew each + other’s secrets, Mary and I, and kept them: she thought me a greater knave + than I was, and she intrusted to me her intention of selling her child to + a rich English marquis. On the other hand, the poor girl confided to me + her horror of the scenes she witnessed and the snares that surrounded her. + What do you think preserved her pure from all danger? Bah! you will never + guess! It was partly because, if example corrupts, it as often deters, but + principally because she loved. A girl who loves one man purely has about + her an amulet which defies the advances of the profligate. There was a + handsome young Italian, an artist, who frequented the house—he was + the man. I had to choose, then, between mother and daughter: I chose the + last.” + </p> + <p> + Philip seized hold of Gawtrey’s hand, grasped it warmly, and the + good-for-nothing continued— + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, that I loved that girl as well as I had ever loved the + mother, though in another way; she was what I fancied the mother to be; + still more fair, more graceful, more winning, with a heart as full of love + as her mother’s had been of vanity. I loved that child as if she had been + my own daughter. I induced her to leave her mother’s house—I + secreted her—I saw her married to the man she loved—I gave her + away, and saw no more of her for several months.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I spent them in prison! The young people could not live upon air; + I gave them what I had, and in order to do more I did something which + displeased the police; I narrowly escaped that time; but I am popular—very + popular, and with plenty of witnesses, not over-scrupulous, I got off! + When I was released, I would not go to see them, for my clothes were + ragged: the police still watched me, and I would not do them harm in the + world! Ay, poor wretches! they struggled so hard: he could got very little + by his art, though, I believe, he was a cleverish fellow at it, and the + money I had given them could not last for ever. They lived near the Champs + Elysees, and at night I used to steal out and look at them through the + window. They seemed so happy, and so handsome, and so good; but he looked + sickly, and I saw that, like all Italians, he languished for his own warm + climate. But man is born to act as well as to contemplate,” pursued + Gawtrey, changing his tone into the allegro; “and I was soon driven into + my old ways, though in a lower line. I went to London, just to give my + reputation an airing, and when I returned, pretty flush again, the poor + Italian was dead, and Fanny was a widow, with one boy, and enceinte with a + second child. So then I sought her again, for her mother had found her + out, and was at her with her devilish kindness; but Heaven was merciful, + and took her away from both of us: she died in giving birth to a girl, and + her last words were uttered to me, imploring me—the adventurer—the + charlatan—the good-for-nothing—to keep her child from the + clutches of her own mother. Well, sir, I did what I could for both the + children; but the boy was consumptive, like his father, and sleeps at + Pere-la-Chaise. The girl is here—you shall see her some day. Poor + Fanny! if ever the devil will let me, I shall reform for her sake. + Meanwhile, for her sake I must get grist for the mill. My story is + concluded, for I need not tell you all of my pranks—of all the parts + I have played in life. I have never been a murderer, or a burglar, or a + highway robber, or what the law calls a thief. I can only say, as I said + before, I have lived upon my wits, and they have been a tolerable capital + on the whole. I have been an actor, a money-lender, a physician, a + professor of animal magnetism (that was lucrative till it went out of + fashion, perhaps it will come in again); I have been a lawyer, a + house-agent, a dealer in curiosities and china; I have kept a hotel; I + have set up a weekly newspaper; I have seen almost every city in Europe, + and made acquaintance with some of its gaols; but a man who has plenty of + brains generally falls on his legs.” + </p> + <p> + “And your father?” said Philip; and here he spoke to Gawtrey of the + conversation he had overheard in the churchyard, but on which a scruple of + natural delicacy had hitherto kept him silent. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now,” said his host, while a slight blush rose to his cheeks, “I + will tell you, that though to my father’s sternness and avarice I + attribute many of my faults, I yet always had a sort of love for him; and + when in London I accidentally heard that he was growing blind, and living + with an artful old jade of a housekeeper, who might send him to rest with + a dose of magnesia the night after she had coaxed him to make a will in + her favour. I sought him out—and—but you say you heard what + passed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and I heard him also call you by name, when it was too late, and I + saw the tears on his cheeks.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you? Will you swear to that?” exclaimed Gawtrey, with vehemence: + then, shading his brow with his band, he fell into a reverie that lasted + some moments. + </p> + <p> + “If anything happen to me, Philip,” he said, abruptly, “perhaps he may yet + be a father to poor Fanny; and if he takes to her, she will repay him for + whatever pain I may, perhaps, have cost him. Stop! now I think of it, I + will write down his address for you—never forget it—there! It + is time to go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey’s tale made a deep impression on Philip. He was too young, too + inexperienced, too much borne away by the passion of the narrator, to see + that Gawtrey had less cause to blame Fate than himself. True, he had been + unjustly implicated in the disgrace of an unworthy uncle, but he had lived + with that uncle, though he knew him to be a common cheat; true, he had + been betrayed by a friend, but he had before known that friend to be a man + without principle or honour. But what wonder that an ardent boy saw + nothing of this—saw only the good heart that had saved a poor girl + from vice, and sighed to relieve a harsh and avaricious parent? Even the + hints that Gawtrey unawares let fall of practices scarcely covered by the + jovial phrase of “a great schoolboy’s scrapes,” either escaped the notice + of Philip, or were charitably construed by him, in the compassion and the + ignorance of a young, hasty, and grateful heart. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And she’s a stranger + Women—beware women.”—MIDDLETON. + + “As we love our youngest children best, + So the last fruit of our affection, + Wherever we bestow it, is most strong; + Since ‘tis indeed our latest harvest-home, + Last merriment ‘fore winter!” + WEBSTER, Devil’s Law Case. + + “I would fain know what kind of thing a man’s heart is? + I will report it to you; ‘tis a thing framed + With divers corners!”—ROWLEY. +</pre> + <p> + I have said that Gawtrey’s tale made a deep impression on Philip;—that + impression was increased by subsequent conversations, more frank even than + their talk had hitherto been. There was certainly about this man a fatal + charm which concealed his vices. It arose, perhaps, from the perfect + combinations of his physical frame—from a health which made his + spirits buoyant and hearty under all circumstances—and a blood so + fresh, so sanguine, that it could not fail to keep the pores of the heart + open. But he was not the less—for all his kindly impulses and + generous feelings, and despite the manner in which, naturally anxious to + make the least unfavourable portrait of himself to Philip, he softened and + glossed over the practices of his life—a thorough and complete + rogue, a dangerous, desperate, reckless daredevil. It was easy to see when + anything crossed him, by the cloud on his shaggy brow, by the swelling of + the veins on the forehead, by the dilation of the broad nostril, that he + was one to cut his way through every obstacle to an end,—choleric, + impetuous, fierce, determined. Such, indeed, were the qualities that made + him respected among his associates, as his more bland and humorous ones + made him beloved. He was, in fact, the incarnation of that great spirit + which the laws of the world raise up against the world, and by which the + world’s injustice on a large scale is awfully chastised; on a small scale, + merely nibbled at and harassed, as the rat that gnaws the hoof of the + elephant:—the spirit which, on a vast theatre, rises up, gigantic + and sublime, in the heroes of war and revolution—in Mirabeaus, + Marats, Napoleons: on a minor stage, it shows itself in demagogues, + fanatical philosophers, and mob-writers; and on the forbidden boards, + before whose reeking lamps outcasts sit, at once audience and actors, it + never produced a knave more consummate in his part, or carrying it off + with more buskined dignity, than William Gawtrey. I call him by his + aboriginal name; as for his other appellations, Bacchus himself had not so + many! + </p> + <p> + One day, a lady, richly dressed, was ushered by Mr. Birnie into the bureau + of Mr. Love, alias Gawtrey. Philip was seated by the window, reading, for + the first time, the Candide,—that work, next to Rasselas, the most + hopeless and gloomy of the sports of genius with mankind. The lady seemed + rather embarrassed when she perceived Mr. Love was not alone. She drew + back, and, drawing her veil still more closely round her, said, in French: + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, I would wish a private conversation.” Philip rose to withdraw, + when the lady, observing him with eyes whose lustre shone through the + veil, said gently: “But perhaps the young gentleman is discreet.” + </p> + <p> + “He is not discreet, he is discretion!—my adopted son. You may + confide in him—upon my honour you may, madam!” and Mr. Love placed + his hand on his heart. + </p> + <p> + “He is very young,” said the lady, in a tone of involuntary compassion, + as, with a very white hand, she unclasped the buckle of her cloak. + </p> + <p> + “He can the better understand the curse of celibacy,” returned Mr. Love, + smiling. + </p> + <p> + The lady lifted part of her veil, and discovered a handsome mouth, and a + set of small, white teeth; for she, too, smiled, though gravely, as she + turned to Morton, and said— + </p> + <p> + “You seem, sir, more fitted to be a votary of the temple than one of its + officers. However, Monsieur Love, let there be no mistake between us; I do + not come here to form a marriage, but to prevent one. I understand that + Monsieur the Vicomte de Vaudemont has called into request your services. I + am one of the Vicomte’s family; we are all anxious that he should not + contract an engagement of the strange and, pardon me, unbecoming + character, which must stamp a union formed at a public office.” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, madam,” said Mr. Love, with dignity, “that we have + contributed to the very first—” + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu!” interrupted the lady, with much impatience, “spare me a eulogy + on your establishment: I have no doubt it is very respectable; and for + grisettes and epiciers may do extremely well. But the Vicomte is a man of + birth and connections. In a word, what he contemplates is preposterous. I + know not what fee Monsieur Love expects; but if he contrive to amuse + Monsieur de Vaudemont, and to frustrate every connection he proposes to + form, that fee, whatever it may be, shall be doubled. Do you understand + me?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly, madam; yet it is not your offer that will bias me, but the + desire to oblige so charming a lady.” + </p> + <p> + “It is agreed, then?” said the lady, carelessly; and as she spoke she + again glanced at Philip. + </p> + <p> + “If madame will call again, I will inform her of my plans,” said Mr. Love. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will call again. Good morning!” As she rose and passed Philip, she + wholly put aside her veil, and looked at him with a gaze entirely free + from coquetry, but curious, searching, and perhaps admiring—the look + that an artist may give to a picture that seems of more value than the + place where he finds it would seem to indicate. The countenance of the + lady herself was fair and noble, and Philip felt a strange thrill at his + heart as, with a slight inclination of her head, she turned from the room. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Gawtrey, laughing, “this is not the first time I have been paid + by relations to break off the marriages I had formed. Egad! if one could + open a bureau to make married people single, one would soon be a Croesus! + Well, then, this decides me to complete the union between Monsieur + Goupille and Mademoiselle de Courval. I had balanced a little hitherto + between the epicier and the Vicomte. Now I will conclude matters. Do you + know, Phil, I think you have made a conquest?” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh!” said Philip, colouring. + </p> + <p> + In effect, that very evening Mr. Love saw both the epicier and Adele, and + fixed the marriage-day. As Monsieur Goupille was a person of great + distinction in the Faubourg, this wedding was one upon which Mr. Love + congratulated himself greatly; and he cheerfully accepted an invitation + for himself and his partners to honour the noces with their presence. + </p> + <p> + A night or two before the day fixed for the marriage of Monsieur Goupille + and the aristocratic Adele, when Mr. Birnie had retired, Gawtrey made his + usual preparations for enjoying himself. But this time the cigar and the + punch seemed to fail of their effect. Gawtrey remained moody and silent; + and Morton was thinking of the bright eyes of the lady who was so much + interested against the amours of the Vicomte de Vaudemont. + </p> + <p> + At last, Gawtrey broke silence: + </p> + <p> + “My young friend,” said he, “I told you of my little protege; I have been + buying toys for her this morning; she is a beautiful creature; to-morrow + is her birthday—she will then be six years old. But—but—” + here Gawtrey sighed—“I fear she is not all right here,” and he + touched his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “I should like much to see her,” said Philip, not noticing the latter + remark. + </p> + <p> + “And you shall—you shall come with me to-morrow. Heigho! I should + not like to die, for her sake!” + </p> + <p> + “Does her wretched relation attempt to regain her?” + </p> + <p> + “Her relation! No; she is no more—she died about two years since! + Poor Mary! I—well, this is folly. But Fanny is at present in a + convent; they are all kind to her, but then I pay well; if I were dead, + and the pay stopped,—again I ask, what would become of her, unless, + as I before said, my father—” + </p> + <p> + “But you are making a fortune now?” + </p> + <p> + “If this lasts—yes; but I live in fear—the police of this + cursed city are lynx-eyed; however, that is the bright side of the + question.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not have the child with you, since you love her so much? She would be + a great comfort to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Is this a place for a child—a girl?” said Gawtrey, stamping his + foot impatiently. “I should go mad if I saw that villainous deadman’s eye + bent upon her!” + </p> + <p> + “You speak of Birnie. How can you endure him?” + </p> + <p> + “When you are my age you will know why we endure what we dread—why + we make friends of those who else would be most horrible foes: no, no—nothing + can deliver me of this man but Death. And—and—” added Gawtrey, + turning pale, “I cannot murder a man who eats my bread. There are stronger + ties, my lad, than affection, that bind men, like galley-slaves, together. + He who can hang you puts the halter round your neck and leads you by it + like a dog.” + </p> + <p> + A shudder came over the young listener. And what dark secrets, known only + to those two, had bound, to a man seemingly his subordinate and tool, the + strong will and resolute temper of William Gawtrey? + </p> + <p> + “But, begone, dull care!” exclaimed Gawtrey, rousing himself. “And, after + all, Birnie is a useful fellow, and dare no more turn against me than I + against him! Why don’t you drink more? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh! have you e’er heard of the famed Captain Wattle?” + </pre> + <p> + and Gawtrey broke out into a loud Bacchanalian hymn, in which Philip could + find no mirth, and from which the songster suddenly paused to exclaim:— + </p> + <p> + “Mind you say nothing about Fanny to Birnie; my secrets with him are not + of that nature. He could not hurt her, poor lamb! it is true—at + least, as far as I can foresee. But one can never feel too sure of one’s + lamb, if one once introduces it to the butcher!” + </p> + <p> + The next day being Sunday, the bureau was closed, and Philip and Gawtrey + repaired to the convent. It was a dismal-looking place as to the exterior; + but, within, there was a large garden, well kept, and, notwithstanding the + winter, it seemed fair and refreshing, compared with the polluted streets. + The window of the room into which they were shown looked upon the green + sward, with walls covered with ivy at the farther end. And Philip’s own + childhood came back to him as he gazed on the quiet of the lonely place. + </p> + <p> + The door opened—an infant voice was heard, a voice of glee—of + rapture; and a child, light and beautiful as a fairy, bounded to Gawtrey’s + breast. + </p> + <p> + Nestling there, she kissed his face, his hands, his clothes, with a + passion that did not seem to belong to her age, laughing and sobbing + almost at a breath. + </p> + <p> + On his part, Gawtrey appeared equally affected: he stroked down her hair + with his huge hand, calling her all manner of pet names, in a tremulous + voice that vainly struggled to be gay. + </p> + <p> + At length he took the toys he had brought with him from his capacious + pockets, and strewing them on the floor, fairly stretched his vast bulk + along; while the child tumbled over him, sometimes grasping at the toys, + and then again returning to his bosom, and laying her head there, looked + up quietly into his eyes, as if the joy were too much for her. + </p> + <p> + Morton, unheeded by both, stood by with folded arms. He thought of his + lost and ungrateful brother, and muttered to himself: + </p> + <p> + “Fool! when she is older, she will forsake him!” + </p> + <p> + Fanny betrayed in her face the Italian origin of her father. She had that + exceeding richness of complexion which, though not common even in Italy, + is only to be found in the daughters of that land, and which harmonised + well with the purple lustre of her hair, and the full, clear iris of the + dark eyes. Never were parted cherries brighter than her dewy lips; and the + colour of the open neck and the rounded arms was of a whiteness still more + dazzling, from the darkness of the hair and the carnation of the glowing + cheek. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Fanny started from Gawtrey’s arms, and running up to Morton, + gazed at him wistfully, and said, in French: + </p> + <p> + “Who are you? Do you come from the moon? I think you do.” Then, stopping + abruptly, she broke into a verse of a nursery-song, which she chaunted + with a low, listless tone, as if she were not conscious of the sense. As + she thus sang, Morton, looking at her, felt a strange and painful doubt + seize him. The child’s eyes, though soft, were so vacant in their gaze. + </p> + <p> + “And why do I come from the moon?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Because you look sad and cross. I don’t like you—I don’t like the + moon; it gives me a pain here!” and she put her hand to her temples. “Have + you got anything for Fanny—poor, poor Fanny?” and, dwelling on the + epithet, she shook her head mournfully. + </p> + <p> + “You are rich, Fanny, with all those toys.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I? Everybody calls me poor Fanny—everybody but papa;” and she + ran again to Gawtrey, and laid her head on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “She calls me papa!” said Gawtrey, kissing her; “you hear it? Bless her!” + </p> + <p> + “And you never kiss any one but Fanny—you have no other little + girl?” said the child, earnestly, and with a look less vacant than that + which had saddened Morton. + </p> + <p> + “No other—no—nothing under heaven, and perhaps above it, but + you!” and he clasped her in his arms. “But,” he added, after a pause—“but + mind me, Fanny, you must like this gentleman. He will be always good to + you: and he had a little brother whom he was as fond of as I am of you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I won’t like him—I won’t like anybody but you and my sister!” + </p> + <p> + “Sister!—who is your sister?” + </p> + <p> + The child’s face relapsed into an expression almost of idiotcy. “I don’t + know—I never saw her. I hear her sometimes, but I don’t understand + what she says.—Hush! come here!” and she stole to the window on + tiptoe. Gawtrey followed and looked out. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear her, now?” said Fanny. “What does she say?” + </p> + <p> + As the girl spoke, some bird among the evergreens uttered a shrill, + plaintive cry, rather than song—a sound which the thrush + occasionally makes in the winter, and which seems to express something of + fear, and pain, and impatience. “What does she say?—can you tell + me?” asked the child. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! that is a bird; why do you call it your sister?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know!—because it is—because it—because—I + don’t know—is it not in pain?—do something for it, papa!” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey glanced at Morton, whose face betokened his deep pity, and + creeping up to him, whispered,— + </p> + <p> + “Do you think she is really touched here? No, no,—she will outgrow + it—I am sure she will!” + </p> + <p> + Morton sighed. + </p> + <p> + Fanny by this time had again seated herself in the middle of the floor, + and arranged her toys, but without seeming to take pleasure in them. + </p> + <p> + At last Gawtrey was obliged to depart. The lay sister, who had charge of + Fanny, was summoned into the parlour; and then the child’s manner entirely + changed; her face grew purple—she sobbed with as much anger as + grief. “She would not leave papa—she would not go—that she + would not!” + </p> + <p> + “It is always so,” whispered Gawtrey to Morton, in an abashed and + apologetic voice. “It is so difficult to get away from her. Just go and + talk with her while I steal out.” + </p> + <p> + Morton went to her, as she struggled with the patient good-natured sister, + and began to soothe and caress her, till she turned on him her large humid + eyes, and said, mournfully, + </p> + <p> + “Tu es mechant, tu. Poor Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + “But this pretty doll—” began the sister. The child looked at it + joylessly. + </p> + <p> + “And papa is going to die!” + </p> + <p> + “Whenever Monsieur goes,” whispered the nun, “she always says that he is + dead, and cries herself quietly to sleep; when Monsieur returns, she says + he is come to life again. Some one, I suppose, once talked to her about + death; and she thinks when she loses sight of any one, that that is + death.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor child!” said Morton, with a trembling voice. + </p> + <p> + The child looked up, smiled, stroked his cheek with her little hand, and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!—Yes! poor Fanny! Ah, he is going—see!—let me + go too—tu es mechant.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Morton, detaining her gently, “do you know that you give him + pain?—you make him cry by showing pain yourself. Don’t make him so + sad!” + </p> + <p> + The child seemed struck, hung down her head for a moment, as if in + thought, and then, jumping from Morton’s lap, ran to Gawtrey, put up her + pouting lips, and said: + </p> + <p> + “One kiss more!” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey kissed her, and turned away his head. + </p> + <p> + “Fanny is a good girl!” and Fanny, as she spoke, went back to Morton, and + put her little fingers into her eyes, as if either to shut out Gawtrey’s + retreat from her sight, or to press back her tears. + </p> + <p> + “Give me the doll now, sister Marie.” + </p> + <p> + Morton smiled and sighed, placed the child, who struggled no more, in the + nun’s arms, and left the room; but as he closed the door he looked back, + and saw that Fanny had escaped from the sister, thrown herself on the + floor, and was crying, but not loud. + </p> + <p> + “Is she not a little darling?” said Gawtrey, as they gained the street. + </p> + <p> + “She is, indeed, a most beautiful child!” + </p> + <p> + “And you will love her if I leave her penniless,” said Gawtrey, abruptly. + “It was your love for your mother and your brother that made me like you + from the first. Ay,” continued Gawtrey, in a tone of great earnestness, + “ay, and whatever may happen to me, I will strive and keep you, my poor + lad, harmless; and what is better, innocent even of such matters as sit + light enough on my own well-seasoned conscience. In turn, if ever you have + the power, be good to her,—yes, be good to her! and I won’t say a + harsh word to you if ever you like to turn king’s evidence against + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Gawtrey!” said Morton, reproachfully, and almost fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Bah!—such things are! But tell me honestly, do you think she is + very strange—very deficient?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not seen enough of her to judge,” answered Morton, evasively. + </p> + <p> + “She is so changeful,” persisted Gawtrey. “Sometimes you would say that + she was above her age, she comes out with such thoughtful, clever things; + then, the next moment, she throws me into despair. These nuns are very + skilful in education—at least they are said to be so. The doctors + give me hope, too. You see, her poor mother was very unhappy at the time + of her birth—delirious, indeed: that may account for it. I often + fancy that it is the constant excitement which her state occasions me that + makes me love her so much. You see she is one who can never shift for + herself. I must get money for her; I have left a little already with the + superior, and I would not touch it to save myself from famine! If she has + money people will be kind enough to her. And then,” continued Gawtrey, + “you must perceive that she loves nothing in the world but me—me, + whom nobody else loves! Well—well, now to the shop again!” + </p> + <p> + On returning home the bonne informed them that a lady had called, and + asked both for Monsieur Love and the young gentleman, and seemed much + chagrined at missing both. By the description, Morton guessed she was the + fair incognita, and felt disappointed at having lost the interview. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The cursed carle was at his wonted trade, + Still tempting heedless men into his snare, + In witching wise, as I before have said; + But when he saw, in goodly gear array’d, + The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, + His countenance fell.”—THOMSON, Castle of Indolence. +</pre> + <p> + The morning rose that was to unite Monsieur Goupille with Mademoiselle + Adele de Courval. The ceremony was performed, and bride and bridegroom + went through that trying ordeal with becoming gravity. Only the elegant + Adele seemed more unaffectedly agitated than Mr. Love could well account + for; she was very nervous in church, and more often turned her eyes to the + door than to the altar. Perhaps she wanted to run away; but it was either + too late or too early for the proceeding. The rite performed, the happy + pair and their friends adjourned to the Cadran Bleu, that restaurant so + celebrated in the festivities of the good citizens of Paris. Here Mr. Love + had ordered, at the epicier’s expense, a most tasteful entertainment. + </p> + <p> + “Sacre! but you have not played the economist, Monsieur Lofe,” said + Monsieur Goupille, rather querulously, as he glanced at the long room + adorned with artificial flowers, and the table a cingitante couverts. + </p> + <p> + “Bah!” replied Mr. Love, “you can retrench afterwards. Think of the + fortune she brought you.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a pretty sum, certainly,” said Monsieur Goupille, “and the notary + is perfectly satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “There is not a marriage in Paris that does me more credit,” said Mr. + Love; and he marched off to receive the compliments and congratulations + that awaited him among such of the guests as were aware of his good + offices. The Vicomte de Vaudemont was of course not present. He had not + been near Mr. Love since Adele had accepted the epicier. But Madame + Beavor, in a white bonnet lined with lilac, was hanging, sentimentally, on + the arm of the Pole, who looked very grand with his white favour; and Mr. + Higgins had been introduced, by Mr. Love, to a little dark Creole, who + wore paste diamonds, and had very languishing eyes; so that Mr. Love’s + heart might well swell with satisfaction at the prospect of the various + blisses to come, which might owe their origin to his benevolence. In fact, + that archpriest of the Temple of Hymen was never more great than he was + that day; never did his establishment seem more solid, his reputation more + popular, or his fortune more sure. He was the life of the party. + </p> + <p> + The banquet over, the revellers prepared for a dance. Monsieur Goupille, + in tights, still tighter than he usually wore, and of a rich nankeen, + quite new, with striped silk stockings, opened the ball with the lady of a + rich patissier in the same Faubourg; Mr. Love took out the bride. The + evening advanced; and after several other dances of ceremony, Monsieur + Goupille conceived himself entitled to dedicate one to connubial + affection. A country-dance was called, and the epicier claimed the fair + hand of the gentle Adele. About this time, two persons not hitherto + perceived had quietly entered the room, and, standing near the doorway, + seemed examining the dancers, as if in search for some one. They bobbed + their heads up and down, to and fro stopped—now stood on tiptoe. The + one was a tall, large-whiskered, fair-haired man; the other, a little, + thin, neatly-dressed person, who kept his hand on the arm of his + companion, and whispered to him from time to time. The whiskered gentleman + replied in a guttural tone, which proclaimed his origin to be German. The + busy dancers did not perceive the strangers. The bystanders did, and a hum + of curiosity circled round; who could they be?—who had invited them?—they + were new faces in the Faubourg—perhaps relations to Adele? + </p> + <p> + In high delight the fair bride was skipping down the middle, while + Monsieur Goupille, wiping his forehead with care, admired her agility; + when, to and behold! the whiskered gentleman I have described abruptly + advanced from his companion, and cried: + </p> + <p> + “La voila!—sacre tonnerre!” + </p> + <p> + At that voice—at that apparition, the bride halted; so suddenly + indeed, that she had not time to put down both feet, but remained with one + high in the air, while the other sustained itself on the light fantastic + toe. The company naturally imagined this to be an operatic flourish, which + called for approbation. Monsieur Love, who was thundering down behind her, + cried, “Bravo!” and as the well-grown gentleman had to make a sweep to + avoid disturbing her equilibrium, he came full against the whiskered + stranger, and sent him off as a bat sends a ball. + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu!” cried Monsieur Goupille. “Ma douce amie—she has fainted + away!” And, indeed, Adele had no sooner recovered her, balance, than she + resigned it once more into the arms of the startled Pole, who was happily + at hand. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, the German stranger, who had saved himself from falling + by coming with his full force upon the toes of Mr. Higgins, again advanced + to the spot, and, rudely seizing the fair bride by the arm, exclaimed,— + </p> + <p> + “No sham if you please, madame—speak! What the devil have you done + with the money?” + </p> + <p> + “Really, sir,” said Monsieur Goupille, drawing tip his cravat, “this is + very extraordinary conduct! What have you got to say to this lady’s money?—it + is my money now, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Oho! it is, is it? We’ll soon see that. Approchez donc, Monsieur Favart, + faites votre devoir.” + </p> + <p> + At these words the small companion of the stranger slowly sauntered to the + spot, while at the sound of his name and the tread of his step, the throng + gave way to the right and left. For Monsieur Favart was one of the most + renowned chiefs of the great Parisian police—a man worthy to be the + contemporary of the illustrious Vidocq. + </p> + <p> + “Calmez vous, messieurs; do not be alarmed, ladies,” said this gentleman, + in the mildest of all human voices; and certainly no oil dropped on the + waters ever produced so tranquillising an effect as that small, feeble, + gentle tenor. The Pole, in especial, who was holding the fair bride with + both his arms, shook all over, and seemed about to let his burden + gradually slide to the floor, when Monsieur Favart, looking at him with a + benevolent smile, said— + </p> + <p> + “Aha, mon brave! c’est toi. Restez donc. Restez, tenant toujours la dame!” + </p> + <p> + The Pole, thus condemned, in the French idiom, “always to hold the dame,” + mechanically raised the arms he had previously dejected, and the police + officer, with an approving nod of the head, said,— + </p> + <p> + “Bon! ne bougez point,—c’est ca!” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Goupille, in equal surprise and indignation to see his better + half thus consigned, without any care to his own marital feelings, to the + arms of another, was about to snatch her from the Pole, when Monsieur + Favart, touching him on the breast with his little finger, said, in the + suavest manner,— + </p> + <p> + “Mon bourgeois, meddle not with what does not concern you!” + </p> + <p> + “With what does not concern me!” repeated Monsieur Goupille, drawing + himself up to so great a stretch that he seemed pulling off his tights the + wrong way. “Explain yourself, if you please! This lady is my wife!” + </p> + <p> + “Say that again,—that’s all!” cried the whiskered stranger, in most + horrible French, and with a furious grimace, as he shook both his fists + just under the nose of the epicier. + </p> + <p> + “Say it again, sir,” said Monsieur Goupille, by no means daunted; “and why + should not I say it again? That lady is my wife!” + </p> + <p> + “You lie!—she is mine!” cried the German; and bending down, he + caught the fair Adele from the Pole with as little ceremony as if she had + never had a great-grandfather a marquis, and giving her a shake that might + have roused the dead, thundered out,— + </p> + <p> + “Speak! Madame Bihl! Are you my wife or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Monstre!” murmured Adele, opening her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “There—you hear—she owns me!” said the German, appealing to + the company with a triumphant air. + </p> + <p> + “C’est vrai!” said the soft voice of the policeman. “And now, pray don’t + let us disturb your amusements any longer. We have a fiacre at the door. + Remove your lady, Monsieur Bihl.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Lofe!—Monsieur Lofe!” cried, or rather screeched the + epicier, darting across the room, and seizing the chef by the tail of his + coat, just as he was half way through the door, “come back! Quelle + mauvaise plaisanterie me faites-vous ici? Did you not tell me that lady + was single? Am I married or not: Do I stand on my head or my heels?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush-hush! mon bon bourgeois!” whispered Mr. Love; “all shall be + explained to-morrow!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is this gentleman?” asked Monsieur Favart, approaching Mr. Love, who, + seeing himself in for it, suddenly jerked off the epicier, thrust his + hands down into his breeches’ pockets, buried his chin in his cravat, + elevated his eyebrows, screwed in his eyes, and puffed out his cheeks, so + that the astonished Monsieur Goupille really thought himself bewitched, + and literally did not recognise the face of the match-maker. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this gentleman?” repeated the little officer, standing beside, or + rather below, Mr. Love, and looking so diminutive by the contrast that you + might have fancied that the Priest of Hymen had only to breathe to blow + him away. + </p> + <p> + “Who should he be, monsieur?” cried, with great pertness, Madame Rosalie + Caumartin, coming to the relief, with the generosity of her sex.—“This + is Monsieur Lofe—Anglais celebre. What have you to say against him?” + </p> + <p> + “He has got five hundred francs of mine!” cried the epicier. + </p> + <p> + The policeman scanned Mr. Love, with great attention. “So you are in Paris + again?—Hein!—vous jouez toujours votre role! + </p> + <p> + “Ma foi!” said Mr. Love, boldly; “I don’t understand what monsieur means; + my character is well known—go and inquire it in London—ask the + Secretary of Foreign Affairs what is said of me—inquire of my + Ambassador—demand of my—” + </p> + <p> + “Votre passeport, monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “It is at home. A gentleman does not carry his passport in his pocket when + he goes to a ball!” + </p> + <p> + “I will call and see it—au revoir! Take my advice and leave Paris; I + think I have seen you somewhere!” + </p> + <p> + “Yet I have never had the honour to marry monsieur!” said Mr. Love, with a + polite bow. + </p> + <p> + In return for his joke, the policeman gave Mr. Love one look—it was + a quiet look, very quiet; but Mr. Love seemed uncommonly affected by it; + he did not say another word, but found himself outside the house in a + twinkling. Monsieur Favart turned round and saw the Pole making himself as + small as possible behind the goodly proportions of Madame Beavor. + </p> + <p> + “What name does that gentleman go by?” + </p> + <p> + “So—vo—lofski, the heroic Pole,” cried Madame Beavor, with + sundry misgivings at the unexpected cowardice of so great a patriot. + </p> + <p> + “Hein! take care of yourselves, ladies. I have nothing against that person + this time. But Monsieur Latour has served his apprenticeship at the + galleys, and is no more a Pole than I am a Jew.” + </p> + <p> + “And this lady’s fortune!” cried Monsieur Groupille, pathetically; “the + settlements are all made—the notaries all paid. I am sure there must + be some mistake.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Bihl, who had by this time restored his lost Helen to her senses, + stalked up to the epicier, dragging the lady along with him. + </p> + <p> + “Sir, there is no mistake! But, when I have got the money, if you like to + have the lady you are welcome to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Monstre!” again muttered the fair Adele. + </p> + <p> + “The long and the short of it,” said Monsieur Favart, “is that Monsieur + Bihl is a brave garcon, and has been half over the world as a courier.” + </p> + <p> + “A courier!” exclaimed several voices. + </p> + <p> + “Madame was nursery-governess to an English milord. They married, and + quarrelled—no harm in that, mes amis; nothing more common. Monsieur + Bihl is a very faithful fellow; nursed his last master in an illness that + ended fatally, because he travelled with his doctor. Milord left him a + handsome legacy—he retired from service, and fell ill, perhaps from + idleness or beer. Is not that the story, Monsieur Bihl?” + </p> + <p> + “He was always drunk—the wretch!” sobbed Adele. “That was to drown + my domestic sorrows,” said the German; “and when I was sick in my bed, + madame ran off with my money. Thanks to monsieur, I have found both, and I + wish you a very good night.” + </p> + <p> + “Dansez-vous toujours, mes amis,” said the officer, bowing. And following + Adele and her spouse, the little man left the room—where he had + caused, in chests so broad and limbs so doughty, much the same + consternation as that which some diminutive ferret occasions in a burrow + of rabbits twice his size. + </p> + <p> + Morton had outstayed Mr. Love. But he thought it unnecessary to linger + long after that gentleman’s departure; and, in the general hubbub that + ensued, he crept out unperceived, and soon arrived at the bureau. He found + Mr. Love and Mr. Birnie already engaged in packing up their effects. + </p> + <p> + “Why—when did you leave?” said Morton to Mr. Birnie. + </p> + <p> + “I saw the policeman enter.” + </p> + <p> + “And why the deuce did not you tell us?” said Gawtrey. + </p> + <p> + “Every man for himself. Besides, Mr. Love was dancing,” replied Mr. + Birnie, with a dull glance of disdain. “Philosophy,” muttered Gawtrey, + thrusting his dresscoat into his trunk; then, suddenly changing his voice, + “Ha! ha! it was a very good joke after all—own I did it well. Ecod! + if he had not given me that look, I think I should have turned the tables + on him. But those d—-d fellows learn of the mad doctors how to tame + us. Faith, my heart went down to my shoes—yet I’m no coward!” + </p> + <p> + “But, after all, he evidently did not know you,” said Morton; “and what + has he to say against you? Your trade is a strange one, but not dishonest. + Why give up as if—-” + </p> + <p> + “My young friend,” interrupted Gawtrey, “whether the officer comes after + us or not, our trade is ruined; that infernal Adele, with her fabulous + grandmaman, has done for us. Goupille will blow the temple about our ears. + No help for it—eh, Birnie?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + “Go to bed, Philip: we’ll call thee at daybreak, for we must make clear + work before our neighbours open their shutters.” + </p> + <p> + Reclined, but half undressed, on his bed in the little cabinet, Morton + revolved the events of the evening. The thought that he should see no more + of that white hand and that lovely mouth, which still haunted his + recollection as appertaining to the incognita, greatly indisposed him + towards the abrupt flight intended by Gawtrey, while (so much had his + faith in that person depended upon respect for his confident daring, and + so thoroughly fearless was Morton’s own nature) he felt himself greatly + shaken in his allegiance to the chief, by recollecting the effect produced + on his valour by a single glance from the instrument of law. He had not + yet lived long enough to be aware that men are sometimes the + Representatives of Things; that what the scytale was to the Spartan hero, + a sheriff’s writ often is to a Waterloo medallist: that a Bow Street + runner will enter the foulest den where Murder sits with his fellows, and + pick out his prey with the beck of his forefinger. That, in short, the + thing called LAW, once made tangible and present, rarely fails to palsy + the fierce heart of the thing called CRIME. For Law is the symbol of all + mankind reared against One Foe—the Man of Crime. Not yet aware of + this truth, nor, indeed, in the least suspecting Gawtrey of worse offences + than those of a charlatanic and equivocal profession, the young man mused + over his protector’s cowardice in disdain and wonder: till, wearied with + conjectures, distrust, and shame at his own strange position of obligation + to one whom he could not respect, he fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + When he woke, he saw the grey light of dawn that streamed cheerlessly + through his shutterless window, struggling with the faint ray of a candle + that Gawtrey, shading with his hand, held over the sleeper. He started up, + and, in the confusion of waking and the imperfect light by which he beheld + the strong features of Gawtrey, half imagined it was a foe who stood + before him. + </p> + <p> + “Take care, man,” said Gawtrey, as Morton, in this belief, grasped his + arm. “You have a precious rough gripe of your own. Be quiet, will you? I + have a word to say to you.” Here Gawtrey, placing the candle on a chair, + returned to the door and closed it. + </p> + <p> + “Look you,” he said in a whisper, “I have nearly run through my circle of + invention, and my wit, fertile as it is, can present to me little + encouragement in the future. The eyes of this Favart once on me, every + disguise and every double will not long avail. I dare not return to + London: I am too well known in Brussels, Berlin, and Vienna—” + </p> + <p> + “But,” interrupted Morton, raising himself on his arm, and fixing his dark + eyes upon his host,—“but you have told me again and again that you + have committed no crime; why then be so fearful of discovery?” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” repeated Gawtrey, with a slight hesitation which he instantly + overcame, “why! have not you yourself learned that appearances have the + effect of crimes?—were you not chased as a thief when I rescued you + from your foe, the law?—are you not, though a boy in years, under an + alias, and an exile from your own land? And how can you put these austere + questions to me, who am growing grey in the endeavour to extract sunbeams + from cucumbers—subsistence from poverty? I repeat that there are + reasons why I must avoid, for the present, the great capitals. I must sink + in life, and take to the provinces. Birnie is sanguine as ever; but he is + a terrible sort of comforter! Enough of that. Now to yourself: our savings + are less than you might expect; to be sure, Birnie has been treasurer, and + I have laid by a little for Fanny, which I will rather starve than touch. + There remain, however, 150 napoleons, and our effects, sold at a fourth + their value, will fetch 150 more. Here is your share. I have compassion on + you. I told you I would bear you harmless and innocent. Leave us while yet + time.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed, then, to Morton that Gawtrey had divined his thoughts of shame + and escape of the previous night; perhaps Gawtrey had: and such is the + human heart, that, instead of welcoming the very release he had half + contemplated, now that it was offered him, Philip shrank from it as a base + desertion. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Gawtrey!” said he, pushing back the canvas bag of gold held out to + him, “you shall not go over the world, and feel that the orphan you fed + and fostered left you to starve with your money in his pocket. When you + again assure me that you have committed no crime, you again remind me that + gratitude has no right to be severe upon the shifts and errors of its + benefactor. If you do not conform to society, what has society done for + me? No! I will not forsake you in a reverse. Fortune has given you a fall. + What, then, courage, and at her again!” + </p> + <p> + These last words were said so heartily and cheerfully as Morton sprang + from the bed, that they inspirited Gawtrey, who had really desponded of + his lot. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said he, “I cannot reject the only friend left me; and while I + live—. But I will make no professions. Quick, then, our luggage is + already gone, and I hear Birnie grunting the rogue’s march of retreat.” + </p> + <p> + Morton’s toilet was soon completed, and the three associates bade adieu to + the bureau. + </p> + <p> + Birnie, who was taciturn and impenetrable as ever, walked a little before + as guide. They arrived, at length, at a serrurier’s shop, placed in an + alley near the Porte St. Denis. The serrurier himself, a tall, begrimed, + blackbearded man, was taking the shutters from his shop as they + approached. He and Birnie exchanged silent nods; and the former, leaving + his work, conducted them up a very filthy flight of stairs to an attic, + where a bed, two stools, one table, and an old walnut-tree bureau formed + the sole articles of furniture. Gawtrey looked rather ruefully round the + black, low, damp walls, and said in a crestfallen tone: + </p> + <p> + “We were better off at the Temple of Hymen. But get us a bottle of wine, + some eggs, and a frying-pan. By Jove, I am a capital hand at an omelet!” + </p> + <p> + The serrurier nodded again, grinned, and withdrew. + </p> + <p> + “Rest here,” said Birnie, in his calm, passionless voice, that seemed to + Morton, however, to assume an unwonted tone of command. “I will go and + make the best bargain I can for our furniture, buy fresh clothes, and + engage our places for Tours.” + </p> + <p> + “For Tours?” repeated Morton. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there are some English there; one can live wherever there are + English,” said Gawtrey. + </p> + <p> + “Hum!” grunted Birnie, drily, and, buttoning up his coat, he walked slowly + away. + </p> + <p> + About noon he returned with a bundle of clothes, which Gawtrey, who always + regained his elasticity of spirit wherever there was fair play to his + talents, examined with great attention, and many exclamations of “Bon!—c’est + va.” + </p> + <p> + “I have done well with the Jew,” said Birnie, drawing from his coat pocket + two heavy bags. “One hundred and eighty napoleons. We shall commence with + a good capital.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right, my friend,” said Gawtrey. + </p> + <p> + The serrurier was then despatched to the best restaurant in the + neighbourhood, and the three adventurers made a less Socratic dinner than + might have been expected. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then out again he flies to wing his marry round.” + THOMPSON’S Castle of Indolence. + + “Again he gazed, ‘It is,’ said he, ‘the same; + There sits he upright in his seat secure, + As one whose conscience is correct and pure.’”—CRABBE. +</pre> + <p> + The adventurers arrived at Tours, and established themselves there in a + lodging, without any incident worth narrating by the way. + </p> + <p> + At Tours Morton had nothing to do but take his pleasure and enjoy himself. + He passed for a young heir; Gawtrey for his tutor—a doctor in + divinity; Birnie for his valet. The task of maintenance fell on Gawtrey, + who hit off his character to a hair; larded his grave jokes with + university scraps of Latin; looked big and well-fed; wore knee-breeches + and a shovel hat; and played whist with the skill of a veteran vicar. By + his science in that game he made, at first, enough; at least, to defray + their weekly expenses. But, by degrees, the good people at Tours, who, + under pretence of health, were there for economy, grew shy of so excellent + a player; and though Gawtrey always swore solemnly that he played with the + most scrupulous honour (an asseveration which Morton, at least, implicitly + believed), and no proof to the contrary was ever detected, yet a + first-rate card-player is always a suspicious character, unless the losing + parties know exactly who he is. The market fell off, and Gawtrey at length + thought it prudent to extend their travels. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Mr. Gawtrey, “the world nowadays has grown so ostentatious that + one cannot travel advantageously without a post-chariot and four horses.” + At length they found themselves at Milan, which at that time was one of + the El Dorados for gamesters. Here, however, for want of introductions, + Mr. Gawtrey found it difficult to get into society. The nobles, proud and + rich, played high, but were circumspect in their company; the bourgeoisie, + industrious and energetic, preserved much of the old Lombard shrewdness; + there were no tables d’hote and public reunions. Gawtrey saw his little + capital daily diminishing, with the Alps at the rear and Poverty in the + van. At length, always on the qui vive, he contrived to make acquaintance + with a Scotch family of great respectability. He effected this by picking + up a snuff-box which the Scotchman had dropped in taking out his + handkerchief. This politeness paved the way to a conversation in which + Gawtrey made himself so agreeable, and talked with such zest of the Modern + Athens, and the tricks practised upon travellers, that he was presented to + Mrs. Macgregor; cards were interchanged, and, as Mr. Gawtrey lived in + tolerable style, the Macgregors pronounced him “a vara genteel mon.” Once + in the house of a respectable person, Gawtrey contrived to turn himself + round and round, till he burrowed a hole into the English circle then + settled in Milan. His whist-playing came into requisition, and once more + Fortune smiled upon Skill. + </p> + <p> + To this house the pupil one evening accompanied the tutor. When the whist + party, consisting of two tables, was formed, the young man found himself + left out with an old gentleman, who seemed loquacious and good-natured, + and who put many questions to Morton, which he found it difficult to + answer. One of the whist tables was now in a state of revolution, viz., a + lady had cut out and a gentleman cut in, when the door opened, and Lord + Lilburne was announced. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Macgregor, rising, advanced with great respect to this personage. + </p> + <p> + “I scarcely ventured to hope you would coom, Lord Lilburne, the night is + so cold.” + </p> + <p> + “You did not allow sufficiently, then, for the dulness of my solitary inn + and the attractions of your circle. Aha! whist, I see.” + </p> + <p> + “You play sometimes?” + </p> + <p> + “Very seldom, now; I have sown all my wild oats, and even the ace of + spades can scarcely dig them out again.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha! vara gude.” + </p> + <p> + “I will look on;” and Lord Lilburne drew his chair to the table, exactly + opposite to Mr. Gawtrey. + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman turned to Philip. + </p> + <p> + “An extraordinary man, Lord Lilburne; you have heard of him, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed; what of him?” asked the young man, rousing himself. + </p> + <p> + “What of him?” said the old gentleman, with a smile; “why the newspapers, + if you ever read them, will tell you enough of the elegant, the witty Lord + Lilburne; a man of eminent talent, though indolent. He was wild in his + youth, as clever men often are; but, on attaining his title and fortune, + and marrying into the family of the then premier, he became more sedate. + They say he might make a great figure in politics if he would. He has a + very high reputation—very. People do say that he is still fond of + pleasure; but that is a common failing amongst the aristocracy. Morality + is only found in the middle classes, young gentleman. It is a lucky + family, that of Lilburne; his sister, Mrs. Beaufort—” + </p> + <p> + “Beaufort!” exclaimed Morton, and then muttered to himself, “Ah, true—true; + I have heard the name of Lilburne before.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the Beauforts? Well, you remember how luckily Robert, + Lilburne’s brother-in-law, came into that fine property just as his + predecessor was about to marry a—” + </p> + <p> + Morton scowled at his garrulous acquaintance, and stalked abruptly to the + card table. + </p> + <p> + Ever since Lord Lilburne had seated himself opposite to Mr. Gawtrey, that + gentleman had evinced a perturbation of manner that became obvious to the + company. He grew deadly pale, his hands trembled, he moved uneasily in his + seat, he missed deal, he trumped his partner’s best diamond; finally he + revoked, threw down his money, and said, with a forced smile, “that the + heat of the room overcame him.” As he rose Lord Lilburne rose also, and + the eyes of both met. Those of Lilburne were calm, but penetrating and + inquisitive in their gaze; those of Gawtrey were like balls of fire. He + seemed gradually to dilate in his height, his broad chest expanded, he + breathed hard. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Doctor,” said Mr. Macgregor, “let me introduce you to Lord Lilburne.” + </p> + <p> + The peer bowed haughtily; Mr. Gawtrey did not return the salutation, but + with a sort of gulp, as if he were swallowing some burst of passion, + strode to the fire, and then, turning round, again fixed his gaze upon the + new guest. + </p> + <p> + Lilburne, however, who had never lost his self-composure at this strange + rudeness, was now quietly talking with their host. + </p> + <p> + “Your Doctor seems an eccentric man—a little absent—learned, I + suppose. Have you been to Como, yet?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gawtrey remained by the fire beating the devil’s tattoo upon the + chimney-piece, and ever and anon turning his glance towards Lilburne, who + seemed to have forgotten his existence. + </p> + <p> + Both these guests stayed till the party broke up; Mr. Gawtrey apparently + wishing to outstay Lord Lilburne; for, when the last went down-stairs, Mr. + Gawtrey, nodding to his comrade and giving a hurried bow to the host, + descended also. As they passed the porter’s lodge, they found Lilburne on + the step of his carriage; he turned his head abruptly, and again met Mr. + Gawtrey’s eye; paused a moment, and whispered over his shoulder: + </p> + <p> + “So we remember each other, sir? Let us not meet again; and, on that + condition, bygones are bygones.” + </p> + <p> + “Scoundrel!” muttered Gawtrey, clenching his fists; but the peer had + sprung into his carriage with a lightness scarcely to be expected from his + lameness, and the wheels whirled within an inch of the soi-disant doctor’s + right pump. + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey walked on for some moments in great excitement; at length he + turned to his companion,— + </p> + <p> + “Do you guess who Lord Lilburne is? I will tell you my first foe and + Fanny’s grandfather! Now, note the justice of Fate: here is this man—mark + well—this man who commenced life by putting his faults on my own + shoulders! From that little boss has fungused out a terrible hump. This + man who seduced my affianced bride, and then left her whole soul, once + fair and blooming—I swear it—with its leaves fresh from the + dews of heaven, one rank leprosy, this man who, rolling in riches, learned + to cheat and pilfer as a boy learns to dance and play the fiddle, and (to + damn me, whose happiness he had blasted) accused me to the world of his + own crime!—here is this man who has not left off one vice, but added + to those of his youth the bloodless craft of the veteran knave;—here + is this man, flattered, courted, great, marching through lanes of bowing + parasites to an illustrious epitaph and a marble tomb, and I, a rogue too, + if you will, but rogue for my bread, dating from him my errors and my + ruin! I—vagabond—outcast—skulking through tricks to + avoid crime—why the difference? Because one is born rich and the + other poor—because he has no excuse for crime, and therefore no one + suspects him!” + </p> + <p> + The wretched man (for at that moment he was wretched) paused breathless + from his passionate and rapid burst, and before him rose in its marble + majesty, with the moon full upon its shining spires—the wonder of + Gothic Italy—the Cathedral Church of Milan. + </p> + <p> + “Chafe not yourself at the universal fate,” said the young man, with a + bitter smile on his lips and pointing to the cathedral; “I have not lived + long, but I have learned already enough to know this,— he who could + raise a pile like that, dedicated to Heaven, would be honoured as a saint; + he who knelt to God by the roadside under a hedge would be sent to the + house of correction as a vagabond. The difference between man and man is + money, and will be, when you, the despised charlatan, and Lilburne, the + honoured cheat, have not left as much dust behind you as will fill a + snuff-box. Comfort yourself, you are in the majority.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A desert wild + Before them stretched bare, comfortless, and vast, + With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled.” + THOMPSON’S Castle of Indolenece. +</pre> + <p> + Mr. Gawtrey did not wish to give his foe the triumph of thinking he had + driven him from Milan; he resolved to stay and brave it out; but when he + appeared in public, he found the acquaintances he had formed bow politely, + but cross to the other side of the way. No more invitations to tea and + cards showered in upon the jolly parson. He was puzzled, for people, while + they shunned him, did not appear uncivil. He found out at last that a + report was circulated that he was deranged; though he could not trace this + rumour to Lord Lilburne, he was at no loss to guess from whom it had + emanated. His own eccentricities, especially his recent manner at Mr. + Macgregor’s, gave confirmation to the charge. Again the funds began to + sink low in the canvas bags, and at length, in despair, Mr. Gawtrey was + obliged to quit the field. They returned to France through Switzerland—a + country too poor for gamesters; and ever since the interview with + Lilburne, a great change had come over Gawtrey’s gay spirit: he grew moody + and thoughtful, he took no pains to replenish the common stock, he talked + much and seriously to his young friend of poor Fanny, and owned that he + yearned to see her again. The desire to return to Paris haunted him like a + fatality; he saw the danger that awaited him there, but it only allured + him the more, as the candle does the moth whose wings it has singed. + Birnie, who, in all their vicissitudes and wanderings, their ups and + downs, retained the same tacit, immovable demeanour, received with a sneer + the orders at last to march back upon the French capital. “You would never + have left it, if you had taken my advice,” he said, and quitted the room. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gawtrey gazed after him and muttered, “Is the die then cast?” + </p> + <p> + “What does he mean?” said Morton. + </p> + <p> + “You will know soon,” replied Gawtrey, and he followed Birnie; and from + that time the whispered conferences with that person, which had seemed + suspended during their travels, were renewed. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + .......... +</pre> + <p> + One morning, three men were seen entering Paris on foot through the Porte + St. Denis. It was a fine day in spring, and the old city looked gay with + its loitering passengers and gaudy shops, and under that clear blue + exhilarating sky so peculiar to France. + </p> + <p> + Two of these men walked abreast, the other preceded them a few steps. The + one who went first—thin, pale, and threadbare—yet seemed to + suffer the least from fatigue; he walked with a long, swinging, noiseless + stride, looking to the right and left from the corners of his eyes. Of the + two who followed, one was handsome and finely formed, but of swarthy + complexion, young, yet with a look of care; the other, of sturdy frame, + leaned on a thick stick, and his eyes were gloomily cast down. + </p> + <p> + “Philip,” said the last, “in coming back to Paris—I feel that I am + coming back to my grave!” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh—you were equally despondent in our excursions elsewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I was always thinking of poor Fanny, and because—because—Birnie + was ever at me with his horrible temptations!” + </p> + <p> + “Birnie! I loathe the man! Will you never get rid of him?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot! Hush! he will hear us. How unlucky we have been! and now + without a sou in our pockets—here the dunghill—there the gaol! + We are in his power at last!” + </p> + <p> + “His power! what mean you?” + </p> + <p> + “What ho! Birnie!” cried Gawtrey, unheeding Morton’s question. “Let us + halt and breakfast: I am tired.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget!—we have no money till we make it,” returned Birnie, + coldly.—“Come to the serrurier’s he will trust us.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Gaunt Beggary and Scorn with many bell-hounds more.” + THOMSON’S Castle of Indolence. + + “The other was a fell, despiteful fiend.”—Ibid. + + “Your happiness behold! then straight a wand + He waved, an anti-magic power that hath + Truth from illusive falsehood to command.”—Ibid. + + “But what for us, the children of despair, + Brought to the brink of hell—what hope remains? + RESOLVE, RESOLVE!”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + It may be observed that there are certain years in which in a civilised + country some particular crime comes into vogue. It flares its season, and + then burns out. Thus at one time we have Burking—at another, + Swingism—now, suicide is in vogue—now, poisoning tradespeople + in apple-dumplings—now, little boys stab each other with penknives—now, + common soldiers shoot at their sergeants. Almost every year there is one + crime peculiar to it; a sort of annual which overruns the country but does + not bloom again. Unquestionably the Press has a great deal to do with + these epidemics. Let a newspaper once give an account of some + out-of-the-way atrocity that has the charm of being novel, and certain + depraved minds fasten to it like leeches. They brood over and revolve it—the + idea grows up, a horrid phantasmalian monomania; and all of a sudden, in a + hundred different places, the one seed sown by the leaden types springs up + into foul flowering. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [An old Spanish writer, treating of the Inquisition, has some very + striking remarks on the kind of madness which, whenever some + terrible notoriety is given to a particular offence, leads persons + of distempered fancy to accuse themselves of it. He observes that + when the cruelties of the Inquisition against the imaginary crime of + sorcery were the most barbarous, this singular frenzy led numbers to + accuse themselves of sorcery. The publication and celebrity of the + crime begat the desire of the crime.] +</pre> + <p> + But if the first reported aboriginal crime has been attended with + impunity, how much more does the imitative faculty cling to it. Ill-judged + mercy falls, not like dew, but like a great heap of manure, on the rank + deed. + </p> + <p> + Now it happened that at the time I write of, or rather a little before, + there had been detected and tried in Paris a most redoubted coiner. He had + carried on the business with a dexterity that won admiration even for the + offence; and, moreover, he had served previously with some distinction at + Austerlitz and Marengo. The consequence was that the public went with + instead of against him, and his sentence was transmuted to three years’ + imprisonment by the government. For all governments in free countries + aspire rather to be popular than just. + </p> + <p> + No sooner was this case reported in the journals—and even the + gravest took notice, of it (which is not common with the scholastic + journals of France)—no sooner did it make a stir and a sensation, + and cover the criminal with celebrity, than the result became noticeable + in a very large issue of false money. + </p> + <p> + Coining in the year I now write of was the fashionable crime. The police + were roused into full vigour: it became known to them that there was one + gang in especial who cultivated this art with singular success. Their + coinage was, indeed, so good, so superior to all their rivals, that it was + often unconsciously preferred by the public to the real mintage. At the + same time they carried on their calling with such secrecy that they + utterly baffled discovery. + </p> + <p> + An immense reward was offered by the bureau to any one who would betray + his accomplices, and Monsieur Favart was placed at the head of a + commission of inquiry. This person had himself been a faux monnoyer, and + was an adept in the art, and it was he who had discovered the redoubted + coiner who had brought the crime into such notoriety. Monsieur Favart was + a man of the most vigilant acuteness, the most indefatigable research, and + of a courage which; perhaps, is more common than we suppose. It is a + popular error to suppose that courage means courage in everything. Put a + hero on board ship at a five-barred gate, and, if he is not used to + hunting, he will turn pale; put a fox-hunter on one of the Swiss chasms, + over which the mountaineer springs like a roe, and his knees will knock + under him. People are brave in the dangers to which they accustom + themselves, either in imagination or practice. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Favart, then, was a man of the most daring bravery in facing + rogues and cut-throats. He awed them with his very eye; yet he had been + known to have been kicked down-stairs by his wife, and when he was drawn + into the grand army, he deserted the eve of his first battle. Such, as + moralists say, is the inconsistency of man! + </p> + <p> + But Monsieur Favart was sworn to trace the coiners, and he had never + failed yet in any enterprise he undertook. One day he presented himself to + his chief with a countenance so elated that that penetrating functionary + said to him at once— + </p> + <p> + “You have heard of our messieurs!” + </p> + <p> + “I have: I am to visit them to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Bravo! How many men will you take?” + </p> + <p> + “From twelve to twenty to leave without on guard. But I must enter alone. + Such is the condition: an accomplice who fears his own throat too much to + be openly a betrayer will introduce me to the house—nay, to the very + room. By his description it is necessary I should know the exact locale in + order to cut off retreat; so to-morrow night I shall surround the beehive + and take the honey.” + </p> + <p> + “They are desperate fellows, these coiners, always; better be cautious.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget I was one of them, and know the masonry.” About the same time + this conversation was going on at the bureau of the police, in another + part of the town Morton and Gawtrey were seated alone. It is some weeks + since they entered Paris, and spring has mellowed into summer. + </p> + <p> + The house in which they lodged was in the lordly quartier of the Faubourg + St. Germain; the neighbouring streets were venerable with the ancient + edifices of a fallen noblesse; but their tenement was in a narrow, dingy + lane, and the building itself seemed beggarly and ruinous. The apartment + was in an attic on the sixth story, and the window, placed at the back of + the lane, looked upon another row of houses of a better description, that + communicated with one of the great streets of the quartier. The space + between their abode and their opposite neighbours was so narrow that the + sun could scarcely pierce between. In the height of summer might be found + there a perpetual shade. + </p> + <p> + The pair were seated by the window. Gawtrey, well-dressed, smooth-shaven, + as in his palmy time; Morton, in the same garments with which he had + entered Paris, weather-stained and ragged. Looking towards the casements + of the attic in the opposite house, Gawtrey said, mutteringly, “I wonder + where Birnie has been, and why he has not returned. I grow suspicious of + that man.” + </p> + <p> + “Suspicious of what?” asked Morton. “Of his honesty? Would he rob you?” + </p> + <p> + “Rob me! Humph—perhaps! but you see I am in Paris, in spite of the + hints of the police; he may denounce me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, suffer him to lodge away from you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? because, by having separate houses there are two channels of escape. + A dark night, and a ladder thrown across from window to window, he is with + us, or we with him.” + </p> + <p> + “But wherefore such precautions? You blind—you deceive me; what have + you done?—what is your employment now? You are mute. Hark you, + Gawtrey. I have pinned my fate to you—I am fallen from hope itself! + At times it almost makes me mad to look back—and yet you do not + trust me. Since your return to Paris you are absent whole nights—often + days; you are moody and thoughtful—yet, whatever your business, it + seems to bring you ample returns.” + </p> + <p> + “You think that,” said Gawtrey, mildly, and with a sort of pity in his + voice; “yet you refuse to take even the money to change those rags.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I know not how the money was gained. Ah, Gawtrey, I am not too + proud for charity, but I am for—” He checked the word uppermost in + his thoughts, and resumed— + </p> + <p> + “Yes; your occupations seem lucrative. It was but yesterday Birnie gave me + fifty napoleons, for which he said you wished change in silver.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he? The ras— Well! and you got change for them?” + </p> + <p> + “I know not why, but I refused.” + </p> + <p> + “That was right, Philip. Do nothing that man tells you.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you, then, trust me? You are engaged in some horrible traffic! it + may be blood! I am no longer a boy—I have a will of my own—I + will not be silently and blindly entrapped to perdition. If I march + thither, it shall be with my own consent. Trust me, and this day, or we + part to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Be ruled. Some secrets it is better not to know.” + </p> + <p> + “It matters not. I have come to my decision—I ask yours.” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey paused for some moments in deep thought. At last he lifted his + eyes to Philip, and replied: + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, if it must be. Sooner or later it must have been so; and I + want a confidant. You are bold, and will not shrink. You desire to know my + occupation—will you witness it to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “I am prepared: to-night!” + </p> + <p> + Here a step was heard on the stairs—a knock at the door—and + Birnie entered. + </p> + <p> + He drew aside Gawtrey, and whispered him, as usual, for some moments. + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey nodded his head, and then said aloud— + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow we shall talk without reserve before my young friend. To-night + he joins us.” + </p> + <p> + “To-night!—very well,” said Birnie, with his cold sneer. “He must + take the oath; and you, with your life, will be responsible for his + honesty?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay! it is the rule.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, then, till we meet,” said Birnie, and withdrew. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” said Gawtrey, musingly, and between his grinded teeth, + “whether I shall ever have a good fair shot at that fellow? Ho! ho!” and + his laugh shook the walls. + </p> + <p> + Morton looked hard at Gawtrey, as the latter now sank down in his chair, + and gazed with a vacant stare, that seemed almost to partake of + imbecility, upon the opposite wall. The careless, reckless, jovial + expression, which usually characterised the features of the man, had for + some weeks given place to a restless, anxious, and at times ferocious + aspect, like the beast that first finds a sport while the hounds are yet + afar, and his limbs are yet strong, in the chase which marks him for his + victim, but grows desperate with rage and fear as the day nears its close, + and the death-dogs pant hard upon his track. But at that moment the strong + features, with their gnarled muscle and iron sinews, seemed to have lost + every sign both of passion and the will, and to be locked in a stolid and + dull repose. At last he looked up at Morton, and said, with a smile like + that of an old man in his dotage— + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking that my life has been one mistake! I had talents—you + would not fancy it—but once I was neither a fool nor a villain! Odd, + isn’t it? Just reach me the brandy.” + </p> + <p> + But Morton, with a slight shudder, turned and left the room. + </p> + <p> + He walked on mechanically, and gained, at last, the superb Quai that + borders the Seine; there, the passengers became more frequent; gay + equipages rolled along; the white and lofty mansions looked fair and + stately in the clear blue sky of early summer; beside him flowed the + sparkling river, animated with the painted baths that floated on its + surface: earth was merry and heaven serene his heart was dark through all: + Night within—Morning beautiful without! At last he paused by that + bridge, stately with the statues of those whom the caprice of time honours + with a name; for though Zeus and his gods be overthrown, while earth + exists will live the worship of Dead Men;—the bridge by which you + pass from the royal Tuileries, or the luxurious streets beyond the Rue de + Rivoli, to the Senate of the emancipated People, and the gloomy and + desolate grandeur of the Faubourg St. Germain, in whose venerable haunts + the impoverished descendants of the old feudal tyrants, whom the birth of + the Senate overthrew, yet congregate;—the ghosts of departed powers + proud of the shadows of great names. As the English outcast paused midway + on the bridge, and for the first time lifting his head from his bosom, + gazed around, there broke at once on his remembrance that terrible and + fatal evening, when, hopeless, friendless, desperate, he had begged for + charity of his uncle’s hireling, with all the feelings that then (so + imperfectly and lightly touched on in his brief narrative to Gawtrey) had + raged and blackened in his breast, urging to the resolution he had + adopted, casting him on the ominous friendship of the man whose guidance + he even then had suspected and distrusted. The spot in either city had a + certain similitude and correspondence each with each: at the first he had + consummated his despair of human destinies—he had dared to forget + the Providence of God—he had arrogated his fate to himself: by the + first bridge he had taken his resolve; by the last he stood in awe at the + result—stood no less poor—no less abject—equally in rags + and squalor; but was his crest as haughty and his eye as fearless, for was + his conscience as free and his honour as unstained? Those arches of stone—those + rivers that rolled between, seemed to him then to take a more mystic and + typical sense than belongs to the outer world—they were the bridges + to the Rivers of his Life. Plunged in thoughts so confused and dim that he + could scarcely distinguish, through the chaos, the one streak of light + which, perhaps, heralded the reconstruction or regeneration of the + elements of his soul;—two passengers halted, also by his side. + </p> + <p> + “You will be late for the debate,” said one of them to the other. “Why do + you stop?” + </p> + <p> + “My friend,” said the other, “I never pass this spot without recalling the + time when I stood here without a son, or, as I thought, a chance of one, + and impiously meditated self-destruction.” + </p> + <p> + “You!—now so rich—so fortunate in repute and station—is + it possible? How was it? A lucky chance?—a sudden legacy?” + </p> + <p> + “No: Time, Faith, and Energy—the three Friends God has given to the + Poor!” + </p> + <p> + The men moved on; but Morton, who had turned his face towards them, + fancied that the last speaker fixed on him his bright, cheerful eye, with + a meaning look; and when the man was gone, he repeated those words, and + hailed them in his heart of hearts as an augury from above. + </p> + <p> + Quickly, then, and as if by magic, the former confusion of his mind seemed + to settle into distinct shapes of courage and resolve. “Yes,” he muttered; + “I will keep this night’s appointment—I will learn the secret of + these men’s life. In my inexperience and destitution, I have suffered + myself to be led hitherto into a partnership, if not with vice and crime, + at least with subterfuge and trick. I awake from my reckless boyhood—my + unworthy palterings with my better self. If Gawtrey be as I dread to find + him—if he be linked in some guilty and hateful traffic; with that + loathsome accomplice—I will—” He paused, for his heart + whispered, “Well, and even so,—the guilty man clothed and fed thee!” + “I will,” resumed his thought, in answer to his heart—“I will go on + my knees to him to fly while there is yet time, to work—beg—starve—perish + even—rather than lose the right to look man in the face without a + blush, and kneel to his God without remorse!” + </p> + <p> + And as he thus ended, he felt suddenly as if he himself were restored to + the perception and the joy of the Nature and the World around him; the + NIGHT had vanished from his soul—he inhaled the balm and freshness + of the air—he comprehended the delight which the liberal June was + scattering over the earth—he looked above, and his eyes were + suffused with pleasure, at the smile of the soft blue skies. The MORNING + became, as it were, a part of his own being; and he felt that as the world + in spite of the storms is fair, so in spite of evil God is good. He walked + on—he passed the bridge, but his step was no more the same,—he + forgot his rags. Why should he be ashamed? And thus, in the very flush of + this new and strange elation and elasticity of spirit, he came unawares + upon a group of young men, lounging before the porch of one of the chief + hotels in that splendid Rue de Rivoli, wherein Wealth and the English have + made their homes. A groom, mounted, was leading another horse up and down + the road, and the young men were making their comments of approbation upon + both the horses, especially the one led, which was, indeed, of uncommon + beauty and great value. Even Morton, in whom the boyish passion of his + earlier life yet existed, paused to turn his experienced and admiring eye + upon the stately shape and pace of the noble animal, and as he did so, a + name too well remembered came upon his ear. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, Arthur Beaufort is the most enviable fellow in Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” said another of the young men; “he has plenty of money—is + good-looking, devilish good-natured, clever, and spends like a prince.” + </p> + <p> + “Has the best horses!” + </p> + <p> + “The best luck at roulette!” + </p> + <p> + “The prettiest girls in love with him!” + </p> + <p> + “And no one enjoys life more. Ah! here he is!” + </p> + <p> + The group parted as a light, graceful figure came out of a jeweller’s shop + that adjoined the hotel, and halted gaily amongst the loungers. Morton’s + first impulse was to hurry from the spot; his second impulse arrested his + step, and, a little apart, and half-hid beneath one of the arches of the + colonnade which adorns the street, the Outcast gazed upon the Heir. There + was no comparison in the natural personal advantages of the two young men; + for Philip Morton, despite all the hardships of his rough career, had now + grown up and ripened into a rare perfection of form and feature. His broad + chest, his erect air, his lithe and symmetrical length of limb, united, + happily, the attributes of activity and strength; and though there was no + delicacy of youthful bloom upon his dark cheek, and though lines which + should have come later marred its smoothness with the signs of care and + thought, yet an expression of intelligence and daring, equally beyond his + years, and the evidence of hardy, abstemious, vigorous health, served to + show to the full advantage the outline of features which, noble and + regular, though stern and masculine, the artist might have borrowed for + his ideal of a young Spartan arming for his first battle. Arthur, slight + to feebleness, and with the paleness, partly of constitution, partly of + gay excess, on his fair and clear complexion, had features far less + symmetrical and impressive than his cousin: but what then? All that are + bestowed by elegance of dress, the refinements of luxurious habit, the + nameless grace that comes from a mind and a manner polished, the one by + literary culture, the other by social intercourse, invested the person of + the heir with a fascination that rude Nature alone ever fails to give. And + about him there was a gaiety, an airiness of spirit, an atmosphere of + enjoyment which bespoke one who is in love with life. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this is lucky! I’m so glad to see you all!” said Arthur Beaufort, + with that silver-ringing tone and charming smile which are to the happy + spring of man what its music and its sunshine are to the spring of earth. + “You must dine with me at Verey’s. I want something to rouse me to-day; + for I did not get home from the Salon* till four this morning.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *[The most celebrated gaming-house in Paris in the day before + gaming-houses were suppressed by the well-directed energy of the + government.] +</pre> + <p> + “But you won?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Marsden. Hang it! I always win: I who could so well afford to lose: + I’m quite ashamed of my luck!” + </p> + <p> + “It is easy to spend what one wins,” observed Mr. Marsden, sententiously; + “and I see you have been at the jeweller’s! A present for Cecile? Well, + don’t blush, my dear fellow. What is life without women?” + </p> + <p> + “And wine?” said a second. “And play?” said a third. “And wealth?” said a + fourth. + </p> + <p> + “And you enjoy them all! Happy fellow!” said a fifth. The Outcast pulled + his hat over his brows, and walked away. + </p> + <p> + “This dear Paris,” said Beaufort, as his eye carelessly and unconsciously + followed the dark form retreating through the arches;—“this dear + Paris! I must make the most of it while I stay! I have only been here a + few weeks, and next week I must go.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh—your health is better: you don’t look like the same man.” + </p> + <p> + “You think so really? Still I don’t know: the doctors say that I must + either go to the German waters—the season is begun—or—” + </p> + <p> + “Or what?” + </p> + <p> + “Live less with such pleasant companions, my dear fellow! But as you say, + what is life without—” + </p> + <p> + “Women!” + </p> + <p> + “Wine!” + </p> + <p> + “Play!” + </p> + <p> + “Wealth!” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha. ‘Throw physic to the dogs: I’ll none of it!’” + </p> + <p> + And Arthur leaped lightly on his saddle, and as he rode gaily on, humming + the favourite air of the last opera, the hoofs of his horse splashed the + mud over a foot-passenger halting at the crossing. Morton checked the + fiery exclamation rising to his lips; and gazing after the brilliant form + that hurried on towards the Champs Elysees, his eye caught the statues on + the bridge, and a voice, as of a cheering angel, whispered again to his + heart, “TIME, FAITH, ENERGY!” + </p> + <p> + The expression of his countenance grew calm at once, and as he continued + his rambles it was with a mind that, casting off the burdens of the past, + looked serenely and steadily on the obstacles and hardships of the future. + We have seen that a scruple of conscience or of pride, not without its + nobleness, had made him refuse the importunities of Gawtrey for less + sordid raiment; the same feeling made it his custom to avoid sharing the + luxurious and dainty food with which Gawtrey was wont to regale himself. + For that strange man, whose wonderful felicity of temperament and + constitution rendered him, in all circumstances, keenly alive to the + hearty and animal enjoyments of life, would still emerge, as the day + declined, from their wretched apartment, and, trusting to his disguises, + in which indeed he possessed a masterly art, repair to one of the better + description of restaurants, and feast away his cares for the moment. + William Gawtrey would not have cared three straws for the curse of + Damocles. The sword over his head would never have spoiled his appetite! + He had lately, too, taken to drinking much more deeply than he had been + used to do—the fine intellect of the man was growing thickened and + dulled; and this was a spectacle that Morton could not bear to + contemplate. Yet so great was Gawtrey’s vigour of health, that, after + draining wine and spirits enough to have despatched a company of + fox-hunters, and after betraying, sometimes in uproarious glee, sometimes + in maudlin self-bewailings, that he himself was not quite invulnerable to + the thyrsus of the god, he would—on any call on his energies, or + especially before departing on those mysterious expeditions which kept him + from home half, and sometimes all, the night—plunge his head into + cold water—drink as much of the lymph as a groom would have + shuddered to bestow on a horse—close his eyes in a doze for half an + hour, and wake, cool, sober, and collected, as if he had lived according + to the precepts of Socrates or Cornaro! + </p> + <p> + But to return to Morton. It was his habit to avoid as much as possible + sharing the good cheer of his companion; and now, as he entered the Champs + Elysees, he saw a little family, consisting of a young mechanic, his wife, + and two children, who, with that love of harmless recreation which yet + characterises the French, had taken advantage of a holiday in the craft, + and were enjoying their simple meal under the shadow of the trees. Whether + in hunger or in envy, Morton paused and contemplated the happy group. + Along the road rolled the equipages and trampled the steeds of those to + whom all life is a holiday. There, was Pleasure—under those trees + was Happiness. One of the children, a little boy of about six years old, + observing the attitude and gaze of the pausing wayfarer, ran to him, and + holding up a fragment of a coarse kind of cake, said to him, willingly, + “Take it—I have had enough!” The child reminded Morton of his + brother—his heart melted within him—he lifted the young + Samaritan in his arms, and as he kissed him, wept. + </p> + <p> + The mother observed and rose also. She laid her hand on his own: “Poor + boy! why do you weep?—can we relieve you?” + </p> + <p> + Now that bright gleam of human nature, suddenly darting across the sombre + recollections and associations of his past life, seemed to Morton as if it + came from Heaven, in approval and in blessing of this attempt at + reconciliation to his fate. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you,” said he, placing the child on the ground, and passing his + hand over his eyes,—“I thank you—yes! Let me sit down amongst + you.” And he sat down, the child by his side, and partook of their fare, + and was merry with them,—the proud Philip!—had he not begun to + discover the “precious jewel” in the “ugly and venomous” Adversity? + </p> + <p> + The mechanic, though a gay fellow on the whole, was not without some of + that discontent of his station which is common with his class; he vented + it, however, not in murmurs, but in jests. He was satirical on the + carriages and the horsemen that passed; and, lolling on the grass, + ridiculed his betters at his ease. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said his wife, suddenly; “here comes Madame de Merville;” and + rising as she spoke, she made a respectful inclination of her head towards + an open carriage that was passing very slowly towards the town. + </p> + <p> + “Madame de Merville!” repeated the husband, rising also, and lifting his + cap from his head. “Ah! I have nothing to say against her!” + </p> + <p> + Morton looked instinctively towards the carriage, and saw a fair + countenance turned graciously to answer the silent salutations of the + mechanic and his wife—a countenance that had long haunted his + dreams, though of late it had faded away beneath harsher thoughts—the + countenance of the stranger whom he had seen at the bureau of Gawtrey, + when that worthy personage had borne a more mellifluous name. He started + and changed colour: the lady herself now seemed suddenly to recognise him; + for their eyes met, and she bent forward eagerly. She pulled the + check-string—the carriage halted—she beckoned to the + mechanic’s wife, who went up to the roadside. + </p> + <p> + “I worked once for that lady,” said the man with a tone of feeling; “and + when my wife fell ill last winter she paid the doctors. Ah, she is an + angel of charity and kindness!” + </p> + <p> + Morton scarcely heard this eulogium, for he observed, by something eager + and inquisitive in the face of Madame de Merville, and by the sudden + manner in which the mechanic’s helpmate turned her head to the spot in + which he stood, that he was the object of their conversation. Once more he + became suddenly aware of his ragged dress, and with a natural shame—a + fear that charity might be extended to him from her—he muttered an + abrupt farewell to the operative, and without another glance at the + carriage, walked away. + </p> + <p> + Before he had got many paces, the wife however came up to him, breathless. + “Madame de Merville would speak to you, sir!” she said, with more respect + than she had hitherto thrown into her manner. Philip paused an instant, + and again strode on— + </p> + <p> + “It must be some mistake,” he said, hurriedly: “I have no right to expect + such an honour.” + </p> + <p> + He struck across the road, gained the opposite side, and had vanished from + Madame de Merville’s eyes, before the woman regained the carriage. But + still that calm, pale, and somewhat melancholy face, presented itself + before him; and as he walked again through the town, sweet and gentle + fancies crowded confusedly on his heart. On that soft summer day, + memorable for so many silent but mighty events in that inner life which + prepares the catastrophes of the outer one; as in the region, of which + Virgil has sung, the images of men to be born hereafter repose or glide—on + that soft summer day, he felt he had reached the age when Youth begins to + clothe in some human shape its first vague ideal of desire and love. + </p> + <p> + In such thoughts, and still wandering, the day wore away, till he found + himself in one of the lanes that surround that glittering Microcosm of the + vices, the frivolities, the hollow show, and the real beggary of the gay + City—the gardens and the galleries of the Palais Royal. Surprised at + the lateness of the hour, it was then on the stroke of seven, he was about + to return homewards, when the loud voice of Gawtrey sounded behind, and + that personage, tapping him on the back, said,— + </p> + <p> + “Hollo, my young friend, well met! This will be a night of trial to you. + Empty stomachs produce weak nerves. Come along! you must dine with me. A + good dinner and a bottle of old wine—come! nonsense, I say you shall + come! Vive la joie!” + </p> + <p> + While speaking, he had linked his arm in Morton’s, and hurried him on + several paces in spite of his struggles; but just as the words Vive la + joie left his lips, he stood still and mute, as if a thunderbolt had + fallen at his feet; and Morton felt that heavy arm shiver and tremble like + a leaf. He looked up, and just at the entrance of that part of the Palais + Royal in which are situated the restaurants of Verey and Vefour, he saw + two men standing but a few paces before them, and gazing full on Gawtrey + and himself. + </p> + <p> + “It is my evil genius,” muttered Gawtrey, grinding his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “And mine!” said Morton. + </p> + <p> + The younger of the two men thus apostrophised made a step towards Philip, + when his companion drew him back and whispered,—“What are you about—do + you know that young man?” + </p> + <p> + “He is my cousin; Philip Beaufort’s natural son!” + </p> + <p> + “Is he? then discard him for ever. He is with the most dangerous knave in + Europe!” + </p> + <p> + As Lord Lilburne—for it was he—thus whispered his nephew, + Gawtrey strode up to him; and, glaring full in his face, said in a deep + and hollow tone,—“There is a hell, my lord,—I go to drink to + our meeting!” Thus saying, he took off his hat with a ceremonious mockery, + and disappeared within the adjoining restaurant, kept by Vefour. + </p> + <p> + “A hell!” said Lilburne, with his frigid smile; “the rogue’s head runs + upon gambling-houses!” + </p> + <p> + “And I have suffered Philip again to escape me,” said Arthur, in + self-reproach: for while Gawtrey had addressed Lord Lilburne, Morton had + plunged back amidst the labyrinth of alleys. “How have I kept my oath?” + </p> + <p> + “Come! your guests must have arrived by this time. As for that wretched + young man, depend upon it that he is corrupted body and soul.” + </p> + <p> + “But he is my own cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! there is no relationship in natural children: besides, he will find + you out fast enough. Ragged claimants are not long too proud to beg.” + </p> + <p> + “You speak in earnest?” said Arthur, irresolutely. “Ay! trust my + experience of the world—Allons!” + </p> + <p> + And in a cabinet of the very restaurant, adjoining that in which the + solitary Gawtrey gorged his conscience, Lilburne, Arthur, and their gay + friends, soon forgetful of all but the roses of the moment, bathed their + airy spirits in the dews of the mirthful wine. Oh, extremes of life! Oh, + Night! Oh, Morning! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <p> + “Meantime a moving scene was open laid, That lazar house.”—THOMSON’S + Castle of Indolence. + </p> + <p> + It was near midnight. At the mouth of the lane in which Gawtrey resided + there stood four men. Not far distant, in the broad street at angles with + the lane, were heard the wheels of carriages and the sound of music. A + lady, fair in form, tender of heart, stainless in repute, was receiving + her friends! + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Favart,” said one of the men to the smallest of the four; “you + understand the conditions—20,000 francs and a free pardon?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more reasonable—it is understood. Still I confess that I + should like to have my men close at hand. I am not given to fear; but this + is a dangerous experiment.” + </p> + <p> + “You knew the danger beforehand and subscribed to it: you must enter alone + with me, or not at all. Mark you, the men are sworn to murder him who + betrays them. Not for twenty times 20,000 francs would I have them know me + as the informer. My life were not worth a day’s purchase. Now, if you feel + secure in your disguise, all is safe. You will have seen them at their + work—you will recognise their persons—you can depose against + them at the trial—I shall have time to quit France.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well! as you please.” + </p> + <p> + “Mind, you must wait in the vault with them till they separate. We have so + planted your men that whatever street each of the gang takes in going + home, he can be seized quietly and at once. The bravest and craftiest of + all, who, though he has but just joined, is already their captain;—him, + the man I told you of, who lives in the house, you must take after his + return, in his bed. It is the sixth story to the right, remember: here is + the key to his door. He is a giant in strength; and will never be taken + alive if up and armed.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I comprehend!—Gilbert” (and Favart turned to one of his + companions who had not yet spoken) “take three men besides yourself, + according to the directions I gave you,—the porter will admit you, + that’s arranged. Make no noise. If I don’t return by four o’clock, don’t + wait for me, but proceed at once. Look well to your primings. Take him + alive, if possible—at the worst, dead. And now—mon ami—lead + on!” + </p> + <p> + The traitor nodded, and walked slowly down the street. Favart, pausing, + whispered hastily to the man whom he had called Gilbert,— + </p> + <p> + “Follow me close—get to the door of the cellar-place eight men + within hearing of my whistle—recollect the picklocks, the axes. If + you hear the whistle, break in; if not, I’m safe, and the first orders to + seize the captain in his room stand good.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Favart strode after his guide. The door of a large, but + ill-favoured-looking house stood ajar—they entered-passed unmolested + through a court-yard—descended some stairs; the guide unlocked the + door of a cellar, and took a dark lantern from under his cloak. As he drew + up the slide, the dim light gleamed on barrels and wine-casks, which + appeared to fill up the space. Rolling aside one of these, the guide + lifted a trap-door, and lowered his lantern. “Enter,” said he; and the two + men disappeared. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ........ +</pre> + <p> + The coiners were at their work. A man, seated on a stool before a desk, + was entering accounts in a large book. That man was William Gawtrey. + While, with the rapid precision of honest mechanics, the machinery of the + Dark Trade went on in its several departments. Apart—alone—at + the foot of a long table, sat Philip Morton. The truth had exceeded his + darkest suspicions. He had consented to take the oath not to divulge what + was to be given to his survey; and when, led into that vault, the bandage + was taken from his eyes, it was some minutes before he could fully + comprehend the desperate and criminal occupations of the wild forms amidst + which towered the burly stature of his benefactor. As the truth slowly + grew upon him, he shrank from the side of Gawtrey; but, deep compassion + for his friend’s degradation swallowing up the horror of the trade, he + flung himself on one of the rude seats, and felt that the bond between + them was indeed broken, and that the next morning he should be again alone + in the world. Still, as the obscene jests, the fearful oaths, that from + time to time rang through the vault, came on his ear, he cast his haughty + eye in such disdain over the groups, that Gawtrey, observing him, trembled + for his safety; and nothing but Philip’s sense of his own impotence, and + the brave, not timorous, desire not to perish by such hands, kept silent + the fiery denunciations of a nature still proud and honest, that quivered + on his lips. All present were armed with pistols and cutlasses except + Morton, who suffered the weapons presented to him to lie unheeded on the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Courage, mes amis!” said Gawtrey, closing his book,—“Courage!—a + few months more, and we shall have made enough to retire upon, and enjoy + ourselves for the rest of the days. Where is Birnie?” + </p> + <p> + “Did he not tell you?” said one of the artisans, looking up. “He has found + out the cleverest hand in France, the very fellow who helped Bouchard in + all his five-franc pieces. He has promised to bring him to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I remember,” returned Gawtrey, “he told me this morning,—he is + a famous decoy!” + </p> + <p> + “I think so, indeed!” quoth a coiner; “for he caught you, the best head to + our hands that ever les industriels were blessed with—sacre + fichtre!” + </p> + <p> + “Flatterer!” said Gawtrey, coming from the desk to the table, and pouring + out wine from one of the bottles into a huge flagon—“To your + healths!” + </p> + <p> + Here the door slided back, and Birnie glided in. + </p> + <p> + “Where is your booty, mon brave?” said Gawtrey. “We only coin money; you + coin men, stamp with your own seal, and send them current to the devil!” + </p> + <p> + The coiners, who liked Birnie’s ability (for the ci-devant engraver was of + admirable skill in their craft), but who hated his joyless manners, + laughed at this taunt, which Birnie did not seem to heed, except by a + malignant gleam of his dead eye. + </p> + <p> + “If you mean the celebrated coiner, Jacques Giraumont, he waits without. + You know our rules. I cannot admit him without leave.” + </p> + <p> + “Bon! we give it,—eh, messieurs?” said Gawtrey. “Ay-ay,” cried + several voices. “He knows the oath, and will hear the penalty.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he knows the oath,” replied Birnie, and glided back. + </p> + <p> + In a moment more he returned with a small man in a mechanic’s blouse. The + new comer wore the republican beard and moustache—of a sandy grey—his + hair was the same colour; and a black patch over one eye increased the + ill-favoured appearance of his features. + </p> + <p> + “Diable! Monsieur Giraumont! but you are more like Vulcan than Adonis!” + said Gawtrey. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know anything about Vulcan, but I know how to make five-franc + pieces,” said Monsieur Giraumont, doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Are you poor?” + </p> + <p> + “As a church mouse! The only thing belonging to a church, since the + Bourbons came back, that is poor!” + </p> + <p> + At this sally, the coiners, who had gathered round the table, uttered the + shout with which, in all circumstances, Frenchmen receive a bon mot. + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” said Gawtrey. “Who responds with his own life for your fidelity?” + </p> + <p> + “I,” said Birnie. + </p> + <p> + “Administer the oath to him.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly four men advanced, seized the visitor, and bore him from the + vault into another one within. After a few moments they returned. + </p> + <p> + “He has taken the oath and heard the penalty.” + </p> + <p> + “Death to yourself, your wife, your son, and your grandson, if you betray + us!” + </p> + <p> + “I have neither son nor grandson; as for my wife, Monsieur le Capitaine, + you offer a bribe instead of a threat when you talk of her death.” + </p> + <p> + “Sacre! but you will be an addition to our circle, mon brave!” said + Gawtrey, laughing; while again the grim circle shouted applause. + </p> + <p> + “But I suppose you care for your own life.” + </p> + <p> + “Otherwise I should have preferred starving to coming here,” answered the + laconic neophyte. + </p> + <p> + “I have done with you. Your health!” + </p> + <p> + On this the coiners gathered round Monsieur Giraumont, shook him by the + hand, and commenced many questions with a view to ascertain his skill. + </p> + <p> + “Show me your coinage first; I see you use both the die and the furnace. + Hem! this piece is not bad—you have struck it from an iron die?—right—it + makes the impression sharper than plaster of Paris. But you take the + poorest and the most dangerous part of the trade in taking the home + market. I can put you in a way to make ten times as much—and with + safety. Look at this!”—and Monsieur Giraumont took a forged Spanish + dollar from his pocket, so skilfully manufactured that the connoisseurs + were lost in admiration—“you may pass thousands of these all over + Europe, except France, and who is ever to detect you? But it will require + better machinery than you have here.” + </p> + <p> + Thus conversing, Monsieur Giraumont did not perceive that Mr. Gawtrey had + been examining him very curiously and minutely. But Birnie had noted their + chief’s attention, and once attempted to join his new ally, when Gawtrey + laid his hand on his shoulder, and stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Do not speak to your friend till I bid you, or—” he stopped short, + and touched his pistols. + </p> + <p> + Birnie grew a shade more pale, but replied with his usual sneer: + </p> + <p> + “Suspicious!—well, so much the better!” and seating himself + carelessly at the table, lighted his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “And now, Monsieur Giraumont,” said Gawtrey, as he took the head of the + table, “come to my right hand. A half-holiday in your honour. Clear these + infernal instruments; and more wine, mes amis!” + </p> + <p> + The party arranged themselves at the table. Among the desperate there is + almost invariably a tendency to mirth. A solitary ruffian, indeed, is + moody, but a gang of ruffians are jovial. The coiners talked and laughed + loud. Mr. Birnie, from his dogged silence, seemed apart from the rest, + though in the centre. For in a noisy circle a silent tongue builds a wall + round its owner. But that respectable personage kept his furtive watch + upon Giraumont and Gawtrey, who appeared talking together, very amicably. + The younger novice of that night, equally silent, seated towards the + bottom of the table, was not less watchful than Birnie. An uneasy, + undefinable foreboding had come over him since the entrance of Monsieur + Giraumont; this had been increased by the manner of Mr. Gawtrey. His + faculty of observation, which was very acute, had detected something false + in the chief’s blandness to their guest—something dangerous in the + glittering eye that Gawtrey ever, as he spoke to Giraumont, bent on that + person’s lips as he listened to his reply. For, whenever William Gawtrey + suspected a man, he watched not his eyes, but his lips. + </p> + <p> + Waked from his scornful reverie, a strange spell chained Morton’s + attention to the chief and the guest, and he bent forward, with parted + mouth and straining ear, to catch their conversation. + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me a little strange,” said Mr. Gawtrey, raising his voice so + as to be heard by the party, “that a coiner so dexterous as Monsieur + Giraumont should not be known to any of us except our friend Birnie.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” replied Giraumont; “I worked only with Bouchard and two + others since sent to the galleys. We were but a small fraternity—everything + has its commencement.” + </p> + <p> + “C’est juste: buvez, donc, cher ami!” + </p> + <p> + The wine circulated. Gawtrey began again: + </p> + <p> + “You have had a bad accident, seemingly, Monsieur Giraumont. How did you + lose your eye?” + </p> + <p> + “In a scuffle with the gens d’ armes the night Bouchard was taken and I + escaped. Such misfortunes are on the cards.” + </p> + <p> + “C’est juste: buvez, donc, Monsieur Giraumont!” + </p> + <p> + Again there was a pause, and again Gawtrey’s deep voice was heard. + </p> + <p> + “You wear a wig, I think, Monsieur Giraumont? To judge by your eyelashes + your own hair has been a handsomer colour.” + </p> + <p> + “We seek disguise, not beauty, my host; and the police have sharp eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “C’est juste: buvez, donc-vieux Renard! When did we two meet last?” + </p> + <p> + “Never, that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “Ce n’est pas vrai! buvez, donc, MONSIEUR FAVART!” + </p> + <p> + At the sound of that name the company started in dismay and confusion, and + the police officer, forgetting himself for the moment, sprang from his + seat, and put his right hand into his blouse. + </p> + <p> + “Ho, there!—treason!” cried Gawtrey, in a voice of thunder; and he + caught the unhappy man by the throat. It was the work of a moment. Morton, + where he sat, beheld a struggle—he heard a death-cry. He saw the + huge form of the master-coiner rising above all the rest, as cutlasses + gleamed and eyes sparkled round. He saw the quivering and powerless frame + of the unhappy guest raised aloft in those mighty arms, and presently it + was hurled along the table-bottles crashing—the board shaking + beneath its weight—and lay before the very eyes of Morton, a + distorted and lifeless mass. At the same instant Gawtrey sprang upon the + table, his black frown singling out from the group the ashen, cadaverous + face of the shrinking traitor. Birnie had darted from the table—he + was half-way towards the sliding door—his face, turned over his + shoulder, met the eyes of the chief. + </p> + <p> + “Devil!” shouted Gawtrey, in his terrible voice, which the echoes of the + vault gave back from side to side. “Did I not give thee up my soul that + thou mightest not compass my death? Hark ye! thus die my slavery and all + our secrets!” The explosion of his pistol half swallowed up the last word, + and with a single groan the traitor fell on the floor, pierced through the + brain—then there was a dead and grim hush as the smoke rolled slowly + along the roof of the dreary vault. + </p> + <p> + Morton sank back on his seat, and covered his face with his hands. The + last seal on the fate of THE MAN OF CRIME was set; the last wave in the + terrible and mysterious tide of his destiny had dashed on his soul to the + shore whence there is no return. Vain, now and henceforth, the humour, the + sentiment, the kindly impulse, the social instincts which had invested + that stalwart shape with dangerous fascination, which had implied the hope + of ultimate repentance, of redemption even in this world. The HOUR and the + CIRCUMSTANCE had seized their prey; and the self-defence, which a lawless + career rendered a necessity, left the eternal die of blood upon his doom! + </p> + <p> + “Friends, I have saved you,” said Gawtrey, slowly gazing on the corpse of + his second victim, while he turned the pistol to his belt. “I have not + quailed before this man’s eye” (and he spurned the clay of the officer as + he spoke with a revengeful scorn) “without treasuring up its aspect in my + heart of hearts. I knew him when he entered—knew him through his + disguise—yet, faith, it was a clever one! Turn up his face and gaze + on him now; he will never terrify us again, unless there be truth in + ghosts!” + </p> + <p> + Murmuring and tremulous the coiners scrambled on the table and examined + the dead man. From this task Gawtrey interrupted them, for his quick eye + detected, with the pistols under the policeman’s blouse, a whistle of + metal of curious construction, and he conjectured at once that danger was + at hand. + </p> + <p> + “I have saved you, I say, but only for the hour. This deed cannot sleep. + See, he had help within call! The police knew where to look for their + comrade—we are dispersed. Each for himself. Quick, divide the + spoils! Sauve qui peat!” + </p> + <p> + Then Morton heard where he sat, his hands still clasped before his face, a + confused hubbub of voices, the jingle of money, the scrambling of feet, + the creaking of doors. All was silent! + </p> + <p> + A strong grasp drew his hands from his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Your first scene of life against life,” said Gawtrey’s voice, which + seemed fearfully changed to the ear that heard it. “Bah! what would you + think of a battle? Come to our eyrie: the carcasses are gone.” + </p> + <p> + Morton looked fearfully round the vault. He and Gawtrey were alone. His + eyes sought the places where the dead had lain—they were removed—no + vestige of the deeds, not even a drop of blood. + </p> + <p> + “Come, take up your cutlass, come!” repeated the voice of the chief, as + with his dim lantern—now the sole light of the vault—he stood + in the shadow of the doorway. + </p> + <p> + Morton rose, took up the weapon mechanically, and followed that terrible + guide, mute and unconscious, as a Soul follows a Dream through the House + of Sleep! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sleep no more!”—Macbeth +</pre> + <p> + After winding through gloomy and labyrinthine passages, which conducted to + a different range of cellars from those entered by the unfortunate Favart, + Gawtrey emerged at the foot of a flight of stairs, which, dark, narrow, + and in many places broken, had been probably appropriated to servants of + the house in its days of palmier glory. By these steps the pair regained + their attic. Gawtrey placed the lantern on the table and seated himself in + silence. Morton, who had recovered his self-possession and formed his + resolution, gazed on him for some moments, equally taciturn. At length he + spoke: + </p> + <p> + “Gawtrey!” + </p> + <p> + “I bade you not call me by that name,” said the coiner; for we need + scarcely say that in his new trade he had assumed a new appellation. + </p> + <p> + “It is the least guilty one by which I have known you,” returned Morton, + firmly. “It is for the last time I call you by it! I demanded to see by + what means one to whom I had entrusted my fate supported himself. I have + seen,” continued the young man, still firmly, but with a livid cheek and + lip, “and the tie between us is rent for ever. Interrupt me not! it is not + for me to blame you. I have eaten of your bread and drunk of your cup. + Confiding in you too blindly, and believing that you were at least free + from those dark and terrible crimes for which there is no expiation—at + least in this life—my conscience seared by distress, my very soul + made dormant by despair, I surrendered myself to one leading a career + equivocal, suspicious, dishonourable perhaps, but still not, as I + believed, of atrocity and bloodshed. I wake at the brink of the abyss—my + mother’s hand beckons to me from the grave; I think I hear her voice while + I address you—I recede while it is yet time—we part, and for + ever!” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey, whose stormy passion was still deep upon his soul, had listened + hitherto in sullen and dogged silence, with a gloomy frown on his knitted + brow; he now rose with an oath— + </p> + <p> + “Part! that I may let loose on the world a new traitor! Part! when you + have seen me fresh from an act that, once whispered, gives me to the + guillotine! Part—never! at least alive!” + </p> + <p> + “I have said it,” said Morton, folding his arms calmly; “I say it to your + face, though I might part from you in secret. Frown not on me, man of + blood! I am fearless as yourself! In another minute I am gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! is it so?” said Gawtrey; and glancing round the room, which contained + two doors, the one concealed by the draperies of a bed, communicating with + the stairs by which they had entered, the other with the landing of the + principal and common flight: he turned to the former, within his reach, + which he locked, and put the key into his pocket, and then, throwing + across the latter a heavy swing bar, which fell into its socket with a + harsh noise,—before the threshold he placed his vast bulk, and burst + into his loud, fierce laugh: “Ho! ho! Slave and fool, once mine, you were + mine body and soul for ever!” + </p> + <p> + “Tempter, I defy you! stand back!” And, firm and dauntless, Morton laid + his hand on the giant’s vest. + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey seemed more astonished than enraged. He looked hard at his daring + associate, on whose lip the down was yet scarcely dark. + </p> + <p> + “Boy,” said he, “off! do not rouse the devil in me again! I could crush + you with a hug.” + </p> + <p> + “My soul supports my body, and I am armed,” said Morton, laying hand on + his cutlass. “But you dare not harm me, nor I you; bloodstained as you + are, you gave me shelter and bread; but accuse me not that I will save my + soul while it is yet time!—Shall my mother have blessed me in vain + upon her death-bed?” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey drew back, and Morton, by a sudden impulse, grasped his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! hear me—hear me!” he cried, with great emotion. “Abandon this + horrible career; you have been decoyed and betrayed to it by one who can + deceive or terrify you no more! Abandon it, and I will never desert you. + For her sake—for your Fanny’s sake—pause, like me, before the + gulf swallow us. Let us fly!—far to the New World—to any land + where our thews and sinews, our stout hands and hearts, can find an honest + mart. Men, desperate as we are, have yet risen by honest means. Take her, + your orphan, with us. We will work for her, both of us. Gawtrey! hear me. + It is not my voice that speaks to you—it is your good angel’s!” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey fell back against the wall, and his chest heaved. + </p> + <p> + “Morton,” he said, with choked and tremulous accent, “go now; leave me to + my fate! I have sinned against you—shamefully sinned. It seemed to + me so sweet to have a friend; in your youth and character of mind there + was so much about which the tough strings of my heart wound themselves, + that I could not bear to lose you—to suffer you to know me for what + I was. I blinded—I deceived you as to my past deeds; that was base + in me: but I swore to my own heart to keep you unexposed to every danger, + and free from every vice that darkened my own path. I kept that oath till + this night, when, seeing that you began to recoil from me, and dreading + that you should desert me, I thought to bind you to me for ever by + implicating you in this fellowship of crime. I am punished, and justly. + Go, I repeat—leave me to the fate that strides nearer and nearer to + me day by day. You are a boy still—I am no longer young. Habit is a + second nature. Still—still I could repent—I could begin life + again. But repose!—to look back—to remember—to be + haunted night and day with deeds that shall meet me bodily and face to + face on the last day—” + </p> + <p> + “Add not to the spectres! Come—fly this night—this hour!” + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey paused, irresolute and wavering, when at that moment he heard + steps on the stairs below. He started—as starts the boar caught in + his lair—and listened, pale and breathless. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!—they are on us!—they come!” as he whispered, the key + from without turned in the wards—the door shook. “Soft! the bar + preserves us both—this way.” And the coiner crept to the door of the + private stairs. He unlocked and opened it cautiously. A man sprang through + the aperture: + </p> + <p> + “Yield!—you are my prisoner!” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” cried Gawtrey, hurling back the intruder, and clapping to the + door, though other and stout men were pressing against it with all their + power. + </p> + <p> + “Ho! ho! Who shall open the tiger’s cage?” + </p> + <p> + At both doors now were heard the sound of voices. “Open in the king’s + name, or expect no mercy!” + </p> + <p> + “Hist!” said Gawtrey. “One way yet—the window—the rope.” + </p> + <p> + Morton opened the casement—Gawtrey uncoiled the rope. The dawn was + breaking; it was light in the streets, but all seemed quiet without. The + doors reeled and shook beneath the pressure of the pursuers. Gawtrey flung + the rope across the street to the opposite parapet; after two or three + efforts, the grappling-hook caught firm hold—the perilous path was + made. + </p> + <p> + “On!—quick!—loiter not!” whispered Gawtrey; “you are active—it + seems more dangerous than it is—cling with both hands—shut + your eyes. When on the other side—you see the window of Birnie’s + room,—enter it—descend the stairs—let yourself out, and + you are safe.” + </p> + <p> + “Go first,” said Morton, in the same tone: “I will not leave you now: you + will be longer getting across than I shall. I will keep guard till you are + over.” + </p> + <p> + “Hark! hark!—are you mad? You keep guard! what is your strength to + mine? Twenty men shall not move that door, while my weight is against it. + Quick, or you destroy us both! Besides, you will hold the rope for me, it + may not be strong enough for my bulk in itself. Stay!—stay one + moment. If you escape, and I fall—Fanny—my father, he will + take care of her,—you remember—thanks! Forgive me all! Go; + that’s right!” + </p> + <p> + With a firm impulse, Morton threw himself on the dreadful bridge; it swung + and crackled at his weight. Shifting his grasp rapidly—holding his + breath—with set teeth-with closed eyes—he moved on—he + gained the parapet—he stood safe on the opposite side. And now, + straining his eyes across, he saw through the open casement into the + chamber he had just quitted. Gawtrey was still standing against the door + to the principal staircase, for that of the two was the weaker and the + more assailed. Presently the explosion of a fire-arm was heard; they had + shot through the panel. Gawtrey seemed wounded, for he staggered forward, + and uttered a fierce cry; a moment more, and he gained the window—he + seized the rope—he hung over the tremendous depth! Morton knelt by + the parapet, holding the grappling-hook in its place, with convulsive + grasp, and fixing his eyes, bloodshot with fear and suspense, on the huge + bulk that clung for life to that slender cord! + </p> + <p> + “Le voiles! Le voiles!” cried a voice from the opposite side. Morton + raised his gaze from Gawtrey; the casement was darkened by the forms of + his pursuers—they had burst into the room—an officer sprang + upon the parapet, and Gawtrey, now aware of his danger, opened his eyes, + and as he moved on, glared upon the foe. The policeman deliberately raised + his pistol—Gawtrey arrested himself—from a wound in his side + the blood trickled slowly and darkly down, drop by drop, upon the stones + below; even the officers of law shuddered as they eyed him—his hair + bristling—his cheek white—his lips drawn convulsively from his + teeth, and his eyes glaring from beneath the frown of agony and menace in + which yet spoke the indomitable power and fierceness of the man. His look, + so fixed—so intense—so stern, awed the policeman; his hand + trembled as he fired, and the ball struck the parapet an inch below the + spot where Morton knelt. An indistinct, wild, gurgling sound-half-laugh, + half-yell of scorn and glee, broke from Gawtrey’s lips. He swung himself + on—near—near—nearer—a yard from the parapet. + </p> + <p> + “You are saved!” cried Morton; when at the moment a volley burst from the + fatal casement—the smoke rolled over both the fugitives—a + groan, or rather howl, of rage, and despair, and agony, appalled even the + hardest on whose ear it came. Morton sprang to his feet and looked below. + He saw on the rugged stones far down, a dark, formless, motionless mass—the + strong man of passion and levity—the giant who had played with life + and soul, as an infant with the baubles that it prizes and breaks—was + what the Caesar and the leper alike are, when the clay is without God’s + breath—what glory, genius, power, and beauty, would be for ever and + for ever, if there were no God! + </p> + <p> + “There is another!” cried the voice of one of the pursuers. “Fire!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Gawtrey!” muttered Philip. “I will fulfil your last wish;” and + scarcely conscious of the bullet that whistled by him, he disappeared + behind the parapet. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Gently moved + By the soft wind of whispering silks.”—DECKER. +</pre> + <p> + The reader may remember that while Monsieur Favart and Mr. Birnie were + holding commune in the lane, the sounds of festivity were heard from a + house in the adjoining street. To that house we are now summoned. + </p> + <p> + At Paris, the gaieties of balls, or soirees, are, I believe, very rare in + that period of the year in which they are most frequent in London. The + entertainment now given was in honour of a christening; the lady who gave + it, a relation of the new-born. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Merville was a young widow; even before her marriage she had + been distinguished in literature; she had written poems of more than + common excellence; and being handsome, of good family, and large fortune, + her talents made her an object of more interest than they might otherwise + have done. Her poetry showed great sensibility and tenderness. If poetry + be any index to the heart, you would have thought her one to love truly + and deeply. Nevertheless, since she married—as girls in France do—not + to please herself, but her parents, she made a mariage de convenance. + Monsieur de Merville was a sober, sensible man, past middle age. Not being + fond of poetry, and by no means coveting a professional author for his + wife, he had during their union, which lasted four years, discouraged his + wife’s liaison with Apollo. But her mind, active and ardent, did not the + less prey upon itself. At the age of four-and-twenty she became a widow, + with an income large even in England for a single woman, and at Paris + constituting no ordinary fortune. Madame de Merville, however, though a + person of elegant taste, was neither ostentatious nor selfish; she had no + children, and she lived quietly in apartments, handsome, indeed, but not + more than adequate to the small establishment which—where, as on the + Continent, the costly convenience of an entire house is not usually + incurred—sufficed for her retinue. She devoted at least half her + income, which was entirely at her own disposal, partly to the aid of her + own relations, who were not rich, and partly to the encouragement of the + literature she cultivated. Although she shrank from the ordeal of + publication, her poems and sketches of romance were read to her own + friends, and possessed an eloquence seldom accompanied with so much + modesty. Thus, her reputation, though not blown about the winds, was high + in her own circle, and her position in fashion and in fortune made her + looked up to by her relations as the head of her family; they regarded her + as femme superieure, and her advice with them was equivalent to a command. + Eugenie de Merville was a strange mixture of qualities at once feminine + and masculine. On the one hand, she had a strong will, independent views, + some contempt for the world, and followed her own inclinations without + servility to the opinion of others; on the other hand, she was + susceptible, romantic, of a sweet, affectionate, kind disposition. Her + visit to M. Love, however indiscreet, was not less in accordance with her + character than her charity to the mechanic’s wife; masculine and careless + where an eccentric thing was to be done—curiosity satisfied, or some + object in female diplomacy achieved—womanly, delicate, and gentle, + the instant her benevolence was appealed to or her heart touched. She had + now been three years a widow, and was consequently at the age of + twenty-seven. Despite the tenderness of her poetry and her character, her + reputation was unblemished. She had never been in love. People who are + much occupied do not fall in love easily; besides, Madame de Merville was + refining, exacting, and wished to find heroes where she only met handsome + dandies or ugly authors. Moreover, Eugenie was both a vain and a proud + person—vain of her celebrity and proud of her birth. She was one + whose goodness of heart made her always active in promoting the happiness + of others. She was not only generous and charitable, but willing to serve + people by good offices as well as money. Everybody loved her. The new-born + infant, to whose addition to the Christian community the fete of this + night was dedicated, was the pledge of a union which Madame de Merville + had managed to effect between two young persons, first cousins to each + other, and related to herself. There had been scruples of parents to + remove—money matters to adjust—Eugenie had smoothed all. The + husband and wife, still lovers, looked up to her as the author, under + Heaven, of their happiness. + </p> + <p> + The gala of that night had been, therefore, of a nature more than usually + pleasurable, and the mirth did not sound hollow, but wrung from the heart. + Yet, as Eugenie from time to time contemplated the young people, whose + eyes ever sought each other—so fair, so tender, and so joyous as + they seemed—a melancholy shadow darkened her brow, and she sighed + involuntarily. Once the young wife, Madame d’Anville, approaching her + timidly, said: + </p> + <p> + “Ah! my sweet cousin, when shall we see you as happy as ourselves? There + is such happiness,” she added, innocently, and with a blush, “in being a + mother!—that little life all one’s own—it is something to + think of every hour!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Eugenie, smiling, and seeking to turn the conversation + from a subject that touched too nearly upon feelings and thoughts her + pride did not wish to reveal—“perhaps it is you, then, who have made + our cousin, poor Monsieur de Vaudemont, so determined to marry? Pray, be + more cautious with him. How difficult I have found it to prevent his + bringing into our family some one to make us all ridiculous!” + </p> + <p> + “True,” said Madame d’Anville, laughing. “But then, the Vicomte is so + poor, and in debt. He would fall in love, not with the demoiselle, but the + dower. A propos of that, how cleverly you took advantage of his boastful + confession to break off his liaisons with that bureau de mariage.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I congratulate myself on that manoeuvre. Unpleasant as it was to go + to such a place (for, of course, I could not send for Monsieur Love here), + it would have been still more unpleasant to have received such a Madame de + Vaudemont as our cousin would have presented to us. Only think—he + was the rival of an epicier! I heard that there was some curious + denouement to the farce of that establishment; but I could never get from + Vaudemont the particulars. He was ashamed of them, I fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “What droll professions there are in Paris!” said Madame d’Anville. “As if + people could not marry without going to an office for a spouse as we go + for a servant! And so the establishment is broken up? And you never again + saw that dark, wild-looking boy who so struck your fancy that you have + taken him as the original for the Murillo sketch of the youth in that + charming tale you read to us the other evening? Ah! cousin, I think you + were a little taken with him. The bureau de mariage had its allurements + for you as well as for our poor cousin!” The young mother said this + laughingly and carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh!” returned Madame de Merville, laughing also; but a slight blush + broke over her natural paleness. “But a propos of the Vicomte. You know + how cruelly he has behaved to that poor boy of his by his English wife—never + seen him since he was an infant—kept him at some school in England; + and all because his vanity does not like the world to know that he has a + son of nineteen! Well, I have induced him to recall this poor youth.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! and how?” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said Eugenie, with a smile, “he wanted a loan, poor man, and I + could therefore impose conditions by way of interest. But I also managed + to conciliate him to the proposition, by representing that, if the young + man were good-looking, he might, himself, with our connections, &c., + form an advantageous marriage; and that in such a case, if the father + treated him now justly and kindly, he would naturally partake with the + father whatever benefits the marriage might confer.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you are an excellent diplomatist, Eugenie; and you turn people’s + heads by always acting from your heart. Hush! here comes the Vicomte!” + </p> + <p> + “A delightful ball,” said Monsieur de Vaudemont, approaching the hostess. + “Pray, has that young lady yonder, in the pink dress, any fortune? She is + pretty—eh? You observe she is looking at me—I mean at us!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear cousin, what a compliment you pay to marriage! You have had two + wives, and you are ever on the qui vive for a third!” + </p> + <p> + “What would you have me do?—we cannot resist the overtures of your + bewitching sex. Hum—what fortune has she?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a sou; besides, she is engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! now I look at her, she is not pretty—not at all. I made a + mistake. I did not mean her; I meant the young lady in blue.” + </p> + <p> + “Worse and worse—she is married already. Shall I present you?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Monsieur de Vaudemont,” said Madame d’Anville; “have you found out a + new bureau de mariage?” + </p> + <p> + The Vicomte pretended not to hear that question. But, turning to Eugenie, + took her aside, and said, with an air in which he endeavoured to throw a + great deal of sorrow, “You know, my dear cousin, that, to oblige you, I + consented to send for my son, though, as I always said, it is very + unpleasant for a man like me, in the prime of life, to hawk about a great + boy of nineteen or twenty. People soon say, ‘Old Vaudemont and younq + Vaudemont.’ However, a father’s feelings are never appealed to in vain.” + (Here the Vicomte put his handkerchief to his eyes, and after a pause, + continued,)—“I sent for him—I even went to your old bonne, + Madame Dufour, to make a bargain for her lodgings, and this day—guess + my grief—I received a letter sealed with black. My son is dead!—a + sudden fever—it is shocking!” + </p> + <p> + “Horrible! dead!—your own son, whom you hardly ever saw—never + since he was an Infant!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that softens the blow very much. And now you see I must marry. If + the boy had been good-looking, and like me, and so forth, why, as you + observed, he might have made a good match, and allowed me a certain sum, + or we could have all lived together.” + </p> + <p> + “And your son is dead, and you come to a ball!” + </p> + <p> + “Je suis philosophe,” said the Vicomte, shrugging his shoulders. “And, as + you say, I never saw him. It saves me seven hundred francs a-year. Don’t + say a word to any one—I sha’n’t give out that he is dead, poor + fellow! Pray be discreet: you see there are some ill-natured people who + might think it odd I do not shut myself up. I can wait till Paris is quite + empty. It would be a pity to lose any opportunity at present, for now, you + see, I must marry!” And the philosophe sauntered away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GUIOMAR. + “Those devotions I am to pay + Are written in my heart, not in this book.” + + Enter RUTILIO. + “I am pursued—all the ports are stopped too, + Not any hope to escape—behind, before me, + On either side, I am beset.” + BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, The Custom of the Country +</pre> + <p> + The party were just gone—it was already the peep of day—the + wheels of the last carriage had died in the distance. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Merville had dismissed her woman, and was seated in her own + room, leaning her head musingly on her hand. + </p> + <p> + Beside her was the table that held her MSS. and a few books, amidst which + were scattered vases of flowers. On a pedestal beneath the window was + placed a marble bust of Dante. Through the open door were seen in + perspective two rooms just deserted by her guests; the lights still burned + in the chandeliers and girandoles, contending with the daylight that came + through the half-closed curtains. The person of the inmate was in harmony + with the apartment. It was characterised by a certain grace which, for + want of a better epithet, writers are prone to call classical or antique. + Her complexion, seeming paler than usual by that light, was yet soft and + delicate—the features well cut, but small and womanly. About the + face there was that rarest of all charms, the combination of intellect + with sweetness; the eyes, of a dark blue, were thoughtful, perhaps + melancholy, in their expression; but the long dark lashes, and the shape + of the eyes, themselves more long than full, gave to their intelligence a + softness approaching to languor, increased, perhaps, by that slight shadow + round and below the orbs which is common with those who have tasked too + much either the mind or the heart. The contour of the face, without being + sharp or angular, had yet lost a little of the roundness of earlier youth; + and the hand on which she leaned was, perhaps, even too white, too + delicate, for the beauty which belongs to health; but the throat and bust + were of exquisite symmetry. + </p> + <p> + “I am not happy,” murmured Eugenie to herself; “yet I scarce know why. Is + it really, as we women of romance have said till the saying is worn + threadbare, that the destiny of women is not fame but love. Strange, then, + that while I have so often pictured what love should be, I have never felt + it. And now,—and now,” she continued, half rising, and with a + natural pang—“now I am no longer in my first youth. If I loved, + should I be loved again? How happy the young pair seemed—they are + never alone!” + </p> + <p> + At this moment, at a distance, was heard the report of fire-arms—again! + Eugenie started, and called to her servant, who, with one of the waiters + hired for the night, was engaged in removing, and nibbling as he removed, + the remains of the feast. “What is that, at this hour?—open the + window and look out!” + </p> + <p> + “I can see nothing, madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Again—that is the third time. Go into the street and look—some + one must be in danger.” + </p> + <p> + The servant and the waiter, both curious, and not willing to part company, + ran down the stairs, and thence into the street. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Morton, after vainly attempting Birnie’s window, which the + traitor had previously locked and barred against the escape of his + intended victim, crept rapidly along the roof, screened by the parapet not + only from the shot but the sight of the foe. But just as he gained the + point at which the lane made an angle with the broad street it adjoined, + he cast his eyes over the parapet, and perceived that one of the officers + had ventured himself to the fearful bridge; he was pursued—detection + and capture seemed inevitable. He paused, and breathed hard. He, once the + heir to such fortunes, the darling of such affections!—he, the + hunted accomplice of a gang of miscreants! That was the thought that + paralysed—the disgrace, not the danger. But he was in advance of the + pursuer—he hastened on—he turned the angle—he heard a + shout behind from the opposite side—the officer had passed the + bridge: “it is but one man as yet,” thought he, and his nostrils dilated + and his hands clenched as he glided on, glancing at each casement as he + passed. + </p> + <p> + Now as youth and vigour thus struggled against Law for life, near at hand + Death was busy with toil and disease. In a miserable grabat, or garret, a + mechanic, yet young, and stricken by a lingering malady contracted by the + labour of his occupation, was slowly passing from that world which had + frowned on his cradle, and relaxed not the gloom of its aspect to comfort + his bed of Death. Now this man had married for love, and his wife had + loved him; and it was the cares of that early marriage which had consumed + him to the bone. But extreme want, if long continued, eats up love when it + has nothing else to eat. And when people are very long dying, the people + they fret and trouble begin to think of that too often hypocritical + prettiness of phrase called “a happy release.” So the worn-out and + half-famished wife did not care three straws for the dying husband, whom a + year or two ago she had vowed to love and cherish in sickness and in + health. But still she seemed to care, for she moaned, and pined, and wept, + as the man’s breath grew fainter and fainter. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Jean!” said she, sobbing, “what will become of me, a poor lone widow, + with nobody to work for my bread?” And with that thought she took on worse + than before. + </p> + <p> + “I am stifling,” said the dying man, rolling round his ghastly eyes. “How + hot it is! Open the window; I should like to see the light—daylight + once again.” + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu! what whims he has, poor man!” muttered the woman, without + stirring. + </p> + <p> + The poor wretch put out his skeleton hand and clutched his wife’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “I sha’n’t trouble you long, Marie! Air—air!” + </p> + <p> + “Jean, you will make yourself worse—besides, I shall catch my death + of cold. I have scarce a rag on, but I will just open the door.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” groaned the sufferer; “leave me, then.” Poor fellow! perhaps + at that moment the thought of unkindness was sharper than the sharp cough + which brought blood at every paroxysm. He did not like her so near him, + but he did not blame her. Again, I say,—poor fellow! The woman + opened the door, went to the other side of the room, and sat down on an + old box and began darning an old neck-handkerchief. The silence was soon + broken by the moans of the fast-dying man, and again he muttered, as he + tossed to and fro, with baked white lips: + </p> + <p> + “Je m’etoufee!—Air!” + </p> + <p> + There was no resisting that prayer, it seemed so like the last. The wife + laid down the needle, put the handkerchief round her throat, and opened + the window. + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel easier now?” + </p> + <p> + “Bless you, Marie—yes; that’s good—good. It puts me in mind of + old days, that breath of air, before we came to Paris. I wish I could work + for you now, Marie.” + </p> + <p> + “Jean! my poor Jean!” said the woman, and the words and the voice took + back her hardening heart to the fresh fields and tender thoughts of the + past time. And she walked up to the bed, and he leaned his temples, damp + with livid dews, upon her breast. + </p> + <p> + “I have been a sad burden to you, Marie; we should not have married so + soon; but I thought I was stronger. Don’t cry; we have no little ones, + thank God. It will be much better for you when I am gone.” + </p> + <p> + And so, word after word gasped out—he stopped suddenly, and seemed + to fall asleep. + </p> + <p> + The wife then attempted gently to lay him once more on his pillow—the + head fell back heavily—the jaw had dropped—the teeth were set—the + eyes were open and like the stone—the truth broke on her! + </p> + <p> + “Jean—Jean! My God, he is dead! and I was unkind to him at the + last!” With these words she fell upon the corpse, happily herself + insensible. + </p> + <p> + Just at that moment a human face peered in at the window. Through that + aperture, after a moment’s pause, a young man leaped lightly into the + room. He looked round with a hurried glance, but scarcely noticed the + forms stretched on the pallet. It was enough for him that they seemed to + sleep, and saw him not. He stole across the room, the door of which Marie + had left open, and descended the stairs. He had almost gained the + courtyard into which the stairs had conducted, when he heard voices below + by the porter’s lodge. + </p> + <p> + “The police have discovered a gang of coiners!” + </p> + <p> + “Coiners!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, one has been shot dead! I have seen his body in the kennel; another + has fled along the roofs—a desperate fellow! We were to watch for + him. Let us go up-stairs and get on the roof and look out.” + </p> + <p> + By the hum of approval that followed this proposition, Morton judged + rightly that it had been addressed to several persons whom curiosity and + the explosion of the pistols had drawn from their beds, and who were + grouped round the porter’s lodge. What was to be done?—to advance + was impossible: and was there yet time to retreat?—it was at least + the only course left him; he sprang back up the stairs; he had just gained + the first flight when he heard steps descending; then, suddenly, it + flashed across him that he had left open the window above—that, + doubtless, by that imprudent oversight the officer in pursuit had detected + a clue to the path he had taken. What was to be done?—die as Gawtrey + had done!—death rather than the galleys. As he thus resolved, he saw + to the right the open door of an apartment in which lights still glimmered + in their sockets. It seemed deserted—he entered boldly and at once, + closing the door after him. Wines and viands still left on the table; + gilded mirrors, reflecting the stern face of the solitary intruder; here + and there an artificial flower, a knot of riband on the floor, all + betokening the gaieties and graces of luxurious life—the dance, the + revel, the feast—all this in one apartment!—above, in the same + house, the pallet—the corpse—the widow—famine and woe! + Such is a great city! such, above all, is Paris! where, under the same + roof, are gathered such antagonist varieties of the social state! Nothing + strange in this; it is strange and sad that so little do people thus + neighbours know of each other, that the owner of those rooms had a heart + soft to every distress, but she did not know the distress so close at + hand. The music that had charmed her guests had mounted gaily to the vexed + ears of agony and hunger. Morton passed the first room—a second—he + came to a third, and Eugenie de Merville, looking up at that instant, saw + before her an apparition that might well have alarmed the boldest. His + head was uncovered—his dark hair shadowed in wild and disorderly + profusion the pale face and features, beautiful indeed, but at that moment + of the beauty which an artist would impart to a young gladiator—stamped + with defiance, menace, and despair. The disordered garb—the fierce + aspect—the dark eyes, that literally shone through the shadows of + the room—all conspired to increase the terror of so abrupt a + presence. + </p> + <p> + “What are you?—What do you seek here?” said she, falteringly, + placing her hand on the bell as she spoke. Upon that soft hand Morton laid + his own. + </p> + <p> + “I seek my life! I am pursued! I am at your mercy! I am innocent! Can you + save me?” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, the door of the outer room beyond was heard to open, and + steps and voices were at hand. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he exclaimed, recoiling as he recognised her face. “And is it to you + that I have fled?” + </p> + <p> + Eugenie also recognised the stranger; and there was something in their + relative positions—the suppliant, the protectress—that excited + both her imagination and her pity. A slight colour mantled to her cheeks—her + look was gentle and compassionate. + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy! so young!” she said. “Hush!” + </p> + <p> + She withdrew her hand from his, retired a few steps, lifted a curtain + drawn across a recess—and pointing to an alcove that contained one + of those sofa-beds common in French houses, added in a whisper,— + </p> + <p> + “Enter—you are saved.” + </p> + <p> + Morton obeyed, and Eugenie replaced the curtain. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GUIOMAR. + “Speak! What are you?” + + RUTILIO. + “Gracious woman, hear me. I am a stranger: + And in that I answer all your demands.” + Custom of the Country. +</pre> + <p> + Eugenie replaced the curtain. And scarcely had she done so ere the steps + in the outer room entered the chamber where she stood. Her servant was + accompanied by two officers of the police. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, madame,” said one of the latter; “but we are in pursuit of a + criminal. We think he must have entered this house through a window above + while your servant was in the street. Permit us to search?” + </p> + <p> + “Without doubt,” answered Eugenie, seating herself. “If he has entered, + look in the other apartments. I have not quitted this room.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right. Accept our apologies.” + </p> + <p> + And the officers turned back to examine every corner where the fugitive + was not. For in that, the scouts of Justice resembled their mistress: when + does man’s justice look to the right place? + </p> + <p> + The servant lingered to repeat the tale he had heard—the sight he + had seen. When, at that instant, he saw the curtain of the alcove slightly + stirred. He uttered an exclamation—sprung to the bed—his hand + touched the curtain—Eugenie seized his arm. She did not speak; but + as he turned his eyes to her, astonished, he saw that she trembled, and + that her cheek was as white as marble. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” he said, hesitating, “there is some one hid in the recess.” + </p> + <p> + “There is! Be silent!” + </p> + <p> + A suspicion flashed across the servant’s mind. The pure, the proud, the + immaculate Eugenie! + </p> + <p> + “There is!—and in madame’s chamber!” he faltered unconsciously. + </p> + <p> + Eugenie’s quick apprehensions seized the foul thought. Her eyes flashed—her + cheek crimsoned. But her lofty and generous nature conquered even the + indignant and scornful burst that rushed to her lips. The truth!—could + she trust the man? A doubt—and the charge of the human life rendered + to her might be betrayed. Her colour fell—tears gushed to her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I have been kind to you, Francois. Not a word.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame confides in me—it is enough,” said the Frenchman, bowing, + with a slight smile on his lips; and he drew back respectfully. + </p> + <p> + One of the police officers re-entered. + </p> + <p> + “We have done, madame; he is not here. Aha! that curtain!” + </p> + <p> + “It is madame’s bed,” said Francois. “But I have looked behind.” + </p> + <p> + “I am most sorry to have disarranged you,” said the policeman, satisfied + with the answer; “but we shall have him yet.” And he retired. + </p> + <p> + The last footsteps died away, the last door of the apartments closed + behind the officers, and Eugenie and her servant stood alone gazing on + each other. + </p> + <p> + “You may retire,” said she at last; and taking her purse from the table, + she placed it in his hands. + </p> + <p> + The man took it, with a significant look. “Madame may depend on my + discretion.” + </p> + <p> + Eugenie was alone again. Those words rang in her ear,—Eugenie de + Merville dependent on the discretion of her lackey! She sunk into her + chair, and, her excitement succeeded by exhaustion, leaned her face on her + hands, and burst into tears. She was aroused by a low voice; she looked + up, and the young man was kneeling at her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Go—go!” she said: “I have done for you all I can.” + </p> + <p> + “You heard—you heard—my own hireling, too! At the hazard of my + own good name you are saved. Go!” + </p> + <p> + “Of your good name!”—for Eugenie forgot that it was looks, not + words, that had so wrung her pride—“Your good name,” he repeated: + and glancing round the room—the toilette, the curtain, the recess he + had quitted—all that bespoke that chastest sanctuary of a chaste + woman, which for a stranger to enter is, as it were, to profane—her + meaning broke on him. “Your good name—your hireling! No, madame,—no!” + And as he spoke, he rose to his feet. “Not for me, that sacrifice! Your + humanity shall not cost you so dear. Ho, there! I am the man you seek.” + And he strode to the door. + </p> + <p> + Eugenie was penetrated with the answer. She sprung to him—she + grasped his garments. + </p> + <p> + “Hush! hush!—for mercy’s sake! What would you do? Think you I could + ever be happy again, if the confidence you placed in me were betrayed? Be + calm—be still. I knew not what I said. It will be easy to undeceive + the man—later—when you are saved. And you are innocent,—are + you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, madame,” said Morton, “from my soul I say it, I am innocent—not + of poverty—wretchedness—error—shame; I am innocent of + crime. May Heaven bless you!” + </p> + <p> + And as he reverently kissed the hand laid on his arm, there was something + in his voice so touching, in his manner something so above his fortunes, + that Eugenie was lost in her feelings of compassion, surprise, and + something, it might be, of admiration in her wonder. + </p> + <p> + “And, oh!” he said, passionately, gazing on her with his dark, brilliant + eyes, liquid with emotion, “you have made my life sweet in saving it. You—you—of + whom, ever since the first time, almost the sole time, I beheld you—I + have so often mused and dreamed. Henceforth, whatever befall me, there + will be some recollections that will—that—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped short, for his heart was too full for words; and the silence + said more to Eugenie than if all the eloquence of Rousseau had glowed upon + his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “And who, and what are you?” she asked, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “An exile—an orphan—an outcast! I have no name! Farewell!” + </p> + <p> + “No—stay yet—the danger is not past. Wait till my servant is + gone to rest; I hear him yet. Sit down—sit down. And whither would + you go?” + </p> + <p> + “I know not.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you no friends?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone.” + </p> + <p> + “No home?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + “And the police of Paris so vigilant!” cried Eugenie, wringing her hands. + “What is to be done? I shall have saved you in vain—you will be + discovered! Of what do they charge you? Not robbery—not—” + </p> + <p> + And she, too, stopped short, for she did not dare to breathe the black + word, “Murder!” + </p> + <p> + “I know not,” said Morton, putting his hand to his forehead, “except of + being friends with the only man who befriended me—and they have + killed him!” + </p> + <p> + “Another time you shall tell me all.” + </p> + <p> + “Another time!” he exclaimed, eagerly—“shall I see you again?” + </p> + <p> + Eugenie blushed beneath the gaze and the voice of joy. “Yes,” she said; + “yes. But I must reflect. Be calm be silent. Ah!—a happy thought!” + </p> + <p> + She sat down, wrote a hasty line, sealed, and gave it to Morton. + </p> + <p> + “Take this note, as addressed, to Madame Dufour; it will provide you with + a safe lodging. She is a person I can depend on—an old servant who + lived with my mother, and to whom I have given a small pension. She has a + lodging—it is lately vacant—I promised to procure her a tenant—go—say + nothing of what has passed. I will see her, and arrange all. Wait!—hark!—all + is still. I will go first, and see that no one watches you. Stop,” (and + she threw open the window, and looked into the court.) “The porter’s door + is open—that is fortunate! Hurry on, and God be with you!” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes Morton was in the streets. It was still early—the + thoroughfares deserted-none of the shops yet open. The address on the note + was to a street at some distance, on the other side of the Seine. He + passed along the same Quai which he had trodden but a few hours since—he + passed the same splendid bridge on which he had stood despairing, to quit + it revived—he gained the Rue Faubourg St. Honore. A young man in a + cabriolet, on whose fair cheek burned the hectic of late vigils and lavish + dissipation, was rolling leisurely home from the gaming-house, at which he + had been more than usually fortunate—his pockets were laden with + notes and gold. He bent forwards as Morton passed him. Philip, absorbed in + his reverie, perceived him not, and continued his way. The gentleman + turned down one of the streets to the left, stopped, and called to the + servant dozing behind his cabriolet. + </p> + <p> + “Follow that passenger! quietly—see where he lodges; be sure to find + out and let me know. I shall go home without you.” With that he drove on. + </p> + <p> + Philip, unconscious of the espionage, arrived at a small house in a quiet + but respectable street, and rang the bell several times before at last he + was admitted by Madame Dufour herself, in her nightcap. The old woman + looked askant and alarmed at the unexpected apparition. But the note + seemed at once to satisfy her. She conducted him to an apartment on the + first floor, small, but neatly and even elegantly furnished, consisting of + a sitting-room and a bedchamber, and said, quietly,— + </p> + <p> + “Will they suit monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + To monsieur they seemed a palace. Morton nodded assent. + </p> + <p> + “And will monsieur sleep for a short time?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The bed is well aired. The rooms have only been vacant three days since. + Can I get you anything till your luggage arrives?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + The woman left him. He threw off his clothes—flung himself on the + bed—and did not wake till noon. + </p> + <p> + When his eyes unclosed—when they rested on that calm chamber, with + its air of health, and cleanliness, and comfort, it was long before he + could convince himself that he was yet awake. He missed the loud, deep + voice of Gawtrey—the smoke of the dead man’s meerschaum—the + gloomy garret—the distained walls—the stealthy whisper of the + loathed Birnie; slowly the life led and the life gone within the last + twelve hours grew upon his struggling memory. He groaned, and turned + uneasily round, when the door slightly opened, and he sprung up fiercely,— + </p> + <p> + “Who is there?” + </p> + <p> + “It is only I, sir,” answered Madame Dufour. “I have been in three times + to see if you were stirring. There is a letter I believe for you, sir; + though there is no name to it,” and she laid the letter on the chair + beside him. Did it come from her—the saving angel? He seized it. The + cover was blank; it was sealed with a small device, as of a ring seal. He + tore it open, and found four billets de banque for 1,000 francs each,—a + sum equivalent in our money to about L160. + </p> + <p> + “Who sent this, the—the lady from whom I brought the note?” + </p> + <p> + “Madame de Merville? certainly not, sir,” said Madame Dufour, who, with + the privilege of age, was now unscrupulously filling the water-jugs and + settling the toilette-table. “A young man called about two hours after you + had gone to bed; and, describing you, inquired if you lodged here, and + what your name was. I said you had just arrived, and that I did not yet + know your name. So he went away, and came again half an hour afterwards + with this letter, which he charged me to deliver to you safely.” + </p> + <p> + “A young man—a gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; he seemed a smart but common sort of lad.” For the + unsophisticated Madame Dufour did not discover in the plain black frock + and drab gaiters of the bearer of that letter the simple livery of an + English gentleman’s groom. + </p> + <p> + Whom could it come from, if not from Madame de Merville? Perhaps one of + Gawtrey’s late friends. A suspicion of Arthur Beaufort crossed him, but he + indignantly dismissed it. Men are seldom credulous of what they are + unwilling to believe. What kindness had the Beauforts hitherto shown him?—Left + his mother to perish broken-hearted—stolen from him his brother, and + steeled, in that brother, the only heart wherein he had a right to look + for gratitude and love! No, it must be Madame de Merville. He dismissed + Madame Dufour for pen and paper—rose—wrote a letter to Eugenie—grateful, + but proud, and inclosed the notes. He then summoned Madame Dufour, and + sent her with his despatch. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, madame,” said the ci-devant bonne, when she found herself in + Eugenie’s presence. “The poor lad! how handsome he is, and how shameful in + the Vicomte to let him wear such clothes!” + </p> + <p> + “The Vicomte!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear mistress, you must not deny it. You told me, in your note, to + ask him no questions, but I guessed at once. The Vicomte told me himself + that he should have the young gentleman over in a few days. You need not + be ashamed of him. You will see what a difference clothes will make in his + appearance; and I have taken it on myself to order a tailor to go to him. + The Vicomte—must pay me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word to the Vicomte as yet. We will surprise him,” said Eugenie, + laughing. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Merville had been all that morning trying to invent some story + to account for her interest in the lodger, and now how Fortune favoured + her! + </p> + <p> + “But is that a letter for me?” + </p> + <p> + “And I had almost forgot it,” said Madame Dufour, as she extended the + letter. + </p> + <p> + Whatever there had hitherto been in the circumstances connected with + Morton, that had roused the interest and excited the romance of Eugenie de + Merville, her fancy was yet more attracted by the tone of the letter she + now read. For though Morton, more accustomed to speak than to write + French, expressed himself with less precision, and a less euphuistic + selection of phrase, than the authors and elegans who formed her usual + correspondents; there was an innate and rough nobleness—a strong and + profound feeling in every line of his letter, which increased her surprise + and admiration. + </p> + <p> + “All that surrounds him—all that belongs to him, is strangeness and + mystery!” murmured she; and she sat down to reply. + </p> + <p> + When Madame Dufour departed with that letter, Eugenie remained silent and + thoughtful for more than an hour, Morton’s letter before her; and sweet, + in their indistinctness, were the recollections and the images that + crowded on her mind. + </p> + <p> + Morton, satisfied by the earnest and solemn assurances of Eugenie that she + was not the unknown donor of the sum she reinclosed, after puzzling + himself in vain to form any new conjectures as to the quarter whence it + came, felt that under his present circumstances it would be an absurd + Quixotism to refuse to apply what the very Providence to whom he had anew + consigned himself seemed to have sent to his aid. And it placed him, too, + beyond the offer of all pecuniary assistance from one from whom he could + least have brooked to receive it. He consented, therefore, to all that the + loquacious tailor proposed to him. And it would have been difficult to + have recognised the wild and frenzied fugitive in the stately form, with + its young beauty and air of well-born pride, which the next day sat by the + side of Eugenie. And that day he told his sad and troubled story, and + Eugenie wept: and from that day he came daily; and two weeks—happy, + dreamlike, intoxicating to both—passed by; and as their last sun + set, he was kneeling at her feet, and breathing to one to whom the homage + of wit, and genius, and complacent wealth had hitherto been vainly + proffered, the impetuous, agitated, delicious secrets of the First Love. + He spoke, and rose to depart for ever—when the look and sigh + detained him. + </p> + <p> + The next day, after a sleepless night, Eugenie de Merville sent for the + Vicomte de Vaudemont. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A silver river small + In sweet accents + Its music vents; + The warbling virginal + To which the merry birds do sing, + Timed with stops of gold the silver string.” + Sir Richard Fanshawe. +</pre> + <p> + One evening, several weeks after the events just commemorated, a stranger, + leading in his hand, a young child, entered the churchyard of H——. + The sun had not long set, and the short twilight of deepening summer + reigned in the tranquil skies; you might still hear from the trees above + the graves the chirp of some joyous bird;—what cared he, the denizen + of the skies, for the dead that slept below?—what did he value save + the greenness and repose of the spot,—to him alike the garden or the + grave! As the man and the child passed, the robin, scarcely scared by + their tread from the long grass beside one of the mounds, looked at them + with its bright, blithe eye. It was a famous plot for the robin—the + old churchyard! That domestic bird—“the friend of man,” as it has + been called by the poets—found a jolly supper among the worms! + </p> + <p> + The stranger, on reaching the middle of the sacred ground, paused and + looked round him wistfully. He then approached, slowly and hesitatingly, + an oblong tablet, on which were graven, in letters yet fresh and new, + these words:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO THE + MEMORY OF ONE CALUMNIATED AND WRONGED + THIS BURIAL-STONE IS DEDICATED + BY HER SON. +</pre> + <p> + Such, with the addition of the dates of birth and death, was the tablet + which Philip Morton had directed to be placed over his mother’s bones; and + around it was set a simple palisade, which defended it from the tread of + the children, who sometimes, in defiance of the beadle, played over the + dust of the former race. + </p> + <p> + “Thy son!” muttered the stranger, while the child stood quietly by his + side, pleased by the trees, the grass, the song of the birds, and reeking + not of grief or death,—“thy son!—but not thy favoured son—thy + darling—thy youngest born; on what spot of earth do thine eyes look + down on him? Surely in heaven thy love has preserved the one whom on earth + thou didst most cherish, from the sufferings and the trials that have + visited the less-favoured outcast. Oh, mother—mother!—it was + not his crime—not Philip’s—that he did not fulfil to the last + the trust bequeathed to him! Happier, perhaps, as it is! And, oh, if thy + memory be graven as deeply in my brother’s heart as my own, how often will + it warn and save him! That memory!—it has been to me the angel of my + life! To thee—to thee, even in death, I owe it, if, though erring, I + am not criminal,—if I have lived with the lepers, and am still + undefiled!” His lips then were silent—not his heart! + </p> + <p> + After a few minutes thus consumed he turned to the child, and said, gently + and in a tremulous voice, “Fanny, you have been taught to pray—you + will live near this spot,—will you come sometimes here and pray that + you may grow up good and innocent, and become a blessing to those who love + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Will papa ever come to hear me pray?” + </p> + <p> + That sad and unconscious question went to the heart of Morton. The child + could not comprehend death. He had sought to explain it, but she had been + accustomed to consider her protector dead when he was absent from her, and + she still insisted that he must come again to life. And that man of + turbulence and crime, who had passed unrepentant, unabsolved, from sin to + judgment: it was an awful question, “If he should hear her pray?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” said he, after a pause,—“yes, Fanny, there is a Father who + will hear you pray; and pray to Him to be merciful to those who have been + kind to you. Fanny, you and I may never meet again!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to die too? Mechant, every one dies to Fanny!” and, + clinging to him endearingly, she put up her lips to kiss him. He took her + in his arms: and, as a tear fell upon her rosy cheek, she said, “Don’t + cry, brother, for I love you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you, dear Fanny? Then, for my sake, when you come to this place, if + any one will give you a few flowers, scatter them on that stone. And now + we will go to one whom you must love also, and to whom, as I have told + you, he sends you; he who—Come!” + </p> + <p> + As he thus spoke, and placed Fanny again on the ground, he was startled to + see: precisely on the spot where he had seen before the like apparition—on + the same spot where the father had cursed the son, the motionless form of + an old man. Morton recognised, as if by an instinct rather than by an + effort of the memory, the person to whom he was bound. + </p> + <p> + He walked slowly towards him; but Fanny abruptly left his side, lured by a + moth that flitted duskily over the graves. + </p> + <p> + “Your name, sir, I think, is Simon Gawtrey?” said Morton. “I have came to + England in quest of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Of me?” said the old man, half rising, and his eyes, now completely + blind, rolled vacantly over Morton’s person—“Of me?—for what?—Who + are you?—I don’t know your voice!” + </p> + <p> + “I come to you from your son!” + </p> + <p> + “My son!” exclaimed the old man, with great vehemence,—“the + reprobate!—the dishonoured!—the infamous!—the accursed—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! you revile the dead!” + </p> + <p> + “Dead!” muttered the wretched father, tottering back to the seat he had + quitted,—“dead!” and the sound of his voice was so full of anguish, + that the dog at his feet, which Morton had not hitherto perceived, echoed + it with a dismal cry, that recalled to Philip the awful day in which he + had seen the son quit the father for the last time on earth. + </p> + <p> + The sound brought Fanny to the spot; and, with a laugh of delight, which + made to it a strange contrast, she threw herself on the grass beside the + dog and sought to entice it to play. So there, in that place of death, + were knit together the four links in the Great Chain;—lusty and + blooming life—desolate and doting age—infancy, yet scarce + conscious of a soul—and the dumb brute, that has no warrant of a + Hereafter! + </p> + <p> + “Dead!—dead!” repeated the old man, covering his sightless balls + with his withered hands. “Poor William!” + </p> + <p> + “He remembered you to the last. He bade me seek you out—he bade me + replace the guilty son with a thing pure and innocent, as he had been had + he died in his cradle—a child to comfort your old age! Kneel, Fanny, + I have found you a father who will cherish you—(oh! you will, sir, + will you not?)—as he whom you may see no more!” + </p> + <p> + There was something in Morton’s voice so solemn, that it awed and touched + both the old man and the infant; and Fanny, creeping to the protector thus + assigned to her, and putting her little hands confidingly on his knees, + said— + </p> + <p> + “Fanny will love you if papa wished it. Kiss Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it his child—his?” said the blind man, sobbing. “Come to my + heart; here—here! O God, forgive me!” Morton did not think it right + at that moment to undeceive him with regard to the poor child’s true + connexion with the deceased: and he waited in silence till Simon, after a + burst of passionate grief and tenderness, rose, and still clasping the + child to his breast, said— + </p> + <p> + “Sir, forgive me!—I am a very weak old man—I have many thanks + to give—I have much, too, to learn. My poor son! he did not die in + want,—did he?” + </p> + <p> + The particulars of Gawtrey’s fate, with his real name and the various + aliases he had assumed, had appeared in the French journals, had been + partially copied into the English; and Morton had expected to have been + saved the painful narrative of that fearful death; but the utter seclusion + of the old man, his infirmity, and his estranged habits, had shut him out + from the intelligence that it now devolved on Philip to communicate. + Morton hesitated a little before he answered: + </p> + <p> + “It is late now; you are not yet prepared to receive this poor infant at + your home, nor to hear the details I have to state. I arrived in England + but to-day. I shall lodge in the neighbourhood, for it is dear to me. If I + may feel sure, then, that you will receive and treasure this sacred and + last deposit bequeathed to you by your unhappy son, I will bring my charge + to you to-morrow, and we will then, more calmly than we can now, talk over + the past.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not answer my question,” said Simon, passionately; “answer that, + and I will wait for the rest. They call me a miser! Did I send out my only + child to starve? Answer that!” + </p> + <p> + “Be comforted. He did not die in want; and he has even left some little + fortune for Fanny, which I was to place in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “And he thought to bribe the old miser to be human! Well—well—well—I + will go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Lean on me!” + </p> + <p> + The dog leapt playfully on his master as the latter rose, and Fanny slid + from Simon’s arms to caress and talk to the animal in her own way. As they + slowly passed through the churchyard Simon muttered incoherently to + himself for several paces, and Morton would not disturb, since he could + not comfort, him. + </p> + <p> + At last he said abruptly, “Did my son repent?” + </p> + <p> + “I hoped,” answered Morton, evasively, “that, had his life been spared, he + would have amended!” + </p> + <p> + “Tush, sir!—I am past seventy; we repent!—we never amend!” And + Simon again sunk into his own dim and disconnected reveries. + </p> + <p> + At length they arrived at the blind man’s house. The door was opened to + them by an old woman of disagreeable and sinister aspect, dressed out much + too gaily for the station of a servant, though such was her reputed + capacity; but the miser’s affliction saved her from the chance of his + comment on her extravagance. As she stood in the doorway with a candle in + her hand, she scanned curiously, and with no welcoming eye, her master’s + companions. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Boxer, my son is dead!” said Simon, in a hollow voice. + </p> + <p> + “And a good thing it is, then, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “For shame, woman!” said Morton, indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “Hey-dey! sir! whom have we got here?” + </p> + <p> + “One,” said Simon, sternly, “whom you will treat with respect. He brings + me a blessing to lighten my loss. One harsh word to this child, and you + quit my house!” + </p> + <p> + The woman looked perfectly thunderstruck; but, recovering herself, she + said, whiningly— + </p> + <p> + “I! a harsh word to anything my dear, kind master cares for. And, Lord, + what a sweet pretty creature it is! Come here, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + But Fanny shrunk back, and would not let go Philip’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, then,” said Morton; and he was turning away, when a sudden + thought seemed to cross the old man,— + </p> + <p> + “Stay, sir—stay! I—I—did my son say I was rich? I am + very, very poor—nothing in the house, or I should have been robbed + long ago!” + </p> + <p> + “Your son told me to bring money, not to ask for it!” + </p> + <p> + “Ask for it! No; but,” added the old man, and a gleam of cunning + intelligence shot over his face,—“but he had got into a bad set. + Ask!—No!—Put up the door-chain, Mrs. Boxer!” + </p> + <p> + It was with doubt and misgivings that Morton, the next day, consigned the + child, who had already nestled herself into the warmest core of his heart, + to the care of Simon. Nothing short of that superstitious respect, which + all men owe to the wishes of the dead, would have made him select for her + that asylum; for Fate had now, in brightening his own prospects, given him + an alternative in the benevolence of Madame de Merville. But Gawtrey had + been so earnest on the subject, that he felt as if he had no right to + hesitate. And was it not a sort of atonement to any faults the son might + have committed against the parent, to place by the old man’s hearth so + sweet a charge? + </p> + <p> + The strange and peculiar mind and character of Fanny made him, however, + yet more anxious than otherwise he might have been. She certainly deserved + not the harsh name of imbecile or idiot, but she was different from all + other children; she felt more acutely than most of her age, but she could + not be taught to reason. There was something either oblique or deficient + in her intellect, which justified the most melancholy apprehensions; yet + often, when some disordered, incoherent, inexplicable train of ideas most + saddened the listener, it would be followed by fancies so exquisite in + their strangeness, or feelings so endearing in their tenderness, that + suddenly she seemed as much above, as before she seemed below, the + ordinary measure of infant comprehension. She was like a creature to which + Nature, in some cruel but bright caprice, has given all that belongs to + poetry, but denied all that belongs to the common understanding necessary + to mankind; or, as a fairy changeling, not, indeed, according to the + vulgar superstition, malignant and deformed, but lovelier than the + children of men, and haunted by dim and struggling associations of a + gentler and fairer being, yet wholly incapable to learn the dry and hard + elements which make up the knowledge of actual life. + </p> + <p> + Morton, as well as he could, sought to explain to Simon the peculiarities + in Fanny’s mental constitution. He urged on him the necessity of providing + for her careful instruction, and Simon promised to send her to the best + school the neighbourhood could afford; but, as the old man spoke, he dwelt + so much on the supposed fact that Fanny was William’s daughter, and with + his remorse, or affection, there ran so interwoven a thread of selfishness + and avarice, that Morton thought it would be dangerous to his interest in + the child to undeceive his error. He, therefore,—perhaps excusably + enough—remained silent on that subject. + </p> + <p> + Gawtrey had placed with the superior of the convent, together with an + order to give up the child to any one who should demand her in his true + name, which he confided to the superior, a sum of nearly L300., which he + solemnly swore had been honestly obtained, and which, in all his shifts + and adversities, he had never allowed himself to touch. This sum, with the + trifling deduction made for arrears due to the convent, Morton now placed + in Simon’s hands. The old man clutched the money, which was for the most + in French gold, with a convulsive gripe: and then, as if ashamed of the + impulse, said— + </p> + <p> + “But you, sir—will any sum—that is, any reasonable sum—be + of use to you?” + </p> + <p> + “No! and if it were, it is neither yours nor mine—it is hers. Save + it for her, and add to it what you can.” + </p> + <p> + While this conversation took place, Fanny had been consigned to the care + of Mrs. Boxer, and Philip now rose to see and bid her farewell before he + departed. + </p> + <p> + “I may come again to visit you, Mr. Gawtrey; and I pray Heaven to find + that you and Fanny have been a mutual blessing to each other. Oh, remember + how your son loved her!” + </p> + <p> + “He had a good heart, in spite of all his sins. Poor William!” said Simon. + </p> + <p> + Philip Morton heard, and his lip curled with a sad and a just disdain. + </p> + <p> + If when, at the age of nineteen, William Gawtrey had quitted his father’s + roof, the father had then remembered that the son’s heart was good,—the + son had been alive still, an honest and a happy man. Do ye not laugh, O ye + all-listening Fiends! when men praise those dead whose virtues they + discovered not when alive? It takes much marble to build the sepulchre—how + little of lath and plaster would have repaired the garret! + </p> + <p> + On turning into a small room adjoining the parlour in which Gawtrey sat, + Morton found Fanny standing gloomily by a dull, soot-grimed window, which + looked out on the dead walls of a small yard. Mrs. Boxer, seated by a + table, was employed in trimming a cap, and putting questions to Fanny in + that falsetto voice of endearment in which people not used to children are + apt to address them. + </p> + <p> + “And so, my dear, they’ve never taught you to read or write? You’ve been + sadly neglected, poor thing!” + </p> + <p> + “We must do our best to supply the deficiency,” said Morton, as he + entered. + </p> + <p> + “Bless me, sir, is that you?” and the gouvernante bustled up and dropped a + low courtesy; for Morton, dressed then in the garb of a gentleman, was of + a mien and person calculated to strike the gaze of the vulgar. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, brother!” cried Fanny, for by that name he had taught her to call + him; and she flew to his side. “Come away—it’s ugly there—it + makes me cold.” + </p> + <p> + “My child, I told you you must stay; but I shall hope to see you again + some day. Will you not be kind to this poor creature, ma’am? Forgive me, + if I offended you last night, and favour me by accepting this, to show + that we are friends.” As he spoke, he slid his purse into the woman’s + hand. “I shall feel ever grateful for whatever you can do for Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “Fanny wants nothing from any one else; Fanny wants her brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Sweet child! I fear she don’t take to me. Will you like me, Miss Fanny?” + </p> + <p> + “No! get along!” + </p> + <p> + “Fie, Fanny—you remember you did not take to me at first. But she is + so affectionate, ma’am; she never forgets a kindness.” + </p> + <p> + “I will do all I can to please her, sir. And so she is really master’s + grandchild?” The woman fixed her eyes, as she spoke, so intently on + Morton, that he felt embarrassed, and busied himself, without answering, + in caressing and soothing Fanny, who now seemed to awake to the affliction + about to visit her; for though she did not weep—she very rarely wept—her + slight frame trembled—her eyes closed—her cheeks, even her + lips, were white—and her delicate hands were clasped tightly round + the neck of the one about to abandon her to strange breasts. + </p> + <p> + Morton was greatly moved. “One kiss, Fanny! and do not forget me when we + meet again.” + </p> + <p> + The child pressed her lips to his cheek, but the lips were cold. He put + her down gently; she stood mute and passive. + </p> + <p> + “Remember that he wished me to leave you here,” whispered Morton, using an + argument that never failed. “We must obey him; and so—God bless you, + Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + He rose and retreated to the door; the child unclosed her eyes, and gazed + at him with a strained, painful, imploring gaze; her lips moved, but she + did not speak. Morton could not bear that silent woe. He sought to smile + on her consolingly; but the smile would not come. He closed the door, and + hurried from the house. + </p> + <p> + From that day Fanny settled into a kind of dreary, inanimate stupor, which + resembled that of the somnambulist whom the magnetiser forgets to waken. + Hitherto, with all the eccentricities or deficiencies of her mind, had + mingled a wild and airy gaiety. That was vanished. She spoke little—she + never played—no toys could lure her—even the poor dog failed + to win her notice. If she was told to do anything she stared vacantly and + stirred not. She evinced, however, a kind of dumb regard to the old blind + man; she would creep to his knees and sit there for hours, seldom + answering when he addressed her, but uneasy, anxious, and restless, if he + left her. + </p> + <p> + “Will you die too?” she asked once; the old man understood her not, and + she did not try to explain. Early one morning, some days after Morton was + gone, they missed her: she was not in the house, nor the dull yard where + she was sometimes dismissed and told to play—told in vain. In great + alarm the old man accused Mrs. Boxer of having spirited her away, and + threatened and stormed so loudly that the woman, against her will, went + forth to the search. At last she found the child in the churchyard, + standing wistfully beside a tomb. + </p> + <p> + “What do you here, you little plague?” said Mrs. Boxer, rudely seizing her + by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “This is the way they will both come back some day! I dreamt so!” + </p> + <p> + “If ever I catch you here again!” said the housekeeper, and, wiping her + brow with one hand, she struck the child with the other. Fanny had never + been struck before. She recoiled in terror and amazement, and, for the + first time since her arrival, burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “Come—come, no crying! and if you tell master I’ll beat you within + an inch of your life!” So saying, she caught Fanny in her arms, and, + walking about, scolding and menacing, till she had frightened back the + child’s tears, she returned triumphantly to the house, and bursting into + the parlour, exclaimed, “Here’s the little darling, sir!” + </p> + <p> + When old Simon learned where the child had been found he was glad; for it + was his constant habit, whenever the evening was fine, to glide out to + that churchyard—his dog his guide—and sit on his one favourite + spot opposite the setting sun. This, not so much for the sanctity of the + place, or the meditations it might inspire, as because it was the nearest, + the safest, and the loneliest spot in the neighbourhood of his home, where + the blind man could inhale the air and bask in the light of heaven. + Hitherto, thinking it sad for the child, he had never taken her with him; + indeed, at the hour of his monotonous excursion she had generally been + banished to bed. Now she was permitted to accompany him; and the old man + and the infant would sit there side by side, as Age and Infancy rested + side by side in the graves below. The first symptom of childlike interest + and curiosity that Fanny betrayed was awakened by the affliction of her + protector. One evening, as they thus sat, she made him explain what the + desolation of blindness is. She seemed to comprehend him, though he did + not seek to adapt his complaints to her understanding. + </p> + <p> + “Fanny knows,” said she, touchingly; “for she, too, is blind here;” and + she pressed her hands to her temples. Notwithstanding her silence and + strange ways, and although he could not see the exquisite loveliness which + Nature, as in remorseful pity, had lavished on her outward form, Simon + soon learned to love her better than he had ever loved yet: for they most + cold to the child are often dotards to the grandchild. For her even his + avarice slept. Dainties, never before known at his sparing board, were + ordered to tempt her appetite, toy-shops ransacked to amuse her indolence. + He was long, however, before he could prevail on himself to fulfil his + promise to Morton, and rob himself of her presence. At length, however, + wearied with Mrs. Boxer’s lamentations at her ignorance, and alarmed + himself at some evidences of helplessness, which made him dread to think + what her future might be when left alone in life, he placed her at a + day-school in the suburb. Here Fanny, for a considerable time, justified + the harshest assertions of her stupidity. She could not even keep her eyes + two minutes together on the page from which she was to learn the mysteries + of reading; months passed before she mastered the alphabet, and, a month + after, she had again forgot it, and the labour was renewed. The only thing + in which she showed ability, if so it might be called, was in the use of + the needle. The sisters of the convent had already taught her many pretty + devices in this art; and when she found that at the school they were + admired—that she was praised instead of blamed—her vanity was + pleased, and she learned so readily all that they could teach in this not + unprofitable accomplishment, that Mrs. Boxer slyly and secretly turned her + tasks to account and made a weekly perquisite of the poor pupil’s + industry. Another faculty she possessed, in common with persons usually + deficient, and with the lower species—viz., a most accurate and + faithful recollection of places. At first Mrs. Boxer had been duly sent, + morning, noon, and evening, to take her to, or bring her from, the school; + but this was so great a grievance to Simon’s solitary superintendent, and + Fanny coaxed the old man so endearingly to allow her to go and return + alone, that the attendance, unwelcome to both, was waived. Fanny exulted + in this liberty; and she never, in going or in returning, missed passing + through the burial-ground, and gazing wistfully at the tomb from which she + yet believed Morton would one day reappear. With his memory she cherished + also that of her earlier and more guilty protector; but they were separate + feelings, which she distinguished in her own way. + </p> + <p> + “Papa had given her up. She knew that he would not have sent her away, far—far + over the great water, if he had meant to see Fanny again; but her brother + was forced to leave her—he would come to life one day, and then they + should live together!” + </p> + <p> + One day, towards the end of autumn, as her schoolmistress, a good woman on + the whole, but who had not yet had the wit to discover by what chords to + tune the instrument, over which so wearily she drew her unskilful hand—one + day, we say, the schoolmistress happened to be dressed for a christening + party to which she was invited in the suburb; and, accordingly, after the + morning lessons, the pupils were to be dismissed to a holiday. As Fanny + now came last, with the hopeless spelling-book, she stopped suddenly + short, and her eyes rested with avidity upon a large bouquet of exotic + flowers, with which the good lady had enlivened the centre of the parted + kerchief, whose yellow gauze modestly veiled that tender section of female + beauty which poets have likened to hills of snow—a chilling simile! + It was then autumn; and field, and even garden flowers were growing rare. + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me one of those flowers?” said Fanny, dropping her book. + </p> + <p> + “One of these flowers, child! why?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny did not answer; but one of the elder and cleverer girls said— + </p> + <p> + “Oh! she comes from France, you know, ma’am, and the Roman Catholics put + flowers, and ribands, and things, over the graves; you recollect, ma’am, + we were reading yesterday about Pere-la-Chaise?” + </p> + <p> + “Well! what then?” + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Fanny will do any kind of work for us if we will give her + flowers.” + </p> + <p> + “My brother told me where to put them;—but these pretty flowers, I + never had any like them; they may bring him back again! I’ll be so good if + you’ll give me one, only one!” + </p> + <p> + “Will you learn your lesson if I do, Fanny?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes! Wait a moment!” + </p> + <p> + And Fanny stole back to her desk, put the hateful book resolutely before + her, pressed both hands tightly on her temples,—Eureka! the chord + was touched; and Fanny marched in triumph through half a column of hostile + double syllables! + </p> + <p> + From that day the schoolmistress knew how to stimulate her, and Fanny + learned to read: her path to knowledge thus literally strewn with flowers! + Catherine, thy children were far off, and thy grave looked gay! + </p> + <p> + It naturally happened that those short and simple rhymes, often sacred, + which are repeated in schools as helps to memory, made a part of her + studies; and no sooner had the sound of verse struck upon her fancy than + it seemed to confuse and agitate anew all her senses. It was like the + music of some breeze, to which dance and tremble all the young leaves of a + wild plant. Even when at the convent she had been fond of repeating the + infant rhymes with which they had sought to lull or to amuse her, but now + the taste was more strongly developed. She confounded, however, in + meaningless and motley disorder, the various snatches of song that came to + her ear, weaving them together in some form which she understood, but + which was jargon to all others; and often, as she went alone through the + green lanes or the bustling streets, the passenger would turn in pity and + fear to hear her half chant—half murmur—ditties that seemed to + suit only a wandering and unsettled imagination. And as Mrs. Boxer, in her + visits to the various shops in the suburb, took care to bemoan her hard + fate in attending to a creature so evidently moon-stricken, it was no + wonder that the manner and habits of the child, coupled with that strange + predilection to haunt the burial-ground, which is not uncommon with + persons of weak and disordered intellect; confirmed the character thus + given to her. + </p> + <p> + So, as she tripped gaily and lightly along the thoroughfares, the children + would draw aside from her path, and whisper with superstitious fear + mingled with contempt, “It’s the idiot girl!”—Idiot—how much + more of heaven’s light was there in that cloud than in the rushlights + that, flickering in sordid chambers, shed on dull things the dull ray—esteeming + themselves as stars! + </p> + <p> + Months—years passed—Fanny was thirteen, when there dawned a + new era to her existence. Mrs. Boxer had never got over her first grudge + to Fanny. Her treatment of the poor girl was always harsh, and sometimes + cruel. But Fanny did not complain, and as Mrs. Boxer’s manner to her + before Simon was invariably cringing and caressing, the old man never + guessed the hardships his supposed grandchild underwent. There had been + scandal some years back in the suburb about the relative connexion of the + master and the housekeeper; and the flaunting dress of the latter, + something bold in her regard, and certain whispers that her youth had not + been vowed to Vesta, confirmed the suspicion. The only reason why we do + not feel sure that the rumour was false is this,—Simon Gawtrey had + been so hard on the early follies of his son! Certainly, at all events, + the woman had exercised great influence over the miser before the arrival + of Fanny, and she had done much to steel his selfishness against the + ill-fated William. And, as certainly, she had fully calculated on + succeeding to the savings, whatever they might be, of the miser, whenever + Providence should be pleased to terminate his days. She knew that Simon + had, many years back, made his will in her favour; she knew that he had + not altered that will: she believed, therefore, that in spite of all his + love for Fanny, he loved his gold so much more, that he could not accustom + himself to the thought of bequeathing it to hands too helpless to guard + the treasure. This had in some measure reconciled the housekeeper to the + intruder; whom, nevertheless, she hated as a dog hates another dog, not + only for taking his bone, but for looking at it. + </p> + <p> + But suddenly Simon fell ill. His age made it probable he would die. He + took to his bed—his breathing grew fainter and fainter—he + seemed dead. Fanny, all unconscious, sat by his bedside as usual, holding + her breath not to waken him. Mrs. Boxer flew to the bureau—she + unlocked it—she could not find the will; but she found three bags of + bright gold guineas: the sight charmed her. She tumbled them forth on the + distained green cloth of the bureau—she began to count them; and at + that moment, the old man, as if there were a secret magnetism between + himself and the guineas, woke from his trance. His blindness saved him the + pain that might have been fatal, of seeing the unhallowed profanation; but + he heard the chink of the metal. The very sound restored his strength. But + the infirm are always cunning—he breathed not a suspicion. “Mrs. + Boxer,” said he, faintly, “I think I could take some broth.” Mrs. Boxer + rose in great dismay, gently re-closed the bureau, and ran down-stairs for + the broth. Simon took the occasion to question Fanny; and no sooner had he + learnt the operation of the heir-expectant, than he bade the girl first + lock the bureau and bring him the key, and next run to a lawyer (whose + address he gave her), and fetch him instantly. + </p> + <p> + With a malignant smile the old man took the broth from his handmaid,—“Poor + Boxer, you are a disinterested creature,” said he, feebly; “I think you + will grieve when I go.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boxer sobbed, and before she had recovered, the lawyer entered. That + day a new will was made; and the lawyer politely informed Mrs. Boxer that + her services would be dispensed with the next morning, when he should + bring a nurse to the house. Mrs. Boxer heard, and took her resolution. As + soon as Simon again fell asleep, she crept into the room—led away + Fanny—locked her up in her own chamber—returned—searched + for the key of the bureau, which she found at last under Simon’s pillow—possessed + herself of all she could lay her hands on—and the next morning she + had disappeared forever! Simon’s loss was greater than might have been + supposed; for, except a trifling sum in the savings bank, he, like many + other misers, kept all he had, in notes or specie, under his own lock and + key. His whole fortune, indeed, was far less than was supposed: for money + does not make money unless it is put out to interest,—and the miser + cheated himself. Such portion as was in bank-notes Mrs. Boxer probably had + the prudence to destroy; for those numbers which Simon could remember were + never traced; the gold, who could swear to? Except the pittance in the + savings bank, and whatever might be the paltry worth of the house he + rented, the father who had enriched the menial to exile the son was a + beggar in his dotage. This news, however, was carefully concealed from him + by the advice of the doctor, whom, on his own responsibility, the lawyer + introduced, till he had recovered sufficiently to bear the shock without + danger; and the delay naturally favoured Mrs. Boxer’s escape. + </p> + <p> + Simon remained for some moments perfectly stunned and speechless when the + news was broken to him. Fanny, in alarm at his increasing paleness, sprang + to his breast. He pushed her away,—“Go—go—go, child,” he + said; “I can’t feed you now. Leave me to starve.” + </p> + <p> + “To starve!” said Fanny, wonderingly; and she stole away, and sat herself + down as if in deep thought. She then crept up to the lawyer as he was + about to leave the room, after exhausting his stock of commonplace + consolation; and putting her hand in his, whispered, “I want to talk to + you—this way:”—She led him through the passage into the open + air. “Tell me,” she said, “when poor people try not to starve, don’t they + work?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “For rich people buy poor people’s work?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my dear; to be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Mrs. Boxer used to sell my work. Fanny will feed grandpapa! Go + and tell him never to say ‘starve’ again.” + </p> + <p> + The good-natured lawyer was moved. “Can you work, indeed, my poor girl? + Well, put on your bonnet, and come and talk to my wife.” + </p> + <p> + And that was the new era in Fanny’s existence! Her schooling was stopped. + But now life schooled her. Necessity ripened her intellect. And many a + hard eye moistened,—as, seeing her glide with her little basket of + fancy work along the streets, still murmuring her happy and bird-like + snatches of unconnected song—men and children alike said with + respect, in which there was now no contempt, “It’s the idiot girl who + supports her blind grandfather!” They called her idiot still! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK IV. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O that sweet gleam of sunshine on the lake!” + WILSON’S City of the Plague +</pre> + <p> + If, reader, you have ever looked through a solar microscope at the + monsters in a drop of water, perhaps you have wondered to yourself how + things so terrible have been hitherto unknown to you—you have felt a + loathing at the limpid element you hitherto deemed so pure—you have + half fancied that you would cease to be a water-drinker; yet, the next day + you have forgotten the grim life that started before you, with its + countless shapes, in that teeming globule; and, if so tempted by your + thirst, you have not shrunk from the lying crystal, although myriads of + the horrible Unseen are mangling, devouring, gorging each other in the + liquid you so tranquilly imbibe; so is it with that ancestral and master + element called Life. Lapped in your sleek comforts, and lolling on the + sofa of your patent conscience—when, perhaps for the first time, you + look through the glass of science upon one ghastly globule in the waters + that heave around, that fill up, with their succulence, the pores of + earth, that moisten every atom subject to your eyes or handled by your + touch—you are startled and dismayed; you say, mentally, “Can such + things be? I never dreamed of this before! I thought what was invisible to + me was non-existent in itself—I will remember this dread + experiment.” The next day the experiment is forgotten.—The Chemist + may purify the Globule—can Science make pure the World? + </p> + <p> + Turn we now to the pleasant surface, seen in the whole, broad and fair to + the common eye. Who would judge well of God’s great designs, if he could + look on no drop pendent from the rose-tree, or sparkling in the sun, + without the help of his solar microscope? + </p> + <p> + It is ten years after the night on which William Gawtrey perished:—I + transport you, reader, to the fairest scenes in England,—scenes + consecrated by the only true pastoral poetry we have known to + Contemplation and Repose. + </p> + <p> + Autumn had begun to tinge the foliage on the banks of Winandermere. It had + been a summer of unusual warmth and beauty; and if that year you had + visited the English lakes, you might, from time to time, amidst the groups + of happy idlers you encountered, have singled out two persons for + interest, or, perhaps, for envy. Two who might have seemed to you in + peculiar harmony with those serene and soft retreats, both young—both + beautiful. Lovers you would have guessed them to be; but such lovers as + Fletcher might have placed under the care of his “Holy Shepherdess”—forms + that might have reclined by + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The virtuous well, about whose flowery banks + The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds + By the pale moonshine.” + </pre> + <p> + For in the love of those persons there seemed a purity and innocence that + suited well their youth and the character of their beauty. Perhaps, + indeed, on the girl’s side, love sprung rather from those affections which + the spring of life throws upward to the surface, as the spring of earth + does its flowers, than from that concentrated and deep absorption of self + in self, which alone promises endurance and devotion, and of which first + love, or rather the first fancy, is often less susceptible than that which + grows out of the more thoughtful fondness of maturer years. Yet he, the + lover, was of so rare and singular a beauty, that he might well seem + calculated to awake, to the utmost, the love which wins the heart through + the eyes. + </p> + <p> + But to begin at the beginning. A lady of fashion had, in the autumn + previous to the year in which our narrative re-opens, taken, with her + daughter, a girl then of about eighteen, the tour of the English lakes. + Charmed by the beauty of Winandermere, and finding one of the most + commodious villas on its banks to be let, they had remained there all the + winter. In the early spring a severe illness had seized the elder lady, + and finding herself, as she slowly recovered, unfit for the gaieties of a + London season, nor unwilling, perhaps,—for she had been a beauty in + her day—to postpone for another year the debut of her daughter, she + had continued her sojourn, with short intervals of absence, for a whole + year. Her husband, a busy man of the world, with occupation in London, and + fine estates in the country, joined them only occasionally, glad to escape + the still beauty of landscapes which brought him no rental, and therefore + afforded no charm to his eye. + </p> + <p> + In the first month of their arrival at Winandermere, the mother and + daughter had made an eventful acquaintance in the following manner. + </p> + <p> + One evening, as they were walking on their lawn, which sloped to the lake, + they heard the sound of a flute, played with a skill so exquisite as to + draw them, surprised and spellbound, to the banks. The musician was a + young man, in a boat, which he had moored beneath the trees of their + demesne. He was alone, or, rather, he had one companion, in a large + Newfoundland dog, that sat watchful at the helm of the boat, and appeared + to enjoy the music as much as his master. As the ladies approached the + spot, the dog growled, and the young man ceased, though without seeing the + fair causes of his companion’s displeasure. The sun, then setting, shone + full on his countenance as he looked round; and that countenance was one + that might have haunted the nymphs of Delos; the face of Apollo, not as + the hero, but the shepherd—not of the bow, but of the lute—not + the Python-slayer, but the young dreamer by shady places—he whom the + sculptor has portrayed leaning idly against the tree—the boy-god + whose home is yet on earth, and to whom the Oracle and the Spheres are + still unknown. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the dog leaped from the boat, and the elder lady uttered a + faint cry of alarm, which, directing the attention of the musician, + brought him also ashore. He called off his dog, and apologised, with a not + ungraceful mixture of diffidence and ease, for his intrusion. He was not + aware the place was inhabited—it was a favourite haunt of his—he + lived near. The elder lady was pleased with his address, and struck with + his appearance. There was, indeed, in his manner that indefinable charm, + which is more attractive than mere personal appearance, and which can + never be imitated or acquired. They parted, however, without establishing + any formal acquaintance. A few days after, they met at dinner at a + neighbouring house, and were introduced by name. That of the young man + seemed strange to the ladies; not so theirs to him. He turned pale when he + heard it, and remained silent and aloof the rest of the evening. They met + again and often; and for some weeks—nay, even for months—he + appeared to avoid, as much as possible, the acquaintance so auspiciously + begun; but, by little and little, the beauty of the younger lady seemed to + gain ground on his diffidence or repugnance. Excursions among the + neighbouring mountains threw them together, and at last he fairly + surrendered himself to the charm he had at first determined to resist. + </p> + <p> + This young man lived on the opposite side of the lake, in a quiet + household, of which he was the idol. His life had been one of almost + monastic purity and repose; his tastes were accomplished, his character + seemed soft and gentle; but beneath that calm exterior, flashes of passion—the + nature of the poet, ardent and sensitive—would break forth at times. + He had scarcely ever, since his earliest childhood, quitted those + retreats; he knew nothing of the world, except in books—books of + poetry and romance. Those with whom he lived—his relations, an old + bachelor, and the cold bachelor’s sisters, old maids—seemed equally + innocent and inexperienced. It was a family whom the rich respected and + the poor loved—inoffensive, charitable, and well off. To whatever + their easy fortune might be, he appeared the heir. The name of this young + man was Charles Spencer; the ladies were Mrs. Beaufort, and Camilla her + daughter. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Beaufort, though a shrewd woman, did not at first perceive any danger + in the growing intimacy between Camilla and the younger Spencer. Her + daughter was not her favourite—not the object of her one thought or + ambition. Her whole heart and soul were wrapped in her son Arthur, who + lived principally abroad. Clever enough to be considered capable, when he + pleased, of achieving distinction, good-looking enough to be thought + handsome by all who were on the qui vive for an advantageous match, + good-natured enough to be popular with the society in which he lived, + scattering to and fro money without limit,—Arthur Beaufort, at the + age of thirty, had established one of those brilliant and evanescent + reputations, which, for a few years, reward the ambition of the fine + gentleman. It was precisely the reputation that the mother could + appreciate, and which even the more saving father secretly admired, while, + ever respectable in phrase, Mr. Robert Beaufort seemed openly to regret + it. This son was, I say, everything to them; they cared little, in + comparison, for their daughter. How could a daughter keep up the proud + name of Beaufort? However well she might marry, it was another house, not + theirs, which her graces and beauty would adorn. Moreover, the better she + might marry the greater her dowry would naturally be,—the dowry, to + go out of the family! And Arthur, poor fellow! was so extravagant, that + really he would want every sixpence. Such was the reasoning of the father. + The mother reasoned less upon the matter. Mrs. Beaufort, faded and meagre, + in blonde and cashmere, was jealous of the charms of her daughter; and she + herself, growing sentimental and lachrymose as she advanced in life, as + silly women often do, had convinced herself that Camilla was a girl of no + feeling. + </p> + <p> + Miss Beaufort was, indeed, of a character singularly calm and placid; it + was the character that charms men in proportion, perhaps, to their own + strength and passion. She had been rigidly brought up—her affections + had been very early chilled and subdued; they moved, therefore, now, with + ease, in the serene path of her duties. She held her parents, especially + her father, in reverential fear, and never dreamed of the possibility of + resisting one of their wishes, much less their commands. Pious, kind, + gentle, of a fine and never-ruffled temper, Camilla, an admirable + daughter, was likely to make no less admirable a wife; you might depend on + her principles, if ever you could doubt her affection. Few girls were more + calculated to inspire love. You would scarcely wonder at any folly, any + madness, which even a wise man might commit for her sake. This did not + depend on her beauty alone, though she was extremely lovely rather than + handsome, and of that style of loveliness which is universally + fascinating: the figure, especially as to the arms, throat, and bust, was + exquisite; the mouth dimpled; the teeth dazzling; the eyes of that velvet + softness which to look on is to love. But her charm was in a certain + prettiness of manner, an exceeding innocence, mixed with the most + captivating, because unconscious, coquetry. With all this, there was a + freshness, a joy, a virgin and bewitching candour in her voice, her laugh—you + might almost say in her very movements. Such was Camilla Beaufort at that + age. Such she seemed to others. To her parents she was only a great girl + rather in the way. To Mrs. Beaufort a rival, to Mr. Beaufort an + encumbrance on the property. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * * * “The moon + Saddening the solemn night, yet with that sadness + Mingling the breath of undisturbed Peace.” + WILSON: City of the Plague + + * * * “Tell me his fate. + Say that he lives, or say that he is dead + But tell me—tell me! + * * * * * * + I see him not—some cloud envelopes him.”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + One day (nearly a year after their first introduction) as with a party of + friends Camilla and Charles Spencer were riding through those wild and + romantic scenes which lie between the sunny Winandermere and the dark and + sullen Wastwater, their conversation fell on topics more personal than it + had hitherto done, for as yet, if they felt love, they had never spoken of + it. + </p> + <p> + The narrowness of the path allowed only two to ride abreast, and the two + to whom I confine my description were the last of the little band. + </p> + <p> + “How I wish Arthur were here!” said Camilla; “I am sure you would like + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you? He lives much in the world—the world of which I know + nothing. Are we then characters to suit each other?” + </p> + <p> + “He is the kindest—the best of human beings!” said Camilla, rather + evasively, but with more warmth than usually dwelt in her soft and low + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Is he so kind?” returned Spencer, musingly. “Well, it may be so. And who + would not be kind to you? Ah! it is a beautiful connexion that of brother + and sister—I never had a sister!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you then a brother?” asked Camilla, in some surprise, and turning + her ingenuous eyes full on her companion. + </p> + <p> + Spencer’s colour rose—rose to his temples: his voice trembled as he + answered, “No;—no brother!” then, speaking in a rapid and hurried + tone, he continued, “My life has been a strange and lonely one. I am an + orphan. I have mixed with few of my own age: my boyhood and youth have + been spent in these scenes; my education such as Nature and books could + bestow, with scarcely any guide or tutor save my guardian—the dear + old man! Thus the world, the stir of cities, ambition, enterprise,—all + seem to me as things belonging to a distant land to which I shall never + wander. Yet I have had my dreams, Miss Beaufort; dreams of which these + solitudes still form a part—but solitudes not unshared. And lately I + have thought that those dreams might be prophetic. And you—do you + love the world?” + </p> + <p> + “I, like you, have scarcely tried it,” said Camilla, with a sweet laugh. + “but I love the country better,—oh! far better than what little I + have seen of towns. But for you,” she continued with a charming + hesitation, “a man is so different from us,—for you to shrink from + the world—you, so young and with talents too—nay, it is true!—it + seems to me strange.” + </p> + <p> + “It may be so, but I cannot tell you what feelings of dread—what + vague forebodings of terror seize me if I carry my thoughts beyond these + retreats. Perhaps my good guardian—” + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle?” interrupted Camilla. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, my uncle—may have contributed to engender feelings, as you say, + strange at my age; but still—” + </p> + <p> + “Still what!” + </p> + <p> + “My earlier childhood,” continued Spencer, breathing hard and turning + pale, “was not spent in the happy home I have now; it was passed in a + premature ordeal of suffering and pain. Its recollections have left a dark + shadow on my mind, and under that shadow lies every thought that points + towards the troublous and labouring career of other men. But,” he resumed + after a pause, and in a deep, earnest, almost solemn voice,—“but + after all, is this cowardice or wisdom? I find no monotony—no tedium + in this quiet life. Is there not a certain morality—a certain + religion in the spirit of a secluded and country existence? In it we do + not know the evil passions which ambition and strife are said to arouse. I + never feel jealous or envious of other men; I never know what it is to + hate; my boat, my horse, our garden, music, books, and, if I may dare to + say so, the solemn gladness that comes from the hopes of another life,—these + fill up every hour with thoughts and pursuits, peaceful, happy, and + without a cloud, till of late, when—when—” + </p> + <p> + “When what?” said Camilla, innocently. + </p> + <p> + “When I have longed, but did not dare to ask another, if to share such a + lot would content her!” + </p> + <p> + He bent, as he spoke, his soft blue eyes full upon the blushing face of + her whom he addressed, and Camilla half smiled and half sighed: + </p> + <p> + “Our companions are far before us,” said she, turning away her face, “and + see, the road is now smooth.” She quickened her horse’s pace as she said + this; and Spencer, too new to women to interpret favourably her evasion of + his words and looks, fell into a profound silence which lasted during the + rest of their excursion. + </p> + <p> + As towards the decline of day he bent his solitary way home, emotions and + passions to which his life had hitherto been a stranger, and which, alas! + he had vainly imagined a life so tranquil would everlastingly restrain, + swelled his heart. + </p> + <p> + “She does not love me,” he muttered, half aloud; “she will leave me, and + what then will all the beauty of the landscape seem in my eyes? And how + dare I look up to her? Even if her cold, vain mother—her father, the + man, they say, of forms and scruples, were to consent, would they not + question closely of my true birth and origin? And if the one blot were + overlooked, is there no other? His early habits and vices, his?—a + brother’s—his unknown career terminating at any day, perhaps, in + shame, in crime, in exposure, in the gibbet,—will they overlook + this?” As he spoke, he groaned aloud, and, as if impatient to escape + himself, spurred on his horse and rested not till he reached the belt of + trim and sober evergreens that surrounded his hitherto happy home. + </p> + <p> + Leaving his horse to find its way to the stables, the young man passed + through rooms, which he found deserted, to the lawn on the other side, + which sloped to the smooth waters of the lake. + </p> + <p> + Here, seated under the one large tree that formed the pride of the lawn, + over which it cast its shadow broad and far, he perceived his guardian + poring idly over an oft-read book, one of those books of which literary + dreamers are apt to grow fanatically fond—books by the old English + writers, full of phrases and conceits half quaint and half sublime, + interspersed with praises of the country, imbued with a poetical rather + than orthodox religion, and adorned with a strange mixture of monastic + learning and aphorisms collected from the weary experience of actual life. + </p> + <p> + To the left, by a greenhouse, built between the house and the lake, might + be seen the white dress and lean form of the eldest spinster sister, to + whom the care of the flowers—for she had been early crossed in love—was + consigned; at a little distance from her, the other two were seated at + work, and conversing in whispers, not to disturb their studious brother, + no doubt upon the nephew, who was their all in all. It was the calmest + hour of eve, and the quiet of the several forms, their simple and harmless + occupations—if occupations they might be called—the breathless + foliage rich in the depth of summer; behind, the old-fashioned house, + unpretending, not mean, its open doors and windows giving glimpses of the + comfortable repose within; before, the lake, without a ripple and catching + the gleam of the sunset clouds,—all made a picture of that complete + tranquillity and stillness, which sometimes soothes and sometimes saddens + us, according as we are in the temper to woo CONTENT. + </p> + <p> + The young man glided to his guardian and touched his shoulder,—“Sir, + may I speak to you?—Hush! they need not see us now! it is only you I + would speak with.” + </p> + <p> + The elder Spencer rose; and, with his book still in his hand, moved side + by side with his nephew under the shadow of the tree and towards a walk to + the right, which led for a short distance along the margin of the lake, + backed by the interlaced boughs of a thick copse. + </p> + <p> + “Sir!” said the young man, speaking first, and with a visible effort, + “your cautions have been in vain! I love this girl—this daughter of + the haughty Beauforts! I love her—better than life I love her!” + </p> + <p> + “My poor boy,” said the uncle tenderly, and with a simple fondness passing + his arm over the speaker’s shoulder, “do not think I can chide you—I + know what it is to love in vain!” + </p> + <p> + “In vain!—but why in vain?” exclaimed the younger Spencer, with a + vehemence that had in it something of both agony and fierceness. “She may + love me—she shall love me!” and almost for the first time in his + life, the proud consciousness of his rare gifts of person spoke in his + kindled eye and dilated stature. “Do they not say that Nature has been + favourable to me?—What rival have I here?—Is she not young?—And + (sinking his voice till it almost breathed like music) is not love + contagious?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not doubt that she may love you—who would not?—but—but—the + parents, will they ever consent?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay!” answered the lover, as with that inconsistency common to passion, + he now argued stubbornly against those fears in another to which he had + just before yielded in himself,—“Nay!—after all, am I not of + their own blood?—Do I not come from the elder branch?—Was I + not reared in equal luxury and with higher hopes?—And my mother—my + poor mother—did she not to the last maintain our birthright—her + own honour?—Has not accident or law unjustly stripped us of our true + station?—Is it not for us to forgive spoliation?—Am I not, in + fact, the person who descends, who forgets the wrongs of the dead—the + heritage of the living?” + </p> + <p> + The young man had never yet assumed this tone—had never yet shown + that he looked back to the history connected with his birth with the + feelings of resentment and the remembrance of wrong. It was a tone + contrary to his habitual calm and contentment—it struck forcibly on + his listener—and the elder Spencer was silent for some moments + before he replied, “If you feel thus (and it is natural), you have yet + stronger reason to struggle against this unhappy affection.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been conscious of that, sir,” replied the young man, mournfully. + “I have struggled!—and I say again it is in vain! I turn, then, to + face the obstacles! My birth—let us suppose that the Beauforts + overlook it. Did you not tell me that Mr. Beaufort wrote to inform you of + the abrupt and intemperate visit of my brother—of his determination + never to forgive it? I think I remember something of this years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true!” said the guardian; “and the conduct of that brother is, in + fact, the true cause why you never ought to reassume your proper name!—never + to divulge it, even to the family with whom you connect yourself by + marriage; but, above all, to the Beauforts, who for that cause, if that + cause alone, would reject your suit.” + </p> + <p> + The young man groaned—placed one hand before his eyes, and with the + other grasped his guardian’s arm convulsively, as if to check him from + proceeding farther; but the good man, not divining his meaning, and + absorbed in his subject, went on, irritating the wound he had touched. + </p> + <p> + “Reflect!—your brother in boyhood—in the dying hours of his + mother, scarcely saved from the crime of a thief, flying from a friendly + pursuit with a notorious reprobate; afterwards implicated in some + discreditable transaction about a horse, rejecting all—every hand + that could save him, clinging by choice to the lowest companions and the + meanest-habits, disappearing from the country, and last seen, ten years + ago—the beard not yet on his chin—with that same reprobate of + whom I have spoken, in Paris; a day or so only before his companion, a + coiner—a murderer—fell by the hands of the police! You + remember that when, in your seventeenth year, you evinced some desire to + retake your name—nay, even to re-find that guilty brother—I + placed before you, as a sad and terrible duty, the newspaper that + contained the particulars of the death and the former adventures of that + wretched accomplice, the notorious Gawtrey. And,—telling you that + Mr. Beaufort had long since written to inform me that his own son and Lord + Lilburne had seen your brother in company with the miscreant just before + his fate—nay, was, in all probability, the very youth described in + the account as found in his chamber and escaping the pursuit—I asked + you if you would now venture to leave that disguise—that shelter + under which you would for ever be safe from the opprobrium of the world—from + the shame that, sooner or later, your brother must bring upon your name!” + </p> + <p> + “It is true—it is true!” said the pretended nephew, in a tone of + great anguish, and with trembling lips which the blood had forsaken. + “Horrible to look either to his past or his future! But—but—we + have heard of him no more—no one ever has learned his fate. Perhaps—perhaps” + (and he seemed to breathe more freely)—“my brother is no more!” + </p> + <p> + And poor Catherine—and poor Philip—-had it come to this? Did + the one brother feel a sentiment of release, of joy, in conjecturing the + death—perhaps the death of violence and shame—of his + fellow-orphan? Mr. Spencer shook his head doubtingly, but made no reply. + The young man sighed heavily, and strode on for several paces in advance + of his protector, then, turning back, he laid his hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” he said in a low voice and with downcast eyes, “you are right: this + disguise—this false name—must be for ever borne! Why need the + Beauforts, then, ever know who and what I am? Why not as your nephew—nephew + to one so respected and exemplary—proffer my claims and plead my + cause?” + </p> + <p> + “They are proud—so it is said—and worldly;—you know my + family was in trade—still—but—” and here Mr. Spencer + broke off from a tone of doubt into that of despondency, “but, recollect, + though Mrs. Beaufort may not remember the circumstance, both her husband + and her son have seen me—have known my name. Will they not suspect, + when once introduced to you, the stratagem that has been adopted?—Nay, + has it not been from that very fear that you have wished me to shun the + acquaintance of the family? Both Mr. Beaufort and Arthur saw you in + childhood, and their suspicion once aroused, they may recognise you at + once; your features are developed, but not altogether changed. Come, come!—my + adopted, my dear son, shake off this fantasy betimes: let us change the + scene: I will travel with you—read with you—go where—” + </p> + <p> + “Sir—sir!” exclaimed the lover, smiting his breast, “you are ever + kind, compassionate, generous; but do not—do not rob me of hope. I + have never—thanks to you—felt, save in a momentary dejection, + the curse of my birth. Now how heavily it falls! Where shall I look for + comfort?” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, the sound of a bell broke over the translucent air and the + slumbering lake: it was the bell that every eve and morn summoned that + innocent and pious family to prayer. The old man’s face changed as he + heard it—changed from its customary indolent, absent, listless + aspect, into an expression of dignity, even of animation. + </p> + <p> + “Hark!” he said, pointing upwards; “Hark! it chides you. Who shall say, + ‘Where shall I look for comfort’ while God is in the heavens?” + </p> + <p> + The young man, habituated to the faith and observance of religion, till + they had pervaded his whole nature, bowed his head in rebuke; a few tears + stole from his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You are right, father—,” he said tenderly, giving emphasis to the + deserved and endearing name. “I am comforted already!” + </p> + <p> + So, side by side, silently and noiselessly, the young and the old man + glided back to the house. When they gained the quiet room in which the + family usually assembled, the sisters and servants were already gathered + round the table. They knelt as the loiterers entered. It was the wonted + duty of the younger Spencer to read the prayers; and, as he now did so, + his graceful countenance more hushed, his sweet voice more earnest than + usual, in its accents: who that heard could have deemed the heart within + convulsed by such stormy passions? Or was it not in that hour—that + solemn commune—soothed from its woe? O beneficent Creator! thou who + inspirest all the tribes of earth with the desire to pray, hast Thou not, + in that divinest instinct, bestowed on us the happiest of Thy gifts? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Bertram. I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of + it hereafter. + + “1st Soldier. Do you know this Captain Dumain?” + All’s Well that Ends Well. +</pre> + <p> + One evening, some weeks after the date of the last chapter, Mr. Robert + Beaufort sat alone in his house in Berkeley Square. He had arrived that + morning from Beaufort Court, on his way to Winandermere, to which he was + summoned by a letter from his wife. That year was an agitated and eventful + epoch in England; and Mr. Beaufort had recently gone through the bustle of + an election—not, indeed, contested; for his popularity and his + property defied all rivalry in his own county. + </p> + <p> + The rich man had just dined, and was seated in lazy enjoyment by the side + of the fire, which he had had lighted, less for the warmth—though it + was then September—than for the companionship;—engaged in + finishing his madeira, and, with half-closed eyes, munching his devilled + biscuits. “I am sure,” he soliloquised while thus employed, “I don’t know + exactly what to do,—my wife ought to decide matters where the girl + is concerned; a son is another affair—that’s the use of a wife. + Humph!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said a fat servant, opening the door, “a gentleman wishes to see + you upon very particular business.” + </p> + <p> + “Business at this hour! Tell him to go to Mr. Blackwell.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay! perhaps he is a constituent, Simmons. Ask him if he belongs to the + county.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “A great estate is a great plague,” muttered Mr. Beaufort; “so is a great + constituency. It is pleasanter, after all, to be in the House of Lords. I + suppose I could if I wished; but then one must rat—that’s a bore. I + will consult Lilburne. Humph!” + </p> + <p> + The servant re-appeared. “Sir, he says he does belong to the county.” + </p> + <p> + “Show him in!—What sort of a person?” + </p> + <p> + “A sort of gentleman, sir; that is,” continued the butler, mindful of five + shillings just slipped within his palm by the stranger, “quite the + gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “More wine, then—stir up the fire.” + </p> + <p> + In a few moments the visitor was ushered into the apartment. He was a man + between fifty and sixty, but still aiming at the appearance of youth. His + dress evinced military pretensions; consisting of a blue coat, buttoned up + to the chin, a black stock, loose trousers of the fashion called Cossacks, + and brass spurs. He wore a wig, of great luxuriance in curl and rich + auburn in hue; with large whiskers of the same colour slightly tinged with + grey at the roots. By the imperfect light of the room it was not + perceptible that the clothes were somewhat threadbare, and that the boots, + cracked at the side, admitted glimpses of no very white hosiery within. + Mr. Beaufort, reluctantly rising from his repose and gladly sinking back + to it, motioned to a chair, and put on a doleful and doubtful semi-smile + of welcome. The servant placed the wine and glasses before the stranger;—the + host and visitor were alone. + </p> + <p> + “So, sir,” said Mr. Beaufort, languidly, “you are from ———shire; + I suppose about the canal,—may I offer you a glass of wine?” + </p> + <p> + “Most hauppy, sir—your health!” and the stranger, with evident + satisfaction, tossed off a bumper to so complimentary a toast. + </p> + <p> + “About the canal?” repeated Mr. Beaufort. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, no! You parliament gentlemen must hauve a vaust deal of trouble + on your haunds—very foine property I understaund yours is, sir. Sir, + allow me to drink the health of your good lady!” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you, Mr.—, Mr.—, what did you say your name was?—I + beg you a thousand pardons.” + </p> + <p> + “No offaunce in the least, sir; no ceremony with me—this is + perticler good madeira!” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask how I can serve you?” said Mr. Beaufort, struggling between the + sense of annoyance and the fear to be uncivil. “And pray, had I the honour + of your vote in the last election!” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, no! It’s mauny years since I have been in your part of the + world, though I was born there.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I don’t exactly see—” began Mr. Beaufort, and stopped with + dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Why I call on you,” put in the stranger, tapping his boots with his cane; + and then recognising the rents, he thrust both feet under the table. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say that; but at this hour I am seldom at leisure—not but + what I am always at the service of a constituent, that is, a voter! Mr.—, + I beg your pardon, I did not catch your name.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said the stranger, helping himself to a third glass of wine; + “here’s a health to your young folk! And now to business.” Here the + visitor, drawing his chair nearer to his host, assuming a more grave + aspect, and dropping something of his stilted pronunciation, continued, + “You had a brother?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” said Mr. Beaufort, with a very changed countenance. + </p> + <p> + “And that brother had a wife!” + </p> + <p> + Had a cannon gone off in the ear of Mr. Robert Beaufort, it could not have + shocked or stunned him more than that simple word with which his companion + closed his sentence. He fell back in his chair—his lips apart, his + eyes fixed on the stranger. He sought to speak, but his tongue clove to + his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “That wife had two sons, born in wedlock!” + </p> + <p> + “It is false!” cried Mr. Beaufort, finding a voice at length, and + springing to his feet. “And who are you, sir? and what do you mean by—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said the stranger, perfectly unconcerned, and regaining the + dignity of his haw-haw enunciation, “better not let the servants hear + aunything. For my pawt, I think servants hauve the longest pair of ears of + auny persons, not excepting jauckasses; their ears stretch from the + pauntry to the parlour. Hush, sir!—perticler good madeira, this!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir!” said Mr. Beaufort, struggling to preserve, or rather recover, his + temper, “your conduct is exceedingly strange; but allow me to say that you + are wholly misinformed. My brother never did marry; and if you have + anything to say on behalf of those young men—his natural sons—I + refer you to my solicitor, Mr. Blackwell, of Lincoln’s Inn. I wish you a + good evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir!—the same to you—I won’t trouble you auny farther; it was + only out of koindness I called—I am not used to be treated so—sir, + I am in his maujesty’s service—sir, you will foind that the witness + of the marriage is forthcoming; you will think of me then, and, perhaps, + be sorry. But I’ve done, ‘Your most obedient humble, sir!’” And the + stranger, with a flourish of his hand, turned to the door. At the sight of + this determination on the part of his strange guest, a cold, uneasy, vague + presentiment seized Mr. Beaufort. There, not flashed, but rather froze, + across him the recollection of his brother’s emphatic but disbelieved + assurances—of Catherine’s obstinate assertion of her son’s alleged + rights—rights which her lawsuit, undertaken on her own behalf, had + not compromised;—a fresh lawsuit might be instituted by the son, and + the evidence which had been wanting in the former suit might be found at + last. With this remembrance and these reflections came a horrible train of + shadowy fears,—witnesses, verdict, surrender, spoliation—arrears—ruin! + </p> + <p> + The man, who had gained the door, turned back and looked at him with a + complacent, half-triumphant leer upon his impudent, reckless face. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” then said Mr. Beaufort, mildly, “I repeat that you had better see + Mr. Blackwell.” + </p> + <p> + The tempter saw his triumph. “I have a secret to communicate which it is + best for you to keep snug. How mauny people do you wish me to see about + it? Come, sir, there is no need of a lawyer; or, if you think so, tell him + yourself. Now or never, Mr. Beaufort.” + </p> + <p> + “I can have no objection to hear anything you have to say, sir,” said the + rich man, yet more mildly than before; and then added, with a forced + smile, “though my rights are already too confirmed to admit of a doubt.” + </p> + <p> + Without heeding the last assertion, the stranger coolly walked back, + resumed his seat, and, placing both arms on the table and looking Mr. + Beaufort full in the face, thus proceeded,— + </p> + <p> + “Sir, of the marriage between Philip Beaufort and Catherine Morton there + were two witnesses: the one is dead, the other went abroad—the last + is alive still!” + </p> + <p> + “If so,” said Mr. Beaufort, who, not naturally deficient in cunning and + sense, felt every faculty now prodigiously sharpened, and was resolved to + know the precise grounds for alarm,—“if so, why did not the man—it + was a servant, sir, a man-servant, whom Mrs. Morton pretended to rely on—appear + on the trial?” + </p> + <p> + “Because, I say, he was abroad and could not be found; or, the search + after him miscaurried, from clumsy management and a lack of the rhino.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum!” said Mr. Beaufort—“one witness—one witness, observe, + there is only one!—does not alarm me much. It is not what a man + deposes, it is what a jury believe, sir! Moreover, what has become of the + young men? They have never been heard of for years. They are probably + dead; if so, I am heir-at-law!” + </p> + <p> + “I know where one of them is to be found at all events.” + </p> + <p> + “The elder?—Philip?” asked Mr. Beaufort anxiously, and with a + fearful remembrance of the energetic and vehement character prematurely + exhibited by his nephew. + </p> + <p> + “Pawdon me! I need not aunswer that question.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir! a lawsuit of this nature, against one in possession, is very + doubtful, and,” added the rich man, drawing himself up—“and, perhaps + very expensive!” + </p> + <p> + “The young man I speak of does not want friends, who will not grudge the + money.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir!” said Mr. Beaufort, rising and placing his back to the fire—“sir! + what is your object in this communication? Do you come, on the part of the + young man, to propose a compromise? If so, be plain!” + </p> + <p> + “I come on my own pawt. It rests with you to say if the young men shall + never know it!” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Five hundred a year as long as the secret is kept.” + </p> + <p> + “And how can you prove that there is a secret, after all?” + </p> + <p> + “By producing the witness if you wish.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he go halves in the L500. a year?” asked Mr. Beaufort artfully. + </p> + <p> + “That is moy affair, sir,” replied the stranger. + </p> + <p> + “What you say,” resumed Mr. Beaufort, “is so extraordinary—so + unexpected, and still, to me, seems so improbable, that I must have time + to consider. If you will call on me in a week, and produce your facts, I + will give you my answer. I am not the man, sir, to wish to keep any one + out of his true rights, but I will not yield, on the other hand, to + imposture.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t want to keep them out of their rights, I’d best go and tell + my young gentlemen,” said the stranger, with cool impudence. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I must have time,” repeated Beaufort, disconcerted. “Besides, + I have not myself alone to look to, sir,” he added, with dignified + emphasis—“I am a father!” + </p> + <p> + “This day week I will call on you again. Good evening, Mr. Beaufort!” + </p> + <p> + And the man stretched out his hand with an air of amicable condescension. + The respectable Mr. Beaufort changed colour, hesitated, and finally + suffered two fingers to be enticed into the grasp of the visitor, whom he + ardently wished at that bourne whence no visitor returns. + </p> + <p> + The stranger smiled, stalked to the door, laid his finger on his lip, + winked knowingly, and vanished, leaving Mr. Beaufort a prey to such + feelings of uneasiness, dread, and terror, as may be experienced by a man + whom, on some inch or two of slippery rock, the tides have suddenly + surrounded. + </p> + <p> + He remained perfectly still for some moments, and then glancing round the + dim and spacious room, his eyes took in all the evidences of luxury and + wealth which it betrayed. Above the huge sideboard, that on festive days + groaned beneath the hoarded weight of the silver heirlooms of the + Beauforts, hung, in its gilded frame, a large picture of the family seat, + with the stately porticoes—the noble park—the groups of deer; + and around the wall, interspersed here and there with ancestral portraits + of knight and dame, long since gathered to their rest, were placed + masterpieces of the Italian and Flemish art, which generation after + generation had slowly accumulated, till the Beaufort Collection had become + the theme of connoisseurs and the study of young genius. + </p> + <p> + The still room, the dumb pictures—even the heavy sideboard seemed to + gain voice, and speak to him audibly. He thrust his hand into the folds of + his waistcoat, and griped his own flesh convulsively; then, striding to + and fro the apartment, he endeavoured to re-collect his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “I dare not consult Mrs. Beaufort,” he muttered; “no—no,—she + is a fool! Besides, she’s not in the way. No time to lose—I will go + to Lilburne.” + </p> + <p> + Scarce had that thought crossed him than he hastened to put it into + execution. He rang for his hat and gloves and sallied out on foot to Lord + Lilburne’s house in Park Lane,—the distance was short, and + impatience has long strides. + </p> + <p> + He knew Lord Lilburne was in town, for that personage loved London for its + own sake; and even in September he would have said with the old Duke of + Queensberry, when some one observed that London was very empty—“Yes; + but it is fuller than the country.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort found Lord Lilburne reclined on a sofa, by the open window of + his drawing-room, beyond which the early stars shone upon the glimmering + trees and silver turf of the deserted park. Unlike the simple dessert of + his respectable brother-in-law, the costliest fruits, the richest wines of + France, graced the small table placed beside his sofa; and as the starch + man of forms and method entered the room at one door, a rustling silk, + that vanished through the aperture of another, seemed to betray tokens of + a tete-a-tete, probably more agreeable to Lilburne than the one with which + only our narrative is concerned. + </p> + <p> + It would have been a curious study for such men as love to gaze upon the + dark and wily features of human character, to have watched the contrast + between the reciter and the listener, as Beaufort, with much + circumlocution, much affected disdain and real anxiety, narrated the + singular and ominous conversation between himself and his visitor. + </p> + <p> + The servant, in introducing Mr. Beaufort, had added to the light of the + room; and the candles shone full on the face and form of Mr. Beaufort. All + about that gentleman was so completely in unison with the world’s forms + and seemings, that there was something moral in the very sight of him! + Since his accession of fortune he had grown less pale and less thin; the + angles in his figure were filled up. On his brow there was no trace of + younger passion. No able vice had ever sharpened the expression—no + exhausting vice ever deepened the lines. He was the beau-ideal of a county + member,—so sleek, so staid, so business-like; yet so clean, so neat, + so much the gentleman. And now there was a kind of pathos in his grey + hairs, his nervous smile, his agitated hands, his quick and uneasy + transition of posture, the tremble of his voice. He would have appeared to + those who saw, but heard not, The Good Man in trouble. Cold, motionless, + speechless, seemingly apathetic, but in truth observant, still reclined on + the sofa, his head thrown back, but one eye fixed on his companion, his + hands clasped before him, Lord Lilburne listened; and in that repose, + about his face, even about his person, might be read the history of how + different a life and character! What native acuteness in the stealthy eye! + What hardened resolve in the full nostril and firm lips! What sardonic + contempt for all things in the intricate lines about the mouth. What + animal enjoyment of all things so despised in that delicate nervous + system, which, combined with original vigour of constitution, yet betrayed + itself in the veins on the hands and temples, the occasional quiver of the + upper lip! His was the frame above all others the most alive to pleasure—deep-chested, + compact, sinewy, but thin to leanness—delicate in its texture and + extremities, almost to effeminacy. The indifference of the posture, the + very habit of the dress—not slovenly, indeed, but easy, loose, + careless—seemed to speak of the man’s manner of thought and life—his + profound disdain of externals. + </p> + <p> + Not till Beaufort had concluded did Lord Lilburne change his position or + open his lips; and then, turning to his brother-in-law his calm face, he + said drily,— + </p> + <p> + “I always thought your brother had married that woman; he was the sort of + man to do it. Besides, why should she have gone to law without a vestige + of proof, unless she was convinced of her rights? Imposture never proceeds + without some evidence. Innocence, like a fool as it is, fancies it has + only to speak to be believed. But there is no cause for alarm.” + </p> + <p> + “No cause!—And yet you think there was a marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “It is quite clear,” continued Lilburne, without heeding this + interruption; “that the man, whatever his evidence, has not got sufficient + proofs. If he had, he would go to the young men rather than you: it is + evident that they would promise infinitely larger rewards than he could + expect from yourself. Men are always more generous with what they expect + than with what they have. All rogues know this. ‘Tis the way Jews and + usurers thrive upon heirs rather than possessors; ‘tis the philosophy of + post-obits. I dare say the man has found out the real witness of the + marriage, but ascertained, also, that the testimony of that witness would + not suffice to dispossess you. He might be discredited—rich men have + a way sometimes of discrediting poor witnesses. Mind, he says nothing of + the lost copy of the register—whatever may be the value of that + document, which I am not lawyer enough to say—of any letters of your + brother avowing the marriage. Consider, the register itself is destroyed—the + clergyman dead. Pooh! make yourself easy.” + </p> + <p> + “True,” said Mr. Beaufort, much comforted; “what a memory you have!” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. Your wife is my sister—I hate poor relations—and I + was therefore much interested in your accession and your lawsuit. No—you + may feel—at rest on this matter, so far as a successful lawsuit is + concerned. The next question is, Will you have a lawsuit at all? and is it + worth while buying this fellow? That I can’t say unless I see him myself.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to Heaven you would!” + </p> + <p> + “Very willingly: ‘tis a sort of thing I like—I’m fond of dealing + with rogues—it amuses me. This day week? I’ll be at your house—your + proxy; I shall do better than Blackwell. And since you say you are wanted + at the Lakes, go down, and leave all to me.” + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks. I can’t say how grateful I am. You certainly are the + kindest and cleverest person in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t think worse of the world’s cleverness and kindness than I do,” + was Lilburne’s rather ambiguous answer to the compliment. “But why does my + sister want to see you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I forgot!—here is her letter. I was going to ask your advice in + this too.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Lilburne took the letter, and glanced over it with the rapid eye of a + man accustomed to seize in everything the main gist and pith. + </p> + <p> + “An offer to my pretty niece—Mr. Spencer—requires no fortune—his + uncle will settle all his own—(poor silly old man!) All! Why that’s + only L1000. a year. You don’t think much of this, eh? How my sister can + even ask you about it puzzles me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you see, Lilburne,” said Mr. Beaufort, rather embarrassed, “there is + no question of fortune—nothing to go out of the family; and, really, + Arthur is so expensive, and, if she were to marry well, I could not give + her less than fifteen or twenty thousand pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Aha!—I see—every man to his taste: here a daughter—there + a dowry. You are devilish fond of money, Beaufort. Any pleasure in + avarice,—eh?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort coloured very much at the remark and the question, and, + forcing a smile, said,— + </p> + <p> + “You are severe. But you don’t know what it is to be father to a young + man.” + </p> + <p> + “Then a great many young women have told me sad fibs! But you are right in + your sense of the phrase. No, I never had an heir apparent, thank Heaven! + No children imposed upon me by law—natural enemies, to count the + years between the bells that ring for their majority, and those that will + toll for my decease. It is enough for me that I have a brother and a + sister—that my brother’s son will inherit my estates—and that, + in the meantime, he grudges me every tick in that clock. What then? If he + had been my uncle, I had done the same. Meanwhile, I see as little of him + as good breeding will permit. On the face of a rich man’s heir is written + the rich man’s memento mori! But revenons a nos moutons. Yes, if you give + your daughter no fortune, your death will be so much the more profitable + to Arthur!” + </p> + <p> + “Really, you take such a very odd view of the matter,” said Mr. Beaufort, + exceedingly shocked. “But I see you don’t like the marriage; perhaps you + are right.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I have no choice in the matter; I never interfere between father + and children. If I had children myself, I will, however, tell you, for + your comfort, that they might marry exactly as they pleased—I would + never thwart them. I should be too happy to get them out of my way. If + they married well, one would have all the credit; if ill, one would have + an excuse to disown them. As I said before, I dislike poor relations. + Though if Camilla lives at the Lakes when she is married, it is but a + letter now and then; and that’s your wife’s trouble, not yours. But, + Spencer—what Spencer!—what family? Was there not a Mr. Spencer + who lived at Winandermere—who——” + </p> + <p> + “Who went with us in search of these boys, to be sure. Very likely the + same—nay, he must be so. I thought so at the first.” + </p> + <p> + “Go down to the Lakes to-morrow. You may hear something about your + nephews;” at that word Mr. Beaufort winced. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis well to be forearmed.” + </p> + <p> + “Many thanks for all your counsel,” said Beaufort, rising, and glad to + escape; for though both he and his wife held the advice of Lord Lilburne + in the highest reverence, they always smarted beneath the quiet and + careless stings which accompanied the honey. Lord Lilburne was singular in + this,—he would give to any one who asked it, but especially a + relation, the best advice in his power; and none gave better, that is, + more worldly advice. Thus, without the least benevolence, he was often of + the greatest service; but he could not help mixing up the draught with as + much aloes and bitter-apple as possible. His intellect delighted in + exhibiting itself even gratuitously. His heart equally delighted in that + only cruelty which polished life leaves to its tyrants towards their + equals,—thrusting pins into the feelings and breaking self-love upon + the wheel. But just as Mr. Beaufort had drawn on his gloves and gained the + doorway, a thought seemed to strike Lord Lilburne: + </p> + <p> + “By the by,” he said, “you understand that when I promised I would try and + settle the matter for you, I only meant that I would learn the exact + causes you have for alarm on the one hand, or for a compromise with this + fellow on the other. If the last be advisable you are aware that I cannot + interfere. I might get into a scrape; and Beaufort Court is not my + property.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t quite understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am plain enough, too. If there is money to be given it is given in + order to defeat what is called justice—to keep these nephews of + yours out of their inheritance. Now, should this ever come to light, it + would have an ugly appearance. They who risk the blame must be the persons + who possess the estate.” + </p> + <p> + “If you think it dishonourable or dishonest—” said Beaufort, + irresolutely. + </p> + <p> + “I! I never can advise as to the feelings; I can only advise as to the + policy. If you don’t think there ever was a marriage, it may, still, be + honest in you to prevent the bore of a lawsuit.” + </p> + <p> + “But if he can prove to me that they were married?” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh!” said Lilburne, raising his eyebrows with a slight expression of + contemptuous impatience; “it rests on yourself whether or not he prove it + to YOUR satisfaction! For my part, as a third person, I am persuaded the + marriage did take place. But if I had Beaufort Court, my convictions would + be all the other way. You understand. I am too happy to serve you. But no + man can be expected to jeopardise his character, or coquet with the law, + unless it be for his own individual interest. Then, of course, he must + judge for himself. Adieu! I expect some friends foreigners—Carlists—to + whist. You won’t join them?” + </p> + <p> + “I never play, you know. You will write to me at Winandermere: and, at all + events, you will keep off the man till I return?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + Beaufort, whom the latter part of the conversation had comforted far less + than the former, hesitated, and turned the door-handle three or four + times; but, glancing towards his brother-in-law, he saw in that cold face + so little sympathy in the struggle between interest and conscience, that + he judged it best to withdraw at once. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he was gone, Lilburne summoned his valet, who had lived with + him many years, and who was his confidant in all the adventurous + gallantries with which he still enlivened the autumn of his life. + </p> + <p> + “Dykeman,” said he, “you have let out that lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not at home if she calls again. She is stupid; she cannot get the + girl to come to her again. I shall trust you with an adventure, Dykeman—an + adventure that will remind you of our young days, man. This charming + creature—I tell you she is irresistible—her very oddities + bewitch me. You must—well, you look uneasy. What would you say?” + </p> + <p> + “My lord, I have found out more about her—and—and——” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well.” + </p> + <p> + The valet drew near and whispered something in his master’s ear. + </p> + <p> + “They are idiots who say it, then,” answered Lilburne. “And,” faltered the + man, with the shame of humanity on his face, “she is not worthy your + lordship’s notice—a poor—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know she is poor; and, for that reason, there can be no + difficulty, if the thing is properly managed. You never, perhaps, heard of + a certain Philip, king of Macedon; but I will tell you what he once said, + as well as I can remember it: ‘Lead an ass with a pannier of gold; send + the ass through the gates of a city, and all the sentinels will run away.’ + Poor!—where there is love, there is charity also, Dykeman. Besides—” + </p> + <p> + Here Lilburne’s countenance assumed a sudden aspect of dark and angry + passion,—he broke off abruptly, rose, and paced the room, muttering + to himself. Suddenly he stopped, and put his hand to his hip, as an + expression of pain again altered the character of his face. + </p> + <p> + “The limb pains me still! Dykeman—I was scarce twenty-one—when + I became a cripple for life.” He paused, drew a long breath, smiled, + rubbed his hands gently, and added: “Never fear—you shall be the + ass; and thus Philip of Macedon begins to fill the pannier.” And he tossed + his purse into the hands of the valet, whose face seemed to lose its + anxious embarrassment at the touch of the gold. Lilburne glanced at him + with a quiet sneer: “Go!—I will give you my orders when I undress.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” he repeated to himself, “the limb pains me still. But he died!—shot + as a man would shoot a jay or a polecat! + </p> + <p> + “I have the newspaper still in that drawer. He died an outcast—a + felon—a murderer! And I blasted his name—and I seduced his + mistress—and I—am John Lord Lilburne!” + </p> + <p> + About ten o’clock, some half-a-dozen of those gay lovers of London, who, + like Lilburne, remain faithful to its charms when more vulgar worshippers + desert its sunburnt streets—mostly single men—mostly men of + middle age—dropped in. And soon after came three or four high-born + foreigners, who had followed into England the exile of the unfortunate + Charles X. Their looks, at once proud and sad—their moustaches + curled downward—their beards permitted to grow—made at first a + strong contrast with the smooth gay Englishmen. But Lilburne, who was fond + of French society, and who, when he pleased, could be courteous and + agreeable, soon placed the exiles at their ease; and, in the excitement of + high play, all differences of mood and humour speedily vanished. Morning + was in the skies before they sat down to supper. + </p> + <p> + “You have been very fortunate to-night, milord,” said one of the + Frenchmen, with an envious tone of congratulation. + </p> + <p> + “But, indeed,” said another, who, having been several times his host’s + partner, had won largely, “you are the finest player, milord, I ever + encountered.” + </p> + <p> + “Always excepting Monsieur Deschapelles and—,” replied Lilburne, + indifferently. And, turning the conversation, he asked one of the guests + why he had not introduced him to a French officer of merit and + distinction; “With whom,” said Lord Lilburne, “I understand that you are + intimate, and of whom I hear your countrymen very often speak.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean De Vaudemont. Poor fellow!” said a middle-aged Frenchman, of a + graver appearance than the rest. + </p> + <p> + “But why ‘poor fellow!’ Monsieur de Liancourt?” + </p> + <p> + “He was rising so high before the revolution. There was not a braver + officer in the army. But he is but a soldier of fortune, and his career is + closed.” + </p> + <p> + “Till the Bourbons return,” said another Carlist, playing with his + moustache. + </p> + <p> + “You will really honour me much by introducing me to him,” said Lord + Lilburne. “De Vaudemont—it is a good name,—perhaps, too, he + plays at whist.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” observed one of the Frenchmen, “I am by no means sure that he has + the best right in the world to the name. ‘Tis a strange story.” + </p> + <p> + “May I hear it?” asked the host. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. It is briefly this: There was an old Vicomte de Vaudemont + about Paris; of good birth, but extremely poor—a mauvais sujet. He + had already had two wives, and run through their fortunes. Being old and + ugly, and men who survive two wives having a bad reputation among + marriageable ladies at Paris, he found it difficult to get a third. + Despairing of the noblesse he went among the bourgeoisie with that hope. + His family were kept in perpetual fear of a ridiculous mesalliance. Among + these relations was Madame de Merville, whom you may have heard of.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame de Merville! Ah, yes! Handsome, was she not?” + </p> + <p> + “It is true. Madame de Merville, whose failing was pride, was known more + than once to have bought off the matrimonial inclinations of the amorous + vicomte. Suddenly there appeared in her circles a very handsome young man. + He was presented formally to her friends as the son of the Vicomte de + Vaudemont by his second marriage with an English lady, brought up in + England, and now for the first time publicly acknowledged. Some scandal + was circulated—” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” interrupted Monsieur de Liancourt, very gravely, “the scandal was + such as all honourable men must stigmatise and despise—it was only + to be traced to some lying lackey—a scandal that the young man was + already the lover of a woman of stainless reputation the very first day + that he entered Paris! I answer for the falsity of that report. But that + report I own was one that decided not only Madame de Merville, who was a + sensitive—too sensitive a person, but my friend young Vaudemont, to + a marriage, from the pecuniary advantages of which he was too + high-spirited not to shrink.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Lord Lilburne, “then this young De Vaudemont married Madame + de Merville?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Liancourt somewhat sadly, “it was not so decreed; for + Vaudemont, with a feeling which belongs to a gentleman, and which I + honour, while deeply and gratefully attached to Madame de Merville, + desired that he might first win for himself some honourable distinction + before he claimed a hand to which men of fortunes so much higher had + aspired in vain. I am not ashamed,” he added, after a slight pause, “to + say that I had been one of the rejected suitors, and that I still revere + the memory of Eugenie de Merville. The young man, therefore, was to have + entered my regiment. Before, however, he had joined it, and while yet in + the full flush of a young man’s love for a woman formed to excite the + strongest attachment, she—she—-” The Frenchman’s voice + trembled, and he resumed with affected composure: “Madame de Merville, who + had the best and kindest heart that ever beat in a human breast, learned + one day that there was a poor widow in the garret of the hotel she + inhabited who was dangerously ill—without medicine and without food—having + lost her only friend and supporter in her husband some time before. In the + impulse of the moment, Madame de Merville herself attended this widow—caught + the fever that preyed upon her—was confined to her bed ten days—and + died as she had lived, in serving others and forgetting self.—And so + much, sir, for the scandal you spoke of!” + </p> + <p> + “A warning,” observed Lord Lilburne, “against trifling with one’s health + by that vanity of parading a kind heart, which is called charity. If + charity, mon cher, begins at home, it is in the drawing-room, not the + garret!” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchman looked at his host in some disdain, bit his lip, and was + silent. + </p> + <p> + “But still,” resumed Lord Lilburne, “still it is so probable that your old + vicomte had a son; and I can so perfectly understand why he did not wish + to be embarrassed with him as long as he could help it, that I do not + understand why there should be any doubt of the younger De Vaudemont’s + parentage.” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” said the Frenchman who had first commenced the narrative,—“because + the young man refused to take the legal steps to proclaim his birth and + naturalise himself a Frenchman; because, no sooner was Madame de Merville + dead than he forsook the father he had so newly discovered—forsook + France, and entered with some other officers, under the brave, &m——— + in the service of one of the native princes of India.” + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps he was poor,” observed Lord Lilburne. “A father is a very + good thing, and a country is a very good thing, but still a man must have + money; and if your father does not do much for you, somehow or other, your + country generally follows his example.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord,” said Liancourt, “my friend here has forgotten to say that + Madame de Merville had by deed of gift; (though unknown to her lover), + before her death, made over to young Vaudemont the bulk of her fortune; + and that, when he was informed of this donation after her decease, and + sufficiently recovered from the stupor of his grief, he summoned her + relations round him, declared that her memory was too dear to him for + wealth to console him for her loss, and reserving to himself but a modest + and bare sufficiency for the common necessaries of a gentleman, he divided + the rest amongst them, and repaired to the East; not only to conquer his + sorrow by the novelty and stir of an exciting life, but to carve out with + his own hand the reputation of an honourable and brave man. My friend + remembered the scandal long buried—he forgot the generous action.” + </p> + <p> + “Your friend, you see, my dear Monsieur de Liancourt,” remarked Lilburne, + “is more a man of the world than you are!” + </p> + <p> + “And I was just going to observe,” said the friend thus referred to, “that + that very action seemed to confirm the rumour that there had been some + little manoeuvring as to this unexpected addition to the name of De + Vaudemont; for, if himself related to Madame de Merville, why have such + scruples to receive her gift?” + </p> + <p> + “A very shrewd remark,” said Lord Lilburne, looking with some respect at + the speaker; “and I own that it is a very unaccountable proceeding, and + one of which I don’t think you or I would ever have been guilty. Well, and + the old Vicomte?” + </p> + <p> + “Did not live long!” said the Frenchman, evidently gratified by his host’s + compliment, while Liancourt threw himself back in his chair in grave + displeasure. “The young man remained some years in India, and when he + returned to Paris, our friend here, Monsieur de Liancourt (then in favour + with Charles X.), and Madame de Merville’s relations took him up. He had + already acquired a reputation in this foreign service, and he obtained a + place at the court, and a commission in the king’s guards. I allow that he + would certainly have made a career, had it not been for the Three Days. As + it is, you see him in London, like the rest of us, an exile!” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose, without a sous.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I believe that he had still saved, and even augmented, in India, the + portion he allotted to himself from Madame de Merville’s bequest.” + </p> + <p> + “And if he don’t play whist, he ought to play it,” said Lilburne. “You + have roused my curiosity; I hope you will let me make his acquaintance, + Monsieur de Liancourt. I am no politician, but allow me to propose this + toast, ‘Success to those who have the wit to plan, and the strength to + execute.’ In other words, ‘the Right Divine!’” + </p> + <p> + Soon afterwards the guests retired. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + “Ros. Happily, he’s the second time come to them.”—Hamlet. + </h3> + <p> + It was the evening after that in which the conversations recorded in our + last chapter were held;—evening in the quiet suburb of H———. + The desertion and silence of the metropolis in September had extended to + its neighbouring hamlets;—a village in the heart of the country + could scarcely have seemed more still; the lamps were lighted, many of the + shops already closed, a few of the sober couples and retired spinsters of + the place might, here and there, be seen slowly wandering homeward after + their evening walk: two or three dogs, in spite of the prohibitions of the + magistrates placarded on the walls,—(manifestoes which threatened + with death the dogs, and predicted more than ordinary madness to the + public,)—were playing in the main road, disturbed from time to time + as the slow coach, plying between the city and the suburb, crawled along + the thoroughfare, or as the brisk mails whirled rapidly by, announced by + the cloudy dust and the guard’s lively horn. Gradually even these + evidences of life ceased—the saunterers disappeared, the mails had + passed, the dogs gave place to the later and more stealthy perambulations + of their feline successors “who love the moon.” At unfrequent intervals, + the more important shops—the linen-drapers’, the chemists’, and the + gin-palace—still poured out across the shadowy road their streams of + light from windows yet unclosed: but with these exceptions, the business + of the place stood still. + </p> + <p> + At this time there emerged from a milliner’s house (shop, to outward + appearance, it was not, evincing its gentility and its degree above the + Capelocracy, to use a certain classical neologism, by a brass plate on an + oak door, whereon was graven, “Miss Semper, Milliner and Dressmaker, from + Madame Devy,”)—at this time, I say, and from this house there + emerged the light and graceful form of a young female. She held in her + left hand a little basket, of the contents of which (for it was empty) she + had apparently just disposed; and, as she stepped across the road, the + lamplight fell on a face in the first bloom of youth, and characterised by + an expression of childlike innocence and candour. It was a face regularly + and exquisitely lovely, yet something there was in the aspect that + saddened you; you knew not why, for it was not sad itself; on the + contrary, the lips smiled and the eyes sparkled. As she now glided along + the shadowy street with a light, quick step, a man, who had hitherto been + concealed by the portico of an attorney’s house, advanced stealthily, and + followed her at a little distance. Unconscious that she was dogged, and + seemingly fearless of all danger, the girl went lightly on, swinging her + basket playfully to and fro, and chaunting, in a low but musical tone, + some verses that seemed rather to belong to the nursery than to that age + which the fair singer had attained. + </p> + <p> + As she came to an angle which the main street formed with a lane, narrow + and partially lighted, a policeman, stationed there, looked hard at her, + and then touched his hat with an air of respect, in which there seemed + also a little of compassion. + </p> + <p> + “Good night to you,” said the girl, passing him, and with a frank, gay + tone. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I attend you home, Miss?” said the man. + </p> + <p> + “What for? I am very well!” answered the young woman, with an accent and + look of innocent surprise. + </p> + <p> + Just at this time the man, who had hitherto followed her, gained the spot, + and turned down the lane. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the policeman; “but it is getting dark, Miss.” + </p> + <p> + “So it is every night when I walk home, unless there’s a moon.—Good-bye.—The + moon,” she repeated to herself, as she walked on, “I used to be afraid of + the moon when I was a little child;” and then, after a pause, she + murmured, in a low chaunt: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘The moon she is a wandering ghost, + That walks in penance nightly; + How sad she is, that wandering moon, + For all she shines so brightly! + + “‘I watched her eyes when I was young, + Until they turned my brain, + And now I often weep to think + ‘Twill ne’er be right again.’” + </pre> + <p> + As the murmur of these words died at a distance down the lane in which the + girl had disappeared, the policeman, who had paused to listen, shook his + head mournfully, and said, while he moved on,— + </p> + <p> + “Poor thing! they should not let her always go about by herself; and yet, + who would harm her?” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the girl proceeded along the lane, which was skirted by small, + but not mean houses, till it terminated in a cross-stile that admitted + into a church yard. Here hung the last lamp in the path, and a few dim + stars broke palely over the long grass, and scattered gravestones, without + piercing the deep shadow which the church threw over a large portion of + the sacred ground. Just as she passed the stile, the man, whom we have + before noticed, and who had been leaning, as if waiting for some one, + against the pales, approached, and said gently,— + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Miss! it is a lone place for one so beautiful as you are to be alone. + You ought never to be on foot.” + </p> + <p> + The girl stopped, and looked full, but without any alarm in her eyes, into + the man’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Go away!” she said, with a half-peevish, half-kindly tone of command. “I + don’t know you.” + </p> + <p> + “But I have been sent to speak to you by one who does know you, Miss—one + who loves you to distraction—he has seen you before at Mrs. West’s. + He is so grieved to think you should walk—you ought, he says, to + have every luxury—that he has sent his carriage for you. It is on + the other side of the yard. Do come now;” and he laid his hand, though + very lightly, on her arm. + </p> + <p> + “At Mrs. West’s!” she said; and, for the first time, her voice and look + showed fear. “Go away directly! How dare you touch me!” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear Miss, you have no idea how my employer loves you, and how + rich he is. See, he has sent you all this money; it is gold—real + gold. You may have what you like, if you will but come. Now, don’t be + silly, Miss.” The girl made no answer, but, with a sudden spring, passed + the man, and ran lightly and rapidly along the path, in an opposite + direction from that to which the tempter had pointed, when inviting her to + the carriage. The man, surprised, but not baffled, reached her in an + instant, and caught hold of her dress. + </p> + <p> + “Stay! you must come—you must!” he said, threateningly; and, + loosening his grasp on her shawl, he threw his arm round her waist. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t!” cried the girl, pleadingly, and apparently subdued, turning her + fair, soft face upon her pursuer, and clasping her hands. “Be quiet! Fanny + is silly! No one is ever rude to poor Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + “And no one will be rude to you, Miss,” said the man, apparently touched; + “but I dare not go without you. You don’t know what you refuse. Come;” and + he attempted gently to draw her back. + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” said the girl, changing from supplication to anger, and raising + her voice into a loud shriek, “No! I will—” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, then,” interrupted the man, looking round anxiously, and, with a + quick and dexterous movement he threw a large handkerchief over her face, + and, as he held it fast to her lips with one hand, he lifted her from the + ground. Still violently struggling, the girl contrived to remove the + handkerchief, and once more her shriek of terror rang through the violated + sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + At that instant a loud deep voice was heard, “Who calls?” And a tall + figure seemed to rise, as from the grave itself, and emerge from the + shadow of the church. A moment more, and a strong gripe was laid on the + shoulder of the ravisher. “What is this? On God’s ground, too! Release + her, wretch!” + </p> + <p> + The man, trembling, half with superstitious, half with bodily fear, let go + his captive, who fell at once at the knees of her deliverer. “Don’t you + hurt me too,” she said, as the tears rolled down her eyes. “I am a good + girl—and my grandfather’s blind.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger bent down and raised her; then looking round for the + assailant with an eye whose dark fire shone through the gloom, he + perceived the coward stealing off. He disdained to pursue. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” said he, with that voice which the strong assume to the + weak—the man to some wounded infant—the voice of tender + superiority and compassion, “there is no cause for fear now. Be soothed. + Do you live near? Shall I see you home?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you! That’s kind. Pray do!” And, with an infantine confidence she + took his hand, as a child does that of a grown-up person;—so they + walked on together. + </p> + <p> + “And,” said the stranger, “do you know that man? Has he insulted you + before?” + </p> + <p> + “No—don’t talk of him: ce me fait mal!” And she put her hand to her + forehead. + </p> + <p> + The French was spoken with so French an accent, that, in some curiosity, + the stranger cast his eye over her plain dress. + </p> + <p> + “You speak French well.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I? I wish I knew more words—I only recollect a few. When I am + very happy or very sad they come into my head. But I am happy now. I like + your voice—I like you—Oh! I have dropped my basket!” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go back for it, or shall I buy you another?” + </p> + <p> + “Another!—Oh, no! come back for it. How kind you are!—Ah! I + see it!” and she broke away and ran forward to pick it up. + </p> + <p> + When she had recovered it, she laughed—she spoke to it—she + kissed it. + </p> + <p> + Her companion smiled as he said: “Some sweetheart has given you that + basket—it seems but a common basket too.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had it—oh, ever since—since—I don’t know how + long! It came with me from France—it was full of little toys. They + are gone—I am so sorry!” + </p> + <p> + “How old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “My pretty one,” said the stranger, with deep pity in his rich voice, + “your mother should not let you go out alone at this hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother!—mother!” repeated the girl, in a tone of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Have you no mother?” + </p> + <p> + “No! I had a father once. But he died, they say. I did not see him die. I + sometimes cry when I think that I shall never, never see him again! But,” + she said, changing her accent from melancholy almost to joy, “he is to + have a grave here like the other girl’s fathers—a fine stone upon it—and + all to be done with my money!” + </p> + <p> + “Your money, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the money I make. I sell my work and take the money to my + grandfather; but I lay by a little every week for a gravestone for my + father.” + </p> + <p> + “Will the gravestone be placed in that churchyard?” They were now in + another lane; and, as he spoke, the stranger checked her, and bending down + to look into her face, he murmured to himself, “Is it possible?—it + must be—it must!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! I love that churchyard—my brother told me to put flowers + there; and grandfather and I sit there in the summer, without speaking. + But I don’t talk much, I like singing better:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘All things that good and harmless are + Are taught, they say, to sing + The maiden resting at her work, + The bird upon the wing; + The little ones at church, in prayer; + The angels in the sky + The angels less when babes are born + Than when the aged die.’” + </pre> + <p> + And unconscious of the latent moral, dark or cheering, according as we + estimate the value of this life, couched in the concluding rhyme, Fanny + turned round to the stranger, and said, “Why should the angels be glad + when the aged die?” + </p> + <p> + “That they are released from a false, unjust, and miserable world, in + which the first man was a rebel, and the second a murderer!” muttered the + stranger between his teeth, which he gnashed as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + The girl did not understand him: she shook her head gently, and made no + reply. A few moments, and she paused before a small house. + </p> + <p> + “This is my home.” + </p> + <p> + “It is so,” said her companion, examining the exterior of the house with + an earnest gaze; “and your name is Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—every one knows Fanny. Come in;” and the girl opened the door + with a latch-key. + </p> + <p> + The stranger bowed his stately height as he crossed the low threshold and + followed his guide into a little parlour. Before a table on which burned + dimly, and with unheeded wick, a single candle, sat a man of advanced age; + and as he turned his face to the door, the stranger saw that he was blind. + </p> + <p> + The girl bounded to his chair, passed her arms round the old man’s neck, + and kissed his forehead; then nestling herself at his feet, and leaning + her clasped hands caressingly on his knee, she said,— + </p> + <p> + “Grandpapa, I have brought you somebody you must love. He has been so kind + to Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “And neither of you can remember me!” said the guest. + </p> + <p> + The old man, whose dull face seemed to indicate dotage, half raised + himself at the sound of the stranger’s voice. “Who is that?” said he, with + a feeble and querulous voice. “Who wants me?” + </p> + <p> + “I am the friend of your lost son. I am he who, ten years go, brought + Fanny to your roof, and gave her to your care—your son’s last + charge. And you blessed your son, and forgave him, and vowed to be a + father to his Fanny.” The old man, who had now slowly risen to his feet, + trembled violently, and stretched out his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Come near—near—let me put my hands on your head. I cannot see + you; but Fanny talks of you, and prays for you; and Fanny—she has + been an angel to me!” + </p> + <p> + The stranger approached and half knelt as the old man spread his hands + over his head, muttering inaudibly. Meanwhile Fanny, pale as death—her + lips apart—an eager, painful expression on her face—looked + inquiringly on the dark, marked countenance of the visitor, and creeping + towards him inch by inch, fearfully touched his dress—his arms—his + countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Brother,” she said at last, doubtingly and timidly, “Brother, I thought I + could never forget you! But you are not like my brother; you are older;—you + are—you are!—no! no! you are not my brother!” + </p> + <p> + “I am much changed, Fanny; and you too!” + </p> + <p> + He smiled as he spoke; and the smile—sweet and pitying—thoroughly + changed the character of his face, which was ordinarily stern, grave, and + proud. + </p> + <p> + “I know you now!” exclaimed Fanny, in a tone of wild joy. “And you come + back from that grave! My flowers have brought you back at last! I knew + they would! Brother! Brother!” + </p> + <p> + And she threw herself on his breast and burst into passionate tears. Then, + suddenly drawing herself back, she laid her finger on his arm, and looked + up at him beseechingly. + </p> + <p> + “Pray, now, is he really dead? He, my father!—he, too, was lost like + you. Can’t he come back again as you have done?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you grieve for him still, then? Poor girl!” said the stranger, + evasively, and seating himself. Fanny continued to listen for an answer to + her touching question; but finding that none was given, she stole away to + a corner of the room, and leaned her face on her hands, and seemed to + think—till at last, as she so sat, the tears began to flow down her + cheeks, and she wept, but silently and unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + “But, sir,” said the guest, after a short pause, “how is this? Fanny tells + me she supports you by her work. Are you so poor, then? Yet I left you + your son’s bequest; and you, too, I understood, though not rich, were not + in want!” + </p> + <p> + “There was a curse on my gold,” said the old man, sternly. “It was stolen + from us.” + </p> + <p> + There was another pause. Simon broke it. + </p> + <p> + “And you, young man—how has it fared with you? You have prospered, I + hope.” + </p> + <p> + “I am as I have been for years—alone in the world, without kindred + and without friends. But, thanks to Heaven, I am not a beggar!” + </p> + <p> + “No kindred and no friends!” repeated the old man. “No father—no + brother—no wife—no sister!” + </p> + <p> + “None! No one to care whether I live or die,” answered the stranger, with + a mixture of pride and sadness in his voice. “But, as the song has it— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘I care for nobody—no, not I, + For nobody cares for me!’” + </pre> + <p> + There was a certain pathos in the mockery with which he repeated the + homely lines, although, as he did, he gathered himself up, as if conscious + of a certain consolation and reliance on the resources not dependent on + others which he had found in his own strong limbs and his own stout heart. + </p> + <p> + At that moment he felt a soft touch upon his hand, and he saw Fanny + looking at him through the tears that still flowed. + </p> + <p> + “You have no one to care for you? Don’t say so! Come and live with us, + brother; we’ll care for you. I have never forgotten the flowers—never! + Do come! Fanny shall love you. Fanny can work for three!” + </p> + <p> + “And they call her an idiot!” mumbled the old man, with a vacant smile on + his lips. + </p> + <p> + “My sister! You shall be my sister! Forlorn one—whom even Nature has + fooled and betrayed! Sister!—we, both orphans! Sister!” exclaimed + that dark, stern man, passionately, and with a broken voice; and he opened + his arms, and Fanny, without a blush or a thought of shame, threw herself + on his breast. He kissed her forehead with a kiss that was, indeed, pure + and holy as a brother’s: and Fanny felt that he had left upon her cheek a + tear that was not her own. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, with an altered voice, and taking the old man’s hand, + “what say you? Shall I take up my lodging with you? I have a little money; + I can protect and aid you both. I shall be often away—in London or + else where—and will not intrude too much on you. But you blind, and + she—(here he broke off the sentence abruptly and went on)—you + should not be left alone. And this neighbourhood, that burial-place, are + dear to me. I, too, Fanny, have lost a parent; and that grave—” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and then added, in a trembling voice, “And you have placed + flowers over that grave?” + </p> + <p> + “Stay with us,” said the blind man; “not for our sake, but your own. The + world is a bad place. I have been long sick of the world. Yes! come and + live near the burial-ground—the nearer you are to the grave, the + safer you are;—and you have a little money, you say!” + </p> + <p> + “I will come to-morrow, then. I must return now. Tomorrow, Fanny, we shall + meet again.” + </p> + <p> + “Must you go?” said Fanny, tenderly. “But you will come again; you know I + used to think every one died when he left me. I am wiser now. Yet still, + when you do leave me, it is true that you die for Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + At this moment, as the three persons were grouped, each had assumed a + posture of form, an expression of face, which a painter of fitting + sentiment and skill would have loved to study. The visitor had gained the + door; and as he stood there, his noble height—the magnificent + strength and health of his manhood in its full prime—contrasted + alike the almost spectral debility of extreme age and the graceful + delicacy of Fanny—half girl, half child. There was something foreign + in his air—and the half military habit, relieved by the red riband + of the Bourbon knighthood. His complexion was dark as that of a Moor, and + his raven hair curled close to the stately head. The soldier-moustache—thick, + but glossy as silk-shaded the firm lip; and the pointed beard, assumed by + the exiled Carlists, heightened the effect of the strong and haughty + features and the expression of the martial countenance. + </p> + <p> + But as Fanny’s voice died on his ear, he half averted that proud face; and + the dark eyes—almost Oriental in their brilliancy and depth of shade—seemed + soft and humid. And there stood Fanny, in a posture of such unconscious + sadness—such childlike innocence; her arms drooping—her face + wistfully turned to his—and a half smile upon the lips, that made + still more touching the tears not yet dried upon her cheeks. While thin, + frail, shadowy, with white hair and furrowed cheeks, the old man fixed his + sightless orbs on space; and his face, usually only animated from the + lethargy of advancing dotage by a certain querulous cynicism, now grew + suddenly earnest, and even thoughtful, as Fanny spoke of Death! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ulyss. Time hath a wallet at his back + Wherein he puts alms for oblivion. + * * Perseverance, dear my lord, + Keeps honour bright.”—Troilus and Cressida. +</pre> + <p> + I have not sought—as would have been easy, by a little ingenuity in + the earlier portion of this narrative—whatever source of vulgar + interest might be derived from the mystery of names and persons. As in + Charles Spencer the reader is allowed at a glance to detect Sidney Morton, + so in Philip de Vaudemont (the stranger who rescued Fanny) the reader at + once recognises the hero of my tale; but since neither of these young men + has a better right to the name resigned than to the name adopted, it will + be simpler and more convenient to designate them by those appellations by + which they are now known to the world. In truth, Philip de Vaudemont was + scarcely the same being as Philip Morton. In the short visit he had paid + to the elder Gawtrey, when he consigned Fanny to his charge, he had given + no name; and the one he now took (when, towards the evening of the next + day he returned to Simon’s house) the old man heard for the first time. + Once more sunk into his usual apathy, Simon did not express any surprise + that a Frenchman should be so well acquainted with English—he + scarcely observed that the name was French. Simon’s age seemed daily to + bring him more and more to that state when life is mere mechanism, and the + soul, preparing for its departure, no longer heeds the tenement that + crumbles silently and neglected into its lonely dust. Vaudemont came with + but little luggage (for he had an apartment also in London), and no + attendant,—a single horse was consigned to the stables of an inn at + hand, and he seemed, as soldiers are, more careful for the comforts of the + animal than his own. There was but one woman servant in the humble + household, who did all the ruder work, for Fanny’s industry could afford + it. The solitary servant and the homely fare sufficed for the simple and + hardy adventurer. + </p> + <p> + Fanny, with a countenance radiant with joy, took his hand and led him to + his room. Poor child! with that instinct of woman which never deserted + her, she had busied herself the whole day in striving to deck the chamber + according to her own notions of comfort. She had stolen from her little + hoard wherewithal to make some small purchases, on which the Dowbiggin of + the suburb had been consulted. And what with flowers on the table, and a + fire at the hearth, the room looked cheerful. + </p> + <p> + She watched him as he glanced around, and felt disappointed that he did + not utter the admiration she expected. Angry at last with the indifference + which, in fact, as to external accommodation, was habitual to him, she + plucked his sleeve, and said,— + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you speak? Is it not nice?—Fanny did her best.” + </p> + <p> + “And a thousand thanks to Fanny! It is all I could wish.” + </p> + <p> + “There is another room, bigger than this, but the wicked woman who robbed + us slept there; and besides, you said you liked the churchyard. See!” and + she opened the window and pointed to the church-tower rising dark against + the evening sky. + </p> + <p> + “This is better than all!” said Vaudemont; and he looked out from the + window in a silent reverie, which Fanny did not disturb. + </p> + <p> + And now he was settled! From a career so wild, agitated, and various, the + adventurer paused in that humble resting-nook. But quiet is not repose—obscurity + is not content. Often as, morn and eve, he looked forth upon the spot, + where his mother’s heart, unconscious of love and woe, mouldered away, the + indignant and bitter feelings of the wronged outcast and the son who could + not clear the mother’s name swept away the subdued and gentle melancholy + into which time usually softens regret for the dead, and with which most + of us think of the distant past, and the once joyous childhood! + </p> + <p> + In this man’s breast lay, concealed by his external calm, those memories + and aspirations which are as strong as passions. In his earlier years, + when he had been put to hard shifts for existence, he had found no leisure + for close and brooding reflection upon that spoliation of just rights—that + calumny upon his mother’s name, which had first brought the Night into his + Morning. His resentment towards the Beauforts, it is true, had ever been + an intense but a fitful and irregular passion. It was exactly in + proportion as, by those rare and romantic incidents which Fiction cannot + invent, and which Narrative takes with diffidence from the great + Store-house of Real Life, his steps had ascended in the social ladder—that + all which his childhood had lost—all which the robbers of his + heritage had gained, the grandeur and the power of WEALTH—above all, + the hourly and the tranquil happiness of a stainless name, became palpable + and distinct. He had loved Eugenie as a boy loves for the first time an + accomplished woman. He regarded her, so refined—so gentle—so + gifted, with the feelings due to a superior being, with an eternal + recollection of the ministering angel that had shone upon him when he + stood on the dark abyss. She was the first that had redeemed his fate—the + first that had guided aright his path—the first that had tamed the + savage at his breast:—it was the young lion charmed by the eyes of + Una. The outline of his story had been truly given at Lord Lilburne’s. + Despite his pride, which revolted from such obligations to another, and a + woman—which disliked and struggled against a disguise which at once + and alone saved him from the detection of the past and the terrors of the + future—he had yielded to her, the wise and the gentle, as one whose + judgment he could not doubt; and, indeed, the slanderous falsehoods + circulated by the lackey, to whose discretion, the night of Gawtrey’s + death, Eugenie had preferred to confide her own honour, rather than + another’s life, had (as Liancourt rightly stated) left Philip no option + but that which Madame de Merville deemed the best, whether for her + happiness or her good name. Then had followed a brief season—the + holiday of his life—the season of young hope and passion, of + brilliancy and joy, closing by that abrupt death which again left him + lonely in the world. + </p> + <p> + When, from the grief that succeeded to the death of Eugenie, he woke to + find himself amidst the strange faces and exciting scenes of an Oriental + court, he turned with hard and disgustful contempt from Pleasure, as an + infidelity to the dead. Ambition crept over him—his mind hardened as + his cheek bronzed under those burning suns—his hardy frame, his + energies prematurely awakened, his constitutional disregard to danger,—made + him a brave and skilful soldier. He acquired reputation and rank. But, as + time went on, the ambition took a higher flight—he felt his sphere + circumscribed; the Eastern indolence that filled up the long intervals + between Eastern action chafed a temper never at rest: he returned to + France: his reputation, Liancourt’s friendship, and the relations of + Eugenie—grateful, as has before been implied, for the generosity + with which he surrendered the principal part of her donation—opened + for him a new career, but one painful and galling. In the Indian court + there was no question of his birth—one adventurer was equal with the + rest. But in Paris, a man attempting to rise provoked all the sarcasm of + wit, all the cavils of party; and in polished and civil life, what valour + has weapons against a jest? Thus, in civilisation, all the passions that + spring from humiliated self-love and baffled aspiration again preyed upon + his breast. He saw, then, that the more he struggled from obscurity, the + more acute would become research into his true origin; and his writhing + pride almost stung to death his ambition. To succeed in life by regular + means was indeed difficult for this man; always recoiling from the name he + bore—always strong in the hope yet to regain that to which he + conceived himself entitled—cherishing that pride of country which + never deserts the native of a Free State, however harsh a parent she may + have proved; and, above all, whatever his ambition and his passions, + taking, from the very misfortunes he had known, an indomitable belief in + the ultimate justice of Heaven;—he had refused to sever the last + ties that connected him with his lost heritage and his forsaken land—he + refused to be naturalised—to make the name he bore legally + undisputed—he was contented to be an alien. Neither was Vaudemont + fitted exactly for that crisis in the social world when the men of + journals and talk bustle aside the men of action. He had not cultivated + literature, he had no book-knowledge—the world had been his school, + and stern life his teacher. Still, eminently skilled in those physical + accomplishments which men admire and soldiers covet, calm and + self-possessed in manner, of great personal advantages, of much ready + talent and of practised observation in character, he continued to breast + the obstacles around him, and to establish himself in the favour of those + in power. It was natural to a person so reared and circumstanced to have + no sympathy with what is called the popular cause. He was no citizen in + the state—he was a stranger in the land. He had suffered and still + suffered too much from mankind to have that philanthropy, sometimes + visionary but always noble, which, in fact, generally springs from the + studies we cultivate, not in the forum, but the closet. Men, alas! too + often lose the Democratic Enthusiasm in proportion as they find reason to + suspect or despise their kind. And if there were not hopes for the Future, + which this hard, practical daily life does not suffice to teach us, the + vision and the glory that belong to the Great Popular Creed, dimmed + beneath the injustice, the follies, and the vices of the world as it is, + would fade into the lukewarm sectarianism of temporary Party. Moreover, + Vaudemont’s habits of thought and reasoning were those of the camp, + confirmed by the systems familiar to him in the East: he regarded the + populace as a soldier enamoured of discipline and order usually does. His + theories, therefore, or rather his ignorance of what is sound in theory, + went with Charles the Tenth in his excesses, but not with the timidity + which terminated those excesses by dethronement and disgrace. Chafed to + the heart, gnawed with proud grief, he obeyed the royal mandates, and + followed the exiled monarch: his hopes overthrown, his career in France + annihilated forever. But on entering England, his temper, confident and + ready of resource, fastened itself on new food. In the land where he had + no name he might yet rebuild his fortunes. It was an arduous effort—an + improbable hope; but the words heard by the bridge of Paris—words + that had often cheered him in his exile through hardships and through + dangers which it is unnecessary to our narrative to detail—yet rung + again in his ear, as he leaped on his native land,—“Time, Faith, + Energy.” + </p> + <p> + While such his character in the larger and more distant relations of life, + in the closer circles of companionship many rare and noble qualities were + visible. It is true that he was stern, perhaps imperious—of a temper + that always struggled for command; but he was deeply susceptible of + kindness, and, if feared by those who opposed, loved by those who served + him. About his character was that mixture of tenderness and fierceness + which belonged, of old, to the descriptions of the warrior. Though so + little unlettered, Life had taught him a certain poetry of sentiment and + idea—More poetry, perhaps, in the silent thoughts that, in his + happier moments, filled his solitude, than in half the pages that his + brother had read and written by the dreaming lake. A certain largeness of + idea and nobility of impulse often made him act the sentiments of which + bookmen write. With all his passions, he held licentiousness in disdain; + with all his ambition for the power of wealth, he despised its luxury. + Simple, masculine, severe, abstemious, he was of that mould in which, in + earlier times, the successful men of action have been cast. But to + successful action, circumstance is more necessary than to triumphant + study. + </p> + <p> + It was to be expected that, in proportion as he had been familiar with a + purer and nobler life, he should look with great and deep self-humiliation + at his early association with Gawtrey. He was in this respect more severe + on himself than any other mind ordinarily just and candid would have been,—when + fairly surveying the circumstances of penury, hunger, and despair, which + had driven him to Gawtrey’s roof, the imperfect nature of his early + education, the boyish trust and affection he had felt for his protector, + and his own ignorance of, and exemption from, all the worst practices of + that unhappy criminal. But still, when, with the knowledge he had now + acquired, the man looked calmly back, his cheek burned with remorseful + shame at his unreflecting companionship in a life of subterfuge and + equivocation, the true nature of which, the boy (so circumstanced as we + have shown him) might be forgiven for not at that time comprehending. Two + advantages resulted, however, from the error and the remorse: first, the + humiliation it brought curbed, in some measure, a pride that might + otherwise have been arrogant and unamiable, and, secondly, as I have + before intimated, his profound gratitude to Heaven for his deliverance + from the snares that had beset his youth gave his future the guide of an + earnest and heartfelt faith. He acknowledged in life no such thing as + accident. Whatever his struggles, whatever his melancholy, whatever his + sense of worldly wrong, he never despaired; for nothing now could shake + his belief in one directing Providence. + </p> + <p> + The ways and habits of Vaudemont were not at discord with those of the + quiet household in which he was now a guest. Like most men of strong + frames, and accustomed to active, not studious pursuits, he rose early;—and + usually rode to London, to come back late at noon to their frugal meal. + And if again, perhaps after the hour when Fanny and Simon retired, he + would often return to London, his own pass-key re-admitted him, at + whatever time he came back, without disturbing the sleep of the household. + Sometimes, when the sun began to decline, if the air was warm, the old man + would crawl out, leaning on that strong arm, through the neighbouring + lanes, ever returning through the lonely burial-ground; or when the blind + host clung to his fireside, and composed himself to sleep, Philip would + saunter forth along with Fanny; and on the days when she went to sell her + work, or select her purchases, he always made a point of attending her. + And her cheek wore a flush of pride when she saw him carrying her little + basket, or waiting without, in musing patience, while she performed her + commissions in the shops. Though in reality Fanny’s intellect was ripening + within, yet still the surface often misled the eye as to the depths. It + was rather that something yet held back the faculties from their growth + than that the faculties themselves were wanting. Her weakness was more of + the nature of the infant’s than of one afflicted with incurable + imbecility. For instance, she managed the little household with skill and + prudence; she could calculate in her head, as rapidly as Vaudemont + himself, the arithmetic necessary to her simple duties; she knew the value + of money, which is more than some of us wise folk do. Her skill, even in + her infancy so remarkable, in various branches of female handiwork, was + carried, not only by perseverance, but by invention and peculiar talent, + to a marvellous and exquisite perfection. Her embroidery, especially in + what was then more rare than at present, viz., flowers on silk, was much + in request among the great modistes of London, to whom it found its way + through the agency of Miss Semper. So that all this had enabled her, for + years, to provide every necessary comfort of life for herself and her + blind protector. And her care for the old man was beautiful in its + minuteness, its vigilance. Wherever her heart was interested, there never + seemed a deficiency of mind. Vaudemont was touched to see how much of + affectionate and pitying respect she appeared to enjoy in the + neighbourhood, especially among the humbler classes—even the beggar + who swept the crossings did not beg of her, but bade God bless her as she + passed; and the rude, discontented artisan would draw himself from the + wall and answer, with a softened brow, the smile with which the harmless + one charmed his courtesy. In fact, whatever attraction she took from her + youth, her beauty, her misfortune, and her affecting industry, was + heightened, in the eyes of the poorer neighbours, by many little traits of + charity and kindness; many a sick child had she tended, and many a + breadless board had stolen something from the stock set aside for her + father’s grave. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think,” she once whispered to Vaudemont, “that God attends to + us more if we are good to those who are sick and hungry?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly we are taught to think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ll tell you a secret—don’t tell again. Grandpapa once said + that my father had done bad things; now, if Fanny is good to those she can + help, I think that God will hear her more kindly when she prays him to + forgive what her father did. Do you think so too? Do say—you are so + wise!” + </p> + <p> + “Fanny, you are wiser than all of us; and I feel myself better and happier + when I hear you speak.” + </p> + <p> + There were, indeed, many moments when Vaudemont thought that her + deficiencies of intellect might have been repaired, long since, by skilful + culture and habitual companionship with those of her own age; from which + companionship, however, Fanny, even when at school, had shrunk aloof. At + other moments there was something so absent and distracted about her, or + so fantastic and incoherent, that Vaudemont, with the man’s hard, worldly + eye, read in it nothing but melancholy confusion. Nevertheless, if the + skein of ideas was entangled, each thread in itself was a thread of gold. + </p> + <p> + Fanny’s great object—her great ambition—her one hope—was + a tomb for her supposed father. Whether from some of that early religion + attached to the grave, which is most felt in Catholic countries, and which + she had imbibed at the convent; or from her residence so near the burial + ground, and the affection with which she regarded the spot;—whatever + the cause, she had cherished for some years, as young maidens usually + cherish the desire of the Altar—the dream of the Gravestone. But the + hoard was amassed so slowly;—now old Gawtrey was attacked by + illness;—now there was some little difficulty in the rent; now some + fluctuation in the price of work; and now, and more often than all, some + demand on her charity, which interfered with, and drew from, the pious + savings. This was a sentiment in which her new friend sympathised deeply; + for he, too, remembered that his first gold had bought that humble stone + which still preserved upon the earth the memory of his mother. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, days crept on, and no new violence was offered to Fanny. + Vaudemont learned, then, by little and little—and Fanny’s account + was very confused—the nature of the danger she had run. + </p> + <p> + It seemed that one day, tempted by the fineness of the weather up the road + that led from the suburb farther into the country, Fanny was stopped by a + gentleman in a carriage, who accosted her, as she said, very kindly: and + after several questions, which she answered with her usual unsuspecting + innocence, learned her trade, insisted on purchasing some articles of work + which she had at the moment in her basket, and promised to procure her a + constant purchaser, upon much better terms than she had hitherto obtained, + if she would call at the house of a Mrs. West, about a mile from the + suburb towards London. This she promised to do, and this she did, + according to the address he gave her. She was admitted to a lady more + gaily dressed than Fanny had ever seen a lady before,—the gentleman + was also present,—they both loaded her with compliments, and bought + her work at a price which seemed about to realise all the hopes of the + poor girl as to the gravestone for William Gawtrey,—as if his evil + fate pursued that wild man beyond the grave, and his very tomb was to be + purchased by the gold of the polluter! The lady then appointed her to call + again; but, meanwhile, she met Fanny in the streets, and while she was + accosting her, it fortunately chanced that Miss Semper the milliner passed + that way—turned round, looked hard at the lady, used very angry + language to her, seized Fanny’s hand, led her away while the lady slunk + off; and told her that the said lady was a very bad woman, and that Fanny + must never speak to her again. Fanny most cheerfully promised this. And, + in fact, the lady, probably afraid, whether of the mob or the magistrates, + never again came near her. + </p> + <p> + “And,” said Fanny, “I gave the money they had both given to me to Miss + Semper, who said she would send it back.” + </p> + <p> + “You did right, Fanny; and as you made one promise to Miss Semper, so you + must make me one—never to stir from home again without me or some + other person. No, no other person—only me. I will give up everything + else to go with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you? Oh, yes. I promise! I used to like going alone, but that was + before you came, brother.” + </p> + <p> + And as Fanny kept her promise, it would have been a bold gallant indeed + who would have ventured to molest her by the side of that stately and + strong protector. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Timon. Each thing’s a thief + The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power + Have unchecked theft. + + The sweet degrees that this brief world affords, + To such as may the passive drugs of it + Freely command.”—Timon of Athens. +</pre> + <p> + On the day and at the hour fixed for the interview with the stranger who + had visited Mr. Beaufort, Lord Lilburne was seated in the library of his + brother-in-law; and before the elbow-chair, on which he lolled carelessly, + stood our old friend Mr. Sharp, of Bow Street notability. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Sharp,” said the peer, “I have sent for you to do me a little favour. + I expect a man here who professes to give Mr. Beaufort, my brother-in-law, + some information about a lawsuit. It is necessary to know the exact value + of his evidence. I wish you to ascertain all particulars about him. Be so + good as to seat yourself in the porter’s chair in the hall; note him when + he enters, unobserved yourself—but as he is probably a stranger to + you, note him still more when he leaves the house; follow him at a + distance; find out where he lives, whom he associates with, where he + visits, their names and directions, what his character and calling are;—in + a word, everything you can, and report to me each evening. Dog him well, + never lose sight of him—you will be handsomely paid. You + understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Mr. Sharp, “leave me alone, my lord. Been employed before by + your lordship’s brother-in-law. We knows what’s what.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t doubt it. To your post—I expect him every moment.” + </p> + <p> + And, in fact, Mr. Sharp had only just ensconced himself in the porter’s + chair when the stranger knocked at the door—in another moment he was + shown in to Lord Lilburne. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said his lordship, without rising, “be so good as to take a chair. + Mr. Beaufort is obliged to leave town—he has asked me to see you—I + am one of his family—his wife is my sister—you may be as frank + with me as with him,—more so, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg the fauvour of your name, sir,” said the stranger, adjusting his + collar. + </p> + <p> + “Yours first—business is business.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Captain Smith.” + </p> + <p> + “Of what regiment?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-pay.” + </p> + <p> + “I am Lord Lilburne. Your name is Smith—humph!” added the peer, + looking over some notes before him. “I see it is also the name of the + witness appealed to by Mrs. Morton—humph!” + </p> + <p> + At this remark, and still more at the look which accompanied it, the + countenance, before impudent and complacent, of Captain Smith fell into + visible embarrassment; he cleared his throat and said, with a little + hesitation,— + </p> + <p> + “My lord, that witness is living!” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt of it—witnesses never die where property is concerned and + imposture intended.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the servant entered, and placed a little note, quaintly + folded, before Lord Lilburne. He glanced at it in surprise—opened, + and read as follows, in pencil,— + </p> + <p> + “My LORD,—I knows the man; take caer of him; he is as big a roge as + ever stept; he was transported some three year back, and unless his time + has been shortened by the Home, he’s absent without leve. We used to call + him Dashing Jerry. That ere youngster we went arter, by Mr. Bofort’s wish, + was a pall of his. Scuze the liberty I take. + </p> + <p> + “J. SHARP.” + </p> + <p> + While Lord Lilburne held this effusion to the candle, and spelled his way + through it, Captain Smith, recovering his self-composure, thus proceeded: + </p> + <p> + “Imposture, my lord! imposture! I really don’t understand. Your lordship + really seems so suspicious, that it is quite uncomfortable. I am sure it + is all the same to me; and if Mr. Beaufort does not think proper to see me + himself, why I’d best make my bow.” + </p> + <p> + And Captain Smith rose. + </p> + <p> + “Stay a moment, sir. What Mr. Beaufort may yet do, I cannot say; but I + know this, you stand charged of a very grave offence, and if your witness + or witnesses—you may have fifty, for what I care—are equally + guilty, so much the worse for them.” + </p> + <p> + “My lord, I really don’t comprehend.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will be more plain. I accuse you of devising an infamous falsehood + for the purpose of extorting money. Let your witnesses appear in court, + and I promise that you, they, and the young man, Mr. Morton, whose claim + they set up, shall be indicted for conspiracy—conspiracy, if + accompanied (as in the case of your witnesses) with perjury, of the + blackest die. Mr. Smith, I know you; and, before ten o’clock to-morrow, I + shall know also if you had his majesty’s leave to quit the colonies! Ah! I + am plain enough now, I see.” + </p> + <p> + And Lord Lilburne threw himself back in his chair, and coldly contemplated + the white face and dismayed expression of the crestfallen captain. That + most worthy person, after a pause of confusion, amaze, and fear, made an + involuntary stride, with a menacing gesture, towards Lilburne; the peer + quietly placed his hand on the bell. + </p> + <p> + “One moment more,” said the latter; “if I ring this bell, it is to place + you in custody. Let Mr. Beaufort but see you here once again—nay, + let him but hear another word of this pretended lawsuit—and you + return to the colonies. Pshaw! Frown not at me, sir! A Bow Street officer + is in the hall. Begone!—no, stop one moment, and take a lesson in + life. Never again attempt to threaten people of property and station. + Around every rich man is a wall—better not run your head against + it.” + </p> + <p> + “But I swear solemnly,” cried the knave, with an emphasis so startling + that it carried with it the appearance of truth, “that the marriage did + take place.” + </p> + <p> + “And I say, no less solemnly, that any one who swears it in a court of law + shall be prosecuted for perjury! Bah! you are a sorry rogue, after all!” + </p> + <p> + And with an air of supreme and half-compassionate contempt, Lord Lilburne + turned away and stirred the fire. Captain Smith muttered and fumbled a + moment with his gloves, then shrugged his shoulders and sneaked out. + </p> + <p> + That night Lord Lilburne again received his friends, and amongst his + guests came Vaudemont. Lilburne was one who liked the study of character, + especially the character of men wrestling against the world. Wholly free + from every species of ambition, he seemed to reconcile himself to his + apathy by examining into the disquietude, the mortification, the heart’s + wear and tear, which are the lot of the ambitious. Like the spider in his + hole, he watched with hungry pleasure the flies struggling in the web; + through whose slimy labyrinth he walked with an easy safety. Perhaps one + reason why he loved gaming was less from the joy of winning than the + philosophical complacency with which he feasted on the emotions of those + who lost; always serene, and, except in debauch, always passionless,—Majendie, + tracing the experiments of science in the agonies of some tortured dog, + could not be more rapt in the science, and more indifferent to the dog, + than Lord Lilburne, ruining a victim, in the analysis of human passions,—stoical + in the writhings of the wretch whom he tranquilly dissected. He wished to + win money of Vaudemont—to ruin this man, who presumed to be more + generous than other people—to see a bold adventurer submitted to the + wheel of the Fortune which reigns in a pack of cards;—and all, of + course, without the least hate to the man whom he then saw for the first + time. On the contrary, he felt a respect for Vaudemont. Like most worldly + men, Lord Lilburne was prepossessed in favour of those who seek to rise in + life: and like men who have excelled in manly and athletic exercises, he + was also prepossessed in favour of those who appeared fitted for the same + success. + </p> + <p> + Liancourt took aside his friend, as Lord Lilburne was talking with his + other guests:— + </p> + <p> + “I need not caution you, who never play, not to commit yourself to Lord + Lilburne’s tender mercies; remember, he is an admirable player.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” answered Vaudemont, “I want to know this man: I have reasons, which + alone induce me to enter his house. I can afford to venture something, + because I wish to see if I can gain something for one dear to me. And for + the rest (he muttered)—I know him too well not to be on my guard.” + With that he joined Lord Lilburne’s group, and accepted the invitation to + the card-table. At supper, Vaudemont conversed more than was habitual to + him; he especially addressed himself to his host, and listened, with great + attention, to Lilburne’s caustic comments upon every topic successively + started. And whether it was the art of De Vaudemont, or from an interest + that Lord Lilburne took in studying what was to him a new character,—or + whether that, both men excelling peculiarly in all masculine + accomplishments, their conversation was of a nature that was more + attractive to themselves than to others; it so happened that they were + still talking while the daylight already peered through the + window-curtains. + </p> + <p> + “And I have outstayed all your guests,” said De Vaudemont, glancing round + the emptied room. + </p> + <p> + “It is the best compliment you could pay me. Another night we can enliven + our tete-a-tete with ecarte; though at your age, and with your appearance, + I am surprised, Monsieur de Vaudemont, that you are fond of play: I should + have thought that it was not in a pack of cards that you looked for + hearts. But perhaps you are <i>blase </i>betimes of the <i>beau sexe</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet your lordship’s devotion to it is, perhaps, as great now as ever?” + </p> + <p> + “Mine?—no, not as ever. To different ages different degrees. At your + age I wooed; at mine I purchase—the better plan of the two: it does + not take up half so much time.” + </p> + <p> + “Your marriage, I think, Lord Lilburne, was not blessed with children. + Perhaps sometimes you feel the want of them?” + </p> + <p> + “If I did, I could have them by the dozen. Other ladies have been more + generous in that department than the late Lady Lilburne, Heaven rest her!” + </p> + <p> + “And,” said Vaudemont, fixing his eyes with some earnestness on his host, + “if you were really persuaded that you had a child, or perhaps a + grandchild—the mother one whom you loved in your first youth—a + child affectionate, beautiful, and especially needing your care and + protection, would you not suffer that child, though illegitimate, to + supply to you the want of filial affection?” + </p> + <p> + “Filial affection, mon cher!” repeated Lord Lilburne, “needing my care and + protection! Pshaw! In other words, would I give board and lodging to some + young vagabond who was good enough to say he was son to Lord Lilburne?” + </p> + <p> + “But if you were convinced that the claimant were your son, or perhaps + your daughter—a tenderer name of the two, and a more helpless + claimant?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Monsieur de Vaudemont, you are doubtless a man of gallantry and + of the world. If the children whom the law forces on one are, nine times + out of ten, such damnable plagues, judge if one would father those whom + the law permits us to disown! Natural children are the pariahs of the + world, and I—am one of the Brahmans.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” persisted Vaudemont, “forgive me if I press the question farther. + Perhaps I seek from your wisdom a guide to my own conduct;—suppose, + then, a man had loved, had wronged, the mother;—suppose that in the + child he saw one who, without his aid, might be exposed to every curse + with which the pariahs (true, the pariahs!) of the world are too often + visited, and who with his aid might become, as age advanced, his + companion, his nurse, his comforter—” + </p> + <p> + “Tush!” interrupted Lilburne, with some impatience; “I know not how our + conversation fell on such a topic—but if you really ask my opinion + in reference to any case in practical life, you shall have it. Look you, + then Monsieur de Vaudemont, no man has studied the art of happiness more + than I have; and I will tell you the great secret—have as few ties + as possible. Nurse!—pooh! you or I could hire one by the week a + thousand times more useful and careful than a bore of a child. Comforter!—a + man of mind never wants comfort. And there is no such thing as sorrow + while we have health and money, and don’t care a straw for anybody in the + world. If you choose to love people, their health and circumstances, if + either go wrong, can fret you: that opens many avenues to pain. Never live + alone, but always feel alone. You think this unamiable: possibly. I am no + hypocrite, and, for my part, I never affect to be anything but what I am—John + Lilburne.” + </p> + <p> + As the peer thus spoke, Vaudemont, leaning against the door, contemplated + him with a strange mixture of interest and disgust. “And John Lilburne is + thought a great man, and William Gawtrey was a great rogue. You don’t + conceal your heart?—no, I understand. Wealth and power have no need + of hypocrisy: you are the man of vice—Gawtrey, the man of crime. You + never sin against the law—he was a felon by his trade. And the felon + saved from vice the child, and from want the grandchild (Your flesh and + blood) whom you disown: which will Heaven consider the worse man? No, poor + Fanny, I see I am wrong. If he would own you, I would not give you up to + the ice of such a soul:—better the blind man than the dead heart!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Lord Lilburne,” said De Vaudemont aloud, shaking off his reverie, + “I must own that your philosophy seems to me the wisest for yourself. For + a poor man it might be different—the poor need affection.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, the poor, certainly,” said Lord Lilburne, with an air of patronising + candour. + </p> + <p> + “And I will own farther,” continued De Vaudemont, “that I have willingly + lost my money in return for the instruction I have received in hearing you + converse.” + </p> + <p> + “You are kind: come and take your revenge next Thursday. Adieu.” + </p> + <p> + As Lord Lilburne undressed, and his valet attended him, he said to that + worthy functionary,— + </p> + <p> + “So you have not been able to make out the name of the stranger—the + new lodger you tell me of?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lord. They only say he is a very fine-looking man.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not seen him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lord. What do you wish me now to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Humph! Nothing at this moment! You manage things so badly, you might get + me into a scrape. I never do anything which the law or the police, or even + the news papers, can get hold of. I must think of some other way—humph! + I never give up what I once commence, and I never fail in what I + undertake! If life had been worth what fools trouble it with—business + and ambition—I suppose I should have been a great man with a very + bad liver—ha ha! I alone, of all the world, ever found out what the + world was good for! Draw the curtains, Dykeman.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Org. Welcome, thou ice that sitt’st about his heart + No heat can ever thaw thee!”—FORD: Broken Heart. + + “Nearch. Honourable infamy!”—Ibid. + + “Amye. Her tenderness hath yet deserved no rigour, + So to be crossed by fate!” + + “Arm. You misapply, sir, + With favour let me speak it, what Apollo + Hath clouded in dim sense!”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + If Vaudemont had fancied that, considering the age and poverty of Simon, + it was his duty to see whether Fanny’s not more legal, but more natural + protector were, indeed, the unredeemed and unmalleable egotist which + Gawtrey had painted him, the conversation of one night was sufficient to + make him abandon for ever the notion of advancing her claims upon Lord + Lilburne. But Philip had another motive in continuing his acquaintance + with that personage. The sight of his mother’s grave had recalled to him + the image of that lost brother over whom he had vowed to watch. And, + despite the deep sense of wronged affection with which he yet remembered + the cruel letter that had contained the last tidings of Sidney, Philip’s + heart clung with undying fondness to that fair shape associated with all + the happy recollections of childhood; and his conscience as well as his + love asked him, each time that he passed the churchyard, “Will you make no + effort to obey that last prayer of the mother who consigned her darling to + your charge?” Perhaps, had Philip been in want, or had the name he now + bore been sullied by his conduct, he might have shrunk from seeking one + whom he might injure, but could not serve. But though not rich, he had + more than enough for tastes as hardy and simple as any to which soldier of + fortune ever limited his desires. And he thought, with a sentiment of just + and noble pride, that the name which Eugenie had forced upon him had been + borne spotless as the ermine through the trials and vicissitudes he had + passed since he had assumed it. Sidney could give him nothing, and + therefore it was his duty to seek Sidney out. Now, he had always believed + in his heart that the Beauforts were acquainted with a secret which he + more and more pined to penetrate. He would, for Sidney’s sake, smother his + hate to the Beauforts; he would not reject their acquaintance if thrown in + his way; nay, secure in his change of name and his altered features, from + all suspicion on their part, he would seek that acquaintance in order to + find his brother and fulfil Catherine’s last commands. His intercourse + with Lilburne would necessarily bring him easily into contact with + Lilburne’s family. And in this thought he did not reject the invitations + pressed on him. He felt, too, a dark and absorbing interest in examining a + man who was in himself the incarnation of the World—the World of Art—the + World as the Preacher paints it—the hollow, sensual, sharp-witted, + self-wrapped WORLD—the World that is all for this life, and thinks + of no Future and no God! + </p> + <p> + Lord Lilburne was, indeed, a study for deep contemplation. A study to + perplex the ordinary thinker, and task to the utmost the analysis of more + profound reflection. William Gawtrey had possessed no common talents; he + had discovered that his life had been one mistake; Lord Lilburne’s + intellect was far keener than Gawtrey’s, and he had never made, and if he + had lived to the age of Old Parr, never would have made a similar + discovery. He never wrestled against a law, though he slipped through all + laws! And he knew no remorse, for he knew no fear. Lord Lilburne had + married early, and long survived, a lady of fortune, the daughter of the + then Premier—the best match, in fact, of his day. And for one very + brief period of his life he had suffered himself to enter into the field + of politics the only ambition common with men of equal rank. He showed + talents that might have raised one so gifted by circumstance to any + height, and then retired at once into his old habits and old system of + pleasure. “I wished to try,” said he once, “if fame was worth one + headache, and I have convinced myself that the man who can sacrifice the + bone in his mouth to the shadow of the bone in the water is a fool.” From + that time he never attended the House of Lords, and declared himself of no + political opinions one way or the other. Nevertheless, the world had a + general belief in his powers, and Vaudemont reluctantly subscribed to the + world’s verdict. Yet he had done nothing, he had read but little, he + laughed at the world to its face,—and that last was, after all, the + main secret of his ascendancy over those who were drawn into his circle. + That contempt of the world placed the world at his feet. His sardonic and + polished indifference, his professed code that there was no life worth + caring for but his own life, his exemption from all cant, prejudice, and + disguise, the frigid lubricity with which he glided out of the grasp of + the Conventional, whenever it so pleased him, without shocking the + Decorums whose sense is in their ear, and who are not roused by the deed + but by the noise,—all this had in it the marrow and essence of a + system triumphant with the vulgar; for little minds give importance to the + man who gives importance to nothing. Lord Lilburne’s authority, not in + matters of taste alone, but in those which the world calls judgment and + common sense, was regarded as an oracle. He cared not a straw for the + ordinary baubles that attract his order; he had refused both an earldom + and the garter, and this was often quoted in his honour. But you only try + a man’s virtue when you offer him something that he covets. The earldom + and the garter were to Lord Lilburne no more tempting inducements than a + doll or a skipping-rope; had you offered him an infallible cure for the + gout, or an antidote against old age, you might have hired him as your + lackey on your own terms. Lord Lilburne’s next heir was the son of his + only brother, a person entirely dependent on his uncle. Lord Lilburne + allowed him L1000. a year and kept him always abroad in a diplomatic + situation. He looked upon his successor as a man who wanted power, but not + inclination, to become his assassin. + </p> + <p> + Though he lived sumptuously and grudged himself nothing, Lord Lilburne was + far from an extravagant man; he might, indeed, be considered close; for he + knew how much of comfort and consideration he owed to his money, and + valued it accordingly; he knew the best speculations and the best + investments. If he took shares in an American canal, you might be sure + that the shares would soon be double in value; if he purchased an estate, + you might be certain it was a bargain. This pecuniary tact and success + necessarily augmented his fame for wisdom. + </p> + <p> + He had been in early life a successful gambler, and some suspicions of his + fair play had been noised abroad; but, as has been recently seen in the + instance of a man of rank equal to Lilburne’s, though, perhaps, of less + acute if more cultivated intellect, it is long before the pigeon will turn + round upon a falcon of breed and mettle. The rumours, indeed, were so + vague as to carry with them no weight. During the middle of his career, + when in the full flush of health and fortune, he had renounced the + gaming-table. Of late years, as advancing age made time more heavy, he had + resumed the resource, and with all his former good luck. The money-market, + the table, the sex, constituted the other occupations and amusements with + which Lord Lilburne filled up his rosy leisure. + </p> + <p> + Another way by which this man had acquired reputation for ability was + this,—he never pretended to any branch of knowledge of which he was + ignorant, any more than to any virtue in which he was deficient. Honesty + itself was never more free from quackery or deception than was this + embodied and walking Vice. If the world chose to esteem him, he did not + buy its opinion by imposture. No man ever saw Lord Lilburne’s name in a + public subscription, whether for a new church, or a Bible Society, or a + distressed family, no man ever heard of his doing one generous, + benevolent, or kindly action,—no man was ever startled by one + philanthropic, pious, or amiable sentiment from those mocking lips. Yet, + in spite of all this, John Lord Lilburne was not only esteemed but liked + by the world, and set up in the chair of its Rhadamanthuses. In a word, he + seemed to Vaudemont, and he was so in reality, a brilliant example of the + might of Circumstance—an instance of what may be done in the way of + reputation and influence by a rich, well-born man to whom the will a + kingdom is. A little of genius, and Lord Lilburne would have made his + vices notorious and his deficiencies glaring; a little of heart, and his + habits would have led him into countless follies and discreditable + scrapes. It was the lead and the stone that he carried about him that + preserved his equilibrium, no matter which way the breeze blew. But all + his qualities, positive or negative, would have availed him nothing + without that position which enabled him to take his ease in that inn, the + world—which presented, to every detection of his want of intrinsic + nobleness, the irreproachable respectability of a high name, a splendid + mansion, and a rent-roll without a flaw. Vaudemont drew comparisons + between Lilburne and Gawtrey, and he comprehended at last, why one was a + low rascal and the other a great man. + </p> + <p> + Although it was but a few days after their first introduction to each + other, Vaudemont had been twice to Lord Lilburne’s, and their acquaintance + was already on an easy footing—when one afternoon as the former was + riding through the streets towards H——, he met the peer + mounted on a stout cob, which, from its symmetrical strength, pure English + breed, and exquisite grooming, showed something of those sporting tastes + for which, in earlier life, Lord Lilburne had been noted. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Monsieur de Vaudemont, what brings you to this part of the town?—curiosity + and the desire to explore?” + </p> + <p> + “That might be natural enough in me; but you, who know London so well; + rather what brings you here?” + </p> + <p> + “Why I am returned from a long ride. I have had symptoms of a fit of the + gout, and been trying to keep it off by exercise. I have been to a cottage + that belongs to me, some miles from the town—a pretty place enough, + by the way—you must come and see me there next month. I shall fill + the house for a battue! I have some tolerable covers—you are a good + shot, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not practised, except with a rifle, for some years.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a pity; for as I think a week’s shooting once a year quite enough, + I fear that your visit to me at Fernside may not be sufficiently long to + put your hand in.” + </p> + <p> + “Fernside!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; is the name familiar to you?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I have heard it before. Did your lordship purchase or inherit + it?” + </p> + <p> + “I bought it of my brother-in-law. It belonged to his brother—a gay, + wild sort of fellow, who broke his neck over a six-barred gate; through + that gate my friend Robert walked the same day into a very fine estate!” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard so. The late Mr. Beaufort, then, left no children?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; two. But they came into the world in the primitive way in which Mr. + Owen wishes us all to come—too naturally for the present state of + society, and Mr. Owen’s parallelogram was not ready for them. By the way, + one of them disappeared at Paris—you never met with him, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Under what name?” + </p> + <p> + “Morton.” + </p> + <p> + “Morton! hem! What Christian name?” + </p> + <p> + “Philip.” + </p> + <p> + “Philip! no. But did Mr. Beaufort do nothing for the young men? I think I + have heard somewhere that he took compassion on one of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you? Ah, my brother-in-law is precisely one of those excellent men + of whom the world always speaks well. No; he would very willingly have + served either or both the boys, but the mother refused all his overtures + and went to law, I fancy. The elder of these bastards turned out a sad + fellow, and the younger,—I don’t know exactly where he is, but no + doubt with one of his mother’s relations. You seem to interest yourself in + natural children, my dear Vaudemont?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you have heard that people have doubted if I were a natural son?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I understand now. But are you going?—I was in hopes you would + have turned back my way, and—” + </p> + <p> + “You are very good; but I have a particular appointment, and I am now too + late. Good morning, Lord Lilburne.” Sidney with one of his mother’s + relations! Returned, perhaps, to the Mortons! How had he never before + chanced on a conjecture so probable? He would go at once!—that very + night he would go to the house from which he had taken his brother. At + least, and at the worst, they might give him some clue. + </p> + <p> + Buoyed with this hope and this resolve, he rode hastily to H——-, + to announce to Simon and Fanny that he should not return to them, perhaps, + for two or three days. As he entered the suburb, he drew up by the + statuary of whom he had purchased his mother’s gravestone. + </p> + <p> + The artist of the melancholy trade was at work in his yard. + </p> + <p> + “Ho! there!” said Vaudemont, looking over the low railing; “is the tomb I + have ordered nearly finished?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, sir, as you were so anxious for despatch, and as it would take a + long time to get a new one ready, I thought of giving you this, which is + finished all but the inscription. It was meant for Miss Deborah Primme; + but her nephew and heir called on me yesterday to say, that as the poor + lady died worth less by L5,000. than he had expected, he thought a + handsome wooden tomb would do as well, if I could get rid of this for him. + It is a beauty, sir. It will look so cheerful—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that will do: and you can place it now where I told you.” + </p> + <p> + “In three days, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “So be it.” And he rode on, muttering, “Fanny, your pious wish will be + fulfilled. But flowers,—will they suit that stone?” + </p> + <p> + He put up his horse, and walked through the lane to Simon’s. + </p> + <p> + As he approached the house, he saw Fanny’s bright eyes at the window. She + was watching his return. She hastened to open the door to him, and the + world’s wanderer felt what music there is in the footstep, what summer + there is in the smile, of Welcome! + </p> + <p> + “My dear Fanny,” he said, affected by her joyous greeting, “it makes my + heart warm to see you. I have brought you a present from town. When I was + a boy, I remember that my poor mother was fond of singing some simple + songs, which often, somehow or other, come back to me, when I see and hear + you. I fancied you would understand and like them as well at least as I do—for + Heaven knows (he added to himself) my ear is dull enough generally to the + jingle of rhyme.” And he placed in her hands a little volume of those + exquisite songs, in which Burns has set Nature to music. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you are so kind, brother,” said Fanny, with tears swimming in her + eyes, and she kissed the book. + </p> + <p> + After their simple meal, Vaudemont broke to Fanny and Simon the + intelligence of his intended departure for a few days. Simon heard it with + the silent apathy into which, except on rare occasions, his life had + settled. But Fanny turned away her face and wept. + </p> + <p> + “It is but for a day or two, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “An hour is very—very long sometimes,” said the girl, shaking her + head mournfully. + </p> + <p> + “Come, I have a little time yet left, and the air is mild, you have not + been out to-day, shall we walk—” + </p> + <p> + “Hem!” interrupted Simon, clearing his throat, and seeming to start into + sudden animation; “had not you better settle the board and lodging before + you go?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, grandfather!” cried Fanny, springing to her feet, with such a blush + upon her face. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, child,” said Vaudemont, laughingly; “your grandfather only + anticipates me. But do not talk of board and lodging; Fanny is as a sister + to me, and our purse is in common.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to feel a sovereign—just to feel it,” muttered Simon, + in a sort of apologetic tone, that was really pathetic; and as Vaudemont + scattered some coins on the table, the old man clawed them up, chuckling + and talking to himself; and, rising with great alacrity, hobbled out of + the room like a raven carrying some cunning theft to its hiding-place. + </p> + <p> + This was so amusing to Vaudemont that he burst out fairly into an + uncontrollable laughter. Fanny looked at him, humbled and wondering for + some moments; and then, creeping to him, put her hand gently on his arm + and said— + </p> + <p> + “Don’t laugh—it pains me. It was not nice in grand papa; but—but, + it does not mean anything. It—it—don’t laugh—Fanny feels + so sad!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are right. Come, put on your bonnet, we will go out.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny obeyed; but with less ready delight than usual. And they took their + way through lanes over which hung, still in the cool air, the leaves of + the yellow autumn. + </p> + <p> + Fanny was the first to break silence. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” she said, timidly, “that people here think me very silly?—do + you think so too?” + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont was startled by the simplicity of the question, and hesitated. + Fanny looked up in his dark face anxiously and inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “you don’t answer?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Fanny, there are some things in which I could wish you less + childlike and, perhaps, less charming. Those strange snatches of song, for + instance!” + </p> + <p> + “What! do you not like me to sing? It is my way of talking.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; sing, pretty one! But sing something that we can understand,—sing + the songs I have given you, if you will. And now, may I ask why you put to + me that question?” + </p> + <p> + “I have forgotten,” said Fanny, absently, and looking down. + </p> + <p> + Now, at that instant, as Philip Vaudemont bent over the exceeding + sweetness of that young face, a sudden thrill shot through his heart, and + he, too, became silent, and lost in thought. Was it possible that there + could creep into his breast a wilder affection for this creature than that + of tenderness and pity? He was startled as the idea crossed him. He shrank + from it as a profanation—as a crime—as a frenzy. He with his + fate so uncertain and chequered—he to link himself with one so + helpless—he to debase the very poetry that clung to the mental + temperament of this pure being, with the feelings which every fair face + may awaken to every coarse heart—to love Fanny! No, it was + impossible! For what could he love in her but beauty, which the very + spirit had forgotten to guard? And she—could she even know what love + was? He despised himself for even admitting such a thought; and with that + iron and hardy vigour which belonged to his mind, resolved to watch + closely against every fancy that would pass the fairy boundary which + separated Fanny from the world of women. + </p> + <p> + He was roused from this self-commune by an abrupt exclamation from his + companion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I recollect now why I asked you that question. There is one thing + that always puzzles me—I want you to explain it. Why does everything + in life depend upon money? You see even my poor grandfather forgot how + good you are to us both, when—when Ah! I don’t understand—it + pains—it puzzles me!” + </p> + <p> + “Fanny, look there—no, to the left—you see that old woman, in + rags, crawling wearily along; turn now to the right—you see that + fine house glancing through the trees, with a carriage and four at the + gates? The difference between that old woman and the owner of that house + is—Money; and who shall blame your grandfather for liking Money?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny understood; and while the wise man thus moralised, the girl, whom + his very compassion so haughtily contemned, moved away to the old woman to + do her little best to smooth down those disparities from which wisdom and + moralising never deduct a grain! Vaudemont felt this as he saw her glide + towards the beggar; but when she came bounding back to him, she had + forgotten his dislike to her songs, and was chaunting, in the glee of the + heart that a kind act had made glad, one of her own impromptu melodies. + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont turned away. Poor Fanny had unconsciously decided his + self-conquest; she guessed not what passed within him, but she suddenly + recollected—what he had said to her about her songs, and fancied him + displeased. + </p> + <p> + “Ah I will never do it again. Brother, don’t turn away!” + </p> + <p> + “But we must go home. Hark! the clock strikes seven—I have no time + to lose. And you will promise me never to stir out till I return?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall have no heart to stir out,” said Fanny, sadly; and then in a more + cheerful voice, she added, “And I shall sing the songs you like before you + come back again!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Well did they know that service all by rote; + + Some singing loud as if they had complained, + Some with their notes another manner feigned.” + CHAUCER: Pie Cuckoo and the Nightingale, + modernised by WORDSWORTH.—HORNE’s Edition. +</pre> + <p> + And once more, sweet Winandermere, we are on the banks of thy happy lake! + The softest ray of the soft clear sun of early autumn trembled on the + fresh waters, and glanced through the leaves of the limes and willows that + were reflected—distinct as a home for the Naiads—beneath the + limpid surface. You might hear in the bushes the young blackbirds trilling + their first untutored notes. And the graceful dragon-fly, his wings + glittering in the translucent sunshine, darted to and fro—the reeds + gathered here and there in the mimic bays that broke the shelving marge of + the grassy shore. + </p> + <p> + And by that grassy shore, and beneath those shadowy limes, sat the young + lovers. It was the very place where Spencer had first beheld Camilla. And + now they were met to say, “Farewell!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Camilla!” said he, with great emotion, and eyes that swam in tears, + “be firm—be true. You know how my whole life is wrapped up in your + love. You go amidst scenes where all will tempt you to forget me. I linger + behind in those which are consecrated by your remembrance, which will + speak to me every hour of you. Camilla, since you do love me—you do—do + you not?—since you have confessed it—since your parents have + consented to our marriage, provided only that your love last (for of mine + there can be no doubt) for one year—one terrible year—shall I + not trust you as truth itself? And yet how darkly I despair at times!” + </p> + <p> + Camilla innocently took the hands that, clasped together, were raised to + her, as if in supplication, and pressed them kindly between her own. + </p> + <p> + “Do not doubt me—never doubt my affection. Has not my father + consented? Reflect, it is but a year’s delay!” + </p> + <p> + “A year!—can you speak thus of a year—a whole year? Not to see—not + to hear you for a whole year, except in my dreams! And, if at the end your + parents waver? Your father—I distrust him still. If this delay is + but meant to wean you from me,—if, at the end, there are new excuses + found,—if they then, for some cause or other not now foreseen, still + refuse their assent? You—may I not still look to you?” + </p> + <p> + Camilla sighed heavily; and turning her meek face on her lover, said, + timidly, “Never think that so short a time can make me unfaithful, and do + not suspect that my father will break his promise.” + </p> + <p> + “But, if he does, you will still be mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Charles, how could you esteem me as a wife if I were to tell you I + could forget I am a daughter?” + </p> + <p> + This was said so touchingly, and with so perfect a freedom from all + affectation, that her lover could only reply by covering her hand with his + kisses. And it was not till after a pause that he continued passionately,— + </p> + <p> + “You do but show me how much deeper is my love than yours. You can never + dream how I love you. But I do not ask you to love me as well—it + would be impossible. My life from my earliest childhood has been passed in + these solitudes;—a happy life, though tranquil and monotonous, till + you suddenly broke upon it. You seemed to me the living form of the very + poetry I had worshipped—so bright—so heavenly—I loved + you from the very first moment that we met. I am not like other men of my + age. I have no pursuit—no occupation—nothing to abstract me + from your thought. And I love you so purely—so devotedly, Camilla. I + have never known even a passing fancy for another. You are the first—the + only woman—it ever seemed to me possible to love. You are my Eve—your + presence my paradise! Think how sad I shall be when you are gone—how + I shall visit every spot your footstep has hallowed—how I shall + count every moment till the year is past!” + </p> + <p> + While he thus spoke, he had risen in that restless agitation which belongs + to great emotion; and Camilla now rose also, and said soothingly, as she + laid her hand on his shoulder with tender but modest frankness: + </p> + <p> + “And shall I not also think of you? I am sad to feel that you will be so + much alone—no sister—no brother!” + </p> + <p> + “Do not grieve for that. The memory of you will be dearer to me than + comfort from all else. And you will be true!” + </p> + <p> + Camilla made no answer by words, but her eyes and her colour spoke. And in + that moment, while plighting eternal truth, they forgot that they were + about to part! + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, in a room in the house which, screened by the foliage, was only + partially visible where the lovers stood, sat Mr. Robert Beaufort and Mr. + Spencer. + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, sir,” said the former, “that I am not insensible to the + merits of your nephew and to the very handsome proposals you make, still I + cannot consent to abridge the time I have named. They are both very young. + What is a year?” + </p> + <p> + “It is a long time when it is a year of suspense,” said the recluse, + shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + “It is a longer time when it is a year of domestic dissension and + repentance. And it is a very true proverb, ‘Marry in haste and repent at + leisure.’ No! If at the end of the year the young people continue of the + same mind, and no unforeseen circumstances occur—” + </p> + <p> + “No unforeseen circumstances, Mr. Beaufort!—that is a new condition—it + is a very vague phrase.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir, it is hard to please you. Unforeseen circumstances,” said + the wary father, with a wise look, “mean circumstances that we don’t + foresee at present. I assure you that I have no intention to trifle with + you, and I shall be sincerely happy in so respectable a connexion.” + </p> + <p> + “The young people may write to each other?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I’ll consult Mrs. Beaufort. At all events, it must not be very + often, and Camilla is well brought up, and will show all the letters to + her mother. I don’t much like a correspondence of that nature. It often + leads to unpleasant results; if, for instance—” + </p> + <p> + “If what?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, if the parties change their minds, and my girl were to marry + another. It is not prudent in matters of business, my dear sir, to put + down anything on paper that can be avoided.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spencer opened his eyes. “Matters of business, Mr. Beaufort!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, is not marriage a matter of business, and a very grave matter too? + More lawsuits about marriage and settlements, &c., than I like to + think of. But to change the subject. You have never heard anything more of + those young men, you say?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mr. Spencer, rather inaudibly, and looking down. + </p> + <p> + “And it is your firm impression that the elder one, Philip, is dead?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t doubt it.” + </p> + <p> + “That was a very vexatious and improper lawsuit their mother brought + against me. Do you know that some wretched impostor, who, it appears, is a + convict broke loose before his time, has threatened me with another, on + the part of one of those young men? You never heard anything of it—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Never, upon my honour.” + </p> + <p> + “And, of course, you would not countenance so villanous an attempt?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “Because that would break off our contract at once. But you are too much a + gentleman and a man of honour. Forgive me so improper a question. As for + the younger Mr. Morton, I have no ill-feeling against him. But the elder! + Oh, a thorough reprobate! a very alarming character! I could have nothing + to do with any member of the family while the elder lived; it would only + expose me to every species of insult and imposition. And now I think we + have left our young friends alone long enough. + </p> + <p> + “But stay, to prevent future misunderstanding, I may as well read over + again the heads of the arrangement you honour me by proposing. You agree + to settle your fortune after your decease, amounting to L23,000. and your + house, with twenty-five acres one rood and two poles, more or less, upon + your nephew and my daughter, jointly—remainder to their children. + Certainly, without offence, in a worldly point of view, Camilla might do + better; still, you are so very respectable, and you speak so handsomely, + that I cannot touch upon that point; and I own, that though there is a + large nominal rent-roll attached to Beaufort Court (indeed, there is not a + finer property in the county), yet there are many incumbrances, and ready + money would not be convenient to me. Arthur—poor fellow, a very fine + young man, sir,—is, as I have told you in perfect confidence, a + little imprudent and lavish; in short, your offer to dispense with any + dowry is extremely liberal, and proves your nephew is actuated by no + mercenary feelings: such conduct prepossesses me highly in your favour and + his too.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spencer bowed, and the great man rising, with a stiff affectation of + kindly affability, put his arm into the uncle’s, and strolled with him + across the lawn towards the lovers. And such is life—love on the + lawn and settlements in the parlour. + </p> + <p> + The lover was the first to perceive the approach of the elder parties. And + a change came over his face as he saw the dry aspect and marked the + stealthy stride of his future father-in-law; for then there flashed across + him a dreary reminiscence of early childhood; the happy evening when, with + his joyous father, that grave and ominous aspect was first beheld; and + then the dismal burial, the funereal sables, the carriage at the door, and + he himself clinging to the cold uncle to ask him to say a word of comfort + to the mother, who now slept far away. “Well, my young friend,” said Mr. + Beaufort, patronisingly, “your good uncle and myself are quite agreed—a + little time for reflection, that’s all. Oh! I don’t think the worse of you + for wishing to abridge it. But papas must be papas.” + </p> + <p> + There was so little jocular about that sedate man, that this attempt at + jovial good humour seemed harsh and grating—the hinges of that wily + mouth wanted oil for a hearty smile. + </p> + <p> + “Come, don’t be faint-hearted, Mr. Charles. ‘Faint heart,’—you know + the proverb. You must stay and dine with us. We return to-morrow to town. + I should tell you, that I received this morning a letter from my son + Arthur, announcing his return from Baden, so we must give him the meeting—a + very joyful one you may guess. We have not seen him these three years. + Poor fellow! he says he has been very ill and the waters have ceased to do + him any good. But a little quiet and country air at Beaufort Court will + set him up, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + Thus running on about his son, then about his shooting—about + Beaufort Court and its splendours—about parliament and its fatigues—about + the last French Revolution, and the last English election—about Mrs. + Beaufort and her good qualities and bad health—about, in short, + everything relating to himself, some things relating to the public, and + nothing that related to the persons to whom his conversation was directed, + Mr. Robert Beaufort wore away half an hour, when the Spencer’s took their + leave, promising to return to dinner. + </p> + <p> + “Charles,” said Mr. Spencer, as the boat, which the young man rowed, + bounded over the water towards their quiet home; “Charles, I dislike these + Beauforts!” + </p> + <p> + “Not the daughter?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she is beautiful, and seems good; not so handsome as your poor + mother, but who ever was?”—here Mr. Spencer sighed, and repeated + some lines from Shenstone. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think Mr. Beaufort suspects in the least who I am?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that puzzles me; I rather think he does.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is the cause of the delay? I knew it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, on the contrary, I incline to think he has some kindly feeling to + you, though not to your brother, and that it is such a feeling that made + him consent to your marriage. He sifted me very closely as to what I knew + of the young Mortons—observed that you were very handsome, and that + he had fancied at first that he had seen you before.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes: and looked hard at me while he spoke; and said more than once, + significantly, ‘So his name is Charles?’ He talked about some attempt at + imposture and litigation, but that was, evidently, merely invented to + sound me about your brother—whom, of course, he spoke ill of—impressing + on me three or four times that he would never have anything to say to any + of the family while Philip lived.” + </p> + <p> + “And you told him,” said the young man, hesitatingly, and with a deep + blush of shame over his face, “that you were persuaded—that is, that + you believed Philip was—was—” + </p> + <p> + “Was dead! Yes—and without confusion. For the more I reflect, the + more I think he must be dead. At all events, you may be sure that he is + dead to us, that we shall never hear more of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Philip!” + </p> + <p> + “Your feelings are natural; they are worthy of your excellent heart; but + remember, what would have become of you if you had stayed with him!” + </p> + <p> + “True!” said the brother, with a slight shudder—“a career of + suffering—crime—perhaps the gibbet! Ah! what do I owe you?” + </p> + <p> + The dinner-party at Mr. Beaufort’s that day was constrained and formal, + though the host, in unusual good humour, sought to make himself agreeable. + Mrs. Beaufort, languid and afflicted with headache, said little. The two + Spencers were yet more silent. But the younger sat next to her he loved; + and both hearts were full: and in the evening they contrived to creep + apart into a corner by the window, through which the starry heavens looked + kindly on them. They conversed in whispers, with long pauses between each: + and at times Camilla’s tears flowed silently down her cheeks, and were + followed by the false smiles intended to cheer her lover. + </p> + <p> + Time did not fly, but crept on breathlessly and heavily. And then came the + last parting—formal, cold—before witnesses. But the lover + could not restrain his emotion, and the hard father heard his suppressed + sob as he closed the door. + </p> + <p> + It will now be well to explain the cause of Mr. Beaufort’s heightened + spirits, and the motives of his conduct with respect to his daughter’s + suitor. + </p> + <p> + This, perhaps, can be best done by laying before the reader the following + letters that passed between Mr. Beaufort and Lord Lilburne. + </p> + <p> + From LORD LILBURNE to ROBERT BEAUFORT, ESQ., M.P. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR BEAUFORT,—I think I have settled, pretty satisfactorily, your + affair with your unwelcome visitor. The first thing it seemed to me + necessary to do, was to learn exactly what and who he was, and with what + parties that could annoy you he held intercourse. I sent for Sharp, the + Bow Street officer, and placed him in the hall to mark, and afterwards to + dog and keep watch on your new friend. The moment the latter entered I saw + at once, from his dress and his address, that he was a ‘scamp;’ and + thought it highly inexpedient to place you in his power by any money + transactions. While talking with him, Sharp sent in a billet containing + his recognition of our gentleman as a transported convict. + </p> + <p> + “I acted accordingly; soon saw, from the fellow’s manner, that he had + returned before his time; and sent him away with a promise, which you may + be sure he believes will be kept, that if he molest you farther, he shall + return to the colonies, and that if his lawsuit proceed, his witness or + witnesses shall be indicted for conspiracy and perjury. Make your mind + easy so far. For the rest, I own to you that I think what he says probable + enough: but my object in setting Sharp to watch him is to learn what other + parties he sees. And if there be really anything formidable in his proofs + or witnesses, it is with those other parties I advise you to deal. Never + transact business with the go between, if you can with the principal. + Remember, the two young men are the persons to arrange with after all. + They must be poor, and therefore easily dealt with. For, if poor, they + will think a bird in the hand worth two in the bush of a lawsuit. + </p> + <p> + “If, through Mr. Spencer, you can learn anything of either of the young + men, do so; and try and open some channel, through which you can always + establish a communication with them, if necessary. Perhaps, by learning + their early history, you may learn something to put them into your power. + </p> + <p> + “I have had a twinge of the gout this morning, and am likely, I fear, to + be laid up for some weeks. + </p> + <p> + “Yours truly, + </p> + <p> + “LILBURNE. + </p> + <p> + “P.S.—Sharp has just been here. He followed the man who calls + himself ‘Captain Smith’ to a house in Lambeth, where he lodges, and from + which he did not stir till midnight, when Sharp ceased his watch. On + renewing it this morning, he found that the captain had gone off, to what + place Sharp has not yet discovered. + </p> + <p> + “Burn this immediately.” + </p> + <p> + From ROBERT BEAUFORT, ESQ., M.P., to the LORD LILBURNE. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR, LILBURNE,—Accept my warmest thanks for your kindness; you + have done admirably, and I do not see that I have anything further to + apprehend. I suspect that it was an entire fabrication on that man’s part, + and your firmness has foiled his wicked designs. Only think, I have + discovered—I am sure of it—one of the Mortons; and he, too, + though the younger, yet, in all probability, the sole pretender the fellow + could set up. You remember that the child Sidney had disappeared + mysteriously,—you remember also, how much that Mr. Spencer had + interested himself in finding out the same Sidney. Well,—this + gentleman at the Lakes is, as we suspected, the identical Mr. Spencer, and + his soi-disant nephew, Camilla’s suitor, is assuredly no other than the + lost Sidney. The moment I saw the young man I recognised him, for he is + very little altered, and has a great look of his mother into the bargain. + Concealing my more than suspicions, I, however, took care to sound Mr. + Spencer (a very poor soul), and his manner was so embarrassed as to leave + no doubt of the matter; but in asking him what he had heard of the + brothers, I had the satisfaction of learning that, in all human + probability, the elder is dead: of this Mr. Spencer seems convinced. I + also assured myself that neither Spencer nor the young man had the + remotest connection with our Captain Smith, nor any idea of litigation. + This is very satisfactory, you will allow. And now, I hope you will + approve of what I have done. I find that young Morton, or Spencer, as he + is called, is desperately enamoured of Camilla; he seems a meek, + well-conditioned, amiable young man; writes poetry;—in short, rather + weak than otherwise. I have demanded a year’s delay, to allow mutual trial + and reflection. This gives us the channel for constant information which + you advise me to establish, and I shall have the opportunity to learn if + the impostor makes any communication to them, or if there be any news of + the brother. If by any trick or chicanery (for I will never believe that + there was a marriage) a lawsuit that might be critical or hazardous can be + cooked up, I can, I am sure, make such terms with Sidney, through his love + for my daughter, as would effectively and permanently secure me from all + further trouble and machinations in regard to my property. And if, during + the year, we convince ourselves that, after all, there is not a leg of law + for any claimant to stand on, I may be guided by other circumstances how + far I shall finally accept or reject the suit. That must depend on any + other views we may then form for Camilla; and I shall not allow a hint of + such an engagement to get abroad. At the worst, as Mr. Spencer’s heir, it + is not so very bad a match, seeing that they dispense with all marriage + portion, &c.—a proof how easily they can be managed. I have not + let Mr. Spencer see that I have discovered his secret—I can do that + or not, according to circumstances hereafter; neither have I said anything + of my discovery to Mrs. B., or Camilla. At present, ‘Least said soonest + mended.’ I heard from Arthur to-day. He is on his road home, and we hasten + to town, sooner than we expected, to meet him. He complains still of his + health. We shall all go down to Beaufort Court. I write this at night, the + pretended uncle and sham nephew having just gone. But though we start + to-morrow, you will get this a day or two before we arrive, as Mrs. + Beaufort’s health renders short stages necessary. I really do hope that + Arthur, also, will not be an invalid, poor fellow! one in a family is + quite enough; and I find Mrs. Beaufort’s delicacy very inconvenient, + especially in moving about and in keeping up one’s county connexions. A + young man’s health, however, is soon restored. I am very sorry to hear of + your gout, except that it carries off all other complaints. I am very + well, thank Heaven; indeed, my health has been much better of late years: + Beaufort Court agrees with me so well! The more I reflect, the more I am + astonished at the monstrous and wicked impudence of that fellow—to + defraud a man out of his own property! You are quite right,—certainly + a conspiracy. + </p> + <p> + “Yours truly, “R. B.” + </p> + <p> + “P. S.—I shall keep a constant eye on the Spencers. + </p> + <p> + “Burn this immediately.” + </p> + <p> + After he had written and sealed this letter, Mr. Beaufort went to bed and + slept soundly. + </p> + <p> + And the next day that place was desolate, and the board on the lawn + announced that it was again to be let. But thither daily, in rain or + sunshine, came the solitary lover, as a bird that seeks its young in the + deserted nest:—Again and again he haunted the spot where he had + strayed with the lost one,—and again and again murmured his + passionate vows beneath the fast-fading limes. Are those vows destined to + be ratified or annulled? Will the absent forget, or the lingerer be + consoled? Had the characters of that young romance been lightly stamped on + the fancy where once obliterated they are erased for ever,—or were + they graven deep in those tablets where the writing, even when invisible, + exists still, and revives, sweet letter by letter, when the light and the + warmth borrowed from the One Bright Presence are applied to the faithful + record? There is but one Wizard to disclose that secret, as all others,—the + old Grave-digger, whose Churchyard is the Earth,—whose trade is to + find burial-places for Passions that seemed immortal,—disinterring + the ashes of some long-crumbling Memory—to hollow out the dark bed + of some new-perished Hope:—He who determines all things, and + prophesies none,—for his oracles are uncomprehended till the doom is + sealed—He who in the bloom of the fairest affection detects the + hectic that consumes it, and while the hymn rings at the altar, marks with + his joyless eye the grave for the bridal vow.—Wherever is the + sepulchre, there is thy temple, O melancholy Time! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK V. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Per ambages et ministeria deorum.”—PETRONTUS. + + [Through the mysteries and ministerings of the gods.] +</pre> + <p> + Mr. Roger Morton was behind his counter one drizzling, melancholy day. Mr. + Roger Morton, alderman, and twice mayor of his native town, was a thriving + man. He had grown portly and corpulent. The nightly potations of brandy + and water, continued year after year with mechanical perseverance, had + deepened the roses on his cheek. Mr. Roger Morton was never intoxicated—he + “only made himself comfortable.” His constitution was strong; but, somehow + or other, his digestion was not as good as it might be. He was certain + that something or other disagreed with him. He left off the joint one day—the + pudding another. Now he avoided vegetables as poison—and now he + submitted with a sigh to the doctor’s interdict of his cigar. Mr. Roger + Morton never thought of leaving off the brandy and water: and he would + have resented as the height of impertinent insinuation any hint upon that + score to a man of so sober and respectable a character. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Roger Morton was seated—for the last four years, ever since his + second mayoralty, he had arrogated to himself the dignity of a chair. He + received rather than served his customers. The latter task was left to two + of his sons. For Tom, after much cogitation, the profession of an + apothecary had been selected. Mrs. Morton observed, that it was a genteel + business, and Tom had always been a likely lad. And Mr. Roger considered + that it would be a great comfort and a great saving to have his medical + adviser in his own son. + </p> + <p> + The other two sons and the various attendants of the shop were plying the + profitable trade, as customer after customer, with umbrellas and in + pattens, dropped into the tempting shelter—when a man, meanly + dressed, and who was somewhat past middle age, with a careworn, hungry + face, entered timidly. He waited in patience by the crowded counter, + elbowed by sharp-boned and eager spinsters—and how sharp the elbows + of spinsters are, no man can tell who has not forced his unwelcome way + through the agitated groups in a linendraper’s shop!—the man, I say, + waited patiently and sadly, till the smallest of the shopboys turned from + a lady, who, after much sorting and shading, had finally decided on two + yards of lilac-coloured penny riband, and asked, in an insinuating + professional tone,— + </p> + <p> + “What shall I show you, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to speak to Mr. Morton. Which is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Morton is engaged, sir. I can give you what you want.” + </p> + <p> + “No—it is a matter of business—important business.” The boy + eyed the napless and dripping hat, the gloveless hands, and the rusty + neckcloth of the speaker; and said, as he passed his fingers through a + profusion of light curls “Mr. Morton don’t attend much to business himself + now; but that’s he. Any cravats, sir?” + </p> + <p> + The man made no answer, but moved where, near the window, and chatting + with the banker of the town (as the banker tried on a pair of beaver + gloves), sat still—after due apology for sitting—Mr. Roger + Morton. + </p> + <p> + The alderman lowered his spectacles as he glanced grimly at the lean + apparition that shaded the spruce banker, and said,— + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me, friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, if you please;” and the man took off his shabby hat, and bowed + low. + </p> + <p> + “Well, speak out. No begging petition, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir! Your nephews—” + </p> + <p> + The banker turned round, and in his turn eyed the newcomer. The + linendraper started back. + </p> + <p> + “Nephews!” he repeated, with a bewildered look. “What does the man mean? + Wait a bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve done!” said the banker, smiling. “I am glad to find we agree so + well upon this question: I knew we should. Our member will never suit us + if he goes on in this way. Trade must take care of itself. Good day to + You!” + </p> + <p> + “Nephews!” repeated Mr. Morton, rising, and beckoning to the man to follow + him into the back parlour, where Mrs. Morton sat casting up the washing + bills. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said the husband, closing the door, “what do you mean, my good + fellow?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir, what I wish to ask you is—if you can tell me what has become + of—of the young Beau—, that is, of your sister’s sons. I + understand there were two—and I am told that—that they are + both dead. Is it so?” + </p> + <p> + “What is that to you, friend?” + </p> + <p> + “An please you, sir, it is a great deal to them!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—ha! ha! it is a great deal to everybody whether they are alive + or dead!” Mr. Morton, since he had been mayor, now and then had his joke. + “But really—” + </p> + <p> + “Roger!” said Mrs. Morton, under her breath—“Roger!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Come this way—I want to speak to you about this bill.” The husband + approached, and bent over his wife. “Who’s this man?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Depend on it, he has some claim to make—some bills or something. + Don’t commit yourself—the boys are dead for what we know!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton hemmed and returned to his visitor. + </p> + <p> + “To tell you the truth, I am not aware of what has become of the young + men.” + </p> + <p> + “Then they are not dead—I thought not!” exclaimed the man, joyously. + </p> + <p> + “That’s more than I can say. It’s many years since I lost sight of the + only one I ever saw; and they may be both dead for what I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” said the man. “Then you can give me no kind of—of—hint + like, to find them out?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Do they owe you anything?” + </p> + <p> + “It does not signify talking now, sir. I beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay—who are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am a very poor man, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton recoiled. + </p> + <p> + “Poor! Oh, very well—very well. You have done with me now. Good day—good + day. I’m busy.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger pecked for a moment at his hat—turned the handle of the + door—peered under his grey eyebrows at the portly trader, who, with + both hands buried in his pockets, his mouth pursed up, like a man about to + say “No” fidgeted uneasily behind Mrs. Morton’s chair. He sighed, shook + his head, and vanished. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton rang the bell—the maid-servant entered. “Wipe the + carpet, Jenny;—dirty feet! Mr. Morton, it’s a Brussels!” + </p> + <p> + “It was not my fault, my dear. I could not talk about family matters + before the whole shop. Do you know, I’d quite forgot those poor boys. This + unsettles me. Poor Catherine! she was so fond of them. A pretty boy that + Sidney, too. What can have become of them? My heart rebukes me. I wish I + had asked the man more.” + </p> + <p> + “More!—why he was just going to beg.” + </p> + <p> + “Beg—yes—very true!” said Mr. Morton, pausing irresolutely; + and then, with a hearty tone, he cried out, “And, damme, if he had begged, + I could afford him a shilling! I’ll go after him.” So saying, he hastened + back through the shop, but the man was gone—the rain was falling, + Mr. Morton had his thin shoes on—he blew his nose, and went back to + the counter. But, there, still rose to his memory the pale face of his + dead sister; and a voice murmured in his ear, “Brother, where is my + child?” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! it is not my fault if he ran away. Bob, go and get me the county + paper.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton had again settled himself, and was deep in a trial for murder, + when another stranger strode haughtily into the shop. The new-comer, + wrapped in a pelisse of furs, with a thick moustache, and an eye that took + in the whole shop, from master to boy, from ceiling to floor, in a glance, + had the air at once of a foreigner and a soldier. Every look fastened on + him, as he paused an instant, and then walking up to the alderman, said,— + </p> + <p> + “Sir, you are doubtless Mr. Morton?” + </p> + <p> + “At your commands, sir,” said Roger, rising involuntarily. + </p> + <p> + “A word with you, then, on business.” + </p> + <p> + “Business!” echoed Mr. Morton, turning rather pale, for he began to think + himself haunted; “anything in my line, sir? I should be—” + </p> + <p> + The stranger bent down his tall stature, and hissed into Mr. Morton’s + foreboding ear: + </p> + <p> + “Your nephews!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton was literally dumb-stricken. Yes, he certainly was haunted! He + stared at this second questioner, and fancied that there was something + very supernatural and unearthly about him. He was so tall, and so dark, + and so stern, and so strange. Was it the Unspeakable himself come for the + linendraper? Nephews again! The uncle of the babes in the wood could + hardly have been more startled by the demand! + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Mr. Morton at last, recovering his dignity and somewhat + peevishly,—“sir, I don’t know why people should meddle with my + family affairs. I don’t ask other folks about their nephews. I have no + nephew that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “Permit me to speak to you, alone, for one instant.” Mr. Morton sighed, + hitched up his trousers, and led the way to the parlour, where Mrs. + Morton, having finished the washing bills, was now engaged in tying + certain pieces of bladder round certain pots of preserves. The eldest Miss + Morton, a young woman of five or six-and-twenty, who was about to be very + advantageously married to a young gentleman who dealt in coals and played + the violin (for N——- was a very musical town), had just joined + her for the purpose of extorting “The Swiss Boy, with variations,” out of + a sleepy little piano, that emitted a very painful cry under the awakening + fingers of Miss Margaret Morton. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton threw open the door with a grunt, and the stranger pausing at + the threshold, the full flood of sound (key C) upon which “the Swiss Boy” + was swimming along, “kine” and all, for life and death, came splash upon + him. + </p> + <p> + “Silence! can’t you?” cried the father, putting one hand to his ear, while + with the other he pointed to a chair; and as Mrs. Morton looked up from + the preserves with that air of indignant suffering with which female + meekness upbraids a husband’s wanton outrage, Mr. Roger added, shrugging + his shoulders,— + </p> + <p> + “My nephews again, Mrs. K!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Margaret turned round, and dropped a courtesy. Mrs. Morton gently let + fall a napkin over the preserves, and muttered a sort of salutation, as + the stranger, taking off his hat, turned to mother and daughter one of + those noble faces in which Nature has written her grant and warranty of + the lordship of creation. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” he said, “if I disturb you. But my business will be short. I + have come to ask you, sir, frankly, and as one who has a right to ask it, + what tidings you can give me of Sidney Morton?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir, I know nothing whatever about him. He was taken from my house, about + twelve years since, by his brother. Myself, and the two Mr. Beauforts, and + another friend of the family, went in search of them both. My search + failed.” + </p> + <p> + “And theirs?” + </p> + <p> + “I understood from Mr. Beaufort that they had not been more successful. I + have had no communication with those gentlemen since. But that’s neither + here nor there. In all probability, the elder of the boys—who, I + fear, was a sad character—corrupted and ruined his brother; and, by + this time, Heaven knows what and where they are.” + </p> + <p> + “And no one has inquired of you since—no one has asked the brother + of Catherine Morton, nay, rather of Catherine Beaufort—where is the + child intrusted to your care?” + </p> + <p> + This question, so exactly similar to that which his superstition had rung + on his own ears, perfectly appalled the worthy alderman. He staggered + back-stared at the marked and stern face that lowered upon him—and + at last cried,— + </p> + <p> + “For pity’s sake, sir, be just! What could I do for one who left me of his + own accord?—” + </p> + <p> + “The day you had beaten him like a dog. You see, Mr. Morton, I know all.” + </p> + <p> + “And what are you?” said Mr. Morton, recovering his English courage, and + feeling himself strangely browbeaten in his own house;—“What and who + are you, that you thus take the liberty to catechise a man of my character + and respectability?” + </p> + <p> + “Twice mayor—” began Mrs. Morton. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, mother!” whispered Miss Margaret,—“don’t work him up.” + </p> + <p> + “I repeat, sir, what are you?” + </p> + <p> + “What am I?—your nephew! Who am I? Before men, I bear a name that I + have assumed, and not dishonoured—before Heaven I am Philip + Beaufort!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton dropped down upon her stool. Margaret murmured “My cousin!” in + a tone that the ear of the musical coal-merchant might not have greatly + relished. And Mr. Morton, after a long pause, came up with a frank and + manly expression of joy, and said:— + </p> + <p> + “Then, sir, I thank Heaven, from my heart, that one of my sister’s + children stands alive before me!” + </p> + <p> + “And now, again, I—I whom you accuse of having corrupted and ruined + him—him for whom I toiled and worked—him, who was to me, then, + as a last surviving son to some anxious father—I, from whom he was + reft and robbed—I ask you again for Sidney—for my brother!” + </p> + <p> + “And again, I say, that I have no information to give you—that—Stay + a moment—stay. You must pardon what I have said of you before you + made yourself known. I went but by the accounts I had received from Mr. + Beaufort. Let me speak plainly; that gentleman thought, right or wrong, + that it would be a great thing to separate your brother from you. He may + have found him—it must be so—and kept his name and condition + concealed from us all, lest you should detect it. Mrs. M., don’t you think + so?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I’m so terrified I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs. Morton, + putting her hand to her forehead, and see-sawing herself to and fro upon + her stool. + </p> + <p> + “But since they wronged you—since you—you seem so very—very—” + </p> + <p> + “Very much the gentleman,” suggested Miss Margaret. “Yes, so much the + gentleman;—well off, too, I should hope, sir,”—and the + experienced eye of Mr. Morton glanced at the costly sables that lined the + pelisse,—“there can be no difficulty in your learning from Mr. + Beaufort all that you wish to know. And pray, sir, may I ask, did you send + any one here to-day to make the very inquiry you have made?” + </p> + <p> + “I?—No. What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well—sit down—there may be something in all this that + you may make out better than I can.” + </p> + <p> + And as Philip obeyed, Mr. Morton, who was really and honestly rejoiced to + see his sister’s son alive and apparently thriving, proceeded to relate + pretty exactly the conversation he had held with the previous visitor. + Philip listened earnestly and with attention. Who could this questioner + be? Some one who knew his birth—some one who sought him out?—some + one, who—Good Heavens! could it be the long-lost witness of the + marriage? + </p> + <p> + As soon as that idea struck him, he started from his seat and entreated + Morton to accompany him in search of the stranger. “You know not,” he + said, in a tone impressed with that energy of will in which lay the talent + of his mind,—“you know not of what importance this may be to my + prospects—to your sister’s fair name. If it should be the witness + returned at last! Who else, of the rank you describe, would be interested + in such inquiries? Come!” + </p> + <p> + “What witness?” said Mrs. Morton, fretfully. “You don’t mean to come over + us with the old story of the marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “Shall your wife slander your own sister, sir? A marriage there was—God + yet will proclaim the right—and the name of Beaufort shall be yet + placed on my mother’s gravestone. Come!” + </p> + <p> + “Here are your shoes and umbrella, pa,” cried Miss Margaret, inspired by + Philip’s earnestness. + </p> + <p> + “My fair cousin, I guess,” and as the soldier took her hand, he kissed the + unreluctant cheek—turned to the door—Mr. Morton placed his arm + in his, and the next moment they were in the street. + </p> + <p> + When Catherine, in her meek tones, had said, “Philip Beaufort was my + husband,” Roger Morton had disbelieved her. And now one word from the son, + who could, in comparison, know so little of the matter, had almost + sufficed to convert and to convince the sceptic. Why was this? Because—Man + believes the Strong! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “—Quid Virtus et quid Sapientia possit + Utile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulssem.” HOR. + + [“He has proposed to us Ulysses as a useful example of how + much may be accomplished by Virtue and Wisdom.”] +</pre> + <p> + Meanwhile the object of their search, on quitting Mr. Morton’s shop, had + walked slowly and sadly on, through the plashing streets, till he came to + a public house in the outskirts and on the high road to London. Here he + took shelter for a short time, drying himself by the kitchen fire, with + the license purchased by fourpenny-worth of gin; and having learned that + the next coach to London would not pass for some hours, he finally settled + himself in the Ingle, till the guard’s horn should arouse him. By the same + coach that the night before had conveyed Philip to N——, had + the very man he sought been also a passenger! + </p> + <p> + The poor fellow was sickly and wearied out: he had settled into a doze, + when he was suddenly wakened by the wheels of a coach and the trampling of + horses. Not knowing how long he had slept, and imagining that the vehicle + he had awaited was at the door, he ran out. It was a coach coming from + London, and the driver was joking with a pretty barmaid who, in rather + short petticoats, was fielding up to him the customary glass. The man, + after satisfying himself that his time was not yet come, was turning back + to the fire, when a head popped itself out of the window, and a voice + cried, “Stars and garters! Will—so that’s you!” At the sound of the + voice the man halted abruptly, turned very pale, and his limbs trembled. + The inside passenger opened the door, jumped out with a little carpet-bag + in his hand, took forth a long leathern purse from which he ostentatiously + selected the coins that paid his fare and satisfied the coachman, and + then, passing his arm through that of the acquaintance he had discovered, + led him back into the house. + </p> + <p> + “Will—Will,” he whispered, “you have been to the Mortons. Never + moind—let’s hear all. Jenny or Dolly, or whatever your sweet praetty + name is—a private room and a pint of brandy, my dear. Hot water and + lots of the grocery. That’s right.” + </p> + <p> + And as soon as the pair found themselves, with the brandy before them, in + a small parlour with a good fire, the last comer went to the door, shut it + cautiously, flung his bag under the table, took off his gloves, spread + himself wider and wider before the fire, until he had entirely excluded + every ray from his friend, and then suddenly turning so that the back + might enjoy what the front had gained, he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Damme, Will, you’re a praetty sort of a broather to give me the slip in + that way. But in this world every man for his-self!” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you,” said William, with something like decision in his voice, + “that I will not do any wrong to these young men if they live.” + </p> + <p> + “Who asks you to do a wrong to them?—booby! Perhaps I may be the + best friend they may have yet—ay, or you too, though you’re the + ungratefulest whimsicallist sort of a son of a gun that ever I came + across. Come, help yourself, and don’t roll up your eyes in that way, like + a Muggletonian asoide of a Fye-Fye!” + </p> + <p> + Here the speaker paused a moment, and with a graver and more natural tone + of voice proceeded: + </p> + <p> + “So you did not believe me when I told you that these brothers were dead, + and you have been to the Mortons to learn more?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what have you learned?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Morton declares that he does not know that they are alive, but + he says also that he does not know that they are dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed,” said the other, listening with great attention; “and you really + think that he does not know anything about them?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum! Is he a sort of man who would post down the rhino to help the + search?” + </p> + <p> + “He looked as if he had the yellow fever when I said I was poor,” returned + William, turning round, and trying to catch a glimpse at the fire, as he + gulped his brandy and water. + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll be d—-d if I run the risk of calling. I have done some + things in this town by way of business before now; and though it’s a long + time ago, yet folks don’t forget a haundsome man in a hurry—especially + if he has done ‘em! Now, then, listen to me. You see, I have given this + matter all the ‘tention in my power. ‘If the lads be dead,’ said I to you, + ‘it is no use burning one’s fingers by holding a candle to bones in a + coffin. But Mr. Beaufort need not know they are dead, and we’ll see what + we can get out of him; and if I succeeds, as I think I shall, you and I + may hold up our heads for the rest of our life.’ Accordingly, as I told + you, I went to Mr. Beaufort, and—‘Gad, I thought we had it all our + own way. But since I saw you last, there’s been the devil and all. When I + called again, Will, I was shown in to an old lord, sharp as a gimblet. + Hang me, William, if he did not frighten me out of my seven senses!” + </p> + <p> + Here Captain Smith (the reader has, no doubt, already discovered that the + speaker was no less a personage) took three or four nervous strides across + the room, returned to the table, threw himself in a chair, placed one foot + on one hob, and one on the other, laid his finger on his nose, and, with a + significant wink, said in a whisper, “Will, he knew I had been lagged! He + not only refused to hear all I had to say, but threatened to prosecute—persecute, + hang, draw, and quarter us both, if we ever dared to come out with the + truth.” + </p> + <p> + “But what’s the good of the truth if the boys are dead?” said William, + timidly. + </p> + <p> + The captain, without heeding this question, continued, as he stirred the + sugar in his glass, “Well, out I sneaked, and as soon as I had got to my + own door I turned round and saw Sharp the runner on the other side of the + way—I felt deuced queer. However, I went in, sat down, and began to + think. I saw that it was up with us, so far as the old uns were concerned; + and it might be worth while to find out if the young uns really were + dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you did not know that after all! I thought so. Oh, Jerry!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, look you, man, it was not our interest to take their side if we + could make our bargain out of the other. ‘Cause why? You are only one + witness—you are a good fellow, but poor, and with very shaky nerves, + Will. You does not know what them big wigs are when a man’s caged in a + witness-box—they flank one up, and they flank one down, and they + bully and bother, till one’s like a horse at Astley’s dancing on hot iron. + If your testimony broke down, why it would be all up with the case, and + what then would become of us? Besides,” added the captain, with dignified + candour, “I have been lagged, it’s no use denying it; I am back before my + time. Inquiries about your respectability would soon bring the bulkies + about me. And you would not have poor Jerry sent back to that d—-d + low place on t’other side of the herring-pond, would you?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Jerry!” said William, kindly placing his hand in his brother’s, “you + know I helped you to escape; I left all to come over with you.” + </p> + <p> + “So you did, and you’re a good fellow; though as to leaving all, why you + had got rid of all first. And when you told me about the marriage, did not + I say that I saw our way to a snug thing for life? But to return to my + story. There is a danger in going with the youngsters. But since, Will,—since + nothing but hard words is to be got on the other side, we’ll do our duty, + and I’ll find them out, and do the best I can for us—that is, if + they be yet above ground. And now I’ll own to you that I think I knows + that the younger one is alive.” + </p> + <p> + “You do?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! But as he won’t come in for anything unless his brother is dead, we + must have a hunt for the heir. Now I told you that, many years ago, there + was a lad with me, who, putting all things together—seeing how the + Beauforts came after him, and recollecting different things he let out at + the time—I feel pretty sure is your old master’s Hopeful. I know + that poor Will Gawtrey gave this lad the address of Old Gregg, a friend of + mine. So after watching Sharp off the sly, I went that very night, or + rather at two in the morning, to Gregg’s house, and, after brushing up his + memory, I found that the lad had been to him, and gone over afterwards to + Paris in search of Gawtrey, who was then keeping a matrimony shop. As I + was not rich enough to go off to Paris in a pleasant, gentlemanlike way, I + allowed Gregg to put me up to a noice quiet little bit of business. Don’t + shake your head—all safe—a rural affair! That took some days. + You see it has helped to new rig me,” and the captain glanced complacently + over a very smart suit of clothes. “Well, on my return I went to call on + you, but you had flown. I half suspected you might have gone to the + mother’s relations here; and I thought, at all events, that I could not do + better than go myself and see what they knew of the matter. From what you + say I feel I had better now let that alone, and go over to Paris at once; + leave me alone to find out. And faith, what with Sharp and the old lord, + the sooner I quit England the better.” + </p> + <p> + “And you really think you shall get hold of them after all? Oh, never fear + my nerves if I’m once in the right; it’s living with you, and seeing you + do wrong, and hearing you talk wickedly, that makes me tremble.” + </p> + <p> + “Bother!” said the captain, “you need not crow over me. Stand up, Will; + there now, look at us two in the glass! Why, I look ten years younger than + you do, in spite of all my troubles. I dress like a gentleman, as I am; I + have money in my pocket; I put money in yours; without me you’d starve. + Look you, you carried over a little fortune to Australia—you married—you + farmed—you lived honestly, and yet that d—-d shilly-shally + disposition of yours, ‘ticed into one speculation to-day, and scared out + of another to-morrow, ruined you!” + </p> + <p> + “Jerry! Jerry!” cried William, writhing; “don’t—don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s all true, and I wants to cure you of preaching. And then, when + you were nearly run out, instead of putting a bold face on it, and setting + your shoulder to the wheel, you gives it up—you sells what you have—you + bolts over, wife and all, to Boston, because some one tells you you can do + better in America—you are out of the way when a search is made for + you—years ago when you could have benefited yourself and your + master’s family without any danger to you or me—nobody can find you; + ‘cause why, you could not bear that your old friends in England, or in the + colony either, should know that you were turned a slave-driver in + Kentucky. You kick up a mutiny among the niggers by moaning over them, + instead of keeping ‘em to it—you get kicked out yourself—your + wife begs you to go back to Australia, where her relations will do + something for you—you work your passage out, looking as ragged as a + colt from grass—wife’s uncle don’t like ragged nephews-in-law—wife + dies broken-hearted—and you might be breaking stones on the roads + with the convicts, if I, myself a convict, had not taken compassion on + you. Don’t cry, Will, it is all for your own good—I hates cant! + Whereas I, my own master from eighteen, never stooped to serve any other—have + dressed like a gentleman—kissed the pretty girls—drove my + pheaton—been in all the papers as ‘the celebrated Dashing Jerry’—never + wanted a guinea in my pocket, and even when lagged at last, had a pretty + little sum in the colonial bank to lighten my misfortunes. I escape,—I + bring you over—and here I am, supporting you, and in all + probability, the one on whom depends the fate of one of the first families + in the country. And you preaches at me, do you? Look you, Will;—in + this world, honesty’s nothing without force of character! And so your + health!” + </p> + <p> + Here the captain emptied the rest of the brandy into his glass, drained it + at a draught, and, while poor William was wiping his eyes with a ragged + blue pocket-handkerchief, rang the bell, and asked what coaches would pass + that way to ——-, a seaport town at some distance. On hearing + that there was one at six o’clock, the captain ordered the best dinner the + larder would afford to be got ready as soon as possible; and, when they + were again alone, thus accosted his brother:— + </p> + <p> + “Now you go back to town—here are four shiners for you. Keep quiet—don’t + speak to a soul—don’t put your foot in it, that’s all I beg, and + I’ll find out whatever there is to be found. It is damnably out of my way + embarking at ——-, but I had best keep clear of Lunnon. And I + tell you what, if these youngsters have hopped the twig, there’s another + bird on the bough that may prove a goldfinch after all—Young Arthur + Beaufort: I hear he is a wild, expensive chap, and one who can’t live + without lots of money. Now, it’s easy to frighten a man of that sort, and + I sha’n’t have the old lord at his elbow.” + </p> + <p> + “But I tell you, that I only care for my poor master’s children.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but if they are dead, and by saying they are alive, one can make old + age comfortable, there’s no harm in it—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said William, irresolutely. “But certainly it is a hard + thing to be so poor at my time of life; and so honest a man as I’ve been, + too!” + </p> + <p> + Captain Smith went a little too far when he said that “honesty’s nothing + without force of character.” Still, Honesty has no business to be helpless + and draggle-tailed;—she must be active and brisk, and make use of + her wits; or, though she keep clear or the prison, ‘tis no very great + wonder if she fall on the parish. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Mitis.—This Macilente, signior, begins to be more sociable on + a sudden.” Every Man out of his Humour. + + “Punt. Signior, you are sufficiently instructed. + + “Fast. Who, I, sir?”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + After spending the greater part of the day in vain inquiries and a vain + search, Philip and Mr. Morton returned to the house of the latter. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” said Philip, “all that remains to be done is this: first give + to the police of the town a detailed description of the man; and secondly, + let us put an advertisement both in the county journal and in some of the + London papers, to the effect, that if the person who called on you will + take the trouble to apply again, either personally or by letter, he may + obtain the information sought for. In case he does, I will trouble you to + direct him to—yes—to Monsieur de Vaudemont, according to this + address.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to you, then?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the same thing,” replied Philip, drily. “You have confirmed my + suspicions, that the Beauforts know some thing of my brother. What did you + say of some other friend of the family who assisted in the search?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,—a Mr. Spencer! an old acquaintance of your mother’s.” Here Mr. + Morton smiled, but not being encouraged in a joke, went on, “However, + that’s neither here nor there; he certainly never found out your brother. + For I have had several letters from him at different times, asking if any + news had been heard of either of you.” + </p> + <p> + And, indeed, Spencer had taken peculiar pains to deceive the Mortons, + whose interposition he feared little less than that of the Beauforts. + </p> + <p> + “Then it can be of no use to apply to him,” said Philip, carelessly, not + having any recollection of the name of Spencer, and therefore attaching + little importance to the mention of him. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, I should think not. Depend on it, Mr. Beaufort must know.” + </p> + <p> + “True,” said Philip. “And I have only to thank you for your kindness, and + return to town.” + </p> + <p> + “But stay with us this day—do—let me feel that we are friends. + I assure you poor Sidney’s fate has been a load on my mind ever since he + left. You shall have the bed he slept in, and over which your mother bent + when she left him and me for the last time.” + </p> + <p> + These words were said with so much feeling, that the adventurer wrung his + uncle’s hand, and said, “Forgive me, I wronged you—I will be your + guest.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morton, strange to say, evinced no symptoms of ill-humour at the news + of the proffered hospitality. In fact, Miss Margaret had been so eloquent + in Philip’s praise during his absence, that she suffered herself to be + favourably impressed. Her daughter, indeed, had obtained a sort of + ascendency over Mrs. M. and the whole house, ever since she had received + so excellent an offer. And, moreover, some people are like dogs—they + snarl at the ragged and fawn on the well-dressed. Mrs. Morton did not + object to a nephew de facto, she only objected to a nephew in forma + pauperis. The evening, therefore, passed more cheerfully than might have + been anticipated, though Philip found some difficulty in parrying the many + questions put to him on the past. He contented himself with saying, as + briefly as possible, that he had served in a foreign service, and acquired + what sufficed him for an independence; and then, with the ease which a man + picks up in the great world, turned the conversation to the prospects of + the family whose guest he was. Having listened with due attention to Mrs. + Morton’s eulogies on Tom, who had been sent for, and who drank the praises + on his own gentility into a very large pair of blushing ears,—also, + to her self-felicitations on Miss Margaret’s marriage,—item, on the + service rendered to the town by Mr. Roger, who had repaired the town-hall + in his first mayoralty at his own expense,—item, to a long chronicle + of her own genealogy, how she had one cousin a clergyman, and how her + great-grandfather had been knighted,—item, to the domestic virtues + of all her children,—item, to a confused explanation of the + chastisement inflicted on Sidney, which Philip cut short in the middle; he + asked, with a smile, what had become of the Plaskwiths. “Oh!” said Mrs. + Morton, “my brother Kit has retired from business. His son-in-law, Mr. + Plimmins, has succeeded.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then, Plimmins married one of the young ladies?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Jane—she had a sad squint!—Tom, there is nothing to + laugh at,—we are all as God made us,—‘Handsome is as handsome + does,’—she has had three little uns!” + </p> + <p> + “Do they squint too?” asked Philip; and Miss Margaret giggled, and Tom + roared, and the other young men roared too. Philip had certainly said + something very witty. + </p> + <p> + This time Mrs. Morton administered no reproof; but replied pensively + </p> + <p> + “Natur is very mysterious—they all squint!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Morton conducted Philip to his chamber. There it was, fresh, clean, + unaltered—the same white curtains, the same honeysuckle paper as + when Catherine had crept across the threshold. + </p> + <p> + “Did Sidney ever tell you that his mother placed a ring round his neck + that night?” asked Mr. Morton. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and the dear boy wept when he said that he had slept too soundly to + know that she was by his side that last, last time. The ring—oh, how + well I remember it! she never put it off till then; and often in the + fields—for we were wild wanderers together in that day—often + when his head lay on my shoulder, I felt that ring still resting on his + heart, and fancied it was a talisman—a blessing. Well, well-good + night to you!” And he shut the door on his uncle, and was alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Man of Law,....... + And a great suit is like to be between them.” + BEN JONSON: Staple of News. +</pre> + <p> + On arriving in London, Philip went first to the lodging he still kept + there, and to which his letters were directed; and, among some + communications from Paris, full of the politics and the hopes of the + Carlists, he found the following note from Lord Lilburne:— + </p> + <p> + “DEAR SIR,—When I met you the other day I told you I had been + threatened with the gout. The enemy has now taken possession of the field. + I am sentenced to regimen and the sofa. But as it is my rule in life to + make afflictions as light as possible, so I have asked a few friends to + take compassion on me, and help me ‘to shuffle off this mortal coil’ by + dealing me, if they can, four by honours. Any time between nine and twelve + to-night, or to-morrow night, you will find me at home; and if you are not + better engaged, suppose you dine with me to-day—or rather dine + opposite to me—and excuse my Spartan broth. You will meet (besides + any two or three friends whom an impromptu invitation may find disengaged) + my sister, with Beaufort and their daughter: they only arrived in town + this morning, and are kind enough ‘to nurse me,’ as they call it,—that + is to say, their cook is taken ill! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yours, + + “LILBURNE +“Park Lane, Sept. —” + </pre> + <p> + “The Beauforts. Fate favors me—I will go. The date is for to-day.” + </p> + <p> + He sent off a hasty line to accept the invitation, and finding he had a + few hours yet to spare, he resolved to employ them in consultation with + some lawyer as to the chances of ultimately regaining his inheritance—a + hope which, however wild, he had, since his return to his native shore, + and especially since he had heard of the strange visit made to Roger + Morton, permitted himself to indulge. With this idea he sallied out, + meaning to consult Liancourt, who, having a large acquaintance among the + English, seemed the best person to advise him as to the choice of a lawyer + at once active and honest,—when he suddenly chanced upon that + gentleman himself. + </p> + <p> + “This is lucky, my dear Liancourt. I was just going to your lodgings.” + </p> + <p> + “And I was coming to yours to know if you dine with Lord Lilburne. He told + me he had asked you. I have just left him. And, by the sofa of + Mephistopheles, there was the prettiest Margaret you ever beheld.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!—Who?” + </p> + <p> + “He called her his niece; but I should doubt if he had any relation on + this side the Styx so human as a niece.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to have no great predilection for our host.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Vaudemont, between our blunt, soldierly natures, and those wily, + icy, sneering intellects, there is the antipathy of the dog to the cat.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so on our side, not on his—or why does he invite us?” + </p> + <p> + “London is empty; there is no one else to ask. We are new faces, new minds + to him. We amuse him more than the hackneyed comrades he has worn out. + Besides, he plays—and you, too. Fie on you!” + </p> + <p> + “Liancourt, I had two objects in knowing that man, and I pay to the toll + for the bridge. When I cease to want the passage, I shall cease to pay the + toll.” + </p> + <p> + “But the bridge may be a draw-bridge, and the moat is devilish deep below. + Without metaphor, that man may ruin you before you know where you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Bah! I have my eyes open. I know how much to spend on the rogue whose + service I hire as a lackey’s; and I know also where to stop. Liancourt,” + he added, after a short pause, and in a tone deep with suppressed passion, + “when I first saw that man, I thought of appealing to his heart for one + who has a claim on it. That was a vain hope. And then there came upon me a + sterner and deadlier thought—the scheme of the Avenger! This + Lilburne—this rogue whom the world sets up to worship—ruined, + body and soul ruined—one whose name the world gibbets with scorn! + Well, I thought to avenge that man. In his own house—amidst you all—I + thought to detect the sharper, and brand the cheat!” + </p> + <p> + “You startle me!—It has been whispered, indeed, that Lord Lilburne + is dangerous,—but skill is dangerous. To cheat!—an Englishman!—a + nobleman!—impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “Whether he do or not,” returned Vaudemont, in a calmer tone, “I have + foregone the vengeance, because he is—” + </p> + <p> + “Is what?” + </p> + <p> + “No matter,” said Vaudemont aloud, but he added to himself,—“Because + he is the grandfather of Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + “You are very enigmatical to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Patience, Liancourt; I may solve all the riddles that make up my life, + yet. Bear with me a little longer. And now can you help me to a lawyer?—a + man experienced, indeed, and of repute, but young, active, not overladen + with business;—I want his zeal and his time, for a hazard that your + monopolists of clients may not deem worth their devotion.” + </p> + <p> + “I can recommend you, then, the very man you require. I had a suit some + years ago at Paris, for which English witnesses were necessary. My avocat + employed a solicitor here whose activity in collecting my evidence gained + my cause. I will answer for his diligence and his honesty.” + </p> + <p> + “His address?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Barlow—somewhere by the Strand—let me see—Essex-yes, + Essex Street.” + </p> + <p> + “Then good-bye to you for the present.—You dine at Lord Lilburne’s + too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Adieu till then.” + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont was not long before he arrived at Mr. Barlow’s; a brass-plate + announced to him the house. He was shown at once into a parlour, where he + saw a man whom lawyers would call young, and spinsters middle-aged—viz., + about two-and-forty; with a bold, resolute, intelligent countenance, and + that steady, calm, sagacious eye, which inspires at once confidence and + esteem. + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont scanned him with the look of one who has been accustomed to + judge mankind—as a scholar does books—with rapidity because + with practice. He had at first resolved to submit to him the heads of his + case without mentioning names, and, in fact, he so commenced his + narrative; but by degrees, as he perceived how much his own earnestness + arrested and engrossed the interest of his listener, he warmed into fuller + confidence, and ended by a full disclosure, and a caution as to the + profoundest secrecy in case, if there were no hope to recover his rightful + name, he might yet wish to retain, unannoyed by curiosity or suspicion, + that by which he was not discreditably known. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Mr. Barlow, after assuring him of the most scrupulous + discretion,—“sir, I have some recollection of the trial instituted + by your mother, Mrs. Beaufort”—and the slight emphasis he laid on + that name was the most grateful compliment he could have paid to the truth + of Philip’s recital. “My impression is, that it was managed in a very + slovenly manner by her lawyer; and some of his oversights we may repair in + a suit instituted by yourself. But it would be absurd to conceal from you + the great difficulties that beset us—your mother’s suit, designed to + establish her own rights, was far easier than that which you must commence—viz., + an action for ejectment against a man who has been some years in + undisturbed possession. Of course, until the missing witness is found out, + it would be madness to commence litigation. And the question, then, will + be, how far that witness will suffice? It is true, that one witness of a + marriage, if the others are dead, is held sufficient by law. But I need + not add, that that witness must be thoroughly credible. In suits for real + property, very little documentary or secondary evidence is admitted. I + doubt even whether the certificate of the marriage on which—in the + loss or destruction of the register—you lay so much stress, would be + available in itself. But if an examined copy, it becomes of the last + importance, for it will then inform us of the name of the person who + extracted and examined it. Heaven grant it may not have been the clergyman + himself who performed the ceremony, and who, you say, is dead; if some one + else, we should then have a second, no doubt credible and most valuable + witness. The document would thus become available as proof, and, I think, + that we should not fail to establish our case.” + </p> + <p> + “But this certificate, how is it ever to be found? I told you we had + searched everywhere in vain.” + </p> + <p> + “True; but you say that your mother always declared that the late Mr. + Beaufort had so solemnly assured her, even just prior to his decease, that + it was in existence, that I have no doubt as to the fact. It may be + possible, but it is a terrible insinuation to make, that if Mr. Robert + Beaufort, in examining the papers of the deceased, chanced upon a document + so important to him, he abstracted or destroyed it. If this should not + have been the case (and Mr. Robert Beaufort’s moral character is unspotted—and + we have no right to suppose it), the probability is, either that it was + intrusted to some third person, or placed in some hidden drawer or + deposit, the secret of which your father never disclosed. Who has + purchased the house you lived in?” + </p> + <p> + “Fernside? Lord Lilburne. Mrs. Robert Beaufort’s brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph—probably, then, he took the furniture and all. Sir, this is a + matter that requires some time for close consideration. With your leave, I + will not only insert in the London papers an advertisement to the effect + that you suggested to Mr. Roger Morton (in case you should have made a + right conjecture as to the object of the man who applied to him), but I + will also advertise for the witness himself. William Smith, you say, his + name is. Did the lawyer employed by Mrs. Beaufort send to inquire for him + in the colony?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I fear there could not have been time for that. My mother was so + anxious and eager, and so convinced of the justice of her case—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a pity; her lawyer must have been a sad driveller.” + </p> + <p> + “Besides, now I remember, inquiry was made of his relations in England. + His father, a farmer, was then alive; the answer was that he had certainly + left Australia. His last letter, written two years before that date, + containing a request for money, which the father, himself made a bankrupt + by reverses, could not give, had stated that he was about to seek his + fortune elsewhere—since then they had heard nothing of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ahem! Well, you will perhaps let me know where any relations of his are + yet to be found, and I will look up the former suit, and go into the whole + case without delay. In the meantime, you do right, sir—if you will + allow me to say it—not to disclose either your own identity or a + hint of your intentions. It is no use putting suspicion on its guard. And + my search for this certificate must be managed with the greatest address. + But, by the way—speaking of identity—there can be no + difficulty, I hope, in proving yours.” + </p> + <p> + Philip was startled. “Why, I am greatly altered.” + </p> + <p> + “But probably your beard and moustache may contribute to that change; and + doubtless, in the village where you lived, there would be many with whom + you were in sufficient intercourse, and on whose recollection, by + recalling little anecdotes and circumstances with which no one but + yourself could be acquainted, your features would force themselves along + with the moral conviction that the man who spoke to them could be no other + but Philip Morton—or rather Beaufort.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right; there must be many such. There was not a cottage in the + place where I and my dogs were not familiar and half domesticated.” + </p> + <p> + “All’s right, so far, then. But I repeat, we must not be too sanguine. Law + is not justice—” + </p> + <p> + “But God is,” said Philip; and he left the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Volpone. A little in a mist, but not dejected; + Never—but still myself.” + BEN JONSON: Volpone. + + “Peregrine. Am I enough disguised? + Mer. Ay. I warrant you. + Per. Save you, fair lady.”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The ill wind that had blown gout + to Lord Lilburne had blown Lord Lilburne away from the injury he had + meditated against what he called “the object of his attachment.” How + completely and entirely, indeed, the state of Lord Lilburne’s feelings + depended on the state of his health, may be seen in the answer he gave to + his valet, when, the morning after the first attack of the gout, that + worthy person, by way of cheering his master, proposed to ascertain + something as to the movements of one with whom Lord Lilburne professed to + be so violently in love,—“Confound you, Dykeman!” exclaimed the + invalid,—“why do you trouble me about women when I’m in this + condition? I don’t care if they were all at the bottom of the sea! Reach + me the colchicum! I must keep my mind calm.” + </p> + <p> + Whenever tolerably well, Lord Lilburne was careless of his health; the + moment he was ill, Lord Lilburne paid himself the greatest possible + attention. Though a man of firm nerves, in youth of remarkable daring, and + still, though no longer rash, of sufficient personal courage, he was by no + means fond of the thought of death—that is, of his own death. Not + that he was tormented by any religious apprehensions of the Dread Unknown, + but simply because the only life of which he had any experience seemed to + him a peculiarly pleasant thing. He had a sort of instinctive persuasion + that John Lord Lilburne would not be better off anywhere else. Always + disliking solitude, he disliked it more than ever when he was ill, and he + therefore welcomed the visit of his sister and the gentle hand of his + pretty niece. As for Beaufort, he bored the sufferer; and when that + gentleman, on his arrival, shutting out his wife and daughter, whispered + to Lilburne, “Any more news of that impostor?” Lilburne answered + peevishly, “I never talk about business when I have the gout! I have set + Sharp to keep a lookout for him, but he has learned nothing as yet. And + now go to your club. You are a worthy creature, but too solemn for my + spirits just at this moment. I have a few people coming to dine with me, + your wife will do the honors, and—you can come in the evening.” + Though Mr. Robert Beaufort’s sense of importance swelled and chafed at + this very unceremonious conge, he forced a smile, and said:— + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is no wonder you are a little fretful with the gout. I have + plenty to do in town, and Mrs. Beaufort and Camilla can come back without + waiting for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, as your cook is ill, and they can’t dine at a club, you may as well + leave them here till I am a little better; not that I care, for I can hire + a better nurse than either of them.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Lilburne, don’t talk of hiring nurses; certainly, I am too happy + if they can be of comfort to you.” + </p> + <p> + “No! on second thoughts, you may take back your wife, she’s always talking + of her own complaints, and leave me Camilla: you can’t want her for a few + days.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you like. And you really think I have managed as well as I could + about this young man,—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes! And so you go to Beaufort Court in a few days?” + </p> + <p> + “I propose doing so. I wish you were well enough to come.” + </p> + <p> + “Um! Chambers says that it would be a very good air for me—better + than Fernside; and as to my castle in the north, I would as soon go to + Siberia. Well, if I get better, I will pay you a visit, only you always + have such a stupid set of respectable people about you. I shock them, and + they oppress me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, as I hope soon to see Arthur, I shall make it as agreeable to him as + I can, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you would invite a few + of your own friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are a good fellow, Beaufort, and I will take you at your word; + and, since one good turn deserves another, I have now no scruples in + telling you that I feel quite sure that you will have no further annoyance + from this troublesome witness-monger.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case,” said Beaufort, “I may pick up a better match for Camilla! + Good-bye, my dear Lilburne.” + </p> + <p> + “Form and Ceremony of the world!” snarled the peer, as the door closed on + his brother-in-law, “ye make little men very moral, and not a bit the + better for being so.” + </p> + <p> + It so happened that Vaudemont arrived before any of the other guests that + day, and during the half hour which Dr. Chambers assigned to his + illustrious patient, so that, when he entered, there were only Mrs. + Beaufort and Camilla in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont drew back involuntarily as he recognized in the faded + countenance of the elder lady, features associated with one of the dark + passages in his earlier life; but Mrs. Beaufort’s gracious smile, and + urbane, though languid welcome, sufficed to assure him that the + recognition was not mutual. He advanced, and again stopped short, as his + eye fell upon that fair and still childlike form, which had once knelt by + his side and pleaded, with the orphan, for his brother. While he spoke to + her, many recollections, some dark and stern—but those, at least, + connected with Camilla, soft and gentle—thrilled through his heart. + Occupied as her own thoughts and feelings necessarily were with Sidney, + there was something in Vaudemont’s appearance—his manner, his voice—which + forced upon Camilla a strange and undefined interest; and even Mrs. + Beaufort was roused from her customary apathy, as she glanced at that dark + and commanding face with something between admiration and fear. Vaudemont + had scarcely, however, spoken ten words, when some other guests were + announced, and Lord Lilburne was wheeled in upon his sofa shortly + afterwards. Vaudemont continued, however, seated next to Camilla, and the + embarrassment he had at first felt disappeared. He possessed, when he + pleased, that kind of eloquence which belongs to men who have seen much + and felt deeply, and whose talk has not been frittered down to the + commonplace jargon of the world. His very phraseology was distinct and + peculiar, and he had that rarest of all charms in polished life, + originality both of thought and of manner. Camilla blushed, when she found + at dinner that he placed himself by her side. That evening De Vaudemont + excused himself from playing, but the table was easily made without him, + and still he continued to converse with the daughter of the man whom he + held as his worst foe. By degrees, he turned the conversation into a + channel that might lead him to the knowledge he sought. + </p> + <p> + “It was my fate,” said he, “once to become acquainted with an intimate + friend of the late Mr. Beaufort. Will you pardon me if I venture to fulfil + a promise I made to him, and ask you to inform me what has become of a—a—that + is, of Sidney Morton?” + </p> + <p> + “Sidney Morton! I don’t even remember the name. Oh, yes! I have heard it,” + added Camilla, innocently, and with a candour that showed how little she + knew of the secrets of the family; “he was one of two poor boys in whom my + brother felt a deep interest—some relations to my uncle. Yes—yes! + I remember now. I never knew Sidney, but I once did see his brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! and you remember—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! I was very young then. I scarcely recollect what passed, it was all + so confused and strange; but, I know that I made papa very angry, and I + was told never to mention the name of Morton again. I believe they behaved + very ill to papa.” + </p> + <p> + “And you never learned—never!—the fate of either—of + Sidney?” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” + </p> + <p> + “But your father must know?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not; but tell me,”—said Camilla, with girlish and + unaffected innocence, “I have always felt anxious to know,—what and + who were those poor boys?” + </p> + <p> + What and who were they? So deep, then, was the stain upon their name, that + the modest mother and the decorous father had never even said to that + young girl, “They are your cousins—the children of the man in whose + gold we revel!” + </p> + <p> + Philip bit his lip, and the spell of Camilla’s presence seemed vanished. + He muttered some inaudible answer, turned away to the card-table, and + Liancourt took the chair he had left vacant. + </p> + <p> + “And how does Miss Beaufort like my friend Vaudemont? I assure you that I + have seldom seen him so alive to the fascination of female beauty!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Camilla, with her silver laugh, “your nation spoils us for our + own countrymen. You forget how little we are accustomed to flattery.” + </p> + <p> + “Flattery! what truth could flatter on the lips of an exile? But you don’t + answer my question—what think you of Vaudemont? Few are more + admired. He is handsome!” + </p> + <p> + “Is he?” said Camilla, and she glanced at Vaudemont, as he stood at a + little distance, thoughtful and abstracted. Every girl forms to herself + some untold dream of that which she considers fairest. And Vaudemont had + not the delicate and faultless beauty of Sidney. There was nothing that + corresponded to her ideal in his marked features and lordly shape! But she + owned, reluctantly to herself, that she had seldom seen, among the trim + gallants of everyday life, a form so striking and impressive. The air, + indeed, was professional—the most careless glance could detect the + soldier. But it seemed the soldier of an elder age or a wilder clime. He + recalled to her those heads which she had seen in the Beaufort Gallery and + other Collections yet more celebrated—portraits by Titian of those + warrior statesman who lived in the old Republics of Italy in a perpetual + struggle with their kind—images of dark, resolute, earnest men. Even + whatever was intellectual in his countenance spoke, as in those portraits, + of a mind sharpened rather in active than in studious life;—intellectual, + not from the pale hues, the worn exhaustion, and the sunken cheek of the + bookman and dreamer, but from its collected and stern repose, the calm + depth that lay beneath the fire of the eyes, and the strong will that + spoke in the close full lips, and the high but not cloudless forehead. + </p> + <p> + And, as she gazed, Vaudemont turned round—her eyes fell beneath his, + and she felt angry with herself that she blushed. Vaudemont saw the + downcast eye, he saw the blush, and the attraction of Camilla’s presence + was restored. He would have approached her, but at that moment Mr. + Beaufort himself entered, and his thoughts went again into a darker + channel. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Liancourt, “you must allow Vaudemont looks what he is—a + noble fellow and a gallant soldier. Did you never hear of his battle with + the tigress? It made a noise in India. I must tell it you as I have heard + it.” + </p> + <p> + And while Laincourt was narrating the adventure, whatever it was, to which + he referred, the card-table was broken up, and Lord Lilburne, still + reclining on his sofa, lazily introduced his brother-in-law to such of the + guests as were strangers to him—Vaudemont among the rest. Mr. + Beaufort had never seen Philip Morton more than three times; once at + Fernside, and the other times by an imperfect light, and when his features + were convulsed by passion, and his form disfigured by his dress. + Certainly, therefore, had Robert Beaufort even possessed that faculty of + memory which is supposed to belong peculiarly to kings and princes, and + which recalls every face once seen, it might have tasked the gift to the + utmost to have detected, in the bronzed and decorated foreigner to whom he + was now presented, the features of the wild and long-lost boy. But still + some dim and uneasy presentiment, or some struggling and painful effort of + recollection, was in his mind, as he spoke to Vaudemont, and listened to + the cold calm tone of his reply. + </p> + <p> + “Who do you say that Frenchman is?” he whispered to his brother-in-law, as + Vaudemont turned away. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! a cleverish sort of adventurer—a gentleman; he plays.—He + has seen a good deal of the world—he rather amuses me—different + from other people. I think of asking him to join our circle at Beaufort + Court.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort coughed huskily, but not seeing any reasonable objection to + the proposal, and afraid of rousing the sleeping hyaena of Lord Lilburne’s + sarcasm, he merely said:— + </p> + <p> + “Any one you like to invite:” and looking round for some one on whom to + vent his displeasure, perceived Camilla still listening to Liancourt. He + stalked up to her, and as Liancourt, seeing her rise, rose also and moved + away, he said peevishly, “You will never learn to conduct yourself + properly; you are to be left here to nurse and comfort your uncle, and not + to listen to the gibberish of every French adventurer. Well, Heaven be + praised, I have a son—girls are a great plague!” + </p> + <p> + “So they are, Mr. Beaufort,” sighed his wife, who had just joined him, and + who was jealous of the preference Lilburne had given to her daughter. + </p> + <p> + “And so selfish,” added Mrs. Beaufort; “they only care for their own + amusements, and never mind how uncomfortable their parents are for want of + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! dear mamma, don’t say so—let me go home with you—I’ll + speak to my uncle!” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, child! Come along, Mr. Beaufort;” and the affectionate parents + went out arm in arm. They did not perceive that Vaudemont had been + standing close behind them; but Camilla, now looking up with tears in her + eyes, again caught his gaze: he had heard all. + </p> + <p> + “And they ill-treat her,” he muttered: “that divides her from them!—she + will be left here—I shall see her again.” As he turned to depart, + Lilburne beckoned to him. + </p> + <p> + “You do not mean to desert our table?” + </p> + <p> + “No: but I am not very well to-night—to-morrow, if you will allow + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, to-morrow; and if you can spare an hour in the morning it will be a + charity. You see,” he added in a whisper, “I have a nurse, though I have + no children. D’ye think that’s love? Bah! sir—a legacy! Good night.” + </p> + <p> + “No—no—no!” said Vaudemont to himself, as he walked through + the moonlit streets. “No! though my heart burns,—poor murdered + felon!—to avenge thy wrongs and thy crimes, revenge cannot come from + me—he is Fanny’s grandfather and—Camilla’s uncle!” + </p> + <p> + And Camilla, when that uncle had dismissed her for the night, sat down + thoughtfully in her own room. The dark eyes of Vaudemont seemed still to + shine on her; his voice yet rung in her ear; the wild tales of daring and + danger with which Liancourt had associated his name yet haunted her + bewildered fancy—she started, frightened at her own thoughts. She + took from her bosom some lines that Sidney had addressed to her, and, as + she read and re-read, her spirit became calmed to its wonted and faithful + melancholy. Vaudemont was forgotten, and the name of Sidney yet murmured + on her lips, when sleep came to renew the image of the absent one, and + paint in dreams the fairy land of a happy Future! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ring on, ye bells—most pleasant is your chime!” + WILSON. Isle of Palms. + + “O fairy child! What can I wish for thee?”—Ibid. +</pre> + <p> + Vaudemont remained six days in London without going to H——, + and on each of those days he paid a visit to Lord Lilburne. On the seventh + day, the invalid being much better, though still unable to leave his room, + Camilla returned to Berkeley Square. On the same day, Vaudemont went once + more to see Simon and poor Fanny. + </p> + <p> + As he approached the door, he heard from the window, partially opened, for + the day was clear and fine, Fanny’s sweet voice. She was chaunting one of + the simple songs she had promised to learn by heart; and Vaudemont, though + but a poor judge of the art, was struck and affected by the music of the + voice and the earnest depth of the feeling. He paused opposite the window + and called her by her name. Fanny looked forth joyously, and ran, as + usual, to open the door to him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you have been so long away; but I already know many of the songs: + they say so much that I always wanted to say!” + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont smiled, but languidly. + </p> + <p> + “How strange it is,” said Fanny, musingly, “that there should be so much + in a piece of paper! for, after all,” pointing to the open page of her + book, “this is but a piece of paper—only there is life in it!” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Vaudemont, gloomily, and far from seizing the subtle delicacy + of Fanny’s thought—her mind dwelling upon Poetry, and his upon Law,—“ay, + and do you know that upon a mere scrap of paper, if I could but find it, + may depend my whole fortune, my whole happiness, all that I care for in + life?” + </p> + <p> + “Upon a scrap of paper? Oh! how I wish I could find it! Ah! you look as if + you thought I should never be wise enough for that!” + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont, not listening to her, uttered a deep sigh. Fanny approached him + timidly. + </p> + <p> + “Do not sigh, brother,—I can’t bear to hear you sigh. You are + changed. Have you, too, not been happy?” + </p> + <p> + “Happy, Fanny! yes, lately very happy—too happy!” + </p> + <p> + “Happy, have you? and I—” the girl stopped short—her tone had + been that of sadness and reproach, and she stopped—why, she knew + not, but she felt her heart sink within her. Fanny suffered him to pass + her, and he went straight to his room. Her eyes followed him wistfully: it + was not his habit to leave her thus abruptly. The family meal of the day + was over; and it was an hour before Vaudemont descended to the parlour. + Fanny had put aside the songs; she had no heart to recommence those gentle + studies that had been so sweet,—they had drawn no pleasure, no + praise from him. She was seated idly and listlessly beside the silent old + man, who every day grew more and more silent still. She turned her head as + Vaudemont entered, and her pretty lip pouted as that of a neglected child. + But he did not heed it, and the pout vanished, and tears rushed to her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont was changed. His countenance was thoughtful and overcast. His + manner abstracted. He addressed a few words to Simon, and then, seating + himself by the window, leant his cheek on his hand, and was soon lost in + reverie. Fanny, finding that he did not speak, and after stealing many a + long and earnest glance at his motionless attitude and gloomy brow, rose + gently, and gliding to him with her light step, said, in a trembling + voice,— + </p> + <p> + “Are you in pain, brother?” + </p> + <p> + “No, pretty one!” + </p> + <p> + “Then why won’t you speak to Fanny? Will you not walk with her? Perhaps my + grandfather will come too.” + </p> + <p> + “Not this evening. I shall go out; but it will be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Where? Has not Fanny been good? I have not been out since you left us. + And the grave—brother!—I sent Sarah with the flowers—but—” + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont rose abruptly. The mention of the grave brought back his + thoughts from the dreaming channel into which they had flowed. Fanny, + whose very childishness had once so soothed him, now disturbed; he felt + the want of that complete solitude which makes the atmosphere of growing + passion: he muttered some scarcely audible excuse, and quitted the house. + Fanny saw him no more that evening. He did not return till midnight. But + Fanny did not sleep till she heard his step on the stairs, and his chamber + door close: and when she did sleep, her dreams were disturbed and painful. + The next morning, when they met at breakfast (for Vaudemont did not return + to London), her eyes were red and heavy, and her cheek pale. And, still + buried in meditation, Vaudemont’s eye, usually so kind and watchful, did + not detect those signs of a grief that Fanny could not have explained. + After breakfast, however, he asked her to walk out; and her face + brightened as she hastened to put on her bonnet, and take her little + basket full of fresh flowers which she had already sent Sarah forth to + purchase. + </p> + <p> + “Fanny,” said Vaudemont, as leaving the house, he saw the basket on her + arm, “to-day you may place some of those flowers on another tombstone!—Poor + child, what natural goodness there is in that heart!—what pity that—” + </p> + <p> + He paused. Fanny looked delightedly in his face. “You were praising me—you! + And what is a pity, brother?” + </p> + <p> + While she spoke, the sound of the joy-bells was heard near at hand. + </p> + <p> + “Hark!” said Vaudemont, forgetting her question—and almost gaily—“Hark!—I + accept the omen. It is a marriage peal!” + </p> + <p> + He quickened his steps, and they reached the churchyard. + </p> + <p> + There was a crowd already assembled, and Vaudemont and Fanny paused; and, + leaning over the little gate, looked on. + </p> + <p> + “Why are these people here, and why does the bell ring so merrily?” + </p> + <p> + “There is to be a wedding, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of a wedding very often,” said Fanny, with a pretty look of + puzzlement and doubt, “but I don’t know exactly what it means. Will you + tell me?—and the bells, too!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Fanny, those bells toll but three times for man! The first time, + when he comes into the world; the last time, when he leaves it; the time + between when he takes to his side a partner in all the sorrows—in + all the joys that yet remain to him; and who, even when the last bell + announces his death to this earth, may yet, for ever and ever, be his + partner in that world to come—that heaven, where they who are as + innocent as you, Fanny, may hope to live and to love each other in a land + in which there are no graves!” + </p> + <p> + “And this bell?” + </p> + <p> + “Tolls for that partnership—for the wedding!” + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand you;—and they who are to be wed are happy?” + </p> + <p> + “Happy, Fanny, if they love, and their love continue. Oh! conceive the + happiness to know some one person dearer to you than your own self—some + one breast into which you can pour every thought, every grief, every joy! + One person, who, if all the rest of the world were to calumniate or + forsake you, would never wrong you by a harsh thought or an unjust word,—who + would cling to you the closer in sickness, in poverty, in care,—who + would sacrifice all things to you, and for whom you would sacrifice all—from + whom, except by death, night or day, you must be never divided—whose + smile is ever at your hearth—who has no tears while you are well and + happy, and your love the same. Fanny, such is marriage, if they who marry + have hearts and souls to feel that there is no bond on earth so tender and + so sublime. There is an opposite picture;—I will not draw that! And + as it is, Fanny, you cannot understand me!” + </p> + <p> + He turned away:—and Fanny’s tears were falling like rain upon the + grass below;—he did not see them! He entered the churchyard; for the + bell now ceased. The ceremony was to begin. He followed the bridal party + into the church, and Fanny, lowering her veil, crept after him, awed and + trembling. + </p> + <p> + They stood, unobserved, at a little distance, and heard the service. + </p> + <p> + The betrothed were of the middle class of life, young, both comely; and + their behaviour was such as suited the reverence and sanctity of the rite. + Vaudemont stood looking on intently, with his arms folded on his breast. + Fanny leant behind him, and apart from all, against one of the pews. And + still in her hand, while the priest was solemnising Marriage, she held the + flowers intended for the Grave. Even to that MORNING—hushed, calm, + earliest, with her mysterious and unconjectured heart—her shape + brought a thought of NIGHT! + </p> + <p> + When the ceremony was over—when the bride fell on her mother’s + breast and wept; and then, when turning thence, her eyes met the + bridegroom’s, and the tears were all smiled away—when, in that one + rapid interchange of looks, spoke all that holy love can speak to love, + and with timid frankness she placed her hand in his to whom she had just + vowed her life,—a thrill went through the hearts of those present. + Vaudemont sighed heavily. He heard his sigh echoed; but by one that had in + its sound no breath of pain; he turned; Fanny had raised her veil; her + eyes met his, moistened, but bright, soft, and her cheeks were rosy-red. + Vaudemont recoiled before that gaze, and turned from the church. The + persons interested retired to the vestry to sign their names in the + registry; the crowd dispersed, and Vaudemont and Fanny stood alone in the + burial-ground. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Fanny,” said the former, pointing to a tomb that stood far from his + mother’s (for those ashes were too hallowed for such a neighbourhood). + “Look yonder; it is a new tomb. Fanny, let us approach it. Can you read + what is there inscribed?” + </p> + <p> + The inscription was simply this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO W— + G— + MAN SEES THE DEED + GOD THE CIRCUMSTANCE. + JUDGE NOT, + THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED. +</pre> + <p> + “Fanny, this tomb fulfils your pious wish: it is to the memory of him whom + you called your father. Whatever was his life here—whatever sentence + it hath received, Heaven, at least, will not condemn your piety, if you + honour one who was good to you, and place flowers, however idle, even over + that grave.” + </p> + <p> + “It is his—my father’s—and you have thought of this for me!” + said Fanny, taking his hand, and sobbing. “And I have been thinking that + you were not so kind to me as you were!” + </p> + <p> + “Have I not been so kind to you? Nay, forgive me, I am not happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Not?—you said yesterday you had been too happy.” + </p> + <p> + “To remember happiness is not to be happy, Fanny.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true—and—” + </p> + <p> + Fanny stopped; and, as she bent over the tomb, musing, Vaudemont, willing + to leave her undisturbed, and feeling bitterly how little his conscience + could vindicate, though it might find palliation for, the dark man who + slept not there—retired a few paces. + </p> + <p> + At this time the new-married pair, with their witnesses, the clergyman, + &c., came from the vestry, and crossed the path. Fanny, as she turned + from the tomb, saw them, and stood still, looking earnestly at the bride. + </p> + <p> + “What a lovely face!” said the mother. “Is it—yes it is—the + poor idiot girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said the bridegroom, tenderly, “and she, Mary, beautiful as she is, + she can never make another as happy as you have made me.” + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont heard, and his heart felt sad. “Poor Fanny!—And yet, but + for that affliction—I might have loved her, ere I met the fatal face + of the daughter of my foe!” And with a deep compassion, an inexpressible + and holy fondness, he moved to Fanny. + </p> + <p> + “Come, my child; now let us go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay,” said Fanny—“you forget.” And she went to strew the flowers + still left over Catherine’s grave. + </p> + <p> + “Will my mother,” thought Vaudemont, “forgive me, if I have other thoughts + than hate and vengeance for that house which builds its greatness over her + slandered name?” He groaned:—and that grave had lost its melancholy + charm. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Of all men, I say, + That dare, for ‘tis a desperate adventure, + Wear on their free necks the yoke of women, + Give me a soldier.”—Knight of Malta. + + “So lightly doth this little boat + Upon the scarce-touch’d billows float; + So careless doth she seem to be, + Thus left by herself on the homeless sea, + To lie there with her cheerful sail, + Till Heaven shall send some gracious gale.” + WILSON: Isle of Palms. +</pre> + <p> + Vaudemont returned that evening to London, and found at his lodgings a + note from Lord Lilburne, stating that as his gout was now somewhat + mitigated, his physician had recommended him to try change of air—that + Beaufort Court was in one of the western counties, in a genial climate—that + he was therefore going thither the next day for a short time—that he + had asked some of Monsieur de Vaudemont’s countrymen, and a few other + friends, to enliven the circle of a dull country-house—that Mr. and + Mrs. Beaufort would be delighted to see Monsieur de Vaudemont also—and + that his compliance with their invitation would be a charity to Monsieur + de Vaudemont’s faithful and obliged, LILBURNE. + </p> + <p> + The first sensation of Vaudemont on reading this effusion was delight. “I + shall see her,” he cried; “I shall be under the same roof!” But the glow + faded at once from his cheek;—the roof!—what roof? Be the + guest where he held himself the lord!—be the guest of Robert + Beaufort!—Was that all? Did he not meditate the deadliest war which + civilised life admits of—the War of Law—war for name, + property, that very hearth, with all its household gods, against this man—could + he receive his hospitality? “And what then!” he exclaimed, as he paced to + and fro the room,—“because her father wronged me, and because I + would claim mine own—must I therefore exclude from my thoughts, from + my sight, an image so fair and gentle;—the one who knelt by my side, + an infant, to that hard man?—Is hate so noble a passion that it is + not to admit one glimpse of Love?—Love! what word is that? Let me + beware in time!” He paused in fierce self-contest, and, throwing open the + window, gasped for air. The street in which he lodged was situated in the + neighbourhood of St. James’s; and, at that very moment, as if to defeat + all opposition, and to close the struggle, Mrs. Beaufort’s barouche drove + by, Camilla at her side. Mrs. Beaufort, glancing up; languidly bowed; and + Camilla herself perceived him, and he saw her change colour as she + inclined her head. He gazed after them almost breathless, till the + carriage disappeared; and then reclosing the window, he sat down to + collect his thoughts, and again to reason with himself. But still, as he + reasoned, he saw ever before him that blush and that smile. At last he + sprang up, and a noble and bright expression elevated the character of his + face,—“Yes, if I enter that house, if I eat that man’s bread, and + drink of his cup, I must forego, not justice—not what is due to my + mother’s name—but whatever belongs to hate and vengeance. If I enter + that house—and if Providence permit me the means whereby to regain + my rights, why she—the innocent one—she may be the means of + saving her father from ruin, and stand like an angel by that boundary + where justice runs into revenge!—Besides, is it not my duty to + discover Sidney? Here is the only clue I shall obtain.” With these + thoughts he hesitated no more—he decided he would not reject this + hospitality, since it might be in his power to pay it back ten + thousandfold. “And who knows,” he murmured again, “if Heaven, in throwing + this sweet being in my way, might not have designed to subdue and chasten + in me the angry passions I have so long fed on? I have seen her,—can + I now hate her father?” + </p> + <p> + He sent off his note accepting the invitation. When he had done so, was he + satisfied? He had taken as noble and as large a view of the duties thereby + imposed on him as he well could take: but something whispered at his + heart, “There is weakness in thy generosity—Darest thou love the + daughter of Robert Beaufort?” And his heart had no answer to this voice. + </p> + <p> + The rapidity with which love is ripened depends less upon the actual + number of years that have passed over the soil in which the seed is cast, + than upon the freshness of the soil itself. A young man who lives the + ordinary life of the world, and who fritters away, rather than exhausts, + his feelings upon a variety of quick succeeding subjects—the + Cynthias of the minute—is not apt to form a real passion at the + first sight. Youth is inflammable only when the heart is young! + </p> + <p> + There are certain times of life when, in either sex, the affections are + prepared, as it were, to be impressed with the first fair face that + attracts the fancy and delights the eye. Such times are when the heart has + been long solitary, and when some interval of idleness and rest succeeds + to periods of harsher and more turbulent excitement. It was precisely such + a period in the life of Vaudemont. Although his ambition had been for many + years his dream, and his sword his mistress, yet naturally affectionate, + and susceptible of strong emotion, he had often repined at his lonely lot. + By degrees the boy’s fantasy and reverence which had wound themselves + round the image of Eugenie subsided into that gentle and tender melancholy + which, perhaps by weakening the strength of the sterner thoughts, leaves + us inclined rather to receive, than to resist, a new attachment;—and + on the verge of the sweet Memory trembles the sweet Hope. The suspension + of his profession, his schemes, his struggles, his career, left his + passions unemployed. Vaudemont was thus unconsciously prepared to love. As + we have seen, his first and earliest feelings directed themselves to + Fanny. But he had so immediately detected the clanger, and so immediately + recoiled from nursing those thoughts and fancies, without which love dies + for want of food, for a person to whom he ascribed the affliction of an + imbecility which would give to such a sentiment all the attributes either + of the weakest rashness or of dishonour approaching to sacrilege—that + the wings of the deity were scared away the instant their very shadow fell + upon his mind. And thus, when Camilla rose upon him his heart was free to + receive her image. Her graces, her accomplishments, a certain nameless + charm that invested her, pleased him even more than her beauty; the + recollections connected with that first time in which he had ever beheld + her, were also grateful and endearing; the harshness with which her + parents spoke to her moved his compassion, and addressed itself to a + temper peculiarly alive to the generosity that leans towards the weak and + the wronged; the engaging mixture of mildness and gaiety with which she + tended her peevish and sneering uncle, convinced him of her better and + more enduring qualities of disposition and womanly heart. And even—so + strange and contradictory are our feelings—the very remembrance that + she was connected with a family so hateful to him made her own image the + more bright from the darkness that surrounded it. For was it not with the + daughter of his foe that the lover of Verona fell in love at first sight? + And is not that a common type of us all—as if Passion delighted in + contradictions? As the Diver, in Schiller’s exquisite ballad, fastened + upon the rock of coral in the midst of the gloomy sea, so we cling the + more gratefully to whatever of fair thought and gentle shelter smiles out + to us in the depths of Hate and Strife. + </p> + <p> + But, perhaps, Vaudemont would not so suddenly and so utterly have rendered + himself to a passion that began, already, completely to master his strong + spirit, if he had not, from Camilla’s embarrassment, her timidity, her + blushes, intoxicated himself with the belief that his feelings were not + unshared. And who knows not that such a belief, once cherished, ripens our + own love to a development in which hours are as years? + </p> + <p> + It was, then, with such emotions as made him almost insensible to every + thought but the luxury of breathing the same air as his cousin, which + swept from his mind the Past, the Future—leaving nothing but a + joyous, a breathless PRESENT on the Face of Time, that he repaired to + Beaufort Court. He did not return to H—— before he went, but + he wrote to Fanny a short and hurried line to explain that he might be + absent for some days at least, and promised to write again, if he should + be detained longer than he anticipated. + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile, one of those successive revolutions which had marked the + eras in Fanny’s moral existence took its date from that last time they had + walked and conversed together. + </p> + <p> + The very evening of that day, some hours after Philip was gone, and after + Simon had retired to rest, Fanny was sitting before the dying fire in the + little parlour in an attitude of deep and pensive reverie. The old + woman-servant, Sarah, who, very different from Mrs. Boxer, loved Fanny + with her whole heart, came into the room as was her wont before going to + bed, to see that the fire was duly out, and all safe: and as she + approached the hearth, she started to see Fanny still up. + </p> + <p> + “Dear heart alive!” she said; “why, Miss Fanny, you will catch your death + of cold,—what are you thinking about?” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Sarah; I want to speak to you.” Now, though Fanny was + exceedingly kind, and attached to Sarah, she was seldom communicative to + her, or indeed to any one. It was usually in its own silence and darkness + that that lovely mind worked out its own doubts. + </p> + <p> + “Do you, my sweet young lady? I’m sure anything I can do—” and Sarah + seated herself in her master’s great chair, and drew it close to Fanny. + There was no light in the room but the expiring fire, and it threw upward + a pale glimmer on the two faces bending over it,—the one so + strangely beautiful, so smooth, so blooming, so exquisite in its youth and + innocence,—the other withered, wrinkled, meagre, and astute. It was + like the Fairy and the Witch together. + </p> + <p> + “Well, miss,” said the crone, observing that, after a considerable pause, + Fanny was still silent,—“Well—” + </p> + <p> + “Sarah, I have seen a wedding!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you?” and the old woman laughed. “Oh! I heard it was to be to-day!—young + Waldron’s wedding! Yes, they have been long sweethearts.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you ever married, Sarah?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord bless you,—yes! and a very good husband I had, poor man! But + he’s dead these many years; and if you had not taken me, I must have gone + to the workhus.” + </p> + <p> + “He is dead! Wasn’t it very hard to live after that, Sarah?” + </p> + <p> + “The Lord strengthens the hearts of widders!” observed Sarah, + sanctimoniously. + </p> + <p> + “Did you marry your brother, Sarah?” said Fanny, playing with the corner + of her apron. + </p> + <p> + “My brother!” exclaimed the old woman, aghast. “La! miss, you must not + talk in that way,—it’s quite wicked and heathenish! One must not + marry one’s brother!” + </p> + <p> + “No!” said Fanny, tremblingly, and turning very pale, even by that light. + “No!—are you sure of that?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the wickedest thing even to talk about, my dear young mistress;—but + you’re like a babby unborn!” + </p> + <p> + Fanny was silent for some moments. At length she said, unconscious that + she was speaking aloud, “But he is not my brother, after all!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, miss, fie! Are you letting your pretty head run on the handsome + gentleman. You, too,—dear, dear! I see we’re all alike, we poor + femel creturs! You! who’d have thought it? Oh, Miss Fanny!—you’ll + break your heart if you goes for to fancy any such thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Any what thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that that gentleman will marry you!—I’m sure, tho’ he’s so + simple like, he’s some great gentleman! They say his hoss is worth a + hundred pounds! Dear, dear! why didn’t I ever think of this before? He + must be a very wicked man. I see, now, why he comes here. I’ll speak to + him, that I will!—a very wicked man!” + </p> + <p> + Sarah was startled from her indignation by Fanny’s rising suddenly, and + standing before her in the flickering twilight, almost like a shape + transformed,—so tall did she seem, so stately, so dignified. + </p> + <p> + “Is it of him that you are speaking?” said she, in a voice of calm but + deep resentment—“of him! If so, Sarah, we two can live no more in + the same house.” + </p> + <p> + And these words were said with a propriety and collectedness that even, + through all her terrors, showed at once to Sarah how much they now wronged + Fanny who had suffered their lips to repeat the parrot-cry of the “idiot + girl!” + </p> + <p> + “O! gracious me!—miss—ma’am—I am so sorry—I’d + rather bite out my tongue than say a word to offend you; it was only my + love for you, dear innocent creature that you are!” and the honest woman + sobbed with real passion as she clasped Fanny’s hand. “There have been so + many young persons, good and harmless, yes, even as you are, ruined. But + you don’t understand me. Miss Fanny! hear me; I must try and say what I + would say. That man, that gentleman—so proud, so well-dressed, so + grand-like, will never marry you, never—never. And if ever he says + he does love you, and you say you love him, and you two don’t marry, you + will be ruined and wicked, and die—die of a broken heart!” + </p> + <p> + The earnestness of Sarah’s manner subdued and almost awed Fanny. She sank + down again in her chair, and suffered the old woman to caress and weep + over her hand for some moments in a silence that concealed the darkest and + most agitated feelings Fanny’s life had hitherto known. At length she + said:— + </p> + <p> + “Why may he not marry me if he loves me?—he is not my brother,—indeed + he is not! I’ll never call him so again.” + </p> + <p> + “He cannot marry you,” said Sarah, resolved, with a sort of rude + nobleness, to persevere in what she felt to be a duty; “I don’t say + anything about money, because that does not always signify. But he cannot + marry you, because—because people who are hedicated one way never + marry those who are hedicated and brought up in another. A gentleman of + that kind requires a wife to know—oh—to know ever so much; and + you—” + </p> + <p> + “Sarah,” interrupted Fanny, rising again, but this time with a smile on + her face, “don’t say anything more about it; I forgive you, if you promise + never to speak unkindly of him again—never—never—never, + Sarah!” + </p> + <p> + “But may I just tell him that—that—” + </p> + <p> + “That what?” + </p> + <p> + “That you are so young and innocent, and has no pertector like; and that + if you were to love him it would be a shame in him—that it would!” + </p> + <p> + And then (oh, no, Fanny, there was nothing clouded now in your reason!)—and + then the woman’s alarm, the modesty, the instinct, the terror came upon + her:— + </p> + <p> + “Never! never! I will not love him, I do not love him, indeed, Sarah. If + you speak to him, I will never look you in the face again. It is all past—all, + dear Sarah!” + </p> + <p> + She kissed the old woman; and Sarah, fancying that her sagacity and + counsel had prevailed, promised all she was asked; so they went up-stairs + together—friends. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “As the wind + Sobs, an uncertain sweetness comes from out + The orange-trees. + + Rise up, Olympia.—She sleeps soundly. Ho! + Stirring at last.” BARRY CORNWALL. +</pre> + <p> + The next day, Fanny was seen by Sarah counting the little hoard that she + had so long and so painfully saved for her benefactor’s tomb. The money + was no longer wanted for that object. Fanny had found another; she said + nothing to Sarah or to Simon. But there was a strange complacent smile + upon her lip as she busied herself in her work, that puzzled the old + woman. Late at noon came the postman’s unwonted knock at the door. A + letter!—a letter for Miss Fanny. A letter!—the first she had + ever received in her life! And it was from him!—and it began with + “Dear Fanny.” Vaudemont had called her “dear Fanny” a hundred times, and + the expression had become a matter of course. But “Dear Fanny” seemed so + very different when it was written. The letter could not well be shorter, + nor, all things considered, colder. But the girl found no fault with it. + It began with “Dear Fanny,” and it ended with “yours truly.” “—Yours + truly—mine truly—and how kind to write at all!” Now it so + happened that Vaudemont, having never merged the art of the penman into + that rapid scrawl into which people, who are compelled to write hurriedly + and constantly, degenerate, wrote a remarkably good hand,—bold, + clear, symmetrical—almost too good a hand for one who was not to + make money by caligraphy. And after Fanny had got the words by heart, she + stole gently to a cupboard and took forth some specimens of her own hand, + in the shape of house and work memoranda, and extracts which, the better + to help her memory, she had made from the poem-book Vaudemont had given + her. She gravely laid his letter by the side of these specimens, and + blushed at the contrast; yet, after all, her own writing, though trembling + and irresolute, was far from a bad or vulgar hand. But emulation was now + fairly roused within her. Vaudemont, pre-occupied by more engrossing + thoughts, and indeed, forgetting a danger which had seemed so thoroughly + to have passed away, did not in his letter caution Fanny against going out + alone. She remarked this; and having completely recovered her own alarm at + the attempt that had been made on her liberty, she thought she was now + released from her promise to guard against a past and imaginary peril. So + after dinner she slipped out alone, and went to the mistress of the school + where she had received her elementary education. She had ever since + continued her acquaintance with that lady, who, kindhearted, and touched + by her situation, often employed her industry, and was far from blind to + the improvement that had for some time been silently working in the mind + of her old pupil. + </p> + <p> + Fanny had a long conversation with this lady, and she brought back a + bundle of books. The light might have been seen that night, and many + nights after, burning long and late from her little window. And having + recovered her old freedom of habits, which Simon, poor man, did not + notice, and which Sarah, thinking that anything was better than moping at + home, did not remonstrate against, Fanny went out regularly for two hours, + or sometimes for even a longer period, every evening after old Simon had + composed himself to the nap that filled up the interval between dinner and + tea. + </p> + <p> + In a very short time—a time that with ordinary stimulants would have + seemed marvellously short—Fanny’s handwriting was not the same + thing; her manner of talking became different; she no longer called + herself “Fanny” when she spoke; the music of her voice was more quiet and + settled; her sweet expression of face was more thoughtful; the eyes seemed + to have deepened in their very colour; she was no longer heard chaunting + to herself as she tripped along. The books that she nightly fed on had + passed into her mind; the poetry that had ever unconsciously sported round + her young years began now to create poetry in herself. Nay, it might + almost have seemed as if that restless disorder of the intellect, which + the dullards had called Idiotcy, had been the wild efforts, not of Folly, + but of GENIUS seeking to find its path and outlet from the cold and dreary + solitude to which the circumstances of her early life had compelled it. + </p> + <p> + Days, even weeks, passed—she never spoke of Vaudemont. And once, + when Sarah, astonished and bewildered by the change in her young mistress, + asked: + </p> + <p> + “When does the gentleman come back?” + </p> + <p> + Fanny answered, with a mysterious smile, “Not yet, I hope,—not quite + yet!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thierry. I do begin + To feel an alteration in my nature, + And in his full-sailed confidence a shower + Of gentle rain, that falling on the fire + Hath quenched it. + + How is my heart divided + Between the duty of a son and love!” + BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Thierry and Theodorat. +</pre> + <p> + Vaudemont had now been a month at Beaufort Court. The scene of a + country-house, with the sports that enliven it, and the accomplishments it + calls forth, was one in which he was well fitted to shine. He had been an + excellent shot as a boy; and though long unused to the fowling-piece, had, + in India, acquired a deadly precision with the rifle; so that a very few + days of practice in the stubbles and covers of Beaufort Court made his + skill the theme of the guests and the admiration of the keepers. Hunting + began, and—this pursuit, always so strong a passion in the active + man, and which, to the turbulence and agitation of his half-tamed breast, + now excited by a kind of frenzy of hope and fear, gave a vent and release—was + a sport in which he was yet more fitted to excel. His horsemanship, his + daring, the stone walls he leaped and the floods through which he dashed, + furnished his companions with wondering tale and comment on their return + home. Mr. Marsden, who, with some other of Arthur’s early friends, had + been invited to Beaufort Court, in order to welcome its expected heir, and + who retained all the prudence which had distinguished him of yore, when + having ridden over old Simon he dismounted to examine the knees of his + horse;—Mr. Marsden, a skilful huntsman, who rode the most + experienced horses in the world, and who generally contrived to be in at + the death without having leaped over anything higher than a hurdle, + suffering the bolder quadruped (in case what is called the “knowledge of + the country”—that is, the knowledge of gaps and gates—failed + him) to perform the more dangerous feats alone, as he quietly scrambled + over or scrambled through upon foot, and remounted the well-taught animal + when it halted after the exploit, safe and sound;—Mr. Marsden + declared that he never saw a rider with so little judgment as Monsieur de + Vaudemont, and that the devil was certainly in him. + </p> + <p> + This sort of reputation, commonplace and merely physical as it was in + itself, had a certain effect upon Camilla; it might be an effect of fear. + I do not say, for I do not know, what her feelings towards Vaudemont + exactly were. As the calmest natures are often those the most hurried away + by their contraries, so, perhaps, he awed and dazzled rather than pleased + her;—at least, he certainly forced himself on her interest. Still + she would have started in terror if any one had said to her, “Do you love + your betrothed less than when you met by that happy lake?”—and her + heart would have indignantly rebuked the questioner. The letters of her + lover were still long and frequent; hers were briefer and more subdued. + But then there was constraint in the correspondence—it was submitted + to her mother. Whatever might be Vaudemont’s manner to Camilla whenever + occasion threw them alone together, he certainly did not make his + attentions glaring enough to be remarked. His eye watched her rather than + his lip addressed; he kept as much aloof as possible from the rest of her + family, and his customary bearing was silent even to gloom. But there were + moments when he indulged in a fitful exuberance of spirits, which had + something strained and unnatural. He had outlived Lord Lilburne’s short + liking; for since he had resolved no longer to keep watch on that noble + gamester’s method of play, he played but little himself; and Lord Lilburne + saw that he had no chance of ruining him—there was, therefore, no + longer any reason to like him. But this was not all; when Vaudemont had + been at the house somewhat more than two weeks, Lilburne, petulant and + impatient, whether at his refusals to join the card-table, or at the + moderation with which, when he did, he confined his ill-luck to petty + losses, one day limped up to him, as he stood at the embrasure of the + window, gazing on the wide lands beyond, and said:— + </p> + <p> + “Vaudemont, you are bolder in hunting, they tell me, than you are at + whist.” + </p> + <p> + “Honours don’t tell against one—over a hedge!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” said Lilburne, rather haughtily. + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont was, at that moment, in one of those bitter moods when the sense + of his situation, the sight of the usurper in his home, often swept away + the gentler thoughts inspired by his fatal passion. And the tone of Lord + Lilburne, and his loathing to the man, were too much for his temper. + </p> + <p> + “Lord Lilburne,” he said, and his lip curled, “if you had been born poor, + you would have made a great fortune—you play luckily.” + </p> + <p> + “How am I to take this, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “As you please,” answered Vaudemont, calmly, but with an eye of fire. And + he turned away. + </p> + <p> + Lilburne remained on the spot very thoughtful: “Hum! he suspects me. I + cannot quarrel on such ground—the suspicion itself dishonours me—I + must seek another.” + </p> + <p> + The next day, Lilburne, who was familiar with Mr. Harsden (though the + latter gentleman never played at the same table), asked that prudent + person after breakfast if he happened to have his pistols with him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I always take them into the country—one may as well practise + when one has the opportunity. Besides, sportsmen are often quarrelsome; + and if it is known that one shoots well,—it keeps one out of + quarrels!” + </p> + <p> + “Very true,” said Lilburne, rather admiringly. “I have made the same + remark myself when I was younger. I have not shot with a pistol for some + years. I am well enough now to walk out with the help of a stick. Suppose + we practise for half-an-hour or so.” + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart,” said Mr. Marsden. + </p> + <p> + The pistols were brought, and they strolled forth;—Lord Lilburne + found his hand out. + </p> + <p> + “As I never hunt now,” said the peer, and he gnashed his teeth, and + glanced at his maimed limb; “for though lameness would not prevent my + keeping my seat, violent exercise hurts my leg; and Brodie says any fresh + accident might bring on tic douloureux;—and as my gout does not + permit me to join the shooting parties at present, it would be a kindness + in you to lend me your pistols—it would while away an hour or so; + though, thank Heaven, my duelling days are over!” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Mr. Marsden; and the pistols were consigned to Lord + Lilburne. + </p> + <p> + Four days from the date, as Mr. Marsden, Vaudemont, and some other + gentlemen were making for the covers, they came upon Lord Lilburne, who, + in a part of the park not within sight or sound of the house, was amusing + himself with Mr. Marsden’s pistols, which Dykeman was at hand to load for + him. + </p> + <p> + He turned round, not at all disconcerted by the interruption. + </p> + <p> + “You have no idea how I’ve improved, Marsden:—just see!” and he + pointed to a glove nailed to a tree. “I’ve hit that mark twice in five + times; and every time I have gone straight enough along the line to have + killed my man.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, the mark itself does not so much signify,” said Mr. Marsden, “at + least, not in actual duelling—the great thing is to be in the line.” + </p> + <p> + While he spoke, Lord Lilburne’s ball went a third time through the glove. + His cold bright eye turned on Vaudemont, as he said, with a smile,— + </p> + <p> + “They tell me you shoot well with a fowling-piece, my dear Vaudemont—are + you equally adroit with a pistol?” + </p> + <p> + “You may see, if you like; but you take aim, Lord Lilburne; that would be + of no use in English duelling. Permit me.” + </p> + <p> + He walked to the glove, and tore from it one of the fingers, which he + fastened separately to the tree, took the pistol from Dykeman as he walked + past him, gained the spot whence to fire, turned at once round, without + apparent aim, and the finger fell to the ground. + </p> + <p> + Lilburne stood aghast. + </p> + <p> + “That’s wonderful!” said Marsden; “quite wonderful. Where the devil did + you get such a knack?—for it is only knack after all!” + </p> + <p> + “I lived for many years in a country where the practice was constant, + where all that belongs to rifle-shooting was a necessary accomplishment—a + country in which man had often to contend against the wild beast. In + civilised states, man himself supplies the place of the wild beast—but + we don’t hunt him!—Lord Lilburne” (and this was added with a smiling + and disdainful whisper), “you must practise a little more.” + </p> + <p> + But, disregardful of the advice, from that day Lord Lilburne’s morning + occupation was gone. He thought no longer of a duel with Vaudemont. As + soon as the sportsman had left him, he bade Dykeman take up the pistols, + and walked straight home into the library, where Robert Beaufort, who was + no sportsman, generally spent his mornings. + </p> + <p> + He flung himself into an arm-chair, and said, as he stirred the fire with + unusual vehemence,— + </p> + <p> + “Beaufort, I’m very sorry I asked you to invite Vaudemont. He’s a very + ill-bred, disagreeable fellow!” Beaufort threw down his steward’s + account-book, on which he was employed, and replied,— + </p> + <p> + “Lilburne, I have never had an easy moment since that man has been in the + house. As he was your guest, I did not like to speak before, but don’t you + observe—you must observe—how like he is to the old family + portraits? The more I have examined him, the more another resemblance + grows upon me. In a word,” said Robert, pausing and breathing hard, “if + his name were not Vaudemont—if his history were not, apparently, so + well known, I should say—I should swear, that it is Philip Morton + who sleeps under this roof!” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said Lilburne, with an earnestness that surprised Beaufort, who + expected to have heard his brother-in-law’s sneering sarcasm at his fears; + “the likeness you speak of to the old portraits did strike me; it struck + Marsden, too, the other day, as we were passing through the + picture-gallery; and Marsden remarked it aloud to Vaudemont. I remember + now that he changed countenance and made no answer. Hush! hush! hold your + tongue, let me think—let me think. This Philip—yes—yes—I + and Arthur saw him with—with Gawtrey—in Paris—” + </p> + <p> + “Gawtrey! was that the name of the rogue he was said to—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes—yes. Ah! now I guess the meaning of those looks—those + words,” muttered Lilburne between his teeth. “This pretension to the name + of Vaudemont was always apocryphal—the story always but half + believed—the invention of a woman in love with him—the claim + on your property is made at the very time he appears in England. Ha! Have + you a newspaper there? Give it me. No! ‘tis not in this paper. Ring the + bell for the file!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter? you terrify me!” gasped out Mr. Beaufort, as he rang + the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Why! have you not seen an advertisement repeated several times within the + last month?” + </p> + <p> + “I never read advertisements; except in the county paper, if land is to be + sold.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I often; but this caught my eye. John” (here the servant entered), + “bring the file of the newspapers. The name of the witness whom Mrs. + Morton appealed to was Smith, the same name as the captain; what was the + Christian name?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Here are the papers—shut the door—and here is the + advertisement: ‘If Mr. William Smith, son of Jeremiah Smith, who formerly + rented the farm of Shipdale-Bury, under the late Right Hon. Charles + Leopold Beaufort (that’s your uncle), and who emigrated in the year 18— + to Australia, will apply to Mr. Barlow, Solicitor, Essex Street, Strand, + he will hear of something to his advantage.’” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens! why did not you mention this to me before?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I did not think it of any importance. In the first place, there + might be some legacy left to the man, quite distinct from your business. + Indeed, that was the probable supposition;—or even if connected with + the claim, such an advertisement might be but a despicable attempt to + frighten you. Never mind—don’t look so pale—after all, this is + a proof that the witness is not found—that Captain Smith is neither + the Smith, nor has discovered where the Smith is!” + </p> + <p> + “True!” observed Mr. Beaufort: “true—very true!” + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” said Lord Lilburne, who was still rapidly glancing over the file—“Here + is another advertisement which I never saw before: this looks suspicious: + ‘If the person who called on the — of September, on Mr. Morton, + linendraper, &c., of N——, will renew his application + personally or by letter, he may now obtain the information he sought + for.’” + </p> + <p> + “Morton!—the woman’s brother! their uncle! it is too clear!” + </p> + <p> + “But what brings this man, if he be really Philip Morton, what brings him + here!—to spy or to threaten?” + </p> + <p> + “I will get him out of the house this day.” + </p> + <p> + “No—no; turn the watch upon himself. I see now; he is attracted by + your daughter; sound her quietly; don’t tell her to discourage his + confidences; find out if he ever speaks of these Mortons. Ha! I recollect—he + has spoken to me of the Mortons, but vaguely—I forget what. Humph! + this is a man of spirit and daring—watch him, I say,—watch + him! When does Arthur came back?” + </p> + <p> + “He has been travelling so slowly, for he still complains of his health, + and has had relapses; but he ought to be in Paris this week, perhaps he is + there now. Good Heavens! he must not meet this man!” + </p> + <p> + “Do what I tell you! get out all from your daughter. Never fear: he can do + nothing against you except by law. But if he really like Camilla—” + </p> + <p> + “He!—Philip Morton—the adventurer—the—” + </p> + <p> + “He is the eldest son: remember you thought even of accepting the second. + He—nay find the witness—he may win his suit; if he likes + Camilla, there may be a compromise.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort felt as if turned to ice. + </p> + <p> + “You think him likely to win this infamous suit, then?” he faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Did not you guard against the possibility by securing the brother? More + worth while to do it with this man. Hark ye! the politics of private are + like those of public life,—when the state can’t crush a demagogue, + it should entice him over. If you can ruin this dog” (and Lilburne stamped + his foot fiercely, forgetful of the gout), “ruin him! hang him! If you + can’t” (and here with a wry face he caressed the injured foot), “if you + can’t (‘sdeath, what a twinge!), and he can ruin you,—bring him into + the family, and make his secret ours! I must go and lie down—I have + overexcited myself.” + </p> + <p> + In great perplexity Beaufort repaired at once to Camilla. His nervous + agitation betrayed itself, though he smiled a ghastly smile, and intended + to be exceeding cool and collected. His questions, which confused and + alarmed her, soon drew out the fact that the very first time Vaudemont had + been introduced to her he had spoken of the Mortons; and that he had often + afterwards alluded to the subject, and seemed at first strongly impressed + with the notion that the younger brother was under Beaufort’s protection; + though at last he appeared reluctantly convinced of the contrary. Robert, + however agitated, preserved at least enough of his natural slyness not to + let out that he suspected Vaudemont to be Philip Morton himself, for he + feared lest his daughter should betray that suspicion to its object. + </p> + <p> + “But,” he said, with a look meant to win confidence, “I dare say he knows + these young men. I should like myself to know more about them. Learn all + you can, and tell me, and, I say—I say, Camilla,—he! he! he!—you + have made a conquest, you little flirt, you! Did he, this Vaudemont, ever + say how much he admired you?” + </p> + <p> + “He!—never!” said Camilla, blushing, and then turning pale. + </p> + <p> + “But he looks it. Ah! you say nothing, then. Well, well, don’t discourage + him; that is to say,—yes, don’t discourage him. Talk to him as much + as you can,—ask him about his own early life. I’ve a particular wish + to know—‘tis of great importance to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear father,” said Camilla, trembling and thoroughly bewildered, + “I fear this man,—I fear—I fear—” + </p> + <p> + Was she going to add, “I fear myself?” I know not; but she stopped short, + and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “Hang these girls!” muttered Mr. Beaufort, “always crying when they ought + to be of use to one. Go down, dry your eyes, do as I tell you,—get + all you can from him. Fear him!—yes, I dare say she does!” muttered + the poor man, as he closed the door. + </p> + <p> + From that time what wonder that Camilla’s manner to Vaudemont was yet more + embarrassed than ever: what wonder that he put his own heart’s + interpretation on that confusion. Beaufort took care to thrust her more + often than before in his way; he suddenly affected a creeping, fawning + civility to Vaudemont; he was sure he was fond of music; what did he think + of that new air Camilla was so fond of? He must be a judge of scenery, he + who had seen so much: there were beautiful landscapes in the + neighbourhood, and, if he would forego his sports, Camilla drew prettily, + had an eye for that sort of thing, and was so fond of riding. + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont was astonished at this change, but his delight was greater than + the astonishment. He began to perceive that his identity was suspected; + perhaps Beaufort, more generous than he had deemed him, meant to repay + every early wrong or harshness by one inestimable blessing. The generous + interpret motives in extremes—ever too enthusiastic or too severe. + Vaudemont felt as if he had wronged the wronger; he began to conquer even + his dislike to Robert Beaufort. For some days he was thus thrown much with + Camilla; the questions her father forced her to put to him, uttered + tremulously and fearfully, seemed to him proof of her interest in his + fate. His feelings to Camilla, so sudden in their growth—so ripened + and so favoured by the Sub-Ruler of the world—CIRCUMSTANCE—might + not, perhaps, have the depth and the calm completeness of that, One True + Love, of which there are many counterfeits,—and which in Man, at + least, possibly requires the touch and mellowness, if not of time, at + least of many memories—of perfect and tried conviction of the faith, + the worth, the value and the beauty of the heart to which it clings;—but + those feelings were, nevertheless, strong, ardent, and intense. He + believed himself beloved—he was in Elysium. But he did not yet + declare the passion that beamed in his eyes. No! he would not yet claim + the hand of Camilla Beaufort, for he imagined the time would soon come + when he could claim it, not as the inferior or the suppliant, but as the + lord of her father’s fate. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here’s something got amongst us!”—Knight of Malta. +</pre> + <p> + Two or three nights after his memorable conversation with Robert Beaufort, + as Lord Lilburne was undressing, he said to his valet: + </p> + <p> + “Dykeman, I am getting well.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, my lord, I never saw your lordship look better.” + </p> + <p> + “There you lie. I looked better last year—I looked better the year + before—and I looked better and better every year back to the age of + twenty-one! But I’m not talking of looks, no man with money wants looks. I + am talking of feelings. I feel better. The gout is almost gone. I have + been quiet now for a month—that’s a long time—time wasted + when, at my age, I have so little time to waste. Besides, as you know, I + am very much in love!” + </p> + <p> + “In love, my lord? I thought that you told me never to speak of—” + </p> + <p> + “Blockhead! what the deuce was the good of speaking about it when I was + wrapped in flannels! I am never in love when I am ill—who is? I am + well now, or nearly so; and I’ve had things to vex me—things to make + this place very disagreeable; I shall go to town, and before this day + week, perhaps, that charming face may enliven the solitude of Fernside. I + shall look to it myself now. I see you’re going to say something. Spare + yourself the trouble! nothing ever goes wrong if I myself take it in + hand.” + </p> + <p> + The next day Lord Lilburne, who, in truth, felt himself uncomfortable and + <i>gene</i> in the presence of Vaudemont; who had won as much as the + guests at Beaufort Court seemed inclined to lose; and who made it the rule + of his life to consult his own pleasure and amusement before anything + else, sent for his post-horses, and informed his brother-in-law of his + departure. + </p> + <p> + “And you leave me alone with this man just when I am convinced that he is + the person we suspected! My dear Lilburne, do stay till he goes.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible! I am between fifty and sixty—every moment is precious + at that time of life. Besides, I’ve said all I can say; rest quiet—act + on the defensive—entangle this cursed Vaudemont, or Morton, or + whoever he be, in the mesh of your daughter’s charms, and then get rid of + him, not before. This can do no harm, let the matter turn out how it will. + Read the papers; and send for Blackwell if you want advice on any new + advertisements. I don’t see that anything more is to be done at present. + You can write to me; I shall be at Park Lane or Fernside. Take care of + yourself. You’re a lucky fellow—you never have the gout! Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + And in half an hour Lord Lilburne was on the road to London. + </p> + <p> + The departure of Lilburne was a signal to many others, especially and + naturally to those he himself had invited. He had not announced to such + visitors his intention of going till his carriage was at the door. This + might be delicacy or carelessness, just as people chose to take it: and + how they did take it, Lord Lilburne, much too selfish to be well-bred, did + not care a rush. The next day half at least of the guests were gone; and + even Mr. Marsden, who had been specially invited on Arthur’s account, + announced that he should go after dinner! he always travelled by night—he + slept well on the road—a day was not lost by it. + </p> + <p> + “And it is so long since you saw Arthur,” said Mr. Beaufort, in + remonstrance, “and I expect him every day.” + </p> + <p> + “Very sorry—best fellow in the world—but the fact is, that I + am not very well myself. I want a little sea air; I shall go to Dover or + Brighton. But I suppose you will have the house full again about + Christmas; in that case I shall be delighted to repeat my visit.” + </p> + <p> + The fact was, that Mr. Marsden, without Lilburne’s intellect on the one + hand, or vices on the other, was, like that noble sensualist, one of the + broken pieces of the great looking-glass “SELF.” He was noticed in society + as always haunting the places where Lilburne played at cards, carefully + choosing some other table, and as carefully betting upon Lilburne’s side. + The card-tables were now broken up; Vaudemont’s superiority in shooting, + and the manner in which he engrossed the talk of the sportsmen, displeased + him. He was bored—he wanted to be off—and off he went. + Vaudemont felt that the time was come for him to depart, too; Robert + Beaufort—who felt in his society the painful fascination of the bird + with the boa, who hated to see him there, and dreaded to see him depart, + who had not yet extracted all the confirmation of his persuasions that he + required, for Vaudemont easily enough parried the artless questions of + Camilla—pressed him to stay with so eager a hospitality, and made + Camilla herself falter out, against her will, and even against her + remonstrances—(she never before had dared to remonstrate with either + father or mother),—“Could not you stay a few days longer?”—that + Vaudemont was too contented to yield to his own inclinations; and so for + some little time longer he continued to move before the eyes of Mr. + Beaufort—stern, sinister, silent, mysterious—like one of the + family pictures stepped down from its frame. Vaudemont wrote, however, to + Fanny, to excuse his delay; and anxious to hear from her as to her own and + Simon’s health, bade her direct her letter to his lodging in London (of + which he gave her the address), whence, if he still continued to defer his + departure, it would be forwarded to him. He did not do this, however, till + he had been at Beaufort Court several days after Lilburne’s departure, and + till, in fact, two days before the eventful one which closed his visit. + </p> + <p> + The party, now greatly diminished; were at breakfast, when the servant + entered, as usual, with the letter-bag. Mr. Beaufort, who was always + important and pompous in the small ceremonials of life, unlocked the + precious deposit with slow dignity, drew forth the newspapers, which he + threw on the table, and which the gentlemen of the party eagerly seized; + then, diving out one by one, jerked first a letter to Camilla, next a + letter to Vaudemont, and, thirdly, seized a letter for himself. + </p> + <p> + “I beg that there may be no ceremony, Monsieur de Vaudemont: pray excuse + me and follow my example: I see this letter is from my son;” and he broke + the seal. + </p> + <p> + The letter ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR FATHER,—Almost as soon as you receive this, I shall be with + you. Ill as I am, I can have no peace till I see and consult you. The most + startling—the most painful intelligence has just been conveyed to + me. It is of a nature not to bear any but personal communication. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Your affectionate son, + “ARTHUR BEAUFORT. +“Boulogne. +</pre> + <p> + “P.S.—This will go by the same packet-boat that I shall take myself, + and can only reach you a few hours before I arrive.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort’s trembling hand dropped the letter—he grasped the + elbow of the chair to save himself from falling. It was clear!—the + same visitor who had persecuted himself had now sought his son! He grew + sick, his son might have heard the witness—might be convinced. His + son himself now appeared to him as a foe—for the father dreaded the + son’s honour! He glanced furtively round the table, till his eye rested on + Vaudemont, and his terror was redoubled, for Vaudemont’s face, usually so + calm, was animated to an extraordinary degree, as he now lifted it from + the letter he had just read. Their eyes met. Robert Beaufort looked on him + as a prisoner at the bar looks on the accusing counsel, when he first + commences his harangue. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Beaufort,” said the guest, “the letter you have given me summons me + to London on important business, and immediately. Suffer me to send for + horses at your earliest convenience.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” said the feeble and seldom heard voice of Mrs. + Beaufort. “What’s the matter, Robert?—is Arthur coming?” + </p> + <p> + “He comes to-day,” said the father, with a deep sigh; and Vaudemont, at + that moment rising from his half-finished breakfast, with a bow that + included the group, and with a glance that lingered on Camilla, as she + bent over her own unopened letter (a letter from Winandermere, the seal of + which she dared not yet to break), quitted the room. He hastened to his + own chamber, and strode to and fro with a stately step—the step of + the Master—then, taking forth the letter, he again hurried over its + contents. They ran thus: + </p> + <p> + DEAR, Sir,—At last the missing witness has applied to me. He proves + to be, as you conjectured, the same person who had called on Mr. Roger + Morton; but as there are some circumstances on which I wish to take your + instructions without a moment’s delay, I shall leave London by the mail, + and wait you at D—— (at the principal inn), which is, I + understand, twenty miles on the high road from Beaufort Court. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I have the honor to be, sir, + “Yours, &c., + “JOHN BARLOW. +</pre> + <p> + Vaudemont was yet lost in the emotions that this letter aroused, when they + came to announce that his chaise was arrived. As he went down the stairs + he met Camilla, who was on the way to her own room. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Beaufort,” said he, in a low and tremulous voice, “in wishing you + farewell I may not now say more. I leave you, and, strange to say, I do + not regret it, for I go upon an errand that may entitle me to return + again, and speak those thoughts which are uppermost in my soul even at + this moment.” + </p> + <p> + He raised her hand to his lips as he spoke, and at that moment Mr. + Beaufort looked from the door of his own room, and cried, “Camilla.” She + was too glad to escape. Philip gazed after her light form for an instant, + and then hurried down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Longueville.—What! are you married, Beaufort? + Beaufort.—Ay, as fast + As words, and hands, and hearts, and priest, + Could make us.”—BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Noble Gentleman. +</pre> + <p> + In the parlour of the inn at D——— sat Mr. John Barlow. + He had just finished his breakfast, and was writing letters and looking + over papers connected with his various business—when the door was + thrown open, and a gentleman entered abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Beaufort,” said the lawyer rising, “Mr. Philip Beaufort—for + such I now feel you are by right—though,” he added, with his usual + formal and quiet smile, “not yet by law; and much—very much, remains + to be done to make the law and the right the same;—I congratulate + you on having something at last to work on. I had begun to despair of + finding our witness, after a month’s advertising; and had commenced other + investigations, of which I will speak to you presently, when yesterday, on + my return to town from an errand on your business, I had the pleasure of a + visit from William Smith himself.—My dear sir, do not yet be too + sanguine.—It seems that this poor fellow, having known misfortune, + was in America when the first fruitless inquiries were made. Long after + this he returned to the colony, and there met with a brother, who, as I + drew from him, was a convict. He helped the brother to escape. They both + came to England. William learned from a distant relation, who lent him + some little money, of the inquiry that had been set on foot for him; + consulted his brother, who desired him to leave all to his management. The + brother afterwards assured him that you and Mr. Sidney were both dead; and + it seems (for the witness is simple enough to allow me to extract all) + this same brother then went to Mr. Beaufort to hold out the threat of a + lawsuit, and to offer the sale of the evidence yet existing—” + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Beaufort?” + </p> + <p> + “I am happy to say, seems to have spurned the offer. Meanwhile William, + incredulous of his brother’s report, proceeded to N——, learned + nothing from Mr. Morton, met his brother again—and the brother + (confessing that he had deceived him in the assertion that you and Mr. + Sidney were dead) told him that he had known you in earlier life, and set + out to Paris to seek you—” + </p> + <p> + “Known me?—To Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “More of this presently. William returned to town, living hardly and + penuriously on the little his brother bestowed on him, too melancholy and + too poor for the luxury of a newspaper, and never saw our advertisement, + till, as luck would have it, his money was out; he had heard nothing + further of his brother, and he went for new assistance to the same + relation who had before aided him. This relation, to his surprise, + received the poor man very kindly, lent him what he wanted, and then asked + him if he had not seen our advertisement. The newspaper shown him + contained both the advertisements—that relating to Mr. Morton’s + visitor, that containing his own name. He coupled them both together—called + on me at once. I was from town on your business. He returned to his own + home; the next morning (yesterday morning) came a letter from his brother, + which I obtained from him at last, and with promises that no harm should + happen to the writer on account of it.” + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont took the letter and read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR WILLIAM,—No go about the youngster I went after: all + researches in vane. Paris develish expensive. Never mind, I have sene the + other—the young B—; different sort of fellow from his father—very + ill—frightened out of his wits—will go off to the governor, + take me with him as far as Bullone. I think we shall settel it now. Mind + as I saide before, don’t put your foot in it. I send you a Nap in the + Seele—all I can spare. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yours, + “JEREMIAH SMITH. +</pre> + <p> + “Direct to me, Monsieur Smith—always a safe name—Ship Inn, + Bullone.” + </p> + <p> + “Jeremiah—Smith—Jeremiah!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the name then?” said Mr. Barlow. “Well; the poor man owns + that he was frightened at his brother—that he wished to do what is + right—that he feared his brother would not let him—that your + father was very kind to him—and so he came off at once to me; and I + was very luckily at home to assure him that the heir was alive, and + prepared to assert his rights. Now then, Mr. Beaufort, we have the + witness, but will that suffice us? I fear not. Will the jury believe him + with no other testimony at his back? Consider!—When he was gone I + put myself in communication with some officers at Bow Street about this + brother of his—a most notorious character, commonly called in the + police slang Dashing Jerry—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Well, proceed!” + </p> + <p> + “Your one witness, then, is a very poor, penniless man, his brother a + rogue, a convict: this witness, too, is the most timid, fluctuating, + irresolute fellow I ever saw; I should tremble for his testimony against a + sharp, bullying lawyer. And that, sir, is all at present we have to look + to.” + </p> + <p> + “I see—I see. It is dangerous—it is hazardous. But truth is + truth; justice—justice! I will run the risk.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, if I ask, did you ever know this brother?—were you ever + absolutely acquainted with him—in the same house?” + </p> + <p> + “Many years since—years of early hardship and trial—I was + acquainted with him—what then?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to hear it,” and the lawyer looked grave. “Do you not see that + if this witness is browbeat—is disbelieved, and if it be shown that + you, the claimant, was—forgive my saying it—intimate with a + brother of such a character, why the whole thing might be made to look + like perjury and conspiracy. If we stop here it is an ugly business!” + </p> + <p> + “And is this all you have to say to me? The witness is found—the + only surviving witness—the only proof I ever shall or ever can + obtain, and you seek to terrify me—me too—from using the means + for redress Providence itself vouchsafes me—Sir, I will not hear + you!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Beaufort, you are impatient—it is natural. But if we go to law—that + is, should I have anything to do with it, wait—wait till your case + is good. And hear me yet. This is not the only proof—this is not the + only witness; you forget that there was an examined copy of the register; + we may yet find that copy, and the person who copied it may yet be alive + to attest it. Occupied with this thought, and weary of waiting the result + of our advertisement, I resolved to go into the neighbourhood of Fernside; + luckily, there was a gentleman’s seat to be sold in the village. I made + the survey of this place my apparent business. After going over the house, + I appeared anxious to see how far some alterations could be made—alterations + to render it more like Lord Lilburne’s villa. This led me to request a + sight of that villa—a crown to the housekeeper got me admittance. + The housekeeper had lived with your father, and been retained by his + lordship. I soon, therefore, knew which were the rooms the late Mr. + Beaufort had principally occupied; shown into his study, where it was + probable he would keep his papers, I inquired if it were the same + furniture (which seemed likely enough from its age and fashion) as in your + father’s time: it was so; Lord Lilburne had bought the house just as it + stood, and, save a few additions in the drawing-room, the general + equipment of the villa remained unaltered. You look impatient!—I’m + coming to the point. My eye fell upon an old-fashioned bureau—” + </p> + <p> + “But we searched every drawer in that bureau!” + </p> + <p> + “Any secret drawers?” + </p> + <p> + “Secret drawers! No! there were no secret drawers that I ever heard of!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barlow rubbed his hands and mused a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I was struck with that bureau; for any father had had one like it. It is + not English—it is of Dutch manufacture.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have heard that my father bought it at a sale, three or four years + after his marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “I learned this from the housekeeper, who was flattered by my admiring it. + I could not find out from her at what sale it had been purchased, but it + was in the neighbourhood she was sure. I had now a date to go upon; I + learned, by careless inquiries, what sales near Fernside had taken place + in a certain year. A gentleman had died at that date whose furniture was + sold by auction. With great difficulty, I found that his widow was still + alive, living far up the country: I paid her a visit; and, not to fatigue + you with too long an account, I have only to say that she not only assured + me that she perfectly remembered the bureau, but that it had secret + drawers and wells, very curiously contrived; nay, she showed me the very + catalogue in which the said receptacles are noticed in capitals, to arrest + the eye of the bidder, and increase the price of the bidding. That your + father should never have revealed where he stowed this document is natural + enough, during the life of his uncle; his own life was not spared long + enough to give him much opportunity to explain afterwards, but I feel + perfectly persuaded in my mind—that unless Mr. Robert Beaufort + discovered that paper amongst the others he examined—in one of those + drawers will be found all we want to substantiate your claims. This is the + more likely from your father never mentioning, even to your mother + apparently, the secret receptacles in the bureau. Why else such mystery? + The probability is that he received the document either just before or at + the time he purchased the bureau, or that he bought it for that very + purpose: and, having once deposited the paper in a place he deemed secure + from curiosity—accident, carelessness, policy, perhaps, rather shame + itself (pardon me) for the doubt of your mother’s discretion, that his + secrecy seemed to imply, kept him from ever alluding to the circumstance, + even when the intimacy of after years made him more assured of your + mother’s self-sacrificing devotion to his interests. At his uncle’s death + he thought to repair all!” + </p> + <p> + “And how, if that be true—if that Heaven which has delivered me + hitherto from so many dangers, has, in the very secrecy of my poor father, + saved my birthright front the gripe of the usurper—how, I say, is—-” + </p> + <p> + “The bureau to pass into our possession? That is the difficulty. But we + must contrive it somehow, if all else fail us; meanwhile, as I now feel + sure that there has been a copy of that register made, I wish to know + whether I should not immediately cross the country into Wales, and see if + I can find any person in the neighbourhood of A——- who did + examine the copy taken: for, mark you, the said copy is only of importance + as leading to the testimony of the actual witness who took it.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Vaudemont, heartily shaking Mr. Barlow by the hand, “forgive + my first petulance. I see in you the very man I desired and wanted—your + acuteness surprises and encourages me. Go to Wales, and God speed you!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well!—in five minutes I shall be off. Meanwhile, see the + witness yourself; the sight of his benefactor’s son will do more to keep + him steady than anything else. There’s his address, and take care not to + give him money. And now I will order my chaise—the matter begins to + look worth expense. Oh! I forgot to say that Monsieur Liancourt called on + you yesterday about his own affairs. He wishes much to consult you. I told + him you would probably be this evening in town, and he said he would wait + you at your lodging.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I will lose not a moment in going to London, and visiting our + witness. And he saw my mother at the altar! My poor mother—Ah, how + could my father have doubted her!” and as he spoke, he blushed for the + first time with shame at that father’s memory. He could not yet conceive + that one so frank, one usually so bold and open, could for years have + preserved from the woman who had sacrificed all to him, a secret to her so + important! That was, in fact, the only blot on his father’s honour—a + foul and grave blot it was. Heavily had the punishment fallen on those + whom the father loved best! Alas, Philip had not yet learned what terrible + corrupters are the Hope and the Fear of immense Wealthy, even to men + reputed the most honourable, if they have been reared and pampered in the + belief that wealth is the Arch blessing of life. Rightly considered, in + Philip Beaufort’s solitary meanness lay the vast moral of this world’s + darkest truth! + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barlow was gone. Philip was about to enter his own chaise, when a + dormeuse-and-four drove up to the inn-door to change horses. A young man + was reclining, at his length, in the carriage, wrapped in cloaks, and with + a ghastly paleness—the paleness of long and deep disease upon his + cheeks. He turned his dim eye with, perhaps, a glance of the sick man’s + envy on that strong and athletic, form, majestic with health and vigour, + as it stood beside the more humble vehicle. Philip did not, however, + notice the new arrival; he sprang into the chaise, it rattled on, and + thus, unconsciously, Arthur Beaufort and his cousin had again met. To + which was now the Night—to which the Morning? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Bakam. Let my men guard the walls. + Syana. And mine the temple.”—The Island Princess. +</pre> + <p> + While thus eventfully the days and the weeks had passed for Philip, no + less eventfully, so far as the inner life is concerned, had they glided + away for Fanny. She had feasted in quiet and delighted thought on the + consciousness that she was improving—that she was growing worthier + of him—that he would perceive it on his return. Her manner was more + thoughtful, more collected—less childish, in short, than it had + been. And yet, with all the stir and flutter of the aroused intellect, the + charm of her strange innocence was not scared away. She rejoiced in the + ancient liberty she had regained of going out and coming back when she + pleased; and as the weather was too cold ever to tempt Simon from his + fireside, except, perhaps, for half-an-hour in the forenoon, so the hours + of dusk, when he least missed her, were those which she chiefly + appropriated for stealing away to the good school-mistress, and growing + wiser and wiser every day in the ways of God and the learning of His + creatures. The schoolmistress was not a brilliant woman. Nor was it + accomplishments of which Fanny stood in need, so much as the opening of + her thoughts and mind by profitable books and rational conversation. + Beautiful as were all her natural feelings, the schoolmistress had now + little difficulty in educating feelings up to the dignity of principles. + </p> + <p> + At last, hitherto patient under the absence of one never absent from her + heart, Fanny received from him the letter he had addressed to her two days + before he quitted Beaufort Court;—another letter—a second + letter—a letter to excuse himself for not coming before—a + letter that gave her an address that asked for a reply. It was a morning + of unequalled delight approaching to transport. And then the excitement of + answering the letter—the pride of showing how she was improved, what + an excellent hand she now wrote! She shut herself up in her room: she did + not go out that day. She placed the paper before her, and, to her + astonishment, all that she had to say vanished from her mind at once. How + was she even to begin? She had always hitherto called him “Brother.” Ever + since her conversation with Sarah she felt that she could not call him + that name again for the world—no, never! But what should she call + him—what could she call him? He signed himself “Philip.” She knew + that was his name. She thought it a musical name to utter, but to write + it! No! some instinct she could not account for seemed to whisper that it + was improper—presumptuous, to call him “Dear Philip.” Had Burns’s + songs—the songs that unthinkingly he had put into her hand, and told + her to read—songs that comprise the most beautiful love-poems in the + world—had they helped to teach her some of the secrets of her own + heart? And had timidity come with knowledge? Who shall say—who guess + what passed within her? Nor did Fanny herself, perhaps, know her own + feelings: but write the words “Dear Philip” she could not. And the whole + of that day, though she thought of nothing else, she could not even get + through the first line to her satisfaction. The next morning she sat down + again. It would be so unkind if she did not answer immediately: she must + answer. She placed his letter before her—she resolutely began. But + copy after copy was made and torn. And Simon wanted her—and Sarah + wanted her—and there were bills to be paid; and dinner was over + before her task was really begun. But after dinner she began in good + earnest. + </p> + <p> + “How kind in you to write to me” (the difficulty of any name was dispensed + with by adopting none), “and to wish to know about my dear grandfather! He + is much the same, but hardly ever walks out now, and I have had a good + deal of time to myself. I think something will surprise you, and make you + smile, as you used to do at first, when you come back. You must not be + angry with me that I have gone out by myself very often—every day, + indeed. I have been so safe. Nobody has ever offered to be rude again to + Fanny” (the word “Fanny” was carefully scratched out with a penknife, and + me substituted). “But you shall know all when you come. And are you sure + you are well—quite—quite well? Do you never have the headaches + you complained of sometimes? Do say this! Do you walk out-every day? Is + there any pretty churchyard near you now? Whom do you walk with? + </p> + <p> + “I have been so happy in putting the flowers on the two graves. But I + still give yours the prettiest, though the other is so dear to me. I feel + sad when I come to the last, but not when I look at the one I have looked + at so long. Oh, how good you were! But you don’t like me to thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “This is very stupid!” cried Fanny, suddenly throwing down her pen; “and I + don’t think I am improved at it;” and she half cried with vexation. + Suddenly a bright idea crossed her. In the little parlour where the + schoolmistress privately received her, she had seen among the books, and + thought at the time how useful it might be to her if ever she had to write + to Philip, a little volume entitled, The Complete Letter Writer. She knew + by the title-page that it contained models for every description of letter—no + doubt it would contain the precise thing that would suit the present + occasion. She started up at the notion. She would go—she could be + back to finish the letter before post-time. She put on her bonnet—left + the letter, in her haste, open on the table—and just looking into + the parlour in her way to the street door, to convince herself that Simon + was asleep, and the wire-guard was on the fire, she hurried to the kind + schoolmistress. + </p> + <p> + One of the fogs that in autumn gather sullenly over London and its suburbs + covered the declining day with premature dimness. It grew darker and + darker as she proceeded, but she reached the house in safety. She spent a + quarter of an hour in timidly consulting her friend about all kinds of + letters except the identical one that she intended to write, and having + had it strongly impressed on her mind that if the letter was to a + gentleman at all genteel, she ought to begin “Dear Sir,” and end with “I + have the honour to remain;” and that he would be everlastingly offended if + she did not in the address affix “Esquire” to his name (that, was a great + discovery),—she carried off the precious volume, and quitted the + house. There was a wall that, bounding the demesnes of the school, ran for + some short distance into the main street. The increasing fog, here, + faintly struggled against the glimmer of a single lamp at some little + distance. Just in this spot, her eye was caught by a dark object in the + road, which she could scarcely perceive to be a carriage, when her hand + was seized, and a voice said in her ear:— + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you will not be so cruel to me, I hope, as you were to my messenger! + I have come myself for you.” + </p> + <p> + She turned in great alarm, but the darkness prevented her recognising the + face of him who thus accosted her. “Let me go!” she cried,—“let me + go!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! hush! No—no. Come with me. You shall have a house—carriage—servants! + You shall wear silk gowns and jewels! You shall be a great lady!” + </p> + <p> + As these various temptations succeeded in rapid course each new struggle + of Fanny, a voice from the coach-box said in a low tone,— + </p> + <p> + “Take care, my lord, I see somebody coming—perhaps a policeman!” + </p> + <p> + Fanny heard the caution, and screamed for rescue. + </p> + <p> + “Is it so?” muttered the molester. And suddenly Fanny felt her voice + checked—her head mantled—her light form lifted from the + ground. She clung—she struggled it was in vain. It was the affair of + a moment: she felt herself borne into the carriage—the door closed—the + stranger was by her side, and his voice said:— + </p> + <p> + “Drive on, Dykeman. Fast! fast!” + </p> + <p> + Two or three minutes, which seemed to her terror as ages, elapsed, when + the gag and the mantle were gently removed, and the same voice (she still + could not see her companion) said in a very mild tone:— + </p> + <p> + “Do not alarm yourself; there is no cause,—indeed there is not. I + would not have adopted this plan had there been any other—any + gentler one. But I could not call at your own house—I knew no other + where to meet you. + </p> + <p> + “This was the only course left to me—indeed it was. I made myself + acquainted with your movements. Do not blame me, then, for prying into + your footsteps. I watched for you all last night—you did not come + out. I was in despair. At last I find you. Do not be so terrified: I will + not even touch your hand if you do not wish it.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, however, he attempted to touch it, and was repulsed with an + energy that rather disconcerted him. The poor girl recoiled from him into + the farthest corner of that prison in speechless horror—in the + darkest confusion of ideas. She did not weep—she did not sob—but + her trembling seemed to shake the very carriage. The man continued to + address, to expostulate, to pray, to soothe. + </p> + <p> + His manner was respectful. His protestations that he would not harm her + for the world were endless. + </p> + <p> + “Only just see the home I can give you; for two days—for one day. + Only just hear how rich I can make you and your grandfather, and then if + you wish to leave me, you shall.” + </p> + <p> + More, much more, to this effect, did he continue to pour forth, without + extracting any sound from Fanny but gasps as for breath, and now and then + a low murmur: + </p> + <p> + “Let me go, let me go! My grandfather, my blind grandfather!” + </p> + <p> + And finally tears came to her relief, and she sobbed with a passion that + alarmed, and perhaps even touched her companion, cynical and icy as he + was. Meanwhile the carriage seemed to fly. Fast as two horses, + thorough-bred, and almost at full speed, could go, they were whirled + along, till about an hour, or even less, from the time in which she had + been thus captured, the carriage stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Are we here already?” said the man, putting his head out of the window. + “Do then as I told you. Not to the front door; to my study.” + </p> + <p> + In two minutes more the carriage halted again, before a building which + looked white and ghostlike through the mist. The driver dismounted, opened + with a latch-key a window-door, entered for a moment to light the candles + in a solitary room from a fire that blazed on the hearth, reappeared, and + opened the carriage-door. It was with a difficulty for which they were + scarcely prepared that they were enabled to get Fanny from the carriage. + No soft words, no whispered prayers could draw her forth; and it was with + no trifling address, for her companion sought to be as gentle as the force + necessary to employ would allow, that he disengaged her hands from the + window-frame, the lining, the cushions, to which they clung; and at last + bore her into the house. The driver closed the window again as he + retreated, and they were alone. Fanny then cast a wild, scarce conscious + glance over the apartment. It was small and simply furnished. Opposite to + her was an old-fashioned bureau, one of those quaint, elaborate monuments + of Dutch ingenuity, which, during the present century, the audacious + spirit of curiosity-vendors has transplanted from their native + receptacles, to contrast, with grotesque strangeness, the neat handiwork + of Gillow and Seddon. It had a physiognomy and character of its own—this + fantastic foreigner! Inlaid with mosaics, depicting landscapes and + animals; graceless in form and fashion, but still picturesque, and winning + admiration, when more closely observed, from the patient defiance of all + rules of taste which had formed its cumbrous parts into one profusely + ornamented and eccentric whole. It was the more noticeable from its total + want of harmony with the other appurtenances of the room, which bespoke + the tastes of the plain English squire. Prints of horses and hunts, + fishing-rods and fowling-pieces, carefully suspended, decorated the walls. + Not, however, on this notable stranger from the sluggish land rested the + eye of Fanny. That, in her hurried survey, was arrested only by a portrait + placed over the bureau—the portrait of a female in the bloom of + life; a face so fair, a brow so candid, and eyes so pure, a lip so rich in + youth and joy—that as her look lingered on the features Fanny felt + comforted, felt as if some living protectress were there. The fire burned + bright and merrily; a table, spread as for dinner, was drawn near it. To + any other eye but Fanny’s the place would have seemed a picture of English + comfort. At last her looks rested on her companion. He had thrown himself, + with a long sigh, partly of fatigue, partly of satisfaction, on one of the + chairs, and was contemplating her as she thus stood and gazed, with an + expression of mingled curiosity and admiration; she recognised at once her + first, her only persecutor. She recoiled, and covered her face with her + hands. The man approached her:— + </p> + <p> + “Do not hate me, Fanny,—do not turn away. Believe me, though I have + acted thus violently, here all violence will cease. I love you, but I will + not be satisfied till you love me in return. I am not young, and I am not + handsome, but I am rich and great, and I can make those whom I love happy,—so + happy, Fanny!” + </p> + <p> + But Fanny had turned away, and was now busily employed in trying to + re-open the door at which she had entered. Failing in this, she suddenly + darted away, opened the inner door, and rushed into the passage with a + loud cry. Her persecutor stifled an oath, and sprung after and arrested + her. He now spoke sternly, and with a smile and a frown at once:— + </p> + <p> + “This is folly;—come back, or you will repent it! I have promised + you, as a gentleman—as a nobleman, if you know what that is—to + respect you. But neither will I myself be trifled with nor insulted. There + must be no screams!” + </p> + <p> + His look and his voice awed Fanny in spite of her bewilderment and her + loathing, and she suffered herself passively to be drawn into the room. He + closed and bolted the door. She threw herself on the ground in one corner, + and moaned low but piteously. He looked at her musingly for some moments, + as he stood by the fire, and at last went to the door, opened it, and + called “Harriet” in a low voice. Presently a young woman, of about thirty, + appeared, neatly but plainly dressed, and of a countenance that, if not + very winning, might certainly be called very handsome. He drew her aside + for a few moments, and a whispered conference was exchanged. He then + walked gravely up to Fanny “My young friend,” said he, “I see my presence + is too much for you this evening. This young woman will attend you—will + get you all you want. She can tell you, too, that I am not the terrible + sort of person you seem to suppose. I shall see you to-morrow.” So saying, + he turned on his heel and walked out. + </p> + <p> + Fanny felt something like liberty, something like joy, again. She rose, + and looked so pleadingly, so earnestly, so intently into the woman’s face, + that Harriet turned away her bold eyes abashed; and at this moment Dykeman + himself looked into the room. + </p> + <p> + “You are to bring us in dinner here yourself, uncle; and then go to my + lord in the drawing-room.” + </p> + <p> + Dykeman looked pleased, and vanished. Then Harriet came up and took + Fanny’s hand, and said, kindly,— + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be frightened. I assure you, half the girls in London would give I + don’t know what to be in your place. My lord never will force you to do + anything you don’t like—it’s not his way; and he’s the kindest and + best man,—and so rich; he does not know what to do with his money!” + </p> + <p> + To all this Fanny made but one answer,—she threw herself suddenly + upon the woman’s breast, and sobbed out: “My grandfather is blind, he + cannot do without me—he will die—die. Have you nobody you + love, too? Let me go—let me out! What can they want with me?—I + never did harm to any one.” + </p> + <p> + “And no one will harm you;—I swear it!” said Harriet, earnestly. “I + see you don’t know my lord. But here’s the dinner; come, and take a bit of + something, and a glass of wine.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny could not touch anything except a glass of water, and that nearly + choked her. But at last, as she recovered her senses, the absence of her + tormentor—the presence of a woman—the solemn assurances of + Harriet that, if she did not like to stay there, after a day or two, she + should go back, tranquillised her in some measure. She did not heed the + artful and lengthened eulogiums that the she-tempter then proceeded to + pour forth upon the virtues, and the love, and the generosity, and, above + all, the money of my lord. She only kept repeating to herself, “I shall go + back in a day or two.” At length, Harriet, having eaten and drunk as much + as she could by her single self, and growing wearied with efforts from + which so little resulted, proposed to Fanny to retire to rest. She opened + a door to the right of the fireplace, and lighted her up a winding + staircase to a pretty and comfortable chamber, where she offered to help + her to undress. Fanny’s complete innocence, and her utter ignorance of the + precise nature of the danger that awaited her, though she fancied it must + be very great and very awful, prevented her quite comprehending all that + Harriet meant to convey by her solemn assurances that she should not be + disturbed. But she understood, at least, that she was not to see her + hateful gaoler till the next morning; and when Harriet, wishing her “good + night,” showed her a bolt to her door, she was less terrified at the + thought of being alone in that strange place. She listened till Harriet’s + footsteps had died away, and then, with a beating heart, tried to open the + door; it was locked from without. She sighed heavily. The window?—alas! + when she had removed the shutter, there was another one barred from + without, which precluded all hope there; she had no help for it but to + bolt her door, stand forlorn and amazed at her own condition, and, at + last, falling on her knees, to pray, in her own simple fashion, which + since her recent visits to the schoolmistress had become more intelligent + and earnest, to Him from whom no bolts and no bars can exclude the voice + of the human heart. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In te omnis domus inclinata recumbit.”—VIRGIL. + + [On thee the whole house rests confidingly.] +</pre> + <p> + Lord Lilburne, seated before a tray in the drawing-room, was finishing his + own solitary dinner, and Dykeman was standing close behind him, nervous + and agitated. The confidence of many years between the master and the + servant—the peculiar mind of Lilburne, which excluded him from all + friendship with his own equals—had established between the two the + kind of intimacy so common with the noble and the valet of the old French + regime, and indeed, in much Lilburne more resembled the men of that day + and land, than he did the nobler and statelier being which belongs to our + own. But to the end of time, whatever is at once vicious, polished, and + intellectual, will have a common likeness. + </p> + <p> + “But, my lord,” said Dykeman, “just reflect. This girl is so well known in + the place; she will be sure to be missed; and if any violence is done to + her, it’s a capital crime, my lord—a capital crime. I know they + can’t hang a great lord like you, but all concerned in it may——” + </p> + <p> + Lord Lilburne interrupted the speaker by, “Give me some wine and hold your + tongue!” Then, when he had emptied his glass, he drew himself nearer to + the fire, warmed his hands, mused a moment, and turned round to his + confidant:— + </p> + <p> + “Dykeman,” said he, “though you’re an ass and a coward, and you don’t + deserve that I should be so condescending, I will relieve your fears at + once. I know the law better than you can, for my whole life has been spent + in doing exactly as I please, without ever putting myself in the power of + LAW, which interferes with the pleasures of other men. You are right in + saying violence would be a capital crime. Now the difference between vice + and crime is this: Vice is what parsons write sermons against, Crime is + what we make laws against. I never committed a crime in all my life,—at + an age between fifty and sixty—I am not going to begin. Vices are + safe things; I may have my vices like other men: but crimes are dangerous + things—illegal things—things to be carefully avoided. Look + you” (and here the speaker, fixing his puzzled listener with his eye, + broke into a grin of sublime mockery), “let me suppose you to be the World—that + cringing valet of valets, the WORLD! I should say to you this, ‘My dear + World, you and I understand each other well,—we are made for each + other,—I never come in your way, nor you in mine. If I get drunk + every day in my own room, that’s vice, you can’t touch me; if I take an + extra glass for the first time in my life, and knock down the watchman, + that’s a crime which, if I am rich, costs me one pound—perhaps five + pounds; if I am poor, sends me to the treadmill. If I break the hearts of + five hundred old fathers, by buying with gold or flattery the embraces of + five hundred young daughters, that’s vice,—your servant, Mr. World! + If one termagant wench scratches my face, makes a noise, and goes + brazen-faced to the Old Bailey to swear to her shame, why that’s crime, + and my friend, Mr. World, pulls a hemp-rope out of his pocket.’ Now, do + you understand? Yes, I repeat,” he added, with a change of voice, “I never + committed a crime in my life,—I have never even been accused of one,—never + had an action of crim. con.—of seduction against me. I know how to + manage such matters better. I was forced to carry off this girl, because I + had no other means of courting her. To court her is all I mean to do now. + I am perfectly aware that an action for violence, as you call it, would be + the more disagreeable, because of the very weakness of intellect which the + girl is said to possess, and of which report I don’t believe a word. I + shall most certainly avoid even the remotest appearance that could be so + construed. It is for that reason that no one in the house shall attend the + girl except yourself and your niece. Your niece I can depend on, I know; I + have been kind to her; I have got her a good husband; I shall get her + husband a good place;—I shall be godfather to her first child. To be + sure, the other servants will know there’s a lady in the house, but to + that they are accustomed; I don’t set up for a Joseph. They need know no + more, unless you choose to blab it out. Well, then, supposing that at the + end of a few days, more or less, without any rudeness on my part, a young + woman, after seeing a few jewels, and fine dresses, and a pretty house, + and being made very comfortable, and being convinced that her grandfather + shall be taken care of without her slaving herself to death, chooses of + her own accord to live with me, where’s the crime, and who can interfere + with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my lord, that alters the case,” said Dykeman, considerably + relieved. “But still,” he added, anxiously, “if the inquiry is made,—if + before all this is settled, it is found out where she is?” + </p> + <p> + “Why then no harm will be done—no violence will be committed. Her + grandfather,—drivelling and a miser, you say—can be appeased + by a little money, and it will be nobody’s business, and no case can be + made of it. Tush! man! I always look before I leap! People in this world + are not so charitable as you suppose. What more natural than that a poor + and pretty girl—not as wise as Queen Elizabeth—should be + tempted to pay a visit to a rich lover! + </p> + <p> + “All they can say of the lover is, that he is a very gay man or a very bad + man, and that’s saying nothing new of me. But don’t think it will be found + out. Just get me that stool; this has been a very troublesome piece of + business—rather tried me. I am not so young as I was. Yes, Dykeman, + something which that Frenchman Vaudemont, or Vautrien, or whatever his + name is, said to me once, has a certain degree of truth. I felt it in the + last fit of the gout, when my pretty niece was smoothing my pillows. A + nurse, as we grow older, may be of use to one. I wish to make this girl + like me, or be grateful to me. I am meditating a longer and more serious + attachment than usual,—a companion!” + </p> + <p> + “A companion, my lord, in that poor creature!—so ignorant—so + uneducated!” + </p> + <p> + “So much the better. This world palls upon me,” said Lilburne, almost + gloomily. “I grow sick of the miserable quackeries—of the piteous + conceits that men, women, and children call ‘knowledge,’ I wish to catch a + glimpse of nature before I die. This creature interests me, and that is + something in this life. Clear those things away, and leave me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay!” muttered Lilburne, as he bent over the fire alone, “when I first + heard that that girl was the granddaughter of Simon Gawtrey, and, + therefore, the child of the man whom I am to thank that I am a cripple, I + felt as if love to her were a part of that hate which I owe to him; a + segment in the circle of my vengeance. But now, poor child! + </p> + <p> + “I forget all this. I feel for her, not passion, but what I never felt + before, affection. I feel that if I had such a child, I could understand + what men mean when they talk of the tenderness of a father. I have not one + impure thought for that girl—not one. But I would give thousands if + she could love me. Strange! strange! in all this I do not recognise + myself!” + </p> + <p> + Lord Lilburne retired to rest betimes that night; he slept sound; rose + refreshed at an earlier hour than usual; and what he considered a fit of + vapours of the previous night was passed away. He looked with eagerness to + an interview with Fanny. Proud of his intellect, pleased in any of those + sinister exercises of it which the code and habits of his life so long + permitted to him, he regarded the conquest of his fair adversary with the + interest of a scientific game. Harriet went to Fanny’s room to prepare her + to receive her host; and Lord Lilburne now resolved to make his own visit + the less unwelcome by reserving for his especial gift some showy, if not + valuable, trinkets, which for similar purposes never failed the + depositories of the villa he had purchased for his pleasures. He, + recollected that these gewgaws were placed in the bureau in the study; in + which, as having a lock of foreign and intricate workmanship, he usually + kept whatever might tempt cupidity in those frequent absences when the + house was left guarded but by two women servants. Finding that Fanny had + not yet quitted her own chamber, while Harriet went up to attend and + reason with her, he himself limped into the study below, unlocked the + bureau, and was searching in the drawers, when he heard the voice of Fanny + above, raised a little as if in remonstrance or entreaty; and he paused to + listen. He could not, however, distinguish what was said; and in the + meanwhile, without attending much to what he was about, his hands were + still employed in opening and shutting the drawers, passing through the + pigeon-holes, and feeling for a topaz brooch, which he thought could not + fail of pleasing the unsophisticated eyes of Fanny. One of the recesses + was deeper than the rest; he fancied the brooch was there; he stretched + his hand into the recess; and, as the room was partially darkened by the + lower shutters from without, which were still unclosed to prevent any + attempted escape of his captive, he had only the sense of touch to depend + on; not finding the brooch, he stretched on till he came to the extremity + of the recess, and was suddenly sensible of a sharp pain; the flesh seemed + caught as in a trap; he drew back his finger with sudden force and a + half-suppressed exclamation, and he perceived the bottom or floor of the + pigeon-hole recede, as if sliding back. His curiosity was aroused; he + again felt warily and cautiously, and discovered a very slight inequality + and roughness at the extremity of the recess. He was aware instantly that + there was some secret spring; he pressed with some force on the spot, and + he felt the board give way; he pushed it back towards him, and it slid + suddenly with a whirring noise, and left a cavity below exposed to his + sight. He peered in, and drew forth a paper; he opened it at first + carelessly, for he was still trying to listen to Fanny. His eye ran + rapidly over a few preliminary lines till it rested on what follows: + </p> + <p> + “Marriage. The year 18— + </p> + <p> + “No. 83, page 21. + </p> + <p> + “Philip Beaufort, of this parish of A——-, and Catherine + Morton, of the parish of St. Botolph, Aldgate, London, were married in + this church by banns, this 12th day of November, in the year one thousand + eight hundred and ——’ by me, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “CALEB PRICE, Vicar. +</pre> + <p> + “This marriage was solemnised between us, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “PHILIP BEAUFORT. + “CATHERINE MORTON. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“In the presence of + “DAVID APREECE. + “WILLIAM SMITH. +</pre> + <p> + “The above is a true copy taken from the registry of marriages, in A——-parish, + this 19th day of March, 18—, by me, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “MORGAN JONES, Curate of C———-.” + + [This is according to the form customary at the date at which the + copy was made. There has since been an alteration.] +</pre> + <p> + Lord Lilburne again cast his eye over the lines prefixed to this startling + document, which, being those written at Caleb’s desire, by Mr. Jones to + Philip Beaufort, we need not here transcribe to the reader. At that + instant Harriet descended the stairs, and came into the room; she crept up + on tiptoe to Lilburne, and whispered,— + </p> + <p> + “She is coming down, I think; she does not know you are here.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well—go!” said Lord Lilburne. And scarce had Harriet left the + room, when a carriage drove furiously to the door, and Robert Beaufort + rushed into the study. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Gone, and none know it. + + How now?—What news, what hopes and steps discovered!” + BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: The Pilgrim. +</pre> + <p> + When Philip arrived at his lodgings in town it was very late, but he still + found Liancourt waiting the chance of his arrival. The Frenchman was full + of his own schemes and projects. He was a man of high repute and + connections; negotiations for his recall to Paris had been entered into; + he was divided between a Quixotic loyalty and a rational prudence; he + brought his doubts to Vaudemont. Occupied as he was with thoughts of so + important and personal a nature, Philip could yet listen patiently to his + friend, and weigh with him the pros and cons. And after having mutually + agreed that loyalty and prudence would both be best consulted by waiting a + little, to see if the nation, as the Carlists yet fondly trusted, would + soon, after its first fever, offer once more the throne and the purple to + the descendant of St. Louis, Liancourt, as he lighted his cigar to walk + home, said, “A thousand thanks to you, my dear friend: and how have you + enjoyed yourself in your visit? I am not surprised or jealous that + Lilburne did not invite me, as I do not play at cards, and as I have said + some sharp things to him!” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy I shall have the same disqualifications for another invitation,” + said Vaudemont, with a severe smile. “I may have much to disclose to you + in a few days. At present my news is still unripe. And have you seen + anything of Lilburne? He left us some days since. Is he in London?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I was riding with our friend Henri, who wished to try a new horse + off the stones, a little way into the country yesterday. We went through———and + H——. Pretty places, those. Do you know them?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know H——.” + </p> + <p> + “And just at dusk, as we were spurring back to town, whom should I see + walking on the path of the high-road but Lord Lilburne himself! I could + hardly believe my eyes. I stopped, and, after asking him about you, I + could not help expressing my surprise to see him on foot at such a place. + You know the man’s sneer. ‘A Frenchman so gallant as Monsieur de + Liancourt,’ said he, ‘need not be surprised at much greater miracles; the + iron moves to the magnet: I have a little adventure here. Pardon me if I + ask you to ride on.’ Of course I wished him good day; and a little farther + up the road I saw a dark plain chariot, no coronet, no arms, no footman + only the man on the box, but the beauty of the horses assured me it must + belong to Lilburne. Can you conceive such absurdity in a man of that age—and + a very clever fellow too? Yet, how is it that one does not ridicule it in + Lilburne, as one would in another man between fifty and sixty?” + </p> + <p> + “Because one does not ridicule,—one loathes-him.” + </p> + <p> + “No; that’s not it. The fact is that one can’t fancy Lilburne old. His + manner is young—his eye is young. I never saw any one with so much + vitality. ‘The bad heart and the good digestion’—the twin secrets + for wearing well, eh!” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you meet him—not near H——?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; close by. Why? Have you any adventure there too? Nay, forgive me; it + was but a jest. Good night!” + </p> + <p> + Vaudemont fell into an uneasy reverie: he could not divine exactly why he + should be alarmed; but he was alarmed at Lilburne being in the + neighbourhood of H——. It was the foot of the profane violating + the sanctuary. An undefined thrill shot through him, as his mind coupled + together the associations of Lilburne and Fanny; but there was no ground + for forebodings. Fanny did not stir out alone. An adventure, too—pooh! + Lord Lilburne must be awaiting a willing and voluntary appointment, most + probably from some one of the fair but decorous frailties of London. Lord + Lilburne’s more recent conquests were said to be among those of his own + rank; suburbs are useful for such assignations. Any other thought was too + horrible to be contemplated. He glanced to the clock; it was three in the + morning. He would go to H—— early, even before he sought out + Mr. William Smith. With that resolution, and even his hardy frame worn out + by the excitement of the day, he threw himself on his bed and fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + He did not wake till near nine, and had just dressed, and hurried over his + abstemious breakfast, when the servant of the house came to tell him that + an old woman, apparently in great agitation, wished to see him. His head + was still full of witnesses and lawsuits; and he was vaguely expecting + some visitor connected with his primary objects, when Sarah broke into the + room. She cast a hurried, suspicious look round her, and then throwing + herself on her knees to him, “Oh!” she cried, “if you have taken that poor + young thing away, God forgive you. Let her come back again. It shall be + all hushed up. Don’t ruin her! don’t, that’s a dear good gentleman!” + </p> + <p> + “Speak plainly, woman—what do you mean?” cried Philip, turning pale. + </p> + <p> + A very few words sufficed for an explanation: Fanny’s disappearance the + previous night; the alarm of Sarah at her non-return; the apathy of old + Simon, who did not comprehend what had happened, and quietly went to bed; + the search Sarah had made during half the night; the intelligence she had + picked up, that the policeman, going his rounds, had heard a female shriek + near the school; but that all he could perceive through the mist was a + carriage driving rapidly past him; Sarah’s suspicions of Vaudemont + confirmed in the morning, when, entering Fanny’s room, she perceived the + poor girl’s unfinished letter with his own, the clue to his address that + the letter gave her; all this, ere she well understood what she herself + was talking about,—Vaudemont’s alarm seized, and the reflection of a + moment construed: the carriage; Lilburne seen lurking in the neighbourhood + the previous day; the former attempt;—all flashed on him with an + intolerable glare. While Sarah was yet speaking, he rushed from the house, + he flew to Lord Lilburne’s in Park Lane; he composed his manner, he + inquired calmly. His lordship had slept from home; he was, they believed, + at Fernside: Fernside! H—— was on the direct way to that + villa. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since he heard the story ere he + was on the road, with such speed as the promise of a guinea a mile could + extract from the spurs of a young post-boy applied to the flanks of London + post-horses. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ex humili magna ad fastigia rerum + Extollit.”—JUVENAL. + + [Fortune raises men from low estate to the very + summit of prosperity.] +</pre> + <p> + When Harriet had quitted Fanny, the waiting-woman, craftily wishing to + lure her into Lilburne’s presence, had told her that the room below was + empty; and the captive’s mind naturally and instantly seized on the + thought of escape. After a brief breathing pause, she crept noiselessly + down the stairs, and gently opened the door; and at the very instant she + did so, Robert Beaufort entered from the other door; she drew back in + terror, when, what was her astonishment in hearing a name uttered that + spell-bound her—the last name she could have expected to hear; for + Lilburne, the instant he saw Beaufort, pale, haggard, agitated, rush into + the room, and bang the door after him, could only suppose that something + of extraordinary moment had occurred with regard to the dreaded guest, and + cried: + </p> + <p> + “You come about Vaudemont! Something has happened about Vaudemont! about + Philip! What is it? Calm yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Fanny, as the name was thus abruptly uttered, actually thrust her face + through the door; but she again drew back, and, all her senses + preternaturally quickened at that name, while she held the door almost + closed, listened with her whole soul in her ears. + </p> + <p> + The faces of both the men were turned from her, and her partial entry had + not been perceived. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Robert Beaufort, leaning his weight, as if ready to sink to + the ground, upon Lilburne’s shoulder, “Yes; Vaudemont, or Philip, for they + are one,—yes, it is about that man I have come to consult you. + Arthur has arrived.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “And Arthur has seen the wretch who visited us, and the rascal’s manner + has so imposed on him, so convinced him that Philip is the heir to all our + property, that he has come over-ill, ill—I fear” (added Beaufort, in + a hollow voice), “dying, to—to—” + </p> + <p> + “To guard against their machinations?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no—to say that if such be the case, neither honour nor + conscience will allow us to resist his rights. He is so obstinate in this + matter; his nerves so ill bear reasoning and contradiction, that I know + not what to do—” + </p> + <p> + “Take breath—go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it seems that this man found out Arthur almost as soon as my son + arrived at Paris—that he has persuaded Arthur that he has it in his + power to prove the marriage—that he pretended to be very impatient + for a decision—that Arthur, in order to gain time to see me, + affected irresolution—took him to Boulogne, for the rascal does not + dare to return to England—left him there; and now comes back, my own + son, as my worst enemy, to conspire against me for my property! I could + not have kept my temper if I had stayed. But that’s not all—that’s + not the worst: Vaudemont left me suddenly in the morning on the receipt of + a letter. In taking leave of Camilla he let fall hints which fill me with + fear. Well, I inquired his movements as I came along; he had stopped at D——, + had been closeted for above an hour with a man whose name the landlord of + the inn knew, for it was on his carpet-bag—the name was Barlow. You + remember the advertisements! Good Heavens! what is to be done? I would not + do anything unhandsome or dishonest. But there never was a marriage. I + never will believe there was a marriage—never!” + </p> + <p> + “There was a marriage, Robert Beaufort,” said Lord Lilburne, almost + enjoying the torture he was about to inflict; “and I hold here a paper + that Philip Vaudemont—for so we will yet call him—would give + his right hand to clutch for a moment. I have but just found it in a + secret cavity in that bureau. Robert, on this paper may depend the fate, + the fortune, the prosperity, the greatness of Philip Vaudemont;—or + his poverty, his exile, his ruin. See!” + </p> + <p> + Robert Beaufort glanced over the paper held out to him—dropped it on + the floor—and staggered to a seat. Lilburne coolly replaced the + document in the bureau, and, limping to his brother-in-law, said with a + smile,— + </p> + <p> + “But the paper is in my possession—I will not destroy it. No; I have + no right to destroy it. Besides, it would be a crime; but if I give it to + you, you can do with it as you please.” + </p> + <p> + “O Lilburne, spare me—spare me. I meant to be an honest man. I—I—” + And Robert Beaufort sobbed. Lilburne looked at him in scornful surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Do not fear that I shall ever think worse of you; and who else will know + it? Do not fear me. No;—I, too, have reasons to hate and to fear + this Philip Vaudemont; for Vaudemont shall be his name, and not Beaufort, + in spite of fifty such scraps of paper! He has known a man—my worst + foe—he has secrets of mine—of my past—perhaps of my + present: but I laugh at his knowledge while he is a wandering adventurer;—I + should tremble at that knowledge if he could thunder it out to the world + as Philip Beaufort of Beaufort Court! There, I am candid with you. Now + hear my plan. Prove to Arthur that his visitor is a convicted felon, by + sending the officers of justice after him instantly—off with him + again to the Settlements. Defy a single witness—entrap Vaudemont + back to France and prove him (I think I will prove him such—I think + so—with a little money and a little pains)—prove him the + accomplice of William Gawtrey, a coiner and a murderer! Pshaw! take yon + paper. Do with it as you will—keep it—give it to Arthur—let + Philip Vaudemont have it, and Philip Vaudemont will be rich and great, the + happiest man between earth and paradise! On the other hand, come and tell + me that you have lost it, or that I never gave you such a paper, or that + no such paper ever existed; and Philip Vaudemont may live a pauper, and + die, perhaps, a slave at the galleys! Lose it, I say,—lose it,—and + advise with me upon the rest.” + </p> + <p> + Horror-struck, bewildered, the weak man gazed upon the calm face of the + Master-villain, as the scholar of the old fables might have gazed on the + fiend who put before him worldly prosperity here and the loss of his soul + hereafter. He had never hitherto regarded Lilburne in his true light. He + was appalled by the black heart that lay bare before him. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t destroy it—I can’t,” he faltered out; “and if I did, out of + love for Arthur,—don’t talk of galleys,—of vengeance—I—I—” + </p> + <p> + “The arrears of the rents you have enjoyed will send you to gaol for your + life. No, no; don’t destroy the paper.” + </p> + <p> + Beaufort rose with a desperate effort; he moved to the bureau. Fanny’s + heart was on her lips;—of this long conference she had understood + only the one broad point on which Lilburne had insisted with an emphasis + that could have enlightened an infant; and he looked on Beaufort as an + infant then—On that paper rested Philip Vaudemont’s fate—happiness + if saved, ruin if destroyed; Philip—her Philip! And Philip himself + had said to her once—when had she ever forgotten his words? and now + how those words flashed across her—Philip himself had said to her + once, “Upon a scrap of paper, if I could but find it, may depend my whole + fortune, my whole happiness, all that I care for in life.”—Robert + Beaufort moved to the bureau—he seized the document—he looked + over it again, hurriedly, and ere Lilburne, who by no means wished to have + it destroyed in his own presence, was aware of his intention—he + hastened with tottering steps to the hearth-averted his eyes, and cast it + on the fire. At that instant something white—he scarce knew what, it + seemed to him as a spirit, as a ghost—darted by him, and snatched + the paper, as yet uninjured, from the embers! There was a pause for the + hundredth part of a moment:—a gurgling sound of astonishment and + horror from Beaufort—an exclamation from Lilburne—a laugh from + Fanny, as, her eyes flashing light, with a proud dilation of stature, with + the paper clasped tightly to her bosom, she turned her looks of triumph + from one to the other. The two men were both too amazed, at the instant, + for rapid measures. But Lilburne, recovering himself first, hastened to + her; she eluded his grasp—she made towards the door to the passage; + when Lilburne, seriously alarmed, seized her arm;— + </p> + <p> + “Foolish child!—give me that paper!” + </p> + <p> + “Never but with my life!” And Fanny’s cry for help rang through the house. + </p> + <p> + “Then—” the speech died on his lips, for at that instant a rapid + stride was heard without—a momentary scuffle—voices in + altercation;—the door gave way as if a battering ram had forced it;—not + so much thrown forward as actually hurled into the room, the body of + Dykeman fell heavily, like a dead man’s, at the very feet of Lord Lilburne—and + Philip Vaudemont stood in the doorway! + </p> + <p> + The grasp of Lilburne on Fanny’s arm relaxed, and the girl, with one + bound, sprung to Philip’s breast. “Here, here!” she cried, “take it—take + it!” and she thrust the paper into his hand. “Don’t let them have it—read + it—see it—never mind me!” But Philip, though his hand + unconsciously closed on the precious document, did mind Fanny; and in that + moment her cause was the only one in the world to him. + </p> + <p> + “Foul villain!” he said, as he strode to Lilburne, while Fanny still clung + to his breast: “Speak!—speak!—is—she—is she?—man—man, + speak!—you know what I would say!—She is the child of your own + daughter—the grandchild of that Mary whom you dishonoured—the + child of the woman whom William Gawtrey saved from pollution! Before he + died, Gawtrey commended her to my care!—O God of Heaven!—speak!—I + am not too late!” + </p> + <p> + The manner, the words, the face of Philip left Lilburne terror-stricken + with conviction. But the man’s crafty ability, debased as it was, + triumphed even over remorse for the dread guilt meditated,—over + gratitude for the dread guilt spared. He glanced at Beaufort—at + Dykeman, who now, slowly recovering, gazed at him with eyes that seemed + starting from their sockets; and lastly fixed his look on Philip himself. + There were three witnesses—presence of mind was his great attribute. + </p> + <p> + “And if, Monsieur de Vaudemont, I knew, or, at least, had the firmest + persuasion that Fanny was my grandchild, what then? Why else should she be + here?—Pooh, sir! I am an old man.” + </p> + <p> + Philip recoiled a step in wonder; his plain sense was baffled by the calm + lie. He looked down at Fanny, who, comprehending nothing of what was + spoken, for all her faculties, even her very sense of sight and hearing, + were absorbed in her impatient anxiety for him, cried out: + </p> + <p> + “No harm has come to Fanny—none: only frightened. Read!—Read!—Save + that paper!—You know what you once said about a mere scrap of paper! + Come away! Come!” + </p> + <p> + He did now cast his eyes on the paper he held. That was an awful moment + for Robert Beaufort—even for Lilburne! To snatch the fatal document + from that gripe! They would as soon have snatched it from a tiger! He + lifted his eyes—they rested on his mother’s picture! Her lips smiled + on him! He turned to Beaufort in a state of emotion too exulting, too + blest for vulgar vengeance—for vulgar triumph—almost for + words. + </p> + <p> + “Look yonder, Robert Beaufort—look!” and he pointed to the picture. + “Her name is spotless! I stand again beneath a roof that was my father’s,—the + Heir of Beaufort! We shall meet before the justice of our country. For + you, Lord Lilburne, I will believe you: it is too horrible to doubt even + your intentions. If wrong had chanced to her, I would have rent you where + you stand, limb from limb. And thank her”,—(for Lilburne recovered + at this language the daring of his youth, before calculation, indolence, + and excess had dulled the edge of his nerves; and, unawed by the height, + and manhood, and strength of his menacer, stalked haughtily up to him)—“and + thank your relationship to her,” said Philip, sinking his voice into a + whisper, “that I do not brand you as a pilferer and a cheat! Hush, knave!—hush, + pupil of George Gawtrey!—there are no duels for me but with men of + honour!” + </p> + <p> + Lilburne now turned white, and the big word stuck in his throat. In + another instant Fanny and her guardian had quitted the house. + </p> + <p> + “Dykeman,” said Lord Lilburne after a long silence, “I shall ask you + another time how you came to admit that impertinent person. At present, go + and order breakfast for Mr. Beaufort.” + </p> + <p> + As soon as Dykeman, more astounded, perhaps, by his lord’s coolness than + even by the preceding circumstances, had left the study, Lilburne came up + to Beaufort,—who seemed absolutely stricken as if by palsy,—and + touching him impatiently and rudely, said,— + </p> + <p> + “‘Sdeath, man!—rouse yourself! There is not a moment to be lost! I + have already decided on what you are to do. This paper is not worth a + rush, unless the curate who examined it will depose to that fact. He is a + curate—a Welsh curate;—you are yet Mr. Beaufort, a rich and a + great man. The curate, properly managed, may depose to the contrary; and + then we will indict them all for forgery and conspiracy. At the worst, you + can, no doubt, get the parson to forget all about it—to stay away. + His address was on the certificate: + </p> + <p> + “—C——-. Go yourself into Wales without an instant’s + delay— Then, having arranged with Mr. Jones, hurry back, cross to + Boulogne, and buy this convict and his witnesses, buy them! That, now, is + the only thing. Quick! quick!—quick! Zounds, man! if it were my + affair, my estate, I would not care a pin for that fragment of paper; I + should rather rejoice at it. I see how it could be turned against them! + Go!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; I am not equal to it! Will you manage it? will you? Half my + estate!—all! Take it: but save—” + </p> + <p> + “Tut!” interrupted Lord Lilburne, in great disdain. “I am as rich as I + want to be. Money does not bribe me. I manage this! I! Lord Lilburne. I! + Why, if found out, it is subornation of witnesses. It is exposure—it + is dishonour—it is ruin. What then? You should take the risk—for + you must meet ruin if you do not. I cannot. I have nothing to gain!” + </p> + <p> + “I dare not!—I dare not!” murmured Beaufort, quite spirit-broken. + “Subornation, dishonour, exposure!—and I, so respectable—my + character!—and my son against me, too!—my son, in whom I lived + again! No, no; let them take all! Let them take it! Ha! ha! let them take + it! Good-day to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall consult Mr. Blackwell, and I’ll let you know.” And Beaufort + walked tremulously back to his carriage. “Go to his lawyer!” growled + Lilburne. “Yes, if his lawyer can help him to defraud men lawfully, he’ll + defraud them fast enough. That will be the respectable way of doing it! + Um!—This may be an ugly business for me—the paper found here—if + the girl can depose to what she heard, and she must have heard something.—No, + I think the laws of real property will hardly allow her evidence; and if + they do—Um!—My granddaughter—is it possible!—And + Gawtrey rescued her mother, my child, from her own mother’s vices! I + thought my liking to that girl different from any other I have ever felt: + it was pure—it was!—it was pity—affection. And I must + never see her again—must forget the whole thing! And I am growing + old—and I am childless—and alone!” He paused, almost with a + groan: and then the expression of his face changing to rage, he cried out, + “The man threatened me, and I was a coward! What to do?—Nothing! The + defensive is my line. I shall play no more.—I attack no one. Who + will accuse Lord Lilburne? Still, Robert is a fool. I must not leave him + to himself. Ho! there! Dykeman!—the carriage! I shall go to London.” + </p> + <p> + Fortunate, no doubt, it was for Philip that Mr. Beaufort was not Lord + Lilburne. For all history teaches us—public and private history—conquerors—statesmen—sharp + hypocrites and brave designers—yes, they all teach us how mighty one + man of great intellect and no scruple is against the justice of millions! + The One Man moves—the Mass is inert. Justice sits on a throne. + Roguery never rests,—Activity is the lever of Archimedes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Quam inulta injusta ac prava fiunt moribus.”—TULL. + + [How many unjust and vicious actions are perpetrated + under the name of morals.] + + “Volat ambiguis + Mobilis alis Hera.”—SENECA. + + [The hour flies moving with doubtful wings.] +</pre> + <p> + Mr. Robert Beaufort sought Mr. Blackwell, and long, rambling, and + disjointed was his narrative. Mr. Blackwell, after some consideration, + proposed to set about doing the very things that Lilburne had proposed at + once to do. But the lawyer expressed himself legally and covertly, so that + it did not seem to the sober sense of Mr. Beaufort at all the same plan. + He was not the least alarmed at what Mr. Blackwell proposed, though so + shocked at what Lilburne dictated. Blackwell would go the next day into + Wales—he would find out Mr. Jones—he would sound him! Nothing + was more common with people of the nicest honour, than just to get a + witness out of the way! Done in election petitions, for instance, every + day. + </p> + <p> + “True,” said Mr. Beaufort, much relieved. + </p> + <p> + Then, after having done that, Mr. Blackwell would return to town, and + cross over to Boulogne to see this very impudent person whom Arthur (young + men were so apt to be taken in!) had actually believed. He had no doubt he + could settle it all. Robert Beaufort returned to Berkeley Square actually + in spirits. There he found Lilburne, who, on reflection, seeing that + Blackwell was at all events more up to the business than his brother, + assented to the propriety of the arrangement. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Blackwell accordingly did set off the next day. That next day, + perhaps, made all the difference. Within two hours from his gaining the + document so important, Philip, without any subtler exertion of intellect + than the decision of a plain, bold sense, had already forestalled both the + peer and the lawyer. He had sent down Mr. Barlow’s head clerk to his + master in Wales with the document, and a short account of the manner in + which it had been discovered. And fortunate, indeed, was it that the copy + had been found; for all the inquiries of Mr. Barlow at A—— had + failed, and probably would have failed, without such a clue, in fastening + upon any one probable person to have officiated as Caleb Price’s + amanuensis. The sixteen hours’ start Mr. Barlow gained over Blackwell + enabled the former to see Mr. Jones—to show him his own handwriting—to + get a written and witnessed attestation from which the curate, however + poor, and however tempted, could never well have escaped (even had he been + dishonest, which he was not), of his perfect recollection of the fact of + making an extract from the registry at Caleb’s desire, though he owned he + had quite forgotten the names he extracted till they were again placed + before him. Barlow took care to arouse Mr. Jones’s interest in the case—quitted + Wales—hastened over to Boulogne—saw Captain Smith, and without + bribes, without threats, but by plainly proving to that worthy person that + he could not return to England nor see his brother without being + immediately arrested; that his brother’s evidence was already pledged on + the side of truth; and that by the acquisition of new testimony there + could be no doubt that the suit would be successful—he diverted the + captain from all disposition towards perfidy, convinced him on which side + his interest lay, and saw him return to Paris, where very shortly + afterwards he disappeared for ever from this world, being forced into a + duel, much against his will (with a Frenchman whom he had attempted to + defraud), and shot through the lungs. Thus verifying a favourite maxim of + Lord Lilburne’s, viz. that it does not do, in the long run, for little men + to play the Great Game! + </p> + <p> + On the same day that Blackwell returned, frustrated in his half-and-half + attempts to corrupt Mr. Jones, and not having been able even to discover + Mr. Smith, Mr. Robert Beaufort received a notice of an Action for + Ejectment to be brought by Philip Beaufort at the next Assizes. And, to + add to his afflictions, Arthur, whom he had hitherto endeavoured to amuse + by a sort of ambiguous shilly-shally correspondence, became so alarmingly + worse, that his mother brought him up to town for advice. Lord Lilburne + was, of course, sent for; and on learning all, his counsel was prompt. + </p> + <p> + “I told you before that this man loves your daughter. See if you can + effect a compromise. The lawsuit will be ugly, and probably ruinous. He + has a right to claim six years’ arrears—that is above L100,000. Make + yourself his father-in-law, and me his uncle-in-law; and, since we can’t + kill the wasp, we may at least soften the venom of his sting.” + </p> + <p> + Beaufort, still perplexed, irresolute, sought his son; and, for the first + time, spoke to him frankly—that is, frankly for Robert Beaufort! He + owned that the copy of the register had been found by Lilburne in a secret + drawer. He made the best of the story Lilburne himself furnished him with + (adhering, of course, to the assertion uttered or insinuated to Philip) in + regard to Fanny’s abduction and interposition; he said nothing of his + attempt to destroy the paper. Why should he? By admitting the copy in + court—if so advised—he could get rid of Fanny’s evidence + altogether; even without such concession, her evidence might possibly be + objected to or eluded. He confessed that he feared the witness who copied + the register and the witness to the marriage were alive. And then he + talked pathetically of his desire to do what was right, his dread of + slander and misinterpretation. He said nothing of Sidney, and his belief + that Sidney and Charles Spencer were the same; because, if his daughter + were to be the instrument for effecting a compromise, it was clear that + her engagement with Spencer must be cancelled and concealed. And luckily + Arthur’s illness and Camilla’s timidity, joined now to her father’s + injunctions not to excite Arthur in his present state with any additional + causes of anxiety, prevented the confidence that might otherwise have + ensued between the brother and sister. And Camilla, indeed, had no heart + for such a conference. How, when she looked on Arthur’s glassy eye, and + listened to his hectic cough, could she talk to him of love and marriage? + As to the automaton, Mrs. Beaufort, Robert made sure of her discretion. + </p> + <p> + Arthur listened attentively to his father’s communication; and the result + of that interview was the following letter from Arthur to his cousin: + </p> + <p> + “I write to you without fear of misconstruction; for I write to you + unknown to all my family, and I am the only one of them who can have no + personal interest in the struggle about to take place between my father + and yourself. Before the law can decide between you, I shall be in my + grave. I write this from the Bed of Death. Philip, I write this—I, + who stood beside a deathbed more sacred to you than mine—I, who + received your mother’s last sigh. And with that sigh there was a smile + that lasted when the sigh was gone: for I promised to befriend her + children. Heaven knows how anxiously I sought to fulfil that solemn vow! + Feeble and sick myself, I followed you and your brother with no aim, no + prayer, but this,—to embrace you and say, ‘Accept a new brother in + me.’ I spare you the humiliation, for it is yours, not mine, of recalling + what passed between us when at last we met. Yet, I still sought to save, + at least, Sidney,—more especially confided to my care by his dying + mother. He mysteriously eluded our search; but we had reason, by a letter + received from some unknown hand, to believe him saved and provided for. + Again I met you at Paris. I saw you were poor. Judging from your + associate, I might with justice think you depraved. Mindful of your + declaration never to accept bounty from a Beaufort, and remembering with + natural resentment the outrage I had before received from you, I judged it + vain to seek and remonstrate with you, but I did not judge it vain to aid. + I sent you, anonymously, what at least would suffice, if absolute poverty + had subjected you to evil courses, to rescue you from them it your heart + were so disposed. Perhaps that sum, trifling as it was, may have smoothed + your path and assisted your career. And why tell you all this now? To + dissuade from asserting rights you conceive to be just?—Heaven + forbid! If justice is with you, so also is the duty due to your mother’s + name. But simply for this: that in asserting such rights, you content + yourself with justice, not revenge—that in righting yourself, you do + not wrong others. If the law should decide for you, the arrears you could + demand would leave my father and sister beggars. This may be law—it + would not be justice; for my father solemnly believed himself, and had + every apparent probability in his favour, the true heir of the wealth that + devolved upon him. This is not all. There may be circumstances connected + with the discovery of a certain document that, if authentic, and I do not + presume to question it, may decide the contest so far as it rests on + truth; circumstances which might seem to bear hard upon my father’s good + name and faith. I do not know sufficiently of law to say how far these + could be publicly urged, or, if urged, exaggerated and tortured by an + advocate’s calumnious ingenuity. But again, I say justice, and not + revenge! And with this I conclude, inclosing to you these lines, written + in your own hand, and leaving you the arbiter of their value. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “ARTHUR BEAUFORT.” + </pre> + <p> + The lines inclosed were these, a second time placed before the reader + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I cannot guess who you are. They say that you call yourself a + relation; that must be some mistake. I knew not that my poor mother + had relations so kind. But, whoever you be, you soothed her last + hours—she died in your arms; and if ever-years, long years, hence— + we should chance to meet, and I can do anything to aid another, my + blood, and my life, and my heart, and my soul, all are slaves to + your will! If you be really of her kindred I commend to you my + brother; he is at —— with Mr. Morton. If you can serve him, my + mother’s soul will watch over you as a guardian angel. As for me, I + ask no help from any one; I go into the world, and will carve out my + own way. So much do I shrink from the thought of charity from + others, that I do not believe I could bless you as I do now, if your + kindness to me did not close with the stone upon my mother’s grave. + + PHILIP.” + </pre> + <p> + This letter was sent to the only address of Monsieur de Vaudemont which + the Beauforts knew, viz., his apartments in town, and he did not receive + it the day it was sent. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort’s malady continued to gain ground rapidly. His + father, absorbed in his own more selfish fears (though, at the first sight + of Arthur, overcome by the alteration of his appearance), had ceased to + consider his illness fatal. In fact, his affection for Arthur was rather + one of pride than love: long absence had weakened the ties of early + custom. He prized him as an heir rather than treasured him as a son. It + almost seemed that as the Heritage was in danger, so the Heir became less + dear: this was only because he was less thought of. Poor Mrs. Beaufort, + yet but partially acquainted with the terrors of her husband, still clung + to hope for Arthur. Her affection for him brought out from the depths of + her cold and insignificant character qualities that had never before been + apparent. She watched—she nursed—she tended him. The fine lady + was gone; nothing but the mother was left behind. + </p> + <p> + With a delicate constitution, and with an easy temper, which yielded to + the influence of companions inferior to himself, except in bodily vigour + and more sturdy will, Arthur Beaufort had been ruined by prosperity. His + talents and acquirements, if not first-rate, at least far above + mediocrity, had only served to refine his tastes, not to strengthen his + mind. His amiable impulses, his charming disposition and sweet temper, had + only served to make him the dupe of the parasites that feasted on the + lavish heir. His heart, frittered away in the usual round of light + intrigues and hollow pleasures, had become too sated and exhausted for the + redeeming blessings of a deep and a noble love. He had so lived for + Pleasure that he had never known Happiness. His frame broke by excesses in + which his better nature never took delight, he came home—to hear of + ruin and to die! + </p> + <p> + It was evening in the sick-room. Arthur had risen from the bed to which, + for some days, he had voluntarily taken, and was stretched on the sofa + before the fire. Camilla was leaning over him, keeping in the shade, that + he might not see the tears which she could not suppress. His mother had + been endeavouring to amuse him, as she would have amused herself, by + reading aloud one of the light novels of the hour; novels that paint the + life of the higher classes as one gorgeous holyday. + </p> + <p> + “My dear mother,” said the patient querulously, “I have no interest in + these false descriptions of the life I have led. I know that life’s worth. + Ah! had I been trained to some employment, some profession! had I—well—it + is weak to repine. Mother, tell me, you have seen Mons. de Vaudemont: is + he strong and healthy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; too much so. He has not your elegance, dear Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you admire him, Camilla? Has no other caught your heart or your + fancy?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Arthur,” interrupted Mrs. Beaufort, “you forget that Camilla is + scarcely out; and of course a young girl’s affections, if she’s well + brought up, are regulated by the experience of her parents. It is time to + take the medicine: it certainly agrees with you; you have more colour + to-day, my dear, dear son.” + </p> + <p> + While Mrs. Beaufort was pouring out the medicine, the door gently opened, + and Mr. Robert Beaufort appeared; behind him there rose a taller and a + statelier form, but one which seemed more bent, more humbled, more + agitated. Beaufort advanced. Camilla looked up and turned pale. The + visitor escaped from Mr. Beaufort’s grasp on his arm; he came forward, + trembling, he fell on his knees beside Arthur, and seizing his hand, bent + over, it in silence. But silence so stormy! silence more impressive than + all words his breast heaved, his whole frame shook. Arthur guessed at once + whom he saw, and bent down gently as if to raise his visitor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Arthur! Arthur!” then cried Philip; “forgive me! My mother’s + comforter—my cousin—my brother! Oh! brother, forgive me!” + </p> + <p> + And as he half rose, Arthur stretched out his arms, and Philip clasped him + to his breast. + </p> + <p> + It is in vain to describe the different feelings that agitated those who + beheld; the selfish congratulations of Robert, mingled with a better and + purer feeling; the stupor of the mother; the emotions that she herself + could not unravel, which rooted Camilla to the spot. + </p> + <p> + “You own me, then,—you own me!” cried Philip. “You accept the + brotherhood that my mad passions once rejected! And you, too—you, + Camilla—you who once knelt by my side, under this very roof—do + you remember me now? Oh, Arthur! that letter—that letter!—yes, + indeed, that aid which I ascribed to any one—rather than to you—made + the date of a fairer fortune. I may have owed to that aid the very fate + that has preserved me till now; the very name which I have not + discredited. No, no; do not think you can ask me a favour; you can but + claim your due. Brother! my dear brother!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Warwick.—Exceeding well! his cares are now all over.” + —Henry IV. +</pre> + <p> + The excitement of this interview soon overpowering Arthur, Philip, in + quitting the room with Mr. Beaufort, asked a conference with that + gentleman; and they went into the very parlour from which the rich man had + once threatened to expel the haggard suppliant. Philip glanced round the + room, and the whole scene came again before him. After a pause, he thus + began,— + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Beaufort, let the Past be forgotten. We may have need of mutual + forgiveness, and I, who have so wronged your noble son, am willing to + suppose that I misjudged you. I cannot, it is true, forego this lawsuit.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort’s face fell. + </p> + <p> + “I have no right to do so. I am the trustee of my father’s honour and my + mother’s name: I must vindicate both: I cannot forego this lawsuit. But + when I once bowed myself to enter your house—then only with a hope, + where now I have the certainty of obtaining my heritage—it was with + the resolve to bury in oblivion every sentiment that would transgress the + most temperate justice. Now, I will do more. If the law decide against me, + we are as we were; if with me—listen: I will leave you the lands of + Beaufort, for your life and your son’s. I ask but for me and for mine such + a deduction from your wealth as will enable me, should my brother be yet + living, to provide for him; and (if you approve the choice, which out of + all earth I would desire to make) to give whatever belongs to more refined + or graceful existence than I myself care for,—to her whom I would + call my wife. Robert Beaufort, in this room I once asked you to restore to + me the only being I then loved: I am now again your suppliant; and this + time you have it in your power to grant my prayer. Let Arthur be, in + truth, my brother: give me, if I prove myself, as I feel assured, entitled + to hold the name my father bore, give me your daughter as my wife; give me + Camilla, and I will not envy you the lands I am willing for myself to + resign; and if they pass to any children, those children will be your + daughter’s!” + </p> + <p> + The first impulse of Mr. Beaufort was to grasp the hand held out to him; + to pour forth an incoherent torrent of praise and protestation, of + assurances that he could not hear of such generosity, that what was right + was right, that he should be proud of such a son-in-law, and much more in + the same key. And in the midst of this, it suddenly occurred to Mr. + Beaufort, that if Philip’s case were really as good as he said it was, he + could not talk so coolly of resigning the property it would secure him for + the term of a life (Mr. Beaufort thought of his own) so uncommonly good, + to say nothing of Arthur’s. At this notion, he thought it best not to + commit himself too far; drew in as artfully as he could, until he could + consult Lord Lilburne and his lawyer; and recollecting also that he had a + great deal to manage with respect to Camilla and her prior attachment, he + began to talk of his distress for Arthur, of the necessity of waiting a + little before Camilla was spoken to, while so agitated about her brother, + of the exceedingly strong case which his lawyer advised him he possessed—not + but what he would rather rest the matter on justice than law—and + that if the law should be with him, he would not the less (provided he did + not force his daughter’s inclinations, of which, indeed, he had no fear) + be most happy to bestow her hand on his brother’s nephew, with such a + portion as would be most handsome to all parties. + </p> + <p> + It often happens to us in this world, that when we come with our heart in + our hands to some person or other,—when we pour out some generous + burst of feeling so enthusiastic and self-sacrificing, that a bystander + would call us fool and Quixote;—it often, I say, happens to us, to + find our warm self suddenly thrown back upon our cold self; to discover + that we are utterly uncomprehended, and that the swine who would have + munched up the acorn does not know what to make of the pearl. That sudden + ice which then freezes over us, that supreme disgust and despair almost of + the whole world, which for the moment we confound with the one worldling—they + who have felt, may reasonably ascribe to Philip. He listened to Mr. + Beaufort in utter and contemptuous silence, and then replied only,— + </p> + <p> + “Sir, at all events this is a question for law to decide. If it decide as + you think, it is for you to act; if as I think, it is for me. Till then I + will speak to you no more of your daughter, or my intentions. Meanwhile, + all I ask is the liberty to visit your son. I would not be banished from + his sick-room!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear nephew!” cried Mr. Beaufort, again alarmed, “consider this house + as your home.” + </p> + <p> + Philip bowed and retreated to the door, followed obsequiously by his + uncle. + </p> + <p> + It chanced that both Lord Lilburne and Mr. Blackwell were of the same mind + as to the course advisable for Mr. Beaufort now to pursue. Lord Lilburne + was not only anxious to exchange a hostile litigation for an amicable + lawsuit, but he was really eager to put the seal of relationship upon any + secret with regard to himself that a man who might inherit L20,000. a year—a + dead shot, and a bold tongue—might think fit to disclose. This made + him more earnest than he otherwise might have been in advice as to other + people’s affairs. He spoke to Beaufort as a man of the world—to + Blackwell as a lawyer. + </p> + <p> + “Pin the man down to his generosity,” said Lilburne, “before he gets the + property. Possession makes a great change in a man’s value of money. After + all, you can’t enjoy the property when you’re dead: he gives it next to + Arthur, who is not married; and if anything happen to Arthur, poor fellow, + why, in devolving on your daughter’s husband and children, it goes in the + right line. Pin him down at once: get credit with the world for the most + noble and disinterested conduct, by letting your counsel state that the + instant you discovered the lost document you wished to throw no obstacle + in the way of proving the marriage, and that the only thing to consider + is, if the marriage be proved; if so, you will be the first to rejoice, + &c. &c. You know all that sort of humbug as well as any man!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Blackwell suggested the same advice, though in different words—after + taking the opinions of three eminent members of the bar; those opinions, + indeed, were not all alike—one was adverse to Mr. Robert Beaufort’s + chance of success, one was doubtful of it, the third maintained that he + had nothing to fear from the action—except, possibly, the + ill-natured construction of the world. Mr. Robert Beaufort disliked the + idea of the world’s ill-nature, almost as much as he did that of losing + his property. And when even this last and more encouraging authority, + learning privately from Mr. Blackwell that Arthur’s illness was of a + nature to terminate fatally, observed, “that a compromise with a claimant, + who was at all events Mr. Beaufort’s nephew, by which Mr. Beaufort could + secure the enjoyment of the estates to himself for life, and to his son + for life also, should not (whatever his probabilities of legal success) be + hastily rejected—unless he had a peculiar affection for a very + distant relation—who, failing Mr. Beaufort’s male issue and Philip’s + claim, would be heir-at-law, but whose rights would cease if Arthur liked + to cut off the entail.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort at once decided. He had a personal dislike to that distant + heir-at-law; he had a strong desire to retain the esteem of the world; he + had an innate conviction of the justice of Philip’s claim; he had a + remorseful recollection of his brother’s generous kindness to himself; he + preferred to have for his heir, in case of Arthur’s decease, a nephew who + would marry his daughter, than a remote kinsman. And should, after all, + the lawsuit fail to prove Philip’s right, he was not sorry to have the + estate in his own power by Arthur’s act in cutting off the entail. Brief; + all these reasons decided him. He saw Philip—he spoke to Arthur—and + all the preliminaries, as suggested above, were arranged between the + parties. The entail was cut off, and Arthur secretly prevailed upon his + father, to whom, for the present, the fee-simple thus belonged, to make a + will, by which he bequeathed the estates to Philip, without reference to + the question of his legitimacy. Mr. Beaufort felt his conscience greatly + eased after this action—which, too, he could always retract if he + pleased; and henceforth the lawsuit became but a matter of form, so far as + the property it involved was concerned. + </p> + <p> + While these negotiations went on, Arthur continued gradually to decline. + Philip was with him always. The sufferer took a strange liking to this + long-dreaded relation, this man of iron frame and thews. In Philip there + was so much of life, that Arthur almost felt as if in his presence itself + there was an antagonism to death. And Camilla saw thus her cousin, day by + day, hour by hour, in that sick chamber, lending himself, with the gentle + tenderness of a woman, to soften the pang, to arouse the weariness, to + cheer the dejection. Philip never spoke to her of love: in such a scene + that had been impossible. She overcame in their mutual cares the + embarrassment she had before felt in his presence; whatever her other + feelings, she could not, at least, but be grateful to one so tender to her + brother. Three letters of Charles Spencer’s had been, in the afflictions + of the house, only answered by a brief line. She now took the occasion of + a momentary and delusive amelioration in Arthur’s disease to write to him + more at length. She was carrying, as usual, the letter to her mother, when + Mr. Beaufort met her, and took the letter from her hand. He looked + embarrassed for a moment, and bade her follow him into his study. It was + then that Camilla learned, for the first time, distinctly, the claims and + rights of her cousin; then she learned also at what price those rights + were to be enforced with the least possible injury to her father. Mr. + Beaufort naturally put the case before her in the strongest point of the + dilemma. He was to be ruined—utterly ruined; a pauper, a beggar, if + Camilla did not save him. The master of his fate demanded his daughter’s + hand. Habitually subservient to even a whim of her parents, this + intelligence, the entreaty, the command with which it was accompanied, + overwhelmed her. She answered but by tears; and Mr. Beaufort, assured of + her submission, left her, to consider of the tone of the letter he himself + should write to Mr. Spencer. He had sat down to this very task when he was + summoned to Arthur’s room. His son was suddenly taken worse: spasms that + threatened immediate danger convulsed and exhausted him, and when these + were allayed, he continued for three days so feeble that Mr. Beaufort, his + eyes now thoroughly opened to the loss that awaited him, had no thoughts + even for worldly interests. + </p> + <p> + On the night of the third day, Philip, Robert Beaufort, his wife, his + daughter, were grouped round the death-bed of Arthur. The sufferer had + just wakened from sleep, and he motioned to Philip to raise him. Mr. + Beaufort started, as by the dim light he saw his son in the arms of + Catherine’s! and another Chamber of Death seemed, shadow-like, to replace + the one before him. Words, long since uttered, knelled in his ear: “There + shall be a death-bed yet beside which you shall see the spectre of her, + now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave!” His blood froze, his + hair stood erect; he cast a hurried, shrinking glance round the twilight + of the darkened room: and with a feeble cry covered his white face with + his trembling hands! But on Arthur’s lips there was a serene smile; he + turned his eyes from Philip to Camilla, and murmured, “She will repay + you!” A pause, and the mother’s shriek rang through the room! Robert + Beaufort raised his face from his hands. His son was dead! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Jul. And what reward do you propose? + + It must be my love.”—The Double Marriage. +</pre> + <p> + While these events, dark, hurried, and stormy, had befallen the family of + his betrothed, Sidney Beaufort continued his calm life by the banks of the + lovely lake. After a few weeks, his confidence in Camilla’s fidelity + overbore all his apprehensions and forebodings. Her letters, though + constrained by the inspection to which they were submitted, gave him + inexpressible consolation and delight. He began, however, early to fancy + that there was a change in their tone. The letters seemed to shun the one + subject to which all others were as nought; they turned rather upon the + guests assembled at Beaufort Court; and why I know not,—for there + was nothing in them to authorise jealousy—the brief words devoted to + Monsieur de Vaudemont filled him with uneasy and terrible suspicion. He + gave vent to these feelings, as fully as he dared do, under the knowledge + that his letter would be seen; and Camilla never again even mentioned the + name of Vaudemont. Then there was a long pause; then her brother’s arrival + and illness were announced; then, at intervals, but a few hurried lines; + then a complete, long, dreadful silence, and lastly, with a deep black + border and a solemn black seal, came the following letter from Mr. + Beaufort: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR SIR,—I have the unutterable grief to announce to you and + your worthy uncle the irreparable loss I have sustained in the death of my + only son. It is a month to day since he departed this life. He died, sir, + as a Christian should die—humbly, penitently—exaggerating the + few faults of his short life, but—(and here the writer’s hypocrisy, + though so natural to him—was it, that he knew not that he was + hypocritical?—fairly gave way before the real and human anguish, for + which there is no dictionary!) but I cannot pursue this theme! + </p> + <p> + “Slowly now awakening to the duties yet left me to discharge, I cannot but + be sensible of the material difference in the prospects of my remaining + child. Miss Beaufort is now the heiress to an ancient name and a large + fortune. She subscribes with me to the necessity of consulting those new + considerations which so melancholy an event forces upon her mind. The + little fancy—or liking—(the acquaintance was too short for + more) that might naturally spring up between two amiable young persons + thrown together in the country, must be banished from our thoughts. As a + friend, I shall be always happy to hear of your welfare; and should you + ever think of a profession in which I can serve you, you may command my + utmost interest and exertions. I know, my young friend, what you will feel + at first, and how disposed you will be to call me mercenary and selfish. + Heaven knows if that be really my character! But at your age, impressions + are easily effaced; and any experienced friend of the world will assure + you that, in the altered circumstances of the case, I have no option. All + intercourse and correspondence, of course, cease with this letter,—until, + at least, we may all meet, with no sentiments but those of friendship and + esteem. I desire my compliments to your worthy uncle, in which Mrs. and + Miss Beaufort join; and I am sure you will be happy to hear that my wife + and daughter, though still in great affliction, have suffered less in + health than I could have ventured to anticipate. + </p> + <p> + “Believe me, dear Sir, + </p> + <p> + “Yours sincerely, + </p> + <p> + “ROBERT BEAUFORT. + </p> + <p> + “To C. SPENCER, Esq., Jun.” + </p> + <p> + When Sidney received this letter, he was with Mr. Spencer, and the latter + read it over the young man’s shoulder, on which he leant affectionately. + When they came to the concluding words, Sidney turned round with a vacant + look and a hollow smile. “You see, sir,” he said, “you see—-” + </p> + <p> + “My boy—my son—you bear this as you ought. Contempt will soon + efface—” + </p> + <p> + Sidney started to his feet, and his whole countenance was changed. + </p> + <p> + “Contempt—yes, for him! But for her—she knows it not—she + is no party to this—I cannot believe it—I will not! I—I——” + and he rushed out of the room. He was absent till nightfall, and when he + returned, he endeavoured to appear calm—but it was in vain. + </p> + <p> + The next day brought him a letter from Camilla, written unknown to her + parents,—short, it is true (confirming the sentence of separation + contained in her father’s), and imploring him not to reply to it,—but + still so full of gentle and of sorrowful feeling, so evidently worded in + the wish to soften the anguish she inflicted, that it did more than soothe—it + even administered hope. + </p> + <p> + Now when Mr. Robert Beaufort had recovered the ordinary tone of his mind + sufficiently to indite the letter Sidney had just read, he had become + fully sensible of the necessity of concluding the marriage between Philip + and Camilla before the publicity of the lawsuit. The action for the + ejectment could not take place before the ensuing March or April. He would + waive the ordinary etiquette of time and mourning to arrange all before. + Indeed, he lived in hourly fear lest Philip should discover that he had a + rival in his brother, and break off the marriage, with its contingent + advantages. The first announcement of such a suit in the newspapers might + reach the Spencers; and if the young man were, as he doubted not, Sidney + Beaufort, would necessarily bring him forward, and ensure the dreaded + explanation. Thus apprehensive and ever scheming, Robert Beaufort spoke to + Philip so much, and with such apparent feeling, of his wish to gratify, at + the earliest possible period, the last wish of his son, in the union now + arranged—he spoke, with such seeming consideration and good sense, + of the avoidance of all scandal and misinterpretation in the suit itself, + which suit a previous marriage between the claimant and his daughter would + show at once to be of so amicable a nature,—that Philip, ardently in + love as he was, could not but assent to any hastening of his expected + happiness compatible with decorum. As to any previous publicity by way of + newspaper comment, he agreed with Mr. Beaufort in deprecating it. But then + came the question, What name was he to bear in the interval? + </p> + <p> + “As to that,” said Philip, somewhat proudly, “when, after my mother’s suit + in her own behalf, I persuaded her not to bear the name of Beaufort, + though her due—and for my own part, I prized her own modest name, + which under such dark appearances was in reality spotless—as much as + the loftier one which you bear and my father bore;—so I shall not + resume the name the law denies me till the law restores it to me. Law + alone can efface the wrong which law has done me.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Beaufort was pleased with this reasoning (erroneous though it was), + and he now hoped that all would be safely arranged. + </p> + <p> + That a girl so situated as Camilla, and of a character not energetic or + profound, but submissive, dutiful, and timid, should yield to the + arguments of her father, the desire of her dying brother—that she + should not dare to refuse to become the instrument of peace to a divided + family, the saving sacrifice to her father’s endangered fortunes—that, + in fine, when, nearly a month after Arthur’s death, her father, leading + her into the room, where Philip waited her footstep with a beating heart, + placed her hand in his—and Philip falling on his knees said, “May I + hope to retain this hand for life?”—she should falter out such words + as he might construe into not reluctant acquiescence; that all this should + happen is so natural that the reader is already prepared for it. But still + she thought with bitter and remorseful feelings of him thus deliberately + and faithlessly renounced. She felt how deeply he had loved her—she + knew how fearful would be his grief. She looked sad and thoughtful; but + her brother’s death was sufficient in Philip’s eyes to account for that. + The praises and gratitude of her father, to whom she suddenly seemed to + become an object of even greater pride and affection than ever Arthur had + been—the comfort of a generous heart, that takes pleasure in the + very sacrifice it makes—the acquittal of her conscience as to the + motives of her conduct—began, however, to produce their effect. Nor, + as she had lately seen more of Philip, could she be insensible of his + attachment—of his many noble qualities—of the pride which most + women might have felt in his addresses, when his rank was once made clear; + and as she had ever been of a character more regulated by duty than + passion, so one who could have seen what was passing in her mind would + have had little fear for Philip’s future happiness in her keeping—little + fear but that, when once married to him, her affections would have gone + along with her duties; and that if the first love were yet recalled, it + would be with a sigh due rather to some romantic recollection than some + continued regret. Few of either sex are ever united to their first love; + yet married people jog on, and call each other “my dear” and “my darling” + all the same. It might be, it is true, that Philip would be scarcely loved + with the intenseness with which he loved; but if Camilla’s feelings were + capable of corresponding to the ardent and impassioned ones of that strong + and vehement nature—such feelings were not yet developed in her. The + heart of the woman might still be half concealed in the vale of the virgin + innocence. Philip himself was satisfied—he believed that he was + beloved: for it is the property of love, in a large and noble heart, to + reflect itself, and to see its own image in the eyes on which it looks. As + the Poet gives ideal beauty and excellence to some ordinary child of Eve, + worshipping less the being that is than the being he imagines and + conceives—so Love, which makes us all poets for a while, throws its + own divine light over a heart perhaps really cold; and becomes dazzled + into the joy of a false belief by the very lustre with which it surrounds + its object. + </p> + <p> + The more, however, Camilla saw of Philip, the more (gradually overcoming + her former mysterious and superstitious awe of him) she grew familiarised + to his peculiar cast of character and thought, so the more she began to + distrust her father’s assertion, that he had insisted on her hand as a + price—a bargain—an equivalent for the sacrifice of a dire + revenge. And with this thought came another. Was she worthy of this man?—was + she not deceiving him? Ought she not to say, at least, that she had known + a previous attachment, however determined she might be to subdue it? Often + the desire for this just and honourable confession trembled on her lips, + and as often was it checked by some chance circumstance or some maiden + fear. Despite their connection, there was not yet between them that + delicious intimacy which ought to accompany the affiance of two hearts and + souls. The gloom of the house; the restraint on the very language of love + imposed by a death so recent and so deplored, accounted in much for this + reserve. And for the rest, Robert Beaufort prudently left them very few + and very brief opportunities to be alone. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, Philip (now persuaded that the Beauforts were ignorant of + his brother’s fate) had set Mr. Barlow’s activity in search of Sidney; and + his painful anxiety to discover one so dear and so mysteriously lost was + the only cause of uneasiness apparent in the brightening Future. While + these researches, hitherto fruitless, were being made, it so happened, as + London began now to refill, and gossip began now to revive, that a report + got abroad, no one knew how (probably from the servants) that Monsieur de + Vaudemont, a distinguished French officer, was shortly to lead the + daughter and sole heiress of Robert Beaufort, Esq., M.P., to the hymeneal + altar; and that report very quickly found its way into the London papers: + from the London papers it spread to the provincial—it reached the + eyes of Sidney in his now gloomy and despairing solitude. The day that he + read it he disappeared. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Jul.... Good lady, love him! + You have a noble and an honest gentleman. + I ever found him so. + Love him no less than I have done, and serve him, + And Heaven shall bless you—you shall bless my ashes.” + BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: The Double Marriage. +</pre> + <p> + We have been too long absent from Fanny; it is time to return to her. The + delight she experienced when Philip made her understand all the benefits, + the blessings, that her courage, nay, her intellect, had bestowed upon + him, the blushing ecstasy with which she heard (as they returned to H——, + the eventful morning of her deliverance, side by side, her hand clasped in + his, and often pressed to his grateful lips) his praises, his thanks, his + fear for her safety, his joy at regaining her—all this amounted to a + bliss, which, till then, she could not have conceived that life was + capable of bestowing. And when he left her at H——, to hurry to + his lawyer’s with the recovered document, it was but for an hour. He + returned, and did not quit her for several days. And in that time he + became sensible of her astonishing, and, to him, it seemed miraculous, + improvement in all that renders Mind the equal to Mind; miraculous, for he + guessed not the Influence that makes miracles its commonplace. And now he + listened attentively to her when she conversed; he read with her (though + reading was never much in his vocation), his unfastidious ear was charmed + with her voice, when it sang those simple songs; and his manner (impressed + alike by gratitude for the signal service rendered to him, and by the + discovery that Fanny was no longer a child, whether in mind or years), + though not less gentle than before, was less familiar, less superior, more + respectful, and more earnest. It was a change which raised her in her own + self-esteem. Ah, those were rosy days for Fanny! + </p> + <p> + A less sagacious judge of character than Lilburne would have formed doubts + perhaps of the nature of Philip’s interest in Fanny. But he comprehended + at once the fraternal interest which a man like Philip might well take in + a creature like Fanny, if commended to his care by a protector whose doom + was so awful as that which had ingulfed the life of William Gawtrey. + Lilburne had some thoughts at first of claiming her, but as he had no + power to compel her residence with him, he did not wish, on consideration, + to come again in contact with Philip upon ground so full of humbling + recollections as that still overshadowed by the images of Gawtrey and + Mary. He contented himself with writing an artful letter to Simon, stating + that from Fanny’s residence with Mr. Gawtrey, and from her likeness to her + mother, whom he had only seen as a child, he had conjectured the + relationship she bore to himself; and having obtained other evidence of + that fact (he did not say what or where), he had not scrupled to remove + her to his roof, meaning to explain all to Mr. Simon Gawtrey the next day. + This letter was accompanied by one from a lawyer, informing Simon Gawtrey + that Lord Lilburne would pay L200. a year, in quarterly payments, to his + order; and that he was requested to add, that when the young lady he had + so benevolently reared came of age, or married, an adequate provision + would be made for her. Simon’s mind blazed up at this last intelligence, + when read to him, though he neither comprehended nor sought to know why + Lord Lilburne should be so generous, or what that noble person’s letter to + himself was intended to convey. For two days, he seemed restored to + vigorous sense; but when he had once clutched the first payment made in + advance, the touch of the money seemed to numb him back to his lethargy: + the excitement of desire died in the dull sense of possession. + </p> + <p> + And just at that time Fanny’s happiness came to a close. Philip received + Arthur Beaufort’s letter; and now ensued long and frequent absences; and + on his return, for about an hour or so at a time, he spoke of sorrow and + death; and the books were closed and the songs silenced. All fear for + Fanny’s safety was, of course, over; all necessity for her work; their + little establishment was increased. She never stirred out without Sarah; + yet she would rather that there had been some danger on her account for + him to guard against, or some trial that his smile might soothe. His + prolonged absences began to prey upon her—the books ceased to + interest—no study filled up the dreary gap—her step grew + listless—her cheek pale—she was sensible at last that his + presence had become necessary to her very life. One day, he came to the + house earlier than usual, and with a much happier and serener expression + of countenance than he had worn of late. + </p> + <p> + Simon was dozing in his chair, with his old dog, now scarce vigorous + enough to bark, curled up at his feet. Neither man nor dog was more as a + witness to what was spoken than the leathern chair, or the hearth-rug, on + which they severally reposed. + </p> + <p> + There was something which, in actual life, greatly contributed to the + interest of Fanny’s strange lot, but which, in narration, I feel I cannot + make sufficiently clear to the reader. And this was her connection and + residence with that old man. Her character forming, as his was completely + gone; here, the blank becoming filled—there, the page fading to a + blank. It was the utter, total Deathliness-in-Life of Simon, that, while + so impressive to see, renders it impossible to bring him before the reader + in his full force of contrast to the young Psyche. He seldom spoke—often, + not from morning till night; he now seldom stirred. It is in vain to + describe the indescribable: let the reader draw the picture for himself. + And whenever (as I sometimes think he will, after he has closed this book) + he conjures up the idea he attaches to the name of its heroine, let him + see before her, as she glides through the humble room—as she listens + to the voice of him she loves—as she sits musing by the window, with + the church spire just visible—as day by day the soul brightens and + expands within her—still let the reader see within the same walls, + greyhaired, blind, dull to all feeling, frozen to all life, that stony + image of Time and Death! Perhaps then he may understand why they who + beheld the real and living Fanny blooming under that chill and mass of + shadow, felt that her grace, her simplicity, her charming beauty, were + raised by the contrast, till they grew associated with thoughts and + images, mysterious and profound, belonging not more to the lovely than to + the sublime. + </p> + <p> + So there sat the old man; and Philip, though aware of his presence, + speaking as if he were alone with Fanny, after touching on more casual + topics, thus addressed her: + </p> + <p> + “My true and my dear friend, it is to you that I shall owe, not only my + rights and fortune, but the vindication of my mother’s memory. You have + not only placed flowers upon that gravestone, but it is owing to you, + under Providence, that it will be inscribed at last with the Name which + refutes all calumny. Young and innocent as you now are, my gentle and + beloved benefactress, you cannot as yet know what a blessing it will be to + me to engrave that Name upon that simple stone. Hereafter, when you + yourself are a wife, a mother, you will comprehend the service you have + rendered to the living and the dead!” + </p> + <p> + He stopped—struggling with the rush of emotions that overflowed his + heart. Alas, THE DEAD! what service can we render to them?—what + availed it now, either to the dust below, or to the immortality above, + that the fools and knaves of this world should mention the Catherine whose + life was gone, whose ears were deaf, with more or less respect? There is + in calumny that poison that, even when the character throws off the + slander, the heart remains diseased beneath the effect. They say that + truth comes sooner or later; but it seldom comes before the soul, passing + from agony to contempt, has grown callous to men’s judgments. Calumniate a + human being in youth—adulate that being in age;—what has been + the interval? Will the adulation atone either for the torture, or the + hardness which the torture leaves at last? And if, as in Catherine’s case + (a case, how common!), the truth come too late—if the tomb is closed—if + the heart you have wrung can be wrung no more—why the truth is as + valueless as the epitaph on a forgotten Name! Some such conviction of the + hollowness of his own words, when he spoke of service to the dead, smote + upon Philip’s heart, and stopped the flow of his words. + </p> + <p> + Fanny, conscious only of his praise, his thanks, and the tender affection + of his voice, stood still silent—her eyes downcast, her breast + heaving. + </p> + <p> + Philip resumed: + </p> + <p> + “And now, Fanny, my honoured sister, I would thank you for more, were it + possible, even than this. I shall owe to you not only name and fortune, + but happiness. It is from the rights to which you have assisted me, and + which will shortly be made clear, that I am able to demand a hand I have + so long coveted—the hand of one as dear to me as you are. In a word, + the time has, this day, been fixed, when I shall have a home to offer to + you and to this old man—when I can present to you a sister who will + prize you as I do: for I love you so dearly—I owe you so much—that + even that home would lose half its smiles if you were not there. Do you + understand me, Fanny? The sister I speak of will be my wife!” + </p> + <p> + The poor girl who heard this speech of most cruel tenderness did not fall, + or faint, or evince any outward emotion, except in a deadly paleness. She + seemed like one turned to stone. Her very breath forsook her for some + moments, and then came back with a long deep sigh. She laid her hand + lightly on his arm, and said calmly: + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I understand. We once saw a wedding. You are to be married—I + shall see yours!” + </p> + <p> + “You shall; and, later, perhaps, I may see your own.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a brother. Ah! if I could but find him—younger than I am—beautiful + almost as you!” + </p> + <p> + “You will be happy,” said Fanny, still calmly. + </p> + <p> + “I have long placed my hopes of happiness in such a union! Stay, where are + you going?” + </p> + <p> + “To pray for you,” said Fanny, with a smile, in which there was something + of the old vacancy, as she walked gently from the room. Philip followed + her with moistened eyes. Her manner might have deceived one more vain. He + soon after quitted the house, and returned to town. + </p> + <p> + Three hours after, Sarah found Fanny stretched on the floor of her own + room—so still—so white—that, for some moments, the old + woman thought life was gone. She recovered, however, by degrees; and, + after putting her hands to her eyes, and muttering some moments, seemed + much as usual, except that she was more silent, and that her lips remained + colourless, and her hands cold like stone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0064" id="link2HCH0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Vec. Ye see what follows. + Duke. O gentle sir! this shape again!”—The Chances. +</pre> + <p> + That evening Sidney Beaufort arrived in London. It is the nature of + solitude to make passions calm on the surface—agitated in the deeps. + Sidney had placed his whole existence in one object. When the letter + arrived that told him to hope no more, he was at first rather sensible of + the terrible and dismal blank—the “void abyss”—to which all + his future was suddenly changed, than roused to vehement and turbulent + emotion. But Camilla’s letter had, as we have seen, raised his courage and + animated his heart. To the idea of her faith he still clung with the + instinct of hope in the midst of despair. The tidings that she was + absolutely betrothed to another, and in so short a time since her + rejection of him, let loose from all restraint his darker and more + tempestuous passions. In a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he hurried + to London—to seek her—to see her; with what intent—what + hope, if hope there were—he himself could scarcely tell. But what + man who has loved with fervour and trust will be contented to receive the + sentence of eternal separation except from the very lips of the one thus + worshipped and thus foresworn? + </p> + <p> + The day had been intensely cold. Towards evening the snow fell fast and + heavily. Sidney had not, since a child, been before in London; and the + immense City, covered with a wintry and icy mist, through which the + hurrying passengers and the slow-moving vehicles passed, spectre-like, + along the dismal and slippery streets—opened to the stranger no + hospitable arms. He knew not a step of the way—he was pushed to and + fro—his scarce intelligible questions impatiently answered—the + snow covered him—the frost pierced to his veins. At length a man, + more kindly than the rest, seeing that he was a stranger to London, + procured him a hackney-coach, and directed the driver to the distant + quarter of Berkeley Square. The snow balled under the hoofs of the horses—the + groaning vehicle proceeded at the pace of a hearse. At length, and after a + period of such suspense, and such emotion, as Sidney never in after-life + could recall without a shudder, the coach stopped—the benumbed + driver heavily descended—the sound of the knocker knelled loud + through the muffled air—and the light from Mr. Beaufort’s hall + glared full upon the dizzy eyes of the visitor. He pushed aside the + porter, and sprang into the hall. Luckily, one of the footmen who had + attended Mrs. Beaufort to the Lakes recognised him; and, in answer to his + breathless inquiry, said,— + </p> + <p> + “Why, indeed, Mr. Spencer, Miss Beaufort is at home—up-stairs in the + drawing-room, with master and mistress, and Monsieur de Vaudemont; but—” + </p> + <p> + Sidney waited no more. He bounded up the stairs—he opened the first + door that presented itself to him, and burst, unannounced and + unlooked-for, upon the eyes of the group seated within. He saw not the + terrified start of Mr. Robert Beaufort—he heeded not the faint, + nervous exclamation of the mother—he caught not the dark and + wondering glace of the stranger seated beside Camilla—he saw but + Camilla herself, and in a moment he was at her feet. + </p> + <p> + “Camilla, I am here!—I, who love you so—I, who have nothing in + the world but you! I am here—to learn from you, and you alone, if I + am indeed abandoned—if you are indeed to be another’s!” + </p> + <p> + He had dashed his hat from his brow as he sprang forward; his long fair + hair, damp with the snows, fell disordered over his forehead; his eyes + were fixed, as for life and death, upon the pale face and trembling lips + of Camilla. Robert Beaufort, in great alarm, and well aware of the fierce + temper of Philip, anticipative of some rash and violent impulse, turned + his glance upon his destined son-in-law. But there was no angry pride in + the countenance he there beheld. Philip had risen, but his frame was bent—his + knees knocked together—his lips were parted—his eyes were + staring full upon the face of the kneeling man. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Camilla, sharing her father’s fear, herself half rose, and with + an unconscious pathos, stretched one hand, as if to shelter, over Sidney’s + head, and looked to Philip. Sidney’s eyes followed hers. He sprang to his + feet. + </p> + <p> + “What, then, it is true! And this is the man for whom I am abandoned! But + unless you—you, with your own lips, tell me that you love me no more—that + you love another—I will not yield you but with life.” + </p> + <p> + He stalked sternly and impetuously up to Philip, who recoiled as his rival + advanced. The characters of the two men seemed suddenly changed. The timid + dreamer seemed dilated into the fearless soldier. The soldier seemed + shrinking—quailing—into nameless terror. Sidney grasped that + strong arm, as Philip still retreated, with his slight and delicate + fingers, grasped it with violence and menace; and frowning into the face + from which the swarthy blood was scared away, said, in a hollow whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear me? Do you comprehend me? I say that she shall not be forced + into a marriage at which I yet believe her heart rebels. My claim is + holier than yours. Renounce her, or win her but with my blood.” + </p> + <p> + Philip did not apparently hear the words thus addressed to him. His whole + senses seemed absorbed in the one sense of sight. He continued to gaze + upon the speaker, till his eye dropped on the hand that yet griped his + arm. And as he thus looked, he uttered an inarticulate cry. He caught the + hand in his own, and pointed to a ring on the finger, but remained + speechless. Mr. Beaufort approached, and began some stammered words of + soothing to Sidney, but Philip motioned him to be silent, and, at last, as + if by a violent effort, gasped forth, not to Sidney, but to Beaufort,— + </p> + <p> + “His name?—his name?” + </p> + <p> + “It is Mr. Spencer—Mr. Charles Spencer,” cried Beaufort. “Listen to + me, I will explain all—I—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, hush! cried Philip; and turning to Sidney, he put his hand on his + shoulder, and looking him full in the face, said,— + </p> + <p> + “Have you not known another name? Are you not—yes, it is so—it + is—it is! Follow me—follow!” + </p> + <p> + And still retaining his grasp, and leading Sidney, who was now subdued, + awed, and a prey to new and wild suspicions, he moved on gently, stride by + stride—his eyes fixed on that fair face—his lips muttering—till + the closing door shut both forms from the eyes of the three there left. + </p> + <p> + It was the adjoining room into which Philip led his rival. It was lit but + by a small reading-lamp, and the bright, steady blaze of the fire; and by + this light they both continued to gaze on each other, as if spellbound, in + complete silence. At last Philip, by an irresistible impulse, fell upon + Sidney’s bosom, and, clasping him with convulsive energy, gasped out: + </p> + <p> + “Sidney!—Sidney!—my mother’s son!” + </p> + <p> + “What!” exclaimed Sidney, struggling from the embrace, and at last freeing + himself; “it is you, then!—you, my own brother! You, who have been + hitherto the thorn in my path, the cloud in my fate! You, who are now come + to make me a wretch for life! I love that woman, and you tear her from me! + You, who subjected my infancy to hardship, and, but for Providence, might + have degraded my youth, by your example, into shame and guilt!” + </p> + <p> + “Forbear!—forbear!” cried Philip, with a voice so shrill in its + agony, that it smote the hearts of those in the adjoining chamber like the + shriek of some despairing soul. They looked at each other, but not one had + the courage to break upon the interview. + </p> + <p> + Sidney himself was appalled by the sound. He threw himself on a seat, and, + overcome by passions so new to him, by excitement so strange, hid his + face, and sobbed as a child. + </p> + <p> + Philip walked rapidly to and fro the room for some moments; at length he + paused opposite to Sidney, and said, with the deep calmness of a wronged + and goaded spirit: + </p> + <p> + “Sidney Beaufort, hear me! When my mother died she confided you to my + care, my love, and my protection. In the last lines that her hand traced, + she bade me think less of myself than of you; to be to you as a father as + well as brother. The hour that I read that letter I fell on my knees, and + vowed that I would fulfil that injunction—that I would sacrifice my + very self, if I could give fortune or happiness to you. And this not for + your sake alone, Sidney; no! but as my mother—our wronged, our + belied, our broken-hearted mother!—O Sidney, Sidney! have you no + tears for her, too?” He passed his hand over his own eyes for a moment, + and resumed: “But as our mother, in that last letter, said to me, ‘let my + love pass into your breast for him,’ so, Sidney, so, in all that I could + do for you, I fancied that my mother’s smile looked down upon me, and that + in serving you it was my mother whom I obeyed. Perhaps, hereafter, Sidney, + when we talk over that period of my earlier life when I worked for you, + when the degradation you speak of (there was no crime in it!)—was + borne cheerfully for your sake, and yours the holiday though mine the task—perhaps, + hereafter, you will do me more justice. You left me, or were reft from me, + and I gave all the little fortune that my mother had bequeathed us, to get + some tidings from you. I received your letter—that bitter letter—and + I cared not then that I was a beggar, since I was alone. You talk of what + I have cost you—you talk! and you now ask me to—to—Merciful + Heaven! let me understand you—do you love Camilla? Does she love + you? Speak—speak—explain—what, new agony awaits me?” + </p> + <p> + It was then that Sidney, affected and humbled, amidst all his more selfish + sorrows, by his brother’s language and manner, related, as succinctly as + he could, the history of his affection for Camilla, the circumstances of + their engagement, and ended by placing before him the letter he had + received from Mr. Beaufort. + </p> + <p> + In spite of all his efforts for self-control, Philip’s anguish was so + great, so visible, that Sidney, after looking at his working features, his + trembling hands, for a moment, felt all the earlier parts of his nature + melt in a flow of generous sympathy and remorse. He flung himself on the + breast from which he had shrunk before, and cried,— + </p> + <p> + “Brother, brother! forgive me; I see how I have wronged you. If she has + forgotten me, if she love you, take her and be happy!” + </p> + <p> + Philip returned his embrace, but without warmth, and then moved away; and, + again, in great disorder, paced the room. His brother only heard + disjointed exclamations that seemed to escape him unawares: “They said she + loved me! Heaven give me strength! Mother—mother! let me fulfil my + vow! Oh, that I had died ere this!” He stopped at last, and the large dews + rolled down his forehead. “Sidney!” said he, “there is a mystery here that + I comprehend not. But my mind now is very confused. If she loves you—if!—is + it possible for a woman to love two? Well, well, I go to solve the riddle: + wait here!” + </p> + <p> + He vanished into the next room, and for nearly half an hour Sidney was + alone. He heard through the partition murmured voices; he caught more + clearly the sound of Camilla’s sobs. The particulars of that interview + between Philip and Camilla, alone at first (afterwards Mr. Robert Beaufort + was re-admitted), Philip never disclosed, nor could Sidney himself ever + obtain a clear account from Camilla, who could not recall it, even years + after, without great emotion. But at last the door was opened, and Philip + entered, leading Camilla by the hand. His face was calm, and there was a + smile on his lips; a greater dignity than even that habitual to him was + diffused over his whole person. Camilla was holding her handkerchief to + her eyes and weeping passionately. Mr. Beaufort followed them with a + mortified and slinking air. + </p> + <p> + “Sidney,” said Philip, “it is past. All is arranged. I yield to your + earlier, and therefore better, claim. Mr. Beaufort consents to your union. + He will tell you, at some fitter time, that our birthright is at last made + clear, and that there is no blot on the name we shall hereafter bear. + Sidney, embrace your bride!” + </p> + <p> + Amazed, delighted, and still half incredulous, Sidney seized and kissed + the hand of Camilla; and as he then drew her to his breast, she said, as + she pointed to Philip:— + </p> + <p> + “Oh! if you do love me as you say, see in him the generous, the noble—” + Fresh sobs broke off her speech; but as Sidney sought again to take her + hand, she whispered, with a touching and womanly sentiment, “Ah! respect + him: see!—” and Sidney, looking then at his brother, saw, that + though he still attempted to smile, his lip writhed, and his features were + drawn together, as one whose frame is wrung by torture, but who struggles + not to groan. + </p> + <p> + He flew to Philip, who, grasping his hand, held him back, and said,— + </p> + <p> + “I have fulfilled my vow! I have given you up the only blessing my life + has known. Enough, you are happy, and I shall be so too, when God pleases + to soften this blow. And now you must not wonder or blame me, if, though + so lately found, I leave you for a while. Do me one kindness,—you, + Sidney—you, Mr. Beaufort. Let the marriage take place at H——, + in the village church by which my mother sleeps; let it be delayed till + the suit is terminated: by that time I shall hope to meet you all—to + meet you, Camilla, as I ought to meet my brother’s wife; till then, my + presence will not sadden your happiness. Do not seek to see me; do not + expect to hear from me. Hist! be silent, all of you; my heart is yet + bruised and sore. O THOU,” and here, deepening his voice, he raised his + arms, “Thou who hast preserved my youth from such snares and such peril, + who hast guided my steps from the abyss to which they wandered, and + beneath whose hand I now bow, grateful if chastened, receive this + offering, and bless that union! Fare ye well.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0065" id="link2HCH0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Heaven’s airs amid the harpstrings dwell; + And we wish they ne’er may fade; + They cease; and the soul is a silent cell, + Where music never played. + Dream follows dream through the long night-hours.” + WILSON: The Past, a poem. +</pre> + <p> + The self-command which Philip had obtained for a while deserted him when + he was without the house. His mind felt broken up into chaos; he hurried + on, mechanically, on foot; he passed street upon street, now solitary and + deserted, as the lamps gleamed upon the thick snow. The city was left + behind him. He paused not, till, breathless, and exhausted in spirit if + not in frame, he reached the churchyard where Catherine’s dust reposed. + The snow had ceased to fall, but it lay deep over the graves; the + yew-trees, clad in their white shrouds, gleamed ghost-like through the + dimness. Upon the rail that fenced the tomb yet hung a wreath that Fanny’s + hand had placed there. But the flowers were hid; it was a wreath of snow! + Through the intervals of the huge and still clouds, there gleamed a few + melancholy stars. The very calm of the holy spot seemed unutterably sad. + The Death of the year overhung the Death of man. And as Philip bent over + the tomb, within and without all was ICE and NIGHT! + </p> + <p> + For hours he remained on that spot, alone with his grief and absorbed in + his prayer. Long past midnight Fanny heard his step on the stairs, and the + door of his chamber close with unwonted violence. She heard, too, for some + time, his heavy tread on the floor, till suddenly all was silent. The next + morning, when, at the usual hour, Sarah entered to unclose the shutters + and light the fire, she was startled by wild exclamations and wilder + laughter. The fever had mounted to the brain—he was delirious. + </p> + <p> + For several weeks Philip Beaufort was in imminent danger; for a + considerable part of that time he was unconscious; and when the peril was + past, his recovery was slow and gradual. It was the only illness to which + his vigorous frame had ever been subjected: and the fever had perhaps + exhausted him more than it might have done one in whose constitution the + disease had encountered less resistance. His brother; imagining he had + gone abroad, was unacquainted with his danger. None tended his sick-bed + save the hireling nurse, the feed physician, and the unpurchasable heart + of the only being to whom the wealth and rank of the Heir of Beaufort + Court were as nothing. Here was reserved for him Fate’s crowning lesson, + in the vanity of those human wishes which anchor in gold and power. For + how many years had the exile and the outcast pined indignantly for his + birthright?—Lo! it was won: and with it came the crushed heart and + the smitten frame. As he slowly recovered sense and reasoning, these + thoughts struck him forcibly. He felt as if he were rightly punished in + having disdained, during his earlier youth, the enjoyments within his + reach. Was there nothing in the glorious health—the unconquerable + hope—the heart, if wrung, and chafed, and sorely tried, free at + least from the direst anguish of the passions, disappointed and jealous + love? Though now certain, if spared to the future, to be rich, powerful, + righted in name and honour, might he not from that sick-bed envy his + earlier past? even when with his brother orphan he wandered through the + solitary fields, and felt with what energies we are gifted when we have + something to protect; or when, loving and beloved, he saw life smile out + to him in the eyes of Eugenie; or when, after that melancholy loss, he + wrestled boldly, and breast to breast with Fortune, in a far land, for + honour and independence? There is something in severe illness, especially + if it be in violent contrast to the usual strength of the body, which has + often the most salutary effect upon the mind; which often, by the + affliction of the frame, roughly wins us from the too morbid pains of the + heart! which makes us feel that, in mere LIFE, enjoyed as the robust enjoy + it, God’s Great Principle of Good breathes and moves. We rise thus from + the sick-bed softened and humbled, and more disposed to look around us for + such blessings as we may yet command. + </p> + <p> + The return of Philip, his danger, the necessity of exertion, of tending + him, had roused Fanny from a state which might otherwise have been + permanently dangerous to the intellect so lately ripened within her. With + what patience, with what fortitude, with what unutterable thought and + devotion, she fulfilled that best and holiest woman’s duty—let the + man whose struggle with life and death has been blessed with the vigil + that wakes and saves, imagine to himself. And in all her anxiety and + terror, she had glimpses of a happiness which it seemed to her almost + criminal to acknowledge. For, even in his delirium, her voice seemed to + have some soothing influence over him, and he was calmer while she was by. + And when at last he was conscious, her face was the first he saw, and her + name the first which his lips uttered. As then he grew gradually stronger, + and the bed was deserted for the sofa, he took more than the old pleasure + in hearing her read to him; which she did with a feeling that lecturers + cannot teach. And once, in a pause from this occupation, he spoke to her + frankly,—he sketched his past history—his last sacrifice. And + Fanny, as she wept, learned that he was no more another’s! + </p> + <p> + It has been said that this man, naturally of an active and impatient + temperament, had been little accustomed to seek those resources which are + found in books. But somehow in that sick chamber—it was Fanny’s + voice—the voice of her over whose mind he had once so haughtily + lamented, that taught him how much of aid and solace the Herd of Men + derive from the Everlasting Genius of the Few. + </p> + <p> + Gradually, and interval by interval, moment by moment, thus drawn + together, all thought beyond shut out (for, however crushing for the time + the blow that had stricken Philip from health and reason, he was not that + slave to a guilty fancy, that he could voluntarily indulge—that he + would not earnestly seek to shun—all sentiments that yet turned with + unholy yearning towards the betrothed of his brother);—gradually, I + say, and slowly, came those progressive and delicious epochs which mark a + revolution in the affections:—unspeakable gratitude, brotherly + tenderness, the united strength of compassion and respect that he had felt + for Fanny seemed, as he gained health, to mellow into feelings yet more + exquisite and deep. He could no longer delude himself with a vain and + imperious belief that it was a defective mind that his heart protected; he + began again to be sensible to the rare beauty of that tender face—more + lovely, perhaps, for the paleness that had replaced its bloom. The fancy + that he had so imperiously checked before—before he saw Camilla, + returned to him, and neither pride nor honour had now the right to chase + the soft wings away. One evening, fancying himself alone, he fell into a + profound reverie; he awoke with a start, and the exclamation, “was it true + love that I ever felt for Camilla, or a passion, a frenzy, a delusion?” + </p> + <p> + His exclamation was answered by a sound that seemed both of joy and grief. + He looked up, and saw Fanny before him; the light of the moon, just risen, + fell full on her form, but her hands were clasped before her face; he + heard her sob. + </p> + <p> + “Fanny, dear Fanny!” he cried, and sought to throw himself from the sofa + to her feet. But she drew herself away, and fled from the chamber silent + as a dream. + </p> + <p> + Philip rose, and, for the first time since his illness, walked, but with + feeble steps, to and fro the room. With what different emotions from those + in which last, in fierce and intolerable agony, he had paced that narrow + boundary! Returning health crept through his veins—a serene, a + kindly, a celestial joy circumfused his heart. Had the time yet come when + the old Florimel had melted into snow; when the new and the true one, with + its warm life, its tender beauty, its maiden wealth of love, had risen + before his hopes? He paused before the window; the spot within seemed so + confined, the night without so calm and lovely, that he forgot his + still-clinging malady, and unclosed the casement: the air came soft and + fresh upon his temples, and the church-tower and spire, for the first + time, did not seem to him to rise in gloom against the heavens. Even the + gravestone of Catherine, half in moonlight, half in shadow, appeared to + him to wear a smile. His mother’s memory was become linked with the living + Fanny. + </p> + <p> + “Thou art vindicated—thy Sidney is happy,” he murmured: “to her the + thanks!” + </p> + <p> + Fair hopes, and soft thoughts busy within him, he remained at the casement + till the increasing chill warned him of the danger he incurred. + </p> + <p> + The next day, when the physician visited him, he found the fever had + returned. For many days, Philip was again in danger—dull, + unconscious even of the step and voice of Fanny. + </p> + <p> + He woke at last as from a long and profound sleep; woke so refreshed, so + revived, that he felt at once that some great crisis had been passed, and + that at length he had struggled back to the sunny shores of Life. + </p> + <p> + By his bedside sat Liancourt, who, long alarmed at his disappearance, had + at last contrived, with the help of Mr. Barlow, to trace him to Gawtrey’s + house, and had for several days taken share in the vigils of poor Fanny. + </p> + <p> + While he was yet explaining all this to Philip, and congratulating him on + his evident recovery, the physician entered to confirm the congratulation. + In a few days the invalid was able to quit his room, and nothing but + change of air seemed necessary for his convalescence. It was then that + Liancourt, who had for two days seemed impatient to unburden himself of + some communication, thus addressed him:— + </p> + <p> + “My—My dear friend, I have learned now your story from Barlow, who + called several times during your relapse; and who is the more anxious + about you, as the time for the decision of your case now draws near. The + sooner you quit this house the better.” + </p> + <p> + “Quit this house! and why? Is there not one in this house to whom I owe my + fortune and my life?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and for that reason I say, ‘Go hence:’ it is the only return you can + make her.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!—speak intelligibly.” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” said Liancourt, gravely. “I have been a watcher with her by your + sick-bed, and I know what you must feel already:—nay, I must confess + that even the old servant has ventured to speak to me. You have inspired + that poor girl with feelings dangerous to her peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” cried Philip, with such joy that Liancourt frowned, and said, + “Hitherto I have believed you too honourable to—” + </p> + <p> + “So you think she loves me?” interrupted Philip. “Yes; what then? You, the + heir of Beaufort Court, of a rental of L20,000. a year,—of an + historical name,—you cannot marry this poor girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Well!—I will consider what you say, and, at all events, I will + leave the house to attend the result of the trial. Let us talk no more on + the subject now.” + </p> + <p> + Philip had the penetration to perceive that Liancourt, who was greatly + moved by the beauty, the innocence, and the unprotected position of Fanny, + had not confined caution to himself; that with his characteristic + well-meaning bluntness, and with the license of a man somewhat advanced in + years, he had spoken to Fanny herself: for Fanny now seemed to shun + Philip,—her eyes were heavy, her manner was embarrassed. He saw the + change, but it did not grieve him; he hailed the omens which he drew from + it. + </p> + <p> + And at last he and Liancourt went. He was absent three weeks, during which + time the formality of the friendly lawsuit was decided in the plaintiff’s + favour; and the public were in ecstasies at the noble and sublime conduct + of Mr. Robert Beaufort: who, the moment he had discovered a document which + he might so easily have buried for ever in oblivion, voluntarily agreed to + dispossess himself of estates he had so long enjoyed, preferring + conscience to lucre. Some persons observed that it was reported that Mr. + Philip Beaufort had also been generous—that he had agreed to give up + the estates for his uncle’s life, and was only in the meanwhile to receive + a fourth of the revenues. But the universal comment was, “He could not + have done less!” Mr. Robert Beaufort was, as Lord Lilburne had once + observed, a man who was born, made, and reared to be spoken well of by the + world; and it was a comfort to him now, poor man, to feel that his + character was so highly estimated. If Philip should live to the age of one + hundred, he will never become so respectable and popular a man with the + crowd as his worthy uncle. But does it much matter? Philip returned to H—— + the eve before the day fixed for the marriage of his brother and Camilla. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0066" id="link2HCH0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From Night, Sunshine and Day arose—HES +</pre> + <p> + The sun of early May shone cheerfully over the quiet suburb of H——. + In the thoroughfares life was astir. It was the hour of noon—the + hour at which commerce is busy, and streets are full. The old retired + trader, eying wistfully the rolling coach or the oft-pausing omnibus, was + breathing the fresh and scented air in the broadest and most crowded road, + from which, afar in the distance, rose the spires of the metropolis. The + boy let loose from the day-school was hurrying home to dinner, his satchel + on his back: the ballad-singer was sending her cracked whine through the + obscurer alleys, where the baker’s boy, with puddings on his tray, and the + smart maid-servant, despatched for porter, paused to listen. And round the + shops where cheap shawls and cottons tempted the female eye, many a + loitering girl detained her impatient mother, and eyed the tickets and + calculated her hard-gained savings for the Sunday gear. And in the corners + of the streets steamed the itinerant kitchens of the piemen, and rose the + sharp cry, “All hot! all hot!” in the ear of infant and ragged hunger. And + amidst them all rolled on some lazy coach of ancient merchant or withered + maiden, unconscious of any life but that creeping through their own + languid veins. And before the house in which Catherine died, there + loitered many stragglers, gossips, of the hamlet, subscribers to the + news-room hard by, to guess, and speculate, and wonder why, from the + church behind, there rose the merry peal of the marriage-bell! + </p> + <p> + At length along the broad road leading from the great city, there were + seen rapidly advancing three carriages of a very different fashion from + those familiar to the suburb. On they came; swiftly they whirled round the + angle that conducted to the church; the hoofs of the gay steeds ringing + cheerily on the ground; the white favours of the servants gleaming in the + sun. Happy is the bride the sun shines on! And when the carriages had thus + vanished, the scattered groups melted into one crowd, and took their way + to the church. They stood idling without in the burial-ground; many of + them round the fence that guarded from their footsteps Catherine’s lonely + grave. All in nature was glad, exhilarating, and yet serene; a genial + freshness breathed through the soft air; not a cloud was to be seen in the + smiling azure; even the old dark yews seemed happy in their everlasting + verdure. The bell ceased, and then even the crowd grew silent; and not a + sound was heard in that solemn spot to whose demesnes are consecrated + alike the Birth, the Marriage, and the Death. + </p> + <p> + At length there came forth from the church door the goodly form of a rosy + beadle. Approaching the groups, he whispered the better-dressed and + commanded the ragged, remonstrated with the old and lifted his cane + against the young; and the result of all was, that the churchyard, not + without many a murmur and expostulation, was cleared, and the crowd fell + back in the space behind the gates of the principal entrance, where they + swayed and gaped and chattered round the carriages, which were to bear + away the bridal party. + </p> + <p> + Within the church, as the ceremony was now concluded, Philip Beaufort + conducted, hand-in-hand, silently along the aisle, his brother’s wife. + </p> + <p> + Leaning on his stick, his cold sneer upon his thin lip, Lord Lilburne + limped, step by step, with the pair, though a little apart from them, + glancing from moment to moment at the face of Philip Beaufort, where he + had hoped to read a grief that he could not detect. Lord Lilburne had + carefully refrained from an interview with Philip till that day, and he + now only came to the wedding as a surgeon goes to an hospital, to examine + a disease he had been told would be great and sore: he was disappointed. + Close behind followed Sidney, radiant with joy, and bloom, and beauty; and + his kind guardian, the tears rolling down his eyes, murmured blessings as + he looked upon him. Mrs. Beaufort had declined attending the ceremony—her + nerves were too weak—but, behind, at a longer interval, came Robert + Beaufort, sober, staid, collected as ever to outward seeming; but a close + observer might have seen that his eye had lost its habitual complacent + cunning, that his step was more heavy, his stoop more joyless. About his + air there was a some thing crestfallen. The consciousness of acres had + passed away from his portly presence. He was no longer a possessor, but a + pensioner. The rich man, who had decided as he pleased on the happiness of + others, was a cipher; he had ceased to have any interest in anything. What + to him the marriage of his daughter now? Her children would not be the + heirs of Beaufort. As Camilla kindly turned round, and through happy tears + waited for his approach, to clasp his hand, he forced a smile, but it was + sickly and piteous. He longed to creep away, and be alone. + </p> + <p> + “My father!” said Camilla, in her sweet low voice; and she extricated + herself from Philip, and threw herself on his breast. + </p> + <p> + “She is a good child,” said Robert Beaufort vacantly, and, turning his dry + eyes to the group, he caught instinctively at his customary commonplaces;—“and + a good child, Mr. Sidney, makes a good wife!” + </p> + <p> + The clergyman bowed as if the compliment were addressed to himself: he was + the only man there whom Robert Beaufort could now deceive. + </p> + <p> + “My sister,” said Philip Beaufort, as once more leaning on his arm, they + paused before the church door, “may Sidney love and prize you as—as + I would have done; and believe me, both of you, I have no regret, no + memory, that wounds me now.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped the hand, and motioned to her father to load her to the + carriage. Then winding his arm into Sidney’s, he said,— + </p> + <p> + “Wait till they are gone: I have one word yet with you. Go on, gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + The clergyman bowed, and walked through the churchyard. But Lilburne, + pausing and surveying Philip Beaufort, said to him, whisperingly,— + </p> + <p> + “And so much for feeling—the folly! So much for generosity—the + delusion! Happy man!” + </p> + <p> + “I am thoroughly happy, Lord Lilburne.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you?—Then, it was neither feeling nor generosity; and we were + taken in! Good day.” With that he limped slowly to the gate. + </p> + <p> + Philip answered not the sarcasm even by a look. For at that moment a loud + shout was set up by the mob without—they had caught a glimpse of the + bride. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Sidney, this way.” he said; “I must not detain you long.” + </p> + <p> + Arm in arm they passed out of the church, and turned to the spot hard by, + where the flowers smiled up to them from the stone on their mother’s + grave. + </p> + <p> + The old inscription had been effaced, and the name of CATHERINE BEAUFORT + was placed upon the stone. “Brother,” said Philip, “do not forget this + grave: years hence, when children play around your own hearth. Observe, + the name of Catherine Beaufort is fresher on the stone than the dates of + birth and death—the name was only inscribed there to-day—your + wedding-day. Brother, by this grave we are now indeed united.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Philip!” cried Sidney, in deep emotion, clasping the hand stretched + out to him; “I feel, I feel how noble, how great you are—that you + have sacrificed more than I dreamed of—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said Philip, with a smile. “No talk of this. I am happier than you + deem me. Go back now—she waits you.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?—leave you!—alone!” + </p> + <p> + “Not alone,” said Philip, pointing to the grave. + </p> + <p> + Scarce had he spoken when, from the gate, came the shrill, clear voice of + Lord Lilburne,— + </p> + <p> + “We wait for Mr. Sidney Beaufort.” + </p> + <p> + Sidney passed his hand over his eyes, wrung the hand of his brother once + more, and in a moment was by Camilla’s side. + </p> + <p> + Another shout—the whirl of the wheels—the trampling of feet—the + distant hum and murmur—and all was still. The clerk returned to lock + up the church—he did not observe where Philip stood in the shadow of + the wall—and went home to talk of the gay wedding, and inquire at + what hour the funeral of the young woman; his next-door neighbour, would + take place the next day. + </p> + <p> + It might be a quarter of an hour after Philip was thus left—nor had + he moved from the spot—when he felt his sleeve pulled gently. He + turned round and saw before him the wistful face of Fanny! + </p> + <p> + “So you would not come to the wedding?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “No. But I fancied you might be here alone—and sad.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will not even wear the dress I gave you?” + </p> + <p> + “Another time. Tell me, are you unhappy?” + </p> + <p> + “Unhappy, Fanny! No; look around. The very burial-ground has a smile. See + the laburnums clustering over the wall, listen to the birds on the dark + yews above, and yonder see even the butterfly has settled upon her grave! + </p> + <p> + “I am not unhappy.” As he thus spoke he looked at her earnestly, and + taking both her hands in his, drew her gently towards him, and continued: + “Fanny, do you remember, that, leaning over that gate, I once spoke to you + of the happiness of marriage where two hearts are united? Nay, Fanny, nay, + I must go on. It was here in this spot,—it was here that I first saw + you on my return to England. I came to seek the dead, and I have thought + since, it was my mother’s guardian spirit that drew me hither to find you—the + living! And often afterwards, Fanny, you would come with me here, when, + blinded and dull as I was, I came to brood and to repine, insensible of + the treasures even then perhaps within my reach. But, best as it was: the + ordeal through which I have passed has made me more grateful for the prize + I now dare to hope for. On this grave your hand daily renewed the flowers. + By this grave, the link between the Time and the Eternity, whose lessons + we have read together, will you consent to record our vows? Fanny, + dearest, fairest, tenderest, best, I love you, and at last as alone you + should be loved!—I woo you as my wife! Mine, not for a season, but + for ever—for ever, even when these graves are open, and the World + shrivels like a scroll. Do you understand me?—do you heed me?—or + have I dreamed that that—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped short—a dismay seized him at her silence. Had he been + mistaken in his divine belief!—the fear was momentary: for Fanny, + who had recoiled as he spoke, now placing her hands to her temples, gazing + on him, breathlessly and with lips apart, as if, indeed, with great effort + and struggle her modest spirit conceived the possibility of the happiness + that broke upon it, advanced timidly, her face suffused in blushes; and, + looking into his eyes, as if she would read into his very soul, said, with + an accent, the intenseness of which showed that her whole fate hung on his + answer,— + </p> + <p> + “But this is pity?—they have told you that I—in short, you are + generous—you—you—Oh, deceive me not! Do you love her + still?—Can you—do you love the humble, foolish Fanny?” + </p> + <p> + “As God shall judge me, sweet one, I am sincere! I have survived a passion—never + so deep, so tender, so entire as that I now feel for you! And, oh, Fanny, + hear this true confession. It was you—you to whom my heart turned + before I saw Camilla!—against that impulse I struggled in the + blindness of a haughty error!” + </p> + <p> + Fanny uttered a low and suppressed cry of delight and rapture. Philip + passionately continued,— + </p> + <p> + “Fanny, make blessed the life you have saved. Fate destined us for each + other. Fate for me has ripened your sweet mind. Fate for you has softened + this rugged heart. We may have yet much to bear and much to learn. We will + console and teach each other!” + </p> + <p> + He drew her to his breast as he spoke—drew her trembling, blushing, + confused, but no more reluctant; and there, by the GRAVE that had been so + memorable a scene in their common history, were murmured those vows in + which all this world knows of human happiness is treasured and recorded—love + that takes the sting from grief, and faith that gives eternity to love. + All silent, yet all serene around them! Above, the heaven,—at their + feet, the grave:—For the love, the grave!—for the faith, the + heaven! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0067" id="link2HCH0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE LAST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A labore reclinat otium.”—HORAT. + + [Leisure unbends itself from labour.] +</pre> + <p> + I feel that there is some justice in the affection the general reader + entertains for the old-fashioned and now somewhat obsolete custom, of + giving to him, at the close of a work, the latest news of those who sought + his acquaintance through its progress. + </p> + <p> + The weak but well-meaning Smith, no more oppressed by the evil influence + of his brother, has continued to pass his days in comfort and + respectability on the income settled on him by Philip Beaufort. Mr. and + Mrs. Roger Morton still live, and have just resigned their business to + their eldest son; retiring themselves to a small villa adjoining the town + in which they had made their fortune. Mrs. Morton is very apt, when she + goes out to tea, to talk of her dear deceased sister-in-law, the late Mrs. + Beaufort, and of her own remarkable kindness to her nephew when a little + boy. She observes that, in fact, the young men owe everything to Mr. Roger + and herself; and, indeed, though Sidney was never of a grateful + disposition, and has not been near her since, yet the elder brother, the + Mr. Beaufort, always evinces his respect to them by the yearly present of + a fat buck. She then comments on the ups and downs of life; and observes + that it is a pity her son Tom preferred the medical profession to the + church. Their cousin, Mr. Beaufort, has two livings. To all this Mr. Roger + says nothing, except an occasional “Thank Heaven, I want no man’s help! I + am as well to do as my neighbours. But that’s neither here nor there.” + </p> + <p> + There are some readers—they who do not thoroughly consider the + truths of this life—who will yet ask, “But how is Lord Lilburne + punished?” Punished?—ay, and indeed, how? The world, and not the + poet, must answer that question. Crime is punished from without. If Vice + is punished, it must be from within. The Lilburnes of this hollow world + are not to be pelted with the soft roses of poetical justice. They who ask + why he is not punished may be the first to doff the hat to the equipage in + which my lord lolls through the streets! The only offence he habitually + committed of a nature to bring the penalties of detection, he renounced + the moment he perceived there was clanger of discovery! he gambled no more + after Philip’s hint. He was one of those, some years after, most bitter + upon a certain nobleman charged with unfair play—one of those who + took the accusation as proved; and whose authority settled all disputes + thereon. + </p> + <p> + But, if no thunderbolt falls on Lord Lilburne’s head—if he is fated + still to eat, and drink, and to die on his bed, he may yet taste the ashes + of the Dead Sea fruit which his hands have culled. He is grown old. His + infirmities increase upon him; his sole resources of pleasure—the + senses—are dried up. For him there is no longer savour in the + viands, or sparkle in the wine,—man delights him not, nor woman + neither. He is alone with Old Age, and in the sight of Death. + </p> + <p> + With the exception of Simon, who died in his chair not many days after + Sidney’s marriage, Robert Beaufort is the only one among the more + important agents left at the last scene of this history who has passed + from our mortal stage. + </p> + <p> + After the marriage of his daughter he for some time moped and drooped. But + Philip learned from Mr. Blackwell of the will that Robert had made + previously to the lawsuit; and by which, had the lawsuit failed, his + rights would yet have been preserved to him. Deeply moved by a generosity + he could not have expected from his uncle, and not pausing to inquire too + closely how far it was to be traced to the influence of Arthur, Philip so + warmly expressed his gratitude, and so surrounded Mr. Beaufort with + affectionate attentions, that the poor man began to recover his + self-respect,—began even to regard the nephew he had so long + dreaded, as a son,—to forgive him for not marrying Camilla. And, + perhaps, to his astonishment, an act in his life for which the customs of + the world (that never favour natural ties not previously sanctioned by the + legal) would have rather censured than praised, became his consolation; + and the memory he was most proud to recall. He gradually recovered his + spirits; he was very fond of looking over that will: he carefully + preserved it: he even flattered himself that it was necessary to preserve + Philip from all possible litigation hereafter; for if the estates were not + legally Philip’s, why, then, they were his to dispose of as he pleased. He + was never more happy than when his successor was by his side; and was + certainly a more cheerful and, I doubt not, a better man—during the + few years in which he survived the law-suit—than ever he had been + before. He died—still member for the county, and still quoted as a + pattern to county members—in Philip’s arms; and on his lips there + was a smile that even Lilburne would have called sincere. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Beaufort, after her husband’s death, established herself in London; + and could never be persuaded to visit Beaufort Court. She took a + companion, who more than replaced, in her eyes, the absence of Camilla. + </p> + <p> + And Camilla-Spencer-Sidney. They live still by the gentle Lake, happy in + their own serene joys and graceful leisure; shunning alike ambition and + its trials, action and its sharp vicissitudes; envying no one, covetous of + nothing; making around them, in the working world, something of the old + pastoral and golden holiday. If Camilla had at one time wavered in her + allegiance to Sidney, her good and simple heart has long since been + entirely regained by his devotion; and, as might be expected from her + disposition, she loved him better after marriage than before. + </p> + <p> + Philip had gone through severer trials than Sidney. But, had their earlier + fates been reversed, and that spirit, in youth so haughty and self-willed, + been lapped in ease and luxury, would Philip now be a better or a happier + man? Perhaps, too, for a less tranquil existence than his brother, Philip + yet may be reserved; but, in proportion to the uses of our destiny, do we + repose or toil: he who never knows pain knows but the half of pleasure. + The lot of whatever is most noble on the earth below falls not amidst the + rosy Gardels of the Epicurean. We may envy the man who enjoys and rests; + but the smile of Heaven settles rather on the front of him who labours and + aspires. + </p> + <p> + And did Philip ever regret the circumstances that had given him Fanny for + the partner of his life? To some who take their notions of the Ideal from + the conventional rules of romance, rather than from their own perceptions + of what is true, this narrative would have been more pleasing had Philip + never loved but Fanny. But all that had led to that love had only served + to render it more enduring and concentred. Man’s strongest and worthiest + affection is his last—is the one that unites and embodies all his + past dreams of what is excellent—the one from which Hope springs out + the brighter from former disappointments—the one in which the + MEMORIES are the most tender and the most abundant—the one which, + replacing all others, nothing hereafter can replace. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ...... +</pre> + <p> + And now ere the scene closes, and the audience, whom perhaps the actors + may have interested for a while, disperse, to forget amidst the pursuits + of actual life the Shadows that have amused an hour, or beguiled a care, + let the curtain fall on one happy picture:— + </p> + <p> + It is some years after the marriage of Philip and Fanny. It is a summer + morning. In a small old-fashioned room at Beaufort Court, with its + casements open to the gardens, stood Philip, having just entered; and near + the window sat Fanny, his boy by her side. She was at the mother’s hardest + task—the first lessons to the first-born child; and as the boy + looked up at her sweet earnest face with a smile of intelligence on his + own, you might have seen at a glance how well understood were the teacher + and the pupil. Yes: whatever might have been wanting in the Virgin to the + full development of mind, the cares of the mother had supplied. When a + being was born to lean on her alone—dependent on her providence for + life—then hour after hour, step after step, in the progress of + infant destinies, had the reason of the mother grown in the child’s + growth, adapting itself to each want that it must foresee, and taking its + perfectness and completion from the breath of the New Love! + </p> + <p> + The child caught sight of Philip and rushed to embrace him. + </p> + <p> + “See!” whispered Fanny, as she also hung upon him, and strange + recollections of her own mysterious childhood crowded upon her,—“See,” + whispered she, with a blush half of shame and half of pride, “the poor + idiot girl is the teacher of your child!” + </p> + <p> + “And,” answered Philip, “whether for child or mother, what teacher is like + Love?” + </p> + <p> + Thus saying, he took the boy into his arms; and, as he bent over those + rosy cheeks, Fanny saw, from the movement of his lips and the moisture in + his eyes, that he blessed God. He looked upon the mother’s face, he + glanced round on the flowers and foliage of the luxurious summer, and + again he blessed God: And without and within, it was Light and MORNING! + </p> + <p> + THE END. <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Night and Morning, Complete, by +Edward Bulwer-Lytton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIGHT AND MORNING, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 9755-h.htm or 9755-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/7/5/9755/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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