Night and Morning, Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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soon.”
“She can’t come here—she sha’n’t come here, Mr. M. I’m an honest woman—she can’t come here. You understand—”
Mr. Morton had naturally a stern countenance, stern to every one but his wife. The shrill tone to which he was so long accustomed jarred then on his heart as well as his ear. He frowned:
“Pshaw! woman, you have no feeling!” said he, and walked out of the house, pulling his hat over his brows. That was the only rude speech Mr. Morton had ever made to his better half. She treasured it up in her heart and memory; it was associated with the sister and the child; and she was not a woman who ever forgave.
Mr. Morton walked rapidly through the still, moon-lit streets, till he reached the inn. A club was held that night in one of the rooms below; and as he crossed the threshold, the sound of “hip-hip-hurrah!” mingled with the stamping of feet and the jingling of glasses, saluted his entrance. He was a stiff, sober, respectable man,—a man who, except at elections—he was a great politician—mixed in none of the revels of his more boisterous townsmen. The sounds, the spot, were ungenial to him. He paused, and the colour of shame rose to his brow. He was ashamed to be there—ashamed to meet the desolate and, as he believed, erring sister.
A pretty maidservant, heated and flushed with orders and compliments, crossed his path with a tray full of glasses.
“There’s a lady come by the Telegraph?”
“Yes, sir, upstairs, No. 2, Mr. Morton.”
Mr. Morton! He shrank at the sound of his own name.
“My wife’s right,” he muttered. “After all, this is more unpleasant than I thought for.”
The slight stairs shook under his hasty tread. He opened the door of No. 2, and that Catherine, whom he had last seen at her age of gay sixteen, radiant with bloom, and, but for her air of pride, the model for a Hebe,—that Catherine, old ere youth was gone, pale, faded, the dark hair silvered over, the cheeks hollow, and the eye dim,—that Catherine fell upon his breast!
“God bless you, brother! How kind to come! How long since we have met!”
“Sit down, Catherine, my dear sister. You are faint—you are very much changed—very. I should not have known you.”
“Brother, I have brought my boy; it is painful to part from him—very—very painful: but it is right, and God’s will be done.” She turned, as she spoke, towards a little, deformed rickety dwarf of a sofa, that seemed to hide itself in the darkest corner of the low, gloomy room; and Morton followed her. With one hand she removed the shawl that she had thrown over the child, and placing the forefinger of the other upon her lips—lips that smiled then—she whispered,—“We will not wake him, he is so tired. But I would not put him to bed till you had seen him.”
And there slept poor Sidney, his fair cheek pillowed on his arm; the soft, silky ringlets thrown from the delicate and unclouded brow; the natural bloom increased by warmth and travel; the lovely face so innocent and hushed; the breathing so gentle and regular, as if never broken by a sigh.
Mr. Morton drew his hand across his eyes.
There was something very touching in the contrast between that wakeful, anxious, forlorn woman, and the slumber of the unconscious boy. And in that moment, what breast upon which the light of Christian pity—of natural affection, had ever dawned, would, even supposing the world’s judgment were true, have recalled Catherine’s reputed error? There is so divine a holiness in the love of a mother, that no matter how the tie that binds her to the child was formed, she becomes, as it were, consecrated and sacred; and the past is forgotten, and the world and its harsh verdicts swept away, when that love alone is visible; and the God, who watches over the little one, sheds His smile over the human deputy, in whose tenderness there breathes His own!
“You will be kind to him—will you not?” said Mrs. Morton; and the appeal was made with that trustful, almost cheerful tone which implies, ‘Who would not be kind to a thing so fair and helpless?’ “He is very sensitive and very docile; you will never have occasion to say a hard word to him—never! you have children of your own, brother.”
“He is a beautiful boy—beautiful. I will be a father to him!”
As he spoke,—the recollection of his wife—sour, querulous, austere—came over him, but he said to himself, “She must take to such a child,—women always take to beauty.” He bent down and gently pressed his lips to Sidney’s forehead: Mrs. Morton replaced the shawl, and drew her brother to the other end of the room.
“And now,” she said, colouring as she spoke, “I must see your wife, brother: there is so much to say about a child that only a woman will recollect. Is she very good-tempered and kind, your wife? You know I never saw her; you married after—after I left.”
“She is a very worthy woman,” said Mr. Morton, clearing his throat, “and brought me some money; she has a will of her own, as most women have; but that’s neither here nor there—she is a good wife as wives go; and prudent and painstaking—I don’t know what I should do without her.”
“Brother, I have one favour to request—a great favour.”
“Anything I can do in the way of money?”
“It has nothing to do with money. I can’t live long—don’t shake your head—I can’t live long. I have no fear for Philip, he has so much spirit—such strength of character—but that child! I cannot bear to leave him altogether; let me stay in this town—I can lodge anywhere; but to see him sometimes—to know I shall be in reach if he is ill—let me stay here—let me die here!”
“You must not talk so sadly—you are young yet—younger than I am—I don’t think of dying.”
“Heaven forbid! but—”
“Well—well,” interrupted Mr. Morton, who began to fear his feelings would hurry him into some promise which his wife would not suffer him to keep; “you shall talk to Margaret,—that is Mrs. Morton—I will get her to see you—yes, I think I can contrive that; and if you can arrange with her to stay,—but you see, as she brought the money, and is a very particular woman—”
“I will see her; thank you—thank you; she cannot refuse me.”
“And, brother,” resumed Mrs. Morton, after a short pause, and speaking in a firm voice—“and is it possible that you disbelieve my story?—that you, like all the rest, consider my children the sons of shame?”
There was an honest earnestness in Catherine’s voice, as she spoke, that might have convinced many. But Mr. Morton was a man of facts, a practical man—a man who believed that law was always right, and that the improbable was never true.
He looked down as he answered, “I think you have been a very ill-used woman, Catherine, and that is all I can say on the matter; let us drop the subject.”
“No! I was not ill-used; my husband—yes, my husband—was noble and generous from first to last. It was for the sake of his children’s prospects—for the expectations they, through him, might derive from his proud uncle—that he concealed our marriage. Do not blame Philip—do not condemn the dead.”
“I don’t want to blame any one,” said Mr. Morton, rather angrily; “I am a plain man—a tradesman, and can only go by what in my class seems fair and honest, which I can’t think Mr. Beaufort’s conduct was, put it how you will; if he marries you as you think, he gets rid of a witness, he destroys a certificate, and he dies without a will. How ever, all that’s neither here nor there. You do quite right not to take the name of Beaufort, since it is an uncommon name, and would always make the story public. Least said, soonest mended. You must always consider that your children will be called natural children, and have their own way to make. No harm in that! Warm day for your journey.” Catherine sighed, and wiped her eyes; she no longer reproached the world, since the son of her own mother disbelieved her.
The relations talked together for some minutes on the past—the present; but there was embarrassment and constraint on both sides—it was so difficult to avoid