Pooh, sir! you have nothing to fear. It is but an attempt to extort money: the attorney is a low practitioner, accustomed to get up bad cases: they can make nothing of it.
This was true: whatever the rights of the case, poor Catherine had no proofsno evidencewhich could justify a respectable lawyer to advise her proceeding to a suit. She named two witnesses of her marriageone 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. Joness name as the copyist. In fact, then only three years married to Catherine, his worldly caution had not yet been conquered by confident experience of her generosity. As for the mere moral evidence dependent on the publication of her bans in London, that amounted to no proof whatever; nor, on inquiry at A, did the Welsh villagers remember anything further than that, some fifteen years ago, a handsome gentleman had visited Mr. Price, and one or two rather thought that Mr. Price had married him to a lady from London; evidence quite inadmissible against the deadly, damning fact, that, for fifteen years, Catherine had openly borne another name, and lived with Mr. Beaufort ostensibly as his mistress. Her generosity in this destroyed her case. Nevertheless, she found a low practitioner, who took her money and neglected her cause; so her suit was heard and dismissed with contempt. Henceforth, then, indeed, in the eyes of the law and the public, Catherine was an impudent adventurer, and her sons were nameless outcasts.
And now relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert Beaufort entered upon the full enjoyment of his splendid fortune.
The house in Berkeley Square was furnished anew. Great dinners and gay routs were given in the ensuing spring. Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort became persons of considerable importance. The rich man had, even when poor, been ambitious; his ambition now centred in his only son. Arthur had always been considered a boy of talents and promise; to what might he not now aspire? The term of his probation with the tutor was abridged, and Arthur Beaufort was sent at once to Oxford.
Before he went to the university, during a short preparatory visit to his father, Arthur spoke to him of the Mortons. What has become of them, sir? and what have you done for them?
Done for them! said Mr. Beaufort, opening his eyes. What should I do for persons who have just been harassing me with the most unprincipled litigation? My conduct to them has been too generous: that is, all things considered. But when you are my age you will find there is very little gratitude in the world, Arthur.
Still, sir, said Arthur, with the good nature that belonged to him: still, my uncle was greatly attached to them; and the boys, at least, are guiltless.
Well, well! replied Mr. Beaufort, a little impatiently; I believe they want for nothing: I fancy they are with the mothers 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 uncles example. And now let us change the subject; it is not a very pleasant one, and, at your age, the less your thoughts turn on such matters the better.
Arthur Beaufort, with the careless generosity of youth, that gauges other mens conduct by its own sentiments, believed that his father, who had never been niggardly to himself, had really acted as his words implied; and, engrossed by the pursuits of the new and brilliant career opened, whether to his pleasures or his studies, suffered the objects of his inquiries to pass from his thoughts.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Morton, for by that name we must still call her, and her children, were settled in a small lodging in a humble suburb; situated on the high road between Fernside and the metropolis. She saved from her hopeless law-suit, after the sale of her jewels and ornaments, a sufficient sum to enable her, with economy, to live respectably for a year or two at least, during which time she might arrange her plans for the future. She reckoned, as a sure resource, upon the assistance of her relations; but it was one to which she applied with natural shame and reluctance. She had kept up a correspondence with her father during his life. To him, she never revealed the secret of her marriage, though she did not write like a person conscious of error. Perhaps, as she always said to her son, she had made to her husband a solemn promise never to divulge or even hint that secret until he himself should authorise its disclosure. For neither he nor Catherine ever contemplated separation or death. Alas! how all of us, when happy, sleep secure in the dark shadows, which ought to warn us of the sorrows that are to come! Still Catherines 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 himthe one announcing her fathers deathhe told her plainly, and very properly, that he could not countenance the life she led; that he had children growing upthat all intercourse between them was at an end, unless she left Mr. Beaufort; when, if she sincerely repented, he would still prove her affectionate brother.
Though Catherine had at the time resented this letter as unfeelingnow, humbled and sorrow-stricken, she recognised the propriety of principle from which it emanated. Her brother was well off for his stationshe would explain to him her real situationhe would believe her story. She would write to him, and beg him at least to give aid to her poor children.
But this step she did not take till a considerable portion of her pittance was consumedtill nearly three parts of a year since Beauforts death had expiredand 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 childrenhis 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 circumstancesof the value of money? Did he seem dejected, Catherine would steal out and spend a weeks income on the lapful of toys which she brought home. Did he seem a shade more paledid 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 fearfulgnawed by regret for the pastthe thought of famine in the futureshe 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 helplessutterly 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 temperhis wayward will; he would not have vexed his mother for the world. But, strange to say (it was a great mystery in the womans 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 sons 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 othersthe fear which belongs to a timid character is but egotismbut, when physical, the regard for ones own person: when moral, the anxiety for ones own interests.
It was in a small room in a lodging-house in the suburb of H that Mrs. Morton was seated by the window, nervously awaiting the knock of the postman, who was expected to bring her brothers reply to her letter. It was therefore between ten and eleven oclocka morning in the merry month of June. It was hot and sultry, which is rare in an English June. A flytrap, red, white, and yellow, suspended from the ceiling, swarmed with flies; flies were on the ceiling, flies buzzed at the windows; the sofa and chairs of horsehair seemed stuffed with flies. There was an air of heated discomfort in the thick, solid moreen curtains, in the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring carpet, in the very looking-glass over the chimney-piece, where a strip of mirror lay imprisoned in an embrace of frame covered with yellow muslin. We may talk of the dreariness of winter; and winter, no doubt, is desolate: but what in the world is more dreary to eyes inured to the verdure and bloom of Nature,
"The pomp of groves and garniture of fields,"
than a close room in a suburban lodging-house; the sun piercing every corner; nothing fresh, nothing cool, nothing fragrant to be seen, felt, or inhaled; all dust, glare, noise, with a chandlers 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 streetsit may be, in hopes of meeting one of those benevolent, eccentric, elderly gentlemen, he had read of in old novels, who suddenly come to the relief of distressed virtue; or, more probably, from the restlessness that belonged to his adventurous temperament;Philip had left the house since breakfast.
Oh! how hot this nasty room is! exclaimed Sidney, abruptly, looking up from his employment. Shant we ever go into the country, again, mamma?
Not at present, my love.
I wish I could have my pony; why cant I have my pony, mamma?
Because,becausethe pony is sold, Sidney.
Who sold it?
Your uncle.
He is a very naughty man, my uncle: is he not? But cant I have another pony? It would be so nice, this fine weather!
Ah! my dear, I wish I could afford it: but you shall have a ride this week! Yes, continued the mother, as if reasoning with herself, in excuse of the extravagance, he does not look well: poor child! he must have exercise.
A ride!oh! that is my own kind mamma! exclaimed Sidney, clapping his hands. Not on a donkey, you know!a pony. The man down the street, there, lets ponies. I must have the white pony with the long tail. But, I say, mamma, dont tell Philip, pray dont; he would be jealous.
No, not jealous, my dear; why do you think so?
Because he is always angry when I ask you for anything. It is very unkind in him, for I dont care if he has a pony, too,only not the white one.
Here the postmans knock, loud and sudden, started Mrs. Morton from her seat.
She pressed her hands tightly to her heart, as if to still its beating, and went tremulously to the door; thence to the stairs, to anticipate the lumbering step of the slipshod maidservent.
Give it me, Jane; give it me!
One shilling and eightpencedouble chargedif you please, maam! Thank you.
Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the pony?
Not now, my love; sit down; be quiet: II am not well.
Sidney, who was affectionate and obedient, crept back peaceably to the window, and, after a short, impatient sigh, resumed the scissors and the story-book. I do not apologise to the reader for the various letters I am obliged to lay before him; for character often betrays itself more in letters than in speech. Mr. Roger Mortons reply was couched in these terms,
DEAR CATHERINE, I have received your letter of the 14th inst., and write per return. I am very much grieved to hear of your afflictions; but, whatever you say, I cannot think the late Mr. Beaufort acted like a conscientious man, in forgetting to make his will, and leaving his little ones destitute. It is all very well to talk of his intentions; but the proof of the pudding is in the eating. And it is hard upon me, who have a large family of my own, and get my livelihood by honest industry, to have a rich gentlemans 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 cant 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 dont 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 womanwhat is called evangelical; but thats neither here nor there: I deal with all people, churchmen and dissenterseven Jews,and dont 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 boyspoor, 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 wifes 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 dont like concerns I dont 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 cant 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. Plaskwiththe fare is triflingI have no doubt he will be engaged at once. But you will say, Theres 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 lads education will get him on; so thats off your mind. As to the little chap, Ill take him at once. You say he is a pretty boy; and a pretty boy is always a help in a linendrapers 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. Ms. 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. Dont forget to write to Mr. Beaufort; and if he dont do something for you hes not the gentleman I take him for; but you are my own flesh and blood, and shant starve; for, though I dont think it right in a man in business to encourage whats wrong, yet, when a persons 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 cant be as correct as some folks. However, as I said before, thats neither here nor there. Let me know when your boy comes down, and also about the measles, cowpock, and whooping-cough; also if alls right with Mr. Plaskwith. So now I hope you will feel more comfortable; and remain,