Book: Night and Morning, Volume 2

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Night and Morning, Volume 2




Who in his boyhood has not felt the delight of freedom and adventure?
to have the world of woods and sward before him--to escape restriction--
to lean, for the first time, on his own resources--to rejoice in the wild
but manly luxury of independence--to act the Crusoe--and to fancy a
Friday in every footprint--an island of his own in every field? Yes, in
spite of their desolation, their loss, of the melancholy past, of the
friendless future, the orphans were happy--happy in their youth--their
freedom--their love--their wanderings in the delicious air of the
glorious August. Sometimes they came upon knots of reapers lingering in
the shade of the hedge-rows over their noonday meal; and, grown sociable
by travel, and bold by safety, they joined and partook of the rude fare
with the zest of fatigue and youth. Sometimes, too, at night, they saw,
gleam afar and red by the woodside, the fires of gipsy tents. But these,
with the superstition derived from old nursery-tales, they scrupulously
shunned, eying them with a mysterious awe! What heavenly twilights
belong to that golden month!--the air so lucidly serene, as the purple of
the clouds fades gradually away, and up soars, broad, round, intense, and
luminous, the full moon which belongs to the joyous season! The fields
then are greener than in the heats of July and June,--they have got back
the luxury of a second spring. And still, beside the paths of the
travellers, lingered on the hedges the clustering honeysuckle--the
convolvulus glittered in the tangles of the brake--the hardy heathflower
smiled on the green waste.

And ever, at evening, they came, field after field, upon those circles
which recall to children so many charmed legends, and are fresh and
frequent in that month--the Fairy Rings! They thought, poor boys! that
it was a good omen, and half fancied that the Fairies protected them, as
in the old time they had often protected the desolate and outcast.

They avoided the main roads, and all towns, with suspicious care. But
sometimes they paused, for food and rest, at the obscure hostel of some
scattered hamlet: though, more often, they loved to spread the simple
food they purchased by the way under some thick, tree, or beside a stream
through whose limpid waters they could watch the trout glide and play.
And they often preferred the chance shelter of a haystack, or a shed, to
the less romantic repose offered by the small inns they alone dared to
enter. They went in this much by the face and voice of the host or
hostess. Once only Philip had entered a town, on the second day of their
flight, and that solely for the purchase of ruder clothes, and a change
of linen for Sidney, with some articles and implements of use necessary
in their present course of shift and welcome hardship. A wise
precaution; for, thus clad, they escaped suspicion.

So journeying, they consumed several days; and, having taken a direction
quite opposite to that which led to the manufacturing districts, whither
pursuit had been directed, they were now in the centre of another county
--in the neighbourhood of one of the most considerable towns of England;
and here Philip began to think their wanderings ought to cease, and it
was time to settle on some definite course of life. He had carefully
hoarded about his person, and most thriftily managed, the little fortune
bequeathed by his mother. But Philip looked on this capital as a deposit
sacred to Sidney; it was not to be spent, but kept and augmented--the
nucleus for future wealth. Within the last few weeks his character was
greatly ripened, and his powers of thought enlarged. He was no more a
boy,--he was a man: he had another life to take care of. He resolved,
then, to enter the town they were approaching, and to seek for some
situation by which he might maintain both. Sidney was very loath to
abandon their present roving life; but he allowed that the warm weather
could not always last, and that in winter the fields would be less
pleasant. He, therefore, with a sigh, yielded to his brother's
reasonings.

They entered the fair and busy town of one day at noon; and, after
finding a small lodging, at which he deposited Sidney, who was fatigued
with their day's walk, Philip sallied forth alone.

After his long rambling, Philip was pleased and struck with the broad
bustling streets, the gay shops--the evidences of opulence and trade. He
thought it hard if he could not find there a market for the health and
heart of sixteen. He strolled slowly and alone along the streets, till
his attention was caught by a small corner shop, in the window of which
was placed a board, bearing this inscription:

"OFFICE FOR EMPLOYMENT.--RECIPROCAL ADVANTAGE.

"Mr. John Clump's bureau open every day, from ten till four. Clerks,
servants, labourers, &c., provided with suitable situations. Terms
moderate. N.B.--The oldest established office in the town.

"Wanted, a good cook. An under gardener."

What he sought was here! Philip entered, and saw a short fat man with
spectacles, seated before a desk, poring upon the well-filled leaves of a
long register.

"Sir," said Philip, "I wish for a situation. I don't care what."

"Half-a-crown for entry, if you please. That's right. Now for
particulars. Hum!--you don't look like a servant!"

"No; I wish for any place where my education can be of use. I can read
and write; I know Latin and French; I can draw; I know arithmetic and
summing."

"Very well; very genteel young man--prepossessing appearance (that's a
fudge!), highly educated; usher in a school, eh?"

"What you like."

"References?"

"I have none."

"Eh!--none?" and Mr. Clump fixed his spectacles full upon Philip.

Philip was prepared for the question, and had the sense to perceive that
a frank reply was his best policy. "The fact is," said he boldly, "I was
well brought up; my father died; I was to be bound apprentice to a trade
I disliked; I left it, and have now no friends."

"If I can help you, I will," said Mr. Clump, coldly. "Can't promise
much. If you were a labourer, character might not matter; but educated
young men must have a character. Hands always more useful than head.
Education no avail nowadays; common, quite common. Call again on
Monday."

Somewhat disappointed and chilled, Philip turned from the bureau; but he
had a strong confidence in his own resources, and recovered his spirits
as he mingled with the throng. He passed, at length, by a livery-stable,
and paused, from old associations, as he saw a groom in the mews
attempting to manage a young, hot horse, evidently unbroken. The master
of the stables, in a green short jacket and top-boots, with a long whip
in his hand, was standing by, with one or two men who looked like
horsedealers.

"Come off, clumsy! you can't manage that I ere fine hanimal," cried the
liveryman. "Ah! he's a lamb, sir, if he were backed properly. But I
has not a man in the yard as can ride since Will died. Come off, I say,
lubber!"

But to come off, without being thrown off, was more easily said than
done. The horse was now plunging as if Juno had sent her gadfly to him;
and Philip, interested and excited, came nearer and nearer, till he stood
by the side of the horse-dealers. The other ostlers ran to the help of
their comrade, who at last, with white lips and shaking knees, found
himself on terra firma; while the horse, snorting hard, and rubbing his
head against the breast and arms of the ostler, who held him tightly by
the rein, seemed to ask, is his own way, "Are there any more of you?"

A suspicion that the horse was an old acquaintance crossed Philip's mind;
he went up to him, and a white spot over the left eye confirmed his
doubts. It had been a foal reserved and reared for his own riding! one
that, in his prosperous days, had ate bread from his hand, and followed
him round the paddock like a dog; one that he had mounted in sport,
without saddle, when his father's back was turned; a friend, in short, of
the happy Lang syne;--nay, the very friend to whom he had boasted his
affection, when, standing with Arthur Beaufort under the summer sky, the
whole world seemed to him full of friends. He put his hand on the
horse's neck, and whispered, "Soho! So, Billy!" and the horse turned
sharp round with a quick joyous neigh.

"If you please, sir," said Philip, appealing to the liveryman, "I will
undertake to ride this horse, and take him over yon leaping-bar. Just
let me try him."

"There's a fine-spirited lad for you!" said the liveryman, much pleased
at the offer. "Now, gentlemen, did I not tell you that 'ere hanimal had
no vice if he was properly managed?"

The horse-dealers shook their heads.

"May I give him some bread first?" asked Philip; and the ostler was
despatched to the house. Meanwhile the animal evinced various signs of
pleasure and recognition, as Philip stroked and talked to him; and,
finally, when he ate the bread from the young man's hand, the whole yard
seemed in as much delight and surprise as if they had witnessed one of
Monsieur Van Amburgh's exploits.

And now, Philip, still caressing the horse, slowly and cautiously
mounted; the animal made one bound half-across the yard--a bound which
sent all the horse-dealers into a corner-and then went through his paces,
one after the other, with as much ease and calm as if he had been broken
in at Mr. Fozard's to carry a young lady. And when he crowned all by
going thrice over the leaping-bar, and Philip, dismounting, threw the
reins to the ostler, and turned triumphantly to the horse-dealer, that
gentleman slapped him on the back, and said, emphatically, "Sir, you are
a man! and I am proud to see you here."

Meanwhile the horse-dealers gathered round the animal; looked at his
hoofs, felt his legs, examined his windpipe, and concluded the bargain,
which, but for Philip, would have been very abruptly broken off. When
the horse was led out of the yard, the liveryman, Mr. Stubmore, turned to
Philip, who, leaning against the wall, followed the poor animal with
mournful eyes.

"My good sir, you have sold that horse for me--that you have! Anything
as I can do for you? One good turn de serves another. Here's a brace of
shiners."

"Thank you, sir! I want no money, but I do want some employment. I can
be of use to you, perhaps, in your establishment. I have been brought up
among horses all my life."

"Saw it, sir! that's very clear. I say, that 'ere horse knows you!"
and the dealer put his finger to his nose.

"Quite right to be mum! He was bred by an old customer of mine--famous
rider!--Mr. Beaufort. Aha! that's where you knew him, I s'pose. Were
you in his stables?"

"Hem--I knew Mr. Beaufort well."

"Did you? You could not know a better man. Well, I shall be very glad
to engage you, though you seem by your hands to be a bit of a gentleman-
elh? Never mind; don't want you to groom!--but superintend things. D'ye
know accounts, eh?"

"Yes."

"Character?"

Philip repeated to Mr. Stubmore the story he had imparted to Mr. Clump.
Somehow or other, men who live much with horses are always more lax in
their notions than the rest of mankind. Mr. Stubmore did not seem to
grow more distant at Philip's narration.

"Understand you perfectly, my man. Brought up with them 'ere fine
creturs, how could you nail your nose to a desk? I'll take you without
more palaver. What's your name?"

"Philips."

"Come to-morrow, and we'll settle about wages. Sleep here?"

"No. I have a brother whom I must lodge with, and for whose sake I wish
to work. I should not like him to be at the stables--he is too young.
But I can come early every day, and go home late."

"Well, just as you like, my man. Good day."

And thus, not from any mental accomplishment--not from the result of his
intellectual education, but from the mere physical capacity and brute
habit of sticking fast on his saddle, did Philip Morton, in this great,
intelligent, gifted, civilised, enlightened community of Great Britain,
find the means of earning his bread without stealing it.




CHAPTER VIII.

"_Don Salluste (souriunt)_. Je paire
Que vous ne pensiez pas a moi?"--Ruy Blas.

"_Don Salluste_. Cousin!
Don Cesar. De vos bienfaits je n'aurai nulle envie,
Tant que je trouverai vivant ma libre vie."--Ibid.

Don Sallust (smiling). I'll lay a wager you won't think of me?
Don Sallust. Cousin!
Don Caesar. I covet not your favours, so but I lead an independent
life.

Phillip's situation was agreeable to his habits. His great courage and
skill in horsemanship were not the only qualifications useful to Mr.
Stubmore: his education answered a useful purpose in accounts, and his
manners and appearance were highly to the credit of the yard. The
customers and loungers soon grew to like Gentleman Philips, as he was
styled in the establishment. Mr. Stubmore conceived a real affection for
him. So passed several weeks; and Philip, in this humble capacity, might
have worked out his destinies in peace and comfort, but for a new cause
of vexation that arose in Sidney. This boy was all in all to his
brother. For him he had resisted the hearty and joyous invitations of
Gawtrey (whose gay manner and high spirits had, it must be owned,
captivated his fancy, despite the equivocal mystery of the man's
avocations and condition); for him he now worked and toiled, cheerful and
contented; and him he sought to save from all to which he subjected
himself. He could not bear that that soft and delicate child should ever
be exposed to the low and menial associations that now made up his own
life--to the obscene slang of grooms and ostlers--to their coarse manners
and rough contact. He kept him, therefore, apart and aloof in their
little lodging, and hoped in time to lay by, so that Sidney might
ultimately be restored, if not to his bright original sphere, at least to
a higher grade than that to which Philip was himself condemned. But poor
Sidney could not bear to be thus left alone--to lose sight of his brother
from daybreak till bed-time--to have no one to amuse him; he fretted and
pined away: all the little inconsiderate selfishness, uneradicated from
his breast by his sufferings, broke out the more, the more he felt that
he was the first object on earth to Philip. Philip, thinking he might be
more cheerful at a day-school, tried the experiment of placing him at one
where the boys were much of his own age. But Sidney, on the third day,
came back with a black eye, and he would return no more. Philip several
times thought of changing their lodging for one where there were young
people. But Sidney had taken a fancy to the kind old widow who was their
landlady, and cried at the thought of removal. Unfortunately, the old
woman was deaf and rheumatic; and though she bore teasing _ad libitum_,
she could not entertain the child long on a stretch. Too young to be
reasonable, Sidney could not, or would not, comprehend why his brother
was so long away from him; and once he said, peevishly,--

"If I had thought I was to be moped up so, I would not have left Mrs.
Morton. Tom was a bad boy, but still it was somebody to play with. I
wish I had not gone away with you!"

This speech cut Philip to the heart. What, then, he had taken from the
child a respectable and safe shelter--the sure provision of a life--and
the child now reproached him! When this was said to him, the tears
gushed from his eyes. "God forgive me, Sidney," said he, and turned
away.

But then Sidney, who had the most endearing ways with him, seeing his
brother so vexed, ran up and kissed him, and scolded himself for being
naughty. Still the words were spoken, and their meaning rankled deep.
Philip himself, too, was morbid in his excessive tenderness for this boy.
There is a certain age, before the love for the sex commences, when the
feeling of friendship is almost a passion. You see it constantly in
girls and boys at school. It is the first vague craving of the heart
after the master food of human life--Love. It has its jealousies, and
humours, and caprices, like love itself. Philip was painfully acute to
Sidney's affection, was jealous of every particle of it. He dreaded lest
his brother should ever be torn from him.

He would start from his sleep at night, and go to Sidney's bed to see
that he was there. He left him in the morning with forebodings--he
returned in the dark with fear. Meanwhile the character of this young
man, so sweet and tender to Sidney, was gradually becoming more hard and
stern to others. He had now climbed to the post of command in that rude
establishment; and premature command in any sphere tends to make men
unsocial and imperious.

One day Mr. Stubmore called him into his own countinghouse, where stood a
gentleman, with one hand in his coatpocket, the other tapping his whip
against his boot.

"Philips, show this gentleman the brown mare. She is a beauty in
harness, is she not? This gentleman wants a match for his pheaton."

"She must step very hoigh," said the gentleman, turning round: and Philip
recognised the beau in the stage-coach. The recognition was
simultaneous. The beau nodded, then whistled, and winked.

"Come, my man, I am at your service," said he.

Philip, with many misgivings, followed him across the yard. The
gentleman then beckoned him to approach.

"You, sir,--moind, I never peach--setting up here in the honest line?
Dull work, honesty,--eh?"

"Sir, I really don't know you."

"Daun't you recollect old Greggs, the evening you came there with jolly
Bill Gawtrey? Recollect that, eh?" Philip was mute.

"I was among the gentlemen in the back parlour who shook you by the hand.
Bill's off to France, then. I am tauking the provinces. I want a good
horse--the best in the yard, moind! Cutting such a swell here! My name
is Captain de Burgh Smith--never moind yours, my fine faellow. Now,
then, out with your rattlers, and keep your tongue in your mouth."

Philip mechanically ordered out the brown mare, which Captain Smith did
not seem much to approve of; and, after glancing round the stables with
great disdain of the collection, he sauntered out of the yard without
saying more to Philip, though he stopped and spoke a few sentences to Mr.
Stubmore. Philip hoped he had no design of purchasing, and that he was
rid, for the present, of so awkward a customer. Mr. Stubmore approached
Philip.

"Drive over the greys to Sir John," said he. "My lady wants a pair to
job. A very pleasant man, that Captain Smith. I did not know you had
been in a yard before--says you were the pet at Elmore's in London.
Served him many a day. Pleasant, gentlemanlike man!"

"Y-e-s!" said Philip, hardly knowing what he said, and hurrying back
into the stables to order out the greys. The place to which he was bound
was some miles distant, and it was sunset when he returned. As he drove
into the main street, two men observed him closely.

"That is he! I am almost sure it is," said one. "Oh! then it's all
smooth sailing," replied the other.

"But, bless my eyes! you must be mistaken! See whom he's talking to
now!"

At that moment Captain de Burgh Smith, mounted on the brown mare, stopped
Philip.

"Well, you see, I've bought her,--hope she'll turn out well. What do you
really think she's worth? Not to buy, but to sell?"

"Sixty guineas."

"Well, that's a good day's work; and I owe it to you. The old faellow
would not have trusted me if you had not served me at Elmore's--ha! ha!
If he gets scent and looks shy at you, my lad, come to me. I'm at the
Star Hotel for the next few days. I want a tight faellow like you, and
you shall have a fair percentage. I'm none of your stingy ones. I say,
I hope this devil is quiet? She cocks up her ears dawmnably!"

"Look you, sir!" said Philip, very gravely, and rising up in his break;
"I know very little of you, and that little is not much to your credit.
I give you fair warning that I shall caution my employer against you."

"Will you, my fine faellow? then take care of yourself."

"Stay, and if you dare utter a word against me," said Philip, with that
frown to which his swarthy complexion and flashing eyes gave an
expression of fierce power beyond his years, "you will find that, as I am
the last to care for a threat, so I am the first to resent an injury!"

Thus saying, he drove on. Captain Smith affected a cough, and put his
brown mare into a canter. The two men followed Philip as he drove into
the yard.

"What do you know against the person he spoke to?" said one of them.

"Merely that he is one of the cunningest swells on this side the Bay,"
returned the other. "It looks bad for your young friend."

The first speaker shook his head and made no reply.

On gaining the yard, Philip found that Mr. Stubmore had gone out, and was
not expected home till the next day. He had some relations who were
farmers, whom he often visited; to them he was probably gone.

Philip, therefore, deferring his intended caution against the gay captain
till the morrow, and musing how the caution might be most discreetly
given, walked homeward. He had just entered the lane that led to his
lodgings, when he saw the two men I have spoken of on the other side of
the street. The taller and better-dressed of the two left his comrade;
and crossing over to Philip, bowed, and thus accosted him,--

"Fine evening, Mr. Philip Morton. I am rejoiced to see you at last. You
remember me--Mr. Blackwell, Lincoln's Inn."

"What is your business?" said Philip, halting, and speaking short and
fiercely.

"Now don't be in a passion, my dear sir,--now don't. I am here on behalf
of my clients, Messrs. Beaufort, sen. and jun. I have had such work to
find you! Dear, dear! but you are a sly one! Ha! ha! Well, you see we
have settled that little affair of Plaskwith's for you (might have been
ugly), and now I hope you will--"

"To your business, sir! What do you want with me?"

"Why, now, don't be so quick! 'Tis not the way to do business. Suppose
you step to my hotel. A glass of wine now, Mr. Philip! We shall soon
understand each other."

"Out of my path, or speak plainly!"

Thus put to it, the lawyer, casting a glance at his stout companion, who
appeared to be contemplating the sunset on the other side of the way,
came at once to the marrow of his subject.

"Well, then,--well, my say is soon said. Mr. Arthur Beaufort takes a
most lively interest in you; it is he who has directed this inquiry. He
bids me say that he shall be most happy--yes, most happy--to serve you in
anything; and if you will but see him, he is in the town, I am sure you
will be charmed with him--most amiable young man!"

"Look you, sir," said Philip, drawing himself up "neither from father,
nor from son, nor from one of that family, on whose heads rest the
mother's death and the orphans' curse, will I ever accept boon or
benefit--with them, voluntarily, I will hold no communion; if they force
themselves in my path, let them beware! I am earning my bread in the way
I desire--I am independent--I want them not. Begone!"

With that, Philip pushed aside the lawyer and strode on rapidly. Mr.
Blackwell, abashed and perplexed, returned to his companion.

Philip regained his home, and found Sidney stationed at the window alone,
and with wistful eyes noting the flight of the grey moths as they darted
to and fro, across the dull shrubs that, variegated with lines for
washing, adorned the plot of ground which the landlady called a garden.
The elder brother had returned at an earlier hour than usual, and Sidney
did not at first perceive him enter. When he did he clapped his hands,
and ran to him.

"This is so good in you, Philip. I have been so dull; you will come and
play now?"

"With all my heart--where shall we play?" said Philip, with a cheerful
smile.

"Oh, in the garden!--it's such a nice time for hide and seek."

"But is it not chill and damp for you?" said Philip.

"There now; you are always making excuses. I see you don't like it. I
have no heart to play now."

Sidney seated himself and pouted.

"Poor Sidney! you must be dull without me. Yes, let us play; but put on
this handkerchief;" and Philip took off his own cravat and tied it round
his brother's neck, and kissed him.

Sidney, whose anger seldom lasted long, was reconciled; and they went
into the garden to play. It was a little spot, screened by an old moss-
grown paling, from the neighbouring garden on the one side and a lane on
the other. They played with great glee till the night grew darker and
the dews heavier.

"This must be the last time," cried Philip. "It is my turn to hide."

"Very well! Now, then."

Philip secreted himself behind a poplar; and as Sidney searched for him,
and Philip stole round and round the tree, the latter, happening to look
across the paling, saw the dim outline of a man's figure in the lane, who
appeared watching them. A thrill shot across his breast. These
Beauforts, associated in his thoughts with every evil omen and augury,
had they set a spy upon his movements? He remained erect and gazing at
the form, when Sidney discovered, and ran up to him, with his noisy
laugh.

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