Night and Morning, Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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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.
“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!’”
When he had read this letter, Philip Morton fell upon his knees, and prayed.
CHAPTER II
“His curse! Dost comprehend what that word means? Shot from a father’s angry breath.”
“This term is fatal, and affrights me.”
“Those fond philosophers that magnify Our human nature...... Conversed but little with the world-they knew not The fierce vexation of community!”
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—”
“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.”
“The gentleman! Not the gentleman I found here?”
“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!”
“Well, well—go on.”
“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.”
“And the stranger had my post! No matter; God bless him—God bless him. Who was he? what was his name?”
“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.”
“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.”
“And has never been seen since?”
“No, sir. Perhaps missus can tell you more about him. But won’t you take something, sir? Do—you look so pale.”
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.
“I am going to leave your house, ma’am; and I wish to settle any little arrears of rent, &c.”
“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.”
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?”
“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.”
“No: it does not signify. All that he could do is done. But stay, give him this note, if he should call.”
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:
“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.”
He sealed this letter, and gave it to the woman.
“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.”
“Very well.”
“And