Night and Morning, Complete - Бульвер-Литтон Эдвард Джордж 12 стр.

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 arestood by her side.

My wifeCatherine, said Mr. Morton. Catherine rose eagerly, and gazed searchingly on her sister-in-laws 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 courtesyit was an involuntary piece of good breedingit was extorted by the noble countenance, the matronly mien of Catherine, different from what she had anticipatedshe dropped the courtesy, and Catherine took her hand and pressed it.

This is my son; she turned away her head. Sidney advanced towards his protectress who was to be, and Mrs. Roger muttered:

Come here, my dear! A fine little boy!

As fine a child as ever I saw! said Mr. Morton, heartily, as he took Sidney on his lap, and stroked down his golden hair.

This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, but she sat herself down, and said it was very warm.

Now go to that lady, my dear, said Mr. Morton. Is she not a very nice lady?dont you think you shall like her very much?

Sidney, the best-mannered child in the world, went boldly up to Mrs. Morton, as he was bid. Mrs. Morton was embarrassed. Some folks are so with other folks children: a child either removes all constraint from a party, or it increases the constraint tenfold. Mrs. Morton, however, forced a smile, and said, I have a little boy at home about your age.

Have you? exclaimed Catherine, eagerly; and as if that confession made them friends at once, she drew a chair close to her sister-in-laws,My brother has told you all?

Yes, maam.

And I shall stay herein the town somewhereand see him sometimes?

Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husbandher husband glanced at the doorand Catherines quick eye turned from one to the other.

Mr. Morton will explain, ma am, said the wife.

E-hem!Catherine, my dear, I am afraid that is out of the question, began Mr. Morton, who, when fairly put to it, could be business-like enough. You see bygones are bygones, and it is no use raking them up. But many people in the town will recollect you.

No one will see meno one, but you and Sidney.

It will be sure to creep out; wont it, Mrs. Morton?

Quite sure. Indeed, maam, 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, maam, he has a great stake in the place, and is a public character.

Thats neither here nor there, said Mr. Morton. But I say, Catherine, can your little boy go into the other room for a moment? Margaret, suppose you take him and make friends.

Delighted to throw on her husband the burden of explanation, which she had originally meant to have all the importance of giving herself in her most proper and patronising manner, Mrs. Morton twisted her fingers into the boys 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-schoolhave companions of his own ageif his birth were known, he would be exposed to many mortificationsso much better, and so very easy, to bring him up as the lawful, that is the legal, offspring of some distant relation.

And, cried poor Catherine, clasping her bands, when I am dead, is he never to know that I was his mother? The anguish of that question thrilled the heart of the listener. He was affected below all the surface that worldly thoughts and habits had laid, stratum by stratum, over the humanities within. He threw his arms round Catherine, and strained her to his breast:

No, my sistermy poor sisterhe 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 thaton my soul I doI 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 allall

My brothermy brother, I resign himI am content. God reward you. I will gogo quickly. I know you will take care of him now.

And you see, resumed Mr. Morton, re-settling himself, and wiping his eyes, it is best, between you and me, that Mrs. Morton should have her own way in this. She is a very good womanvery; but its prudent not to vex her. You may come in now, Mrs. Morton.

Mrs. Morton and Sidney reappeared.

We have settled it all, said the husband. When can we have him?

Not to-day, said Mrs. Roger Morton; you see, maam, we must get his bed ready, and his sheets well aired: I am very particular.

Certainly, certainly. Will he sleep alone?pardon me.

He shall have a room to himself, said Mr. Morton. Eh, my dear? Next to Marthas. Martha is our parlourmaidvery good-natured girl, and fond of children.

Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, and said, Yes, he can have that room.

Who can have that room? asked Sidney, innocently. You, my dear, replied Mr. Morton.

And where will mamma sleep? I must sleep near mamma.

Mamma is going away, said Catherine, in a firm voice, in which the despair would only have been felt by the acute ear of sympathy,going away for a little time: but this gentleman and lady will be veryvery kind to you.

We will do our best, maam, said Mrs. Morton.

And as she spoke, a sudden light broke on the boys mindhe uttered a loud cry, broke from his aunt, rushed to his mothers breast, and hid his face there, sobbing bitterly.

I am afraid he has been very much spoiled, whispered Mrs. Roger Morton. I dont think we need stay longerit will look suspicious. Good morning, maam: we shall be ready to-morrow.

Good-bye, Catherine, said Mr. Morton; and he added, as he kissed her, Be of good heart, I will come up by myself and spend the evening with you.

It was the night after this interview. Sidney had gone to his new home; they had been all kind to himMr. 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.

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,Whos there?

It is Iit is Catherine! I cannot go without seeing my boy. I must see himI must, once more!

My dear sister, the place is shut upit is impossible. God bless me, if Mrs. Morton should hear you!

I have walked before this window for hoursI 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 boys face!

As Catherine said this, standing in that lonely streetdarkness and solitude below, God and the stars abovethere was about her a majesty which awed the listener. Though she was so near, her features were not very clearly visible; but her attitudeher hand raised aloftthe outline of her wasted but still commanding form, were more impressive from the shadowy dimness of the air.

Come round, Catherine, said Mr. Morton after a pause; I will admit you.

He shut the window, stole to the door, unbarred it gently, and admitted his visitor. He bade her follow him; and, shading the light with his hand, crept up the stairs. Catherines step made no sound.

They passed, unmolested, and unheard, the room in which the wife was drowsily reading, according to her custom before she tied her nightcap and got into bed, a chapter in some pious book. They ascended to the chamber where Sidney lay; Morton opened the door cautiously, and stood at the threshold, so holding the candle that its light might not wake the child, though it sufficed to guide Catherine to the bed. The room was small, perhaps close, but scrupulously clean; for cleanliness was Mrs. Roger Mortons capital virtue. The mother, with a tremulous hand, drew aside the white curtains, and checked her sobs as she gazed on the young quiet face that was turned towards her. She gazed some moments in passionate silence; who shall say, beneath that silence, what thoughts, what prayers moved and stirred!

Then bending down, with pale, convulsive lips she kissed the little hands thrown so listlessly on the coverlet of the pillow on which the head lay. After this she turned her face to her brother with a mute appeal in her glance, took a ring from her fingera ring that had never till then left itthe 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 fathers spirit to watch over the friendless orphan; and then, pressing together her own hands firmly, as we do in some paroxysm of great pain, she turned from the room, descended the stairs, gained the street, and muttered to her brother, I am happy now; peace be on these thresholds! Before he could answer she was gone.

CHAPTER IX

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 fiddlerscreatures hatched from gold, as the dung-flies from the dungswarm, 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 rejoicesfor 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 sunshinethings 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 dd 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 gayfor Vice as for Innocence, for Poverty as for Wealth. And the wheels of every single destiny wheel on the merrier, no matter whether they are bound to Heaven or to Hell.

Arthur Beaufort, the young heir, was at his fathers 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 uncles 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 Geniusoften 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 commonplaceneither 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 himthey suited each other; and (in spite of all the temptations that had beset her in their earlier years, for she had been esteemed a beautyand 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 hadsuch as the distresses of younger sons, or the errors of fashionable women, or the disappointments of a proper ambitionshe 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 popularas women at once pretty and inoffensive generally are.