Night and Morning, Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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to bring him up as the lawful, that is the legal, offspring of some distant relation.
“And,” cried poor Catherine, clasping her bands, “when I am dead, is he never to know that I was his mother?” The anguish of that question thrilled the heart of the listener. He was affected below all the surface that worldly thoughts and habits had laid, stratum by stratum, over the humanities within. He threw his arms round Catherine, and strained her to his breast:
“No, my sister—my poor sister—he shall know it when he is old enough to understand, and to keep his own secret. He shall know, too, how we all loved and prized you once; how young you were, how flattered and tempted; how you were deceived, for I know that—on my soul I do—I know it was not your fault. He shall know, too, how fondly you loved your child, and how you sacrificed, for his sake, the very comfort of being near him. He shall know it all—all—”
“My brother—my brother, I resign him—I am content. God reward you. I will go—go quickly. I know you will take care of him now.”
“And you see,” resumed Mr. Morton, re-settling himself, and wiping his eyes, “it is best, between you and me, that Mrs. Morton should have her own way in this. She is a very good woman—very; but it’s prudent not to vex her. You may come in now, Mrs. Morton.”
Mrs. Morton and Sidney reappeared.
“We have settled it all,” said the husband. “When can we have him?”
“Not to-day,” said Mrs. Roger Morton; “you see, ma’am, we must get his bed ready, and his sheets well aired: I am very particular.”
“Certainly, certainly. Will he sleep alone?—pardon me.”
“He shall have a room to himself,” said Mr. Morton. “Eh, my dear? Next to Martha’s. Martha is our parlourmaid—very good-natured girl, and fond of children.”
Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, and said, “Yes, he can have that room.”
“Who can have that room?” asked Sidney, innocently. “You, my dear,” replied Mr. Morton.
“And where will mamma sleep? I must sleep near mamma.”
“Mamma is going away,” said Catherine, in a firm voice, in which the despair would only have been felt by the acute ear of sympathy,—“going away for a little time: but this gentleman and lady will be very—very kind to you.”
“We will do our best, ma’am,” said Mrs. Morton.
And as she spoke, a sudden light broke on the boy’s mind—he uttered a loud cry, broke from his aunt, rushed to his mother’s breast, and hid his face there, sobbing bitterly.
“I am afraid he has been very much spoiled,” whispered Mrs. Roger Morton. “I don’t think we need stay longer—it will look suspicious. Good morning, ma’am: we shall be ready to-morrow.”
“Good-bye, Catherine,” said Mr. Morton; and he added, as he kissed her, “Be of good heart, I will come up by myself and spend the evening with you.”
It was the night after this interview. Sidney had gone to his new home; they had been all kind to him—Mr. Morton, the children, Martha the parlour-maid. Mrs. Roger herself had given him a large slice of bread and jam, but had looked gloomy all the rest of the evening: because, like a dog in a strange place, he refused to eat. His little heart was full, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were turned at every moment to the door. But he did not show the violent grief that might have been expected. His very desolation, amidst the unfamiliar faces, awed and chilled him. But when Martha took him to bed, and undressed him, and he knelt down to say his prayers, and came to the words, “Pray God bless dear mamma, and make me a good child,” his heart could contain its load no longer, and 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,—“Who’s there?”
“It is I—it is Catherine! I cannot go without seeing my boy. I must see him—I must, once more!”
“My dear sister, the place is shut up—it is impossible. God bless me, if Mrs. Morton should hear you!”
“I have walked before this window for hours—I have waited till all is hushed in your house, till no one, not even a menial, need see the mother stealing to the bed of her child. Brother, by the memory of our own mother, I command you to let me look, for the last time, upon my boy’s face!”
As Catherine said this, standing in that lonely street—darkness and solitude below, God and the stars above—there was about her a majesty which awed the listener. Though she was so near, her features were not very clearly visible; but her attitude—her hand raised aloft—the outline of her wasted but still commanding form, were more impressive from the shadowy dimness of the air.
“Come round, Catherine,” said Mr. Morton after a pause; “I will admit you.”
He shut the window, stole to the door, unbarred it gently, and admitted his visitor. He bade her follow him; and, shading the light with his hand, crept up the stairs. Catherine’s step made no sound.
They passed, unmolested, and unheard, the room in which the wife was drowsily reading, according to her custom before she tied her nightcap and got into bed, a chapter in some pious book. They ascended to the chamber where Sidney lay; Morton opened the door cautiously, and stood at the threshold, so holding the candle that its light might not wake the child, though it sufficed to guide Catherine to the bed. The room was small, perhaps close, but scrupulously clean; for cleanliness was Mrs. Roger Morton’s capital virtue. The mother, with a tremulous hand, drew aside the white curtains, and checked her sobs as she gazed on the young quiet face that was turned towards her. She gazed some moments in passionate silence; who shall say, beneath that silence, what thoughts, what prayers moved and stirred!
Then bending down, with pale, convulsive lips she kissed the little hands thrown so listlessly on the coverlet of the pillow on which the head lay. After this she turned her face to her brother with a mute appeal in her glance, took a ring from her finger—a ring that had never till then left it—the ring which Philip Beaufort had placed there the day after that child was born. “Let him wear this round his neck,” said she, and stopped, lest she should sob aloud, and disturb the boy. In that gift she felt as if she invoked the father’s spirit to watch over the friendless orphan; and then, pressing together her own hands firmly, as we do in some paroxysm of great pain, she turned from the room, descended the stairs, gained the street, and muttered to her brother, “I am happy now; peace be on these thresholds!” Before he could answer she was gone.
CHAPTER IX
“Thus things are strangely wrought, While joyful May doth last; Take May in Time—when May is gone The pleasant time is past.”
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