Night and Morning, Complete

“You have had but little kindness shown you, my poor boy, if you think so much of this.”

“No—all people were very kind to me once. I did not value it then.” Here the coach rolled heavily down the dark arch of the inn-yard.

“Take care of yourself, my boy! You look ill;” and in the dark the man slipped a sovereign into Philip’s hand.

“I don’t want money. Though I thank you heartily all the same; it would be a shame at my age to be a beggar. But can you think of an employment where I can make something?—what they offer me is so trifling. I have a mother and a brother—a mere child, sir—at home.”

“Employment!” repeated the man; and as the coach now stopped at the tavern door, the light of the lamp fell full on his marked face. “Ay, I know of employment; but you should apply to some one else to obtain it for you! As for me, it is not likely that we shall meet again!”

“I am sorry for that!—What and who are you?” asked Philip, with a rude and blunt curiosity.

“Me!” returned the passenger, with his deep laugh. “Oh! I know some people who call me an honest fellow. Take the employment offered you, no matter how trifling the wages—keep out of harm’s way. Good night to you!”

So saying, he quickly descended from the roof, and, as he was directing the coachman where to look for his carpetbag, Philip saw three or four well-dressed men make up to him, shake him heartily by the hand, and welcome him with great seeming cordiality.

Philip sighed. “He has friends,” he muttered to himself; and, paying his fare, he turned from the bustling yard, and took his solitary way home.

A week after his visit to R–, Philip was settled on his probation at Mr. Plaskwith’s, and Mrs. Morton’s health was so decidedly worse, that she resolved to know her fate, and consult a physician. The oracle was at first ambiguous in its response. But when Mrs. Morton said firmly, “I have duties to perform; upon your candid answer rest my Plans with respect to my children—left, if I die suddenly, destitute in the world,”—the doctor looked hard in her face, saw its calm resolution, and replied frankly:

“Lose no time, then, in arranging your plans; life is uncertain with all—with you, especially; you may live some time yet, but your constitution is much shaken—I fear there is water on the chest. No, ma’am—no fee. I will see you again.”

The physician turned to Sidney, who played with his watch-chain, and smiled up in his face.

“And that child, sir?” said the mother, wistfully, forgetting the dread fiat pronounced against herself,—“he is so delicate!”

“Not at all, ma’am,—a very fine little fellow;” and the doctor patted the boy’s head, and abruptly vanished.

“Ah! mamma, I wish you would ride—I wish you would take the white pony!”

“Poor boy! poor boy!” muttered the mother; “I must not be selfish.” She covered her face with her hands, and began to think!

Could she, thus doomed, resolve on declining her brother’s offer? Did it not, at least, secure bread and shelter to her child? When she was dead, might not a tie, between the uncle and nephew, be snapped asunder? Would he be as kind to the boy as now when she could commend him with her own lips to his care—when she could place that precious charge into his hands? With these thoughts, she formed one of those resolutions which have all the strength of self-sacrificing love. She would put the boy from her, her last solace and comfort; she would die alone,—alone!

CHAPTER VIII

“Constance. When I shall meet him in the court of heaven, I shall not know him.”—King John.

One evening, the shop closed and the business done, Mr. Roger Morton and his family sat in that snug and comfortable retreat which generally backs the warerooms of an English tradesman. Happy often, and indeed happy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet remote from, the toil and care of the busy mart from which its homely ease and peaceful security are drawn. Glance down those rows of silenced shops in a town at night, and picture the glad and quiet groups gathered within, over that nightly and social meal which custom has banished from the more indolent tribes who neither toil nor spin. Placed between the two extremes of life, the tradesman, who ventures not beyond his means, and sees clear books and sure gains, with enough of occupation to give healthful excitement, enough of fortune to greet each new-born child without a sigh, might be envied alike by those above and those below his state—if the restless heart of men ever envied Content!

“And so the little boy is not to come?” said Mrs. Morton as she crossed her knife and fork, and pushed away her plate, in token that she had done supper.

“I don’t know.—Children, go to bed; there—there—that will do. Good night!—Catherine does not say either yes or no. She wants time to consider.”

“It was a very handsome offer on our part; some folks never know when they are well off.”

“That is very true, my dear, and you are a very sensible person. Kate herself might have been an honest woman, and, what is more, a very rich woman, by this time. She might have married Spencer, the young brewer—an excellent man, and well to do!”

“Spencer! I don’t remember him.”

“No: after she went off, he retired from business, and left the place. I don’t know what’s become of him. He was mightily taken with her, to be sure. She was uncommonly handsome, my sister Catherine.”

“Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. Morton,” said the wife, who was very much marked with the small-pox. “We all have our temptations and trials; this is a vale of tears, and without grace we are whited sepulchers.”

Mr. Morton mixed his brandy and water, and moved his chair into its customary corner.

“You saw your brother’s letter,” said he, after a pause; “he gives young Philip a very good character.”

“The human heart is very deceitful,” replied Mrs. Morton, who, by the way, spoke through her nose. “Pray Heaven he may be what he seems; but what’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh.”

“We must hope the best,” said Mr. Morton, mildly; “and—put another lump into the grog, my dear.”

“It is a mercy, I’m thinking, that we didn’t have the other little boy. I dare say he has never even been taught his catechism: them people don’t know what it is to be a mother. And, besides, it would have been very awkward, Mr. M.; we could never have said who he was: and I’ve no doubt Miss Pryinall would have been very curious.”

“Miss Pryinall be –!” Mr. Morton checked himself, took a large draught of the brandy and water, and added, “Miss Pryinall wants to have a finger in everybody’s pie.”

“But she buys a deal of flannel, and does great good to the town; it was she who found out that Mrs. Giles was no better than she should be.”

“Poor Mrs. Giles!—she came to the workhouse.”

“Poor Mrs. Giles, indeed! I wonder, Mr. Morton, that you, a married man with a family, should say, poor Mrs. Giles!”

“My dear, when people who have been well off come to the workhouse, they may be called poor:—but that’s neither here nor there; only, if the boy does come to us, we must look sharp upon Miss Pryinall.”

“I hope he won’t come,—it will be very unpleasant. And when a man has a wife and family, the less he meddles with other folks and their little ones, the better. For as the Scripture says, ‘A man shall cleave to his wife and—‘”

Here a sharp, shrill ring at the bell was heard, and Mrs. Morton broke off into:

“Well! I declare! at this hour; who can that be? And all gone to bed! Do go and see, Mr. Morton.”

Somewhat reluctantly and slowly, Mr. Morton rose; and, proceeding to the passage, unbarred the door. A brief and muttered conversation followed, to the great irritability of Mrs. Morton, who stood in the passage—the candle in her hand.

“What is the matter, Mr. M.?”

Mr. Morton turned back, looking agitated.

“Where’s my hat? oh, here. My sister is come, at the inn.”

“Gracious me! She does not go for to say she is your sister?”

“No, no: here’s her note—calls herself a lady that’s ill. I shall be back 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.