Book: Night and Morning, Volume 1

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Night and Morning, Volume 1




Three hours afterwards they were in the same room in which Philip had
brought Robert Beaufort's letter to his mother. Catherine was seated,
tearless, but deadly pale with heart-sickness and dismay.

"Mother," said Philip, "may I now read the letter?" Yes, boy; and decide
for us all. She paused, and examined his face as he read. He felt her
eye was upon him, and restrained his emotions as he proceeded. When he
had done, he lifted his dark gaze upon Catherine's watchful countenance.

"Mother, whether or not we obtain our rights, you will still refuse this
man's charity? I am young--a boy; but I am strong and active. I will
work for you day and night. I have it in me--I feel it; anything rather
than eating his bread."

"Philip! Philip! you are indeed my son; your father's son! And have
you no reproach for your mother, who so weakly, so criminally, concealed
your birthright, till, alas! discovery may be too late? Oh! reproach me,
reproach me! it will be kindness. No! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it.
Boy! boy! if as my heart tells me, we fail in proof, do you understand
what, in the world's eye, I am; what you are?"

"I do!" said Philip, firmly; and lie fell on his knees at her feet."
Whatever others call you, you are a mother, and I your son. You are, in
the judgment of Heaven, my father's Wife, and I his Heir."

Catherine bowed her head, and with a gush of tears fell into his arms.
Sidney crept up to her, and forced his lips to her cold cheek. "Mamma!
what vexes you? Mamma, mamma!"

"Oh, Sidney! Sidney! How like his father! Look at him, Philip! Shall
we do right to refuse him even this pittance? Must he be a beggar too?"

"Never beggar," said Philip, with a pride that showed what hard lessons
he had yet to learn. "The lawful sons of a Beaufort were not born to beg
their bread!"




CHAPTER VI.

"The storm above, and frozen world below.
* * * * *
The olive bough
Faded and cast upon the common wind,
And earth a doveless ark."--LAMAN BLANCHARD.

Mr. Robert Beaufort was generally considered by the world a very worthy
man. He had never committed any excess--never gambled nor incurred debt
--nor fallen into the warm errors most common with his sex. He was a
good husband--a careful father--an agreeable neighbour--rather charitable
than otherwise, to the poor. He was honest and methodical in his
dealings, and had been known to behave handsomely in different relations
of life. Mr. Robert Beaufort, indeed, always meant to do what was right
--in the eyes of the world! He had no other rule of action but that
which the world supplied; his religion was decorum--his sense of honour
was regard to opinion. His heart was a dial to which the world was the
sun: when the great eye of the public fell on it, it answered every
purpose that a heart could answer; but when that eye was invisible, the
dial was mute--a piece of brass and nothing more.

It is just to Robert Beaufort to assure the reader that he wholly
disbelieved his brother's story of a private marriage. He considered
that tale, when heard for the first time, as the mere invention (and a
shallow one) of a man wishing to make the imprudent step he was about to
take as respectable as he could. The careless tone of his brother when
speaking upon the subject--his confession that of such a marriage there
were no distinct proofs, except a copy of a register (which copy Robert
had not found)--made his incredulity natural. He therefore deemed
himself under no obligation of delicacy or respect, to a woman through
whose means he had very nearly lost a noble succession--a woman who had
not even borne his brother's name--a woman whom nobody knew. Had Mrs.
Morton been Mrs. Beaufort, and the natural sons legitimate children,
Robert Beaufort, supposing their situation of relative power and
dependence to have been the same, would have behaved with careful and
scrupulous generosity. The world would have said, "Nothing can be
handsomer than Mr. Robert Beaufort's conduct!" Nay, if Mrs. Morton had
been some divorced wife of birth and connections, he would have made very
different dispositions in her favour: he would not have allowed the
connections to call him shabby. But here he felt that, all circumstances
considered, the world, if it spoke at all (which it would scarce think it
worth while to do), would be on his side. An artful woman--low-born,
and, of course, low-bred--who wanted to inveigle her rich and careless
paramour into marriage; what could be expected from the man she had
sought to injure--the rightful heir? Was it not very good in him to do
anything for her, and, if he provided for the children suitably to the
original station of the mother, did he not go to the very utmost of
reasonable expectation? He certainly thought in his conscience, such as
it was, that he had acted well--not extravagantly, not foolishly; but
well. He was sure the world would say so if it knew all: he was not
bound to do anything. He was not, therefore, prepared for Catherine's
short, haughty, but temperate reply to his letter: a reply which conveyed
a decided refusal of his offers--asserted positively her own marriage,
and the claims of her children--intimated legal proceedings--and was
signed in the name of Catherine Beaufort. Mr. Beaufort put the letter in
his bureau, labelled, "Impertinent answer from Mrs. Morton, Sept. 14,"
and was quite contented to forget the existence of the writer, until his
lawyer, Mr. Blackwell, informed him that a suit had been instituted by
Catherine.

Mr. Robert turned pale, but Blackwell composed him.

"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
proofs--no evidence--which could justify a respectable lawyer to advise
her proceeding to a suit. She named two witnesses of her marriage--one
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. Jones's 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 mother's 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 uncle's 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
men's 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
Catherine's 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 him--the one announcing her father's death--he told her
plainly, and very properly, that he could not countenance the life she
led; that he had children growing up--that 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 unfeeling--now,
humbled and sorrow-stricken, she recognised the propriety of principle
from which it emanated. Her brother was well off for his station--she
would explain to him her real situation--he 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 consumed--till nearly three parts of a year since Beaufort's
death had expired--and 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 children--his
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 circumstances--of the value of money? Did he seem dejected, Catherine
would steal out and spend a week's income on the lapful of toys which she
brought home. Did he seem a shade more pale--did 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 fearful--gnawed by regret for the past--the thought of famine in
the future--she 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 helpless--utterly 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 temper--his wayward will; he would not have vexed his
mother for the world. But, strange to say (it was a great mystery in the
woman's 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 son's 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 others--the fear which belongs to a timid character is but
egotism--but, when physical, the regard for one's own person: when moral,
the anxiety for one's 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 brother's reply to her letter. It
was therefore between ten and eleven o'clock--a 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 chandler's 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 streets--it 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. "Sha'n't we ever go into the country, again,
mamma?"

"Not at present, my love."

"I wish I could have my pony; why can't I have my pony, mamma?"

"Because,--because--the pony is sold, Sidney."

"Who sold it?"

"Your uncle."

"He is a very naughty man, my uncle: is he not? But can't 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, don't tell Philip, pray don't; 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 don't care if he has a pony, too,--only not the
white one."

Here the postman's 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 eightpence--double charged--if you please, ma'am!
Thank you."

"Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the pony?"

"Not now, my love; sit down; be quiet: I--I 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 Morton's 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 gentleman's 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 can't 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 don't 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 woman--what is called evangelical; but
that's neither here nor there: I deal with all people, churchmen and
dissenters--even Jews,--and don't 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 boys--poor, 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 wife's 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 don't
like concerns I don't 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 can't 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. Plaskwith--the fare is trifling--I have no doubt he will
be engaged at once. But you will say, 'There's 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 lad's
education will get him on; so that's off your mind. As to the little
chap, I'll take him at once. You say he is a pretty boy; and a pretty
boy is always a help in a linendraper's 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. M's. 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.
Don't forget to write to Mr. Beaufort; and if he don't do something for
you he's not the gentleman I take him for; but you are my own flesh and
blood, and sha'n't starve; for, though I don't think it right in a man in
business to encourage what's wrong, yet, when a person's down in the
world, I think an ounce of hell is better than a pound of preaching. My
wife thinks otherwise, and wants to send you some tracts; but every
body can't be as correct as some folks. However, as I said before,
that's neither here nor there. Let me know when your boy comes down, and
also about the measles, cowpock, and whooping-cough; also if all's right
with Mr. Plaskwith. So now I hope you will feel more comfortable; and
remain,
"Dear Catherine,
"Your forgiving and affectionate brother,
"ROGER MORTON.
"High Street, N----, June 13."

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